By Rachel Kramer Bussel, from the anthology Stirring Up a Storm: Tales of the Sensual, the Sexual, and the Erotic. Edited by Marilyn Jaye Lewis. On sale now, and worth it.—N.B.
I usually go for girls in skirts, girls whose legs peek out from all manner of clingy fabrics, whose legs I can imagine sliding my hand up, up, up and meeting a hot, wet pussy that I can taste and twirl and play with to my heart’s delight. Girls in skirts invite this kind of speculation, as they sashay down the street, a slight breeze all that stands between them and a peek at their lacy, pretty panties.
Girls in skirts are much more likely to be flirts, to try to get me going with a carefully placed twitch as they inch their skirt just enough for me to catch a glimpse of thigh. Skirt girls are teases, their mouths almost always lipsticked into some bright shade of pink or red, their eyes round and taunting. Skirt girls bring out my most aggressive side, and even though I’m one myself, I feel a flush of heat pass through my body when skirt girls, whether in thrift store dresses, clingy minis, or prim to-the-knee office numbers, pass me by. Skirt girls make me wish I were a boy, wish I were a butch, wish I could grab them and shove them up against the wall and find out exactly what’s happening underneath their hems. But this story isn’t about a skirt girl. It’s about another kind of tease entirely--a pants girl.
Shana was wearing pants that were clearly not from this era, with a slight resemblance to bell-bottoms, which curved all along her tender ass. Her ass wasn’t big, but it was perfectly rounded, not flat, which is all the rage but does nothing for me. These pants made me want to wear pants, to be a pants girl, made me realize that for all the allure of the skirt, pants could cling and tuck and bend in ways a skirt just couldn’t do. In addition to her pants, Shana wore a 70’s style shirt, a burnt orange color covered in white beads that clung to her breasts with tenacity. She looked like an extra from “Charlie’s Angels,” a 70’s hot mama ready to take me for a ride. I couldn’t take my eyes off her legs, her ass, covered in those gorgeous pants as she danced to the music at the annual dyke rock festival, shaking her hips as her drink sloshed around in its big red plastic cup.
We were in that kind of crowd where the butches and the femmes pick their sides, but she was a free spirit, shaking her ass in the midst of a group of freaks who didn’t care what the rest of the crowd was doing. She raised a hand in the air, trying to hold onto her cup, her ass jutting out. I’d been talking to some friends but had stopped abruptly when I noticed her, my eyes glued to the way her clothes clung to every feminine curve. Though she wasn’t wearing a skirt or any makeup, she was clearly a femme, her hair flopping down around her in pigtails, her face sun-kissed and healthy with a perfectly earthy glow.
She looked over at me, a brief smile flashing across her lips, before she closed her eyes and threw her head back. I knew I’d have to be the pursuer if I wanted to start something, which I most definitely did.
I pushed my way through the crowd, clumping along in my black combat boots. Normally, I stood to the sides, watched the other dancers, never admitting to my deep-seated self-consciousness. But this time, I threw myself into it, matching her beat for beat, showing her that even though I was in a dress straight out of the closet of a 50's housewife, I was a truly modern girl.
I grabbed her a few times, gave her a twirl, copped the lightest of feels, the kind that would make her wonder whether it was her imagination, whether I meant it or was oblivious to her beauty.
She finished her drink and tossed her cup to the ground, closed her eyes and proceeded to ignore me, dancing up a storm to her own unique beat. I did the same, not caring what my friends thought, knowing that the only way to woo her was to match her individuality with my own. Finally, hours later, the music stopped, and she looked up at me, glowing with sweat and energy and sass. She leaned up and kissed me on the forehead, then I led her onto the street, onto my bike, and into my bed.
When I had her alone, I realized I had my hands full. Girls in skirts are generally easy to figure out, they’ll grab my hand and slide it under their panties. But “pants girl,” Shana, was harder to figure out. She straddled me, grinding her hips down, pushing against me until I was totally wet. I grabbed her hips and tried settling her onto my lap. She was hot, yet somehow I wanted her to keep her clothes on, those clothes that hugged every curve. She leaned close and kissed me, a full, juicy kiss that made me topple backwards.
We tumbled around on the bed, laughing, turning over and over, until finally I landed on top. I wedged my knee between her legs, pushing it up hard against her cunt, and she instinctively brought her legs up onto my shoulders.
