by Radclyffe
The captive groaned, fire curling in the pit of her stomach, streaking along her spine.
“Kneel in front of her,” her lover ordered, dropping one hand between her legs and trailing her fingers up and down the sensitive skin of her inner thighs. “Work on her legs, but don’t go near her clit.”
Moaning steadily now as hands kneaded the muscles in her buttocks and thighs, the bound woman arched her back, unable to contain the pleasure. Her clitoris throbbed painfully, sharply demanding attention. Quivering, mesmerized by the sight of her lover slipping slick folds of swollen flesh lazily between her fingers, she thrust mindlessly against the chains that held her prisoner. She heard her lover cry out softly, saw trembling fingers brush against the base of the exposed clitoris, and felt her own body clench deep inside. Stroke yourself, lover. Do it, you know you want to, do it, do it—
She sobbed, hips jerking in the air, desperate for her lover’s touch. The tantalizing whisper of approaching orgasm fluttered through her belly when a finger explored lightly between her legs, sending showers of fire bursting from her clitoris into her pelvis. If she pushed forward just a little that finger would touch her hard enough to make her come. She didn’t know she was whimpering as she fought against the leather and steel.
“Please,” she begged, her clitoris twitching ceaselessly and the promise of relief so near. She twisted impotently in the restraints, watching through heavy lids as her lover spread her legs further, resting her knees over the wide leather arms to expose her desire. “Please.”
“Stroke her,” her lover demanded hoarsely, doing the same to herself. “Be careful with her. She’ll come if you stay on it too long. And I don’t want her to come!”
Helplessly, she struggled to focus on her lover, but she was rapidly losing all control. She didn’t care who was touching her any longer, as long as the touch didn’t stop. If she didn’t come soon she was going to implode. “No more,” she begged. “I can’t stand it—oh, yes—touch me there—harder—”
“You are not to come without permission,” her lover gasped, her fingers a blur as they slid rapidly up and down her clitoris.
Too late—I’m gonna come. Gotta come. The captive merely grunted, jerking desperately against the fingers that tormented her.
“Work her faster, squeeze her,” her lover managed, breathing unevenly through clenched teeth, twisting on the chair, legs outstretched and rigid. “She loves that.”
“Lover, oh...she’s making me come.” She panted, stomach hard, ready to explode. “Oh, can I—”
“Lick her!”
She wailed as the warm, soft tongue ran the length of her, ending with one long, firm caress along her clitoris. With the last ounce of strength she possessed, she sought her lover’s face through eyes nearly blind with need. “Please...oh please...is it all right?”
“Yes, baby—yess—” her lover screamed, tugging her clitoris frantically. “Oh, baby, I’m coming.”
As her mind went white, the stranger reached up, grasped her hips, and sucked her all the way into her mouth. With hands clenched into fists beyond the restraining cuffs, the bound woman jammed herself against the stranger’s face. Head thrown back, the tendons in her neck standing out in tight cords, she shouted as the wrenching spasms tore her apart.
For an instant, the only sounds were those of their joint release reverberating throughout the room. Then, there was but the whisper of soft sobbing.
“Get her down,” her lover gasped weakly.
When the captive collapsed to her knees, shattered by more than pleasure, her lover was there to shelter her in waiting arms.
Kyle drew a long, shaky breath and contemplated another cigarette. She laughed softly and jammed her hands into the pockets of her motorcycle jacket. Not even my orgasm and I want a cigarette. Lousy time to be trying to quit.
The story had gotten to her. Still got to her. It wasn’t just the sex, which had blistered her mind and still made her want to come just remembering. It was the unexpected fusion of love and dominance, trust and submission, that had twisted and tantalized her previously unquestioned vision of emotional connection. It confused and excited her. She wasn’t even sure which called to her more, the control or the relinquishing of it. Sometimes when she came, she imagined herself the bound woman. Other times, she climaxed as she saw herself in that leather chair, ordering a stranger to pleasure her lover while she masturbated.
Christ, if I keep this up, I’ll never be able to ride this bike. I’m out here so I won’t have to keep thinking about it.
Carefully, with hands that shook as much as when she’d turned the first page of that first magazine, Kyle unfolded the small rectangle of paper and peered at it. The sky above was obsidian, punctured by stars and streaked with moonlight. She held up the paper and turned it in the silvery light, but she couldn’t see the words. Just as carefully, she refolded it and stowed it in her jacket again. As she kick started the powerful engine and muscled the bike around to face the highway, she repeated the address from memory one more time.
Chapter Two
Kyle rode through a light rain, noting that the city seemed eerily deserted—unusual for a Friday night. Even now, years after she had moved north to where the air was cleaner and the stars could still be seen at night, she was at ease negotiating the steep avenues and narrow alleys. Although she was sure that the advertisement had specified women, she found the street she was looking for in the Tenderloin, an area frequented mostly by gay men. Whatever the case, it was too late now to turn back. She was more than ready.
