"Working Girls" in Print!

Pick up you copy of Working Girls! My beautiful glossy copy arrived today in the mail and I can't wait to get it dirty!

Working Girls, Released in E-book Format and Print

Starting at: $13.95

In Print

edited by SA Clements with stories by Crystal Barela, Anah Crow, CB Potts, Stella Sandberg, Tracy Shellito, Elizabeth St. John, and Rakelle Valencia

Hot, sweaty, hard-working women. Girls who do a man's job. That's what Working Girls is all about. Six stories by some of the best lesbian romance and erotica authors out there feature cowgirls and farmer's daughter, steel workers and coal miners, who work hard and play hard, loving each other with everything they have in them.

Rakelle Valencia's horse whisperer finds out she's not as old as she thinks she is in Age and Experience. Rusted Hearts, by Anah Crow, has a girl losing her car, but gaining a lot more at the salvage yard. An uptown girl meets her match in a laborer when she goes home again in Steel-Toed Boots and the Uptown Girl, by Tracy Shellito.

The farmer's daughter teaches a wanderer that appearances don't matter as much as she thinks in the Biker and the Farmer's Daughter, by Stella Sandberg. Elizabeth St. John presents a coal miner and her working class girl, trying to get by in Black Cap. A bullrider finds out that a cowboy savior might be her salvation in the Double O Rodeo by Crystal Barela. Finally, in Jump, by CB Potts, a contractor and a cop find out that they might need a little comfort, from each other. Hot and fierce, the women of Working Girls will make blue-collars sexy again!

Where the Girls Are

Cover art for Where the Girls Are: Urban Lesbian Erotica, has been approved. The anthology is due to be in print for July 1st 2009 and can pre-ordered at Amazon.com.

For those of you wondering what kind of sumptuous writing will be included, my story, In the Dressing Room is to be featured. Hot, hot, hot!

Other amazing stories along side mine are:

The Critic by Charlotte Dare
Urban Fairytale by A.D.R. Forte
Grey Ice by Evecho
Old London Town by Jacqueline Applebee
Not in Kansas Anymore by Cari Z
Electricity by Evan Mora
In the Dressing Room by Crystal Barela
Don't Fuck With Country Girls by Kathleen Bradean
My First Play Party by Rachel Kramer Bussel
Come to My Window by Andrea Dale
You're the Boss by Stella Sandberg
Just One Night by Dalia Craig
The City Pony by Roxy Katt
Afraid of Jumping by Nan Andrews
A is for Apple by Jessica Lennox
Rush Hour by Lisabet Sarai
A Window to the City by Victoria Oldham
On Display by Sophie Mouette
Hot Child in the City by Sommer Marsden

THE RED TENT

THE RED TENT
mf, voyeurism, masterbation

Copyright ©2008 by Crystal Barela

This was not my usual Saturday evening entertainment. Staring at a half naked woman, but the noise muffled by the red tent’s canvas walls had been too intriguing for me to ignore.

It was not spoken of in my company, but I was old enough to know what went on in the red tent. Everyone knew. My father, should he find out I had taken this one little peek, would have beat me until I had little chance of performing. What was worse, he would have locked me in the trailer and the freedom I enjoyed as a trusted daughter of Roberto Fontinini, master trapeze artist for Spineli’s Famous Big Top Circus, would have ended. I was a grown woman of nineteen, certainly old enough to know about what went on behind the privacy of walls.

Our show that night had been brilliant. Every cut away a graceful turn, every catch appearing effortless. I was all at once exhausted and ecstatic from souring high above the crowd. I had wings. In fact, I was known as the angel of the big top. My costume was the color of innocence, cream with opal sequins raining over my bosom and down my arms like water. My cape was rich ivory velvet. The costume mistress had done an amazing job fashioning feathers and beads in the shape of dainty wings over my shoulders and back. My father had gone so far as to begin dyeing my hair a heavenly blonde at the age of six, when the golden luster had begun to fade to brown.

