You barely notice Mac gently pressing you back onto the pillows, or leaning over you. All you can think about is the mouth traveling over first one breast, then the other, followed by her strong fingers, rolling, tweaking, stroking. Time stretches, and as if from far away, you hear yourself making faint whimpering sounds.
Without warning, Mac sits up.
“What’s wrong?” You don’t want her to stop.
“Chica, we’re wearing way too many clothes. You may have noticed downstairs: I’m more comfortable naked than I am dressed.”
Whoa. Does this mean what you think—are you ready for this? But Mac has already stripped off her skirt. You’re somehow not surprised by the fact that she’s not wearing underwear, or by the red jewel winking in her navel, but what does come as a shock is her smooth mound, which is completely bare. She stands by the bed dressed only in earrings and her black flamenco heels.
You stare at her, unable to tear your eyes away from her naked pussy. “I—but in the photos, I mean, you’re not . . .” you stammer.
“I like to change things up a bit. Sometimes I go wild. Sometimes I go bare. And it’s better this way for tonight. It means you get to see e-ve-ry-thing.” Mac’s eyes narrow as she drawls out the last word.
Before you can process this, she says, “I think we need to get that dress off, don’t you?” You sit up, moving to accommodate her as she takes the hem and tugs it over your head. She makes short work of your bra, now somewhere around your waist, and then presses you back down again. Her eyes glitter in the lamplight as she looks down at you, now only in your purple G-string and heels.
“Aha,” she purrs. “I knew there was a tiger under that tidy exterior.” Then she hooks a finger into the elastic of your G-string and starts to slide it down.
Oh god. This is it, the point of no return. You’re in bed with a naked woman who is removing the last of your clothes.
One thing’s for sure, a certain part of your anatomy is keen. As Mac draws the lace down past your thighs, you can feel that you’re hugely aroused, and she knows it—your panties are soaked through, and she chuckles. “I think you’re going to taste very sweet, chica.”
You feel an unmistakable gush at her words, and let yourself go limp as she nudges a smooth, warm thigh between your legs. But she doesn’t touch any part of you; instead she leans over you, on all fours, and commands: “Shut your eyes.”
You obey, and the next second her warm mouth comes down on yours. Omigod, omigod I’m kissing another woman, goes through your head for one nanosecond before you realize how soft her mouth feels compared with the guys you’ve kissed. She tastes of cinnamon and the grassy edge of the champagne. Her lips nudge at yours, her tongue flickers as she slides it into your mouth. She takes no prisoners: she tugs and sucks and slants her mouth against yours, opening you up to her, her fingers cradling your head.
Your head is spinning when she breaks for air, still poised over you. You reach for her face, and gently lick that beauty spot that’s been intriguing you all evening. You feel the muscles of her face move as she smiles, but then she’s sliding away from you.
“If you’ve never had sex with another woman before, there’s one thing you need to know. No one knows how to go down on you like another woman. Shall I prove it to you?”
You can’t speak. You can only stare in fascination as she starts snaking her tongue down your torso. Her hair trails against your skin, rousing little flares as it goes. You see the goose bumps rising, your nipples leaping to attention as she slides down and down.
You’re suddenly embarrassed. You have no sexy piercings or daring tattoos, and your bush only gets a conservative bikini wax now and again—you’ve never had the courage to try anything more dramatic. Her tongue passes your navel, and you panic. But before you can get any words out, you feel her hands pressing your thighs apart and then the incredible rush of her breath on your pussy.
You tense, hungry, nervous, and ferociously curious, trying to anticipate what happens next. Then you yelp and convulse helplessly: she has homed in on your clit with absolute accuracy and is sucking it—first gently and then hard. Her soft, wet lips pull at it rhythmically as you thrash around, trying to adjust to the intensity of the sensations.
“Oh god, it’s too much!” you gasp, and the maddening sucking slows. Next you feel her hot tongue—it feels huge—parting your labia. Her fingers spread your lips wide, and then wipe the slick wetness, her saliva and your juice, onto your thighs.
Your whole world is concentrated on her tongue, which is tasting you, licking the opening of your pussy and your lips very slowly. Then it presses inside, sliding up into you. The feeling is overwhelming, and you gasp again. Slowly Mac’s tongue withdraws and slides up and out to flick at your clit again, but this time, her knotted fingers push into you. She’s not gentle—the contrast between the soft, skilled dance of her tongue on your clit and the powerful thrusts of her fingers has you moaning and writhing, feeling the muscles clench, the onset of orgasm.
Then you’re bereft. Mac has pulled away, leaving you bucking with your hips, flailing for her with your hands. “Don’t stop, I can’t—you must—”
She lies on top of you, pinning you with her warm, strong body, the unfamiliar sensation of breasts against your own, her skin soft and smooth.
“Chica, if I let you come now, you might want to run away too soon. And I have lots of things I want to do to and for you tonight.”
She rolls over next to you. “Wouldn’t you like to get up close and personal with my cunt?”
She uses the word matter-of-factly, and it’s hot.
“I dunno—I . . .”
“Oh come on. I saw you staring in the gallery. Have you ever had a chance to really look at another woman this way?”
