First Hand Knowledge Elaine Miller

I've never written this story out before—even though it happened over a decade ago and I am a writer and a habitual pornographer. I've always been leery of being accused of needless erotic hyperbole, like those writers for the readers' stories sections in sex magazines. You know the ones. Dear Penthouse: I never thought this could happen in real life but my wildest dream came true. So, sure, my true story is a little fantastical, and you're welcome to believe it or not, as you wish.

Her name was.. .well, heck, unless she was your girlfriend back then and you're just finding out right now about what I did with her, her name just ain't that important to you. I'll call her Andy. Here's what's important for you to know: I met her at a conference of kinky sexy women-loving women.

Now I'm gonna interrupt my narrative flow, which ain't even started, to pass on something I was lucky enough to stumble upon on this, my very first time out. The thing you gotta understand about sex conferences, and kinky sex conferences in particular, and kinky dyke sex conferences in ultra-amazing particular, is that when we pay the ticket price and walk through the gates and into the crowd, we're making a choice to participate in something magical.

This space, full of these women, is where you'll be spending most of your waking hours—plus a goodly portion of time stolen from your sleeping hours—until the end of the weekend. But it'll only go right if you're disposed to let the outside world stay outside, and bring the magic in with you.

In direct and nefarious contrast, in the wrong kind of mood and with the wrong expectations you can walk into a pit of madness, where every woman, womyn, or grrl either has the PMS grumpies or is actively bleeding into a bewildering array of panties, boxers, and jockstraps. You could walk into a cave of narcissists, into a haven of moody attention queens, or into a bunch of dramatists who are eager to process the meaning behind the implied classist racist ageist sizeist insult of every personal interaction until you purely forget why it was you wanted to interact in the first place.

Think of it as Schrodinger's Pussy. It's all potentially there, the horror and the joy. So you do your best to make up your mind before you walk in, hear? Leave off your poo-colored glasses, empty your mind of everything but the sexy, friendly women, take a deep breath of the leather-scented, estrogen-enriched air, and just walk right into heaven. Yes, heaven.

Like I did.

I was attending my very first conference of any kind. But keep in mind this ain't a tale of my shy coming-out or my tentative explorations. I was an aggressive, prowling femme even in those days. I was bright of eyes, warm of thighs, and pure of thought—in that I purely thought about sex.

So I walked through the gates of this conference in a high state of erotic expectation. I looked around at the mansion in which the conference was being held, with its professionally tented-in yard that made it look like the leather dyke circus of privacy had come to town, and decided I was the luckiest daughter of a bitch on the planet, and that these hundred or so yummy women must be for me.

On the first day of the conference I laid eyes on this hot butchy girl, and fell heels-over-my-head in lust with her in less time than it would take me to fix my lipstick and cock my hat in her direction. Just so my tale of too-good-to-be-true isn't too embarrassing, I'll skip lightly over the fact that she was tall and muscular and green-eyed and wore scruffy boy-jeans and great clomping black boots, okay? I lost no time in self-introduction.

On the second day of the conference, my cheerful lack of subtlety in flirting, or maybe my push-up bra—though if you think about it, they amount to the same thing—acquired me a massage from Andy. She was naked except for her boots and a soft leather dildo harness, empty of dick. The round, waiting hole in the harness offered tempting glances into a sweet spot far pinker than any of her other visible skin, and as I surreptitiously played peek-a-puss I kept thinking about whether I'd rather slip a finger or a tongue through that little hole in the leather. Also, I was angling for a chance to dither between those choices in a more realistic way.

During the massage we talked on two levels, one far more efficient than the other. Our smiling mouths talked at length and a trifle impersonally about sexual things we'd done, and things we always wanted to do. And her blunt, strong fingers on my back asked would you perhaps, and my unforced groans of luxurious delight answered yes, I will.

I held up my long-fingered hand, and told her that I'd never had a chance to fist anyone, because I'd never managed to fit. And she held my hand up against her equally large hand, shrugged, looked me directly in the eyes, and said "No problem." Her fingernails lightly drawn along the back of my neck stated alright, let's, and my light gasps and wiggles said any time.

And just like in the cliché porn stories, my head spun with desire and wanting and I managed to spit out enough blunt words to confirm all the things we were saying on all our levels of communication.

"I want to fist you. Can I fist you?" I asked, turning over so I could see her face, and holding my breath, terrified that her spoken words would belie the message in her hands.

And she answered simply, openly. "Yeah, I'd like that." And we thought of a place, and made a time, and it was a date.

