by Radclyffe
PLEASURE POINTS
“You have a great clit.”
“Huh?”
“Seriously.” I tilted my head as it rested against your thigh so I could see all the sweeping undulations of tender skin that cradled the upthrust prominence like protective hands. Even unerect, the pale pink, butter-soft tip peeked out beneath the thicker, dark rose hood. “It’s beautiful—especially when you’re turned on. I love the way it gets so shiny, the head poking out at me when it’s hard.” I ran my fingertip along the side, pressed deep enough to feel the core, grinning to myself when you gasped.
“Jesus,” you whispered when I thumbed the tip gently and your clit twitched.
Mmm, here it comes. Oh yeah, get hard for me, baby.
“And,” I continued matter-of-factly, enjoying the power, “I like feeling it swell right before you come.” I moved to that spot just underneath that always makes you wet and rubbed—slow and steady. Small circles, not too hard yet. “You get so big then, so stiff righ—”
“You’re gonna make me come...if you...keep doing that.” Breathless, legs twitching, one hand twisted in the sheets.
“Sorry. I’m just playing around.” I eased up on the pressure, slowed my strokes even more. Flick. Flick.
“Oh come on.” That tilt of hips I loved, the silent plea for just a little more, just a little harder.
“I’ll be good.” I really wanted to reach down and stroke my own pulsating clit, but it would be too distracting, and I needed all my concentration to tease you to orgasm. I knew all the signals—I should, we’ve been lovers for years—but I still needed to listen to the currents of your blood, sense the call of your flesh. Despite how well I knew your body, it still fascinated me. There was both comfort and exhilaration in knowing just how to create desire—how to control the pace, direct the passion, determine the depth and moment of your release. There were times your body demanded to be satisfied immediately—screamed to come—and then I gave you what you needed, just exactly the way you needed it. But there were other times, like now, when I led and you followed, willingly—or not. Dancing to my tune, coming to my song.
“I think you’re bigger than me,” I mused, switching to long strokes of the shaft between my thumb and finger, squeezing lightly when I got to the tiny ridge just in front of the head. You whimpered. I smiled. My clit beat a frantic rhythm between my thighs, and I clenched my muscles deep inside, holding back the thunder of blood that would soon drive me insane. I started to jerk you off a little faster. “But that’s okay—it’s a win-win for me. I get your big clit to play wi—”
“You’ve gotta make me come,” you pleaded. “Please, I really need to.”
I knew you did. Your clit was stone between my fingers, your legs and ass clenched tight. My fingers were drenched in come, and the beat of your heart pulsed through your clit like hammer blows. I wanted you to come as badly as you did. I couldn’t breathe for the beauty of it.
“Ohpleaseplease...right...there...ohyeahbabythat’s...just...right...
ohright...there I’m gonnacome...oh yeah oh yeah...”
Your clit is gorgeous when it shoots off—dark red, full and hard, jumping against my fingers. If I could, I’d make it do it all day. But now the pressure in my belly was so huge I thought I might scream, and as much as I wanted to keep going, I needed you. I slid up beside you and even though you were still coming, you reached for me.
“You’ve got a great clit, too,” you whispered, your voice raspy, your sweat-dampened face against my neck, your clever fingers already working me to the boiling point.
“Mmm, you make me so crazy,” I moaned. Eyes closed, I rubbed my hand over your stomach, found the barbell in your belly button, and tugged on it in time to your fingers jerking my clit. I pulled harder; so did you. “Gonna come.”
“Uh-huh.”
I twitched at the jewelry, you stroked my clit; I twisted it, you pressed; I rolled it, you squeezed. My fingers flew, so did yours. And then my clit exploded, and I came and came.
“Oh God,” I sighed at last, still feebly flicking the piercing in your navel. “You are so good at that.”
“You know,” you muttered, sleepy and satisfied, softly rubbing my clit. “You work my piercing the way you want me to get you off.”
“Yeah?”
“Mm-hmm. Makes me hard when you do that.”
I laughed. “Honey, everything does.”
“I wonder what would happen if it wasn’t in my navel.”
