Best Lesbian Erotica of the Year, Volume 1

by D. L. King

  They lounged in the room for a while, losing track of time. Catherine fixed them both a drink from the minibar, and between the makeshift screwdrivers she shook up with pineapple juice instead of orange, and the rosé they’d been sipping all day, she soon found herself loose and comfortable in her own skin, wrapped in a plush white bathrobe. She sprawled comfortably by the window, the Chesapeake Bay glittering in the background as she listened to Georgia crisply tapping the keyboard of her laptop.

  Some interminable amount of time passed before Georgia turned her attention to Catherine, who was seated on the fainting couch by the window, paging through a copy of the Atlantic and idly twisting a strand of fresh-cut hair along one finger. Georgia bent down by her side, tipped her chin up and drew her into a warm kiss. Catherine sighed into it, the buildup of the day bubbling to the surface. Georgia kissed like a dream, soft and smooth but bossy enough to make her shiver a little, to remind her where she belonged. Where she liked to belong.

  Georgia patted the California king bed. “Sit,” she said, and Catherine sat obediently, stretching out along the mattress, letting her robe fall temptingly askew. She watched Georgia from the corner of one eye, as she rifled through her suitcase, clearly looking for something in particular. She sat it on the bed, and Catherine cocked a brow—

  “You certainly came prepared,” Catherine laughed, and Georgia hummed in agreement as she shed her own robe. Her body still often caught Catherine by surprise, alternating firm and soft and supple and well built in harmony, and her dark-brown skin glowed from the massage. It was altogether too much, and Catherine’s breath caught in her throat as she stretched out farther, arranging herself on the pillow and beckoning for Georgia to kneel over her face.

  She always worked best with one task to focus on, one singular activity upon which to center all of her energy and abilities. This, then, remained her favorite iteration of that particular quirk of personality. She slid her pale hands up along Georgia’s thighs, grasping them from the outside as she lifted her head just enough off the pillow to angle it right against Georgia’s cunt. She ran her tongue along her outer lips, featherlight touches that grew a little more firm each time.

  When she touched her tongue to Georgia’s clit, she earned a hand in the hair and a warm “Good girl,” and she flushed. Yes, very good, she thought. She relaxed into a rhythm, long broad strokes with the flat of her tongue followed by smaller flicks, and when she had Georgia panting above her, grasping at her hair with a firmer hand, her eyes fluttered up to look her in the face as she closed her mouth over Georgia’s clit and sucked.

  “Oh, good girl,” Georgia groaned again, hips bucking against her face. “Stay right like that, don’t stop—” and it was just on the right side of overwhelming, to be so willingly caged by Georgia’s long legs and her firm thighs; Catherine dug fingers into her hips and held her there, breathing raggedly through her nose as she drew what felt like an endless orgasm from her. It was everything, and Catherine was nothing but the weight of her lover’s body and the salty heat of her cunt upon her lips.

  She licked her swollen lips as Georgia daintily lifted herself away, and caught Georgia smiling cagily in response. “Thank you,” Catherine said, perhaps unnecessarily under the circumstances. But she meant it. Georgia kissed her on the lips as she sat up and licked into her mouth, hot and dirty, and Catherine realized, suddenly, how wet she was herself. She hastily undid the tie on the bathrobe and tossed it away, shaking her dark, glossy bob out of her face with satisfaction.

  Georgia stood up from the bed and stepped carefully into the harness. “How long has it been since I’ve fucked your ass?” she asked, warm and casual, and Catherine felt her entire face flush down to her collarbone, her body growing warm.

  “Ah,” she said, at a loss for words. “I suppose—since the G20 in Paris.”

  Georgia chuckled as she secured their cock in the harness. It was the glass one, heavy and exquisitely crafted, and she ran one hand along it suggestively as she tightened the straps. “Would you like me to do that tonight?” she asked, voice low and teasing, and Catherine swallowed, nodding shakily. Her cunt answered for her in the affirmative, as she felt a throb of arousal pulse through her at the way Georgia stroked the glass shaft expectantly, waiting.

  Catherine forced out an answer. “Yes, Ma’am,” she muttered, eyes lowered, and Georgia grinned and bent to kiss her once more before patting her firmly on the hip.

