Best Lesbian Erotica 2012

by Kathleen Warnock

  “Let’s.” Plural. I love that. “Okay,” I grumble, for show. I stand, then stumble, almost fall. Connie throws out her arm to steady me.

  “Do you want me to help you walk to the bathroom?” She looks scared. I hate that.

  “I’m fine.” I twitch her hand off my shoulder. Why does she have to make such a big deal of a little stumble? It could happen to anyone. “My legs are just a little stiff from being folded on the couch.” I recite my mantra: “I got by before you; I’ll get by after you.”

  “There is no ‘after me,’” she retorts.

  “Whatever,” I shrug, fighting the urge to be mollified. Does she think that if she’s not here every second I’ll shatter, like an hourglass tumbling off a ledge? “You really oughta get out more. Nobody likes a hovering butch.”

  Con scowls at me, opens her mouth to say something, shuts it again. “I’ll meet you in the bathroom, then.” She turns on her heel.

  “It’s a date!” I call, over-the-top giddy-girly, but she’s already stalked around the corner. I grip the wall for a second, make my way into the hall toward the sound of running water. Water. Shit. Water. “Hon,” I call, trying to quell my panic. “Can you check the stove? I think I—”

  “I turned it off before I left,” she calls back. “I’ll buy a new teapot tomorrow.”

  Damn, damn, damn. The third damn teapot this month. Lu, screaming, waving the burnt-out pot, “Why don’t you write things down? Why don’t you set the timer? Can’t you get organized?” Handing me the receipt—making sure the money for the replacement comes out of my disability check, not her hard-earned one. It didn’t do any good to explain, “I did write it down, but I lost the paper. I did set the timer, but I forgot what the ‘ding’ meant.” Rolling her eyes, stomping away. Lovely Lu. Long gone.

  Ears burning, my toes touch cool tile. I collapse onto the toilet seat, my hand over my face. “I’m so sorry. I’ll pay for it, of course. I’m really, really sorry.”

  “Whatever. It’s only a pot. A fucking ugly one, too.” She snorts, “Ha!” at some hidden joke. “Those big, purple flowers! Oh, god! You put us out of its misery, babe.”

  “But…but, you picked it out.” Startling. I lean sideways to look at her face, slip, right myself.

  “Haven’t you learned by now that your lover is a genius? It was on sale. Practically free.”

  “Well, still, I should have paid attention. It’s a waste.” I’m a waste.

  “You should be glad that you didn’t get killed in a fire,” Con spins, cheeks splotched, eyes bright. “Kettles can be replaced. You, babe, cannot. Get over it.” Her voice rough, breaking, Con turns back to the mirror, swipes at her cheek.

  Her moods flash past so fast. Where did that come from? “You’re upset. Are you mad about the pot?”

  “No! Wait—yes. I’m mad that you think I care about a fucking ugly teapot. And I’m scared that I never know if I’m gonna come home to a burned-down house with you dead inside. And you bet I’m mad that you don’t see the difference. But mostly I’m mad that I have to keep convincing you how much I love you.” Facing me now, tears dropping onto her shirt.

  Why does she have to get so melodramatic? “You don’t have to worry. Really. I’m fine. I’ve gotten along this far without burning down the house. I’m not going to die.” You’d get over it. And the other thing? No. Better not. Yes. “Besides, what do you mean, ‘you have to convince me’? I know you love me as much as you can, and if you can’t say it—”

  “Can’t say it? I do say it! Christ!” She pounds the sink with her palm so that bottle of red mouthwash topples toward the drain.

  What does she say? I look at the stained sink, the grimy mirror. Maybe I can clean in here, the next good day I have. “You say it?”

  “Yes, I do.” Her voice softens. “I would think that would be the kind of thing you’d remember.” She tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear.

  “So would I,” I lower my head, sniffling, the strand falling back into my eyes. She tells me how much she loves me. I feel myself turning to vapor, rising like steam above our heads. I wonder how often? I condense suddenly, plummet back down to the toilet seat with a thud. “I know—you’re right. I should write these things down. I should get organized.”

  Connie leans against the sink, her mouth open. “That’s… what…I’m…saying?” She draws out each word.

