Visiting an Old Friend

"Don't wear panties."

Her text sizzles in my mind as I board the plane, dragging my carry-on behind me. My miniskirt rides up as I reach into the overhead compartment to stow my bag, and I can feel a flush creeping up from my neck, but despite the full flight, no-one but me knows I'm commando under my skirt. It's not a thing I'd normally do, and I'm incredibly conscious of every stir of air on my exposed labia. To make it worse, I can't think about the fact that I'm not wearing any underwear without thinking of the scintillating sexts she's been sending me, which I can't do without getting wet, so I have a full four hours of squirming in an economy seat ahead of me.

I'm not exactly sure when my casual hello with an old friend from college turned into whatever this is. As I get settled in 24B, I take a moment to reflect. About six months ago, we reconnected over a question I asked on Facebook about — what was it again? — some recipe or other. She works as a baker and we started chatting animatedly about sourdough starter in the comments, before she suggested we take it to DMs, to avoid notifying twenty of my friends every time we responded to each other. Really, it started out innocently enough.

I was still with Brad at the time. He's nice enough, but I think I was just using him as filler in my life. Someone to pay half the rent, someone to cook for, someone to go to the movies with. We didn't have a ton in common and our sex life was more or less nonexistent. She was with someone too, some statuesque brunette I saw on her Instagram. We continued to chat, and once our baking discussion was over, we'd moved on to just being in constant communication. When Brad and I broke up, I chatted with her all through the process. Casually, but we chatted. When she and her girlfriend broke up, I was there, a constant presence, just an instant message away.

We hadn't seen each other in close to ten years. I remember her being tall, with light, short, messy hair and full lips, strong shoulders, long lashes. The kind of masculine woman with a beautiful face that makes straight girls consider experimenting. Back then, I'd been dating women, and we'd met at a college party. I'm sure we flirted back then, but nothing ever came of it, and here we are ten years later living across the continent from each other.

Once we started talking again, I got to wondering

why

nothing ever happened.

Sex came up casually, like everything did with her. An offhand comment about her desires being difficult to fulfill. It intrigued me. I wanted to know more — what desires? It made me think about my own desires, and about how unsatisfied I'd been since before Brad. I wanted her to tell me everything, but even then I knew not to push. I needed to draw it out slowly.

It was late at night — later for her — and we were texting back and forth, probably both a bit drunk. She told me she was thinking of hooking up with someone. It'd been more than a month since her breakup, and she texted me from the club where she had her eye on some woman. I asked what drew her to this person. She told me: the long dark hair, bare legs, tight skirt. How she was imagining the way this woman would look pressed up against a wall at the club, my friend's hand up her skirt, people pushing by in the busy room, none the wiser, as she fucked this woman in public.

I remember how hot I felt suddenly, reading it and imagining it. How much it turned me on, how I felt it make me damp. I asked her questions, more questions than one would ask just out of curiosity. Will you push her panties to the side, or pull them down? How many fingers will you put inside her? Will you push her face first against the wall and fuck her from behind or will you, instead, hold her with her back to the wall and kiss her and bite her neck while you slam your hand into her cunt?

I masturbated, alone in my bed, while we chatted. I imagined every moment, and waited impatiently for her to type back, my free hand running over my clit and dipping into my slit for my slick juices. I imagined her doing it to me, and I came with a shudder and a moan.

It wasn't long after that that she invited me to visit her.

By the time the plane lands I'm just about ready to explode. The elderly couple on either side of me — one preferring the window seat, the other the aisle — have no idea, but I've been on the verge this entire flight.

She has to work, so she's not picking me up from the airport. I'll have to make my own way into the city. She'd told me I could just stay at her place, but I got a hotel anyway. You never know. What if we don't have any chemistry at all?

God damn I hope we have chemistry

, I think. I've got too damn much pent up sexual energy to have it waylaid now. The sheer

hours

I've spent fantasizing about this... it'd be so sad if it was all to waste.

