by Jade Stone
We came clean together, and believe me when I say there is nothing more pure, nothing that makes you higher, than making love straight, when you know your love is as pure as mine is for him and his is for me.
I come down to the garden when I’m struggling for inspiration with my writing. The gardeners don’t work on weekends, so I can lie here in any state I please. The trickling of the waterfall flowing over the rocks at the end of the pond soothes my frustrations.
My contract commands I must produce two novels a year. I get told they are brilliant; maybe they are, but no one knows the process in which I write, the raging doubts in my own mind—whether my work is good enough, the writer’s block which lasts for days, sometimes weeks. It nearly drives me insane. But my husband understands. Every song he releases is a hit. He makes it look easy, but like me, he is a perfectionist. No one sees the process we go through in refining our work, trying to reach perfection.
Whatever this song is he is singing now, it sounds as perfect as it will ever be. He plays his electric guitar as he belts out his notes, the licks and flicks of his fingers strumming the guitar strings carry through the wind as I lie back on the grass. My silk nightgown lies open, my nipples harden as his voice washes over me.
The stone stares of the marble mermaids in the middle of the pond watch me as though they are stifling naughty smiles. The sun beats down, the cicadas sing and the sparrows call to each other across our garden, but Daniel’s voice reigns. A film director could not have arranged a more perfect scene than the one I currently reside in. I feel myself start to drift off, listening to his voice.
I imagine him sitting there, in his music room, overlooking the ocean. He’ll be hovered over his guitar, wearing his black singlet, the guitar sitting between his tanned muscular arms as he holds the neck in one hand and strums the strings in the other. His long brown hair covering his face, which will be contorted in concentration. This image has made me very hot between my legs. I run my red-tipped, manicured hand over my breast, down over my stomach, until it reaches the hot bare flesh between my thighs. But this isn’t enough; his hand is what I need there.
I rise from my place in the garden and head toward the house, the breeze blowing my silk nightgown behind me, above it my long hair flows.
Even after all this time I still get butterflies when I am about to see my husband, the adoration I feel for him never leaves. The butterflies in the garden have started flitting around behind me, following me toward the house, I feel like I am in a dream.
I realise the music has stopped. I know what this means, it means he is writing lyrics. I stop walking. As polite as he would be if I interrupt him, I know where his mind will be, and it will not waiver fully until he has finished. For now I am better off staying where I am.
I run the tips of my fingers over the thorns of the rose bushes, I break off one of the roses and run its head of petals over my breasts. The red folds of the flower resemble the folds between my legs where red blood continues to swell.
I get to the huge willow tree in the middle of the garden, and I walk through the curtain of willow leaves that reach the ground. The swing under the tree is my favourite place. Swinging through the air, as the willow tree hides me, is one of the most magical feelings I have ever had. I take the seat and begin to soar through the air.
The press call me “the wife, as mysterious as the characters in her books,” but the real truth is a lot simpler than that. I am simply incredibly shy. The very reason I became an author was so I could avoid working in a job with other people, my unexpected success was a lucky by-product of my shyness. I force myself to go to events like book signings, but it is never easy. Only my husband knows of the panic attacks I get around people I do not know well. I was having one the night we met, outside in the garden of the ballroom. He knew what was wrong. When I asked him how he knew, he replied he had picked it up in my books. As far as I’m aware no one else has ever had the insight to see that far into me. He held me in his arms that night, I had never felt so safe in my life.
I close my eyes and hold my head back as the swing soars through the air. I try and concentrate on the plot twist required for my latest novel, the one that has had me stumped for the last two weeks, but I remain distracted by the man I know is in the house. Four months away from him has left me aching, a dim ache that starts in the pit of my stomach and spreads upwards into my heart, and down in between my thighs. Staying outside knowing he is back is almost unbearable, but the anticipation also titillates me higher.
