When She Was Good

by Tristan Taormino

  She reached up and stroked my thighs, pulling them further apart, spreading my pussy wider. Leaning back, she said, “Come sit on my lap, sweetheart.”

  I got up from the desk and straddled her legs. She grabbed my sensitive ass and pulled me down onto her, hard, grinding my pussy into the fly of her jeans.

  “Ohh, fuck, fuck, fuck,” I said.

  “I’m getting there, baby, I’m getting there,” she chuckled. She held my tits up to her mouth, pressing them together so she could get both my nipples into her mouth at the same time. I leaned back, bracing myself, holding her knees, and rode her lap for real.

  “Don’t come yet, girl. I haven’t even fucked you yet.” She reached down to my pussy and I raised myself up to give her access. She slid two of her big fingers up my cunt and started fucking me with hard, fast strokes.

  I lost it, if I had ever had it around her in the first place. I started moaning, loud, my breathing all over the place, too fast. I was losing my war with hyperventilation and I was getting dizzy. She grabbed the back of my neck, forcing me to look into her eyes. “Slow your breath down, honey. Breathe with me.” She started breathing real deep and slow, her hand pumping in and out of my pussy slower, but still hard and deep.

  I was whining, feeling like a brat but not able to stop. I tried to breathe deeper, slower, drawing the air down to my pussy. It made me even dizzier. I leaned forward, resting my head on her shoulder.

  “You okay, sweetheart?” Her fingers stopped moving inside me. I felt embarrassed. She kissed my neck and shoulder, stroked my back with her free hand. “You want to try something else?”

  “Like what?” I asked, nuzzling my face into her neck. I could smell her skin and my lips parted to taste it.

  “Mmm, that feels good,” she said, her hand tangled in my hair. “I was thinking about how much I would love to eat this dripping pussy of yours.” She curled her fingers gently inside me, making me moan into her neck. “Would you like that? You want to sit on my face, darlin’?”

  I was still feeling shy. I made an affirmative noise and she guided me to sit up. I angled my hips so she could pull her fingers out of my cunt, leaving me feeling empty. I got off her lap and leaned against the desk, aware of how naked I was.

  She went over and grabbed her coat, one of those jean jackets with the fake sheep lining. She laid it on the ground, positioning herself so there was plenty of jacket on either side of her head for my knees to rest on. I smiled at her chivalry.

  “Come on down, sugar.”

  My legs felt shaky, like a newborn colt’s. I managed to straddle her face without hurting her or myself. Her hands grabbed my hips, trying to pull me down to her mouth. I giggled and fell forward, catching myself with my hands, raising my ass in the air.

  “Come on, give it to me,” she said. I lowered myself down to her mouth and felt her tongue part my lips, licking from my pussy hole up to my swollen clit. She sucked my clit into her mouth and swirled her tongue around it in circles. I started humping her face, making her work my clit harder.

  It was then that I realized I had to piss. I panicked, not knowing how to stop the action, not wanting to. She stuck her tongue up my pussy and I bounced up and down on her face.

  “Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck.” I knew I couldn’t hold it much longer. I stopped moving and raised myself up off her mouth. “I have to piss, I’m so sorry. I’ll be right back, I promise.”

  Her hands on my hips tightened. “You’re not going anywhere.” She tried to pull me back down to her tongue.

  “I’m serious, I have to piss! I can’t hold it!” I felt close to hysteria.

  “Don’t.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t hold it,” she said, craning her neck up to get at me, licking my pussy lips. Her tongue went between my clit and my hole, putting pressure on my urethra.

  “You want me to piss on your face?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  I was looking down at her, trying to make eye contact. When she looked up at me her eyes were hard, laced with steel. I’d seen that look before during pervy sex. It said, I dare you to say no, call me a freak, walk out on me.

  I wasn’t going to say no. I also wasn’t going to think about what we would do after, piss covering my legs, her face, her hair, her jacket, the floor. I rested more of my weight on her face and she went back to working my clit, sucking me into her mouth, grazing me with her teeth.

