Best of the Best Lesbian Erotica (34 page)

“Yes, Laurel.”

“Good girl.” Laurel unclamped the hose, and Erin jumped as the first drop of water fell on her. “Did that hit your clit?”

“Not quite. It was a little above it.”

Laurel fussed with things. “How about that?”

“Right on it.”

“Good. Now be still, and be quiet. Or at least no talking.”

“Yes. Laurel.”

Laurel smiled, leaned down, and kissed Erin. She picked up the blindfold that had been resting on the table near Erin's head and fastened it on; then Erin heard her move off. Accustomed to listening for clues while she was blindfolded, Erin heard what she thought was Laurel sitting down. Yes, and she was reading; Erin could hear the pages turn.

That's it? Just drops of water falling on my clit? What's the big deal here? Why am I strapped down like she's going to be putting those horrible tiny clamps on me?
Erin began to relax. The drops fell, one after the other, and it was actually rather pleasant to lie there and feel them. As Laurel had promised, the water wasn't all that cold, and the heat in the basement was turned up enough to keep Erin comfortable. Erin would have liked a little more attention, but she decided that Laurel undoubtedly knew what she was doing.
I wonder how often those are falling on me?
She tried to count them, but they were beginning to be too distracting. Drip, drip, drip. She was starting to anticipate each drop as it landed like the tap of a gentle finger against her clit; except no finger could be this steady. She was wanting to squirm now, but she couldn't because of the restraints.

Drip, drip, drip. She could feel her clit swelling, and she wondered how long she'd been here. She was getting more and
more aroused.
I really like this; it's kind of soothing…almost meditative…
It would have been nice if Laurel had put some music on; it would have been something more to concentrate on as the drops fell.

Drip, drip, drip.
When will the next one…oh yeah…right there!
Erin really wished that the drops would fall harder, or maybe a little faster. Drip, drip, drip. She tried to angle herself to get more out of the drops, but of course she couldn't; she was strapped down too tight. She no longer heard the occasional sound of Laurel turning a page or the faint whir of the heater; all she could hear were the drips. Suddenly she realized that her mind was providing the noise. In reality, the drops made no sound at all. Erin began to get a little nervous; this was fucking with her head, and mind-games always scared her. As she began to feel fear, she could feel her cunt contract, and it seemed that her clitoris got even more swollen.

Drip, drip, drip.
I want to come…and I can't…oh this is awful…
Erin began to whimper. The drops felt like…what did they feel like? They burned her, as if the water were suddenly boiling or icy. She knew that this was just because she was so aroused that her clit was starting to register the sensation as pain. She felt almost as if that hard swollen knot of flesh were rising toward the water and then shrinking away when it landed. She no longer noticed the slickness of the wet rubber beneath her ass, or the feeling of the straps against her wrists and ankles. But she could still feel the straps against her thighs, and she suddenly realized that she felt them because she was straining against them with all her might. She tried to relax, but when she did, another drop landed, and she tensed up again. That set a pattern for a while; a drop would land, and she'd tense, and then she'd relax in the interval between it and the next one. There would always be a next one.
How long can this go on? I can't take much more of this.
She also realized that the odd little noises she was making, almost like
choked-off whimpers, were coming out of her mouth in time to the drips.

Drip, drip, drip.
No…stop, say “stop”…but I said it was no big deal…oh God…
It hurt, but it wasn't like any other pain she'd felt. She tried to distract herself, thinking of scenes past.
Remember the first time she took me to a party?
It had been at the house of a friend of Laurel's, and Erin had wanted to back out of it. Laurel had looked at her and waited for Erin to say “stop” (the only safeword she had). Erin hadn't been able to, and the result had been that she'd ended up tied to a coffee table with her ass in the air while Laurel brought a paddle down on it. Her face had felt hotter than her ass when one of Laurel's friends had complimented Laurel on how good Erin looked in that position.

Drip, drip, drip. More memories…The buzz of the needle and the short sharp shocks (they had had a rhythm of their own, much like this water that was falling on her clit) as the tattoo artist had tattooed Laurel's symbol (a hand with a spiral on its palm) onto Erin's right hip. There had been an audience for that one as well. They'd been at a leather convention, and after the tattooing, Laurel had bent Erin over a horse and had caned her once for every year she'd been a free person. The cane landing on her skin had hurt, but not like this water that kept falling on her.