She’s right: you’re curious about those deep rose and chocolate-lilac folds you saw in the gallery. She reads your silence correctly, lies back on the pillows, and spreads her legs with the ease of a dancer. You clamber between them, panting, still feeling the dense buildup of sexual pressure in your lower belly and pelvis.
“What do I do? I mean, what do you want me to . . . Should I . . . ?”
“Just look. And then if you want, you can touch. And if you like that, you can taste.”
You lower yourself between her legs and take a good, hard look. It’s like the gallery again, except this time you can almost taste her scent. Her bare mound is cocoa-pink. You reach out a hesitant finger, and find that the flesh is resistant, soft, springy.
You trail your fingers a little lower. Mac’s labia are swollen and the slightly frilled edges are moist. You touch tentatively, then slide a finger between her lips, spreading them apart. They’re gleaming wet, shining in the soft light like the inside of a pink conch shell. And you can see the pearl of her clit under its hood of skin—it’s deep red and throbbing slightly. Very carefully, cautiously, you lap at it.
It feels surprisingly hard under your tongue, a little marble of flesh, and you lick again. Mac groans, which gives you a bit more confidence.
Um, what should you do next? You lick more boldly, sweeping your tongue up and down between her labia. The taste is pretty damn sexy, and so is the juice all over your mouth. Your face is an inch from her vagina, and you’re curious about that, too. You prod gently at the dark opening between her fleshy lips with your fingertips, then knot two fingers together and push them into her. There’s a momentary resistance and you hesitate—what if you hurt her?—and then your fingers are being enveloped by her clasping pussy. Mac is sighing and curving her hips up rhythmically, so you have to be doing something right. You try to match her rhythm, and she starts giving short, cut-off cries like you were earlier. Your own unresolved need tugs in your pussy.
Then she reaches down and clamps a hand around your wrist, stopping the movement of your hand.
“Sorry, am I doing it wrong?”
“No, you’re doing great. But I want you up here with me when I come.”
You scramble alongside her, and she lies half-facing you, one leg draped over yours. She captures one of your hands and places it over her breast. Then she reaches between her legs and starts circling her index finger on her clit. You’re disappointed for a minute—until her other hand slides between your legs, and you feel her nimble fingers echoing her own movements. She builds a rhythm on your clit, then slides two fingers inside you. You’re practically a wetland down there—they’re going to slap a conservation order on you any minute.
“You too. Try for yourself.”
You get the message and reach for her pussy. Mimicking her movements—which is hard because the feeling of her fingers plunging in and out of you, then rubbing your clit, hitting the good spot, are overwhelming—you alternate between finger-fucking her and massaging her clit.
You’re so close to coming, but she senses it, and pulls her hand away or softens the pressure every time. Then her pupils dilate. Is this it? Her eyes clamp shut, her head rolls back on the pillow, and she screams. You can feel her vagina clenching and unclenching on your fingers, incredibly fast, almost fluttering, spurting hot juice down into your palm. Her spine arches so hard, her back leaves the bed, followed by spasm after spasm.
Then the room is quiet except for her panting. You’re feeling conflicting emotions—you’re proud of yourself for giving Mac such an intense orgasm, you’re boiling with desire, and you’re a bit anxious: What about you?
“Don’t worry, chica, it’s your turn now.” It’s as if she heard your thoughts.
She rears up over you, hair and eyes wild. She pushes your knees up and apart, then crouches over your cunt. Her fingers slide back inside you, picking up the rhythm again. You’re so close, you can feel the storm building inside, your hips coming off the bed—and at that moment she swoops down and fastens her mouth over your pussy, her strong tongue licking your lips, swirling on your clit.
It tips you over the edge, the intensity rushing through you like champagne bubbling in your veins, the exploding tension, the glorious spasms of pleasure—you almost black out. Dimly you’re aware that you’re bucking like a mustang and screaming your head off.
Slowly, the room stops spinning. The rushing noise you can hear in your ears is your own blood pounding. Your limbs feel heavy. Your pussy is awash—you can feel the stickiness of your juices all over your thighs.
Mac gets to her feet—she’s still wearing those black heels—and you feel a little lost, but she’s pouring more champagne. She comes back to the bed and curls up next to you like a big cat, clinks her glass against yours.
“Congratulations. Your first time with a woman. And you came with flying colors!”
You giggle. You’re too satisfied by the slow throb in your lower body to worry about the strangeness of the situation—hell, Che Guevara in drag just watched a woman go down on you!
Minutes pass as your breathing goes back to normal. Eventually Mac sit ups, takes your face in her hands, and smacks a kiss first on your mouth, then your forehead.
“That was fantastic,” she says. “You know where I live now, so don’t be a stranger. Maybe next time—if there is a next time—you might even meet my girlfriend.”
“What?” You’re stunned. “Your girlfriend? But I thought . . .”
“Oh, come on now. Did you think I was going to make an honest woman of you?”
You feel foolish. “No . . .”
Mac strokes your hair, an oddly maternal gesture. “Don’t be silly, chica. That was great, but you’re not a lesbian, are you?” She leans back and runs her eyes over you. “Although you’ve certainly got potential.”
