tongue outlined all intersections of my curves and, in an extremely complicated maneuver, he rotated my body in order to follow those intersections into deeper, darker chasms. My ass rose to meet each gliding kiss. He turned me over again and lifted my mound to within inches of his cock. My lips opened to lure him in, but he remained centimeters beyond my desire, kneeling, stroking himself, one hand on his cock, the other on his balls. I wanted him so badly, but he stayed just far enough away from my complete satisfaction. As I thrust up to meet him, he leaned back to avoid me; all the time watching me, all the time stroking himself, as he knelt between my legs, making inaudible statements through his trembling lips.
I threw myself around and began devouring his cock; he grabbed me by the hair, pumping my head, sometimes faster, sometimes slower, to intensify his pleasure, to prolong his excitement. But I was so angry that he had postponed my own pleasure that I had no desire to prolong his.
I overcame his slowing down with my own speeding up. Running my fingernail down the seam of his balls, I stroked the skin on his penis with the lightest trace of my teeth and teased his urethra with a heavy battering of my tongue. He screamed against the surging inevitability of his orgasm and I bit down hard with my lips at the base of his cock. He shot come down my throat, and I sat back on my haunches like a put-upon cat. Angrily he leaned forward and pulled my nipples to bring me closer. He brought me right up to his face, whose planes shifted from passion to cruelty, then released my nipples and shoved me back by my shoulders. In a matter of minutes he was stretched out and snoring soundly.
The next day Michael drove me into the city. When he dropped me off he surprised me by asking for my phone number. I made one up quickly, though I later regretted it. In fact, I thought of him fondly for several months after that strange winter night.
Unfortunately, the incident didn't cure my propensity for danger. On the contrary, it made me hungrier than ever. I now felt that I was invincible and had Houdini-like powers with which to exit tight situations. I continued seeking out shady characters and ominous sets of circumstance. It wasn't until that time in Alaska that I began to question my judgment. But that's another story.
THE LESBIAN EXPRESS
By Christina Tagliari
“We gotta get these Boy Scouts outta here!” Wanda muttered as she walked through the bottle-littered car of the “Gay Disco Party Train” to Montreal. Amtrak had positioned our group in front of the club car. A travelling Scout troop had just wound its way through a carful of 65 gregarious lesbians.
Three business executives in pin-striped suits also sat in the club car. A Humpty Dumpty look-alike in man's clothing, Wanda complained to the conductor, “This is a private party.” While she approached the Scoutmaster, the conductor asked the three businessmen to leave. They snickered, exchanging meaningful smiles. One of them said, “Well, we want to be with the women.”
“Not these women, you don't,” the conductor replied.
I wondered if I liked being with them myself. Hearing of a trip to Montreal for gay women, I had envisioned numerous opportunities for a lesbian orgy. Though primarily heterosexual, I occasionally enjoy a fling with one of my “sisters.”
The ethnic make-up of the group surprised me. Of the 65 participants, about 50 were black and more than half in their 40s and 50s. Most were nurses. The older black women played cards, smoked cigars, wore wigs, chomped on chicken wings and sat on each other's hefty laps.
“Watch out, hot stuff is comin’ through!” one black woman yelled as she sashayed down the aisle.
“Hey, cutesie-poo!” a cigar-smoker called out mischievously when a gay man boarded the car.
Almost all of the older participants had children and grandchildren. A factory worker told me that she married to please a strict
I threw myself around and began devouring his cock; he grabbed me by the hair, pumping my head, sometimes faster, sometimes slower, to intensify his pleasure, to prolong his excitement. But I was so angry that he had postponed my own pleasure that I had no desire to prolong his.
I overcame his slowing down with my own speeding up. Running my fingernail down the seam of his balls, I stroked the skin on his penis with the lightest trace of my teeth and teased his urethra with a heavy battering of my tongue. He screamed against the surging inevitability of his orgasm and I bit down hard with my lips at the base of his cock. He shot come down my throat, and I sat back on my haunches like a put-upon cat. Angrily he leaned forward and pulled my nipples to bring me closer. He brought me right up to his face, whose planes shifted from passion to cruelty, then released my nipples and shoved me back by my shoulders. In a matter of minutes he was stretched out and snoring soundly.
The next day Michael drove me into the city. When he dropped me off he surprised me by asking for my phone number. I made one up quickly, though I later regretted it. In fact, I thought of him fondly for several months after that strange winter night.
Unfortunately, the incident didn't cure my propensity for danger. On the contrary, it made me hungrier than ever. I now felt that I was invincible and had Houdini-like powers with which to exit tight situations. I continued seeking out shady characters and ominous sets of circumstance. It wasn't until that time in Alaska that I began to question my judgment. But that's another story.
THE LESBIAN EXPRESS
By Christina Tagliari
“We gotta get these Boy Scouts outta here!” Wanda muttered as she walked through the bottle-littered car of the “Gay Disco Party Train” to Montreal. Amtrak had positioned our group in front of the club car. A travelling Scout troop had just wound its way through a carful of 65 gregarious lesbians.
Three business executives in pin-striped suits also sat in the club car. A Humpty Dumpty look-alike in man's clothing, Wanda complained to the conductor, “This is a private party.” While she approached the Scoutmaster, the conductor asked the three businessmen to leave. They snickered, exchanging meaningful smiles. One of them said, “Well, we want to be with the women.”
“Not these women, you don't,” the conductor replied.
I wondered if I liked being with them myself. Hearing of a trip to Montreal for gay women, I had envisioned numerous opportunities for a lesbian orgy. Though primarily heterosexual, I occasionally enjoy a fling with one of my “sisters.”
The ethnic make-up of the group surprised me. Of the 65 participants, about 50 were black and more than half in their 40s and 50s. Most were nurses. The older black women played cards, smoked cigars, wore wigs, chomped on chicken wings and sat on each other's hefty laps.
“Watch out, hot stuff is comin’ through!” one black woman yelled as she sashayed down the aisle.
“Hey, cutesie-poo!” a cigar-smoker called out mischievously when a gay man boarded the car.
Almost all of the older participants had children and grandchildren. A factory worker told me that she married to please a strict
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