The bar was its usual sticky hot, the ceiling fans inadequately trying to breathe fresh air on our warm bodies. The heat lent to more trips to the bar than usual, and tonight I was really feeling the rhythm, loading up on gin and tonics, downing them in my trip from the bar’s edge to the middle of the dance floor. It had been weeks since we last spoke. I missed seeing you every night at the bar, shooting the shit, staring at each other, me catching whiffs of your cologne and perspiration.
For what must have been a month straight, I would get drunk there at the bar, talking to you and pretending to be concerned with mingling with all the other dykes, but always returning to you at the bar, your sly half-mouth grin and half-closed eyes knowing what I was doing, what I wanted.
All those nights I’d go home alone, half drunk, wait until my roommates passed out, and masturbate for hours thinking about you. I’d put on some gentle music, make it romantic sometimes, playing softly and slowly with the tip of my swollen clit, letting my wetness guide my fingers up and down, slippery soft. Other times I’d want you so bad I’d finger myself hard in the shower, with my forehead pressed against the cold tile, as hard and fast as I could until my hand cramped up and I’d have to use the showerhead to finish myself off, my mouth gaping open in strained, needy pleasure. Falling asleep afterward was harder than I would have liked; a warm, soft body next to me was what I really needed. But a few weeks ago I learned you had a new girlfriend – a dancer who worked at the local strip joint. I saw you enter with the stripper that night around midnight.
You wore a skintight wife beater, the thin, ribbed cotton material gripping the slight curve of your bound breasts and your pooching, curvy belly. Beneath that were loose-fitting cutoff men’s pants, your tanned legs exposed, the swell of your calf muscles bending gracefully into sockless sneakers. Your cheekbones stood high, your dark straight hair falling to your chin in the front, raised in the back. You were tall and powerful; everywhere you went, you commanded attention. The sexiest thing about you was your full lips, which you sucked in your mouth periodically, sometimes letting the tip of your tongue slip out on to them. God, how I wanted to pull your lips into mine, let the tip of my wet tongue drag itself along yours, our bodies pressed together and hands clasping each other, or else groping, exploring.
Your girlfriend wore low-cut jeans and a halter which exposed most of her torso except the center of her breasts and the strings that tied behind her neck and back; her body looked like she frequented the gym. She had excessive tattoos, which were sporadic and nonsensical: a flower on her shoulder blade, a star on her foot, a mermaid on her forearm. She wore a ponytail and some makeup. All that aside, it was still obvious she was a dyke – there was a certain heaviness in her step, a disregard for the conventional notions of feminine gestures, like flitting wrists and crossed legs. She did not perch at the bar, she slumped, and became engrossed in a conversation with the bartender, whom she obviously knew quite well, her wrists resting somewhere between her chin and cheeks, keeping the conversation private. As her laughs and voice grew louder, I noticed you come toward me, that cute fucking grin on your face. Fuck.
“Hey,” you said, your voice carrying that trademark huskiness player dykes get once they’re sure they can fuck any woman in the bar and have probably done so with most of them. You knew I was yours.
“Hey. Long time, no see.” Gah. That was predictable.
“Yeah, you know. Ball and chain.” You raised your eyebrows in her direction.
“Must be really fucking shitty.” I rolled my eyes and decided to occupy myself with finding the nearest girl I knew. Sam was to my left.
“Hey, Sam!” I called, trying to make it obvious that I was done talking to you. My plan was for you to keep walking past me, to the bathroom maybe.
“Hey!” Sam called back. “You coming to my house after? I have like 3 cases of beer!”
“Yeah, I’ll be there, but I need a ride.”
“Come with me and Amanda!” Sam replied. “There’s always room in the family sedan!”
Success. You had moved on. I watched you walk toward the bathroom, taking a long, deep swig from your beer bottle. You push the door open and heard the bottle hit the other glass that was in the trashcan.
Now what to do? I couldn’t stay here, hearing her talk and carry on with that dumbass bartender. I decided to ride my drunken high and go dance out my frustration.
As the loud music pounded over and over, I could feel it in my mouth, my heart, my feet as they hit and slid against the floor. There were a lot of cute girls out tonight, all ready to mingle and dance, their faces plastered in a constant smile, shouting greetings to one another over all the noise. There were the avenger dykes, dressed in long pants or short skirts and thick tights, always wary of baring too much flesh. They congregated in the corners and danced in their elite circles, forming a barrier around the most sacred young lesbians, the recruits. These girls would be seduced quickly and fervently, re-educated about the inner workings of the fucked up world, and released to be their own activist bombs, setting off tiny revolutions in whatever walks of life they would subsequently encounter. There were the scene dykes, which consisted of mostly “lipstick lesbians,” a term I despised, who sort of jilted around the dance floor, their teased and asymmetrical hair barely moving, their big earrings and tight 80s clothing clinging to their invariably skinny bodies. There were the local dykes, who had been in town since they came here for college, who were either 28 or 45, who wore baggier clothes, never makeup, short hair, and usually talked about their dogs’ shitting problems or the latest vegetarian dishes they were trying. There were ugly dykes, sexy dykes, dykes who looked straight, horny dykes, lonely dykes, temporary dykes (these were usually college students), permanent dykes (the ones with mullets), one-lovers (hippies who also fucked men), all old, young, fat, thin, muscular, black, brown, pale, and everything in between. For me, this bar was my sanctuary, and communion happened every Friday and Saturday night, where I took it all in, celebrated, thanked my lesbian sisters for their existence, and went home refreshed.