When I get to my hotel room, I don't have much time. She's picking me up right from here in twenty minutes. She's taking me on a

date

. If I didn't know so much about how she likes to fuck, I'd think it downright quaint that she wants to take me out first. But I have a pretty good feeling about tonight.

By the time she shows up, I've pulled my long hair out of its travel bun and have teased it out so it cascades down my back, a sheet of dark waves.

To think I'd considered cutting it

, I laugh to myself. I'm wearing a tight miniskirt, heels, and a sleeveless blouse under a blazer — I'm small-breasted, so there's little cleavage to be had, but I look both elegant and sexy. To top it off I've applied a little bit of makeup, just a light smoky eye and lipstick.

She knocks on my hotel room door. When I open it my breath catches in my throat. Yes, she's still tall, with those lashes and blue, blue eyes. Her head is shaved, just blonde fuzz softening her crown. She's wearing a long open coat, a button down shirt with an open collar, trousers tucked into boots. There's something military-chic about it that, on a lesbian, is devastatingly attractive. She looks powerful. I feel weak in the knees for a moment, imagining her dominating my body, before I catch myself.

"Hi," she says.

"Hi," I reply, suddenly a bit shy.

She gives me this crooked half-smirk, her eyes lit up with mischief. "Ready to go?"

I nod.

She looks at me levelly. "You sure?" The barest of glances down shows me what I already know: she's asking whether I'm wearing underwear beneath my miniskirt.

I feel my cheeks turn pink and nod again — Yes, I'm sure I'm ready to go. I can follow simple instructions.

As I grab my purse and close the room door behind me, I feel the hotel's air circulation system brush the tiniest breeze against my smooth labia. She takes my arm in hers and takes me to dinner.

Dinner is torture. She puts her hands on me whenever she can, in these strong, possessive ways, but all very proper — her hand warm on my waist when we arrive at the restaurant, her breath brushing against my ear as she removes my jacket for me, her hand on mine as she pulls my chair out for me. Something about being treated like a

lady

— all of these old-fashioned romantic gestures I'd absolutely hate if on a date with a man — is intoxicating with her.

And then there's the looks she gives me. There's not a moment when I doubt that she knows exactly what she's doing to me. Her eyes sparkle, she makes casual innuendos in conversation, she compliments my hair and runs her fingers through it, stopping to give it the smallest of pulls, her palm against the base of my skull. My pussy swells and weeps and I fidget and she knows it.

When she suggests dessert, I actually let out an audible groan of frustration, and she throws her head back and laughs.

"Fair enough," she says. "Let's get out of here."

We pay the bill — we split it, of course. I'm a femme, not a barbarian. When she helps me put my jacket on, her hands brush my sides, and then her grip is firm around my hips for just a moment. She makes me feel petite, like with very little effort I could be entirely in her control.

We wander through the park, under the old-fashioned street lights that line its paths. She has my arm threaded through hers. She steers me down a side path, and I let her. Then she's kissing me, her arms around my waist, pulling me in until my hips are snug against hers. Her mouth is hard and insistent, and I open my lips to receive her. She bites and pulls at my lower lip, and then her teeth are on my jaw, on my neck, nipping at my skin and sending shivers down my body. My nipples strain against the silk of my shirt, and her palm comes up to press against my breast. I moan quietly.

I feel her hand quest down my body, until she's tracing the hem of my skirt against the bare skin of my thigh with her fingertips. Her mouth comes up to my ear, where her hot tongue snakes against my earlobe. Her whisper sends more chills down my spine. "Yes?" she asks.

"Yes," I respond with a

whoosh

of breath. "Yes, yes, please."

Her fingertips are warm against my slit as she dips in to find my juices and runs her fingers along the length of my pussy. My clit is swollen with arousal and she finds it easily, letting her thumb skip over it, wet with my own moisture. My skirt hikes up as she pushes her wrist further between my legs, spreading my wetness from my clit to the bud of my asshole, and I suddenly feel like I can't hold my own weight up anymore. I sag against her.

She flicks my clit with her thumb and holds me up with her other arm around my waist, but soon she laughs, her lips against my skin. "I can't hold you up like this," she says, and pulls her hand out from between my legs.

