by Radclyffe
“Look at that,” she whispered. “I can see it jumping.”
“I’m really close to coming.”
“No freaking kidding. I can’t believe how hard you are.” She laughed shakily and pressed her fingertip against the base, making it jut out. Then she licked it.
“If you do that again, I’m going to come right in your mouth.”
“I want you to.” She massaged me with her fingertip and watched my face. “It’s nice of you to warn me, though, so we don’t finish too fast.”
I banged my head against the wall. “Kris, damn it. I really have to come.”
“It’s my first time.” She kissed the spot she’d been stroking with her fingertip. “I don’t want to miss anything.”
“It just feels so good.” I was whining, couldn’t help it. “You make me want to come so bad.”
Her eyes got all dark and dangerous again. “Do I?”
“All the time.”
“Really now.” She dropped her head, sucking me in. The instant she tongued me, I started to come. She pulled back in surprise and my shoulders jerked off the pillows.
“Don’t you fucking stop!”
She sucked me again and my body did a wild dance. My legs twisted, my stomach hollowed, and I shouted prayers and profanity while I came all over her mouth.
Eventually I lay boneless and quivering, but she never stopped licking and fondling me. Tears ran from my eyes and my fingers twitched in the sheets. She’d pretty much destroyed me. When she started rubbing her cheek over my wet, throbbing pussy, I moaned.
“Too much?” she asked.
“Too good,” I gasped.
Just as quickly as she’d started, she rolled away. “Oh God, I have to get out of these clothes.”
She ripped off her shirt and pants, flinging things everywhere. Then she was naked, gloriously naked. I’d seen her naked dozens of times before, but never like this. Her upthrust breasts were tight, the pink nipples puckered. Her chest and neck were flushed a rich rose. Her face held a question, the first time I’d seen her look uncertain since we’d walked into the room.
“God, you’re beautiful.” I opened my arms. “Get down here.”
She threw herself on me, catching herself on her outstretched arms as her hips landed between mine. I clasped both calves around the backs of her thighs, rubbing my clit over hers. She panted, staring into my eyes, grinding into me.
“I’ve been thinking about this for a long, long time.” She worried her lower lip between her teeth, frown lines cutting between her brows. “You feel so good. I’m so turned on.”
I cradled her breasts and squeezed. She rode me harder.
“Can you come this way?” she gasped.
“Yes.”
She threw her head back, her lips parting in surprise. “Oh shit. I think I’m going to come. Oh damn it.” Her muscular arms trembled beside my shoulders and she dropped her head to catch my gaze. “I don’t want to, but I don’t think I can stop.”
“Don’t try.” I pumped her nipples. “Come if you want to.” I pushed a hand between us, opened myself, then pulled her tight into me with my legs around her waist. “Come on me.”
She rolled her clit over mine, a broken chain of cries escaping from her throat. I kneaded her clenched ass. She worked herself around and around on my already too-sensitive clit. That’s when I heard myself mumbling and knew I was losing it.
“You’re making me come again,” I groaned.
“Oh me too. Oh God, right now.” She threw back her head and whined, jerking hard between my legs. My clit spasmed and I came right after her.
When she collapsed with a gut-deep moan, I wrapped my arms around her and cradled her face in the curve of my neck. I didn’t know what came next and was afraid to ask. After a while, she kissed my throat and burrowed closer. I pulled the sheet over us.
“Are you okay?” Kris asked.
“Great.”
“Surprised?”
I laughed. “Totally blown away.”
She feathered her fingers over my nipple and I twitched.
“Are you always this sexy?” she asked.
“Only with you.” I meant it and I hoped she knew.
“I almost kissed you outside the restaurant the last time we had dinner.” Kris rubbed her cheek over my breast. “And about a dozen times before that. I couldn’t wait any longer.”
“Kris, what—”
“Before you say anything else,” Kris whispered, “you should know I’ve fallen in love with you. I don’t know why it took me so long to figure that out.”
