chasing a femme down in the woods just to fuck her open the moment i catch her, show her what she’s missing with my cock buried in her cunt like she’s some kind of free use fleshlight
Kit is devasted to learn that she won't be co-counselors with her best friend this year at Seneca Lake Summer Camp... and confused when the cute boy she saw at registration is assigned the role instead! It turns out, the shy girl from last summer who flew under the radar went through some major changes, including this new butch look. Forced proximity and long, hot, summer nights unearth an attraction that Kit tries to ignore. But how long can she ignore the strange summer heat for?
tags: Lesbian Sex Lesbian Character Butch/Femme butch on t Summer Camp camp counselors
i’m sat for camp counselor!!! i like your mind and writing - v neat stuff, so thanks for sharing.
omg hell yes bro!! i never made it to being a counselor when I camped (i would get hella sick and also constipated after just one week lollll so i could never last an entire summer!!)
historical lesbian fic heavily inspired by the stories and foundations of the lesbian archive in NYC (Which i'm criminally underread on tbh, I just had an idea and ran with it.)
It's the spring of 1966, and Stasia enters the floating world of early lesbian literature through a chance encounter at her parent's diner. On the cusp of adulthood and tiptoeing around one of the only truths she knows-- that she is secretly a female homosexual-- she is enamored and overwhelmed by the femmes and butches who allow her inside.
My arms ached as I readjusted the hefty box. It was persistent in its relationship to gravity, the heavy old books begging to be reunited with the ground. The doorman outside tilted his cap and a wash of concern crossed his face when he saw me, a young woman carrying something that eclipsed her entire torso, but I waved away his request to help. The dull corner of the box dug into the crook of my elbow, the place where a nurse may administer an IV. I winced and headed for the elevators, sweat beading on my upper lip, gathering like heavy rainclouds in my armpits. I was so preoccupied with my discomfort, I almost did not take notice of the fine ruby-red wallpaper of the lobby, or the gleaming marble floors, arranged in a checkerboard formation. Another woman was walking a few strides ahead of me, and she pushed the elevator button. I sighed in relief that I would not have to somehow balance the box and push it, and joined her in front of the reflective bronze doors.
She was in a terse, grey tweed skirt suit, with a navy blue turtleneck creeping up her throat from behind the buttoned lapels. She wore an eye-catching brooch, a tiger’s eye stone set in swirled loops of pewter. On her feet were old fashioned loafers, with only the slightest bit of heel, and dark grey stockings. In one hand, she carried a leather briefcase, not a pocketbook. In her other arm, a flannel coat was tucked under her arm. Her dark hair was stylishly short– daring is what my mother would call it, with her hairs combed into a neat point in the back. She caught me staring at her in our reflection just as the doors parted, and she stepped to the side so I could enter the elevator first.
“Can I help you with something?” She asked as she stepped into the elevator, noticing my staring.
I shook my head and folded my lips together, heat rising in my cheeks. I felt dull in comparison to this woman, dressed in my waitressing uniform from the diner that my father owned. I couldn’t see over the box if there were any residual stains from the lunch shift on the front of my skirt, and I suddenly became hyperaware of the split that formed in my bangs. I blew up a stream of air towards my forehead, hoping to get my fringe to lay right. I feared I smelled like roast beef and fried potatoes, an oily aroma that was otherwise unpleasant outside of a dining room.
“Not even that box?” She asked. Her face, poreless and without a stitch of makeup, was stern, but a levity danced in her voice, which was low and airy, a draft of cool breeze into a hot room. I shook my head again. “Which floor?” She asked.
“Thirteen.”
One of her eyebrows, which were neat but full like Audrey Hepburn’s, quirked at my response. She scanned me from the corner of her eye as she pressed one button and retracted her hand. “Me as well.”
We rode up in silence, and she glanced at me a handful of times, with a practiced measure of distance, but obvious curiosity. Her gaze lingered on the box I carried in the moments before our elevator slowed to a stop. I had never visited this apartment before, so I was surprised to see that there were only three apartments on this floor. A, B, and C. The floors were dark mahogany wood, with a rich ivy green paint on the walls. We left the elevator, my pulse thrumming from both the strain of hoisting two dozen volumes of poetry and women’s literature, but also from excitement of being invited to the illustrious apartment 13A.
My invitation came through sheer luck. Last week, I struck up a conversation at my father’s restaurant with a gregarious woman. She came in for dinner and chose a booth in the corner, overlit by the glow of an old glass lamp. From her purse, she took out several novels, pamphlets, and a three-ring binder that looked well-used. The books were pulps, with red-dyed edges and tattered covers, and she did her best to arrange them in a stack against the tiled wall. She flopped open the cover of her binder, withdrew a fresh composition notebook from her purse, and began reviewing pages of handwritten notes. I watched her from my periphery, enraptured by her platinum blonde bouffant and vibrant purple fur coat, as I took the orders of some regulars, and then approached to refill her coffee. Usually, our customers were the elderly slavs from our parish, bent over and low-talking, their spirits grimy from hard years and cigarette smoke.
