by Sacchi Green
The captain’s head was arched so far back that O’Hara couldn’t see her face, only her gorgeous, strong throat—but she straightened up when O’Hara stopped.
“Hunh?” she half gasped, half sobbed, looking at her lieutenant in dismay. “Wha… Why did you stop?”
“I want to be sure that my execution of your orders meets with your approval, Captain.”
No trace of the smug smile, she noted with satisfaction. This was a woman on the verge of begging for more. To her credit, however, the captain snatched at the vestiges of her authority.
“Yes,” she moaned, thrusting her shapely hips forward. “More, Lieutenant. That’s an order.”
“Yes, Captain,” murmured O’Hara. She sank her tongue deep in the captain’s cunt, drawing two, three, four lazy upward strokes to her clit to finish the job.
AT THE HIP
Anna Watson
Two weeks post-op, I’m about to get my period and my leg feels like a sodden log. Like it doesn’t even belong to me. The incision slices down my thigh and I’m supposed to be massaging it with vitamin E oil, but I don’t like touching it. Sometimes I let Chelsea do it, but I don’t like her touching it, either.
Our bedroom is bright and clean, lots of flowers in vases and get-well cards pinned up. A spring breeze floats through the curtains and I can hear a mockingbird yelling his head off from our apple tree. Everything is saying new beginnings, growth, beauty, blossoms and baby lambs and all I can think is, Fuck, fuck, fuck, I hate my life!
“Earl Grey. Hot.” Chelsea sets a tea tray down on my bedside table and pulls up a chair. We both grew up with Trekkie parents, and time was we wrote slash together, nerds that we are. Feeling too sorry for myself to crack a smile, I grab my cup and spill tea onto my chest.
“Shit!” I pull my nightgown away but can tell I’ve been burned. Chelsea gallops to the kitchen for an ice pack and helps me out of my nightie. She leers when my breasts are revealed, something meant to cheer me up. It doesn’t.
“I feel crappy!” I snap. She drops the leer and starts mopping up the bed. I sit there with the ice pack over my titties, eating one Fig Newton after another. She looks at me.
“What?”
“C’mere.” Her eyes are lustful. I get angrier.
“Come where? I can hardly move! I just had an operation, you know!” I cram another Fig Newton into my mouth and point to my leg, propped on its pillow.
She kneels beside the bed.
“No,” she murmurs, her voice filled with longing. “C’mere.”
My breath stops and starts again. For the first time in over a year I feel a little something down there that isn’t related to my fucked-up hip. She can do that to me, I remember, warm my pussy until it feels like molten honey.
“Daddy,” I whisper, just letting it slip out. Lately, that word has become just another utilitarian endearment, but saying it now I feel its full sexy power. I reach out a hand.
“Angel,” she says.
I caress her face and run my fingers through her buzz cut. My perfect butch husband. Carefully she leans closer and holds me against her chest, her strong arms encircling me, her breath starting to come faster. I can tell she’s getting hard. We kiss, softly at first, then with more passion, and my pussy continues to wake up. I start thinking about something other than my pitiful condition and allow her to pull me back into my body, which, it turns out, has just been waiting for the right moment. The right moment on this perfect spring day.
I mew and squirm under her as she takes my mouth. My burned titties feel glorious, the good, stinging pain reminding me of all the times we played with hot wax.
“That’s right, good girl,” she says into my ear. “Come back to me. Come back to your Daddy.”
A few tears leak out of my eyes, and then a few more. Chelsea keeps on kissing me, steady, unafraid. She never has been afraid of my emotions. I grab on tighter, pressing as much of myself as I can against her body. My leg comes dislodged from its pillow and I give a yelp. Chelsea helps me get it settled again and takes up where she left off, her tongue and lips demanding my full attention. I pull her closer and try to get at her dick, but she holds my hands away.
“No, baby,” she scolds. “You let Daddy finish his work.”
I sink back into the pillows and offer myself up.
Chelsea lowers her mouth to my sore nipples, nipping and sucking, worrying them until they’re throbbing with delicious pain. My pussy swells, yearning for her touch, and I start talking the way I do when I’m so turned on it’s like I’m a little crazy. “Open for you, Daddy, so wet for you, need you, Daddy, fuck me, take me, yours, Daddy, take what’s yours.”
