I grin. I take her hand, draw it down to my soaking wet cunt, brushing her fingertips over my hard clit. “What do you think?” I ask, laughing a little into her ear.
She growls hungrily, rolls me over underneath her, and says, “I think you’re a little slut, that’s what I think.”
I nod happily, and spread my legs wider.
Fee Fie Foe Femme
Elaine Miller
All night long she wouldn’t let me kiss her because—she said—our lipstick colors clashed.
Checking the address she’d written on a piece of paper, I’d picked her up at her house earlier. Rosalie, the paper said, then her phone number and address. No last name. Dykes don’t need last names when we have attributes and ex-lovers to be known by. As a dyke I’m Jez the Goth, or Sharen’s-ex Jez, never Jessie Tate. And Rosalie…could be New-in-Town Rosalie, or Rosalie the Beautiful. Maybe if I was into U–Haul rental she could be Jez’s Rosalie by the second date.
My heart skipped a beat as she’d appeared in the doorway dressed like an old-time movie starlet, her loose curls bouncing around her sparkling brown eyes. She’d taken my hand, and I’d leaned in for a kiss, which she dodged, laughing impishly. And explained. I was annoyed that she was right about the lipstick clashing. I was wearing my usual vampiric matte blood-red, and hers was something a worker bee would die trying to collect for her queen. Raspberry pink, glittery under the new-car deep gloss, her lips were startling and perfect jewels against her brown skin.
I took Rosalie the Beautiful to LICK, the only full-time lezzie bar in town. Once there and seated at a table beside the dance floor, we lost no time in flirting. She pretended to lose one of her gold earrings in my cleavage, necessitating that she trail her fingers around my breasts, trolling for it, while I protested that she had to find it, quick, because I wear only silver with black clothing. And of course, I only wear black clothing.
But she still wouldn’t kiss me. She would dance so close to me that the lines of her face blurred in our body heat, oh yes. She would let the slick material of her skirt smooth the way as she rode my thigh to the beat of the house music. Later in the evening, she’d let me hold her tight in the dark corners of the bar, one hand cupping her full breast, my thumb strumming across her nipple as she squirmed, my other hand tangled in the hair at the nape of her neck. But every time I tried to kiss her, throughout the evening, she just laughed and twirled away, leaving a cloud of girl-scent, a flare of her skirt, and the teasing word Lipstick.
By the end of the night, I was cross-eyed with frustration. When Rosalie the Beautiful whispered a lewd invitation in my ear, I simply answered, “Yeah. Let’s go to my house,” took her hand, and pulled her out of LICK, past the approving smirks of my friends. And on the way home she wouldn’t kiss me. She teasingly said that it was all about preserving her shiny, glossy pink lipstick. Besides, she wouldn’t want to distract me from my driving.
We tumbled in my door as one body with eight limbs, panting and pulling at each other’s clothes all the way to the bedroom. She didn’t seem to want to stop for a tour. We fell across my bed and I unzipped her dress and, with her wholehearted help, peeled off every item of clothing that could get in my way. I left her the pretty white stockings and garters, but threw her pinching high-heeled shoes on the floor. I’m a femme too; I know these things.
I hastily shucked off my own clothes, especially my own damned shoes, and they made little black heaps amidst the white piles of Rosalie’s clothes.
She looked…well, you can guess how she looked, smooth-skinned and plump-limbed, all curves and soft lines. But you probably haven’t imagined with your other senses yet, so close your eyes and imagine the heat of her skin warming the air around us, and her scent like clean sweat from dancing, and just a hint of her sex.
She lay back against the pillows and smiled at me. She didn’t say anything, but I just knew that if I leaned forward now she’d let me kiss her and to hell with the lipstick. I didn’t try. Instead I pulled a few coils of rope and some bondage cuffs out from the toybox and onto the bed, knowing that with what she already knew of me she wouldn’t be at all surprised. Not in the mood for protracted negotiation, I cocked an eyebrow at her in an inquiring gesture.
