by Radclyffe
And she knows me in ways I never thought possible and had given up hoping for.
She knows practically all there is that’s worth knowing about me. My passions. My hopes. My dreams. What I fear; what I love. How I like to come. I know almost all those things about her, too—what makes her laugh, what makes her cry, what makes her come. I know she can turn me inside out with a word. Or the absence of one. Silence has become my greatest fear. Even anger is better than that. Because when I don’t hear from her, I am afraid that she is gone forever.
Although I can’t remember who suggested it first, we both agreed that it was time. Time to make the final connection. Time to meet. Because there was too much between us to contain inside the perimeter of a four-hundred-square-inch, high-resolution monitor any longer. We have five senses, and there is only so long that the critical ones can be denied. I had to hear her voice, touch her skin, smell her scent, and taste her desire. Or die from the deprivation.
And now that I’m about to see her for the first time, at the same instant she sees me, I don’t know if I’ll pass the test. She has written that she likes androgynous women. Anxiously I wonder just how androgynous she really meant. I catch a glimpse of myself as I pass the wide plate-glass window in the storefront café—a pale blue denim (pressed and fitted) work shirt, low-cut button-fly jeans, black Doc Martens twelve-eye boots. No tie. Thought the tie might be a little too much even for a liberated, out lesbian artist like her. My hair is as long as I let it get before it needs to be trimmed—almost to the collar in back, long enough on the sides to brush the brown mixed with gray at the temples back into casual layers. I run a hand through the unruly wave at the front that wants to fall over my forehead. It does. The gold signet ring on my small finger catches the light, glints back at me from the glass, and I survey the rest of the picture. Very thin-rimmed, tortoiseshell glasses—the professor look. Athletic build, not much heavier than when I was eighteen. On a good day I can still wear the same size jeans. Not bad, I guess, but I’m still nervous—she’s younger—a lot younger. She might have fallen in love with my quick wit and irresistible charm, but I’m hoping to impress her in the flesh. Soon.
I check the street sign, double-check the address. Right name engraved on the discreet wooden sign hung above the door. This is the right coffee shop, all right. I take one of the sidewalk tables where I can keep watch in both directions without looking as if I’m at a tennis match. I try to amuse myself by observing the interplay of students, faculty, and staff passing by from the nearby campus. Snippets of conversation and laughter float to me on the warm afternoon breeze. I feel a little out of body. What the hell am I doing meeting a stranger who might just have been playing an elaborate game with me for the last three-quarters of a year? But she couldn’t have been, could she? There are some things you just can’t fake. Need is one of them.
Check my watch—five minutes to four. We’d agreed on four o’clock. We’d agreed no pictures. I know she’ll be early. I know I’ll recognize her. If I leave now, she’ll understand. And I’ll lose my mind wondering what could have been.
I watch the street. I see her now, crossing the intersection with an expectant expression—excited, it appears to me. She sure doesn’t look as nervous as I feel. My height, but definitely not androgynous. Lustrous, windblown hair—thick and dark—almost to her shoulders. From here, I can’t see the beginnings of gray I know are there. She told me about that right after I finally confessed my age. Maybe to make me feel better. White T-shirt—very white, no wrinkles, nice tits. Very nice. Jeans—not tight, but fitted enough to show off a tight butt and strong thighs. She’s sexy and moves like she knows it; my pulse shoots up a notch. Our eyes meet—she grins. So do I. I stand up as she approaches. I watch her walk—confident, centered—all the time her looking me over, taking her time with it, too. Cocky. I knew that about her—love her for it. But then, love isn’t the issue here.
I let her look, want her to look, hoping—Christ, praying—the packaging will do. Because this time I want to fuck her, skin on skin. She stops a few feet away, smiles with her eyes. Then her whole face lifts as she smiles with her mouth—a generous, very kissable mouth. I want her so much right then. Her eyes are very bright, shining, brilliant. I’m drowning.
“Hi,” she says softly, even a little shyly. That surprises me.
“Hi,” I answer, my throat tight.
“You look great.”
“So do you.” Jesus. So do you. I clear my throat. Try not to shake. Gesture to the table. “You hungry?”
