Lou tells her that we need to make sure I am dry, to judge fairly. She reaches up under my skirt and with the sleeve of her shirt wipes my pussy off with a rough stroke. She turns back to the three, takes the money, and announces, “Whenever you’re ready.”
I can feel Lou’s presence behind me. My pussy is already pulsing. I clamp down in an attempt to keep any moisture inside.
Bulldagger number one steps toward me. She chooses the direct route, kissing me confidently, open-mouthed, with her tongue darting deep into my throat. Her hands are on my shoulders, pulling me in, bending my neck back. This eager suitor smells of leather, whiskey, and motorcycle grease—a scent so bewitching I could be Pied Pipered down the street with it. I hold my breath as she strangles me with her mouth. I just let her go at it, barely kissing back, resisting the urge to correct her faulty style with a few quick nips of my teeth to her tongue. I try to force my mind to wander from the situation. I try to think dry thoughts. I will win the bet for Lou and make her proud.
The three minutes are up and I have not so much as sighed. No groan. No pelvis seeking hers. No melting into her.
Lou turns to me. “Anything, honey?” she asks.
I shake my head no and lick the taste of whiskey off my lips.
Lou sighs and says that it’s never as easy as it looks.
Number one steps back, tries to laugh it off, saying I am an uptight, frigid bitch, a fucking ice queen. She starts to walk off but her friends stop her.
The second dyke fumbles with her wallet and hands over the cash for her chance at the challenge. She apparently thinks that if the hard teeth-clanking kiss didn’t work, perhaps I am a soft femme who needs seduction. She has three minutes. She kneels at my boots, and I avert my gaze to avoid the pull of her green eyes staring up at me. She licks the rim where the leather meets my calves, runs her tongue on the underside of my knee, and slides her hands slowly up my inner thighs. Lou stops her just as her fingers disappear under my skirt. She is stopped just before I make the decision that calloused hands and warm breath are worth bending my knees for, moving myself down to cease the agonizingly slow pace. She is stopped just before I drop my cunt down to meet her palm. Temptation number two moves her hands to softly cup each breast. I stand still, knees braced so as not to lose my balance. My hands search behind me for Lou—she takes both of my pinkies into her fist and gives them an encouraging squeeze. If I can pull this off, I know it will be the best compliment I have ever paid her.
Lou tells her that her time is up. I shrug, act unimpressed.
The two who have tried chide the third into an attempt, telling her it was a good three minutes whether they won me or not. Razz her about how all night she’s been lookin’ for a femmey girl and here is one standing on the street just waiting.
The third bulldagger wants to know how we are measuring. She wants to see for herself if I am wet, wants proof. Lou reaches under my skirt and runs her fingers under the elastic of my underwear—quick, unceremonious, careful not to rub my clit. Her fingers barely skim the surface, but I gulp a breath of air at the long-awaited touch and they seem sure that she’s penetrated me. She takes her hand out from under my skirt, grabs number three’s hand, and rubs the definitely dry fingers along her thick wrist.
Lou holds out her hand for the money and bulldagger number three hesitates slightly before lifting her wrist to her nose. Just the faintest scent of pussy assures her that she wasn’t tricked. She reaches into her pocket and pulls out some crumpled bills.
Lou resumes her position behind me, taking hold of my pinkies. I take a deep breath, trying to figure number three out so I can prepare myself. She is slow, strong, suspicious. Lou clicks her tongue, worried. We are so close to winning this cruel game that I couldn’t bear to lose now. Couldn’t bear to disappoint her. I imagine the ways she will thank me for this public gesture of appreciation.
