Glitter. Real Stories About Sexual Desire From Real Women (9 page)

Dirty Little Sex

Foxy Kitten

Happily married mid-western housewife.

I'm a total control freak. I can't handle things not being "just so." That is how I cope with stress. I hide in controlling all aspects of my life and my household.

But in the bedroom? I'm a complete submissive.

A lot of people don't understand the psychology behind the desire to submit. For the longest time I didn't understand it either. I thought I was a freak or that something was wrong with me. I now know that I'm fine. Think about it: what would be the ultimate pleasure and relaxation for someone who feels the compulsive need to control every aspect of life? Giving up that power. Sex is purely about pleasure. So naturally, the most enticing thing in the world to the control freak in me is to have all of my control taken away, in a safe and consensual environment, of course!

My first experience with BDSM was in my twenties with a ‘friend with benefits.’ He was commanding, confident and just fucking sexy. When I told him that I was into submission you would've thought I had just let loose a kid in a candy store. He was a natural dominant.

When I think of our encounters certain things stick out in my memory...

–
    
Laying on the golf course of our country club at night, with two of his fingers shoved deep into my throbbing pussy. Him whispering through gritted teeth into my ear, "This belongs to me! I am going to tease you for hours and only let you cum when I'm good and fucking ready."

–
    
A sixty-nine in the back seat of my car. I could barely get his cock in my mouth. He wa
s
hug
e
. Like, porn star huge. And he knew how to work his tongue. He did this thing where he would stick his tongue deep inside me and use his nose to bump my clitoris.

–
    
Him bending me over the hood of my car and smacking my ass, then turning me around and shoving three fingers into my wet pussy. I gasped and told him three was too much. He responded, "No it isn't. You can take it. This isn't about your pleasure, it's about mine and you'll do as I tell you. Don't ever tell me ‘no’ again." I had never been so turned on before.

The very first time we had intercourse. It was the night after I was date raped. I went to him and told him about it because I knew that he was a man that I could trust. He turned my chin up to him, looked me in the eyes and said, "I will never make you do anything that you don't want to." I cried and kissed him. Then I gave him head. He chastised me for not yet knowing how to deep throat, a skill I would master later. I got on top to ride him and I experienced something I've never experienced since. He was so big that the feeling it gave me was a weird mixture of pain and pleasure. It was amazing.

We had some great, sexy times, but we were terrible as a couple.

The only man who has ever turned me on more is my wonderful husband! He's the only man to find my g-spot and the only man to ever give me an orgasm. There was just a crazy, primal attraction between us. It really is like our bodies were made for each other.

We communicate really well and that's the most important part of making any type of relationship work.

My husband isn't as into BDSM as I am, but I have slowly introduced the blindfolds, restraints and paddles, and he has agreed to use them, much to my pleasure! He has said that he never wants to speak degradingly to me or really hurt me. I've got to respect that. I don't want to be called a slut anyway. I prefer dirty little sex kitten.

That Miranda

Elis Bradshaw

I am a writer by calling and an administrative assistant by profession; I was also a semi-professional bike racer for a handful of years, but that didn't pay the bills. I was born in 1981, and I really started exploring my sexuality in the late nineties, in a rather conservative small town. The conservative part meant that there were tremendous expectations of premarital chastity and heterosexuality and the small-town part meant that there was a lot of sex happening, much of it casual.

It wasn’t a great idea, and I knew it. Miranda was straight; even if she hadn’t been, she didn't like me much. Still, when she pointed at me and announced to our friends that I'd be sleeping with her that night, I didn't protest. I followed her up the stairs to her room, I slipped into her bed.

Bad idea or not, I wanted it. I'd known I was bisexual for years by the time I found myself in Miranda's bed, and I had made good headway into the world of boys. Boys were easy. Girls, though, were tricky. I'd taken part in my female friends' sexual experiments but it had never gone beyond kissing and copping a feel over their shirts. They usually brushed my hand away; that’s how it is when you're trying to get some from straight girls.

By the time Miranda announced that she was taking me into her bed that night, I was long overdue for some girl action. I’d only drunk once before, and whatever had been in the red cup someone handed me trickled straight down between my legs. Heat and liquor spread through my crotch, and while a few clumsy spin-the-bottle kisses took the edge off, I couldn't wait to get upstairs and into her bed. And her pants.

I hadn't given much thought to Miranda before that night, but once I had my hands on her I realized just how much I loved her body. Lean and lithe with an androgynous streak, her figure posed a stark contrast to my rounded lines. Compact breasts at the top of her chest, skin tight over her hipbones. I covered one of her breasts with my palm while I kissed her, then leaned down and took her nipple into my mouth. Her skin rippled with goosebumps as I drew tiny circles with the tip of my tongue.

Tentatively, I moved my hand down and nudged my fingers under her waistband. I paused to gauge her reaction. So far so good; I pressed further, grazing her pubic hair. The Brazilian hadn't yet come into vogue, and her bush was full and thick. Luxurious. She tensed as my fingers passed over her clit, then relaxed as I gave a few light strokes. I opened her up and pushed one finger inside of her. She was so, so warm inside. Soft and thick and sticky.