“But why—I mean, if you have someone?”
“Daniella lives in another city—she’s a partner in a good law firm. And my dance company is based here. We both love our work, so we do the whole long-distance thing. It’s been five years. Sometimes it’s tough, but it’s not all bad. There are certain advantages . . . like tonight.”
“Will you tell her?”
“Of course. Every. Little. Detail. She’ll be so turned on.”
You blush scarlet. Oh god, you’ve been such a fool. You’ve been a conquest so that a couple can share titillating tales. You hang your head as you start to reach under the bed for your scattered clothes.
Mac tugs at your shoulder. “I can see what you’re thinking. But you went out tonight with your big-girl panties on, didn’t you?” She holds up the purple G-string, twirling it round her finger. “I could see you were straight. But I could also see there was a very hungry little pussycat in there. And you’re gorgeous, all that luscious skin, that wide-eyed look. How could I resist?”
You give a little sniff, but she’s right. You may have fucked a woman and loved it, but it’s not like you plan on changing your entire life, coming out to all your family and friends, shacking up with her, wrangling over family holidays together. Tonight was a walk on the wild side, and boy, was it wild.
You pull yourself together, and give Mac a watery smile. Then you find your dress and step into it, not bothering with your bra, which you stuff into your handbag. You hold out your hand for your G-string, and she drops a kiss on it before pressing it into your palm.
“I’ll walk you to the door,” she says, leaping to her feet, still stark naked except for those heels. As you follow her across the room, watching her long violin-shaped back, undulating bottom and shapely legs, you feel a leap of remembered desire in your tender pussy. In the tiny hallway, she presses herself against you, slides her tongue into your mouth again. It doesn’t feel weird, it feels great, and you kiss her back with real enthusiasm and gratitude.
Her eyes glint. “Off you go, before we start all over again. Hmm, maybe we could arrange a threesome next time Danni’s in town . . . ?”
That brings you back to your senses. “OK, um thanks.” What’s the etiquette for situations like these? “Thank you for being the first woman to lick my pussy”? “Thanks for the great girl-on-girl orgasm”?
“Um, that was great. Better than great. But . . . don’t take this the wrong way, I don’t think I’ll be back.”
She laughs. “Whatever you say, chica.” And then you’re wobbling down the stairs on loose legs, your pussy still throbbing faintly. As you reach the street, you realize: Mac never even asked you your name.
The idea of your familiar sofa, with a DVD and popcorn, suddenly seems very appealing. Or you could go past your local neighborhood coffee shop and pick up a hot chocolate on the way home.
To go straight home, click here.
If you’re not ready to go home yet, click here.
To go home via your neighborhood coffee shop, click here.
You’ve decided to share a taxi with the sexy older guy
YOU CRUMPLE THE “IMMACULATA” flyer and drop it back into your handbag. On another night, you might consider going to check out the exhibition, but not with a man this compelling offering to share his taxi with you. There’s something about him that makes your knees go a little bendy. It has something to do with the way he commands whatever space he’s in. He doesn’t just pay rent, he owns it.
“I don’t see any reason why we can’t share a taxi,” he says. “Think of the environment—carbon footprint and all that.”
“I suppose it would be the responsible thing to do,” you concede.
He laughs and holds the door open for you as you climb in. As he goes around to the other side of the taxi, you look out of the window and see the huge bodyguard wave at you, then fold himself into that incredible sports car before revving the engine and roaring off into the night. You wonder how things might have turned out if you’d decided to go with him instead, but before you can dwell on it, Miles climbs into the taxi and settles in next to you, filling the space with the scent of cedar and leather.
The driver leans over from the front seat and waits for his instructions.
“So, where to?” Miles asks.
“I was just going to head home,” you say. “I was supposed
to meet my friend here for a drink earlier, but she let me down at the last minute. She had to work late. Her boss can be a bit of a controlling bastard.”
Miles raises an eyebrow. “Speaking of working late, you’re not hungry by any chance? I’ve been so busy closing a deal, I haven’t eaten since lunch, and doing business always makes me ravenous.”
“I am a bit hungry. What did you have in mind?” you ask.
“I know this great sushi place not far from here; their sashimi is world-class. And their sake is excellent, too. I was just going to head there for a late dinner. Would you like to join me?”
You consider him, trying to decide what to do. Maybe you should just call it a night and go home. Maybe the taxi could drop you off at your local coffee shop for your favorite hot-chocolate fix. But good sushi is hard to find—and this man is seriously attractive.
The driver clears his throat, and you notice that the meter has been running the whole time. You need to make a decision, and quickly.
If you decide to go for sushi with the charming older guy, click here.
If you ask the taxi driver to take you straight home, click here.
If the taxi drops you off at your local late-night coffee shop, click here.
You’ve decided to go for sushi
“THAT SOUNDS GOOD. I like sushi.”
The taxi driver gives an audible sigh of relief.
“Excellent,” says Miles, then gives the driver an address and quick directions on how to get there.
A Girl Walks into a Bar Page 7