Best Lesbian Erotica 2011

by Kathleen Warnock

  Planted firmly on her black suede booties in front of the framed photos by Gilles Berquet on display, Lou watched me out of the corner of her eye as if to say, “Don’t you think I deserve a beating for making a spectacle of myself in front of these hungry wolves?” It turned her on to flirt with the unpredictable. Her eyes shone and she was talking a blue streak now to her little court, rushing to finish her sentence before I cut her short, tormented by the delightful fear the domina might burst through the circle of admirers, hurl her to the floor, humiliate her in front of everybody. Suddenly the sparrow darted away from the flock of crows, pecked a few peanuts from the bar and came to me holding out a glass of champagne with her fingertips.

  “In that stunning rubber dress, you must have dominated a few women in your time, haven’t you, Gala?”

  “When the subject interests me.”

  “And if I begged you?”

  “I could be really sadistic and say no, Little Lou.”

  “What if I spilled a glass of champagne on your boots, would you slap me?”

  “I might be tempted to redden those lecherous cheeks.”

  She came closer and lowered her voice.

  “When I was a kid, my mother used to slap me as hard as she could. You can’t imagine how I loved that! A good smack… takes me back…like Proust’s madeleine… Please, Ma’am…”

  “And what do I get in return?”

  Her expression became very businesslike.

  “Any photo on the wall. Tell me which one, I’ll steal it for you.”

  I was sure she was bluffing, she’d promise anyone the moon for a slap in the face.

  “There’s an alleyway not far from here, nobody will see us.”

  “I don’t care if anybody sees us. Look, over on the right: I want that photo, La Pisseuse.”

  “You’ll get it, I promise.”

  She took my arm and led me to the door, balanced on her high heels.

  There were no streetlamps in her alleyway. A moonless night and not a passerby in view. Gradually, my eyes grew accustomed to the dark. I gazed at Little Lou’s lunar face as she stood with her back to a door. She trembled before me, like a trapped rabbit. She waited. There was exaltation in her eyes and fear on her lips. I felt a surge of irritation and slapped her with all my strength. It was the first time I’d slapped a woman. Impulsively, she kissed the back of my hand.

  “Oh, thank you, thank you!”

  With the second slap, I realized this was turning me on. A thrill ran though me; I was really high now, and I boxed her ears again and again, quicker than a riding crop, a dozen times at least, with splayed fingers.

  “Thank you, Ma’am.”

  She stood there with her nose in the air expecting some show of affection from me, a caress or a few kind words. As none was forthcoming, she bared her breasts and leaned back against the portal. I felt provoked by those round tits with their large areolas, straining against the plaid braces of her pleated skirt. I slapped her bosom with the back of my hand, being careful not to cut her with the stones on my rings. I was touched by the tenderness of her pale skin, and I bent forward to suck a nipple while kneading her other breast with my free hand. The whole surface of my tongue explored her bosom in slow motion, intent on savoring the faintest bristling of dread here or there on that delicate skin.

  At the touch of my tongue, her flesh shivered a bit then blossomed forth, placid and warm. I raised her pleated skirt and drove an imperious finger into her slit. She spread her thighs to the limit: her sex was wet, her muff was soaked. I held her pinned to the door with my right middle finger jammed into her pussy and my mouth clamped over her breast like a suction cup. She panted; she shuddered. Now and then, my thumb dealt with her clitoris, exerting calculated pressure three or four times, bringing the whole weight of my hand to bear on the tip. Meanwhile, I kept on sucking, as if I wanted to swallow her breast. She uttered a savage shout. I felt her wet vulva throb and flow over the back of my hand. I stopped and drew back. I spun her round and shoved her roughly up against the door, bent on making her pay for my burst of tenderness.

  “Pull up your skirt.”

  Hanging from her shoulder was a rectangular case; it might have contained a laptop. I yanked it away, and as soon as her skirt was up I used it to swat her behind several times.

  “Now you’re going to show everybody your red cheeks.”

