by Ily Goyanes
“Don’t you dare tell anyone. You got that? I can’t have the whole school knowing….” She got me there quickly. I could read her energy and it didn’t take much for me to catch up to where her deliciously perverse mind had already taken this. It was like she had just been in my head…and was now taking advantage of an opportunity she saw with the quiet girl. The one who spent too much time in the library, who sat alone in the stands at all the girls’ basketball games, who’d never said a word to her favorite player, but she’d caught her staring sometimes. And now that it was my lover, the star player, who’d been caught staring, the quiet girl didn’t look away. Finally Nic had found the opportunity to get what she always wanted from this girl.
Once she’d gotten well past the hem of my skirt, yet still an inch or so shy of mis pantaletas, I turned to look at her, half-heartedly protesting, “But what about the others?”
“Never you mind them.” Her hand paused briefly as she grabbed a healthy handful of my flesh. “The game is over, everyone’s showered and gone home by now. I was the last one left. Speaking of, what are you even doing here?” She squeezes that handful of thigh tightly. “You don’t belong here.”
“I know… Es que, well… I was… I was….”
She abruptly cut off my ridiculous stammering, “You were trying to get a peek at me, weren’t you?”
The blood pounding in my clit decided to get generous with my upper half and shot straight up through my veins, defying gravity as it flushed my face. Accused of a crime I knew I’d been guilty of on more than one occasion. Ay carajo, there’s not enough batting of eyelashes in the universe to blink my way out of this one. Not that I’d want to. I just liked to pretend sometimes. No, right in that second, I was exactly where I wanted to be, ready and willing to face the music. Así me gusta.
“Well, now you’re gonna get exactly what you’ve always wanted. Aren’t you? This is what you really wanted, isn’t it?” And when she didn’t get a reply for a second time in a row, she tangled her fist in my hair, pushing my cheek into the wall, repeating more aggressively, “Isn’t it!”
My breathing was ragged, condensing along the freshly scrubbed tiles, the caustic scent of Clorox burning my nostrils. In a very small voice I replied, “I’ve always wanted you.”
I have. Even before I met her, I’d dreamt of her. Tall, athletic, short salt-and-pepper hair, the kindest light gray eyes and the dirtiest mind with which I’d ever been graced—Nic knew how to do things to me that even I hadn’t yet figured out I wanted. She pressed her weight up against me—sweetly softened in the decades since her sportier days, but lean, hard muscle still very much present underneath it all. In my eyes, she had the ideal physique: pulp and panza mixed with sinew and solidez.
A split second later, my panties had hit the floor and Nic was gnawing on the side of my neck like a teenage boy. Pushing her hips into my ass, I ground back against her until I couldn’t take it any longer. I needed her inside me now. Dios mío, I’d never wanted something so bad before in my life. So she spun me around to face her, pressed me back up onto the hard surface, and shoved her fingers in deep. Pumping in and out of me, slowly, purposefully, she drew close to my ear and whispered, “You wanna be my girl?” This unexpected bit of sweetness brought tears to my eyes and I couldn’t form any words, so I just nodded, arroyitos streaming down my cheeks.
“I’ve been watching you.” The words were barely audible, timidity on my breath. But she was the one watching me now, her gaze intense, and I couldn’t bear the weight of it any longer. Reaching out for her bottom lip with my teeth, I took hold of it, sucking and biting down. Nic shoved her tongue in my mouth, wrapping around mine, searching out every last taste bud.
“I go to all of your games,” I confessed breathlessly, breaking away and tilting my head back. My vision, watery and out of focus, shifted to the ceiling just briefly before my eyes began rolling back farther. Her thumb circled my clit while she curled her fingers up against my G-spot, working it so fucking good. Relentlessly digging into me. She knew I needed her to keep going. So she fucked me through the tears, until I was squirting all over the pretty white tiles, barely missing her immaculately polished wingtips, begging her not to stop. I moved my hips up and down on her fingers—my body instructing my lover exactly how I needed her thrusting in and out of my dripping cunt.
