When I see a woman shopping alone who is dressed provocatively, I know what’s going on. She’s another overindulged wife like me who wants to stay faithful to the man who pays her bills, but who also wants to be a little bit naughty to break up the monotony. In short, she wants to find a woman to take home to bed for the afternoon.
Or maybe that’s just me. I like to put on a miniskirt and a stretchy top that shows off my breasts before I go out. What I don’t put on are a bra and panties.
One of my moves is to “casually” ask another woman her opinion on a dress, or a sweater, or whatever. It’s not hard to tell right off whether she is interested in me. Girls aren’t as obvious as guys about giving each other the “once-over,” but the eyes are still the main giveaway. If she barely looks at me, I move on. More often, though, I’ll get a long, lingering look, followed by the kind of smile that says “let’s do it.”
My latest conquest was a prissy-looking brunette. She was tall and slender, with a belt made of linked gold medallions hanging casually around the hips of her black satin pants. Her wedding-and-engagement ring set was obviously very expensive, revealing that she had a wealthy husband.
Everything from her upswept hairdo to her upturned nose screamed “snob,” but her blouse gave her away. It was the type that flares open below the bustline to show off the stomach. It was the kind of blouse that a woman wears when she wants to be noticed for more than her fashion sense.
As soon as I saw her soft tummy, I wanted to run my tongue around it . . . and down past it to her pussy.
The brunette didn’t see me coming at her from the side. I pretended to stumble, so I could grab her arm for “support.” She looked at me in surprise, her lipsticked mouth opening enough to show off her teeth and her little pink tongue.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I’m so clumsy,” I said, not letting go of her arm. The material of her blue blouse was silky and cool under my fingers.
For a second, I worried that she might dismiss me with an arrogant sniff and be on her way. Then her blank expression melted into a smile. “That’s quite all right,” she said. Her eyes flicked down and up again for the briefest of moments. I knew she had seen my stiff nipples jutting out against the front of my black leotard top.
I’ve gotten good at reading other women. I knew this one was the type who never would initiate a girl-girl scene. But she clearly wanted to be seduced. Her pupils had dilated just the slightest amount after she glanced at my tits. She liked what she saw.
I usually take things slow at that point. We might go to a few stores and maybe have coffee, before making my true intentions known.
But something about this brunette told me that she didn’t like a lot of preliminaries. Without even asking her name, I leaned close and whispered, “I didn’t bump into you by accident. I want to make love to you.” Then I added the line that never fails to overcome any resistance that a woman might be feeling: “I don’t think our husbands would mind.”
That last line sets a woman’s mind at ease about two things. It tells her that I’m not looking for anything permanent, only a quick no-commitments bedroom session. And it tells her that I am bi, not exclusively lesbian. That seems to matter to some women, who think that girl-girl sex is less “unnatural” if it is only a part-time, occasional thing.
If one of the hallmarks of good breeding is the ability to remain unruffled by anything, then this brunette was truly to the manner born. She did not appear at all surprised by what I had said. Her reply was so casual that any onlooker would have thought we were talking about nothing more important than the weather. “Do you have a place?” she asked. “I’m afraid there are always too many servants about at my home.”
Have you ever had one of those affairs where neither of you wants to say anything, because there really is nothing to be said? This one was like that. I nodded and quietly led her to my car. We then drove the short distance to where her own car was parked, so she could follow me home. The only “conversation” we made was when I told her my address. We didn’t even ask each other’s name.
Her car stuck close behind mine as I drove home. She said nothing as I unlocked the front door. We walked upstairs to the master bedroom.
I turned to put my arms around her, but she pushed me backwards onto the bed and climbed on top of my body. She wanted to be in control of this situation. I was more than happy to let her have her way.
Sitting on my crotch, she rubbed my tits through my leotard top. My nipples were stiff enough that she was able to grip them through the stretchy material with her fingertips. She ran her tongue around her lips. She removed one hand from my chest and reached behind herself. I felt that hand between my legs, reaching up under my skirt to unsnap the crotch fasteners of my leotard. She tugged the top up out of my miniskirt and bared my big breasts.
