Best Lesbian Erotica 2011

by Kathleen Warnock

  She acknowledged me with a slight twitch of the eyelids and went on smoking and staring about. I cracked first.

  “Well?” I snapped, too loudly.

  “What?”

  “What do you want?”

  She shrugged.

  “You invited me over. You must want something.”

  She sidled over, gripped my hair and with her cigarette smoldering close to my ear she kissed me hard. I tried not to give in to it, and as soon as I did, she moved off, wiping my lipstick from her mouth with the back of her hand and smirking. She sauntered away again, back toward her hidden sculpture.

  “Is that it?” I barked, but my voice cracked. Was this really it? She had been grinning smugly, but now her lip curled in irritation.

  “Why do you have to get so cut up?” she spat and then jammed the heel of her hand against her forehead as if to reproach herself for this outburst.

  “Look, whatever it is you asked me here for…” I swallowed, “just get it over with, will you?”

  She glowered at me for a moment, then threw her cigarette to the floor and ground it out on the cold gray concrete. Muttering to herself, she whipped the dust sheet from her sculpture.

  “Fine. I wanted to show you this,” she snapped. I gazed at the figure before me, still amazed by her ability to coax such intricate figures from the harsh ice.

  It was breathtaking. I took in the details in the translucent ice with awe. I gazed at the tapered fingers, odd-shaped feet with splayed toes and the teardrop-shaped eyes. The figure was seated, naked, with voluminous hair clouding around the face like a painting of a Greek goddess. Its lips were slightly parted, and the eyes were closed. She had even, with some tiny sharp object and a great deal of skill, carved the exact curl of her eyelashes into the sculpture’s cheek. One hand was raised and tangled in the hair, and the other rested in the lap.

  It was her I realized as I stepped closer to the sculpture. She had created a sculpture of herself.

  “It’s you!” I said stupidly, peering closer. I darted a glance at her. She looked miserable again.

  “Almost,” she replied.

  Almost was right, for as I looked I noticed the difference. She had managed to conjure a serenity in the figure’s face and a lack of tension in its limbs that was missing in herself. The figure’s skin was smoother, lacking scars and imperfections. I couldn’t help but feel that this was a sculpture of what used to be, not what was now. I composed myself.

  “So, you dragged me all this way to show me a sculpture you made of yourself. I can’t say I’m surprised; it’s a subject you’re obviously obsessed with,” I said, taking a last desperate swipe at her. She appeared to shrug it off.

  “If you want to spoil everything for yourself, go ahead,” she said.

  “Me spoil everything?” I shouted as I whirled around to face her, tearing my eyes from her glistening alter ego. “You’re the one that’s riding off into the sunset without so much as a by-your-leave!”

  “Fine!” she roared in response. She grabbed my shoulders and kissed me again, and though I hated her I felt my own tongue tangle ecstatically with hers and my hands creep to her hair. She pushed me away.

  “Fine. If you care so much, show me what you would have done if I were staying.” She spun me around to face the sculpture.

  Now it dawned on me what the sculpture was for. Now I could see what the game would have been. She hadn’t counted on us fighting, but she was determined despite or perhaps because of our argument to put us both through it. Something inside me snapped. I decided that if she was going to cast me aside, I would punish her with the only thing I knew she wanted.

  With my back still to her I unbuttoned my shirt and slid it from my shoulders. I kicked off my shoes and stepped out of my skirt. I turned back to her. She was looking at me uncertainly and inside I crowed. For once I had surprised her. I kissed her roughly with her chin in my hand. I felt her mouth search for mine as I broke from the kiss and then turned her face away.

  I turned back to the sculpture and considered it for a moment. Given her attitude it was much more attractive to me than she was at that point. Its body was open to me, its arms clear of the torso and the legs outstretched. The face was calm and smiling. I realized as I slipped out of my underclothes that this was an ecstatic figure, enraptured by something that was secret, and for a moment was stunned by its creator’s cleverness. Then I shook the thought away. The sculpture was mine now, not hers.

