I talk extensively about nothing of consequence and our bodies draw closer with each drink. She doesn’t say much but I can tell she’s listening. Or rather, she’s absorbing my words and measuring them like she’s biding her time or waiting for a signal. I must have babbled the right thing because her hand, which started intimately on my knee, is now resting possessively on my inner thigh. There’s a molten heat radiating from the spot where her hand meets my leg that, paradoxically, causes me to shiver. She leans in and asks me if I want to leave. Hastily, I throw a few crumpled bills onto the bar.
I pause at the threshold to look around the room at the women I’m leaving behind, little Lolita-girls in their skintight skirts and fuck-me pumps. I look over at my companion, deadly in threadbare denim and Doc Martens boots. More fuck you than fuck me. I entertain for a moment the notion that there might be a decision I should be considering at this point or a caution I should be heeding. But one look in her eyes, now a shade of green that you only find in rare emeralds or poisonous snakes, and I can’t for the life of me figure out what I should be careful about. I follow her out the door.
She leads me to the back of the parking lot, where it’s dark and private, to what looks like a light-colored Honda Accord under the guttering lamplight.
“This your car?” Arousal and a twinge of nervousness make my voice high and tight.
All thoughts of the absurdity in this situation are immediately abandoned as she forces me backward onto the car and presses her body along the length of mine. I feel the hood buckle slightly beneath my back as she leans in. Her face is close to mine, close enough for me to see the dark hunger in her eyes.
“Something wrong with that?”
I hesitate, not wanting to insult her, and I choke back the moan that is threatening to erupt from my chest from the feel of her—all muscle and sinew—pressing up against me. She laughs and brings her lips a whisper away from mine.
“Never…” Her voice is soft and deadly.
“…ever…” She licks her lips and the moan escapes.
“…mock the ride.” Her mouth descends on mine and if I had a reply, it’s lost in a melee of dueling tongues and bruised lips. She has a tongue ring, a metal barbell with a smooth ball on top, which she strokes with practiced skill along the length of my tongue.
I’m not sure whose hands start wandering first. But I’m brought sharply out of my lust-filled haze by the sensation of strong hands on my breasts, only to find that my own have unbuckled her belt and are working their way down the buttons of her jeans. My task is hindered when her hips begin to grind against me. And it is altogether forgotten as her errant fingers start to pinch and pull my nipples through my shirt in time with her thrusts. She is warm against my thigh and I feel a rush of wetness between my legs in response.
There is no grace. Only raw, carnal desire as her hips pick up an erratic pace. Her fingers have stopped moving, my breasts forgotten. I hear her ragged breathing and the rhythmic creaking of the shocks as her car absorbs the brunt of her need. My clit is pounding in sympathy and I want to thrust back against her, relieve some of the pressure that is building excruciatingly in me. Instead, I lean back and let it happen. And when she comes, I am transfixed by her beauty: the flush in her cheeks, the swell of her lips, the thin-corded muscle in her neck twitching with each wave of her orgasm.
She rests against me for only a minute before looking up and into my eyes. I have to remind myself to breathe as she crawls up the length of my body, once again bringing her face so close to mine.
“Your turn.”
Her lips find mine again and her tongue claims my mouth. Her tongue-ring slides against the roof of my mouth and I melt with pleasure. I swallow a cry of surprise as her hand slips under the waistband of my trousers. Without breaking the kiss, she positions herself between my legs and, using her knees, eases them apart. She slides her hands down farther and pauses, pulling her face away from mine. Moments pass before I open my eyes to the sight of her looking down on me with passion, pleasure, and triumph. And then she is pushing into me, her hips driving her fingers even deeper, her body rocking against mine.
I try to hold back, prolonging the inevitable for as long as possible while she pounds into me with the force of her weight. But the pressure is too great—and the pain too sweet—such that when she grinds the heel of her palm into my clit, I orgasm immediately. Hard.
