by Sacchi Green
“Sorry.”
“Just do it, please.” Her grin softened the exchange.
She’d gotten very wet. With that plus the lube, my first finger slid into her with no trouble at all. I added another almost immediately, and I had to close my eyes a moment to savor her sweet gasp. Settling my thumb on her clit, I began to fuck her, watching the way her eyelashes fluttered and her body rocked as I moved.
My third finger made her head tilt back until I couldn’t see her face. Her neck, though, was so long and lovely that I pressed a kiss to the side of it, and then nibbled down to her shoulder. Above me, she gasped and cursed and begged and prayed. I rocked back onto my heels and witnessed it all. I wasn’t sure if she was with me or if her mind had taken her somewhere else, but I was with her.
Her cunt squeezed my hand so hard it hurt, and her clit hardened under my thumb.
My arm began to ache from the effort, but the moment I slowed, her head snapped up. “For fuck’s sake, don’t stop!”
I smirked and put more muscle into it.
Violet’s legs spread wider and wider. She gripped my pillow with both hands and grunted with the effort of working herself up to orgasm. I didn’t like that she was fighting so hard for it. I pulled my hand out of her with one smooth motion.
She flinched as if I’d slapped her. “What the—?” Her eyes were unfocused, searching the room as if she’d lost me along with her orgasm.
I waited. She scrabbled up to her elbows. “What’s the matter?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
“Then why did you…? That was mean!”
Gently, I returned my hand to her pussy, petting it. She whimpered and started grinding against it.
“I’m not trying to be mean. I’m just letting you know you’ve got plenty of time. I’m here all night. You don’t have to strain yourself.”
“I need—”
“Shh. I know you need something. But lie still. I want to try to give it to you.”
Her cunt sucked my first finger in. She quivered as I stretched her. And the moment I started fucking her again, she tensed up and started struggling again.
Violet moaned from deep in her chest when I removed my hand. “You asshole!”
“Relax,” I reminded her.
She was starting to figure out the game. She clutched her upper thighs with both hands but didn’t move her hips.
“There you go,” I crooned. “That’s what I want you to do.”
Her thighs shook. I fucked her harder than I had yet. My knuckles banged her entrance with each stroke.
“Please… I want you to… I want to…”
“Patience.”
Her toes pointed and her knees locked. Her back arched as if her breasts were being yanked toward the ceiling.
Violet tore her hands free of her legs, clutched at the air and then covered her face. The air between us had changed. She wasn’t trying to orgasm anymore; orgasm was starting to happen to her.
“Almost there, pretty girl.”
She sobbed and came with all her muscles. I bit my lip as my cunt squeezed in sympathy with hers. I curled my fingers to draw out her orgasm.
I got so caught up in watching her that it took me by surprise when she lunged at me, kissing clumsily, clawing my sides, grabbing for the box of gloves.
“You don’t have to…”
“Shut up.”
She’d obviously done this before, but she didn’t have finesse. Once inside me, her fingers searched blindly. Part of me wanted to resist her, to prove I knew her body better than she knew mine.
She was so eager, though, that I just surrendered to her. Amid her mess of kisses, there were lucky strokes here and there. Her hip brushed my clit as she fumbled, and I was coming, hard and unexpectedly, both of us laughing with disbelief. I drew her down for a slower kiss and realized there were tears in my eyes, too.
I never learned to take, but sometimes I’ve been given moments of strange, accidental grace.
The morning after I was with Violet, I woke up alone except for the smell of her hairspray and her sweat. Stumbling into the kitchen, mumbling to myself about coffee, I stubbed my toe against the guitar case she’d brought over the night before. I hopped and cursed, but then I sat on the floor and opened it up.
It turns out I wasn’t completely and totally emptied out, after all. My fingers followed trails left by her fingers.
I’ve written a handful of songs since the night Violet spent with me—though I also passed my network certification exam. I like to think it means I never actually lost the music, and that she won’t either. I like to think she left the guitar with me on purpose, to make up for the bit of my heart she took with her.
