Best Lesbian Erotica 2013 (5 page)

“You had better be packing,” she told me.

I licked her face. Don't ask me why. I just wanted to do it and I had the feeling I could do anything I wanted. I pressed into her so she could feel my hard cock through my jeans, its head pushing against her crotch through the thin lace of her panties. She gasped. I touched my lips to hers and they opened, our tongues meeting hungrily. I knew her performance had made us both hot in different ways.

“Did you come onstage?” I asked.

Leila shook her head. “It's a
performance
,” she said.

“You got fucked with that cucumber in front of all those horny people by that gorgeous friend of yours and you didn't come?”

“I need a butch to make me come,” she said, with an odd, ironic smile that meant it might be true or might just be a tease. I didn't mind either way. It was a game I was willing to play.

Her lipstick was still shining and I honed back in on that luscious mouth, her wet lips opening to mine. She was ready to melt for me. I slipped a hand into those gossamer panties and gasped at how wet she was. Her hips pushed forward and my fingers slid into that delicious cunt. “
Ohhh
,” she moaned from the back of her throat as we continued to kiss like hungry picnickers.

Then she pulled her mouth from mine to murmur, “I don't
have much time. Marie gets tired…with the pregnancy.” She grabbed at my hair and spoke right in my face. “Just fuck me with your cock. Fuck me hard.”

I didn't need to be asked again. I turned her around to fold her lithe body over the counter, unzipped and groaned as I inched aside those lacy panties to press my silicone dick into her wet cunt, watching it slide in just like that cucumber, watching Leila's face contort in the mirror, so different from her controlled, onstage expressions.

As I pressed into her, she pushed harder against me, taking my whole cock inside her in a hungry, sliding ride that rocked us both, till we were buckling against the counter. With one hand, I held the base of the dildo pressed against my own clit and levered the shaft against the front wall of her pussy, thinking of that fat cucumber, that keen crowd. I wrapped the other arm under her, teased at a nipple, and was rewarded with more thrusts back and forth from those dancer's hips of hers.

It was all my fantasies come true, this near-naked girl taking all she could get from me, but I knew we had just one chance to get it right because she would soon be gone, back to her exotic world of Paris cabaret.

We were locked together for sweaty, staggering minutes, Leila's gasps and moans building, my cock moving inside her, my swollen cunt fit to burst, my right hand moving on her clit. Then she screamed and buckled—and so did I.

“Ohhh, you're good,” I murmured in her ear as I collapsed on top of her.

“I told you I needed it,” she whispered in reply.

A sudden flash of light bounced off the mirror like an echo from the heavens. For a moment I thought I was hallucinating. Then I saw that Marie was taking photos and Reno was positioned behind her, shaking her head in mock disapproval.
Crowded behind them, to my chagrin, were Tatiana and both her lovers, plus Freddy, Siggy…and the grungy guy from behind the bar. How long had they been there?

“
Only mental snapshots
,” I barked at Marie, in an effort to maintain my dignity, but my voice sounded oddly staccato in the aftermath of orgasm, my cock still twitching idly inside Leila.

The Frenchwoman arched a plucked eyebrow. “Taxi's here,” she announced, as she turned on her heel, parting our little audience, cool as a cucumber.

 

 

 

 

 

Sometimes you just want to be fucked by someone you don't know and will never see again.

You shower after it's already dark. You get dressed. You go out, jamming your fists into your jacket pockets. You walk fast, digging your heels into the sidewalk, and you keep your head down. You know where you're going.

There's a club. You have to know where it is. You walk down that alley and then it's the second door on the left, down in the basement.

Cabs are pulling up and letting people out and letting other people stumble in. You can smell the river over here and it doesn't smell good.

Take out the pack of cigarettes and hit it on your palm but put it back in your pocket unopened. Just go in.

Down the steps and straight to the bar; you order a scotch, neat, and drink it fast. You have that look on your face: furtive, eyes dashing around. She isn't here. She would never be here. And that's why you are here now.

