by Radclyffe
With a whimper—the least butch sound I make—I burrow my hand between our bodies and past the dildo and harness. Slippery, swollen and hot. My love makes fists and pounds them on the bed, determined that I will not distract her, determined not to let me flip her so that she gets fucked first. She pushes her ass upward, out of my reach, and pulls her nipple out of my mouth.
“Not this time,” she says, looking like an angry schoolmarm. “You fucking lie there.”
I bump my hips up at her. Hennie falls back on top of me and laughs. She never does stay mad for long. She scoots down and parts my legs. The dildo bumps against my cunt and I squirm again. She puts a hand on my chest for stability and uses the other to open me up. The dildo slides a tiny ways into my cunt. I’m wet enough to slick that silicone up just fine.
Miniature thrusts and a thumb on my clit hood frustrate me, but I know she’s doing it for my own good. Only way to put me into the zone is to tease me. I can come, no problem, but it’s usually minor muscle spasms. For the full-body clench and release, I have to get to a much higher level of need.
Hennie’s looking at my cheeks, watching me lick my lips. She presses down on my rib cage and watches my nipples harden. The calculating way she manipulates my clit, rubbing above and to each side without touching it, makes me stretch my arms up and grab for the headboard.
But we’re not in our bed. My fingers scrabble against veneer and I settle for a pillow, grabbing it between my hands and wishing I had something to pull against.
Hennie is satisfied that I’m with her. She hates it when I let her fuck me, but there’s no connection. She says I may as well just masturbate when I’m like that, and she’s not wrong. Right now, though, it’s Hennie’s touch and Hennie’s plan that’s ratcheting my body tighter and tighter.
She slides her knees up, one at a time, shoving my legs wide and draping them over her thighs. Kneeling, she leaves the dildo in my cunt, where it teases me with hints of pleasure without being wide enough to stretch me the way I love. She gloves one hand, lubes up both and slides the gloved one below the dildo.
Her fingers slip over the tiny folds around my asshole and dance around the ring of muscle holding it closed. Slipping in the lube, her fingers press and massage that ring until I feel it happen. I start to open up.
Meeting my eyes, she dallies until I exhale. Her teasing thumb presses my clit finally and then, as I arch up into that touch, she slips her index finger inside my ass. I can’t help the clench that follows. It’s not a rejection. It’s a plea to stay.
Gently rubbing me all around, she focuses on easing my tightness. I do my best to help out with deep breathing, but Hennie doesn’t want me too relaxed. She keeps stroking my clit, but only in ways that don’t, won’t get me off. Eventually, my eyes slide shut and my hips start to wander.
That’s the moment Hennie’s been waiting for. When I move into hungry receptivity, she pulls the dildo from my cunt and slides it a tiny bit into my ass. The hand on my clit goes still and then her palm presses against it, giving me something to rub on without distracting me from the deep give of my ass opening to her. Took a lot of fucking for her to pinpoint the moment when the clit stimulation needed to stop, but she nailed it this time.
I love this moment. I can feel muscles slacken inside my body, muscles I’m not aware of on a day-to-day basis. She slides in and my insides rearrange to accommodate her. Fresh lube cools the dildo and is warmed by friction. When she stops pressing, I open my eyes.
“It’s working.” She presses harder against my clit as she speaks.
“Oh, yeah.”
I lie on my back in an unfamiliar room, with an over-bleached motel towel under my impaled ass and goose bumps covering my body. The strangeness of our surroundings excites me, but not as much as the woman between my legs. Hennie looks abstracted, focused on the feedback she gets from the hand wrapped around the dildo. Her hips are still and she manipulates the dildo in tiny circles with her hand, watching my ass tighten and soften in response. Her intense attention is all for my body, and my body gives her what she wants.
“I think you’re ready.” Hennie looks up into my face, checking in.
I nod, opening my mouth to agree. A moan escapes when she pulls the dildo from my ass. Hungry to get it back, I scramble to turn over and present my ass, high and ready for her.
She makes me wait. She drifts up close behind me and slides her knees between my thighs. She lays the dildo’s length between my cheeks and thrusts slowly, the slick silicone rubbing against the hot softness of my asshole. A cool deluge strikes and I flinch. Hennie laughs and rubs the lube around my asshole with the dildo, then angles it down for me.
