Still a tease! Well, I could certainly play right along. “No,” I said, smiling.
“No, what?” she said.
“No, ma’am,” I agreed. She seemed satisfied with that. I watched as she moved as close as possible and raised one leg, resting a foot on my chair next to me, encased in one of those cruel five-inch black heels. She considered me a moment as I waited. This was agony. God, I wanted her. But I resolved to be patient. I closed my eyes, anticipating, conscious of each shallow nervous breath.
“Now you may touch me,” she announced. Again, I reached for her, but she stopped me. “Uh uh uh,” she sang. Now she looked stern. “No hands.”
I happily complied. Sliding her panties to the side with my mouth, I gently licked the length of her. She moaned at my touch. She was as wet as I was. As I pushed my tongue up into her she leaned her head back with a sigh, putting a hand to the back of my head. I circled my tongue in a regular pattern as she moved with me, hips rotating more and more eagerly as she balanced precariously in those patent-leather shoes.
As I tasted her, I thought of cinnamon again, dark spice mixed with sweetness. I felt intoxicated. I could feel my own pulse quickening, sounding in my head. My chest rose and fell quickly. Bettie pushed against me, letting out little cries. I could tell she was getting more and more excited.
Suddenly, she pulled away, pushing my lips and tongue from her. She stepped closer and hooked a leg over the side of my chair. She sat as if offering me a lap dance, straddling me boldly.
So this was what my beautiful librarian was capable of!
She was still breathing hard, sitting on top of me with legs parted in that thin black thong and black seamed stockings. The buttons of her cardigan sweater were straining to cover her breasts. She started to grind against me, pushing her crotch against mine so firmly and rhythmically that now my breath was trembling too. She arched and leaned her head back as she continued to move on top of me, her perfect chest now even with my face.
“Now you may use your hands,” she instructed. I reached up and tore away her tight black sweater, popping off several buttons in the process. As I tugged the sweater free of her, I noticed another tattoo, this one covering her entire upper arm. It was a Varga Girl—a brunette like her—with a tropical flower in her hair and both legs raised playfully into the air, her small dainty feet pointed. Seeing this, I wanted her even more. I even felt a little light-headed, like a passenger in a rapidly descending elevator.
Bettie’s nipples were pert from her excitement as much as from the cold air. The only word that came to mind when I saw them was: delicious. Like an exotic ice-cream sundae. Strange, I know, but the way her white creamy skin stopped suddenly to give way to round pink nipples that were almost red made me think of smooth vanilla ice cream topped with bright red cherries. As she tilted her head to the side, strands of her dark black hair drizzled across them like chocolate.
Head cocked to the side, she leaned in for a kiss. Her fingers fumbled at the front of my pants, finding the buttons of my fly. She undid them just enough, then plunged her hand inside, eagerly seeking me out.
Finally, I thought. In that moment—her hand cupping my sex, her legs straddling me, her plump lips on mine—I finally felt close to her. As she slipped her fingers into me, I felt myself melt. Every muscle in me tensed, but then instantly gave way. I felt whole again. I felt complete with those delicate fingertips sliding inside, repeating again and again. The entire sensation was too intense, a slow unstoppable building of pressure.
As she did this, my hand moved against the outside of her panties, pressing the silky fabric against her clit with my thumb. I put my other hand to one of her perfect breasts, kneading its softness. I brought the round hard nipple to my lips, imagining the taste of cherries.
The fabric of her thigh-high stockings brushed against my arm. Her long dark hair fell across my face. Those green eyes stared back at me now, inches from my own, as we breathed in unison, grinding against each other’s hand. We tried to stay quiet as we strained against one another. Even our breath was soft and intimate, a contrast to those hard heels, the cold metal of my chair.
