by Sacchi Green
Moving fast, Ellie pulled back and parted Bob’s legs with rough hands, pressing her mouth to the soaking pussy.
“Fuck!”
Suddenly Ellie found herself lifted and turned so that she was on top of Bob, sitting astride her face. Without warning, she felt Bob’s fingers slide into her, even as Bob’s warm tongue slid across her clit. She bucked, but Bob was ready for her, grabbing her hip and holding her in place.
But even as sensation billowed through her, she knew that what she wanted more than anything was the taste of Bob’s pussy.
“Bend your legs. I want to taste you, too.”
With a muffled groan, Bob did as she was told, raising her hips so that Ellie could lean forward to take her pussy in her mouth. Ellie gasped as Bob squirmed. The scent and softness and sheer beauty of Bob’s form was overwhelming.
As she licked Bob’s clit with wide, deep strokes she pressed her fingers firmly into her, and then started to move her fingers in time with her tongue.
Bob arched, releasing her hold on Ellie’s clit momentarily to cry out. Her hips writhed. “Ellie please, baby, please…”
Ellie swept her tongue around Bob’s clit, then said, tauntingly, “Please what?
“Please Ellie, please…”
“Please what?”
“Please let me come!”
Even as she said it, Ellie pressed her mouth over Bob’s beautiful pussy, sucking hard and swirling her tongue around the little bud. Inside, her fingers sped up, and on pure instinct, Ellie slid a firm thumb straight into Bob’s ass. She felt Bob’s body go rigid, and then suddenly she was convulsing, a thousand tiny contractions fluttering around Ellie’s mouth and fingers.
At the same moment, Bob grabbed Ellie’s hips, drew her swollen clit into her mouth, and sucked hard. With no warning at all, Ellie exploded, grinding her soaking pussy against Bob’s face as her orgasm flooded through her.
Afterward they lay together, a sated tangle of exhausted, satisfied bodies. Ellie leaned over to kiss Bob. “So, do you still think I might not find you desirable?”
Bob looked into Ellie’s beautiful eyes. She had been right, she thought, absently. They did darken when she was aroused. Right now they were the most intense shade of violet she’d ever seen. She swallowed. “Sweetheart, you made your point. Wonderfully. So much for you being a rubbish lover.”
Ellie grinned. “You and your sexy body inspired me to great things.”
“You were great, all right. But what about you? How did you find your first time loving a woman?”
“The best night of my life. But…”
“But what?”
“But I’ll never remember it as my first night loving a woman.”
“You won’t?”
“No.” She bent down and kissed Bob’s warm lips. “I’ll remember it forever as my first night loving you.”
HOT PANTS
Jen Cross
When I think of lust, I think of four-inch Mary Jane platforms, all black patent leather and white piping tracing the edges, being worn by a girl with the longest damn legs you ever saw—calves that curved around, butter smooth, settled over with a fine layer of gold hair, thighs like the long thunder rolling through a hot July night, and the tightest pair of hot pants you ever did see, cupped like not even second skin but first around her fleshy rump. The kinda girl who her friends say (the sharp, skinny ones at least) shouldn’t exactly be wearing hot pants anyway cuz look at how her butt keeps pushing out from under the shimmery material, all sweet and jiggly and needing just and exactly the sort of attention I could be giving to it. Yeah, these cold nights up here in Detroit when the steam heat’s not working right and I can hardly get the damn stove going hot enough to put some warmth into my too-tight studio, all I can do is think on Shirleen in those near-carnivorous hot pants, and how she let me in ’em just that one Christmas before I left.
* * *
Near the whole time I’d been in Atlanta, Shirleen’s butt had been firmly planted in the stony possession of her butch, Zeke. They’d been together far back as anyone I’d met could remember, and still she’d suddenly gaze at Z, turn those big dark-green pools onto Zeke’s tired, sweltery face with the kind of need that you’d expect to see from newlyweds, or really skillful whores, maybe. Zeke’d sling an arm across Shirleen’s soft, broad shoulders, cop a long, possessive feel, lock eyes with one butch or another, whoever she thought maybe had been taking one too many tequila-glazed trips up and down Shirl’s impossibly long gams, and more often than not it’d be me Zeke’d be glaring at. Then she’d drain her beer, stand up, reach back for her girl and whisk Shirleen out to her Harley, with a sharp crack on the butt and a Well, then, come on, girl—let’s get to it. Shirleen’d grin wide and proud and I’d sometimes think I could smell her ache all the way across the smoky flats of the bar: somethin’ steamy and pungent and wet and quick as sea spray tracing its long, lingering way over beach grass back home.
