She Moves Me Ch. 02byEsperanza_Hidalgo©
I thank Jellybean and Noira for putting up with me.
You may need to read the first submission of this story to understand this section. The story has a conclusion to be submitted soon.
Soon after my ninth birthday, I climbed to the roof of my house as the morning sun broke over the horizon. Perched near the edge of the roof, the warmth beat down on my sunburned face. I surveyed my surroundings, gloating in the brilliant arrogance of youth. Birdsong combined with a cooling wind producing a dizzy euphoria in my mind—a confused mind filled with a sense of awe at the riches of life.
The shingles were hot, but never too hot for me. I sighed, realizing a weirdness existed within me—a difference from other children my age because I liked the sting. I didn't know why, and didn't really care. I looked over the edge to the ground, paused, and wondered if I could fly. Taking a deep breath, I jumped.
Three hours later, a Middle Eastern Doctor with a spicy odor set my arm. I felt happy about the discomfort of pain...and oddly depressed because I felt happy.
The two of us walked holding hands to my car: a 1969 Mustang Mach 1 convertible presented by my parents on my graduation from college. My pride and joy, I spared no expense on the sexy car's upkeep.
"Wow," said Sochie, rubbing her palm against the hood of the car. "Why don't you drive, and you can bring me back later to get my car?" Her tone indicated for me to comply. I nodded.
I watched the way her strong hand fondled the car. Small, yet quick and fluid, I tingled as though her fingers were pleasing me, stroking with passionate grace. I needed her.
She grinned at my willingness to comply. For some reason, I felt humiliated, a feeling I deserved. My upbringing taught me lesbians were miscreants, societal trash to cast asunder in a rubbish heap.
Our die seemed cast—could I do this?
I knew the answer. We both did.
"What?" I asked, wanting to hear her voice again, trying to get her to say anything. She continued to rub my car for a few seductive seconds with her hand, ignoring me.
I held my breath and waited for her to answer. After a long moment, she said, "Never mind, I'm going to get my hand bag from my car. Be right back." I looked away from her and nodded, smiling inwardly at my good fortune to be with a woman as hot and confident as Sochie—everything I wanted to be, and couldn't.
Automatically, I picked at my cuticles with my fingernails, a nasty habit from my youth. The sting helped me think. Sochie seemed confident one moment and then spoiled the next. Her tirade in the bar both frightened and excited me. She possessed a manner filled with youth and impertinence, of a brat determined to get her way. It didn't matter. On my part, it represented a need for her domination. A need I craved.
Arriving back at my car with a large Gucci handbag, she pointed to the driver's seat, indicating for me to sit. I did as she wished with no questions, because I didn't want to cause any problems.
As we slid into the car, I asked, "Are you positive your parents are gone?"
She smiled, and said, "Nervous are we? So what if they're at home? What would you do about it?"
I looked away from her, because I knew I'd go with her anyway.
She continued, "Daddy's a Navy man from way back. Graduated from Annapolis in '89 and now works as a naval engineer when he feels like it. We own a yacht. He took off with Mummy to Jamaica for the season. We have money due to a gyroscope thingy he invented."
"Put the top down," she insisted.
I didn't answer, but pushed the button for the top. I shyly looked over at her. The light of the street lamp highlighted the glitter on her cheeks, and she smiled with gleaming white teeth.
As the top fully receded, the scent of looming rain and fresh flowers filled my nostrils, I sighed. The cooling evening drifting to slumber gave me pause, a brief pause of painful reflection—
At thirteen, I started cutting. I knew why by then. The pain of the cut took away other pain. My ritual represented a pseudo-religious experience in my warped view of reality, and I used my Minnie Mouse pendant as my cross and played Wagner as my benediction. I cut under my knees, only enough to hurt, leaving small scars, but nothing too noticeable. One day, I cut too deeply and ended up in the emergency room. When the doctor saw the scars, he frowned and looked at my mother. She spanked me the same night. She didn't understand. The spankings only fed my need.
—fast does this thing go?" She flipped her hand in the air dismissively.
I assumed she meant the car. I responded, "How fast do you want it to go?" Revving up the powerful engine to get her attention, I continued, "This is an original. The candy apple red paint job is factory applied. The only addition is the sound system."
