“I’m so fucking hard,” you said. “I’m going to fuck you in the throat, in the cunt, in the ass. I’m going to make you beg, you little bitch, and you won’t know whether you’re begging for me to stop or never stop.”
All of a sudden a wave of panic swept through me, and confusion, and something worse. I slumped on my haunches, rested my head on your strong hip, and started to cry. You stroked my face. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“No. I don’t want to talk about it.” If I let myself go in these moments, let myself have flashbacks, feel anger toward the person there with me, it can go on and on. Stopping is no solution. Or that’s how it feels—that I’ll never feel desire again, that I’ll be flooded with unrelenting anger like pain, that I’ll kill rather than feel pleasure. I can’t stop. I sniffled, straightened up, wiped my face with the back of my hand, and played with the fallen waist of your sailor pants, touching the crease between them and your soft skin.
“How long have you been a boy?”
“I’m not. I pass.”
I spent a long minute studying you.
“Well? Do you want me to fuck you or what?”
“Untie me,” I said.
You didn’t look that pissed off, just took the razor from your pocket, snapped it open, and cut the rope. It fell onto my knees, and you snapped the razor closed and threw it on the floor. “Now what?”
I jumped to my feet and pounced on you. You put your hand on my hip and I took it in mine, twisted it behind your back, and backed you up against your desk. “Oh,” you gasped. Books, papers, your cell phone, and pencils crashed onto the floor. I slid my hand into your fly, under the waist of your boxers, and touched you where your dick met your body. You shuddered a little, arched your breasts into me through the thin cotton. “I’m going to fuck you,” I snarled into your cheek. “I’m going to put my whole hand in you. You fucking cunt.”
“No,” you whispered, smiling, and edged your ass back on the desk, opening your legs a little. I slapped you hard twice across your beautiful cheekbones. “Stop smiling.” I licked your lips, your teeth. We kissed. “Open your legs wider,” I said, and edged two fingers against the lips of your cunt. You sighed, pulled your arm out of my grasp, and rested your palms against my chest.
We kissed again, and in one motion you knocked me onto my back. I shuddered and gasped as my head hit the floor, dizzy from pain. “Fuck you.”
“I’m going to fuck you. I’m going to fuck you.” You knelt next to me, held my wrists above my head in your right fist, and with your right knee pinned my struggling left leg. “Come on, play nice,” you coaxed. I kicked you away with my right leg, and you took hold of my knee and held it down bent, against the floor, my legs open. I was so hot from the force and the closeness of your body that I forgot what I had wanted to do. I wanted you to make me, force me, hurt me, show me your desire. I closed my legs again and you opened them, hard, with your knee, ran your hand up between them to my clit. “You want me to fuck you so bad,” you said. “So play nice and I won’t hurt you.” You leaned over me, your shirt hiked up your belly, your breasts smooth and swaying, still pinning my wrists and knees to the ground. With your free hand you caressed your dick, sighed a little, played with my clit, laughed at my outrage, and spit on your hand. “What’s the matter? You still a virgin? You afraid it’s going to hurt?”
“Yeah,” I said. I pulled my right hand free and shoved you, but you didn’t fall. You smacked me hard in the face and then again, across my tits. “Don’t worry. It’s only going to hurt when I fuck you in the ass.” My cheeks and nipples stung. You spat on your free hand, passed it across your dick, and entered me, hard. Your cock was thick, and you moved in and out fast, each time making me wait a little too long and then, as I was about to cry in desire and frustration, penetrated me deep, deep. I couldn’t believe you were fucking me with a dick lubed only with spit. You licked your fingers and swiftly put two in my ass, fucking me so that as your dick went in, your fingers came out. You swung your breasts over my face teasingly. “Please, please,” I moaned, “please, anything you say, please. Ohhhhnnnnhh, oh, oh.”
