Lesbian lust, p.14
Lesbian Lust, page 14
Logically, there should be no way for Corrine’s mouth on a plastic shaft to give Kim pleasure. Strap-ons don’t come with nerve endings installed, not even the best ones.
That didn’t stop Kim from enjoying herself tremendously.
“That’s it, pretty lady,” she purred, slowly sliding past Corrine’s lips. “You look so hot doing that, down there on your knees for me.”
Corrine’s hand dropped to her own nether regions.
Kim chuckled. “You want to touch yourself? That little pussy getting all hot for your boi?” She stepped backward, withdrawing herself. “I bet it is.”
Corrine got to her feet, half-nodding as she rose.
“And you want your boi to take care of that for you?”
“Yeah.” Corrine forced her eyes up. “I do. Ever since I saw you.” Dealing with Kim was like dancing with a hurricane, she realized. Somehow she had to get some control of this situation, if only for a moment. “I had to have you.”
“You will have me.” Two steps, three steps forward, until Corrine was backed against the wall. “You’ll have me inside you, soon enough.”
Pants down, legs up—it was a dance as old as time, twisted somehow. Twisted by this spiky-haired girl who was nipping at her breasts—this girl who was strong enough to hold her in place with words and looks and well-timed caresses.
Corrine’s palms were flat against the wall, fingers scrabbling over the smooth surface for purchase.
“Oh, my god.”
Kim smiled, shifting her hips a fraction. Her legs were so soft against Corrine’s thighs, flesh sliding silklike against itself, the friction a high counterpoint to a more demanding, primitive rhythm.
“You’re so beautiful.” She had two hands on Corrine’s waist now, just enough to steady her while she came. “I love girls like you. All fancy in your suits and high heels.”
Corrine’s response was less than articulate, more moan than vocabulary.
“That’s right. Give it up for your boi.”
After, when thought returned to her head and air to her lungs, Corrine reached for Kim.
“Uh-uh.” Narrow back turned toward her, Kim hitched her jeans closed. “Not yet.” She reached for her motorcycle jacket, the leather shell adding another layer of armor to their communication.
“What do you mean, not yet?” Words came easier now, faster. “We just…”
“And we will again.” Kim turned and went up on tip toe again, depositing a featherlight kiss on Corrine’s forehead. “Maybe.” She smiled. “We’ll see after you make the decision about M’Linda’s place.”
And then she was gone, leaving Corinne staring at the door.
“Ms. Dearborn, how nice of you to stop by!” M’Linda greeted Corrine with a huge smile. “We’ve made some real improvements with the Angel money, and I’d love to show them to you.”
“That would be great, M’Linda.” Corrine followed the tall woman into the back of the garage and took in the new tire balancer, engine hoist and pipe bender. “And I see you’ve got some new faces around here, too.”
One face was markedly absent. Kim was nowhere to be seen.
“Had to.” M’Linda shrugged. “One of the girls is pregnant, and Doc put her on bed rest. She’ll be back, I’m hoping, after her little boy is born. And Kim—the one you talked to last time? —wigged out on me. I haven’t seen her in weeks.”
“I hope I didn’t scare her off,” Corrine said. “Good mechanics are hard to find.”
“I’m sure it wasn’t you,” M’Linda said. “Kim’s a good girl, but she’s got wandering feet.” She shook her head. “You give these kids a chance and look what happens. I should have known better.”
“You never know, do you?” Corrine asked. “Which ones are going to stay around?” It was her turn to shake her head. “When they’re young like that.”
“The good ones always go.”
Outside, a red motorcycle went by, slowly. Very slowly. Corrine turned, just in time to catch a glimpse of the rider peering into the garage’s interior. She smiled.
“Not always, no.”
A STORY ABOUT SARAH
Cheyenne Blue
They tell you that when you start writing things down, you should write about what you know and what you love. When my head was so full of stories that I had to let some loose, I started with those that were easiest to tell.
