by Violet Blue
I reach down for the diaper in your hand. The room smells of the child’s skin, of our desperate terror and horrific wondrous love, of milk and laundry soap and fabric softener. You open your eyes when you feel me tug at the cloth. But before I can get anything folded, you ease me off balance, bring me into your lap, and, smoothing my bangs away from the corner of my mouth with your sun-warmed hands, pull me to you with both of your hands—those strong appendages that once just seemed the instruments of my pleasure, but now I have seen them cradle my child, our child, at the moment of his birth, and I know they are so much more.
You pull me to you with hands so gentle they were able to soothe a terrified child’s entry into this new atmosphere, this existence—those hands that seem to be meant now only for a tiny person’s well-being. You soothe them strong across my shoulders, gripping my face and pulling me in for a kiss, eyes searching mine wonderingly, wondrously. We cannot speak, because there’s no language for this moment. You press your lips meant for the top of a child’s head to my lips meant now also for the top of a child’s head, and we are kissing, eyes closed after affirming one another’s deep need.
My hands, meant to cradle a nursing infant, meant to bathe, to count fingers, to wipe clean, are soft on your cheek, are tangled in the soft naps of your hair, and we are lovers now again, my body transitioning back. My cunt, which last shuddered so after releasing the child’s placenta, begins to swell and pulse. This flesh has changed meaning, become a different sort of portal, become the thing that allowed this new life.
Now I inhabit the varieties, the multiplicities of being, cradled by you here on this couch, surrounded by baby infant things, dykes reduced or held up to motherhood. Your hands transmit their magic to my thighs, hard and fast, so immediate, the longing fast and urgent, and I rotate myself around, quiet, the child still sleeping—a miracle. My legs split and straddle the berth of your lap that’s become a cradle. I lean down, press hot lips to yours, my hair falling against your cheeks and neck. You urge me up, help me up slightly, and release from the confines of your jeans your preparation for my return home.
I wonder if you worked extra hard to get him to sleep. It doesn’t matter. I’ve got a skirt on, miracle of miracles (I forget how you suggested it), and you slide your cock against, then move aside, utilitarian panties. You feel the promise there for you, feel the glistening juice, feel the body of me aching for the body of you. We barely gasp, struggling to share ourselves in silence. I realize we will need to get a babysitter for ourselves soon, a night off, a night for noise and need. For now, it’s minutes that we’ve got, maybe, and I bury my face in your shoulder while you bury your cock slow and gentle, careful, so unlike the usual, that immediate and hard thrust to meet my need. Your delicacy brings out the tears, and then we aren’t coming but fucking, yes, fucking hard against each other, into our selves.
I gasp when you stroke my nipple, and the child shifts. We freeze, but he doesn’t wake up. Our time is cut short, we know, and you grip me hard to your hip, tongue wrapping around one still over-sized nipple, reminding me of what these breasts used to be for. You grind into me, against me, while I, hand shoved down between us, stroke my clit fast and faster. I have to bite down when I come, and it’s you who groans, finally, just too loud. The child, across the hall, whimpers. I continue to shudder and lean against you, whimpering myself, recovering, while you whisper your love in my ear. I press myself against you, your body fully under my body, for as much of this adult-to-adult, lover-to-lover contact as I can get before the rebirth, reemergence of our motherhood.
HANDS
Jean Casse
He was the most girly guy I’d ever made love to.
“Lick my big clit,” he said, holding his pink cock to my lips.
It was a full seven inches, the exact distance between my thumb and forefinger, but it was small compared to the long-fingered hand that held it, a smooth, well-manicured hand so big it was almost scary. I wanted those fingers on my clit, up my cunt, in my ass; I wanted his hands to go everywhere they could possibly fit.
I thought he’d want me to close my mouth around his offering while giving those fingers a suck into the bargain, but the big clit deflated when he caught a glimpse of my tongue.
“What’s that?” he gasped.
“It’s a gold stud, like an earring. My tongue’s pierced,” I explained. “Don’t worry, it won’t bite.”
“I don’t want anything hard on my clit. Take it off!”
“Easier said than done,” I said. “I’ll need my special mouthwash to soak it in, I’ll need to clean my tongue, the whole rigmarole.”
My girlfriend, his lover, sat beside him on their couch, rubbing his shoulders. “It’s just a smooth, round ball. I liked it!” she said. “Come on. Your clit’s gonna love it.”
“Tell you what,” he said, “let’s use hands tonight.”
My clit throbbed at those words as I reached out for his, stoking it back to firmness, my mouth discreetly closed, because to me hands are the sexiest part of the body.
Of course, this didn’t happen exactly the way I tell it, but that’s why I write: It’s easy to invent stories that tell the truth without the constriction of reality. Call them A and B, or Ann and Bill. I met her when she came in to get another piercing in her ear at this place where I work. I don’t do the piercing; I wear white and sit in the reception area making appointments and taking money, because that’s what girls do if they aren’t really nurses.
