by Unknown
“You’re not watching!” Mimi whined.
Debbie looked up to find Mimi and Wednesday no longer kissing, but standing in one another’s embrace, legs slightly apart, writhing against each other’s thighs. Their heads were pressed together as they watched Alisha eating Debbie’s pussy. That girl was a pro. She didn’t even come up for air.
“I want a better view,” Wednesday said, carving a path around Alisha’s body.
“Hey!” Mimi cried, left all alone.
“Don’t get all mopey on me,” Wednesday said. “You take one boob, I’ll take the other.”
A keen smile bled across Mimi’s lips, and she skipped around Debbie, falling in at her side.
Pushing out against both thighs, Alisha looked up from between Debbie’s legs. “I must be losing my touch. It’s never taken a woman so long to come from me licking her snatch.”
“Maybe you’re just used to playing with much younger women,” Debbie reasoned. “Have you ever been with someone my age?”
“How old are you?” Alisha asked.
Debbie cleared her throat, then chuckled ruefully. “That’s really not important.”
“You brought it up,” Mimi said, cocking her head so her black hair cascaded across one shoulder.
A smile bloomed across Debbie’s lips. Before she knew it, she was leaning toward Mimi and Mimi was doing the same, grabbing her breast and kneading it as they kissed. For a slender young woman, Mimi was incredibly forceful. She pressed Debbie’s nipple between her fingers while her tongue thrashed like a whip.
Debbie couldn’t tell what happened first—whether Alisha started licking her clit, or Wednesday started sucking her nipple. Both seemed to happen at once, and the sheer heat of soft tongues simultaneously meeting her tit and clit made her buck and whimper.
Wednesday was good at suckling. The men Debbie had been with usually sucked too hard, making her nipples hurt, but Wednesday caressed her warmly, alternating between kitten licks and lovely suckling.
When Debbie moaned in Mimi’s mouth, that seemed to give Mimi another urge. She slid down Debbie’s body, kissing everywhere—neck, chest, breast, nipple. Debbie groaned when Mimi sucked her tit in time with Wednesday’s tender rhythm. Alisha joined in, too, sucking Debbie’s clit along with the stereo’s throbbing bass line.
When Debbie gazed down at Mimi sucking one tit, Wednesday suckling the other, and, beyond them, Alisha simply devouring her cunt, the vision put her right over the edge. This was everything Debbie had imagined university to be: uninhibited sex with passionate strangers, young women testing out their moves on each other, licking and sucking and giving all they got.
“Yes!” Debbie cried, pressing Mimi’s and Wednesday’s heads flush to her big breast. “Oh yes, please suck me! Don’t stop!”
All three obeyed, sucking in double time against the raw music. Debbie bucked her slick pussy against Alisha’s lips while Mimi and Wednesday slathered their hot tongues all over her breasts. When they focused on her nipples again, one sucking while the other bit, a tight ball of lust exploded in Debbie’s belly, buzzing with sheer bursts of pleasure all throughout her body. Her thighs shook. Her toes curled. The intensity of orgasm zapped through every muscle and vein as the girls overwhelmed her with affection.
Debbie’s climax ebbed and flowed, giving way to another orgasm even more intense than the first. She screamed, competing with Alisha’s music, but not overcoming it. She kicked her feet against the floor and grunted wildly, not caring that she sounded like an animal.
The girls let up, kissing her body all over, placing gentle little pecks everywhere she had skin.
Alisha changed the music and put on something dreamier as the four of them huddled together in a naked heap on the floor. It took a good long time for Debbie’s breath to return to normal. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d come so hard. Maybe never. All she knew was that, after receiving such care and attention from three gorgeous girls, she wanted to give back in any way possible.
Glancing from grin to grin, Debbie whispered to the almost-sleeping girls, “Who’s next?”
Vee’s Notebook
Alyssa Linn Palmer
I found our story in those notebooks, the soft-covered Moleskines Alex always buys at the bookstore. The ones I keep in stock especially for her, even though my boss thinks she’s slightly nutty. She always buys them from me.