The night they broke up was epic, the kinda tale that gets told at dyke bars for years, gets passed off as “Lesbian Herstory” when it’s actually just plain pain and sorrow and shamefaced loss. Zeke went away the Sunday before solstice, no one knew exactly where, leaving Shirleen with a half-emptied railroad flat just a week before we were to celebrate the baby Jesus coming all loud and star-shined and holy into the world. That year, Christmas fell on a Friday, wouldn’t you know it? (I mean, could you believe it?) I packed my sweetest cock under my Levi’s that night with high hopes, a decision that led to the best and the worst night of my short dumb life.
Her tears were just the beginning, fat and full on those red, bossy cheeks. In the rear bathroom, the one that had a picture of some old country-western dude on the front but had long ago been claimed by the bar’s femmes as a hideout, Shirleen was slumped, one leg propped up next to her, her platform shoe pushing her knee up near to the top of her head, and the other leg splayed out past the toilet, kicking at the door sometimes lazily, sometimes with a sharp vehemence, so she’d appear, then disappear, then appear again. From my perch at the side bar, I watched her in the mirror so it wouldn’t look like I was really looking. Her friends kept wandering toward the john with helpful expressions on their faces, hands outstretched like they were gonna lift her up and get her cleaned off, make everything pretty again. But she swung her bottle of Cap’n Morgan at ’em (don’t ask me how the bartender let her get in with that; but then, a heartbroken femme is hardly something any butch wants to tangle with, right?) and she growled real mean like I’d never heard her do before. Even from across the bar and with her half sunk into shadow, I could see the deep dark stains under her eyes. Her sorrow was so heavy it’d pushed her down to the cool concrete floor.
Soon enough, though, Shirleen stopped bouncing at the door with her one foot, shifted her leg out so she could hold it open and met my gaze. Something feral was in those eyes and I blushed hard, folded myself over my beer and tried to look away. But it’d been too long that I’d been wanting her and something throbbed itself awake in me at having her finally return my stare that way. When I peeked again into the mirror, there she was still staring, holding out a lifeline or a bridge or something. When I put my feet on the floor and pushed back my bar stool, I was careful not to look at the bartender, or at any of Shirleen’s friends cluttering up the edge of the dance floor like a bunch of chickens. I tried to make myself walk steady and slow and Shirleen just got bigger and bigger and more and more real till there I was at the door. I waited till she pulled back her door-bouncing leg, like an invitation. Then I stepped into the bathroom, yanked the door shut behind me, and there I was alone in the dark with Shirleen.
I wanted there to be music around the corner from where we were about to sin so bad, about to violate every rule in the dyke handbook except for the one that says take what joy you can find where you can find it ’cause the rest of the days are gonna be hard enough. All I wanted from her was just one of the looks she used to give Zeke, that heavy openness that tells an en
tire room of hard-hearted and hurting women that tenderness is still possible, that tells us that there’s still the possibility of someone out there who’d open their love and their arms to us in the same soft way.
But Shirleen wasn’t soft that night. Her eyes were catlike in the dark and I could feel sparks erupting between us, glinting up the tiny room in a way that wouldn’t help me find her bra strap but did let me know that we weren’t exactly alone. She held a hand up to me, which I managed to feel, and I helped her wriggle up to a standing position. She wobbled, swaying a little where I set her against the wall, and she kept a hand on my shoulder for balance, which had me feeling like morning was rising up somewhere deep in my chest.
Someone started pounding on the door immediately—her friends, I guess, afraid she was making some big mistake. But Shirleen had reached around me and pushed that button lock with her thumb, flickering her other four fingers across my waist and then back to rest at my belly after.
