[Femme on femme for a reader request. I started this story a long time ago for a friend who requested it and finally finished it after a reader requested an ‘ode to femme sexuality’.]
I’m a girl who likes a good butch. I like the dark, oiled looking jeans. The wide cuff. Freshly shined boots. A crisp button down over her softest t-shirt. I like her cap pulled low. Her muscled arms. I like that darting look behind her eyes and the grin that she mostly tries to hide. I like her strut. How she opens my car door and leans in for a kiss. These are the girls that make me swoon. Most of the time. Maybe it’s because they’re so visible. I see them. Even when they pass as boys, I see them. Always. Even though almost never see me. I have to fall into their laps before they see me. I have to stare and flutter and let my lower lip fall open. I have to look them up and down. I have to make them blush. And even then, they never make the first move. These butches. So hard, they can’t crack. So hard, they’re scared. I love them all. Most of the time.
I was having one of those days where I wake up and just roll over to fall back asleep again. The room gets too warm as the sun comes up and still I’m in bed. Hot. Getting a headache because I need my coffee. Pulling the covers up over my head. I need to move. I’m feeling slow. I stare at the orchid on my bookshelf and slide my toes out from under the covers. My hands run over my breasts, my belly, between my thighs. So wet under the hot blanket, I’m so hot and wet and sleepy. It feels good. I feel good. My fingers frenzied, following my thoughts wherever they lead.
I don’t seek anyone’s approval. Not yours. Not anyone’s. This has taken me a long time. I seek myself. I dig my heels into the mattress when I come, lifted up on shaking thighs. I cry out to the air around me, my room, my books, my dresses hanging crookedly in the closet, the piles of shoes. I fuck myself and yell out to the plastered walls of my tiny room.
I finally got up and decided to go shopping. A day away by myself. I wanted to finger rows of clothes on the rack, a blur of colors, texture. Flip them one by one. I’m not even looking. I know why I’m here. I know why I came. I keep my eye on the makeup counter. The makeup artists always catch my breath. Beautiful women leaning in close, holding other women’s faces. I watch this woman working, gripping a customer’s shoulder and running a thumb against her cheek. It looks so intimate. I stare at them long enough to feel my pussy get wet and heavy with an overwhelming want. My heart races. I close my eyes and feel the brush on my own skin. I smell the powder with the names that make me quiver deep down low. The sexy, absurd names of make up. Sin. Torrid. Gilda. Deep Throat. I like to wear these colors and turn the name over in my mind as my date stares at me, compliments me. “Deep Throat,” I think, “that’s what I’m wearing.” It gets me wet. I want to suck her cock. This powder on my cheeks, the bulge in her pants, the dirty appeal.
My head feels dizzy. I wander through rack after rack of clothes. I touch everything. I grab selection of things to take to the dressing room, but I don’t try anything on. I rub my fingers on the fabric. I circle buttons with my thumb. Holding a stiff pair of jeans, I run my fingernail across the zipper and pinch the thick seam running down the inner thigh between my thumb and forefinger, pulling it slowly, feeling its rough tug on my fingertips. I take off my top and bra and pull a thick, cotton shirt across my nipples. My reflection in the mirror catches me off guard and I blush, staring into my own eyes. I watch myself get turned on and it makes me feel dirty. Perfect. I smile and see the look that always made my ex blush. She told me how I get this look and she knows to pay the bill, get to the car, or meet me in the bathroom. This look on my face that told her to rub her cock up against my ass, reach around and inch my skirt up, bury her face in my neck, my tits, press her open mouth against mine. I’m seeing it now. I’m rubbing my thighs and leaning back against the door when the sales girl suddenly checks on me, “How’s it going in there? Can I bring you anything?” I try to sound calm when I send her away, but I’m out of breath, burning inside on this day that I started so lazy and warm under the covers. This day when I stayed in bed too long. This day. This day, I want to feel my own softness.