Chelsea angles her arm across the hip of my good leg and gives me some steady pressure, something I can move my pussy against. I’m still crying, still talking, “Give it to me, Daddy, fuck me with your dick, do it to me.”
Both of us know it’s too soon for Chelsea to take me with the cock she keeps in her boxers, to lie on top of me and plow me, but there is more than one way to fuck a femme, and Chelsea is a master cocksman. Grabbing a fistful of hair, she holds my head still, moving back up to kiss my mouth, kiss the tears from my face as the fingers of her other hand dip into the moisture seeping from my cunt, smearing it on both thighs, on my belly, in both of our mouths, and then she’s driving herself into me, performing some magical butch feat, fucking me as hard as I need without hurting my hip. I get louder and louder, telling her my pussy is hers, that she’s nasty, a dog, a fucking dog, and then she puts her mouth on my clit, her breath fast and warm, her tongue in all the right places, her finger-dick moving in a frenzy, exactly right, exactly as if we’d been doing this yesterday instead of over a year ago, and then I’m screaming and coming and we’re both crying, holding on to each other so tightly I think I might stop breathing.
“Baby, lover, sweetheart,” Chelsea speaks softly into my ear. I can feel her tears on my cheek and all the love I’d pushed back in pain, in fear, comes welling up into my heart.
“I’m your girl, Daddy,” I whisper, the words coming easily. I almost always say this after we fuck, but this time I can hear a question behind the old, familiar words.
“Oh, Patricia,” says Chelsea, hands framing my face. “You are my girl, baby. Forever and ever.”
Later that night, Chelsea moves to the couch because I’m so restless. I send her off with my blessing—she always feels guilty about leaving the conjugal bed—and lie in the dark waiting for the pain meds to kick in. A few years ago, a screech owl made his home on one of the trees in our little postage stamp suburban backyard; we were never sure where he’d come from or why he stayed. As the Percocet takes hold and I begin to feel all fuzzy and floaty, Chelsea comes creeping in to give me one last good-night kiss, and the screech owl begins his low, sweet, crooning call, sending his love out into the night.
CLEAN SWEEP
Fran Walker
Kat shifted her cleaner’s cart to the corner of the elevator when a young woman wearing a maroon suit stepped in and pushed the button for the top floor. Kat nodded to herself. Another new almost-employee about to face the last hurdle. Lord only knew why the company owner insisted on seeing every selected candidate and making the final hiring decision himself.
The elevator clunked, shuddered and stopped.
“Oh, my god!”
Kat smiled at the woman. “Don’t worry. This happens about once a week.” She pushed the emergency button.
“Service,” said a man’s voice, tinny and muffled through the speaker.
“The north elevator is stuck again,” Kat said.
“Twenty minutes ETA.”
“Twenty minutes?” The young woman’s lips went taut. “But I have my interview with Mr. Colehatch at ten twenty-five.”
Kat glanced at her watch. “The service guys will be here in twenty minutes, and they usually get this beast going again within a couple of minutes. It’s only ten now, so you’ve got plenty of time.”
Th
e woman shook her head. “I was hoping to get up there early. I wanted to spend a little time…”
“Checking your hair and makeup? Panicking? Don’t bother. For one thing, you look fine.” Kat smiled. That much was certainly true. “And for another, Mr. Colehatch is nearly blind. No one knows how he decides whether or not a new candidate gets hired, but it’s not on looks.”
“I heard…”
Kat raised an eyebrow.
“A friend of mine, she works here in HR. She said that, well, that maybe Mr. Colehatch chooses people on…”
Kat waited.
“Smell.”
Kat laughed.
“No, I’m serious. Oh, I’m Marina. I’m going to be—that is, I might be the new lobby receptionist.”
“Kat. Housekeeping. So, tell me more about this smelling thing.”
“My friend did a survey. Informal, you know. Private. With each woman who got interviewed by Mr. Colehatch. Those he accepted, and those he turned down. And she found one thing in common. All the women he accepted?” Marina’s voice dropped. “Had sex that morning, or the night before. Jennif—I mean, my friend, she said that he must smell it on them. She told me he’s often said that employees with a happy sex life are good workers.”