“Shirleen, honey, girl, come out of there—you don’t want to do this, really, d’you? Shirl? Honey?” her friends’ voices pleaded through the door like bells on a late Sunday morning across a tired, crowded square. But oh, it was too early for Sunday morning yet. Shirleen reached up and pulled down the string tied to the single bare bulb above the sink mirror, and, holding my eyes in that sudden brash bright, not even blinking once but letting her wide-open, dark-green, deeply lidded and heavily mussed gaze hold me pinned to the spot, she said, “Go home, Carla Jo. I’m taking care of things my own way.”
“Shirleen, please. Don’t you remember…?” Shirleen squinted just a hair and interrupted her friend. “Carla Jo, girl, I mean it. Leave me alone.”
“Goddamnit, Shirleen.” But then the door voice went quiet, though my heart thudded so loud against my breastbone I thought for sure Carla Jo had changed her mind and come back to plead with Shirl some more.
Shirleen raised the hand still holding onto the bottle of rum and tapped her knuckles to my chest.
“Georgie, Georgie,” she whispered. “What’re we doin’ here?” In the quiet that lengthened after she spoke, I could tell she really wanted an answer.
I wanted so bad to give her the right answer.
“Takin’ care of you, Shirleen.” And when her eyes flashed dark, I added, “I mean, if you’ll let me.”
It seemed her cheeks went a bit pinker for a moment and her eyes filled. “Been wantin’ to take care of me for a long time, ain’t you, Georgie?”
My mouth went dry. I just nodded.
The tears spilled out over her cheeks in great streams and she shoved me back so she could take another swig from her bottle. I caught the bottle at her mouth, gently pulled her fingers from the neck, set it down.
“I could, Shirleen. I mean it. If you let me, I could be so good to you, better, even—”
Didn’t feel her hand move, just felt the sting deep at my cheek. “Better than what, Georgie?” She looked all the sudden just about ready to kill me. She rubbed her hands together, soothing the one that struck me.
“Better than anyone.” I raised my hand, hesitated, then used my thumb to smooth the tears off her cheeks, cupping her head then, so thick with the desire to lay my mouth to hers that my knees were unsteady.
“Please, Shirleen,” I said as she draped her arm over my shoulder and let her fingers start to play in my hair, sending shudders so hard down my back that I thought for sure she’d be able to feel them. But her gaze was unreadable, like she wore a veil over that wide-open moon face. Her gold hair, usually pulled tight and neat up into fat, juicy Marilyn Monroe–type curls, hung in shallow waves to just above her drooping shoulders. I ached to put my hands into it.
Shirleen tilted her head just a touch, tightened her grip on the back of my neck and said, pulling me to her, “Well, come on then, Georgie. Let’s get to it. Show me. Show me what you been wantin’ all this long time you been watchin’ me.”
It was all I could do not to smash my whole self into her all at one time. I felt like a thirteen-year-old kid, just desperate and shivery and plain. I set my mouth to hers, gentle and sweet, put just a little suckle behind the kiss to make her gasp. It surprised the hell outta me, though, when she did, and my eyes flew open only to meet her own shock looking right back up into me.
“Oh go ahead, Georgie. Do that again.” Her lips moved, lush against my own. We stood there for a while, me cocked and ready, all denim jacket and work boots, setting what I thought was some kind of protective frame over her wet sorrow. She clung more fiercely to me with every kiss and, so slow, I let myself into her, finally tangling my fingers in that fine hair, stroking down her broad back, leaving gentle touches on her cheek. Every new touch brought that gasp back out, the sharp pull of air over both our lips, how she took my breath for her own in those moments of surprise.
“You got some other good stuff for me, Georgie?” she asked.
“Oh, Shirleen, I got just about anything you want—”
She gave a sharp laugh at that, covering it over with something kind when she saw my reaction. She put her palm to my cheek and caressed it. “Oh, ’course, I know you do, baby.”
She wore, as always, a tight cutoff shirt and those hot pants, behind which her butt swelled like morning sunlight. Shirleen took my hand from where I clutched up in her curls and pressed down along her body, against every curve, all the way to her butt. “Go on ahead, Georgie. Please? Ain’t this what you’ve been waitin’ for?”
