I take the cue to slowly remove my fist. When I finally am out she lets out a long breath. I lie down on the bed next to her and she puts her arms around me.
“A thousand throngs of thundering thespians, goddamn, I needed that!” She gives me a peck on the cheek. “It’s been a while.”
“Of course. I should be thanking you.”
“You really are an adorable sweetie. I kinda miss that part of me.” She brushes the hair out of my eyes. “So, what do you think?”
“That was incredible. When did you get it?”
“In 2015. As soon as I could after I got out.”
“You know, I don’t think you lost it,” I say, “the sweet caring part of yourself, I mean.” I lean over and give her a kiss. She’s somewhat surprised at first, then kisses me back with a gentle tenderness that makes my heart swoon. I run my hand through her hair and kiss her harder.
I roll over her and run my hand down her side. Her hand moves up under my shirt and scratches my back. The sharp sensation intensifies the arousal I’m feeling. Her fingers find and undo the snap of my bra.
She gets my shirt off and cups one of my breasts in her hand. She pinches my nipple between her middle and ring finger. I moan. She twists. I gasp and pull back slightly. I’m disoriented for a moment, then she pushes me onto my back and is sitting on top of me and holding a royal blue dildo.
“The Empress! You still have her after all these years?”
“Of course. When you form a psychological connection with one of these babies, it doesn’t go away easily.” She leans over me. “You did such a nice job with me just now, how would you like it if I returned the favor?”
“Please.”
She gets off the bed and walks around by my feet. She’s wearing a strap-on harness, but I don’t remember her putting it on. I grab the lube and spread some on myself. Kneeling at the foot of the bed, she lifts my legs into the air and leans over me.
She kisses my ankle and guides the Empress to my ass. I’m hungry and ready for her. She pushes the tip into me. I moan. She holds still for a moment while I adjust. Minute by minute, inch by inch, my ass swallows her. When she knows I’ve had enough time, she pulls almost all the way out, only to sink deep into me in one fluid motion.
I arch myself into her and she alternates between a few slow thrusts and several faster ones. I let out a slow groan. She reaches down with one hand to play with my breasts. As I get more into things she shifts her position so she’s lying on top of me, and kisses my neck. She’s panting.
“How much can you get out of using that?”
“Quite a bit, actually.” She moans into my ear while making several quick thrusts in succession as if to demonstrate. She grips my hair and grinds her hips into me. Her head lifts up and leans back. She’s a lot louder. Her energy is intensifying, then suddenly she downshifts and returns to her previous patter.
She smiles at me. “A little more of that, and I could have come.”
After a while I roll us over so that I’m on top. I’ve got room to touch my bits now. She’s still thrusting up into me. Everything feels so good. She’s staring straight into my eyes with such intensity and focus. The sensation is arcing. Waves of pleasure crash over my body. I collapse onto her. A tingling sensation is still making its way back and forth over my spine. I wrap my arms under her back and clutch her to me.
After it subsides I lift myself up and pull the dildo out. I snuggle up to her side. “Damn, I love you,” I say.
“I love you, too.” She laughs. “But seriously, I’m really glad you still think I’m worthy of your love.”
“I don’t think you’ve changed as much as you think you have. At least not in the important ways.”
“Keep that in mind,” she says. “You and I, we’re resilient. I’ve been through a lot. A lot that I hope you don’t have to deal with. But even with all that, you can still love the self that I’ve become. I hope you never stop loving the self that you are.”
It’s a rather beautiful sentiment. “Is that the message you came here to give me?”
“Maybe.” She grins and looks to the side. “Hey, you wanna try something really weird?” She pounces back onto me and changes the subject, a habit I hadn’t noticed about myself before. It’s also interesting to realize how much bubbly energy she has, and I wonder if I’m like that too. She interrupts my thoughts and holds up a condom. “I’m creaming all over at the thought of you fucking me with your bits—if you feel comfortable with it.”
I smiled. “I like how you think.”
