Best Lesbian Erotica of the Year, Volume 1

by D. L. King

  I should have been afraid. Mexicans and Apaches had been at war for years and I was an invader in her land, but my heart was too sore to do anything but stare at the slight, masculine figure that had suddenly appeared. I was tired of losing the battle against death and dying. I could not escape it, even here. “Mi hija,” I said, and then added in English, “My daughter.”

  A look of sympathy crossed her face. She took a pinch of pollen from a pouch at her belt, scattered it over the grave and wailed. Her lament rose and fell like a coyote’s howl, giving voice to the grief I could not. At the end, she took my hand and gave it a gentle, comforting squeeze. As quietly as she’d come, she vanished. I rarely saw her, but I would often find coyote paw prints alongside gifts of herbs or dried meat on my doorstep in the mornings. Sometimes she would venture inside and poke at my collection of drying plants and medical instruments. “Not anymore,” I told her.

  After my daughter’s death I wasn’t keen on being a healer, but my Coyote Girl wouldn’t let me quit. She shyly offered me cut or broken fingers to tend, and reluctantly, I once again wielded herb and poultice. Her intensity drew me out of my sorrow enough to exchange what knowledge of healing I could without her speaking.

  Now she was back, and I was frightened that she’d traveled so far in so poor a condition. “Come inside and into the light and tell me what’s wrong.” I gestured, and she followed me, hyperalert as if she expected to be ambushed.

  Once indoors, she wordlessly pulled the neck of her shirt aside just far enough to show me the shrapnel studding her upper arm and the musket ball hole in her shoulder. I winced, remembering too many ailing soldiers in the camps. The wounds still bled sluggishly and her breathing was faster than it should have been. To my dismay, there was no matching injury on her back.

  “It’ll have to come out.” I tried to keep my voice even since my nerves were getting the better of me at the thought of doing any kind of surgery. She gave a short, sharp nod, the only assent I would get, and sat on the edge of my cot.

  I didn’t have to ask how she’d been injured. I’d seen a detachment of Union Army infantry, including wagons, horses and two mountain howitzers, travel through the pass the Spaniards had called Puerto del Dado, the Pass of Chance. It separated the Chiricahua and Dos Cabezas mountains and housed a spring vital to those that lived in the area. The soldiers would have made for the water, and from the gunfire that began around noon and lasted for six grueling hours, the Apaches had done their best to prevent them from reaching it.

  And now she was here, and likely not the only one of her people injured. I wasn’t sure why she kept returning to me, since the Apaches knew perfectly well how to deal with bullet wounds. I was glad she did, though. She was brave and beautiful despite—or perhaps because of—her masculine clothing. And her ferocity and zest for life kindled a desire in me I’d felt for no other.

  She smelled of dust and sweat and gunpowder, not surprising in this July heat, and I felt myself flush as I always did in her presence. “I have to tend to that wound. To do that, it, and you, have to be clean.”

  Her eyes narrowed. The clothes were her protection. Against what, I didn’t know, and probably never would, and it didn’t matter. She trusted me enough to remove them, and refused my assistance even when it was obvious her injury pained her. I let her be and set a kettle of water over the fire to heat. When I looked at her again, she’d gotten her shirt off and wore only her britches and the length of linen she’d wrapped around her chest to keep her breasts from being a hindrance. The linen, too, was soaked with blood and sweat. A leather belt wrapped around her slender hips, holding both her six-shooter and knife, and her rifle stood nearby within easy reach.

  I gestured to the binding. “Take it off. We’ll wash it.” I had to admit to not being entirely altruistic with my request. There were so many layers to her, and while I’d never be able to know them all, I wanted to know, and touch, what I could. Bodies told stories as well, or sometimes better than, words.

  She glared at me. She might have been eighteen or twenty-five, so difficult was her age to tell from the hard life she’d led. I loved her strength of expression. She was a fierce fighter with a body lean and hard and strong as any man’s.