Who will it be? Find someone who looks like she can take you, and stare, head tilted down. Look up at her with your brow furrowed and that open, pleading look in your eyes. The first one will look away. It's okay. Let her look away, find another one.

The right one will stare back. The right one will know what this means. The right one will stare at you and then go to the bar and order a drink. And you'll order another drink, but sip it this time. Squeeze the glass hard in your hand like you're trying to break it and sip it slow. Let the booze sit on your tongue and burn a little before you swallow it down. Let her watch you.

When you finish your drink, look for her again. Leave a tip on the bar and turn around. Push your way through the crowd. You will feel her grab your elbow before you make it to the door. Let her stop you.

She pulls you back toward the bar but keeps going. Off to the left there are more stairs leading to a deeper basement. Stone butches are playing pool and don't you dare bump up against one or you'll get the shit kicked out of you and not in the way you want.

She's getting her coat. You turn around and she slams you up against the cinder-block wall and grinds her knee between your legs. She pushes into you, squeezing you between her and the wall and it's hard to breathe. She is sucking your mouth. Not kissing you but sucking your tongue; everything is spinning.

“Let's go,” she says, and you follow her.

Outside she walks right by the cabs. The street is dark. There are people fucking in doorways, but she keeps walking. There's a chain-link fence at the edge of the river. As you're tossed against it, the sound of it shocks you, the metal rippling like a wave down the empty streets in loud crashes.

She yanks up your shirt; her mouth is on your breasts for only a few seconds before she turns you around and shoves you
against the cold metal. She pulls at your belt and jerks your pants down to your knees. As she fumbles with you, the links in the fence pinch on your belly and your breasts. You bring your hands up and wrap your fingers tightly, clinging to the fence and letting her tug on you.

She bites your neck; you can feel her bruising you. She wets her fingers on your cunt. One hand, then both hands move between your legs. A wet finger backs up to your ass and she slides it in, pressing against you with her hips and rocking her hand and body into you. Her other hand, her whole hand, is on your cunt. She is rubbing you off. You want her to fill you, but you have no say right now.

You hear the sound of a car and then you're in the headlights for a second as a cab swings a U-turn and heads off. She's laughing. “They won't even know what they were looking at: people fucking, yes, but girls or boys? They'll assume boys. Girls don't fuck on the street like this, right?”

The thought of having been caught in the lights makes you crazy. You want to get off. You want her to get you off, but you don't want this to end.

She bends her knees and wraps herself around you. Still fucking you in the ass, she finally pushes her other hand into your cunt and you feel yourself open up for her immediately. More fingers move into you and still you want more. You want her inside you up to her wrist. You want her whole fucking hand inside you.

You are hanging on the fence now, your body letting go and the muscles in your arms straining and holding you up. The cold metal fence bites into your fingers and your arms start to shake. “You're yelling,” she says with amusement. You got lost. You got completely lost tonight. Just what you needed.

There is no exchange of numbers or names. “I don't want to be fucked,” she says, “but that was fun.” And then she walks away.

 

 

 

 

 

She walked into the classroom late as usual, a tight black skirt riding halfway up her ass. She almost always wore heels, and today was no exception. Red heels so sharp and pointy you could've used them as pencils, if they'd been leaded. I watched her black skirt and her red heels and her brown legs and then refocused on my notebook, hunching my shoulders under their light-jacket shield. In my case, bare skin was a risk rarely worth taking.

She was smart, too, picking up quickly where we were in the discussion and piercing the conversation with words and phrases too well chosen to annoy with their directness. This did annoy me, of course, and her toes annoyed me as she pushed one shoe off with the other foot, and her ankle annoyed me as she rubbed the arch of her now-free foot against it. I looked at her hair, a contained firework of an Afro, and I glanced at her shoulders under the red tank top that completed her outfit. I avoided looking at her face. I knew it would be beautiful. And smug.
Instead, too distracted now to follow the discussion, I scribbled a sketch into my notebook; just a few quick, angry lines: pointy cat-face, long back, tail. Slash-slash-slash for stripes. Tiger. Then squat, rounded, all low-to-ground, long lined snout. Badger.

