When She Was Good

by Tristan Taormino

  Still, I can’t imagine her doing anything other than being right there in the dream. I can’t imagine her looking any way other than how she looks when I’m dreaming of her. And I start to wonder how I look to her, but I remind myself that I need to put my energy into remembering. Only I don’t know why I need to do that. So I ask the question right out loud in the dream. I ask, Why do I have to work so hard to remember this? Only there’s no sound, and there’s no answer. And I wonder if part of the reason is that they’re trying so hard to forget. I wonder if some things are better left unsaid, even in the dream.

  I feel Angie’s Daddy’s hand start to creep up my leg. His fingers are light like a spider at first, and they’re tickly like Angie’s lashes. I keep looking at her. And I have butterflies in my stomach, fluttering and flapping and determined to escape. If I open my mouth they will fly out in droves, all dotted and speckled and brilliant in color. And despite my apprehension, I feel really good all over. Angie’s Daddy makes me feel good, but Angie makes me feel good, too. She’s still smiling at me. And I feel my pussy start to get wet, like there’s a sea inside of me. I feel a conflict too, but Angie’s Daddy murmurs something encouraging in my ear. Something like, It’s okay. It’s all happened before. But it really doesn’t matter what he says because what I want is to know that it’s him, and not me, doing the encouraging. And I’m not sure why that’s important, but I know that it is. It becomes important to me later, during those times in between the dream.

  I want him to touch me there where it’s wet, and I know that he will because it’s all happened before. His fingers get heavier as they reach my thigh and crawl under my dress. He grabs handfuls of my skin and now my panties are wet, too. I’m amazed by how easily it happens and how wonderful it feels, this process of becoming saturated, this process of being taken by him. His hand finds its way around my hip, and it slides under my ass and under the edge of my panties. He easily lifts me with that one mighty hand and places me firmly on his lap, and I’m facing him. His hand is still on my ass and he’s gripping me hard, gripping me like I might slip off of his hook and flop away. I lean into his chest and stay still for a moment, play dead for a moment. And in that brief moment of death, I feel that his breasts are bigger than mine. I experience the fullness of his breasts against me, and the firmness of his hand on my ass. I experience the sensation of Angie’s fingers twisting and twirling in my hair as it hangs in her face. And I feel like I could fall asleep like this, and then I realize that I am sleeping.

  I wait patiently as he moves Angie with the same technique and precision, like it was broken down step by step in some sort of instruction manual, like it’s been repeated a thousand times before. Now she and I are side by side, straddling each of his massive legs. We are leaning into him because the angle of his legs forces us slightly forward. I feel Angie’s warmth against me. Her warmth makes me feel even closer to her because she fills my senses, and she feels really real, even if it’s just a dream. I want her to kiss me on the lips, and Angie’s Daddy tells us it’s okay to kiss. It’s okay. And he says it with this authenticity, like it hasn’t happened a thousand times before. Show me, he urges. And we do. It’s like…waking up from a long sleep. It’s like waking up and…

  And I feel his fingers start to slide around my eager pussy, making me drip. He turns his whole hand to the side and glides it back and forth like he’s sawing me in half. His slick fingers separate and reunite, and my compliant lips stretch and form around his changing shape. He grins at me like we’re doing something right and like we’re doing something wrong, only I sometimes find it hard to tell the difference between right and wrong, and right and left. His fingers push and poke at my tight openings, and swim recklessly around my swollen clit. He feels too big to fit inside of me, but I know that he will because it’s all happened before. I let my mouth fall against his ear and my vision relaxes into his dusky hair, and it stays that way for a while. Everything’s all out of focus.

  I quietly gasp as his middle finger finds its way inside my cunt: partway in, halfway up. I writhe with it and against it, and my pussy opens up like a butterfly spreading its wings. I feel Angie’s legs stirring against mine. And I feel the roughness of Angie’s Daddy’s scratchy face against my cheek and neck. Sometimes I look in the mirror to see if I can notice little scrapes from his stubble, but it turns out to be a fun house mirror and I can’t see anything because my image is so distorted and I look so silly, and it’s so hard to tell how old you are in one of those things.