She whispered in my ear before she came, pushing deep inside me and curling her fingers in a come-hither gesture, as if beckoning me forward. At that, we spasmed at the same time. I rocked forward, resting my chin against her shoulder. I felt her silky pulse against my fingertips. Her expression froze, mouth open, eyes closed, brows crinkled together in an expression of perfect oblivion. Each of us shook as we finished. Our torsos jerked involuntarily—like churchgoers flailing and speaking in tongues, overcome by the Holy Spirit; like clubgoers on the dance floor, glowsticks winding up our arms, gyrating in some primal dance.
When our bodies finally came to rest, we sat like that for several minutes, weak and trembling. I gently nuzzled her rouged cheeks and kissed her eyelids. Her neck and chest were flushed, blissfully pink. She moved her arms along my muscles, then brought her mouth to my shoulder and gently nipped at me with her teeth. She growled playfully, and then bit harder. As we pulled our hands from one another, the book I was carrying fell from my wheelchair and landed faceup on the ground.
Bettie unwound her long limbs from me and leaned against the chair, kneeling to pick up what had fallen. She looked like pure sex, crouching there in her stockings and heels, tattoo displayed proudly on her shoulder, hair slightly mussed and tangled. We both glanced down at the same time to read the words on the page.
She ran her hands up the sides of the steel beams, the fabric of my pants, reading them like Braille. Picking up the book, she asked if I still wanted to find the original poem. I smiled. “Don’t worry about the translation,” I said. “I prefer ours.”
She laughed, and I wanted her all over again. It was not a nervous girlish giggle, but a throaty chuckle, pleasant and dark. As she tilted her head back, I noticed those perfect teeth again, but they didn’t seem as pearly white as before. Now her lipstick had rubbed off, but earlier they had contrasted incredibly with her red gloss.
Bettie leaned far back then, reaching out with one arm, her other hand on the floor for balance. Her fingers scratched around on the book cart, searching for something, but for what I had no idea.
At last she found it. Bettie knelt in front of me and grabbed my wrist. She popped off the black plastic cap with her teeth and pressed the rubber date stamp to my forearm, holding it there for a long moment so the thick red ink would not smudge. Then, she stood, picked up her cardigan, and walked toward the door.
I looked at my arm, puzzled. 08-17-09. That was today. “What’s this?” I asked.
“A date,” she whispered. She popped off the plastic cap again and looked me over sternly. “Would you like another?”
SELF-REFLECTION
Tobi Hill-Meyer
The resemblance is uncanny. At first I don’t notice anything because her short blonde hair standing in spikes is so different from my own dark curls working their way to my hips. Yet something about the way she holds herself draws me in. She clearly doesn’t mind standing out in the crowd. She’s wearing baggy pants with a tight-fitting tank top and a leather jacket with the word DYKE embroidered on the back. In this moderately conservative town, her outfit clearly screams “Fuck you!” at the straight world. At the same time it enticingly coos “Fuck me!” to the queer world.
I stop and can’t help but stare as everyone else walks by. As she gets closer, I begin to notice little things. Her face is fairly distinct from mine, but there are definite similarities. Then when I catch her eye she flashes a particular smile at me. A crooked half smile that I’ve never seen on anyone but me before.
“That looks like my smile,” I say with a touch of amazement in my voice.
“It is your smile,” she replies.
I stare at her dumbfounded for a moment, not sure what she means by that. Then the other pieces begin to fall together. The same arc of her eyebrows. The same look she’s giving me right now. The same skin tone.
The same double-Venus symbol tattoo just below the left side of her collarbone. The same smart-ass tone of voice she’s using with me. She is even wearing a handmade TRANS PRIDE button I designed.
“You’re me,” I say, “aren’t you?” She sits down on a bench next to me and takes her jacket off. I notice the embroidery again. It’s a technique I’ve been learning, but it’s far tighter and more orderly than my skill can produce. I look at her eyes and see small laugh lines beginning to develop. “…But older.”
“You’re a smart study, I never doubted that,” she says, smiling.
“Does that mean you’re from the future? How does that work? Can you tell me about what happens? Why are you here?”