I don’t know how long you fucked me, your breath coming hard, your face flushed. “Oh, god,” I said. “Please, god, please, please.” Your grip on my wrists tightened as you came, and you trembled and shook, thrusting harder and harder into me. I struggled against your hands, fucked your cock and fingers. I came hard, biting your neck, feeling my cunt contract over and over, fast. You knelt, panting, your face in my neck, rocking back on your haunches, sweat glistening on your auburn breasts and my come shiny on your erect dick, still making little coming noises. I held the back of your smooth neck, stroked your spine. “Shh, shh.” You kissed me, tasting mysteriously of cunt. I felt a sudden, frightening wave of softness, of compassion, like my chest was open under your hand. When you finished shivering and rocking, you said in your boy’s voice, “Mo? Will you make me a soft-boiled egg?”
“Sure.” The dark still came in the windows. I went into the kitchen, put the water on, and turned on the radio.
LIVE: By Request
Samiya A. Bashir
platform heels so high on these boots i bent down to see you thru the sky. the brown suede snaked to the tops of my thighs and grabbed your eyes as soon as i walked in the place. textures always aroused you.
where did my terra firma brownness end and the smooth suede begin? my skirt wasn’t as short as you like me to wear on my sluttier days, but it flared and reached heights too dangerous, for tonight, when i turned. i’d forgotten to think of that.
you sitting at the bar.
i remember it darker than it was perhaps. the beer in your hand almost empty. the glass the bartender gave you abandoned. your other hand poised as if just about to check your pocket
for something. i sway over to your end of the bar, try not to notice all the other butches who try not to watch me sashay my way down to you. i know that’s your job. it’s part of our thing tonight i come to play baby. i bend forward slightly when i reach you so the ass you grab is just ass. you think it’s to show you the deep valley of barely contained cleavage my tight top presents so you let your tongue linger a moment there after we kiss. you forget to slide your hand up the warm brown suede to the top, forget how bad you wanna know if i wore panties tonight ’cuz i want a drink. now. please, baby.
we get our drinks and the almost relieved kinda jealousy washes over the face of the b-girl bartender who was trying not to cruise you before i got here. i stand behind your stool, my polished hands hide inside your jacket, between your thighs is just you tonight. good. i let you carry my drink saying nothing ’cuz i still can’t tell you how that smooth, sure it isn’t practiced, voice of yours turns me on, gets me wet. of course i’m not wearing panties tonight——gotta be careful as i swish not to let my backside twirl——i’m glad your hands are full of drinks.
the big back booth i wanted sits empty. you just smile, knowing you worked it out that way before i got here. i’m always late. you wait.
you hold the drinks while i sit down so i won’t knock the table. these boots make my knees so high up I gotta work to keep my skirt under my ass. you sit down, take off your jacket. you look so handsome, flash me the most irresistible damn kid-caught-hand-in-cookie-jar grin that i wanna just eat you alive. soon come.
so we talk. i haven’t seen you in a week. you missed me. i want you. damn. i wanna talk, catch up, giggle with my drink, cross my legs under this too-short table. but just your voice gets me moist and i ain’t got on no panties——tonight is for you. and you don’t even know it yet.
it’s perfect. you’re feelin’ yourself tonight in black jeans so tight you give the fag boys a fright when you stroll past. hair oiled just right, new boots, even the tank under your shirt is pressed. i’m impressed. i’ll let you play the flirt a little while longer. it’s important that this is done right. we gotta get outta here. finish yr beer.
please, baby. you’re comin’ w
ith me tonight.
i ignore the raised eyebrow—a challenge. you ignore the twinge in your cunt—the erotic fear of being known. your eyes linger too long on the butch behind the bar on the way out—you thought neither of us noticed—but that just turns me on tonight.
i feel the cool breeze on the wetness between my legs first, then coming from the cold stares of street strangers as we walk down the avenue. you tighten your arm around my waist and i fold myself more closely into you, stare my adoration into your eyes.