That was, until you entered the picture. I was happy playing the field a bit, going home with older women mostly, women who knew what they were doing in bed. I could fuck them and not feel bad about being unattached. But ever since we had that first conversation, since you checked my appreciation for Kesey and Wolfe, saying instead Schulman was the great beat writer of our time and gender, I was hooked on you. You challenged me, and that turned me on. Besides, you were the best looking girl at the bar, and everyone knew it. Including your stripper girlfriend. So I began to dread my trips to the bar, knowing you’d show up one night with her, and I’d want you even more for it. That was tonight.
I needed water. I poured a cup from the pitcher at the bar and went to the bathroom to wash my face. I looked nervous, my pupils dilated, perspiration beading along my forehead, shoulders, chest. I decided against wiping it off; it looked sexy. I straightened my shorts, pulled my tank top straight under my breasts, checked my teeth. When I backed away from the mirror, you were in my reflection, leaning against the back wall, one foot propped up behind you.
“Jesus!” I said in surprise. “How long have you been there?”
“Do you have any coke?”
“Yeah.” I fished in my pocket for the cigarette case, and nodded toward the large back stall.
You sat on the toilet, your forearms resting on your knees, as I opened the case on the toilet paper holder. I took out the tiny bag of cocaine and spread a bit on the case. There was no need to make perfect lines of it; the tap-tap-tap might sound suspicious and I didn’t care if you did too much of it anyway. We had done this together a few times before, and I was pretty sure you knew you could count on me to have enough for you and to give it to you freely. You sniffed slowly, deeply, for about 10 seconds, tilted your head back, and let it drain down without making too much noise. I did the same.
With my neck still pointed at the ceiling, I thought I felt your lips on my hand. Jesus fucking Christ, did that really happen? I stood completely still, thinking maybe it was just the hard hit I had just taken, not daring to look down at you.
Then again. The kisses were soft and wet, so gentle, so slight. I immediately felt a tingle and a hotness in my crotch, halfway out of surprised elation and halfway out of sheer fear.
“What are you doing?” I asked, finally looking down at you.
“I can stop,” you said, pulling back abruptly.
I took a deep breath and thought about it for a minute.
Here you were, wanting to give me something (I couldn’t know exactly how much), after weeks of me wanting you. And now you were gift wrapped for me: we were both buzzed, turned on, alone together. But your fucking girlfriend! She could walk in, and I had no way of knowing if she would freak out about it. So I decided to ask.
“Will this get us in trouble?” I asked, thinking that was the best way to let you deny that your girlfriend would care, even if she would care, so you had an out. You and I could pretend that the proverbial “trouble” was getting caught fucking in the public bathroom by the club owner and thrown out. Or the “trouble” could have had to do with the drugs or cops. Either way, I didn’t give a fuck if the stripper got offended. She knew how hot her girlfriend was, she knew other girls wanted her. She probably got off on it. Besides, I didn’t know her. I didn’t feel an obligation to protect her.
Either the thought of getting in trouble turned you on, or you just wanted to throw the thought aside and give it a go anyway, because you didn’t say anything as you stood from the toilet seat, drew your body close to mine, and placed your hands on either side of my shoulders against the stall door. Your head bent a little above mine, your stature giving me the impression of being trapped. But that turned me on. You lowered your lips to mine, breathing there.
Your breath smelled like beer and breath mints, a little sweet, deep and smooth like a cigar, and it reminded me of my father.
“I want you so bad,” you said, that sex breath hitting my nostrils in little purts. “Let me fuck you, please Krista, I need to taste you.”
It sounded corny, contrived. You had said it one too many times before. There was no feeling in it, and I couldn’t fathom you actually wondering what I tasted like. I was just a girl in the bathroom at the right time with the right drug. I wondered: Were you repaying me?
Whatever. It didn’t matter at that point. I grabbed the back of your head, running my fingers through your hair as they circled you, and drew you into my mouth. Our tongues were sliding over each other, determined, delicate and strong. I felt your nose pressing hard against my cheek. Every movement in our mouths was so exquisite and distracting that it took me a few moments to realize you had lowered one hand to the hem of my shirt and you were trying to tug it away from my skin.
