She reached down and pulled me to her. I felt the shaking but it was several minutes until I realized that it was my own body. I honestly did not know why she had asked me to stop; why she had broken my trance…. I wanted more and more. After so many years of waiting, I was insatiable. I lay against the warmth of her body, still half-hypnotized by the experience, still shuddering and at the brink of orgasm. My stomach muscles contracted, intensifying the sensation; I was sure that the slightest touch of my hand would send me over the top, not knowing if I should, not knowing how to ask for it. I rolled into her and pressed my aching clit desperately against her hip. Suddenly remembering that she had cried “Fuck!” as she came, I pushed harder against her, the rawness of that word as it flashed in my mind sending me soaring, coming indescribably hard at the mere thought of her pleasure.
The cries that burst from my throat held more than a decade of yearning and frustration. Someone else’s voice seemed to rise from deep within me, explode from my mouth and dissipate into thin air like steam escaping from a screaming kettle. With her arm wrapped around my shoulders, my head against her chest, I felt Beatrice’s other hand push between my thighs, the heel of her palm against my clit, her fingers sliding rhythmically inside me, one then two then three, I wasn’t sure, it didn’t matter. Tears streaming down my face, I came again and again while she fucked me relentlessly and held me tightly in the safety of her embrace.
As the torrent of emotion waned and the world came slowly into focus, I was left awestruck by the force of our passion, amazed by my own potential. We stayed motionless in each other’s arms well into the night, neither of us daring to separate, and without so much as a single word, until sleep inevitably inched in like the evening tide.
I know that my first time was so intense because my love for Beatrice was so very great; because only she could have released me so powerfully and with such permanence. I look into her eyes, even today, and I know this is so. I know I am free. I know I am whole. I know I am beautiful. When I look into Beatrice’s crystal blue eyes, I always, always know that I am home.
ON FIRE
Rachel Kramer Bussel
“I would do anything for you—anything,” I said boastfully, caught up in the throes of lust as I looked at Brenda, all luscious curves that extended from her beautiful breasts down over her slightly rounded stomach to her killer ass and along her thighs. Every part of her made me want to lie down and worship her—with my tongue. Yes, I wanted to make love to her, to push my fingers deep inside her until they unlocked her coils and made her hiss and moan, but I also wanted to take each of her carefully painted toes into my mouth, wanted to trail kisses up the seams on the backs of her stockings, wanted to dig my palms into her shoulders and caress her into oblivion. We were friends, and hung out almost every night. She maintained that she was straight, but that didn’t stop her incessant flirting, and sometimes, about once a month or so, we’d come so close to kissing that I’d feel dizzy afterward. She knew I was hopelessly besotted, and she teased me, stringing me along, but I was so turned on I couldn’t help it. I really would do anything—almost.
“Okay. If you do this one thing, you can have me—all of me,” she said, spreading her arms wide, letting her luxurious red curls bounce along her shoulders. I couldn’t believe it, and sat up straight, putting my drink down, my eyes wide with anticipation. I was ready, for sure.
“I want you to eat fire for me. There’s this amateur burlesque competition, and I know you could win. I want to watch you shake your ass, showing off those tits you’ve got buried under there, and I want you to put a flaming torch inside those pretty little lips and make it disappear. I want to hear the crowd go wild for you, and then I want you to come home with me and breathe your fire onto me.”
I stared at her like she was crazy. Certifiably nuts, like she was speaking her own language and belonged in a mental hospital. What kind of person wants someone to light her mouth literally on fire to prove her devotion? I knew that other people ate fire, but those were trained professionals. All sorts of images flashed through my head, and none of them involved me in a skimpy outfit trying to impress a crowd of jaded hipsters with an orange flame. I looked at her, my face drained of color, and said, “I’ll have to think about it.” Then I got up, put some money down on the table, kissed her weakly good-bye on the cheek, and went home.
