Girl Crazy

by Sacchi Green

  Dale and I met in someone’s loft, at a party for someone’s birthday or an art show or I don’t remember what. She was loitering by the keg, cruising heavily, obviously looking to get laid. Getting laid was a high priority for me, too, and watching her preen in her muscle tee, flexing those biceps for anyone who cared to admire them, I started to salivate. When she not-so-subtly adjusted her package, I skipped over there, lickety-split, all ready to let her make the first move.

  “Don’t I know you from somewhere?” she said, predictably.

  I played along, smiling into her eyes—she was just my height, and yum, do I love a built little butch—and saying shyly, “No, I don’t think so, but getting to know you might be nice.”

  It was simple from there on, and we ended up fucking in the bathroom after I hastily scrawled OUT OF ORDER in lipstick on the door. The sex was fantastic, made all the more so by her overconfident, well-rehearsed moves, from the little words she whispered in my ear as I straddled her, to the ardent way she promised she would call when we said good-bye. Surprise, surprise, she did call—must have been a slow week—and we tumbled into a low-key dating/fucking kind of thing. I loved her macho attitude, the casually disrespectful way she spoke about femmes, how she always made sure to check herself out every time we passed a mirror or a store window. I even loved that she wore a little too much cologne. What can I say? That kind of just-this-side-of-sleazeball boi makes my pussy smile. She could get it up and keep it up, too, which was a bonus, since a lot of these butches in my experience talk a whole lot more than they can fuck. So we were having fun together, but I knew it wouldn’t last. I figured Dale was good for a maximum of three months before she got bored and moved on, so I made the most of her while I had her, getting her to fuck me in elevators, taxis, and back alleys. Public sex has always been one of my little kinks, and Dale was just as hot for it as I was.

  About the tenth time she called for a date, I could hear in her voice that it was almost over. She’d probably met someone else, or was imagining that I was starting to get clingy and demanding and thinking about commitment—as if! I could see the way the wind was blowing, so I decided I might as well get something out of our last time together. I didn’t think I was up for much, because I had my period and even Motrin hadn’t taken care of the killer cramps. But a massage would be just the ticket, so I invited her over. Butches like Dale are always ready to give a girl a massage. It’s a pride thing, and I think it’s in the butch manual, under the section “Letting Her Down Easy.”

  Sure enough, when I answered the door, Dale had that distant, slightly put-upon expression that precedes The End. She looked even more pained when she saw that I was wearing my comfy sweats and an old T-shirt with no bra; up until now, I’d dressed up real pretty for her, every time. Tonight, though, what was the point? I was sure she was going to massage and run, and really, that was fine by me. They’re no fun anymore once they think you’re tooling for a diamond.

  “I’m so glad you came over,” I said, pouting a little. “I have such bad cramps!”

  “I bet a massage would feel good,” she said automatically. It was like she couldn’t help herself. I pouted some more, grabbed her hand, and led her into the bedroom.

  “I just have to run to the bathroom,” I told her. “The massage oil is right there next to the bed.”

  It took me a little while in the bathroom because I’d had serious leakage and had to do some damage control. And I guess I was kind of quiet walking down the hall, because when I got back to the bedroom, I caught Dale going through my panty drawer. Well, this was not entirely a surprise—I immediately realized that of course she would be looking for a little token of her latest conquest—but what I hadn’t expected was what she was holding. It wasn’t my purple leather thong. It wasn’t my crotchless black and reds. It was not my Hello Kittys or my cream-colored boy shorts. It was an old, nasty, ugly, ripped-up, stained-as-hell specimen that she must have dug up from some prehistoric part of my drawer. She had it wrapped around her nose and mouth, and her eyes were closed. She was swaying slightly.

  This was not in the script. I was supposed to come back, find she’d prepared my bed for the Last Massage, lie down, get expertly pummeled, and then never see her again. I blinked, and must have made a sound, because she opened her eyes and froze. We looked at each other. I felt a flush rising in my cheeks. There was an expression in her eyes I’d never seen there before. She was ashamed.

