By the end of the night, I was cross-eyed with frustration. When Rosalie the Beautiful whispered a lewd invitation in my ear, I simply answered, “Yeah. Let’s go to my house,” took her hand, and pulled her out of LICK, past the approving smirks of my friends. And on the way home she wouldn’t kiss me. She teasingly said that it was all about preserving her shiny, glossy pink lipstick. Besides, she wouldn’t want to distract me from my driving.
We tumbled in my door as one body with eight limbs, panting and pulling at each other’s clothes all the way to the bedroom. She didn’t seem to want to stop for a tour. We fell across my bed and I unzipped her dress and, with her wholehearted help, peeled off every item of clothing that could get in my way. I left her the pretty white stockings and garters, but threw her pinching high-heeled shoes on the floor. I’m a femme too; I know these things.
I hastily shucked off my own clothes, especially my own damned shoes, and they made little black heaps amidst the white piles of Rosalie’s clothes.
She looked…well, you can guess how she looked, smoothskinned and plump-limbed, all curves and soft lines. But you probably haven’t imagined with your other senses yet, so close your eyes and imagine the heat of her skin warming the air around us, and her scent like clean sweat from dancing, and just a hint of her sex.
She lay back against the pillows and smiled at me. She didn’t say anything, but I just knew that if I leaned forward now she’d let me kiss her and to hell with the lipstick. I didn’t try. Instead I pulled a few coils of rope and some bondage cuffs out from the toy box and onto the bed, knowing that with what she already knew of me she wouldn’t be at all surprised. Not in the mood for protracted negotiation, I cocked an eyebrow at her in an inquiring gesture.
“Sure,” said Rosalie the Beautiful, her eyes outshining her lipstick. “My safeword is ‘Untie me now.’”
I tied her flat on her back, her hips held down by a wide belt of ropes crossing back and forth from two of the many eyebolts on either side of the bed. I clipped her hands to the headboard at full extension over her head, allowing her breasts to poke temptingly at the ceiling.
I buckled cuffs around her ankles, and two bigger cuffs a few inches above each knee. I passed a long, slim white rope through the bolts near her hands, and ran it through the rings on the cuffs around her strong, plump, stocking-clad thighs, and as she squeaked in a surprised way, effortlessly pulled her knees high up toward her chest, exposing her sweet, wet cunt. With a quick knot at the ring of the thigh cuffs, I pulled the ropes down to either side of the bed and ran them through two rings there, parting her thighs farther. As she began to squirm in earnest, I connected the ends of the ropes to her ankle cuffs and pulled her heels tight to the backs of her thighs, hindering her from kicking or moving her legs.
I stepped back to admire her, and paused, conscious of my own wetness and of my clit pulsing with the beat of my heart. I ached to touch her, and I let that ache build as I looked at her. Warily, she watched me watch her, and relaxed when she saw that, in the symbiosis of being desired, her potent femme’s power was intact. Held open like a wanton offering, Rosalie’s eyes met mine steadily, proudly. She knew her own beauty; pretty, pretty girl.
“Don’t just stand there,” she said. “I know you want me.”
“Oh yeah, I do. I’m dying to have you,” I said. “That’s why this is gonna hurt me more than it hurts you.”
She looked startled.
I sat for a moment on the bed between her thighs, slowly looking at every intimate detail of her body, finally meeting her eyes. She licked her perfect pink lips in an unconsciously catlike gesture of nervousness.
I leaned forward, letting my long black hair brush her thighs, and made myself comfortable on my belly, my face inches from her exposed cunt. Damn, she smelled good.
I exhaled slowly, open-mouthed, warm breath blowing ever so gently across her flesh.
She squirmed.
“Do it,” she muttered.
“Do what?” I breathed.
“Go on, taste me.”
“Maybe.”
She wiggled halfheartedly, but the ropes prevented her from changing position. I moved closer still, my hair swinging once more against her skin, my lips an inch from her clit. I breathed slowly in through my nose, out through my mouth, making the flow of air as warm as possible.
“Fuck,” she said, to no one in particular.
“Maybe that’s what I’d like to do. Slide my fingers inside you, fuck you,” I said, letting each exhaled word play over her clit.