“How very odd,” Kat said. “Still, you could be right. Colehatch is an odd man and practically senile.”
Marina looked at the elevator’s control panel. “When will they be here?”
“Soon.” Kat found herself trying not to laugh. “So you were going to go into the ladies’ room on Colehatch’s floor and—”
“Make myself smell sexy,” Marina said defiantly. “Yes.”
“Jack off. Masturbate. Bounce the bunny. Tweak the twat-hole.”
Marina flushed.
“Poke the pussy,” Kat said. “Naughty girl.”
“I…”
“Very naughty. Naughty, but nice. I bet you have a nice…pussy.” Kat pulled the feather duster from her cart and slapped it lightly, repeatedly, against her denim-clad thigh.
Marina sagged against the wall of the elevator.
Kat waited.
“I am naughty,” Marina said.
“Should you be punished?”
The long, dark eyelashes swept down. “Yes.”
Kat’s breath caught. Oh, she was lovely! Hair long and dark like the eyelashes, rich warm skin, even richer curves beneath that prim maroon suit.
“Drop your skirt,” Kat said.
Marina unzipped the maroon skirt and tugged it down. Now it covered her from knees to ankles, instead of from waist to thigh.
“Pull down your panties.”
Marina shoved her underwear down to her knees.
“Bend over.”
She bent over the cleaning cart, one hand grasping the rail of the elevator.
Kat turned the feather duster around so that she held it by the feathered end. The long, round wooden handle with its little leather loop at the end jutted out from her hand. She swung it, tapping it lightly against Marina’s ass.
Marina gasped and leaned forward, jutting her ass up into the air.
Kat tapped the duster handle against Marina’s ass again, harder this time. Her buttocks jiggled, and a faint red strip appeared.
“I’m a very naughty girl,” Marina said. “Very naughty.”
Kat smiled. “Then you’ll need to be taught a lesson.” She smacked the duster handle across Marina’s ass, first one side, then the other, then straight across the middle. Marina panted. Kat squeezed her free hand down the front of her jeans, rubbing herself in rhythm to the strokes she applied to Marina’s ass.
Marina let go of the elevator rail and slid her hand between her thighs.
“No!” Kat pulled Marina’s hand away. “I did not give you permission to do that.”
Marina whimpered. Kat slapped the duster handle against Marina’s ass, hard enough to leave a bright red line.
“Please. Oh, please,” Marina whispered.
Kat dropped the duster and grabbed Marina’s hips, pulling the woman’s bare buttocks against the front of her jeans. Then she slid one hand around and forward to Marina’s clit. She rubbed herself hard against Marina’s ass while she rubbed the woman’s swollen clit. The thick denim of her jeans bunched, creating a fold of cloth that pressed against her own clit. The two panted in unison as Kat squeezed and rubbed, harder and faster.
Marina cried out. Kat felt her own orgasm gather, squeeze and explode.
They both lurched forward against the cleaner’s cart when the elevator shifted.
“Good timing.” Kat straightened up.
Marina tugged her panties and skirt up. “Oh, my god.”
“If your theory is right, you’ll probably get the job, a promotion and a pay raise all at once,” Kat said, winking.
Marina smiled. “I sure hope I get the job. I wouldn’t mind working in the same building as you.”
The elevator chimed, and the doors slid open.
TASTE OF MY WOMAN
Giselle Renarde
I pressed number one on my speed dial: Monique Cell. She picked up on the first ring. The phone bill was going to be astronomical this month.
“I only have a minute,” I whispered, glancing around the office to make sure nobody was hovering too close. “Sid just got up to grab lunch, and he won’t be gone for long. How’s the conference going?”
Even over the phone, I could hear Monique shrug her shoulders. My woman was beautifully predictable with that sort of thing. “This city’s full of politicians. I never know what to believe and what’s spin.”
Yes, I’d started it, but I realized right away I didn’t want to talk about work or spin or politics. “What are you doing right now?”