I groan in protest.

"This is why I need a wall to push you up against," she murmurs, and nips my neck again. Then her fingers are in her mouth as she tastes me on them. She pulls away.

I stand, my skirt around my hips, cheeks flushed, the cool night air of the park making my exposed, swollen pussy tingle. I can hear the crunch of people walking on the gravel nearby, and pull my skirt back down around my hips, then comb my fingers through my hair to bring it back to a semblance of normalcy.

She offers me the crook of her arm and I slide my arm through again, pouting. "I can't believe you just did that to me," I complain quietly.

She chuckles again. "The night is still young."

When we arrive at the bar, it's not busy. It's a Friday night, but it attracts a later crowd, she explains. It's a dimly lit spot, lots of wood paneling, very hip. We sit on stools at the bar and order drinks — a whiskey on the rocks for her, a glass of white wine for me. My arousal has died down over the walk back from the park, but I'm still very conscious of my short skirt, my bare body underneath it, and the compromisingly high bar stools we sit at.

She traces patterns in the bar top with the circle of moisture left by her cold glass, and my gaze is drawn to her fingers: the nails cut short, the fingers long, fingertips calloused, all moving so delicately and elegantly.

Her voice is low when she speaks. "Don't look now, but — you know those lounge seats over there?" She asks.

I stop myself from glancing over, but I can see them out of the corner of my eye. It's a group of guys sitting in low, soft chairs and couches, with a low lounge table in the middle where they've rested their drinks. They're probably ten, fifteen feet away from us. I nod.

"I'm pretty sure they're at the perfect angle to see right up your skirt, if you turn so you're facing them."

"Ah," I say. I understand. She's such a fucking pervert, and I tell her so. She shrugs.

"It'd be selfish of me not to share your beautiful cunt with the world," she says with that crooked smirk. "It's only right of us to let them look."

I consider it for a moment. "Just look though, right?" I clarify. I'm not worried, but better safe than sorry.

"Mmm, don't worry, I'm definitely going to be the only one fucking you tonight." She says this even lower, leaning in, and her hand brushes my bare thigh. I squirm as I feel myself leaking moisture, and my clit twinges with arousal. "Now turn around. Lean your back against the bar. Yes, that's right. Casual. Natural."

I obey her, sitting on my bar stool facing out to the room. My legs are pressed tight together, but she puts a hand on the knee nearest to her and pulls to open my thighs just a few inches. I gasp as she does it, and I know I'm exposed from a certain angle if anyone cares to look.

We continue talking, mostly casual conversation, but every once in a while she'll pepper in something dirty.

"Tell me how wet you are." Or,

"I wonder how many times I'll make you come tonight." Or,

"I wish I'd known in college what a little slut you are."

And then finally, after she teases me for what seems like forever:

"The guy in the red shirt just saw your pussy. He elbowed his friend to get him to look, too. Mmm, now they're all looking. Spread your legs wider," she commands me. I'm afraid to do it. I don't want them to think they're invited over here, but I'm completely in her power. When she says it again, her voice darker, "Spread your legs, slut," I do it.

She lets me sit like that for an achingly long amount of time. She orders another whiskey and gets me another wine, and the place starts to fill up. Every time I try to close my legs, she puts her hand on my knee. "Do you want me to fuck you?" She asks, and I nod, but she doesn't. She just pushes my legs apart again and sips her whiskey.

But then she finally finishes her drink, and she says, "Come with me."

I down the last of my wine, grab my purse, and practically leap off my stool. She grabs my hand and pulls me through the crowd, out of sight of the men she made me mercilessly tease, and across a packed section of the room where a dance floor is starting. Nearby there's some scattered high top tables, where the dancing crowd have placed their drinks, near a wood-panelled wall. She leans against it, as if to watch the dance floor, and I stand beside her, pressing my shoulderblades up against the wood. It's roughly finished; I can feel the grain through the silk of my blouse.

