She nodded, frantically.
I dipped her panties down and placed a gentle kiss on the tender skin just inside the fabric before pulling them down over her hips. The soft curve of her belly looked paler than ever in the harsh overhead cubicle lights. The stark blackness of her soft pubic hair drew me in like a magnet. I breathed her in, the scent of her arousal like nectar to me.
What if she hates the idea? What if she walks away because I tried to manipulate her?
I pushed the doubts away, focusing on her instead. In the crease of her sex, the hood of her clit stuck out like a tiny tongue, making my own tongue tingle. Teasing her open, I lifted that hood with the tip of my tongue, embracing it in my lips before stroking my tongue down over the swollen nub of her clit.
Her body writhed. “You devil, you’re so good at this,” she said.
“Is that what you’ll miss?” I asked gently, replacing my tongue with my finger, tracing sensation back and forth over her clit while I looked up at her questioningly.
“You, love, I’ll miss you,” she gasped. Her fingers stroked my cheek and her body shuddered, her shoulders pivoting against the cubicle wall.
I ached for her, longed for the double dildo that I’d packed in the hope of sharing it with her in a love nest in a foreign land. I wanted to look into her eyes and watch her expression change as I made her come, over and again.
Holding her slick folds open with my thumbs, I took her in my mouth again. She started to whimper, her hands clutching at my shoulders, her hips swaying. I wanted to get closer still and dragged her jeans down one leg, hauling her shoe off and draping her leg over my shoulder. In that position she looked incredible, a goddess with her sex on display, the curve of her buttock drawing my hand to it. I ran my tongue over the damp, glistening flesh that responded to my attentions so well, reveling in my power to make her come. “Tell me what you want,” I urged.
“You. I want this, more of this, more of you.” She gave a husky laugh. “I want you to come back home soon.”
Oh yes, she’s all mine. I pushed one finger inside her, moving it against the slick, wet walls of her sex. “Would you come away with me, if you could?” I licked her clit again, pushing her all the time, physically and emotionally.
Her inner muscles clamped on my finger, I felt them spasm. “Oh yes,” she moaned, shuddering, “If it was possible, I’d be right there with you.” She bit her lip, eyes closing.
Squatting there on the cubicle floor with one of her legs flung over my shoulder, and hearing those words that I wanted to hear so badly, I practically collapsed on the floor and shouted my joy aloud. But she started to buck, her flesh melting under my chin. I pressed closer still, lapping her clit, forcing her over the edge. Her spent juices ran into my mouth and down my chin. Swaying, she clutched at me.
“You’re a devil,” she whispered as I stood up, clutching at my hips, her fingers fumbling with my belt buckle.
“I thought you liked me that way.”
She nodded. Outside the cubicles somebody was having a conversation with her lover on a mobile phone, making us smile. Lisa got the buckle undone and her hand moved to my zipper, wrenching it down. Her fingers were inside my underwear.
My clit leapt under her touch. “Did you mean what you said? Would you come with me?” I gasped, trying to keep in mind my plan. It was hard while she was touching me like that and looking so hot and dark-eyed.
“Yes.” Her knee was between mine, her body riding up against me as she stroked me into a frenzy.
I kissed her hard, my body moving on her hand. “Then come with me,” I urged against her open mouth. “I’ve got tickets.” The words came out in breathless gasps. “I booked us a week in Tuscany.” It was where she’d always wanted to go. I kissed her neck, whispered into her ear. “Think about it. A private villa in the hills, a half hour from Florence. The art, the cafés, the wine.”
She stroked my clit slowly then, tantalizing me. “I can’t, lover. I haven’t got my passport.” She bit my chin, denial in her voice.
“I’ve got it, and the second case is yours,” I said, my voice shaking. I was close to the brink.
“How?” Her fingers were working me harder now, her conflict manifesting itself in brusque movements that set me on fire.
“Justin.” Driven by my need for her, my fear she would say no,
I locked my hand over her wet sex folds, squeezing and reminding her of her recent orgasm. “Just think about it...sunshine and wine, good food, and I get to wake up with you every morning, for a whole week. That’s if I let you sleep at all...”