  I lean back, fighting the gravitational pull. I place one hand behind me on Angie’s Daddy’s knee, and one hand behind Angie on his other knee. His knees feel like basketballs in my hands. I hoist myself up and let his long meaty finger fill my cunt, completely. I ride it with a certain kind of deliberateness. I ride it like it’s going to save me from a certain kind of elimination. And I let my breath entrust and commit to this experience. I breathe heavy breaths, in and out. And something about all of the breathing makes me feel mature.

  I look at Angie’s hair. It’s draped along her back like a blanket. I carry that image with me as my eyes climb the wall and find a resting spot on the ceiling. I imagine being blanketed by her, hidden in the underworld of her hair. I imagine lots of things as Angie’s Daddy gets me off. And I hear him grunt as he drives a second finger inside of me. When I look down, I see my creamy wetness glistening on his knuckles and collecting in his big palm. And it looks like gleaming glossy moondust. His eyes become fixed like he isn’t really there, and his cock is hard beneath his pants. I feel a sweat building on my forehead as my pussy gushes and shakes inside his hand. I let myself collapse against his full chest, let myself feel little in the comfort of his bosom. And Angie rises, placing her hand on my shoulder, for balance. I can hear how wet her pussy is in his hand. He’s got the whole world there; I can hear it. And I want to feel it, but instead I feel that ache. It’s a sinking sort of feeling, a sinking shrinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. That’s right, he assures, you feel that? And I want to look right at her, but there’s this undercurrent of pretending that happens in the dream. And I think it’s just part of the game we’re all playing. I think it’s like going to jail without passing go.

  Sometimes Angie’s Daddy gives one of us a task to do so that he can have private time with the other. These are the times when he undoes his zipper and pulls out his huge cock, first through the hole in his underwear and then through the center of his pants. This time he sends Angie to do something upstairs, only my fingers are entwined in hers and I have to untangle them one by one to let her go, and then she’s gone. Angie’s Daddy squeezes my face with one giant hand and pulls it close to his. His hot breath blasts me like an automatic dryer in a public bathroom. And my cheeks are hot and scrunched and blushing. I can’t close my mouth because of the harshness of his grasp. And a teeny weenie marble spills out from the space between my lips, spills out and bounce-bounce-bounces its way down the hall and out through the keyhole of the front door—a piece of myself that will never come home. He stares me down until I soften and relent, my eyes plunging to the ground like little skydivers without parachutes. I could probably outstare him if I really wanted to, except I feel like I’ve gotten caught with my hand in the cookie jar and I’m not sure what the penalty is for that. But there aren’t any cookies to be had here. There aren’t any cookies, just Angie’s Daddy’s cock.

  He spins me around so that I am facing outward and my feet are planted firmly on the floor. Only I don’t like standing on the floor because I worry that something under the couch is going to reach out and grab my ankle, and that might make me scream. And my panties are around my knees but I don’t know how they got that way. He says, Special things for special girls, and maybe that’s all I need to know.

  He reels me in by the material of my dress like a fisherman reeling in his catch, only he didn’t need any bait, and he didn’t need any worms. And when I’m close enough he wraps his hands around my waist. His
hands reach almost the whole way around my center. He holds me tight, and I am not slippery and I will not flop away. I can feel the round head of his cock bulging and pressing against my needy little fuck-hole. I can feel his desire. And I can feel mine. I bend my knees up onto the surface of the couch, still looking out, and I rest them on both sides of his large thighs. I am spread wide open; my red slit parted in two. I lean forward, placing both hands on the cluttered coffee table, for balance. He tugs on my feet to hurry this process of positioning. Now my panties have completely disappeared and they never do come back.

  He secures my hips and guides me toward him. I feel the fat bulb of his cock launching its way inside of me. And I am flooded with images; they roll over me like waves…Angie’s tickly lashes, her hand on my shoulder, the kiss, our tangled fingers, and Angie’s Daddy’s rock-hard cock…his rock-hard cock splitting me open and filling me full. His cock is deep inside of me now, and it feels like real rubber. It feels like a ride at the local fair and I’m going to stand in line to do it again. I catch my image in the television between the commercials when the screen goes black, and I watch my hair bounce back and forth against my shoulders. I watch my tits jiggle underneath the thin fabric of my dress. It’s the only clear image I have of myself in the whole dream. And even though Angie’s Daddy makes me feel like a little girl, the reflection I see is that of a woman getting fucked. And the proof is on TV just like the proof is in the pudding. Sometimes I see that image when I’m not even dreaming. I see it in those brief seconds when my television screen goes black. And Angie’s Daddy’s white shirt and big head make him look like a spaceman floating around in the background.

