Sometimes She Lets Me

by Tristan Taormino

  NIGHT CRAWLER

  Kristen Porter

  She’s the type who loves her porn, with her biker boots set atop a makeshift coffee table in a living room with mismatched furniture and the smells of stale beer. She likes to watch boys on boys pumping themselves, with mouths filled with throbbing cock. She’s particularly fond of the pretty ones all bent over and limp and open, surrendering to their place.

  As she looks at me, I can almost see the film frames cloud over her vision. They are of me, and the concrete wall she’d like to take me against and the sounds she thinks will come from my lips. She thinks she knows my kind and imagines that under the pleats of my plaid skirt are thighs covered in stockings built for a rough ride and the sink of her teeth. Her bait is probably dinner; she’ll show up in the one suit she owns with hand-picked flowers. Romantic, but beyond dinner she won’t part with a buck for her weekend fuck. She’s the kind who thinks her humor is witty and, when up against a strong woman, comes up with mathematical equations like “Sorry, honey, two tops don’t make a bottom.”

  I know what she’s thinking. I watch as her eyes linger up and down my body. She leans in to speak to me, pausing as she inhales the smell of my still-damp hair. My full lips, perfectly painted the color of a Cape Cod sunset, have probably already got her thinking what it will be like to fuck this pretty little mouth of mine. Tonight, meeting in this bar, will be our first and only date. I picked her from the slew of online personals. Her headline? Boidyke looking for fine machinery to ride. Hmmm, I thought. Clearly, someone never taught this boidyke that a woman is not, in fact, machinery custom built for her riding pleasure. Clearly, she needs to be taught some manners. I took it upon myself to instill in her a, shall we say, different perspective of the female persuasion.

  In the “interests” section of her personal she noted schoolgirl skirts—perhaps the only subject she paid attention to in school? She’s probably thinking I wore this short skirt tonight for her visual pleasure, that I gussied myself up real nice in the hope she might find me attractive and grace me with her sexual dynamism. Guess again. I wear short skirts so I have room to pack Big Daddy, whose mission is to put bois like her in their place.

  Big Daddy is tucked in under white cotton panties, packed way back with its head smothered tight in the cheeks of my ass. I like the pressure; the way the tip rubs against me when I cross and uncross my thighs. I’ve even turned it into a bit of a game. I time myself, keeping score of how long I can squeeze my cheeks together to hold it up there while I walk. In the course of one night out I may change bar stools three times, each time moving farther away from the bathroom, just to see if I can improve the number of paces I can strut with my dick wedged way up there. I wear boots up to my knees with room at the top to slide in Granddaddy’s fishing knife, ready and willing to gut whatever I might have a taste for that night. I’ve seldom had chance to use it, but on occasion its handy proximity is without question a revelation.

  I’m a product of my environment, you might say. Growing up with the women in my family was like being raised by a pack of wolves. They give new meaning to the words femme fatale and black widow. Instinctually we hunt, and survival remains our one inspiration. Let’s face it, we live in an “eat or be eaten” world and I’m no vegan. I like my flesh right off the bone. The tougher the better. And in my mood tonight, the butcher the sweeter.

  In a way, I like this boidyke. Her language is raw and grizzly, but when she laughs, this girlchild giggle comes out and even I admit it’s a bit endearing. Her Southern charm is easy to sink into, with her “after you, darlin’s” and “yes, ma’am’s.” But as any good fisherman would tell you, it’s the very moment you lose yourself that you sacrifice your catch. I’m on a mission, and I definitely didn’t curl these eyelashes for naught, so I use them, like a cat that bats around the mouse before its final kill. I feign the utmost interest in small talk when really she isn’t saying much beyond touting her own sexual talents. How, boy, oh, boy can she do me right. Every now and again she points out some young pretty femme and tells me how she sure taught her.