The first thing I did was lie down on my bed, grateful I lived alone and wouldn’t have to contend with any pesky room-mates asking what my problem was. I just didn’t have the energy to explain. If it were anyone else, I’d tell them where they could put their fire stick, but Brenda was different. She was a ray of light with her bubbly, infectious laugh; bright green eyes; freckles and red hair and anything-goes attitude. Sometimes I half expected us to wind up on a flight to who-knows-where before the night was out. One time she even got me in a taxi headed toward the airport, but I managed to talk some sense into her and we turned around halfway there. That was on a Monday night, mind you. I’ve found myself in areas of New York City I not only never would’ve ventured into without her, but also hadn’t even known existed. She’s an expert at unearthing the overlooked, at figuring out just what someone’s limits are, then pushing them to the hilt. She thrives on it, and I knew she’d asked me to eat fire to see if I was really her kind of person, if I’d really go over the top for her, or if I was all talk and no action. I’d been saying I’d do anything for her, but by that I meant take her out to any restaurant, take the day off of work—pamper her, do something for her. Not necessarily just do something myself with no obvious payoff for her except to watch me be humiliated.
Yet even as I lay there dramatically on my back with my hand across my forehead, I knew I would do it. How could I not? I hadn’t seen most of my other friends much in the last year, unless they came out with me and Brenda, and had let my online profiles languish into oblivion. I wanted Brenda, Brenda, Brenda, and no one else. If this was how I was going to get her, then I’d just have to do things her way. I fell asleep and had dreams of flames licking the walls of my bedroom while I had my face buried inside Brenda, but I didn’t wake up scared so much as energized. I was really going to do this, and suddenly, I felt a little bit more powerful, a little cooler—I was going to eat fire.
The first thing I did was go online and read as much as I could about the topic. I’d seen someone do it once at a circus, and the flames had been extinguished almost immediately upon entering the performer’s mouth. He’d opened wide like he was eating a s’more, not something that could obliterate his whole face. I wondered whether I could do it—both swallow the flame and make it look effortless. But I knew I’d try, because I’m never one to back down from a challenge, and I had said I’d do anything. This feat almost seemed even more exciting than the chance to sleep with Brenda—almost.
I asked my best friend, Courtney, who’d run away with the circus when she turned eighteen and done a yearlong stint as a clown, mime and general overall trickster, to help me practice. First, we went out shopping. I thought I had plenty of sexy bras and undies in my drawer, but our trip proved me wrong. Courtney took me to a few shops frequented by strippers where every single item was more flamboyant than even my most risqué outfit or undies. We settled on a plush maroon bra with tassels hanging down below, the kind that made you want to pet it as much as you did my pushed-together breasts—whoever you were. As soon as I saw my cleavage in it, my breasts seeming twice their normal size yet supported by the sturdy material, I knew I had to have it, along with the matching thong. I found some maroon fishnets and tall, shiny black heels to complete the look. I turned this way and that in the mirror, admiring my own ass, sure that I was halfway there.
Now for the hard part. Courtney patiently watched as I made many attempts, chickening out before the flames got anywhere near my lips. I’d always thought there were some things you couldn’t simply learn by reading about, fire eating being one of them, so I was also going to learn in the tried and true
way—trial and error. I envisioned my mouth moistening around the flame, putting it out in one smooth shot, as the instructions commanded. The torch looked scary once I’d lit it, but I thought of it like my old pet snake, Zilly, who everyone else in junior high had been petrified of, but I’d spent hours sitting around the house with him happily coiled around me. It had been a learning process, but one that made me a better person.
When I wasn’t envisioning the flame roaring out from between my lips, I was picturing Brenda, with her tumbles of hair and searing gaze. My fantasies could only go so far because I didn’t know what she looked like naked or even what she was really like in bed, so I just focused on her presence; on her stretched out next to me in my queen-size bed, her red hair splayed across my black sheets. Even though I had to focus immensely on what I was doing—holding the torch high above my head, then tilting it upside down, tipping my head back, arching my long tongue out and dipping the wick between my open lips before wrapping them around it to cut off the oxygen supply—somewhere, hovering over everything else, was Brenda. The flame became an extension of her fieriness, her red hair, her laugh—except those were things I didn’t want to extinguish.