“Sure,” said Rosalie the Beautiful, her eyes outshining her lipstick. “My safeword is ‘Untie me now.’ ”
I tied her flat on her back, her hips held down by a wide belt of ropes crossing back and forth from two of the many eyebolts on either side of the bed. I clipped her hands to the headboard at full extension over her head, allowing her breasts to poke temptingly at the ceiling.
I buckled cuffs around her ankles, and two bigger cuffs a few inches above each knee. I passed a long, slim white rope through the bolts near her hands, and ran it through the rings on the cuffs around her strong, plump, stocking-clad thighs, and as she squeaked in a surprised way, effortlessly pulled her knees high up toward her chest, exposing her sweet, wet cunt. With a quick knot at the ring of the thigh cuffs, I pulled the ropes down to either side of the bed and ran them through two rings there, parting her thighs further. As she began to squirm in earnest, I connected the ends of the ropes to her ankle cuffs and pulled her heels tight to the backs of her thighs, hindering her from kicking or moving her legs.
I stepped back to admire her, and paused, conscious of my own wetness and of my clit pulsing with the beat of my heart. I ached to touch her, and I let that ache build as I looked at her. Warily, she watched me watch her, and relaxed when she saw that, in the symbiosis of being desired, her potent femme’s power was intact. Held open like a wanton offering, Rosalie’s eyes met mine steadily, proudly. She knew her own beauty; pretty, pretty girl.
“Don’t just stand there,” she said. “I know you want me.”
“Oh yeah, I do. I’m dying to have you,” I said. “That’s why this is gonna hurt me more than it hurts you.”
She looked startled.
I sat for a moment on the bed between her thighs, slowly looking at every intimate detail of her body, finally meeting her eyes. She licked her perfect pink lips in an unconsciously catlike gesture of nervousness.
I leaned forward, letting my long black hair brush her thighs, and made myself comfortable on my belly, my face inches from her exposed cunt. Damn, she smelled good.
I exhaled slowly, open-mouthed, warm breath blowing ever so gently across her flesh.
She squirmed.
“Do it,” she muttered.
“Do what?” I breathed
“Go on, taste me.”
“Maybe.”
She wiggled halfheartedly, but the ropes prevented her from changing position. I moved closer still, my hair swinging once more against her skin, my lips an inch from her clit. I breathed slowly in through my nose, out through my mouth, making the flow of air as warm as possible.
“Fuck,” she said, to no one in particular.
“Maybe that’s what I’d like to do. Slide my fingers inside you, fuck you,” I said, letting each exhaled word play over her clit.
“Yeah, fuck me.”
“Maybe,” I said.
I noticed the spot I was breathing on seemed to be drying a little from my hot breath, but the very entrance to her cunt was becoming drenched. I lifted up, scooched forward, and dropped a very unladylike wad of spit right at the top of her slit, then added another as I watched the first start to trickle downward.
“Ahh, fuck, what are you…why won’t you…? Jez, do something!” she sputtered.
I grinned at her. “Maybe.”
I went back to breathing on her, slowly, with all the warmth I could muster. Every so often she tried to shove her cunt in my face, but as she didn’t have much slack, it was easy to avoid contact.
I lost myself, as if in meditation, as I pushed each exhale hotly past her clit, thinking nonthoughts about the sweet, musky scent of her cunt and her stifled growling noises. Every so often I added another bit of saliva above her clit, never touching her, but watching her twist
and groan at the sudden sensation of wetness.
“There’s a puddle under your ass now, not spit but cunt juice,” I breathed, whispering to her clit as if it was my secret friend, not mentioning the wetness under my own hips.
“Touch me, you fucker.” She started a rhythmic rocking motion, moving as far as the ropes would allow, only an inch or two each way.
I extended my tongue and made it a hard point, letting her make the barest contact between my tongue and her clit. Immediately I felt her reaching for me with her hips, as far as she was able. But I simply held my place, using the faintest possible pressure as her clit brushed my tongue-tip on the upstroke and the downstroke.
After about a few dozen downstrokes, she suddenly sucked in and held her breath, and I leaned back and away from her, watched her pretty face contort in a snarl and the entrance to her cunt twitch hungrily. Nice.
“Why won’t you lick me, you evil bitch-bastard?”
“Because I’m worried about mussing my lipstick,” I said.