we’d planned dinner, but i can’t wait anymore. i’ve got other plans so we stop off at your place. you get that knowing, arrogant smile on your lips and try to put your hand up my skirt while you get your keys.
please, baby. look don’t touch tonight. i’ll tell you when you can do what you can do.
again with the eyebrows. whatever. this time i walk behind you up the stairs it’s all i can do to ask for some water.
please, baby. i’m torn trying to get my nerve up too and restrain my blistering desire to possess you here now. but i knew who’d win that internal battle. in the kitchen i walk up behind you at the sink. you look so tough as you wash a glass for me with the tenderest hands i’ve ever seen. i feel a drop of sweat ride my spine to my ass when i reach around you to run my nails up your stomach, pull your back into my breasts and push my pelvis into your ass, push your pelvis into the countertop like i want you—like you want to need to be when you realize what i’ve been hiding.
all those nights of erotic imagination didn’t prepare you for this stiff reality. you didn’t think i had it in me. you open your lips almost as if to protest even as your legs spread wider to meet me, even as your deep soft moan betrays you. my fingers in your mouth become a simple formality.
i gotta move quick before we talk ourselves outta this. i whisper in your ear, say: you can be mama’s queer boy tonight if you like. my fingers run up the crotch of your jeans, you stifle a scream as my nail grazes your ass.
all butches have a black leather belt somewhere. yours is at hand as i grab it and pull your ass a little higher while you reach between your legs to feel my cock. i’m still rubbing it between your thighs when i see the stubborn relief in your eyes as you realize it’s not your dick you’re drippin’ on. it’s mine.
you never knew how much you loved me before you got down on your knees on that dark kitchen floor, lifted up my skirt, and slid my dick down your throat. i showed you mercy, took your hand as i led the well known route to the bed, sat you on it with that dazed, amazed look on your face to watch me strip. off with my blouse—i left the red velvet bra on for a minute. pulled down my skirt—left the brown suede boots on for a minute. let my locks down and stroked my cock.
i let you take off my bra and play titty games for a while to get you comfortable—make you drip like i dripped all down my girlish thighs. i whispered all the ways i would fuck you tonight. you fought off your fright, felt your throat get tight, wouldn’t let emotion overpower desire. you cowered into my breasts. you thought that way i wouldn’t make you beg. remember?
i took your shirt off—left you the tank. pulled your pants to your ankles so fast you fell facedown, boxer-clad ass in the air—i’ll let you think i practiced that move—tight-ass black jeans locked your legs. i let your black belt fall free—that time.
and yes i rubbed your back and whispered my love in your ear, ran my tongue from the nape of your neck to your rear before i made you say it.
and yes i loved you with every part of my body, every part of your body, while the last of your time-toughened defenses melted beneath my touch and you knew you were safe.
and when you finally begged—just a whisper—
fuck me
i knew i could tell you to say it louder. i made you beg for it again and again until i heard you cry if you don’t fuck me goddammit, right now, one of us is gonna die! alright then. i entered sacred space you opened to me, let you bury your face in the pillow, helped you fight the monsters of old humiliations, new fears that i wouldn’t let you keep your swagger, the staggering dread that i wouldn’t be able to see the strong, sexy woman you need to be anymore. you let me bite your back and grab your cunt and tits and whisper over and over that you’re mine, tell you this time how good your pussy feels from the inside because we know this is the kinda love that reaches thru these barriers.
you scream your release. i do too—after fucking you some more.
we had never known love like this. we lay in bed all night, took turns feeding each other whatever we had delivered. we talked a little and loved a lot more and freed ourselves for our own acceptance. by morning i had put my dick down for a little while, and you got yours up again and it was like never before. ’cuz i knew you, and you were known and still loved
anyway. we’ve had a lot of those nights since then. i always try to surprise you. and when you sit in that bar, when those other b-girls try not to look at you, you can stare straight back and know that—in the next twenty minutes or so—the kinda soft/ hard love everyone wants not to speak of gonna storm thru that door on five-inch platform boots, worn for your pleasure, and lead you by the hand back home.
