Girl Fever (21 page)

“Baby?” she heard from the bedroom and her cunt jumped. Holding the Coke by the rim she got back there quick, not even stopping to pee.

“What you got there, sweet thing?” The cowboy lolled against Delores's pillows, legs spread to the blow of the fan. Delores ran her eyes up and down the cowboy's long body, stopping between his legs, where the cock she'd been so busy with earlier still stood up and ready. She didn't answer, just started rolling the Coke over her breasts, making her nipples perk right up. The cowboy grinned a lazy grin and moved a hand down. Delores hugged the can between her breasts and licked around the rim. She closed her eyes and could hear the cowboy taking in a breath. Still hugging the can in her cleavage, she ran her nail lightly over one nipple. She dipped her finger into the condensation on the can and rubbed her nipple a little harder, pinching it, then wetting it some more. The bed creaked as the cowboy shifted position.

“Show it to me, baby,” came the cowboy's voice, tough and growly, “work those big titties.”

Opening her eyes, Delores watched him watch her as she moved the can over one breast, then the other. It was so cold it gave her goose bumps, and her nipples got harder and tighter. The cowboy groaned and muttered, “That's good, baby.”

She watched as he handled his cock, the casual way he treated it, just wrapping his fist around it and taking what he wanted. She started to pant, dropping the can lower and lower until she was straddling it, feeling like she could swallow it whole with her wet, open pussy. The can was still cold as hell and she jerked as it touched her clit. The cowboy's hand moved faster on his dick.
Delores began to rock on the can, lost in the crazy feeling of ice down there, imagining it smooth and red, the aluminum tang. The cowboy laughed low.

“You look so good, baby, you look so good humping that ol' can of Coke like it was my dick up there next to your pussy; you go on, darlin', you go on.”

Delores ran the can back as far as she could reach, and then up, back and forth, using both hands as the cowboy yanked his hard cock. Just about then her legs gave out and she fell onto the bed on her knees, thighs locked around the rapidly warming can, breathing fast.

“Uh-huh,” murmured the cowboy. “Don't stop, baby, you do what you gotta do.”

Delores pulled out the can and pushed it to his lips, smiling as he kissed and licked it. He made little grunts of satisfaction as he tongued the can. She took it back from him and started to shake it, shimmying her tits the way he liked, moving her whole body. She could hear him working his dick faster, his breath coming from his belly like it did when he was almost there.

“C'mere,” he rasped, running his arm up under her pussy, pushing the lips apart, fingers gentle and hard, filling her hole, coming out and roaming around, back inside; thumb on her clit, finding a rhythm and settling. Delores kept shaking; the can was body temperature now. She could hardly think with the cowboy's hand in control of her pussy, and he was still tending his own business, too, but right then, right then when it counted, Delores had enough of what it took to get right
over that cock as the cowboy started his final thrusting pump. She popped the top. The cowboy hollered and let go, and Delores was there, coming hard, mouth full of cock and Coke, swallowing and swallowing just as fast as she could.

 

 

 

 

 

D
o I have to beat the pants off you?”

Dominique has accessorized her threat with a suggestive smile and wanton wink. But I'm no fool. That receptive look is really a deceptive hook.

“You and your feminine gills,” I mutter, slouching on the padded bench of her vanity table.

“Frills,” she is quick to correct me. “And what do you think you're doing? Slouching towards Bethlehem? Sit up straight.”

I consider making some sort of clichéd remark about that, but like I said, I'm no fool. Instead, I reach for the button on my jeans and pop it open.

As soon as I get out of these clothes, I've got to get into some others. Dominique and I are performing in
Hit the Switch
, this reversal revue at the nightclub we
frequent. Femmes go butch, butches go femme. Dom's the femme, I'm the… well, I prefer the term
tomboi,
but my girl's a bit of a traditionalist.

Except when it comes to sex. In the bedroom, my little Femme Dom takes over. “Isn't that right, Dom?”

“What?”

“Sorry. I thought I was thinking out loud.”