I back down on it, gobbling it up, filling myself up and then slowing down so I can take more. It’s a very long dildo and, in this position, Hennie can get close enough to give me every inch. I thrust my ass onto it a bit at a time, moaning at the depth of my penetration.
When I get all the way down on it, I push against Hennie’s thighs with mine and press my asscheeks into her hips. Shaking and jerking, so close to coming, I reach for my clit but she says, “No, not yet.”
I almost sob, but she starts thrusting and my attention turns. Slide and slap, and she pushes her weight into my ass. She wants me to brace so I won’t slide across the bed. On my knees with my ass high and my shoulders low, I grip the bedspread in hopes it’ll keep me in position.
We’re both fucking now, slamming into each other hard and bouncing back, just to slam together again. It’s not fast, but it’s relentless and we keep it up until my grip fails and I slide forward. Hennie grabs my hips then and pulls my ass into her. I reach down for my clit and she doesn’t stop me. That turns me on even more, because it means she knows how worked up I am.
My mind is clouded, dislocated. I am thinking with my gut. My clit is enormous and so is Hennie’s dildo in my ass. I reach inside my cunt to feel it move. The end strokes my fingers through the thin tissue that separates one hole from the other and I have my face and chest pressed into the bed with both hands on my cunt now. Hennie is chanting, “Come for me, baby. Come for me.” I’m rubbing my clit and filling my cunt. Hennie is fucking my ass so smoothly that in and out feel the same and the orgasm builds from the deepest part of me that she touches, disintegrating my flesh and replacing it with pure energy.
When the pulses slow and subside, my body re-forms around the sensation of Hennie pulling her dildo from my ass. She slips to the side, running one hand down my back, then removes the harness. While I’m still dazed, reeling from being discorporate with pleasure, Hennie turns me over.
I flop over gladly, my ass still pulsing, and take a deep breath. Good thing, too, because Hennie’s pussy covers my mouth, lips held open by her slick fingers. The scent and texture of her becomes part of my lingering orgasm and I lap at her slowly. Hennie is too far gone for that, though, and she shoves her clit at my tongue.
I’m buried and helpless under her, but she only needs me to keep my tongue curled and my lips pursed. She fucks me again, this time with her clit in my mouth, climbing so quickly to orgasm that she must have been close when I came. She grabs the fake headboard in front of her and the bed pounds the wall from her jagged thrusts until she keens, a high, thin sound that means it’s holding off, that the orgasm she’s chasing is just beyond her reach. I add a flick of my tongue to the end of her movement and she convulses above me, belly quaking and tits shivering.
By the time her cries have lowered in pitch, I have my wits about me again. I love this woman and she has given me so much. When she gets off me, still moaning, I slip off the bed and grab the bag.
Sure enough, she also packed my harness and the fat dildo she loves so much. I strap it on. She’s done all the work so far, but now I’m ready to break a sweat. Why not? We’ve got air-conditioning.
LITTLE BIT OF IVORY
JL Merrow
She’s got perfect skin. That’s what I remember most about her, when we’re apart. Perfect ski
n, the color of new ivory. Long, long limbs and crazy hair, all piled up on her head as if she wasn’t tall enough already, the bitch.
(I don’t mean that spitefully, by the way. I love her.)
She never lets that hair tumble around her shoulders when we’re out together. Not when she’s out without me, either—and she’s out too often without me, has to be in her job. She travels, you see. All over the world, charming people (men) with her smile, her witchy green eyes. Seducing them into giving her love tokens, a name on a dotted line.
(I’d give her my name, if she asked for it. Or take hers, if that was what she wanted.)
Me? I sit at home, and I wait. I tap my fingers, and words flow out, although the effect is little even after much labor.
(If I told her that, she’d laugh and call me her own dear Jane. I do love to see her laugh.)
But then she comes home to me, when my shoulders are stiff from typing and her hair’s just beginning to droop. I meet her at the door (kick the junk mail out of the way first, should have tidied, too late now) and put my arms around her neck. She smiles that smile that makes her eyes go brighter, that shows the lines around the corners. (They’re mine, those lines. I was there for all of their births.) It softens when my hands creep up to take out the pins, the clips, all that holds back the avalanche of burnished copper.
