When we last left our hero, she was checking her fly in a library after a femme got off right in front of her. “That should’ve been the end of that. / But ten minutes later, picking up take-out extra-hot red curry at my favorite Thai place, I hear behind me: “Well, well.”” Catch up on Part One if you need a refresher.
I turn. It’s her. Of course it’s her. How did we end up at the same place? She’s three inches shorter than me and wearing heels. Her cheeks are flushed from the chilly weather and I notice her lipstick, remember watching her redden her mouth. Does she know I watched her? Does she know me? Did she see me that whole time?
She’s looking at me, but she can’t be. I don’t know her. I glance to my left and right and nearly do that stupid pointing to my chest and mouthing me? when she giggles a little, and takes a step toward me, outstretches her hand. “I’m Juliet.”
I clear my throat and take her hand. “Sinclair.” I try not to look flustered.
“I usually do this kind of thing in the other order, but hey, I give you points for originality,” Juliet says, eyes shining, and shimmies by me to the counter to pay for her take-out and mine, leaving me aghast. I recover a moment too slowly and say, “No, please, let me …” fumbling with my wallet, but she’s waving her hand at me dismissively and shoots me a look over her shoulder that says back the fuck off, I got this and I do.
I’d planned on taking my curry home but she carts our two trays to an empty table and sets them both down, gets up to fetch silverware, and glances at me expectantly. I can’t find my voice and sit across from her, stunned, as she folds her napkin in her lap, arranges her food, and takes a few bites.
“So what’re your books for? For fun? Or are you doing research?” She reaches for her water and shoots me a smile.
I open my mouth but nothing comes out. She’s so damn articulate, and speaks quickly, boldly, which catches me off guard. I pick up my fork and mix my curry and rice on my plate – not really date food, so strong and long-lasting in the body, but – is this exactly a date? Not really. I still can’t form the words to answer her question. What was her question again? I take a bite of the red curry and it explodes in my mouth: at first it’s just hot but then the subtle layers of the curry hit my palette and I taste sweet coconut milk, basil, bay leaves. Strong and bold. My lips tingle with the heat of the spice. I take a sip of water and look up at Juliet; she’s chewing slowly, waiting for me to say something. I swallow.
“I was looking for evidence of butch/femme roles in antiquity cultures,” I start, finally comprehending what she’d asked me.
She nods, takes another bite of her curry, green, and listens as I tell the story of the play I saw a few months back, the Oedipus Cycle in full, and how it struck me that women’s roles may have varied more than represented in the typical Greek canonical texts. I’m not an antiquity scholar – at all – but I do study gender, so I got inspired to re-read some of the most famous works with an eye toward gender theory.
We chat on and on. The conversation is fantastic; a perfect combination of asking questions, answering, and listening to each other. She is new to New York and moved her to be with a girl; the move promptly broke them up. Meanwhile she’s working in a bank, she wants to go to business school, she loves Thai food, she’s 28, born and raised in Minneapolis.
She starts to tell me her femme story as I am finishing my curry. My mouth is aflame and this is the best conversation I’ve had in months, I’ve nearly forgotten what it’s like to be charmed by a pretty girl’s first date version of her life story, such a fascinating character study falls into place.
We’re done eating, but she’s still telling her femme story. It’s like a coming out story – we all have one, we all have the struggle to understand and then the eventual development and acceptance of our own sexual and gender orientations. I’m actively listening, watching her eyes dance, watching her lips and teeth, her hands as she illustrates her points with gesticulation.
She takes her lipstick out of her bag and uncaps it, twists it up and paints her mouth subtly, softly. A gesture I remember well and which stirs something in me.
I take advantage of her momentary pause in the story. I want to hear more about her life. I lean in toward her on my elbows and catch her eye, give her a hard stare. “Can I walk you home?”
She stops, considers, and puts her lipstick away. “That’d be great,” she says, holding my gaze a moment longer, then begins to gather her things. “Now? Shall we?”
I nod, stand and put on my coat, grab my satchel, clear off our plastic trays and take-out containers. Not exactly a smooth date … but the sight of those thin white cotton panties under her grey skirt keeps flashing in my mind and I want to feel her, want to fuck her, want my hands under her skirt, up her thighs, on her tits.
