As Aimee made her way to the tip of my triangle, I let her part my thighs. My folds bloomed and I imagined how the glistening ruffles must look to her. I was now beginning to understand that my shame was burning into pleasure and the realization brought me, full-force, back into hot shame. I didn’t want Aimee to know how delicious it all felt. I wanted her to stop; I wanted her to continue. I couldn’t help but squirm.
Aimee’s eyes—and mouth—were so close to me I could feel her soft, warm breath graze my now-clipped fur. She ran her fingers through her handiwork. “Beautiful,” she said. “Now we’re ready for the next step.”
The wax, hot but not painfully so, was the color of honey and sticky like it, too. Aimee dipped a flat piece of wood into the vat and used it like a paintbrush to slick a small section of my hair. Then she pressed a thin, white cloth into her gooey art and in a single quick movement, she held down my skin with one hand and ripped the cloth off with the other, taking my hair with it and leaving a pink, tender spot.
Again and again Aimee slicked on wax and pulled it off. And I winced each time she yanked, but the pain felt necessary and right. Like it was my punishment for the pleasure I’d taken in her softer touch. Finally, when I had a neat triangle edged with what felt like fire, Aimee rubbed me with a soothing cream. The tips of her long hair brushed my inner thighs.
“Let’s see how you look in your new panties,” she said, gathering up the discarded strips of cloth and putting the lid back on the cream.
I wobbled to Aimee’s dresser and found the panties in a bag between bottles of perfume. I stepped gingerly into each lavender leg, careful not to scrape the lace on my raw skin. And then I modelled for Aimee. Making a catwalk out of the bedroom. No longer shy.
“Next time,” Aimee said, fixing me with her blue eyes, “let’s give you a sphinx.”
“What’s that?” I wanted to know.
“That’s when we take it all off—make you bare like a little girl.” I shivered then, thinking how much it would hurt. How shamefully wide I would have to spread my legs and how good it would feel to have Aimee massage cream into every pink crevice. My breath caught in my chest and I felt a quick throb between my thighs. It would be so hard not to squirm, I thought. So hard not to squirm toward her warm breath and agile tongue.
I looked away and hurried to find my clothes. My new panties were damp with sticky traces of wax…and something else.
A few weeks later I was talking long distance to my mother. The reproach in her voice was heavy like winter layers and I was wavering, the phone cord drooping. Then I pictured Mum’s fat fingers closing over chunks of fruitcake and Aimee driving away in a streak of silver. And I was suddenly firm; I was going, too. As soon as we finished exams Aimee and I were driving to Florida—to her grandmother’s house. Her parents wanted to buy us plane tickets because they thought highways and motels could be dangerous for two lone young women. But Aimee sweet-talked their blessings out of them. We thought driving would be an adventure. And truly, it was.
We drove down the coast, peeling off layers with the crossing of each state line. We made up stories about the cars we passed and changed our own identities in every greasy spoon. But soon the sun was a hot yellow-white and we had the windows rolled down, our hair whipping in the wind. We had arrived.
After a sultry Christmas that smelled of salt and suntan oil, our skin was golden for New Year’s Eve and we dressed in little more than heels and perfume. Aimee had gotten her hands on fake IDs and the plan was to have our midnight kisses at a dance club. “Since I’m driving, I’ll just have one drink,” Aimee said. “But you have as much as you like.”
The bar was full of beautiful people bumping and grinding on the dance floor. And the air was thick with smoke and iridescent bubbles that were being pumped out of a machine. As it was my first time in a bar, I was nervous and piña coladas slipped down in remedy. After I’d twirled four paper umbrellas between my fingers, Aimee leaned over and said in my ear, “I bought myself a holiday treat and I’ve been meaning to share it with you…”
A bubble floated by and she popped it with her fingertip. Then she smiled, teeth flashing under the strobe lights, and I followed her out of the bar—not yet midnight. I wanted to know what the treat was, but she told me it was a surprise and that I’d have to wait. We drove to the outskirts of town—saying nothing, music blaring—until Aimee pulled into an industrial park and stopped the car on an empty dead-end. “It’s in the trunk,” she said. “Just a sec.”