  It was crazy, this building of pressure in my bladder and cunt. I let her build me up more. I wanted to come as I pissed, something I had wanted since before I knew what orgasms were, as a little girl touching my clit while pissing in the woods.

  She was lapping at my pussy now, rocking me into her face with her hands, wanting me to let go. Her hands strayed to my ass crack, spreading me open, brushing my asshole with her fingertips.

  That was it. I started coming. My piss squirted out of me in spurts, timed with the contractions of my orgasm. I tried to raise myself up, give her the choice not to get it all in her mouth, but she held me down, lapping it up, licking my clit, drawing my orgasm out. It felt like I pissed forever. She kept her face there the whole time, loving every second, rubbing herself into me.

  When my waterworks were finally done, I rolled off of her and groaned, finding my legs even weaker than before. “I don’t think I can walk after that,” I said, lying down beside her, curling my naked body around her fully clothed one.

  She laughed and held me tight. “That’s okay, baby. You can take the inventory on the bottom shelves and I’ll take the top ones.”

  THE ANT QUEEN

  Roxy Katt

  (Inspired by the drawing Ant by Osvaldo Greco)

  When I got to Katy’s spanking big house in the suburbs, no one answered the doorbell. The front door was unlocked, and I was on good enough terms there to walk in. Perhaps everyone was out back by their big pool, I thought.

  “Katy? Mrs. Wellington?” I peered into the living room, then made my way to the enormous, shiny kitchen at the back of the two-story house. The house always made me think of sex.

  Not because of Katy, my best friend, but because of her mom.

  Katy’s mom was hot, and she was one of those people who knew it, and who knew she could write her own ticket that way—or not—as she saw fit. Tall, full-bodied and narrow waisted, she possessed a kind of retro domestic complacency about her. But it was strangely coupled with what seemed to me a complete confidence that while she would always be very selective, and didn’t usually need sex that much (not to put too fine a point on it) she had the capacity to satisfy anyone on the planet.

  Naturally, as a lesbian, I could say nothing. About my attraction, that is. She had been married, until a year earlier, when she got divorced from her Stan. Powerful and masculine, he was as headstrong as his wife, and that had probably been much of the problem right there.

  Who was I anyway, I thought—passing through the expensive house that always made me feel like a loser somehow—but some skinny-assed chick just out of high school? Yeah, I was thin, and I suppose “cute” in a way, dressed today in a floppy T-shirt and cutoffs, but in the presence of Mrs. Wellington, I always felt somehow that I wasn’t really a woman yet. God knows I had the desires of one, but it was as if I hadn’t grown into their power, if that makes any sense. You might even say that in a general way, I was a little fed up with that lack of power; fed up with a nagging, nameless inadequacy; a vulnerability to whoever was convinced he or she had a right to weigh me in the balance and find me wanting.

  I looked through the big sliding glass doors at the pool and its abundant deck. There were trees and fence aplenty, so that it was, all told, a very private backyard.

  What I saw then amazed and puzzled me. My mouth fell open and I whispered in awe, “Way cool,” like some dipstick valley girl.

  Of course—I remembered then—Katy wasn’t home. She was camping for the weekend. And I remembered that her mom was going next week to a fancy costume party, which would expla
in who that was out there by the pool in the incredible getup, trying it on in advance, checking out how she moved in it.

  When I’d heard she was going to go as an ant, I’d thought, yeah, right. Some stupid foam rubber suit, some baggy shit like that, some cutesy version of Barney the Dinosaur, waving and bouncing, with a fixed idiot smile, some Disney-movie sentimentality. But I had underestimated Katy’s mom.

  There she was in black plastic and latex, all polished to a high shine. She could have stepped right out of a fetish magazine. Since her back was turned to me while she seemed to be surveying her big pool, I had time to stare. With Katy gone and it not being the maid’s day to come in no one would have been at home with Katy’s mom this morning, so she must have had a devil of a time getting into it. It seemed to be in effect a latex catsuit, thick, tight, replete with corrugated joints at knee, hip, shoulder and elbow for flexibility and equipped with high-heeled PVC boots. A kind of high-waisted, hard plastic panty (two pieces, snapping together at her hips) was part of her ant shell, as was a very large, round-cupped bra, with heavy plastic strapping, forming a hard, short, sleeveless top.