  “Turn over,” she said decisively, and Catherine obeyed, arranging herself on all fours. Her hair fell back into her eyes as she rested her head delicately on a pillow, and she felt Georgia brush it out of the way, stroking her cheek with affection. “You look so beautiful, love,” she murmured, “so willing and trusting. Gonna make this so good for you.”

  “You always do,” Catherine said in half a whisper, and Georgia smiled before moving back to the center of the bed.

  “Up,” Georgia ordered decisively, smacking her once on the ass, and Catherine arched her back, displaying herself properly. “So pretty, baby. Why don’t you spread yourself for me? Show me what I’m working with?”

  Catherine’s entire body went hot and buzzing at that, but on instinct, she pushed her face harder against the pillow as she reached back to obey, displaying herself. She felt a rivulet of arousal trickling down her thigh as she did. Fuck.

  Georgia’s hand slid along the underside of her stomach, thumb brushing at her clit, the barest hint of pressure. One finger stroked up through the wet heat of her center, fingertip just dipping inside, and Catherine resisted the urge to rock back on it. But only barely. She was already nearly shaking with the effort of holding back, of staying perfectly still.

  Georgia took her hand away, and Catherine glanced back over her shoulder to see her sucking it into her mouth, humming around it. “You taste so good, my love,” she murmured. There was another throb of heat, another pulse of arousal, and Catherine spread herself a little wider, arched her back a little farther, silently begging with wide, cloudy eyes.

  “Good girl,” Georgia said, “stay just like that,” and then she dipped her head to lick a stripe up from her cunt to the cleft of her ass, followed by another, and another. Catherine’s hips bucked on instinct. Her body shook with the effort of not moving more openly as Georgia rubbed at her clit with the heel of her palm. Lightly, at first, and then more insistently, giving her something solid to grind against as Georgia continued to eat her out. And then there was a finger tracing the rim of her entrance, slick with lube and her own juices, and she whimpered as she arched her back a little more, relaxed every muscle, let Georgia press inside her while still working her clit with her other hand. She wanted to pretend it hadn’t been a while, that the sensation wasn’t new all over again, but the initial burn quickly relaxed into an intense feeling of fullness that she always forgot she loved—

  It was almost too good. Catherine gasped and babbled into the pillow as she let the sensation overwhelm her, as another finger joined the first, working her loose and open—allowing Georgia to draw out one quick orgasm that hit her as fast and sharp as a smack to the face.

  Her chest heaved as she rode it over the edge and came back to earth. All she could think was more—an insatiable need rose within her, a desire to be filled in a most unladylike way, used until she was panting and screaming and limp. An interminable moment passed, and she looked back to see Georgia slicking up the thick glass cock, hand moving up and down with a strange sort of grace.

  “What do you want, Catherine?” she asked, her voice low and smooth and warm, thumb brushing over the head of the strap-on. “Go ahead. Tell me what you want.”

  Catherine clenched her jaw; she swallowed hard, her cunt throbbing hot and tight. “I want you to fuck me,” she muttered, a half answer, half into the pillow. She shut her eyes, felt the head of the dildo rubbing along her cleft, dug her fingertips into where she still obediently held herself open. (She thought, briefly, about letting go. I didn’t tell you to stop, she c
ould hear Georgia chiding already; she clenched her fingers a little tighter.)

  “Is that all?” Georgia asked, and the cock rubbed back and forth, back and forth, heavy and thick and not enough, and Catherine swallowed again.

  “Please, Ma’am,” she mumbled through taut humiliation. “I—I want you to fuck my ass.”

  “Good girl,” Georgia said, effusive and sweet and encouraging, and she took half a moment of anticipation before she positioned the head at Catherine’s entrance and slowly, excruciatingly slowly, pressed inside.

  Catherine closed her eyes and let out a long breath. The sensation was intense and just this side of too much—Georgia took it so slowly, filling her up a quarter inch at a time, a long, unbroken thrust until she was fully seated inside Catherine, the leather straps of the harness flush against her ass. And then she felt Georgia take hold of her hands, moving them down to the mattress. “You should hold on,” she said quietly. “Good girl. Hold on for me.” Catherine swallowed and gripped the sheets with both hands, spreading her legs wider and shifting her weight on her knees. “I want you to come again,” Georgia added, warm but authoritative; it was no idle desire. “Play with your cunt if you have to.”

