“But I bet you can.” Staci’s tiny voice grew up in a second, morphing into a mature growl.
Troi sank her teeth gently into the flesh of Staci’s right cheek, pretending to gnaw while allowing her hand to reach in between Staci’s moist bush—to find that her pussy felt like a hot piece of fruit left out in the sun too long, mushy and sticky, oozing sweet nectar along her fingertips. Staci wiggled around, her breathing getting heavier as she whispered, “Come on, baby. Come on. Tear my shit up. I’m ready for you. You better take this pussy now!”
If this girl said anything else to Troi, she knew it was entirely possible that she could come right there, just by the sound of Staci’s voice and her scent, sticky on Troi’s fingers and thick in the air. Troi reluctantly refrained from any more finger and oral play. Safe sex between two women felt so unnatural to her, but she could not have sex any other way with any woman, straight, gay, or otherwise.
Standing back up, she held Staci down firmly with one hand while the other reached for a condom from her back pocket, ripping the packet open with her teeth.
“What you got for me, Big Daddy?” Staci was writhing now, the handcuffs both restricting and exciting her. As Troi readied herself for the ceremony, steadying them both by shoving a leathered thigh along the slick backside of this hot young thing, Staci began breathing and moaning, as if she had watched one too many porn videos.
Young, “straight” girls really dug Troi’s handcuffs. Anything considered freaky and kinky was fashionable. But the handcuffs served a much more important purpose. Troi slid the rubber along the length of Shaft, lubricating the tip with a little of her own saliva before ramming into Staci’s hot pussy with a sharp thrust of her hips. Staci went flailing against the hood of the truck while Troi skillfully guided herself deep into Staci’s center. They moved together, Troi going in deeper with every forceful thrust, while Staci gyrated against every push, ensuring an easy, slippery fit, full of friction. Her hips swayed and bounced, pushed and pulled, bumped and ground to some mad truncated rhythm in her head and in Troi’s pelvis. Troi could have pumped inside of her until the break of dawn, but after the third set of multiple orgasms rocked Troi’s body with dizzying episodes of heart-stopping miniseizures, sweat popping from what felt like everywhere, she had to disengage herself from the girl who had resigned herself to Troi in total submission. Troi had to ignore the girl’s desperate pleas for more (they always wanted more)—a precautionary measure, as she was always in danger of giving too much away.
The drive to Staci’s home in Brooklyn was quiet. These were awkward moments for Troi because nothing would ever come from these encounters. This was just how she liked it, just how she planned things. There was always the mystery of whether any of these women knew the real deal. That was part of the allure. Sometimes in the heat of passion, Troi could testify that it didn’t really matter, because she knew she had skills, mad skills. She drove the girls insane with her shit.
With Staci, she had half a mind to leave the handcuffs on until they got to Staci’s place, because Staci was all over her.
“I can’t believe you’re still hard!” Staci kept squealing whenever Troi failed to keep the girl’s hand out of her lap.
Troi had half a mind to bend her over the back seat and slip her another heavy dose of Shaft, but Staci was too much into it.
In front of her brownstone, Staci wrote her phone number down.
“Can I get yours?” she inquired.
“Nah, that’s not a good idea,” Troi replied deliberately, not looking at her. It was all part of the routine.
“Why not?”
“It’s not important. Maybe I’ll see you again at Butter.”
“Damn, it’s like that?”
“Girl, if you knew, you couldn’t handle it.”
“Don’t be so sure,” Staci smirked, crumpling up her phone number and tossing it into Troi’s lap before climbing out of the truck. Troi followed those long sculpted legs up the brownstone stairs with her own pretty, seductive, huntress eyes, before pulling away in her beautiful black truck into the cool November night.
Elizabeth
Julie Levin Russo
I am irresistible. I go where I want and I do what I please because I taught myself early to know my own desire and to live it without apology. I dress like a man. I fuck like a woman. No one confronts me in my sin because everyone finds themselves wanting to burn with me in damnation. Lovers come to me because they know I can teach them the secrets of their own cunts and cocks. But it is rare that I meet someone who understands, like me, how to rule others by not fucking them.