  I stepped toward the sculpture and sat astride its lap. A moment’s self-consciousness swept over me as the sudden cold between my thighs shocked me. I straightened my back, where I felt her eyes, resisted the urge to turn and gauge her reaction, and laid my hands on the sculpture’s exquisite, pointed breasts. The smoothness excited me. I drew my hands across, marveling at the detail of the sculpture that had captured the exact folds of skin I remembered from her body. My hands came away wet and I tentatively laid them against my throat and shoulders. Behind me I heard her shift where she stood.

  Pretending to ignore her, I turned my attention to the sculpture’s face. The piercings and the frown were gone, but otherwise, it was a replica of her face. I traced my fingers across the upturned, open mouth, and then my tongue. The coolness was deliciously refreshing on my mouth, where I felt my pulse pounding in my starved lips. I leaned close and pressed my mouth to the sculpture’s. Freezing water filled my mouth, and my lips slid over the icy tongue and teeth. I felt the nerve endings in my lips inflame with the shocking cold and drew closer.

  My body came into contact with the slick torso and I gasped. My body seemed to freeze against the sculpture for a moment, and then as the heat of my skin melted the surface, I slid and shuddered. Involuntarily I wrapped my arms around the sculpture and held it closer to me, running my lips and tongue over its face and welcoming the almost painful chill.

  Now I permitted myself to turn my head, and I saw her. Her expression was impossible to read. She may have been furious, or saddened or enchanted, but whichever it was, she couldn’t look away. Her hands were stuffed tightly into the pockets of her filthy jeans and her shoulders hunched, as if she were willing herself to stand still. Pleased with myself I looked away.

  With one arm still around the sculpture and my body pressed to its chest, I reached down. My fingers were turning blue and I was trembling, but my head felt thick and my face was flushed. I touched myself tentatively and groaned. I longed for her warm kiss but wouldn’t give in and go to her. Instead I consoled myself with the sculpture’s tortuous, freezing caress.

  My breathing grew heavier, and I broke from my icy kiss and rested my hot forehead against the sculpture’s neck. As I glanced down at my hand, working slowly at my cunt, I noticed it. She had thought of everything, and with a breathy laugh I turned to her. She gave me the ghost of a smile.

  The hand in the sculpture’s lap had appeared at first to be of no significance, trailing carelessly over its thighs as if forgotten. From where I sat, however, I could see that the hand’s knuckles rested on the thighs, with the fingers curled upward. She nodded at me, and I turned back to the sculpture. With excruciating slowness, I glided over the sculpture’s slick lap. The hand, already melting and wet from my heat, pressed into me as though into a glove. She had crafted it to fit me perfectly.

  I cried out at the shocking, stunning sensation. My body convulsed but I forced myself to be still until I could bear the cold. Shaking now from the cold and the intensity I drew myself up, down, back and forth on the hand, moaning as the icy fingers found new spaces inside me. The hand was as unyielding and unforgiving as its creator, and my insides rejoiced at the pressure it exerted. My breasts pressed to the wet body of the sculpture and my hands slipped and slid as I tried to grip its hair and face. I rolled my hips harder, relishing the bizarre sensation of the flush of red on my skin spreading under the purple goose bumps. I dared myself to kiss the sculpture’s lips again, drinking the condensation hungrily and then flinching from the cold.
The chill became so intense that I longed to come and then move somewhere warmer, but at the same time, I hoped that I never would. I wanted to freeze into the sculpture and become part of it, immortalized as the figure’s ecstatic lover, fucking euphorically until the heat melted us both away. I could hear my own moans as if they were someone else’s, and their ragged, frenzied tone drove me on faster and wilder.

  Despite my pleasure I couldn’t help bittersweet thoughts of her creeping into my mind. I thought of her lying on the bench in her dirty coat, looking up at me. I saw her slumped in the bar, growling into her whiskey and suddenly flashing me that smile of pride. I saw her in bed, over and over, spitting commands and rebukes at me and remembered searching for a glint of warmth in her as her body covered mine. The anger and sadness spurred me to fuck harder, and I drove my hips convulsively until the orgasm gripped me fiercely. I screamed unashamedly until the last ebb died away, and then I sat, breathless and defeated, my head against the sculpture’s shoulder. I began to shiver miserably.

  No sooner had I sat still I felt her hands on my shoulders. She probably wanted more, and I was just too tired of the whole thing to care. I noticed then a tenderness in her touch and I turned.

