Best Lesbian Erotica 2011

by Kathleen Warnock

  She blushes to be doing this now, which makes me wonder why she does it, but it’s a good sign and I’ll give her a cookie to keep her coming back.

  Trish pushes her bra off her tit and cups it in her hand. She pinches the nipple with her thumb and forefinger, but it’s not necessary; she may be embarrassed but it’s eager as all hell and stands up tall for me.

  I reach out, taking my eyes off the road, and slide my hand across the tight flesh and let my fingers slip down. She moves her hand down to keep the bra in place while I touch her. I remember how smooth and slick it was last night when I slipped my cock up and down between them.

  I smile at her as she watches me touch her. I love the way her boob feels in my hand, the heft of it, the way it’s salty sweet in my mouth, the way she lifts them for me, offering them like a gift. I love the way she squirms and the breath hisses between her teeth when I pinch that peg sharply. She looks at me and we smile at each other like idiots for a moment.

  She looks out the windshield abruptly and says, “Take this exit.”

  I pull my hand out and she pulls her bra back in place and—poof!—there’s the little English teacher again.

  She slips her hand onto my thigh and lets it rest there lightly. Life is pretty good.

  “Turn up there,” she says suddenly. Everything is “now” for her; there’s no segue or easy on. It drives me crazy, but I get that’s how she is, so I can go with it. That’s an interesting sign.

  We’re driving right at the foothills now. They don’t really have any trees, just a covering of golden grass. The trees in the preserve on my left have started to turn. It’s not the brilliant purple, red and orange canvas of the East where I’m from, but all that gold with the bit of red thrown in for interest is beautiful in its own way.

  It’s hot, so it’s a drag that the AC doesn’t work, but somebody in the houses on the ridge outside Trish’s window is mowing his lawn and the fresh-cut grass smell fills the car.

  I can see a big parking lot with the white steeple of a church and a playground beyond it, and trees crowding a streambed. There are lots of cars. The sign says the maze closes at dusk. I look at the clock. It’s three. I find a place to park. Trish bounces out of the car and comes around. I open my arms to gather her in for a hug. I love to hug her. I do it every chance I get.

  When I did it early on, she would tighten up if it was in public, and I can appreciate that, but it’s not like it is with me. So I give her a little warning and let her decide when it’s enough.

  She’s short and fits into me exactly like she was a custom job and plump like I like with a nice ass and legs that taper nicely down to trim ankles. I like the way it feels when my arms go around her, full and small at the same time. She likes it too, and she sighs and stretches up on tippy toe. I take the opportunity to squeeze her ass. She blushes ’cause somebody might have seen, and I know that’s a new part of the pleasure. It’s another good sign too.

  She pulls out this bottle of sunblock when I let her go and squeezes a big blop of it into one hand and then rubs both together. She reaches for me and I pull back. I hate the feel of it, the way it makes my skin sticky and holds in the heat. Luckily this doesn’t have a heavy scent, but I wrinkle my nose anyway, a little gesture of defiance. But I know that the sun is blazing, and I need it so I submit to her ministrations. She likes service, she says, and after my last relationship, it’s a cookie for me but more than a little scary.

  It’s a big cookie because her tits jiggle nicely when she rubs my arms and I can look down her shirt. It’s low cut and the pale blue fabric lies softly against the mounds of her boobs. I can see the wrinkles of what will be her old-woman flesh in the cleft between them and the smooth purple of her bra where it hooks in the center.

  She stoops and her skirt rides up around her thighs. I imagine I can see her panties through the slit in the front. She does my legs and that makes my heart jump into my mouth for a moment, and I’m filled with love for her. Not just because I like fucking her and she’s smart: it’s because she doesn’t have to and she does anyway. That’s a really good sign.

  She stands up and does herself quickly, and I get another good view of her tits when she bends over to do her legs. Before she wasn’t thinking about it, but now she is, even though she pretends not to be. Everything now is calculated and positioned. She knows I know she knows, and she also knows I’m willing to maintain the fiction—at least right now, but no guarantees about the next time.

  I put my arm around her, and we start walking toward the chapel. I let it drop because I don’t like the way our skin sticks together. We walk on and when we reach the bathrooms, she says, “I gotta go.”