“You always were a slow study.” She bit my shoulder and I just hugged her closer. “I love you too. Have for years.”
“You didn’t think to tell me?”
“I didn’t think there was any chance.”
Kris pushed up and gave me a look that said I was an idiot. “Now who’s the slow study?”
“Maybe with a little more training I’ll get it right.”
“Maybe we should find out,” she said. And then she kissed me.
FRENCH FRIED
Rachel Kramer Bussel
As I’m walking down the Rue de Rivoli, I see something through the window of an otherwise unassuming restaurant that makes me stop in my tracks. Sitting there, looking impossibly chic, eating long, skinny fries with a fork as a fire burns beneath the plate, keeping them perpetually warm, is a woman, stunningly beautiful even for Paris, and that’s saying something. She looks impish, delicate and sexy, yet also strong, as she blows gently on the fries, looking like she owns the restaurant, if not the entire city. There are a few other customers, but no one seated near her, so I have a perfect view. She eats one or two at a time, letting them pass between her beautifully glossed red lips, her black hair gleaming straight down her back. There’s no other food on the table, just a glass of water and a hardcover book opened to the middle. Her nails are as red and shiny as her lips, and she shuts her eyes as she takes each bite, to fully savor it, then opens them when she reaches for another fry.
I check my own reflection in the window. Typical tourist is what I figure, though I’ve added an extra layer of mascara and new purple eyeliner, and my normally boring brunette hair is freshly highlighted, my last errand before leaving home. My jeans are dark and tight, accenting my ass, something French women don’t have in quite the abundance we Americans do. I’m a size ten, curvy and healthy, but at five foot three, short—nothing like the tall human gazelles I’ve seen plenty of in just one day.
Most of these Parisian women I’ve encountered intimidate me, but this one intrigues me immediately. I’m sure I’m blushing, and if I haven’t been before, I must be when she catches me looking and winks, and even though I barely speak any French, I smile back. I’ve come here on a whim, to get away from the girls back home in New York, the ones who all seem to know each other, where it’s almost impossible to make a fresh start. Sometimes I like the small-worldness of my local dyke scene, where within a few questions you can pinpoint how your ex and her ex were college roommates or something, but it can be stifling, and I just want some fun, no drama. I had extra vacation time I needed to use or lose, and the way my friends who love Paris talked about it made me choose it over some beach resort. I like cities, with all their hustle and bustle and anonymity, but my own has felt much too cloying for comfort. This one, though, is brand-new, wide open, as if waiting just for me.
I think the same of the girl I’m staring at as I keep watching. The French fry girl looks like just the antidote to my problems, and when she crooks one beautiful finger and beckons me inside, I race in from the cold, feeling my nipples harden even once I’m inside the warmth of the restaurant.
“Hello,” she says, the two syllables beautifully accented, to my ears sounding almost like a foreign, sensual language. She smiles apologetically before spearing another fry, popping it into her mouth, chewing, swallowing, and saying, “I’m Véronique.”
I have to snap out of staring mode an
d remind myself she isn’t the star of some sexy, exotic movie, but a real, live, gorgeous woman, one who is talking to me! I hadn’t expected to make any new friends on this trip, but rather, the opposite; to be lost and alone and wandering, to avoid all the madness back home that made me feel like I could barely walk down the street, to escape.
But I’ve never had a random woman hit on me like that, out of the blue, not at a club, in the middle of the day, and certainly not one as striking as she is. “Hi,” I say, my voice quiet. “I’m Anna.”
“Sit, s’il vous plait. Share?” Her English is halting, but lovely, the words striking tones you just don’t hear in the States. I nod, staring at her, soaking her in, from the round arches of her eyebrows to the fine black pencil lining her brown eyes, the lashes lush, the cheeks rosy. She stares at me intently, and only breaks the stare to lift a fry with her fingers and hold it out to my lips. “Open,” she says, and I do. I couldn’t have done otherwise.