  Groggy from the wallops of the case, she looked up at me with wild eyes, already buttoning her blouse. The skirt fell into place over her thighs.

  She preceded me into the gallery, anxious to show her marks to her admirers. In the light, the shape of my fingers was plainly visible, printed above her jawbone like an X-ray. Lou turned her head from side to side, as if admiring a pair of earrings in a mirror, but the expected commentaries and wisecracks were not forthcoming. She hurried over to a press attaché who’d been smiling at her from afar, twisting her neck in such a way that the woman’s gaze fell near her ear—wasted efforts.

  She took down the photo I coveted, paid the asking price and brought it to me with misty eyes. She propped her trophy against a radiator. The monochrome print showed a white plate on an ancient wood floor. A brunette stood jauntily with hands on hips, aiming her urine at the plate; her waist was cinched in a tight corset with a pair of sculpted breasts bulging over the top. Lou took my hand. We communed in silence before the performance in the photo. As an epilogue to a furtive trance, the force of the enactment carried us away. But suddenly my deep indifference to her attractions spoiled that beautiful euphoria. My grip on her hand weakened. Aware of my detachment, Lou withdrew her hand and licked my palm like a dog. It was her way of saying good-bye. She vanished through the door-curtains with her hand on her cheek.

  A singer from New York waved to me. I’d interviewed her in the days when there still were BDSM magazines in France. Muffled up in a pink angora sweater, Emily was smoking an extraslim on the sly. Seeing I was alone, she came over and held out a damp hand. The woman in her life had just walked out on her. Her pupils were dilated by tranquilizers, and she rolled her eyes as she beseeched me. “I’m a little heart for the taking, Gala, a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity…. I’ll be your submissive and you’ll see just how submissive I can be! Do with me what you will!” I felt sorry for those trembling lips, that lost-blonde-with-no-collar look. She clung to my arm. I felt the moist warmth of her palm through the rubber sleeve. She lived in a hotel in the 12th arrondissement, close to the Métro entrance: one room and a washstand with a shared loo on the landing. Her dream was to be taken in hand, in the name of love and solidarity. Submissives always knew how to get my pity. Except that the woman who surrendered to those periwinkle-blue eyes would have to possess qualities I lack. The need to love, for example, even if a stray arrow from Cupid’s bow does get to me now and then. And a taste for blondes… Not to mention the self-denial involved in any relationship with a tyrannical submissive. Still shaken by the intensity of my experience with Little Lou, a gratuitous and transgressive act, I resented Emily’s forced landing in my field. I thought of lending her money to salve my conscience, but then I had a fit of pride, pleaded a previous engagement and walked away.

  It was snowing. Lou was propped against my front fender, her hair dotted with flakes. She gave me her address. She knew I wasn’t going to take her home with me. When I dropped her off on rue Mademoiselle, she kissed me on the cheek. Watching her disappear inside the apartment house, my conscience was clear: I’d driven her home hadn’t I?

  ANN’S ADRENALINE RUSH

  Sarah Ellen

  Ann took a last look in the mirror before grabbing her gloves and sunglasses. If she didn’t force herself now, she knew she would spend her whole vacation regretting her inaction. The ski lessons themselves should be easy enough to arrange, she guessed, but engaging Frankie’s services could prove a little more difficult. It was all Tess’s fault for persuading her she needed an active holiday. “And I mean in the sheets as well as on the slopes,” T
ess had pointedly said when she dropped Ann off at the airport.

  Ann crossed the icy street from the hotel to the nearby ski school office.

  “Hello,” she said as she approached an elderly man sitting behind a desk. “I’d like to arrange some ski lessons.”

  “Of course.” His German accent sounded strange to Ann’s ears. “At what level?”

  “Just above beginner. This is my second time skiing,” she told him. “Is Frankie available?”

  “Frankie!” He threw her an amused look.

  “She was recommended to me by an old school friend,” Ann replied.

  “Ah.” He scanned the appointment book in front of him. “It looks as though you are in luck. Although she has a class this morning, this afternoon she is free.”

