Dakota lay down on my futon and slid her suit down over her small curves. Her braids lay like shiny gold chains across her body.
“Get undressed with me,” she said.
All the women I’d fucked in the naked light of summer heat, and I was shy in front of her sky eyes.
“Roll the other way,” I asked.
She didn’t laugh or try to reassure me.
“No,” she said. “Make it equal.” She put her hands over her eyes, keeping her fingers far enough apart that I knew she could see me through them.
I didn’t know what the hell she was talking about, but I must have been getting used to that, because I slid the straps of my guard suit over my sun-tinged shoulders. I let the suit fall down to my ankles while Dakota watched through the spaces in her fingers. My skin was goose-pimpled, but it couldn’t be from cold. Still, I wrapped my arms around myself and shivered.
“Now we can be even,” Dakota said, and she rolled away from me, to face the wall.
I took her in, from the bottom up—her feet, so white on the bottom, her long legs, the curves of her pale ass and hips, her small back—and I understood what she meant about being even.
There, on the skin over and between her shoulder blades, a dozen snowflakes tattooed in white ink, each one different, each one as small as my pinkie nail. I got down on my knees before her small back and put my finger over each one. When I touched them, I thought they would feel cold, but they didn’t; they just felt like skin. I ran my tongue over them, each one, and thought they tasted like snow, clean and pure, the kind that you catch coming down from the sky.
“More,” Dakota said, when I stopped. Her voice came from over her shoulder, far away.
I tasted her back until my mouth felt like I’d been sucking icicles, until she shivered and took my hand round the front of her. Even then, I tasted her skin with my fingers, letting them lick the warm-cool skin that was her belly and below her belly. Her hair was shaved short. My fingers played at the folds of her and she pushed the curves of her ass against my body. Her snowflaked back met my chest.
Her breathing was as heavy as it had been on the beach, when she’d first sat down on my chair. Other than that, she was quiet until she said, “What’s your name?”
My fingers played at the folds of her. “What?”
“I have to moan something,” she said. Was it the first time I’d heard her laugh? It must have been, but somehow it was as though I’d heard it a million times. “I can’t just say, ‘Oh, oh, oh.’”
I’d never wished for a great name before, but I did now. “Joan.”
“Touch me again, Joan,” she said.
I did, inserting two fingers inside her to find her wet and cool. And then I pulled my fingers out and found her clit. I made it wet with her own fluid and started circling the hard point of it.
“Joan,” she said. But it didn’t sound like my name ever had before. The way she breathed it, the way she moaned it, it sounded like join and then poem and then own. The fifth time or maybe the sixth, it sounded like joy.
She rolled over slow, so my fingers stayed on her, until she was facing me. Her tongue across my lips was a child licking her first Popsicle. Just the tip, then, pressed between my lips until they opened and let her in. She brushed her knuckles across each of my nipples in turn, until my back arched and I was trying to make words in her mouth. I wanted to say her name back, to make it into something else, but I couldn’t with her tongue on mine, all spongy and sweet.
Dakota’s still-cool fingers tucked into the space between my legs, spread my thighs. She touched so light at first that it was nothing, snowflakes that melted instantly on my skin, and I pushed my hips forward until she entered me. Her fingers brought their coolness inside, but it didn’t last. It was too hot—I was too hot—and I rode her hard, until I was so wet that I swore her fingers had melted in me. She pulled her fingers out and I was surprised that they were still there, still fingers after all. But then she dipped them inside the melted core of me again, and I couldn’t be sure of what I’d seen.
I pushed two fingers back inside her and swept her clit with my thumb. We were making each other arch and moan and buck, and yet our mouths never came apart. Even the heat, the way it made the sweat catch in the curves of us, wasn’t enough to break us apart.
“Coming…” Dakota sighed, and the word was mine too, until I couldn’t tell who’d said it.
It felt like forever until we were two again. Once we had our own mouths back, our heavy breaths startled us, made us laugh into the heat of the room. Dakota pulled her fingers out of me in a long slow slide that left me jellyfished. My own fingers were salt-soaked and pruned from being inside her.