Her apartment, it turns out, is not far from my favorite curry place. We walk the few long blocks slowly, strolling, savoring each other’s company. She takes my elbow, submissive, but leads the way, keeping close to me with an occasional dip of her head into my neck and shoulder as she keeps telling the story of herself, sweet, so sweet, and unselfconscious.
At her stoop we’re still talking. I’m opening up a little about my gender, my history, my character. I’m in storytelling mode, all melodrama and timing, and she’s watching my face, sitting on her very New York stoop as I have one foot up on the low stair, telling her how I came to be where I’m at. Her eyes are sparkling, hands together in her lap.
We laugh. It’s one of those perfect conversations where I’m charming with awkward real moments without trying. I don’t want this date to end.
Neither does she. “Coming up?” she asks, as if we’re already lovers, standing and slowly stepping up the stairs, looking back over her shoulder as she opens her purse for keys.
I grin, and follow her in.
The moment she closes the door behind me she gives me a look that tells me exactly what I need to know: she’s done chatting. I take my jacket off and she steps next to me to take it, then tosses it onto the hallway chair and presses me swiftly against the wall, her arms next to my head.
I smile, hands reflexively going to her hips. “Oh, is that what you think.” It’s not a question. We haven’t even kissed yet. Our mouths are nearly touching. She grinds up against me, my thighs between hers, and I can tell she knows I’m packing.
“Who packs to the library?” she asks, softly, in my ear, hot breath on my neck.
I shrug, a little sheepish, exposed. “Me,” I say, and get a grip around her waist to quickly switch places with her, press her up against the wall, and lower my mouth onto hers.
The first kiss: oh it gives away so much. The way she tastes, the way she sounds when she breathes, whether she keeps her eyes open, what sounds she makes, whether she claws at me with her hands or wraps her legs around me or feather-touches my face. All the senses activated, heightened. Such sensation. Plus: the power she keeps is all revealed. Will she let me take, let me lead, let me control? Give over her strength while she begs and submits?
Juliet’s kisses are insistent, fierce, fiery. I let her lead a while and get a sense of her style, then stop her quick to push my thighs between hers and press my forearm to her breastbone against the wall. She nearly growls, lets out a low hummed breath, and allows herself to be restrained, enjoys the feeling of restriction.
“When did you know I was packing?” I say, my mouth close to hers.
“When you walked through the reference section.”
I consider the timeline: before I hit Classics. Just after I walked in. She brings her mouth to mine and lets me work through this in my mind. That means she followed me to Classics. That means she put on that little show on purpose. Does she know I saw her? Probably. I grin, amused. If she didn’t know I was there, she secretly hoped I was.
I’ll take it either way.
She watches my face as I work through this and knows she’s been found out, knows I saw her. She waits for me to get it, then a smirky little self-satisfied smile plays over her lips, like something is very funny, like the joke’s on me, and I get the strong urge to slap her, bring my palm to her cheek fast and wipe that smirk from her face, watch her gasp and look back to me wide-eyed.
I don’t. I don’t even know her, I wouldn’t want to be rude. But when I do know her, I will, and she’ll like it.
“Really.” I say, chewing my tongue and decidedly not slapping her. “So that little show you put on – ”
“Oh, you mean with the … lipstick?” She takes one of my hands in both of hers and brings my index finger to her mouth, making an O of her perfect lips and sliding it in. I feel the soft soft smoothness of her inner lips, the rough scrape of her teeth, the sweetness of her tongue, warm, damp, and then I feel her suck and my eyes roll back in my head.
I groan, audibly (dammit). Goddamn.
She smiles with my fingertip between her teeth, closes her lips, and sucks deep again. She knows now: knows how to have me if she decides she wants to. Knows I like my dick sucked, I’m that kind of guy, knows she can make me weak and take me down with the sweet spot on her tongue.
I can’t really take it; I grab her hair. Hard, harder than I mean to but she’s got me all worked up already, and I bring my mouth to hers, forceful, and her lips are so supple, sweet, mouth in that tiny O, she lets out the softest muffled gasp and melts a little against the wall, against me.
A thought quickly passes through my mind: I want her to be mine. Where’d that come from? I want to be no one’s, I need too much room for that, I won’t get lost again. Still, maybe I can have that and have her, too. Something in me warms and smiles at the idea. I already trust her more than I should, and I don’t know why, but I like it, and it scares me.
