Sometimes She Lets Me

by Tristan Taormino

  i’m torn trying to get my nerve up too and restrain my blistering desire to possess you here now. but i know who’d win that internal battle. in the kitchen i walk up behind you at the sink. you look so tough as you wash a glass for me with the tenderest hands i’ve ever seen. i feel a drop of sweat ride my spine to my ass when i reach around you to run my nails up your stomach, pull your back into my breasts and push my pelvis into your ass, push your pelvis into the countertop like i want you—like you want to need to be when you realize what i’ve been hiding.

  all those nights of erotic imagination didn’t prepare you for this stiff reality. you didn’t think i had it in me. you open your lips almost as if to protest even as your legs spread wider to meet me, even as your deep soft moan betrays you. my fingers in your mouth become a simple formality.

  i gotta move quick before we talk ourselves outta this. i whisper in your ear, say: you can be mama’s queer boy tonight if you like. my fingers run up the crotch of your jeans, you stifle a scream as my nail grazes your ass.

  all butches have a black leather belt somewhere. yours is at hand as i grab it and pull your ass a little higher while you reach between your legs to feel my cock. i’m still rubbing it between your thighs when i see the stubborn relief in your eyes as you realize it’s not your dick you’re drippin’ on. it’s mine.

  you never knew how much you loved me before you got down on your knees on that dark kitchen floor, lifted up my skirt, and slid my dick down your throat. i showed you mercy, took your hand as i led the well known route to the bed, sat you on it with that dazed, amazed look on your face to watch me strip.

  off with my blouse—i left the red velvet bra on for a minute. pulled down my skirt—left the brown suede boots on for a minute. let my locks down and stroked my cock.

  i let you take off my bra and play titty games for a while to get you comfortable—make you drip like i dripped all down my girlish thighs. i whispered all the ways i would fuck you tonight. you fought off your fright, felt your throat get tight, wouldn’t let emotion overpower desire. you cowered into my breasts. you thought that way i wouldn’t make you beg. remember?

  i took your shirt off—left you the tank. pulled your pants to your ankles so fast you fell facedown, boxer-clad ass in the air—i’ll let you think i practiced that move—tight-ass black jeans locked your legs. i let your black belt fall free—that time.

  and yes i rubbed your back and whispered my love in your ear, ran my tongue from the nape of your neck to your rear before i made you say it.

  and yes i loved you with every part of my body, every part of your body, while the last of your time-toughened defenses melted beneath my touch and you knew you were safe.

  and when you finally begged—just a whisper—

  fuck me

  i knew i could tell you to say it louder. i made you beg for it again and again until i heard you cry if you don’t fuck me goddammit, right now, one of us is gonna die!

  all right then. i entered sacred space you opened to me, let you bury your face in the pillow, helped you fight the monsters of old humiliations, new fears that i wouldn’t let you keep your swagger, the staggering dread that i wouldn’t be able to see the strong, sexy woman you need to be anymore. you let me bite your back and grab your cunt and tits and whisper over and over that you’re mine, tell you this time how good your pussy feels from the inside because we know this is the kinda love that reaches thru these barriers.

  you scream your release. i do too—after fucking you some more.

  we had never known love like this. we lay in bed all night, took turns feeding each other whatever we had delivered. we talked a little and loved a lot more and freed ourselves for our own acceptance. by morning i had put my dick down for a little while, and you got yours up again and it was like never before. ’cuz i knew you, and you were known and still loved anyway. we’ve had a lot of those nights since then. i always try to surprise you. and when you sit in that bar, when those other b-girls try not to look at you, you can stare straight back and know that—in the next twenty minutes or so—the kinda soft/ hard love everyone wants not to speak of gonna storm through that door on five-inch platform boots, worn for your pleasure, and lead you by the hand back home.

  COP-OUT

  Rosalind Christine Lloyd

  Troi was into picking up girls at straight clubs. Tonight, her destination was Butter, a hip-hop club in Tribeca.

  An ex-Marine and former college hoop all-star, Troi was now a New York City police detective. Her preoccupation with combat and competition defined a quiet but powerfully aggressive demeanor. She kept her five-ten, 160-pound body buffed to masculine perfection with rigorous daily workouts that involved pumping iron with the muscle queens at a gay gym in Chelsea where she matched their workout regimen to achieve similar macho results. Every inch of her was solid, sinuous, rippling muscle.

