Her Comfort

learninghowtotellyou:

I went out looking for someone big and strong. First I walked. I felt the rough cement through my shoes. I walked a long time. I stared down at my feet and watched the sidewalk slide under them like I was standing in one place and it was the ground that moved.

I knew who I was looking for. I knew her type. Her jeans would be tight to show off her ass. I’d see the outlines of her boots under the denim. She’d be tall with big, meaty hands. She’d try to hide her tits under a large button down shirt with a tank top underneath. She’s older than I am. She’s strong. She’s a show off. I’m not sure I like her.

I want to be in Nashville. I want to be in a hidden place, where the windows are blacked out and you go in the back door. I want to be in that bar where the stripper is shaking from nerves, but her butch girlfriend is shoving dollars at her with tears of pride welling up in her eyes. That’s where I’d find what I’m looking for.

I want the butch who feels just right tonight because 5 days a week she wears a hint of lipstick and a feminine cut shirt even though it makes her sick. That’s the one that will make me know who she is over and over again.

I step up to the bar and order a beer. I stick my ass out just a little bit more than usual. I drink my beer slowly. I tip it back and stretch my neck, pulling my shoulders back. I am letting them know. I keep my eyes down or straight ahead looking behind the bar. I don’t look around. I’m letting them stare if they want to. They need to figure me out and I give them time.

It’s crowded. I love a crowded bar. I feel someone press against me and a long arm pushes close by me and leans a wrist on the bar with her thick fingers sticking up in the air. “Hey bartender,” she yells next to my ear. I don’t move except to turn my head a little so she can see the look on my face. My lips are slightly opened and I’m imagining her pushing hard on my back and pressing me forward onto the bar. She’s wearing a spicy cologne. I don’t even need to see her face. I want her to fuck me.

Maybe she saw my look. I don’t know. But she presses up hard against my ass while she waits for her drink. I feel her arm on me. She puts her hand on my waist and then slides it down to the back of my thigh. “Holy shit,” I think. I didn’t expect this to really happen. There’s no mistaking this now. She whispers in my ear, “Yes?” and I nod.

She moves her hand up to my ass and rubs me. I adjust my stance to open my legs up wider for her. She can’t reach my clit from behind, she’s rubbing my ass and it’s making me crazy. I press harder back against her. I can feel her belt buckle against the small of my back. The bartender hands her a vodka on the rocks and she digs with one hand into her pocket for a wadded up $20 while she slides her hand down the back of one thigh, up, and down the other.

“Get her what she wants,” she says to the bartender. I smile. She’s good. I order a shot of tequila. I want something fast that will hit me. We stay pressed against each other like this while we drink. I don’t bother talking to her because she couldn’t hear me with my head facing away from her. But she talks to me. “We’re going to stay here like this and finish our drinks,” she tells me. “I like your ass in these thin jeans,” she tells me. “I want to get you out of here and bend you down to the ground,” she tells me.

Sometimes lust builds up like anger and burns. I could hear it in her voice. Sometimes you can’t tell if you scared or turned on. I didn’t care. The bartender poured my shot and let it flow right over the rim until it puddles on the shiny wood. Then she held out a lime. My girl took it. She held it in front of my face and bent it between her finger and thumb. “Rest your head on my chest,” she said and then watched me suck the juice while she squeezed the lime into my mouth. I felt her shiver behind me and it made me smile. I tossed back my shot. She finished her vodka soon after. “We need to go,” she told me and gripped me above both elbows.

She led me outside. “Do you live near here?” she asked. I shook my head no. “Shit,” she said and looked around, “This way.” We walked and she looked all around. I stared down at my feet again. It was dark now. She turned the corner. There was a carpet store, closed, with a driveway. I followed her up the driveway and we found a small cement slab tucked away behind the building. I got down on my hands and knees. “That’s right,” she said. I put my face and shoulders down against the cement. My palms were flat and my fingers spread wide. “Damn,” I heard her whisper.

She got on her knees behind me. She reached under me and undid my belt and tugged at my jeans. She was gentle with my clothes, more than I expected. I felt her fingers curl under the waist of my shorts. I was wearing tight, white shorts which were about as girly as I had. She rubbed inside the seam at first. The skin on her fingers was rough. “I need something to fuck you with,” she said. She slid her belt off and rubbed it between my legs, over my shorts. She pulled it slowly back and forth. She draped it over my back and then pulled my shorts down to my knees. She squeezed me in her hands. She spread my ass and spit. I felt her warm saliva dripping between down my ass and thigh. She rubbed it into me. “Jesus,” she said.

I hadn’t seen her face. She’s only seen half of mine. We hadn’t really looked at each other at all. I guess she was staring now. I guess she’d been looking at me. The cement snagged against my cheek. The little pebbles, some of them sharp. It hurt my palms. I felt her finger in my ass. “I need something to fuck you with,” she said again.

She stopped fingering my ass for a minute and I heard her digging in her pocket. She spat again and then something hard and skinny was in my cunt. It was so fucking hard and so small. It felt good, the pressure. She placed one hand on the small of my back and her fingers gripped me. She was fucking me powerfully but not fast and my body barely moved. I felt held in place. When I came, I heard the clatter of whatever she was fucking me with as it fell to the ground. She held my hips and leaned over me, her jeans shoved against my ass. “I want to rub against you,” she whispered, “Pull your jeans up.”

I stood up and pulled my jeans back on. She took off her shirt and folded it. “Here,” she said, “for your head.” I got on my back on the pavement with her shirt under my head and she spread herself on top of me. Her palms were next to my head and she straddled my thigh. She rested her lips against my neck and slowly rolled her hips. Her weight was barely on me. She held herself just slightly above me. But her cunt pressed hard into my thigh, rocking against me.

I lifted my knee up a little to grind it against her. I felt her teeth on my neck, her lips were parted, she wasn’t biting me, not even aware that she had her teeth on me. She grunted in a rhythm. It didn’t take her long. Her ass lifted high off of me a few times and hard back down with a long pull against my thigh and then her weight was on me and I knew she’d gotten off. “Thank you,” she said and I nearly laughed at it but she was serious. That was a genuine thank you, not to be teased.

She was off of me in a second. Standing up and adjusting her jeans. I stood up and handed her shirt back to her. She brushed it off and shook it a few times before putting it back on. She held my elbow and walked me down the driveway to the sidewalk and back to the bar. She dropped me off at the bar like she was taking me home. “This is yours now,” she said and slipped something into my pocket before she walked away.

I watched her walk. She kept her head high and strutted a little. She knew I was watching. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a pocket knife. It looked old. I could see the shiny places where she had rubbed it in her fingers. I knew what it probably meant to her and felt a rush of emotion in my chest. To give this to me without knowing my name, something she worried in her hands for comfort, I’ll never understand it. Not the gift. Not the night.

I went to the bar and ordered another beer. I held the cold, wet glass against my cheek and it burned where the cement had rubbed me raw.

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    one story of a femme’s desire, actually written by a butch dyke (but not this butch dyke, a different butch dyke. one i...
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