She left the orangey print of lipstick against the mug, and shot her hand over the rim to stop me from pouring any more.
“Oh please don’t, not unless you want me here working all hours of the night.”
“Well, I’d have to kick you out at midnight for closing,” I said, retracting the coffee pot. She laughed loudly, causing some of the grouchy old men at the bar to swivel and scowl at her. She had a small gap between her teeth, a feature I always found charming in women.
“Can I get you anything else while you work?” I asked, glancing at her pile of papers and soft-cover books. A heavily annotated script had been hole-punched and inserted into the binder. The title page even had musings scribbled upon it, looping around the rigid typeface font in red ink.
“Do you have whiskey?”.
“I love that play,” I breathed, before I could let myself think. A silence grew between us for a moment, and then I snapped into attention. “Yes! Sorry. Yes, do you want Irish whiskey, Scotch?”
“‘The Children’s Hour?’” The woman asked, sitting upright. Her eyes searched mine, the brilliant green of them warmed to hazel by the lighting. I felt my face growing hot, a spark of recognition between us. Despite that, I felt exposed.
I squirmed, breaking my gaze and staring at the tops of my feet, outfitted in my customary workwear– black and white saddle shoes.
“I love… theater,” I murmured. We met eyes again, and the woman let out that glorious laugh, which crinkled up her eyes, shadowed with green, shimmering powder.
“Oh yes,” she said, the laugh punctuating her voice with a breathy staccato. “I too am a fan of thespians.”
My eyes must have been as wide and white as the poached eggs on her plate, which made her laugh even more.
“Oh, don’t worry, love,” she said, gesturing to her books. My eyes flew over the titles, many of which I’d devoured by flashlight under my quilt, praying that my sister wouldn’t wake up and demand to know what was keeping me up so late. “I’m a thespian, myself.”
“I… um…and for your whiskey, miss?”
She dabbed at her eye with a kerchief. “Scotch and water, please, love.”
I walked past the bar and into the kitchen, silently slipping past the line cooks and Mildred, my cousin, the other server working that night. With a hammering heart, I stepped right into the walk-in fridge, not stopping until I was face-to-face with a sack of wrinkly radishes. I pressed my face against the cool canvas, trembling. In New York City, I knew that there were many others like me out there, possibly in every building that lined the crowded streets. But I never went out of my way to meet one. Not yet, that is. After I discovered the female-led romance novels at a drugstore in midtown, I knew what I was afflicted by. I was still getting used to the realization, and scared stiff by the reality of my situation. And now, I’d reliquished my most private secret to a stranger in my very Orthodox family’s diner.
When I returned to the stranger’s table, sweating glass of amber liquid on my tray, she was deep in thought, scribbling away at a composition notebook. I set the glass down on a cocktail napkin, turning to leave and let her work in peace.
“Would you care to join me?” came her voice, then the tinkling sound of her acrylic nails, costume rings and the ice in her glass all clinking in harmony.
I froze in my saddle shoes, glancing over my shoulder at her. Her round face was open, hopeful, like an uneaten pie. “I’ve already gone on my break,” I said, sheepish. I wanted nothing more than to sit across from this woman, in fact, anyone, who shared the same, secret longings that I did.
She pursed her lips and scanned the restaurant. “Everyone looks quite content, if you ask me.”
I swept the dining room with my eyes. Everyone had tucked into their meals or just received a fresh pour of coffee, it was true. And I’d already rolled the silverware and stacked clean dishes. And Mildred had taken thirty smoke breaks, it seemed, in this five hour shift. My heart hummed, the air around us crackling with an unnamed electricity.
“I can sit for a little while,” I said, smiling, and set down my tray. The stranger, who then introduced herself as Eliza, clapped her hands in glee.
I learned she was an archivist and an organizer, words I’d never heard before, for the ""thespian" community of New York.
“New York now, the world tomorrow,” she asserted, nodding emphatically. In all her glamour and pizazz, I was both relieved and confused that she moved so boldly in lesbian spaces. I’d been only given a narrow view of what real lesbians looked like– and it wasn’t the raven-haired widows and their blonde maids who splayed across the covers of my worn pulp paperbacks.
My cousin and I were shopping for stockings in the department store when we glimpsed a pair of fellows observing the timepiece display. I stared for a long while. I was thirteen years old, and although I was green, the sensation of desire was a now recognizable feeling.
