Best of the Best Lesbian Erotica (18 page)

“Do you think he could turn that down?” Lee yelled to be heard above the roar of music. Her tone was frayed, but she tried to sugarcoat it, adding, “I want to feel like I'm all alone with you.”

Obedient, Kendra left the room, and a moment later the wall of noise dissolved. When she returned she reported, “He was just going out anyway,” and gestured for Lee to have a seat on the mattress. She made no effort to straighten the sheets or clear the clutter from the room.

Still, the silence was a balm, and Lee felt herself relax into it. The secret to seduction, she believed, was in knowing
where
to begin. She reached for Kendra's hand and pulled her to a sitting position on the bed, then nuzzled close behind her. She slid one elastic strap from a slender shoulder, the shoulder without the tattoo of a black widow, and kissed the skin where the strap had left a ridge, teasing it with her teeth. She traveled up the neck to the earlobe, tasting the salty tang on her lips and tongue, leaving gooseflesh in her wake.

Lazily, her fingers worked to untwine the skinny braid that snaked down the middle of Kendra's back, discarding the rubber band, untwisting the strands until fine ringlets hung to mid-spine, their jet color harsh against gold-tinged skin.

“You gotta let your hair go natural,” Lee advised as her fingers wound through the curls. “I bet you're incredible as a blonde.”

Kendra whirled to face her with a derisive snort. “You sound like my fucking mother.”

It occurred to Lee that, since she was probably about the same age as the lady in question, she might do well to avoid the comparison. Still, as she ran her palm across the fine black bristles of short-cropped hair that covered most of Kendra's
scalp, she couldn't help but muse, “I swear I just don't understand why girls don't wanna be
pretty
anymore.”

“Where did it ever get us?” Kendra sneered, and swung her body off the bed. She began to peel the tight black skirt down her hips and over her thighs. She paused, glancing up. “Do you still wanna do this, or what?”

There was a hollowness in the young woman's question, a cheerful indifference that brought a stab of fear to Lee's belly, an icy finger of apprehension protruding into her spleen. She was quick to suppress it, shaking it off with a bemused toss of her head, nodding and coaxing, “C'mere. Let me do that for you.”

Kendra allowed the skirt to drop around her ankles and carelessly stepped away from it, leaving behind its collapsed cylinder like a deflated tire abandoned at roadside. Lee's spirits brightened as the girl came toward her, a vision in the old-fashioned brassiere—one strap still slipped from her shoulder—and blood-red fishnet tights.

Kendra knelt on the mattress while Lee expertly released each of the twelve hooks that fastened the undergarment. As the corset fell away Lee caught the flash of silver—the hoop that pierced clear through the young woman's left nipple.

She found herself reluctant to examine it too closely; it made her a little squeamish even to think of it. Still, Lee cupped the breast in one hand and murmured, “That must have hurt.”

“Yeah,” Kendra agreed with a glint in her eye, her voice laden with feeling that Lee could not quite interpret.

She pulled the slender body on top of her own and tried to bury her uneasiness in the abandon of lovemaking. As Lee stroked the length of the girl's thighs, Kendra seemed cooperative enough, yet she remained strangely unmoved, some part of her elusive, distracted, almost inattentive. Lee liked it best when a femme was active in her response, not trying to gain control but fully participating in taking all Lee had to give.

But she didn't mind a challenge; she saw it as an opportunity to ply her considerable skill. Perhaps the young woman just didn't care for foreplay; maybe it was time to get down to serious business. Lee settled Kendra onto her stomach, then eased the fishnet tights down over the delicate hips. It was then Lee noticed the cluster of welts that covered the pale skin of the girl's ass, a crisscross of raised slashes, with the hue of an angry blush. With a finger she traced the path of one large weal and asked, “What happened to you?” She could not keep the horror from her voice.

Kendra half-turned, raised up on one elbow, and gazed at the older woman with curiosity. “I was at a party,” she explained with patient matter-of-factness. “I guess things got a little out of hand. Usually the ‘cats' don't make any marks at all.”