“I’ve wanted you for so long.” The setting lended itself quite nicely to the scene we’d so easily conjured. These walls housed great memories of her glory days—a time that was now getting the opportunity to be replayed and transformed into something even more truly glorious.
“Nic, oh, yes, Nic….” And as I called out her name, I swore I could hear the voices of her teammates from years past chanting her name. It bounced off all the tiled surfaces, “Nic, Nic, Nic!” Her name echoed through me, resonating with something buried deep inside. She fucked me with so much sweetness, releasing my secrets, bringing all of me to the surface. “Nic, Nic, Nic…” Her name tumbled off my lips like a little prayer and joined the chanting above.
I came fast, unexpectedly, out of nowhere. Her name got stuck in my throat. She curled her arms around me, deftly catching my body as it let go. I got so wrapped up in her—this was where I belonged. In an attempt to even out my breathing, I swallowed hard.
She held me like that for some time and at last my heartbeat began to slow—mine always took longer to mirror hers, no match for the resting heartbeat of a former star athlete. Knowing I’d need to take a few minutes to regain some composure, Nic led me to the sinks, rinsed her hands and left me to reapply my lipstick. To get bien pretty, as I like to call it. She paced around, touching everything, the brush of her fingertips across a showerhead imbuing a flood of memories. It was as if she could invoke the good ol’ days just by grounding herself in this place.
I turned away from the mirror and took a few steps to her before she stopped me. “Wait.”
I looked back at my reflection self-consciously. “What is it?” I tousled my hair.
“You look like an angel. I want to remember this exact moment. I love having you here. Back then I could’ve never imagined such a future for myself. Now you’re a part of what that chapter of my life meant to me.”
I smiled and cocked my head, taking all of her in as her eyes devoured me. Then, at the same moment, we both set time back into motion and made our way out, readying ourselves for the big public appearance.
Nic opened the door for me and gliding past her, I demurely asked, “So, Number Sixty-Five, you got a date for the dance?”
“Yes. Yes, I most definitely do.” And with that, she took my hand, twirling me out, spinning me back into her over and over again until we reached the doors of the grand hall. We could hear Heart piping through the speakers: Cause there’s the girl that you were after/Feel your heart beating faster now. Nic offered her arm to me and I took a deep breath as I placed my hand a bit higher than normal, curling my fingers around her delicious bicep—even more greatly defined than when she originally roamed these halls. After our locker room escapade, I was ready to face just about anything…even cheesy ’80s music.
OUT AND A BOUT
Allison Wonderland
You’re not skating on thin ice, Val. You’re going to be fine.”
Claudia’s at the brink of the rink, arms draped over the wall, body bent at the waist with her rump sticking out as if she’s waiting for a spanking. I ought to strike some fear into her. She did the same to me and I didn’t even get a spanking.
Claud winks at me. I glare at her. She’s so confident and cavalier and superbly sexy and inevitably the glaring turns to staring and I still want to spank her, but for all the wrong reasons.
“Come on, Val,” she urges. She skates onto the carpet and stops in front of me. “Get your butt in gear.”
“There’s no protective gear to get my butt in,” I lament, adjusting the Velcro on the kneepads Claud lent me. I hate that ripping sound it makes. It’s so ominous. “Forget
it. I’m not skating. I’m on the bench.”
“I can see that,” Claud quips, dropping down onto the stiff wooden seat. She picks up the helmet. It looks like an eight ball and feels like a salad bowl. My curls are crushed. Claudia fastens the straps, her knuckles nuzzling my chin. I don’t mind this part so much.
Claud knows it, too, flashing her little snowman smile at me. She lifts my leg onto her lap. My calf gyrates against her thigh as she laces up the skates. I don’t mind this part so much, either. Nevertheless, I say, “I’ve already fallen for you, Claudia. Why do I have to do it again?”