  “Dale,” I said slowly, my voice calm and firm. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Slowly, she lowered the panties, looking from them to me, her eyes big with—could it be a tinge of panic? She began to stammer something, but I stopped her with an imperious shake of my head. Who was in charge now?

  “No, Dale, I don’t want to hear your excuses. I see that you’ve rudely and without permission been in my lingerie drawer. I see what you’re holding in your hand. And I think you know what a very, very bad boi you’ve been.” I don’t know what came over me. I’ve never thought of myself as a top, or anything like that—just the opposite, really—but now the powerful words came flowing out of my mouth. I stood tall and proud and so masterful, you would have thought I was wearing a rubber catsuit, thigh-high spiked boots, and carrying a big whip instead of being in what basically amounted to my pj’s. And the rush I was riding rivaled the one I got when I finally figured out I was a butch-loving femme and not a regular lesbian. Sex before that had been good, and then it got great. Was it about to get even better? Dale huddled there with a seriously sexy helpless, guilty expression on her face, obviously as surprised as I was at the way things were going. I wanted to see more of that expression.

  In the part of my mind that was still observing and trying to make sense of things, I wondered for a moment if Dale was going to go for it. But then she took the panties down from her face, folded them reverently, and offered them to me on the palms of both hands.

  “I’m sorry,” she said in a small voice. “I’ve been inexcusably rude.”

  “I will consider accepting your apology. Now, strip.”

  Again, I wondered if she would just leave—she never took her clothes off to fuck, not even when we were safely inside—but she was looking at me hungrily, and the energy between us was practically bouncing off the walls. She glanced around for somewhere to put the panties since I hadn’t taken them from her, and finally replaced them gently in the drawer. She undid her belt, hands trembling, and let her jeans drop. She stood hunched over in her boxers for a moment and then kicked them off, leaving her dick exposed and swaying sweetly at attention. She pulled off her shirt and binder and stood naked in front of me, her eyes searching mine, her face bright red, her breath ragged.

  I liked what I saw, this cocky butch exposed to me, her medium-sized breasts with the marks from her binder now swelling out from her body, the lush pubes that curled around the base of her dick. It made me feel mean.

  “On your knees!”

  She hit the floor. Seeing her at my feet gave me such a rush that I had trouble finding words, so I just slapped her, hard, one cheek, then the other. Her breathing speeded up, and she put a hand on her dick.

  “Stop that!” I growled. “You are not to touch yourself. You do not deserve to touch yourself. You’re disgusting.” Moaning a little, she removed the hand and lowered her eyes.

  I reached over and got my stained panties out of the drawer. They really were awful, ones I wore on my heaviest days, when I just knew I’d end up leaking. The persistent stains, left there period after period no matter how hot the water or how much bleach I used, were like a Rorschach test. I held the panties up in front of her face.

  “What were you doing with these?” I hissed.

  She swallowed hard, and looked pleadingly into my face. “I…I like them. I just like them.”

  “Address me properly!” I was practically shrieking, I felt so good. I dropped the panties onto the rug and slapped her again using both hands, a volley of sharp, sti
nging blows anywhere I could reach on her body.

  “Yes, Ma’am! Sorry, Ma’am! How shall I address you?” I liked the way she was taking my slaps, not trying to get away, just flinching as she allowed them to land. I smacked her right across the tits.

  “Ms. Weinhart will do, or Ma’am. Continue.” I slapped her on the belly this time. I thought I could come from slapping her.

  “Please, Ma’am! Ms. Weinhart! I have a collection. Of…of panties. Like these!” She nodded at the panties on the floor, and I could see the longing in her eyes. I nudged them with my toe, and I swear she gasped. I ground them into the carpet, laughing.

  “A collection?” She lowered her eyes, her cheeks on fire from embarrassment and slaps. “You really are foul! What do you do with your gross little collection? Answer me, pig!”

  “I, well, I guess I kind of jack off into them.”

  I closed my eyes for a moment to savor that image. I could hear her trying to catch her breath below me; I knew she was desperate to pick up the panties but didn’t quite dare. I murmured, “You may.”

