I noticed Melissa’s eyes starting to well up. It stopped me short. I released my hold on her wrists feeling stupid for pushing it. I had never seen her cry before; that was usually my department.
“It’s okay, baby, you’re safe,” I said as I took her face in my hands and kissed her tears.
“It’s not you,” she said, avoiding my eyes, “I’m sorry, it’s not that I don’t want to give myself to you,” she said, as she choked back her tears.
I cradled her in my arms and pressed my body close to hers. I whispered “Shhhhh” in her ear for a long time, rocking her beautiful body as her arms wrapped around my waist. I continued shushing, just like I would to get one of my babies to stop crying, until finally I felt her stiffness release. I placed my hand over her heart, feeling the slight outline of her breasts underneath, and out of nowhere I whispered, “I love you.”
“I don’t know why I haven’t said the words before tonight. I’m so sorry for pressuring you. When I was with Jimmy’s daddy, I thought if I loved him enough, he’d stop drinking so much. Stupid, I know, but I thought my love was the magic that would save him. This is different in a lot of ways,” I said as she placed her hand over mine, still resting above her heart.
“There is nothing wrong with you and it’s not that you aren’t good enough just the way you are. In fact it’s just the opposite. It makes me feel like I’m the one who’s not good enough,” I explained, trying to swallow away the pit in my throat.
Her tear-streaked face began to show a smile as she reached down and put my hands on the buckles of the harness.
“I love you too, baby,” she said as she helped me remove it.
I guess Gram was right. The risk of a bruised heart far outweighs the isolation of keeping it boxed up all the time. I knew this moment was a precious gift. Just as I had with the first gift she gave me, again I found myself unraveling a stone.
To Fuck or Get Fucked
Rakelle Valencia
I like to fuck. In a fuck or get fucked world, I’m the girl, I’m supposed to get fucked. But like I said, I like to fuck.
Maybe it started with the butt boys. Oh, but it probably started before them. I’m not saying the boys were my first. Then again, I’m not saying they weren’t. It was the butt boys who gave me the hunger to fuck, who showed me the power and desire of the fuck, who taught me to crave the undulation of bodies slamming and slapping in rhythm and against the rhythm. Boys just seem to know how to have fun, they know how to fuck. So yeah, it started with the butt boys.
Having someone bent over or writhing beneath me is all the same, gender-wise, and it’s all very different. I’m not saying I would still do the boys, and I’m not saying I wouldn’t. But the girls…girls know how to take it. A good chick likes to get fucked.
Now I know that callin’ ’em chicks can sound derogatory, but it’s not. I use chick with the highest regard. And the ones I call chicks probably call themselves chicks too. It takes a lot to stand up and say you’re a chick. It takes a lot to get fucked like I’m talkin’ about, and to be a good fuck.
Like this one chick, she couldn’t wait for me to strap it on with her. In fact, she needed it so fast, she was always trying to get me to pack. But I don’t pack. So she did the next best thing. And I’m telling you this chick was all-the-time crazy to get fucked. She made me a special strap-on. It was a beauty.
I still have it today, wouldn’t be caught dead without it, and wouldn’t trade it for the world. I’m talking no manufactured deal for this girl. I’m sold on this used-to-be one of a kind. The thing was pure genius with a touch of class and individualism. I like that, class and individualism.
I started callin’ it The Snap-on Strap-on. The name stuck, I heard it the other day in that well-lit, frequented, women-owned, adult toy shop one block over from Main Street. My chick, she made up a bunch and they stocked ’em. Hot item too, ’cause it’s not what she does for a livin’, and she can only make so many, and I think girls are finding out that the personal touch with these beauties can be real handy.
What do I mean by that? Have you ever used ’em? Strap-ons? I mean, think on it. If you’re not packin’ then you’re not ready. Do you warm her up first, then say, “Oh, excuse me dear while I step into this ugly, drab, black harness”? Then you know what happens. You fight with the damn thing, a tangled mess wrapped around a stiff backing that always seems to be on the wrong side until you work out all of the angles. That done, your next worry is gettin’ into the contraption. Meanwhile your girl’s coolin’ off.
