Lickety split, she grabbed the dildo and a bottle of lube. She crouched in front of me, yanking down my PVC hot pants. She was so frantic I felt like I was being bushwhacked. I tried to protest, but suddenly she grabbed the back of the hot pants from behind and gave it a good yank. I gasped. All my personal business was right in front of her face.
“If you don’t get on the floor, I’m going to stick it in you standing up,” she said.
I got on the floor.
It was somewhat bizarre with me lying on the dressing room floor, my legs open as if I were at a pelvic exam and her looming over me with the Pyrex. I was supposed to be doing this stuff to her, not the other way around. This certainly wasn’t my idea of a seduction, but obviously my pussy had other ideas.
I wanted her to kiss it first, explore it with her tongue, do things to me with her fingers, but she poured some lube on the tip and slid it inside me.
The thickness of Pyrex shocked me. It was so cold and heavy, but it filled me up. The girth of it was almost overwhelming. I couldn’t believe how unyieldingly solid it was. Everything slid in and out so easily with the lube. Making love to a woman shouldn’t feel like this, I thought. I felt as if I were being fucked by something substantial.
I opened my legs more, becoming lost in the lovely and intense sensations. Closing my eyes, I relished the feeling as she started twisting it, the colorful bumps hitting all the right spots with its extra texture. My knees relaxed. I opened up more, taking in all seven inches. My body started to rock with the thrusts. I slid my hands down between my legs, feeling it going inside me. For a second I panicked, realizing it had no flared base. It felt like it was going to shoot up inside me forever. I grabbed her hand to calm the fluttering in my heart and then we were both fucking me with it.
I was going to come. Right in front of this perfect stranger, I was going to have one of the most intimate moments in the world. With the distorted thinking of a little kid, I thought if I kept my eyes closed, she couldn’t see me, but as an adult I knew she could. I opened my eyes. I was shocked. There was no warm and intimate gaze simmering in her eyes. She was looking at me not as a lover, but more as if she was watching something, detached and amused.
A chill shook my body. This wasn’t right. Neha wasn’t being intimate with me. She was manipulating me as she might a toy. I fought my coming orgasm, but it only made me come that much harder. Little lights popped in my vision, and I felt heat rising from my feet. A tingle rushed up my legs to my thighs to my pelvis to my stomach. Euphoria burst forth and I felt like I was falling. I arched back, letting go of her hand, my orgasm nearly rendering me unconscious for several seconds.
As the last shudder left my body and everything came back into focus, I felt her pull the Pyrex out. I felt pounds lighter and clamped my legs shut.
Suddenly, there was a rattle and then a banging at the front door. Like two schoolgirls nearly caught by their parents, we tugged on our clothes. I shoved the play clothes into the corner and stuck the dildo and lube in a drawer as I came out of the dressing room.
Oh horrors. It was Viv at the front door. The moment I unlocked it, my newly found lover shot past us outside without even a goodbye.
“What is going on?” Viv demanded. “Why was the door locked?”
Quickly, I sought my brain for a lie when I saw Neha almost at the corner with a flash of baby pink in her hand, the zipper flapping in the breeze. She had stolen the camisole, or rather she had fucked me for it, I realized.
Maybe it was the orgasm that cleared my brain, but suddenly the last thing I wanted to do was lose my job, especially because of Neha.
“I just had sex with that girl on the dressing room floor,” I said, pointing down the street at her. “And she stole the baby pink cami.”
Viv raised an eyebrow and sighed. Affectionately, she patted me on the head as if I were twelve years old, then handed me a box of vibrators the deliveryman must have left on the doorstep.
“You’re going to have to come up with something better than that, sweetheart,” she said. “You don’t even like girls.”
Doing the Dressage Queen
Rakelle Valencia
She showed up with sunglasses and an attitude on, and didn’t take either of them off. That’s how I knew she wanted me.
I’d seen her yesterday, and the day before that. This was the third day of a four-day colt-starting clinic. The woman was immaculately groomed, much as a four-legged, champion show-jumper would be. I pegged her for a Dressage Queen. Her brunette hair was lashed up in a severe bun, obliterating the effect of expensive highlights she’d had painted in. Contempt was smeared across her face as if she had smelled a bad fart. And the lady sauntered around in those skin-tight, stretchy, posh breeches that you could read lips through.