The fry is the best thing I’ve ever tasted. It’s warm and perfectly cooked through, salty, with a hint of some kind of spice. But what heats my mouth even more is the way Véronique is looking at me. Her eyes are taking in my entire face, wide, trusting, seeking, and her lips are red and beautiful. On someone else the color might look overbearing, a vamp on the prowl, but on her it manages to look both innocent and seductive. I’m not afraid of her in the least, nor of her hungry eyes just waiting to devour me like I am doing to the fries. The fork lingers between her perfectly manicured fingers, but she puts it down, then picks up another fry and runs it along my lower lip. I dart out my tongue, teasing the fry, running my tongue up its length, licking the salt off.
She laughs, the sound melodious, but suddenly I want to feed her too. I part my lips and she traces a fry along each one, from the right edge where they meet, along my lower lip, then around and atop the curves of my upper lip, getting the salty potato sticky with my gloss while her eyes soak in every inch of my face. Her look is intense, whether from under those impossibly long lashes or straight on. This is a look I never get from the New York girls, who like to keep their distance. I want to tell her I don’t speak French, but when I open my mouth, she traces the fry along my tongue. The back of my throat catches. Even though we are flirting over skinny bits of fried potatoes, there’s nothing innocent about this. I know little more than this woman’s name and already I want all of her, inside and out.
She is so calm, I can only wonder if her heart is beating fast too. “More?” She inches closer to me, and all the thoughts about touching up my makeup, straightening my outfit, wondering what I’m doing leave my head as she slips me another fry, this time letting her finger dance along my tongue as she does. I press upward against the pad of her finger as she traces it against my organ, and know right away we are doing much more than eating. We are communicating in a language we are both perfectly fluent in, and the delicate hairs along my arms rise up in greeting.
She is so clearly in charge of me, and yet she’s not dominating me. As her finger bends and the smooth edge of her nail scrapes my skin, I relax even more. She is teasing me, right here in this bistro, in a city I’d never stepped foot in until yesterday. She is daring me to stay silent, to not rush forward with the torrent of questions I find so tedious about dating back home. She is daring me to simply sit, wait, savor. She pulls out her finger and wipes it on her napkin, then picks up another fry, dips it in a pool of ketchup that somehow now seems like a sex sauce whipped up just for us, and puts it in her mouth.
I sense a couple walking in and look up, my cheeks flaming, like I’ve been caught doing something wrong. Véronique’s laugh tickles the air. I’m the only one who matters here, her face seems to say to me. “Beautiful,” she says softly. She is a woman of few words, and I sense that it’s not because of the language barrier. In fact, though this feels like a dream, I don’t feel the barriers I usually do when trying to talk to a girl I like, sober, sans pretenses. She alternates putting a fry in her mouth with putting one in mine, and even when I’m full, I keep eating, if only for the chance to taste her fingers against my lips. I move closer and closer to her until our sides are joined. I have a sudden urge to lean my head on her shoulder, but I stop myself; I don’t truly know her, even though it feels like I do.
I have so many questions for her. They seem to bubble up from my insides, but for once I hold them back. This isn’t about food, but it isn’t about talking either. She leans over and nips at my earlobe and I practically come. Véronique is seducing me with every move she makes, even with the ones she doesn’t make. When she turns her head to wave one dainty hand in the air for the check, the curve of her eyelashes consumes me. I see a tattoo peeking out from beneath her wall of shiny hair and want to kiss it, want to trace it, want to know all about why she got it.
Instead I just silently admire its edges, this hint of ink, and all too soon we are down to the last French fry. She gives me a look that is pure sex kitten, her perfect red lips pursed, eyebrows arched, as if daring me to take it. But then Véronique changes course. She takes my arm and lifts my palm to her lips, bending my hand just so, in order to bite the edge of my palm, to sink her teeth into it. This is not a nibble, like we’ve been doing with the fries, but a mark, a claim. She does it again and again and I am totally captivated. Who is she? How did she get so bold? Forget French Women Don’t Get Fat—how about French Women Don’t Get Intimidated? She is every inch the conquering queen, and I, her subject.
