Best Lesbian Erotica of the Year, Volume 1

by D. L. King

  Brandy released her and stepped back, smiling.

  “You’d love to get into my pants, wouldn’t you, Odile? I like

  you.”

  “You like being in charge.”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you like to take charge of me?”

  “Perhaps. Some time. Not now.”

  “You like toying with me. Tormenting me.”

  “Yes.”

  Odile trembled a little and brushed a strand of hair from her face. “You are young enough, I suppose, to feel you have a right to anything.”

  “I have a right to you.”

  “Do you?”

  “Oh yes. And you’d like to say no, just to prove you can, but you can’t.”

  “Fuck you!”

  “Oh yes. You certainly will. This hot young thing? How can you resist?” Brandy ran her leather-gloved hand lightly through Odile’s hair around her ear. Involuntarily, Odile tilted her head and shoulder toward Brandy, closed her eyes and murmured slightly. Brandy spoke close to her other ear.

  “I kind of like you older chicks. I think it’s because you’ve been around the block a few times and know how to please a girl.”

  “Fucking arrogant little bitch,” said Odile, her eyes still closed.

  “Yes. And it’s more important to you now to please someone,

  isn’t it?”

  She smiled, turned and left.

  Next day:

  Brandy walked into Odile’s office again. They were supposed to discuss the scheduling of some important visitors from a trade delegation who would need Brandy to drive them.

  “Close the door please,” said Odile, glancing up from her desk, looking a little faint.

  Brandy gave her an arch look, and took a step or two back toward the door, her face still looking at Odile over her shoulder. She closed and locked the door.

  “I can’t wait any more,” said Odile. She stood up, clutching her hands before her. “I know I’m risking making a complete idiot of myself, but I’m yours.”

  Brandy tilted her face down just a little, smiling. She stepped forward with her hands crossed over her chest, then raised a gloved hand to Odile’s hair and toyed with it lightly. “You certainly work fast, don’t you?”

  “Oh Ma’am,” Odile said, “it would be an honor. May I? Still hot and sticky in there? Let’s find out. Let’s visit where Miss Pussy lives. I want to please her.”

  Brandy laughed. “Eager to please, are you? I have to drive soon. Look at these pants, Odile. Do you think these are pants I can quickly get out of and then back into before I have to…”

  “May I? May I please?” she said, gesturing to the inviting flap.

  Brandy smiled wryly, put her hands on her hips. “Well, all right. Since you’ve been so respectful. But we don’t have long…”

  Odile bent forward and her fingers flew swiftly to work. One zipper went down, then the other. She quickly opened the buttons and the flap sprung open, revealing black panties with words on the middle as if on a traffic sign:

  NO EXIT.

  “Like my panties? Just a little chauffeuse’s joke.”

  “Oh my love, they’re adorable. Let me get my fingers in them. Ooh! You’re hairless. I do so like that. So clean and smooth. Mmmm…”

  Brandy’s face was tilted back to the ceiling. Her eyes popped open in sudden astonishment. Odile’s fingers were long and thin and skillful, and she set to work as one knowing exactly what to do.

  “Oh! Odile, I…wait, I…”

  “Feel nice?” “Oh, yes.”

  “Like my fingers in there?”

  “Oh! Yes… Oh, Odile, how are you doing that?…”

  “I play the violin. It’s good training…”

  “Is it ever!” she gushed, bending at the knees a little. She took her hands off her hips and staggered back a couple of steps, bum bumping up against Odile’s desk. She put her hands there for support. “Unh!”

  “I can play the pussy too.”

  “Unhh!”

  “Shhh, Mistress, not so loud please.”

  “Oh!”

  “I can play any girl, especially the silly young ones who think they know everything.”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t hear anything. I’m on cloud nine.”

  Odile continued to busy her fingers about Brandy’s labia and clit, lightly humming a little tune.

  Brandy trembled. “Odile, I’m going to spurt! My pants will get wet.”

  “I figured you for an ejaculator…”

  “Unh…”

  “I just knew you were a pants wetter…”

  “Oh…”

  “You smooth-cunted bitch, you leather-sheathed animal…”

  “Nnnngh…”

  Odile turned from her for a moment toward the desk and the timing egg. She grasped it and wound it up. It began to tick loudly. She slathered it in lubricant she had handy just inside the desk drawer. Brandy leaned against the desk still, gasping, eyes closed in helpless ecstasy.