I was suddenly wide awake. “Huh?”
“What if it was in my clit?”
“You sure about this?” I asked three nights later as we made our way through the crowds on South Street. There were head shops, piercing parlors, and tattoo places on every block.
“Yeah,” you said, blushing cutely. “I’ve been sorta thinking about it for a long time.”
“Well, I know we fooled around talking about it. But this is...a big deal.”
“I thought you said it would be sexy.” You stopped at the corner of Third and looked into my face. “Don’t you want me to?”
“It’s not that.” I looked away, then sighed and met your worried gaze. “I really want you to. But not for me, okay?”
You grinned, your blue eyes clearing. “Okay. I won’t let you play with it, then.”
I grabbed your hand and pulled you close to the side of a steak joint, angling my body to shield you from passersby, and then gripped your crotch. I squeezed. “Sure about that?”
“Come on,” you protested a little desperately. “I have to get naked in a few minutes. Don’t make me wet now.”
There was something about knowing that my touch made you weak that drove me a little nuts, but I eased up. I knew you were nervous. Hell, I was almost nauseous worrying this was going to hurt you. “Okay. But if you want to quit—any time—you just say, and we’re done. We’ll walk out, no problem, okay?”
“I really want to,” you said firmly.
I grinned. “Me, too.”
I followed you down the street toward Body Alchemy. It looked typically grungy from the outside—flat-black-painted door, windows frosted so we couldn’t see in from the street. When you made up your mind, though, you didn’t hesitate. You shouldered through, and I was right on your heels. One long, narrow room, a glass-enclosed counter along one side, a curtained doorway at the end. Behind the counter a youngish guy in a black T-shirt and jeans, piercings in every visible orifice and then some. Both earlobes sported fat glass plugs a half inch in diameter. His nose was pierced, his forehead, his lower lip. I didn’t want to, but I imagined what his dick looked like. Don’t go there. Jesus.
He studied us back, neutrally. I wondered what he thought of two butch dykes in jeans, T-shirts, and boots. He looked from me to you, then settled on you.
“How you doin’?”
“Great,” you said, leaning down to look at the jewelry under the surprisingly spotless glass.
“Need something pierced?”
“Uh-huh,” you replied absently, staring at the fat silver rings. Fourteen-gauge looked huge to me right about now. You looked up. “My clitoris.”
His expression never changed.
“You’ll want Venus then—she’s the best at that kind of thing.”
“Venus,” I repeated quietly.
“Yep.” He turned to me. “Very experienced. She did my co—”
“Thanks!” I interrupted brightly. I saw you smirk and wanted to slug you. “Is she free?”
At that moment a Tristan Taormino look-alike came through the door in a crotch-high leather skirt, high-heeled boots laced to the knee, and a red tube top that almost covered her nipples. Red lipstick, short red-lacquered nails, and big dark eyes. My taste runs to boy-bodies and short-cropped hair, but she made my heart beat a little faster.
“Oh, hey, Venus,” the studded guy behind the counter called. “Got a customer here for you.”
She looked our way and smiled. “Hi.”
Fabulo
us voice.
“Both of you?”
“Just me,” you said.
“Great.” She pointed to the curtain at the end of the room. “You ready now?”
I piped up. “I’m coming, too. I’m her lover.” Okay, maybe I was just a little more forceful than necessary, but no way was she getting her hands on your clit without me in the room.
“Oh, cool,” she replied brightly. “Come on back.”
The hallway beyond the curtain was narrow and lined with eight-by-ten framed photos of tattooed and pierced body parts. Not people—parts. One penis had half a dozen rings through the undersurface of the shaft and a barbell through the head. Ouch.
“Here we go.”
The room was maybe ten by twelve, with a tiny sink in one corner, a padded table in the middle, and a moveable floor lamp in one corner. A box of latex gloves sat beside a series of squat, square stainless-steel trays on the counter by the sink. The room smelled of disinfectant and spices.
“So,” she said briskly, indicating the table. “Sit up here a minute and let’s figure out what’s going to work for you. What kind of piercing do you want?”
