Best Lesbian Erotica 2011

by Kathleen Warnock

  This time when she tried to rise, to pull her thighs off my shoulder, I let her. She crouched then, on all fours on the couch, looking over her shoulder at me, her cunt and ass dripping. There were clips on her nipples to keep them red and hard, perfect for my nibbling teeth, suckling mouth and pulling fingers.

  Bella asked huskily, “Please,” her chin nodding toward the dildo on the coffee table. Licking my lips, I laid a few fingers softly on her dewy cunt and ass. She moved up into my fingers, purring like a cat. I calmed her, laying my palm there, feeling her tremble beneath my hand.

  “I need it,” Bella whispered. “I’ve wanted you all day.”

  My palm still on her quavering cunt and ass, I reached over to the coffee table and picked up the dildo. A scent of clinical medicine hit my nose, the careful antiseptic flavor of lubrication. I’d already decided, but this excuse was as reliable as any.

  “If you’ve thought of me all day, why is it that your cunt didn’t warm this toy?” I snarled in her ear.

  “I…I didn’t want to cum without you.…”

  I put the dildo in her hand and filled my hand instead with one of her breasts. I kneaded it, pulling on the clip and nipple. Then, while she crouched there, the lubricated dildo in her hand, moaning as my fingers twisted her nipple, I slapped her rosy wet ass and cunt. Bella shrieked, surprised. I slapped her ass again and this time her cunt pressed wetly into my hand, clinging to me. I entered one finger, two fingers into her cunt, the tip of my thumb into her ass. I dipped, once, twice, then I pulled out and spanked her again sharply.

  “Put it in you and count,” I told her. “But hold back, hold back until I tell you.”

  Bella whimpered as I spanked her but, her hand trembling, the dildo found her cunt and then she swayed as I spanked her, coming up toward me to get her punishment, sliding in and out with the dildo to get the full fuck of it. By the time she’d reached ten, her ass was red hot and her cunt was fully indulged with the dildo, so much so that her cum and sweat poured down her inner thighs like dewy rain.

  I kissed her ass, my mouth cooling her skin. Bella jumped when I put my tongue in her rosebud asshole and I sucked, kissing my way down to her cunt. I gently pulled the dildo out, moaning as the sound of it nearly made me cum. That slick, slippery wet sound of arousal, of release. I put my fingers in her, unable to stop myself. I stroked her swollen labia, her clit. She moaned under my hand, moving with me. God, she was still so wet.

  “Kiss me, will you kiss me?” Bella murmured, shaking as I moved her gently into another position.

  This time, I lay on my back on the couch, and I pulled her over me, squatting her warm ass, her wet, dripping, sorely-used cunt over my face, over my mouth and nose. Now, my lips brushing her, I whispered, “You can cum now, fully cum in my mouth, on my face.”

  I ate her as she came on my face, her warm musk flooding my nose and mouth. I nearly drowned in her flood. With my knees bent and spread, my hands wasted no time filling my own cunt. Bella cried out, bouncing there on me as my tongue lapped, and I sucked and nibbled. I fucked myself with my hands, my neck straining to support my head so I could get to her juicy cunt. I slurped and swallowed, my fingers echoing my tongue and lips by entering my own cunt and stroking my clit.

  When the shuddering release came, Bella slid her wet ass and cunt away from my face, and she sat on the floor next to the couch. She finally got her kiss, my tongue worn out, my jaw numb. This time, her hand joined my wet fingers and my hips lifted, welcoming her fully into my cunt as I came and released.

  Bella got up then, to take a shower before work.

  Hoarsely I called after her, “Don’t wear underwear. Let the bastards smell what they can’t have.”

  Bella hung in the bathroom doorway. Smiling, daring me with her dark eyes, she said, “Come fuck me at the restaurant today.”

  And god I wanted to. I wanted to take her, her short skirt lifted, my ridged strap-on tight in her cunt, her full breasts bouncing as she bent over one of those fake French café tables and everyone in the restaurant watched. Make her cum and cum again, screaming. Let all those stupid rich college boys know that Bella was mine. Bella belonged to me. She couldn’t be bought with Daddy’s money. She couldn’t be turned by some wealthy prick. I wasn’t her college experiment before marriage to a man, kids in the suburbs, PTA meetings, a satisfying home career…right? Insecurities suddenly plagued me. I mean, I’d been with other girls before Bella…but I was Bella’s first….