I push the thought away and focus on her mouth. Her arms are up around my neck, hands at the back of my head in the short hairs, tenderly fingering my collar. I arch into it and let myself feel it, really feel it. Her fingers unweave chains of protection I’ve put there, carefully removing one link at a time.
She lets one hand drift to my zipper and swiftly unbuttons, unzips my fly, pulls out my hard packer. She knows what she’s doing. She licks her lips, pulls away from me, sinks to her knees. I leave my hand in her hair. She leaves her glasses on.
Her mouth works on my cock expertly. She is not shy – bold, grinning when she pulls back to use her tongue, licking around the crown and piss slit, working her palm along the shaft, taking the whole thing deep in her mouth, lips shining, slick.
“Ummmm,” she gulps and looks up at me, eyes under her glasses. I run my fingers through her short hair, dyke-length but so femme.
She sucks me hard, deep, all the way in, and takes her hands away, unbuttons her creamy low-cut short-sleeved blouse and slips it from her shoulders, down her arms. Her breasts are beautiful, buoyant, more than a handful, her cleavage deep, bra lacy and white. She rises to stand up on her knees, cock still in her mouth, gives me a hard look, a shy twinkle in her eye that makes me chuckle. She slides her lips from my cock and puts her hand there instead, runs her fingers expertly up the shaft, fast, vibrating my cock and my harness with just the right pressure.
I groan. She grins. She’s enjoying this. Gives a low laugh as I catch my breath.
“What’s so funny,” I say, trying to sound demanding, gripping at her hair and twisting for effect. My knees are weak.
She takes a deliberate look to my cock and back to my face. “I like it,” she says quietly, not shy but feigning bashfulness; her glasses have slipped down her nose and she pushes them back up, and I nearly topple over with the arousal.
“C’mon,” I straighten up and take a few steps back into her living room, small but comfortable, a touch of elegance, rich colors and fabrics. “To the couch.”
I sit and push my jeans down so my cock bobs straight up from my clit, hard and waiting. I put my hand on it, stroke it gently, and look to her.
She doesn’t miss a beat, comes right over and kneels between my legs again, topless now, nipples hard, she tosses her bra in her wake, that little grey skirt still swishing at her thighs.
She looks up at me as she takes it in her mouth again. Easy. Like she knows just how it fits. Sucks it all the way down and holds it in her throat. Her hands on my thighs. Sucking hard, getting it nice and wet.
She eases up and moves closer, tall on her knees, and presses her breasts into me, between my legs, against my thighs, before she squeezes them together and slides my cock between them, tongue out and long to lick the tip of my head when it comes up through her cleavage. Fucking her tits, slow, deep.
My eyes roll back but I try to keep watch. Her red red lips, her hands on her breasts, pinching her hard nipples and wide dark areolas. Faster, cock sliding up and down as I thrust my hips against her, she likes that, can tell I am liking this, her eyes fix on my face and she’s wondering how I’ll fuck her later, how hard my hips can pound, how many times she’ll come.
I grin at her, smoky-eyed, voice low. “Dirty girl.”
She lets out a soft laugh, pleased. Shifts herself so she’s farther under my cock and I feel her breasts against my balls, against my lips, hard, her fingers rolling her nipple as she uses it to trace against my cunt, under my harness, then against the opening, nipple pushing inside just an inch.
She gets hold of my cock with her mouth at the same time and looks up at me, eyes sparkling behind her dark glasses. So dirty! What is she doing to me? This is not what I expected, not anything I ever would’ve asked for, but oh it feels good. I didn’t think I could even feel it like this but her nipple is penetrating, teasing, my dick getting harder in her mouth as she works it up and down, in and out, pressing her tits into me.
“Jesus, you know what you want, don’t you,” I gasp. It is a thrill to be taken like this. I feel strong, still on top despite my increasingly sensitive cock in her mouth, despite the growing wish that she’d put her fingers inside.
“Mmmhmm,” she hums, and I feel the vibration in my dick and clit, her mouth full of me, pressing on her tongue.
“Let me have your fingers,” I say, and she looks up at me, glasses falling on her nose so she pushes them up and wraps her hand around the base of my cock, pushing. I groan. Shit that’s good. Her nipple barely in my cunt drives my thighs apart, makes me press hard into her. “No, inside,” I say. “Do it.”