Exhilaration coursed through my veins as I passed the empty bleachers. The familiar path led me past the scent of wet straw and animal. The shouts of brutish men ordering obedience. The only reason I passed the red tent at all, was that it was set away from the others. Meant to be private, and my father insisted that as the prize act of the big top we must have our trailer away from the others as well. We were not beside the red tent; we were around a copse of trees past it. One hardly had to go more than a few minutes out of their way to walk close enough to hear the beguiling throaty laughter of Madam and the shake of Tiny’s tambourine.

On other occasions I had been tempted to linger on my passing by. When low moans and slapping skin had made my step falter. Once, only once mind you, I had pressed my ear to that canvas and heard…well, I had heard sex. The panting and groaning had made my body tingle. Then, I had run home. Under my sheets, in the semi-privacy of a curtain hung between my parents sleeping area and my thin mattress I had touched myself there. Between my legs.

Now, it just so happened, my step put me in line with the seam of canvas that had a tear. The opening was about four inches long and stretched two inches wide by the tension of the poles holding up the tent. Bits of frayed fabric shot to and fro. It was not my fault that the sewing mistress had fallen behind on her mending.

In that moment, that exact moment, Madam, was bent over backward at the waist, her long red hair dusting the ground. She stood at the center of the tent, on a round platform and she was not still, no. Her hips danced in a rhythm that had her voluptuous breasts roll back toward her neck. The large mounds swayed in such a way that my breath caught. There was no music but the beat of our hearts and I could hear the thump clearly.

What was I to do? Leave?

There was more than one man in the tent with her. A tall man in a hat, with a cigarette dangling from his lips was tapping his loafered foot in time with the shake of Tiny’s tambourine.

Tiny was Madam’s husband and not tiny at all. He was a towering black man, his thick body roped with muscle. Rumor had it; he got his nickname, from breaking those that disrespected his woman, into tiny little pieces. I’d believe it. With his head shaved clean of hair and the large golden ring through his nose he looked as though he could tear someone limb from limb. He looked strange manning the shaking bells.

There were two other men. One was short with a portly build and wore red suspenders. His hands were in his pockets when he rocked back on his heels. Touching himself. The other, his pal. I say this because of the way he would alternately clap and then slap Suspenders on the back, was hooting for more skin.

From the state of Madam’s dress I could tell she was near the end of her performance. Not because I had seen it before! No, because there wasn’t much more in the way of garments to remove.

Madam’s nails were long and painted gypsy red. She tickled them up from below her navel and in-between the valley of her breasts. Her eyes opened, green as a cat’s, and met mine through the crack in the canvas. One finger bent and seemed to beckon me. Curling in a gesture of invitation.

Heat sufficed my entire body and centered in that region that only, Joey, the lion tamer’s son, had been petting. Not that I had let him tame me yet. No more than a gentle nuzzle of his strong fingers had been allowed to tap my nethers. Father would have been most displeased if he found out about our kisses, even though everyone thought of Joey as my sweetheart.

The dancer rose slowly, uncurling her body, her abdomen flexing in the light of the lanterns. The scent of heated oil and sweat hovered in the air as her hips began to undulate. Like the curl of her finger, her hips encouraged me to remove my leotard. To join her in exhibition.

Madam wore a skirt made of colorful scarves and the circle of fabric hung well below her waist. So low in truth, I could see the curly reddish hair of her bush poking above the waistline. One of her slender arms was above her head, and the other held aloft, her fingers on the tail of one of the scarves. She began to pull them randomly, the gauzy bits of color fluttering around her and falling to the ground like a rainbow revealing a pot of gold. My breath gasped with each gesture until all that was left was the leather belt the fabric had been stuffed beneath. Her golden curly hairs were damp and glistening.

The men’s faces were flushed with desire as I knew mine must be.

It is not my fault that Madam began the slow caress of her breasts. With each tug of her nipples by her painted nails my feet grew more firmly into the ground. My breath was rushed. I found my hand mirrored hers, slipping beneath the fabric of my leotard to find my own small areoles.

Madam’s tongue wet her lips and then she leaned forward.

I’m telling you it was not my fault!