The vibrating motor sent a small thrill through my body as Sochie's lithe fingers turned on the radio, a high-end Alpine system. Sexual Healing, by Marvin Gaye, played from the crisp speakers. She moved her fingers to my thigh, raking upward with her sharp nails, causing a slight discomfort. The feeling frightened me. I knew I enjoyed pain, but had long ago learned to hide the happiness it caused me. My hand went to my crooked jaw, and I reflected on the day I learned to hide my pain.
At a local park, I smoked pot, kissed and masturbated for about an hour with a girlfriend, JeyZee. We decided to go to Taco Bell to satisfy our hunger—sex and pot made us hungry. On the way there, I crashed into a ditch, breaking my jaw and leaving a small scar on my cheek. The problem wasn't my pain, or the scar, or the quick working paramedic who saved my life.
JeyZee didn't make it. I lived, sort of.
I took no chances after the wreck. My mother seemed happy.
—want this?" she asked.
"What?" I asked, waking from my momentary reverie.
"Don't you listen?"
Silence, except for the song and rumbling motor.
"Answer," she insisted while slapping my thigh.
Startled, I looked over at her. Her face looked innocent, yet innocence had little to do with the demanding nature of her question. She slapped again and asked, "You do want this?"
"Yes and no, but more yes than no," I admitted quickly, "it's just work and Jeff, not you. It's a hard to come to terms with all of it. I had a girlfriend, and..."
I looked down from the road to her fingers. They moved closer to my middle. I whispered, "You're perfect."
"I know," she said with no pretension. "But you do want it."
"Yes," I said, with only a touch of remorse. The remorse resulted from an internal battle. I desired her control, and I feared the world knowing my true nature.
"Good, and don't worry, Amber, I won't get you in any trouble. It'll be between us for as long as you like. I understand part of it's because I'm a student, but you must deal with the other part. You will deal with the other part. I'm not your typical twenty-one-year-old sophomoron."
Marvin Gaye drifted through the chorus of his song. Lightning struck in the distance, indicating the arrival of a thunderstorm blowing in from the North to feed the parched land. Sochie waited for some type of response from me, and I felt her eyes staring at me. With my soul an open window, I bade her enter. Lightning struck again.
I silently counted the seconds, one, two, three, four, five. The windows of the car shook as the lightning turned into disturbing thunder. By counting the seconds, I estimated we had about thirty minutes before the deluge soaked the car.
"Can I close the top?" I asked.
"Wait," she said. "You wanted to say more?"
Lightning, one, two, three, four, fi...
"And you didn't say please," she added.
"It's not you I worry about. Please?" I asked.
"What do you worry about? And yes, you may."
Forgetting about the top, I fought to keep from answering Sochie. Nevertheless, her demeanor made it hard for me to refuse her, and I said, "What being with you might do to me."
"What's that?" she asked with a smug grin, knowing the power her pussy held over me.
I moved uncomfortably in my seat, "Too much Sochie." I paused and took a deep breath, and then said, "But you're so beautiful..."
She smiled in full acceptance of my want, a desire so wicked, yet strong and thrilling. She took my hand from the steering wheel and brought it to her mouth, licking my palm. Her tongue savored each finger. The knowledge of her enjoyment of the hand that masturbated her pussy at the club thrilled me. Anything I could do to make her happy thrilled me. She licked each finger, lingering and taking her time as if drinking a glass of fine wine, the wine of womanhood, the drink of life, a decadent bite of Eve's apple.
Placing her hand back on my thigh, she resumed toying, pinching and slapping in a clear message of dominance. Her hand moved closer to my pussy. Sochie toyed with my need, making me wait for pleasure, pulling my strings as if I were puppet.
Stopping at a red light, I glanced at her nipples. The lovely peaks bounced with every twist of her body. The pulse beating in her neck drummed directly to my need. I wanted her more than anything in recent memory, perhaps my entire history. With certainty, Sochie would write a new history for Amber Tyson, a history written without pen or paper and more pleasant than the current tragic novel.
Inching her hand up further until it rested between my legs on top of my panties, she pressed roughly, then slapped my pussy once. The pain pleased me.
"Come for me, Amber," she told me in a teasing voice.
I concentrated on orgasm. She stroked and slapped my pussy a few times. A horn honked behind us. We looked at each other, and then she laughed, producing a gravely sound from deep within her throat. Her eyes looked possessed, exuding a wicked sense of eroticism through me.
