Best of the Best Lesbian Erotica (39 page)

“Oh shit,” I moaned, as the tips of her fingers came closer to my clit and then quickly dove, circling in between my increasingly sensitive cunt lips.

Not to be outdone I worked my digits into her hip-hugging vinyls. I went for one of the side zippers, stripping back the material. There was skin and a nappy bush, shining damp with sweat. I felt the curlicues of her hair beneath my gloved hand and inched my way to the part between her bush to her pulsing little mound. My fingers found her well creamed and hard, and she shoved her crotch onto my thigh.

“I like the pressure,” she said, coaxing me with her deep brown gaze.

Her raspy moaning and the feel of her fingers stretching inside me gave me incentive to push my hand deeper into her tight pants and get to her pussy. She pressed her swollen clit into my palm and rode the length of my thigh, rising up and trembling, and back down again. I looked at her face, high on her own rhythms and mine, as I pushed into her deeper. She
was straining against my palm, and my thighs were wrapped around hers.

“Wait! I don't want to come yet,” I said.

“What is it?”

“I want…”

Ever so slowly she drew her fingers from between my legs, and I almost came on her hand.

“Mmm, don't come yet, baby.”

Fuck. The way she drew out the word, she could call me “baby” all day long. She smiled and drew little circles on my breast with my pussy juice.

“I want you to get on your hands and knees.”

Would doing as I was told a second time make my wish come true? She began to loosen the third set of laces that went down the back of my skirt. I heard her sigh.

“Your cunt and ass look so good through that lacing. Damn, you're so wet and swollen, it's making me want to fuck with you.”

She was like a wolf at my door. I felt her biting and fingering me between the thin cords, heard her sniffing and breathing me in deep. The breath of her exhale was jagged as she ravenously dug her teeth deep into my behind and then traced the bites with her tongue. My skirt came completely undone under all this attention and she moved it to one side as it fell on the floor. As for me, I was so wet she could have spun me around the floor on my cunt.

 

With my naked ass up in the air she asked, “Now baby, I want to know: Have you been bad?”

I closed my eyes, feeling an unspeakable fury of heat—a desire that was raging beneath the skin of my ass.

Pausing for only a second, I growled, “Baby,” my voice a low rumble, “make me
wanna
be bad.”

Her hand came smack on my ass. She drew her wet mouth over the searing where her hand had been and then smacked me again until my ass felt hot and electric. Humming, like every nerve was alert, like they could individually receive each sensation she was giving my ass as she bit and nibbled me, drawing her nails down my butt as she trailed her tongue to the edge of my crack and slapped me again. Then I felt the cold sensation of lube dripping between the cheeks of my buttocks. I heard the snap of the old glove coming off and a crinkly sound as she adjusted a new one. It made my nipples hard all over again. I shivered as she spread the lube over my anus.

“Are you feeling like you wanna be bad yet?” She teased the rim of my asshole with her finger.

“Mmm, oh, almost,” I moaned as the finger probed my hole.

She pulled out her finger and grabbed some of the toys and latex from the table. I felt her working what seemed to be a butt plug into my asshole. She was biting my cheeks and rubbing and spanking me again. “What about now?”

“Unh…”

The plug started to vibrate, and she began to push it in deeper. “What about now?”

“Yes, unh, mmm!”

“What?”

“Yes!” The word roared from my pelvis.

“Say it louder!” Her rasping voice was insistent.

“YES!” Now I was screaming, my ass wildly bucking trying to find more of the butt plug.

“Say you want it.” She was pulling the butt plug out so just the tip of it was against my rim, pressing it in a little deeper and then pulling it out again.

“I WANT IT! Fuck! give it to me, give it to me now, DAMMIT!”

She thrust it in me deep, and my ass swallowed it whole. I didn't hear the zippers while I was pleading for her to ram it up my ass again. But she must have taken her pants off cause the next thing I knew she was flipping me over on top of some pillows and sliding against my thigh. And I was slippery against hers, and she was biting my nipples while I was twisting hers and hanging on as we crammed into each others thighs and hips. She had that damn butt plug on high and her teeth were on my lips while I was screaming my come, and her mouth covered mine as we howled into each other.