She looks surprised, but complies, sliding two fingers in easily, and I can feel myself slick, tight but relaxing against the pressure she curls onto my g-spot.
Her nipple has easily shifted to my clit. Hard against it, feels almost like her clit against mine, flicking, quickly back and forth while her fingers press at me – gently, gently, not really moving but providing sweet presence, something for me to tighten against from inside.
She looks up at me to check in, check my face, gauge my response, and I’m melting under her touch, trying to keep my big-bad-top persona and still give over to this sensation. I trust her more than I should, maybe, but I like it. It feels good to let her in; it feels honest. I’m supple and her fingers are a hot knife through butter, separating me and letting all my cold resistance go, which in turn lets me harden, tighten, swell in her mouth as she puts my cock back in it, I can feel every inch of her tongue and teeth and lips and I want to come down her throat.
She feels me clench and doesn’t let up, takes my cock an inch deeper, flicks her nipple over my clit harder, pushes her fingers against my g-spot, pressing, quivering against her, shaking, clenching tight, so tight the muscles in my calves and ass are starting to pinch and I want to let up but I know I’m close, so close, and she works my cock in and out of her mouth, sounds from how wet her mouth is, faster, and she catches it in her teeth and opens her mouth for air, gasps a little and gulps, catches my eye as she swallows me deep, deeper, I can feel it in the back of her throat, pulsing, closing tight around the head of my cock and my eyes roll back, hands grasping for the pillows on the couch, for her hair, for anything I can get ahold of, and I see stars, and come, squirt hard which I never do, splashing all over her tits as she keeps her nipple hard against my clit. Yelling out in deep moans and grunts, unselfconscious. Shit, I don’t even know if she lives alone – I suddenly come to and feel exposed, vulnerable, but she is looking up at me with the sweetest open face, such lust and reverence and respect, and she takes her fingers away from my cunt, puts them back on my cock and holds it, gently, in her hand, as if testing to see how hard I am still, as if asking me not to stop, to keep going.
I clear my throat and sigh a little, take a deep breath. “You know what I think,” I say, running my hands through my hair before I lean forward to pull her to me and kiss her pretty wet mouth. She shakes her head. “You’re not a top. Not that that wasn’t amazing, god, it was – Juliet. Wow.”
She blushes. It’s unbelievably cute.
“But I think you know how to submit.”
She almost whimpers, bites her lower lip self-consciously and unconsciously, I see her chest heave a little, heart softening. She does. I knew it.
It was daring of her to be so bold with a bj, but I really like that. It forgives me the apology I constantly carry for being a cock-identified lesbian-feminist queer dyke. A butch who fetishizes gender dynamics and craves gendered play in the bedroom – if she wants my cock so bad she’s willing to take it, I know it’s okay that I want it that bad, too.
Still, I’d told her I was a top. I’d even touched on my flirtation with stone, that I don’t crave getting off myself the same way I crave getting a girl off. That sex for me is the most satisfying when I’m in charge, when she is exhausted and satiated from all the fucking. That is my drug, that is the high for which I ache.
And I want that now, want to toss her down and take her, feel her skin, I’ve barely even had my hands on her, want to run my hands up and under that grey skirt and find out if she comes the way I think she does, clenching her thighs together, she likes to be pounded hard, the muscles in her ass and stomach give that away. Her curvy calves and strong, sure steps in her librarian heels: I can tell she’s got muscle.
I like her mouth on mine. She doesn’t kiss like a top, that too is part of the clue. She’s insistent, and pushes back, matches me, but she gives over and lets go in a way that stirs those dominant demons in my belly and shoulders. I want to hear her gasp and look at me with a little shock, a little fear, waiting for me to hurt her or sooth her or fuck her.
I feel something blossoming between us, and I want to explore it.
I pull her to her feet and rise to mine, stepping out of my jeans. I wrap my arms around her waist, pull her close for a fiercely gentle kiss, feel her breasts against my chest, nipples hard. Running my hands along her skin, feeling her gasp and shudder against me, I find the zipper on her skirt and unhook the latch, let it fall to the floor. She steps out of it, heels and glasses still on, and I loop my fingers under the band of her panties. I kiss her jaw, her neck. She brings her arms around my neck and leans into my mouth, tilts her head to let me taste her. She sighs a little with the sensitivity.