Ann was as skinny as a twelve-year-old boy, with spiky-short dark hair, wearing faded jeans and a leather vest with the top two buttons undone. She leaned over my desk, revealing her breasts all the way to their tight, dark nipples, then clutched her vest together with perfect little hands, the nails bitten short. It was the sight of those hands that brought me to a lust so immediate I could almost feel her smooth fingers moving in my cunt.
“Do you want anything else pierced?” I asked, licking my lips to show her my tongue jewel. “Nipples, lips, thumbs?” My job was to sell the client more than she thought she wanted. Thumbs were my own fetish; nobody pierces their thumbs, though I always hope to find a fellow admirer of the hand who’d want a ring in that web between thumb and forefinger.
“I just do ears,” she said, and in fact both her ears were studded all up and down with diamonds, emeralds, rubies, and rings. It didn’t look like anything else would fit on there, but she wanted one more ring at the top of her left ear, saying it was a gift from her lover.
I was jealous. “What lover would want to hang more hardware on your poor ears?” I asked.
“My husband, actually,” she said.
“Really?”
Husband was not a concept I’d associated with her. I thought maybe she meant lesbian husband.
“We’re not married,” she continued, “but we just moved in together, so he already feels like my partner for life.”
“So this partner is of the…um…male persuasion?”
She gave me a surprised glance, then spread her hands out before me, palms up. “Yeah, he’s a guy.” She smiled, she held my eyes with hers, then stared into my open mouth. “I see you don’t do ears,” she said.
Which is true. Only my tongue is pierced.
It’s a talent to be straight with men, slant with women, and rare to find someone else with the same ability. Talking with her, I sensed we both had the same desire for men, for women, and maybe even for hands. I took a check, even though I wasn’t supposed to, and made a mental note of her address, which she had to write because she’d just moved.
It wasn’t far from my place.
I wanted to hold her heart, to feel her pulse against my fist. She would be slow and easy as my fingers slipped through her rosy, moist lips, while her partner pressed his palm against my mound. It’s hard to arrange an affair with a man and a woman at once. If they’re strangers, there’s awkwardness, and if they’re lovers, there’s the danger they’ll pair off without you. I thought things might
work out with her and her partner, giving me a chance to have four hands at once. I’d take his, sight unseen, because I trusted her to pick a fine pair.
I invited her for a drink after the piercing. “You’ll need it,” I told her as I led her to an examining room. “You’re the last customer, so we’ll be closing soon.”
Her dark eyes were still fixed on my mouth, so I stuck my tongue out to give her another look.
She smiled. “Did that hurt?”
“It had a nice ache for awhile, but now it just feels normal.” I smiled back.
A couple of hours later we were at my place, after drinks in a bar so noisy we couldn’t hear to talk. Soon I led Ann to my bed.
“Oh,” she said, her voice muffled in the pillows as she lay prone, her vest on my floor, her jeans half off, her cunt on my moving hand. “Oh, I should let Bill know I’ll be late. We’re open, we both have other lovers, but we agreed to always call to let each other know where we are.”
“Maybe we could all get together sometime,” I said, my heart jumping.
“Sure,” she said, and then she was on me, unbuttoning my shirt, unzipping my jeans, her tongue and fingers everywhere at once, licking and flicking at my breasts and my clit, her hand creeping finger by finger into my cunt until her little fist was pumping in there, knocking against my womb, feeling so good I never wanted it to end. When I finally came, it felt like the whole world came with me.
I pushed my tongue into her mouth, clicking the stud against her teeth, then trailing it slowly down her breasts and belly to warm it in her cunt before applying it firmly to her clit as my fingers entered her. We were humming in unison, my mouth on her clit and my hand in her cunt until she cried out, shaking, “Don’t stop,” and I didn’t until we both zoned out.
When I came out of my daze, she was up and wandering around my room, going through papers on my desk.
“Oh,” she said. “I guess we fell asleep. I didn’t call Bill, and now it’s midnight. I don’t know if I should call or just go home.”
“Spend the night,” I said. Spend it, don’t hold on to it, and don’t waste it.
“We agreed not to do that unless we plan it a week in advance.” She picked up one of the notebooks I kept stacked on my desk. “You keep a journal?” she asked.
“Put it down,” I told her, because she was getting way too personal for someone who wasn’t even going to stay the night.
She flipped through the pages, too fast to be reading. “Will you write about me?”
“No. I make stuff up. Those aren’t journals, they’re stories.”
“Well, are you gonna make stuff up about me?” She put down the notebook and grinned.
“Of course,” I answered, sticking out my pierced tongue.
Her nipples stood up in the streetlight coming in through the window, reaching for it like seedlings seeking sun. That got me out of bed to stand behind her and cup her breasts, so small they scarcely filled my hands.
“Stay,” I whispered into her feathery hair.
But she left that night, and every night for weeks.
“Bill and I discussed you, and we decided no overnights for a while,” she told me. “I told him you might want to hook up with both of us, but he says he’s not ready.”
I knew she was telling him everything, just as I wove everything into stories, so I worked hard to give us both plenty to say. My hand was up her cunt, holding her pulsing womb as she came, juice sliding down my wrist…. I was writing the passion I hoped she was relaying to Bill.