“Yeah, fuck me.”
“Maybe,” I said.
I noticed the spot I was breathing on seemed to be drying a little from my hot breath, but the very entrance to her cunt was becoming drenched. I lifted up, scooched forward, and dropped a very unladylike wad of spit right at the top of her slit, then added another as I watched the first start to trickle downward.
“Ahh, fuck, what are you…why won’t you…? Jez, do something!” she sputtered.
I grinned at her. “Maybe.”
I went back to breathing on her, slowly, with all the warmth I could muster. Every so often she tried to shove her cunt in my face, but as she didn’t have much slack, it was easy to avoid contact.
I lost myself, as if in meditation, as I pushed each exhale hotly past her clit, thinking nonthoughts about the sweet, musky scent of her cunt and her stifled growling noises. Every so often I added another bit of saliva above her clit, never touching her, but watching her twist and groan at the sudden sensation of wetness.
“There’s a puddle under your ass now, not spit but cunt juice,” I breathed, whispering to her clit as if it was my secret friend, not mentioning the wetness under my own hips.
“Touch me, you fucker.” She started a rhythmic rocking motion, moving as far as the ropes would allow, only an inch or two each way.
I extended my tongue and made it a hard point, letting her make the barest contact between my tongue and her clit.
Immediately I felt her reaching for me with her hips, as far as she was able. But I simply held my place, using the faintest possible pressure as her clit brushed my tongue-tip on the upstroke and the downstroke.
After about a few dozen downstrokes, she suddenly sucked in and held her breath, and I leaned back and away from her, watched her pretty face contort in a snarl and the entrance to her cunt twitch hungrily. Nice.
“Why won’t you lick me, you evil bitch-bastard?”
“Because I’m worried about mussing my lipstick,” I said.
She started cursing, colorfully. Her cursing would have made a pirate’s parrot lose feathers. It would have made a biker blush. It made me laugh, out loud and joyful.
I climbed up her body, nestled my hips between her spread thighs, and snuggled in. She gasped as my pubic hair pressed into her cunt after so long without touch, and I smiled down at her.
“Holy Smoke, you’re so wet, I think I might get a steam burn.”
“Fuck you.”
“Is that your safeword?”
“No!” And then she started cursing again, as I lifted my body from hers and nuzzled into her tits, getting to know them. They were soft and weighty, full and rounded; the left one was slightly larger, a touching imperfection. Her large, dark nipples pointed straight at the ceiling, and went stiff as I watched.
Not every woman considers her nipples an erogenous zone, so I suckled on one for a second, to test. She gasped and bucked toward me, not away.
“Hey—are these candy?” I exclaimed happily, and dove right in.
I happily lost myself in no time again, moving from nipple to nipple whenever I thought the other might be getting lonely, lightly and experimentally sucking, biting, and licking until I thought I had deciphered the language of her curses and wriggles. What she liked best seemed to be a firm, direct suction at the tip of her nipple, with a slight graze of my teeth every so often. She never quite stopped trying to bring her body in contact with mine, but I stayed up on my e
lbows, with just my soft belly occasionally picking up wet streaks from her cunt. It wasn’t just to tease her; I thought I might embarrass myself by coming if I humped her thigh even for a second.
Finally, I left her wet, chewed, lipstick-stained nipples and ran my tongue in a trail down the curves of her belly, across her garter belt, continuing on in a casual fashion along the length of her cunt. She hissed when I contacted her clit on the way, growled when I dipped inside her, and began to rock against me when I slipped my tongue back, making it flat and soft and dragging it so very slowly up between her labia.
“Oh, please,” she said when her hard clit just naturally slid into my mouth, my tongue pressing underneath. “Please. That. Do that. Oh….” She sounded sniffly, so I sat up a little to check how she was. Her expression was soft and unfocused, her eyes full of tears. I felt the little spot in my heart grow even warmer with affection for her.
“What do you want, Rosalie the Beautiful?” I asked tenderly, adding my private qualifier to her name for the first time.
She smiled fuzzily at that. “Please touch me, Jez. Lick me. Fuck me. I’m going out of my mind.”