Then I hear him again. This time at the piano. If ever there is a grand instrument it is the grand piano, and I can hear Daniel sitting at the black grand in our living room. I start to slow down on the swing, as I listen to his fingers run over the keys, making the most beautiful sound you could ever hear. I’ve not heard this song before, but the melody is so powerful it causes me to stop breathing. I never stop being incredulous at my husband’s talent, which appears to have no end.
The beauty of his song is making me go into a trance. I wander back toward the house in a slight daze, and hot anticipation, for what I have been missing for four months.
As I get to the house, I pull my silk nightgown closed and draw the cord. I follow the sound of the notes from the piano. And finally I see him. He sits at the piano, eyes closed, hair halfway over his face, his fingers dancing over the black and white keys. My eyes rise to the ceiling, where I can see him in the reflection in the huge ceiling mirror that sits above the piano. I lean against the door frame; I feel my face start to smile as I watch him work. He finally comes to the end of his song, and he collapses over the piano, catching his breath.
He soon realises he isn’t alone in the room, and he lifts his head. I hadn't realised my silk robe had parted as I stood against the door frame. He looks at me, his eyes taking in my exposed breast in the robe, my bare pussy framed by the parted black silk, standing completely in the open. His face starts to crack into a smile; it’s that twisted white grin that never fails to send a surge of heat into my chest and then down between my legs. I start walking toward him. I cannot talk; if I did, no sound would come. I am too overcome with passion to say anything.
He catches me as I almost crash into him, our lips locking together. He pulls me onto his lap, he is already hard in his pants. His arms wrap around me, his hands running down my back over the black silk, through my long hair. He cups my ass. I grasp his head in my hands, running my fingers through his hair as he buries his face into my neck. The warmth of his breath as he smothers my neck with his mouth heats up the flesh between my legs, and my limbs start to go limp. His mouth lowers down to my chest, kissing between my breasts, then hungrily kissing all over them, taking my nipples between his lips. I let out a gasp as the sensations shoot through me as he sucks harder on my nipple. I stare up at the image above us, and get even hotter as I watch myself getting ravaged by this beautiful man.
I reach down and undo his belt and zipper, his cock springs out to greet me. He pulls me into another kiss as I stroke his amazing cock against my stomach. He wraps his arms around me, searching my mouth with his tongue. Then he hoists me up onto the piano, my ass meets the keys and makes a thunderous bass sound that coincides with my crying out in pleasure as his hand covers my pussy.
My husband has magic hands when it comes to his instruments, and he has magic hands when it comes to my body. I start to pant as he gently rubs my clit with his index finger, then slides two fingers inside me. His thumb rubs my clit in tight little circles as he fucks me with his fingers.
My pussy is now a pulsating mound, and I am dying for his cock to be inside it. I lean back into the piano, laying my head on the top, and pull his cock toward me. He removes his hand from my pussy and clasps me around the ass, and I feel his cock at my opening. I spread my legs wider to take him in. The head of his cock pushes inside, stretching me out until he is all the way inside me. The feeling of opening myself up and having his beautiful cock enter me never ceases to p
ut me in a state of ecstasy.
I look up at into my husband’s eyes, still too overcome for words. His cock hardens even further inside me, I moan and bury my head in his neck. He holds me in his arms with one hand on the small of my back, his other arm around my shoulders, and he covers my mouth with his again, gripping me hard as he starts to thrust into me. I throw my head back as my ass gets slammed against the piano, the keys making small notes in response to my ass lifting up and down on top of them.
Daniel plants his mouth onto my neck again, setting me on fire as his lips smother the tender flesh under my chin, while his huge cock impales me against the piano, slamming in and out of me. His hand reaches up and clasps one of my breasts, his thumb stroking my nipple.
Then my ass slips downward a bit, and my g-spot is hit head on against the head of his cock as it plunges back into me. The sudden surge of extra pleasure shocks through my body, and again I am breathless, my pussy going from burning hot to a thrilled chill. It tightens around his cock so hard he can barely pull it out. I feel myself starting to quiver. It starts between my legs, then spreads to my joints, then expands to my entire being. Daniel is all too familiar with this, he can feel it coming.