Coasting in the mist, she surveyed the unadorned buildings, many of which appeared empty or abandoned, until finally she saw the sign she had been seeking. The name flickered in the uneven glow of a pale blue neon sign: Leathers. Kyle pulled her bike into line with a half-dozen others already angled along the curb and switched off the ignition. She sat for a second watching the fitful light cast shadows on the trash-strewn sidewalk, then took a deep breath and swung her leg over the tank to the ground and stood. She could ride away, but if she did, she knew she’d be back. Perhaps there were answers on the other side of that windowless black door. Maybe there weren’t. She had to know.
Her boot heels echoed hollowly on the empty pavement as she approached the door. She glanced up and down the street, looking in vain for the sight of a familiar face, but she was alone. The door to the club stood slightly ajar, and the music that wafted out on a breeze of booze and smoke was a song she recognized. That small bit of familiarity settled her and served as a reminder that this was no different than any other strange club she’d chanced to enter, and there’d been quite a few of those over the years.
Well, not that much different, at any rate.
She took a quick breath and shouldered through the door into the darkness beyond. A bouncer in black T-shirt and black leather chaps stretched tightly over denim jeans sat just inside the entrance behind a waist-high divider that blocked access to the room beyond. The bouncer pretended to check Kyle’s ID as she collected the ten-dollar cover charge. Heavyset, her dark eyes opaque, she looked Kyle over wordlessly, took the offered bill, and jutted her chin toward the bar.
“Have fun.”
“Thanks.”
The room was long and narrow, with a bar down the right side. To the left, round pedestal tables were scattered along the edge of a small dance floor made smaller by people standing about and chairs pushed askew. The ceiling was open-beamed with exposed heating conduits and unevenly spaced spots casting irregular circles of light over the room and its occupants. Somewhere a DJ played music with a heavy bass beat that reverberated through the rough wood floor. Kyle was not a stranger to new surroundings, and she moved through the small crowd near the door with practiced ease. She walked directly but unhurriedly toward the bar and found a free space between two lone drinkers who eyed her for a moment before looking away. Women two-deep leaned or sat along the scarred but clean surface of the bar and moved about in the shadows opposi
te her. At first glance, it looked much like any other lesbian club on a Friday night.
It wasn’t until she caught the bartender’s eye and ordered a beer that she looked around more carefully. Casually leaning with an elbow against the bar and her legs stretched out in front of her, she allowed her eyes to travel as she lifted the bottle to her mouth. Her vision had adjusted to the darkness of the room, and as she looked out across the dance floor through the softly wafting curls of cigarette smoke, she focused on the figures before her. What she had first taken as a strange sameness about the women turned out to be the fact that they were all clothed in some form of leather or denim. Leather chaps and pants, leather vests, and tight denim jeans abounded. She smiled inwardly, aware that she had unconsciously chosen exactly the right thing to wear. Knowing that outwardly she appeared to be like everyone else made her more comfortable, although she felt anything but confident of her role in this new theater. Nevertheless, the sight of women standing about in groups, talking or simply watching each other as she was doing, elicited the anticipated surge of excitement she always associated with being in the company of others like herself. This was the stage upon which anything might happen and where anyone could become a player.
After finishing her first beer at a leisurely pace, she started on her second and began to relax. Out of habit, she picked out, in a detached, almost objective way, the women who were attractive to her. One in particular, leaning with a shoulder against a pole on the opposite side of the room, stood out from the rest. About Kyle’s age but slightly taller than Kyle’s five feet seven inches, she was slender, with an athletic body accentuated by tight blue jeans and a denim shirt open far enough to show the inner curve of her breasts. Thick blond hair fell in casual layers to her collar in the back. Her sleeves were rolled halfway up, exposing a thin leather band encircling her left wrist. As she talked to several women nearby, she lifted a bottle to her lips, and Kyle caught a glimpse of the strength in her well-muscled forearms. The stranger’s gaze swept the room at intervals, but she seemed to take little note of those around her. Her eyes skimmed over Kyle’s face without stopping.
Under other circumstances, Kyle would not have hesitated to introduce herself to someone she found attractive, but tonight she was uneasy about making the first move. Ordinarily, her approach to a woman was dictated by the signals offered and returned—a smile that lingered, the slow perusal of her body by an appreciative glance, a touch that lasted too long to be merely friendly. Sometimes she offered a drink, other times she struck up a conversation or asked for a dance. On rare occasions, she simply suggested to a woman that they find a private place to consummate their obvious mutual attraction.
In this arena, however, she sensed there were rules she didn’t understand and that left her feeling unaccustomedly inhibited. When one woman approached another, a polarity was evident: it appeared initially as if one woman was the aggressor and the other passive. Yet Kyle soon appreciated that there was interplay, that the move was not completely one-sided; often the apparent aggressor would walk away, her overtures seemingly rejected. Obviously, some dynamic—understood to both women—was at work, and after Kyle had been in the club for an hour, she had her first experience with the ritual.
A woman materialized from the shadows and stepped close to Kyle’s side. There was an almost imperceptible pressure against her left thigh as the woman spoke softly, her lips close to Kyle’s ear.
“Are you just looking tonight, or are you playing?”