“Genital,” you said immediately.
“Labia or clitoral?”
“My clit.”
I leaned against the counter and stuck my hands in my pockets. It’s weird, but they were shaking.
Venus nodded thoughtfully. “You’re over eighteen, right?”
We both laughed.
“Had to ask that. And I won’t pierce you if you’re high.”
“Nope. I’m clean and sober.”
“Cool.” She shifted a little in the smallish space so she could address us both. “What kind of clitoral piercing are you interested in? For show or for sensation?”
“Sensation,” we both said together.
“Then you want either a vertical hood, where the jewelry goes under the hood so the ball on the end will rest on the head,” she gave us a look to see if we understood, and we both nodded, “or you want a triangle piercing...under the clitoral shaft. The triangle will heighten sexual arousal the most.”
“That one,” you said without a second’s hesitation.
We’d looked at pics on the Internet, read the pros and cons, but I didn’t know you’d absolutely decided.
“That’s the most serious one we do,” Venus advised. “It will hurt a little more and take longer to heal.”
“I understand,” you said.
“It might make your clit get bigger from the constant stimulation and the healing process—sometimes a lot bigger.”
You grinned and damn if my clit didn’t get hard.
“No problem.”
Venus nodded. “There are two places I can put it—the standard triangle piercing goes low, where the labia join the hood. Or I can do a deep hood, up high under the base of the shaft. The ring will circle the shaft then.”
“Like a little cock ring?” Your voice rose with interest. My clit twitched.
“Uh-huh. If you’re built for it.” She reached down, opened a drawer in the table, and pulled out a clean white sheet. “Take everything off from the waist down and let’s see. You can cover up with the sheet.”
While you stripped, she turned on the little spotlight, washed her hands, and pulled on gloves. Then she motioned me over to the table opposite her and gently reached between your legs, parted your labia with the fingers of one hand, and felt your clit. I saw your legs tense, and when she touched your clit, I got a jolt. I love your clit. Even seeing a stranger touch it turns me on. I kept my face completely still.
“Nice,” she commented in a surprisingly clinical tone. “You’ve got a prominent shaft and the hood,” she did something with her thumb, and I heard your breath catch, “slides back easily.” She straightened. “I can do the deep hood if you want. But that ring is going to keep you erect all the time.”
She is anyhow, I thought.
You looked at me, and I rested my fingers on your arm. I knew what you wanted; I always do when it comes to this. “Go for it. If you don’t like it, we’ll take it out.”
“Okay,” you said to Venus. “Let’s go the whole way.”
“I’ll put in a fourteen-gauge to start. If you want bigger later, we can change it.” She met my gaze. “I have to be sure not to hit the shaft where the nerves run. I need her to be erect so I can tell what’s what—it’s safer that way. I can do it, or one of you can.”
“I’ll do it.” I didn’t even raise my voice this time. I wasn’t going to let her or anybody else work you up. Besides, I wanted to be a part of it. I was dying to touch you. “Okay, baby?”
“Yes,” you said, your voice husky and low.
Venus turned away and did something in the background with things that clattered quietly. I leaned over, looked into your eyes, and slipped two fingers on either side of your clit. It was instantly hard. I watched your pupils flicker and dance as I carefully rolled the firm core of you between my fingers, pulling slightly at the end of each stroke. I got wet when I felt your warm come glaze my fingertips.
“Don’t make me come,” you whispered breathlessly.
“I won’t,” I murmured, but I wanted you just as stiff and swollen as I could get you. I wanted Venus to feel exactly where your clit was.
“I’m getting close.” There was a note of desperation in your voice and perversely, I wanted to push you closer. You were mine, after all, and in a second I was going to have to hand you over to a strange woman. Your hips lifted and I felt your clit pulse, then go rigid.
“That’s it,” I said hoarsely, looking up to see Venus across from me. There was a small tray beside her with things on it. I didn’t look too closely.
“Good.” She smiled at you, then me. “Some people orgasm while I’m doing this. It’s from the stimulation of the nerves. Don’t be embarrassed or anything, okay?”