  Catherine didn’t need to be told twice. She rubbed her clit in small circles, soft where she still felt overstimulated and then harder as Georgia began to fuck her in slow, small, but steady strokes. Her face was burning warm and damp with sweat. Her hair stuck to her forehead as she shifted position on the pillow— more, more, more, her body screamed, and as Georgia paused, a silent check-in, she clenched her jaw and pushed back harder onto the cock inside her.

  “Oh, you like that, don’t you?” Georgia said with a fond laugh, matching Catherine’s thrust with one of her own. “My dirty girl. That’s okay. I’ve got you.” She took her hips in both hands, then, and began to fuck her in earnest, long, rolling thrusts, hitting nerve endings she didn’t even know she possessed—and she was begging, she knew she was begging, a cascade of pleases and thank-yous pouring from her parted lips as Georgia fucked her—

  Her second orgasm started deep in her core, all of her nerves vibrating at once, singing, shredded, dissolving. She buried her face in the pillow, holding on with one hand, Georgia fucking her through it as she let out a ragged, wordless shriek only barely muffled by the goose down as she collapsed, prone, onto it.

  She sensed time slowing down, somehow; felt Georgia pulling out of her, felt the rustle of movement and a sudden sensation of emptiness and seconds that could be minutes or vice versa, really, she wouldn’t know. She didn’t come back to earth until she felt Georgia turning her onto her side, pulling her close. The harness was gone, nothing between them but skin on skin, and then a blanket resting lightly over the top as she shivered. She was hot, but the sweat coating her body gave her chills, and Georgia ran smooth hands over her skin reverently, kissing her neck and shoulders, kissing the tension out.

  Georgia was soaking wet. Catherine felt it as she slid one leg in between the two of hers. She was not so far gone, she thought, and reached down to work Georgia through a slow, easy orgasm, two fingers inside and thumb rubbing against her languid and easy. They were both a sticky mess as they collapsed into each other, the spa’s painstaking handiwork practically destroyed.

  “We should think about dinner soon,” Georgia said after a brief pause, dropping another row of affectionate kisses along the line of Catherine’s shoulder. “Perhaps just room service.”

  Catherine half shrugged in response, considering the notion. “Whatever you’d like,” she said truthfully. “I trust your judgment.”

  REVENANT

  Vanessa de Sade

  It had been over twenty-five years since Trudy had last seen Fiona, and she stands hesitantly now on the immaculately scrubbed doorstep, not quite sure if she should press the bell or just run away. The two of them had been as thick as thieves back in their art school days, of course, sharing a studio and gleefully getting themselves covered in gouache on a regular basis, frenzied young painters hell-bent on becoming the next Jenny Saville. But that was before Fiona had gone and met some dick-head bloke and ditched college to marry him; and Trudy herself had taken a U-turn and changed her art degree to one in Renaissance history. And yet here she is today, trim and successful in her immaculate Calvin Klein suit, inhaling the scent of polish and trying to still her beating heart.

  They had drifted apart after Fiona had married. Jack, the new husband, was disapproving of Trudy and Fiona’s other arty friends; and though the pair still exchanged Christmas cards— Trudy’s expensive gallery reproductions of Renaissance masterpieces; Fiona’s bland supermarket representations of robins and pinecones—they had not spoken in over two decades. And yet, here Trudy is like the proverbial bad penny, deep in the heart of suburbia, surveying the neatly mown lawn and regulation flowerbed with two stultified rosebushes not quite daring to bloom, milk bottles carefully rinsed and stacked in a little metal container on the step, an old-style coir doormat hesitatingly bearing the word WELCOME, and everything polished to within an inch of its life and gleaming like a new pin.

  Oh, what the fuck! Trudy swallows and rings the bell. She can hear it chiming somewhere deep in the bowels of the house. Ding-dong. Avon calling. Hell, this is a really stupid idea. Fiona probably won’t even know her. Probably isn’t in. This is a fool’s errand! Yet she hears the unmistakable sound of slippered feet and a shadow passes over the sunburst window in the paneled front door, the paint blistering just a bit, but still a definite shade of old-fashioned baize green.