Aimee’s heels crunched against gravel and she came back carrying a cloth bag with a pattern of tiny cherries. I had no idea what could be inside, but I felt tingles of anticipation and twinges of fear. Whatever it was, it had to be something important or else there wouldn’t be this mystery.
Slowly, Aimee loosened the drawstring and pulled out a long, silver wand that flashed orange under the strange glow of the streetlight. I’d never seen anything like it before, yet I instinctively suspected what it was for. “What is it?” I faltered and Aimee cocked an eyebrow. “I’ll show you,” she said.
After adjusting her car seat so that she was slightly reclined, Aimee began to slide the wand’s tip over the thin fabric of her dress, worrying her nipples into sharp, perverse points. A private act, crude even, and I looked away, caught my expression in the mirror—mouth and eyes circles of surprise. But there was something compelling about what Aimee was doing and I couldn’t stop my gaze from roving back. Besides, she had her eyes closed; she couldn’t see me watching. Couldn’t see me watch as she gently tugged on her low-cut dress and sent her breasts spilling out the top. Couldn’t see me watch as she turned the base of the wand, and with it now humming, rubbed it over her naked nipples.
Aimee’s dress was short and she already had her legs cocked open so that her panties were visible. But suddenly she spread her thighs a little more and ran the wand between them. Her chest started to heave then, her breathing change. She pushed her panties to one side of her folds, pressed the wand inside of her, and bore down on it, swallowing the silver while circling her clit with her fingers. Finally she made little throaty moans that made me throb and she buckled under her own touch.
For a moment Aimee sat panting, the wand still buried in her. Then she slipped it out and handed it to me. “Try it,” she said. “It’s fantastic.”
Reckless with booze and the slick that had gathered between my legs, I accepted the wand—still wet and warm from Aimee—and slid it under my skirt. Through my panties, it hummed against my clit and it felt so delicious I almost forgot someone was watching. I threw my head back and rocked my hips until, soon, my panties were soaked and I was pulling them off, rushing to press the shaft to my bare skin.
Just before leaving for Florida, Aimee had given me a sphinx, making me as bald as a little girl. So that meant I could have been compared to a little girl in at least two ways, because on that New Year’s eve at age eighteen I was also as tight as one, too. I had kissed several boys and let them grind their cocks into my clothed, indifferent thighs. But I was still a virgin. I’d not even had my own fingers inside. Nevertheless, I had liked the look of Aimee riding the wand, and I suddenly needed to know how it felt to be impaled like that.
I positioned the silver tip at the mouth of my snatch and for a moment I just let it rest there—the vibrations humming every crevice while my fingers worked my clit. Soon, however, my hips began to move with a life of their own. Made tiny thrusts that slowly swallowed the wand and ripped me open. My eyes watered, but the pain somehow made rolling my clit feel even more delicious. And my hips rocked faster, harder, until, with Aimee’s eyes on me, I came against my hand, the rod jammed in my hole to the very hilt. Tears in my mouth and hair. Blood on the black leather seat, blood in my nails—even my French manicure blushing.
Quickly I shoved the wand back into its cherry bag and back into the trunk. Then Aimee and I drove to her grandmother’s house, music blaring. Me looking out the window at inky landscape, shadowy
houses, dark figures and her looking straight ahead.
And that is how it was for the rest of the trip—everything awkward, every space too small—the corridors in which I had to pass Aimee, the princess bed in the guest room we had to share. Looking back, I think it was probably me that made everything so uncomfortable. I was just so confused about what it all meant to me, to Aimee, to us. Still, I knew that I didn’t want to lose our friendship, so back home I tried hard to make things return to normal between us. And for me that meant never mentioning the silver wand and it meant that instead of practicing with makeup and wax, we watched movies and drank coffee with two guys from school.
Though everyone said they were good-looking—Chris with his smoky eyes and Jason with his broad shoulders—I could never work up any excitement for either of them. Unlike when I watched Aimee wriggle on the dance floor, watching Chris or Jason never made it throb between my thighs. I simply admired their beauty the way I might admire that of curtains or show dogs.