  She was weeping. She gathered me in her arms, and my body rejoiced at the warmth and dryness of her clothes. She drew me away from the sculpture and cried. She had seen me, finally; she had seen more than my outlines and glimpsed a little of what I saw in her sculpture. She wept almost inconsolably into my neck as I shushed her quietly.

  THE SWEET TOOTH NEVER FADES

  Erica Gimpelevich

  Four months broken up, and I’ve got Alice bent over a table, breasts crushed against the polished wood. My crotch grinds into her ass, humping her through fabric. She moans, squirms around until I hook my fingers into bony hips and use the grip to keep her steady.

  “Fuck me,” she says.

  I pause. Lust and reason are competing for dominance of my brain.

  “Fuck me or I’ll get someone else to.” “Someone else” is code for my replacement: a slender, self-important, dickwad who struts around town in expensive suits.

  I yank her pants down around her ankles in one violent motion. My palm connects sharply against her flesh. She gasps and moans, her bare ass jiggling. I smack it again with a solid crack that echoes around the room. I keep hitting her until my hand stings and her skin turns blotchy red.

  I’m not sure how this happened. Last time I saw her, there had been a lot of yelling. most of it directed at me. Something about my being a “motherfucking asshole who’s a motherfucking lunatic if she thinks she can keep playing Peter Pan in my goddamn house.”

  We’d just broken up and I hadn’t finished packing. Two years together and she’d dumped me over something as stupid as not making rent. So, yeah, I was pissed. But I hadn’t expected her to get home early. Or to walk in on my rebound—a pretty redhead with long, curly hair and freckles on her tits—lying spreadeagled across the couch with me buried to the wrist between her legs. An innocent mistake; it could happen to anyone. And I have a right to drown my sorrow, right? Apparently not. She kicked me out, butt-naked, along with my date.

  After that, things got awkward: lots of clunky maneuvers around town, steering clear of mutual hangouts, mutual friends. It totally killed my social life, but I figured she’d throw my dick in the blender if she saw me. Not my idea of fun.

  But I guess time cooled her down. Or avoiding me got boring. Or maybe she just wanted to throw her new boy toy in my face. Either way I found a message from her on my phone. We’re both adults, she’d said. Let’s act our age and practice being civil.

  We agreed to meet in a neutral space. There aren’t a lot of those in our tiny town, so we settled on taking a tour of the candy plant. It seemed perfect: public enough we couldn’t fight, boring enough for a short visit; ready-made conversation pieces and, most important, cheap. One of my friends worked security there and let me in gratis whenever I felt like freeloading mountains of processed sugar. Last time I got so sick I couldn’t look at candy corn for weeks without my stomach running circles, though that’s beside the point. Or maybe not: self-control exists for other people, somewhere far, far away from me. But, come on—a candy factory? With big, bright murals that looked straight out of a sixties psychedelic poster and little kids climbing over their parents, begging for sweets? How innocuous can you get?

  She showed up looking like I remembered: same smile, same tight jeans that showed the bounce in her ass as she walked, cherry-red lipstick that made her look like a blonde Snow White. Our time apart twisted and shrank back into nothing. She saw me and started over. Stilettos clicked against the pavement. I realized, while trying not to check her out, that she had dressed up for this. When the hell did I turn into someone to impress?

  “Hey,” I started. “What’s up?”

  “Not much. Did I keep you waiting?”

  Only fifteen minutes. That used to drive me nuts about her, always running late. “No, I just got here.”

  “Do I get a hug?” We inched together and did a quick embrace, the kind you give coworkers and that one guy whose name you feel bad about forgetting. She smelled good. I wanted to bite her neck, breathe it all in. Maybe we should have waited longer.

  “You look good.” I meant it.

  “You too. Shall we?” she asked, motioning toward the factory entrance.

  I led the way, practically an expert after all the time I’ve spent bumming around, waiting for Gary to get off work. He’s my drinking buddy. I already had passes saying we were allowed to be there, so we could get started right away. Except we were running just late enough to miss the hourly tour.

  “Sorry,” Alice said, looking over a list of prohibited behavior posted up on the wall. NO SMOKING. NO CLIMBING INTO VATS. CHILDREN MUST BE ACCOMPANIED BY AN ADULT AT ALL TIMES. “Should we wait for the next one?”

