Best of the Best Lesbian Erotica (32 page)

So she used her puppy tongue and dizzy lips to give Adolpha pleasure for as long as she would graciously suffer it. And Adolpha was happy to take from her, to muss her hair and smear her face, and brand her soul with a deep hunger for cunt. It was delicious to allow a human being to feed on her, Adolpha found. It felt so wicked, and it was also endearing, to see them parody the act that sustained her own life. Caught up in fantasies about Jamie's fragile neck and strong young heart, Adolpha came, and quickly came again, mercifully blinding Jamie to light and sound by enclosing her in the grip of her strong pale legs. Jamie thought she would weep, she was so delirious and glad.

Then she was tossed back on the floor, out of breath, confused and bereft. The carpet burned her hands, and she had a bump on her head, she had landed that hard. Adolpha had
spotted her prey. As she got to her feet, ready for the hunt, she did Jamie the favor of making everyone forget what they had just seen. Everyone except Jamie, that is. Let her sort it out, Adolpha thought, amused by the many possibilities that presented themselves. There was room for one more sweet young submissive in this wicked world. Let her find her proper place. Adolpha grinned, and mentally whistled for her quarry.

This was Monica Bradshaw, who had honey-brown hair with artificially-enhanced blond highlights, freckles on her shoulders, and a mouth that was too tight to be beautiful. Monica Bradshaw was terrified of turning thirty. She had an MBA from Harvard, and she was working as a manager for a company that was not a bank and not a stockbroker, but it did something with money, Adolpha was too impatient to figure out exactly what. Monica Bradshaw was pissed off because she kept hitting the glass ceiling. She wanted out of her current job, which was supervising secretarial services, so she could get her smart-yet-sensible shoes on the fast track to real money and prestige.

Just one week ago, the higher echelons of her company had okayed her proposal to down-size her department. Monica had promised them the same level of service with a much smaller investment in employees' salaries and benefits. One-fourth of her staff was going to get their layoff notices tomorrow, a week before Christmas. If this didn't catch the eye of the oldboys' network and put her in line for a promotion, Monica Bradshaw had a backup plan, which was to fire everybody and obtain “administrative support” from independent contractors.

Adolpha was more than happy to give Monica Bradshaw the recognition that her talents deserved. Almost lovingly, she petted her way through the obsessions, phobias, traumas, irritations, and fetishes hidden in the cortices of Monica Bradshaw's maniacal little mind. Adolpha did this as she
stalked behind her intended, who was whisking through the lingerie department. Her first act of possession was to take hold of Monica's frantic wolverine personality, tear up her list of rush-rush-rush things to do, and send it away on a tropical puff of indolent air. Slowing down, looking a little confused and concerned, Monica began to actually look at all the lovely silky things around her. And she dutifully picked up the items that Adolpha selected for her. Looking a little distracted, she shed, one by one, her navy blue blazer, her blouse, a white satin Bali bra, a gold chain, a skirt that matched the blazer, white flats, pantyhose, and a scrungy pair of old Jockeys for Her which had been the only clean underwear in Monica's drawer when she got dressed for work that morning.

“What, no ankle chain?” Adolpha laughed, and pivoted the puppet to make it face her for the first time.

Monica Bradshaw was not happy with what she saw. Adolpha reminded her of the white-trash punk girls who occasionally intruded on her much more middle-class circle in high school, girls with wild colors in their hair and switchblades in their Hello Kitty pocketbooks. No one could have mistaken Adolpha for anything other than a woman, but her affect was far from womanly. The ultrashort hair combined with the micromini, deep cleavage, and nasty shoes sent strong conflicting signals. “Come here, if you want to be killed” was the slogan that came to Monica Bradshaw's mind.

“Aren't you the clever one?” Adolpha said aloud, and erased the insight. She made her chosen one pirouette in the aisle, and as she turned, she donned, one by one, the pieces of the costume that Adolpha had made her glean from the pastel rows of slinky merchandise.

First she rolled stockings up her shapely, aerobicized legs. They were a dark brown color, and had no seams, but they were silk, thirty dollars a pair if anyone was counting anything other than Monica Bradshaw's perky, ruddy nipples.
Adolpha abhorred nylons. Monica then stepped into a pale pink G-string, and a matching push-up bra. Over that went a champagne-colored, mid-thigh length slip in moiré silk. It was slit up the back far enough to provide a glimpse of the top of Monica's stockings, and cut so exquisitely that lace would have been superfluous.

