After Midnight

by Chelsea James

I could smell her, and my mouth and cunt watered equally. I undid the buckle on Dalia’s studded belt, and the leather whistled as she slid it out of her pant loops. As I unzipped her pants, she slipped the belt around my neck, and as I removed the last of her clothes, she cinched the belt down hard, pulling me close to her, guiding my face to her neck, her breasts, her belly, and finally her pussy, which was framed with gold curls and steel. I tried to take a deep breath, but she was tugging on the belt, and my mouth quickly collided into those warm wet lips. I played my tongue across the slit between her pussy lips and brought her juice up to my lips, licking myself. As I pushed myself between Dalia’s lips, she moaned and said, “My clit’s kinda big.” She wasn’t kidding—almost an inch around it seemed as I rolled it around my lips like a jawbreaker. Her hand gripped the belt around my neck with a strength that left me scared, panting, and dripping wet. I felt her thighs shaking underneath my hands and licked more slowly and forcefully. She seemed to be getting close, but my vision was getting sparkly around the edges and I wanted to make her come before I missed out on it entirely.

  I made a tight seal around her clit with my lips, watching to see if she’d respond. She bucked her hips into my face, and I stuck my tongue out for her to rub herself against. Almost instantly she let out a long soprano moan and started to come. At first she tightened her grip on the belt even harder, but she finally let go. I sank to the bed facedown, panting into her pussy, endorphins and oxygen rushing through my body.

  I had no strength to fight her as she flipped me on my back. I didn’t want anything but her mouth on me—anywhere. She tore off my pants and shirt, let her eyes and hands wander over my sizeable chest and tattoos, and said, “What do you like?” I asked her to kiss me, and as she did she put a thigh against my wet cunt. Between kisses, thrusts, and tugs on the belt around my neck, I managed to tell her I wanted her to lick my clit and hurt me a little. She smiled at me, almost enough to make me regret it, then put her head into my cleavage, sucking at my skin hard enough to leave long trails of bruises.

  Dalia’s hands traveled up my thighs, across my belly. She placed her fingers on the outside of my cunt, then brought them to my mouth for me to suck. I writhed against her, and she made no move to touch me further. The ache in my cunt forced me to whisper, “Please.”

  “Please what?”

  I had no idea what to ask for. My cheeks burned, and I could hardly look her in the eye. I was hard and butch and not accustomed to asking, certainly not so desperately, and it made me feel very helpless and hot. “Please, will you fuck me?”

  All at once, she was right in my face, licking my mouth. I tried to draw measured, deep breaths, but it was no use. I stopped fighting and tried to focus on what she was doing. Dalia grabbed a candle from the windowsill and lit it. Straddling my hips, she lit another cigarette from the flame and sat over me, smoking, watching me. She blew minty smoke over my engorged nipples, and I sighed with pleasure. She let me have a drag, and I savored the smoke before blowing it toward the ceiling. Then she grabbed her beer bottle and touched it experimentally to my left side. The cold made me buck and cry out, but I was pinned under her strong body. She grinned and dragged the cold, wet bottle across my chest, and by the time she poured drops of wax from the candle onto my chest, I was sobbing loud enough for the whole floor to hear. She put out her cigarette then downed the last sips of beer with her hand over my mouth.

  Dalia got off me, moving her head down between my thighs. The beer bottle rolled down my chest and belly, settling to rest against my damp mound, round and open like DJ headphones. I felt her press the cold glass gently against my lips, which was a soothing, exhilarating sensation. I started to move my hips, and Dalia slapped my thigh. Immediately, I froze. Dalia’s mouth was up against my cunt now, licking all the way inside me. It was the most wonderful thing, having her tongue curled and moving into my wet hole. She replaced her tongue with fingers, and I gasped uncontrollably.

  “What is it?”

  “That—that feels amazing!”

  I felt her smile into my clit. “Oh, that? That’s pretty, well, tame.” My heart sank, and I blushed furiously. I felt so naïve and exposed, wanting to roll over and hide, but Dalia wouldn’t let me go. I felt another finger sink into me and her tongue slide over my clit, licking it softly, bottom to top, just how I like it. She growled into me, biting and pulling on my labial piercing. I was afraid of all she could do to me that I hadn’t even imagined yet, and that fear opened my hole even wider with desire.