She caressed my tits with both hands, massaging and squeezing them, apparently thrilled at their all-natural size and firmness. I closed my eyes and let out a long sigh when she leaned over and took one of my nipples in her mouth. I reached down and touched the warm softness of her bare tummy, then wormed my fingers inside the waistband of her satin slacks. She drew in her stomach to make it easy for me to push my hand down the front of her pants and find her sex. She was trimmed neatly, not a hair out of place. I cupped her cunny in my hand so I could rub her mound with the base of my palm while she alternated sucking one of my tits and then the other.
She raised up and gyrated her crotch against my hand. I pushed my middle finger up into her little opening. It was nice and creamy, and even wetter deep inside. She undid the two buttons at her bustline that held her blouse closed. She was braless like me. Her breasts were small, like pretty peaches, with tiny, dime-sized nipples at their centers. She tugged and twisted her nipples while I finger-fucked her pussy. Finally, she reached for the back zipper of her slacks and tugged it down.
I pulled my hand free so she could take off her pants and remove her blouse. Her funky pussy glistened with wetness and was blushing a pale shade of rose. I knew better than to get off the bed myself. I lay there and let her undress me, unzipping and removing my miniskirt and then pulling my leotard top over my head. She was the patrician mistress, and I her complacent concubine. The roles suited both of us.
When she got back in bed she squatted over my face. I gripped the cheeks of her ass and put my mouth on her pretty pussy. She had a strong flavor, all woman and delicious. I burrowed up into her sex with my tongue.
She leaned over me so her face and arms were between my legs. By spreading her elbows and wedging the undersides of my thighs beneath her arms, she was able to tilt my crotch up off the mattress. That left me spread completely open for her enjoyment. She started by lapping at my pussy, fucking her tongue in and out of it like a miniature cock. Then she trailed the tip of her tongue across the tiny expanse of skin at the bottom of my pussy’s slit and found my asshole.
I groaned with pleasure when she flicked her tongue around the drawstring muscle of my anus. I loved the idea that this proper, wealthy socialite was an ass-licking sensualist at heart. After she had made my asshole good and wet with her saliva, she pressed a finger against its furrowed rim. I concentrated on letting myself open up. I felt her finger slip deep into my ass. I knew which finger it was. I could feel the setting of the brunette’s big diamond engagement ring against my asshole each time she fucked her rigid finger in and out of my butt.
Her mouth went back to my pussy. We sucked and lapped each other’s clit. Following her example, I treated her asshole to some gentle probing with my tongue. When I used my finger on her there, she cried out with the beginnings of her climax The bed shook as she writhed with pleasure; then she went back to sucking and nibbling clit. The sensations of her tongue there made me feel like I was winding up tighter and tighter inside until I had to explode. I gasped and moaned through my own climax, until I finally had to push her face away for fear of passing out.
We took a shower together afterward, rubbing and kissing each oth
er the whole time but still not saying a word. She broke the silence when she saw a clock while we were towelling off. It was a little after five o’clock.
“I really have to be leaving,” she said, suddenly in a hurry to get dressed. “My husband . . .”
I pressed a finger against her lips to shush her. “I know,” I said. “Don’t tell me anything more.”
She gave me a knowing smile and left without a goodbye. I knew I would be seeing her again sometime. We didn’t need names. We knew each other perfectly well without them.
So remember, we girls don’t always go shopping in order to add more stuff to our closets. Sometimes, we go shopping so we can come out of the closet—just for a change.—J.W., Cleveland, Ohio
AFTER THE BIG SPLIT, GO FOR THE LITTLE ONE
Most of my divorcée discussion group was upset with the way that women like us were portrayed in “Jerry Maguire.” In that movie, the sister of Jerry’s girlfriend hosts regular meetings of bitter, flaky man-haters in her living room. There were two main chat topics in those get-togethers: how awful men are, and how morally superior women are to them.