Sylvia, my brightest star, my desire. My lust, my soul.
She was Lia to her co-workers at the bookstore, Sylvia to her mother, who clicked her tongue disapprovingly at her bright blue hair and her Monroe stud. But to me, she was simply Vee.
Before you start to think I’m some sort of pervert, let me assure you. Vee is no nymphet, for all that I wish I had the talent of Nabokov.
I read about us as she slept beside me, that first kiss in the darkened doorway. She’d tasted of coffee, of sweetness. Of maturity and the woman I want to be some day. And, to be honest, the writer I wish I could be. But one step at a time. Maybe this notebook will be my first story.
By the way, I love my combat boots with a passion, and I own more pairs of fishnet stockings than I can remember, but one day I want to be like her. All elegance and poise, icy cool like Catherine Deneuve in The Hunger. She wears her dark hair in a chignon, her face tastefully and dramatically made up, so sophisticated that I could stare at her all day.
I put my hair in a chignon once, but since I’d just dyed it purple and blue, it looked absurd. A fancy hairstyle on a punk like me. Ridiculous. I was making so much noise that Alex burst into the bathroom to see what I was up to. And she laughed too. We laughed so hard we ended up on the floor, the tile cold on my bare ass. I’m taller than she is and her towels never seem to cover all of me.
“Oh, Vee,” she said, wiping the tears of amusement from her eyes. “You’re beautiful.”
Her lips were on mine, soft yet demanding, and I let the towel drop, an invitation she couldn’t resist. I don’t know what she sees in me, my lanky body, the smallest breasts known to mankind, my knobby knees and skin so pale it has a blue tinge. I’m twenty-one and I look like an adolescent boy with A-cups.
Alex tugged at my chignon, which had already started to come loose. I didn’t put it up right, trying to remember the steps on the video I found online. The hairpins clattered to the tile. She ran her fingers through my hair, spreading it over my shoulders in a purple and blue wave.
“I love your hair,” she said, twining a lock through her fingers.
“You should try it,” I said. “Except you should go dark blue, almost navy. Or maybe pink.”
“On a woman my age?” She raised a carefully plucked brow. She was still in her velvet dressing gown, but she had the poise of one of those old movie stars, like Elizabeth Taylor, or Marlene Dietrich. Even sprawled on the bathroom floor with me, she looked regal.
“Why not? I’ll do it for you. There’s temporary color we can use.” I keep a stock of colors I’ve bought from a shop down in the East Village. I’ve used it myself when I couldn’t decide which one I liked best.
I slid my hand into her gown, cupping her soft breast, my fingers teasing her nipple. Her breath caught as I pressed my lips to her neck, nibbling gently along her jugular. I loved to hear her gasping moans, the little whimpers in her throat. I pulled apart the two sides of her robe, baring her from head to toe.
“Lay back,” I said, and she laughed again.
“On the bathroom floor?” She obeyed and I hovered over her, my hair brushing her stomach. I traced the fine silvery marks just below her hips and my nose brushed the slight swell of her stomach below her belly button. My tongue darted out and I tasted her skin before trailing kisses down to her dark curls. When I spread her legs, my thumbs stroked the hollows of her inner thighs, already damp with arousal.
“Vee,” she begged, tilting her hips up. She was pink and soft, her clit peeking out, and I swiped my tongue over it, giving her a teasing flick. I let my breath fan over her, then I took
her in my mouth and her moan became a guttural cry, almost a sob. That I could do this to her—there’s no feeling in the world like it. I would spend all my days giving her pleasure if I could.
Her hands twined through my hair and drew it back from my face. I glanced up. She watched me, her eyes glazed with passion, her lips parted. When I gently scraped her clit with my teeth, her head fell back. My fingers slid into her wetness, the muscles tightening around me. She was close already, so wet she drenched my hand.
I curled my fingers and pressed up. Her grip on my hair tightened and I felt an ache at the roots, but it didn’t matter, because she came, her whole body stiffening, arching up off the floor.