“You don't really need shoes, because you're not going to be walking much,” Adolpha said. She allowed Monica to come to a halt. She was a bit out of breath. But she had performed the difficult maneuvers with an unusual amount of grace. Could it be that there was another side to this petty bully of a middle-manager, something in her soul besides a pocket calculator and the day's NASDAQ quotes? She looked lovely, dressed this way. The colors Adolpha had picked made her skin look translucent. Adolpha bit her lower lip and made Monica perform a series of ballet exercises, using a rack of garter belts as a barre. Not half bad. “Perhaps you do need shoes. Dancing shoes,” Adolpha said, and with that thought a star was born.

On their way out of Nordstrom's, Adolpha snagged a pair of pink satin slingbacks and personally slipped them onto Monica's somewhat oversized feet. “Let's find a more appreciative audience,” she told the shivering woman, and took her down the escalator toward the street. “The women in this place look as if they've never had an orgasm, and the men look as if they dribble rather than spurt.” They headed for the Tenderloin, protected from unwanted attention by Adolpha's fierce powers. It was dark and cold. The wind had picked up, and sped between the tall buildings with a vengeance. Adolpha disliked the taste that exhaustion lends to the blood, so she picked Monica up and carried her along. She did not bother to dispense forgetfulness as they traveled. What were these weaklings going to do, stop her and take Monica away from her? That would be amusing.

Besides, she was busy working on Monica, fondling her breasts and her consciousness. The tits were nice, but the rest of it was such a mess. It would have taken hours for Adolpha to change the root directory of Monica's mind. The fundamental assumptions (“I will never have enough,” “No one cares for me,” “I am not safe,” “I need to ignore other people to get what I want,” etc.) were hard as bedrock. Adolpha tried dislodging Monica's obsession with money, and met with surprisingly stiff resistance. So she planted a little seed in the granite of Monica's heart, a little spark of erotic hunger. The red vine of sex need grew quickly, twining itself about the green vine of cash hunger, and Adolpha laughed to think where she was taking this rare plant to flower.

Finding the red-light district is the same in every city, she thought. As drunks and shit get thicker on the street, so do hookers and drug dealers. Soon she was in the middle of a neighborhood that offered wares every bit as expensive as the big department stores on the main thoroughfare. But this sort of business could not put its merchandise in bright windows. The darker and dingier an establishment was, the more piquant its commodities. Adolpha stopped outside a place she knew quite well, a dance emporium called Sugar and Spice. Its signs declared “And everything naughty, that's what our girls are made of!”

Adolpha sent Monica through the door ahead of her. She wanted to see the reactions of the patrons to her new acquisition. Feeling cruel, she did not soften Monica's perceptions of the place. She just kept her walking forward, making her stalk like a panther in heat toward the stage. But inside, it was the soul of a prim, bright young woman who looked down on sluts and strumpets, an ambitious professional who would never dream of sleeping with her boss to get ahead, who heard men hoot their lust at her and smelled the freshly-spilt semen in the private video booths.

The main attraction at Sugar and Spice was a large, glass-enclosed stage surrounded by booths, where patrons kept a blind from coming down and closing off their view of the dancers by constantly feeding quarters into a slot. This created a distance between the strippers and their admirers that Adolpha found completely appropriate. Let men hang their dripping tongues and dicks out, panting like the dogs they were for a favor they would never receive. She sent Monica among them like a clipper ship, majestically overturning dinghies with its wake. Like the noble wolf she was named for, Adolpha followed her, declaring the boundaries of her territory. A lucky few of the customers managed to touch the tips of their fingers to Monica's silk slip, creamy breast, or dusky thigh, but when they saw Adolpha's snarling mouth and prominent, pointed teeth, they suddenly felt rather the opposite of being blessed by fortune.

Adolpha had been here before. It was one of her favorite places to hunt. In a small city like San Francisco, it was necessary to become familiar with the few places where prey could be snatched that would not be missed. One of her favorite dancers was performing, a tough little Asian punk who wore combat boots with a ballerina's tutu. Since she had already removed her top, there was no telling what blasphemy she had done to fashion and femininity to cover her breasts long enough to get up on stage. She had a platinum-blond stripe in her long, thick black hair, and she wore kabuki makeup. Her name was Poison, and her dance was full of martial arts moves that made the more traditional shimmying she did seem ironic to any observer who was not a halfwit. Adolpha thought Poison was delightful, as touchy about her independence as a Shinto priestess, thoughtless about displaying her sexuality, as if the world had already been made a safe place where women ruled, inviolable as Amaterasu.