He puts his hand behind my head and grips me hard, his other hand holding my ass still. My head is thrown backward as the orgasm hits me, I let out a scream as he holds me down by the hair as my chest thrashes up and down underneath him, my pussy convulsing all around his cock.
Then I feel him tighten all over, and he grips me even harder. We look deep into each other’s eyes, then his jaw tightens and his head flies back, and we’re both forced to look at the image of ourselves above us. My eyes lock with his above in the mirror, he is still for a moment, then it hits him and he shudders all over as I feel him explode inside me. This causes me to come again, my legs wrapping harder around his waist, squeezing him further into me.
Finally we come to the end, and he collapses his head against my chest, I wrap my arms around his neck, running my fingers over his hair. My silk gown is drenched, it sticks to my back as he runs his hands over it.
“Oh, my baby,” he whispers. “I have missed you so much.”
He kisses me again.
“I love you,” he breathes.
“I love you too, baby,” I breathe back. “Welcome home.”
I look above me again, and savour the image of the shy girl who just had the world’s most incredible orgasm with the world’s sexiest man, on top of a grand piano.
I lower my mouth to his and our lips lock in another kiss, and I smile quietly to myself.
I really am the luckiest woman on earth.
Miss Demeanour
My flatmate and colleague, Dave, has called me Miss Demeanour for the last four years. I wouldn’t let anyone else call me that, ’cause I am not ‘Miss’ anything, but I like Dave so he gets away with it. He calls me this because he says I get away with so much, but I never quite cross over into ‘felonies,’ as he calls it. I find it amusing how straight men have silly names for each other, I guess he considers me one of his best friends so this is my pet name, though sometimes he shortens it to Miss Demon. That’s probably more accurate.
Dave finds it amusing that I also score more straight chicks than he does. A lot more. Even I’m surprised sometimes. We both work at a leading restaurant where I am the maître’d and Dave is a chef. My job helps me score better I think, I’m right at the front of house so I deal with all the punters first.
Dave is correct that I get away with a lot. I regularly arrive late to work, I drink from the bar, if I’m serving, I slip my favourite customers free drinks, and if anyone starts causing trouble, I will not hesitate to haul their ass out of the restaurant with my own two hands.
Our customers love me, and I love them. I especially love fucking a lot of female customers.
I guess it’s not hard to tell I’m a dyke, with my short black haircut and diamond stud through my nose, and apparently I have quite a swagger, according to Dave. But I like being a bit feminine as well, and I wear a tailored white shirt that shows off my black bra underneath, with just enough buttons undone at the top to reveal some cleavage. But it’s not that that gets the ladies, I know it’s about my confidence. I’ve never been afraid to look anyone straight in the eye, and while I love a good joke, I take no shit from anyone. My father was a high ranking marine, and he taught me to be afraid of nobody. People were afraid of my father, but it was only because he had mastered how to carry himself, I certainly wasn’t afraid of him. He was a deadly son of a bitch, too, he could kill a man with his bare hands. He taught me this as well. I guess this also helps, you can size someone up and know how to instantly disable them, and when you emit this air, you receive automatic respect.
You see a lot in hospitality, especially when people have had a few too many glasses of their favourite poison, and by the end of the night, they’ve revealed who they really are. Our restaurant turns into a nightclub from about eleven at night, and that’s when all the fun begins.
It amuses the hell out of me when straight couples rock up to the restaurant for a romantic meal, and so often the woman has all eyes for me. The men are often quite wary, slightly intimidated by my air, but also slightly turned on that a chick who licks out chicks is so close to them. I feel them all watching me, the more booze they consume, the more they watch. Straight guys won’t try anything, except for a few who get really drunk, then they slink out of the joint after landing on their back after I’ve judo thrown them to the floor. But some straight women are seriously presumptuous. They follow me to the bathroom, they eye me up in the mirror, and depending on how much they’ve had to drink, sometimes they just move straight in for the pash and expect me to go into a cubicle with them.