She melted into my embrace, her chest heaving. I inched up next to her and she smoothed my hair with her gentle hands.
“So much for your chignon,” she said.
I looked up at her, lifting my head from her chest where I’d pillowed it on her breasts. “If I asked you to dye my hair, would you?”
Her hands stilled. “You just changed the color a few days ago.”
This was going to hurt, but I had an idea. On her desk last night I’d spotted a garish orange and black invitation to a Halloween ball. It was from one of her big clients, someone who liked to invite his favorite freelancers to all the company bashes. I knew Alex hadn’t really intended to go. She liked to stay in most of the time. That’s something I didn’t realize about her until we started seeing each other. I’d only ever seen her at the bookstore.
I wanted to go to this party.
“I want to dye it a dark brown, like yours.”
She flinched—a better reaction than I’d expected. She loved my hair being wild colors, the sort of shades she’d never dared do herself. I wondered why. It wasn’t like she worked in an office or had to punch a time clock.
I reached up and tweaked a lock of her dark hair where it lay in a halo around her head. “And when you’ve done mine, I’ll do yours.”
“Mine?” She pushed herself up on her elbows and I sat back, leaning against the vanity.
“It’s The Review’s Halloween party in a few days,” I said. “I thought we should go.”
“I never go.” She sat up fully, her brow furrowed.
So much for post-orgasmic bliss. I thought for sure she’d agree, with all the happy endorphins bopping around in her system. Not that I’d use sex as a means of getting my own way, but it would have been useful.
“But it’ll be great. I already have an idea for our costumes.” I squeezed her hand and shook it almost maniacally, and finally she cracked a smile.
“I’m glad you do, because I never know what to be.”
“You’ll be me.”
“You?”
“And I’ll be you.”
“I don’t know.” Her smile faded to pensiveness.
I pushed myself to my feet, my hair flying back in a wild wave. I’m sure I looked ridiculous—stark naked, pale but for my tattoos, the splash of stars that runs from my ribcage and down over my bony left hip.
“Remember when you first came to New York and joined the punk scene?” I knew; I’d read about it in one of her notebooks. I reached down and pulled her to her feet. She gathered her robe and tied the sash, but she wasn’t going anywhere, so at least I’d intrigued her.
“I’ll dye your hair purple with pink streaks and we’ll go raid some thrift shops to find us both some clothes.”
“It’ll be like Freaky Friday,” she said, drawing me close. The velvet and satin of her dressing gown was soft against my breasts. She stroked the small of my back, sending shivers down my spine. “I don’t think I want to relive my youth, Vee.”
My heart sank. It was such a good idea. “Please, Alex. It won’t be permanent.” I bent and opened the cabinet of the vanity, pulling out all the hair color I’d purchased on a whim. I selected dark auburn for me. Purple and pink for her.
She lifted the packet of pink hair color and read the label. I could feel her wavering. She finally sighed and shook her head, handing me the dye.
“If it doesn’t come out, do you promise to pay for a trip to the salon?”
I felt a grin nearly split my face. “Anything.”
* * *
Oh, Vee. I don’t think I was meant to find this quite so soon. I have a feeling you were going to come back to this notebook while I was in my office, writing, but it has been a busy few days.
Right now you’re asleep, sprawled out in bed, oblivious to the world. You sleep like a child still, though you are an adult. Is it because you’re so carefree? I can just see the back of your head from my spot in the worn leather armchair you love so much. Your dark auburn hair cascades over the pillow and it still doesn’t seem real.
I did help you dye it, even though I mourned every strand of blue covered by the conservative color. But I did it, wiping the dye from your ears so it wouldn’t stain, making sure we covered every inch. I didn’t recognize you when we were done—the sophisticated young woman. Once we found you some clothes to fit your new look, you could have been someone else. And in subtle make-up, dark, muted lipstick, you could pass among the young professionals of Wall Street or Fifth Avenue with ease.
I stopped writing for a moment and rose from my chair, tiptoeing to the side of the bed, watching your chest rise and fall. I smoothed your hair off your forehead and you smiled in your sleep.
