Girls Like (1)

(This is an excerpt from a piece I submitted to a Lesbian Erotica series. I got permission to share it here, mostly because it’s epic foreshadowing for something that happened at the slumber party that I’m dying to tell you about. Kinks are hard to explain sometimes, especially when your partner is new to all of this. Max isn’t really kinky, and she’s not really poly either, so it’s been interesting trying to navigate all of those things. Being cucked is one of my favourite and most complicated kinks; I hate it, but it turns me on immeasurably. It’s the perfect blend of shame, jealousy, lust. It’s scary playing with real insecurities, it can be hard to own. Anyway, this really happened and I masturbate to it regularly.)

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“Would you want to see me kiss someone else?” I ask, with obvious hesitation. Her brow furrows, “No.”

There’s a too-long silence before she asks “Would you want to see me kiss someone else?” I want to say no too, but it’s a lie. I shamefully nod my head and hide my face in the pillows. She’s surprised to hear this, she asks a few questions, I try and explain how the jealousy and fear mixes with lust and takes my head to strange places.

“I like watching you flirt, I like watching girls make eyes at you,” it’s hard to help her understand something I barely understand myself. She tries to laugh it off, but the truth is it happens all the time. It’s easy for her. She doesn’t have to say a word and they just kinda flock to her. I harbour crushes for months before giving any signs, I err on the side of caution, I assume nobody’s interested, I talk myself out of even a sure thing, but all she has to do is give a certain look, or rest her hand on their arm and they’ll follow her anywhere. She’s strong and magnetic. She disagrees, but I know what I see. Our playful-yet-dangerous conversation has us both a little on edge.

She nudges me, kissing my neck and gripping my wrists with her hands. I pull them back, I love this game even though I know she’ll win. I struggle joyfully, trying to break free of her grasp, she’s stronger but I’m wiggly. I climb on top of her, straddling her as I pull my wrists away and switch my grip, grabbing her hands and fighting to pin them over her head. She flexes, her muscles giving me so much resistance as I use all of my might. I can feel her arms shaking a little, and when I manage to press her wrists all the way down to the mattress I gasp, excited for a moment. Something about her smile gives her away, I squeal “Did you let me win???”

She looks up at me and says innocently “Girls like it when you let them win.” My eyes widen, I can feel my blood pumping faster, but I can’t tell if it’s from the grappling or the conversation.

I bring my face closer to hers, “Is that right?” I ask. She looks down at my lips and back to my eyes and drawls “Yes ma’am.”

“What else do girls like?” I continue, starting to unbuckle her leather belt, not breaking eye contact. She thinks about it for a moment before answering “Forearms.” And then “Freckles.” I chuckle, suddenly feeling like a stereotype.

I start a trail of wet kisses down her stomach, stopping at that perfect ridge where her hips meet her abs and say “Girls also like these hip bones, don’t they?” She’s modest but she knows it’s true. Does she know this is driving me crazy? Thinking of all the ways every woman who has had her before me has adored her makes my pussy throb. I want her in all the best ways.

My mouth moves between her legs, I breathe her in and sigh. “Oh,” she says absentmindedly. “I thought of another thing girls like...” I stop what I’m doing and look up at her. “Grey hairs,” she says, “And the younger they are, the more they like them.” I’m paralyzed between her thighs. She said it so casually, but my stomach did a backflip thinking of all the beautiful young women who have run their hands through her short cut and fawned over those silvery highlights like I have. Does she know what she’s doing to me? The cruelest sadist couldn’t have shot a more accurate arrow, right into the bullseye of my favourite kink. She smiles, oblivious.

I want to say:

“This hurts, stop. No wait, don’t stop. Tell me about the last time that happened. Tell me her name, and where you met her. Tell me what you were doing when she noticed your grey hair… what did she say? Was she prettier than me? Did she love you?”

Instead I say:

“Do they?”

I try to sound nonchalant. I put my tongue back to work and think of nothing else.