Wild Nights Page 6
The mood of the party got even more risque as the night wore on. I mingled with women whose breasts were bared, people getting spanked, people getting propositioned all over the place. A roaming photographer managed to snap my picture with the mystery butch, and while we chatted a few times throughout the night, nothing much happened. I wasn’t sure if she was with her friend, and besides, I felt slightly out of place, like I didn’t belong with such a glamorous, kinky crowd.
I didn’t think too much about my new friend until I ran into her a few weeks later at another party. She really laid it on thick, but she had to, because I was so slow. Even though I’d once again managed to dress in my sluttiest attire, I felt like a prude compared to all the wild women around me. She bought me a drink and I even sat on her lap, but still, it took me forever to figure out that she was flirting with me; at twenty-one, I was so young and inexperienced, and she seemed older and suave, but eventually I managed to pick up on her clues when she simply jumped in to the middle of our bumbling conversation and asked if she could go home with me. A shiver of excitement ran through me, along with a feeling of truly being an adult—getting picked up by a stranger who thought that I was worthy of this kind of attention.
We went back to my ultra tiny dorm room, but I didn’t even have the presence of mind to be embarrassed about its miniscule size or the extra-long twin bed we found ourselves on. She toyed with the chain link necklace I imagined so tough and cool back then, tugging on it, staking her claim on me. Then she kissed me, her hands lifting my shirt, kneading my breasts, and making me moan. I surrendered to her touch, no longer worried about what was proper or what she thought of me, because her hands were sending a very strong and direct message. She pinched each nipple, and when I exclaimed, she did it harder. I closed my eyes, put my head down, the ultimate pillow queen demanding her due, my curvy body a contrast to her steely, muscular one. She was a stone butch, not stern but not full of endearments either, which was fine because I didn’t need those. Knowing she wanted to fuck me was more than enough, and I let her, panting and writhing as she tugged on the metal necklace looped around my neck, the cool surface digging into my skin. I arched my neck, giving myself to this stranger as she calmly claimed me.
I was half afraid to look at her, knowing she was probably twice my age and very likely ten times as experienced. Looking back, I wonder what she saw in my youthful innocence, my uncertainty and need, but at the time I was so raw and eager for any new experiences that I didn’t think to question it. Her teeth sank into my shoulder as she pinned me beneath her, her short nails trailing along my skin. She stripped me down, pulling my clothes off with as little fanfare as possible until I was stark naked on the narrow surface of the bed. I could feel her looking at me, examining me with her eyes and her hands in the dim light as she traced a finger along my spine, pressing the vertebrae as she went before pausing as she reached the curve of my ass. She kept going, though, her finger pausing to dip along the surface of my asshole, testing my reaction, perhaps, before her other hand plunged into my center. Her fingers were small and efficient, pressing against me with powerful thrusts as I pushed back against her. I hardly knew a thing about her and yet there she was, working my most sensitive folds into a rip-roaring orgasm. I was incoherent, babbling something that must have made sense to me but that she wisely ignored, doing what she wanted to do instead.
She leaned down, resting her head rather sweetly on one of my cheeks, her breath warm along my curves as her fingers sloped and slid inside of me, rhythmic lunges that I quickly became accustomed to. What had seemed strange at first as we moved from the fun flirtation of the bar to the quieter solitude of my dorm room morphed into something else, a coming together as we both eased into our roles. She tugged on the chain, letting my tender neck feel her desire for me as she twisted her practiced fingers inside me while I struggled to stay on the bed. For a few minutes, I tried to hold on to some semblance of the good girl I’d always strived to be, the law student who didn’t do things like this, but I couldn’t, not when I’d taken home a virtual stranger, one who clearly cared more about my body than me. We liked each other on one level, yes, but it was clear from the start that this would just be a one-night stand, nothing more, nothing less.
She was fiery, hot, snakelike as her fingers practiced their experienced magic on me, moving in ways I could only begin to grasp as I drooled onto my pillow, tossed my long hair, feeling young and glamorous and invincible as she proved just how easy I was. In hardly any time at all, her fingers were coaxing forth my climax, like my body was a maze whose secret trapdoor she’d discovered long ago. I didn’t marvel at her quickness, though, just twisted against her, moaning, pushing back, feeling full and high and wanted. She’d made it clear this was a one-way street, that she was one of those stone butches I’d only read about, stilling my hand as I tried to remove her shirt. Once I’d been refused, I’d stopped longing to touch her, had quelled all desires of that nature in order to fully enjoy her touch, her fingers slamming and twisting, her other hand pressing down against my body, appreciating it like a national treasure, something you’re not supposed to touch but do anyway, sneaking reverent, mischievous strokes. She wasn’t tentative, but since we both knew the score, knew we were as entranced by each other’s age and (in)experience as we were by our chemistry, we could go to a level that was purely physical. It was all over in probably half an hour, but certainly one of the longest half hours of my life. We didn’t speak much during or afterward, and any details she told me about herself have long since been forgotten.