I touch all the clothes. I shut my eyes and feel the thin, ribbed cotton of a sweater on the softest flesh of my breasts. I lift one arm and let the fabric fall over my shoulder. I do this with each piece. Different textures pulled across my skin. I want to explode. In a rush, I put all the clothes back on their hangers, turn to face myself in the mirror, and unzip my skirt. I slip my hand under the seam of my panties and shudder at how soft and wet my pussy feels. I stand there with my legs open. My fingers slide against my wet lips and push inside my pussy. I look at my open mouth and my heavy eyes. I watch my cheeks blush red. I squeeze my nipples and rub my tits. Everything feels heavy and swollen. My tongue, thick in my mouth, feels lonely. I can smell the sex of this solo fuck in the dressing room. I smell my own pussy. I bring my wet fingers up to my face and inhale. I lick the tip of my finger. I want to fuck someone. I want someone to fuck.
Back in the store, I wander near the makeup counter again. I circle, getting closer. Thinking about how it will be. She’ll lean in close to look at my skin in a way I never experience anywhere else. The way a lover might stare at me when I’m sleeping. No one stares like this. It’s impersonal but so intimate, so close. I walk over and touch the lipsticks in their plastic display. One, two, three. Counting as I tap them. Waiting. Patient. She’s behind me, watching. “Do you know what you’re looking for?” she asks me. I smile. I do. I know. I turn to her with a puzzled look on my face. I’m a pouting girl. “I can’t decide,” I answer, “What do you think?” I pick up a hideous orange color. She frowns, “Let me show you.”
I sit down in her chair. I’m ready for this. I smell her minty gum as she leans over me, her face so close to mine. I catch my breath and force myself to stare right at her instead of demurely lowering my eyes like I normally do. She talks to me about color, foundation, powder. She talks about my skin, my eyes. She’s smiling as she talks, as she works. She’s working. Just working. I sit there squirming in my chair while she her fingers glide across my skin, massaging my brow, brushing color onto my cheeks, tinting my lips. She smiles at me. “So beautiful,” she says, “a timeless beauty.” It comes out canned, but somehow I still feel desired. I’m lost in my own idea of what this is between us. She didn’t know what I was taking from her. This false energy. The buzz. All afternoon, the intoxicating closeness of her beautiful face and her clean smell and soft fingers will swirl around me.
When she’s done, I look at myself. I’m glowing. I’m beautiful. I walk away with my hips swaying, my ass calling out to anyone who wants to see. I decide to take myself out for an afternoon glass of wine at one of my favorite little spots. A dark place with shiny caramel colored wood and leather chairs. Everything glows in a reddish, golden light.
Inside, in the dark warmth, I ordered a heavy red cabernet with a velvety finish. I squeezed my thighs together under the table as I sit there. I drank in gulps to feel the dizzy warm glow come fast and spread inside me. I smiled at my hands. My fingers on the thin glass. I rubbed the worn wood on the table top. Everything felt sensuous. I felt like a woman on fire. The dirty nymphomaniac in an old black and white movie whose fingers crawl, searching out sex. I wanted to scream. I needed fresh air.
I stepped out into the bright sun, forgetting it was still daylight. Wanting to be shaded and cooled by the late afternoon but feeling the sweat between my breasts before I’d gone half a block. My mood was just about to sour when I saw her. I yelled and waved. Undignified. A little drunk. Laughing.
We were old friends from our days in Portland. We used to run into each other all the time in vintage shops and bonded over our lamentably small closets that simply weren’t able to hold all our dresses respectfully. Eventually we shared an apartment, compounding the problem. We’d always been fond of the same things. Vintage dresses, butch girls in glasses, booze, books, blow jobs. I loved living with her. We’d sit on the couch with a decent bottle of wine and let it grow dark around us. We shared our techniques for giving blow jobs. “Slutty cocksucker,” we called each other, laughing, enjoying each other’s stories. We would talk about the last time or the first time or that time in the back of a club or that time I don’t like to remember or those times she wishes she could forget. She talked about how she twists her palm and brings the heel of her hand to the underside of the shaft and presses in and up. Silicone cock only. I don’t suck real dicks. Or plastic. I loved talking with her about sucking butches off. And getting fucked. It was almost as much fun as sucking cock and getting fucked itself. There were times when I was in the middle of a really great fuck and I’d smile to think how I’d tell her about it later. That’s just how it is sometimes. Some fuck you’ll never see again, but a great story you’ll have forever. We each had our epic stories, the ones we told more than once, the ones we liked to remember. Sometimes I’ll remember one of our stories and for a minute I don’t know if it’s hers or mine.