  Yet when I carefully touched the binding, she relented. I unwrapped it to see scars, some old, some new, across her back and shoulders. Now she would have a few more.

  She crossed her good arm over her bosom and sat, mute as always, while I took a damp cloth and wiped at her face and neck. There were no tears, not that I’d expected any, but I felt her anguish all the same. Her eyes followed me while the rest of her remained completely unresponsive to my careful ministrations. Tenderness was sometimes hard to accept during a time of war. There was so much urgency and worry and a never-ending tension that I felt in every muscle of her body, and I didn’t know what, if anything, I could do to relieve it.

  When I’d bathed as much of her as I could, she lay down, jaw set in preparation of what was to come. A table would have been better for surgeries, but all I had was my sturdy army cot, which would have to do. I lit every lantern and candle I had, set them nearby and laid out a bundle of clean rags. When it came to readying the knife, though, my hands began to shake. Panic surged in my belly. My daughter had died here, in that very bed. A thousand miles away, my husband had perished of gangrene and dysentery. I hadn’t been able to save either of them, and I couldn’t figure out why Coyote Girl trusted me to tend to her. Surely whatever gods had once watched over me had long since gone and taken my self-confidence with them.

  A warm, calloused hand covered mine, and squeezed. I looked into her eyes and saw the faith I so sorely lacked. Gently, she moved my hand to the knife and held it until I was steady.

  There was no help for it now. “I’m sorry,” was all I said before I dug into the wound.

  It’s a brutal process under any circumstances. I’d learned from a Confederate Army doctor how to enlarge the wound just enough so I could get the forceps around the musket ball, but I hated the necessity of it and the damage I had to cause in order to remove any foreign objects. That done, I used tweezers to tease out the bits of shrapnel, painstaking because there were dozens of tiny metal fragments and I had to make certain to get them all.

  She was pale and perspiring by the time I was done, but she hadn’t made a sound. I cleaned the wounds, stitched the largest shut then had her sit up so I could dress and bind it. By then, her color had returned and I lent her my blanket to cover herself with while I cleaned up and put her laundry in the kettle to boil.

  “Musket ball,” I said, holding out a chunk of lead no doubt fired from one of the howitzers. “Want it for a souvenir?”

  She reached for it, but instead of picking up the ball, she grasped my hand. Her fingers were rough and warm and strong enough to break my hand if she chose.

  She met my gaze and held it. She’d never spoken to me. Other than our first meeting, I’d not heard her voice at all. Whether or not she spoke my languages, it didn’t matter. I knew she understood, and she didn’t need words to make her needs known at all. There was fear in her eyes, not of me, but of the terrible battle that afternoon. I doubted she’d ever seen a howitzer before, much less been on the receiving end of its fire. She’d seen things she did not understand, and sought comfort with someone who might.

  “Chica coyote,” I said, and dared to caress her face. Her expression lost some of its hardness and she leaned into my touch, seeking the same comfort I craved. We’d both lost families and homes and the life we’d known. I’d had a husband, once, a white soldier who’d given me a home and a child before he’d gone to war and come home so badly wounded that none of my skills could save him. He’d done his duties as a husband, being serviceable in bed but no more, and I’d thought that was all there was to the art of love.

  Until now, when Coyote Girl nuzzled the soft, ticklish spots between my neck and shoulders and sent delight shuddering all the way to my toes. One hand found my bre
ast, squeezed, and pawed at my blouse until I pulled it down over my shoulders to reveal my chemise, which I hastily unbuttoned to leave my bosom as bare as hers.

  Her fierce exterior hid a tender heart. This I found out as I pulled her to me and we were skin to skin, breasts against one another. It felt so perfect. So right.

  I clutched at her, touching each scar, memorizing its place and wondering what might have caused it and what another healer had done to mend it. There was one along her spine, two on her good shoulder, one on her belly that vanished beneath her britches.

  There was no softness to her; she was all strength and muscle as she pressed me onto the cot and held me there, nipping first at one nipple and then the other just lightly enough to tease instead of hurt. Darts of sensation prickled my body.