Drip, drip, drip. Erin opened her mouth to plead for it to stop, but remembered just in time that Laurel had said not to talk. Anyway, she wasn't ready to safeword, she just wanted to complain a little. Wait…she was actually getting close…Laurel hadn't said anything about not coming. Now if the drops would just come a little faster. No, they kept to their rhythm and she sobbed in frustration.
What about the time she used a needle on me?
But all Erin could remember about that scene was that Laurel had been very deliberate and methodical as she made scratches on Erin's skin.

Drip, drip, drip. Erin tried to contract her cunt in time to the drops, thinking that maybe she could get off that way. She had come once without being touched, as Laurel talked to her on the phone while Erin was at work. Laurel had told Erin to close her office door and sit at her desk with her legs spread as wide as her chair allowed.

“Now listen to my voice, start contracting your cunt, and keep your hands on the phone or on top of your desk.” Laurel had then almost chanted (in a singsong rhythm like the water falling), telling Erin that she was a slut and a cunt, that she was Laurel's possession, her toy. But she still couldn't make herself come like she had that day; the drops were centered on her clit, not her cunt, and every thought she had was taking on their same simple rhythm.

Drip, drip, drip. A steady, inexorable pain. A dependable, maddening pleasure. There was nothing but the drops any more, nothing but this water falling on her. She was nothing but a clitoris being tortured. She was nothing but a stone being worn away by the rain. Erin thought about the stone she'd found on the beach one day. It had a hole in the middle that was obviously the work of water and time. Erin could vaguely remember (in a time before the water started) Laurel once telling her that she was no more and no less than what Laurel wanted her to be: “If I want to shove my fist inside you, you're a cunt for me to fuck. If I want to lend your mouth to a friend, you're one more possession of mine that I can lend to anyone I want. If I want to drip hot wax on you, you're a blank canvas. You will be what I make you, and you will learn that you are defined by my wishes and my desires.”

Drip, drip, drip. The water would never stop. Erin suddenly felt her whole body go limp. It would never stop, because it had never started. She had been here her whole life. There was nothing and had never been anything but Erin-who-is-under-the-water-for-Laurel. The water defined everything,
and the water fell at Laurel's command. Laurel made this rain fall on Erin because she wanted Erin to be rained upon. She wanted Erin to suffer (and, oh, was Erin suffering, endless pain as her body was worn down to nothing), and so Erin would do nothing but suffer.

Drip, drip, drip. And more. Drip, drip, drip. Water. Drip. Clit. Drip. Erin. Drip. Laurel. Drip. Breathe. Drip. In. Drip. Breathe. Out. Drip. Drip. Laurel. Drip. Whimper. Drip. Pain. Drip. Need. Drip. Want. Drip. Sob. Drip. Owner. Drip. Drip. Breathe. Drip. In. Breathe. Drip. Out. Drip. Nothing. Drip. Forever. Drip. Laurel. Drip. Breathe. Drip. In.

Nothing. The breath that Erin had drawn in remained in her lungs, and she felt herself go light-headed. Her whole body strained against the restraints as her clitoris sought the next drip. She could hear herself making a weird noise, almost like keening, and she hung, suspended on the moment, waiting for the next drop. And then…it came. Not a drop, but a hard, steady stream of water, and she screamed and ached and bucked and swore and came. And she kept coming as the water kept pounding down on her. She was drowning in it, and she couldn't stop coming although her clitoris burned and throbbed. It was like those times when Laurel held a vibrator there until Erin was coming continuously. This hurt the same way, but it was glorious in its awfulness.

When it stopped, Erin was a limp rag. She could feel Laurel unbuckling her restraints, but she had been passive for so long that moving didn't even occur to her. Hadn't the Owner told her (back at the beginning of time) to be still? She had no interest in talking. Hadn't the Owner told her to be silent? If Laurel, the Owner, wanted her to do anything, She would tell Erin to do it. Suddenly, there was the hard brush of something rough against her clit. Erin screamed and came hard. Then there was nothing for a while. Then another brush against her clit, this time the light touch of something smooth. Erin
screamed and came again. Then there was something warm and soft, Laurel's tongue lapping delicately against Erin's clit, and once more, Erin screamed as she came.

