Frida’s New Submissive Slut
by
Karin Williams
Hard Case Dyke, LLC
Smashwords Edition
2012
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Copyright © 2012 Karin Williams
All rights reserved
Cover photo by DarkTraces, used with permission
My first time in a lesbian bar: I am finally legal, just two days past my twenty-first birthday, out with all the grown-up dykes.
Or so my fake ID states.
I’m really not, but I look old enough, and eighteen is not far off.
I’ve been told they don’t really care at this lesbian bar; that older women often come here looking for young girls to have fun with.
And that’s what I want.
Already I feel self-conscious, the girl who doesn’t belong here, doesn’t know what she’s in for.
It’s pretty much empty, just past 7:00. I have my choice of spots and I choose a barstool at the curved end of the bar, where I can see as much as possible.
I’m the only one there, and the bartender is friendly, calls me ‘Sweetie.’ I try to be cool as I order a glass of sauvignon blanc.
‘First time here?’ she asks. ‘Well, just relax, hon, and have a good time. Everybody’s pretty nice here; they’ll treat you good. Especially you: you’re cute.’
She touches me lightly under the chin, and I give her a smile in return.
I
wonder if she’s coming on to me, the friendly-flirty
bartender.
The dance floor is empty, but I notice there are
darker spots around the perimeter that are more populated: two women
together in several spots, a larger group in one area, and a number
of single women at tables.
Wonder if the single women are waiting for friends or if they are
there, like me, to find new ones. Try to subtly check them out, but
it’s too hard to tell from this distance.
Sip my wine for a
while, hoping that the drink works its magic on my nerves without
getting too out of hand. In about 30 minutes, I finish the first
glass and order another. The warm glow of the alcohol is starting,
and I feel myself more relaxed.
The barstools have started to
fill up; I can blend into the background more.
It’s
a diverse group: a few butch girls, some ‘soft,’ some harder,
some femme types like me, and even a couple of ‘bull-dykes.’ I
notice the latter two eyeing me and start to get uneasy; not my type,
for sure. But when I avoid their stares and show no interest, they
get the hint and go back to their own conversation.
Just as my
second glass of wine arrives, someone new sits down at the other end
of the bar. From my spot, I have a clear view of her. She’s the
type of woman that always draws my attention: attractive and
feminine, conservatively well-dressed, professional-looking. Her full
mane of hair looks to be a darker brown than my own, or maybe black,
but as she moves into the light I realize that it’s actually a
deep, rich red. It falls over her shoulders, about the same length as
my own, and frames a face of ice-cool beauty.
Even from this distance, I am caught by her eyes: steely blue daggers, which, I suspect, could look right through me, into my soul.
My guess is she’s in her mid-thirties, and carries herself in a way that exudes strength, confidence and competence. She’s clearly a professional. My guess is that she came here directly from work.
I’m
immediately captivated.
Drink my wine and continue to survey the
room, but my gaze keeps returning to my mystery woman, who seems to
be doing her own survey, like a lioness stalking prey. As I glance
back one more time, I’m surprised to see her looking directly at
me! Those amazing eyes stay on me for several seconds, apparently
evaluating me, and I stay with her, transfixed.