Claud rubs my leg. It feels nice, but not as nice as it feels when I touch hers. She’s much more robust than I am. Whereas Claud is a cross between Wonder Woman and Rosie the Riveter, I’ve got the body of a stick-figure drawing. Anyway, “Who says you’re going to fall?” she challenges.
“It’s a given.”
“I knew you’d give in,” Claud crows. “That’s why I didn’t give up.” She taps the cap of my kneepad. I do the same.
“Ouch.”
“Don’t be such a sissy, missy. A little pain never hurt anyone.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m your number one,” Claud answers. “And you’re my number one fan. Or you will be after the bout tonight.” She stands, takes my left hand. I’ve got a wrist pad on the right one, so maybe I won’t break every bone in my body.
“No, I mean, what’s your derby name?”
“Lisa Welt-chel,” she answers, hoisting me onto my skates. The wheels are orange like a basketball and clash with the camel-colored boots. But these boots aren’t made for walking and I practically pulverize Claudia’s hand as I wobble across the carpet. “Most players pick names that pay homage to inspiring women,” Claud continues, unfazed. “Mine pays homage to Lisa Whelchel.”
“The lady who played Blair Warner is inspiring?”
“When I was fourteen, she inspired my latent lesbian libido,” Claudia shares. “I’d watch the show on Nick at Nite and all these impure thoughts would pop into my head. She forced me to face the facts.”
I’d roll my eyes except I’m too focused on rolling my wheels, four of which are now in the rink. Please, God, don’t let me die with my boots on. Not when they’re this tacky. Just help me bumble and fumble and, if I have to, tumble my way through this. But please keep in mind that I bruise easily. And also that—
“Come on, Val,” Claud cuts in. “Let’s get these wheels in motion.” She pulls on my arm as if it’s a rope in a tug-of-war game.
Instinctively, I utter a corny exclamation—“Yikes!”—and thrust both toe stops against the wood floor. This has the undesired effect of throwing me even more off balance.
“You look like a bombed ballerina,” Claud titters while I totter. “You need to relax,” she urges, steadying me. “Just let go and hold on.”
It’s surprisingly good advice, and before long, I’m gliding glacially and (sort of) gracefully around the rink. Not exactly hell on wheels, but who gives a hoot? Once I stop focusing so much on my feet, I start to survey my surroundings. The rink is like a disco, a warehouse, and our solar system, all rolled into one. It’s actually a pretty neat place, although I’d probably feel differently if the space were jam-packed. Claud had the good sense to bring me here on a Saturday morning.
She thinks that if I just put myself in her shoes—well, skates—I’ll feel more comfortable with what she does. But I’m not sure I can embrace a sport whose players are cruising for a bruising. My idea of a contact sport is thumb wrestling, and even that’s too dangerous for me. Okay, so I’m tame. And lame. I know it. Sex, hugs, and rock ’n’ roll—that’s about all I can handle. And possibly Ping-Pong, but even that sport has its hazards.
I’m not like Claudia. Claudia’s got moxie and mettle and a high tolerance for pain. Sure, I like a light spanking every once in a while, but the derby is different. It’s…brutal. And contusions are not confined to a single area of the body. As much as I love making love with Claudia, and even though she brags about her bruises, it still pains me to look at them—which is why I’ve avoided going to her games. I can’t do that anymore, though, not since Claud decided that my I’ll-be-there-in-spirit support is no longer sufficient. So, to commemorate our six months of togetherness, I’ve agreed to attend tonight’s bout.
“You’re on a roll,” Claud comments, squeezing my hand. It’s refreshing, being able to hold hands in public, even if it’s more of a safety measure than a display of affection. It still counts. I smile at our joined hands. My grip has loosened somewhat, so Claud’s skin has returned to its natural color: golden-brown, like a sugar cone. It looks neat with her nails, painted unicorn-white and speckled with electric-blue dots. One of her rings is blue, too. It’s a friendship ring, and Claud’s sporting a rainbow of these braided neon bands, all from her teammates. The Curious George Band-Aid is from me—I put it on after she sustained a paper cut from the Victoria’s Secret catalogue.
