After Midnight

by Chelsea James

  We danced in the days of techno, deep house, and trance, a tirade of heavy beats fleshed out with electronic creations. DJ Jonathan fed us from his perch high in the corner booth. The music oozed sexual innuendo, rhythmic fucking, and driving ecstasy. There was a base feeling to the sound that implied so much more than dancing.

  We’d take drugs and fill ourselves with wine. Liz and I would dance with Dawn, Peggy, and Angelita in the haze. Barb would press Liz against the support beam in the center of the room, while half-naked Angelita attempted to seduce me. Mandy, soft with white skin and clad as a Goth girl, would become emotional at any attention. There were so many of the eclectic tribe. We lived a life of excess: these extraordinary women, Liz, and I. Extraordinary women like Cleo.

  I would come to find that Cleo had always been bold. It was through her boldness that I came to know her.

  Late on a Saturday night, in the depths of NYC, I was shaken out of my trance by the sudden appearance of the woman. I watched as the tall redhead lost herself to the music. Cleo moved with a piercing energy. Her arms were raised into the cloud of man-made smoke, her swath of red hair swinging to cover her shoulders and eyes. I stared. It had always been one of my bad habits, and most often I didn’t care who noticed. When she caught me, though, I felt suddenly weak. All of my personal power, my high self-opinion, drained from me into this woman.

  Cleo crossed the small room, passing through the throng of the hypnotized. I can’t say whether her full mouth smiled when she reached me or if she just took hold of me. I felt her long fingers move around my waist to the small of my back. We slipped into the music. She was so direct in her gaze, until she shut her eyes, leaning her forehead into mine.

  Our hips and breasts came together as Cleo pressed closer. Her body was firm and athletic in contrast to my softer, rounder form. She was taller than me, her shoulders broader than my own. Her hand lay firmly on the curve of my waist. Her scent was rich with expensive perfume and sweat. Our movements became fluid, and my arm wrapped around her shoulders, my hand was in her hair. I pulled it to my face, rubbing it against my cheek and up into my own hair. She must have sprinkled the perfume through her hair. Years later that scent would still stir my senses.

  I couldn’t tell you how long we danced that way, fused. The music moved through me, through her, and created a concoction of energy. It wrapped around us and pulled us closer. I silently turned away any of my previous dance partners with a brash gaze or a sharp hand to stay with Cleo. In the middle of the morning, the music stopped and the lights came up. Liz came to fetch me, possessively wrapped her arms around my shoulders, and pulled me away. Cleo stepped back, lightly kissed me on the mouth, turned, and left.

  I could never imagine wanting to pull away from Liz, until the night I almost chased Cleo.

  The following week I went back to NYC and scoured the crowd for any sign of Cleo. I sought friends, acquaintances, anyone who could tell me about the woman. She was married, but no one ever saw her and her husband together. She was an artist, and several people wore the jewelry she made. She came to the club to dance every weekend, was rarely seen anywhere else.

  I sat at a small table in the main open room. I watched through the large, plate-glass store windows, waiting for Cleo to arrive. I wandered to the bathrooms and talked with a queen who thought I had “tremendous breasts.” I told her she had beautiful eyes, took my turn, and returned to my table. I saw Liz dancing in the adjacent room. Between mixes, she’d shoot a look of concern in my direction. But she was too busy with—oh, I don’t remember the girl’s name, although I met her later. Liz would always tell me she knew I was lost. She loved me and knew I was happiest when I was lost.

  It was past two in the morning when Cleo arrived. Laughing and open, she moved through the crowd. She belonged in this environment of extravagance. I finished my wine and summoned the lust that would carry my limping courage. NYC wasn’t the type of place where you asked to dance with someone—you merely stepped up and began.

  I slid in behind Cleo and wrapped my arm around her waist. She turned in my grasp with a sliding fluidity that would give her a moment to decide if she wished to dance with her intruder. She smiled at me in recognition and firmly kissed me on the lips. I braced her head with my hand and prolonged her greeting. Cleo’s tongue danced over the edges of my mouth and I took her lower lip into mine for a punctuated suck. “Apotheosis” chanted in the small room. We surrendered to the rocking, jabbing sounds. The kiss had given me confidence, and I rocked my hips into the firm smoothness of Cleo’s body. Our energy increased as we came together in the heat and the smoke and the driving rhythm.