I took her pants off and put them at the foot of her bed. My first licks were small and shy. I'd like to say I was teasing her and building tension, but the reality is that never having gone down on a woman before, I just didn't know what I was doing. I needed to start out slow. I was surprised at how different our pussies looked. Miranda had short labia that fanned out far in the middle, making a pink half-moon, mine were thick all the way along their length and dusty purple.

As desire overpowered my inexperience, I grew bolder and more animated. I traced her whole pussy with my tongue, testing different textures. Wet skin, slick hair, the hard little bump of her clit. I pushed my tongue inside of her and tasted meat and salt. Miranda coated my tongue.

She moved underneath me and I wanted so badly to make her come. I used my fingers, my mouth; when I came up for air I kissed her so she could taste herself. I returned to her breasts, breathing on them so her nipples stood up and her gooseflesh came back. I loved watching her body respond to me.

The drinks I'd had and the newness of the positions – so different from being with a boy – combined and made my head spin. Kissing my way back up her body, I laid back on my pillow for a moment, one hand still stroking her breasts. Miranda reached between my legs and began to stroke me. Lightly, gently, then a little quicker. It didn't take long, just a minute or two; I came. Hard, clenching her hand between my legs, rocking my hips back and forth with every last little shudder. The last thing I remember is wanting to make her feel what I'd just felt, to make her come and cry out. Then, just like a boy losing his virginity, I fell asleep.

When I woke up, it was later than I expected. I was tucked into a ball on the far side of her bed and Miranda was gone.

Scheherazade

Kate Conway

During the day, I edit freelance work and provide customer support for a start-up in the San Francisco Bay Area. I'm also the Queer Studies Editor at xoJane.com. In my spare time, I frequently write fiction and poetry, take improv and voice-acting classes, fail at running half-marathons, and explore all the nooks and crannies of the great city of San Francisco. 

I'm twenty-two, so I guess you could say I came of age basically yesterday. This story takes place when I was in high school in the mid-2000s.

You can find me on Twitter at @KatChatters.

Maybe all high school romances are like this, all searing heat and bitten nails, and me and Audrey were no exception. Audrey never knew how to love a little bit, only in intense, sharp bursts. We spent most of late August in parking lots, sitting in her 1989 Camry, slipping around on the cracked leather seats as sweat slicked the backs of our thighs.

“Tell me a story,” she’d say, seat leaned back as far as it would go and feet kicked up on the dash. I’d watch as her uniform skirt puddled around her thighs, tan and strong from lacrosse. She’d follow my gaze down to her lap and smile, stretch, rub her ankles together where her feet pressed up against the windshield. I’d swallow.

Audrey and I liked to play a game where we refused each other everything, and I’d play it then, leaning back against the passenger-side door and sliding my sunglasses down my nose. “You tell me one.”

She’d wrap a hank of my then-long hair around one callused palm and tug, not hard, just enough to sting. “I’m bored, Kate,” she’d remind me as I melted toward her, open-mouthed. “You’re the only one who isn’t boring.”

I’d smile against her then, swiping my tongue over the salty skin behind her ear, daring, wanting, afraid. “So give me something to talk about.”

The whole time, she’d keep my hair wound around her wrist like a talisman.

While cleaning out my room in my parents’ house, I find a stack of letters, creased and soft. I read them quickly, barely taking any of them in, save a passage here and there.

I loved you so much, I think, but things got intense so fast. I keep having nightmares where the stories I write are real, that I wake up and I’m forty and married and unhappy and dull. I think you’d be happy like that, which is worse. Please don’t be mad at me, but I think you’d be happy like that.

Audrey wrote like a Dorothy Parker character without any of the self-awareness. But at the time these had gutted me, left me staring and trembling in the senior bathroom, and they gut me now.

They weren’t all breakup letters. We each used to leave notes in the other’s locker, tucked among binders and empty coffee cups. I’d grab for my science binder and watch a crumpled ball of notebook paper tumble out. It’d open into a doodle of Audrey asleep on a desk, captioned “I HATE EVERYONE EXCEPT YOU AND HOLDEN CAULFIELD.” They make a pile in my lap, some funny, some cranky, all of them only ours.

“I’ll take you home today,” says one of the notes in thick, rounded magenta Sharpie. I remember this one.

She’d hand-delivered it to me in fifth period, bold as you please, hair spilling out from her ponytail over the shoulders of her stiff uniform shirt. “Message from the office for Kate?” she chirped, sliding it across my desk before our English teacher could get it away from her.

Not that Ms. Falway would have even thought to: I was a compulsively good student, a people-pleaser, biting my lip with nerves before every test and leaving sweaty palm-prints on every page o
f
Catcher in the Ry
e
. I tried to keep my expression neutral even so, though, dragging my eyes away from the backs of Audrey’s knees as she left.

“Good news from the office?” Ms. Falway chirped above me, and I stuffed the note down into my bag and grinned, trembling.

