Girl Fever (9 page)

With almost embarrassing ease, she has me creaming around those persuasive digits. So much juice, soaking right through the cotton.

“Don't worry, hon,” she purrs. “Dealing with gushers is all part of my job.”

At last, she shrugs out of her overalls. Her tits, cradled in the sheerest of nylon bras, almost demand to be sucked, so I do. With her grip on my wrists released, I'm free to touch her pussy the way she's touching mine, fingertips skating over her slick lips. Our mouths meet again, kisses hot and frantic, tongues dueling as the tension rises.

Beside me the boiler, prompted by its automatic timer, whooshes into life, proof the plumber's done the job Ray's paying her for. But I'm only interested in the job she's doing on my cunt, the heat she's building in me with her relentless caresses.

Writhing against the wall, I come with a sharp cry. But my lover remains to be satisfied, so I hold it together long enough to take her to her peak, one finger deep in her tight hole as my thumb works in magic circles on her clit. Only then do I slump against her, panting into her bare shoulder.

Pleasure achieved, she's all business again. Brisk and purposeful, she fastens up her overalls, reaches for her tool kit and hurries off to her next customer—whose needs, I'm sure, will be very different from mine. Would I recommend her services in an emergency?

Absolutely.

“Call me,” is all she says as we part at the door, pushing her business card into my hand. Her name is Lulu: so delicate for such a strong woman, but that's not what's making me smile. Carole will love this. You see, my gorgeous Lulu was sent to me by Universe Plumbers.

 

 

 

 

 

F
rom the first time she saw it, Charlene was obsessed with the train scene from
Risky Business
. She couldn't explain why, exactly. It was the unforgettable combination of a young Rebecca De Mornay, the movie's hypnotic eroticism, and an exhibitionist streak aching to break free. Sometimes she watched it at home with Tilly, sometimes they playacted it out in the bedroom. And sometimes, they went out to ride the L.

Charlene would put on the little white dress and heels, Tilly would wear the sneakers and jeans and sport coat, and they'd ride along the Loop for hours, always waiting for the right moment, the perfect opportunity. They'd kiss slowly, fingers wandering, whispering desire-heated words against each other's lips. But the moment never came. Always foreplay, never the main
event. Eventually, libidos raging and pussies soaked, they'd disembark, heading home to finish things properly. Once, they found an alley; Tilly shoved Charlene up against the wall and fingered her with quick, hard strokes, headlights strobing past them, finishing before they could be caught. That took the edge off. Still, the Holy Grail remained elusive, always a late-night group of students or club-hoppers or tourists making things unfeasible.

But tonight was perfect. Charlene nestled against Tilly, arms lightly looped around her girlfriend's neck, nibbling at her lips, breathing in her scent. Tilly had a few too many curves to play a passable Tom Cruise, but she butched up quite nicely with her short black hair and her “riding the train” outfit. Charlene, with her slight curves, lithe body, and long blonde hair, fit her role much better. They shifted together on their seat, fingers wandering whenever they could escape detection, whispering soft fantasies under the noise of the train. Hands brushed against breasts, dipped between legs, trailed over cheeks, leaving tingling nerves and growing arousal in their wake.

People got off the train, one by one, fewer boarding to replace them. And then they were alone. The doors hissed shut, the train jerked and swayed as it picked up momentum and Charlene exchanged a wicked look with Tilly. This was it.

Charlene swung to her feet, chest heaving with anticipation, eyes half lidded. Tilly, still seated, leaned
forward to slowly run her hands up Charlene's legs, gliding up silky-smooth skin, vanishing under the little white dress. Up, and then down they came again, taking Charlene's panties with them, the skimpy white thong she only wore when she wanted to play out this fantasy. Charlene stepped out of them, gasping as cool air swept right up her legs. She bent down to undo Tilly's belt buckle and unzip her jeans. Tilly was packing tonight, wearing her favorite strap-on, the one with the thick purple fake cock, and Charlene pulled it free and erect through the undone zipper. All in silence, because they'd rehearsed this in their fantasies a hundred times.