  We were willing to go as far as the music and the room took us. Willing to dance as pagans under the throbbing lights and become as nocturnal as the music called us to be. I rushed my hand into the long locks of the red hair that had first found my attention and pulled her into a violent kiss. Cleo, not in the slightest disarmed, chewed my lips until I’m sure they should have bled. I spread my fingers and ran them over her collarbone and down to one of her breasts, firm and delicious. I felt Cleo’s long fingers unsnap the front of my suede vest, exposing my encased breasts. I took off my lace bra and hooked it through my belt. At NYC a spontaneous undressing was barely noticed.

  The hypnotized crowd danced around us in physical concoctions. The deep beat of the music drove me closer to Cleo. Her long fingers manhandled the tops of my breasts. She lowered her head to my exposed nipple. “Injected with a Poison” blared throughout the room. Grasping Cleo’s deft mouth to my breast, I groaned into the music, and her vicious, gnawing sucking.

  I grabbed her shoulders and forced her from me, back into the concrete block wall behind her. Pressed against her mouth, her body, I forced my hand into the waist of her trim pants. Cleo squirmed to allow me access. My fingers met the willing wetness of Cleo deep within the heat of her snug trousers. I found her proud clit and grasped it between two fingers. She arched into me, digging long fingers into my flesh. We both would be bruised from the assault.

  Cleo grabbed my wrist and wrestled it from her pants. I felt an urgent need to touch her again. She pulled me through the delirious crowd toward the bathroom. We escaped behind the purple door, and Cleo locked it tight. Her grip on my wrist was a painful pleasure. Up against the door, we slammed our bodies together. Hands and mouths moved in a frenzy.

  Violent kisses coupled with strong hands on pliable flesh. Music rushed through us. We’d found a like rhythm with our desperate hands. The realization that anything could happen in this club, in the middle of this city, struck Cleo and me at the same instant. I dropped to my knees in the swill of the spilled drinks and questionable liquids that covered the bathroom floor, soaking my jeans.

  I tore at the button and zipper of her trousers, at the filmy material of her panties. Discretion was lost to the pounding music, the stroking, the possible climax. I pulled Cleo’s pants down over her hips and buried my face in the limited exposure. I felt her full lower lips, full with the blood of excitement. I pressed my hand through the folds of her to her core, forcing myself inside with the latest blast of music. I tilted her hips toward me, pulling with my fingers inside her. I stretched my tongue beyond its limits to find the first taste of her, raw and earthy, and I clasped onto her clit.

  Cleo planted her hand in my hair, begging, exciting, demanding more. I forced my fingers, two, then three into her, curved toward the ideal spot. Her hips convulsed as I sucked deeply on her clit. I thought I could hear her gasps above the music, her moans over the rhythm, yet I’m sure now the sounds were mine.

  Covered in liquor, awash in the music, I knelt in service. Cleo’s smooth interior muscles clenched my fingers. I heard her breathing slow, regaining her elegant demeanor. I came up to press the taste of her onto her own lips. Cleo, in her infinite poise, managed to slow my desperate kisses. She ran her hand across my face, forced me to look her in the eye. She petted me to a stop. I twitched with the desire to grab her, to maul her.
She stroked my arms, the swell of my breasts. She calmed me as one would a child or an injured animal. And then she kissed me. With such delicacy. I wanted to please her, to prove I was capable of the unlabored dignity she desired. I had to breathe, slowly and with definite purpose. Cleo once again kissed my lips, my cheeks, my eyelids. She pulled her pants around her hips as she soothed me. She then began to talk to me.

  Cleo and I have talked ever since. We have kissed every time we have met or left each other. Her red hair has become blonde, and I have become curvier with fuller breasts. Over the years we became like-minded souls, laughing at the world. We’ve cried together on my bed when one or both of our hearts has been shattered. We’ve done anything we could over the years to understand each other and the lives we live.