  My mouth opened with a ragged breath that amped itself into near hyperventilation. P. J. Harvey sang on and on in the background, and when Dalia put the biggest part of her hand inside my tight gash, my howls matched that agonizing part in “The Dancer” where it sounds like P. J.’s getting fisted by the devil.

  Dalia reached into her pants pocket and took out several metal picks. She put them over her fingers, and her face went back to my cunt. That left hand returned to its previous steady tempo inside my wet hole, while the other scraped and scratched and stabbed at my tits, belly, thighs, and arms with its metal adornments. I looked down to see her licking and fucking me, but what made my heart race faster was the sight of her raising dark welts on me. The liquid ascent that preceded my orgasms was beginning; I felt it rise higher in my belly, but with all that there was jammed inside my hole, there was nowhere for that orgasm to go but out my mouth with a force large enough to summon campus police if I hadn’t thought ahead and jammed the pillow between my lips as I came. Dalia held gently but firmly onto the end of her belt until I stopped thrashing.

  All too soon, Dalia slowly loosened the belt from my neck. I touched my neck where the belt had been, and it felt raised and hot like a halo.

  Dalia yawned and ran her hands hard over her shaved head. She put her pants back on, rethreading her belt in the worn loops, and as she went looking for her shirt, she realized it had been underneath me as she fucked me, and that it was now wet with me. She smiled and picked up the shirt I’d been wearing, a black Sticky Fingers tee from my first time living in Baltimore, and asked if she could borrow it. I nodded, unaware I’d never see that shirt again and that she’d left the sort of girl-fucking artifacts in my room I’d later come to expect would be left behind: boxer briefs, a thick steel-bead chain, and a signed first edition of The Complete Hothead Paisan.

  I stood to kiss her good-bye, and she once again became the sweet and bouncy rebel nerd I was accustomed to adoring. She pressed the power button on the stereo and silently let herself out. I found her necklace on the floor and put it on so it rubbed against my aching, bruised neck. Beyond the fucking itself, this talisman symbolized that I had been initiated, but into what I was still unsure.

  The phone rang the double ring of an off-campus call. I rolled over and picked up. At this hour it would either be the Whispering Woman or my partner. The odds were slightly in my favor.

  “Oh, my God. You’ll never guess who I just had sex with.”

  “Never, eh?” A low chuckle, and then my partner read me an excerpt of the email ze had sent Dalia, a description of my crush on her and a suggestion that I would be up for a romp if invited.

  Not even when I found my name in the liner notes for Dalia’s first album a few months later did I feel so very loved. “Thank you very much,” it said, using my girlie given name, which of course brought me no end of shame and joy.

  THE FLAME

  Tonne Forquer

  The autumn trees and earth fill my vision as I stroll across the park. My eyes are heavy and my head swims with last night’s desire. I spot a woman in the distance and I pray it’s Amanda. Just the thought of her makes me wet. With each step I’m a little closer. I have a terrible need for my fix and no one else can quench it. My heartbeat quickens. It’s her.

  Amanda’s standing outside her van, one hand on her hip, the other holding a cigarette. Her blue eyes and full lips against her pale young flesh and dark red hair drive me wild. I flash her a smile and bite my
bottom lip.

  “I was wondering if you were going to show.” She grins and flicks the cigarette to the ground. Smoke escapes her mouth and floats into the early morning sky.

  I hug her, and she rubs the back of my neck. As I take in her scent, my mind wanders. I want to melt in her arms, to ignore the rest of the world. I plant a gentle kiss on the back of her neck, and she lets out a soft moan.

  She pulls me into the van. The windows are tinted black. We can see out, but the revelers in the park can’t see she’s doing a line from the tabletop or that I’m changing into a black dress. A Hole mix CD is playing on the stereo. She lights a red candle and kisses me on the forehead. Her grin widens.

  Amanda likes me to dress up like a Goth girl. She pats her lap and I sit atop her with my black dress and blood-red lipstick. My skin is powdered pale, and my eyes look bruised. I love for her to take control of me, love to feel her commanding hands. Her energy once made me nervous, but now it excites me. I learned to love it as she loves me.