She whimpered, her hand briefly losing its rhythm.
I could feel her relinquishing, and that in itself was so sexy. I kissed her neck, smelling that spent-sex smell on her skin, savoring it as I coaxed her again, my fingers coated. I closed my eyes and concentrated on getting all the words out. “I had some money put by for a rainy day, and I decided this was my rainy day, Lisa. I want it to be a sunny day instead, for both of us. You’re owed a break. Justin said it was a good time to take it. He will sort it, if we call with the word.”
“You’ve thought of everything.”
Her smile made me purr aloud. “You’ll come?”
“Fair’s fair.” She flashed me a dirty look. “I’ll come if you do.” Her lips parted as she pushed me on.
“You drive a hard bargain.” I was already wired to spill; it wouldn’t take long.
“I’m learning dirty tricks from you.” She laughed softly and stroked me fast, her fingers sliding in my wet groove. “Teach me everything you know,” she whispered, her expression suddenly earnest. “I want to learn to trust again.” Resting the ball of her hand on my clit, she hooked a finger inside me.
“You can trust me,” I managed to whisper. She was so hot in my hand, her folds so swollen and sensitive.
“I’m afraid I’ll love you and lose you,” she confessed; the pad of her finger stroked the front wall of my sex and a molten loop of tension reverberated through my groin.
I mirrored the movement in her, thrilled when I saw her eyes shut and her teeth bite into her lower lip. “You won’t.” Staggering, I put my free hand on the wall. She shuddered again, her thighs clenching and unclenching. My blood ran wild and hot in my groin, my clit was buzzing, and I almost blanked out, light-headed with pleasure as I came.
We held on to each other, swaying.
“You’re a bad woman,” she said. “You had me in a compromising position.”
“How else was I going to get such a stubborn woman to agree?”
“Bad woman,” she repeated, but she was still smiling.
“Am I too bad, Lisa? Too bad to spend a whole week alone with?” I said, looking into her eyes and pushing her hair back from her face, demanding she answer, needing to know she was truly agreeing, that I had forced her to an understanding of what was between us, beyond the week away.
Her eyes twinkled. “Maybe not.”
Hope was brimming in my heart. “We could consider it a trial,” I suggested.
“I’m pretty sure it won’t be a trial.” Humor lit her expression. She was good to go, I could see it and feel it in her touch.
Compromising position or not, the risk had paid off and my heart was fit to burst. I whooped aloud, didn’t care who was in there and who heard us, and Lisa clapped and nodded before snatching me into her arms.
The sound of our flight announcement in the background was the perfect accompaniment to our soaring emotions. We were on our way to heaven, although I think I was pretty much already there, right at that very moment.
April In Paris
Claire Martin
I was sent to Paris on a work assignment during my second year as an associate at a large law firm. In the States this would mean sixteen-hour days in a windowless conference room, but Europeans have a saner view of work. Our corporate babysitters wouldn’t work beyond 6:00 in the evening, so neither could we. I felt like I was on vacation. And I was in Paris.
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With all that free time, it didn’t take me long to find the women’s bars, and from there it was a short wait until I hooked up with Pascale. In Paris, where women are apparently not allowed outdoors unless they are gorgeous, Pascale did not stand out. She was certainly gorgeous—tall, lean, and dressed with a simple elegance that I would never, ever be able to copy. But frankly, there were a lot of women like her in the bar. What made Pascale different was the way she got right down to business. She approached, bought me a drink, took me onto the dance floor and then informed me that before our time together that night was through, she would make me come at least three times, maybe four. “I know exactly how the first three will occur. The fourth will be up to you,” she said, right before leaning in for a searing kiss. I was ready for the first one.
“I swear to God, I had an orgasm last night at the top of the Eiffel Tower,” I said the next day to my friend Ellie. I called her daily with an update on life in Paris. “There were people everywhere.” I was trying to keep my voice low while sitting in a café, talking into a cell phone.