  Sometimes we lose each other for a few months. Maybe even for several seasons. And then I’ll find an eloquent postcard in my box. I’ll call. We’ll meet, and any time lost will be regained. Cleo and I remember the days of dancing and drink and passionate people. We have gone through life’s struggles together and are pleased to find we still are the same passionate people.

  FIERY

  Amber Dane

  Darla was the only person who caught my eye at the sex party that night. I was on vacation on the West Coast, and while I had some friends there, I didn’t know the kinky scene in and out like I did back home. In a way, that freed me, and I talked to people who might not have given me the time of day in our well-worn, cliquish New York environment. Armed with the freedom of only a week’s stay, I could peruse, cruise, and flirt.

  I zeroed in on Darla right away. While most people had on minimal—if any—attire, much of it typical fetish gear, she was wearing what could’ve been underwear, or a bikini, black with bright orange flames that traced her breasts and ass, and matching platform heels, the fire shooting upward. Fire was perfect for her fiery personality—she seemed to be the kind of girl who lives her outrageousness every second, her loud laugh booming around us as we talked. She tossed her long, straight blonde hair over her shoulder, and I glimpsed the tongue ring hidden in her mouth. I leaned forward, hoping to show off my cleavage within my skin-tight red latex dress.

  My eyes remained glued to her the rest of the night. I desperately wanted to play with her but had no idea if she was a top or bottom or what, and I was too much of a newbie to ask. Whenever we talked, I wiped my sweaty palms on the latex clinging to my skin and soaked in her every word. When I finally left, Mara, the friend I’d come to the party with, told me all about Darla. “She’s known for being a bottom, but I’ve heard that sometimes, with especially pretty girls, she can be a top. I bet she’d be a wicked one, too.” I pictured Darla with a whip, swinging it easily through the air with her big, muscular arms, and me lying down, taking her abuse and wanting more.

  Darla and I had exchanged email addresses, but I had no great hopes for what would come of it. After all, she was an experienced local scenester, and I was a visiting wannabe. But, just my luck, Darla wrote to me the next day and said that out of all the people at the party, I was the only one she’d remotely wanted to play with. I gulped, peering closer at my laptop screen, ready to lick it in happiness. I beckoned Mara over and showed her the email—and she whistled.

  I wrote back, agonizing over what to say: play it cool or show her my true feelings? I settled on, The feeling’s mutual. I’d love to play with you, especially if you’re in charge. You name the time and place. I hit SEND, shutting my eyes for luck. I’d included my number, and not an hour later, my cell phone rang. When I picked up, Darla purred, “Hey, gorgeous. How’s that sweet ass of yours doing?”

  A drawl I hadn’t heard earlier lurked along the edges of her voice, and I shuddered at the sound. “Me and my ass are doing just fine,” I replied.

  “That’s good to hear,” she said, her words followed by a long pause. “I’d like you to come over today,” she continued. “I’d like to make your ass even finer.” Her voice held all the sultry promise it had the night before. My pussy ached as she spoke, and clenched my asscheeks at the thought of submitting to her whims. I knew without a doubt that she wanted to top me, and that she’d be good at it.

  “What should I wear?” I asked, deferring to her already.

  “Any skirt you want, as long as there’s no panties underneath.” She gave me her address, and when we hung up I kicked up my heels like an extreme dork, but I didn’t care.

  I ran in to tell Mara, but she’d been eavesdropping in the hallway and had already figured it out. She reached over and gave my ass a squeeze. “Girl, you’re in for it. You know that, right? Feel free to raid my closet if that’ll help.” I didn’t really have time to ponder the first half of what she’d said, because I was panicking about what to wear. A short skirt or something more modest? Bra or no bra? Hair down or up? I looked at myself in the mirror to get a clue. My long brown hair was all over the place, as usual, some of it falling down my back, some spread over my shoulders. I smoothed it out, running my fingers through the soft tresses, and let the ends fall over my breasts. I was wearing a typically low-cut black top, my ample cleavage hovering in the V. I slipped out of my jeans, then turned to look at the lacy thong bisecting my ass. I was happy with what I saw, the result of solid hours at the gym, climbing my way on the Stairmaster to backdoor paradise, as much as one can at the gym.