Keeping my new hobby a secret was pretty easy after I’d made the mistake of telling another friend, Deb. “You WHAT?” she shrieked, then demanded to know every detail, grilling and admonishing me until I felt myself start to doubt my mission.
“Can we change the subject?” I finally asked, my heart beating faster than it had holding that first torch. I was getting better, and under Courtney’s steady guidance and patient waiting, I’d even attempted my whole routine, music, fringed bra, fire and all, once. I needed practice, and needed to move faster and steadier, not showing an ounce of the fear lurking below the surface. The fire should reflect my beautifully made-up eyes, my bravery, my tongue boldly going where few had gone before. I knew that Brenda wouldn’t be able to resist me, even if she hadn’t made this stupid challenge herself. I’d been working out, too, honing and sculpting my body until it looked exactly how I wanted, until I was strong enough that I could literally lift Brenda up and carry her around my apartment if I’d wanted to.
The big day finally arrived. Trying to calm my nerves, I made my way through the theatre to join the other burlesque contestants backstage. I’d attended many shows here, but never thought I’d be the one to take the stage. This time, my audience would be much bigger than simply Courtney in my living room. I peeked out from backstage through the mascara haze, hardly able to stand the jitters and energy coming from the other girls, and smiled to see Brenda shining up front in an elegant black wrap dress and mother of pearl necklace that made her simply sparkle. She outclassed everyone else in the theatre. I stepped back behind the curtain, running my hands over my bra, down the very small curve of my belly, along my ass. I knew I looked good, and I shut my eyes for a moment, picturing my moment of victory. No, not the flame sliding between my elegantly parted lips. The real one, when Brenda walked out with her arm linked in mine, the two of us the belles of this wacky, downtown ball.
I listened as the crowd hooted and hollered for the other performers, snuck glances as the contestants shook and shimmied to everything from classics to punk rock to R&B, from love songs to “fuck you” songs. And then it was my turn. At first, I’d wanted something slow and sensual, something I could dance and writhe around to, but the more I’d thought about it, the more I’d wanted a song that was in-your-face, the kind of song best illuminated by disco balls and dazzling flame. I wouldn’t need to move fast as I’d have a stick of fire burning before me. I’d rummaged through my CD collection and found a classic from my early twenties—“Nightlife,” by Kenickie, a wonderfully girlie British bit of power pop crossed with just the hint of snarling brattiness I wanted. Plus it was short, which was good because I didn’t know how long I could pull off my bravado. But the element I’d missed in my practice sessions was the cheering crowd. Even if all I did was hold the glowing torch above me and look pretty, they’d be won over. Even Brenda, I soon realized, as my flame reflected her beaming smile, her usually been-there-done-that attitude gone in a swarm of pride for me. I soaked it in, loving every second as I played with the fringe, used the stick to emphasize the loud girl shouts, then got ready for the moment of truth.
I stretched it out as long as I could, crossing my legs, one against the other for support, then tilted my head back, grateful for the expertly coiled bun Courtney had fashioned my hair into, and opened wide. I held the stick above me, then twirled it down in one move as I’d practiced. I opened my eyes to see the flame heading toward me, then closed them and visualized me and Brenda fucking through a blaze of fire, ready to burn for the thrill of touching each other’s bodies. The flame dove perfectly between my lips and I’d extinguished it so quickly I almost didn’t notice my mouth touching the pole, then instantly opened my lips and pulled it out. There were a few more seconds of music that I let play on while I held the cooling stick in both hands above my head in victory, leaned forward and shook my tassels, then spun around to provide a view of my ass, and marched off. I sank into a chair immediately and stayed slumped there through the next two acts, relieved and grateful to have survived.