All of her moods changes were difficult to fathom, leaving me confused about a reaction. Some part of me knew she changed her moods to add to my uncertainty. Nonetheless, the strange mixture of confusion and her demanding nature made me feel wanted.
"Speed up?" she asked.
I sped away, not knowing if she meant to leave the intersection, or if she intended to massage my intersection. As I drove, she rubbed my middle with greater care, again switching in temperament, becoming kind and loving. I lowered in the seat, sighed and tried to speak, but my mouth said nothing. My words needed no expression, for my body spoke for me in a joyous song of pleasure, the theater of the submissive and queer, with Shakespeare but an incompetent linguist in comparison to the surreal play taking place between my legs.
Abruptly, she removed her hand from my womanhood. Her mettle changed again and she seemed more brisk, more determined to the point of cruel. "I'm not ready for you to come yet," she said. "I changed my mind. Don't come until I give you permission."
Sochie fiddled with her dress and then pulled off her panties, revealing a thin sprinkling of curly-black hair between her legs. She put her panties up to my nose. "Smell," she told me with the voice of a woman who knew what she wanted and knew she would get it.
I inhaled her femininity. It smelled of woman with a slight masculine scent.
"I wear Polo Blue," she said. "I love men's colognes much more than women's. You do make me happy, and I can see your body likes what I'm doing. Why have you teased me for so long, Amber? Why so long? I'll make you pay for playing me."
I loved the way she teased me, toying in her strange way, the way of cruel kindness my type required, a way born from her obvious experience. Although determined not to, a smile turned the corners of my lips.
"Oh, you think all of this is funny, dear Amber?"
I couldn't stop smiling. The cause of my happiness rested much deeper than humor, a need finding joy in Sochie's strength. I felt loved and protected in a manner too difficult to explain or understand. Perhaps Pavlov's salivating dog helped explain it, or Skinner's rat finding questionable intelligence. My past had trained me much as the dog or the rat, and I was as much caged or collared as they were.
"Do you like my panties?" she asked.
I nodded, avoiding eye contact.
Placing one hand on her pussy and the other on mine, she applied ministrations to both of us.
"How about my pussy?" she asked.
I looked at the road, not daring to look at her. Something close to a nod came her way from my head. She enjoyed my arousal at her wordplay and easily entered my folds under the crotch of my panties. "Don't come," she warned.
With a sharp contraction, my velvet spoke of how much it enjoyed her touch; the contraction caused my hands to involuntarily move the steering wheel producing a small jar as we drove on the busy street. The jar made me nervous, because I almost came.
She smiled at my struggles. "I see this isn't going to work. She removed her hand from my pussy. "Open your mouth," she said.
I opened, and she stuffed her panties in my mouth, slapping me on the cheek afterwards. She slapped several more times, then squeezed my cheeks tightly.
"That's better. Red becomes you."
I looked straight ahead, needing more of her sharp slaps against my face. Sochie knew and slapped me again. I tried to keep from smiling as not to anger her over my pleasure.
"Play with yourself," she demanded.
"N-Need to drive," I said with a mouth stuffed with panties.
"Not my problem," she teased.
My fingers found my clit, producing a small charge in my body. Hearing sounds from her playing with her pussy made it almost impossible to concentrate on driving. I wanted to sit back, see her playing with herself and enjoy the pleasure reeling in my middle and mouth, but conversely, driving with her panties in my mouth as we both masturbated was one of the sexiest feelings I'd ever felt.
We stopped at another red light.
"Taste me, and stop playing with yourself before you come," she said, pulling her panties out of my mouth and placing her fingers just out of reach. I leaned forward, reaching for her fingers with my tongue. Teasingly, she pulled her hand back as my tongue closed in. I moved closer to her fingers, but she kept them from me. "Beg," she said.
I said nothing.
"Hmm," she said. "Maybe you should drop me off back at the club."
"No," I responded loudly. "No," I whispered. "Please?"
"Not convincing," she said, pulling her hand away and stimulating herself with both of her hands.
"Please?" I begged her, needing her flavor and happiness. I hated the feeling of her not being satisfied with me.
"Not good enough," she said while masturbating. "I'll just entertain myself. You don't deserve my juice. I can get anyone."
"Don't do this. Please?" I begged, feeling complete loss and shame.