There’s no way I could possibly eat. All I want is to touch her. She shakes her head, her hand trailing lightly down my arm, brushing over my hand, taking my fingers in hers. Her skin is warm, her gaze so steady.
“Yes.”
I try not to look disappointed.
She tugs my hand, pulls me around the table into the little street. “Come with me.”
I follow. I would have gone anywhere as long as she held my hand. We walk, our shoulders touching, our strides well matched. We don’t talk. We don’t need to. There is no need to say what we both know in our souls. Love was never the issue here.
She climbs four stone steps worn down in the middle from decades of use and opens the door to a three-story, two-hundred-year-old townhouse sandwiched among a row of them, all converted now to apartments. I’m right behind her, almost brushing against her ass. She turns to me as I move to shut out the world, but before I have the door completely closed, my back is against the wall and she’s pressing along the entire length of my body. I kick the door the rest of the way shut as her weight pins me. If she’s worried about offending my butch sensibilities with a frontal assault, she sure doesn’t show it. She’s kissing me, and I’m kissing her back—hard, openmouthed, tongue-probing kisses that say you belong to me. We’re both gasping, groaning softly at the physical sensations that are so damn familiar and so completely new. I pull her shirt out, slide my hands up. No bra—she did that for me. Another reason I adore her. She remembers what I need. Her nipples are already hard but they stiffen further as I clamp down on them, both at once, my hands cupping her breasts, squeezing. She moans and twitches and pushes into my palms.
“Apartment?” I ask desperately. This can’t be smart, fucking in the hallway like this, but my brain is melting fast.
“Yeah,” she gasps. Her hand fisted in my shirtfront, she dances and drags me ten steps further along the dim corridor. Then, with my hand still tormenting her nipples, she produces a key from somewhere, turns a lock, and we tumble into a room. Two more steps and I bang up against the back of something—a couch, I think. She’s got her hands on my ass, massaging my butt roughly, pulling me closer, fitting thigh between thighs, pelvis to pelvis, our mouths still fused.
Then she gasps, pulls her mouth from mine, and leans back in my arms to stare at me. She blushes. I have my hands on her nipples, she’s feeling me up—and now she blushes. God, she’s beautiful. I nudge the hard curve against her crotch a little, and her eyes widen as she realizes she really did feel what she thought she felt.
“Okay?” I whisper, holding my breath, praying again.
She slides a hand around my thigh—between my legs—finds the cock, and cups it in her hand.
“Okay,” she murmurs, leaning to kiss me again.
She tugs it, my clit surges to twice its size, and my knees get so weak I almost fall down. She laughs. Quick learner. Still working the cock around in my pants, she gets her other hand on the front of my jeans and starts pulling the buttons open. I’ve got it easier. Her jeans zip.
I get her fly down in record time and push the denim down over her hips. No underwear either. She’s more than a dream; she’s a miracle. When her hand dips into my fly, I toss my head back and groan. There isn’t much room in there with her fingers and the cock and my clit all smashed together, and I’m feeling every little movement of her fingers straight through to my spine. I look down, wide-eyed, as she fists me inside my jeans.
> “Jesus!”
“Mmm, nice.” She tilts her head, her eyes dreamy as she searches my face. “I want to jerk you off. Can I?”
I cover her hand from the outside, stopping the torment. “No...I mean, yes...you can, for sure but...I mean...not yet.”
“Can I take it out?”
My head is about to come off. “Oh yeah, please.”
She eases it free, kissing me again, pinning me to the sofa back this time. The length of it lies along my belly now, between us, as she surges against me again and again. The base pounds my clit as she pumps her hips into me. She’s naked to midthigh, her T-shirt tented up over my hands, her bare belly rubbing over mine as she slides all over the dick.
Jesus! Who’s fucking whom here? Stupid question. She owns me. Has from the first.
She’s groaning as she bites my neck, kisses my jaw, my chest, my nipples through my shirt—I’m damn near coming from the sensations assaulting me everywhere at once. Someone is whimpering—I think it’s me. My legs are turning to rubber and there’s a dangerous quivering in my belly.
Fuck! She’s gonna make me come.
“Baby, wait!” I cry.