With time being of the essence, they moved quickly. Tilly slid forward, and Charlene straddled her, lowering her aching pussy onto the shaft, hissing with delight as it filled her. Moaning, Tilly reached out to rake her fingers over Charlene's shoulders and back, while Charlene braced herself with her hands on the back of the seat, starting to rock up and down. Slow at first, but picking up speed, the dildo slick with her arousal, every movement sending a shock of pleasure against Tilly's clit as well. They moved together, letting the train do half the work for them, bodies jostling, quiet groans escaping parted lips.

Charlene suddenly ducked down, capturing Tilly's mouth in an eager, demanding kiss; Tilly tightened her grip, pulling her close. Charlene raised herself up and slammed herself down, taking the dildo as hard and fast as she could, feeling the orgasm rising within her until it
finally burst forth. She screamed her release into Tilly's mouth, her entire body tensing and shuddering, and Tilly urged her through it with a fierce joy, hips arched upward to press into her.

Spent, Charlene broke the kiss, pulling back with shaky limbs and heaving chest. Tilly had to help her up and off the strap-on, supporting her until she could collapse onto the seat. There was some very hasty rearranging of clothing as they made themselves presentable again. The thong was gone, kicked somewhere under the seat; neither felt like retrieving it: a sacrifice to the gods for a night well spent. All too soon, the train hissed to a stop, and a crowd of semi-drunken frat boys boarded. The girls exchanged a wry look. Just in time.

As Charlene and Tilly exited the train a few stops later, ready to head home and clean up, Tilly grinned impishly at her girlfriend. “Have I ever told you what
my
favorite movie scene is?”

 

 

 

 

 

I
n my experience (not exactly staggering, but I know a thing or two about how to please a handsome, sexy butch,) nightly sex that lasts for at least an hour is the norm in a new relationship. So when the inevitable first sexless night with Danny came, I felt a huge letdown. Never mind that the situation couldn't really be helped. Let me explain.

Danny is a driver for Canfield Armored Car Service (guaranteed safe transport of cash and other valuables). It isn't like being a cop, where you drive to work in your street clothes and change into your uniform at the police station. Danny dresses for work at home. She wears a uniform, badge, gun, and a utility belt with a lot of contraptions on it. Although she isn't aware of it, every time she puts on her work clothes she turns me on to the
point where I want to beg her to take me to bed and, what the hell, just show up a little late for work. But I never do that because Danny is very conscientious about her job. She wouldn't miss a shift, or even be a minute late, unless it was a matter of life or death. She keeps her uniforms and equipment in tiptop shape. She's always cool and in control—on the outside.

Oh, wait. I was about to explain about our first sexless night together. Due to an unforeseen crisis at Canfield Armored Car Service, Danny had to work a double shift. That night some guy on drugs or something tried to hold up Danny and her partner as they were loading the day's receipts for the local Home Depot. They subdued him, but in the process Danny's partner accidentally shot him in the arm, and that led to a trip to the police station to give a statement. Long story short, Danny finally got home at 3:45 A.M., exhausted. With only six hours until she had to leave for the morning shift, she crashed for what little sleep she could get before going back to work. So, no sex.

Anyway, I was about to describe the real Danny, the one that most people don't see. Under her “tough guy” exterior is a sweet, sensitive, tender person who is also a tiger in bed. She knows exactly how to give me the most mind-blowing orgasms I've ever experienced, and she does so regularly.

As far as her own needs, I guess the word to describe Danny is “clitoral,” as opposed to me, maybe best described as “diversified.” Even when she's not aroused,
she has the biggest clitoris I've ever seen. It protrudes from her lips and if she doesn't wear jockey briefs to cover it firmly, the sensation of her clothing rubbing against it goes from stimulating to aggravating to painful in short order. The only time she wants that kind of stimulation is when I'm the source, and I can guarantee you that for me it's a pleasure like no other. Her response to my fingers, my tongue and the variety of toys we've tried is always the same: that gorgeous, sexy clit swells up and almost doubles in size. When she comes, it arouses me more than anything she does to me.