We keep going like that for who knows how long. We try everything we can think of. I’m getting to know her body really well, and she already knows mine. Occasionally we take breaks and she tells me more about her life. Time slips by. It’s hard to keep one moment distinct from the next. I don’t remember it becoming night, but suddenly it’s morning. I must have fallen asleep.
I feel arms around me. I turn around to kiss my future self, but she’s not there. Instead, it’s Saphira. She’s awake and kisses me.
“Saphira, when did you get here?”
“I got back really late last night and you had already fallen asleep. You looked so happy I didn’t want to wake you.”
Now that I’m more awake, I think I realize what happened. Oh, well, I say to myself. I guess I can never deny being vain again.
“I had a thought last night, darling.” It would be nice to keep my options open. “What would it take for me to be on your health plan?”
BRUSH STROKES
Elizabeth Cage
When Kirby joined the advanced Pilates class, I noticed her straightaway. She was tall and slim, with short dark hair and a generous smile. But it was her body that attracted me. It was toned and sculpted, and I could tell she did weight training. I love a toned, muscular female body. It just turns me on big-time. So when she asked if I wanted to join her for a drink one night after class, I said, “Yes,” without hesitation.
We went to a quiet bar round the corner and as I sat opposite her sipping a Bailey’s Glide, I noticed how elegant and smooth her hands were and how long and shapely the fingers. I suddenly imagined them inside me, exploring and teasing. I couldn’t help smiling as my clit tingled.
“Am I missing the joke?” she asked, bemused.
I blushed furiously. “You’re very good,” I blurted, adding quickly, “at Pilates.”
“It’s a form of exercise I really enjoy,” she replied. “And my body is so much more flexible and strong as a result.”
I nodded, wondering just how flexible. I had been feeling horny all week. I blamed this on the fact that I was between girlfriends and hadn’t enjoyed a sexy encounter for over a month. I’m also an impatient person at the best of times. I’d hoped the Pilates classes might have slowed me down but I still spent most of my life rushing around between work and social engagements. Relax and chill were not words in my vocabulary.
“You seem on edge, Tara. Is everything okay?” Kirby asked, and she stretched out her hand and pushed a strand of my unruly blonde hair behind my ear. She smoothed it back into place, fingertips brushing the nape of my neck. God, did she have the magic touch! I wanted to sigh pleasurably, to rub my head against her hand like a sensual cat. Instead I muttered awkwardly, “Damned hair, always getting in the way. Greasy, needs a wash.”
She said: “I’ll wash it for you.”
Was she serious?
“You have beautiful hair, Tara,” she said. “Like long, luscious threads of golden flax. And I would love to wash it for you.”
“Are you a hairdresser, then?” I asked, somewhat taken aback.
She shook her head.
“I just think it can be a sensuous experience, for both parties.”
“Okay,” I said. “You’re on.”
“My place, then?” she suggested. “I only live down the road. Are you sure you’re up for this?”
Ten minutes later, I found myself sitting in a chrome-and-black chair with my head lean
ing back over a shiny white basin in a smart designer bathroom, wearing only my sports bra and bum-hugging yoga pants, while Kirby massaged delicious peach blossom and ylang-ylang shampoo into my scalp. It felt wonderfully relaxing; I luxuriated in the heavenly fragrance, my senses surrendering to her expert touch. Carefully, she rinsed off the rich lather with the showerhead, spraying cool water in powerful jets. (Unlike my hairdresser, she did it without getting water in my ears). I heard myself sigh while she toweled my dripping hair almost dry with a big, fluffy white towel and when she finished, she leaned over and kissed me lightly on the lips. It was electric.
Unable to restrain myself, I grabbed her head with both hands and pulled her to me, pushing my tongue into her mouth and kissing hard. Without saying a word, she gently but firmly took my hands and placed them behind my back, and swiftly pulled the belt from a bathrobe that was hanging on the door and looped it around my wrists. I had not expected this, but it only made me tremble more as I find mild restraint to be a turn-on. Whispering in my ear, she said, “The best things should be savored slowly.” She took my hand and led me into the bedroom, which was neat and minimalist like the rest of the flat. Tidy and highly organized, I thought, tingling in anticipation. As she sat me on the edge of the huge bed, I spotted a large array of brushes regimentally lined up on the dressing table. Was I in for a spanking? I could feel the wet patch forming inside my tight yoga pants. Yes, please, I thought hungrily.