  With my back to her, she puts her hand inside my panties to make sure I’m ready. She pulls my head to one side. I hear the click of a switchblade, and I let out a gasp as the cold steel touches my throat. She slides the knife beneath the sides of my panties and cuts them off. My back arches, and she spreads my legs. My breath is coming so fast. My eyes follow the knife, and she points it to my throat.

  “You’ve been a bad girl,” she growls. “I know you’ve been out with her again. I’m going to fuck you until you’re raw so that bitch can’t have you!”

  I try to get up from Amanda’s lap, but she grabs me and pulls me tightly to her, presses the knife against my neck again. I squirm in her lap. I want her so bad.

  She slowly bends me over the edge of the table and teases my entrance with the head of her strap-on. She pushes into me with every breath.

  “I’m sorry, baby,” she whispers.

  Our moans wash over each other with each movement. Amanda slides me back onto her lap. “Open your eyes,” she says. “Watch the flame. Mimic its movement.” I feel her sweat mingle with my own. She pricks her finger with the knife, drags her finger across a line of cocaine, and sticks it in my mouth. She drops the knife and digs her fingers into the flesh of my leg. She drives herself deeper into me as I bounce on her lap.

  “Don’t take your eyes off it.” Her breathing grows heavier.

  I drink her in. I want all of her. I watch the flame as it dances and sways just as we do. She runs her hand through my dark hair and slowly pulls my head back, bites my neck.

  “What do you see?” she says forcefully.

  “Mmmm…I…I…” is all that escapes me. I’m numb with pleasure. I can barely keep my eyes focused as she licks the back of my neck.

  She puts her hands on my waist, tugging me down, allowing me to completely engulf this extension of her womanhood.

  “You see us,” she whispers. “And that is all you’ll ever see again when you look at fire.”

  I turn around and kiss her. Our tongues entwine, and I straddle her once more. She enters me again and rocks back and forth until I climax. I’m in a daze as I enjoy her mouth and continue to ride her. I come twice more.

  She looks at me with satisfied eyes, breathes in and nods her head. “Only you and me. Do you understand?”

  She nudges me to the floor and wiggles the strap-on in my face. I take the head of it into my mouth, suck on the tip, and look up at her, seeking acceptance. She wants control of me again. She pushes my head down and fucks my throat until tears flow from my eyes. I feel her coming, and I push away. She knows I hate this, but it only makes her want to do it more. She kisses my cheeks and slowly licks the tears from them. She smiles at me and I focus on the lipstick prints I’ve left on her neck. My mouth finds hers again. I want to be lost.

  Amanda removes the shaft from her harness, and she rubs my head. I eagerly lap at her pussy, my tongue desperately seeking her out. I pull my head back, her hand cradling the back of it and gently tugging my hair. I steal a glance at the dragon tattooed on her arm and look up at her. I want her to make me eat her pussy because it turns me on. And she knows this.

  “I love you, baby girl.” She smiles and pushes me into her. I stick my tongue in as far as I can, teasing her insides and pulling back out.

  Amanda’s so wet that a tenacious stream forms a bridge from her cunt to my mouth. I tease her clit until she comes. In the end, I know I’m the one in control.

  “I am fire.” She grins, almost laughing maniacally as she throws her head back.

  She blows the candle out, gives me a rose, and kisses my forehead.

  ROUTE 66

  Lori Simmons

  Kerry has a thing for waitresses. I think it’s because they bring her coffee, which I never do—and then she gets to stare at their asses as they trot away. “We’re staying in the motel next door tonight, but we’re probably taking off in the morning,” she says to a cute, blue-eyed, freckly girl.

  This particular waitress isn’t my type at all. She’s very slim and girly. She seems like a cool person, but she isn’t registering on my sexual radar.

  But she’s obviously registering on Kerry’s.

  “You’re so sweet,” Kerry says in response to an offer of sugar for her coffee. “Why don’t you just stick your finger in there and twirl it around?”

  “Oh, Christ. I can’t believe you just said that,” I murmur.