Her huge breasts were straining under her shirt and I had to taste them. “Lift up your shirt,” I said, a shiver racing through me when she quickly did as I commanded. Her breasts were barely covered by her wispy bra, and though her breasts were big, they were clearly natural, full and round and perfect.
I planted my knees on her legs, keeping them pinned down as I pushed her luscious tits together and began attacking both nipples at once, peeling down the lacy edges of her bra with my teeth to take in the hard, pink nubs.
I licked them at first, my tongue darting out, tasting and teasing, before bringing my lips together to suck on them. I knew she’d be the kind of girl to go crazy if I so much as brushed against her nipples, and I was doing much more than that as I pressed my lips together tightly, kneading her nipples into dark red points before lashing them with my tongue.
“Yessss,” she hissed as I twisted them hard between my fingers, so hard I knew she’d feel it for days afterward, welcoming the pleasurable pain even as it made her tender buds stiffen under her shirt, letting anyone around her see them. I loved how she didn’t flaunt her tits in public, didn’t have them practically hanging out, an offering to any horny passerby, but instead kept them covered, the full, rich orbs practically obscured by her plain brown top, just waiting for the right lover to come along and unlock their secrets. The more I twisted, the more I licked and sucked and bit, the wilder she became, squirming all around, making a pretense of wanting me to stop but clearly desiring nothing of the sort.
Finally, I paused, reaching my hand between her legs, pulling her now-wet pants tight against her straining pussy. She was practically dripping; melting, so wet I knew she couldn’t stand it, which is exactly where I wanted her. And I was wet too; my panties were drenched from having my face buried between those juicy tits, now glowing a gorgeous red.
“Turn over,” I barked at her, not certain whether she’d comply.
She did, too caught up in her erotic trance to care what I’d do next, as long as I touched her, somewhere, anywhere along her blazingly hot skin.
I reached underneath her and unbuttoned her pants. She lay passively and let me do it--like a child, even though she was 100% full-grown woman. I went slowly with those pants, playing with her pussy, pinching her ass as I went. I felt her shuddering beneath me, and when I finally eased those beguiling pants all the way down, I found only the flimsiest of panties, soaked through with her juices. I peeled those all the way off, too, and spread her legs, admiring the view of her pink pussy lips as she waited patiently for my next move. Holding the lips open with my fingers, I played with her wetness, stroking her, priming her. I slid a single finger up her and it practically melted inside her as she silently begged for more, her cunt tightening around me. I slid the finger out, trailing the wetness along her inner thigh. Then I leaned down and licked along her slit, plunging my tongue inside her. She was sweet and salty, ripe in the best possible way as she pushed herself against my mouth, slick and delicious. I squeezed her ass cheeks, giving them the occasional slap as I tasted her wildness.
Then I turned her over, needing to see her in every possible position. Her eyes were closed, her hands splayed out at her sides, her body totally serene as her pussy beckoned to me. Her hips arched involuntarily and I pushed three fingers inside her, pressing and twisting as her cunt again tightened around me.
I didn’t know her, not as well as I would come to, but for now, this was all I needed to know; that she wanted me, was ready and willing and needy. If I’d thought those pants did her body justice, they were nothing compared to what her naked body did to me, leaving me breathless.
She reached for me, her fingers grasping for contact as she grabbed my arm, and I lay down alongside her, nibbling her lips, whispering sweet nothings into her ear as I pressed another finger into her.
“More, please,” she said quietly, again like a child, but with an adult’s manners and grace, her voice breaking as I quickly gave her exactly what she’d asked for. I pressed my thumb against her clit, pushing it deeply against her pubic bone, swirling it into ecstasy, before sliding that last digit inside. She took my whole hand like it was nothing, but we both knew it was much more than that. She clutched me tightly, her teeth clenched, eyes closed tight as she spasmed around me. I barely had to move, only ever so slightly, my knuckles grazing her most tender walls, brushing against her body’s deepest secrets, making tears of joy form in her eyes. She let go of me and jerked backwards, coming in a torrent of curses and contractions that left both of us speechless.
I held her afterwards, cradling her in my arms as she curled up against me, gripping my thin cotton dress as if for dear life. I looked down at her, her shirt still rising above her jutting breasts, her bottom half pale and bare. After seeing her so stark and vulnerable, so graceful even as she let everything go, I knew I’d never look at her in quite the same way again. But no matter what, she’d always be my favorite pants girl.—R.K.B
Photograph by Helmut Newton for Vogue
