by lesbiaphrodite © (Lesbian Sex)

The writer walked into the café off of Union Square as she so often did in the afternoon when the work was not coming as she wished it to and she took a seat in the corner. She was what one would describe as a dark woman. Not so much because of her skin tone, because it was in fact of the palest and most beautiful hue imaginable. Yet there was something in her almond-shaped brown eyes and her long mane of chestnut-colored tresses that made her seem dark. She had a look that was simply arresting. Her aquiline nose and pink full lips were perfectly symmetrical.

And though she looked somewhat restrained to the untrained eye, there was something in the way she swayed her hips when she moved and in the way she swung her hair back away from her face and ran her fingers through it that seemed deliberately provocative. Today, she was wearing a black turtleneck sweater, a black leather jacket and black denim pants that were set off by shiny black boots. Sitting at the table in the midst of a crowd of people, she was intensely watchable to all who looked at her. And before she could light her first cigarette, everyone in the café had looked.

As she ordered a glass of wine, she took out a small leather notebook, a pen and her cigarettes and began to write something. Unbeknownst to her, in the opposite corner of the café was a young woman who was staring at her for quite a long time. The woman had strawberry-blonde hair that framed her face with soft, wanton curls. The girl's face had the innocence of a child, but her eyes, with their long thick lashes, and their intensely beautiful color—a subtle mixture of green and blue—were mesmerizingly frank and overtly sexual. She looked like she had walked out of a pre-Raphaelite painting and had somehow been transplanted into that café on this slow Friday afternoon. Her skin had an almost transparent quality. Her lips, which she licked in long slow movements with her tongue in a frequent and seductive manner, were shockingly pink and plump, with a sharp 'v' in the middle of the top lip. She had the kind of mouth one immediately wanted to kiss.

Finishing her wine, the writer motioned for the waitress to bring her another, and as she looked up, she noticed the young woman was staring at her in a very alluring and deliberate manner. They smiled at one another with the kind of knowing smiles that often trace the lips of two women acknowledging the beauty of each other. It can, at first glance, appear to be only that: A simple gesture of appraisal. But, if the look lasts longer than a few seconds, and if the smile disappears yet the eyes do not move, it is more suggestive. Their mutual gaze was of the latter type.

The writer found the woman extremely attractive. The young girl's body was simply stunning. She was leaning in serpentine fashion against the bar, wearing a low-cut ice-blue sweater that fit so tightly across the breasts that the nipples were straining against the cashmere. She wore old and very tight Levi's and a lovely pair of mules of a dark navy blue color. The girl's perfect ass jutted out slightly and the writer could only imagine what the skin might feel like underneath those jeans.

The writer felt herself begin to get excited by the young woman. She crossed her legs and felt the pulsing beginnings of sexual stimulation between her thighs. The wetness of her own throbbing sex began to drive her to deep distraction. Though she pretended to go on writing, her thoughts were no longer on her work. The article she was supposed to be writing for her magazine was not going to be written today.

Nevertheless, she continued, in a most studied manner, to appear busy and uninterested in the young woman whose eyes she continued to feel on her as she pretended not to notice. When she finished her second glass of wine, she looked up and motioned once more for the waitress. The vintage she was drinking was particularly satisfying—slightly dry and almost tart. She could feel the warmth of the intoxication begin and her cheeks became flushed in a beautiful, almost girlish way.

As she sipped her wine, she noticed the young girl was no longer at the bar and suddenly she felt deeply sad. But, then, she noticed the young woman cross the room and head out the door, slyly casting a glance back at her over her shoulder and smiling as she headed out. The writer paid her bill and gathered her belongings. She walked rapidly out the door and spotted the girl crossing the street. She followed her. She knew the girl was aware that she was following her, but that did not stop her. She noticed the girl cut down a narrow alley just past the St. Frances Hotel. As the writer approached the street, she deliberately slowed her pace and stopped to take several deep breaths. Turning the corner, she saw the girl standing at the end of the alley smoking a cigarette. As their eyes met, the young woman simply stood still, not smiling at all. The writer continued walking toward her. It was beginning to get dark. There were no cars, no people, and only the sounds of distant music coming from a local bar somewhere nearby.