  When I opened my eyes, she was kneeling again, holding the panties up over her head. She had smoothed them out and folded them very nicely.

  “You have a collection.” I didn’t know I could sound that sarcastic, that nasty. “Well, that is no more than I expected from a feeble slut-boi like you. Aren’t you just a little cunty slut?”

  She looked mortified, but she was nodding eagerly.

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, what?” I grabbed the panties out of her hands and shoved them in my pocket.

  “Yes, Ma’am!”

  I surveyed her, walking around her kneeling figure. Her tight little asscheeks were clenched together, her body quivering. I put my foot between her shoulder blades and shoved her forward onto her belly, paying no attention as she squirmed on the floor trying to find a comfortable position that didn’t squash her tits and her hard cock. I pulled my hand back for more slaps, but then had an inspiration. My brush was on my vanity table. It’s a nice brush, with a broad, flat wooden back and wooden bristles. Good for keeping my curly hair tangle free. I made her crawl over and bring it to me in her teeth, like a good dog. Then she raised her cute little butt up for me, cradling her head in her arms. God, it felt good when I brought my brush down on her ass! I thought about her swaggering over here tonight, intending to give me my walking papers now that the shine had begun to wear off, with no interest in getting to know me as a person, no interest, really, in me at all. I was just one in a string of all-alike, paper doll femmes. How dare she dismiss me so casually? I was furious, and I brought the brush down over and over.

  “Please, Ma’am, no more, no more!” I forced myself to stop pounding her, although I could have gone on for hours. The firm flesh of her asscheeks was splotchy and red, and when I touched it, squeezing it to make her gasp, it was wonderfully warm.

  “Pussy butch,” I sneered. “My other bois can take one hundred times more!” Needless to say, I didn’t have any other bois, but it sounded good, and I could tell it made her feel shitty. I couldn’t stop grinning to myself. “Roll over,” I said, keeping my voice hard and mean. “Sit up.” She did, her eyes shining with tears and lust as she glanced up at me.

  “I’m sorry, Ma’am,” she said, “I’ll try to do better.”

  “Yes, you will.” I took off my shirt and fondled myself. I could see her sneaking peeks; I knew how much she liked my teacup-sized breasts, my long nipples. I tugged at one of them, and she went to put a hand on her cock again, but thought better of it. I liked the way her hand was shaking.

  “Please, Ma’am, may I…?”

  “No, whatever it is, absolutely not. And shut up. Don’t talk unless I ask you a direct question.”

  I continued playing with my breasts for a while, torturing her, until the pressure building up behind my clit was too much.

  “Get up and put these on!” I took the panties out of my pocket and threw them at her, laughing as she missed the catch. She struggled to her feet, all wobbly, and managed to slide into them. They were way too small and looked ridiculous, with their little pink and blue flowers, the stained crotch barely able to contain her hard-on. I burst into laughter.

  “Look at the period whore! What a sight you are, wearing my nasty, grimy panties! And you like it, don’t you? Come on, admit it, you’re loving getting to wear my filthy, blood-stained panties!”

  She had lost all sense of restraint now. “Yes, Ms. Weinhart. I, yes, Ma’am. Thank you, Ma’am! I, I love wearing your panties, Ma’am! Thank you!”

  The way she was looking at me, with such terrified respect, just about sent me over the edge. I shucked off my sweats and panties and sat down on my vanity table chair, leaning back comfortably and spreading my legs.

  “On your knees. Crawl to me!”

  She dropped with gratifying speed and obediently made her way over to me, a ludicrous sight, tits dangling and my panties pinning her big dick close to her body.

  “Get to work.”

