Page 18 of H Is for Hardcore

Keeping the patter up was tough enough with her hot little mouth around me, my cock moving between her lips, feeling the slight tug of her teeth now and then.

But as I started moving faster and she caught the rhythm, sucking harder, caressing me with tongue and lips and pressure as I pushed in and out, talking coherently became out of the question. I was holding back as best I could, trying not to gag her, making myself resist the urge to fuck her mouth as hard and fast as I would her pussy.

It wasn’t easy. I was close, so close. I needed just a little more stimulation.

“Move,” I growled. “Use your hands…please…”

One hand fluttered up to play with my taut balls, sending waves of sensation that almost pushed me over the edge.

I couldn’t see her dip into her dripping sex, but she must have, because the finger suddenly circling my anus was slick with moisture.

She didn’t need to press inside. That did it, that sure, delicate touch.

I lost touch with the planet and pretty much everything on it except my dick for a few delicious seconds as I filled her mouth. It was all I could do to crawl a little forward so I didn’t actually land on her face when I collapsed.

“May I move?” she asked. I nodded—talking was still beyond me.

“Love you,” she muttered. “That was…wow.” She squirmed so that, lying more or less on her stomach, she could throw one leg and one arm over me.

She may have said something else, but I couldn’t be sure because the next thing I knew it was almost dawn and we were still tangled together, her body holding me immobile as my words had held her.

CHRIS COSTELLO

THE GUY YOUR MOTHER WARNED YOU ABOUT

HEY, COULD I GET A HEFEWEISEN over here?” I shouted at the top of my lungs, trying to be heard over the music blaring from the speakers. To me, my voice sounded squeaky, girly, too feminine—but the nasty look I got from Karita told me I was doing fine.

I drew more dirty looks as I waited for my drink, which gave me a thrill. I could practically feel my cock throbbing in my pants as I leered at all the beautiful girls—and I felt like I should be embarrassed for having a hard-on. How long would it take them to make me, I wondered? Longer than I thought, as it turned out, because nobody came over and sat next to me.

Fuck, I thought. I did it.

Looked like nobody I knew well had decided to show up that night; that was probably part of the reason nobody spotted me. But I guess I still must have looked pretty convincing to get that kind of negative attention.

Karita was a twentysomething punkette like me, only way more femme than I could ever hope to be (or want to). She was wearing a tight pair of leather pants that laced up the sides and a tight, low-cut, bright-red tank top that said, “I’M THE GUY YOUR MOTHER WARNED YOU ABOUT.” It was cut off just below her breasts. She looked even better than usual, and my practiced male swagger made me want to leer at those full breasts, the pretty face and bee-stung lips in a weirdly entitled fashion. I felt as if I had every right to walk up to this distant acquaintance and bury my face between her breasts, just because I wanted to, which was something I had never felt in my life.

Feeling like that was making me incredibly wet.

It was an empty night at the CoCo Club—maybe twenty women lounging about in various stages of festivity, a few of them dressed up, but most in their casual Sunday clothes—jeans, T-shirts, sharkskin jackets, leather, the uniform of mostly-under-thirty San Francisco dykes on the make.

Sexy, tough, rugged, hip.

There in the corner, though, sat the girl of my dreams. She was pale and gorgeous, femme and curvy and more than a little slutty looking, an impression she obviously cultivated. She always dressed up—I’d never seen her without heels, makeup, and her hair done up with that messy just-fucked look she liked to work. Tonight the girl was wearing a tight little red dress that would have been a slip on a more proper girl, and just barely that. I could see her breasts, braless, and her panty lines through the tight red slip, which my inner lech found incredibly sexy. She was also wearing a red feather boa casually draped around her shoulders, a trademark I’d seen on her more than a few times. Her stockings were black fishnet, the lace tops and garters visible just under the hem of the slip, and she had what must have been four-inch heels—wearing that kind of heels would have given me a broken nose if I was lucky.

Karita had told me her name was Danielle, but we’d never been formally introduced. Still, we’d flirted more than a few times, and how I’d never managed to even get an introduction was beyond me, especially now that I was pumped up on imaginary male hormones. I resolved to walk up to her and introduce myself, then suddenly felt the butterflies in my stomach that had taken me over the last three times I’d tried. It’s not like Danielle hadn’t given me more than a few smoldering looks, but I was supposed to be the butch here, wasn’t I?

Not that I was a real butch, most of the time—oh, I tried for that hard-edged swagger and a sneering chuckle, but a perky, boyish bounce and a red-faced and vaguely unfeminine giggle was the best I’d been able to manage. Tonight was different, though—I wasn’t just butch, I was a sexist pig and itinerant male oppressor, so Danielle could bloody well blow me. I’d barely had that thought when I saw her looking at me with a dreamy expression, a smirk on her face—had she made me? Or was she just so impressed by my cojónes in walking in here that she figured I was cool even if I was a party-crashing straight dude?

God, she was fucking gorgeous—big brown eyes and long black hair that contrasted hard against her pale skin, lips painted the color of blood. I wanted to taste those lips so bad it hurt.

Karita took her time with the beer, finally sauntering over well after I’d cracked the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue I’d brought along— the finishing touch, in case I had failed to piss anyone off. When Karita came over, she told me, much colder than the beer, “Three-fifty.”

I handed her a five. “Here you go, doll face,” I said in my gruff voice, and patted her ass. “You can keep the change.”

That’s when she made me—lucky thing, too, because her fist was already balled up. Dykes like Karita don’t slap.

She bent forward and peered into my face.

“Trey?” she asked tentatively. Then, “Tracey?”

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