  “I can’t, Bella,” I said finally, softly, with true hungry regret, “I gotta go to Art History.”

  “Hmm,” Bella said from the bathroom. “And after class?”

  Steam escaped the half-shut door as Bella turned on the shower.

  “Mixing pigment at Janie’s studio. Stretching canvas,” I mumbled, and now I was seeing myself mixing pigment and stretching canvas as an old lady, alone in her house with rescued dogs and cats. Rich or poor, Recognized Artist or Starving, the scenario was the same…alone. Having chosen art over love, the great artist never regrets the decision…but I did already. I really, really did. I still had Bella in my mouth.

  The bathroom door opened suddenly. Bella stood there, naked and blue. Well, covered in several shades of blue. Cobalt melted into Prussian, blended well with marine and cerulean, dripped heavily, wetly into sky and baby. She draped herself dramatically in the doorway, framing herself as a Pre-Raphaelite vision. Both Rossettis, Dante and Christina, would have wept to see her.

  “What a shame,” Bella said, “I lied about going to work today. I called in sick this morning. I had hoped that we’d paint the apartment together.”

  In that second, all of my insecurities fell away. Gay, straight, bi, experimenting, choosing, born that way: none of it mattered. The best of art and love was intangible, elusive, fleeting and yet eternal. It was all about making one true, real moment last forever.

  I stepped toward her and took her in my arms. It was only my imagination but her kiss tasted of blueberries. In the new scenario in my head, the old lady artist took a break now and then to make love to her real-life muse. Having chosen both art and love, the Real Artist never regrets her decision….

  “Oh,” Bella murmured into my mouth, “we’re never going to get the paint out of the carpet.”

  “Naw,” I agreed, “it’ll stay in forever.”

  PAINTED NAILS AND PUPPY DOG TAILS

  Giselle Renarde

  It’s not like I was stalking her or anything…

  I shouldn’t have said that. All it takes is denying something for everyone to think, The dyke doth protest too much, and then you can never convince them otherwise. But seriously, I wasn’t stalking her. She just happened to work in the salon three doors down from my swinging bachelor pad above the deli.

  The first time I saw her, she was balancing a tiny plastic pot of soy sauce and disposable chopsticks on top of a little tray of sushi. A pink lily sprouted from her jet-black, rockabilly hair. Her standard-issue black cotton dress gave her the look of a gothic naughty nurse, but it was her shoes that really caught my eye. They looked like ballet slippers, but in hot-pink patent leather. Hot. Pink.

  Were I to describe my image of perfection, my ideal woman, I would list every one of her stunning features. Frozen to the sidewalk, in awe of her sheer beauty, I watched her balance lunch, condiments and utensils in one hand. She had the grace and dexterity of a vintage cocktail waitress. Reaching for the salon door, she managed to open it just far enough to slide her foot between the door and jamb.

  Even struggling and unbalanced, she was a sight to behold. I stood there, watching, until it occurred to me what an ass-face I was for not helping her out. Weighed down by cleanish, half-dry clothes fresh from the cheap Laundromat, I bounded over to open the door for her.

  That’s when she looked up at me. She seemed stunned at first, wide-eyed, probably because I’d come sprinting out of nowhere. When it dawned on her that I was only holding the door, not robbing the joint, she smiled. N
ot only did she smile, but she also said, “Thanks.”

  Sigh.

  That breathy utterance made my year. Seriously.

  Every time I walked by the salon after that, I tried to peek in to see if she was there. But the windows were all frosted glass at eye level. All I could ever make out were her shoes. There was no mistaking pink patent leather.

  On the few occasions I caught sight of her as she walked her lunch back to the salon, I never did manage to pop into her field of vision. Courageous as I seem, I couldn’t seem to work up the nerve to talk to her, not even to say, “Hi.” Every time I saw her, my tongue seemed to swallow itself and my heart hid behind a rock.