  Then I noticed how much weight she was putting on her arms. “You be careful. You’re injured!”

  She didn’t smile, not quite, but there was a hint of amusement in her eyes. It wasn’t in her nature to take anything easy, even when I’d just spent an hour patching her up. My own husband had never been so eager. Nor had he thrust up my skirt, kneed my legs wide and put his hand… there.

  A thrill of delight went through me as she stroked tender zones, fingers going in circles until I squirmed from the pleasurable ache. Wetness slicked my intimate places and she took advantage of this, rubbing faster and harder until I moaned from the throbbing tightness down below. Pressure and tension built, which left me nervous and a little afraid. I didn’t know what would happen, only that it felt like my body would burst from her fierce attention.

  Moments later, I arched upward as my body seized in a sort of contraction. A flush rolled through me. I closed my eyes, reveling in this new, enjoyable sensation and glad beyond measure it was my Coyote Girl who’d shown me. I would never know all her secrets, but this was a gift beyond price. She trusted me, wanted me, and in turn revealed to me wonders I’d never guessed at. Although he’d never purposely hurt me, my husband had never bothered with my enjoyment. The prostitutes who’d come to me for medicine never spoke of such delights.

  So as the throbbing eased, leaving me languid and worn, I was rendered as speechless as my guest.

  Oh, my trickster girl. I loved her even more for the satisfied, calculating expression she now wore.

  She wasn’t done, either. I watched with eager anticipation as she stood just long enough to undo her belt and, careful of her gun and knife, step out of her britches and knee-high moccasins. The sight of her astounded me, all edge and sharpness instead of the soft, rounded women I’d grown up with. Wasting no time, she clambered back onto the cot and straddled my hips.

  Having aided in dozens of births, I was no stranger to the female body, but it was a wonder to touch it for the sole purpose of bringing pleasure. My fingers slipped easily into her folds, and with her hand atop mine, I pressed harder and deeper as she urged me on. My own body tingled in response as I scented her, explored her, tucked a finger inside her and shuddered at the feel of that soft, moist interior.

  Head back, eyes closed, she rode me, hips rocking, her hand firmly keeping mine in place. I listened to the harsh sounds of her breath, the wetness of her moving against my hand. She gave a little gasp, tensed and shuddered just as her body began an intense, rhythmic squeezing.

  With my free hand, I sought the slickness of my own body and rubbed frantically, desperate to feel that same bodily urgency once more. Coyote Girl, probably amused by my immodesty, eased aside and added a hand to mine. One finger slipped inside me. Two. I arched back, wanting to feel more of her, and she obliged, driving into me as deeply as she could.

  The tide within me surged, rose, and with one last thrust, toppled me over the edge. My body squeezed around her fingers as if desperate to keep them there forever. Tingling jolts shot through my legs, all the way down to my toes, which spasmed from the excitement of it all.

  I let out a howl, and for the first time—she laughed. The sound stunned me into silence, and after a moment, she too let out a yip that would have done a coyote proud.

  I joined in, feeling childish and silly yet somehow free. It was just the two of us, and for a few brief moments, the rest of the world vanished. We were two crazy women out in the wilderness leading wildly different lives, but ever so briefly the spirits had blessed our joining and made us something more.

  When we’d howled ourselves hoarse, we toppled into the cot, snugged tight against each other, and simply lay there, too tired to move.

  After a while, she relaxed into sleep, but our exertions had left me too flushed to do the same. I carefully extricated myself and, wearing only my chemise, I scrubbed her clothes clean. I glanced at her every now and then. She was curled up, resting on her uninjured side. There was no blood on the bandages, thank goodness, despite our exercise. For the rest of the night, I watched the firelight flicker across her bare skin, memorizing every inch of her in preparation for the moment I would have to let her go.

  It wasn’t yet dawn when she woke. I passed her clothes to her. They were still damp although I’d dried them as best I could. She didn’t seem to care, and let me help her with the binding so as not to stress her injured shoulder.