This thought occurs to me as I stand poised to enter Elizabeth, the end of my cock slick where it rubs in the juices of her wide-open cunt.
When I first arrived at the English court, Elizabeth was deep in conversation with a lord or advisor I could not identify. Her eyes flicked up once as they registered the unfamiliar grace of my stride, but she showed no other reaction to the presence of another unremarkable foreign nobleman. When I approached her and knelt in front of the throne, she turned, when she was ready, and brooked the ritualized exchange of formal greetings and ring kissing. I don’t know when Elizabeth realized I am a woman. And whatever idle, salacious, or bitter talk took place between allies in the maze of back corridors, no one dared to openly defy the Queen’s tacit approval. Not for something so little as one more perversion to add to the already well-filled ranks of court intrigue.
I imagine I know what these minions see when they look at me. A young man, dark-skinned and handsome, with black hair that curls around his shoulders, delicate, boyish features, and a slender, broad-shouldered frame. Perhaps they evaluate a bit, and judge me a charming recluse who laughs easily and speaks little. Perhaps instead they listen to my voice, which can silence a room, or pool in the hearer’s stomach like the heat of desire. Quiet, deep, touched with a rich accent and the hint of a threatening purr, it is unmistakably a woman’s voice. Whatever they saw or heard, the ladies at court flirted with me only slightly more than they did with any appealing newcomer, and I flirted back slightly less than a man would have. I was commanding and inscrutable, and a few of them started trailing in my wake, a sort of coy, feminine flotsam. I followed Elizabeth.
Seduction is more demanding than sex, but I didn’t choose this life because I appreciate things that are easy. I could spend into any cultivated lady-in-waiting who thinks she’s found a clever way to give up her maidenhead and keep her purity, but that is a shallow, dishonest pleasure. As dishonest as the life I was born into. And a dangerous extravagance, since my pleasure is always a transgression. I’ve learned to recognize the women who want what I am and not what I am not. I know a woman who wears a cock under her skirts when I see one, who rules the men around her by the set of her hips and not by the flutter of her eyelashes, but I’ve never seen anyone do this as breathtakingly as the Queen. She shuts her body into a shroud and then uses the mystery of it as a snare to capture those around her. Elizabeth has learned the secret of her own power, and there are only two kinds of people she would let inside her: a man more woman than she is, or a woman more man than she is. I was smitten.
I know Elizabeth’s mind, or I tell myself I do. I frighten her, and that is why she tolerates my presence. There are precious few things that inspire terror in her now—she’s already excised that part of herself. She’s as precise as a surgeon too in the way she keeps her house, and she watches her retinue operate. I know when to cut across the room to put my hand on the back of her chair as she rises, which garden she’ll be walking in at noon, and how to defer with my words while I challenge with my eyes. All this is conventional. But I am more than a lord (or less than a lady), and from me obsequiousness is less than respectful and solicitude is more than flattery.
When I passed her in the hall one morning and bowed irreproachably low, without taking my eyes from hers, she no longer knew the anatomy of the gesture. The anxiety of the undissected knotted itself into her stom
ach, and she finds this anxiety a rare and cherished source of amusement. So she stopped, stifling her rising laugher at my subtle audacity, and held out her ring to be kissed. I turned her hand and pressed my lips to the exposed sliver of skin at the inside of her wrist.
It is a remote stretch of corridor where the Queen often walks at the same time of day, in the same solitude, toward her customary visit to the chapel. Suitors have surprised her here—she encourages it. But my surprises are of a different character. She rounded the corner to see the tailored lines of my back curved into the shadow of an alcove. Curved, in fact, against the milky bosom of one of her high-ranking ladies-in-waiting. The wanton was pinned to the marble at her center by my dark thigh, and my hand caught both of hers above her head. Waves of red-gold hair fell loose around her shoulders. I sank my teeth into the sweet flesh below her ear, and she stretched out her throat and moaned voluptuously. Elizabeth saw her face. It was the perfect image of her own desire. She looks like that now, her skin flushed and glowing with a sweaty sheen, her hair fanned about her head like a crown of flame. But Elizabeth stares me down with her eyes wide open.