Although startled, Kyle kept her voice even and her gaze fixed straight ahead. She didn’t move away from the leg that pressed just a bit harder against hers. Considering her reply, she decided she couldn’t play a game whose rules she didn’t know. “I’m not sure I know what the game is.”
The woman laughed in surprise. “You’d never guess from looking at you.”
“Actually, this is the first time I’ve been here,” Kyle said, turning slightly amidst the crowd of bodies to study her companion more carefully. She was an inch shorter than Kyle, with curly dark hair and warm, dark eyes. She wore a leather vest over a white T-shirt and jeans.
“I’m Chris.” She extended her right hand while casually giving Kyle an obvious once-over.
“Kyle.”
Chris shook Kyle’s hand, leaned her back to the bar, and faced the dance floor. The slight pressure against Kyle’s leg disappeared.
“You picked a good night to drop in. The crowd’s better than I would have expected this early.”
“I’m not sure what I expected.”
“You here by yourself?” Chris gave Kyle a questioning look.
“Yep.”
“Well, probably not for long.”
Kyle laughed. “I think for tonight I’m just watching.”
Chris shrugged. “Will you have another beer?” When Kyle nodded her assent, Chris ordered two, waited silently for the bartender to pass them to her, and then took a long pull on hers before speaking again. “I’m not much on initiations, but I’ll tell you anything I can.”
“Well, I think I get the general idea,” Kyle said slowly as she sipped her beer. “But I’m not real sure what the ground rules are.”
“It’s not much different than any other club,” Chris replied. “It’s just that most of the women here share a certain kind of interest, if you know what I mean.”
“A certain sexual interest.” Kyle’s tone was matter-of-fact. “That I do understand.”
“Well, because of that, if someone is interested in you, they’re not likely to come up and ask you to dance. More likely than not, they’re going to ask you if you’re available to play—like I did. Or not say anything at all—waiting for you to ask.”
“Why not just ask outright?”
“She might want to find out how much you know about what’s going on before she makes a move.” Chris tried again when Kyle frowned. “Some of the women here will feel most comfortable if they take the lead and you follow. Others prefer it if they are told exactly what to do—at least during the scene. Either way, you’ll need to negotiate those terms for the length of the scene.”
“How do you know who wants to do what, then?” Kyle asked, genuinely puzzled as to what Chris was trying to tell her.
“Good question. I’ve been fooled myself, and I’ve been in the community for a long time.” Chris chuckled. “Most of the time, it’s easy to tell what people are interested in just by looking.”
“You mean like the way it used to be when the butches always asked the femmes to dance, and even if the femmes did turn out to be the aggressive ones in bed, they never let on in public?” Kyle smiled, thinking that there was a certain security in knowing what was expected of her. “And of course, two butches never got it on together?”
“Uh-huh,” Chris said with a grin. “At least none admitted it. But yeah, like that.”
“But times have changed,” Kyle pointed out. “Those old roles aren’t so clear, or necessary, anymore.”
“Not socially, maybe, although things never change that much,” Chris replied. “Even though the dynamics in the leather scene don’t really have a lot to do with butch-femme roles, they do have a lot to do with what we want to express physically. And what we want sexually says a lot about who we are.”
“So how do you let someone else know exactly what you’re into?” And what do you do if you don’t know?
Chris surveyed the crowd. “Look at that woman next to the jukebox over there.”
Kyle followed Chris’s direction and saw a woman dressed predominantly in leather—leather pants with a wide, studded belt, heavy black motorcycle boots, and a leather jacket covered with zippers. She appeared to be alone and yet she looked directly at no one. “Hot.”
Chris smiled. “Well, what do you think she’s looking for?”
“She looks like she’d be the one to call the shots.”
“Ah, but I know her, and she isn’t,” Chris said. “If you look more carefully, there are a few si
gns that tell you just what she wants. For instance, she’s wearing a leather bracelet on her right wrist. She’s also not cruising—she’s waiting.”
When Kyle nodded in agreement, Chris explained, “She’s a bottom, not a top. She wants someone to approach her, set the scene, and take control. She wants someone else to take charge.”
“Does that mean she’s passive, then?” Kyle asked, surprised. “Just going along with what someone else wants?”
“Not necessarily. It just means that she’s willing to let someone else determine how things begin. You’d be surprised how often the bottom actually calls the entire scene.”
“What if someone approaches her that she’s not interested in?” Kyle asked. “What if she doesn’t want to play?”
“She doesn’t reply with the correct answers, or she just says no.”
“So she does have something to say about it then?”
Chris appeared startled for a second. “Of course—if she doesn’t agree, nothing can happen. Both partners must be willing.”
“So what if I see someone I like, and I want to...get acquainted?”
“It depends on what you want.” Chris shrugged, then eyed Kyle speculatively. “What do you want?”
Kyle held her gaze. “I don’t know.”
Chris said nothing.
“But I’m here,” Kyle said softly.
“It’s all in how you present yourself,” Chris said just as softly. Her eyes slid once more over the length of Kyle’s body. “And your presentation is just right. I don’t usually bring people out, but...”
Kyle shook her head. “Thanks, but...”
“Not tonight?” Chris finished for her.