Number three steps forward, trying to read my face for clues as she considers the best approach. She leans heavily into my body, wrapping her arms around me. Pushes her bulk into me. Our legs are interwoven and she pulls my hips into her thigh. She starts in on a brain-fucking whisper. “Oh you smell like sex just like I knew you would. I’ve been looking for a hot little woman like you. I want you so fuckin’ bad right now. I can feel your cunt heat on my leg, burnin’ a hole right through my jeans. I can practically feel it swelling. It’s making me so fucking horny just thinking about how slick and sweet you’re getting for me. I already know how I am gonna fuck you.” She hugs me into her and presses me harder down onto her thigh. I struggle to tilt my hips up so as not to catch the fullness of her leg rubbing my cunt. Lou’s fist closes down harder around my pinkies, tugging me back enough to relieve the pressure building on my clit.
The bulldagger pulls me hard against her chest, breathing on my neck. “That round sexy ass of yours has been drivin’ me crazy since I first saw you. I am getting so worked up I don’t think I could stop even if you wanted me too.” She clamps a hand down on my asscheek and pulls my cunt up to meet the slow swivel of her hips.
Lou puts her fingertips lightly on my back to steady me and I rest back into her hand. Allow her to ease me back and rescue me from this impending arousal. “When I get you home,” she goes on, “I’ll give you the fuck you’ve been looking for. I’m gonna work your hard little clit—just pull it right into my mouth and lick your sweet juices. Then I’ll open you up with my fingers, just slide in and out. Swirl my hand into you until you beg me to fuck you harder. Beg me to fuck you deeper until you come.”
I think of throwing the bet and wrapping my legs around her, opening my mouth to hers. My cunt is tired from being clamped down for so long and I have lost track of my inhales and exhales, my breath starting to sound like whimpering.
“I know how to satisfy a cat-in-heat femme like you. You won’t be stumbling home at night. You’ll be flat-out exhausted from all our fucking.”
I wonder what Lou would do, wonder what proof would be requested after this test, wonder what I could get away with. My pinkies are locked in Lou’s fist and she twists them, bending them back into a stinging stretch, clearing my head.
The three minutes are up and Lou makes sure contestant number three has backed away before she pushes me back up to hold my own weight. I am lightheaded and keep hold of Lou’s hand, looking down.
“Sorry,” Lou says. “Like I told you, she isn’t as easy as she looks.” Lou takes my waist and turns to escort me inside, but number three grabs her arm and yanks her back so she can look straight at me. I know this look, the look of having found the soft spot and waiting for the tickle to take hold.
The bulldaggers start throwing insults and accusations at us. Number three in particular thinks she’s won. She continues to talk to me, starting in the now-familiar whisper ringing in my ears, but each phrase rising in pitch of anger. “I know I made you wet. I know you’re just dying to grind that sweet cunt into me. Let’s finish this up and get out of here. Tell them how wet I made you. Didn’t I make you wet? Huh, bitch?”
I try to ignore her voice, her words.
Lou tells her to shut up for a minute and we can prove it to her.
In a gesture too quick for me to stop, Lou pushes me back against the brick wall and yanks my skirt up. I take a deep breath and keep my pussy lips clamped together as tightly as I can. Lou pulls my panties down to mid thigh in front of these three bulldaggers whose wallets have just been emptied. Three bulldaggers with wounded machismo can see that I am not glistening.
Lou takes number three’s hand and folds it into hers as she would a child’s, leaving two fingers out and the rest curled into a fist. Lou guides her hand from one pale thigh, over my pussy lips, to the other. Three bulldaggers who are feeling quite under-appreciated hear her announce it. Dry.
“I don’t fuckin’ believe it. She must be fuckin’ frigid. Whatever. Keep her, man. You deserve the bitch.” They saunter off, play-punching each other and grabbing their imaginary cocks.
&nbs
p; They round the corner and Lou turns to me, looking me in the eye for the first time in almost a half-hour. She smiles and tells me she is quite proud, tells me she guesses it’s okay if I stick around for a while longer.