As she talked, she swabbed something on your thighs, then reached down with one hand. She grasped your clit, then squeezed at the base. The head popped out, and you made a small choked sound.
“You’ll probably feel like you need to come as soon as I pierce you. It actually helps ease the discomfort if the clitoris can decompress, so don’t fight it.”
She reached for something else on the tray, and I looked into your face. A second later, your eyes got wide and you muttered, “Oh, fuck, baby. Oh, I think—Oh!”
You pressed your face to my side. Venus took my hand and placed it gently on your clit.
“Touch her right there. Easy.”
I stroked you the way I always did when you were just about to come and you did, sweetly, in slow steady waves, crying out softly with each pulsation. I watched your clit coming. God, it was beautiful. I was always ready to stroke you off, but now...how was I going to keep my hands off you?
When you got your breath back, you pushed up on your elbows and checked yourself out. Grinning, you looked at me. “What do you think?”
“You’ve got a great clit, baby.” I stroked your leg but stayed clear of your piercing. “I don’t know how I’m going to stand not being able to play with it for a while, though.”
You eyed my crotch. “Good thing we’ve got a spare.”
BOOMERANGING
You’re probably familiar with the concept of “round-robin.” In the writing trade, it’s the sequential addition of chapters or sections to an ongoing—or, more accurately, evolving—work by a group of authors. In this particular instance, there were only two of us, and the final product wasn’t intended to be a novel, but an anthology. An erotica anthology. And I wasn’t certain exactly who my writing partner was. Well, I had some idea, since we were both members of the same online writers’ group. Nevertheless, we were both cloaked in several layers of online and real-life noms de guerre. It was safer, and definitely more titillating, that way. If pressed, I couldn’t say exactly when it started. It had sounded simple enough—one of those innocent interactions that occur so naturally in the fluid atmosphere of cyb
erspace. I said, or maybe she said, “Send me one of yours, and I’ll send you one of mine. Maybe someday we can put them together and do a collection. Who knows.”
Who knew, indeed.
Seemed like a great idea to me—an exchange of ideas, a stimulus to inspiration, and a chance to share a passion that was hard to explain to someone who didn’t do it too. It would be fun. Well, I got that part right; I just hadn’t anticipated all the fringe benefits. The first few sections we traded were pretty much as you might expect. A lot of careful comments, a little bit of craft, and now and then, a snippet of playful innuendo. By the third exchange, however, innuendo had segued to suggestion, and flirtation had transformed into seduction. It was one of those things that fed on itself, where the absence of response would have been akin to a cold shower, but a teasing reply resulted in the geometric escalation of sheer unmitigated arousal. Before I knew it, and well before I had the time to understand it, I was in the midst of a full-blown obsession. I can’t say I minded. In fact, I’d never enjoyed having my work critiqued so much. I wasn’t entirely certain if I was alone in my fixation, and I thought it prudent not to ask. There were boundaries, after all.
I simply decided to allow the words to speak for themselves.
I’d sent my vignette out that morning, so it was my turn to be on the receiving end of the next installment. And knowing that, I’d been stoked for it all day. Talk about Pavlovian response. I heard the little ping and the announcement “You’ve got mail” and my clit jumped.
The ride home from work in rush-hour traffic was a maddening combination of pleasure and torture, and it had nothing to do with the snarled, slow-moving mass of vehicles. I’d been nearly sick with arousal all day, the kind of stomach-churning, gnawing need that sits heavily between the thighs, begging for relief. My clitoris was a hard, throbbing presence that undercut every thought, dragging my concentration away from what I was supposed to be doing. Even when I was nearly completely absorbed, there—in the background—the drumbeat of desire echoed insistently. The customary half-hour drive crawled past the hour mark, and every few minutes I had to fight the urge to squeeze myself through my jeans. Even self-denial had become satisfying, however, because just as much as I wanted to come instantly—right then and there—I wanted to wait. Prolonging the pleasurable frustration had become a perverse goal in itself. Besides, I couldn’t come without the latest episode, not without sacrificing half of the thrill.