I sucked my stomach in a bit to ease the separation, felt your hot fingers slide up, up, over the curve of my stomach, up to the under crest of my breast. Kissing me all the while, you placed your entire hand over my breast and bent your thumb against my nipple, tugging. The pain that caused made me moan a bit into your mouth. I began to suck at your lips harder, encouraging your groping, needing more of it. You moved to the other breast, repeated the grab and tug, then splayed your hand over both my breasts until your fingers had both my nipples, and you squeezed them together.
I think I whimpered “Oh god” or “fuck” at that point, and I could feel my vagina swelling, wetness filling my panties and the sides of my thighs. I couldn’t believe we were here, doing this.
I lowered my head from your mouth to make sure I could see where my hand was going as it headed toward the snap of your pants. I unbuttoned you as you moved your hand from my breast to my ass, squeezing and pinching the fleshiest parts. I lowered your pants to your hips and felt a thick leather band there. I realized you were wearing a strap on. It was lowered between your legs so that permanently stiff silicone was hidden while you were walking around, but here, all it took was my fingers pulling abruptly on the buckles to tighten it into a perfect erection. The tightened straps pulled at your flesh, squeezing at your hips.
I looked up at your eyes, and they had that cocky, deviant look in them that got me every time. The brazenness of a dyke wearing a strap on in public, ready to go at anytime, in any place was such a turn on.
You lifted your shirt over your head and let me see your bound chest. You had perfect upper abdomen muscles and a sexy pooch in your lower belly. The flesh-colored bandage that circled your chest several times forced a line of cleavage in the middle of your chest. That little crevice was so alluring. Your breasts were there, but hidden, their cloaked presence teasing me.
“Take off your pants,” you said, wiping sweat from your forehead. I did so quickly, hanging them on the hook of the bathroom door. You sat down on the toilet seat again, your pink hard-on standing straight up.
“Ride my cock,” you demanded.
I lowered myself on your dick slowly, bending my breasts down in front of your face. Once you were inside me, I began to ride you steadily, my clit hitting your belly with every plunge. You drew my breasts in your mouth, letting your lips slide over their full fleshy center, gripping my nipples with your teeth as they left your mouth. You pulled at my nipples with your half-grin, looking in my eyes with hunger for sex. You moved your hands around the back of my ass and grabbed hard, then slapped me. I was riding your stiff cock, your mouth never leaving my full and erect breasts, your hands alternating between caressing and slapping my ass. I looked down at your chest, at those bound breasts, and I knew I had to fuck them.
FUCK. The bathroom door swung open. We stopped moving abruptly, unable to slow our quickened breathing. Someone entered the adjacent stall and took a piss, hiccupped, and left the bathroom without flushing or running the sink water.
“I think we better stop for now,” you said.
“What?” I was shocked, unbelievably horny, dripping wet down my thighs, and so close to orgasm.
“I mean, that could have been Sarah. I don’t want to have all the fun without her.”
I couldn’t believe how lucky I was. I had been trying for the past few years to have a threesome, but never found the right time, the right levels of attraction, the right levels of alcohol. But I felt lucky tonight.
“Let’s go get the car,” you said, smiling, “and take Sarah home. She has the hottest pussy you’ll ever taste.”
Hearing you talk like that was enough to make me cum right there. I moved your hand to my clit, rubbed it hard a few times, and began shaking and shuddering all over your fingers, my spasms sending waves of pleasure up through my body and covering your fingers in wetness.
“Oh yeah, you’ll do fine,” you said, sucking my pussy juice off your fingers. “Let’s go.”
I pulled my pants up and followed you out to the parking lot. We got to your car, and you opened the back passenger door. You moved your hand behind my back and shoved me in the back seat. You climbed on top of me and began pushing the dildo against my pelvis, reminding me you were always ready to give me more. I wanted more, right there. I didn’t care if you fucked me in the middle of the parking lot, with the door wide open and everyone watching. My pussy ached for you, it was so wet and needy.
You tilted your body to the side, reached for your cell phone, and called whom I assumed to be Sarah.
“Hey baby, come on down to the car,” you said. “I’m ready to go home.”
Sarah must not have protested, either that or you just decided to hang up without waiting for a reply. You put your cell phone on the car floor and began to kiss my neck with those soft lips. You licked from my clavicle to my earlobe, stopping to suck there, then kissing me on the way back down. You murmured things in my ear like “I can’t wait to watch you lick my girlfriend’s pussy” and “I bet you look good when you’re getting fucked from behind.” You must have kept doing that for a good 10 or 15 minutes before I heard Sarah open the driver’s door.
“Having fun?” she called back to us. I had no idea if this whole event was planned, if it was a regular event for you two, or if I just happened to be the luckiest girl at the bar that night. Either way, I knew I was about to get the fuck of my life.
