My Red Table
Our power play had been going on all semester. Though not a frosh, I was the new Queer on the block and thus, her latest tutee to induct into the world of campus politics. Living in the same house she was helpful and fun at first. She would push me down in tickling matches or against the wall at a party to physically remind me of her power. In our Feminist Studies class she was thrilled to find a hole in my argument. My anger and frustration increased when she ripped up some posters I had made for an LGBTQ community meeting. But, so did my fantasies about fucking her, spanking her, and twisting her clit until she screamed out in pain and delight.
Like any good Queer program house would, we threw monthly parties for all the lovely students on campus. Well, Cherry and I were assigned to flyer duty. The October air nipped at her short skirt and ruffled my cropped hair as we gaily skipped from dormitory to dormitory posting notices of our “Lick Bush” party.
At the last dorm, Cherry paused. Inching her skirt up to reveal her hip flask attached to her leg, she took a swig as she leaned against a safer-sex poster. I leaned forward for a swallow of the burning whiskey. My hand grazed her gartered legs as I reached for the flask and our eyes caught one another for a brief moment.
As the campus safety shuttle escorted us back to our yellow gingerbread house, replete with peeling paint, our legs pressed into one another. We were daring the other to make the first move, to attempt to exert power. As I stepped from the van her hand pressed into the small of my back. “Move dyke!” she laughed as she pushed me from the shuttle.
We stumbled into the house dropping our tape and tacks.
“Do you want some cocoa?” she cooed, her voice greasy with coy pleasantry. She grabbed the milk and headed toward the stove.
Cherry was a high femme. Her dark hair, though short and spiky, emphasized her mascara-ed eyes and tight skirts. Her long legs always looked longer because of her tendency to wear seamed stockings and stilettos, or maybe it was her bright red lipstick. Tonight, donning an apron three times as long as her red leather mini, was no exception.
She stood in front of the stove, stirring, her legs apart, the lines of her stockings weaving a slightly crooked path up the back of her skirt. I traced this with my eyes, before I walked behind her, sensing my chance. I acted suddenly and surprised her. Grinding my hips into her ass I moved her crotch into the warm oven bar in front of her. She released a quick, “Oh” and nearly turned to teach me who was boss before succumbing to the pleasure in front of her.
We stayed like this, rubbing circles into the corner of the stove until her stirring hand began to go limp and I felt the flood of cunt juice seeping through her stockings. Flicking the stove off so the cocoa wouldn’t burn I grabbed both of her wrists and held them behind her back, turning her to face me. With my free hand I hooked the waist of her skirt and dragged her toward my red table.
When I had moved in I had found this table straight from some 1960’s housewife’s kitchen at the Goodwill downtown. It was white Formica flecked with gold and the shape of some strange amoeba. Determined to have a red table, I spent many hours in the beginning of the year inhaling shellac fumes and painting coat upon coat of candy apple red on the table. When I finished it was quite the gem.
Now, in the sweeping motion I had only ever before seen in movies, I pushed the bell hook’s articles, Ben and Jerry’s cartons, leftover dishes, and remaining flyers off the table. I pushed Cherry down on top of it. The sight of her writhing on my red table in a short skirt and apron, her seamed garter stockings drenched with her juices was just about enough to make me cum right then and there.
Keeping her wrists pinned above her head I freed her swollen cunt from her lacy thong and pushed her short skirt up to her waist. She moaned with pleasure as I blew cool air all over her clit and hot pussy. I grabbed a glove from the safer sex box on the door and snapped it on. Slowly, I pressed my thumb, rough from woodworking class, against her clit. I began to make deliberate circles and her cunt clenched in pleasure. It was as if her cunt was waiting for me to take her, sucking and spasming to bring my hand closer. Her cries echoed her body. “Please. Fuck me. Please.” God, it was so hot to hear her beg.
As I eased two, three, four fingers into her aching chasm I released her wrists. She clawed at my back leaving marks through my shirt. I grabbed the wooden spatula hanging on the wall behind me and continued fucking her hard with my fingers. I plunged deep and she moaned in pleasure. Spatula in hand I moved her toward the edge of the table. Her stiletto-ed feet were on my shoulders; my arm deep inside her, and her ass, pink, exposed, waiting to be spanked hovered at the rim of my red table.
While I fucked Cherry with my left hand, I began to spank her with the wooden spatula in my right. Her ass began to turn bright pink, nearing the shiny red gloss of my table. She screamed with satisfaction as my paddle hit her ass with steady syncopations. Her hips pounded into my left wrist asking for more.
I increased my rhythm fucking and spanking her. Her jaw clenched and released as I moved her toward climax, until she began to shriek in a high-pitched wail of pleasure. She came hard, flooding my table, the glove, the spatula, and her skirt with her wetness. Her orgasm reverberated making waves on my hand, finally slowing and then ceasing.
Drenched in sweat and cum, her face and ass as red as my table, she looked at me and sighed. “Guess I taught you right,” she breathed out hard.
Meanwhile, her stiletto was working its way up my thigh, digging into my crotch. Guess I was about to be taught some more.
Z.G. Rankenstein went to a small liberal arts college and is currently an elementary school teacher in the Southwest. This is her first go at erotic writing.