  “Fuck that. It’ll take forever.”

  “Then what do you want to do?” I heard a slight edge to her voice, some ice within the honey. Like it was my fault she didn’t show on time.

  “Let’s just go in and catch up. It won’t be hard to find them.”

  “Are you sure?” She cocked an eyebrow.

  “Totally. I know where they are.” Famous last words. Inside was a little more complicated than I remembered, and all the big pipes looked the same. I led us through a couple of wrong turns, and we ended up in an area I’d never seen before. Normally I’d turn back and ask for directions, but she was staring at me like she knew this would happen because I always got us lost. Like she was remembering why we split. The logical part of my brain knew that finding a candy tour wouldn’t prove I’m not a fuckup, but try telling me that. I went ahead until we hit a wall.

  She rolled her eyes. “Now what?”

  “We keep going.” The wall in front had a door in it. I walked up and twisted the handle. “It isn’t locked.”

  That’s how we ended up in this big abandoned room, with nice cushy chairs around a huge conference table. I swear she kissed me first. One minute I’m shutting the door, to explore where candy-making action happens, and the next her lips are mashed against mine with her whole body pressed into me. It was pure reaction when I shoved my tongue in her mouth. And when I flipped her on the table. I’d been wet since I first saw her, and now I’m aching so bad I can’t think.

  I hit her one last time.

  “Do you like that?” I ask. She doesn’t answer but her breath falls in shallow waves. I’m aching to fill her up. All the blood is rushing from my head into my vulva, pulsing hot and impatient, completely at odds with our sterile surroundings. I want to reach into her and pluck every seed this new guy left, go deep enough to grasp her womb and leave it bruised. To prove I can fuck better than any prick who happens through her life.

  I flip her over and push her up, so she’s sitting on the table’s edge. Her legs swing back and forth, too short to reach the floor. Her pants slide right off over the heels and
land in a puddle on the ground. I spread her legs wide and run my fingers over the lips of her flaxen-haired twat. She’s soaking wet. The lube is running down, already trying to drench my hand.

  “Miss me?” I ask.

  “Yes.” Her eyes are glazed. I know that look. Know what to do.

  I slide one finger in, then two. They go in easy. I start with slow, gentle strokes. Work my way up to three inside and my thumb circling her clit. She bites her painted bottom lip, white enamel against shiny red. The thick, damp scent of her hangs heavy all around. Musty.

  I’m getting faster and faster. It starts to feel frenzied, my screwing her. She’s saying, “Oh, oh,” over and over in different pitches, some high and some deep in her throat. Her cunt feels like a handle, with my fingers curled to hit her G-spot, like I can use it to pick her up. Without warning I pull out and wipe the lube off on her. Her pubes are like steel wool, trimmed enough to scratch at my hand, but long enough to curl.

  “Don’t stop.” She sounds desperate.

  “Beg.” The word is steel. It hardly sounds like me.

  “Please, Cole. You can’t leave me like this.”

  “I can’t?”

  “I want you. Please. I need it. I’ll do anything, just keep fucking me.”

  “Better.” I unzip my fly and let the baggy jeans drop. She stares. Boxer briefs hold a solid, black dildo flat against one leg. Okay, yeah, I’m packing today. Didn’t plan to use it. I only wanted an ego boost—to add some swagger to my step. Make her remember my good parts.

  Now I’m glad for the foresight. I fish a condom from my wallet, toss the foil away and roll the slick latex over my piece. She’s already warmed up, her hole wide from use. I slide the cock in to its base, straining until I know she feels the leather harness. Her entire body tenses and shakes from sudden penetration. I pull out and push in. Repeat. The motions are jerky and uneven, creating their own rhythm. Alice hooks her hands into my ass and pulls me farther in. We’re so close that I’m digging my nails into her shoulders, and I’m sure she can feel my sweat. Heat radiates off her. I can’t pull more than an inch out of her before she wraps her legs around my waist and draws us back together. She makes low, guttural noises that mix together with the sounds of my silicone phallus, pumping out her folds. We get faster and faster, one clumsy beast connected at the dick. I might lose myself inside her if it wasn’t for the anger getting dumped. As she shudders around me I think about Mr. Responsible Man, the guy she replaced me with. At least my penis is detachable, bet that’s something he can’t say.