First-time lesbian erotica...
"The Cable Girl," a sex story by Donnie Magazino
She leans into the living room. And you are suddenly without breath. Intriguingly androgynous are the only words that work. She is too manly to be pretty, too girly to be handsome, yet somehow stunning. Her close-cropped hair barely reaches the nape of her neck; her limbs sprout sharply from her rustic tomboy uniform's loose-hanging holes; her arms arch proudly, crustacean-like, protective; her legs lash on and on till they find the firm planting of her teen-boy sneakers. She is adorable in all the wrong ways.
"Where do you want it?" she asks.
"Huh?" is your sharply inhaled reply.
"Where do you want it?" she repeats, holding up the cable box.
She is all hard angles and soft promises and eyes that hide nothing. You cannot stop gawking at the skin on her lips, stretched smooth by a playful curl, a pout in progress, an invitation to interrupt her mundane workday with a sloppy, molasses-slow kiss.
"Um, on top of the cabinet is fine," you answer.
She could teach you, you think. She could take your hand and lead you through a guided tour of that mythical island, that magic land of Lesbos. She could be a plunge into that world of sensual sisterhood you've heard so much about; she could be the tawdry secret you take to the grave.
"So… how long have you been doing this?" you ask.
"I got here around six, so that's what…two hours?"
"I mean, the job. The cable thing."
God, this is awkward. But you want her to stay and you need a reason to imbibe the scent that circles her. You need to be near her, clutching at the words that slip from her flawlessly framed mouth – even if you don't really hear them.
"Eleven years," she answers.
"Wow! Did you always have an interest in…this?"
"Yeah, well, I've always been good with my hands and such."
"Hmm."
And what if you did kiss her? Would she dodge it and laugh off your amateur efforts at girl-on-girl fun? Would she slap you? Would she run from the room in tears? You don't care. The window is open, and it could soon slam shut. So you lunge. You leap into the lowered drawbridge of her lips, braving a taste of your first lady's lady. And her sweet nectar washes over you like a mist of liquid danger. You tug her upper lip with your eager teeth, wringing it nearly dry, sucking it nearly clean. It pops free with a smack and your eyes snap open to reveal the cable girl's stunned face in retreat. What have you done?
Daddy's Boy by Phyllis Christopher
"Hmm. Didn't expect that one," she gulps.
"I'm sorry," you say. "I just had to do that 'cause I've never done that – with a girl, I mean, and I'm sorry if it offended you, oh God, it offended you I'm so sorry –"
"Shut up," she orders.
With a steadying hand on your shoulder she stabs at your face with a return kiss, this time with the murmur of an eight-year-old licking cake batter from the blades of a mixer. Another smack separates you and for a second you breathe together, both faces ready for another sweet collision. Her hands rise to your chin and follow your jaw's outline, then pull you in again. This is too much, too intense, too hot. But you somehow want more.
She has done this before, you suspect, as she lifts you by the armpits and tosses you into your couch's silk pillows. She draws up your skirt and rips away your panties, contemplating the messy wetness before her like an artist at an empty canvas. After a playful lick of her lips, she descends, dropping to the meal of your moist pussy and sampling your redness, your ripeness. She knows you love it, knows to ignore the shoves at your forehead, the attempted shutting of your legs. She has done this before.
"You are good with your hands," you bellow, spine rolling into concavity, eyelids fighting the weight of a thousand downward tugs to stay open, because you have to see her mouth and hands and hips in motion.
This is not a walk on the wild side; this is a dash, a scramble; this is a jackknife dive into the waters you've watched from afar but never dared dip so much as a toe.
She is every pretty prom queen and every stone-faced frat boy you've ever rested eyes upon, all wrapped into one glorious package with a single set of restless hands racing up your ribcage and reaching beneath the velvety sheen of your bra.
She is tasting you, testing you, scraping at your skin with nibbles and licks, savoring the softness of your hair, your neck, your eyes. She is climbing, upward and inward. She is pulling, prying, sucking at your insides, and nothing has ever felt so forceful and so feminine at once.
You are spiraling into chaos because she has found that place in your valley, that candy-sweet pond that has waited a lifetime to be licked and parted and probed like this. Then you explode. Your torso ripples in waves that yank from your throat a series of screeches that blend into a long, slowly rising siren. You are an acrobat now, arched into an upward curl, greeting her teeth and her tongue and the softest sweetest release you've ever endured. She has sucked the very marrow from your soul. She has freed you.
You drop to the floor, limp, lifeless, drained – waiting for your soul to re-enter your body; waiting for the world to stop shuddering.
She departs with a mischievous nibble of your nose and explains that she has to be somewhere ten minutes ago. She speaks of a devious plan to finish what the two of you have begun; she promises a phone call that you somehow know will never happen.
And you never see her again. But that taste of liquid danger will linger on your lips forever.
Originally published November 2009