I'll still skip over most of the gritty details, because you, gentle reader, don't care about me marking time until late that night, which was the official conference playtime. I attended afternoon workshops I would never recall afterwards, and stumbled around in an erotic daze, collecting gloves and handfuls of those shockingly small sample lube packets (Is this enough? What if it's not enough?). I talked to my friends in a kind of awed and whispery voice, feeling like a teenage boy about to lose his virginity. Like a dyke about to lose another kind of virginity.

At the appointed time, I walked outside into the backyard, which was transformed into a high, white cave by the festival-type tenting and electric lights. I ignored the other late-playing lezzies, and spotted Andy, dressed in black leather pants, sitting at ease in the netted sling chair that hung on an eight-foot chain from the center of the peaked tent roof. I think she was enjoying being watched admiringly by passers-by.

Andy caught my eye and smiled brightly as I, thinking helplessly of moths and flames, drew close. Despite my earlier boldness, I was scared and excited and felt a little sick. I opened my mouth to say something, anything.

Without uttering a word, she scooted her butt forward in the sling, leaned back, and pushed her long, strong legs up against either end of the overhead cross-bar support of the chair. The leather pants were actually chaps, which covered only her legs and the outside of her hips, with a belt around her waist. Chaps and boots were all she was wearing. You know I'm never gonna find a way to write about it that will convey the impact of being offered a beautiful woman's open cunt like that, okay? You're just gonna have to read the line a couple of times while smacking yourself over the head with a hefty vibrator wrapped in your lover's well-worn underwear.

The trust implicit in such a frankly sexual welcome staggered me. I melted, starting somewhere south of the belly button and spreading outwards. My fright and slight nausea had metamorphosed into tenderness and desire.

I don't remember crossing the last few feet between us. I don't remember whether either of us said anything in the next few minutes; if we did it was unnecessary, redundant.

My memory hasn't failed me on the important details, because I remember the warmth of her body in that perfect summer-night air. I remember that she smiled at me while I fumbled for the gloves in my pocket, and grinned like the sun rising when I started tearing open those silly little (blessed little) lube packets with my teeth. I remember clearly how at first I fucked her carefully, reverently, with two and then three fingers only, and how she had to encourage me to press in further, to add more lube and more fingers.

The sling chair, hung from the single overhead chain, made every movement exaggerated—simple movements becoming large, the sway of the sling becoming part of our rhythm. When she showed me that she wanted to be fucked harder, I pressed myself against her, my left arm encircling her and keeping her close, so every thrust we made wouldn't send her spinning away.

The other dykes in the yard, many close by and watching, just made it better, somehow. Their presence was not intrusive, but helpful, encouraging. Completely focused on Andy, I could still somehow feel the watchers' empathetic desire and hear their hushed murmurs, and as usual, being watched both aroused and comforted me.

From three fingers I went to four, pinkie tucked in tightly alongside my other fingers. Andy encouraged me to keep going. A final desperate attack on the plethora of lube packets stuffed in my shirt provoked giggling from Andy but allowed a generous coat of lube over my entire gloved hand. And when I tucked my thumb in the hollow of my palm and pushed inside her again, she stopped giggling and gasped, opening her thighs a little more.

I remember my awe as her cunt clasped me and started to welcome me in. I held my breath, expecting at any moment to meet the tight, tense ring of muscle that had always before, with my other lovers, meant that I wasn't going any farther, that I was locked outside. But she was elastic, forgiving, her muscles strong but yielding, stretching to open around me.

Still I hesitated, pushing gently against that tighter spot but going no deeper, unwilling to hurt her. Until Andy reached down, grasped my wrist and pulled me inside her, silently making it abundantly clear that I was being sweet but kind of dense. My heart skipping madly, I leaned a little more firmly into my next thrust and suddenly, shockingly, the widest part of my hand slipped past the tightest spot inside her, and she swallowed me to the wrist with a rush, with an ease that I will never forget.

She made a little groaning noise like a cat's purr, arched back in the chair, and her lovely, welcoming cunt pulsed strongly around my hand. I'd never felt like this, never felt so honored with someone's sex and vulnerability. Touched beyond measure, I wanted to sink to my knees, but didn't, and wanted to cry, but didn't, and wanted to kiss her, and did. And I realized the happy groaning noise was coming from my throat as well.

What I remember thinking with the scrap of thinking mind I had left was that this must be how people felt when they found religion, and how ironic it was that my personal religious ecstasy was waiting in here, all along, inside the snug, wet and welcoming cunt of the hottest woman I'd ever seen.