We go back into the bar and sit down at the table. I excuse myself and head toward the bathroom. “Nice hip-check,” I say as I pass by Nanc at the pinball machine. She follows me, leaving an unplayed ball, and locks the door behind us. After a quick slick finger-fuck that she has been promising me for weeks, Nanc leaves to resume her game and I pull my clean panties out of my pocket, wrapping the damp ones in a paper towel and throwing them in the trash. I return to the table to sit on Lou’s lap, whispering to her how I much I love her, that she is the only one who can keep me happy, how she is the only one who knows how to turn me on.
ANGIE’S DADDY
A. Lizbeth Babcock
I’ve never really had one. A Daddy, that is. What I mean is, I’ve never had a real one, or one that was really mine. But I have had the same dream almost every night. It’s about someone else’s Daddy. It’s about Angie’s Daddy.
In the dream, Angie’s Daddy gives me what I always want but never get. Angie’s Daddy gives me me, and makes everything okay just by saying that it is. He perverts and absolves me. He adds to me and subtracts from me. He divides me. And I hate the times in between when I have to wait for him to come, and I have to try to piece it all together myself. I hate those times when I have to stand there, holding on to my perversion like a bag of doggie doo, because no one else knows what to do with it, or how to make it good. And what I really want is to just bring it all into focus, because what I really need is to see the whole picture.
When the dream is over, I feel this sense of renewal that fills me up and bottoms me out because I need him to renew me again and again, and it’s never really enough and it’s never really over, but it’s still good and always worth it. Sometimes I wish the dream was my life and my life was the dream, and then I realize that the only thing that would change is what I believe to be real. And it’s hard to figure out what to believe, and it’s hard to figure out what’s really real. Sometimes my thoughts get lost in the hardness of that.
Angie’s Daddy is the kind of Daddy who gets what he wants because he takes it, and because he convinces you that you want to give it. And believe me, you do. Or at least I do, in the dream. But part of why I want to give it is because of Angie. It’s because I want to be with her. And because I want to be in this experience with her. And because it’s her Daddy. Sometimes I wake up with the whisper of her name on my lips, and then I feel the harsh impression of a hand around my face, correcting me, collecting me, like I’m a thousand marbles on the floor.
It’s set in different places, the dream. Because what matters is where we’re going, and not where we are or where we’ve been. And where we’re going is to another world. Sometimes we take Angie’s Daddy’s rocket ship to the moon, and the man on the moon is our only spectator. Other times, it happens at the local fair.
This time, we’re sitting on the couch in Angie’s Daddy’s living room. Angie and me are on either side of him. And we’re giggly and cuddly, and soft like kittens. The television is on but there is no sound, because it doesn’t really matter anyway. And sometimes when we’re in the living room, people walk right by us like we’re just playing board games, and sometimes we are. But sometimes there are too many games and I’m all played out because every game has rules, and sometimes the rules are red and they’re written in blood. And rules aren’t made to be broken, you know. You can’t bend the rules.
Angie’s Daddy is bigger than us, but then again Daddies often are. And there’s something comforting about his bulk. I peer at Angie from around his thick chest. Angie is so beautiful. And I love her so, so much. In the dream, my love for her is overwhelming. Sometimes I try to tell her that I love her, but I can only mouth the words and she thinks I’m saying elephant shoe. And even in the dream, I sometimes question that it might all be a dream, and I try really hard to stay there, to stay sleeping, to get my beauty sleep, to be Sleeping Beauty, because there are special things for special girls and what I really want is to be kissed by her.
Something about being there feels important. Something about being there feels life changing. And despite the gravity attached to the experience, something about being there feels really comfortable, and really real. It’s like coming home and being familiar. But there’s this ache that goes with it. The kind of ache you feel when you just can’t be with someone you want for whatever reason. And there’s that need you have that you know is never going to be met. It’s the same ache I feel when I walk around in real life. That terrible ache that I just can’t shake because I can’t take the dream back. And I’m afraid that if I talk about it out loud, words will fall from my mouth in red letters like rules that can’t be changed. I feel that ache every day. And I wish Angie’s Daddy could make that okay just by saying that it is.