  I realized one dismal day that, if I stuck my head out the window, I could see the salon’s shop front. It was a pretty swanky place, a steady stream of rich bitches going in silver and coming out copper. Lots of yoga moms, too, who came out looking essentially the same as they’d looked going in.

  In watching out the window for her chance appearance, it occurred to me that I’d been thinking of her nonstop since that first brief encounter. At night, I dreamed about her painted nails against my scalp as she washed my hair before she cut it. When I woke up in the morning, it was to the disappointment of being in bed without her. Her absence from my everyday existence was excruciating enough that I’d close my eyes and roll under the pillow. I kissed her pink lips where reality couldn’t find me.

  Now, I should probably reiterate that I was not stalking this girl. Seriously. I just happened to notice that she locked up alone on Wednesdays. What harm would there be in showing up at closing time and asking for a quick haircut? I’d reached the point where, nervous as I felt, I couldn’t not meet her.

  For a girl like that, my everyday cargo pants weren’t going to cut it. She was so well put-together; her clients too. If I showed up looking like a South American rebel fighter, she’d suspect I wanted more than just a haircut. For her, I shaved my legs and searched my closet for something ritzy to wear. I owned two long-forgotten dresses. One was the royal-blue Girl Guide uniform I filed away at age eight. The other was the simple black dress I’d worn to my high school reunion. Would you believe it still fit? Sort of. I don’t think it was skintight when I bought it, but I must say it was a good look on me.

  When I left the apartment wearing a gown Wednesday evening, I felt like a cross-dresser. I’ve always been more snips and snails than painted nails, but if it meant sliding incognito onto the salon girl’s radar, the end certainly justified the means. Right?

  She’d just left the salon and was strutting down the street when I arrived. Damn it! But all was not lost: she picked up the price list board that lived at the corner, and my heart leapt in my chest. She was coming back to me!

  “Let me help you with that,” I offered, running to the corner in my flip-flops.

  She looked up and…wow! I could have spent eternity in that one intense moment of connection. Did I mention she had green eyes? Beautiful, like a cat’s or a snake’s. Her lips were blood red. No flower in her hair that day, but she wore a retro burlesque veil that scarcely covered her bangs.

  As she picked up the plywood sandwich board, she shot me a wide smile. “I’ve got it, thanks,” she cooed, her smooth muscles surging as she carried the sign. “You can grab the door if you want.”

  When she lifted the board into the salon, the fruity scent of her perfume breezed by me. My knees went so weak I had to cling to the door just to stay upright.

  “Going somewhere special?” she asked, leaning the sign against the wall.

  I couldn’t fathom what she meant, and my mind wasn’t working fast enough to utter anything but, “Huh?”

  Brushing her hands against the front of her black cotton uniform, she explained, “I see you around the neighborhood. You’re usually wearing…well, not a little black dress.”

  “Oh, yeah, that’s true,” I replied, trying to stick to the script. “Just thought I’d stop in and see if maybe you could do me quick.”

  Her jaw dropped. Obviously, I hadn’t learned my lines very well. I could feel my palms sweating as I stammered, “Haircut. I stopped in for a quick haircut, that’s all.”

  “That’s too bad,” she said, drawing out each word. I hung on her cherry lips as she spoke. When she strutted past me, I nearly jumped out of my clothes. She flipped through the appointment book. “Looks like we’ve got a couple slots in the morning. Want to come back for ten-thirty?”

  “But you’re here now. Couldn’t you do it?” I pushed. Was that too forceful? I wasn’t thinking anymore, just begging.

  “Sorry, hon,” she replied with a dramatic frown. Showing me her nails painted with purple shooting stars trailing rainbows against a black backdrop, she clarified, “I don’t do hair, just nails.”

  Thinking on my feet, I thought of my feet. “A pedicure! Yes, I definitely need one of those.” Sticking them in the air, I urged, “Look how nasty my toes are. Aren’t they gross?”

  Way to seduce the girl, Claire. Brilliant powers of flirtation!