What do I know: I know how to sing. I know how to cook. I know how the land smells after the rain that rarely falls. I know how to stop a child’s tears although I’ve no kids of my own. I know how to gentle a skittish colt so that he follows me around like a dog. And I know Sarah.
What do I love: I love this land; I love its silence and its emptiness. I love the red rocks that jumble along the creek. I love the gargle of magpies in the morning. I love how under my hands food comes together to make a meal. And I love Sarah.
This is a story about Sarah. It’s the first story that fell out of my head, but stories about Sarah are as many and winding as the tracks on a scribbly gum.
My name is Melly and I’m forty-four years old. I’m half Yamatji and half white. The Yamatji half came from the desert in Western Australia where I sometimes go; the white half came from Germany where I’ve never been. My Yamatji mother died when I was little, or maybe she went outback. I like to think of her roaming the land, digging for grubs, knowing where to find food, living the old way. Maybe she died of drink, but I don’t want to know if she did.
I cook for the workers here at the mining camp where I live. I got the job when I was fifteen. My German pa worked at the camp, and we lived here as well. Most of the kids wanted to leave; they wanted to go to Perth, or to the shore where the waves curled. Not me. I wanted to stay in this sunburned little settlement. So I took the first job that was offered.
I met Sarah when I was sixteen and she was a year older. She also worked at the camp, in the office. Her pa was the mine manager, and Sarah used to do something with books and paper. We were the only two girls there, so it was natural that we’d hang together. Sarah never minded the color of my skin. It mattered to people then; it doesn’t now.
Sarah was slender, back when we were girls. She was skinny, with knees that were the widest part of her legs and a chest like a boy’s. She had long curly brown hair that fell nearly to her waist. She wore it in a thick plait down her back, all crinkly and barely contained. Now she’s sturdy and wide, and she has breasts that are ample and spreading. Her hair is still thick and curly, but now there’s gray in it, and it’s short and hugs her head. That’s Sarah.
The boys at the mine all wanted to take Sarah out, but her pa kept a strict eye on her. The boys didn’t want to take me out, at least not where we would be seen. And I didn’t want to go with them anyway. Instead, Sarah and I would go places together: down to the billabong to swim, up the wallaby path to the top of the rocks where we’d sit and look out over the camp. Sometimes we’d spy on the men and giggle. More often, we’d sit in the shade of a scribbly gum and talk.
This is a story about Sarah, but it’s also a story about Sarah and me. Sarah and me together.
She kissed me the first time. I kissed her back the second time. The times after that, I don’t remember. We weren’t girls then; I was twenty, she the year older. And then we were lovers.
We’d do our loving outdoors, always in the open, never in my room at the camp or at her pa’s house. We’d climb to the top of the rocks, where there was a hidden place. The red sand was soft, and there was patchy shade when the sun was low. Best of all, you’d never guess it was there, not unless you happened over the rocks not following any path and stumbled across it. So we never worried about being caught. I’m not sure what would have happened if someone had found us, but it doesn’t matter now. After our nearly thirty years together, most of them know and most of them don’t care. Any that do care stay away.
We had a blanket that we stashed in a cranny in the rocks. We’d shake it out well, so that the spiders and sometimes a scorpion or little tiger snake were dislodged, and we’d spread it down on the sand. We’d take off our clothes immediately. There was no delicate disrobing, we’d just stand and undress. The red sand would spill over the edge of the blanket, and often our skins would be so wet with sweat that the sand would stick, coating us with marbled patterns of red. It seemed right to be naked there, out in the sun, out on the earth. Once we were undressed, we’d never put our clothes back on until it was time to walk home. Have you ever been naked under the sun? If you have, you’ll never forget it.
Sometimes we still do our loving outdoors, although it’s not as easy for us to climb the rocks to reach our place, and often we’re too lazy.
This is a story about Sarah and how she kisses.
