She was ready; I could feel her. I pulled her whole clitoris into my mouth and she was writhing. Then Stefan was suddenly awake at my ass. I felt first cold and then wetness and then he was inside me. This was a shock. I hadn’t had anal sex in years. I started to pull away. Rachel forced my head down into her sex—her lovely musky rich sex—and I didn’t care. I wanted this now. I wanted to smear it across my face and breathe her in. I plowed my fingers into her. Stefan matched my rhythm and I could no longer think. The pain of his dick forcing its way into me wrestled with the pleasure of each stroke. I screamed into her pussy. He fucked me slow and hard. Rachel bucked beneath me, calling my attention back to her clit. She arched and I plunged my fingers even further, harder. I didn’t care if it hurt. She squeezed my tits and I exploded into hyperspace. She arched her back again and we were both inconsolable. Stefan thrust hard and shot into me. Josef, somehow behind him, yanked Stefan’s head back, planting a kiss; sweat rolled down his chest as he screamed his release.
I floated. Breathing and floating back down to earth, I found myself on top of her, her arms around my waist. She kissed my forehead, my lips, and smile. I could smell myself on her and it pleased me. She lifted my face to hers.
“To the bedroom, then?”
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 pantyhose. 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 amongst 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 lipstick-lipped 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 wine glass 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 focused 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. “You want more?”
“Yes. Please, Master.”
“Are you going to behave yourself if I give you more? You are already very lucky to have been allowed to suck your Master’s big cock like that. You know that, don’t you?”
“Yes, Master. Thank you.” He played along, knowing full well what he was entitled to during the session.
“Okay then, you must promise to be on your very best behavior. Bring me a condom, boy.” I wanted to continue as much as he did and was pleased that he returned quickly with the basket of condoms and a bottle of lube. I pretended to eye the bottle he had handed me quizzically. “Oh, you were expecting me to go easy on you, were you?” I toyed with him, for both of us. He lowered his head in response, looking like a child about to break out in giggles. I imagined him being a strong butch lover of mine as I snapped on a glove and prepared to ready his waiting ass. I had him face the whipping post on the other side of the room and undress from the waist down. Off came the work pants and a pair of gray-specked boxer briefs. I noticed he kept his body pressed tight against the post. “Are you nervous?”
“No, Master.” I didn’t push it, as it was ideal positioning for my own fantasy. I instructed him to step back and make sure he kept his forehead touching the post. He complied with my demands easily, and I threw in a threat about the disciplinary actions I would be forced to take if he squirmed out of position.
I entered him at first cautiously, with one finger, then two. I realized very soon that he had more experience than he had let on. I ran my other hand through what I assumed to be sweat on his inner thigh. He was moving his body accordingly, so I knew he wanted to be fucked. I thought about what he had said when he came in about not having done “exactly” this before, and wondered what specifically he had meant by that. Was he a fag experimenting with women? A “straight man” who frequented cruise parks, having anonymous lovers nightly? Maybe he had played out similar scenes with a woman lover before, who had since left him or become ill. I speculated for a moment too long and then snapped back to reality. Or as close to reality as I chose to make it: he was my handsome boy-dyke slave, a fine butch bottom, helplessly awaiting my hot femme dick to enter and take him over.
Caught up in my own imagination, but not so much that I wasn’t paying attention, I spread the soft asscheeks before me and circled the tip of the silicone dick between them. I had, at some point in this fluster of daydream, work and sweat, remembered to put on the condom. One last time I pushed my lubed fingers in and out firmly, and then pushed myself into him. He let out something between a squeal and a sigh, sounding like a young boy. I liked the power I felt hearing his surprisingly high-pitched sounds and continued to press myself into him and pull back. As this motion quickened and we fell into each other’s rhythm, I began to grind my dripping cunt against her ass, playing with her insides. I pretended that the increasing sweat pouring down his legs was sweet girl cum and held the inside of her thigh against the palm of my hand.
I noticed that as he got more turned-on and as the fucking became rougher, he pulled away from me more, and pushed his weight against the post. I brought my arm around to the front of her neck. It was soft and tight. I ran my knuckles against his jaw, finding that his teeth were clenched. I ran my hand along his jawline, also soft and unusually free of stubble. His face was trembling with what seemed like fear.