She laughs for a moment. It’s odd to hear my own laugh. It sounds different when it isn’t coming from my own head. “I’m not really supposed to tell you those kinds of things. I’m not really sure how it all works myself.” She leans over and in a hushed tone says, “But you might want to transfer your inheritance money out of the stock market before the end of 2007.”
“It’s 2009.”
“Oh, well, you’ll be fine. You’ll get by without the money anyway.” She gets up and pulls me into a more secluded space. The crowds disappear.
“So if you’re not here to give me a message or a warning, what are you here for then?”
“I need a reason to visit now?” The joke seems more odd than funny. “The truth is that I’m here for a while before I can move on, and I don’t really know anyone else here. I figured I might as well look you up. You’d understand better than anyone else we know. In 2012 I visited Mom and she almost had a heart attack.”
I don’t know why, but it kinda makes sense to me. I look back at her. She glances at the ground, and for a moment her face looks very tired and somewhat sad. I don’t understand anything that’s happening, but I realize that I don’t need to. I put my arm around her shoulder. She looks back at me and smiles again, then embraces me in a long comforting hug.
“Somehow I knew you’d understand.” She looks at me a moment longer. “You said it was 2009. Does that mean you’re dating Saphira right now?”
“For a year and a half.”
“And you don’t know Cayne yet?”
I think for a moment, then nod.
“And you’re still poly, right?”
“Yep.” I cock my head to the side. I can’t really imagine a future where I’m not poly.
“Good, I just had to make sure. You can’t always assume that all the details are still the same.” She pauses then shoots me a smoldering look. “Anyway, if that’s all true, then unless I’m mistaken, you haven’t seen a trans cunt up close yet.”
I perk up. “No, but I’ve been curious.”
“That’s another reason I wanted to stop by,” she says, looking me up and down. “How would you like me to give you the opportunity?”
“No way,” I say in disbelief, “But I’m non-op.”
“You might be, but I’m not.”
I’ve thought off and on about how I’d like to check out a trans cunt up close, but I didn’t feel like it would be appropriate to just go ask someone. Having my future self here creates a valuable new opportunity. Before I know it we are back at my place, in my bedroom.
She gets on the bed and starts to take her pants off. A pulse of excitement runs through my body. Everything feels surreal. Like I’m not even sure if it’s happening or not.
“Before we begin, we should check in about things. Part of why I haven’t had the chance to do this yet,” I explain, “is because as much as I want to know what it can look like and what it can feel like, the more significant part to me is that I really want to explore the sensation of it, how it feels to you.”
“Oh, I’m well aware of that, sweetie. Why do you think I came? I might get some details wrong now and then, but I know you inside and out. I came here because what you want is what I want. Besides,” she adds, “you’re a hottie and I’ve been envisioning this scenario for a while.”
I smile at her. Suddenly I realize, regardless of the trippy context, I’ve got a strong and brazen beauty in my bed who knows every one of my desires and wants to play through them with me. This is hot.
She finishes taking off her pants. I glance down. Her legs have a different shape to them, probably due to a few extra years on hormones. That’s not all I notice.
“Where did you get those scars on your legs?”
“The big one on the outside of my thigh was from a fight—don’t worry, I messed him up even more. The smaller ones are from cutting.” She watches me closely. I think she’s looking for a reaction, but I’m not sure how I’m feeling. “You don’t need to do that, by the way, if you can find a better alternative.”
I decide that a minimal reaction is best. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
She must see my awkwardness with the topic and redirects us. “Come and get a closer look.”
I move forward to look at her. The pattern of pubic hair is somewhat sparse, and I can see her labia underneath it fairly well. I glance up and notice her staring at me. I can feel myself blushing.
“It really is okay to touch it,” she tells me.
I don’t know why I’m being so hesitant. I pull her labia to the side and take a closer look. Her clit is actually pretty cute. Her bits really look like any other cunt I’ve seen, as unique as any other. “What made you decide to do it?” I ask.