  I take the opportunity too. Who knows if there’ll be anything inside the maze. Inside it’s not bad for a wilderness john. Some kid has puked up his cotton candy along with what looks like his hot dog, next to the urinal.

  The sugar and meat smells mix with the bile and bring back memories of my drunk days and make me realize all over again how nice it is to not puke every day.

  I go out to smoke. She comes out of the women’s and reads a sign detailing the history of the preserve and the bear warnings while I smoke. I drop it on the ground and step on it. I know what’s coming. I try, but it’s so automatic.

  She tsk-tsks and picks it up and drops it in the bear-proof bin. From where I am I can smell the fermenting trash in the metal trash bin.

  “When I smoked I pinched the cherry and put the butt in my back pocket,” she says, just like always.

  “I just flick’em. Flick, flick, flick. Everywhere,” I say, shooting imaginary butts in all directions with my middle finger because I know it drives her crazy.

  But she smiles indulgently this time. That’s a really good sign, and I pull her into my arms, sunblock and all, and kiss her hard on the mouth, kind of rocking back and forth while we stare at each other. Her grin is big and I can see her teeth, not perfect, not brilliant white, with crooked incisors like mine. Everything else is mostly straight and little like the rest of her.

  When I let her go, she pulls me past the playground, and I hear the EEEE-eee, EEEE-eee of the swings, the bump…bump of the teeter-totter and the Doppler effect of the kids as they scream in delight going round and round on the merry-go-round.

  I can smell the greenery and the trees ahead of us and somebody’s perfume. I’m walking around in the sunshine with my girl. This is a nice day.

  We cut into the trees, and the temperature drops about ten degrees. We stop just long enough to read the rattlesnake warnings and the big NO SMOKING, FIREARMS OR OVERNIGHT CAMPING Sign.

  Trish takes my hand as we walk across the bridge. She holds it for a minute, but my palms sweat a lot and pretty soon we sort of loosen our grip and let our hands ride against each other as we walk, taking advantage of being out of step to let fingers slide over palms and stroke a little on the bounce.

  A pack of kids rushes by and we separate, coming back together smoothly like we were dancing. The sun shines through the trees, and I watch the way it dapples her chest and face. I hear the buh buh buh buh of an air compressor and the chug uh chug uh chug uhuhuh of a small motor and then we’re out in the sun again, and it’s like a blast furnace. She nudges me as I look out over a riot of flags, colorful stands and tents and hands me the discount coupons she picked up somewhere. The air is thick with sugar and hot dogs, and the hot smell of dry corn all overlaid by the must of dead leaves and dirt.

  There’s a big pumpkin patch off to my left. They’ve cleaned the field and piled them all up in a long line around the front and one side. Their thick, grainy smell mingles with the overly rich gasoline mix of the antique corn husker that chugs away in front of the patch. The old man in the booth is patiently feeding corn into it. Cobs go in and out spray kernels into a huge bin in front of the machine.

  We join the ticket line and she steps behind me and puts her arms around me. I bend my hips a little so they press back into her and she responds by gri
pping what she calls my “bone china hips.”

  Then we’re at the window. I buy tickets from the bored girl, and we join the general flow toward the maze entrance. Kids are running in a sugar frenzy waving torches of hot-pink cotton candy and whirling thin neon-green tubes through the clots of grownups and strollers.

  We move pretty quickly and I use the time to read the rules and look at the huge map of the flower bouquet-shaped maze. I wind my fingers around hers, squiggling one across her palm: Do you want to fuck me? Hers brush back, Yes, yes, please.

  The whole thing is fun and really scary because I worry what happens if she gets tired of me, or I can’t keep it exciting.

  We make our way through the intersection at the entrance and enter the maze. Kids are running wildly back and forth across the little cross paths, and parents are shouting for them to slow down. The trails are covered in broken corn stalks and leaves, bits of trash and tiny cobs. I look at the standing cornstalks. They’re dried-out yellow and faded green, and covered in little ears that look like animal feed.

  The maze is made on a huge field of corn, drawn out by a computer and cut by a combination of tractor and hand tools. It’s now that I get the idea that gives me a shiver down my back and a crawl over my scalp. I turn it over and over, exploring it before I even start to think what it could mean, what it would tell me about where to go, what I could expect to learn from it.