At first, we did nothing but kiss: gentle kisses, almost chaste. Sarah says that she wanted to make them into more, but she was afraid of what I’d do, what I’d say, how I’d laugh at her. But I wanted the same, and one day, suddenly, we were really kissing, tongues together, and there were wet lips and saliva and it was all very hot and desperate. I loved her kisses. I loved how her lips were so firm and how soft they would be if it weren’t for the sand that coated them. There was an edge of pain from the way that the grains rubbed and ground into our lips. She’d stop, and wipe the sand from my lips and hers with a finger, but it was no good. It would be back again the next time.
It was a long time before we did anything but kiss. Months. Why seek more when what you have is so perfect? Sarah’s kisses are like the creek that flows down the red bluff after rain: at first it’s barely there, the merest hint of what’s to come, before it swells and falls into something so deep you could drown in it. Then it overflows, and unleashed it swirls into a fierce, raging passion.
This is a story about Sarah and how she likes to be loved.
Sarah likes to be in charge. When we make love, she likes to direct how it will go. She leads my fingers to where she wants them on her body. I never mind, as I love her skin and I love to caress her, slowly if that’s what she wants, so slowly that I think I can feel each pore, each grain of sand on her skin. I love to touch her breasts like that, circling around and around, a sort of aimless pattern that is not actually aimless at all, closer and closer to her nipple. Sarah’s breasts were tiny and barely there once. Now they’re ripe and full and lush, just as she is. When I stroke her like this, she wiggles like a black snake caught by the tail, twisting, trying to slide her body under my fingers if they won’t move faster over her body.
“Mel-ly,” she says, and my name is broken down into long pieces, each a part of the whole. Sometimes she just calls me Mel, and when she does, I think she’s leaving part of me behind.
When my fingers finally find her nipple, she sighs, just once, as if she’s come home. Maybe she has. Her nipples are sensitive and she doesn’t like them treated roughly. So I worship them, stroking their dark peaks, as dark and red as desert flowers, and then I take one of them in my mouth and suckle gently, oh, so gently. She loves that, and her hands wind into my hair, not holding me there, just letting me know she likes what I’m doing.
Sarah lets me know when she wants more. If I touch her cunt before she wants it, she’ll push my hand away, gently, not rudely, just telling me she’s not quite ready. I stroke her waist while I’m waiting for her signal, the indent above her hips—once so narrow and boyish, now wider with padding that hides her bones. I kiss her tummy, tickling with my tongue to make her giggle or sigh, and I stroke her thighs, feeling for that special place on the inside where the skin is softest.
I can always smell her cunt. Sarah’s smell is different from mine—and I have no one else to compare with. She smells musky and warm like fresh-baked bread, salty like the sea, sharp like bush lemons. When she’s excited, her woman-smell surrounds her so that I can taste it on her skin, not only in her pussy.
When she wants me to touch her cunt, she takes my hand and pushes it down. Or she’ll shift so that she’s sitting and open her legs invitingly. I’ll use my fingers to stroke, to circle her clit with the light touch she loves—too heavy and she’ll flinch away. I’ll push two, three fingers up inside her and I’ll use my thumb to rub. My hands are as dexterous as a piano player’s. She hums and I play.
I taste her. I eat her. I push my face up between her legs, so far that my nose is wedged against her mound, my chin wet with her juices. She smells so strong then, and I love it. I lick her delicately, using my tongue all around her pussy, pushing it inside and then around and around her clit. She’s vocal, my Sarah, and she hums and sighs and grunts in pleasure. Sometimes she’ll hold my head, trying to direct me, but I’ve been doing this for so long that I know the moves; I know the paths that she loves the most.
She shivers when she comes, a whole-body sort of shiver that starts at her toes, travels up along her legs, so tautly held, and into her rigid abdomen. She clenches down as if pushing herself into the blanket, into the red earth, will make her come harder. If my fingers are inside her, I can feel her internal little tremors too, all flickering and shivery. It would be a delicate dance around my fingers, except that she’s so strong. She always comes; once, maybe twice.
This is a story about Sarah and how she loves.