“I don’t even know how you do that. Didn’t everyone see you?” Ellie asked.
“If they did, they didn’t let on.”
“So tell me. What did she do?”
I had a hard time believing it myself. It was a picture-perfect April night, the glory of Paris lit up below, a tall, beautiful Frenchwoman standing behind me as I leaned on a railing to gaze at the view. Pascale wore a cape, which only a Frenchwoman could get away with, and when she brought her arms around my waist the cape engulfed us both. She leaned down to whisper in my ear.
“Now you must hold this in front to free my hands,” she said, her lips moving just below my ear to kiss me delicately.
“Why?” I asked, rather idiotically, grasping the cape.
Pascale chuckled. “I thought Americans were an imaginative people.”
Her hands now roamed free and she slowly pulled my blouse from my waistband, her palm circling my belly, starting to inch down. Her other hand undid the button and zipper on the side of my pants and she made her way further, slipping now under my bikinis. I gasped, clutching the cape tighter around us. I was instantly aroused at the touch of her hand on my skin, and a terrific skirmish broke out between the part of me that needed her to touch me and the part of me that wanted to leap off the observation deck to get away from her.
Pascale’s lips came back to my ear and she said, “If you do not fidget so much, the people around will not notice you. Just look out at the city, feel enchanted. It is quite normal for tourists to have a funny look on their faces.” Pascale’s fingers now dipped within me, finding me wet. My legs opened and I moaned, realizing what I was doing only after it was done.
“Oh, Jesus, don’t stop. But please make it fast,” I said, turning my head to her and whispering urgently. I concentrated on staying quiet and not moving as her fingers found my clitoris and she quickly brought me to a shattering orgasm. Pascale held me up as I slumped against her, boneless, and she reassembled my clothes. “Now I will walk you home and come in with you,” she announced. I never made it to orgasm number four, having fallen soundly asleep after the third. When I awoke in the morning, Pascale was gone, leaving a note on the pillow with her phone number.
Later that week Pascale took me to a party at the home of a friend in Montmartre. At least a dozen lesbians of various ages disported themselves around the smallish apartment, sipping wine, eating tiny morsels of food, conversing at a speed my high school French did not prepare me for. Pascale told me that the women were mostly academics and writers and that several of them were ex-lovers of hers, several were old friends. With the arrival of a late guest, Pascale left my side and wrapped herself around the newcomer. I stood off by myself, fighting alternating feelings of discomfort and boredom and I wondered why I was even there. The answer was obvious, of course. I would end up in bed with Pascale at the end of the evening, and what we did before getting there was almost immaterial. When Pascale finally introduced me to her friend, Genevieve, the two women spoke in English for my benefit and we chatted about an art opening Genevieve had just come from. As Genevieve turned to greet another woman, Pascale leaned over to growl in my ear, “When we leave this party I will take you to my home and, how you say, fuck you silly?”
Did she ever. When I reported in to Ellie the next day I felt I had
to give her the edited version of my night in Pascale’s apartment.
“It was incredibly intense,” I said. “We hardly made it through her front door before we started tearing each other’s clothes off.” I didn’t tell her that Pascale pushed me down on my knees and held my face to her as she leaned against her front door. My French vocabulary was broad enough to understand the words “faster” and “harder” en français, though had it not been, the directions were made clear by the strong hands clamped to the back of my head. After Pascale came with a roar she dragged me up without a word and led me into the bedroom. The apartment was very small, in the way of most Paris apartments, and the bedroom was really more an alcove in the main room. There she had a fairly enormous bed and I had no illusions about how much action had taken place on it. Lots and lots.
“Did you ever make it off the floor and onto the bed?” Ellie asked.
“Oh, God yes. That was just the beginning. We were at it most of the night, and it was amazing. She’s really sweet, El.”
“Sweet? I’m not picturing sweet.”