  I thought she would dive right in like the eager doggy that she was, but she was really starting to show some imagination. Without being asked, she put her hands behind her back and leaned close but not touching. Her nostrils flared as she breathed in the rich, meaty smell of my pussy. Then she leaned over and put just the tip of her tongue on my thigh where the string of my tampon rested. She dabbed gently at the string, following it up to where it disappeared inside me, her gentle touch making me crazy. She began to swirl her tongue all up and down my slit, whimpering and breathing hard. It was all I could do not to grab her face and pull her to me, but I wanted this to last. I reached up to play with my nipples some more, and then placed a hand lightly on her head. Her moans as I handled her sent a jolt of pleasure through me. She was mine. I increased the pressure on her head, and she redoubled her efforts, burying her face in my cunt, tugging lightly on the tampon string with her teeth, lapping at my clit. At last, I couldn’t stand it anymore, and clamping my thighs around her head, holding on to her and not caring one whit whether she could breathe or not, I rode her face until I came. It was a full-bodied thump of a come that left me sobbing for breath, my fingers moving absentmindedly over her head. She was such a good boi, keeping her hands behind her back and her face in my pussy until I’d gotten myself under control.

  When I was breathing more or less normally and thought I could keep from looking too dreamy, I pushed her away from me. She lay on the floor, following me with her eyes as I brushed my hair and took a drink from the bottle of water I keep by my bed. I ignored the pleading look on her face. She clearly wanted to ask me if she could come, but was afraid to speak. I wouldn’t mind watching her jerk off—yes, she could show me how she did it, that would be amusing—but I had other ideas for the time being. No, she could stay there, my little perverted period whore, naked except for my filthy period panties, groveling on the floor while I ordered her to lick my pussy again, suck my nipples, suck my toes, lick my asshole, until I’d had enough, and then maybe I would consider allowing her to touch her cock. Maybe. I’d think about it. Whatever I decided, though, one thing was for certain: this was going to be the best last date she’d ever had. And you’d better believe I was going to get my massage.

  TASTING CHANTAL

  D. L. King

  A small cluster of smokers milled around outside the entrance to the club. Up and down the bar-lined street Neela noted the same phenomenon. The only difference was that absolutely everyone outside the Whip Handle wore black, whereas, while black seemed to be the predominant tone, other doorways also boasted a few girls in colorful spring dresses and boys in stone-washed denim and pastel shirts as well. The Whip Handle was like a sucking black hole after dark. It had rained earlier, making the sucking black hole shiny tonight.

  Neela, of course, was no exception; after all, you don’t go to a fetish club wearing a Hawaiian shirt and Bermuda shorts. She wore a black rubber pencil skirt, black seamed stockings, black stile
tto pumps with chrome heels, and a black silk corset. If she’d draped a black veil over her head, she might have completely disappeared into total stealth mode. But she wasn’t trying to disappear. To attract the kind of boys she was looking for, one had to be visible. Visible and scary.

  “Neela!”

  She turned, passed through the small crowd, and saw Kat. Smiling, she gave Kat a hug and kiss.

  “I wouldn’t have expected to see you here tonight, Neela,” Kat said.

  “Why not? Just because Sam left doesn’t mean I’m dead. No, definitely not dead. I feel like playing, so I dressed to impress. Impressive, don’t you think?”

  “Yeah, but…”

  “Later,” Neela called over her shoulder as she swept through the door.

  As usual, the place was dark and fairly crowded. She made her way to the bar and ordered a tonic with lime. Looking around, she noticed a few people she’d seen before but didn’t really know. Oddly, almost all the people in the immediate vicinity were women. She saw a boy down at the other end of the bar, but he was obviously with the woman next to him.

  Taking her drink, she made her way to one of the chambers off the main room, put down her toy bag, and made herself comfortable in one of the leather club chairs. A naked girl chained to the wall was being flogged by a large woman in black leather. Neela admired the woman’s technique, and even in the dim light she could see red stripes on the girl’s back and buttocks. After a few minutes she felt a slight pressure on the toe of her shoe. She raised her foot to bring the kneeling figure’s head up, but the girl’s eyes remained lowered.

  “Yes?”

  “Yes, Ma’am. This girl would like, um, this girl wonders if Ma’am would like, if Ma’am would be interested in…Um, this girl wishes to offer herself to Ma’am for use in any way she might see fit, ah, if she might wish to play with this girl, um—Ma’am.