We lay facing each other, our breaths going in and out. The room smelled of salt and sweat.
Dakota made her fingers into legs and walked them across the hill of my hip. “Do you have any? Tats, I mean.”
“No.” It seemed an odd question; she’d just seen my whole body.
She pointed to the front of my hip, just inside the tan line my swimsuit made. “You should get one here. A sun, I think.”
Her sky blues turned toward my lips. “Hungry?” she asked.
I was surprised to find that I was.
“Got any ice cream?” she asked. “I’m fucking hot as hell.”
We ate naked in the kitchen, with the freezer door wide open. Plain vanilla was all I had, but Dakota said it was perfect for smearing. She dolloped it on my nose and licked it off, like I’d wanted to do to her what seemed like days ago. We didn’t talk while we ate, but as soon as it got dark, Dakota said, “Let’s walk on the beach.”
We got dressed, and Dakota pulled on her snowshoes. I wanted to ask about them, but I didn’t. She talked the whole way down my clamshelled driveway and down to the beach, half of it shit I didn’t understand, about snow and moving on, so I just held her hand and listened. The night breeze was coming off the ocean, making me shiver, but her skin was warm enough that I could just lean close to her and it was like being near one of those space heaters.
The moon came out and we followed its light to my lifeguard chair, ghost white and empty against the darkness of the surf. The waves were high and white coming up on the shoreline. A storm was coming. You could hear it in the crash and tumble, see it in the high fast curls of white.
The only thing I said was, “Stay.”
The only thing I understood was, “Snow.” Or maybe it was “No.”
I pushed Dakota down on one of the tubes, her snowshoes sticking up in the sand in a way that made us laugh. Then I slid my fingers under her shorts, fucked her hard. I wanted her to remember me in the morning, to touch herself there and feel fresh pain. Like leaving my own tattoo without ink, one that said my name the same way she’d moaned it earlier. Sand and salt stuck to my skin, scraped my knuckles, and still I fucked her, until her voice was louder than the voice of the waves.
Dakota stayed with me that night, slept with her back to me, and her head in the crook of my elbow. Her hair, loose of its braids, took up what seemed like half the bed. She took up the other half, and still there was room for me. I traced the snowflakes on her skin until I fell asleep.
In the morning, she was gone. I’d known she would be. There was no trace of her. The room had risen back to its usual heat, the books had regathered their dust, even her snowshoes were gone from their home beside the kitchen door. I made coffee and sipped it at the kitchen table, thinking about poetry and how it was just words that somebody else made up. How it sounded pretty but maybe didn’t mean so much.
I didn’t have to work, but I was craving the sun and the sand. I was craving the company of waves, the way they hushed the shore, but never said snow or shit fuck or breathed a line from a poem. I could hear the wind outside, the way it whipped against the house. A storm was coming; that’s why the big waves last night were so loud. Today, I knew they’d be even larger, white and angry, grabbing pieces of the shore to take home until it wa
s gone.
I stood and looked out my kitchen window, toward the ocean. The wind was picking up sand and carrying it everywhere. Sand swept across the clamshell driveway, swirled in miniature tornados, snowed down on the mailbox.
In the middle of it all, Dakota stood barefoot. She had a snowshoe in each hand. Sand settled in her hair and in the crevices of her clothes.
When she looked up and saw me in the window, she waved with her snowshoe hands.
From that far away, through the shimmer and bend of the kitchen window, the curves of wood and twine looked like wings. And Dakota looked just a little like love, flying her way back to me.
TOUGH ENOUGH TO WEAR A DRESS
Teresa Noelle Roberts
The boutique owner approached me as I entered. “May I help you?”
For a moment, my surroundings didn’t register very much, because all I could see was her. She was built like a goddess—tall and extracurvy—and dressed like a ’40s movie star, in a nipped-waisted suit that accented all those tasty curves and made everything else look sleek and airbrushed because it fit so perfectly. Her hair looked like auburn silk, and my fingertips burned to touch it.
