Lesbian Erotica
"Little Dutch Girl" a sex story by Bree
I was about to give up. I'd fled to my beloved Amsterdam to nurse a broken heart -- or at least get an ocean away from the girl responsible for shattering it. Armed with a well-timed inheritance from a grandmother I hardly knew, I quit my job, broke my lease, and threw myself a bon voyage party complete with printed invitations that read, "I don't care if my girlfriend just left me. I'm turning 26 and going to Amsterdam." From the moment of my first visit there, with the then-girlfriend in tow, the streets felt like home to me, instantly familiar. My feet found the Homomonument and Anne Frank Huis without a glance at the map. I wanted to stay forever, but the girlfriend had to return to her family, her job, her obligations. Now that her obligations were no longer mine, I could return -- for a full month this time -- to live my little dream of finishing my book in a cozy apartment overlooking a canal.
I never did finish my book, because I fell in love. I fell in love the way I fell off my bicycle into a puddle on the Leidesplein -- it was an accident, and humbling, but it soaked right through. I'd had it with bars and smoky brun cafés, walls stained brown like aging sailors' teeth from years of tobacco. I'd grown bored of coffeeshops that sell hash from a menu with your coffee; the buzz was a pleasant distraction, but made me feel like the Ugly American Tourist. I wanted an authentic Amsterdam experience. I wanted to do as the locals do. So I ferreted out the C.O.C. gay and lesbian community center for a friendly, non-threatening women's dance.
Almost immediately, the quintessential little Dutch girl danced over to me. "I have a love affair with your country," she announced. She was 19 -- 19! -- and a sometimes-model. In other words, she was completely out of my league. Pale, paper-thin porcelain skin; face framed by blonde ringlets, ruddy cheeks, pursed pink lips that looked like she was holding back a laugh, bottomless pools of liquid eyes that made it impossible to concentrate on anything she was actually saying. "Okay?" she said. "Okay?" I realized she must've just asked me a question. The answer would be yes, of course. Yes. Anything you want, beautiful. You want me to drive you home on my bicycle all the way to Rotterdam? Want me to follow you to an abandoned alley in Centraal Station? Want me to walk with you to the Red Light District and pay a girl to play with both of us until daylight? Yes, yes, a thousand times yes.
"I'll be your personal tour guide then," was what she said. Well, that's a start. She scribbled her phone number on an Amstel coaster, and I started listening. "See you at the Meeting Point at Centraal Station" -- why not the alley? -- "tomorrow at eleven." Her English was perfect. So were her breasts. "Okay?"
"Okay," I said, feeling like my trip to Amsterdam was finally beginning. She laughed and danced away, the sweet smell of her hair lingering. .
Alas, my Berlitz Dutch language cassette tapes had not prepared me well for dating abroad. I knew how to say, "Goedendag, ein coffee zonder melk alstublieft" (Good day, one coffee black, please), but how do you say, "Won't you please sit on my face?" My little Dutch girl became my private Dutch tutor. She would later teach me this and other things you'd never find in Frommer's, like likkerding (pretty girl), her nickname for me, and beftekkel, the ultimate Dutch insult, meaning cunt-licking dog. The first time I attempted this word aloud, under her instruction, she laughed so hard that wine came out her nose.
I taught her things, too. After a whirlwind local's tour of Amsterdam that included a ferry ride, tea in a Japanese garden hidden on the roof of a downtown building, a trolley to a remote neighborhood where punk kids squat, flea market shopping at Waterlooplein, my first Indonesian riistaffel, two bars, and a café, I admitted that I was smitten. "What is smitten?" she asked, adorably. "Like a handshoe?" she asked, meaning a glove, like a mitten, and it was my turn to laugh.
"No, like a crush."
"Ohhh." She got it that time. We sat drinking Weikes Wittes (German white beer) that she ordered for us with lemon rounds, served with brightly-colored plastic implements that she used to mash the lemon at the bottom of the glasses. I finished drinking mine, and she reached over into my glass, deftly plucked the lemon from the bottom, and ate it. Emboldened, I leaned over and tasted it in her mouth.