We chat some more, but then she turns so my body is trapped between the wall and her. She has her arm up against the wood by my head and is leaning over me. Her mouth is warm by my ear. "How do you feel?" she asks, running her other hand down my side, my ribcage, holding my waist with a firm grip.

I shudder at the feel of her breath and her hand on me. "I feel fucking impatient," I reply, a little cheekily.

Before I know what's happened she's grabbed my chin in her hand. She turns my head so I can feel the rough grain of the wood on my cheek.

"We're going to have to work on your listening skills," she growls into my ear. "Don't forget who's in charge." I give a little whimper and she releases her grip on my jaw. Her voice is suddenly gentle. "You're still sure, right?"

Oh, god, yes

, I think to myself, but to her, I say, low and breathy: "I want everything about this."

She searches my eyes, and, finding what she's looking for there, she lights up and presses her lips back against my ear. "Don't bother trying to be quiet. Nobody can hear you over the music."

Then, without any need for foreplay, her fingers are questing against my wetness as she slides her hand up my skirt, and I let out a deep moan as she pushes two fingers all the way inside of me. Her thumb brushes my clit and I come, right there, shuddering around her fingers, wetness dripping down her wrist.

She holds her fingers deep inside of me for a few beats, until I stop throbbing. My breath comes quick and shallow and I loll my head against the wall behind me. She takes the opportunity to kiss my throat, and I look around. We're surrounded, absolutely surrounded by people now. The music is pounding, there are lights flashing on the dance floor, and not a soul is looking at us.

As my body comes down from the high of my orgasm, she starts moving her hand back and forth, pulling her fingers just an inch or so out, and then pushing back in, gently. She warms me up, using the lubrication of my night-long arousal to brush against my oversensitive clit once, twice. Eventually I start cooing out little moans in time with her strokes, and she picks it up, pulling her fingers out further and sliding them in, deep, curving her fingertips to press against my g-spot.

My want for her is building again, as she pushes me against the wall of this busy club, sawing her fingers into my pussy. Soon her whole arm is moving as she fucks me, drawing her elbow back and slamming me so my ass hits the wall, her fingers still curved inside me, pulling me out and then pushing me back again. She adds a third finger to my swollen cunt, and I groan with need.

"Yes," I moan. I can't stop myself. "Yes, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me," I chant in rhythm with her strokes as she pushes most of her hand inside of me, my skirt high up on my hips.

Her voice is a torrent against my ear as she licks and nibbles my earlobe. "You're such a dirty slut," she says, moaning herself. "You like getting fucked in public where anyone can see you, slut? You like flashing your hot, wet cunt to strange men at the bar? You like having your slutty pussy pounded right here?"

"Yesssss," I hiss in response. I've never been so turned on in my life. I feel my orgasm building again. My pussy twitches against her hand. "I'm coming," I whimper, and she pushes into me even harder, pushing her body hard against mine, her trousered leg between my bare thighs. She uses the leverage of her thigh to push her hand even further inside of me. I let out a low scream as my orgasm takes over, my cunt clamping down on her hand, and she's out of breath, panting against my collarbone. I sag against the wall, exhausted.

Despite my having a hotel room, she takes me back to her place. We don't get a moment of sleep before the sun comes up. She bends me over the arm of her couch and fucks me with a strap-on, her hands spreading my ass cheeks wide, palming them and spanking them. Later, she ties my wrists to her headboard, and licks my pussy for what seems like hours until I finally come against her tongue. As the sun comes up, I'm riding her, her strap-on deep inside of me, and we're shiny with sweat. She cries out in orgasm — her first of the night — as the base of the dildo rubs against her clit. I come for the fifth or sixth time, my pussy fluttering around the silicone cock, and collapse beside her.

On the plane ride home at the end of the weekend, I travel without panties again. She made me leave every pair I'd brought at her house. I masturbate in the airplane bathroom, my body folded up tight in the small room, and take photos of myself sliding the dildo into my pussy, as instructed. I'll send them to her when we land. There's a queue of people waiting to use the bathroom, but it won't take me long to come — not with her on my mind. I'm already imagining all the things we didn't get a chance to try. There's always next time.