Sarah likes to surprise, which is the opposite of how she likes me to love her. Sometimes she blindfolds me and leaves me lying there in the patterns of sunlight. I can barely breathe when she does that. I lie there waiting for her to touch me, wondering where it will be. Maybe she’ll kiss me again, maybe she’ll kiss my breast or my belly or the rise of my hip bone. Maybe she’ll just spread my thighs and plunge her tongue into my cunt. Or maybe she’ll brush me with a scratchy piece of bark or trickle hot sand onto my skin from a height, so that the grains pepper me like buckshot before forming their own little pyramid. Sometimes an insect will run over my skin and I won’t know if it’s her. That makes her laugh in delight.
Always though, Sarah likes to please.
“D’you like that?” she says, or, “That feel good?” Even when she knows the answer—which is most of the time after all our time together—she still likes to ask. And she catalogs my grunts and sighs and incoherent responses and works out the answer for herself.
Sarah likes to use her fingers more than her tongue, as then she can watch my face. She says I’m most beautiful when I come. I don’t believe her, but I like to hear her say it anyway. So most of the time, she uses her fingers—three, four, sometimes her whole hand—and she pistons and thrusts and fucks me as hard as I can take. Her fingers are nimble and flexible; she knows my insides better than I do, and she knows where to press so that I come alive under her hand. She can make me wetter than the creek in no time at all, and the wetter I get, the more she likes it.
Afterward, when I’ve come so hard that my stomach muscles ache with the spasms, she cradles my head and strokes my hair from my face and croons to me.
This is a story about Sarah, and me and her together.
It’s not just about her. It’s not just me doing her, and it’s not just about me either. It’s give and take. We both know what we like and we share that giving. We know which one of us needs it first, needs it most. And afterward, we lie together on the bright blanket with the gray-green leaves overhead. The air is hot and dry, and our skins are hot and damp. Afterward, it’s about patterns: the leaves above our heads, the movement of her breath on my skin, the ritual of our loving completed. If I close my eyes, the sun and shade are still there behind my eyelids and Sarah is there too. She’s always there, in my head.
We get up and take turns brushing the sand from our bodies. Then we dress, putting on shorts and T-shirts, and we roll up the blanket and put it back in the nook in the rocks for the next time. Hand in hand, we wander back to our weatherboard house at the edge of the camp that we’ve shared for the last twenty-one years. It has a verandah that looks west, toward the ocean although the ocean is far, far away. Sarah and I sit on our big double rocker, drink a cold beer and watch the sunset. Sarah thinks of the ocean and how she’d like to feel the salt water surround her.
I think of Sarah and how I’d like to feel her surround me again.
This was a story of Sarah. Sarah and me. Together.
THE WEEKEND
Delilah Devlin
I placed the grocery bag on the counter, set down my purse, then glanced around the airy living room of the cabin. It was early Friday evening—the first night of a lovers’ weekend I’d planned down to the last detail.
The view through the large picture window was of the small lake, the water shining without a single ripple to mar the mirrorlike surface. A lone figure walked along the bank, hands thrust deep into pockets, while the rising wind tore at her pale hair.
I swallowed hard and hesitated. Did she want company? Did she need more time to think about us, about whether we still “worked”?
That’s what this weekend was all about: a last chance to renew our connection. Or maybe this was good-bye. I could no longer read from her expression what went on inside her head.
I wiped my hands along the sides of my thighs and pushed open the glass door that opened onto steps to the path that wound to the narrow beach.
Kari didn’t look my way as I approached. Her arms wrapped around her middle as she stared at the water. “No problem getting away?”
“No. I had the days.”
“Good. Have you unpacked?” At last, she glanced my way. Something in her eyes gave me hope. For the first time in a long time, she met my gaze and really looked at me.
I smiled. “Not yet. But would you like a glass of wine before we get settled?”
“That and a fire. It’s colder than I thought it would be.” She stepped closer. Her arm settled at my waist and she leaned in to hug me from the side.
Kari was the kind to kiss friends on the lips or offer a tight hug, so I couldn’t rely on the gesture to mean anything. I draped an arm around her waist, and we walked slowly back to the cabin.