  Ann smiled warmly at him. “I was thinking of making the arrangement over several days.”

  He grinned. “Naturally.”

  With Frankie officially signed over to her for the next few days, Ann happily made her way to the ski rental shop and picked out her equipment. Her lift pass would be waiting for her back at the hotel. So far, she thought, all was going according to plan.

  When Tess had suggested she take a skiing trip, Ann had readily agreed, not realizing Tess had no intention of joining her. That her closest friend had her best interests at heart Ann had no doubt. Her social life had all but ended when Suzanna had walked out six months ago, and Ann knew she needed to get it started again. But the real incentive, as Tess was fully aware, was sex; Ann was sick of pleasuring herself.

  They had joked about traveling to Austria. It was where, years before, Tess had met Frankie, a veritable snow whore, who lived for the moment every moment. It had been one of the most exciting periods of Tess’s life, she told Ann. Which was why Ann now found herself alone, far from home, waiting for a ski lesson with someone she’d never met.

  “Miss Carson?”

  Ann turned to find a tall, long-limbed woman striding confidently toward her. Underneath a blue fleece beanie her brown eyes sparkled with intensity.

  “My name’s Frankie, but then you already know that, don’t you?”

  Ann wondered whether Frankie was annoyed with her. She was certainly direct.

  “Erik said you’d asked for me by name?” she continued.

  “A friend of mine recommended you.” Ann quickly appraised the woman in front of her. Though hidden beneath layers of clothing, it was obvious her body was perfectly toned. Her teeth flashed white against the tan of her face and a small dark curl escaped from her hat. Tess was right: she was gorgeous. Ann refocused her eyes only to meet Frankie’s raised eyebrows. “Tess. My friend…her name is Tess,” she stammered in embarrassment.

  Frankie shook her head. “I meet a lot of people.”

  “I’m Ann.” She offered her hand.

  Frankie looked at it then gave it a firm, short shake.

  “I thought we’d start on the beginner’s slopes just over there.” Frankie pointed past a picturesque church toward a small snow-covered incline. “Just to see what skills you’ve acquired so far.”

  “Okay.” Ann hauled her skis from a nearby stand and carried them awkwardly across her body.

  Frankie caught up with her. “You’ll find it easier over your shoulder,” she instructed, helping Ann adjust them. “Nice skis.”

  The afternoon passed quickly. Frankie’s method of teaching was just as Ann had hoped and involved her closely watching Frankie’s tight buttocks and thighs making careful, deliberate movements over the surface of the snow before she tried the maneuver herself. She found falling over tiresome, but worth it, as Frankie pulled her to her feet and fiercely brushed the snow from her suit. Her almost-rough approach set Ann’s heart pounding. Twice her upturned face had neared Frankie’s and their eyes had locked while their breath sounded ragged, gasping. She felt Frankie pull away. Was it just her imagination, or was Frankie feeling the same degree of attraction?

  “I think that will do for today,” Frankie announced. “A sauna or a hot bath should minimize any stiffness.”

  “Fancy a drink?” Ann asked casually.

  “I can’t.” Frankie said abruptly as she turned to leave.

  “Another time, perhaps,” Ann managed to say despite experiencing a sudden rush of anger. How rude!

  After a quiet dinner in the hotel, Ann moved into the bar to sit in a secluded corner where she watched and listened as her fellow guests regaled each other with stories of reckless alpine abandon and daring. Feeling somewhat superfluous, she gathered her things, then noticed a new crowd of people had arrived with Frankie in their midst. She decided to stay a while longer.

  Out of her ski attire, Frankie’s body was even more impressive. The clinging black T-shirt with a plunging neckline revealed an impressive cleavage, and Ann could appreciate how her close-fitting black pants displayed the taut, firm muscles. Her hair was surprisingly long. Worn loose, it gave her a casual, yet sensual air. Frankie, she saw, had one arm wrapped around the pretty, young blonde she was talking to, while her other hand was furtively moving beneath the skirt of an older woman who sat at the bar. Ann very nearly laughed out loud. Did the woman have no shame? Frankie continued to talk animatedly to the girl encircled in her arm, giving no indication that her real focus lay elsewhere. Clearly the woman at the bar was enjoying every moment of Frankie’s ministrations as her eyes grew increasingly wider and her drink sat forgotten.