  I scoured the filled-to-the-brim racks of Mara’s closet, until the perfect skirt appeared. It was soft and purple, and when I put it on, it fell over my ass perfectly, accentuating my tight curves but leaving just enough to the imagination. I paired it with a tight black tank top for contrast and a pair of tall heels. I kept the shirt, brushing my hair till it shone and skipping jewelry that might get caught on anything.

  In what felt like no time at all, I was ready. After I passed Mara’s quickie inspection, I was off, walking the five blocks to Darla’s and growing increasingly nervous. I wasn’t afraid she’d hurt me, at least not in any way I didn’t want, but still, playing with a new partner, especially one as beautiful and intense as Darla, was intimidating. She had to know she had me wrapped around her little finger.

  As I walked, I thought about her hands, tiny but powerful, and just what they could do to me, my pussy clenching beneath my flowing skirt the whole time. I always wear underwear, not just because I’m naturally juicy, but because I feel safer wrapped in those private sheer layers that only I know about until I choose to reveal them. I’m the kind of girl who always has a well-stocked panty drawer, even when it feels like I have nothing else to wear. At least I know my pussy’s protected.

  But, following Darla’s instructions, I wasn’t wearing panties, and from the way the skirt clung so perfectly to my ass, anyone walking behind me could tell exactly what was going on. Not that I minded, exactly. It was just a new sensation.

  By the time I stood on Darla’s porch ringing the doorbell, it wasn’t the brisk walk that had gotten me panting. When she answered the door wearing just a red camisole and panties, I caught my breath. “Hi,” I managed. The word almost caught in my throat as she took my hand and led me inside. I realized it really hadn’t mattered what either of us wore; the electricity charging from her palm into mine spoke volumes more than any lacy finery. I felt the power of her attraction working its way into my body, and in the minute it took to reach her bedroom, I became even more willing to give myself over to her. She led me to her bed, which was adorned with black satin sheets.

  Darla sat me down and turned toward me, her face unexpectedly serious. She took both my hands in hers, and looking deep into my eyes, said, “Hi, yourself.”

  “I want you,” I told her, my hands warm in hers.

  “You look very nice, Amber,” she said. “But I want all of you, not just a small part, or even a large one. If we’re going to play together, you have to give yourself to me. That means you’ll trust me to know what’s best for you, what your body wants, and you believe I will provide that for you as best I can. You’re always i
n control of your actions, but I can’t be my best if I feel you’re truly afraid of what I’m doing. Do you understand?”

  Her eyes bore into mine. I wasn’t totally sure I did understand, but I nodded anyway, because the tone of her voice sent shivers all along my spine. I wanted to be the best sub she’d ever had, the girl with the prettiest and most obedient behind she’d ever seen. I knew already it wasn’t going to be a long-term thing between us. This was probably par for the course for her, but I was a visitor in all senses of the word. Nevertheless, I felt at home with her soft hands and kind eyes; her sensual, muscular body that made me want to bury my face in her cleavage.

  Once she had my agreement, her tone softened. “I want you to crawl across my lap,” she said, beckoning me forward. I did as she urged, and when she lifted up my skirt, even though I’d been following her orders in going commando, the way she tisked, her tongue against the roof of her mouth, made me feel like the naughtiest girl alive.

  “Well, well, well, what do we have here?” she said, running one finger along the crack of my ass. She kept it there, pressing against my puckered hole while I willed myself to stay still. Her other hand reached forward and grabbed one of my asscheeks, pinching my skin as she thoroughly took over my behind. She moved, and all of a sudden one hand was fisted in my hair, the other massaging the small of my back. She pushed up my shirt so it bared more of my backside to her, my stomach now brushing against the softness of her silky attire. As she slid a pillow under my cheek, the sensual overload was complete. Soft curves beneath, and the start of harsh smacks above, as she brought one strong palm crashing down against my ass. I moaned into the pillow, drooling a little as she tugged my hair by its roots while spanking my other cheek.