  Her skin was like dark fudge, as rich and even in tone as a sinfully delicious chocolate cake. When she laughed, a mouth full of perfectly spaced teeth framed by thin, silky lips accentuated a smile that ignited the light in her unusually light brown eyes. Her hands were massive: hands designed to palm basketballs, handle heavy artillery, and apprehend suspects, among other useful things.

  Tonight she opted for a pair of soft brown leather pants and a suede camel-colored shirt. She had a knack for choosing loosefitting clothes that enabled her to neutralize any semblance of femininity. Her breasts were almost always held hostage, bound tightly beneath her clothing. She selected one of her larger dildos, the one she’d named Shaft, along with her new leather travel harness. Shaft was handmade, designed precisely to her specifications to include, among other things, a skin tone that matched her complexion. The startling replica even came equipped with a fake foreskin that made it feel that much more authentic. It served its purpose. It set her back quite a lot of money but she quickly discovered it was worth every cent and more. She finished her outfit with her favorite designer square-toe boots (for men, of course), splashed on a men’s designer cologne, and dared to accessorize with a fat ruby in her left ear and a matching pinky ring for that hint of gangsta.

  To throw people off her trail, she would often flash her police badge on her way into the clubs she cruised. Besides being allowed admission at no charge, she avoided being carded. This particular evening, it was obvious that Butter was seriously implementing its ID policy because of the excess crowd of underage kids hanging out behind the ropes, trying to get in.

  Hip-hop clubs were perfect venues for her obsession because the social element was fiercely dark, wild, uninhibited, and crowded enough for her to move around freely without inciting any suspicion. The carnival feeling reminded Troi of her freaknik college days. Most of the men were typical in their badass attitudes, adhering to the typical negative stereotypes of male posturing, and taking the pessimistic connotations of the music way too seriously. Talk about game—all of this worked in Troi’s favor because she offered an alternative. Her meticulous, classy, cash-money look attracted the girls’ attention every time. The only problem she ever encountered were the down-low, bisexual switch-hitter boys prowling around who correctly detected her on their gaydar, but incorrectly assumed she was a gay man or something even more ambiguous. Troi found these occasions amusing but off-putting. For this reason, using the restrooms, any restroom, was strictly out of the question.

  Scanning the club, she easily found her mark: a tall, red bone with the face of an angel dipped in honey, with two long French braids that went down her back tickling a fat, juicy ass squeezed into a cheap, tight, Lycra hoochie dress. The slinky fabric stretched and strained against the milk-fed curves of her breeder hips. Her calves, sprung from svelte, golden thighs, were incredibly sculpted in a pair of chic platform ankle boots that had a sci-fi effect: the entire boot, including the heel, was encased in stretched black leather. Troi liked the way they made her calves look. Long and wispy eyelashes like the fringe on a gypsy’s shawl draped huge, sensuous eyes. Wear
ing too much jewelry, she was definitely into “bling-bling.” Her nail tips were long, decorated in startling designs and colors; but her tits, piled into a push-up bra, were voluminously for real. Ms. Thing was ghetto fabulous in all its glory.

  Troi watched the girl closely, studied her standing at the bar as if waiting for a bus. At least three men asked Braids to dance, but she declined them all. Braids was waiting for Mr. Right. She was waiting for Troi.

  Troi sent her a glass of champagne with a shot of Hennessey poured on top (commonly known as thug’s gold) and waited for the young lady’s reaction. Initially, Braids hesitated with suspicion, refusing the cocktail. But when the bartender pointed at Troi, Braids stared for a moment with those eyes, assessing her admirer before smiling seductively and mouthing the words thank you with lusciously burgundy-coated lips. She then proceeded to sip slowly from her glass as if digesting something very precious. Troi would not allow her much time to think, knowing she would have to crank up the charm to get Braids where she wanted her.