“Yeah, I think maybe it’s time,” I said. And, watching her face, I slid one finger inside her, found she was wet enough, pulled out, and pushed three fingers back in, a little roughly. Her eyes rolled back and her whole body welcomed me in. I slid out and back in again, and her mouth opened soundlessly, her back arched. I did it again, and again, experimenting, trying to learn everything about her in a few short strokes.
I made a guess that she’d like to be fucked hard and fast, in direct contrast to my soft teasing game. Oh, yeah. Then I thought maybe adding direct pressure on her G-spot would feel right, and within a second knew I’d guessed correctly. She held nothing back, her body and face telling eloquent stories about her body’s responses.
Time enough later, or tomorrow, for my harness and dick. No time, right now, even to reach for the lube. She seemed close to coming already, and I didn’t want to tease her for even one moment more.
I moved and took her clit in my mouth again, soon finding the steady side-to-side rhythm that made her cunt clench around my hand. I closed my eyes and put everything I had into pushing her over the edge, lost in her taste and smell, reaching as far as I could inside her with every stroke of my fingers.
Rosalie went rigid, shaking, and her soft cries grew urgent. Her cunt clamped around my fingers, almost squeezing me out, but I felt I knew what she needed. I pushed harder inside her.
When I felt her muscles flex and heard the ropes attached to the headboard creak, I concentrated on her clit, flicking it hard with my tongue, once, twice, a third time…and she sucked her breath in and then wailed like a cat. She came in intense, shaking waves, her cunt’s deep throbbing squeezing my fingers, and I kept going, fucking her more and more gently until the tension slowly melted out of her muscles, and it was time to stop.
I slid up her bound body, released the buckles on her wrist cuffs, and looked fondly at her. Breathing hard, flushed, and tearstreaked, she was more beautiful to me then than any woman I’d ever seen.
Despite everything we’d done in the last hour, her lipstick was still raspberry-glossy and perfect.
So I kissed her.
THE BRIDGE
Isa Coffey
It’s dark. We’re driving fast. The Coronado Bay Bridge sweeps lights like diamonds overhead. I’m drunk, baby, but not on booze. I’m drunk on you. I don’t know your name, but it’s good. You’re good, and I’m falling, fast. You’re hot; your suited self just right, behind the wheel. My wheel. Take over, baby. Drive this car of mine right up to heaven. The ocean’s dark, taking off below us, all rocking waves tumbling like crazy. Shit. Throw me overboard; I’m heading there already.
Your fist is tight between my legs; the stars are shooting licks between my earlobes and my naked ribs. You’ve got me, tied between this bridge and the fucking sea below. I’m full. The moon is too. She’s up there, competing with diamonds, competing with stars, competing with you. You’ve got one hand on the wheel of my black, coal black, cool black, shining black, ’69 VW convertible, top way down. The other’s opening from fist into hard, fat, dark fingers, figuring me out. Yeah, baby, that’s all of me, and I’m gonna slide myself right onto you so you can fill me fast. You do.
Slick, your fingers are your dick. I’m riding, we’re riding, the bridge is flying quick. I wanna be on this bridge all night. The wind is blowing out my brain. I gotta pull my tits up to the sky and moan and groan real loud, but—fuck—down’s the only way for me. Pull my lever, baby, and there’s no way, there’s no other way, but down. You’re on it, in it, and I’m losing now. Pull this fucking car over to the side, right here, right now, on top, the very tip, of this damn bridge. Fucking pull it fast. You do.
Suddenly balanced between now and then, midnight and dawn, I can’t remember who you are, or who I am, but I am falling, fucking, in love with you. You can do your thing to me. Right now. You do. You come down, quick, across the stick, all dark skin, dark suit, dark hair. A huge sex sweep across the litup sky. You’re heavy on me; you’ve got me pressed down deep into leather, deep into this fast-moving bridge, deep into you. Push me into the sea, baby. Take my breath. Take it away. Who needs it now?
It’s tight; my knees are splayed against metal doors, and rods. My pink silk, soaked panties lost somewhere down there, to lust. And bust.