She was making a statement or two with her crumpled, pristine, white slouch socks attempting to rest atop name-brand cross-trainers, and with her starched blouse, prim and proper, peeking from an all-to-purposefully rumpled, brand new, zip-up, hooded sweatshirt. Maybe the classically trained equestrian was dressing down for the likes of a cowboy. Oh, she was making more than one statement, all right. And I was listening to her silent language, but didn’t let on. The woman needed to be bent over.
No words would pass between us. That would be the way she would want it. You know, to save face, so that she didn’t actually have to speak to the “hired help.” She sorely underestimated my abilities. I had never been a two-bit, drifter cowboy, and I’d long ago surpassed being a ranch wrangler. I break colts and lecture about horse language. I’m an equine behaviorist, if you want to get fancy about it. Horse whispering is my trade. So if I can hear the covert language of a majestic, humbled animal, then I can certainly read the overt body language of a spoiled richie.
As the sun waned and the last of the colts had been saddled and mounted for the first time in their lives, then taken from the round pen to be put up for the night, the Dressage Queen hung by the corral gate. Like always, I slapped my coiled lariat against my leather chinks, chasing clouds of dust from the waxed rope before stuffing it into the gear bag. My hand efficiently popped the thigh buckles of my short chaps, then drifted to the center waist-tie slashing above my crotch. I caught her eyes searching me up and down with approval, and a slight plea. Her sporty sunglasses were finally shed after three days, but not her attitude.
I shoved the limp, worn leather chinks, or short chaps, roughly into the bag with the rest of my tools. My day here was done, but the riding wasn’t going to end.
I tipped my hat, nodded my head, and hoisted the jingling gear bag over my lean shoulder. She fell in behind me on the walk to my beat-up, rusted dually. I would have offered, but she oozed into her sleek Mercedes.
The hotel wasn’t cheap, sturdy furniture and all. The ranch had done right by me. Leaving the door open behind, I dumped my gear on the extra bed and then toe-to-heel, pulled off my boots. The heavy door had slammed and a bolt clicked.
I weaseled out of my Wranglers and boot socks, then turned to pluck one button at a time down the front of my western-yoked work shirt while staring her in the eyes. She seemed unconcerned, feigning boredom. I walked over and sucked her lower lip, at the same time jamming my hand between her legs to where the seam on those stretchy riding pants hid in her crease.
Playing “good girls don’t,” she halfheartedly tried to pull away. I bit down. Her little, tailored pants grew wet in my palm.
I shed the last of my clothes but the princess made no move to join me in my nudity. She stood and gawked with a holier-than-thou smirk as dust littered the air and dirt polluted the carpeting. But she made no move to leave either.
Undaunted, I unclipped my pocketknife from discarded jeans and flipped open the lock-back blade, the snap of it resounding off hollow-core walls. Her arms crossed in front, not defensively, once again seemingly bored. She stood back on one leg, dropping a hip.
Okay, so I was the naked one, I was the vulnerable-looking one, but I had
the knife. I walked my farmer’s tan, whitewashed hide around back of her and entangled my fingers in that severe bun, loosening strands that went wild to dribble between her shoulders. I breathed into her ear and raked my teeth along the lobe, wanting to whisper for her not to move.
I didn’t. She would soon understand, and, after all, this was her game, not mine. I slipped the dull side of my blade from her clit to her anus. She sucked in a breath, standing more erect, and dropped both her hands to cover her pussy. I had her. It was my game now.
Flipping the blade over, with the sharpened point I sliced through those expensive breeches, parting them with an expansive gap. The Dressage Queen reached behind with both her hands, her thin wrists easily captured and subdued in my calloused grip. The knife had done its job. I tugged her a step toward the spare bed, toward my bag so that I could discard the steel blade and retrieve a new tool.
Tripping her forward a few feet, not releasing my hold, I bent her over. The sight of her meaty, rounded ass protruding from the growing slit in her breeches would under different circumstances have made me beg.
My eyes followed the path of a silken, black thong dipping into her smiling crack. I squatted to pull it aside with my teeth. I could smell her. Scrubbed so clean, she had the fragrance of Ivory soap mixed with a new seeping muskiness, even after a day in the sun.