After a short time, Erin felt Laurel's hands at her head, unfastening the blindfold. It was strange to feel the sensation of touch, because she'd really forgotten that any part of her body existed except for her clitoris. She kept her eyes closed and heard the indrawn breath just before Laurel spoke.

“You can move now, love.”

Then Laurel's lips were coming down gently on Erin's forehead in the kiss that she always gave Erin when a scene was over and she was pleased with her girl. At that, Erin suddenly began to cry—deep, wrenching sobs that came from her center and washed over her like waves. Laurel climbed up on the table and pulled her into her arms.

“Good girl, goood girl,” she crooned over and over. Finally Erin was all sobbed out and Laurel let go of her. “You can clean up later,” Laurel said. “But now, I want you to come upstairs with me.”

“Yes…” Erin began, amazed that her voice was still so shaky. She cleared her throat. “Yes, Laurel.”

As they climbed the second flight of stairs that led to the bedroom, Laurel told Erin to stop. “Spread your legs and bend over.”

“Yes, Laurel.” Laurel gently brushed a finger over Erin's clit and Erin shrieked and clung to the banister, as she shuddered through another orgasm.

“This is going to be a fun evening,” Laurel murmured.

Later that night, after Erin had cleaned the playroom and Laurel had made dinner, they sat in the living room and watched the fire that Erin had made. Every once in a while, Laurel would reach between Erin's legs and stroke Erin's sensitive clit, and Erin would come from the merest brush of sensation. When the first crack of thunder shook the old house,
Laurel smiled. “Listen darling,” she said gently. “Doesn't the rain sound nice as it hits the window?”

Even later, as they snuggled together in the big bed upstairs, Erin was jolted out of her light doze as Laurel touched her and made her come one more time. As she came down from the orgasm, she could hear the rain outside.

Drip, drip, drip.

 

 

 

 

 

When I hear her my lover's footsteps my mind, obsessed, as always, with its petty rules, ceaseless ambitions and senseless tasks, dissolves; my body rises from its chair; my legs, no longer riddled with their aches and pains, move quickly across the room; my hands, suddenly soft and tender, lift up. Reach out. I take my lover into my arms. Gently I run my fingers through her hair and brush it back off her forehead. I hold her close. At this moment there is no place to go, no relentless obsession to be fed. Quiet has settled in the air. A stillness blankets my frenetic mind. Momentarily, I am seduced away from my obsession with myself.

At other times my passion for my lover becomes a ground swell beneath my skin. Beginning with the subtlety of a breeze across my flesh it quickly pulls me into my body. It snakes into my veins. As my passion moves deeper, moves down, a wake of blood lashes out into my nipples, pulling them tight. Making them taut. Then my passion dives deeper again. It enters my breath. It lowers my voice.

My hands now become my eyes. Seeking. Touching. With forearms now strong my eyes yank off my lover's pants and pull her shirt up over her head. They push her down. Below me. I pause and stare at the body before me. I am shocked by my actions. I remember to inhale. And release.

My lover closes her eyes, spreads her legs and arches her back. I, kneeling before her, move my right hand in-between her legs, part her lips and gently slide my fingers into her. She moans. Softly. And pushes her hips down into the sheets. I push my fingers deeper into her. My lover arches her head so far back that her face disappears into the pillows. She turns her head to the side and exposes her neck. “So vulnerable,” I think. I am reminded of all the small animals who, when attacked, expose their necks to their predators, lay open their weakness, throw their enemy off balance. “So vulnerable,” I think again as I, in response, move my hand deeper into her body. My jaw clenches; a snarl smears across my face; an ancient rage slowly, silently surfaces in the back of my eyes. I know it is her vulnerability that has provoked me. With my lover laid open before me, her eyes shut, her head tilted back, I, unobserved by any other than myself, slowly slip my hand from between her legs and raise it, in unison with its partner, upward into a prayerful position. I breathe in sharply, grit my teeth and force all of my fury into my hands. I clamped them around my lover's sweet throat. Her arms grab my wrists. Her legs flail about the bed. Desperately she struggles to breathe. I feel her trachea crush beneath my fingers. My hands know that I am playing out my destiny which demands that I destroy the ones who love me the most. My lover's body goes limp. I close my eyes and swallow hard. I am on the verge of vomiting.