Depending on how I’m feeling or how busy we are, I might take them up. But it also depends on attraction, just because I’m a dyke, doesn’t mean I’m into every broad I meet. These straight chicks don’t seem to get that.
Dave loves watching all of this when he’s finished cooking for the night and takes his usual seat at the bar. He doesn’t have the same confidence as me when it comes to approaching women. If I’m chatting one up and I can tell she’s definitely straight as an arrow, I’ll introduce her to Dave. He owes me big time for the amount of times he’s gotten lucky. I once showed him my box of toys I keep under the bed, which he calls my ‘toolbox’. When I opened the case he looked totally weirded out. It was so funny. He’s never asked to see it again.
Dave’s girlfriends never last longer than six months, the unsocial hours of a chef are a try on anyone’s patience. Every time he meets someone, he brings her home to me and asks me what I think. I can sum people up very fast, and I’m always honest. I will also always tell him when I get the ‘vibe’, and it happens a lot. He can see it for himself. I don’t bother going there with those girls, I know they are just bi-curious and it’s a waste of my time. Plus I don’t want to ruin my friendship with Dave. A lot of my dyke friends have made big mistakes in falling for straight girls who are bi-curious, and it just complicates their lives and ends in heartbreak. They lead you down the garden path by telling you that you’ve turned them, then they end up leaving you for a man.
I actually believe bi-curiosity goes all ways, though most in the gay community prefer to think they are immune to being seduced by a hot person of the opposite sex. It doesn’t always end up in the bedroom, but attraction is attraction. I know enough straight women who have had gay men hit on them, and I’ve seen it with my own eyes. And I certainly know enough gay guys who have straight men hit on them, straight musicians are the worst offenders, apparently. Me, I’ve always liked girls, but I did get curious about boys once. Twelve years ago, when I was seventeen, I was working with a chef who was a very fine looking specimen of a man. Even though I was gay, I could tell why women loved him, he was extremely good looking but also very charming. After a few drinks alone in the bar one night, I decided I wanted to give it a go. I leaned over a
nd kissed him on the mouth. He was shocked, and I immediately felt weird. The kiss felt wrong, I don’t know why, but I wasn’t expecting his face to feel so hard and rough. Of course he didn’t know that, and after he got over his shock, he grabbed me and shoved his tongue straight down my throat. His tongue felt massive and hard in my mouth. I opened his pants and started whacking off his dick, which prompted him to put his hand down my pants. He rubbed my clit so hard it felt like sand paper. In the end I lowered my mouth to his dick to suck it, not because I particularly wanted to, but because I wanted to get his tongue out of my mouth and his hand off my cunt. I tried to suck his cock, I really did, but I just couldn’t keep doing it. It didn’t smell good, it didn’t taste good, and he pushed it down the back of my throat until I started gagging. And the main thing, I felt not one bit of attraction during all of this. In the end I wrenched my mouth away from his cock and ran away. From that moment on, I knew I definitely only liked girls. I texted him the next day, telling him he’d done nothing wrong, just that I’d made a bad mistake and I hoped we could still be friends, but I got another job soon after, and I never saw him again.
But we all have a type, and my type is definitely petite blondes, femmes as butch dykes like me refer to them. And we get a lot of femmes rolling through our restaurant. Usually they are accompanied by tough football, racing, beer-drinking type guys.
It’s interesting watching these types of couples. Often the woman is so completely taken by the man she doesn’t take her eyes off him. She tries to make conversation all night. She strokes his wrist, and goes to the bathroom regularly to check she’s still pretty. All the while the man’s eyes have long glazed over even before he sits down. He spends the evening grunting replies through his meal and discreetly checks out other women that look like the one he’s with. The checking out of other women gets less and less discreet the more he drinks.