I shoved her over the end of the wooden, polished bureau to sink my face in further. Her pouty, reddened, nether lips pushed at me from below but I attacked her brown, pursed hole. If I hadn’t had my other fist filled with a thick, silicone dong, I would have patted those wet, red lips and squeezed their smaller, twin globes of flesh together as I tortured the winking puckered asshole with my tongue. I didn’t have enough hands.
From the spit-slicked anus, the head of my rubbery dick sluiced to her sodden snatch in one motion. The slippery sucker found her drenched opening and took it from behind. The sight of my black silicone rod plunging in, only to be withdrawn covered in cream, made my mouth water and my own cunt drool.
I had to do her, then. I had to fuck her like I knew she wanted. But I wasn’t harnessed. I slapped the flanged end just above my own slit, holding the dick between split fingers, against my shaven runway strip, and lunged. She moaned and poked her wide ass to my belly. If I were a young boy I would have shot off a load then. I was close now.
Dropping a finger to my clit shaft I clenched at myself, still gripping the dong as I pounded the princess. Again I wished I had more hands. I wanted more fingers. Her asshole winked at me with each thrust, chastising my lack until I loosed the Dressage Queen’s wrists and jabbed at its single eye.
The woman shrieked in an unladylike manner. She knocked her head to the wooden top of the bureau and rolled it around with a spittle of drool pooling from her tense, pulled-back lips. Teeth exposed in a snarl like a rabid dog, she clawed and raked my buttocks with her nails, cramming my rangy body to her fleshy asscheeks.
As I pounded her, I was pounding my own clit, straining with an inner force. That, mixed with the sight of my driving dick and the feel of my finger in her butt, shot me off in spasmodic waves of wetness. Not wanting to scream like a girlie-girl, I leaned onto her and bit her meaty side.
She came. Screeching and cussing to put both tomcats and truckers to shame, she came on my dildo and clamped around my finger. Her high-pitched shrill dropped off to silence. One of her hands now dug at the bureau while the other slapped my ass rhythmically until she sucked in a deep breath and began panting.
I was done with that act but I was far from done. I climbed off her and abandoned my dick to plop out on its own. Introductions and girlie warm-ups over, I thought I’d get a night out of her highness but first wanted to knock off the dust and grit from the day. I headed for the shower, leaving the satiated, disheveled lump to revive herself.
When I emerged refreshed and clean, the do-me Dressage Queen was gone. Her shredded breeches had been left behind. I assumed she had worn her attitude and the Mercedes home.
Pointed
Skian McGuire
I wedge the Coke bottle between my legs, hard against the crotch of my jeans. Outside, the Connecticut landscape slips by, hardly noticed. The seats around me are empty. I could beat off, probably, grinding against that cold plastic until I got so close to orgasm I could scream. I don’t come that easy. I need something inside me, or a vibrator buzzing against the ring in my clit hood like a tiny chainsaw.
I’ve been reading porn: not a good choice for a four-hour bus ride. The book has one of my own stories in it, but I never had time to look at it until now. I work too much. All my friends say so. Between the day jobs and all the miscellaneous stuff of living, plus whatever sleep I can’t get by without, every minute left over is like a nickel to a tightwad. Mostly, I have to choose between living my porn and reading it. Writing porn is like a drug, when my brain is on fire for something I can’t have so I have to make it up. I just can’t help myself.
It always starts with a picture—something that flashes on the screen of my mind over and over again, film looped around the reels of my imagination, and I might as well be strapped down to a chair with my eyelids wired open. Right now, the picture is your shoes. They are shoes with toes pointed like a mean pair of garden shears, like a raven’s beak, like a stingy wedge of pie, and I can’t get them out of my head.
The crowded bookstore was loud with conversation and the clatter of folding chairs. I was happy the reading was over, making small talk with the other writers and fans, looking forward to the hot date waiting for me, when you came up behind and put your arm around me. I didn’t have to look to know it was you. I hardly missed a beat, just leaned back a little into your touch, feeling your soft warmth, your feathery scarf brushing my arm. I smiled and kept talking. So cool. Until I turned at last, and my self-possession left me at the sight of you.