Worse than that, you jump off her bed to cram one foot at a time into the leg loops, and you end up fallin’ over, eliciting whoops and hollers of laughter from above. I’m not unathletic, and I’m not saying I had been drinking or was on anything, you know? But if you’re still thinking on it, you tell me how you’ve pulled off being suave with those manufactured strap-ons. Maybe something like, “excuse me a moment while I freshen up,” as you make the mad dash elsewhere so you don’t look like a fool. Like I said, your girl’s coolin’ off, you know?
Now let me tell you about these beauties, these Snap-on Strap-ons. Man, you can get these things on anywhere anyhow. You can get in ’em and out of ’em fast, real fast, in case you had to either way. I’m not saying I ever had to get out of one fast, I’m just saying it’s an option. But I will say I’ve had to get into one fast.
Like that one time she had to have it, you know. We were in a memme mobile, a small sedan, and I wasn’t gonna play Gumby, but she had to have a little somethin’ somethin’ and I was right there with her. I’m talking I was right there, wetter than a Slip ’n Slide at a family picnic on a hot July day. Nothing to worry about though, I had a Snap-on Strap-on and was ready for action in seconds.
This thing is as crazy as her. It has snaps on every strap, at every juncture. She took those beefy, plastic snaps, like you’d find on dog collars, and put one on either side of the waistband, and one on each leg strap, all in the back, off to the sides, adjustable too. In the front, a rubber ring, held in place with those silver, flat snaps that you’d find on denim jean jackets, and the works had no backing. No backing. I remember going into the toy store with her when she first presented her invention; the girl behind the counter was aghast, opening up her sweet, tiny mouth in horror, scrunching her baby-blues and freckled brow: “No backing? How does the dong stay in place?”
“YOU are the backing,” came the reply. And it works, you know. No stiff, fussy, triangular-shaped piece of vinyl or leather to chafe the crease of your thighs to your pussy if you’re a skinny drink like me. And the best part, the dildos are more easily exchangeable without breaking the action too long, if you know what I mean. With no backing, I’ve got it down one-handed, while the other hand stays busy in the slick and slippery.
But that’s not what I was trying to tell you. It’s not about the dick, it’s about the fuck. It’s about the chicks who like to get fucked. And I love to fuck. To fuck or to get fucked. Well, like I said, I’m supposed to get fucked, but I so like to fuck.
I like to crawl up between a pair of thighs and bury myself in their adjoining crevice, open, wet, and inviting. Maybe one leg is bent upward, hung over the crook of my elbow so I can grasp a fleshy thigh as I thrust in the missionary position, our torsos sopping with sweat, gliding over each other, nipples plucking at nipples.
Chicks are fascinating to fuck, and I like to be sunk home as any man does, as any boy needs, as any girl can do. Flip them over with some slap and tickle before greasing my silicone prick and hammering it home, watching her asscheeks ripple in response to my erotic pummeling. Smacking sounds of naked skin greeting naked skin, whimpers and moans entering in chorus, white knuckles gripping hip handles, and the body beneath, flushed and tensed in its buildup to release.
And I need this. I need to fuck. Sometimes the fuck is so alluring, so powerful in its promise that I beg to get off beforehand. “Get me done so I can last,” as if I were a young, pubescent male ready to
pop with the opening of the latest, coveted issue of Penthouse.
I’m not saying it’s all like that, but I like to fuck for hours, where my knees get raw, my pubic bone believes that the dong is now embedded, calcified in, and muscles ache with the burn and twitch in exhaustion, and my clit is so hard that I know it would hurt to touch or that I’d pop off with the wafting of a mere breeze.
It’s not about the dick, it’s about the fuck. I like the fuck and I often come while doing it, in waves of spasms as she sits aloft, humping and pumping until she squirts her juices down my rubbery rod, over my flat, thin stomach, trickling past my hips and through my groin. The wetness like a salve soothes and softens the fierceness of my fuck, and it threatens to take me into a dizzying euphoria of a post-fuck snooze. But I don’t want to go there, and wish she wouldn’t let me. Some do. But not a chick, a chick likes to get fucked.