Her hair cascades, and her whole body relaxes, shudders. “Mmm,” she says. “Missed you.”
“Missed you more,” I tell her (it’s true). “Hungry?”
She darkens her eyebrows when she’s working. Thinks they’re too pale. But they’re perfect, just like the rest of her, and when one quirks up I want to kiss it (it’s a bugger being short). “Had a sandwich on the train. I’ll keep.”
“No, you won’t,” I tell her, pulling her by the hand. Kicking the door shut behind her.
It’s only seven paces down the hall to the bedroom (I might have measured it, once). It takes us seven ages to get there. Her coat falls to the floor, an early casualty. Her shoes seem to have walked off by themselves. (They’re black patent, wicked heels. I’m sure they could do a deal all on their own, if she’d let them.)
I kiss her, tasting mint and ChapStick. (She knows I love to see her in lipstick. She also knows I don’t love the taste of it. I imagine her now, taking it off on the train. Moisturizing her lips again. Pressing them together, then checking in the mirror she keeps in her bag to make sure she’s perfect. Was there a touch of sweat on the brow of some paunchy, middle-aged businessman sitting opposite, sneaking a glance on the way home to his disillusioned wife?)
Her tongue darts between my lips. Shy, tentative. (Oh, it’s a liar, that tongue.) I meet it with mine, relearn the contours of her mouth. She’s soft, so soft, where I press her to me. Her breasts, smaller than mine, don’t need much support. When I knead one with my hand, I can feel her hard nipple through the thin material. I shiver and have to pull at her top. “Off,” I tell her, and she laughs but pulls it off anyway.
(I take mine off too. There’s no sense in wasting time.)
Her bra’s pretty, but it’s got to go. I unhook it gently. Cherry red nipples tease me, so I bend to taste one. So sweet and hard, and I can feel heat rising in my core, just as if it was my own breast being suckled. She moans, her hand reaching for my breast, slender fingers sliding into the cup of my bra. When she squeezes my nipple, I feel like I’ll explode.
I reach around to the fastening of her skirt. Undo it and help it over those flaring hips. She’s wearing stockings, black nylon held up with lace, the contrast stark with the pale perfection of her skin. I hook my thumbs into her panties and ease them down, leaving her bare but for her stockings.
“So beautiful,” I murmur. I don’t remember getting to my knees. I nuzzle into the fiery hair at her groin, all neatly trimmed (she used to wax, but I like her better like this so now she doesn’t bother). She shudders, and I hold her tight as I lick her lips. She tastes of musk, and want, and mine.
“On the bed,” I say, and she lies down, naked but for her stockings, her suspenders and her smile. One leg bent, the other straight, and I can see all of her, all her beauty.
“Time you got those jeans off,” she says, and I scramble to obey. (Sometimes she likes the feel of rough denim against her skin. Today isn’t one of those times.)
I kneel between her spread thighs and run my hands over her hips, her waist, her breasts. “Tease,” she says. I know what she wants.
I circle her opening with my finger, teasing her lips and her clitoris. There’s a flush of pink on my ivory canvas now, and her breasts rise and fall with her quickened breath. I push my finger inside her and her head falls back, her hair a waterfall of flames.
“More,” she breathes. I add another finger, work them in and out. She’s slick, warm and welcoming, her inner walls caressing me. I add a third finger. “More,” she demands.
Four fingers. I add some lubricant and go cautiously now. I don’t want to hurt her. (And she loves it when I tease.) My fingers still inside her, I bend over to kiss her breast, to tease her nipple with my tongue, my teeth. She groans, her body shaking. I brush her clitoris with my thumb.
Her hands push at my shoulders. “Not yet. I need all of you.” (I know what she means.)
I suck hard on her nipple, bringing it to a reddened, swollen peak. Then I leave it alone, for now. Squeezing my hand as small as I can, I let my thumb slip inside her. Her hips jerk up.
“Yes. More.”