  “Well, Lu—”

  “Fuck Luanne and the femme she rode in on!” Connie grabs her toothbrush and squeezes the paste so fiercely that it misses her brush and lands in a spiral on the floor. “Which was you, by the way,” she adds, applying a fresh squiggle of paste onto her brush with shaking hands and attacking her mouth.

  “Easy honey. You’ll break a tooth.” I try to laugh, but my throat is dry.

  “I know you think I’m her, but I’m not.” She spits into the sink. “And that’s not the illness fucking with your head, babe—it’s you.”

  “It’s you, babe! It’s you!” Con turns from the mirror where she’s buttoning her pressed, white shirt.

  Modeling the new red dress I bought for her fortieth birthday party, I execute a careful twirl. The short rayon skirt billows up around my thighs. Con catches me at twirl’s end, sliding her hand up to squeeze my ass.

  “I guess you like it, then?” I bite her earlobe, tonguing the golf stud. She’s got on her dress shirt, black slacks. A silk tie with delicate pink petals lies on the hamper, waiting.

  “I’d like this—” she slaps my ass, “in anything—in a garbage bag.”

  “Well, then, I guess there’s no need for finery,” I make to slip away, but she pulls me in tight.

  “Finery is good, too,” she kisses down my neck to the V of the dress, her right hand under the fabric, gliding to my breast.

  I gasp, “I need to sit down. I’m going to fall.”

  Con hoists me off the toilet lid, then pulls me back down onto her lap. “I’m dizzy, hon,” I mumble into her shoulder.

  “Put your head down.”

  We roll me over onto my belly, my forehead resting on the cool floor, my thighs across her lap. The nausea and dizziness start to pass as my ass begins to tingle, and a new lightheadedness emerges. Fingers run up and down the backs of my legs, making spirals on each upturned cheek.

  “What about the dresses?” I mumble. Not dresses. Guesses. “Guests, I mean”—trying to grab hold of anything: the floor, my thoughts, the cold radiator’s foot.

  “The guests can wear their own dresses. Christ! I love your ass!” Con’s hand smacks my ass; my clit reverberates against her thigh.

  Yes, that’s true, their own dresses. “There’s dip too,” I offer. Please, please, hit me again. Her hand whistles down, thwack, thwack, thwack. I scream and moan and wriggle. All I see is red, a tent of red around my head. The dress, I realize, she’s pulled up my dress. My head is swimming in it. I’m so wet. Too wet. “Your pants,” I moan. “They’ll stain. What about the guests?”

  “Fuck my pants,” she grunts. And I do. I hump against her leg; her hands, my ass, all have turned red; I can feel it. I see it in the red around me. Whistling smacks, shrieks piercing air, her hand coming down, coming down, coming down. “I love you,” my mind whispers.

  “I love you baby, baby, baby, I love you, love you. Uhn!” It’s her—her real voice, sweating out the words, muffled by my dress. And the high keening, like a siren as she pushes two fingers in and I writhe and ride, wailing, to the rhythm of her slaps and thrusts. “Come now!” her voice suddenly rough, pushes me over. I howl, pulsing against her fingers. I hold her inside me, letting her feel my power, my inner strength, striated, squeezing. Finally, opening.

  My throat is raw. My cunt is raw. I feel fresh and spent, together. The tile has warmed beneath my head and hands. I can still hear the screaming.

  “Ups-a-daisy,” Connie calls from somewhere above. She’s trying to pull me up to her, but I need to be down, low, on the ground.

  “The floor,” I try to unstick
my tongue. “The floor is soft.” Soft? No, that’s not the word. Smooth? I try to explain, but Connie understands and is gently lowering me, on my side, to the bath mat. She places a folded towel under my head and I curl toward it.

  “I need to turn off the kettle before we burn another bottom out,” her voice retreats, the pounding of her feet shaking the floor. Suddenly the strident call is interrupted with a sharp chirp that fades into a hiss.

  Con’s face, puffing, appears above me. “Just in time. That’s why I decided to hurry things along a bit. Sorry about that.” She collapses with her back against the sink cabinet, her legs across mine.

  “Oh, I didn’t notice,” I murmur, feeling hair in my mouth. The fancy French twist I’d spent an hour creating earlier has come undone.

  “What didn’t you notice? The kettle? Or me hurrying things along?”

  “Either. Neither.” I giggle, thick-tongued.

  “I’ll bet you didn’t. Well, we both better find new duds, babe,’cuz you’re wrinkled and I’m stained. Also, I’m wrinkled and you’re stained.”