  His thrusts become faster and deeper and the coffee table starts to slide forward as he pushes me harder and harder. If he doesn’t do something soon, I will fall right on the floor, right between the couch and the coffee table. My arms start stretching out really far so that the tips of my fingers can still reach the edge of the surface. My body starts stretching too, and I feel like that image of myself in the fun house mirror—all drawn out and contorted. The edge slips away from me and I have no choice but to let myself go, to let myself fall. I land with my head right between his feet, and I can see clear under the couch. And what I see among the dust balls are puzzle pieces. Only I couldn’t reach them even if I tried. And nothing’s reaching out for me, and there’s nothing to scream about.

  Angie’s Daddy shoots his load like the blast of a rifle, right down the center of my ass. The thick lather drips down along my narrow crack, glazing my pussy like a doughnut. He forces my arm behind my back and makes me smear his come all over my skin, hand over hand. And it feels like real lotion.

  There’s a clunking noise as Angie makes her way back down the stairs. And it sounds like she’s wearing high heels, only they’re too big for her. I stand on wobbly legs even though I’m not wearing high heels, and Angie’s Daddy zips up his pants and clears his throat like there’s soot stuck inside. C’mon girls, he says with a contrived authority. And the three of us maneuver our way back into our original positions on the couch. I feel that sense of renewal, and I don’t want it to bottom out. I revel in the feeling of having a Daddy, even though it’s Angie’s Daddy. I revel in the feeling of being the apple of his eye, and the apple is clean and pure and there are no worms. I am full with my love for Angie. And it feels really real, even if it’s just a dream.

  But sometimes, I want to send Angie’s Daddy upstairs. Sometimes I want to press a button and make him mute. Press a button and turn him off. And I want for me and Angie to be together without him. I want to play a new game with new rules. And the new game doesn’t have any room for silly Daddies, silly rabbits. Sometimes I try to change the dream, but I know that it won’t change because it’s never happened before. And I wonder if a new game would just be too much for everyone. I wonder if it would make the world explode.

  Angie’s Daddy lights a cigarette and slowly fills the room with a thick gray haze. And he’s there like a big boulder that I can’t move, like a big boulder that crashes into me from time to time. I peek around that vast chest of his and look at Angie. I lean into him, stretching my elastic arm across his body to hold her hand. I try to tell her that I love her. Elephant shoe! Elephant shoe! And Angie’s Daddy gazes vacantly at the hushed images on the screen. I keep looking at Angie. Every few seconds that bright light is flashing against her, affecting and disrupting her appearance. Eventually, the smoke will blur her features entirely, and it will be like looking through a hazy, shifting cloud. Remember this, I say to myself. You have to try really hard to remember.

  DOMME’S GAMES

  Rachel Kramer Bussel

  When Dana told me she was a dominatrix, I almost spit out my rum and Coke. We were on a first date at a classy French restaurant, both of us dressed in elegant outfits; she had on a sheer white blouse, black velvet pants and heels while I wore a low-cut white shirt, deep purple silk skirt, and killer heels. We’d been set up by my friend Eliza, who figured that femmes looking for other femmes were so rare, we’d surely hit it off, but Eliza had told me Dana was a trainer at a local high-end gym.

  “Well, I am a trainer, in addition to being a domme, and the two jobs are kind of similar; I get to yell at people and watch them squirm. It’s a total power trip, and I get off on both of them. But my real passion is women; with the guys, it’s like a warm-up,” she said, her almost black eyes glinting. She was gorgeous but had a dangerous vibe, not like she might hurt me, but like she knew things about me and could see inside me in ways even my longtime friends couldn’t. It didn’t seem like an act, either, the way she shone her gaze on me so intently, like we were the only two people in the whole city, let alone the whole restaurant. I felt my face flush and my body twitch slightly as I waited for her to continue. Her hand reached for me under the table, stroking my bare knee beneath my skirt. The delicious warmth of her fingers traveled up my leg. She massaged just my knee, but with such intensity I could barely breathe. “Do you like to be dominated, Julie?”