Keeping Up Appearances
Kenya Devoreaux
She was pretty faced and beautifully endowed, my English Literature professor, and as she leaned over for more sugar for her lemonade her C-cups fell in her brassiere like ripe peaches from a tree. I could see her nipples––oh, Jesus, her nipples—protruding through her crisply starched linen blouse. It was as if they were whispering to me, “Norma. Please….” My own ached, they hadn’t been sucked for so long. I wanted to kiss her breasts all over. But I couldn’t, could I? She was my professor, after all, and I didn’t wish to breach the parameters of the teacher–student relationship. Despite the rumors of Professor Carlyle’s affair with Dean Mary Shannon two years prior floating around the university, she appeared to be extremely straitlaced. And appearances are everything….
“The clouds are making interesting shapes this afternoon.” Ms. Carlyle looked skyward, blue eyes sparkling in the California sunshine. She was nice to let me into her home this way just to discuss my research paper. I wasn’t sure whether or not she would rather have been spending Saturday afternoon frolicking in the surf, her body being tossed about by the huge, playful ocean, white froth lingering on those gorgeous breasts. But literature was her favorite subject, after all. She loved words, she loved ideas. And her enthusiasm for language as an art form was infectious. I enjoyed the two of us sitting on her veranda, the sea-salty odor of the ocean before us mixing with the scent of her cologne. It was intoxicating, the converged fragrances of two of nature’s wonders: the Pacific Ocean and Professor Katherine Carlyle.
“So, Norma, as for your paper. Before anything, I want you to know that I am flattered by your seeking my counsel. And I enjoy knowing one of my brightest students holds me in such high regard.”
“That is encouraging, Ms. Carlyle. Thank you.” I found her perfect formation of the vowels and the sharp expulsion of breath on each consonant between her gleaming creamy-whites provocative. I hoped she didn’t notice my pupils dilating.
“Now tell me, dear, which genre of literature will you be discussing?”
I was researching lesbian erotica, and although I was not ashamed of my interest, I did not want to cause Ms. Carlyle to blush. Well, she didn’t.
“Lesbian erotica, eh?” She raised an eyebrow and chuckled softly before lifting her glass for another sip. “That is some of the best literature in existence. You have wonderful taste.” She smiled and looked off into the distance behind me. Then she turned and looked me square in the eye.
“Does it taste good to you?” Ms. Carlyle kept her glass in front of her face, only partially hiding the impish grin frisking about the corners of her bow-shaped mouth.
“Yes, ma’am. It does.” It may have been the sugar in my drink or the sugar in her tone, but something was exciting me and causing the type of exquisite discomfort
one usually wishes to keep secret.
“What pretty thoughts come to mind as you feel the grit of the sugar slide between your teeth and over your tongue?”
“I feel it very distinctly. The grit is what conveys the sweetness to my taste buds. The lemonade wouldn’t taste so sweet if I weren’t force to actually partially chew it.”
“Do you like that?”
“Uh…yes. Yes…I do.”
“Try and develop a mouth fetish. It will make poetry much more fun to read.” Ms. Carlyle continued, “And other notable experiences will be all the more intensified.” She searched my eyes for a moment and, finding what she was looking for, said with a strange sort of gentleness, “So…let the games begin.” “Okay, professor. I am comparing and contrasting lesbian. erotic literature from the Victorian Era with contemporary lesbo-erotic works. Now, I went to a poetry reading and I totally fell in love with the work of this one poet––I think her name was Delaney. The texture of the language was crunchy…you could almost taste it. But the words were huge, multisyllabic. Not like small granules of sugar, but like chips of ice in a cold and sobering drink.”
Best of Best Lesbian Erotica 2 Page 23