  I think about it all the time Trish and I are walking though the maze. We move aimlessly. I thought she would want to follow it like a labyrinth, but she is content to walk along and turn as the moment and flow dictates. This is promising and what makes up my mind.

  At the next small path we cross, I nudge her so she turns. There’s little traffic here for the moment, and I pull her to me and she squeals a tiny bit as I hug her tightly and French-kiss her. I don’t like doing it. So I’m surprised when my mouth opens and I’m tonguing her.

  She’s so small compared to me that my hands wrap completely around her waist. I let her pull back just a little so I can see her surprised smile and then put my hand behind her head and lean down to nuzzle her ear. I can feel her start to wriggle but I’m ready, tightening my hold so she can’t get way.

  I smile as I mumble in her ear, making sure to get a lot of Zs in there for the full effect. I can feel her smile and the tightness in her body as she struggles to stay still. I don’t know why it works, but it’s like tickling her only multiplied a hundred times. It always makes her flushed and she grins to beat all.

  I give her a couple of seconds to get the full effect and steel myself. Then I whisper, “Do you want to suck my cock?”

  Trish wasn’t expecting that, but she doesn’t pull away in shock. I nod to myself. This was the right thing to do. No matter what happens I will know then what I have.

  I let her go and she smiles up at me, blushing furiously. I take her hand and we walk the maze some more. Just as I’m thinking she won’t be able to answer, she says, “Okay.”

  At first I think she is talking to herself. She does that. It’s like the question is in her head, but the answer ends up out in the world.

  I look at her and she nods and I know that whichever it was, she’s committing now. I take that as a big cookie and squeeze her hand.

  The walk has changed moods now. It’s no longer aimless; it’s directed, focused. We make our way up to the top of the bouquet, and I find a particularly dense patch and say, “How about here?”

  She’s assessing it, and I know that even though the English teacher says, “No!” she’s committed. A couple of boys burst out of the patch in front of us and we laugh as she says, “No, not here.”

  I think that I’ve pushed her pretty far just getting her to agree and am ready to let her go when she says, “We’re going about this wrong. We need a better perspective.”

  She leads me to one of the two lookouts and climbs up the steep stairway first, letting me have a good look up her skirt. I hang back, happy to oblige her and then step in behind her as she stands at the rail.

  The whole maze is spread out below us, and I look out to the west and see the foothills, right behind the deer fence that surrounds the maze so the wildlife can’t eat the attraction. The sun is just kissing the tops of the nearest line of hills.

  I can see, when I look back, that the open end of the bouquet is the wrong choice. It’s too busy; there’re too many paths around the blossoms, which tend to congregate the people. All the ins and outs are irresistible to the kids, who use them to stage ambushes, leaping around corners whirling cornstalks like light sabers.

  We turn to the other side of the lookout, and I cage her with my body against the rail. I can smell her hair, faintly flowery. I can smell her, salty sweat and a musky sex rising up out of her clothes. My heart leaps at the thought of what we intend to do. I press into her space, and she bends over the rail to accommodate me, opening herself. I breathe in deeply and feel a buzz in my chest rise up to my head.

  “There,” she says. “Over in the corner,” and I know we are looking at the same place. It’s a thick spot between the stems and the little decorative swirl along the edge of the fence.

  “Let’s go see.”

  Trish follows me and I hear her shoes clumping along behind me. She sounds careful and I know some of that is the steep stairs, but the sound is bright, not dragging. She’s going willingly. I wrestle the smile off my face before she joins me at the bottom.

  She keeps looking at my crotch as we walk and I smile. She says she never liked giving head before. You could have fooled me. The women in my life haven’t liked giving head and to find one that does it with such joy is…well, it makes a lump in my heart. Like that song, where the guy tells the woman how glad he is that she loves him, because he knows she doesn’t have to.

  Sucking cock is like that. Fucking in a relationship, that’s expected, part of the deal. But her actually wanting to take my cock in her mouth, well, that’s pretty fucking cool, to say the least.