She cupped one of her large breasts and lifted the succulent flesh so she could place her tongue to her own hard nipple. Her bewitching eyes seemed to look straight at me as she flicked the turgid flesh with her tongue. Each wet swipe felt as though she were licking my own hard nubbins!

So focused was I on her tongue’s amusements and my response to them, that I did not notice that the two shorter men had left the tent, or that Tiny was now stuffing a bill into the leather purse slung on the belt around his waist. With a nod of his head to Madam, he left the red tent.

Tiny would remain in shouting distance. I must remain silent.

Madam and the man in the hat were alone.

The man removed his jacket and tossed it onto the faded Oriental carpet that padded the ground. Pillows were piled high in one corner. He unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled back his sleeves revealing muscled forearms while Madam took a provocative stance in front of the pillows.

“What do you like?” Madam asked the man and he told her to get on her knees.

I had not seen that before. I mean, I had never looked through the hole in the tent!

Madam took a pillow covered in orange fabric and trimmed with beads and placed it on the ground. From where I stood I could see the swing of her breasts as she took a position on the floor on her knees, her round rear high in the air.

The man had taken off his slacks and briefs. Now he stood in his trouser socks held up with sock suspenders, the white shirt and the hat. I would have giggled, but his manhood was hard and long, taking my breath away. How would that veined flesh feel? He was big. So much bigger than the lion tamer’s son.

Madam supported herself with one hand and reached beneath herself. She ran her fingers through her thatch of hair, in-between her moist thighs. I knew she must be wet in her center.

I was.

Just one finger, I told myself. I pulled my arms free of my costume’s delicate sleeves and pushed my shoulders out of the neck of my leotard before moving the sequined fabric to my waist. I slid a hand along my quivering belly and under my costume.

Madam’s fingers tugged her nether curls and I did the same. My lower body was wet and slippery. I wiggled my finger inside me.

The man held his hardness up to the back entrance of Madam’s hole. He pressed forward and I watched Madam’s fingers curl into the oriental carpet padding the floor. Her teeth sunk into her full lower lip. The man pulled his long hardness from her. The sound was as wet and slick as my fingers.

Just two fingers, I told myself as the man began to ram his manhood into Madam repeatedly. His fingers dug into her hips and she moaned. She pled with him to “fuck her harder!”

I circled that hard bit of flesh between my thighs and began to pant. Small little squeals were popping from between my lips, I couldn’t help it! Madam kept saying that word.

Fuck.

That naughty, beautiful word.

I said it. My insides tightened.

Again. And Again.

“What did you say?” Came Joey’s shocked voice from behind me.

Slowly, I turned. I should have been embarrassed. I should have tried to cover my naked breasts or stopped my hand from moving inside me. I did blush. I did, but more from excitement than embarrassment.

“Fuck?” I said.

I didn’t mean for the word to be an invitation, but the lion tamer’s son stood with the moonlight behind him and pulled out his manhood. He began to run his fingers along the turgid length, and I dipped inside my tight hole at his rhythm. I turned back to the tent to see the man’s hat tumble from his head. His black hair fell across his brow as he pumped his piston into Madam.

Now, Madam’s fingers were working at the entrance between them.

Her breasts swung in my direction, calling for me to taste them.

My thumb circled faster.

Joey stepped closer. I could feel the heat of his body and hear the slick sound of his hand on his hardness.

My fingers jabbed faster.

Madam moaned. Wet suction echoed in the tent.

My eyes nearly crossed. It was as if I were staring at them through the sight of a canon.

There was a groan near my ear. Then bang. Hot wet jism sprayed my face for the first time.

And skid across Madam’s back. Stuck in her hair.

I licked my lips. They tasted salty sweet.

My body convulsed as I let go of my trapeze and flew. Souring high above the crowd. Above the big top. And amongst the stars.

Madam could see my satisfied face through the hole in the red tent. Our eyes locked.

This wasn’t my fault! I quickly pulled up my leotard. Why was there this hole in the tent? And now, now the lion tamer’s son knew!

It was my secret.