As she spoke she fished under one of the pillows and produced the “cat”—a cat-o'-nine-tails. Its leather-covered handle was attached to nine leather strips, each about a foot long and knotted on the end. She proceeded to demonstrate its use by lashing lightly at her inner thigh.

As she observed Lee's dumbstruck expression, a sneer of amusement began to pucker Kendra's face; it was dawning on her that she had the power to shock this seemingly unflappable butch, and the fact induced in her both delight and contempt.

“It's how I like to fuck,” she continued. “I thought you knew. I like it hard or I can't feel it.”

A fissure was opening in Lee's chest, a tear that pressed with the weight of boulders and yet revealed a stupefying emptiness at its core. She longed to flee, lift herself up from this makeshift excuse for a bed and escape into the Manhattan streets, leave this fiasco behind. But Lee Bergman did not run from women, nor did she ever admit defeat in the lovemaking department.

Instead, she crafted a knowing smile onto her lips, and eased her body beside the young woman's. “So you like it
hard, huh baby?” A cruel purr rose in her voice. “Well, I think we can do something about that.”

With a forceful tug she turned Kendra over onto her back and wrenched apart her thighs. Savagely she pinched each nipple, willing to bruise, as the body beneath her began to writhe. She taunted, “Tell me how much you want it, baby,” determined to make the girl beg.

Beg she did, and for a while Lee was caught up in the game of it, the sheer mastery she felt as she donned the brutal persona required to fulfill her part. She envisioned herself growing large with it, taller, her features more angular, chiseled, and ruthless.

But Kendra wanted more than just the play of dominance. It was not enough to be obedient to Lee's commands, for her wrists to be shackled with handcuffs, for her vaginal walls to be pummeled by Lee's taut fist, striking inside her again and again like a piston in a powerful machine. She wanted more than rough sex; she wanted clamps to squeeze her nipples to the color of raw meat, and the blister of hot wax spilled from candles against her tender skin. She wanted pain, sharp and immediate; nothing else seemed real to her.

“Harder,” she pleaded, her voice breathy and raw with need.

“Hit me,” she begged, and Lee raised her arm, palm wedged to strike. It was in the hand's trajectory from sky to the side of Kendra's face that the earth once more cracked open, and Lee felt the emptiness swallow her like death.

The hand did not make impact; its arc aborted, it swung dully to Lee's side and hung useless as she said, “I hate this. I'm sorry. It's just not sexy to me.”

It was chilling, the ease with which Kendra recovered herself, the veneer of indifference returning to her eyes. “Wanna get me out of these,” she suggested, nodding at her cuffed wrists, her voice vacant and flat.

Lee complied, her hands trembling a little as she fumbled with the key. She had the urge to talk about it, as if words might forge a rope to keep the connection, however fragile, but Kendra was closing like a fist, her jaw set, her gestures brusque, traveling away from her as if at the speed of light. The young woman did not look at Lee at all as she rolled beneath the sour sheet, pulling it tight over her body in a gesture that did not seek company.

Lee stood awkwardly, a bit unsteady on her feet. “I'm sorry,” she said again and then, after her words were met with silence, “I guess I should be shoving off.”

“Yeah, too bad,” Kendra shrugged one shoulder, her face a brittle mask. “I thought we'd have some fun.”

Once Lee reached the street, the sky was full of mist. It clung to her clothes and swirled gray above her head. She did not want to think about what had happened, wanted it to scab over quickly like a wound and leave no scar. She told herself the dampness of her cheeks was no more than the wet caress of fog. In vain she searched the dank, deserted streets for a taxi, then began walking briskly toward Chinatown, where she knew the streets would still be full of lights and traffic, and morning would still seem a long way off.

 

 

 

 

 

Sherry takes me to the city for shopping, movies, museums, and plays. I already saw
Don't Bother Me, I Can't Cope, The Fantasticks,
and
The New York Experience.
We drive there in her white Mercedes. The seats are leather, the color of pumpkins. I rub my cheek against them. I pretend they are mine and not just hers. People look at us like we're something special when we're driving in this car. One day I will ask her to teach me how to drive it and maybe she'll let me take it out my own self.