When I asked again about meeting Bill, she said, “Not yet. He’s feeling a bit insecure about us.”
I hoped he was.
Then one day she said it was time.
“After what he’s heard, of course he can’t wait.” I nudged her. “Does he like fists, too?” My fingers were hot for his ass.
“He’s not into that,” she said. “He just likes doing cunts.”
My arms were going all goose-pimply wondering what his hands were like. I was even starting to want his cock, or maybe just what it represented: better jobs, more money. Bill was a computer consultant, part-time work that gave them plenty to live on, which meant that Ann didn’t have to work. She could take classes, keep house, have lovers, or do whatever she desired with her time. I wanted to share that easy life. I began to imagine that Bill might enjoy two partners, one who looked like a cute punk twelve-year-old boy, and the other me, a deliciously plump blonde who was Ann’s physical opposite.
When we met, I saw that Bill was both wage earner and wife. He cooked dinner; when I put a wineglass on the coffee table, he whipped out some coasters with Van Gogh paintings on them; he did the dishes while Ann and I necked in the living room on a beige tweed couch that matched the two chairs on either side of the flagstone fireplace. Their flat was so perfect it made me nervous.
“We don’t have to hide,” she said, when my acute hearing picked up his steps tiptoeing down the hall. “Bill knows everything.”
We unzipped each other’s pants.
So there we were on the couch, with Bill between us. Ann took the lead, placing one of his beautiful hands on each of our knees. I put my hand over his, tracing the thick, short-nailed fingers while getting so wet I was afraid I’d stain the upholstery. Then he took off his pants and presented me with that big clit. When my tongue jewel put him off, I stuck a finger in my mouth, then ran it around his cock head. Clit head. Whatever.
“A little to the left,” he said. “Ahhhh…”
He was a big man, over six feet tall, with shoulder-length brown curls on his head, and soft brown hair on his arms and chest. With his tender voice and gentle hands, I kept imagining him as the largest, most substantial (although flat-chested, hairy, and huge-clitted) woman I’d ever met.
Ann brought out some Astroglide, which she squirted as needed while I rubbed him until my hand was about numb. Bill reached around to stick a couple of fingers in me, apologizing because his hands were too big to fist me. He was right; those two fingers were plenty. His thumb on my clit felt like the palm of a hand, but I could hold on, and then I couldn’t; I came in a flash, like a lightbulb exploding.
“That’s okay,” he said, rubbing my back after I collapsed on top of him. “We’ll teach you to last longer so it’ll be much more intense for you next time.”
Now, I typically take a while to come, so speed was something new that I wanted to try again, right away. “I’ve never been this quick,” I told him. “I like it.”
“I can take his whole fist,” Ann bragged.
His cock was still swollen, but he pushed my eager hand away. Ann lay down before us and spread her legs, flashing the pretty pink clit hidden by her swollen lips. I felt my fingers twitch as if they wanted to be down in there, but Bill’s big hand blocked the way, just about covering her whole pelvis. I watched his long fingers slip in one by one until, with a grunt, she took the whole thing. I thought I could see that hand moving in her belly, thumping up and down while she moaned, crying “Don’t stop, don’t stop” for what felt like hours until, when she came, his hand popped out like a champagne cork.
I’d been sitting on my knees so long they didn’t feel like part of my body anymore. His hand looked misshapen, like the head of a newborn baby. Ann lay between us, so pale and sweaty I was afraid to look at her cunt.
“She’s the only woman I know who can take me,” Bill said with pride, flexing his hand. “It takes time to build up to it.” He eyed me.
“Don’t you want to go first?” I asked. I wanted that hand for sure, but I thought I might not be able to take it the first time, and I hate failure.
“I’m fine,” he said, his cock now relaxed. “My pleasure is giving pleasure.”
I felt funny, because I’d had occasion to use that line with guys, so I gave him a knowing look, woman to woman, as it were.
He just said, “I think we should wait. It’s late and I have to see a client early tomorrow morning. Let’s get together next week.�
�
I practiced stretching my cunt, first with my own hand, which wasn’t nearly as big as some I’d had, then with the head of a doll that was supposed to be the size of a real baby. No problem. I figured I was ready. Before I went over to their house, I rinsed my mouth well with Binaca and hot water, took out my stud, and left it to soak in a dish on the bathroom sink. Since Bill hadn’t come last time, I was determined to get that big clit in my mouth before he put his hand in me.
Bill made crab bisque for dinner, and I rolled my naked tongue around my soup spoon to show it off, but he didn’t notice.
“He seems moody tonight,” I said to Ann when he left the table to make coffee.
“He gets like that,” she said. “Must be his period.”
“His what?”
“Men have hormones,” she sniffed. “Their moods shift with the tides. If you’d ever been with one for long, you’d know.”
Meanwhile, I could hear Bill whistling in the kitchen. Maybe he was schizoid, like this cat my mother used to have. When you’d stroke him, he’d purr and go all misty-eyed, then leap up and scratch your face. You never knew where you were with that cat.
When he brought the coffee back to the table, Bill was silent again.
“Did you turn on the heat in the bedroom?” Ann asked.
“Of course,” he sighed.