I realize as she backs away from me, buttoning her jeans and buckling her belt, that she hadn’t removed one article of my clothing during the entire encounter. I slide off the hood of her car, wincing slightly at the dent we leave behind.
“Sorry about that,” I mumble.
“Not a problem.” She pulls me into a long, slow, thorough kiss. My eyes close involuntarily, blissfully. She pulls away but I can still feel the ghost of her against me, inside of me.
By the time I open my eyes again, she is halfway across the lot.
“That’s not my car,” she calls back over her shoulder as she disappears into the night.
Pump
Kenya Devoreaux
The waning day tentatively offers its pale light through the window behind me, warming my bare shoulder with a soft caress. I am really growing bored with this job, stacking books every single day—albeit for only five hours, but for five long hours I must straighten and restraighten. Arrange—stack—lift—place. I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up. The Politics of Sex. Gee, now where is call number 155.3? I lift the book with my right hand from its place on the pile atop the trolley and with my left I widen the space between The Pocket Book of Sexual Positions and Popping the Cherry: A Guide to Your First Time and fill the vacant spot with The Politics of Sex. I step to my left slowly. Once, then again. I scan the shelves from the one at eye level, up one, then, rounding my back, lean over to check the shelf closest to the floor.
A woman clears her throat deliberately behind me. I stand up quickly and turn.
“Hi, do you work here?” She is a pretty young woman with radiant white skin and a slight rose to her cheeks.
I glance down at the book in my hand, then at the trolley, then look into her eyes. “No. I’m dyslexic. I thought I’d stand in the middle of a room full of books and torture myself.”
“Oh. Okay. I’m trying to find a book called Pheremones: The Molecules of Desire.”
“That’s on this side.” I point to the case next to us. She nods and smiles and busies herself with searching the bookcase.
“Would you like some help? You can give me some authors to look for if you like.”
She faces me. A wavy, auburn lock has fallen in front of her right eye. She tucks it behind her ear and blinks, long eyelashes thickened with mascara. Her navy blue tank top is overwhelmed by large, round breasts. I am overwhelmed. The nipples are visible through the material. They are soft. And they are small. And I wonder what they would feel like beneath my fingertips, in the center of my palm as I circle them, caress them, and hold them firmly. Her skin is pale, void of even a freckle, and as smooth as youth. If ever the opportunity arose to press my face into her ample cleavage, while just rubbing myself…
I glance to the side and down at a piece of dust on the carpet, my arousal interrupted by a sting of guilt. I shudder. This girl is innocent and sweet and too young for my ravishing gazes. Those curious green eyes don’t even know they are looking at me. The real me. This forty-one-year-old body that has surrendered over and over to men it didn’t love, being used rather than cherished, and that now has the opportunity for something it’s needed forever.
And I. Can’t. Move.
I want to grab her by the shoulder and snatch her to me. Her big breasts mashed against my smaller ones. Her pelvis pressed against mine. Instead, my eyes drop and I stare. Such large, lovely breasts. She adjusts her neckline, as if trying to cover herself. I keep staring. She mumbles something and then rushes away.
*
At night I touch myself again. Tingling with the fantasy of
the young woman in the library. She is at the foot of my bed, a large, cream-colored dildo jutting from between her thighs while I, in a silk gown, growing expectant, await her approach. She walks toward me…
I am rubbing myself quickly. One hand kneads my breast while the other kneads my cunt. I can’t do this…I can’t do this…I can’t do this! I stop. Throbbing and frustrated beyond bearing, I must stop. I can’t fantasize about having some barely-out-of-her-teens stranger I met in the library fuck me with a strap-on dildo. I am so desperate. I need a woman’s body now. I don’t want a man, and now I can admit I never did. I need soft hands caressing me…
In the morning, I stare at the phone and finally dial the number of the personals section of a lesbian magazine. A woman answers. She has a deep, husky voice.
“Hello, lesbian lovers dot com.”