Joey said my name and reached a hand toward me, but I brushed it away and told him not to tell my father.

I rounded the corner of the tent and Madam stood in the flap of the doorway. She was alone. A cigarette was in her hand and her long red hair hung wild around her naked breasts. She still wore her belt and the scent of the man.

“Miss Fontinini,” she said tilting her head to me. “Would you like to come inside?”

Madam held back the curtain of the red tent. I could see the tossed pillows and the round platform at the center where she had performed. The orange pillow where she had knelt as the man fucked her was bunched on the floor, golden in the lamplight.

Inviting.

“Father is expecting me,” I said.

She reached a long arm toward me, a square of bright red fabric in her hand. With a gentle nudge she wiped my brow and cheek, removing Joey’s spendings from my face. I didn’t mean to lean into her hand, but she smelled of cheap perfume and the man’s sweat.

“Miss Fontinini,” Madam whispered, her lips close enough for me to taste her breath.

I opened my eyes, not knowing I had closed them.

“Your father is expecting you,” she said. Madam took my hand and opened it palm up. She curled my fingers around the red fabric, her eyes on mine.

I didn’t want to move. I wanted to stay suspended in her gaze. I wanted to watch her dance more. Fuck more.

Yes, I said, and turned away. My father was expecting me. I am the angel of the big top. I always come straight home after every performance.

Straight home.

Two Doors Down

Copyright © 2008 by Crystal Barela

Day 1

On the first night of Hanukkah I arrived home from work to find an ivory envelope had been slipped through my mail drop. There was no postage or return address. Just the words Happy Hanukkah written in black ink with great flourish. Inside had been a single slip of paper, folded perfectly in half, also ivory with black writing. The note penned had read a friendly welcome to the neighborhood. No signature, but from a woman I would guess from the penmanship.

I stepped into the rather bleak interior of my apartment and removed my coat, scarf and gloves. It was a great apartment with all sorts of vintage charm, including bad insulation, I thought, rubbing my arms. I am one of those women who is always cold; huddling under a sweater in eighty degree weather. Turn of the century fixtures were on the cupboards and glass doorknobs throughout. My favorite detail was the beautiful warm woodwork around the door jambs and floors. But still sadly without furniture, save for the mattress in the bedroom. I had moved to Portland only last week and would collect furniture in time.

My first friend. I walked over to the fridge and stuck the note beneath a magnet. I opened the kitchen cupboard and took down my menorah. It had been my great-grandmother’s and was heavy, made of brass. I took my Hanukkah candles from the drawer and whispered the familiar prayers beneath my breath as I lit the first candle.

Day 2

My return from work greeted me with another envelope labeled Happy Hanukkah perched precariously in my mail slot. I smiled and turned in a half circle on the welcome mat outside my door as if to catch the deliverer of the missive, but there was no one, only the scent of snow in the air. I stood on the porch and opened the envelope.

I do not love, for I have yet to know
The golden glow of skin so sweet
Of hair as rich as chocolate warm
Always worn up upon
Glasses perched upon a dainty nose
I wonder if she likes my prose?

I turned the paper over. No name, no address, no number. I brought the paper to my lips. There was a scent. Something feminine and familiar tugged at a memory, but…The wind picked up and I shivered and turned to slip the key in the door lock.

Yet to know. I thought as I walked over to the fridge and placed the note on top of the other beneath the magnet. Yet to know…

Day 3

Two doors down, I yearn to touch
Slip a finger beneath that proper collar
To see the veil of hair unfold
And frame the cheeks of one made bold

There was a girl down the hall; a tall, striking girl with long black hair and pale skin. The first time I had seen her I had admired her boots as I came up the stairs behind her. Black patent leather with four inch heels. I’d wondered at her ability to climb so quickly after a day of walking in them. They had been tight, meeting the hem of her black pencil skirt at her knee. In truth, I had noticed more than her boots. Her derriere had been round, her hips full.

She had not paused or looked at me or even seemed to notice my hot stare. But walked past my door, hips a sway, to her door and closed it with final click.