The Way She Does Me
Miriam R. Sachs Martín
she fucks me. she fucks me like a fist punching through walls, like fury come down from up on high, like tenderness turned to morning sunrise magenta-orange-gold fire inside my cunt. she comes over late at night and though i know she has to work early, though i know she needs her sleep, i wriggle and slide up against her, hoping to get finished what was started the day before when it was i who was exhausted and late for work. she responds. she almost always responds, these days. we’ve been together a while, and i’m getting her well trained.
she fucks me like a farmer raping the land and reaping every last grain that he sowed. she puts her hand inside me like a blind person reading braille, hungry for knowledge, voracious. she fucks me, her strong little arm like a piston in my cunt, until she’s trembling in exhaustion and fear from this much love, and i’m trembling from the same fear, and from pain. she rarely stops when i cry out in pain.
she fucks me until we’re both high; giddy with our heady new drug, crazed from smelling so much pussy, and blood, and sweat; until i come and come, and orgasm again; the sheets are soaked with slippery stinky stains; my pussy breaks down and rips along the tight opening her knuckles are wedged into. she fucks me; she breaks my cunt in half, and then i sit on her face to get some more because I always need so much more from her. she says, “to give you all you need, I’d have to kill you.”
she fucks me so that i cry hot salt tears, shimmy my ass shamelessly back and forth, bite green and black bruised arches into her arm for the pain she gives me. and for pleasure. she fucks me until i sigh helplessly into her neck, claw frantically down her back and buttocks, until i murmur her name over and over and say “beloved.” she fucks me because i am the only one who can take every damn thing she has to give—and still love it all.
I am split open wide; a pomegranate sliced in two and dripping, and although i have given so much already, i say “what do you need?” and she says, “your heart on a little silver platter.” she can’t have that but she can have it fierce and ringed with thorns and ticking away merrily inside my ribs. and every time she eats me alive through her hand in my cunt she gets to touch it; velvety soft burgundy colored dangerous treasure. i tell her so. i say: “I can’t give it to you, because you could take off with it, but you can touch it while you stay close.” she stays so close to me.
and five years ago, i never would have thought that lesbian love could be like this; me impaled on her hand at four in the morning, crying in agony, coming for the seventeenth time, stretched full with all the pain and love; submission and violence; all the sensuality and pleasure in g-d’s creation. i never thought another woman could take me like a man; piggish self-indulgence, intent on her own satisfaction. i didn’t leave men because they know how to take, but now i know i came to women because they take better.
she fucks me with a vehemence, with a violence, with a total pleasure that i knew i could give, but i never knew anyone else could too. until i met her.
Penny, Laid
Kristina Wright
It was her ass they noticed. People stared; they even stopped and turned for one more glimpse of the finest ass to walk the Chicago streets. Whether she wore a miniskirt or sweats, heads turned, pulses quickened, cocks hardened and cunts moistened at the sight of her saucy, larger-than-life ass.
The rest of her wasn’t so bad either. Long, wavy red hair framed a heart-shaped face and cascaded down her back, tapering to a V that pointed to the object of their desire. Full breasts balanced full hips; shapely legs and delicate hands and feet suggested she was sculpted by a master. She wasn’t a traditional beauty: her hair was too dark, her skin was too pale, her mouth a little too generous, but it didn’t matter. The rest of the package was just so much pretty wrapping. It was her ass people noticed and she showed it off to best advantage.
Penny navigated Wacker on new, impossibly high fuck-me pumps. She ducked into Rooster’s Sports Bar and the din nearly knocked her over. Three of her regulars were already at one of the tables and she flashed them a killer smile. The joke was on them; Penny didn’t dig guys. But four nights a week she served up wings and beer and a generous portion of fine ass to those who appreciated it most.
“Penny for your thoughts, babe,” Eric said. He was the owner and bartender at Rooster’s and as ass-hungry as they came.