  “I like a girl who knows her place, if you know what I mean,” she says with a wink. “It really just comes down to biology. Girls are built for ridin’ and I assure you, pretty lady, you won’t find a better driver.” I don’t bother to tell her that it is anatomy, not biology she is referring to. Her knee brushes up against mine under the wooden bar counter. My lack of yield gives her a moment’s pause—but not enough to know what rough waters she’s swimming into. She has never come head to head with a woman like me before. In her fantasy she hears me call her Daddy and ooo and aah over her undisciplined slaps to my ass. She’ll have scenes from porno tapes reeling through her head as my body glides along her torso to suck her off as only a good girl can do. Her dick will chafe the back of my throat as I keep my eyes open wide and look into hers as if this is the best damn lolly I’ve ever tasted. Then she’ll sit up and take my asscheeks into her palms and move me up onto her strapped-on cock. She’ll think she’s giving me the ride of my life as I grab hold of the back of her head. What I find most amusing is that she thinks at the end of it, I’ll feel protected in her well-muscled, butch boi arms. She’ll make sure to inadvertently flex a few times with my head resting in the crook of her arm, while she plants kisses on my forehead, thinking damn, she did me good.

  But her fantasy is just that. I didn’t answer her personal because my social calendar had some unexpected openings. I answered because teaching these kind of bois a lesson has become my new vocation. And don’t go getting all PC on my heart-shaped behind. I love a great boi. In fact, there’s nothing better. But some bois out there are giving the rest of you a bad rap. This one likes those young new-to-the-scene girl-bottoms who, in their aim to please, to fit in, to be liked, snap up her bait—hook, line and sinker. Since I was taught we should aspire to be those things we appreciate in others, I thought I’d help her along.

  In my fantasy, I lure her into the bathroom of this smokefilled dive while coyly whispering, “We really shouldn’t be doing this,” and “What would happen if we got caught?” She latches her mouth onto my sharp hook because in all her bad-boi butchness she’s oblivious to the night crawler dangling in front of her. I let her push me up against the wall, but only so I can get a tight grasp on her wrists and lock them behind her back with one hand. I push my pelvis into her and with her newfound awareness of my bulge against her crotch the struggle of forces begins.

  “What the fu—” she begins to say as I grab hold of the top of her head and forcefully push her down to her knees. My heart is beating fast as I remember the thrill of fishing, when you first feel your line taut with the thrashing of desperation. She resists until I reach down and pull the shaft from my boot, flicking open its cool silver blade and resting it lightly against the side of her throat.

  “Surprise, it’s your turn now, boi,” I say as I release my cramping buttocks and with my free hand pull out my cock. It smells of cunt juice, and her hesitation boils my fire. I think about all the baby girldyke hearts she has busted, all the femmes she has fucked raw, all the women who have succumbed to her guise of chivalry only to find out they were just her daily catch. She finishes up her dates with an after-dinner beer at the bar, talking smack about her latest conquest to the buddies. Bois like her have no problem giving it, but…

  “Take it. Suck this big daddy down like a good boi now and no one has to get hurt,” I say as I slap it against her flushed cheek. She reluctantly takes me into her mouth, my blade resting on her clavicle. “See, there now. With a little practice, you’ll have yourself some proper table etiquette.” I begin to move my hips back and forth, my ass bumping against the cold bathroom wall tiles. With each thrust, she pulls her head back against my firm hold. I pull the hook out of her mouth, release my hold on the knife, and consider throwing her back in—but I’m not done yet.

  I step behind her and drop to the floor. We are both on our knees; with an arm tucked under
her stomach, I pull her back onto me. I undo her button fly and shimmy her jeans down to her knees. She whispers something under her breath.

  “Now, now, boi, don’t you be cussing. You best be saving your breath to ask forgiveness for all your sins,” I say, as I part her asscheeks and run the blunt end of the blade lightly across her puckered hole.

  “It’s about time you learned some manners, don’t you agree?”

  Her head hangs low, but nods slightly.

  “Next time you’re fishing for some unsuspecting girl to add another notch to that belt of yours, you’ll remember tonight and think twice about it, now won’t you?” I tell her as I wiggle the head of my dick against her ass. She’s struggling so much I have to get right down to business. I lift her hips back and rest her tight philandering ass on the head of my cock. I rock her back and forth on Big Daddy until her body begins to release and she relaxes limply against the coolness of the concrete floor.