I get shy. I’m sure you know that, even though you don’t know me very well. You may even have been teasing me just a little, the way girls do sometimes, to get me to blush, and I have to look down out of embarrassment and tongue-tied, dry-mouthed panic. I couldn’t meet your eyes. I stared at the floor, instead, and there, waiting to shanghai my imagination, were the toes of your pointy, pointy shoes.
An American Van Lines semi rolls slowly by, my eyes following it mindlessly. I know this is ridiculous. I’m not like the foot-fetishists, submissive straight men who go all weak and pathetic at the sight of a woman’s shoes. I don’t give a rat’s ass about shoes, except as I’m a sucker for a well-turned calf and I do appreciate the gift of sex on a plate, when a femme dolls herself up for me with clingy clothes and cleavage and dangerous fuck-me heels. Shoes are things that get strewn somewhere on the way to bed, unless she’s the kind of girl who likes to wear high heels while I fuck her from behind, or likes to play porn star, squatting on those strappy stilettos while she sucks my cock, or flings her legs around me while I’m driving it in, and how come the shoes never fall off, anyway? Is there some kind of glue femmes use? I wanna know.
I’m thinking of all the shoes I’ve ever known as sex objects, trying to find a hook to hang these feelings on, trying to get them out there, get them off me, let me breathe. My own footwear was never feminine. As a teenager, I tried to fit in as best I could in bell bottoms and the androgynous Adidas everybody wore, trying not to call attention to my homeliness. Eventually I grew up butch and acquired for myself not only the sturdy shoes guys wear to work, but also the kind that need to be shined. The kind I’d wear to go out with a woman on my arm who has dressed for me as carefully as I have dressed for her, in nice pants and shirt or maybe a suit, and a tie, of course, all the butch splendor I can manage. Men’s shoes. Well, boy’s shoes. My feet aren’t big enough for men’s.
But are they sex objects? I think of the way I feel, in my way-too-expensive wingtips, polished to a fare-thee-well, with leather soles that glide across a dance floor. I’m wearing the tuxedo my father was married in, back in 1939, which has fit me per
fectly for the twenty years I’ve owned it—a fact of which I’m more than a little proud. I think of being small enough to learn to waltz by standing on my father’s own wingtips, brown workaday shoes he wore to his job as a postal supervisor on the night shift. We’re swinging our way around the living room rug in the old apartment in the Bronx, all the walls painted in a light coffee brown, and I’m as giddy as if my father were an amusement park ride, as if his shoes really did have wings. Now I wear his tux, an antique with a button fly, to impress the girls, in my bow tie and stiff white shirt, a stiff dick tucked up in my jockstrap for after the dancing is over and another kind of dance can begin. I weigh the reality of use—how many dry cleanings can an old wool suit survive? —against the pleasure of fucking in it, and throw caution to the wind. Nothing lasts forever; besides, this old tuxedo already has lasted forever. It’s a peculiar thing, to have kinky lesbian sex in the same clothes my father was married in, all those years ago, him the handsome young devil in the wedding photo, and me the queer and awkward daughter in her middle age, who only wishes I could be handsome, in my size 6 wingtips and my fierce and complicated desires. I imagine sitting to put on my fancy shoes, the black serge trousers warm against my arms as I reach, my hard cock pressing against my belly while I tie the laces. I think of the girl, once upon a time, who knelt carefully in her pretty cocktail dress to fix the lace that had come undone without my noticing, my throat full of consternation and surprise and thick with love. In that moment, nothing in the universe existed except that shoe. Those shoes. Are they sex objects? Oh, Holy Mother of God.
The bus rocks and bounces over potholes. It’s nice to think intellectual thoughts about butch shoes past and present and not be so conscious of the heat in my crotch, all wrapped up in women’s shoes with pathologically unorthopedic toes. It’s nice, but impossible. Scurrying for escape from the bright shock of that need like roaches in a suddenly well-lit kitchen, my thoughts rush into corners where they probably shouldn’t go. I’ve always been a top with the girls, and I’ve been a top most of the time with butches, too. I can be as rough as I please and not be a gentleman. And when I need to let the armor drop, I do it in the haven of another butch’s laser-hot regard. She doesn’t have to have a lot of props, she doesn’t even have to be packing anything in her pants, as long as she’s got strong arms and square hands and a pair of Big. Black. Boots.
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