Dom answers with a scoff, an eye roll and a smile—in that order. She separates the dress from its satin hanger, preparing to imprison me in the leprechaun-colored frock she's picked out for the performance.

“What was wrong with the yellow one?”

“It bunched up in all the wrong places and made you look like scrambled eggs.”

“I like scrambled eggs.”

“Stop sniveling. The dress won't kill you. I'm not Medea.”

Dom makes out like I've never worn a dress before. I have. But I prefer to dress down and not up. Dominique, on the other hand, is the girliest girl I know. Even the suit she's wearing for the show is fitted and feminine. I'm sure the judges will deduct some serious points for that. Then again, maybe they won't. Maybe they'll appreciate the way it suits her curves.

“You're staring,” Dominique says. “I may have to hose you down.” She plucks a pair of nylons from her dresser drawer. I've mutilated most of the tights she's bought. Not…maliciously. They're just too complicated. The only stockings I like are the kind you hang over the
fireplace at Christmas.

Dom kneels at my feet, a rare treat. She rolls the panty hose over my toes, draws them up my calves, stretches them between my thighs. The tights make me itch and twitch and bitch. Ah, the trappings of femininity.

“Get in here,” Dom orders, and I maneuver my feet into the gaping mouth of the dress.

Now the skirt is crawling up my legs and the bodice is creeping along my torso and Dominique is zipping it up like a sleeping bag. I take a moment to adjust to the sensations. The dress is close fitting and sticky and I feel like a papier-mâché project. But I also feel kind of… subversive, like I'm shaking up the system. More than shaking it up—sabotaging it. If I walked outside right now, most people wouldn't suspect for a second that I'm as gay as a dildo is long. That's got to be so fun for Dom, putting one over on people all the time.

Dom's arms form a belt around my waist. “
Freaky Friday
, meet
Some Like It Hot
,” she remarks. “And I'm thinking of the Marilyn Monroe character, FYI.”

“I can see the resemblance,” I quip, stooping to pick up a pair of dismembered stockings. I head toward the wastebasket but never make it that far. “Remember on our first date, when you told me you didn't want to be tied down?” I query, twisting the hosiery between my hands.

Dominique blushes. “Why are you bringing that up?”

“I thought you meant that you didn't want to be
tied down
to
anyone, but clearly that's not the case. So maybe you meant that you didn't want to be tied down
by
anyone?” The blush brightens until it looks like a sunburn. “Oh, you didn't mean that, either?”

“I…”

I snatch her up and kiss her, the deep sweep of my tongue making Dom shudder.

“We need to leave,” she murmurs. But she doesn't protest when I whip down her slacks, nor does she struggle when I wrap the lacerated lace around her wrists. And she accuses me of not being able to exercise restraint where she's concerned. Shows what she knows.

“Don't worry.” I bend Dom over the vanity table. “It'll be touch and go.” I give her backside a couple of caresses, followed by a few rough rubs. This can't be that hard, unless I do it correctly.

Dominique watches herself in the mirror. Naturally—it's a vanity table. It's quite a sight, actually: me dressed up, her trussed up.

She flexes her wrist. “They're tight.”

I flex mine. “They're tights.” Little Miss Do-as-I-Say-Knot-as-I-Do never cuts
me
any slack when she ties me up.

“Thank you, ma'am.”

I grin, my hand hot on her tail. It bounces off her ass, causing the flesh to fidget.

I continue to lash out until Dominique's rump is princess-pink and glowing like a firefly. Why give a spanking
if you're going to do it half-assed?

I peer under her posterior. Her pussy is shiny with desire. I fondle her with my nondominant hand because the other one is sore from all that spanking.

Dom moans.

“Don't come.” I clutch her arm. “Get off.”

Dom groans. “Do you want me to climax or not?”

I help her off the vanity, then out of the restraints. “You aren't the only one who needs a good licking,” I inform her, perching on the tabletop, feet on the bench, heels squishing the seat cushion. Dominique shoves her hands up my dress. My tights get ripped. I can't get blamed this time.