My friend Patty and I had to keep from laughing when some of our fellow members complained that the movie portrayed groups like ours unfairly. Patty and I had talked about dropping our memberships precisely because the movie was so completely on-target. The two of us had come to the conclusion that we might be the only members of our group who still had any interest in sex.
We talked a lot about our past problems with ex-husbands and old lovers, but both of us hoped to find new boyfriends in the future. Until then, we were determined not to become a pair of sleazy sluts who relied on one-night stands to “scratch an itch.” We decided that when we were horny, we would call each other.
Years before we met, both of us had gone through a “lesbian phase” in college. What girl hasn’t? It seems that every woman I meet eventually confesses that she slept with at least one other girl before graduation. Maybe that’s because the college years are such an experimental, wide-open stage of life, when girls want to try anything at least once. There is always some female classmate on campus who manages to become “more than friendly” and suggests getting into bed “just to cuddle a little.” Cuddling leads to caressing. One girl reaches for a nipple, and the other responds in kind. Their mouths meet in a kiss that becomes a French kiss. Each girl reaches between the other’s legs, finding and fingering her friend’s pussy.
Sometimes those college encounters end there. More often, the bolder of the two girls will scoot down in the bed to kiss the pussy she has been probing with her fingers. Before long both girls are eating and fingering each other’s cunts at the same time. They try to keep quiet so the girls in adjacent dorm rooms won’t hear their moans of pleasure. One girl always takes longer to climax, but if her friend is truly a friend she keeps licking and sucking until both girls are satisfied.
I remembered my first girl-girl encounter as clearly as if it were yesterday. I had enjoyed it, but—like a lot of women—I felt guilty afterward. Lesbian love seemed like a cop-out, something that was too easy. I knew that men could be frustrating, but I thought that overcoming their faults was part of the game. That’s why I kept other potential female lovers at arm’s length while I dated guys, until I found one to marry. Then he turned out to be a shit.
Patty’s story was similar. Now that we were in our late twenties, though, we were not going to worry about whether it was wrong to take the “easy way out” by making love to other women. And our system has been working just great.
Just like an Alcoholics Anonymous member who calls a fellow member when he feels the urge to drink, I called Patty last week. “I need it bad,” I said. “If you don’t get over here quick, I’m going to wake up tomorrow morning next to the first guy I see at a bar tonight.”
Patty got to my condo pronto. We didn’t waste a lot of time on small talk. She knew what I wanted. I led her to the bedroom.
All I had on was a long T-shirt and a pair of cotton panties. While I skinned down the panties, Patty unbuttoned her short-sleeve blouse but did not take it off. She always likes to leave something on in bed. I like that, too, so I left my T-shirt on. Somehow, being almost naked is sexier sometimes than being completely nude.
Patty was not wearing a bra. When she leaned over to drop her shorts, her blouse gaped open so I could see her nipples. I reached inside the blouse and took both of them between my fingertips. She put her arms around me and we shared a long, deep kiss. Patty tugged the hem of my T-shirt up over my ass, then even higher, so that my tits were exposed.
Maybe another reason why the two of us were amused and not offended by the “Jerry Maguire” thing was because Patty bears a strong resemblance to Dorothy, Jerry’s girlfriend in the movie. Like Renee Zellweger, who played Dorothy, Patty has a pale, freckled face and straight reddish hair. Seeing that sweetly innocent face kiss its way down to my tits made me sigh with desire. Patty licked all around my left nipple, making it stiff, then started to suck it.
We got into bed in the 69 position, lying on our sides and licking each other’s pussy. Patty keeps hers trimmed so close that it is nearly bare. I keep mine the same way, for the same reason. Going down on another girl is nicer if there’s not a lot of hair in the way.
I lapped up and down the pink folds of her sex, giving special attention to her little clit. Patty finger-fucked my pussy while she licked me, which made me even hornier. I clutched her narrow body close and all but devoured her sweet-smelling cunt. My nipples were pressed against her smooth belly, just as hers were rubbing against mine.