Taking hold of her upper arms in my fists I push them back behind her, spreading her chest open, presenting her tits nicely, while pulling her to me and kissing her mouth again, hard. She gasps, and I harden, feel a low growl rushing. Her kisses leave me breathless.
“Bedroom. Now.” I order. “Lead the way.”
She looks at me with smoldering eyes. “You have a really sexy voice,” she says, soft, breathy, a little higher than her speaking voice, this is her seduction voice, her turned-on vocal chords when her scales are all desire and want.
Leading me into the bedroom is in slow motion: I watch her from behind and see every angle, every curve of her legs as she lifts and steps, every squeeze of her ass, every soft toss of her hair. From here she looks infinitely confident, and I shiver. Top doubt. Am I badass enough to take her down?
Her bedroom is sparse, accented with silver, a heavy mirror opposite the bed with a thick metal frame, glimmering when she hits the lamp on the bedside table. Her duvet is white, accented with stitching in elaborate swirls, pillow cases matching filled with pillows thick and fluffy. The linens make her bed a cloud, all evaporated water and gentle rolling. I bet I like my mattresses harder than she likes hers. The bed frame is silver too, tall bars that swoop at the top in some swirls, a modern design, bars thick and probably cool, perfect for gripping.
I register little in her room other than her bed. She’s got it on risers. It is perfectly hip-height.
And then she gives me that look. That look that everyone who has ever fucked a girl (well) has seen, that gorgeous look of desperation and desire, fierce and fiery; that look that might be what Medusa looks like, if anyone ever lived to tell of the power behind her eyes. I can be devoured by that look, I’ve seen it before and it has unraveled me at the seams. I’ve seen that look and been destroyed – but not this time. This time I hold her gaze. I let her funnel all the power she can gather right into me, and I take it.
I’m vibrating with the power she’s pouring into me, torn between the sweetness of the connection with this beautiful girl and the urge to take her down. That look is deliberate. So much happens in the eyes, so much input, so much seeing. She licks her lips. Watches me as the struggle in me builds, that thin line between taking and losing control.
I move quickly, arms reaching and body curling before she even registers that I’m lunging for her, all animal instinct and growl, twisting my grip in her hair to turn her body away from me and toss her on her stomach on the bed, she sinks into her cloud and gasps, her body responds immediately, arching her back, ass in the air, white cotton little girl panties still on but wet in the middle, I can see it from here, librarian heels presenting her ass like it’s on a pedestal. She turns her head, presses one cheek to the white bedspread, pushes her hair out of her face and looks back at me, glasses askew, trying to catch her breath and breathing in hard.
I rip her panties from her hips, push them down her legs and leave them tangled at her ankles, clinging. She’s bent at the waist over the edge of the bed, I stand behind her, cock perfectly poised. Her pussy is slick and tight, thick, swollen. I don’t wait. One hand on the curve of the small of her back and pushing her hips up and back, into me, the other hand guiding my cock in swiftly, hard, shoving inside the whole length of it as she moans and opens.
Juliet reaches one hand behind her and pulls on her ass from the side, fingertips just touching the lips of her pussy, so pink next to the whites of her short femme nails. Her mouth is open, back arched, neck arched, hair swinging next to her cheeks as I slide my cock in and out, in and out. She’s so slick I don’t need lube, so swollen and tight, I feel my cock being milked as she squeezes against me.
She keeps her thighs pinched hard together, which keeps her pussy even tighter. Her clit is thick and hard, I can feel it where my index finger hits her as I keep my hand wrapped around my cock at the base, pushing it in the right place.
“Fuck … fuck … fuck,” she gasps each time I slam into her.
I’m messing up her perfectly made bed. Crisp corners, smooth folds, linens tucked tight turn me on big time. As if she knew she could be expecting company later. I imagine her bent over, reaching, and pulling the corners down, in her little grey skirt, before she left for the library earlier. It’s like a particularly made up-do, delicately balanced with clips and curls, which to me just screams to be torn down in fistfuls, taken down and messed up.
The panties around her ankles are restricting her movement, but she doesn’t really want to spread her legs. Keeps them tight and together and she’s bucking back into me harder now. Harder, back arching as she grabs at the bedspread and opens her mouth wide, whole body curling, before she lets out a thick moan, shudders, and collapses under me, coming suddenly, hard, thrashing a little on the bed before she quiets.