You got some kinda crazy ass dick burning hard right down my inner thigh. Long and thick and ready to go; you’re a breathless femme’s idea of heaven.
Your juicy lips are licking, nibbling, my nose, my lobes, my brows, my lashes. Wherever they can get. I’m biting back, real hard. You better eat me fast, baby, or I’ll devour you.
Your bound-up chest rests thick on mine. I like the feel. I want some more. My nipples rub up hard against your bind. Pressing tits and nipples up, they’re begging, I’m begging, “Suck them off. Suck them the fuck off.” We’re too crammed up in here for that. You moan, “Baby, you wait. When we’ve got enough room, I’m gonna suck your nipples off so bad, you’re gonna die from cumming.”
It’s tight, and you’re groaning, low, and I’m sweating; getting whatever kinda movement I can get going, going, ’cuz I’m ready to move big against your fucking fingers. You’re turning two to four, all wet and fat and kind in me. You’re going, baby, right into high gear, pushing it in with your weight, pushing it up with thrusts, suddenly moving faster than those cars speeding by, speeding right over the peak of this sky-scraping bridge. Oh yeah, baby, you’ve got speed. Run me over. Fuck me with your fingers, then your fist, while I shoot myself, and you, right up into lights, into the goddamn moon.
And yeah, you’re curling it up, just right. You know your way around, just right. Rolling your fingers, balling me now, up into where I don’t let anyone go. It’s deep. You’re deep. I’m shooting us into that moon, baby. And I’m falling right off of this bridge.
Falling, whispering, “You’re pushing up against my heart, baby.”
Falling, whispering, “You’ve taken my heart, baby.”
You murmur back, low and slow, right down into the center of my done-in heart, “I’m all yours, baby; I’m all yours.”
I can tell you’re gonna cry, but don’t. You are one fucking butch.
Then I’m cumming, and I’m cumming, and it’s loud, and you’re with me.
It’s loud, and you’re with me. It’s loud, and you’re with me.
I’m finding that I want you more. I’m fucking crying. For you.
“Hey baby,” you say. You hold me real tight. I know you’re gonna stay right here, no matter what the fuck you need, no matter how uncomfortable you get, no matter how worried about cops, or cold, or how much you need to pee. You’re gonna stay right here, with some femme you hardly know, until I stop crying and say I’m okay; until I’m ready to get dressed and drive off this bridge, for burgers or coffee or my house or yours, because that’s what butches
do. It’s why I started falling for you as soon as we got into my car and I was looking up at the lights and the stars, feeling a little too drunk on you, pulling off my blouse, and bra.
The cop does come, right after my cum. We—we’re a we now, that’s where my cum’s led us, at least while we’re still way up high on this bridge—see him first as taillights, heading the other direction, just as we’re peeling ourselves up off the seat, back into the land of the bridge and the cars and the rocking ocean waves far down below metal rails by our side. Fuck.
You climb over to your seat, straighten your suit. I gather my bra, my frilly peach blouse, the remains of my panties, stretched out and soaked; then snap, button, draw on in time for the cop, who’s turned right around and is coming our way. We knew he would; they always do. They sniff us out. Our scent makes them mad, makes them feral, makes them want to scratch and claw, or shoot and skin.
He pulls up behind us; his head’s to our ass. Headlights are blazing, blinkers are pulsing, strobe lights are like a fucking carnival night. He’s out of his cop car, strutting our way. Fucking pig. This won’t be easy. Not in this town, home to a million studs in uniform. Not with a white cop. Not with a black butch driving a shiny black convertible, owned by the white woman sitting all femme in the passenger seat. Not with two women, any colors, alone in a car on the top of the Coronado Bay Bridge, lit up by cum. Not a chance.
My butch is sweating. Acting tough, for both of us, but scared. It’s always harder for butches. I lean over, touch her hand, “You okay?” She says, of course, “Yeah, baby, no problem.” I go ahead and ask, now that we’re here, close and scared, sitting on top of the chopping dark sea, waiting for harm that’s heading our way, “So, baby, what’s your name? Tell me quick, before that prick tries to break us with his dick.”
Sometimes She Lets Me Page 13