MIRROR, MIRROR
Frankie Grayson
“You want to go in?” a voice to my side asked, and my stomach bottomed out because it was Rae’s.
Around us, the carnival buzzed and whirled. I realized she meant the fun house I’d stopped in front of to check a text just before she’d appeared, close enough to touch and raising her dagger-sharp eyebrows at me, Well?
Well.
I’d wanted her for three months, since she’d first arrived at the community women’s center where I worked in development. She was an almost-counselor, checking off internship hours toward her license on a rotation with our health services department, and had instantly become my chief workplace distraction. I’d pegged her for queer in Week One from the way we smiled at each other—suggestive at the edges, holding eye contact a beat too long. I’d tried to uncover if there was someone waiting at home with dinner. There never seemed to be, but Rae was as elusive as she was teasing. Keeping it office appropriate, I’d guessed.
It was her last week at the center, and that Friday coincided with a work team-building night at a carnival. I was doing a shit job of building anything with my team; all evening, I’d been imagining getting Rae on her own since we suddenly, technically, no longer worked together.
I scanned the fun house. Standard county fair kitsch, one of those fold-up, clanging metal horrors painted on its front with a goofy theme. This one seemed to be generic fairy tale, with a knight sword-waving at a dragon and a wispy blonde princess fainting on the sidelines. But the doorways were dark, and it seemed almost creepily deserted, the crowds lured away by flashier attractions. We’d be alone.
I took a breath. “I’m game if you are.” I paid for my entrance and hers, handing a pinch of tickets to the slouching kid manning the door and feeling a little thrill at how the gesture made things feel more date-like. At the way Rae smirked, pleased and knowing, when I did it.
Dim, colored bulbs lit the passages we crept down. Jets of air burst from unseen vents, or the floor gave way to rollers, leaving us laughing and grabbing hands for balance. Rae’s laugh was like her voice: smoky, languid. Killer.
Then came the obligatory room of trick mirrors. In the first, we were all crazily stretched legs and even then, proportioned like a heron, Rae had my mouth watering. But I also noted what I had from the beginning, that she and I actually looked alike. Hair dark and jaw length, hers curly, mine straight. Similar lines to our faces, same build and height.
Initially, it had felt almost weird to be attracted to her—would she diagnose me as a narcissist, if I were her patient? But the boil in my blood told me this wasn’t self-worship; I wanted to worship her, toes to tits to teeth. Rae was also prettier, no false modesty, and wore “our” features perfected. I was a jeans-and-T-shirt girl. I liked boots. I’d throw on some brown eyeliner when I had to meet with a donor but mostly didn’t think about how I wanted to look. How I wanted to be.
Rae, on the other hand, was stunning, all business hard-ass with a very feminine edge. Silky camisoles peeking from chic blazers, dangerously sharp pencil skirts with the attitude to match. That night she wore a tight sweater and even tighter jeans. Black kohl on her eyes and lips painted red as a candy apple. Or a poisoned one.
In our reflection, Rae watched me watching u
s. “You like mirrors?” she asked. Instantly I thought of how we’d look in some glassy surface, tangled—my head between her curvy thighs, the fall of her breasts as she leaned over me—and swallowed hard.
“Depends on what I’m looking at,” I said. We stepped to the next mirror to catch each other’s gaze, finish the volley of flirtation, and busted up when our eyes blinked back big as dinner plates.
“Come on,” she said, pulling me along by the hand. The walls of the next passage were all glass, and then we took a corner and were swallowed by mirrored angles. A maze.
We wove around turns and backed out of dead ends. Whichever way you looked, there you were, but different sides—in profile, the back of your own head. It was dizzying, seeing all of myself at once, and my heart beat faster. Or maybe that was just Rae, and the scent of her finally, finally right there.
We hit another end, and I turned to get out. But Rae just stopped, only inches between us, and then backed me up until my head softly tapped the glass. From every angle, I stared at myself over Rae’s shoulder, twelve of me, twenty. An infinity. And an infinity of Rae, facing me. My pulse going wild.
Watching me intently, Rae tipped her head. Considering something. Then she said, “So when do you want to go out?”