She rolled me over so she was on top. With her hands under my butt, she tilted my crotch upward so my pussy was aimed at the ceiling. I felt completely open that way, with my entire crotch totally exposed for her mouth and hands. She finger-fucked me faster and harder, really pumping my pussy while she sucked at my throbbing clit. I whimpered with joy as I felt my climax building, and all but blacked out when I came.
Patty lay back against the pillows with her legs spread and gave me a lazy smile. Now it was her turn. I nibbled and sucked at her delicious slit. She clutched my head close to her crotch with both hands. When she came, I kept my hungry mouth on her crotch until she couldn’t stand it any more and pushed me away.
It’s a pretty nice arrangement the two of us have. When some girls are hot-to-trot, they are comfortable with the idea of picking up a strange man and never seeing him again after a quick fuck. Not us. When all that we want to do is get off, Patty and I would rather call each other up and say, “Show me the cunny.”—L.S., Chicago, Illinois
A HOPEFUL LASS FINDS SPLENDOR IN THE GRASS
The all-female Lilith Fair concerts have gotten a reputation for being lesbian Shangri-Las—the best place for a girl to pick up pussy outside of an LPGA Tour. Lilith’s organizers try to downplay that “girls just want to be with girls” angle, but trust me: Those denials aren’t the only things that smell fishy at a Lilith show.
Okay, that’s crude, but that’s the way I am. People have told me that I say things just to shock. Maybe I’m overcompensating for my size. Nobody expects a sweet-and-petite girl like me even to talk about sex, much less to joke about it. I stand just five feet tall—in heels—and I’ve been told that I have a face like a Hummel figurine. Making wisecracks has always been a surefire way to make people see me as something more than a kewpie doll.
A friend once said that my no-bullshit attitude might be what kept me from getting a steady boyfriend in high school. I was surprised that she could be so blind. The real reason I never had any boyfriends back then was because I knew early on that I liked girls. The problem was finding a girl who liked me. I was scared that if I ever made advances to someone, she would freak out and call me a perv.
My “coming out” was at the Lilith Fair. I had gone by myself, praying that the rumors I had heard were true. And, boy—or make that “girl”—were they ever!
Everywhere I looked, I sa
w women without men. There were willowy nymphs with small, high-riding breasts and slim hips. There were luscious Earth-mother types, with swollen, free-swinging breasts filling the elastic bodices of their brightly colored dresses. There were pale blonde women wearing tight jeans whose back seams were wedged deep in the firm cracks of their asses; sloe-eyed brunettes whose nipples made stubby impressions in the fronts of their Danskin tops; and freckled redheads with upturned noses and long, slender fingers that could probe deep inside another woman’s sex. Every woman I saw was so pretty and sexy that I wanted to take off my clothes and feel all of them ravishing me at the same time.
As I walked through the crowd, I blushed at how many girls smiled at me in that way that says “I’m interested.” All of their various perfumes mingled into an aromatic cloud of female incense. I had purchased a “Lawn” ticket at the amphitheatre, and wandered happily through the sea of other women on the grassy hillside, looking for a place to sit.
I heard someone say, “Want to share my blanket?” It was a woman at least ten years older than I, with short brown hair, a beautiful smile, and amazingly dark eyes. Those extra years only enhanced her womanliness. I have heard that women don’t reach their sexual peak until they turn thirty, and this one was in full bloom. She looked ripe, confident and sexy.
She was dressed in a blue denim shirt and khaki shorts. Her feet were bare, and her Birkenstocks were placed beside each other at the corner of the blanket.
I knew right away that I wanted her to be the one to take my girl-cherry. Until that night, I only had fantasized about making love with another woman. I had masturbated myself to sleep endless times, imagining other women’s mouths on my breasts and my pussy. Every time I saw an attractive woman on the street, I had daydreamed about how her body would feel and taste. But when it came to actual experience, I was still a virgin.
I said, “I’d love to,” and sat down, smoothing my peasant skirt around me. I hoped I didn’t look too much like a back-to-the-sixties folkie in that earth-tone skirt and my paisley blouse. My new friend said her name was Katherine, and that she was a professor of women’s studies at a local university.
Letters to Penthouse XX Page 15