“Just…soccer practice got canceled.” A stupid lie, easily cross-checked, but who cared. Only Audrey, and she hadn’t stuck around to know the difference.

After school, I lingered at my locker, sliding the palms of my hands along the cool metal walls until the last of the chatter had faded from the halls. Audrey was perched on the hood of her car when I got there, her aviators on. She looked like the star of an ‘80s movie, all battered notebook and charm, and I told her so.

She laughed. “God, you’re cliché.”

I stopped, swallowed. “Sorry.”

“Oh, I’m just kidding,” she dismissed. “I’m glad you came.”

“I’m skipping Student Council for this,” I said stupidly, and her eyes went dark and intent.

“Good,” she said. She slid off the hood and swung the driver’s-side door open, motioning for me to get in the passenger seat. She watched, waiting, as I struggled with the seatbelt. In the car, the silence was thick.

“So,” she said when I finally got myself situated. “Where do you want to go?”

“Oh, well, home,” I said. “Or…My mom’s not expecting me for an hour at least.”

“Yeah,” she said, pulling out of the parking lot and heading for nowhere in particular.

I loved when Audrey kissed me, her thin lips always sun-chapped and salty, and this time was no exception. She fisted my collar as soon as we parked, yanking me toward her and making me scrabble at the seatbelt, choking.

“Jesus, Audrey,” I said, and she bit my lip. I went quiet.

It was still so hot in Sacramento, and my shirt clung to my back as Audrey yanked it from the waistband of my skirt, sliding her hands up to palm at my bra with something like wonder.

“My boobs are small,” I said apologetically, and she shook her head. Moved by some daring, I cupped both of hers before ducking my head under the hem of her shirt to bite at one nipple. It tasted just like the rest of her – sweaty, sun-screened – but it made me breathless all the same. She gasped above me, and I grinned as she knotted her fingers in my hair.

“Should we…backseat?” I asked, peeking at her face, which was high-cheekboned and flushed. She nodded, then shook her head.

“No, let’s…can we…” She moved sideways to brace against the driver’s-side door, and I moved between her legs, kissing her bottom lip again before edging my hand under her skirt.

“Can I?” I said, and she nodded, looking away. I didn’t kiss her again, only watched her face as I slid my hand up her knee, farther, where her thighs got soft and where she was friendly and damp.

“Yes, please, Kate,” she said, urgent. I pressed my hand against the wetness in her underwear, the way I liked to do to myself in my bedroom, thinking of this, thinking of the way her breasts pressed against her shirt in geometry class, the way she’d trail one hand over my shoulder as she passed me on the way to lunch.

She used to leave me hickeys there along my collarbone for me to examine later, laying the pad of one finger over the purple spot for good luck, feeling it pulse as I crossed and uncrossed my legs in English class, aching.

That same intense pressure bloomed in my lower back as I touched Audrey, making me squirm even as she did the same.

She grabbed my wrist, digging her nails into the soft part of my forearm until I clumsily slipped my fingers underneath her cotton underwear, straight into the heat of her. I stopped for a minute, struck by the smell of her, copper and sour. It smelled like the way her mouth tasted when we kissed, all spit and teeth.

“What are you doing?” she gritted, and I crooked my two fingers, hesitant. It was so different to do this to someone else, to feel her clench and twitch around me, my thumb swiping against her clit as her thighs tightened on my hand, almost painful. The ridges inside her reminded me of tiny sea anemones, living quiet in the dark, and I scrabbled over at them, over and over, until my hand got sore.

“Like that,” she said. It sounded almost hollow, like she knew what people said when they were close to coming. “Just like that.”

I pressed deeper into her, the whole heel of my palm against her pubic bone, and she shuddered suddenly, opening. Her pussy, which had been tight and hard and pulsing, gave then under my hand, dripping like an overripe peach. I gulped, panting, and she moaned a little. Every sound she made twanged at me; every time I twisted my fingers, I imagined her doing the same to me, imagined my face between her legs, imagined her taking, taking, always taking.

“Do you want me to…” I started. I desperately wanted to know how she tasted, suddenly, but I couldn’t imagine how to even start. I wanted her to hold me there, my hair held fast around her wrist. I wanted to choke on her.

I snuck another look at her face, but she wasn’t looking at me. She was turned toward the window, eyes closed. As I watched, she breathed in through her mouth and arched, keening, grabbing hold of my hand again and forcing it against her. I waited for her face to crumple like paper left in the rain.

Afterwards, we drove to my house without speaking. Audrey put a Placebo song on repeat: Protégé Moi, Protégé Moi, Protégé Moi, and rolled the windows down. I looked out at the asphalt. Protégé moi.

“See you tomorrow!” I called to her as I shut the passenger-side door outside my front yard. She shook herself a little, as if coming out of a dream, and then smiled at me.

“See ya,” she said, sliding her sunglasses down over her eyes and driving down the heat-shimmering street.

Wiping my hand on my skirt, I watched her leave.