Under the name Betina Cipher, she has self-published her kinky literary short story collection Vanilla-ish and novella Yes, Mistress. Her work appears in Getting It: a Femdom Anthology by SinCyr Press and She’s Yours Tonight, a cuckold anthology edited by Rose Caraway. By her daytime secret identity, Ms. Cipher is a professional writer, editor, poet, and lyricist. You can find her naughty thoughts at betinaciphererotica.com
Have you ever been wrong about attraction? Felt utterly nothing upon meeting someone at first, but then over time noticed your body turns towards that person, that you make excuses to talk to them when that person made almost no first impression at all?
A woman, possibly, where you had never thought of women as attractive before.
No, that’s not entirely true. Because you were taught from a very young age to be attracted to women vicariously, to put your mind inside that of a man’s, imagine what he found attractive and then try to emulate those qualities. You have many memories of closely examining the way your girlfriend’s jeans fit in the junior high bathroom, assessing each other’s makeup and rewarding each other with praise for looking a-mazing.
So upon meeting her, this silken, olive- skinned creature, maybe you felt a shot of jealously, a totally natural and recognizable feeling that your superego quickly tackled and reconstructed into appreciation.
“Hello,” you said, and held out your hand.
“Hello,” said the raven, the gazelle, the seashell.
There was some exposition in effort to socially validate your conversation so that the two of you could make a discussion. She made eye contact; her voice went down easily, like a sip of milk.
She seems nice. You thought this upon leaving the gathering.
Time passes. It is the same, the drill of the day winding in one direction, and then unwinding at night. You march along.
In the unwinding times, you find yourself looking at her online presence. Now you know of her existence in the world. She is busy, or spends enough time combining words and images to appear busy on the platforms. Her curation is good, but not so constant as to appear desperate. For example, there will be days in a row with no posts, shares, comments or symbols exemplifying emotions.
There is another gathering. You see that she is “interested”. Is she? Are you?
You decide to go. You could stay at home and start another serial. It’s so much easier. No outfit to decide on. No dark forest of personalities and politics. But there was a word she said slowly around her accent, the word was “cream fraiche” and it made you want to taste it, just because of the way she said it.
She is the first person you see when you approach the open door. The place is busy with hipsters peering at screens and shouting into each other’s ears. There will be fifteen dollar cocktails that take ten minutes to make. You swallow and watch the way the supermodern pendulum light dangles over her, highlighting the sheen of her hair and teeth. She is talking to a skinny young man with knees that pop way backward and hips that pop way forward. You hesitate and then she sees you and you might be wrong, but the recognition looks like part relief and part happiness.
You must work your way all the way across the long alley of the bar through tightly packed bodies that all suction in clumps in the direction of the alcohol. You must repeat ‘excuse me’ despite the almost certainty you will be ignored. In that time, it occurs to you that you have no playbook here. With men, it’s easy. They are like a TV dinner, you pop it in the oven and five minutes later, you know exactly what is going to come out. Women are like a cookbook in a foreign language. You have never read this recipe, let alone tried to make it successfully. There is no telling what the ingredients might be. What tools will it require? You have no idea.
And then there is the horrifying possibility that you are wrong and she isn’t into you.
When you arrive at her elbow, she lifts a finger to silence the young man in mid-sentence and brings her face close to yours in a European kissing greeting that catches you off guard. You have a bit of a laugh and she gives you that eye contact again and says, “it’s so good to see you, you look beautiful, just beautiful!”
You are momentarily stunned and return the compliment, thankful that you can use your straight girl training. You may go undetected. Maybe you will be friends. It would be both a disappointment and a huge relief.
But as she is talking to the young man, you notice a few things. One is that she has slipped her arm around your waist and the other is that you can smell her now and a pulsing sensation, almost like a key turning in a music box, begins to play a delicate melody inside you.
She notices you are without a beverage. More people in the group are situating themselves and establishing social hierarchy. No one has any clout with these mixologists, however.