  Ann glanced quickly round the room, certain that she was not the only one aware of what was happening, but everyone else seemed oblivious. She watched mesmerized as the woman struggled to contain her emotions; that she was close to orgasm was blindingly obvious. Bizarrely, Ann felt her own breathing change and a steady pulsating pull between her legs; her nipples scraped against the silk of her blouse. When finally the woman gripped her glass, Ann let out a controlled sigh. She averted her eyes only to find Frankie staring intently at her.

  Ann filled the following morning by taking a scenic walk around the village. Since Frankie had classes in the morning, her lessons were booked for each afternoon. Better for après ski socializing Ann had initially thought, until Frankie had turned her offer down flat. Last night it had been evident that Frankie was in no way short of company, and Ann was far less certain that she could entice Frankie into bed with her.

  She made her way to the small gondola and waited in line. Frankie had arranged to meet her after lunch in one of the mountain restaurants around which she was assured the slopes were gentle and undulating.

  The scenery was breathtaking. Ann gazed through the windows at the snow-laden trees and sparkling, soft carpet of white beneath. The anticipated thrill of skiing on such pure snow briefly entered her mind only to be superseded by far less virginal thoughts. The adrenaline rush she desired could not be achieved on two planks of wood.

  The restaurant was busy and warm. Discarded outer clothing lay draped over chair backs. Noise of conversation, cutlery and the clumping of heavy boots filled the air. Ann surveyed the tables hoping to catch sight of Frankie. A group of ski instructors sat chatting at one of the bench tables.

  “Excuse me, have you seen Frankie?” she asked.

  One of the men pointed to Frankie’s blue beanie hat, jacket and gloves. “She’ll be back in a minute. She’s just waxing her skis.” He snickered. “You can never have too much wax.”

  The rest of the table nodded enthusiastically leaving Ann feeling a little bemused and thinking Europeans sure had an odd sense of humor. She wandered away from them, found a free chair and studied her piste map. It wouldn’t hurt to have some idea of the direction in which they’d be skiing.

  Five minutes later Ann glanced at her watch. Frankie was late; her lesson should already have begun. Not wishing to disturb Frankie’s colleagues for a second time she wandered over to one of the waiters.

  “Hi, can you tell me where the nearest ski workshop is, please?”

  With his hands full the waiter nodded toward a door just before the
exit. “Downstairs,” he said.

  “Thanks.”

  The cloying smell of heated wax and the sound of loud music playing were the first things Ann noticed as she descended the stairs. A typical ski workshop, she surmised as she rounded the door, where anyone could call in and get their equipment fixed while they waited. About to call out, she saw Frankie reaching over the counter with some kind of tool in her hand. Perhaps she could help. She stifled a gasp and stopped midstride, for sprawled beneath Frankie lay the blonde from last night. Ann moved swiftly into the shadows. To return to the stairs would risk revealing her presence; she’d have to wait.

  Frankie looked wild. Her hair, once tied back, had started to tumble loose. Her top had come adrift from her trousers exposing a white slash of skin. Ann could see little of the scene except Frankie thrusting back and forth. But she knew exactly what was happening and how it was making her own body feel: the familiar throb spreading between her legs, accompanied by inevitable warm, wet stickiness; the hand she had to press against herself. The very hand she had become so sick of using.

  The blonde was panting, encouraging Frankie, “Harder! Faster!” but Ann was almost unaware of her commands for in her imagination it was she who was lying beneath Frankie; she who was receiving the hard shaft of whatever Frankie was using. Closing her eyes she pictured Frankie’s intense stare as she increased the pace of her strokes. Nearly there, if you could just…