The section ended and I gathered my things in hasty disorganization, out the door before I'd even put my backpack on properly.

She caught up with me on the campus green. She'd taken off her heels and was holding them in one hand by the straps. Her feet looked good against the grass, like they belonged there.

“Hey,” she said. “You late for something?”

“No—”

“Just in a hurry,” she finished on my behalf. I could hear the smile in her voice, glanced quickly up to catch its edge. Her face was beautiful. And smug. Sure of herself, of what she thought she knew.

“I have a lot to do.”

“I could see a little of what you were drawing. Do you have more like that?”

I didn't answer. I walked a little faster. My notebook worked its way free of my arms and she caught it before it hit the ground. I stopped, unwilling to ask for it back, and instead began stuffing the things I'd been carrying into my backpack. Then I stood waiting for my notebook but not reaching for it.

She looked at me and opened the cover. Beside and across and over my notes were the pictures. Animals and more animals. Small, big, predators, prey. Women's bodies working in and out, hinted at and started. Most broken in some way: arms twisting and elongated, heads vanished, legs bent at odd angles. A few were explicitly changing, feet growing claws, fur sprouting. She closed the cover and handed it back to me.

“You're really good,” she said. “But how do you get such
good grades in Anthro, if this is what you're doing during class?”

“I don't get good grades,” I said.

“Yeah, you do,” she insisted mildly. “I saw your test paper when it came back last week.”

I put the notebook into my backpack, zipped it up and started walking again. She stood where she was.

“Hey,” she called after me, “I moved into Forest House this semester. I bet we'd give you some commissions if you wanted. They've been talking about having murals and paintings and stuff, and this would be perfect.”

Forest House was this co-op of mostly lesbian wiccan types. Bitches. Girls playing with dolls, that's what they were, and calling it real life. Just the thought of those bitches and their crystals and their spirit animal totem shit made my gorge rise. I swallowed it again.

“We're having a party this weekend. If you wanted to come by.”

I turned back to look at her. She was still standing there, beautiful, smug, and hopeful. Her shoes dangled crimson from her fingers. She was not small. She took up space and she smiled.

“Fuck Forest House,” I said, loud enough for her to hear. I turned again and made my clumsy, fast way back to my dorm room.

My dorm was not a co-op. It was concrete and tall, bland to the eye and the touch, but insulating, which is what I required of it. I ran up the stairs to my room and threw my backpack to the floor. The room was small and crammed, but I liked it. It was decorated, multicolored scarves strewn and hung everywhere. I had gotten some of those washable wall crayons and scrawled lines and colors all over the wall, but no discernable shapes like in my notebook. No good to have specific suggestions staring at
me all the time. I felt good about the space, though no one but me ever came in.

I dropped to the floor, onto a braided rug one of my aunts had made, round and spiraling and a little rough. I pulled off my jacket, shirt and bra, and lay with my stomach and breasts pressed to the rug. The prickly soft grains scratched at my nipples. I pulled open my jeans and shoved my hand inside. My vulva and clit were warm and swollen. I touched them through my underwear and quick pleasure stabbed me. I rubbed until my breath came fast, pushing my breasts harder against the rug. I rolled over onto my back and arched against the rug. My first two fingers stroked firm and slow, all the way down and up again, and then focused, circling and circling my clit through the fabric.

My breath stopped. I pushed against my hand, sucked in more breath and came, in fast, shuddering waves.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I muttered. I got up, wiped my forehead with one hand, left my jeans on the floor with my shirt and bra. It hadn't been enough: not the kind of arousal that would be satisfied with orgasms, not the kind of anger that I could stave with odd outbursts on the green. My body was quivering, under the skin, way under. The basic level, the level almost nobody can feel. Muscles, bones quivering.