  “I know a little chicken who’s going to lay an egg for me. Want to lay an egg, little chicken?

  “Odile?”

  “Get a load of this, honey.” Odile slowly but firmly pushed the big ticking egg up her oozing quim.

  “Huh? Oh! What the fuck! Odile, oh god, that feels good…

  What the…?” Her cunt seized the egg involuntarily in an iron grip. In ecstasy and confusion, Brandy began to babble incoherently.

  “Now,” said Odile, “let’s just slip a sanitary pad in there under your panties—a nice thick one—to keep your pants dry. We don’t want your pants wet for when the boss comes.”

  “Huh?”

  “Mrs. Demaine will be here any minute. We are to look over some accounts together. And you know how prompt she is. To the very minute,” she said glancing at her watch, “the very minute.”

  Odile wedged the pad, which came from the same drawer as the lubricant, into Brandy’s panties. Then she let the tight little panties slip back into place.

  Brandy was breathing heavily.

  “I always looked a little nervous in your presence, didn’t I?” said Odile. “But it wasn’t fear. It wasn’t some feeling of unwor-thiness. It was sheer excitement. Sheer anticipation of what I was going to do with you. And you had no idea.”

  Faintly, a ticking sound could be heard coming from Brandy’s cunt.

  She stared at Odile in confusion, a bead of sweat on her forehead, one eye half-closed in the throes of sexual excitement. Odile pushed at the egg from outside Brandy’s panties, and Brandy’s cunt tensed about it, pushing it forward again. Odile pressed it back in, and they both went back and forth like this awhile.

  “Sweet little helpless pussy,” cooed Odile.

  “Oh my god. Odile, don’t stop. You have to bring me off.”

  “I don’t have to do anything, sweetie,” Odile said, patting her on the cheek. “I’m in charge.” She looked at her watch. “My estimate is, it will take ten minutes to cook that egg.”

  Brandy stood knock-kneed like a little girl trying not to pee herself. “Odile? What did you put in me? What’s it doing? I can f-feel it ticking or something.”

  “I’ve given you a clockwork cunt, my dear. As long as you are satisfied to be a piece of the machinery, you may as well play the role to the hilt.”

  “P-piece of the machinery?”

  “You drive, but you don’t go anywhere. Not of your own volition. Not in your own car. Is that freedom? Am I free in this office, which doesn’t belong to me, which is in someone else’s house, where I help the boss scheme to take other people’s livelihood? Do you think we can find a way, Brandy? A way together?” It was the first time she had spoken her name to her.

  Brandy stared at her, slightly cross-eyed, and said “I can’t talk political philosophy right now, love.”

  “She owns us, you know. Wouldn’t you like not to be owned, Brandy? Except, perhaps, by an equal? Like me? Like I’m owning you now?”

  Odile pushed her hand a
gain against Brandy’s pantied pubis, pushing the egg deeper than before. Brandy gasped.

  “Do you think of yourself as a top, Brandy? With your attitude and your leather uniform? I don’t think so. I just let you think that. Now you’ve got an egg timer up your cooter and you’re helpless with pleasure, aren’t you sweetie?”

  “Oh yes…”

  “Fresh and young and confident, proudly beginning your life of servitude in your little uniform. Do you know what my fantasy is, Brandy? My fantasy is to fuck you right in front of our boss. To show her I own you, she doesn’t. My fantasy is to make you pregnant with the egg of revolution. Does that make any sense to you girl?”

  “Oh god! You’re not going to make me come right in front of her…”

  “Relax, hon. We’ll keep our jobs for now. Just wrap your lips around this, cutie,” Odile said, knocking lightly between Brandy’s legs. “This thing really shakes when it goes off. Like a vibrator.”

  “Huh? Wh-when?”

  “Um…” Odile rolled her eyes in thoughtful, mock innocence.

  “I’m not sure. I forgot what I set it at. I suppose it could be any moment. Or as long as an hour from now. But when it does go off—BAM! Right to the moon.” Brandy groaned.