  “Guess that makes us a good pair.” I’m waiting for my head to stop spinning.

  “Guess it does,” she huffs, hauling me up. ”Pair of what is the question.”

  She guides me to the bedroom where we stare into the closet, trying to figure out how to re-cover ourselves.

  “…with me?” Con’s brow furrows.

  “What? Yes, of course I’m with you.” What were you saying though…? “What was that last bit?”

  She pretends to bang her head into the mirror above the sink. “There was no ‘last bit,’” she grumbles around her toothbrush.

  “I just suggested that since you’re in here you might want to take a shower.”

  I raise my eyebrows.

  My lover waves toward my armpits. “You stink.”

  I glare.

  “Darling?” She bats her eyelashes in a way that looks totally ridiculous and insincere.

  “What about you? When was the last time you bathed?”

  “Oh, it’s been…a while.” Her brushing has returned to a steady rhythm. “I’ll join you, if you like.”

  “You just want to get me wet and soapy and have your way with me,” I accuse, hopefully.

  “Okay,” she grins, jiggling the red plastic brush in her mouth. A thin foam of toothpaste dribbles onto her chin and splatters onto the floor. I can see the moisture evaporating as I watch, the foam drying, sticking to the floor, where it will soon resemble a cum stain. Con never mops the floors. They’re perpetually gritty. That dried, papery blotch of toothpaste drool will probably stay there forever. I’m fascinated by it. It crinkles around the edges, becomes delicate, like flower petals.

  Connie takes off her clothing, steps into the stall, turns on the water. Steam rises. She motions to my shower chair. “Milady, your chariot awaits.” I take a moment to adore her body, the layers of soft flesh over hard muscle, her right breast a little fuller, more pendulous than her left. Her eyes. It’s me. “Are you coming?” Connie stands naked, streaming, soap in hand, beckoning from the stall. I rise, releasing my hair from its clip. I always come when you call.

  THE ELEVATOR MAN

  Lea DeLaria

  I am a hardnosed butch. The kind of butch you don’t see much of these days. We have gone out of fashion, like landlines and cassette tapes. Occasionally we pop up when your deck needs building or your Pride Parade marshalling. We have faded into a landscape riddled with assimilation and transitioning, forcing us into hiding or worse, extinction. It is a blessing that my business allows me to dress as I please, in tailored suits and crisp white shirts with French cuffs. I am starched and groomed and mannish. I am the last butch in New York City.

  I live in a building not unlike myself. Well kept. Somewhat old-fashioned. You walk past at least four doormen to get to the elevator, where there is a uniformed man waiting to press the button that you are either too bored or too rich to push yourself. I have a lovely view of the park.

  I never want for female companionship, nor do I need to be involved. I am a confirmed bachelor. Many a young femme have tried in vain to rearrange the pattern of my life. I will always let them try, because for me the chase is everything. Of course by “chase,” I mean I chase you. Yes, Virginia, there is a butch top, and I am (s)he.

  This femme is a pragmatic girl. The sort of girl who wants what she wants. She will tell you what she wants, no matter what it is, no matter where. I know this because I have been watching her since she moved in. I am Interested. Interested not so much in her, but in who she is beneath that confidence. I can sense a girl who might not be as she appears. I can smell it on her. She is a girl who needs to be taken.

  The pragmatic one and I live on the same floor and ride the elevator together sometimes. When we do, I stand behind her so I can take her in. She feels my eyes on her. This makes her nervous.

  Today begins like any other day. I wake. I have coffee. I shower and shave. I dress. I leave my apartment. I smile inside when I see her there waiting for the elevator. Again I stand behind her, just that little bit too close. I am conscious of her tension. This jumpiness of hers makes me smirk. It also makes me hard. The elevator comes. We step inside: me to the rear, her in the fore. She takes her place directly in front of me. There is no one else in the car.

  “No elevator man,” she says. I reply only with my eyes on her. Silence. We are fourteen floors up and the car is moving slowly. I step forward so that I am now fixed behind her, my breath on her neck. Stillness. She reaches out, I don’t see where, and suddenly we stop. An alarm goes off. She is frozen. My eyes are on her. We are statues. Motionless. The phone rings. I answer.