Spring came and my true feeling became more and more painfully obvious to me. Perhaps it was watching pigeons strut with puffed-up chests and seeing flowers spread for bees. Or perhaps it was just that time had mellowed the shock of such a graphic night with the dildo and I was finally ready to move on. But either way, I was now explicitly aware of how I wanted to touch Aimee—how I wanted to trace her collarbone and taste her salt and perfume. The only problem that remained was my own virginal self-doubt. Sometimes I would look at her milky skin and decide that she’d never want to touch me. Then at other times I would look at the soft blue web just under the surface and I’d decide that she would—that secretly her blood rushed and throbbed just like mine. At any rate, it all came to a head one night at her place.
Chris and Jason were there, of course, and they’d brought beer—presumably to loosen us up for that inevitable moment when they would corner us and fumble with our bra straps. Chris doled out another cold round and cracked his open. “Have any of you guys ever played Truth or Dare?” he asked. Though I had not, I knew where his question was going and I wasn’t surprised to find myself in the middle of a game. What did surprise me, however, was that round after round we all chose truth.
I don’t know about the others—maybe they were just warming up—but I avoided dares because I suspected they’d involve me doing something messy and unpleasant with Jason, that and because truth, unlike dares, could be dodged with lies. Unfortunately, lying was tricky. I had to come up with answers that weren’t so green they would make me seem uptight, or so hot they would give Jason ideas. Walking that fine line left me without the energy to come up with questions and Aimee always had to think of something for me.
At first she asked stuff such as, “How often do you masturbate?” and “What is the most erotic dream you’ve ever had?” But eventually she hit on a question that got my attention: “Have you ever done it with another guy?”
Jason screwed up his face like the very idea tasted of sour milk and for a moment I thought he might even spit on Aimee’s clean pink carpet. “No,” he said. “That’s disgusting.”
Chris, sitting in an armchair by the window, nodded in agreement then suddenly flashed a sly grin. “Two girls, on the other hand,” he said. “Now, that’s all right. So what about you, Aimee? Have you ever gotten it on with another chick?”
“Hey, you can’t just ask me a question. You have to wait until I choose truth or dare.”
“Well, hurry and choose.” But Aimee didn’t hurry. Instead she took a long, slow swig of beer and looked in turn at the three faces watching her. Under her gaze, it seemed suddenly clear to me that Aimee knew. Knew explicitly how I wanted to trace and finger all her lines and crevices—the cleft of her heart-shaped ass, the curve of her hips. And I felt more exposed then than I ever had, even the first time she’d waxed between my legs. It was like I (not Aimee) had been asked the question and that it was about so much more than what I had actually done with a woman, but also about what I had wanted to do.
I tilted back my head and swallowed, polished off my beer, then discarded the empty can on the coffee table. Metal met wood and Aimee flicked a final glance at me. “Dare,” she said.
The guys grinned at each other. “Okay,” said Jason. “I dare you to kiss Heidi on the lips. Tongue and everything.”
All at once the music coming from the stereo seemed loud and hard. And with its rhythm filling my throat, I couldn’t breathe. Aimee was sitting on the floor a few feet away from me and I was sitting on the sofa. We locked eyes but didn’t speak. I didn’t know what she would do and it felt like a very long time before she did anything at all.
Finally, however, she crawled across the pink carpet until she was on her knees right in front of me and I could smell her perfume—sweet yet as heady as musk. She wrapped her fingers around my neck—under the hair, right on the skin—and she pulled me to her. Kissed me softly at first, then insistently. Her tongue curling around mine. Her teeth on my lips. But too soon it was over and she was back in her spot on the floor, my mouth watering for her.
“What do you want, Heidi?” Jason asked. “Truth or dare?” The guys were apparently getting off on this and hoping it would go further. I didn’t, however, care what they wanted. The only important thing was that their presence seemed to free Aimee and me to do what we wanted to do. To choose dare.
Jason tapped his feet, cracked his knuckles. “I dare you to feel Aimee up,” he said. Without a second thought I got up from the sofa and walked over to her. Got down on the floor so that we were sitting face-to-face, kissing hard. Her dress so thin and slippery my hands instantly fell into place.