She eases her hips away from me.
Oh God—I don’t know what I want, but not that!
I start to protest; she laughs again. Then she shoves her hand between us and tugs my dick. “Are you going to fuck me with that thing or just tease me all night?”
My clit twitches like crazy when she says that. God, I’m crazy about her. She lets me turn her so it’s her butt against the sofa now and I’m between her legs.
“Step out of your jeans,” I growl as I drop to my knees, my cock brushing her leg as I move down. My hands part her thighs, my lips find her clit. She cries out in surprise. I groan, my stomach clenching at the first taste of her. She’s so wet, so sweet, so goddamned perfect. Her clit is hard, waiting for my tongue, my lips. I suck it in, tug at the inner lips with my teeth, bite gently. She grabs my head, pumps against my face erratically. Her body is calling the shots, and I follow her rhythm. I’m licking the whole length of her, trying to swallow every drop of sweet come, stroking under the stiff shaft, up over the top, around the sides. The muscles of her sex contract.
“I need to come soon.” Her voice is high and tight, her fingers twitching in my hair.
She needs to come, all right, and I want her on the edge. I’m about to go over mine. Still licking her, I rub my clit under the cock. It’s huge, heavy, throbbing. If I stroke it another few seconds I’m gonna be coming all over her. I’m close to forgetting why I should wait.
“Please, please, please,” she sighs, her head rolling gently from side to side. “Fuck me, make me come...fuck me, make me come...fuck me fuck me...”
I’m so close to exploding I’m not sure I can even get it in her without coming. Standing on shaking legs, I grit my teeth, grab the cock, and guide the head between her thighs. Rub it against her clit—she whimpers, grabs my ass, tries to pull me into her. I spread my legs, tilt my pelvis forward, and angle the cock up with my hand. She feels it, helps me, her fingers on mine—leading me home. Between us we slide the cock in.
My head is pounding, and she’s making little wild noises in the back of her throat. I can’t stop my hips from pumping. I’m gasping and groaning and fucking her for all I’m worth. She’s got her arms around my neck and she’s fucking me right back, the both of us poised to come, neither wanting to give in. Her muscles finally squeeze down on the cock so hard that when I go to pull out for a long stroke, it doesn’t come—so I just slam back into her, and my clit goes crazy.
“Ah fuck, I’m gonna come!”
My pelvis hits her clit, the cock bangs deep into her, working that spot that’s sending her over. She bites my shoulder, trying not to scream. I’m coming now, can’t stop it—great pounding waves shooting from my clit, rising through my belly into my chest. I shout meaningless words, jerking in her arms—inside her, and she screams. Screams and screams and comes all over my cock.
God, she’s beautiful when she comes—her whole body resonates with the sound and fury of it. Her climax seems to go on forever, and with each contraction she moans, digging her fingers into my ass.
I’m afraid I’ll crush her I’m holding on so tight, still coming in slow rolling spasms. With my mouth close to her ear, I murmur, “I love you.”
“I know,” she whispers brokenly, still coming. “I love you.”
But we both already knew that. Love was never the issue here.
SOUL ON DISPLAY
They say that presentation is as important as the meal.
Actually, there are times when presentation isn’t just important, it’s everything—when you need to whisper your desire without words; when you need to bare your soul in silence; when you need to be known without explanation.
Tonight is one of those nights. Tonight I need for you to know my need, my desire, my helpless devotion. I’ve missed you.
I shower carefully, washing my hair, covering every part of my body with creamy, vanilla-scented suds, shaving my legs and underarms smooth. My thighs need no attention, being essentially hairless, but I do consider trimming the soft strands of pale red between them...for a minute or two. I’m pretty fond of it, and you always say you like to work through it, searching out my heat, my wetness, my pulsing clit. I leave it.
Just imagining your fingers parting me, sliding over the edges of my desire, makes my clit throb. I see you grinning as I groan and raise my hips in a desperate plea for you to touch me. “I’m so hard. Please stroke it—make me come.” I see you laugh as you deny me, flicking the hood once as you draw away.
“Do it yourself,” I hear you whisper as you lean back to watch me quiver and shudder.