Making love and keeping your virginity is primarily an act of will. Elizabeth’s pleasure is no part of her power, and she need only divide herself to free it. She has two bodies, and one is an illusion. Soon after her coronation, she had a portrait of herself painted, and prominently hung. It is all surface: the rich brocade of her extravagant gown fills the panel, glittering with jewels and gold filigree. Her white face and hands are tiny islands in the splendor, remote and pure. In life, the Queen plays the portrait. Its sacred surface is her maidenhead, and it will be eternally unbreached. When her subjects look at her, they see what she wants them to see—even her lovers. Elizabeth knows that everyone thinks about undressing her; she arranges it that way. Every excess of embroidery, every elaborate wig and enormous farthingale, tells the story of how she withholds her body like she defends England: strategically. But the body the masquerade invites them to imagine is not the body I’m about to slide my cock into.
When the Queen came upon my seduction in the hall, she swept by as if impervious. But that afternoon, I was summoned to her presence by one of her pinch-lipped sycophants. She is always direct.
“What were you doing with our lady?”
“With all respect, your Majesty, I believe that was perfectly clear.”
“On the contrary, the immodest nature of your assignation was apparent. However, what you were doing, or rather what you were going to do, is not at all clear to me.” Her back was to her functionaries, and she glanced speculatively at my codpiece.
“My Queen, I meant no harm or discourtesy to the lady or to your illustrious self.”
“You are too bold.”
“Yes, your Majesty.”
“What do you think Constance wanted from you so desperately that she would openly risk my displeasure?”
I coughed demurely. “What any woman wants, I suppose, who is not chaste. Will you punish her?”
“And what do you want, then?”
“I want what any man wants.”
“But you, your Grace, are not any man.”
“You do too much honor to one who vexes you.”
“You vex me and you intrigue me. How do you intend to make amends for your appalling behavior?”
“I do not flatter myself to think that my humble person is worthy to attend so magnificent a Queen. But if there is any service I can perform that would be acceptable to your Highness, it would be my most ardent desire to render it.”
The underlings had the grace to hide their distress.
After dusk, there was a faint knock at the outer door of my modest chambers. It was my little wanton, who threw her arms around me and peppered my cheeks with kisses as soon as I had secured the entrance.
“You have found favor with the Queen?” I asked her, amused by the display. I found her lips, and tried to snake my hand through an opening in her skirts. She danced away from me, smiled coyly, and fished a folded leaf of paper out of her bodice.
“I can’t stay,” she purred, and slipped out with a lewd caress.
The note was from Elizabeth.
The guards and servants were conspicuously absent from the Queen’s apartments and the castle still, apart from the midnight sputtering of torches, when I showed myself in as instructed. Elizabeth was seated regally in a monstrous chair, her gown billowed around her. She watched impassively as I approached and, in a carnal parody of our first decorous meeting, knelt to kiss her ring. I held her hand against my breath for a moment, and then she turned it, and ran her fingertips along the arc of my jaw to my hairline. She pulled on the knot at the nape of my neck, and my black curls fell soft into her palm. Tracing her way along the skin of my throat to the fastenings of my tunic, she slackened the ties until I could shrug it off my shoulders. Her eyes were dark against mine as her touch discovered the slight rise of my breast through the linen shirt, as her fingertips pressed roughly into the resilient flesh, and then found the peaked punctuation of a nipple to tug at. She smiled savagely and watched me struggle not to press myself into the contact. Then she dropped her gaze as she undid the buttons to reveal the chest of a woman, studying my swarthy, pointed breast, and laying her hand over it so that it filled her palm. She traced the outline of my lips, and I opened my mouth to lick at her fingers. Sliding them in deep so I was sucking, she spoke: “Show me.”