  Their eyes locked and remained so while Troi slowly walked to the end of the bar, as if she was a pimp strolling along a catwalk. Unable to read anything from the girl’s eyes, Troi relied on her feminine intuition, and she felt the adrenaline surge through her. It was the same feeling she got before taking the winning layup shot or the feeling she had during a stakeout—the feeling of victory in enemy territory. Flexing her muscles, she walked right up to Braids, suddenly feeling the aura of heat emitting from the girl’s body. This startled Troi for a moment. As if reading Troi’s mind, Braids took another sip of champagne. Taking a deep breath, Troi leaned in toward the girl, telling herself not to inhale her whole.

  “I can see you appreciate the finer things in life,” Troi whispered in her ear, letting her nose brush against the length of her neck for a trace of her scent.

  “Is that your best line? Now I know you can come better than that especially when you sending over champagne and everything. What’s your name, Mr. Got-All-the-Right-Moves?” The dark pools turned into magnets, drawing Troi in.

  “I’m Troi—and what do they call you, Ms. Got-All-the-Right-Moves?”

  “If you’re nasty.”

  “Oh, I’m plenty nasty.”

  “I bet you are. I’m Staci.” She sipped from her glass again, her eyes lowering, her comfort level improving.

  The dance floor was a virtual free-for-all. No respect was given and every liberty was taken with the feminine gender. The brothers practically mauled the girls alive and the girls appeared to enjoy the attention, but whether this was really the case was another matter altogether. But this kind of atmosphere played in Troi’s favor as she gently removed the glass from Staci’s hands and led her onto the crowded dance floor.

  It was so hot it seemed like everyone was simulating sex. Staci wrapped her arms around Troi’s neck, rubbing herself against Troi’s thigh like a puppy in heat. Something was on this girl’s mind.

  Troi was enamored by the overture and didn’t waste any time stroking Staci’s back very provocatively and grabbing her ass, positioning Staci so that she was gyrating on the head of Troi’s dildo.

  “You a big boy, Troi. You could hurt a girl,” she purred in Troi’s ear.

  When Staci stuck her hot, wet tongue into that same ear, Troi wanted to sink her cock right in the ass she held, but she settled for plunging her fingers through Staci’s lacy thong and in between her meaty lips.

  Staci felt so good riding Troi’s dong and fingers, her soft breasts crushed against Troi’s bound, puckered nipples. Troi could feel Staci’s muscles clench in the palm of her hands. Staci found Troi’s lips with her own, forcing them into a kiss so provocative it made Troi’s head spin. Sucking tongues, lips, mouths like they were sucking on the world’s best-tasting treat, each of them settled into some serious dry-humping, riding the crest of their quivering horniness. Before Troi realized it, the front of Staci’s dress was hiked up against her hips and Staci began stroking Shaft through Troi’s leather pants: a great big no-no.

  Troi reached behind her belt for her handcuffs, and placed them on Staci.

  “Am I under arrest, officer?” Staci was unfazed.

  “Yeah, I’m taking you into custody.” Troi made only a small spectacle leading Staci out of the club in handcuffs. Security and other patrons looked on suspiciously as Troi flashed the badge attached to her belt. Staci loved every minute of the crude public display.

  Troi’s truck was strategically parked on a secluded side street. Listening to the sounds of their heels clicking against the slick cobblestone street, Troi continued to steer her “assailant” by the cuffs. Her eyes were locked on Staci from behind, while Staci enhanced the view by shifting her ever-ripening ass with every step she took, her calves casting a spell over Troi’s mind. They stopped once they reached Troi’s jet-black Lincoln Navigator.

  “I like your big, black truck,” Staci whispered over her shoulder.

  “Oh, we’ll see just how much you like it,” Troi whispered back, gently pressing Staci up against the hood of the truck, the girl’s hips and thighs shivering as they met the cold fiberglass.

  Staci giggled nervously but obediently spread her legs apart. Troi pushed herself against her; the girl was built like a gazelle, tall and graceful, with limbs so delicate and fine they seemed breakable. If only Troi could feel those long, thin hands wrapped around her Shaft, it would be a sensual nirvana. If only Troi could watch those burgundy lips wrapped tightly around her Shaft, her strong hips pumping into that burgundy mouth like a piston, she knew she could fall in love. Instead, she would have to settle for the ass, which she exposed to the cool November air, her super-tight, lacy, tiger-print thong encasing two fleshy mounds of delight.

  “Cool air couldn’t cool this ass off.” Troi was kneeling now, her eyes taking in the vision before her.

  “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 o
f 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.