  We make our way over to the corner in good time. It’s a good size patch, roughly teardrop-shaped. It’s thick, too, the stalks close together with no dead gaps. We walk around it. The traffic is relatively thin here. I grab her by the arm before she can analyze it too much and pull her and then we’re in the thick of it. We stare at each for the moment tasting the audacity. She’s not good at breaking the rules, and I let her have the thrill of it while I check things out.

  People are making their way around us. I hear the crackling of the stalks and paper trash, and I can hear individual voices and snippets of conversation, shouts and shrieks as the kids play and parents try to keep them throttled back.

  There is a piece of cardboard just right for her knees. She sees it too, and she nudges it then sinks to her knees. To her knees. Right in front of me.

  I take my cock out and she tilts her thumb up to her mouth: drink. I hand her the tube for the water camel and she sucks. Sucks.

  She hands it back to me and runs the back of her hand over her mouth and licks her lips. I gesture with my cock and she smiles as she takes it.

  Her mouth is wet from the water and I slide in beautifully. I suppress a sigh and let her work. She really is skilled. She pulls it out to lick the head and run her tongue around it. Then she goes back to work.

  Two kids rush by. I see them like I’m looking through a picket fence as a car drives by. I tense up wondering whether they will choose that moment to run in. I picture them running full tilt into us and knocking us down and me getting a reprise of the penis-severing scene in The World According to Garp.

  Trish gets my tension and I’m not sure how far I can press the English teacher, so I decide to ramp it up. I have what I came to get, and I know what I set out to learn. She’ll rise to challenges, we’ll both set aside our fears and accept the risks our new love will bring. She trusts me and I trust her.

  I slide my hand along her head, and my fingers find their grip in the thick rope of her braid and clench. Everythin
g shifts and I have her full attention. I’m her whole world at this moment, and it has narrowed down to my dick in her mouth. She works it, sliding it smoothly in and out, in and out.

  The sounds fade away, and I give it to her, bending my knees a bit to find that sweet spot in her mouth where I glide in perfectly and she takes it all. Takes it and comes back for more. That she does is heartening and pushes me over the edge, and I pour all our hopes and dreams and potential into her mouth.

  And that’s a wonderful sign.

  MOST VALUABLE PLAYER

  Nairne Holtz

  When I turned thirty, I joined a lesbian basketball league, even though my experience playing team sports amounted to a few humiliating memories of being picked near the bottom for teams in junior high. In a dusty inner-city gym one Saturday night in September, I found myself surrounded by lean, nimble women dribbling and shooting baskets in organized lines. They were all wearing puffy sneakers and athletic shorts. From my wardrobe of mostly black dresses, I had managed to dig out a Marilyn Manson T-shirt, a pair of cutoffs and Converse sneakers. I was sitting on a bench wondering what I should do when a trim Asian woman with short hair tapped me on the shoulder.

  “Hi there. I’m Nancy Chen, and I’m on the collective. I don’t think I’ve seen you before.” She stuck her hand out.

  “I’m Sky.” I grasped her hand. Her shake was quick and decisive. “This is my first time,” I told her.

  “Good to meet you, Sky. Don’t worry, there’re always a few beginners.” Nancy touched a strand of my long purple and black hair. “Next time, put your hair back. And you’ll need to take out your earrings. You don’t want to have someone accidentally tear one out.”

  I fingered the numerous silver hoops on my earlobes while she jogged off.

  Nancy Chen wound up on my team. Her friends called her Chen, and she called them by their last names like they were boys in private school, which, given their gender and racial and ethnic diversity, was kind of hilarious. We did not have designated captains, because that was too undemocratic for lesbians, but unofficially, each team had a leader, a woman who, by virtue of her skill, would call the plays and decide on a lineup; Chen was that person on my team. Even though she was only five-six, she had played varsity basketball and was very good. When cornered, she would charge through taller players and sink baskets from pretty much anywhere on the court. She was also kind and encouraging to rookies. On my second night playing, someone fouled me, and I had a free throw. I stood with the ball clutched to my stomach, my mind in a state of despair, while my team and the opposing team crisscrossed into matching lines in front of me. The ref blew the whistle, and I wildly threw the ball. It narrowly missed the referee’s head. “Nice try!” Chen yelled.