“Those aren’t boys,” my cousin hissed into my ear, following my unbroken gaze. “They’re lesbians, to be sure.” My tongue went dry. I swallowed roughly, and said nothing.
Although the books I hid were enough to inform me of mutual female love, I knew that I didn’t long, at least, not as strongly, for the glamour-girl types so much as I did for the two sleek, denim and leather-clad dandies I saw on that fateful summer day. The traffic of the store, harshly exposed under blue-toned flouresents, slowed to a soupy flow around us. I studied one of them, gesturing to a gold wristwatch, the upturned curve of a button nose rising with a smile. A tendril of oiled black hair slipped out of the stylish DA 'do. My pulse thrummed. I'd never felt anything like this before.
My cousin clicked her tongue and went back to the nylon display. I kept staring, and when one of the two turned and caught my gaze, the one with the cute nose, her smile fell. I felt ashamed– not for being caught staring, or for staring in the first place, but because I didn’t want her to think I was glowering. I wish I knew how to tell her that I was admiring.
“You’d love the little office we’ve made for the magazine,” Eliza told me. “We meet on Friday nights after work, then we usually go out in the West Village.”
“Magazine?” I asked, eyes wide.
“Oh, yes, that’s what the archives are for! Well, partially, anyways,” Eliza said. “We collect and reprint poems, essays, stories. New submissions come in, but I also go on the hunt for things from the past. Sappho, Emily Dickinson…”
“Emily Dickinson?” I asked, aghast.
Eliza gave me a look that flashed my own naivety back into my face, nodding as she sipped her scotch.
“Say, why don’t you help me out with an errand for the magazine this week? There’s a bunch of textbooks that a professor at Columbia set aside for me at her home. I have to deliver a meal to my great aunt after work this friday, so I can’t pick up the books in time for the meeting. And besides, it’s always easier to show up to a new place already having completed a task, don’t you think?”
Mildred passed us by, shooting me daggers on her way back to the kitchen, stale smoke in her wake. I straightened up, making my move to leave the booth.
“I’ll help,” I said, in a rush. “Tell me when and where I need to go.”
Eliza ripped a piece of blank paper out of her notebook. “I’ll leave instructions with the bill.”
I shifted the box in my arms, feeling my fingers growing slippery, as the short-haired woman rapped twice on the apartment door before letting herself in. She slipped out of her low heels and dropped her briefcase, before wordlessly taking the heavy box from my arms. I wanted to thank her, but also felt as though she removed my purpose for being there in taking the box from me. We were in a narrow foyer, a neat row of women’s shoes of various sizes organized beside a standing coat rack draped in layers of outerwear. A pattern of mint green pinstripes papered the walls, and a fluffy white Persian cat approached us, interested.
“It’s me,” she called, bending down to scratch under the cat’s chin. “And with company.” She threw a glance my way as she said that, giving me a half-smile that made my heart freeze. I slipped out of my shoes and followed her down the narrow hallway, which was lovingly bedecked in framed photographs and postcards of groups of young women and men and exotic locations, and led me to a bustling parlor. A group of women, ages ranging from 20s to 70s, sat on a powder-pink patterned rug, a mound of papers between them. They raised their eyes, faces warming at the sight of the dark-haired woman.
“Hiya, Roz,” said a freckle-faced woman in round glasses, a red pen lodged behind her ear. “Who’d ya drag in?” The white cat sauntered out from behind my legs and nudged into her lap.
“I have absolutely no idea,” Roz said. “But she had this.” She dropped the box onto the floor with a resounding thud.
“Roz, the neighbors!” said an older woman with a greying braid slung over one shoulder.
Roz shrugged, removing her blazer, revealing the strong set of her shoulders clearly, the delicate nip of her waist. “I’m gonna change,” she said, and then crossed the room, disappearing into a room off of the den. I followed her path with my eyes before awakening to the growing silence as the group studied me, waiting for my introduction.
“Eliza invited me–” I started, my voice wavering and face hot. “I’m Stasia… Some people call me Stacy. You can call me whatever you like.”
“Sta-see-yah,” a woman with short-cropped red curls said from her spot on the floor. I smiled at her, nodding. Upon closer inspection, I noticed she was wearing men’s trousers and a t-shirt, a bolo tie hanging from her neck.
“Eliza asked me to pick up this box from a professor’s house,” I began, “But I also wanted to be here. I wanted to meet you. I… the magazine…”
“We’ve been needing some extra help now that our mailing list has grown,” said Freckles. “I’m Joan, the founder and editor.”
“And homeowner,” piped up the woman with the braid. “I’m Valerie, Joan’s partner.”
“Hi,” I said, shifting in my shoes.