“Um, Sunday?”
“Where’s your phone?”
I pulled it from my pocket and handed it to her. She whisked her fingers over its lucky face and gave it back. “You have my number.”
Then she leaned in. Her hair whispered over my cheek. Her lips pressed softly against the side of my neck, with that slight, maddening point of wet at the center that cooled instantly as she pulled away.
“So Sunday,” she said, and turned. I followed her. She seemed so sure of where she was going.
And she was. She led us directly out of the maze, the end of the fun house, and turned to wink at me just before she disappeared into the jostling crowd. It wasn’t until later, undressed, that I saw in my own bathroom mirror what my shirt collar had concealed: the perfect stain of her red lips on the side of my neck. Like I’d been marked.
When we texted over the next couple of days, it was to up the ante with hints of how we were going to basically wreck each other. So when I got one saying, Can’t wait to see you tonight. A request? Please dress femme for me. Your girliest, if you dare, I was surprised—was that her thing?—but ready to bring it. I could dare if she could. Little black dress, glossy lips. I even busted out one of my two pairs of lace-waisted panties, which, because they were black, managed to match my only push-up bra, hallelujah. I sexy-messed my hair and, nerves prickling, waited like a good girl for her to arrive. She’d asked to pick me up—as if she hadn’t been doing just that since we met.
A text buzzed in. I’m out front. I clipped down the stairs of my building, assuming she’d be waiting at the curb. She was, but the sight of her stopped me cold on the sidewalk.
Rae leaned against her car in the streetlamp light, smiling wickedly, in full drag.
So this was the game. I’d still play. I pulled it together and did my best saunter up to her, hyperaware of my clicking heels on the pavement. Ran my eyes up her tailored suit pants and a finger down the lapel of her charcoal jacket. The only makeup she wore was a touch of mascara on those long lashes. Her lips were as naked as I wanted the rest of her.
“Shall we?” she asked in that phone-sex voice of hers, opening the car door, and I let her hand me gallantly in, completely unsure of where we were going in every sense possible.
Our date was classic bordering on cliché. Candlelit restaurant, good bottle of wine (which she poured, like a gentleman). The verbal conversation was mere backdrop to the one our bodies had. She spent dinner running the toe of her wingtip up my calves, and when we pulled our chairs close to share a dessert, she snuck a hand under the tablecloth to skim her fingers along my bare thigh, to the edge of my skirt. Stopping.
I would have sworn I teased her back just to take the dare, to play into the competition that lent an edge to our courting, but acting the femme fatale started to feel surprisingly easy. Surprisingly good. I bit my lip when I laughed, like a reflex. I leaned to offer a view of my cleavage, breathing deep whenever her eyes caught on where I swelled out from my dress. When she picked up the check I felt with a dirty little thrill like she was buying me for the night, and more than ready to provide the services purchased.
In the car, Rae didn’t ask whose place to go to. I silently let her make a couple of turns out of downtown and to wherever she wanted. I should have guessed I was in some kind of trouble by the way I had fallen pliant, supplicant—all those terrible descriptions of female abandon from shitty romance novels. But I could feel it: I would let her do anything to me for the night. She looked so damn good, hand capable on the steering wheel, jacket tailored to the nines. That pretty, pretty face in profile.
When she shut her front door behind us we fell against it together, no cues needed, to bite and lick the other’s kiss, hands already everywhere. She worked so far under my dress to squeeze my ass, my skirt bunched around my hips. I pushed her jacket off and she ordered, “Bedroom.”
The switch she flipped turned on only her bedside lamp, lighting everything in a soft peach glow. Her bedroom was just like her, unfussy yet ornamental, with exotic flourishes against competent practicalities. You could definitely tie someone to the bed’s footboard, with its carved-wood slats.