Day 4

It came to my mind the following evening that there were two doors down the other direction of my apartment. An old man lived there with a bad comb over and a habit of peeking out his curtains whenever I walked past his door. This seemed a bad sign, but I could hardly think of him, with his plumber’s crack and ode’ de mothball preference for cologne, writing poetry in such a feminine hand.

Maybe two doors, literally down, I thought and slowed as I walked past the first floor apartments. I had not seen who the tenants were two floors beneath me. From the brightly colored plastic slide on the patch of grass out front and the yellow dump truck on its side I assumed they were a family. Not likely the authors of a love letter.

Eager for more poetry, I picked up my pace on the way up the stairs and arrived breathless at my door. I was not disappointed.

Kisses true and kisses fall
Upon thy lips and bodies call
Rub this oil upon your skin
And think of love you will let in
A clue you seek, a clue I give
Do you want to truly live?

This envelope included a small bottle. I tugged at the cap and with a slight pop the gentle scent of earthy sweet oil surrounded me and centered in my lower body. She had worn this scent.

My door lock sticks, so I have to tug the door shut to get the key to turn the lock. She had waited patiently while I struggled with the knob, while I moved in close to let her pass. Even with the extra space it seemed as though our bodies nearly touched. This scent had lingered with me for a heartbeat, then two. I had shaken my head of my thoughts, but now they returned to tempt my imagination’s fancy.

Day 5

The next morning I was locking my door when she stepped out to do the same. Her breasts were full and round and so perfect beneath her thin white blouse. She wore a black bra that outlined their tempting shape.

She wished me good morning and a welcome to the building, laughter in her succulent voice. I blushed, dragging my eyes to her face. Our eyes locked for the first time. Hers green and sharp and lit with humor. Lips as plump as the before mentioned breasts were made wet by a saucy tongue.

My response came out as a squeak. Not sexy. Not inviting. But like a timid school girl. I dropped my keys and cursed beneath my breath as I bent to pick them up. She did the same and our fingers touched. Her nails were longer than mine, glossy with bright red polish. Her blouse gaped as she bent and I could see tattoos and cleavage.

She stood and wished me a pleasant day. I fumbled a response. Then down the stairs she went. The click clack of her heels on the hardwood floor found the heartbeat in my sex. In time they pounded until she was gone.

All day I thought of her laughter and eyes and hips with a nervous heart. When I arrived home that night my mail was scattered across the hardwood floor. I knelt to rifle threw the pile in search of another letter.

There wasn’t one. No letter.

My throat closed and my eyes smarted. No words to linger over as I passed my evening. Damn my lusting eyes for ogling her! It was silly really. I didn’t know her. I hadn’t touched her. I shouldn’t miss her words.

Day 6

I thought myself a stalker as I walked past my door and stopped in front of hers. Knocking seemed like a good idea, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Only bold with the stares not action. I should offer to buy her coffee in way of apology. I really was not such a letch.

The curtains were drawn, but in the window sat one of those electric menorahs’, seven lights shining neon orange.

I took that as a mitzvah. A good omen, as my grandmother would have said. My heart picked up a beat as I told myself to calmly walk to my door and turn the key slowly in the lock. Relief nearly made me faint as I picked up the letter from the floor.

Passion’s need will overflow
As two hearts’ desire continues to grow
Thoughts at night are sticky sweet
For me know below my sheets
Two more nights of yearning need
And then our thoughts will be freed

Two more nights and then what? I walked into the kitchen and put this letter with the others. The freezer portion of the fridge was covered. It warmed my insides to see them there, hopeful promise on each sheet of paper.

Day 7

No words we speak to show our need
To know the heat and inner fire
Why fight this growing desire
Take the time to touch and tease

The covers were kicked from the bed and I lay nude except for my socks. A girl’s got to keep warm. My admirer’s letters lay about me on the bed. The latest note’s words a catalyst to bringing up the heat. My hand slipped across my stomach and dipped between my thighs.
My fingertip circle my hole. Behind my eyelids I saw her lips, wet and parted. Wet with my desire. I moaned.