  “Yes, we’re fine,” I say. “It just stopped.” Pause. “Two.” Pause. “Can you do anything about the alarm?” Pause. “Thank you, we’re fine.” I hang up. All this time she has not moved. She says nothing.

  “The system is down,” I tell her. The alarm goes quiet. “No cameras.” Long pause. “They have no idea how long it will take to fix.” I say this so that she can feel me, behind her, on her neck and as I do, I reach around and start to fondle her breast through her blouse. I hear her sharp intake of air, but nothing voiced. She does not stop me. She does not say, “No.” I inch up on her and bring my other hand to her large tit. I can feel the nipples harden as I squeeze them between my finger and thumb. Now she makes a sound, a moan. I know this moan. I have heard it before. She wants more from me. So I pull harder. She backs up against me. I kiss her neck and softly lap her ear with my tongue. She becomes aroused, so I bite her. Again she moans. Again she wants more.

  “Fuck me,” she demands. I pull her tightly to me. “Patient girls get what they want,” I whisper.

  I run one hand down her side while pinching her nipple with the other hand. Her breathing becomes static. I reach up her skirt and slide into her panties, forcing her legs apart. She is soaked. “That’s what I thought,” I muse as I begin to stroke her clit.

  “Fuck me,” she demands again.

  “Maybe later,” I tease, then cram my fingers inside her. She whimpers. I pull out as quickly as I enter.

  “Fuck!” she sobs from frustration. I continue to caress her pussy.

  “Do you want me to fuck you little girl?” I ask, my fingers slipping easily around her clit, then in her cunt and around again.

  “Yes.” She can barely speak.

  “Then say, ‘please,’ like a good little girl.” I smile, knowing this will happen. She is too far gone to turn back now.

  “Fuck me. BOY, please…FUCK ME.” The “BOY” is all I need to hear. I bend her over, hike up her skirt and jerk down her thong. I enter her like that from behind, thrusting inside her. She pushes back hard on me. I hear her talking: “Fuck me harder, Boy. Get it. Get it. Make me cum.” I reach around to finger her clit as I drive deeper and deeper and faster and faster into her. Her cunt tightens around my three fingers then explosively she cums. I continue to fuck her as she keeps on cu
mming, rolling over orgasm after orgasm. I will not stop. I will not stop, because I want it all. I want all of her cum, all of it. Then, and only when she finally begs me to, I quit. We are again motionless. I hear her pant.

  I help her become herself once more. It only takes a moment. Wordlessly she stands, facing me now, the pragmatic girl, the girl who wants what she wants. I pull off her thong and put it in my pocket. You see I want what I want too. I smooth her blouse and adjust her skirt. I kiss her then, for the first time on her mouth. She turns around. I stand behind her a bit too close. The elevator jumps back on.

  NECK MAGIC

  Nancy Irwin

  I have developed a fascination with your neck. I put my hands around it and you immediately drop, like magic, into a submissive space. The look in your eyes says that you’ve become consciously captive and are waiting for my command. There’s something that you want, or is that need?

  I used to like to watch you bring yourself down and get ready for play. But most of that time I was busy getting the space set up, organizing bondage equipment, getting lube, gloves, chucks and cum cloths ready. I would catch a glimpse of you in the bathroom, or in the bedroom. I have an image of you, a muscular butch wearing a black long-sleeve dress shirt, open and with the cuffs rolled up—and wearing boots, as I requested. You stood in my bedroom door, looking down the hall toward the dungeon. I spotted you and you looked down. The next time I saw you I had entered the bedroom. You were standing at the foot of the bed with your back exposed and your head down. I meant to enter slowly but I was so turned on by the sight of you that I pounced against your back and wrapped my arms around you. Your submission turns me on.

  I like that I don’t have to take care of you after. What I mean is that you’re a strong person, fully capable of running your own life. You manage construction projects, a complex work schedule, properties with tenants, and maintain a Ford Explorer, a couple of Jeeps and a Harley-Davidson. Oh, and you have a boi devoted to serving you. All that requires skill and dominance. When you choose to submit to me, you do so freely. You give up control for a specific time. I may have the pleasure of sharing some ecstatic moments and the peaceful bliss that comes after. This is a gift you share with me, but it’s not mine to keep. You’re not mine to keep. All this is ephemeral, like a spring blossom or soap bubble; beautiful, but gone in a blink. What lingers is the possibility of more.