I was so dazed that she had to repeat her question.
“I hear you might be able to make me something…” My voice trailed off as I looked away from the gorgeous creature and around her shop.
I was a bulldyke in a china shop, a jeans-and-Docs-clad intruder in femme heaven. Amazing evening gowns hung everywhere, interspersed with more vintage-inspired outfits like the one the auburn-haired goddess wore.
Clearly I’d come to the wrong place.
I backed toward the door like Wile E. Coyote trying to back-pedal through a wall.
Ridiculous what a sense of panic welled up in me just from being surrounded by all the feminine accoutrements. I loved seeing other women wearing pretty, girly clothes, but for me? No way. I’d faced down a mugger once with no weapon other than bravado, and that had set my heart racing less than the mere idea of wearing a dress.
She laughed, a throaty, erotic chuckle that seemed as film noir as her outfit. “Don’t worry. I can see you’re not the evening-gown type, although I have to say you have the figure for it, with that cleavage and that tiny waist and that round…”
“Okay, I know I have a big butt. Don’t rub it in!”
“It’s not big. It’s delicious. You’re built like Jessica Rabbit.”
“Body of Jessica Rabbit, heart of a butch. It makes it hard to buy clothes off the rack.” She was obviously flirting with me—and I was more than happy to flirt back—so why deny what she’d clearly already figured out?
“I’m Kate, the owner of Kate’s Creations.” She extended her hand to me.
I didn’t quite kiss it, but the way I bowed over it let her know I was thinking of it. Not something I’d always do, but it seemed to go with her retro look.
“Andie Pace. I’m a fundraiser at the hospital—and I’m tired of renting tuxedos that never fit me for our black-tie events. One of my volunteers recommended you for custom tailoring.”
Kate closed her eyes for a moment, and when she opened them again, I could tell she’d seen a vision. “Not a tuxedo, exactly,” she said. “A man’s vintage suit, but one custom-made for your body. Very Marlene Dietrich.”
What I knew about contemporary fashion could fit on a penny, with room left over for something actually interesting, like a hot woman’s phone number in very tiny type—but I know my old movies. I nodded eagerly. Marlene in a suit, looking all hot and gender-bending, was my idea of the perfect evening look.
“There’s just one condition,” she said in a conspiratorial whisper. “The suit’s got to make its first appearance on a date with me. It just seems a shame to waste it on a crowd that won’t fully appreciate it—or the butch wearing it.”
That had been four months ago, and since then, my Marlene suit and I had enjoyed ourselves thoroughly, escorting delicious Kate to dinner, to the theater in New York City and Boston, to a holiday drag show in P-town—and to play parties in all sorts of places.
Both Kate and I were pure sensation players, not into role-play or power exchange, just pleasurable pain and edgy pleasure. She was more a top and I more a bottom, but we weren’t hidebound about that. We both, as it turned out, had a bit of an exhibitionist streak. And when we showed up at a play party, me in the Marlene suit and her in whatever one of her femmelicious creations she was wearing that particular night, women’s heads turned, assuring we’d get a good audience.
And then the time came for the New England Fetish Festival.
We’d each attended it before on our own, but the idea of going with Kate made my pulse race and my pussy throb: three days at a hotel with the sexiest and sweetest woman I’d ever dated, surrounded by a bunch of fun, kinky people. There’d be lots of play parties, lots of new toys to check out (I love toys), and, since Kate loves any opportunity to play dress-up, and I love any opportunity to appear in public with her on my arm, lots of chances to parade around in our best fetishwear. For Kate, the highlight of the Fetish Festival was the Saturday masquerade ball. For the past month, she’d been working late nights at the shop, finishing up a vinyl version of Edwardian evening wear, and I was dying to see her in it—I knew it would be killer with her curvy, girly figure. My fetish wardrobe was much more limited than hers, but the way I saw it, as the butch my job was to look tough yet cute and not upstage her. I planned to throw all my variations on the theme of black leather into my suitcase, along with the Marlene suit, and have her help me put together outfits that wouldn’t embarrass her in public.
