F Is for Fetish by Alison Tyler

Author:Alison Tyler [ALISON TYLER]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Cleis Press
Published: 2012-03-17T00:00:00+00:00

THOMAS S. ROCHE

SWITCHBLADE

FROM L7 TO DIAMANDA to Christian Death, the music cast auditory shadows across the crowd, raking the listeners’ souls with long fingernails. Kylie stalked the darkness to the beat, seeking her prey.

She wore a tight leather vest with nothing underneath, the sides of her slight breasts visible through the armholes, a small amount of cleavage evident in the deep V of its front. If the leather had been of slightly lower quality, you wouldn’t have been able to see the nipples through the buttery black midnight—growing more evident and visible, demanding, defiant, whenever Kylie felt them hardening. The two bottom buttons of the leather vest—undone—came six inches short of Kylie’s low-slung leather jeans, showing the tattooed white belly and the bright ring through the navel, challenging anyone to dare to think of this woman, just for one second, as an ornament. The leather pants, starting two inches below the navel and unhindered by anything underneath, were not quite tight enough to show the outline of Kylie’s cunt, the swell of her lips and their rings. The pants zipped down the back between the globes of Kylie’s ass, eternally unzipped just a quarter-inch, just enough to invite the casual passerby to start on unzipping them the rest of the way—if she dared. That potential energy put Kylie in absolute erotic control of her world, knowing that the invitation went unanswered for want of nerve, not desire.

Kylie’s hair was shaved on the sides of her head, showing the supple tattoo of blue-black chain curving around silver-flashing ears.

She was an imposing woman. Although only five foot three, and barely one hundred pounds, her power emanated from some sort of inner reservoir. That, and the barest hint of the knife that showed at the top of her boot. It was a switchblade, and it radiated the covert power given off by all contraband weapons—only in a club like this could Kylie wear it with impunity, even half-secreted as it was.

Lisette stood there against the mirror, caressed by the shadows from the dance floor, afraid and mesmerized. Her baby-doll dress was short, as Kylie had insisted, and tight, as she had strongly suggested. Lisette’s nipples showed through the thin cotton. Laced halfway to her knees were the combat boots she had mentioned one night, months ago, that had brought such an impressive and approving string of expletives from Kylie’s fast-moving fingers.

Remembering the words, Lisette shivered.

Slowly, Kylie made her way across the edge of the dance floor, casually studying the scene. She didn’t need to elbow people aside, but as the crowd grew thicker, passage became more difficult. She paused in one corner, her back to Lisette.

Lisette looked, breathing hard, blinking to make sure it was real. Her wrists were crossed behind her; the hot smell of sex was in her nostrils. She could feel the tension in her hips, feel the tingling in her fingertips. Her lips and tongue were dry. She shot a glance toward the door, wondering how fast she could

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