  “Stay here,” I begged, although I knew it was in vain. Duty and love for her people overrode anything I might ask of her, and I admired her all the more for her determination.

  She pulled me close, pressing her forehead to mine. We stayed like that for a few heartbeats, breathing in each other’s scents, savoring the moment.

  Then, abruptly, she released me, grabbed her rifle and headed to the door. Stunned and heartbroken I watched her go, terrified I would lose her, too.

  I dashed after her. The faintest hints of dawn were just beginning to light the sky, and I could not see her. She’d disappeared as she always had, blending into the shadows and silent as her namesake.

  Later, as the sun rose, the sounds of artillery echoing off the hills broke the peace of the morning. I rushed outside, wrapped my shawl around my shoulders and stepped onto the porch. I prayed for my Coyote Girl and everyone else caught in the battle. I’d seen enough deaths, and this land needed no more.

  At dusk, I waited for her, hoping beyond hope she would return. There was no sign of her. In the morning, a string of cavalry passed nearby. The soldiers spoke of how they’d secured the spring, and there was talk of building a fort in the area so they could retain control of the land. My heart sank. Coyote Girl and her people had lost, then. She wouldn’t be coming back. There was no longer any reason for me to stay.

  With a heavy heart I spent the day packing medicines and tools and tidying my little hut for the last time. The next morning dawned warm and clear. A fine day to continue my journey, to embrace life rather than hide from it.

  And there, not more than a few steps from my door, a musket ball lay in a circle of coyote prints. I picked it up, felt the weight and warmth of it as I rolled it around in my hand, and smiled. I could not have been left a clearer message.

  I headed down the trail, steady of heart and hand and filled with a newfound sense of purpose. My coyote girl would never give up the fight, and neither would I.

  SPA DAY

  Taylor C. Dunne

  Summer came early to Washington, DC, leaving the air sticky and heavy as lead by late April. The lobby of the Chesapeake Hotel and Spa, however, was cool and sleek, all heavy marble with chrome accents, incongruous in the throng of staid government-issued architecture. Even all that marble couldn’t keep the humidity from seeping in under the doors, though. Walking outside, Catherine thought, felt like walking into a mouth—she ran a hand selfconsciously over her sleek dark hair as she quickened her pace to make the last few strides through the door. She could feel the strands at the nape of her neck already frizzing from the heat.

  It was Georgia’s idea that they should get away for a while, and so Catherine was ready to bestow the credit upon her for the restorative nature of this trip. She’d booked a suite at the
Chesa-peake—their usual—and whisked Catherine away to Annapolis early in the morning, citing her tense shoulders, her stiff posture. “I’ve never seen anyone more in need of a deep tissue massage,” Georgia said knowingly. “And a facial. Your skin looks parched, baby, have you been moisturizing?”

  Catherine lifted the back of her hand to her cheek and stroked it absentmindedly. “Not as often as I should,” she admitted. “It’s just—we’ve been so busy at work. Half the time I get home and barely have the energy to take off my makeup.”

  Georgia clicked her tongue, disapproving. When they arrived at the spa, she ordered for Catherine—the botanical facial, the red-flower body massage, a sugar waxing, a quick trim-up on her haircut. Catherine didn’t question it, just tacked on a request for a pedicure. No manicure. Keeping her nails plain, blunt and short, was her mildest form of rebellion against the guise demanded of her in public.

  It turned out to be exactly what she needed, truth be told, the stress of the workweek melting away under the capable hands of the masseuse. They spent the rest of the day together, sipping sparkling wine and nibbling strawberries, the conversation light and cozy, not quite required. The staff, as usual, deferred to Georgia’s authority; they seemed to pay the specificities of their relationship to each other no regard. After all, to much of the country, Georgia was merely one of the most powerful women in finance; her close relationship with her executive assistant raised few eyebrows save for in their innermost circles. By the end of the day, when they retired to their suite upstairs, Catherine felt altogether more relaxed than she had in weeks.