A finger slid between my nether lips and then two, my thumb flicking my hard bud of desire.

A nipple twist.

My heels dug in.

A shudder rocked my body.

I was panting.

Then lick your artful fingers clean

A trembling hand did her bidding.

Day 8

The day at the office was going buy ridiculously slow. There was never much excitement in an accounting office, but at least there was always something to do. Except today. Except on the last night of Hanukkah.

What was she planning? My thighs were wet with anticipation and I crossed my legs to give myself some small bit of relief and stared sightlessly at the computer monitor. Maybe I could hope on a porn site? I giggled and felt heat suffuse my cheeks.

My colleagues were giving me strange looks. Two had asked if I were ill. They said I looked flushed. Yes, I wanted to say. From head to toe and tonight—Tonight I would be—I glanced around nervously as if they could read my dirty thoughts. Tonight I would be fucked. At least those were my plans. I planned to be bold in more than stares this evening.

The train ride home took forever and the six blocks to the apartment complex seemed like miles. I rushed up the stairs and would have taken them two at a time if I weren’t so short. Outside my door sat a box. I could see the little treasure from the landing. I walked forward slowly, Suddenly wanting to stop and savor. This would be the first night. The first taste of what my neighbor had to offer.

On my doormat was a box five inches square, wrapped in white paper. The now familiar curvy handwriting read Hanukkah greetings.

My heart trembling along with my fingers, I carefully unwrapped the package, careful not to damage the paper. A note was folded on top of the white tissue inside.

Want to Play?

Underneath the tissue lay the perfect Hanukkah gift. The box held a dreidel. Not the simple child’s wooden toy, but a beautiful glass art piece. Bits of glass in different sizes had been melded together to create a piece of art that sparkled in the setting sunlight. But that was not was made this game perfect.

The traditional symbols had been replaced with very naughty images. I held it up above my head to the light to get a better look. Embedded in the glass, on each side of the dreidel, were photo tiles depicting various sex acts. Instead of Nun, there were two women embraced in lavascious kiss. Gimel had been replaced by a tongue sampling a woman’s honey pot. A hand lost in a wet quim was Hei’s replacement. And a lady giving it to her woman with a strap-on was Shin.

Hearing a scuffle behind me, I turned to see my other neighbor smooth his comb-over across his scalp. He stood watching me. For a moment, I had a terrible doubt, that it was he who wrote the letters. That all my fantasies, and all my desires, were just a product of being more than a year without a partner.

I didn’t open my door. I smiled nervously and quickly walked in the opposite direction before doubt made me change my mind. This was it. I walked two doors down. I didn’t knock. I just opened her door. There was the scent of her in the air. My throat went dry and my lower body to liquid.

“Hello neighbor,” she called from somewhere in the apartment.

I hardly paid notice to the beautiful period furnishings. It was in trance, captivated by my desire.
I walked toward the sound of her voice and found myself in the doorway of her bedroom.
She stood at the foot of the bed framed by ornately carved posts on each side of the bed. The ivory bed covers were the perfect foil for painted in beautiful colorful tattoos. A silver ring winked from her navel and a large rubber cock rose proud from her bush.

Any normal person would have run. A girl with a bit of sense would not have lifted her hand to the button at her throat only to be told to not move.

She approached with a deliberate sway to her hips and took the dreidel from the box which I held in front of me in presentation stance. We are here to play, are we not? She asked and she bent to toss the dreidel. It spun across the floor, colored specs hitting the walls like a disco ball. It twirled frantically, seeming not to tire in its spinning. Just as suddenly it began to wobble and fall on its side.

Not on a new lover’s embrace, but on the picture with the strap on. I lifted a hand to my throat to slip the buttons from the holes of my collar but she told me to stop. I did.

My neighbor told me to turn around. I did. She came up behind me and encircled my waist with her tattooed arm. Her had slid into the my center and she massaged the fabric into my crotch. I bit my lower lip. She didn’t linger but slid the length of my skirt and took hold of the hem. She tugged the fabric to my waist.