  Luckily, the nail girl was amused. “You haven’t seen gross until you’ve seen athlete’s foot. Eww. Or a nasty case of contact dermatitis—even worse!” With a shudder, she picked up the small clock at the reception booth. Pen in hand, she flipped back to the current date in the sign-in book. “I guess I’ve got a few minutes. What’s your name?”

  “Me?” I asked, as if she could possibly be talking to anyone else. “My name’s Claire.”

  She put the pen down without writing my name in the book, then reached over to the door and flipped the deadbolt. “Billie,” she introduced herself, extending her hand in such a way I felt half inclined to kiss it.

  I almost didn’t. I told myself to shake her hand like a normal person would, but my lips did not obey. I kissed it. She inhaled so sharply, I could hear her breath enter through her nose. My heart pounded as I looked up. For whatever good deeds I’d done, God smiled on me, and so did Billie.

  “Over here,” she chuckled, leading me past styling stations to what looked like a very comfy dentist’s chair with a miniwhirlpool at its base.

  “Wow. Fancy,” I gushed. Christ, how much was this going to cost me? I should have checked the price list. “So, what’s the process here? I’ve never done this before.”

  “Yeah, you don’t look like the mani/pedi type,” she giggled. “No offence, but I like you better in cargo pants. You look a lot less…awkward.”

  “I feel a lot less awkward,” I agreed, trying to get into position without betraying my dainty façade. As I settled into the big chair, resting my flip-flopped feet on the side of the footbath, she switched the contraption on and its motor purred to life.

  Seating herself on the stool across the way, Billie tugged on my worn-down shoes and tossed them on the floor. “Come on, get your feet wet,” she bid, tapping the water with her fingertips. “What, are you afraid? Trust me, it feels incredible.”

  She wasn’t joking! As I eased my feet into the bubbling warmth, all my anxieties just melted away. The footbath was so deep I could have kneeled down in it and gotten busy with any of its three water jets. I wondered if Billie had ever thought of that.

  Folding a pristine white towel across her lap, she suggested, “Sometimes it’s nice to just close your eyes and relax.”

  She was right about that too. The jets caressed my feet and legs almost as high up as my knees, and I let my lids come together. I don’t think I fell asleep, but anything’s possible. It seemed like only seconds later that Billie’s fingers swept down my calves and pried my feet from the warm water. Time for polish, I supposed.

  It was my first time; what did I know? Not much, as it turned out, because I hadn’t anticipated Billie running her fingers down my soles. I didn’t know she would press the pads of her hands to the pads of my feet and rub, drawing a measured path down to my heels.

  No wonder you always hear such good things about a foot rub! When she pressed her thumbs in circles around the ce
nter of my feet, I thought I would come on the spot. If I hadn’t kept my lips zipped, I would have exploded with a steady stream of explicit ejaculations. Verbal ejaculations, of course.

  Billie cocked her eyebrows, then her head. Her red lips formed a keen smirk as she lifted my right foot up from her lap. I watched in disbelief as she kissed my big toe. Extending her soft pink tongue, she set my toe in her mouth and closed her lips around it.

  When she sucked, I lost it. In fewer than five seconds, Billie had me screaming, “God almighty, that feels incredible!”

  I can’t even really describe how great it felt. It was like the pleasure in my toes shot electrical impulses up to my pussy, then to my brain, enlivening every cell of my body in between. It was like having ten little clits, or ten little cocks, each one getting off on the velvet tongue of a gorgeous girl.

  She sucked toe after toe after toe. Ten in total. Each time she took a fresh one in her mouth, I lost it all over again. Ten little orgasms. No, not little. In fact, if my chair hadn’t had handles to sink my claws into, I would have kicked and screamed my way into the footbath before she was done. She was very lucky I managed to restrain myself from booting her in the nose! Not deliberately, of course.

  Tickling between my toes with her hot tongue, she massaged my feet with beautifully adorned fingers. She took two toes in her mouth at once, licking them, licking between them. Three toes. I nearly died in that chair, it felt so amazing.

  “Oh, my god, that was amazing,” I panted as Billie set my feet down in her lap. My toes had more lipstick on them than her lips now, but her smile was nonetheless charming. “You have a very talented tongue,” I applauded.