  “Get you another?”

  The bartender snaps me out of my fantasy. Boidyke’s yammering away beside me about how she cleans up real nice. She hasn’t even noticed my lack of attention, has yet to realize that if she can’t see her reflection in my eyes looking back at her, she simply hasn’t earned it. I lean into her and whisper real softly for her to follow me into the bathroom in a few minutes. The glow in her eyes is bright and for a moment I want to sink myself into it, like poor little Carrie Anne running to the light to escape her inner demons. But I know too well what she’s thinking. I clench my ass tight and count the strides as I head off to the bathroom.

  DOES SHE LOOK LIKE A BOY?

  Tara-Michelle Ziniuk

  When I ran through the door at work I was glad I had done my hair and makeup on the way. For the past while, my boss had been pestering me to be “as ready as possible as early as possible.” She and I both knew that I didn’t look quite like this when I wasn’t at work, but I’m not sure she understood my untended body hair or my refusing her invitations to tanning salons. I’m a femmey girl, no doubt, but not the type to get all glammed up without occasion to. The other girls at work were the straight girl equivalent to high-femme all the time, manicured and face-masked; they also did not understand.

  I kissed Darlena on both cheeks then bolted to the walk-in closet, which had been home to much slut-gear as well as my personal dressing room for nearly two years. I breathed in the scent of other people’s perfumes and overcompensating chemical detergents, all stale and mixed together. Not a minute after I closed the door and stripped down to begin a frantic search for my PVC bra and corset set, Darlena walked in behind me.

  “The four o’clock guy called back,” she began (oh please don’t tell me he cancelled and I rushed here for nothing), “and he wanted to know if you looked like a boy.”

  I laughed. “Did he look at our ad?” I asked.

  “Apparently not. I directed him to the website but his Internet service was down. I wasn’t sure how to respond so I just joked back with him and said, ‘Well no, sir. Did you want her to?’ And he said yes.”

  She was reading me for a reaction. This was not an environment that had fostered any sort of gender-bending positive play in the past, save a few male clients who liked to wear panty hose. My first instinct was that it was a crank call and I was wasting my time, grrr.

  “So, you think he’ll be a no-show?”

  “I don’t know, he sounded pretty sincere, and you’re here now. Do you have a hat?”

  I spent the next fifteen minutes scrambling to get out of my makeup and find masculine clothes among the leather and stilettos. I settled on a white dress shirt from an unclaimed bag of uniforms and schoolgirl attire, and found a white tank top to go under it. One of the other women at work had left behind a pair of dark-blue jeans with a wide black belt still in them. I pulled them on and they fit snug against my ass and thighs. I found a black cock in a box of sex toys and rinsed it in the sink before resting it against my already constricted cunt, and allowed myself to feel its stillness, rubbing my middle finger along the shaft. I positioned it so that it would be noticeable but not tacky, and zipped up the now very fitting pants.

  When I came out of the washroom Darlena was waiting for me with the only hat she could find, a black cap with some anonymous Celtic symbol on it. It would do. I looked myself over in the full-length mirror. I certainly didn’t look macho, I looked faggoty. I hoped that was the idea. The hall clock read five-to-four, the hour I anticipated the caller’s arrival.

  It was a good scene to have been called in for, more interesting than the bulk of them. I knew only that it was to be a dildo-training session and that this particular client had not seen any of the other girls before. I hoped he wouldn’t have any huge unavoidable flaws, specifically that he didn’t stink and wasn’t eighty years old and waiting for his next heart attack. Though these possibilities occurred to me, I somehow was not as panicked as I had often found myself before. I was quite intrigued by this character who wanted curvy lipsticklipped me in drag. Why hadn’t he booked a call with a male dom? I imagined complicated answers to this question until there was a knock at the door. I poured some water for myself into a crystal wineglass and went into the room to meet my new submissive.