The dream is sometimes like looking at puzzle pieces but never seeing the full picture. And sometimes it’s like tunnel vision, and there’s no periphery and there’s no context. Other times it’s like looking through a kaleidoscope of images when I try to remember. And the light behind the images is so bright that I have to close my eyes because they’re too bright, and they’re shifting too fast. And sometimes the fastness of the shifting makes me feel dizzy, and the details get blurred and hazy, and it’s like I’m looking at them through smoke.
But every time I catch Angie’s eye, she smiles at me. And I reach my arm way across Angie’s Daddy’s chest and touch her with an affection I would normally reserve for sick or dying animals. And I have this feeling, this feeling that I need to tattoo her image on my memory because somehow this wonderful thing is going to be ripped away from me. And it’s not because we’re sick or dying. It’s because of something else. So I try really hard to capture the details of her image…her fairy tale–long hair, her chocolate-drop eyes, and those big girlie lashes that sometimes tickle my cheek and neck. Only the details are isolated and abstract, like features cut from a picture that do not add up to a solid whole.
Still, I can’t imagine her doing anything other than being right there in the dream. I can’t imagine her looking any way other than how she looks when I’m dreaming of her. And I start to wonder how I look to her, but I remind myself that I need to put my energy into remembering. Only I don’t know why I need to do that. So I ask the question right out loud in the dream. I ask, Why do I have to work so hard to remember this? Only there’s no sound, and there’s no answer. And I wonder if part of the reason is that they’re trying so hard to forget. I wonder if some things are better left unsaid, even in the dream.
I feel Angie’s Daddy’s hand start to creep up my leg. His fingers are light like a spider at first, and they’re tickly like Angie’s lashes. I keep looking at her. And I have butterflies in my stomach, fluttering and flapping and determined to escape. If I open my mouth they will fly out in droves, all dotted and speckled and brilliant in color. And despite my apprehension, I feel really good all over. Angie’s Daddy makes me feel good, but Angie makes me feel good, too. She’s still smiling at me. And I feel my pussy start to get wet, like there’s a sea inside of me. I feel a conflict too, but Angie’s Daddy murmurs something encouraging in my ear. Something like, It’s okay. It’s all happened before. But it really doesn’t matter what he says because what I want is to know that it’s him, and not me, doing the encouraging. And I’m not sure why that’s important, but I know that it is. It becomes important to me later, during those times in between the dream.
I want him to touch me there where it’s wet, and I know that he will because it’s all happened before. His fingers get heavier as they reach my thigh and crawl under my dress. He grabs handfuls of my skin and now my panties are wet, too. I’m amazed by how easily it happens and how wonderful it feels, this process of becoming saturated, this process of being taken by him. His hand finds its way around my hi
p, and it slides under my ass and under the edge of my panties. He easily lifts me with that one mighty hand and places me firmly on his lap, and I’m facing him. His hand is still on my ass and he’s gripping me hard, gripping me like I might slip off of his hook and flop away. I lean into his chest and stay still for a moment, play dead for a moment. And in that brief moment of death, I feel that his breasts are bigger than mine. I experience the fullness of his breasts against me, and the firmness of his hand on my ass. I experience the sensation of Angie’s fingers twisting and twirling in my hair as it hangs in her face. And I feel like I could fall asleep like this, and then I realize that I am sleeping.
I wait patiently as he moves Angie with the same technique and precision, like it was broken down step by step in some sort of instruction manual, like it’s been repeated a thousand times before. Now she and I are side by side, straddling each of his massive legs. We are leaning into him because the angle of his legs forces us slightly forward. I feel Angie’s warmth against me. Her warmth makes me feel even closer to her because she fills my senses, and she feels really real, even if it’s just a dream. I want her to kiss me on the lips, and Angie’s Daddy tells us it’s okay to kiss. It’s okay. And he says it with this authenticity, like it hasn’t happened a thousand times before. Show me, he urges. And we do. It’s like…waking up from a long sleep. It’s like waking up and…
Sometimes She Lets Me Page 10