  Her helmet was a bug head. Again, hard shiny plastic, and, as she turned, I could see nothing behind the large black bug eyes. She had a pair of vicious-looking snappers at the mouth.

  And she had two more pairs of hooks for her hands. Marvelous and frightening constructions, they were part of tubular plastic shells or cuffs that went up to just below the elbow. Within, her hands worked the claws, for I saw one of them open and close, meditatively.

  I had always loved her little waist and big ass, but I couldn’t believe how much the suit brought out the contrast. And, narrow as the waist was, there was a tummy. Oh yes, a tummy from bearing three children and being over forty. She couldn’t get around that; had to have the delightful bulge built right into the mold of the inflexible plastic—a bulge that curved right down between her legs, where there was a sturdy latch, designed, it seemed, to open two doors on sturdy hinges, fore and aft, for visits to the little ants’ room.

  She turned and saw me, and expressed her delight as well as one could in such gear. I, for my part was as effusive as possible without giving myself away.

  “What do you think, dear?” came her voice with a muffled echo. “Do you think I’m ready to start a colony?”

  “Oh god, yes. You’re a marvel.”

  Between the hard shell of hips, tummy and ass, on the one hand, and boobs and upper back on the other, the waist was the area of flexible rubber. She was tight, narrow like an ant there, and seemed to like to sashay her ass around and flex it in order to point her tits toward you.

  Was she hot for me? I don’t think so. It was just that the suit brought out the she-cat in her, the sexual predator, and she pranced, half-consciously, because that was what one did in such a suit, whether anyone eligible was there or not.

  She took a sheer delight in her power. And so did I, even though I was intimidated.

  “Hey!” I said. “I’ve got my digital camera with me. Can I take pictures of you?”

  “Why not? I’m pretty hot, aren’t I?” I could hear the smile through the helmet.

  “Can I put them on the Web?”

  “I don’t see why not. Show your friends.”

  By “your friends” I wondered if she meant “your lesbian friends.” Ah, Mrs. Wellington, you want to tease my friends, too? You want to say, “Look, lezzies, but don’t touch”?

  I thought about her struggling to get into the suit, and wished I could have watched, secretly, as she sweated and strained. She was cool as a cucumber, as if this were what she wore every day, as if she looked like such a predator all the time. But it couldn’t have been easy.

  If only, I thought, she were some kind of lesbian Mrs. Robinson. God, how lucky that would be….

  She had to have put those claws on last, because with her hands in there, there would be no way she could have wriggled into that tight helmet, her head firmly ensconced in a tough plastic shell.

  A thought flitted through my mind and I lost it as she turned to me.

  I took pictures while she posed. Standing, sitting, bending over tastefully, then, unexpectedly, she said, “You know, I see how models get bored so often. I can see where this gets repetitive.”

  “You have a terrific shape, Mrs. Wellington.”

  “Thank you, dear.”

  “You look so hot I could, like, just take you right here.”

  I couldn’t believe I’d said that. Oh god, I’d really put my foot in it.

  She turned her expressionless ant mask toward me and said coolly, “You could what?”

  “I mean…”

  “I’m not surprised, dear. I mean, you’re a lesbian and I’m to die for. It’s not wise to put it quite so presumptuously as you just did though, is it?”

  “No,” I stammered, “of course not. I’m an idiot, Mrs. Wellington, it just blurted out….”

  “Do you have a girlfriend, honey?”

  “No.”

  “Well, maybe you should try to find somebody your own speed.”

  “I…I’m sorry Mrs. Wellington. I mean, coming on to a het woman was just stupid of me….”

  “Oh that’s not what I mean, dear. Sure I’m straight, but I wouldn’t rule out, especially since I’ve been quite aloof from sex for a while, I wouldn’t rule out being serviced by a woman….”

  Serviced? I thought.