Sherry travels during the week, so I stay here by myself and watch TV. Sometimes I wonder what the kids are doing in school, and I feel a little lonely even though I didn't have friends there. I did like learning things. You can learn from TV too, but it's not the same. I suppose I could get a job, but I'm so tired all the time that I'm afraid I'll fall asleep at work or something. Unless I could get a job as a mattress tester, like Li'l Abner. Sometimes I think about working at those topless bars where businessmen go at lunch, but they don't take girls with flabby bellies like mine. If I was nursing they say the flab
would go right away, but you can't nurse a baby you don't have any more so that's that.

I keep this place very clean so Sherry will know I'm not a bum. The dishes are always washed carefully and put away, and I wipe off the sink until it shines. I dust the paperweights. Sherry has them on the glass coffee table in the living room and on the desk in her office. Thick, perfect glass globes with iridescent swirls inside, like captured stardust. I get the coffee table so clean there is no lint or particles on it, and then I place the paperweights down carefully. I can make things sparkle.

She has an oriental rug—green, gold, black, and white. When you vacuum it the colors come out richer. After I do my chores I lie on the green velveteen couch in the clean room and I watch TV. Everything feels just fine except for one thing. The throwing up has come back. I thought it had stopped. When I was pregnant, after the morning sickness went away, I didn't ever want to throw up again. It's not like I do it every day—that's one good thing—but when I get the urge nothing can stop me. I guess you just get bored after watching so many soaps and reruns so you think about eating. It does make the day go. You wake up and watch the morning shows and think about having ice cream for breakfast. Then you're sunk. Once you start, that's it for the day. You think of how fat you'll get after you eat it and then you remember that you can have as much as you want and then throw it up and you'll have it both ways. After you throw up you get really tired so you sleep from about five till eight, then you get up for more TV and watch it till eleven or twelve. Then you go to bed. You know this isn't normal but it makes perfect sense at the time.

Sherry doesn't know I do this. She doesn't know much about me, really. It's amazing that she lets me stay here. She doesn't know about the baby, or about running away. She thinks I'm taking a year off of high school to decide what I
want to do with my life. She doesn't pry much. I guess I'll tell her when I'm ready, if I'm ever ready.

She usually comes home on Thursday and so we spend Friday together. I don't throw up when she's here. She gets in late; I wait up for her. I have cookies and milk waiting. She likes that. She says she's grateful for me.

We sleep in her bed, a queen size. It has satin sheets. They make you feel like you're under water. When she's not here I sleep on the couch with the TV on.

I don't let her touch me down there, but she can touch me every-place else. I'm the one who touches her down there. She comes really easy. I haven't come yet with another person, only by myself. I wonder what I would do if it happened. Would I scream or something stupid like that? I hope I wouldn't say “Oh, yes.” I wouldn't let myself make any noise at all.

When we go to the city we go out to eat. We make sure to find a place with tablecloths so we can touch under the table. The waiter will be taking our order and I'll have my hand on her leg, under her skirt. I bend down and pretend to look for something, and while she orders for us I go right between her legs. Her thighs are soft as baby's skin. I touch her panties and feel her getting wet already. I like this very much. I see her try to keep a still face and I get to wanting her so much I don't know what to do with myself. After the waiter leaves she lets out her breath real slow.

“You're bad,” she says. “Bad, bad, bad. You've got me all worked up. What are you going to do now?”

“I could finish you off,” I say.

“You wouldn't dare,” she says.

“Oh, wouldn't I?” I say. I sense that this is how she wants me to be.

I push my chair closer to hers so that I won't have to bend to get to her pussy. My finger goes under the elastic of her panties and into her labia. She's very slippery. All I need to do
is move my finger back and forth very gently over her clitoris and she jerks the tiniest bit in her seat. She lets out a little cough and I feel her pulsing and getting wetter.