“I would like to place a personals ad, please?”
“Oh, you do that over the Web.”
“But the only computer I have access to is at the library.”
“Well, I guess you’ll be spending a lot of time at the library, now won’t you?”
*
The bus is so cramped. Everyone is smooshed together like chickens in a coop. Everyone’s body bumps into the body next to it as we jerk along the jagged street. Some grumble an apology, while others ignore the disturbance. I stare into the pinstriped lap of the woman next to me. Is her vulva shaved? She has thick, red hair, red eyebrows, and red eyelashes. She probably has a thick red bush with a few blond strands. The woman standing in front of me—smart peach-colored pantsuit and silk blouse—with one hand holding the pole and the other holding a book…she’s very neatly put together. She probably has a closely trimmed strip of hair that ends right over her clitoris. If I could be with her, I know just what I’d do to her. Though I have never made love to a woman, I know by instinct how I would do it. I’ve read and reread the sex tips in Lesbian Lovers magazine. I know every position possible in the bedroom. I am familiar with everything one can do with one’s mouth, down to every possible flick of the tongue. I know where every erogenous zone is located, down to the precise point at the back of the knee. I know how to make love to breasts, suck toes, bring a woman to orgasm by playing in her ear with my tongue. But everything I know has only been realized in my frequent wet dreams and fantasies. It is time to do what I know I need to do. Time to feed my spirit with the body of a woman and cease its forty-one-year blight. Time to feel what it’s like to move in rhythm with someone else, smoothly—like waves on an ocean. Time to cry my partner’s name out of love and appreciation, not obligation. I am going to place an ad.
The Web site comes up. There is a garden with two women standing, one in beige slacks and a navy blue blouse, the other in a pink, flowing dress. A “Welcome” button flashes at the bottom of the screen. I click the button labeled “New User.” It asks me for a username. I search around the room for any object I could choose for a cute username. I scratch my head and tousle my hair a bit. It is so wild. I like it that way. It makes me feel sexy. And that is very much how I’ve been feeling lately, since I’ve come out to myself. That’s it! Wild! No. WildLovely! My stomach does flip-flops.
The next screen asks for my profile. Now what shall I write? What am I looking for? What’s my type? I enter:
MY GREAT DESIRE
Longing looks, sweaty nights. Wanting every beautiful woman who comes close enough. I can’t wait for this anymore. I am looking for a dyke, age and race unimportant, to show me for the first time, but definitely not the last, how good this can really be.
I read over what I have just written. I smile to myself and press Return.
*
Several hours later I rush to my neighbor’s apartment, trying in my haste to knock as politely as possible. “Hi,” I say as she opens the door. She is holding a drink. “Listen, could I use your computer for a second? I need to check something on a Web site.”
“Sure. Come on in.”
Her apartment is a one-bedroom. The carpet is lush, the furniture opulent. The room is a sultry backdrop to her exotic looks.
“Would you like some wine?”
“Yes, thank you.”
She opens the liquor bar by the window. I sit at her computer. Her Siamese cat jumps onto the sofa beside me and begins to lick its paws. I turn the computer on, click a few icons, and make my way through each portal. She places the wine beside my hand, holds my shoulder for a moment.
“I’ll give you some privacy,” she says and then walks into the other room.
I suck on the lip of the wineglass as I tilt the liquid toward my mouth. I take in just enough to wet the inside of my mouth, then set the glass down and click my in-box. I’m smiling now. I have two messages—one from someone who calls herself Rock and another from CherryFemme. I decide to open this one first.
You wrote a beautiful ad, WildLovely. I understand your yearning for womanly companionship. I’ve felt it too, for a long time. Your ad was surprisingly tame for a woman called WildLovely—lol—but I guess you said it all without saying it. I know what you must want to do to a woman and what you must want to have her do to you. I think I could make you feel all you’ve asked for in your note, and more. Please write back.
She seems sweet. We’ll see.
I click on the response from Rock.