I love to come for you. When you touch me; when you tell me to touch myself. But I won’t. Not today. Today I need it to be you.
I dry myself, taking care not to linger near sensitive areas. When I’m this ready the merest touch will make me wet, and I’m saving that for later. Yet I know as I pull the soft, well-broken-in leather pants over my naked legs that I will be dripping before I get the zipper closed. The ridged seam presses against my clit. It is already stone hard. It will be harder still before this is over. With every step, the stiff shaft rubs against the second skin encasing my crotch, and my belly aches with the merciless need to get off. I want to squeeze it, just to ease the pressure. I don’t. Can’t. I want to come so bad, sweet wanting that only you can ease.
Christ, I hope you don’t decide to work late. I’ll melt down in the living room if I have to wait too much longer.
I wear no shirt, no shoes, no jewelry. I am only a body—bare breasts, bared soul, powerless need encased in black leather.
I hear the key turn. The room is nearly in shadow; the only light comes from the subdued lamps in the adjoining bedroom. It is enough for you to see me, and for me to see your face. There is nothing else tonight—my body, your eyes.
“Don’t turn on the lights,” I say as your arm precedes you into the foyer, searching the wall for the switch. Your hand stills in midair. I hear a swift intake of breath. You are thinking rapidly, calculating your next move from the tone of my voice. You’re so good at that. You always know.
I stand, my butt resting against the rounded back of the sofa, waiting. Part of me is praying. Can you feel my need in the dark, hear my desire in the stillness? Or is this the time you won’t know? Is this the time I’ll be left to drown beneath the weight of my silence?
The door closes, your briefcase goes quietly to the floor, and you move closer with deliberate steps. You study me, not brazenly, not boldly, but through still, calm, steady eyes. I gaze back, trying to give nothing away. My trembling hands rest on the leather sofa back as I present myself, exposing so much more than flesh. The air between us crackles with the sound of our unspoken words.
You look into my eyes, flicker a smile, and part your lips with a soft sigh. I tilt my hips ever so slightly in invitat
ion. Can you hear me, baby? I’ve been so lonely.
Your eyes return to mine, and the certainty in yours before you lower your gaze—down the plane of my chest, over my belly, to my crotch—eases the tightness around my heart. When you kneel between my parted legs and press your hands in the center of each black-clad thigh, I draw my first free breath in what feels like days. The muscles in my belly clench at the first faint touch. When you press your face to the leather covering my crotch, hard enough for me to feel it in my clit, a warning tingle ripples down my legs. I swallow a moan, try not to pump against you. I want it to last; I want to come so bad; I want to hide my secrets a few moments longer. I look down, watch you through the haze of want clouding my mind.
Your hands come to my fly; you slide the zipper down, spread the material, grip the waistband and pull hard, almost but not quite exposing my clit. The leather rides against the shaft and the sudden pressure almost makes me come. My arms shake with the effort of keeping myself upright. I am holding my breath, struggling not to move. Your arms circle to the rear, knead my ass, pull me hard against your face. When your chin strikes my stiff clit, trapped by soft leather, I close my eyes against the torment. I am dying; I am silent. I need you to know what I need.
With the stiff tip of your tongue, you flick the hood where it joins my body. My clit jumps under your tongue, twitches unbearably beneath the leather, and I think I might fall. I grip the edges of the sofa harder, straight-arming it, determined to take it for as long as I can. My head is already swimming, my stomach in knots. You press your tongue lower as you slowly draw the leather down, running along each side of the shaft, then rocking it back and forth. I bite my lip. I taste blood. I am poised to come, have been for hours, but I knew you would make me wait. Need you to make me wait. I want you to make me come.
You tug my pants to the floor, press your shoulders between my legs, parting them, opening me. Your tongue slides down into the folds between my legs, releasing a flood of passion down your face. While I watch through a cloudy haze, you lick it greedily, making a sound deep in your throat that almost makes me come. When you bring your thumb up to spread my lips, dive deep into me with your mouth, I fear I’ll lose it. It hurts to breathe; my thigh muscles are shaking, cramping. I am choking on a groan that threatens to become a wail. I need your mouth so much. I need you to take me inside you.