She smiled and relented, stopping her masturbation after a few seconds and allowing me to taste her juice. I licked all of her flavor from her fingers like a dog, loving her as a puppy seeking a master. "That's my woman," she said in a pleasing voice, pulling her fingers from my mouth, she leaned over and gave me a quick kiss.
"Thank you," I said softly, and opened my mouth, waiting anxiously for her to return her fingers. She quickly gave me what I wanted.
"Thirsty?" she asked.
I nodded. Sochie tasted earthy, with a mix of sweat, mushroom and sugar that smelled of wet leaves. The taste sweetened an already joyous ride; a ride that soon moved from joy to splendor.
She removed her hand from my mouth and entered both of our pussies again. As she stroked, she leaned back in her seat and smiled in a way that only those of her disposition can smile—the smile of a woman loving women, of a confidant woman sure of the power of her sex. I tried not to, but my smile joined hers, and I rejoiced in the moment, loving and needing her.
With the glowing skin of youth, she showed the satisfaction heard in the music of Mozart's Marriage of Figaro, and the dominance felt in Wagner's Ride of the Valkyries.
Cars started honking; an angry gent in fine haberdashery and a conflicting yellow pick-up truck made an obscene gesture.
Reacting like a teen, Sochie blew him a kiss with her wet fingers. He smiled and yelled something about a threesome. Sochie ignored him, returning her fingers to our pussies and pleasing the both of us with her rough touch.
I knew maleness wouldn't enter this picture this evening. I enjoyed penetration, but it seemed more exciting to me when the item doing the penetration was worn by a female.
The song switched to melodious soul; and I could sense Sochie becoming very aroused by the sounds she made. My own arousal made it difficult for me to drive. I sensed her eyes looking at me, and she said, "Come baby."
I have no idea why or how, because usually it takes some effort for me to orgasm, but immediately following her words, I stiffened as an orgasm shot through my body. This climax tickled and toyed, arousing my nipples with a deep rush. My legs stiffened and Sochie grabbed the steering wheel momentarily as I closed my eyes and shook, pressing my foot down unconsciously against the gas pedal, increasing our speed to a frightening level.
"Watch it," she yelled.
I opened my eyes, gaining a small amount of self-control and lessening the pressure of my foot against the accelerator.
"Watch out," she said softly. "I'm not ready to die yet. You still need to eat my pussy.
I nodded, stifling the rest of the tingly orgasm back into my body, leaving me needy for more.
Sochie leaned back in her seat and dreamily said, "Amber, such a beautiful name for a beautiful girl." While speaking she stroked her middle, soon tightening her legs and breathing heavily. Her ass lifted from her seat as orgasm quickly found her, possessed her and made her its mistress. She stroked her sex, radiating a joy of comforting delight and tickling her innermost feeling of pleasure. The pleasure found in the brain of her clit. A brain with only the purpose of orgasm and much wiser than the one resting on top of a women's heads, for this brain knew how to circumvent resistance, finding the pleasure centers of all of female bodies.
I loved the way she said my name. I loved everything about her, swallowing her words to increase the rich feelings already in my body. Her manner and words were my nourishment, and her rough touches and sugary body my last supper.
"Damn, you, Amber," she casually said, "I think I love you. I hate that you did this to me. Damn you, I'm not supposed to fall in love."
I looked at her face as she writhed in the after, the feeling of woman after our bodies release the flood of emotional orgasm. The relaxing tenderness of goose pimples caressing, flesh reddening, cheeks burning, sweat trickling, and blood pulsing in a prickly afterlife in our bodies—a spiritual orgasm resting in slumber, because soon it would enjoy the pleasure of many friends.
I loved her—
Oh how I loved when she said my name, feeling enriched more than Solomon. Sochie paid me in wealth greater than Bathsheba—my Hypatia, my Sapphos, Lady Gwynevirre and Venus queen, when suddenly an obtuse thought tested me, surely she wasn't my Juliet?
A few seconds later, she looked at me with vigor, breaking my silent repose, "I can't wait any longer. I want to hold you and kiss you. Just kiss you, talk to you, tell you what you mean to me. Pull over! Pull over now! Damn you, Amber. I'm not supposed to love you. Why you? Why you?"
Oh yes, loved—
"Pull over," she demanded again.
"Where?" I asked, still not believing that Sochie wanted a woman like me.
"I don't care. Just pull over."
—with each stinging beat of my heart.