“Just ducking out of the lunch line to talk a little more…” Her voice deepened to satin gravel, shimmering and gorgeous and gritty all at once, “…privately.”
A moan slipped through my lips before I could catch it. I looked around the office, but no one was about.
“Are you eating?” Monique asked. Not what I’d anticipated as an opening gambit; I found the question jarring. “You don’t eat enough, Jackie. I worry about you.”
I sighed. “Well, don’t worry—I’m eating,” though it wasn’t true. I hadn’t called her for a lecture. Monique hadn’t been away twenty-four hours, and already I was craving her presence, her body, her taste in my mouth.
“That’s good,” Monique replied. “I’m eating too. Here, I’ll put a bite of this in your mouth and you tell me what it is.”
Closing my eyes, I focused on the pleasured moan Monique released into my black Nortel phone receiver. Warm sweetness caressed my taste buds, and I knew precisely what she’d place on my metaphysical tongue. “You’re eating dark chocolate. I can taste it.” I peered down the hallways to make sure Sid wasn’t on his way back. The coast was clear, and I was going all in. “Now, you tell me what I’m eating.”
Monique gurgled, but answered without pause. “I know exactly what you’re eating. You’ve got your face all up between my thighs, and you are just devouring my pussy.”
“Yes I am, babygirl, and your pussy is delicious.” There was a throb between my legs, like a drumbeat, at the sound of those words from her mouth and from mine. We didn’t do this. We didn’t talk like this.
“Oh, you are sweet,” Monique cooed. “Sweet as chocolate.”
My eyelids fluttered closed. I wondered where she was, if she was alone now, if she was reaching down inside her panties to play with her clit. God, I loved the image of my woman with her hand down her pants, slowly rubbing that sweet spot. I loved the image so much I was half tempted to slip my own fingers down between my pussy lips and play in that liquid heat. But I couldn’t do that…not at work…not sitting at my desk in my wide-open office…
“I’m kissing your mouth,” I told Monique. Her little panting noises were getting the crotch of my panties incredibly slick with juice, but I wanted her words in my mouth. “Can you taste your pu
ssy on my tongue?”
“Yes I can,” she replied in a sizzling whisper. “It’s mingling with the chocolate, like a dark-chocolate pussy.”
My breath hitched and I wanted so badly to slip a hand beneath my top, inside the cup of my bra, and pinch my nipples until they were as hard as little pink pebbles. All I could do to resist was close my eyes and lick the picture Monique had planted in my mind. “Oh, your dark-chocolate pussy is melting in my mouth… and in my hands.” My head buzzed with sugarcoated arousal. “It’s all over my fingers. The juice is running down my chin. Oh babygirl, your chocolate pussy is dripping all over me.”
Monique gasped, and the sound sent a shock wave from my tits to my clit. “Tell me where,” she begged. “Where’s that chocolate dripping, Jackie?”
My name on her tongue was sweetest of all. “It’s dripping all down my naked tits and you’re sucking it from my nipples.” I could feel my thighs squeezing together of their own volition, applying pressure to my fat clit peeking out from between two wet lips. I stifled a squeal.
“You lick it from my lips,” she whispered. Her voice was a secret. “It’s everywhere now. You suck the chocolate from my tongue and then sink right back down to suck it from my clit. My chocolate body is all over your skin, babydoll.”
“My tongue is all over yours.” I could see her now: the chocolate of her flesh melting with the heat of my lips on her engorged pussy lips, the warmth of my hands on her smooth, dark thighs. She’s all over my face. I’m messy with the taste of her.
“Lick me,” she begged.
“Yes.” My hand snuck up my thigh, pressing the seam of my neat gray slacks against my throbbing clit. The sensation was so startling my hips bucked forward before I could quell the motion. “God, babygirl, I’m getting off just imagining the taste of you.”
“Me too.”
And the idea that Monique was every bit as aroused as I was turned me on even more. It didn’t take long. My imaginings had my clit thick and throbbing, just waiting for those little touches, one finger stroking over the top of my slacks. That’s all I needed—I missed her so much. Her breath in the phone seemed sweet with chocolate, and my pleasure caught in my chest, a suppressed sound, thumping right there next to my heart, right there next to Monique. She was everything to me.