My own hair, now a dark purple with a few strategic pink highlights, falls over my forehead as I sit writing again, for you. I’m glad I did it, though I still have that twinge of worry that I look ridiculous, like some poor old lady trying to re-live her youth.
“If Betsey Johnson can do it,” you’d reasoned as you made me sit on the edge of the tub, applying hair color with the skill of a master, “so can you.”
“Betsey Johnson has an excuse,” I’d replied. You stuck out your tongue and I started to laugh.
“Don’t move!”
The purple speckles on the bathroom wall will always make me smile. I didn’t think my laughter was so physical.
While I showered, you tidied up—or so I thought. I’ve obviously been writing too much if you had time to dig in my closet and find the old combat boots I’d tucked away. Don’t think that I’m angry, because I’m not. It just means that we ought to spend more time doing things. When you read these words, come tear me away from the computer. I’ll probably need it.
You had an entire outfit laid out for me when I emerged, and it brought back memories. Torn jeans, safety-pinned together. A skin-tight black tank top. A studded belt. And, a leather jacket almost exactly like the one I’d had, the one stolen from me a few weeks after Lucie died. You’d studied that one photo of her and me, and recreated my entire look.
My hair is better now than it was back then. It’ll grow on me, likely just in time for it to fade back to my normal color.
You watched as I dressed, anticipation in your eyes, lips parted. I could see the lust, the appreciation. You licked your lips as I slid the jeans up my thighs, over my bottom. When I was fully dressed you came over and we looked into the full length mirror at the end of the bed. If you’d had your purple hair, we’d have been punk rock bookends.
We made quite the impression at the party. The managing editor at the magazine sidled up to me while you were getting our drinks.
“Very old-school,” he said, looking pleased with himself with his use of modern slang. The man is seventy-five if he’s a day. “But who is that young thing? She’s not your usual type, Alex.”
I turned to watch you, poised and elegant as you moved through the crowd of expensively costumed drunks. “You’ve met Sylvia, haven’t you, Robert?” I asked, laying on the innocent surprise.
I had to tap his chin to remind him to close his mouth. He looked properly chastised and he was discomfited enough that the tips of his ears went pink.
When you arrived with our drinks, I’d never been so relieved—in another moment I would have laughed at poor Robert, and then wher
e would I be? That man without his dignity would be a shell of himself, and I’d never get another job from him.
I spent the rest of the party itching to leave, to take you home and get you naked. And now that we’re here, I’m going to stop writing, and go wake you up.
* * *
You did find this earlier than I wanted, but it’s worked out better than I thought. Maybe I have some talent as an erotica writer, since you came to bed so ready. I wish you could wake me up every night with your tongue flicking my clit. Even better that you held my hips so I couldn’t move. And afterwards, falling asleep together, tangled in the sheets—I couldn’t ask for anything more.
And now I’ll stop. The coffee’s perking and you’ll be awake soon. I love bringing you coffee in bed, seeing your tousled hair and drowsy eyes, the beautiful disarray. If I didn’t love you already, I’d love you just from seeing you like that.
But I forgot to tell you… my hair dye is temporary, but yours isn’t. I double-checked the label on the purple. So in another week, we will be punk bookends after all. If I find you a silver dress like Debbie Harry’s in “Heart of Glass”, will you model it for me?
Love, Vee.
Safer Places
Ariel Graham
She’s got muscle the way other people—the analogy fails me every time. I find myself wanting to say something ridiculous and absurd, something that’s not a compliment but a confusion. She has muscles the way old houses have mice. She has muscles the way smart people have ideas.
She is muscle. That’s what defines Sadie. No, not muscle. Strength. The muscle is there, those toned, bronzed forearms, a little darker than the rest of her arms because she rolls her uniform sleeves up when she’s on patrol. Not officially against protocol—Northern Nevada gets hot in the summer and rural county sheriff deputies can go a good long while without seeing anyone. And frankly, ranchers and truck drivers don’t care. They’re either in need of assistance or too pissed off at being confronted by a woman in uniform.