“Don’t stop, don’t stop,” she starts to plead, as I slow, putting my hands on the curves of her waist and shoulders, soothing soft touches. She puts her hand back on her ass again to spread her pussy apart for me, regains her friction against the bed and grinds her hips back onto my cock again.
It doesn’t take much to set me off again. She’s even slicker now, I work my hips faster and not as deep, ridges of my cockhead rubbing against her lips as I go in and out. Moving my hand down between her legs again I tip her hips up and back and manage to get her clit under my fingers, hard and swollen, and with just one or two flicks she’s coming again, gasping and groaning into the bedspread, gripping her hands at the edge of the bed.
I grin with her release and don’t let up. She can take more. I recognize the way she’s coming now, in bursts, she’s multiply orgasmic and I wonder how many times in a row she can do it. I don’t let up my hand on her clit and keep moving it in circles and she comes again, deeper this time, and I don’t stop, keep my hand on her, keep her pinched between my cock and fingers as she opens farther and shudders against me, deeper moans coming from her abdomen up and out of her throat.
As her body calms I lean over her, kiss her shoulder, neck, my mouth by her ear. “That was beautiful. But I’m not quite done with you yet.”
I back up and pull out fast, a little too fast to be kind, and she gasps, but I reach to get a grip on her arms and pull her back up to standing. She staggers a little with her ankles stuck in her white panties and I steady her as she steps out of them, leaves them on the floor. I pull back the covers, throw the duvet down to the foot of the bed. Then: there is the sound of sheets being pulled back, the snap it makes when the bed has been made so nice and neat. As if pulling the entire structure out of the bed, and its neatness collapses, lines once straight get bent and askew, unhinging the architecture until it is only a poof of linens, snapping back. It reverberates in her silver room.
I glance to her, gesture with a quick jerk of my head. “Up.”
She’s dazed. Her eyes are glazed. She hears me, lower lip quivers and she wants to move but the desire in her body is stunning her a little, I can see it, thick, around her.
I grab her arm and pull. “Get up here,” I say again, more gently, pressing my body to hers and pushing her back onto the bed, length-wise, laying her back onto the pillows, my arms against the sides of her chest, her torso, fingers trailing down onto her hip bones and thighs, pushing her legs apart as I lift myself between them, sliding into place, we fit together so well, ball and socket.
“Are you going to come again,” I ask, though it’s not really a question, more a way to hear her mouth form the sounds of an answer, any answer.
“Um … maybe … are you going to … ” is she really suddenly shy? She struggles to form the words. I slide my cock inside her again and she lets out her breath in a moan, a low gasp of surprise and desire.
“Yes, I’m going to give you my cock again. You can take it, I know you can. I want to see your face when you come this time.” In and out of her. Sliding, rocking against her. “I want to hear you gasp against my neck. Feel the way you grip me with your legs and arms as your body opens for me. I want my mouth on you, want to taste your skin and suck the flush to the surface.” Her hips roll back and let me in an inch deeper. “Ohhh yeah, that’s nice, that feels so good, you feel amazing, Juliet, Juliet … ”
And she’s coming again, fingers clawing at my shoulder blades, my mouth against her collarbone as her skin gets supple and capillaries burst under my tongue as I make bruises on her chest, mouth open and releasing sounds of glory and awe, gasps and moans against my neck and earlobe as she tries not to thrash too hard against me. She pulls back from me hard, thrashes back against the pillows and I get this beautiful full view of her chest arching, every muscle clenched and the swell of her breasts thrust forward, nipples cherry-red against her white skin. She turns her head from side to side, arms up in angles and hands on the pillows as she calms, bends her knees tight before lengthens her legs to stretch them out, finding again the edges of her body.
I lower myself onto her again gently, soft, and she moans with the weight of me over her. I kiss her cheek, jaw, neck, and catch the beautiful scent of her lotion, whatever it is she uses, a delicate sweetness which swirls against her skin shined with just enough sweat to make it salted.
She sighs, wraps her arms around me, and looks at me, opening her eyes slow, heavy-lidded, and kisses me, mouth supple and sweet.
“Um. Wow,” she says, sighing. “Spectacular.” I grin, and relax into her sensual embrace.