  “But you’re practically a girl. I mean, really dear, you’re just out of high school. I’m way out of your league. And you are my daughter’s best friend. And as for taking, well, with all due respect, dear, if anyone were to take anyone, it would be me taking you, right?” She laughed. “But I think it’s cute. Like I could be your bitch or something. Now be a dear and fetch us some Cokes, will you?”

  Shamefaced and not knowing what to say, I went to the kitchen as she told me. Setting the drinks on the tray, I glanced out the kitchen window toward the pool.

  It seemed she was trying to take her hooks off.

  And she couldn’t. Fitting first one forearm and then the other beneath its opposing armpit, she tugged mightily, but could not get her forearm out. She would need help. She looked frustrated, then paused, and composed herself.

  Shit. Who would have thought?

  I pondered a moment. With those hooks, she couldn’t take off her tight helmet. She couldn’t unsnap the catches on her plastic parts, she couldn’t unlace her boots. She was stuck in there. Totally stuck in her bug suit. Unless I or someone got her out of it.

  Something came over me. I shuddered—pleasantly—with fear and desire. Weird ideas began to form in my mind and I tried unsuccessfully to ignore them. Oh she was a Mrs. Robinson all right, and I but a humble high school graduate of little interest to her, but…

  After standing there and staring I don’t know how long, I began to rummage around in the kitchen, and put together—besides the drinks of course—a few other things my imagination had suggested. I glanced out the window, thought, then rushed upstairs to the bathroom. Ah yes, I found exactly what I was looking for.

  I put everything on a tray, all under a neatly folded tea towel, except the drinks, which were on the tray beside the towel.

  When I was back on the deck, she said, “This suit sure is hot. Be a dear and just pull these claws off for me will you?,” complacently holding them out toward me. I took a breath. I must have looked a little scared, and at the same time like the proverbial cat who swallowed the canary. I looked at her.

  “Well? Can you pull these hooks off for me please?”

  “You can’t get out of that suit, can you?”

  “Huh?”

  “I said,” I said, summoning my courage, “you can’t get out of that suit, can you?”

  “Of course I can. What are you talking about?”

  “If I left right now, if I went home and left you here, you couldn’t get out.”

  We looked at each other. Still terrified, I pressed on
by the sheer force of selfish horniness, if that’s what it was that was making me feel all strange and trembly inside.

  “You’re a formidable woman, Mrs. Wellington, but you’re not as smart as you think you are. You’re stuck in there, and you’re helpless.”

  She seemed to stammer, just a little. “Why, of course I’m not stuck, dear….”

  I smiled. “I don’t want to sound mean, but potentially you could have turned into some amusing human interest item on the six o’clock news: Woman Trapped in Bug Suit Seeks Help. I picture you tottering down the streets on those heels, scaring children and old people, begging for help from surly, indifferent teenagers, and everyone too suspicious to listen to you.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. That could never have happened under any circumstances. Besides, I’m not stuck in here.”

  “Then prove it.”

  “Why should I? It’s just hard work. Why should I? Just get me out of here.”

  I popped the tab on my Coke and settled into my deck chair, trying to hide the fact that I was shaking a little. “I’m going to watch you struggle out of that gear, lady. That is, if you can. But it’s going to be fun watching you try.”

  “Oh I see,” she said, recovering herself a little, stepping forward, her hooks on her hips, “this is about my saying I’m out of your league, isn’t it? Or is it some titillating game you young lesbians play?”

  “Yes. Actually, we do this all the time. One of us gets trapped in a bug suit quite by accident and the others laugh at her. You’d be surprised at how often it happens.”

  “And are you laughing at me? Well, you’re not going to get the best of me, young lady….”

  It both angered and turned me on that she should give me that “young lady” stuff. I don’t know what I was thinking at that point—maybe my arousal had made me impulsive by then. I reached out between her legs and twisted the latch. It groaned and then burst open with a boing sound. The two doors, with springs on their hinges apparently, sprung open and stayed that way.

  She gasped, and tottered backward, hooks flailing…