Finally, I was ready to head back out there. As the show wound down, I saw that a seat had somehow opened up next to Brenda. I slipped into it, and her hand immediately reached for mine, like we were some old couple. It wasn’t merely a friendly hand-holding either. Her fingers immediately started massaging mine, soothing me, calming me. “You were beautiful, darling,” she whispered in my ear, letting her lips hover there for just enough time to make my nipples bead against the heavy bra. She was telling me that tonight was the night, not simply because of a won bet or a technicality, but because she wanted it. Maybe she’d known exactly what she was doing all along with her incessant flirting, or maybe this time apart had made her think about me, and us. Whatever it was, I was grateful, and rested my head against her shoulder, breathing in her vanilla scent as she put her arm around me. We watched the rest of the performers. When it came time for the winners to be announced, Brenda clutched my hand tightly, almost smashing it when it was announced that I’d won second place. She gave me a huge kiss before ushering me onstage, and told me that I was robbed; knowing I was number one in her eyes was all I needed.
Then the time came to leave. I just put my long coat on over the bra and panty ensemble, too high off the night’s energy to change. People had been coming up to me all night congratulating me and asking questions, and for the very first time, I was the star instead of Brenda. She didn’t seem to mind though, but she did keep her hand clasped in mine, guarding off would-be suitors.
We strode out and walked the five blocks to my apartment. I’d stocked up on all kinds of sex toys, candles, and snacks, and had redone my bedroom, hanging gauzy pieces of fabric over the windows and lights, buying even finer, softer sheets—only the best for my girl. “Wait right here,” I told her, pushing her down onto the living room couch, giving her a brief peck on the lips, then racing around and lighting the many votive candles dotting my room until it glowed with a dusky light. When I went to fetch her, she had her eyes closed and I worried that she might be asleep. When I approached, she stirred, staring at me with lust and awe—the same way I’d been looking at her since we’d met. The look on her face told me that whatever had happened since she’d issued her ultimatum, she was here for the same reason I was—she wanted me just as much as I wanted her. Our first real kiss found my lips crushed against her heavenly ones, her surprisingly strong hands gripping me tight.
“You’re so beautiful,” we echoed each other, our fingers tracing each other’s faces. I still almost couldn’t believe that my Brenda was actually in bed with me. The pressures leading up to this night seemed to melt away, even though part of me knew I was still riding the adrenaline high of baring my body—and my bravado—in front of so many people. Still, in some ways, being so intimate with Brenda made me ev
en more vulnerable, which is why I decided to take control.
“Now, my darling, I’ve been so patient waiting for you to see the light, I think I deserve a little prize for all my hard work today—don’t you?” Before she could say yes or no, I’d fastened a blindfold over her eyes. Next I sucked on her earlobe, tugging the tender flesh between my teeth. I slipped a finger into her mouth, feeling her tongue instantly seek out its tip, sucking me deeper inside. Oh, yes, I had my sly little Brenda pegged all right—she was one of those tough-on-the-streets, submissive-slut-in-the-sheets kind of girls.
“Now you really look beautiful,” I told her, as I lifted her arms above her head, trapping them between fur-lined hand-cuffs. She moaned as I placed them around her, not making a single movement to escape. She wanted this, and from the throbbing in my pussy as I bound her wrists together, I realized that I did too. I’d known it, but I hadn’t really known what a rush I would get out of controlling my favorite little vixen. “Now I’m really going to heat things up,” I said, the sound of the match striking the matchbook echoing loudly against our ears. Just seeing the flame reminded me of what I’d done earlier, but whereas that had been all spectacle and sass, blaze and glory, this was a calmer fire, a private one. I lit a purple candle, transferring the heated glow and blowing out the match.
I took the candle and lazily trailed it along her skin, tipping it so the flame hovered several inches above her stomach, enough so she could feel its warmth. “Ow,” she giggled, a very un-Brenda-like sound yet one I longed to hear again. I let a drop of the wax collide with her belly, watching the purple pool against her pale skin. She whimpered, her body rippling as she angled away and then toward the flame, afraid to want more, even though she did.
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