Dom's on the floor now, trapped between my pussy and the panty hose, which, along with my underwear, are stretched tight across my knees.

Dominique's head moves beneath my skirt. Her tongue swirls along my folds, unfurls inside my cunt, twirls around my clit. Her movements are graceful and skillful, and it isn't long before I'm arching like the bow of an arrow, shoving my snatch into her mouth.

“Get off.” Dominique's head emerges. She rams her hand between her legs. “Your knees,” I clarify, and she sighs but complies.

I pack my digits into her pussy, stuffing her like a cannoli. My fingers slip and slide through her sex until she comes, crushing my digits.

I pull my hand free, spread my middle and index fingers into a
V
-shape, and we lick the lust from them.

“Let's hit it,” I suggest. “The road, this time.”

Dominique answers with a scoff, an eye roll and a smile—in that order. I hoist the hosiery to my waist. Now that they're disfigured, they're almost comfy.

“Just so you know,” Dom says, her tone tart and her smile suddenly sinister, “you didn't take control.” She strokes my face, her nails chafing my cheek. “I gave it to you.”

 

 

 

 

 

Y
o Cath, check out the hooters on this one.” Todd stopped in front of a female nude sculpted in flawless white marble.

Inside the museum it hadn't been so bad, but once outside in the sculpture garden Catherine was finding Todd intolerable. The brilliant sunshine seemed to increase his ugliness, exposing his unsuitability for this place. Amid the graceful rows of marble nudes and neat gravel paths lined with olive trees, he stood out, garish and discolored, like a livid bruise on a lovely face.

Catherine crossed a cool arcade to stand beside him in front of the “hooters” in question, feeling offended in spite of herself.

“You're so one-dimensional, Todd,” she said, hating herself for taking the bait. “You can calculate the forward
volatility on a group of foreign currencies in your head, but you can't appreciate art to save your life.”

“Nobody ever got rich appreciating art, babe.”

Belatedly recalling that the only wise course was to ignore her obnoxious friend—and reminding herself never to drag him to a museum again—Catherine bent forward to read the tiny engraved brass plaque that identified the nude. The statue's breasts were indeed beautiful. Todd was right about that, she had to admit.

VENUS said the plaque, and then in smaller letters underneath, GODDESS OF LOVE.

With protective tenderness, as though to shield the goddess from Todd's uncomprehending eyes, Catherine reached out and cupped her hand around the exposed marble breast, not quite touching it. Venus's form was sculpted so skillfully Catherine felt that if she hefted the perfect roundness in her palm she'd sense the weight of flesh, not stone.

The afternoon sun must have warmed the marble, for it reflected a calming, comforting heat.

“Hey,” said Todd, sounding uncertain. “You're not supposed to touch the art.”

Rebellious, and triumphant at having shocked him, Catherine closed the slight distance between her hand and Venus's breast. The polished surface glittered, scattering tiny flecks of brilliant light that dazzled Catherine's eyes. The white marble nipple stood erect. Had it been that way before? Had the stone responded to her caress?

Catherine thought of taking the perfect nipple in
her mouth. She leaned closer, taking sensuous joy in measuring the form beneath her fingers, marveling at the beauty of Venus's hips; her narrow, supple waist; her white, sculpted hands with their tiny oblong nails.

“Don't tease me,” breathed a voice in her ear. Catherine glanced up, startled.

“Please,” the nude Venus whispered. White marble lips moved, the only possible source of the words. The voice was urgent, passionate, but regal rather than pleading—the voice of a goddess who expected to be obeyed. “Touch me, kiss me, put your mouth on me, now! Quickly… before anyone comes.”

Catherine stared into the beautiful marble eyes, then lowered her head obediently. Who was she to question the Goddess of Love? White marble eyelids fluttered as Catherine's mouth drew closer, but a sudden thought stopped her.

“What about him?” She inclined her head toward Todd, who stood behind them, his mouth open, looking slightly ridiculous.