“She is. She’s a very attentive lover, very creative.” “Energetic” might be a more accurate word. Pascale guided me up onto her bed, put me on all fours, and quickly entered me from behind. She had one sturdy arm wrapped around me, her hand squeezing my nipple, while she plunged deeply into me, finding me wet and gasping for more. I barely knew what had come over me, only that I didn’t care to examine it too closely. I could not remember ever being so excited, and the more she ignored me and did what she wanted with me, the more excited I became. Later, when she tied me to her bedposts, I barely registered surprise. I had never done that in my life, yet it felt like I’d been doing it all my life. She strapped on a cock and took her time using it on me. As I watched her fucking me I saw that she was far, far away, enveloped in her own fantasy, uncaring of who lay bound beneath her. I found this excited me even more, and I came with the same screaming intensity as Pascale did.
“So how is it when the two of you part after these marathon nights of lovemaking?” Ellie asked, still trying to picture us cuddled up sweetly in Pascale’s apartment. “I mean, does she want to make plans to get together again?”
“Well, this morning she did. She’s picking me up tonight to take me someplace mysterious.”
“Mysterious?” Ellie asked.
“Sort of. She won’t tell me exactly where we’re going, only that not many visitors to Paris have ever been there.”
“Okay. That makes me a little nervous. Be sure you call me tomorrow.” Ellie just naturally worries too much.
Pascale picked me up at my hotel at 11:00 that night and we took a cab to a private address on the Left Bank. We were buzzed in after Pascale spoke for a moment into the intercom, and the door of the top-floor apartment was opened by a tuxedo-clad woman who was wearing, I’m not kidding, a monocle. She took our coats and pointed us down a gallery-like hallway. I looked at Pascale with a raised eyebrow and a barely concealed smirk. She stopped me and pulled me to the side of the wide hallway.
“You must remember what I have told you about this place,” she said, looking down into my eyes without a hint of humor.
“But you’ve hardly told me a thing,” I said. “Only that this is a regular gathering of some women you know, strictly invitation only, and that I’m supposed to observe but not say anything, except to you.”
“Yes, and your face must not give away your feelings. I have faith that you are sophisticated enough to belong here. However, you will cause me much embarrassment if you act like a child.”
“
I do not act like...”
“Give me your word, or we will leave now.” Pascale had hold of my arm and continued to look directly at me.
“Okay. I’m putting my poker face on. I’ve got to see what all this fuss is about. Is this some kind of artsy salon? Interpretive dance, bad poetry, that kind of thing?”
Pascale relented with a smile. “You will see in a moment. Just behave.”
We strolled into an enormous living room and stopped near the entry. This apartment was far larger and more elegant than the place in Montmartre. As my gaze traveled around the room I saw that many of the women were familiar from that earlier party. And as at the other gathering, the women were sitting together in twos and threes, sipping wine and talking. An older woman approached us and kissed Pascale on both cheeks, standing back then to admire her as she spoke to her in French. I heard the word “handsome” and I had to agree. Pascale was stunning in a distinctly Katharine Hepburnish way—tailored trousers, tucked-in turtleneck, expensive shoes that looked sturdy and elegant at the same time. I wondered how in the world they do it. Trousers, turtlenecks, and sturdy shoes end up as an entirely different look on American lesbians.
Our host then turned to me and took both of my hands. “Welcome, mon chéri. Pascale has told me about you and you’re as lovely as she has said. Please make yourself comfortable in my home. Pascale will show you around, and I hope that we will get to know each other later.” She leaned over to kiss me on the lips, which I thought a little more forward than the usual air kiss on both cheeks. She then turned to Pascale and said, “Darling, the crowd is starting to gather in the back rooms, so feel free to take your friend back when you are ready. Everyone is here.” And then she floated away.
Pascale took my hand and led me back down the main hallway and then through a parlor. On the other side of the parlor was a double door, with another tuxedo-clad woman standing guard outside it. The door was opened as we approached and we entered another extremely large room, nearly ballroom size. As my eyes adjusted to the subdued lighting, I began to take in the unusual setup. There were a number of areas staged in various styles, almost like a furniture showroom, and each area was populated by women. Slowly I became aware of what the women were doing.
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