Weeks later, the party’s organizer gave me a photo from that night, of me and her and her friend. I’m glowing, beaming, while they’re smiling normally. I still have it around here, somewhere, but I don’t know where it is, just like I once knew her name, and now it’s faded into obscurity. But I still remember my initiation into the world of lesbian sex for the hell of it, without any kind of soulmate kidding ourselves, without anything deeper than hunger and connection and desire, just a quick and dirty one-night stand, one of only a handful to come.
Us
Nell Stark
I’d always thought my first time would be with a man, on our wedding night. That I’d be thinking about it all week up until the day, and during the ceremony, and the reception, and in the limo back to the hotel. That I’d be suffused with anticipation—nervous and excited and eager and happy.
Then, I saw through a glass, darkly. Now, face to face.
It’s Saturday. Two weeks exactly from the day I first kissed her. She made me do the kissing, of course—I’m the one with the baggage, here. If my parents knew how my lips feel against the back of her neck while she brushes her teeth in the morning . . . well, they’d say it’s wrong. That we’re wrong. Hell, even I thought it was a sin, when I first arrived on campus as a freshman. Such a good girl—so smart and nice and proper. And now, here I am—a bona fide lesbian. I never asked for the label, but if it’s the cost of loving her, then I’ll take it and own it. I’ll do anything to make it so we can stay right here, lying side-by-side on my bed in our pajamas, both reading books as the chill October wind blasts sporadically outside the window.
It’s taken me three years to need her. Three years of gradual shift, tectonic plates slip-sliding under the surface of my being. Rearranging. Preparing a way in the wilderness. We were best friends almost immediately, but the rest came slowly—filling in around the edges, drip-dropping into the cracks, sealing them up, one by one.
She sets her book down on the nightstand and turns toward me, tucking an errant curl of my hair behind one ear with a gentle hand. I smile into her face, so familiar, so beloved.
“I think you need a massage,” she says, a slight grin playing at the corners of her mouth.
My eyes get a little wider and I feel my smile change shape. Eager. I love how her hands feel on my back—smooth and steady and gentle. Safe. She takes my expression for the acceptance that it is, and shifts so she’s kneeling
on the bed. “Turn over.”
I flip obediently and am rewarded a moment later by the gentle, circular pressure of her hands against my shoulders. I let myself sink into the mattress with a long sigh. The warmth of her palms soaks through my shirt and into my skin.
“Feels so good,” I murmur, allowing myself to drift. No thinking, no worrying, just floating—basking in her soft, confident strokes, arching a little against her touch when she hits a sore spot. My eyes are closed but I won’t let myself sleep; no, I want to remember every moment of this, every touch. Once in a while, I make sure to hum just a little, low under my breath, so she knows how much I love this. Love her.
Suddenly, I feel the hem of my T-shirt being lifted up, and then her hands are splayed over the small of my back. I exhale involuntarily. Her skin on my skin—comfort, closeness. And something else, something a little dangerous. Heat stirring way down deep, uncoiling and stretching. Hungry.
“Is this okay?” she whispers, remaining motionless.
“Yes,” I reply. My voice sounds deep, even to my own ears. “That feels amazing.”
“Good,” she murmurs, and remaps my entire back with the soft pads of her fingers. I’m lost again, floating, reduced to nothing but sheer feeling. When her hands finally stop, I can’t tell whether it’s been minutes or hours since she began to touch me.
“Wow,” I whisper, rolling over with an effort. My body feels languid, fluid. Have I ever been this relaxed? “That was the best massage I’ve ever had. Amazing. Thank—”
I’m looking at her face but she’s not looking at mine. The movements of her hands have bunched up my shirt a little, and she’s staring at the revealed expanse of my pale belly. She slides down toward the foot of the bed, and suddenly, I can’t breathe. Her head lowers slowly, so slowly—giving me time to change my mind, I dimly realize—until her lips connect with my skin. One kiss, featherlight. Two. Three. So loving, so careful. I feel like porcelain. She covers the patch with tender kisses, then reaches for my shirt to hike it up a little more—and freezes.
“I think I’m trying to seduce you,” she whispers. Her voice sounds young, uncertain.
Seduce me? Really? Does she really want me like that? She said so, back on that night when she first told me she loved me, but it’s so hard to believe. Should I stop her? The heat between my thighs flares again, and now I can feel an ache in my breasts, too. Her lips are so good, so right on my skin—and suddenly, I realize that I don’t want her to stop. I want her to touch me, so much more than she already is.
“If I’m uncomfortable, I’ll tell you,” I say a little breathlessly. “But that feels really good.”
“Okay,” she murmurs, and bends her head back down to my stomach. Gradually, she pushes the hem of my shirt up, higher and higher, going so slowly for my sake. I love her for it, even as I want to beg her to really touch me—but the words won’t come. Ironically, my greatest fear is that I’ll scare her with the intensity of my desire. There are other things to be afraid of, of course, but right now they couldn’t matter less. And then her index finger connects with the soft underside of my right breast, and I can’t help hissing at the jolt that storms from my skin to the focal point between my legs.