But I wasn’t there to admire her decorating. I undid her pants and she stepped out of them, leaving her in just her button-up with those miles of smooth leg beneath. She sat on the bed, pulling me to stand in front of her and sliding my dress from my shoulders, revealing my nonsensical bra. She cupped me, pressing the prickly-edged lace into my skin and running her thumbs over my silk-covered nipples before leaning in to nip them with her teeth. Wondering if she saw the goose bumps she conjured all over me, I slithered the rest of the dress down my hips, then shrugged my feet from my heels. I probably could have made a better show of taking them off, bending over to slowly unstrap them, but I was nearly shaking with hunger. I needed us both naked and grinding and coming. Now.
Then she dipped a foot under her bed and slid out a hatbox. More conjuring. Flicking the lid off with her toe, she leaned down and began to pull out its contents, and I laughed like some silly coquette when she produced a leather harness and then, a healthy-sized cock.
As she sat back up I slung a leg over her lap and lowered myself so our thighs slid and stuck. Toying with the shirt button at her throat, I all but purred. “So you want to fuck me, huh?”
She unhooked my bra and let it fall to my elbows, giving my neck a long lick, her tongue hot, soft. Said, “No, you’re going to fuck me. You up for it, stud?”
For the second time that night, I froze.
It wasn’t the request—it was the context. I’d strapped on, sure, but always with steady girlfriends, when we were both comfortable enough to drive each other like cars and, admittedly, needed some extra oomph in the bedroom. I didn’t do it the first time I hooked up with a woman. And definitely not after I’d spent the evening tripping around town in my hottest come-fuck-me heels.
I suddenly had no idea what part I was playing in the night’s bedtime story. Why had she dressed me up? Why hadn’t she led some hard-muscled, well-hung butch back to her lair? I felt flustered, and knew that was the point from Rae’s smile, which was all triumph topped with a femme’s heavy-lidded bedroom eyes, the ones she’d been hiding for hours behind her suit and swagger.
From her box of tricks she’d also pulled out lube and a small bullet vibrator. She slid the toy into a pocket at the harness’s front, asking, “Have you ever come inside a woman before?”
I shook my head no, mouth too dry to speak. But through my queasy nerves some other feeling was building—curiosity. Want.
Rae wrapped a hand around the back of my neck and nuzzled my face with hers. “Well, tonight you’re going to. I want to watch you empty out into me.” She matche
d her tongue on my earlobe to a dance of fingers over my clit, which was pressing against the lace of my lovely lady panties like the most aggressive hard-on. I meant to say, Can we talk this over? or even Okay, but instead made an animal noise and took her mouth in mine, shoving her back onto the bed.
She rolled my underwear off and the harness on in a few expert moves. My hands shook as I worked the buttons of her shirt, starting at the top. She began to unbutton at the bottom so we met in the middle and both undid the last one at her sternum, fingers tangling, and parted the fabric. Her bra was silky and red as that mark she’d left on my neck. I kissed her breasts, her belly, trailing down and lapping at the mound beneath her perfectly matched, ruby satin panties.
She gasped but gently pushed me from her. “Not here,” she said, standing and shrugging her shirt off. My premonition about the footboard had been right in a sense. She led me to it and pressed her back against its rounded wooden edge to face me. “Here,” she said, brushing my lips with hers.
I peeled down her underwear and we both gasped when my fingers hit the slick of her, hours-thick with desire. While I stroked her she retrieved the cock from the mattress and tugged the harness ring away from my body to slide it through, giving it a quick shot of lube as I tightened the straps.
She perched her ass on the edge of the footboard, just enough to anchor herself, and lifted one leg to spread herself open, placing her foot on my calf. “Are you ready?” she asked, and I didn’t answer; there was no point. I was and I wasn’t and she knew that. The fingers of one hand still behind the ring, she expertly flipped the vibrator on as she slid onto the cock.
The vibes crashed into my clit, perfectly timed with the feel of gliding along the tight, slick walls of her, a direct link between her body and mine, between my body and the cock. No, my cock. I choked out a cry and forgot to be careful, pushing all into her in one stroke. But she was just fine. Her head fell back with a pleased, throaty moan. I wanted to hear her repeat it. I drew out and pushed in again. And again. She grabbed my face and mashed her mouth into mine, muffling her yelp.