Best of the Best Lesbian Erotica (38 page)

Somehow without consciously attempting to do so, I find my closest friendships are with girlfriends who seem to have made a priority of acquiring these same oral skills. No development goes unnoticed, and they give me grief about every change I make, taking my self-consciousness to new heights. There are times when I feel I am walking into a high school reunion with nothing on but tit clamps and a G-string. I don't mean to say there is an absence of love. They have my back and love me dear, but you know, on occasion, girlfriends can be a little too attentive to each other's lives. We have all been there; sometimes it's just more compelling to get all up into someone else's business than to be concerned with your own. Like when you know you need to be thinking about applying to school or changing your career, taking a computer or art class, but instead you're worrying if Sheila has the right beeswax candles for her romantic date? Or is that gold ball really what Jordan wants dangling from her labia? And if Micaela blindfolds Gertie and takes her off for a fuckfest at the beach, has she scoped out their rendezvous point so that they won't be bothered with that annoying sandy-pussy problem? Admittedly, I was changing, but not as much as they seemed to believe; I was just becoming more myself.

Avoiding their banter was my aim in coming to the club alone. The other times when I had come with J. J. and Samara it was ridiculous: on the last occasion they had kept up a running commentary the whole time. Since they both had been dating recently, and I hadn't, they'd decided the evening was all about finding a fuck for Cecelia. That's what I get for going out with two ex-lovers who are now best friends. In the end they'd been all over each other (“a bit of lusty nostalgia,” Samara said.) But by that time in the evening they had rated my outfit, my come-on lines, and, much like my protective
aunties, had managed to loudly appraise every woman in the place before I could as much as say boo to anyone. When I dropped them off they were licking each other's juice off fingers, snuggling and humping toward the sidewalk (oblivious to puddles), and barely avoiding slipping on the slick, rain soaked steps to J. J.'s apartment. Adding insult to injury, the pungent scent of
their
good-time sex-smell seemed to have soaked into the damp backseat, and the car heater recirculated the remnants of their pleasures the rest of my pissed-off ride home. “Never again,” I said to myself. It's too much to go out for some anonymous sex in the company of sistahs who have shared your lipstick, and the other side of your bedroom wall, and don't care who knows it.

 

At the club by myself, I could leisurely take in the textures and curious smiles of the women coming toward me. For once feeling bold, like “What the fuck? What's the worst that can happen?” Since I had gained weight and my
tetas
were spilling out of my laced up charcoal leather bustier, I felt more grounded in my body. Some of the extra inches even had the foresight to go to my behind, which was looking smoky, black, and buoyant—a round shadow in my skin-tight velveteen miniskirt. Anyway, I reminded myself, “Cecelia, no one sister, no matter how fine, is attractive to everyone every day of the week.” So letting go of that fear, before I came I promised myself that I would meet the eyes of every woman who caused my nipples to harden and who sent a paralyzing twinge down to my clit. Usually, I feel like I can't put one foot in front of the other cause my brain forgets how to send the message. I always end up looking down, disoriented and embarrassed, lamenting the loss of what I take for granted as a basic bodily function. I pray that no one notices me furtively trying to make eye contact with my feet in the hope that it will help my brain remember where to fire those neurons.

I decided that instead of freaking out because I couldn't feel my legs, I'd just take a deep breath and look forward, undaunted and unafraid, and breathe low—from the diaphragm baby, just a pause to let me get my bearings and fully appreciate the passing view.

Still, my hands felt gangly and unwieldy—I couldn't figure out what to do with them. I ended up unconsciously fingering the drawstring of my skirt with one and caressing my leather-bound breast with the other, absentmindedly caressing the skin on my arms, the exposed skin on my thigh, in between my laced-up stretch mini and my thigh-high hose. As a virgin I used to feel the slick smoothness of myself in the shower. I was studying my own pleasure, wanting to know in advance where I desired a stroke, a squeeze, a grasp, and how good my body felt under my fingers. I took the opportunity to give myself luxurious kisses wherever my tongue and lips could reach, the water flowing, dripping from mouth to skin and making my lips feel full and silken against flesh. The minute after I got some sex I gave up my water rituals, and I forgot about the value of my own caress. Now I don't mean fingers to clit, I could wear myself out on that, I mean the significance of touch: skin to skin, body on body.