  And the scent of polish is so much stronger as the door opens. Lavender polish. The kind your mother used to buy from the Betterware man. “Yes?” It’s a woman’s voice. Brisk. Defensive. Who the fuck are you implied in its tone.

  “Hello, Fiona…”

  She’s blinking uncertainly in the bright light of the afternoon sun. The hair that used to be an untamed tangle of unruly blonde tresses now cut short and showing some traces of gray. Salt and pepper her mother would call it. Wearing an expensive but shapeless slubby dress and a precisely pressed floral apron. Tan tights. Tartan slippers on her feet. In the background Trudy can hear a radio and the closing music to “The Archers,” the tweet of a canary in a cage. There is cabbage-rose paper on the wall and a collection of Goldscheider plaster masks tapering back into the gloom.

  “Trudy? Holy fuck, Trudy? Is that really you?”

  They look at each other for a long moment, staring in disbelief at what they’ve become, and then suddenly they’re in each other’s arms, embracing, the years melting away, and they’re just two young hopefuls taking on the world once again.

  “Trudy, Trudy, look at you in your power suit and heels. What happened to you?”

  Trudy laughs. Points. “Look at yourself, Mrs. Home Counties, when did you go and get all twinset and pearls? Not to mention this house. It’s like something out of a museum…”

  Now it’s Fiona’s turn to laugh, putting her arm around her friend and leading her inside. “It is a museum. The museum of Mabel, my dearly departed mother-in-law. We inherited this place when the old girl kicked the bucket and Jack insisted that we keep it just the way she left it. Wait till you see the living room!”

  “And you’ve lived here like this, all these years? What happened to your dreams? Your painting?”

  “Ah, I could ask you the same question, Mrs. Chair of Renaissance Art. What happened to your dreams? And your painting, for that matter. What happened to that?”

  Trudy looks sheepish. “Seems that talking about dead painters pays a lot more than creating your own art,” she admits. “That’s the world we live in…”

  They’re both in the lounge by now, leatherette suite and a low-slung coffee table with spindly brass-tipped legs and a kitsch painting of flamingos on its glazed upper surface. Scores of pictures of Jack as a boy lining the top of an upright piano that doesn’t look as if it’s been played in decades. Wallpaper in a chintz pattern, faded where th
e afternoon sun slants in through the big bay window.

  Fiona sighs. “What a pair of turncoats we turned out to be. But why are you here, Trudy? Not that I’m not delighted to see you, of course, but why now after all this time?”

  Trudy shrugs. “I was on the way somewhere from someplace else and I suddenly thought of you. My flight’s not until tomorrow and I thought, well, why not. So, here I am. I thought we could maybe spend some time together, you know, catch up…”

  “Catch up?”

  “Yes, you know, talk about old times. Reminisce.”

  “Reminisce?” Fiona’s eyes are suddenly blazing. “I don’t want to fucking reminisce.”

  Trudy meets her gaze. Defiant. “Then what?”

  “You know what.”

  “Seriously? Now?”

  Fiona nods, her big breasts rising and falling, her voice breathless.

  “Oh holy fuck…”

  “Holy fuck is right,” Fiona says in a low voice, a deep and bestial voice that comes from some other Fiona, some other life. Reaching for Trudy, pulling her close.

  And their embrace is sudden but sweet. Their kiss hard and penetrating as they melt into each other’s arms, tongues already inquisitive, the electric current between them palpable and crackling in the afternoon air like something out of an old monster movie, their two hearts hammering as they eat each other up.

  “You always said no. Before, when I asked you, you always said no…” Trudy protests as she comes up for air.

  “I was nineteen and wanted to have babies, you idiot, of course I said no. It doesn’t mean I meant it…”

  They kiss again. Desperately. Hot and horny for each other. Trudy smells of some expensive perfume that comes packed in a sculptural bottle and costs the earth. Fiona’s aroma is simple own-brand apple shampoo and more powerful than any pher-omone. And Trudy wants to gobble her up like a homemade cherry pie, all soft and sugary pastry on the outside with a thick sticky sauce beneath that oozes onto the plate and has to be licked.