A cigarette that bears lipstick traces, a song that brings thoughts of romantic places. Oh, how the ghost of you clings, These foolish things, remind me of you....

The writer finally reached the spot where the young woman stood. She could smell her perfume, along with the strong smell of garbage, car exhaust and pavement. Slightly sweet and somewhat metallic, the combined odors worked a kind of magic on the writer. They did not speak to one another, but instead looked long and deep into each other's eyes. The young woman threw her cigarette down and stubbed it out with her foot. Then, with the grace of a ballet dancer and the harshness of a boxer, leaned back against the wall of the building (which was an empty warehouse) and gave off the electric feeling of lust. Her eyes devoured the writer, peering at her like an animal, breathing her in like fire. The writer's hands were shaking. She could feel her own wetness running down her inner thighs and could smell the sex of the young woman. Neither of them spoke a word as the writer immediately placed her hands on the woman's breasts. She took them delicately in her palms and held them in her hands like finely spun glass mounds of flesh. And then her desire overcame her and she crushed them with her touch. She could hear the young girl's breathing intensify as she pulled at the nipples. The writer pressed herself into the girl's body and continued to pull at her nipples through the material of the soft blue cashmere. Still, not one word had been uttered between them. Her lips, reddened by the growing desire between them, pressed against the young girl's and they fell into a long, slow, erotic kiss. The tenderness of it, the softness of it, yet the urgency and passion of it made it overwhelming. They both began moaning, their hands seeking the flesh of each other's bodies. Their tongues danced together in their mouths, and the writer pulled the woman's jeans down. She pushed her hand underneath her panties and felt her wetness. It was like an oyster and faintly smelled of the sea.

She ran her finger along the perfect pink slit of the young girl's crotch and she began to grind her hips against the writer's hand. The writer placed her palm on the girl's clitoris and fingered her violently, persistently, and wildly. They were both oblivious to everything except each other at that moment. The girl began gasping, moaning and then screaming as she came in a spasm of sexual fulfillment that neither she nor the writer had ever been exposed to. Panting and then falling to her knees, the writer let out a long, deep sigh. The young girl stood with her jeans partially down below her hips and the white flesh of her soft belly covered with tiny beads of sweat. Her pinkish panties were low-cut and she had not bothered to pull them back up or to adjust her pants or body in any way. The fine hairs from her mound were visible above the panty line.

The writer, still on her knees, was mesmerized by the look of the young girl's stomach. Finally, the girl grabbed the writer's hair in a rough motion, yanking her upward and pushing her against the wall. She kissed her fiercely and tore the writer's shirt as she pulled it upward to get at her breasts. The girl began grunting in an animalistic tone as she fiercely licked and sucked the woman's nipples. As the girl bit her nipples, her hands ran down the writer's back. She roughly turned her around facing toward the wall and ripped her jeans down. She felt the girl's breath on the back of her neck. She felt her going down on her knees behind her. She was lost in a daze of energy, of erotic ferocity. All she could think of was her burning desire to climax. The sexual desire was at a fever pitch and she was dying to release it.

The girl was behind her on her knees. She grabbed the writer's ass cheeks in her small hands and pulled them apart. She began licking and sucking her tiny rear aperture, sending shivers of delight that soon turned into full-out frenzy in the writer. She grasped at the air. Clawed the wall. Began shaking violently. The young girl stuck her tongue deep inside her hole as she put her finger inside the delicate fissure between her thighs. The writer began rocking back and forth until she came so violently that she lost awareness, perhaps even consciousness for a few moments.

It was completely dark by this time. Neither of them looked at the other as they pulled their clothes together and set themselves to rights. The girl lit a cigarette and the red light at the tip was all that showed in that dark alley. The writer could feel her eyes on her. And, then, as suddenly as their first glance had come, their departure came. The girl walked away quickly, whistling a tune. The writer stood alone there, elated by the sheer thrill of the sex, of the wordless exchange they had together. Pigeons cooed above her on the rooftops as she walked slowly home.

The End

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