  “I don’t know,” I answered, only semihonestly. Nobody had ever actually so much as laid a hand on me or spoken in a harsh voice in bed…except in my head. In my head, I’d been naked in a room full of powerful women, crawling around as ordered, bending over so they could spank me and spread my asscheeks and order me to do all kinds of depraved acts that made me blush there at the table just thinking about them. In my head, I’d taken a fist in my cunt and a butt plug in my ass, all at the same time. In my head, I’d been shared by two women, tossed between them like a rag doll, “made” to have orgasm after orgasm while clamps set off heat waves in my nipples. But fantasy and reality were very different creatures. They were about to meet, and I wasn’t totally sure how I felt about that.

  Dana’s grip tightened, then she pinched my inner thigh before replacing her fingers with the sole of her foot. She’d slipped it out of the heel and it was flush against my pussy, with none of our fellow diners any the wiser. “Really? You have no idea how you’d feel about being stripped down, tied up, and told exactly what you could and couldn’t do?” She smiled at me, a victorious grin, her lushly painted lips curling up at the sides. “Open your mouth,” she said, the sensual tone gone in favor of a clipped, brisk command, made even more imperious by her faintly British accent. She’d been living in the States since she was a teenager, and had actually lived in more of them than I had, both of us winding up in New York in the last year or so. My lips parted slightly, just enough to make me feel my breath slowly seeping out…and allow her fingers to slip inside.

  Her nails were short, polished to a gleaming bright red that had glinted throughout the restaurant, teasing me with its brightness, and I felt their shiny surface against my tongue as she turned her fingers this way and that. She curled them against my teeth, claiming me in the process. My nipples hardened as I felt her possess me, fantasy giving way to an even hotter reality than I could ever have conjured. I gave myself over to her in those moments
as my tongue melted against her. I wanted to do anything she wanted me to; pleasing her was suddenly all that mattered.

  “For the rest of the night, you’re not going to talk unless I tell you to. You will follow my orders and you will not protest. I’m going to show you what a real dirty girl you are and you’re going to love it, I can just tell,” Dana said as she pulled her wet fingers from my mouth. I missed them the moment they were gone, but they soon found their way to my lips, toying with the fat bottom one as I wet my panties with pussy juice. I had no sooner thought about the state of my underwear than Dana said, “Give me your panties, Julie.” She sensed the words about to come out of my mouth. “No, not in the bathroom, right here, and hurry up about it.” Before I could stop to think or worry or look around, I was discreetly slipping my hands down below and pulling them off, trying to pass them off to her under the table.

  “No,” she said, her voice short, clipped, and efficient. “Roll them into a ball and pass them to me across the table, like you were giving me your napkin.” My cheeks were flaming and I started to wonder if this was a very good idea. It was fun, and totally hot, but what if we somehow got caught? I’d be mortified if anyone else at the restaurant knew that I had instantly become Dana’s slave, that I would’ve practically walked around the restaurant naked if she told me to. I attempted to ball the black lace into my palm and pass it off to her between our plates. As our fingers met, though, she made sure that my delicate underwear shook loose from our grasp. The black lace was gone in an instant but I grabbed my water glass and drained it in a futile attempt to quell my beating heart and flushed face. I couldn’t bear to look around and see if anyone had caught on.

  I looked down at my plate, knowing I’d never be able to finish what was on it. I wasn’t queasy, but I craved something more than food. I looked up at her, expecting us to exit quickly, so she could continue to order me around. Would she make me bend over and get spanked? Wear certain kinds of embarrassing clothes? Order me to masturbate? My mind swirled with naughty possibilities, but Dana managed to flip me around without us ever leaving the table. “Eat up, Julie. You won’t get any dessert if you don’t finish your dinner…and I know you want your dessert. It’s your favorite,” she said, transforming into Mean Mommy before my eyes. Her tone was gentle but had an undercurrent of force, like if I didn’t do as she said she’d walk up behind me and shove my face into the plate—and make me like it. I still wasn’t hungry, but with a shaky hand I picked up my fork. Each bite, no matter what was on the end of the tines, tasted like sex. That’s the only way I can describe it; the food melted on my tongue and seemed to plunge me into another world.