Much Ado About Nothing and Sex

(Part 1 from 1)

***The “I” here is not necessarily the author herself, although it could very well be. So many stories I tell with the fictional “I”, all representing this one girl or two girls or fifteen girls known intimately and psychically by one omnipotent narrator. This time I refuse to build on the characters. You should know them already from your own life. If you do not know the "her" character, get out more or come out of the closet.
And I am aware I recklessly skimp on storyline and imagery often. Yet, wouldn’t you agree that the colors of the grass and clouds and taxicabs outside are so irrelevant to the one memorable instant when you are SLAMMED into a wall, but gently, your ear being nibbled and sucked on, and the pleasure crashing into you with her hand in all the right places…
There’s no use going on. So they were at work. Who cares? She remembers it, I remember it, and I hope you too remember it, if only in the eerie recollections of a prophetic dream.***

She looked at me, so beautiful. So beautiful. We were both naked – how did that come to be? I am incapable of nudity, I am incapable of baring my soft side to anybody, anybody.
I am a rock. I am a cold hard rock. My bubble was one of steel. 
She was naked, but not only a passive picture of naked female flesh, but a naked, warm woman wrapped around me. My nudity was shielded by her own.

The walls around us were covered with the most ridiculous kind of pornography – all girls with mouths open in the international symbol of “naughty”. Their hands traveled robotically, even in still form, and landed on the unfeeling leather of the other women’s parts. Their mouths looked so ridiculous while open in the gasp of meaningless porn. The “O”, was it supposed to evoke imagery of the “Big O”? Probably not. Maybe, “Oh, this bores me so.” Would you like a drink, ma’am? Or a dick? I’ve no time or energy for one of your supposedly daring prances about the bed, couch, shower, or locker-room bench, whatever it is you pose upon.

The movie Kinsey was described with such sarcasm in the "Philadelphia Weekly", “it’s hard to imagine a movie about fucking could seem so much like homework”. Even the poster looked boring. It should have been pornographic. I averted my eyes from the collection of garbage around my dorm room. If this were the final exam, I would have failed. In my Human Sexuality major, they spent so much time talking about nothing. I could have explained the most mundane things – contraception, erogenous zones, reproductive surgery, gay history, anything. Yet relationships were not in my repertoire. Love was probably taught in grad school or something. I don’t know how they do it at Penn; I’m just a second semester freshman.

She looked so young. I knew she was hurt various times. I knew she was scared of the strap-on under my bed. I knew we had done this thing millions of times before since junior year in high school. She was insistent upon what she wanted and didn’t want, and she didn’t want that which she was unused to. There were times when she would make love to me and she wouldn’t let me touch her, usually when I really wanted to. There were times when I made love to her and she didn’t want to reciprocate, usually when I really wanted her to. There were times when I went to sleep wrapped around her exhausted, self-mistreated body aching for a kind of sex that was more passionate, less mechanic and less… goal-oriented. There were times when I had to reach that goal myself, and I went to sleep wrapped around her body aching for the touch that only another desirable human can provide. 

She was gay. She hated penises. “Peenees”, we called them. I hate them too, but it must be intrinsic butch wiring that requires a sort of penetrating. Penetrating. She calls peenees signs of power. “Why else would someone want them? Pussies are prettier, anyway. You (the collective “you”) want them because they denote power.”

Yes. I do want that power. I want the power to take her. Men want that power too, but so many people who have the power end up abusing it. And abusing us.
I want the power to take her without hurting her. I want to be able to reach her inner core and stretch her soft spots open with that which is mine. I want her to be able to come while being taken, understanding that surrender to someone who loves you is safe, safe and desirable. I want her to understand that she could give up her power momentarily out of trust, and trust that the woman who loves her will not hurt her, will keep her safe.
What if she were to strap on that powerful orgasmic penis? Me, the partial masochist. Would my enjoyment signal the stigma of remaining heterosexuality? No. Heterosexual fragments were washed away with the remnants of my virginity. So were hers. No. It is who is on the other side of the dick that matters. And regardless of how the sex “looks”; I love my woman with the most intense of all powers. 