She started cursing, colorfully. Her cursing would have made a pirate’s parrot lose feathers. It would have made a biker blush. It made me laugh, out loud and joyful.
I climbed up her body, nestled my hips between her spread thighs, and snuggled in. She gasped as my pubic hair pressed into her cunt after so long without touch, and I smiled down at her.
“Holy, you’re so wet, I think I might get a steam burn.”
“Fuck you.”
“Is that your safeword?”
“No!” And then she started cursing again, as I lifted my body from hers and nuzzled into her tits, getting to know them. They were soft and weighty, full and rounded; the left one was slightly larger, a touching imperfection. Her large, dark nipples pointed straight at the ceiling, and went stiff as I watched.
Not every woman considers her nipples an erogenous zone, so I suckled on one for a second, to test. She gasped and bucked toward me, not away.
“Hey—are these candy?” I exclaimed happily, and dove right in.
I happily lost myself in no time again, moving from nipple to nipple whenever I thought the other might be getting lonely, lightly and experimentally sucking, biting, and licking until I thought I had deciphered the language of her curses and wriggles. What she liked best seemed to be a firm, direct suction at the tip of her nipple, with a slight graze of my teeth every so often. She never quite stopped trying to bring her body in contact with mine, but I stayed up on my elbows, with just my soft belly occasionally picking up wet streaks from her cunt. It wasn’t just to tease her; I thought I might embarrass myself by coming if I humped her thigh even for a second.
Finally, I left her wet, chewed, lipstick-stained nipples and ran my tongue in a trail down the curves of her belly, across her garter belt, continuing on in a casual fashion along the length of her cunt. She hissed when I contacted her clit on the way, growled when I dipped inside her, and began to rock against me when I dragged my tongue back, making my tongue flat and soft and dragging it so very slowly up between her labia.
“Oh please,” she said when her hard clit just naturally slid into my mouth, my tongue pressing underneath. “Please. That. Do that. Oh….” She sounded sniffly, so I sat up a little to check how she was. Her expression was soft and unfocused, her eyes full of tears. I felt the little spot in my heart grow even warmer with affection for her.
“What do you want, Rosalie the Beautiful?” I asked tenderly, adding my private qualifier to her name for the first time.
She smiled fuzzily at that. “Please touch me, Jez. Lick me. Fuck me. I’m going out of my mind.”
“Yeah, I think maybe it’s time,” I said. And, watching her face, I slid one finger inside her, found she was wet enough, pulled out, and pushed three fingers back in, a little roughly. Her eyes rolled back and her whole body welcomed me in. I slid out and back in again, and her mouth opened soundlessly, her back arched. I did it again, and again, experimenting, trying to learn everything about her in a few short strokes.
I made a guess that she’d like to be fucked hard and fast, in direct contrast to my soft teasing game. Oh yeah. Then I thought maybe adding direct pressure on her G-spot would feel right, and within a second knew I’d guessed correctly. She held nothing back, her body and face telling eloquent stories about her body’s responses.
Time enough later, or tomorrow, for my harness and dick. No time, right now, even to reach for the lube. She seemed close to coming already, and I didn’t want to tease her for even one moment more.
I moved and took her clit in my mouth again, soon finding the steady side-to-side rhythm that made her cunt clench around my hand. I closed my eyes and put everything I had into pushing her over the edge, lost in her taste and smell, reaching as far as I could inside her with every stroke of my fingers.
Rosalie went rigid, shaking, and her soft cries grew urgent. Her cunt clamped around my fingers, almost squeezing me out, but felt I knew what she needed. I pushed harder inside her.
When I felt her muscles flex and heard the ropes attached to the headboard creak, I concentrated on her clit, flicking it hard with my tongue, once, twice, a third time…and she sucked her breath in and then wailed like a cat. She came in intense, shaking waves, her cunt’s deep throbbing squeezing my fingers, and I kept going, fucking her more and more gently until the tension slowly melted out of her muscles, and it was time to stop.
I slid up her bound body, released the buckles on her wrist cuffs, and looked fondly at her. Breathing hard, flushed, and tear-streaked, she was more beautiful to me then than any woman I’d ever seen.