“I realized that I had always been interested. I had just thought that if I had a spare twenty grand hanging around that I might have better use to put it to. But there are some real benefits to it. I don’t have any problems in clothing optional space anymore, and I can go stealth in locker rooms, with Michigan festies, or even with one-night stands.”
“You’re stealth now?”
“Only for a few hours at a time.” She flashes me my crooked smile again. “But I suppose the main two factors that pushed me over the edge were that my health-care plan covered it—actually Saphira’s health plan—but most health plans cover it now. And that I didn’t want the risk of getting placed in a men’s prison again.”
It takes a moment for me to catch the significance of again. I should be disturbed by it, but for some reason I’m simply concerned. I look up at her questioningly, hoping for more explanation.
“Oh, shit, that was insensitive of me. I didn’t mean to tell you like that. But don’t worry, I already took precautions to prevent it from happening to you.”
“How did it happen to you?”
“It’s a long story I’d rather not talk about. Let’s just say it had to do with an abusive partner and survival crime. Life sucked for a while, but I got through it and I’m stronger now than I was then.”
I can see the pain again. She’s been hurt a lot. I wonder if, despite her mysterious precautions, that will happen to me.
“Hey, mind if we get back to the fun stuff? I know you’d love to see me get off, and I’ve actually been wanting to try this for a while.”
I smile back at her and let her change the subject. “I’ll grab the gloves.”
“Hmm, that brings up an interesting question. I wonder if it’s possible for me to give you anything? That seems like it would be a bit of a paradox.”
I think about it a moment. “There’s enough paradoxes floating around already. Besides, it’s a part of my agreement with Saphira.”
“Oh, certainly. Of course. I just get curious. Those kinds of things are hard to figure out.”
I move closer to her and run my hand up her leg.
“Before you start…” She beckons me over. I come to her side and she pulls my head toward her and kisses me on the forehead. “Have fun, darling.”
A little more relaxed, I cup my hand over her cunt and hold still a moment. Then I back off slightly and give her some light and teasing touches. She responds positively, with a slight shudder and a sigh. A smile comes to my face. I’m getting really turned on. I run my tongue over her thigh. Then I turn
my focus to mapping her vulva with the tips of my fingers, enjoying every tactile sensation.
Once I’m satisfied I slip on a glove and douse my hand in lube.
I move my hand between her legs and find her opening. After rubbing the lube around a bit, I slide a finger in. Her eyes flutter as she takes a breath. It went in easily.
I feel around a bit, drinking in every sensation I can. I’m in up to my last knuckle. She’s moaning softly. I back out to insert another finger. This time she gasps. I do a come-hither motion and she arches her back.
“There, oh, fuck, yeah,” she says between breaths, which are coming faster and harder. “Please, right there.”
“You’re a lot of fun to play with.” With my other hand I squeeze her clit between her labia and rub it. She lets out a series of staccato breaths. Encouraged, I increase my pace. She writhes under me.
A moment later I slow to add another finger. I push all three in as deep as I can. She starts lifting up to me and I can feel how much her cunt wants me.
“Oh, yes,” she cries. “That’s what I need, fill me more.”
I use a fourth finger as well. There’s more resistance and I slow, then drizzle more lube over her cunt. It takes some time, then I can feel her cunt opening up, begging to swallow my fist.
“Try your whole hand.”
Doing as she says, I tuck my thumb under my other fingers and press in. I’m in awe and not sure if it will work, but I keep the pressure on. As her moans and movement builds, my hand slips into her. She’s gasping. I’m filled with a sense of amazement. Her pulse beats around me.
She reaches down to stimulate her own clit. Her whole body is tensing and pulsing. I can feel it as her cunt clenches around my fist. I hold her hip tightly as her body rocks. Then she’s spasming. I feel her cunt quiver around me. Her abs tense and she almost sits up. Then her body slumps back and goes slack.
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