Adolpha ejected one of the spectators from his tiny enclosure and sent him away with a strong suggestion that he find a video viewing booth with a glory hole and suck cock until his throat was pummeled raw. She directed Monica to take his place, and stood behind her to prevent her from being violated by anything other than the spectacle of female flesh, pride, and hostility. She also sorted out some of the male reactions that were going on all around them and funneled a few of them into Monica's mind, so she could feel her own body charged with the adoration and raw need the audience brought into the dark plywood stalls along with their heavy rolls of quarters.

“I am going to make you do that,” she told Monica Bradshaw, who was breathlessly observing Poison's hands, cupping tits and crotch, and tits again. “Then you will be the one who makes them feel that way.”

There was enough left of Monica's original consciousness for her to feel a great deal of panic and denial at this threat.

“But I thought you were a heterosexual,” Adolpha said, teeth gleaming. “This is what it means to have traffic with men, my oh-so-ornamental one. Now go like the little lamb you are, and do me proud.”

She took Monica out of the booth and sent her back stage, past a sleepy-looking, dirty-blond butch whose neck was ringed with hickeys. Adolpha's mouth tingled at the smell of blood so close to the surface, but she made herself wait. This was Bo. As the houseboy of Poison and two other bitch goddess strippers, her life was almost as hard as Adolpha would have made it. Best not to tamper with another she-wolf's province, Adolpha thought, chuckling at Bo's memory of her weekend, which seemed to have been spent in front of the fire-place, fisting two of her mistresses while the third whipped her shoulders. Having been in Bo's mind before, it was child's play for Adolpha to suppress the bodyguard's complaint about Monica's trespassing, and whisk the new toy up on stage.

Poison was not pleased to have another woman join her. She was collecting a decent amount of tips, and she did not want to share. For some reason, Adolpha disliked the idea of toying with Poison's perceptions. Perhaps it was the kinship of their sadism which made her feel as if this would be poaching. So she put Monica on her knees and stretched out her lovely hands in the universal gesture of submission. “You're so beautiful,” Monica said. “Please let me serve you.”

She began with adoring Poison's combat boots, petting them with her hands and then with her mouth. Adolpha enjoyed applying just enough pressure to Monica to force her to commit these strange and humiliating acts. It took a high level of skill and concentration to get the behavior she desired out of her quarry without actually changing her personality enough to make her enjoy it and begin to submit voluntarily.

Of course, there was a natural feedback process which Adolpha could not control, which was bound to change Monica into another woman altogether, even without the vampire's mental manipulation. She knew that men were watching her and becoming terribly aroused. She also knew she was safe from their intrusive touch, and so their arousal became contagious. The fact that money was being shoved through peepholes toward her satin-encased pussy was also a powerful aphrodisiac. As Poison rubbed her clit with the tip of her boot, she got wet, and the wetness was a most effective reinforcer, miles ahead of M&Ms. Adolpha found herself becoming a little annoyed when Monica unlaced Poison's boots and removed them without prompting, so she could lick her feet and ankles. The sudden absence of resistance made her feel as if she were going to tip over.

“If you try to go higher than that, I'm going to slap you,” Poison warned Monica, taking off her skirt and revealing her trademark gold lamé G-string.

Adolpha bet herself it would take a dozen slaps for Monica to persuade Poison to let her put her tongue on the metallic strip of fabric. She relished, vicariously, the oiled and polished sensation of Poison's thighs beneath Monica's hands. The dancer's old-ivory skin was incredibly smooth and soft, and the muscles underneath it were like liquid steel. Bullets would bounce off her hard little ass. She smelled, Adolpha thought, like the most wonderful incense in the world, and wasn't it exciting to participate like this in someone else's first experience of approaching a woman's cunt? Shouldn't every woman have a lesbian experience at least once before she dies? Yes, Adolpha thought, oh yes. However, she declined to stay in Monica's place while the promised slaps were administered. Those she was content to watch from the outside, dipping briefly into Poison's riled-up mood as one dips nigiri into soy sauce that has been made explosive with wasabe.