“Happy fuckin’ Friday!” called a voice from the door, and a woman in a stark white nurse’s uniform sauntered in, swinging a paperback by its twisted handles.
“Hey, Greta,” Joan said.
“Who’s this?” Greta asked, still on the move.
“Stasia,” said a woman I hadn’t met yet. She was Black, with large wire-rimmed glasses and a crochet cardigan of many colors.
“Splendid,” said Greta, passing behind me and into another room off of the den.
“I’m Keena. Sit down, hon,” said the woman in crochet. “We’re just sorting through submissions for the next issue.”
I sat with the quiet restraint of a show horse, tucking my knees beneath me and conserving as much space as possible. “What kind of submissions?” I asked.
“Have you read the magazine?” Valerie asked, and I tilted my eyes down as I shook my head.
“I wouldn’t even know where to buy it,” I admitted, sheepishly.
“Are you in college?” Keena asked, searching my face with her eyes, scanning for my age.
I cleared my throat, anxious to answer. “I’m a senior in high school.”
She nodded thoughtfully, not reacting. “A lot of our readership comes from the academic realm, so I’m not surprised you haven’t found it yet. You live in Manhattan?”
“Yes, I moved here with my parents from Russia when I was two.”
“Where do you usually hang around?”
“My parent’s diner in midtown,” I blurted.
Keena and Joan chuckled. “You’re still discovering the world, kid,” Joan said. She reached onto the couch behind her and passed me a booklet, printed on scratchy, tawny paper. Violet Road was printed across a heralding banner, the issue date the previous month. A black and white illustration of two women on a tandem bicycle lay below, along with a few article headlines. Out of Office: Blue Collar Work Welcomes Women. Summer Spots for Girls Like Us: Where to Vacation and Avoid. Dear Mable: My Mom Keeps Setting Me Up with Men! I hungrily roved the cover, then peeled open the issue. I felt a little dizzy from the onslaught of words, drawings, dialogue, all freely using the word homosexual and lesbian. I’d devoured “The Children’s Hour” when I stumbled upon it at a drama bookshop, my eyes moving faster than my brain could keep up. I felt so grateful, relieved even, to have found it, I didn’t consider that there would be anything else like it, aside from the soapy romances I tucked into each night. But here it all was, laid out like a Thanksgiving feast. I went silent as I read, leafing through the pages with delicate fingers, as if I were handling a sacred artifact.
“Okay, what’s the word on the Friedan review?” Roz’s voice called, nearing the circle.
I turned and felt my lips part. Out of the bedroom walked another person entirely. In dungarees, a loose flannel button down, and hair mussed out of a once-neat side part, the secretarial, severe Roz had vanished from the Earth. In her place, a debonair beatnick, a rebel without a cause. I tried not to stare. She looked like a movie star– a male movie star.
“Don’t get started without me!” Greta said, shortly emerging from the bathroom. My eyes bulged. Her form fitting nurses’ uniform was gone, most likely folded into the paper bag she’d carried in, and was replaced by a smart pair of tan men’s slacks and a deep green and white rugby shirt. Her sand-colored hair was smoothed away from her forehead, a small curl falling forward. She looked like a collegiate boy, the kind of guy Mildred would certainly drool over. My breath felt stuck in my throat. I stared at them, but instead of meeting my gaze with defense, they both burst into laughter.
“Just a little costume change, dear,” Greta said, her lilting voice betraying her masculine appearance.
“Can’t stand to be in that skirt longer than I have to,” Roz said, shivering her shoulders in disgust.
My cheeks burned and I buried my nose back into the open issue. Roz and Greta wandered into the kitchen and returned with a few packs of beer.
“It’s five o'clock somewhere,” Roz said, handing Joan a can.
“It’s six thirty,” Joan said, rolling her eyes and accepting the can.
Roz’s eyes, a stone-grey color, found me. “You want one, Stacy?”
Instinctively, I reached my hand out for it. I’d never been offered a beer in my life. Our fingers brushed, and one million shimmering questions bloomed in my mind like dew drops. Questions about Roz. Questions about this circle. Questions about me, and what it meant to be here, heart hammering. And finally, questions of if I would be accepted and welcomed back.
my butch fucked me until we both came together last night and then again this morning with such pretty light coming in from my stained glass windows <3 <3 <3 i am such a lucky femme.
my butch and I were joking around in bed and I started playfully writhing away from them, and he wrestled me down to the bed and it quickly took a turn hehe… he demanded I try to break free and held me down with his entire body while I struggled against him as hard as I could, but I wasn’t going anywhere. Then they fucked me with two fingers while stroking themselves off until he came so loud and hard inside of me. I love life.
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kianamaiart
origamiaround
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