  “All that is solid, melts into orgasm. I’ve invaded your uniform, girl, and planted the flag, the red flag, the red egg, the wind of revolution blows up your…”

  There was a knock on the door. “Odile? Why is your door locked?”

  It was Mrs. Demaine.

  Brandy shot a desperate, help-rescue-me look into Odile’s face. Calmly, Odile put a finger to her lips and began to zip up Brandy’s pants and button them, egg still stuffed in her cunt.

  Brandy gasped, astonished.

  “Odile? Are you ready?” asked Mrs. Demaine through the door.

  Odile opened the door. “My apologies, ma’am. I must have locked it by accident. I was just going over with Brandy the arrangements for tomorrow.”

  Mrs. Demaine bustled in with a thick folder of documents in her arms. She seemed unconcerned with the excuses. “Oh. Hello, Brandy.”

  Brandy nodded a sweaty, nervous smile, just barely managing to keep her lips from trembling. Still leaning against the desk, she crossed her arms across her chest, trying desperately to give off an air of nonchalance.

  “Relax, Brandy, sit down. Odile and I won’t be but a moment.”

  “No thank you, ma’am, I’d rather stand.”

  Mrs. Demaine bent over Odile’s desk, back turned, and laid out some papers. Brandy tottered slightly bowlegged to the open door and gingerly stepped into the hallway. “Um, I’m afraid I simply must get off now. I mean, be off.”

  She stepped gingerly into the hall and closed the door behind her. A moment later, a ringing sound came faintly through the door and something like a deep, stifled groan.

  “What’s that?” said Mrs. Demaine, blinking. “Is that Brandy?”

  “No, ma’am. Just the wind.”

  TWO WOMEN HAVING SEX

  Etna Holst

  I’d like to tell you the story of two women having sex. It has to be short; I don’t have much time. Let’s keep it simple.

  One could be Anna, princess of the palindromes. She could be anyone, from anywhere. Let’s just say she’s from around here.

  The other is Ellen, the love interest. She’s not terribly impressed by the title. Tough.

  Now, we need a location for the pair to strike their chord. We’ll be up-to-date and egalitarian and say: midpoint from here to there. Though the trains don’t stop midpoint. Cars, bikes, cross-country skiing? Anna is more pragmatic: the town of M—. An invitation drops into Ellen’s disordered mailbox. A letter of assignation. Oh, come.

  (Ellen goes off on a tangent. She liked the idea of snow.) A date is set, tickets are booked. Not too far into the future. People have their needs.

  Fortunately, Ellen’s job is flexible. She is basically her own boss. And oh can she be bossy. But not today. Anna’s a mature student, which means, for the present, she has to live Here. Fine, though inconvenient, when all her wet dreams are centered around There. No, not there, you dirty. Well all right. There too.

  Bright and early one morning, when the sun is just a hint of pink beyond the high-rises in the fairly large (though globally inconsequential) city of There, Ellen’s alarm goes off, telling her: Bag by the door. Go to train station. Ticket in your inside pocket—put jacket on! Ellen is not a morning person. She needs her instructions, spelled out.

  She does remember, however, to don a clean pair of slacks. Go through the toothbrush and toothpaste thing. Touch some wax to the tips of her ’do.

  Already, through the haze, anticipation is building up within her. As she hoists the overnight bag onto her shoulder, fumbling with the keys to lock the front door, she imagines Anna, waking up leisurely, all golden fuzz and honeyed limbs. The sun is pushing through a convenient gap in the curtains, fingering an erect nipple here, the hopelessly soft spot behind an ear there. Ellen touches her own spot. The one behind the ear.

  At the train station, she picks up breakfast: pancakes, box of raisins, coffee—double black. She never skips breakfast. There have to be rules.

  In Here, Anna sheaths those nipples in a cotton bra. She wears black, usually, but has chosen off-white for the occasion. She knows Ellen appreciates the see-through effect. Gathering her things, she rakes up some notes, at random, for something to read on the ride. She opens the fridge, wrinkles her nose in distaste, and closes it again. No breakfast for Anna, the bender of rules.

  Well, maybe a cup of Earl Grey on board. Extra sugar. She could stomach that.