"How'd you like to get out of here?"
Being 19, she still lived with her parents, so we walked breathlessly back to my small rented room with its single bed in the Inner-Hostel behind the Concertgebouw. I held the door open for her to pass through first (affording me a great view of her pert ass) and doted on her shamelessly, fixing her a drink and cupping her small, heart-shaped face in my only slightly larger hands. Something about this sweet girl and her dizzying perfume made me feel like a 14-year-old boy, earnestly horny and eager to please.
I fumbled with her buttons, hoping my bald sincerity would make up for my lack of grace. She leaned against my single bed and arched her back, offering herself to me. Overwhelmed that someone this beautiful would let me touch her, I dove in, bathing her with my tongue, feasting on her pink nipples, tugging with my teeth until her breath grew ragged. I moved my hand between her legs and stroked her gently. She was so tiny, so slender-hipped, I was afraid I'd hurt her; if I let go and fucked her as hard as I wanted to, she would surely break. Then this little Dutch girl surprised me and groaned that she needed more of me inside her. I felt clumsy, like a virgin, touching another woman for the first time. She spread herself before me like a silken sheet to burrow and bury myself in. I touched her tentatively at first, fluttering against her opening, but she thrust her pelvis against me to take my fingers. With my tongue dancing in her mouth, I felt like I was flying and my thumb circled her clit, my two fingers probing deeper, still deeper. "I want all of you," she whispered, and in a burst of uncharacteristic brazenness, I turned her on her stomach, biting the back of her shoulders as I stroked her from behind. My tongue grazed her ear to distract her as I moved my hand inside her in smooth, sure strokes up to my second knuckles at the widest part of my hand. God. Was this what it felt like fucking me? Why hadn't anyone ever let me do this before? I felt soaking wet between my own legs, and I thought I just might come with her as I pumped her from behind, hard and fast at her insistence. She pushed against me hungrily, and I gave her more than I thought she could take, just to see if she could. Four fingers, the tip of a thumb in that precious slick, sweet, intoxicating home I'd found. Tuck the thumb inside the palm, turn the wrist -- oh! -- we both cried out with the impossibility of it. My hand disappeared inside her, and the tiniest movement made her squirm and moan and turn, pivoting on my hand. She wailed in a language neither Dutch nor English, not really even human, but I understood every sound. Her skin was shiny and radiant with sweat and heat.
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"You're amazing," I told her, incredulous tears stinging my eyes.
"Shhh, lekkerding, and don't stop fucking me," this bewitching, beautiful vixen told me back. What else could I do but whatever she wanted?
I was stunned. There I was in Amsterdam with my whole hand up to my wrist buried in the most beautiful girl I'd ever seen. Me, fucking this tiny little perfect 19-year-old, who cried out and shuddered against my hand -- and informed me later, in my arms, when she could speak again, that I'd just given her her very first orgasm from another person.
I felt invincible, like the Little Dutch Boy who saved Amsterdam by putting his finger in the dyke.
I held my Little Dutch Girl as she slept, enjoying the breeze of her breath against my skin, hoping that even if I couldn't take her home to the States with me, I could at least hold onto this newfound feeling.
We were inseparable, bona-fide girlfriends for the remaining three weeks of my trip. Our love affair was the perfect condensed, miniature relationship with a distinct beginning, middle, and end. When we parted reluctantly at Schipol Airport, we both cried and promised to write, which we did, on and off for years. Back home, I went back to my old life, and eventually found an American girl to let me get down her pants. But if I knew at all what to do when I got there, it was because I learned with a little Dutch girl in Amsterdam in my three-week intensive study abroad.
A later version of this story appears in Lesbian Travelrotica, Alyson Books, 2007
Originally published October 2006 - "Supernatural"
Published with permission from author on OystersandChocolate.com. Copying or reprinting this work in part or in whole without permission is illegal.