I was so happy to see her. We went back to the bar and ordered wine, drinking too quickly. She was in a hurry, she told me. I hadn’t eaten enough and felt my drunk buzz shift to something more sloppy. My apartment was a brief walk away so we headed there after one drink. She went straight to the kitchen to make us something simple to eat. She always cooked for us. It had been too long since we’d been together. I got sentimental, almost teary. “I’ve missed you,” I lamented. She turned around and smiled, “You’re drunk.” “It doesn’t matter,” I said, laughing, “It’s still true.”
I watched her bend over to get a pot for the stove and felt my clit suddenly hot and swollen. I wanted to fuck her and didn’t even stop to think. I surprised her at the stove, grabbing her thighs. She laughed and gasped in this silly, dramatic way and slapped my hands away but I turned her around to face me and slowly kissed her. She didn’t pull away. We stood there making out by the stove. She still had the small pot in her hand. I smiled and took it from her, setting it on the stove. She had a surprised look on her face. A half smile. I’m pretty sure I had the same look.
"I love your dress," I said, sliding my hand under the hem, pushing it up to her waist. “What are you doing?" she asked me, shaking her head and laughing. “I just want to fuck you right here in my kitchen," I said and she shut up, letting me kiss her again. “I’ve got plans," she whined. I grabbed the kitchen timer and handed it to her, “Set it." She set the alarm for 20 minutes, placed it back on the counter, and then leaned forward onto the butcher block and held on. I lifted her dress and slip, exposing her ass to me. She was wearing butter yellow cotton panties with sweet red cherries printed on them. I knelt down and kissed her ass through the fabric. I tugged her panties slowly down her thighs with my teeth and pushed two fingers against her pussy. I felt my way. Her clit was new to me, swollen, sensitive. She reached one hand down and showed me what felt good. I pulled her hips back, making her bend lower. I stared at the curve of her foot, how it sloped in her high heels. I caressed her ankle with one hand and let it slide casually up her calf and then let the backs of my nails drag up her thigh. I thought of her stories.
"I want to taste you," I whispered, “Turn around." She moved to face me and let her arms fall behind her. Her hands reached back to grip the counter. I lifted her dress and held it in one hand while I nuzzled my face into her pussy. The hair around her pussy was slick and wet. She smelled spicy and I could feel the heat rising off of her. “I want you," I said and opened my mouth around her clit. My tongue slowly snaked between her lips, lapping at her pussy, gliding up and around her clit and back again. I was slow. I wanted to feel her clit swell in my mouth. She ran her fingers through my curls and pulled my face harder against her pussy. My fingers moved inside her, feeling her arousal, everything swelling and expanding. I sucked on her clit and her lips while I fucked her. I heard the pots and dishes rattle behind her. When she came, she slapped her hand on the door of the cupboard making a loud, hollow thump that startled us both. Laughing, I stood up and grabbed her face. We smiled at each other. There was nothing to say, but it felt easy.
She looked at the timer and quickly grabbed me, bending me over and lifting my skirt. She had my panties down around my ankles before I could do anything about it and she was spanking me with one of my wooden spoons. She spanked my ass and the backs of my thighs. I wriggled and cooed beneath her. I stared at the soaring birds that flew on the hem of my skirt and the delicate little flowers surrounding them. I traced my finger across the stitching while she smacked me until I was dripping wet. She pressed her body up against me and reached around, lifted my skirt, and found my pussy with her fingers. She fucked me hard and fast and I came quickly, panting, a little dizzy from bending over. The rush of blood whirred inside me. I could hear my own heartbeat.
"I’ve got to run," she shrieked when the alarm rattled us. She pulled her panties back on and smoothed her dress before she turned to look at me. I hadn’t moved. I saw her look at my panties still down around my feet. “Jesus," she said and came back to me. She grabbed my face and gave me a kiss. The passion felt simple and friendly. She stared at me. “You look good," she said, “Is that a new powder?" I smiled at her. “You’ve got to run," I told her and she turned to go.
It was over so fast. She was here. We fucked. She left. My clit was still buzzing. My ass stung a little. I looked around the kitchen The bag of flour on the counter had been open and a thin white film dusted the wood surrounding it. My wooden spoon sat half on and half off the edge of the stove. I picked it up and slid the wood through my sticky fingers. I traced my own name into the flour on the counter. I thought about the day. Perfect. Just what I wanted.