Leaving one hand on his face, I slowly moved the other hand around to the front of his thigh. It was sticky wet and also trembled to my touch. I tried to stay strong and stern, but was both confused and excited. As I inched my hand upward he jerked away from me. I pulled her close to my body. The hand I had rested on her face came down and pressed against her collarbone. I felt the tiny recognizable ripples of a tensor-bandaged chest.
She heaved the heavy sigh of someone exposing a skeleton. I moved my hand between her legs, revealing for certain the truth to my fantasy and this boy’s well-hidden identity. I sighed a sigh of relief, of pleasure, of the unknown future. I sat down on the floor, leaning my back against the wooden post. I pulled her down and continued to hold her against me. My hand ran through her sweaty hair. We had not yet made eye contact. When she finally looked at me her eyes were intense and concerned. “Are you mad?” they asked. I flashed her the same sexually charged and wanting smile she had given me after sucking me off.
“Are you?” my eyes asked back.
About the Authors
LISA ARCHER is the pen name and alter ego of a San Francisco–based writer. Her stories have appeared in Best Bisexual Women’s Erotica, Best Women’s Erotica 2002 and 2004, The Erotica Reader, Awakening the Virgin 2, and Pills, Thrills, Chills, and Heartache: Adventures in the First Person.
SARAH BARDEEN is a freelance writer and editor, music critic, and poet living in the San Francisco Bay Area. Her reviews have appeared on National Public Radio’s, “All Things Considered” and in various print and electronic media. Some of her best friends are lesbians.
BETTY BLUE is a neurotic sex-kitten in San Francisco who is fighting a losing battle against the urge to stab people with forks (cuz you know it’s all fun until somebody loses an eye). Her fiction has appeared in Best Women’s Erotica 2003, Best Lesbian Love Stories, Best Lesbian Erotica 2002 and 2003, Best Bisexual Erotica, and Tough Girls.
Under her real name, CHEYENNE BLUE writes rural travel guides, and often blends outdoor themes into her erotica. Her writing has appeared in Best Women’s Erotica 2002 and 2003, Best Lesbian Erotica 2003, Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 2002, and several websites. Visit her website at www.cheyenneblue.com.
RACHEL KRAMER BUSSEL (www.rachelkramerbussel.com) writes about books, sex, smut, and music. She is the reviser of The Lesbian Sex Book, coauthor of The Erotic Writer’s Market Guide, and coeditor of the lesbian erotica anthology Up All Night. Her writing has been published in Bust, Curve, Diva, Girlfriends, On Our Backs, Playgirl, Rockrgrl, The San Francisco Chronicle, and in over twenty anthologies including Best Lesbian Erotica 2001, Best Women’s Erotica 2003, and Best American Erotica 2004.
KATE E. CONLAN is a young New Zealander traveling the world collecting stories and people. She yearns for a purse puppy but makes do with sporadic emails from friends and family for long-distance love. She is unhealthily addicted to her computer and loves the sound of rain on her tent. Her favorite thing in the whole wide world is a Cox’s orange apple in March, handpicked and shined brig
ht on the edge of her shirt.
TINA CRISTINA MARIA D’ELIA is a power femme mixed-race Latina lesbian feminist, activist, performance poet, actor, and playwright. She was a Boston Amazon Poetry Slam winner and OutWrite Festival Slam finalist; her work has been published in Sojourner, The New Our Bodies Ourselves, and Fragments. She has appeared in the films Hard Love and How to Fuck in High Heels, One, A Haunting, Sexual Healing, Exploring Butch/Femme Desire, Simone’s 24, and Shut Up Josephine! She is currently at work on a film based on her one-woman show.
MARÍA HELENA DOLAN says, “You can know a lot of things about me, but the basics are: I love women, and I fuckin’ hate George Bush and all he and his pals stand for. I say put tax dollars into community gardens, not long-range bombings. Do I have to say more? You betcha. Just let me unleash my collection of Southern-accented erotica and my Lesbian Vampire Mother novel on an unsuspecting world. Any takers?”
BETHANY HARVEY is a writer, editor, and artisan from the backwoods of West Virginia and, more recently, the backwoods of northern Florida. Her goal in life is to make a living writing fiction so she doesn’t need a real job. Most of her fiction is about being young and queer in the New South, but, unfortunately, she did not write “Breathing Water” from personal experience.
Best Lesbian Erotica 2004 Page 25