Oops—distracted from the story yet again. Sorry about that. I was entirely to blame for our second sexless night, which was two weeks later. Long story short, we went to a party and I drank too much. When we got home, the first thing I did was to pass out. The next morning I woke up two hours earlier than usual in a state of anxiety. I slipped out of bed, put on a robe, and started a pot of coffee. I downed two Extra Strength Excedrin with a large glass of water and then drank three cups of coffee while I contemplated the sad situation I had caused. I had planned a surprise for Danny when we got home from the party. It wasn't a big deal. In fact, it was a rather small deal—a miniature vibrator (one AAA battery required) that attaches to your finger and runs at the equivalent of about 3,000 rpm. I figured she would either love it or hate it. But sadly, thanks to me it was neither, since I'd passed out and left her with nothing.

I heard stirring in the bedroom, then the bathroom,
then the shower. A few minutes later, Danny came into the kitchen in her uniform. When I tried to apologize, she laughed and shushed me and said not to worry about it. She kissed me, harder and deeper than usual, and headed for the front door. I followed, unfastening my robe. I slipped my hand into the pocket where I had hidden the finger vibrator.

At the door she turned to me. She was grinning. Tonight, she said, we had a lot to make up for. I pressed closer and unzipped her fly. “And what if I can't wait for tonight?” I wondered. Well, I was assured, tonight would be here before I knew it, and then… and then her eyes turned cloudy as I slipped my index finger through the slit in her briefs and grazed the tip of her clitoris. She pulled me into an embrace and I felt it swelling quickly. She leaned back against the door, her feet several inches apart.

With my robe open, she was able to claim me in whatever way suited her. She massaged my breast with her right hand and held me tightly against her with her left. I moved my right hand so that the vibrator on my middle finger covered her clit, and my first and third fingers cupped her firmly. I don't know why, but I rested my left hand on the butt of her gun. She never took her eyes from mine. At first she moaned softly. Then her moans became the howls of a feral animal as the little vibrator worked its magic on her erect clit.

I felt her stiffen. There is nothing, nothing,
nothing
more exhilarating for me than bringing sexual fulfillment to a magnificent butch. I wanted this to last, but
I knew how much she craved release. Seconds later, she cried out in ecstasy. There was no thrusting or bucking or thrashing. She pressed herself against me, and I felt every part of her body as her orgasm reverberated through it.

I was almost insane with need. I told her that I would never, ever consider asking her to deliberately be late for work except in a life or death situation, and this definitely was one. I put her hand between my legs to prove it. When she felt the flood, her eyes widened and she broke into a huge smile. Yes, definitely an emergency, she agreed. She picked me up and carried me to the bedroom. What happened next was the greatest experience of my life, but that's another story.

Anyway, there's an old song about something being better the second time around. When it comes to sexless nights, I guess it's true.

 

 

 

 

 

I
love Saturdays. Anyone who works an 8-to-5 job relishes Saturdays, but my love is more than that. I've perfected Saturday mornings with a routine that I look forward to all week long. Having a routine doesn't mean I'm boring or predictable; it just means I've guaranteed that every Saturday will be a happy one.

First—and this is the part that most everyone enjoys—I allow myself to sleep in. No alarm clocks, no appointments, no plans. I wake up slowly, allowing myself to languish in that twilight sleep—not quite awake, but not fully asleep either.

Here's the part that differs from everyone else's Saturday: once I feel like I've indulged enough in my laziness, I reach over to my nightstand and grab whatever erotic material I've placed there the night before.
Then I open the top drawer and free my vibrator from its hiding place.

I love my vibrator. It never lets me down. Let me rephrase that—as long as I have good batteries, it never lets me down. After years of experimenting with toys of all types, I have found the perfect vibrator—the silver bullet. I've tried others, high tech, expensive, fancy, different colors—nothing works for me quite like this model. The vibrating “bullet” is egg-shaped, and it fits perfectly between the lips of my pussy, nestled against my clit. Just thinking about how it feels makes me twitch. So, no more experimenting for me. When you find the perfect lipstick shade, the perfect hair color, the perfect vibrator, you stick with it.