I really liked your ad. You, WildLovely, are definitely ready to feel passion with a woman. I could read between the lines exactly HOW much you want this. I would like to share an evening with you. Dinner, maybe a little shopping first. And then I’d like to give you whatever you want—whatever you need—to fill you beyond anything you could ever conceive. I hope to hear from you, WildLovely.
Cass
I gulp and put my palm to my throat. There is a little square photo at the corner of the screen. Just to see what will happen, I click on it. It triples in size. Her long, aristocratic nose is accented by dark, rich eyebrows arched like a forties-era movie star’s. A head full of short, black hair the texture of an unusual type of silk. Icy blue eyes that stare sharply into the camera. She wears an amethyst pendant. The stone is a rich purple and is solid against her chest.
I press the Reply button.
*
In the morning, my phone rings. The machine will pick it up.
“Hello. This is Cass speaking. I have a message for WildLovely…”
I rush to the phone, almost falling in my haste. “Hello? H-hello, Cass?”
“Yes. WildLovely? You gave this number…I thought—”
“That’s okay, Cass. That’s okay.”
“Would you like to meet tonight?”
“Where?”
“There’s a store on Fifty-eighth and Third called Sweet Pleasures. Five thirty?”
“Yes.”
“What will you be wearing?”
“A light blue short-sleeved dress.”
“Sounds beautiful. See you then.”
The phone clicks before I have a chance to ask Cass what she’ll be wearing, but it doesn’t matter. I’ll know her. I tuck my hair behind my ear and walk quickly back to the kitchen, humming.
That afternoon I take extra care dressing, having spent all day in an onanistic frenzy, engaging every oblong object I could wrap my grip around. I stand before my mirror and sigh, then choose the lotion with the lavender scent. I flip open the top and squeeze the air from the bottle, taking in the scent with two quick inhalations. I squeeze a little onto the pads of my fingers and press them against my breast, squeezing my nipple as I caress myself. In my dream right now it is Cass’s hand upon mine, guiding me over the hot, charged plane of my body. She knows exactly where I like to touch myself, precisely where I must go to make myself wet. Together we squeeze my vulva and she whispers something sweet into my ear—
I open my eyes and stare at myself. My fantasy will come true soon, I know it will. I want to wipe the wetness from my labia, but if I get too close I won’t be able to take my hand away. The throbbing is so deep inside me, i
ts reverberations causing a tickling sensation within the walls of my vagina, and the swollen lips throb at the same rate as my anxious heart.
*
I am walking up Third Avenue toward Fifty-eighth Street, searching for the store. Nothing. I turn to my right and wander down another block, which is heavily shaded by trees. The brownstone before me is red with a gold door. A little sign hanging on the handrail says Sweet Pleasures. I sigh with relief. Someone taps me on the shoulder.
Before I can turn around, someone takes my hand gently and squeezes it. It is Cass. She leads me up the stairs. With one hand in her pocket, she turns to me and smiles. Her perfectly placed teeth glisten. She rings the buzzer and an elderly woman pulls open the door, greets us, and ushers us in. My mouth drops open just slightly as a flood of throbbing heat teases my vagina. We walk across the threshold. Wall to wall dildoes. Of every size, shape, and color imaginable. Cass slides her hand from mine and grips my waist.
“Look around, dear,” the elderly saleswoman chimes as she squeezes my arm. “Everything you want is here.”
I turn to Cass. She is much taller than I and lanky in her loose-fitting denim jacket. Her dangling earrings, which are in the shape of a string of stars, bounce against her cheeks. “What are you thinking about?” she asks.
I look up and she kisses me on the lips.
“I know just what you two would like.” The saleswoman smiles beatifically as she reaches beneath the counter. “A new item that was just made for you!”
Cass and I blink, the moment broken.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” She opens a box and presents an iridescent white, double-headed phallus, fifteen inches long, thick and pliable.
Stolen Moments Page 14