By the time the Saturday evening of the event rolled around, our hotel room was a chaos pit of clothes, shopping bags, and toys of various sorts, and it smelled like a busy day at the bordello. First, we’d gotten a new flogger and clover nipple clips and had to test them out on me. Then we’d found a new dildo for my strap-on rig and had to test that on Kate. (All of these purchases worked scream-inducingly well.) Then we ran into some friends who’d just bought their first cane and wanted pointers on how to use it. Kate was happy to demonstrate, using me as a stunt butt. (In my opinion, the only thing more fun than a good caning is a good caning with an attractive and appreciative audience.)
I floated on the endorphins from that scene all the way through dinner, getting a fresh hit every time I squirmed in my seat—and trust me, I was squirming in my seat deliberately, feeling that lovely, painful afterglow and anticipating more action later.
Especially when Kate whispered something about wanting me to wear the strap-on to the party.
I don’t usually pack. For me, the fun of packing would be all about sexual opportunism, but the squishy packing dildos that look like actual relaxed boy-bits are no good for fucking and bit of an exhibitionist or not, I’m not about to go most places in the everyday world with a silicone stiffy at my crotch. In this setting, though, it could be entertaining, if it amused Kate, and apparently it did.
Had she gotten invites to a private play party? Did she want to sneak off and have a quickie in a dark corner of the ballroom? (The masquerade was supposedly a no-genital-sex zone, but late enough in the evening, no one really cared.) Or would we just be teasing each other all evening long, her body pressing against my artificial dick until we were both insane with need?
The possibilities had me wet and thrumming with lust by the time we went up to change.
We knew we’d never leave the room if we got into the shower together—a tempting thought, but Kate had worked so hard on her dress that I wanted her to have a chance to show it off—so I claimed the bathroom first, knowing I’d be out quickly and could dress and read a couple of chapters of the latest Stephanie Plum mystery while Kate put together an outfit for me.
When I got out of the bathroom, though, there was something very wrong spread out on the bed for me to put on.
A dress, or to be more specific, an evening gown.
A damn gorgeous gown, all burgundy
velvet and slink and swagger. I could easily imagine the cleavage-enhancing, waist-flattering, butt-cupping, torso-lengthening magic it would work on some other woman.
But I knew it wasn’t for some other woman.
Not when my new dildo and my jaunty cowgirl-model leather harness were laid out on top of it, and my knee-high Docs, polished to a mirror shine, were at the foot of the bed.
At least she wasn’t trying to get me into girly shoes, I thought as the panic rose in my throat, threatening to bring dinner with it. “No,” I managed to choke out, and the word took on three or four syllables as nerves made me stutter.
Kate, naked and ready for the shower by this time, folded her arms around me. “Andie, sweetie, it’s just fabric. A costume for the masquerade. It doesn’t change who you are. I’d love to see you in it, but you don’t have to.”
I burrowed into the warmth between her breasts, breathing in her exotic spicy perfume, the smell of sex, the smell of comfort. Face safely pressed against Kate, I couldn’t see the dress taunting me anymore, couldn’t see the memories that went with it.
She was right, of course. But logic had very little to do with what I was feeling, with the wave of memories threatening to drown me.
“Did you know,” I said, talking to my lady’s beautiful breasts because I was afraid to meet the nonexistent eyes of a formal gown, “that I was one of the candidates for prom queen back in high school?”
“You? My tomboy Andie?”
Despite the weird way I was feeling, I could only laugh at the incredulity in her voice. “I was actually one of the popular girls back then. The other girls liked me because I was funny and because I’d attract boys’ attention and then let my friends flirt with them. Like a bait and switch to get customers in the door, you know. They got extra boys and I got to hang out with the cheerleaders in their little short skirts, and go into dressing rooms at the mall with the hottest girls in school. Stuff like that. So, anyway, it’s prom night 1988 in a small town in New Hampshire. Picture me with big hair.”
Best Lesbian Erotica 2009 Page 12