Despite everything we’d done in the last hour, her lipstick was still raspberry-glossy and perfect.
So I kissed her.
Boxer Briefs
Eric(a) Maroney
“I don’t like them.” Laura’s voice breaks the silence as I stand in front of the bedroom mirror modeling my first pair of boxer briefs. I put my back to the mirror, look over my shoulder, and furrow my brow. The gray Hanes stretch across my oval thighs and butt, hugging the curve of my ass.
“I don’t know, Laur, they’re kind of comfortable.”
She looks up at me, running a hand through her chin-length, auburn hair. “They’re too boyish,” she says, raising an eyebrow. “I feel like I’m watching my twelve-year-old cousin.”
I met Laura six years ago in a photography class for women, downtown at the New Haven Art Space. Even then I knew the overbearing power of her beauty. She sauntered into the classroom, dodging rows of counters beneath the fluorescent lights of the art hall basement, and slid onto a stool next to me. “Hello,” she had said, coolly introducing herself and making little effort to hide the fact that she was looking me up and down, finally allowing her gaze to rest on my rounded breasts.
“I think I look sexy,” I say, swaying my hips back and forth, casually flexing what muscles I have in my arms. She is right. I do look like a young boy, but at the same time I can’t help manufacturing marvelous fantasies surrounding this newfound sexual dynamic as I stand in front of her, half naked. I close my eyes and picture her on her knees, parting the flap on the front of my Hanes and urging out the peach-colored dildo that could lie tucked inside.
“It’s kind of sick, too.” Laura looks up at me from where she lounges on the checkered blue-and-green bedspread. Above her, on the olive-drab wall is the black-and-white photograph that she bought for me in San Francisco four years ago: two topless women—their heads shaved—cradling one another. It was the last stop on a road trip that celebrated the culmination of my awkward and unbearable high school years. I lower my eyes and pout, only half pretending.
“I’m sorry, Bradley, I just don’t like them,” Laura continues, propping herself up on her side and leaning onto her bronzed forearm. The room is chilly and tiny bumps have begun to form on my exposed skin. Outside, the wind thrusts massive tree limbs as if they are twigs snapping beneath someone’s tread. Slinking past the fogged windowpane, I sit on the bed b
y the baseboard and roll the boxer briefs off, revealing my shaved mound. Laura watches as I kick my feet into the air, shimmying into a pair of black bikini-cut panties.
“Better?” My one-word response to being offended.
Laura leans over me, trailing a finger down my muscular belly. “I love the way your body moves, the way your legs frame your vagina, and the way your stomach folds when you bend.”
On my back, she towers over me in her favorite cargos and a baby-blue T-shirt that stretches tightly across her breasts. I can see where her erect nipples fight to pierce the cotton of her T-shirt, surrounded by plump mounds of soft but firm flesh. I reach upward to cup my palms around her tits, as she slips her hands under my back, eliminating the space between us. Our faces hover close, so that the tip of my nose tickles hers, and then she dives into me, tracing her tongue around the outline of my lips, parched but now satisfied.
Laura thrusts her tongue into my mouth, her warm breath flavored like the almond coffee she had been sipping, encasing my mouth—now heaving breaths—and locks her lips over mine. I lift my pelvis to meet her thigh, gyrating into her firm muscles as she reaches her hands upward, hooking them around my shoulders and pulling me closer.
I love this motion, this rise and fall of bodies, where I can make-believe I am penetrating her, feeling her from inside as I fill her and run my fingers over her clit.
Laura rolls over and pulls me on top of her. She continues to suck and nibble at my lips as I push my thigh between her legs in an off beat rhythmic pattern. Her breathing shortens—quick sucks of air between kisses and moans. I pull myself off her to unfasten her pants, sliding them down and over her feet. Her cunt lies in the open with a small gleam of cum, waiting to be devoured. I lean into her and close my lips around her pussy, trying to take the whole thing in my mouth at once, stretching from the tip of her asshole to the top of her mound. I flicker my tongue up and over her clit, tracing the sides on the way back down. She squirms and pushes herself closer to my lips.
Best Lesbian Erotica 2005 Page 14