“That’s okay,” she says to you, turning her drink so that the little straw points at you, “Would you like some of mine?”
“Yes please, I would like some of yours,” you say this with what is likely too much innuendo, but she makes a little snort of laughter that flicks at your heart.
You keep talking, wanting to hear her lips shape the words, wanting the story of her to keep unfolding. The skinny dude finally realizes he’s outgunned and turns toward another member of the flock to validate himself.
You ask her questions. You love her job and that she loves her job. She asks you the same and you are encouraged by her more than basic knowledge of your industry. She has to lean toward you to get the words across. Somehow, another drink appears in her hand and she takes the straw from the empty and put is in the fresh one so now there are two. It’s so cute that she did that, you think.
The perk of her eyebrows when she is excited about something. The smallness of her chin is almost strange, like she might have had an awkward face as a child but now it gives her a sculptural look. You hate the word “exotic,” but it comes to mind nonetheless.
And what you find altogether unlikely is that she is eking out more information from you, about your background, about your journey in this city, about relationships with the others in the group. You are trying to listen and interpret her signals at the same time and the cocktail is helping or hindering?
It takes effort not to let your eyes rest on the upturned bracket of collarbone, the smooth sheet of skin on her chest that descends to become breast and nipple. When your eyes skate over her, and then you meet her eyes, you could be wrong but it seems she likes it, likes the feeling of you looking at her.
“I would like to go somewhere quiet with you.” This feels definitive, gauging by the clunking of your heart. But what then? You feel virginal, naked, flushed with willingness, but maybe also like you are about to be pitched into the mouth of a volcano.
“We can go to my place.” You say this and then quickly do a mental scan of your studio when you walked out. Clean sheets? A week ago, maybe. Cat box? Could be bad.
These are not the things men notice.
“Great, let’s go,” she unhooks her purse from under the bar. The sea of bar-goers seems to part more easily for her. On the street, she has summoned transport. The two of you glide into a clean backseat. She slumps in the seat a little.
“This is much better,” she purrs, “now I can hear what you are saying.” Her accent is more extravagant now, curliquing at the end of each phrase.
The city lights sweep across the angles of her face and you reach over impulsively and brush where the light touched. She looks down at your lips and that moment arrives.
It is so much better than you thought. There is no trace of halitosis that sometimes wafts from the first kiss with a dude. There is no stubble. There is only the velvet inside of plum, the flower whisper, the cool honey of her tongue. You open, beckon her inwardly, suck gently, seek the back of her neck with your fingers.
The ride has arrived at your building. You are suddenly hosting the most unlikely guest. You have some concerns, none of which feel appropriate to mention.
And there she is suddenly, almost floating in your one big room, her senses quickly digesting her environment and returning to you with a pleased expression. You want more of this: her happiness.
Her hands are small but strong and more square than you would expect, she talks with them and they are suddenly and deftly unbuttoning your top. You are seated now and she stands, her hips in front of you. You let yourself look at her now. You have permission to drape your gaze over her round hips, tracing the seams of her jeans down the outsides of her thighs.
You look up and she has subtracted your shirt from the equation.
“I have never done this before,” you say in a middling attempt at disclosure.
She laughs. “I think you will like it.”
Her lips again. A swell of saliva welcomes her tongue into your mouth. Her fingers are playing along your shoulders, tapping chills out on your flesh. Clothes are finding their way to the floor. Her bra is demi, a lacey little shelf holding up the graceful curve of her breasts, and your fingers pry at the straps, easing her buoyant flesh out of the cups.
It’s off now. She stops moving so you can look. It’s hard to believe what you are seeing. The slopes, the points, the bulges hovering above her ribs. Your tits don’t look like this. But that might be why you want to eat hers, and you do, nose nuzzling her bulbs. She sighs over a long period of time.
You move slowly, the questions still firing in your head like popcorn. Running your lips across her tits feels downright luxurious.
She is working your clothes off some more. Her lips are finding your neck and the soft feather of her hair on your shoulder makes you quake. Her hands are as expressive on your flesh as they are in the air when she talks.