I leaned into Aimee until she was lying on the floor and I was on top of her, one of my legs wedged between hers and one of hers between mine. In that way, we slid against each other, panting, as she worked my skirt up to my hips and squeezed my ass. Finally she rolled me off her and pulled down my soaked panties. She kissed the thin, sensitive skin of my inner thighs and ran her tongue along the thrust of my hipbones. Then when she had me squirming, she brought her mouth to the vee of my crotch and licked a steady rhythm. I whimpered and rocked faster and faster. Almost like I wanted her to swallow me whole.
I thought, this may be a dare but it sure feels like the truth. And then I thought nothing. Just ground into her tongue until I came.
Debut
Cheri Crystal
From the very first page of her first novel, I was enamored. She wrote the way I wanted to be held. She took me prisoner while I frantically turned pages, sitting at the edge of my seat, my tight jeans digging into my swollen clit. Sometimes I actually came in my pants in the middle of reading a sex scene. She wrote some of the hottest I’d ever read. I had to e-mail this author. I had to convey how deeply her writing touched me, how her words resonated in the core of my soul and at the same time caressed my body like tongue and fingers.
I was over the moon when she answered my first shy note, and within a few weeks we were exchanging e-mails regularly like old friends. We wrote and chatted online for almost a year but never met. Through e-mail we shared photos, secrets, desires, and laughter. We discussed everything from writing styles to how she wrote her first tantalizing sex scene. Her descriptions of fisting had me intrigued. I wonder if she knew I had never tried it but was dying to.
Her name was Angel and at first sight I truly believed she was sent to me from heaven. I was already in love with her mind but I knew it was her body I was going to worship. She was a few inches taller than me and stunning with her spiked red hair, small straight nose, and emerald eyes. Her shoulders were broad, her waist was slender, and her snug, man-tailored shirt showed off ample breasts. The top two buttons were undone, revealing a throat I wanted instantly to lick. Her long legs and the way they led to her firm butt had me drooling. With a jacket slung over her shoulder and boots with two-inch heels, she looked like an Amazon.
I wondered if she’d seen me. The cocktail hour was all abuzz and I busied myself mingl
ing with the other guests, waiting for our paths to cross. The champagne was going to my head and elsewhere. It wasn’t even my big night. Well, not for a literary award but for something I longed for from the first moment I started having these fantasies. Perhaps my latest romance novel would be in the running next year, but I couldn’t think about that now. I was about to meet her face to face. I was presenting the award for Best Lesbian Erotica—how appropriate; I could almost smell the lust oozing from my pores. She was up for the Debut Fiction award, and I wished I were presenting that one. If it were up to me, she would win in every category, especially Romance and Erotica.
When she finally glanced in my direction and our eyes met, my pulse quickened, my heart pounded hard in my chest, and I could feel my clit spring to attention. I had dreamed about this moment for what seemed an eternity and as she looked me over, the anticipation of breathing the same air as her was unbearable. My skintight black strapless dress with the plunging neckline seemed to do the trick. She smiled as she checked out my cleavage. Thank you Victoria’s Secret for helping Mother Nature. I knew I was blushing furiously, but I watched her take me in, loving her slow sensual appraisal. I ached to run my fingers through her short spiked red hair. I wondered if she was a natural redhead and yearned to find out. Her eyes lingered at my breasts once more before they lifted to mine, gorgeous green eyes that sparkled just for me. Her mouth parted in a mischievous smile.
“Finally,” she said.
“Finally,” I replied.
It was hard to believe that two critically acclaimed authors couldn’t come up with anything more poetic than that. After months of being the biggest flirt this side of the Internet, I was finally meeting the recipient of my corny jokes, endless prattle, and long-winded beating around the bush about what I really wanted. A mixture of amusement, pleasure, and outright lust flitted over her face as if she was recalling every e-mail we’d exchanged over the last year. For a moment, all of the secrets, laughter, unquestioning friendship, and tentative exploration of new sexual territory showed in the way her eyes gleamed.
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