Friday, September 21, 2012
Cheyenne hated when sleep didn’t come. When sleep evaded her she was more prone to trouble. She tried all of the old remedies, a hot shower, a mug of chamomile tea. Nothing worked. She deduced that they were old because of that fact. She started to dress in slacks and a nice white shirt. She considered jewelry, decided she’d just wear her rings, and less is more she reminded herself. Keys in hand she auto pilot drove herself to her favorite lesbian dive bar. If she were looking for trouble she’d find it there. The music was an assault. She almost left on principle. While she waited to pay for entry she scoped her surroundings thinking if everyone looked under aged she’d save herself ten bucks. She spotted someone she was sure she knew. She knew she knew. Remembered vaguely thick thighs clinched around her waist. What she couldn’t remember was her name. She remembered that she was a poet and that it was a stage name she didn't know or remember. She even remembered the venue where she met the beautiful poet, with her beautiful, dirty talking mouth. Her the name would not come, Though she remembered the woman did many times. Her name she could not remember. As she handed over her ten she worked out a strategy. She would walk by the woman’s table headed for the bar and hope that she would interrupt her progress with something cliché like, “Don’t I know you?” She walked by the table like she was on a mission. Like last call had been called but managed to check out the amazing shoes caressing thick ankles. She loved a woman with shoe game, maybe for only a short time, but love was love. As she propped her elbows on the bar she felt, more than heard, someone at her back. That nameless familiar voice delivered as she asked, “ Don’t I know you?” Cheyenne casually looked over her shoulder, smiled. Trouble had been found. And if trouble was still as energetic as she remembered sleep would come soon after trouble did.
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
She catches my hair under her knees as she straddles my face. It limits my mobility so I grab her hips anchor myself and change tactics. She is all nerves and motion. When she tries to pull away, tries to deny the orgasm what it has coming, I don’t let her. She grabs my head, bears down and nearly suffocates me with the pleasure of it. As she slumps to one side, I release my hair aid her in her downward progression and clamp her nipple between my teeth. Her moans are music. Her eyes flutter and her chest heaves. My hands explore her frame. My mouth makes a meal of her flesh. Her moans are plea not a protest and I am not quite done playing. When I roll on top of her she opens her leg and lifts her arms over her head. Her eyes full of smoke watch me as her lips tremble. I kiss her because I can’t help myself. Her mouth is soft and warm. Our tongues do a lazy dance and she regains control of her limbs. When she wraps herself around me we roll to our sides and she never loosens her grip. I slip my hands between her thighs and rub. She is so wet my fingers slip effortlessly between her folds. I catch her clit between thumb and forefinger and tease. A moan blossoms in her throat and she bites my ear. Her hand wedges between us and I open my legs inviting entry. The kiss breaks as she slips inside of me. We find our rhythm, frantic back and forth the frenzy. Breathless when we both cum her nails dig into my back. I didn’t mind the nails so much, I had an itch, and it needed the scratches.