 

Some attractive women passed by, but their presence didn't generate that slow burn under my skin. And then, I could hear the blood in my ears. The treble in the club's soundtrack seemed to fade back, and I felt the bass in my knees.
Damn
! Big 'fro, ow baby, black vinyl tank with breast zippers, stomach showin' with a little bellybutton ring, and black vinyl hip-high pants. Work me, girl!

Something about her reminded me of the first woman I had a crush on. Truthfully she wasn't really a woman, I was eight or something, and she seemed like a woman of the world to me: sixteen! But she was probably only fourteen; after all we were both at a summer day-camp. Girlfriend was tall, bittersweet-chocolate
dark, slender, and kind of muscular. Her effortless grace and power plays back in my mind, as I see her striding down the sidewalk wearing a pale pink, almost ankle-length cotton sundress and black-and-white Converse high-tops, giving off an intriguing combination of early black boho mixed with a butch/femme androgynous vibe. But I wouldn't have known anything about that back then. I just knew that she didn't look anything like the relaxer-coiffedup, heavy-lidded-eye-shadowed, Bonnie Bell lip-smacked girls at school and choir practice. She had jet black hair, long and kinky and coarse, like Chaka's was in the '70s, and a shock of dark hair coming out of each armpit, which probably accounts for my thing for underarms—not licking on some Secret or Sure, but a fresh hollow that's just started to get moist with a fine sheen of new funk.

There was a really hot afternoon during that day-camp summer when we were holed up alone in a car, one of those late '60s American models with the you-can-do-it-to-me-all-night-long, ribbed-for-pleasure bucket seats. My bittersweet girl-woman was a vision of knowingness and cool as she kicked up her feet on the dashboard. She pulled out a pack of menthols, and with a display of good, if misguided, home training glanced to the backseat and, in a husky liquid-burnt honey voice, offered me a cigarette. I barely squeaked out a trying-to-be-cool “no thank you,” and that sensuous arm with the languid fingers withdrew from the top of the seat. Then without bothering to scope out the adult supervision, she lit a smoke in the front seat of the camp counselor's car. And of course there were those rebellious underarms.

 

But getting back to Our Lady of the Luminous Black Vinyl. The sistah in front of me was honey-brown complected and had more curves than my girlhood crush. But her vibe, let me tell you… that tank top went up to her neck and gave me little
chills. I imagined my come caught between her shiny creases and slicking down the teeth of her zippers. She stood against the wall next to a doorway. Shit, and here was the test: she was giving me a look like, “You want it. Let me see you come and get it.” I wished at that moment I could fly, ‘cause pushing off and taking flight seemed a lot easier than the prospect of making my legs work for the whole of the time it was gonna take me to get across that hall. The feeling was starting to come back into my toes, so I put my hips into it—my body picked up the rhythm and began to follow. It occurred to me that the dare to come and get it might have given her a chance to see how I moved and to get the blood back into her
own
toes. That second thought gave me the courage to speak first: “My, you look very shiny and delicious tonight.” Damn, she was licking her lips, not self-consciously, just as if it was an afterthought. They were full and brown and that pink tongue looked agile, like it might have a mind of its own.

“Thank you. I like your lacing. Is that a double knot?” She had a full, sweet voice—a big ole saucy pepper, with a little bit of honey to taste.

“Hmm, well I hope not, since I have a hard time taking out tight knots. I'll probably get a cricked neck trying to work this one by myself.” I put on a crooked-coy little smile.

“Oh?” She flashed me a big grin, pretty teeth and a little overbite. “Well, here let me test it.” She hooked her index finger through the two loops of the tied laces and led me through the dimly lit doorway. There were pillows on the floor and a futon or mattress of some kind with a black rubber fitted sheet; nearby there was a table with various sex supplies. This time I got to see how
she
moved; those full hips were working me, and I did see the hint of a powerful booty. She leaned me into the wall and took one end of the bow between her thumb and index finger. A little snap of the plastic tip against a rivet, and I felt the knot come undone.