She is peeling you bare and pushing you back on the bed. Her panties are the last hold out. You face her on your side and again her lips float over to yours. The feeling of flight briefly visits you.
Some other things occur to you. She will not get you pregnant. Nor will you get her pregnant. She will not overpower you. Her hands are investigating your belly, drifting around the sphere of your flank.
“So soft,” she coos. “So sexy.” She cups the meat of your ass and grips you gently and the feeling of being gathered up, it’s so good, painfully good.
Where do you begin? You are aware you are overthinking the thing, but you are in luck because she’s on it. Or rather, on you. The various harmonies of sensation are distinct but synchronized and layered. Her cheek finds the underside of your chin as her lips land so softly on your throat, while her strange little hands paint designs all over your flesh.
She is at your panties, tapping at the jade gate when she looks at you and asks, “May I go down on you?” You jaw bobs at first and you manage to say yes, and she’s off, down there in Hades, seeking out your river, the panties banished, the bubbling slit of you terrified before–
She’s in and there is no hesitation in her movements, she knows exactly what she is doing and what she wants to evoke from you. She attaches her lips around your clit and draws it into a point, then dabs at the very tip of you in a tiny gesture that splashes sparks across your flesh. She shifts and the wrongness of all this girl-on-girl springs you open. You are afraid you are going to splooge all over her and she licks and sucks deeper into your crack like she can’t do without it.
Your insides seem to contract right before the gush of girl sauce rapidly exits you and this lovely creature swallows your cum with more throaty eagerness than any man has ever responded with.
A wail, a gasp, a collapse, a feverish vibration, all gifts she just gave to you. She sits up with a triumphant glittering expression, her hair tossed, her stunning tits wavering in the air.
It’s your turn. You want to make her feel this way, but you are scared. She lies down and reads your mind: “you don’t have to if you don’t want to.”
“I want to, I just never have.” She nods with sympathy, she feels a little sorry for you. Her hand is on your wrist, guiding you to her panties. She kisses you and your scent on her lips is so nasty and good.
“Just touch me how you like it.” And your hand is suddenly inside the hot envelope of her panties. She is on her side, one hand propping her head, the serpentine curve of her hip glowing in the dim light of your badly lit apartment. Thighs open, she circles your wrist as your middle finger finds the slick walls of her cunt. She looks down and then back up at you. You move closer. Smell her: sharp like ginger, earthy like forest floor. The whole world seems to fall way as you stroke her molten insides.
“Ah,” she says, eyes fluttering. “Yes.”
You have to taste her. You pull at her panties and she sidles out of them. You are on your knees, sliding her pelvis toward you.
Before words dissolve in your mind, before you sink your face into this ephemeral woman’s underworld, you reflect on how wrong you have been: you were wrong to be afraid of pussy. Yours or other people’s. Pussy, you understand now, is like briny butter. You would put it on toast if you could.
Your hands wrap the tops of her thighs and open her, fingers prying swollen lips, the flowery fragrance salting your tongue, sending rivulets of pleasure coursing through your trunk and tickling your own clit. Everything is soft and yields to the smallest suggestion of your mouth. Her clit perched at the height of her labia like a tiny crown, you instinctively grasp it between your lips and your tongue swims laps around it as she flounders on the bed.
It’s this frictionless moment that has evaded you, the thousand paper cuts of daily pandering soothed by the balm of her body. You can’t fathom this medicine and how it heals but you gulp at it with confused wonder. She is climbing higher toward her climax and you snuggle in tighter, become bolder with your movements, riding the high right behind her. She yelps and flexes, her palms finding your cheeks.
She fits your mouth to hers and the kissing takes up all of your face, her juices blending with yours. She roils through the last of her orgasm, wriggling against you with gratitude before finally settling down. You spoon her and delight in the way your arm fits in the curve of her waist and your hand loops under her breast. She sighs in the long silence afterwards and the world goes on about its business.