Between my legs, I feel like I’m on fire. I push into her some more. So wet, so hot, she pulls me in. Slowly, so slowly, I watch my hand disappear inside her. She shudders and groans. “Yes.”
I move my hand—quick little thrusts, just how she likes it. Her slender fingers scrabble and clutch at the sheets.
“More?” I ask. (I already know the answer.)
“God, yes! Now.”
I lick the thumb of my free hand and gently brush her clitoris. She arches, crying out, and clenches around my fist. Strong, rippling contractions squeeze me, caress me. She comes and comes, leaving me slick with her juices. When she pushes at my shoulders again, I slide my hand out of her (slowly, so slowly; I don’t want to leave her). She pulls me up to kiss me, her tongue now honest, demanding, invading. Her heart beats fiercely against my breast.
“God, I feel properly welcomed home,” she says, her voice breathy and broken.
I nod. “Then my work here is done.”
She laughs. “Mine’s not.” My pulse quickens as she rouses orgasm-languid limbs and slithers down the bed. “Lie back.”
“And think of England?”
“Bitch. Think of me.” (She knows I always do.)
I gasp as her warm breath hits my groin. Her tongue’s turned wicked now, teasing as it tastes. My flesh tingles at its approach and bursts into flame at its touch. She stokes my fires with practiced skill. (What would the men in suits think now if they saw her, I wonder? Would faces flush, would hands creep into boxer shorts?) Her fingers on my hips steady me, write their own Braille across my skin. (I’ll read it later, with love.)
There’s a bed beneath me. I know this. Wrinkled sheets and a pillow under my head. The air in the flat is cool. I feel none of it. All I feel is her: her tongue, her hands. The ecstasy she spins out of straw. I want to paint her with words, my little bit of ivory, but my brush is fine, so fine, and all I have is pure sensation. Wordless, I cry out as she takes me to the peak and carries me over in her arms.
My limbs tangle with hers. I’d tie that knot so tight, if I could, that no one would ever be able to undo it.
And then I’d pull on the trailing thread and let it all unravel, let her go.
Just for the pleasure of having her come back home to me.
A ROYAL ENGAGEMENT
Nell Stark
Her Royal Highness Princess Alexandra Victoria Jane—better known to her subjects as Sasha—peered around the stage and into one corner of the Throne Room. Strobe lights illuminated a small clust
er of people centered on one of her cousins and his date. She sighed in frustration, even as she waved to them. Where on earth had Kerry gone?
Turning in a slow circle, she surveyed the stateroom turned nightclub. Her brother Arthur and his wife Ashleigh were up onstage, dancing with a knot of their closest friends. The newly-weds had changed into evening attire for this reception, and Sasha had no doubt that the tabloids would be thrown into paroxysms of joy at their fairy-tale perfection. Ashleigh looked stunning in her floor-length white evening gown, and Arthur had ditched his Royal Air Force uniform for a tuxedo.
Sasha watched as he twirled his wife expertly in time to the music. They looked so happy. They were so happy. For years, she had secretly despaired of ever falling in love, not to mention finding someone to share her life. Thankfully, Kerry had changed all that, and now Sasha was ready to take the next step. But first, she had to find her.
After several more minutes of hunting, Sasha saw her standing near one of the tables set around the periphery of the room. She was sharing it with Sasha’s sister Lizzie and a few of her Cambridge friends, and as Sasha watched, Kerry tipped her head back and laughed. Her wavy red hair was artfully mussed, and her silver tux showed off both the breadth of her shoulders and the swell of her breasts.
Sasha hurried over and slipped one arm around Kerry’s waist. “You’re looking quite handsome tonight, Ms. Donovan.”
“Your Royal Highness.” Kerry’s eyes twinkled. “What an unexpected pleasure.”
“Unexpected?” Sasha arched one eyebrow. “You should always expect me.”
“No one expects the Spanish Inquisition,” quipped a clearly tipsy Lizzie, which set Kerry to laughing again.
“Nerds. The lot of you, nerds.” Sasha turned her face up to Kerry’s for a swift kiss. “I’m sorry I’ve had to spend so much time away today.”
“Don’t apologize. Maid of honor is a big job.” Kerry pulled her closer and said quietly, “Everything okay? You seem a little tired.”