 

 

 

 

 

It was three A.M. and I was sound asleep when the doorbell rang. The candles in my room had almost melted down. It was dangerous, I knew, to doze in a room full of burning candles, but there seemed no other condition under which to wait for her.

She wore eyeshadow and lipstick. A brown leather jacket. In her hand, a large paper bag. For the moment it took me to unhook the front gate, she lingered on the threshold of my stoop, part of her still belonging to the street, where desires linger unfulfilled, and part of her almost within my grasp. I relished the moment of that transition, of locking the door behind her, pocketing the key, and turning to kiss the evening, that other world, from her lips.

When she came in, my dog knew exactly what it meant. He greeted her briefly, then scampered up the stairs to wait for us at the foot of the bed. He knew where we were headed and that we always went directly there.

In my room she said, “I have a request.” She asked me to cut her clothing off with my knife, the one with the iridescent
white pearl handle. It had once belonged to a famous star, a very famous star, a singer; I won't say her name because you wouldn't believe me anyway. The blade was blunt, so it took a while to slice away her dress, her slip, her fishnet stockings. It was more like sawing than slicing, which gave things a refreshing, amateurish tinge. I pressed my blue-jeaned knee against her mound. The slow, insistent sound of slashing cloth was like rain hitting the window: suspenseful and energizing but also somewhat sad. We were enraptured with the leisurely near-violence of it.

When all her clothing lay in tatters on the floor, only the delicate gold chain with the sacred heart of Jesus adorned her body. That, and the half-finished tattoo on her inner thigh. It was a tattoo she had started—a small blue serpent—but had given up on when the pain of the needle's repeated penetrations became too great. Something to do with accumulation of pressure, she said. Her thigh bore the coiled tail of a rattlesnake, half realized, whose front portion appeared to have slithered into her very flesh, or been absorbed by it, or simply slipped into a realm beyond that of skin and bone. I was fascinated with this unfinished tattoo. It meant the world to me.

Back then, I thought she was so beautiful. Now, eons later, though we no longer speak, I still do. I don't exactly want her again; what I want is even more improbable: to revisit that night with her, to remain in it as if it were a room. I want the sound of her satin slip rending apart while her blue lipsticked lips spread wide. For her to say to me again, “My mouth is a sex organ.” For the glint of candlelight, a knife blade, her dark, dark eyes, the ninth orgasm, and the sacred heart of Christ, that glorious, damaged metaphor. For rain the way it used to be when water was still free. For those first roiling sensations of love in spite of all the evidence—hard and soft—against it.

In her nakedness, she eagerly undressed me. Everything but my belt fell to the floor: that she kept close at hand. Nude and
kneeling, we held each other for a long time, breathing not speaking, our pubic hair sparking.

Finally, she opened the paper bag she'd brought with her from the Metropolis. A rectangular Styrofoam container lay inside. She opened it like a jewelry box, and the candlelight glancing against the assortment of sushi seemed nearly divine. It transformed the deep red tuna into slabs of velveteen, soft steps to an ultimately unattainable altar. It illuminated the ginger slices like shards of stained glass the color of pink dog-wood blossoms. It made the wasabi gleam like club moss, and the scaly black-green nori almost translucent, at once stiff and yielding, a half-snake coiled in its den.

“Where I come from,” she whispered, “when a woman is attracted to someone, she feeds them with her fingers.”

She lifted a piece of yellowfin sushi, rubbed it lightly against the wasabi bulge, dipped it in the small plastic cup of soy sauce, and put it to my lips. We went on like that all night, fucking and feeding each other and playing with my belt, and with the chopsticks, experimenting with the wasabi's steamy insinuations on mucous membranes. The room smelled like ginger, horseradish, salt—mouthwatering and clean.

In the morning I awoke to gelatinous fish roe in the sheets. I looked for her, but she was gone. Something to do with the accumulation of pressure, I suppose.