“Are you comfortable?” she asked, running a finger lightly down my arm. I shuddered and nodded, hardly able to contain my excitement. She walked over to the dressing table and selected a large wooden paddle brush. I closed my eyes, waiting. And waiting. Then I opened them again, wide with amazement, as she proceeded to brush my hair, in long, loving strokes.
“This is a Mason Pearson brush,” she explained calmly, ignoring my reaction. “The company was established in the nineteenth century to manufacture exquisite brushes by hand. This one has spired tufts of boar bristles, which is kinder to the hair and scalp, and grooms without tugging. A perfect design for shiny, vibrant hair.”
I was bemused. She had me bound and helpless, half-naked, in her bedroom and just wanted to brush my hair? It was weird—yet, I had to admit, each stroke made me feel strangely relaxed. After a while, she got up and went back to the table to select another brush. I tingled again. Maybe she would spank me now?
“Mason Pearson are good,” she said, taking an oval satin wood brush with white bristles from a red oblong box, “but these are my favorites. Traditionally made by Kent since 1777, the world’s oldest and most prestigious brush manufacturers.” Her tone was fluid, mellifluous, like her brush strokes. “All handmade and of the finest quality,” she practically purred. She smiled at me. “And this one is especially good for deep penetration…of the hair shaft.”
I swallowed hard as Kirby sat beside me on the bed and raised her hand. After using the brush on my still-damp hair for another twenty strokes (I found myself counting) she gently removed my bra and kissed each hard brown nipple, before recommencing her brushing ritual.
“Another twenty strokes,” she murmured and I found myself counting, again, wondering what she would do when we reached twenty. At eighteen I was trembling again, at nineteen I wanted to explode.
“Twenty,” she said decisively, putting the brush on the bed. Then she placed her hands around my waist and slowly, oh-so-slowly, peeled off my yoga pants and placed them on the plush carpet next to my bra. She wrapped her arms around me, caressing my breasts while breathing in the scent of my long blonde hair as if it was the most exclusive perfume. Then she dropped down onto her knees and parted my legs, burying her head between my thighs against my soaking wet cotton thong and inhaling deeply. I groaned.
“Please,” I begged, my anticipation straining at its leash, my whole body on fire. I needed release.
“I like to take things slowly,” she insisted, looking up into my eyes, her fingers and hands caressing my neck and hair, her body so close. I had no choice but to accept and enjoy. It was torture, but exquisite torture. She butterfly-kissed from the nape of my neck, along my back and down to the base of my spine. Everything was tingling.
Then she moved beside me and pulled me over to her, sitting me on her knee. I felt her nipples, hard against my back. I wriggled and circled, trying to tease her and she moaned with pleasure, but after a few moments of this, she smiled again and lifted me off, this time seating me on a chair in front of the dressing table and mirror. I stared at myself, my face flushed, mouth open, legs wide, my cunt sticky. Kirby looked as if she was deciding on another brush to select, tormenting me, before standing behind me once more.
“You like bondage, don’t you?” she said.
“Yes,” I gasped.
“So do I,” she replied, and she proceeded to plait my hair into a long braid, fastening it with a deep blue velvet ribbon where it stopped just above my hips. Bondage of the hair.
“I adore long hair, Tara,” she said, kissing the long golden plait. “My favorite fairy tale is ‘Rapunzel.’ It turns me on.”
She moved the chair back and crouched down before me, like an adoring suitor, and I noticed that she was holding a tiny, delicate brush with feather-soft bristles. “I made this myself,” she said, pulling the wet fabric of my thong to one side to reveal my aching, longing, throbbing pussy.
I didn’t need to count this time. She only had to touch my clit with it once and I watched my reflection in the mirror as I came instantly and intensely. I was still moaning with pleasure as she untied my hands and lowered me gently onto the bed, stroking me again each time the orgasm subsided, fanning another stronger wave of ecstasy with her masterful touch, watching me. Eventually, I had to push her hand away, gasping, “No more, too sensitive!” and she lay beside me, caressing my hair.