She pauses, and I feel the fine tremors of her fingers against me. “Too much?”
“No,” I rasp. “No, it feels great.”
“Okay,” she whispers again. And then, “I love you.”
“I love you back,” I reply, voice trembling. Not out of fear or even nervousness—every touch of hers is so clearly another “I love you.” Out of want. I am aching, aching so badly and I need her to—
Her hand closes gently around my breast and I let out a humming sigh. Yes, that.
“Good?” she asks, and I nod, my breaths quickening as I feel her other hand slide up my belly. And then she’s kneading, kneading and rubbing and sometimes her fingers rise and pinch my nipples ever so lightly before sliding back down and around. Her mouth presses sucking kisses into the indentations of my ribcage, and my body comes alive, back arching involuntarily.
“Oh . . . feels so amazing.” I’m throbbing now, pulse beating in time to the pull of her hands. The way she touches me, firmly but so gently—I want those long fingers to explore every inch of me. Do I dare tell her that? Will she think I’m being too forward? But our honesty—it’s important. It’s everything. We’ve promised each other to tell nothing but the truth, and I can’t hide it anymore, can’t deny that what I want, what I need so desperately, is for her to—“I want you to touch me everywhere.”
Instead, she stops. No, please! I force my eyes open, lift my head to regard her anxiously. “What—what’s wrong, love? Did I say the wrong thing?”
“No,” she says, shaking her head vehemently. “No, not at all, but—” She pulls down my shirt and slides up to rest on her stomach next to me. “What exactly do you mean by that?”
I freeze. “Um, uh, I don’t know,” I say lamely. Which isn’t true at all, but not even my interior monologue can verbalize what I really want. I know what it’s called, and I know that I need her fingers there, but what if saying so is too bold? What if, what if—
“Well,” she tries again, “How, um, how far have you gone?”
My swallow is audible. This is my best friend, the woman I love, the one I trust above all others. I can talk about this with her, and I should. I clear my throat, grab a fistful of blanket as an anchor, and finally manage to speak. “Pretty far.”
“Okay,” she replies slowly, as though musing over a puzzle. The back of her left hand brushes against my cheek, and I know she is trying to soothe me. “Have you ever had an orgasm?”
My face must register shock, but she just lies there watching my widening eyes, looking at me calmly. This is emotion-overload— I’ve gone from highly aroused to panicked almost instantaneously.
What it all comes down to, of course, is that I’m afraid to answer her—afraid that maybe she’ll think differently of me once she knows how much experience I’ve had. How needy I truly am. Will she still want me? And besides, it’s surprising to hear her say that. It. Orgasm. We haven’t exactly talked about sex . . . ever. Not like this. I know she had a girlfriend in high school, and one serious boyfriend here at college, but I never asked for details and she never volunteered them and now here we are and I want her hands on me more than I’ve ever craved anything in twenty-one years of serial obsessions, and what if she thinks I’m some kind of monster because I have to touch myself nearly every night just to get some sleep?
Her face is both serious and gentle as she looks down at me, and all of the sudden, it’s so very clear what I have to do. So I wind up, suck in a breath, look her straight in the eyes, and say, “Yes.”
She blinks. “Really?”
“Yeah,” I confirm, no longer able to meet that surprised gaze. “Lots, actually.” I pick at the checkered fabric of my blanket and risk another peek at her face. No disgust, no disdain, nothing but curiosity and that deep, abiding tenderness that I love so very much. “I’ve never had sex, though.”
“I figured that,” she replies, nodding. Her right palm cups the side of my face, briefly.
“You asked how far I’ve gone,” I say into the silence, suddenly wanting to tell her everything—from discovering masturbation in the fourth grade to reaching second base with my high school boyfriend, to hooking up on a pool table with some random frat boy this past summer in a desperate attempt to get her out of my head. “I guess I’ve gone as far as you can go without actually having sex.”
“Really?” she asks again. “That’s a surprise. You always seem to get a little uncomfortable whenever anyone brings it up.”
“Yeah, well, some of that’s an act,” I confess. If I wasn’t blushing before, I sure am now. “But most of it’s not. I guess I get nervous talking about it, for some reason.”
She leans over to press a lingering kiss on my forehead. “We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”
“Yes,” she answers, just as firmly as I did, then laughs at my expression. “We’re both shocking each other tonight, aren’t we?” She reaches forward to comb a stray lock of hair away from my eyes. “With Cheryl, after we’d been together for about a year.”
“Oh, okay,” I stutter weakly. I’ve seen a picture of Cheryl in her high school photo album, and all of the sudden, my spinning brain can’t help but see them lying on a narrow bed curled around one another, black hair mingling with blonde on the pillow. The mental image sends twin surges of jealousy and desire rocketing under my skin, and I have to struggle not to shiver. What would it be like to touch a woman? I’d always been afraid of touching guys—afraid because I didn’t know what to do. But a woman would be familiar. Soft—she’d be so soft.