You and I made out in the back seat all the way to your house, me attempting to move your cock aside and feel your pussy. But you always pushed my hands aside. I began to realize you probably wouldn’t let me touch you there. But maybe you would let Sarah, and the thought of me getting to watch you two go at it was enough to make me clench my thighs together in anticipation.
We tumbled out of the backseat, Sarah walking quickly ahead of us to unlock the front door. You grabbed me by the hand and sort of skipped up the driveway and through the house to your room, throwing me on the bed, commanding me to take off my clothes. You and Sarah watched as I got completely naked, my vagina making little wet spots where it touched the sheets. The lights were dim, but I could still see you both staring at me.
“Go put on something sexy, Sarah,” you told your girlfriend.
You stood there staring at me while I sat there on the bed. I was trying to be discreet about my subtle grinding into the sheets, attempting to relieve my impending, building orgasm. Sarah was gone about five minutes with you just staring at me, licking your lips, watching me squirm.
Sarah returned wearing a black lace thong and a black lace bra. She was relatively short, shorter than me and much shorter than you, and her body was absolutely stunning. She had shapely legs, sexy, shapely feet, a big round ass, and huge breasts. Her breasts were pulled and strained by the bra straps, pushing against the edge of the lace. They were made perfectly bulbous by the push-up bra. Her hair fell down past her shoulders. She looked the perfect part of a stripper.
She walked toward me gracefully. I noticed the muscles in her thighs move a bit, and the crest of her breasts bounce with every movement. Those breasts were her sexual weapon. She could have anyone in the world if they only looked at him or her for a second. Large and round, firm, tanned at the edges and paler at the center. She approached me with them, walking right up to my face, and pressed them against my forehead.
“Isn’t she sexy?” you asked, and I had almost forgotten you were in the room also.
“Fuck yes,” I said, and reached up my hands to caress her thighs.
“Tell her want you want to do to her. Tell her how you want it.”
There were a million things I wanted both of you to do. But what I wanted most from Sarah were those tits.
“I want to fuck her tits,” I said.
“No! Tell HER.”
“Lay down on the bed, Sarah,” I said. “I’m going to fuck your tits.”
Sarah obliged, stretching her sexy body across the foot of the bed. She lay with one leg bent, her pelvis turned toward me, and said, “Come here, baby.”
I leaned over and kissed her mouth, neck, ears, clavicle, shoulders. She reached around and unhooked the bra, setting her gorgeous mounds free. Her nipples were small and pert, standing completely erect. They were hot pink and just begged to be pinched. I placed my face between them, and began nipping, licking, and sucking on them. I could barely fit more than her areola in my mouth, her breasts were so large. I pulled them with my teeth, sucked on them until she screamed. I was about to cum just from playing with her tits, but I knew I wanted more.
I straddled her chest, my arms above her head, supporting my weight, and my clit in perfect range to fuck her tits. With my ass pointed in the air, my own tits hanging above Sarah’s face, I began to lower my now throbbing vagina down on her chest. Her breasts were so soft, so warm. I dragged my clit across one nipple, then thrust my ass in the other direction and rubbed against the other. The rubbing became quicker as I pressed my whole hot vagina down on her perfect breasts. Her breasts responded by stiffening under the pressure, sending waves of ecstasy through my body. This gorgeous stripper was letting me, a bonafide dyke, tittyfuck her.
I chose one breast in particular to grind down on. Sarah was moving her torso accordingly, trying to give me the best fuck possible. She began sucking my tits, which were hanging right in front of her face, hard and wantonly. I could feel murmurs from the back of her throat.
Then I felt your hands on my ass. You pointed it further upward, forcing my hole to leave Sarah’s tit and my clit to press down more directly on her erect nipple. “You’re going to get fucked now, alright?” you said.
You pushed your silicone dick deep inside my hole, holding my hips with your strong and sure hands. You fucked me fast and hard, controlling the speed at which my clit rubbed against Sarah’s nipple. “Cum for me,” you said. “Cum all over those big tits.”
And I did. I soaked Sarah’s chest as I bucked and spasmed against your cock, my vagina squeezing and releasing with such perfect pleasure that I screamed “ohhh, ohhh, ohhh,” over and over for the most intense, longest lasting orgasm of my life.
“Fucking shit!” I said as I rolled off of Sarah, your dick making a popping sound as my vagina let go. I lay there breathing hard and heavy for several minutes, watching you softly kiss your girlfriend next to me.
Sarah was working off your chest binding and strap-on slowly. When you were free, your breasts pressed against each other and spilled out over the sides. You had your legs intertwined, your vaginas pressed together, when you began to grind her. In a few moments she was cumming, screaming loud and hard, and you were grunting and encouraging her, pleasuring her completely.