Claudia squeezes my hand again, her fingers firm against my flesh. I love her hand holding mine. Her fingers are long and lithe and I like the way her rings and things tickle my skin. I like the pressure of her palm, too, and the bend of her bones against my own. I like the way—
“Hey! Claudia, come back here!”
Claudia has released my hand and started skating away. I tilt one foot until the toe stop sits atop the wood floor. A few paces ahead, Claud pauses, whips around and holds her arms out. “Come on, Val,” she urges. “Come to me, come on.”
The distance is discouraging. “How am I supposed to get from here to there?”
“Skate,” she states, as if it’s painfully obvious, which it will be when I fall on my butt. “You can do it, Val. I have complete faith in you.” She stretches her arms toward me. “Come on, Val, come on,” Claud coos, like a mother encouraging her toddler to walk independently for the very first time. Scowling, I force one foot in front of the other. “Atta girl. That’s it. Almost there, almost there,” Claud continues, as if she’s coaxing me to orgasm.
It’s one of those thoughts that you think without thinking and I stumble slightly. But I don’t lose my footing. In fact—
“You did it!” Claud cheers, pulling me the rest of the way into her arms. She spins me around and I have no choice but to glom on to her like a mollusk. “Now we’re roll mates,” she announces. “Soul mates on wheels.” The hurling hug goes on hiatus, much to my relief. “You were stupendous, by the way. I’m so proud of you.”
Claud kisses me. It’s hard but soft and it’s a good thing she’s still holding me because her kisses tend to make me a little unsteady on my feet.
“Yeah, well, you’re a good roll model.”
“Where do you want me?”
“In my arms,” Claudia answers, reaching for my waist.
“No, I mean, where should I sit?” I clarify, but I don’t push her away, even though we’re in public. A bunch of booths are set up around the field house: artisans, merchandise vendors, groups advocating for the rights of the LGBT community. So I doubt this is a place where patrons take issue with gay PDA.
“Sit in the suicide seats,” Claud suggests, returning my attention to the flat track in front of us. “I’ll come flying around, land right in your lap. Wham, bam—”
“No thank you, ma’am.”
Claud chuckles, but she looks a little disappointed, as if there really is such a thing as suicide seats.
“See those people sitting on the floor?” Claud points to a cluster of fans seated about ten feet away from the track.
“Why would they want to sit that close? They must be suicidal.”
“That’s why they’re in the suicide seats.”
“Where are the I-want-to-live seats?” I inquire, scanning the field house.
Claud takes my hand, leads me to the last row of folding chairs in a much safer seating area.
“Will I still be able to see you?”
“In bits and pieces,” Claud g
iggles. I glower. “Sit. I’m going to go put my uniform on.”
While Claudia changes in the locker room, I mentally prepare myself for the impending bout. Truth be told, I’m kind of pumped. Petrified, sure, but pumped nonetheless. I put my jacket on an empty chair to claim it, and then, just out of curiosity, I sneak back over to the su…the rink-side seats. The floor is hard and hardly comfortable, but that doesn’t matter, because the relocation is only temporary.
The other team is warming up. Well, one of the other teams—Claud says it’s a double header. There’s nothing scary going on yet. A little pushing and shoving, but nothing I can’t handle. I wonder which one of these players is the fastest, the strongest, the nicest, the meanest… I’m telling you, if one of these ladies dares to hurt mine, I’ll…try not to let it bother me. I can do that. Yeah, I can grin and bear it, put on a happy—
“Happy anniversary!”
Claudia is barreling toward me. Instinctively, I utter a corny exclamation—“Eep!”—and slam my eyes shut. I hear shrieking and the skidding of skates and then she hits the floor.