I was wearing nylons and wondered for a moment why not stockings? Something sexy and—She pressed her dildo against me from behind.

I closed my eyes and gasped for sanity.

She pressed me forward with her cock, nudging my aching behind through the delicate fabric, until my knees hit the arm of the living room couch. She told me to leave my nylons on when I made to remove them. She kicked my legs further apart with her booted foot.

She caressed my behind through the nylons, teasing the sensitive flesh to follow her hand and seek its warmth. Her fingers followed the crack of my ass and grabbed the fabric in her fist, the waistband cutting into my stomach for a moment before the fabric ripped. Her fingers slid beneath and pet my bare skin. I gasped. Her hand between my wet thighs.

“My sweet little neighbor,” she said, sliding a finger in. My knees buckled and I took hold of the couch arm. She drug my juices back along my rear and then slid her rubber dick through the whole in the nylons. Greased by my juices, she found my hole and slowly entered, stretching my insides wide. Her weight pressed into me, hard nipples kissing my shoulder blades, tongue licking my ear.

I bucked my hips and she laughed, lying still and hot on my back.

“Did you like your Hanukkah presents?” she whispered.

“What does it feel like?”

She yanked the bun at the back of my head and I winced. “Answer me.”

I said yes and she began a maddening rhythm, slow, steady. She unbuttoned my shirt collar and her fingers massaged my small breasts through the lace of my bra, nipples hard as her rubber dick.

“Tell me neighbor,” she said. “Do you sob because you want me to stop, or because you want me to fuck you faster?”

Not waiting for my answer, she forced the cock in deep, and deeper still. She began to pound my pussy and twist my nipples. She told me to come and I did, my hot juices running down my legs and dripping from her strap-on.

There was no symbol on the dreidel for sucking her cock, but she said it needed to be cleaned. I dropped to my knees and she told me to look at her. I lifted my eyes and peered up from behind my glasses. She took the remaining pins from my hair and the waves fell around my shoulders. I drew my tongue from the tip of the veined rubber to the base of the shaft. My nostrils twitched. She was as wet as I. I drew her hardness into my mouth. The slightly sweet taste of the rubber and the syrupy tang of me ignited my senses; made me hunger for more. For the scent so cloying behind the phallus, to swim in my veins. Her nectar to dance with every one of my taste buds.
I licked my juices from every inch.

She helped me stand and remove my jacket before leading me back into the bedroom. I spun the dreidel again and this time it landed on the embrace.

“I’ve been watching you,” she whispered. And at last I wondered her name. Who was this girl whose lips I would kiss? But I forgot to ask as their softness touched mine.

Her tongue played and her teeth nipped.

And I sighed and I moaned.

I forgot to breathe. Forgot everything except the need to taste the many varieties of her silky skin.

I licked lips and neck, bitter sweet with talc and promise. That spot beneath the swell of her breast thick with salt. She giggled when I tongued her navel and demanded I remove her boots. I ran the zipper down the inside of each calf, bathing the bare flesh revealed to me, before tugging them free and tossing them to the floor. I knelt between her long shapely legs, in my prim button down shirt and grey pencil skirt. There was nothing between me and her sexy center.

This was my favorite part. The brush of the soft curls on my cheeks as I made myself familiar with her. My nose circled her clit. Hard and silky. Her hands took hold of my head and my nostrils clogged with her scent. The need to breathe through my mouth had me blowing on her tender skin. She trembled. I slipped of my tongue between the folds of her nether lips. Rich and creamy. Wonderfully mine. She writhed beneath me as I found her spot. I circled and sucked. Licked and sampled her clit until she screamed:

“Happy Hanukkah!”

Day 9

One eye lid opened to focus on the round swell of her beautiful breast. I smiled and opened the other. How long could we lay before realty intruded?

“Sated at last we slept a tremble
safe and warm upon the other
We awoke unsure what words to say
But only knew there would be more to follow.”

“Do you know the literal translation of Hanukkah?” She asked, curling her body around me.

“To dedicate,” I whispered, resting my head against her heart.