“Lucky that was easy; you must be relieved.” She smiled and arched her eyebrow. Cocking her head to the side she asked, “So you like my vinyl?”

“Yeah,” I said gazing at the light playing off the zippers and the shiny blackness as she moved. “I'd like to lick it.”

My mouth was parted in silent laughter, but I was looking directly into her eyes. Like a dare. They seemed to get big for a moment. I thought maybe she wasn't used to women having a thing for vinyl, or not while
she
was wearing it. But then her eyes went sharp and curious.

“So do it,” she said.

I came up off the wall. I didn't touch her. I put my lips forward and kissed the shiny material right below her collarbone. I had to turn my head to the side so I was directly under her chin. I stuck out my tongue and licked her up to the edge of her top, just nicking the skin above her throat. I went lower, licking near the zippers, circling the outside of them. The vinyl was smooth and slick against my tongue. I left little islands, little peninsulas of saliva on her; they separated into clear drops of light. Going lower I had to bend my knees; a shadow outlined the hollow of her stomach as she caught her breath. I looked up at her as my tongue grazed her stomach and circled the loop of her bellybutton ring. She was watching me, her mouth a little open. She pulled me up, unraveling my laces and putting her fingers between my breast and the leather. I felt my muscles tense and release as she worked her fingers around me. She was pulling sounds of pleasure from my throat. I bent my head again to stroke the other side of the zippers with my tongue. I wanted to tease myself with the anticipation of the size and taste of her nipple and tease her with the attention I was going to give it. I began sucking her through the vinyl. I sucked her on both sides and let out a moan of satisfaction it felt so good. The material bore the twisted imprint of the force of my lips around her nipples. I raised my head and began to
work my tongue on the little bit of exposed skin on her throat. She began to moan with me, putting her fingers in her mouth and putting them back in my bustier.

As I put my hands on her hips for balance, she said, “Now. Unzip me.”

Sometimes…sometimes, I like to do as I am told. I pulled down the right breast zipper and pushed aside the flap, diving onto her with my full mouth. I noisily filled my mouth with her firm breast. We sank to the floor; we didn't quite make it to the bed. I was on top of her working that other zipper. She had my bustier practically off, and we were sideways sucking and licking.

As I was bent over, hardening her nipples into little balls, she outlined my ears and painted my neck with her tongue. When I sucked harder she bit my shoulder. She pulled away and drew back from me, smiling mischievously. I looked at her, curious, and rolled to my side, rising up on one elbow. She cupped my chin in her palm and drew her thumb over my lips. Suddenly she sat up, came closer to me, and caught my lower lip between her teeth. She bit me some, just hard enough to make a mark—something to let me know she'd been there. Her teeth parted quickly, and her lips held me. I sucked her tongue into me, and I could taste that peppery sweetness as I undid the zippers that led on both sides from her neck to her shoulders. Finally free, she pressed against my leather, rubbing her nipples against the laces. Spit covered our lips as we slowly, forcefully wrestled with each other's tongues.

She began to work the second set of laces, the ones that went up the front of my skirt. I had chosen not to wear any underwear so I could feel less restricted and, of course, bold as fuck, but now I was having second thoughts as her naked hand was getting closer to my pussy.

“Oh, we, we need some gloves, baby.”

Her voice was muffled, her juicy, firm mouth still against mine. We did a sensuous and hungry mouth-fucking (I was right about that tongue), tit-rubbing, walking-on-our-knees two-step over to the table of plenty, lined with toys and various forms of latex. With sidelong glances we figured out where the gloves were and with a little teamwork both got one on the appropriate hand. She undid enough laces to get comfortably at my pussy and began working the juices around my labia, running two fingers through my folds at once. Then going in for more juice and running them back again, narrowing them against either side of my clit as she slid back up.

“I'm a sensitive one,” I breathed.

“That's okay,” she whispered back. “I'll just have to work my way to the edge of your pleasure.
You
tell me when to stop.”