  He was definitely more masculine-looking than I had been able to pull off, an interesting element for the scene. He looked young and wide-eyed. He appeared willing and nervous, but not fearful. “Very nice to meet you. You will call me Master,” I said, in what I liked to call my best warm/ cool voice. I had impressed myself already by remembering that today I would be “Master” as opposed to “Mistress.” I extended a hand and he shook it firmly before kissing it. I hadn’t been sure of what to expect, but this pleased me. He was blushing as I motioned for him to have a seat. “We’ll just have a little chat and then get things started.” He nodded. I was unable to read his anxiety. “We use the code words yellow and red here, yellow for caution, red to stop the scene. You are familiar with these?” Another nod. “Have you done this before?” I asked genuinely.

  “Similar things, but not exactly.” He certainly was not talkative.

  “But you do have experience with BDSM and you feel confident that you know your limitations?”

  “Yes, Master.” I could tell by his immediate submission to me that he did. He kept his eyes lowered, but I could see his wanting in them. There was no reason to take up more of our time together. I settled into character easily.

  “I am your Master. You will do as I say, when I say to. You will be polite and courteous, and appreciative that I have taken up my valuable time to train you.” As I stood he dropped to his knees in front of me.

  “Yes, Sir. Thank you in advance for spending your time on me.” He offered me a thick black collar with metal rings, and I thanked him by securing it tightly around his neck. He bowed his head and touched his nose to the polished tip of one of the too-large black army boots I was wearing. I rustled his hair before pulling his face up by it.

  “Very good. Now why did you come here today?” No answer. “I asked you why you came here today.”

  “I came here to please you, Master.”

  “Now go back to what you were doing.” He curled by my feet, tracing his nose along the seams of the boots. Then he did the same with his entire face, resting his cheek against my ankle. He slowly licked the stitching around the soles. Before he was quite done with the second one, I interrupted. “Back up on your knees.” He was taller than me, and upright on his knees reached higher than my waist. I pushed him back so that he was sitting on the backs of his heels. His eye level was just below my swollen crotch. He seemed to look straight through the tops of my thighs. “You see something you like?” My voice was softer this time.

  “Yes, Master. I do.”

  Again he lowered his head. I felt the rush of excitement that I was intending for him electrifying my own body. We made eye contact, and though his body looked tough, the steady eyes that met mine looked like they had been hurt. They were foc
used now on something else. I nodded simply, testing to see if he did as well. A small well-hidden smile appeared as he faced my body. He ran his face along the zipper of my jeans, like he had done with my boots. He was slow and careful already so I didn’t have to direct him. He pressed his face harder and harder into me. I could feel myself getting wet as much as I tried not to, as he started kneading my cock with his face. His lips ran over it through the denim, as he looked up for my approval. He looked brave and small. I gave him another nod and he gently started kneading with his teeth. I tried my hardest not to release the gasp in my chest that so desperately wanted to be let out.

  I decided to regain control of the situation and, unzipping the jeans, took the dick out inches in front of his face.

  I ran my fingers over his mouth and he sucked and lapped at them with his soft tongue. I thrust myself into his mouth. He gave me the sweetest, fiercest blow job I had known, putting everything into it. He let his mouth handle the cock expertly, paying attention to its curves and shape and not leaving out anything. He was in tune to my hips’ rhythm and worked with and against it. I allowed myself to breathe heavily to let him know he was doing well, but I restrained myself from making any other sounds. I didn’t want to stop him, but I wanted to make sure I took over the scene before I came. I backed out of his soft wet mouth. This time when I looked at him he looked less bashful and more confident, like he had regained some of his pride giving head like that. “Did you like that?” I barked. He did not flinch. He licked his lips and gave me a look I had come to know well through various female lovers. Did you? they asked silently.

  “Yes, very much. Thank you.” He blushed, smiling obviously this time. “Master.”

  I wanted to see if he was hard but was unable to tell because of the way he sat. I moved along quickly, because he had paid good money for the hour, but also because I was incredibly turned-on and didn’t want to ruin the moment.