I still come upon remnants of roe from time to time when cleaning behind my bed. They have somehow retained their rubylike sheen, though desiccated now, weightless, and harder.

 

 

 

 

 

The first time I visited the Black Rose, the Tenderloin bar where things are rarely what they seem, I was with Dave, a bisexual man with a taste for having it all wrapped up in one neat package. At the Rose he could find a beautiful woman, make an arrangement, and when he raised her glittery skirt, find a succulent cock to suck. The tits wouldn't be fake, either, at least no more fake than you find on most porn stars these days, and Dave was happier with the divine androgynes he met at the Rose than he was with anyone else in his life.

“Of course it's hard to find a girlfriend there,” he said, “unless you have a lot of money, 'cause most of them are working to save up for their change. I always found it very hard to be lovers with a working girl. I have too much ego.”

The first time I went to the Rose, on Dave's arm, the bar was full of larger-than-life women who looked at me suspiciously, and only the ones who knew Dave came up to speak to us. The men in the bar didn't give me a second look. It wasn't that the queens didn't look like women—most of them did—but that I didn't look enough like them. If there was one
thing the men at the Rose weren't looking for, it was a woman in jeans with no makeup.

Dave told me sometimes straight couples cruised the Rose together, but not often, so most of the girls who worked out of the bar ignored any potential I might have had to be a real pay-for-play client. I was only looking that night, anyway, and I wasn't sure it was okay for me to do even that. The Black Rose was a mirror world, a deep secret, and the only safe space most of its habitués had. It wasn't set up to welcome tourists, unless they had money to spend.

The second time I visited the Rose, I went alone.

I didn't go there to cruise or to trick, exactly. I think I cabbed in to the Tenderloin because I knew I could get lost there, because in a weird way the Rose was a safe space for me too, a place where I was almost invisible. When the doorman looked askance at me I mentioned Dave's name; that got me in without further hassle. I took a tiny table off to the side, where I could nurse a drink and see the stage. Sometime after ten o'clock the shiny strips of silver Mylar that curtained the back of the stage began to rustle, and seconds later the first of a dozen transsexuals came through to do her act, lip-synching and dancing to thirty years' worth of diva tunes. As I swallowed stinging mouthfuls of a bad martini, I wondered if something about Judy Garland, Tina Turner, Madonna, Aretha Franklin and Annie Lennox could lure boys away from being boys.

It was like a gay drag show, but equally unlike—less campy by far, although some of the performers were so bad they were good. Huge happy girls towered in their high shoes, barely managing to walk. The Thais, Vietnamese and Filipinas—some of the Latinas too—passed flawlessly, smooth-skinned and no taller than me. Dave had told me that the biggest secret was to get on hormones before the end of puberty. Hardly any of them could do this. Some bore scars from inexpert electrolysis.

She approached my miniature table with none of the attitude I'd gotten from the others. She stood over six feet tall in her heels—the girls at the Rose never, ever wore flats—and she was gorgeous in the bigger-than-life way I was still getting used to. Looking up at her I saw legs for miles, crazy with patterned black lace stockings, a short, shiny silver skirt topping them, and a loose, silky black tank top which didn't quite expose her breasts but showed cleavage. A tattoo peeked out—a rose, probably red but appearing black in the bar's low light. She walked easily in her high heels, had the milky baby breasts that hormones grow. The drink she brought with her was blue and shimmery. Leave it to a girl like this to drink Blue Moons. She put it down right next to my martini.

“May I join you?” she said. Her smoky voice would, if heard over the phone, have given no clue as to her gender.

“Please,” I replied, and scrambled to pull a chair from the next table over for her. She took a second to settle in. Close up I could see the brown roots showing in her cascade of honey-blond hair, could see her light lipstick carefully drawn on and the eyebrows plucked and shaped. Her skin was smoother than some of the others' and her hands were long. Her nails were clipped short—she was the only one I'd seen without long nails, I realized—but polished red. On her left hand she wore a ruby ring. There were two old gold wedding bands on her right.