She made sure her butt came in direct contact with his crotch as she sidled past him. “Penny’s worth a lot more than a penny.”
His hard cock told her she could name her price. Eric knew she was into girls, but he never stopped trying. It wouldn’t have mattered even if he was her type—Penny wouldn’t sleep with the boss.
She put a smile on her face and a wiggle in her walk as the place really began to hop. She was the best waitress Rooster’s had ever had and generous tips had just about paid her way through law school. One more semester and she’d graduate. Not that any of these guys cared about her mind. Like the good girl her mama had raised her to be, she gave them what they wanted, and a side of fries, too.
Hours later, blisters forming on her toes, she was leaning over the bar, tallying her tips. A voice purred near her ear: “Nice…shoes.”
She looked up into the sexiest cat-green eyes she’d ever seen. She was tall, nearly eye level with Penny, but without the benefit of four-inch heels. There was something a little intimidating about the way the woman leaned against the bar and studied her.
Penny realized she’d seen her before. She’d been coming in for a few weeks, always alone and never staying longer than it took to drink a beer, maybe two. In her severe black pantsuit and high-necked gray blouse, she looked like the female version of the workaholics that stopped by the bar before heading home to the little woman. But this was no man. There were generous curves beneath the hard lines of cat-girl’s suit. Her dusky skin and short dark hair were exotic, but it was the look in her heavy-lidded eyes that got to Penny. She had more on her mind tonight than work.
Penny blushed as if the woman could read her mind. They both knew she wasn’t complimenting her shoes.
Penny looked back into those green eyes. “Thanks,” she said, losing her carefully groomed composure.
“I’m Carla,” the woman said, extending a hand with blunt, manicured red nails.
Penny shivered at the thought of what that hand could do to her. “Penny,” she said, hearing the quiver of excitement in her voice.
“I know you’re getting off,” Carla said, pausing for effect as if she knew Penny was already creaming her panties. “I was wondering if you’d let me buy you a drink.”
Some of Penny’s confidence returned at that familiar refrain. “I work at a bar,” she said, with just the right hint of sarcasm. “My drinks are free.”
Carla arched an eyebrow as if accepting Penny’s unspoken challenge. “Fine. Then maybe you’d like to come back to my place for a fuck.”
This woman had her in a tailspin. She could use the same come-on Penny’d heard a thousand times from the male of the species, and it made her want to melt. Penny counted out twenty singles from her t
ips and exchanged them for a twenty-dollar bill from the register, conscious of Carla’s gaze on her.
“It’s late and I have to get up early,” she said, though her wet pussy seemed to have a different opinion.
“Come home with me,” Carla smirked. “I’ll make it worth your while.”
She should have said no. She had a midterm exam to study for. But she surprised herself by saying, “All right. Give me ten minutes.”
Fifteen minutes later, she was snuggled into the passenger seat of Carla’s sleek BMW, cruising the quiet streets of Chicago. They didn’t speak, and Penny wondered what she’d gotten herself into. She fidgeted in the leather seat, trying to get comfortable, painfully aware of the wet spot between her legs. Carla’s hand on her thigh stilled her.
“Relax, baby,” Carla’s soft voice soothed. “We’re going to have fun.”
City lights had disappeared by the time they pulled up in front of a townhouse in the ’burbs. Penny had suspected Carla was an overworked businesswoman, but this house was something else. The sudden suspicion that there might be a horny husband lurking behind the curtains made her stomach flip-flop.
“Come on, baby,” Carla said, leading her up the steps to the front door.
The dim interior hinted at the well-heeled lifestyle Penny aspired to. Carla mounted the curving staircase without a word and Penny followed. The banister was cool under her damp palm. “Nice house,” she murmured.
Carla didn’t answer.
The master bedroom was straight out of a decorating magazine, lavishly furnished with antiques and dominated by an enormous mahogany sleigh bed. Layers of bed linens in pink, white, and sage invited rest, not sex. But Carla’s grin suggested it would be a long time before Penny got to sleep.
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