  But the waitress smiles. I try to distance myself from the cheesy pickup line by lighting a cigarette. I love that Bob’s Big Boy has a smoking section. I look into the mirror next to our booth. My roots need a touch-up, my hair is getting long, and the blonde highlights are a bit faded—but I’m wearing my favorite dress. It’s stretchy black wool, knee-length, long-sleeve, and zips up the back. It only has a few holes in it. I’m probably too covered up for Kingman, Arizona, even in January. But this dress was the only clean thing I had. Kerry and I have been on the road for three weeks and haven’t stayed in one place long enough to do a load of laundry. Kerry is wearing a threadbare Harley T-shirt and dangerously low Levi’s.

  The waitress is, of course, wearing her uniform. She fills Kerry’s cup to overflowing and says, “I get off at six,” before walking away with an exaggerated swish.

  I give Kerry a pointed look and say, “I need something a little more substantial than pussy for dinner.” But she knows I’m playing with her.

  She pats my hand and says, “Drink your coffee, baby. We’ve got a few hours to kill. Why don’t we go back to the motel?”

  We picked this Best Western out of the Damron Women’s Traveller, so I’m not really surprised to see another dyke couple in the hot tub. They’re pretty attractive. In fact, the butcher of the two is pretty damn hot.

  I can tell Kerry is getting antsy for some fun. That’s my girl. She’s got a nonstop libido. So big that I can’t keep her satisfied. I’d have to fuck her 24/7. Anyway, she’s had the waitress habit since day one, so it wouldn’t be fair for me to suddenly start complaining.

  I give the other two gals a nod as I slide into the water. Kerry does the same and puts her hand on my shoulder so they’ll know we’re together. We talk a little about how hot it is, how odd it is to see so many dykes at a Best Western off Route 66, and other chit-chatty stuff. Susan—that’s the femme’s name—hands me a joint. I take a hit and hand it over to her girlfriend, whose name is Dana. Dana tokes up and passes it on, and soon the four of us are happily making plans to head to the Grand Canyon together tomorrow.

  I lean my head back and close my eyes, and Dana takes the opportunity to push her foot between my thighs. I hear kissing sounds and low moans. When I pick my head up to investigate I see Kerry and Susan entwined. My girl has a way of getting parties started.

  Dana kinda looks like a surfer boy; I think this to myself as she pushes me against the side of the tub.

  “We should probably go somewhere more private,” she says.

  I disengage just long enough to announce, �
��There’s a king-size bed in our room.”

  I’m excited by the beauty of her body as I watch her walk across the parking lot. She’s far bigger than I’d normally go for, the muscles I mean, and Kerry looks dwarfed as she walks alongside her.

  In the parking lot, the freckly waitress catches up to our happy little band. Must be six o’clock. She hollers, “Hey, ladies, wait up,” so I sprint up the burning cement stairs and throw open the door to our room. Five sweaty dykes tumble in and fall on the bed, quickly shedding four wet bathing suits and one polyester uniform.

  The waitress flops right onto her back in the middle of the bed, and Susan, without so much as an introduction, dives between her freckly, tanned thighs. I hear her moan, “Mmm, wet pussy.” And that’s the last I see of her face for the next ten minutes.

  I jump on the bed and stroke the freckly face of the waitress. She looks so happy. Before Kerry and I started this journey we call our relationship, I was living a suburban nightmare. My partner and I hadn’t had sex in nearly a year. Before bed I used to hum, “Love will keep us together,” Captain and Tennille style, to keep from mooning over the dull ache between my legs. And then this sexy dyke named Kerry parked an ugly yellow Dodge van in front of the bookstore where I spent eight hours a day. She waltzed into my life in thrift-store threads and long stringy rock-star hair and showed me a whole lot of sex and drugs. It’s just like love, but better.

  Kerry and Dana kneel at the edge of the bed and watch in admiration. But I want them to join us. “Get off your lazy asses and come over here and help us,” I yell at them.

  Kerry jumps up first and pushes me over onto my stomach, but I’m having none of it, so I shrug her off and push Susan out of the way and dive face-first into Freckles’s damp musky wetness. Her pussy is inviting: hair neatly trimmed, big plump lips and a swollen clit to nibble on. She groans loudly as I pry apart her inner lips with the tip of my tongue. Behind me someone pushes against my ass, but I don’t want to break the rhythm to see who it is, so I try to guess.