When my breathing returned to normal, I wanted to give Kirby some fraction of the pleasure she had given me, so I pushed her back onto the bed and slowly pulled off her white T-shirt and sports bra, letting my long plait drape across her breasts, hooking my fingers inside her drawstring yoga pants and slipping them off, before slowly peeling off her tight black boyshorts. Then I played with her glistening cunt, using the end of my braid like the soft brush she had used on my clit, lightly stroking and teasing. I wanted to thrill her, to send her into a frenzy.
I could see the excitement in her eyes as I used my tongue and mouth on her, licking and sucking her hard bud greedily. She arched her back, now reaching the point of no return. She looked up and I slipped a finger inside her, rubbing her clit with my thumb. I could feel her coming, and at that moment, I lifted my head and yanked off the blue ribbon, letting my long hair tumble proud and loose on my shoulders like a golden waterfall. She cried out “Rapunzel!” and as her body shuddered into spasm, I was overwhelmed by her powerful musky scent as her creamy fluid oozed onto the cotton sheets.
Instinctively, I rubbed my flaxen tresses into her delicious gaping cunt, soaking up her strong juices.
“Oh, dear,” I said sweetly, running my hands through my now-sticky hair. “And it’s only just been washed.”
FROM THE HALLS OF MONTEZUMA
R. G. Emanuelle
As much as I knew that my six-year relationship with Lanie was over, and was actually relieved, I was not prepared for the alone-ness. I guess you never really are. My friends did the best they could to cheer me up and drag me out of my reclusion, but I just wasn’t interested.
Then came that time of year I call the Birthday Hump, wherein my friends’ birthdays cluster up in the span of about three months. During that time, a million red circles mottle my calendar. Smack at the beginning of this cycle of birthdays was my own. Tamara, in her passive-aggressive way, somehow managed to convince me to go out with the gang for my special day to the Long Tips. I hadn’t set foot in a club since the early days of my relationship with Lanie—she hated dancing, so we never went.
When we first walked in, the swirling colored lights se
emed brighter than I remembered and almost blinded me. The music seemed louder, too. The beat was faster, the lyrics were raunchier, and the melody was…well, nonexistent. It was just a continual annoying stream of thumping, popping noises.
After the first round of drinks, I asked Tamara, “So, what’s going on?”
“You’re gonna like the show tonight. It’s extra special,” she said.
“What?”
“A strip show.”
“What’s so special about that? We’ve seen dozens of strip shows.”
She’d dragged me to a club where they seemed to be letting in twelve-year-olds to see some stale old strip show?
“Not like this one,” she said, smirking. “Annabelle told me about it a couple of weeks ago and I came last week to check it out myself. There’s a very special dancer I think you’ll like.”
She looked right at me as she said this. And with such certainty, too.
Whatever.
If you’ve seen one stripper, you’ve seen them all. Most of them aren’t even gay. They just dance in gay clubs for the money. What was so special about this one? Was she that hot? Was she the most beautiful woman on the green earth? Did she have the body of a goddess?
“What does that mean?” I asked Tamara.
She grinned broadly. “You’ll see.”
By the time midnight rolled around, several rounds had been bought and drunk. The music faded out and the lights went down.
Finally, the supposedly special show was about to begin. A rotund, tightly packed drag queen in a ridiculously overdone blonde wig that made her look like she belonged in a John Waters movie, bellowed into the mike.
“Hello, girls and boys, dykes and fairies of all ages!” she rasped. “I’m Gore-ella. Welcome once again to the Long Tips. That’s ladies’ night at the Long Tails, for you uninitiated. We have a great show for you tonight. All you dykes out there are going to be soaking wet when you see the lovelies we have for you tonight. Get your tongues limbered up because after this show, you’re gonna have some work to do on your girrrrlfrieeeeeends.” Gore-ella stuck out her tongue and wiggled it lewdly, eliciting whoops from the audience.
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