Dallas Mayo - For women only

"Julia? Forgive the change of subject, but just what are we talking about? And whatever it is, can't we do it better together? You know. Here. My place. Don't you want to come over?"

"I thought you'd never ask."

"Huh? Is that what you're waiting for? I'm confused. Do you have to be asked!"

"Umm, well, don't I?"

Once again I was stumped. But I managed to bypass the confusion with a little more clarity, offering a simple and unmistakable invitation. With a hustle-your-bustle request for haste. Or something to that effect, at least. It was nothing to quibble over, anyway, and I had hopes of ending the ridiculous call in short order. Only she still had reservations, apparently.

"You're sure now? You're not just saying it out of politeness? Or maybe because you're still a little afraid of me, hmm? Rory? You're sure you want me?"

"I'm sure, I'm sure. I need you."

Even then she wavered a moment. But that about wrapped it up, this silly telephone conversation, leaving a few rather conspicuous loose ends for later. Like an unraveled mystery that still didn't make sense. Only it didn't seem quite so mysterious now, not with that last clue to consider. Evidently my fear of her power – to whatever degree – was some sort of block in that power-oriented mind of hers, a barren lapse in the blossoming of our relationship. A loose end, sure enough! But nothing that couldn't be tucked neatly into place with an indulgent caress, I figured.

Which reminded me of a more immediate task, the tucking-in of my hair and such – all the personal grooming and special preparations for a heavy date. OF as much as I could fit into the next half-hour, at any rate. And wasn't it strange to be doing it for a woman? A heavy date indeed! What to wear, what to wear? How does a young girl go about impressing an already more beautiful and infinitely more impressive lesbian? Something on the order of a Cinderella ball gown would sure knock her eye out; too bad I didn't happen to have one handy. But then again, well, come midnight my glass slippers would probably turn to shit. No, it just didn't ring true, the idea of getting all gussied up to entertain this elegantly chic aristocrat. Besides, it would only lead to another striptease act, hardly one of my major accomplishments. Casual, then, that was my best bet, casual and cute and just a teeny bit coy – in an unobtrusive way, of course. And the briefer the better, naturally. A gay little number suitable for picnicking in bed?

Just the thing. Shortie pajamas, all frilly, the baby-doll style popular with schoolgirls. Pink, the same shade as my toenails and fingernails and lavishly applied lipstick. That was my one pet vanity, the thick coating of lipstick on my thick lips, almost whorish in contrast with the rest of my getup. I only hoped Julia would notice it tonight, even if she could never match her husband's enthusiasm. Had this been one of Simon's scheduled nights, my meticulous paint job would have seemed almost pointless, attaining its average life span of some fifteen minutes and then fading into oblivion as he began splitting these lipsticked lips to slip me a mouthful of suck-horny cock. A great big mouthful, too, generating enough friction to run my lipstick bills up and give me a certain awesome status among the girls behind my favorite cosmetics counter. But that was a man's privilege, especially the man who knows when the rent is due. Or was he paying it with his wife's money? Interesting, if true. It would sure cut down on my lipstick bills – and think of the wear and tear on my lips! – if I ever decided to go the lesbian route exclusively and suck cunt for my keep. Not that I'd been asked yet. But somehow the possibility didn't seem at all remote to me. Even those thick lips smiling out of the mirror had a new sheen, a new patina of confidence, and it didn't all come from the tip of my licking tongue. I looked good in this frilly pink two-piece baby-doll outfit – good and sexy! – like a child bursting with curiosity, innocent and seductive at the same time, in the same pose, the same coyly demure expression. And if that didn't impress my filthy-rich lesbian lover, well…

Once again it was her eyes that struck me first. Green as emeralds but with a hotter sparkle, alive, animated. Almost blazing at me, really, piercing my scanty apparel and all but devouring my flesh. This time, though I retained the presence of mind to motion her in and shut the door behind her. And by then her look had softened somewhat, masking that momentary flash of naked lust. The green gaze seemed to broaden out and encompass me with its approval, engulfing me in a kind of warm fuzzy electric sensation.

"Such a pretty girl. All in pink…"

"Pajamas. You don't mind? I didn't feel like dressing."

She smiled and patted me on the cheek lovingly. I felt my face grow hot from the blush that rose to meet her caress. She walked by me, moving toward the big armchair. Slither, slither. It was her slim waist and remarkably full buttocks that gave such an impression, a slithering motion – like an onstage burlesque vamp in an old Hollywood movie. Sexy to the point of exaggeration.

My blush renewed itself. Sexy? I was conscious of that as a lesbian notion, the idea of a woman's body being sexy. A lesbian reaction on my part. Oh, it was all so new to me! Men were sexy, of course, especially the handsome ones – not to handsome, just nice and masculine. Robert Redford was sexy. Or maybe even Charles Bronson, if you liked the extra rugged type. But thinking like that about a woman, well, it was pretty novel. And yet the very novelty had a certain appeal, and I became terribly aware of the fleshy intimacies of that body gliding across the floor. The haunches, the twin globes of her ass, the separate halves jutting and swaying and jiggling and rubbing against each other. I even wondered if the lips of her cunt were activated within the flouncing gait. The thought remained until everything came to rest as she sat down.

"A drink? Julia, same as before?"

"Yes, dear." She tilted her face up. "But come here and give me a little kiss first, hmm?"

Approaching her, my field of vision narrowed with each swift step, drawing to a focus on her shiny red lips. I bent and placed my mouth on them, tasting the sweet lipstick – raspberry? – and sniffing perfume and wallowing in softness, the feminine eroticism of our contact, light and fleeting as it might be. I felt the tip of her tongue. And then in abrupt urgency, almost unconscious of the effort – I sucked the softness into my mouth. A ripple of excitement traveled the length of my bowed backbone.

After a moment she nudged me upright, "You like that, eh? You kind of like playing butch."

"You know. Aggressive."

"Oh…"

She chuckled. "Scat now. Go fix that drink." Then, suddenly, an afterthought, "No wait. Unzip me first. I might as well get comfortable, too."

Her body swiveled up out of the chair, a spiral movement that presented her backside to me. My fingers fumbled for the zipper, trembling, only to be stymied by the protective hook-and-eyelet above it. I worked on that, fascinated by the close up view, the curved swell of hip and buttock down there inside the fabric. And then I caught the zipper gadget again and lowered it carefully, watching the smooth-skinned amber shoulders come into sight, following the line of her spinal column until it appeared to melt and merge into the voluptuous outward flair of her haunches.

"I'll do the rest, honey. You get the drink."

Somewhat reluctantly, I trotted off to do her bidding, listening to the rustle of raiment being shed but unable to see it now, forced to concentrate on the task at hand. By the time I finished and swung around, she was seated in the armchair again, her legs crossed almost primly but nevertheless sensuously. A provocative but still rather disappointing display, as far as I could tell – just the dress, that was all she had taken off. Or was it? Even straining for a glimpse into the shadowy juncture of her thighs, I saw no indication of any panties…