She looked up at me, naked and beautiful. Was she going to go to sleep? Was the kiss a final kiss to last until morning? I continued to kiss her. I stroked her bare stomach, feeling her tongue meet mine for an instant then withdraw. The sparks of pleasure shot down my sides spontaneously, then regrouped and revisited my body again as I realized that they originated from my breasts – she was tentatively caressing my nipple. I held her tight and whispered.

“Can I make love to you?”

My tongue, finding the sensitive spot where her ear and neck joined. My left hand, grasping her back in the sudden burst of unidentifiable passion. My lips, sheltering her with its many kisses. My body, grinding up against hers. My fingers, lightly teasing the most sensitive little spot on a woman’s body. All to drive her crazy, in a true form of ecstasy.

Her lips were so soft, but yet seemed softer with the rush of warm air that jumped from them to my own. I idolized her breasts; beautiful, soft, and angelic in form. The softness of a woman. It is so damned attractive, so damned powerful – more powerful than any muscles. The inherent softness of a woman. That was what I sought; that is what I found in my lady.

Beautiful, indescribable lesbian love – the physical sex so cruelly intangible, lacking in the imagery what the brutal stabs of manly thrusts may have. The pleasure was the only thrust, and it was over for both of us so soon, yet somehow to begin again. 

I reached inside of her, deep inside of her, with my finger. The human finger, so oddly perceptive, could derive such pleasure from the feeling of her slick inner walls…so wet, so female, so open in the Desire for me. Lesbian tool – the tongue – so odd, that one would associate the sacred, clean mouth with the supposed sinful, unclean genitals. It was for me only to taste her, in the madness of possession of the beautiful woman I knew I alone was blessed and anointed by the beautiful sweet, salty water of her insides, gleaned from my fast, fast, and faster moving tongue. Her sounds were music, and they played over me as I felt a rush within my own body, choreographed by her long fingers digging into my sides, grasping at me body and taking it for herself on her ride. 
It was okay, then…

I rolled away and strapped on the rod, rid ourselves of all light and vision, and returned. I kissed her again, purposefully rotating my head so she could inhale the female pheromones emanating from my neck, so my hormonal scent alone could betray that I was, in fact, her woman. I touched her clit again with my tongue, with one hand on her nipple, to continue the shock of desire. In the dark, her woman entered her. 

She gasped and winced a bit; she threw her head up and grabbed my body again. I came once without stimulation – her power over my power was altogether too great. I turned up the vibrating switch, and massaged her clit with my thumb while I thrust slowly and gently in and out of her, barely withdrawing at all. Her gasps became vocal and seemed to revert to pure pleasure as I continued, and she eventually started rushing me, thrusting herself into me. She reached up and pulled me down on top of her, clinging to my neck as the orgasms began, sucking on my neck to gag her own noise. We rocked together for a while before she relaxed into my arms, withdrawing the damp toy. With no practice in the art of being a stone butch, I had only come once, but was amazingly turned on by her… she perceived this desire and rid us of the harness, entered me with the warmth of her cum still soaking the tool, and lay me gently down while beginning a tongue dance of her own upon me. I was being taken by her without any mounting of victory, yet my white stomach was the white flag of surrender, and she took advantage of her domination of me. The pain inside my body was great, but with her body on mine, she managed to seize my want, my cravings, and turn it into an explosive orgasm. 

We kissed. Any other words would have been so trite. We knew we loved each other; we had known it for forever. 
We went to sleep. My naked, warm woman was wrapped around me.

A year ago, she followed me into the bathroom at work about fifteen minutes before my shift. We used the toilet, and as I adjusted my collared shirt and prepared to go to work, she grabbed my shoulders and slammed me with great force into the wall. As my head and ears registered the hearty shock, it immediately followed with explosions of pleasure as she sucked on my sensitive earlobes and teased me gently through my work clothes. She kissed me deeply, she may have even left a small hickey far down my shirt and unnoticeable…. I gasped in pleasure.

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