I stepped back, my shirt still hanging open, and posed for her with my hips cocked arrogantly. Then I unfastened the front of my breeches and let the firm, cylindrical leather phallus spring out. It is ingenious and lovely, nearly seamless and worn buttery smooth, and Elizabeth stood up to appreciate it with genuine curiosity. She wrapped her hand around it and stroked it, and then slid her palms down my hips so that my breeches fell, and the straps that attach my cock to me were revealed. She laughed at me a little, when she saw the harness, and I snarled and pulled her hard against my body, clawing into the exposed swell of her breast, and kissing her bruisingly. She opened her mouth to the assault, biting at my tongue as it filled her. I gentled and licked over the inside of her lips, and then shifted my attentions to her ear, so I could rasp my words into it:
“You want the secret of my body? Then let me show you the secret of yours. If I’m a woman under my clothes, then so are you.”
She shoved me away with her forearms, leaving only my fingers hooked under her bodice, and we stared at each other, panting. I took another step back, giving her space to strip for me. She removed her wig first, and set it on a dressing table, and then she pulled pins from her hair until a thick coppery coil fell free. I stood behind her and hefted its weight, burying my face in it. It smelled of oil and sweat. “The laces,” she directed me, and I helped her begin the laborious process of extricating herself from her gown, corsets, farthingales, petticoats, and collars. It was more ritual than seduction, but with each vestment draped heavily over a chair, I could feel more of the heat of her skin slipping under the harness to swell me. I fondled the arcane and alien under things like she’d stroked my cock, letting her watch me rub them against my lips, my nipples, my crotch. With each layer she peeled away, her jaw clenched tighter with desire. Last was a modest shift, which she pulled over her head in one graceful and lascivious gesture. Elizabeth was naked.
I know how to give it to a woman, but I can’t say I’ve ever fucked a Queen. I spread her out on her back at the edge of the bed, and she held her own knees to open herself. Her skin is freckled, and the russet marks dust the curves of her breasts down to her nipples, which are long and slightly off-center. She is too thin, and her ribs and hipbones cast dark shadows. A line of long hairs trails up the inside of each thigh to a thick auburn bush, now split and showing its slick red center. She is all flesh, all sweaty and pale and bruiseable, and the transformation arrests me. I am standing and leaning over her, the end of my cock our only point of contact. Looking at her, in a dizzy spiral of contemplation,
I realize I’m afraid that if I touch her the impossible beauty of my triumph will vanish.
Impatient with my reverence, Elizabeth stares straight at me, arches her back, and says, “Fuck me” in a tone that makes it an order and not a request.
My cock throbs, overriding my meditation, and I use the sudden weakness in my knees to thrust forward, half burying myself in her. Both of us gasp. I can feel her muscles sucking me. Then I’m talking to her.
“You want me to fuck you, open you up so wide my cock will show on your face, get in you so deep you’ll always feel me there….”
She fists my hair and yanks me onto her, mauling my mouth. My cock goes in hard and I grab a handful of flesh at her hip, digging in my fingernails, and start pounding. I try to bite her everywhere, leaving brutal marks along her shoulder and around her nipple. She bites me back, levering herself to meet my thrusts with her heels on my ass. Both of us are so wet our thighs slide against each other, and I slap harder against her cunt to make up for the lack of friction. It’s too soon to come, so I slow down, feeling her close and open around me by excruciating inches, and watch her grit her teeth and ball her fists on my shoulders. Pushing in as deep as I can, I make small fast movements that shine my clit, and she keens and reaches between us to rub herself. I hold myself up with my arms so I can see her fingers in her cunt, circling as she swells, my cock splitting her just below. My hips start slamming in time to her strokes, and then I hit a spot that makes her scream. I punch it over and over; her brow furrows, every muscle goes taut, she yells curses and comes exquisitely. When I feel her clamp down on me, I shove in violently, bracing my clit against her bucking hips, and spend into Elizabeth.
We end up sprawled in the middle of the bed, my breath cooling her throat. She hums quietly against my temple. Then she rolls me over and crouches between my legs.
“Can you take it off?” she asks impishly, fondling my cock. I grin and loosen the straps so I can remove my legs from the harness. She leans close to examine my cunt, parting its folds and playing in the juices still trickling out. Then she plucks the cock from my hands, studies it for a moment, and starts putting it on. She kneels over me, her hair cascading down onto my stomach, cock resting between my breasts, and tells me imperiously, “I will fuck you, milord.” I would laugh, but desire is too heavy in my gut.
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