  Ellen’s train has the farthest to go, by half an hour or so. She’s not what you would call of a numerical mind. All she knows is she will be there on time, if it pleaseth, and so forth. It’s on her ticket: 09:42. A quarter to ten, she called it, in her reply. See u. xx.

  The train pulses along the tracks, slowly, grindingly, bringing her up to the main event. She is throbbing in her seat, her palms tickling with imagined touch. But let’s not overindulge in wanton fantasies. We are heading, after all, for the Real Deal.

  At her station, Anna is passing the time by synchronizing her wristwatch with the clock on her phone. She does those kinds of things. A keeper of times. Her ticket says 09:46. Close enough.

  Although she’s a sucker for the simultaneous, once in a blue moon—such a thrill.

  Her train pulls in with half a minute’s delay. She tries (fails) not to frown at the annoyingly complacent ticket inspector. They’ll catch up.

  At this point in our narrative, you might be wondering where, specifically, the tryst is to take place? Bathroom stall, unlikely nook or cranny, shielded by shrubbery in a public park? The town of M-is surely too diminutive for a sizeable municipal plantation? Besides, it’s March, north of most of you, though south of the Arctic, to be sure. We’re too old for that, types Ellen—come summer, though, Anna will have proved her wrong. Oh come summer… Where were we? Ellen: I’ve booked a room.

  Pricey, says Anna (student, remember).

  My treat.

  Ellen’s got her mind on some gourmet nosh in the restaurant, afterward. If there’s time.

  The train shudders to a halt between stations. Anna feels a pinch of panic, recalling a five-hour delay, not too long ago. Ruined dinner, but.

  “We are waiting to be passed by an oncoming train,” the tannoy bleats. “This will not affect our schedule.”

  She sits back in her seat, texts: False alarm.

  You didn’t imagine there was no form of communication, did you? Romantic as the notion may be, they are not two sailboats, meeting in the night. Just two ordinary women (about to have sex).

  Ellen sends a short vid of her fingers, drumming against the table, on her northbound journey.

  Anna titters, and then glances sideways at her fellow passengers. Returns a: Hush.

  Ellen brings out a book. One hour to go.

  But we can’t ver
y well wait an hour, can we? Cut to: firs flitting by; cut to: village of this and that; cut to: Anna gets off the train. Ellen is already there, reaching for her rucksack to hang over her other shoulder—ever the gentlewoman. Also, it gives Anna some leeway with her cane (yes, there’s a cane at this point, mild cerebral palsy, no mental deficiency, don’t look so surprised). See what we did there? The beauty of cuts.

  “Where to, good woman?”

  “Das Stadthotel.”

  No, they’re not German, or turn-of-a-bygone-century. They just talk like that.

  As they link hands, there’s a moment thick with electricity. They laugh, almost shyly, and Ellen pulls along, leading the way.

  Neither of them has ever had a reason to visit M—, but it’s puny (did I mention that?), and as it happens, the hotel in question is right on the other side of the tracks.

  On the way, Ellen slips the check-in instructions into the pocket of Anna’s coat. “I booked it in your name, but don’t worry, it’s all been paid. Free minibar.”

  Ellen is not a fan of check-in situations. Anna kisses the tip of her nose.

  “One of these days…”

  They arrive at the lobby of the out-of-place, moderately large building at 10:01. Check-in opens at ten. Lucky them.

  “One night only?” the woman behind the counter inquires, looking over the rim of her hot-pink, leopard-print reading glasses.

  “One night,” Anna smiles. “Passing through.”

  Ellen nods her head vigorously half a step behind her, wobbling with the sudden swing of their scanty luggage, putting on her most businesslike, innocent-looking mien. The leopard-prints waver doubtfully between them, then turn back to the not-so-flat computer screen.

  “All right then,” the woman sighs, handing over the requisite brightly colored folders, key cards, receipt. “I hope you’ll find the room nice and comfortable. Just give me a ring if you need anything.”

  Anna thanks her. Says something commonplace. Maybe even compliments M-a little. She’s suave that way.

  In the elevator, Ellen pins her to the wall. This is cliché, but she’s well on desperate. She sticks her nose down the open neck of Anna’s shirt, breathing in the smell of her, like coke. She doesn’t say I’ve missed you. No need.