“Kiss me,” she murmurs, then lifts me up so I am straddling her, but somehow, in a way that isn’t obscene. Must be another trick of the French, I figure, as our lips touch, our salty, warm mouths meeting. We could be over-the-top, could make a scene, but her tongue is gentle, tender, kind. Buried underneath her bombshell look is a true romantic, a sweet girl offering me her mouth as a peace offering, even though we aren’t at war.
No sooner has she introduced her tongue to mine than Véronique pulls away and places me back in my seat. The waitress arrives with the check. From her sleek black clutch purse, Véronique removes some colorful bills and delicately places them next to the check. I have no idea if she is going to stand up and swoop out of the room, cast me aside, leave me burning just as the flame beneath her now-empty plate burns, blue and orange and full of desire.
She does stand up, and I admire her backside, the way the pearly white blouse meets the edge of her black skirt, smoothed along the curves of her ass, memorize it in case this is the last time I will ever see it. I won’t mind, I vow to myself, to God, to whoever might be listening. Already my entire mind-set has changed; I am no longer just a tourist, just a lost girl wandering in a foreign city. I am part of its magic, and its magic has seeped into my skin as well.
Then Véronique turns and pierces me with her gaze, her blue eyes direct beneath those endless lashes. She’s slipped on a pair of elegant white gloves in the few moments I’ve been taking in her behind, and she offers me a hand. I stand and take it, and we walk outside, leaving the flame burning on the table, off to quench our own flames, ones we don’t need to speak aloud to stoke.
RULE 4
Cheyenne Blue
My new housemate was everything I was not.
“I’m going for a run,” she’d say, bouncing on her toes, dressed in something clingy and brief, all tanned lithe limbs, muscle, and bone. I’d dip into a bag of Hershey’s Kisses, searching for the ones I like best—the white chocolate ones—and settle myself more comfortably on the couch. “See you later. There’ll be dinner when you return if you’re interested.”
“What are you cooking?” Joanna would bend to tie her shoelace tighter. Whether by accident or design, I could see up the leg of her shorts to the plain cotton panties she wore.
“Chicken korma, with basmati rice, onion bhajis, maybe a couple of samosas.”
“Any salad?” she’d ask, hopefully.
“Guess I could do some as well.”
“Not to worry if you weren’t doing it anyway,�
�� she’d say. “See you later.” And she’d be out the door, pressing buttons on that running watch of hers that looks like it’s fallen off the space shuttle.
I’m a chef by trade, a couch potato by nature, and cuddly by design. Joanna is a lawyer by trade, an athlete by nature, and skinny as whipcord by design. We were total opposites, but in one of those random friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend moments, we’d ended up as housemates.
When my girlfriend moved out, I couldn’t afford to keep the town house on by myself. I needed a housemate fast.
“This is Joanna,” my friend Jazz announced one evening in Kosmo’s. “She’s new here, works downtown and needs somewhere to live.” She winked at me and murmured, “And she’s one of us.”
I looked her over. She was casually dressed, but with an edge of affluence that was missing from my own faded jeans, rugby shirt, and scuffed loafers. Her hair was neatly cut and obviously styled by a professional, rather than in the backyard by Jazz after one too many glasses of pink zin.
“What do you work at?” I asked.
“I’m a litigation attorney.” She smiled slightly. “Please don’t hold it against me.”
Her smile won me over. Plus anyone as neat as her couldn’t be hard to live with.
“Come around tomorrow,” I instructed. “If you like the place, you can move in straight away.”
Her silver Miata was outside my door before nine the next morning. It was jammed with her gear.
“I hope I’m not too early,” she said. “I came straight over after my run.”
I ran a hand through my spiky hair and hoped the pillow hadn’t creased my face. “Sure,” I mumbled, “come in.” I waved a hand in the general direction of the house. “Look around while I put coffee on. Your bedroom would be the one at the top of the stairs on the left.”