I pulled her to me, groaned into her shoulder, and let both of my hands fall to cup that perfect, pendulous ass. Shirleen ground up into my crotch and she let out that kind of low growl again. “Oh no, baby, what’s that? Shirleen got you that worked up already?”
Trying not to jut and jab my hips out at her, I moaned, “You know you do, honey.”
Shirleen shoved me off her then, and under the vicious yellow light of that one bulb, gave me the show of my very life. With a short rip, she yanked down the zipper of those short shorts, then rocked side to side, just to work ’em down over her full hips. I didn’t know what to do with my hands, kept clenching and unclenching, as the tiny room filled with the smell of her, so much sharper than I’d imagined, a little tangy, with that smell of some kind of lemon lotion she must’ve worn. The blonde fur around her pussy was trimmed into short curls and she let me look just a few seconds before she turned round and gave me what I’d been aching so long for, that fine round butt, thick and plain, just there, in front of me. She had to brace herself against the wall to get the shorts over first one of her Mary Janes, then the other, working the material over legs held at awkward, drunken angles. When she’d tossed the shorts to the same corner as the rum bottle, she scooted her booty up onto the cabinet that held the sink (the owners had obviously thought of just this eventuality occurring in their humblest room, and wanted to avoid having to replace sink after sink) and then shifted her thighs open, showing me the fine pearly pink skin within.
I started to go to my knees, wanting to fill my face with Shirleen’s pussy, but she caught my shirt in her hand, pulling me toward her. “No, please, Georgie, not that—just fuck me, darlin’.”
I could’ve come right then, but I wanted to wait till she hollered those words in my ear. She loosed her hold on my shirt, let her hands fall to my jeans and fumbled with the snap and zipper, releasing the cock I hadn’t used since, well, since a long, long time before.
Shirleen took one of my hands then, spit into it, then wiped the palm around the shaft and slicked my hand back and forth like she was helping me jerk off. My hips rocked forward into the motion, near involuntarily, and she chuckled a little.
“Don’t lose track of me now, Georgie boy,” she said, and let go so she could hold her reddening lips open for me to enter. I led the cock gently, and fit what sugar I could into her bowl. “Oh god, Georgie. Please, now, come on…”
I could hardly believe I was where I was, doing what I was doing. The very air around me turned to Shirleen, filling
with the smell of her, and she wrapped those crazy, thick long legs around my hips as I rocked and rocked and rocked into her. I set one hand at her ass, pulling it hard and in, put my other palm flat to the wall for balance.
Shirleen came easy, like surprise shock waves. Her thighs tightened around me, then relaxed, dropped off and hung loose around the sink. She dug at my back, clawing at my T-shirt, and let me paw at her breasts, and suckle at her sweet neckline and soft open throat. Then she tightened her legs again, and started over.
By the time we were done, I had lifted her up, turned her around and fitted myself back into her from behind. She’d bent down and propped herself up on her elbows—she had to bend her knees some so I could get in since she was so tall in those goddamn shoes—and she moaned like gangbusters. I’d hitched my hands around her hips, was rocking and fucking my way toward coming good and hard into her. Then I caught sight of Shirleen’s face in the mirror.
She’d dropped her eyes and was crying again. I hadn’t, of course, been able to hear the keening in her cries. I froze, couldn’t bring myself to pull out and away from her body but couldn’t keep on going either.
“It was ’cause of you, Georgie—’cause of you that Zeke left. Said the way you looked at me, couldn’t be I’d never let you do me.” She sniffed, used one hand to brush at her eyes, smearing mascara further.
“I told her so many times that it was nothin’, you was just lookin’ like the rest, but she said there was somethin’ different. Somethin’ different.”
The shame was so thick in my throat I couldn’t imagine ever moving again. She sobbed around her words. “I said you understood the way things were, but she said maybe I didn’t understand. I said you’d never go for another butch’s woman, Georgie.”
If my cock could’ve gone limp, it would’ve. I slipped out of her pussy just as easy as pie and couldn’t breathe anymore. Shirleen, for her part, didn’t move. Just sat there, still soaking and soft and so open, wanting much more than I could give. I didn’t touch her, didn’t put a hand on her. Couldn’t soothe away what she was saying or who I’d shown her that I was.