“Please let me scream,” she repeated, and I saw stars.
I felt a snarl involuntarily lift my lip as I let myself go, sliding all the way in with each stroke, watching her yank mindlessly at the rope around her wrists, muscles straining, as she wrapped her strong thighs around me and pulled me closer, shoving back at me, impaling herself on my forearm as I fucked her into a place where she couldn’t remember my name or hers. She chanted “Fuck fuck fuck fuck...” each time before she screamed.
I could feel the moment when it was arriving, and I placed my wet thumb on her clit, my left hand pressing into her belly, feeling my fist inside her as it pistoned back and forth. I nudged her clit from side to side in rhythm with my thrusts, and within seconds she sucked in her breath, long and deep, and just fucking exploded, wrapped around my fist so tight I could feel my wrist creak. I felt it deep in my cunt, she came so hard; arched off the bed, stabbing herself on my arm, working her clit against my thumb, shuddering over and over, her cunt pulsing now, beating like a great, slow heart inside her.
Box 392
Jane DeLynn
Not just the outer but the inner door was unlocked, as they often are in crummy tenements.
I walked up the stairs, six-pack in hand, metal indented from decades of footsteps, walls bumpy from ancient attempts to make interesting the “texture,” the paint chipped, graffitied, peeling, names of old lovers (Mike & Cathy forever, Julio loves Sandy) etched by key or knife into its surface. Garlic, marijuana, fried chicken, rotting food—Spanish music and kids screaming and TV for the various constituencies mingling in a way that was pleasantly familiar. In the past I had known buildings like this so well, with their geographically labeled (NE, SE, NW, SW) apartments, their bags of garbage (brown bag inside plastic) tied up outside the doors, the forgotten joys of downward mobility, whether involuntary or chosen.
I went up the stairs as far as I could, until I faced a metal door to the roof. This location alarmed me.
Feeling stupid, but following instructions, I shut my eyes, albeit I could raise the lids slightly and see through my eyelashes. I shifted from foot to foot, then leaned with my back against the iron railing, which I rolled against to work out my muscles. Finally I sat down, and despite my intense curiosity and nervousness my mind began wandering until I almost fell asleep, as I have upon occasion in a dentist’s chair.
“Are your eyes shut?” a voice startled me.
“Yes,” I half-lied, my heart pounding as if I had been caught doing something forbidden.
“You’re supposed to be standing. Get up, but keep your back toward me and your eyes shut if you don’t want to be sent home.” A bit awkwardly, for I was feeling dizzy, I pushed myself to my feet.
“Move forward, so you’re not leaning on anything.”
I did. “Okay. Now reach out with your left hand, backward, until you feel the banister.”
The cool railing felt good in my hand, though my sweat made me grip even harder.
“Good. Now move to your right…more…more…Stop. The stairs are right behind you. A few more inches.” I shuffled my feet very slowly until I could feel my heel sliding off the edge of the step. “Good. Now walk down. Slowly.”
“Backward?”
“Yes.”
“I can’t.” I was petrified, afraid I’d fall into the void, or that she’d push me (even though her voice was below me.)
“Of course you can. You just feel with your foot until the step disappears, then lower yourself very carefully. Don’t worry. I’ll be there if you fall.”
I let my left hand slide slightly down the railing, whose knobbiness (from decades of paint?) I was now grateful for, as it helped anchor my hand.
“What about the beer?”
“You won’t need it.”
“Are you sure?”
She said nothing. I reached out my right hand but could not touch the wall.
Finally, ever so carefully, I moved my right leg down onto the next step. Then my left.
Still proceeding cautiously, but slightly faster, like a child learning to walk, I backed my way downstairs.
I heard a click and felt, rather than saw, a darker blackness.
“One more step,” she said. I lowered my foot—then a tremendous jarring went through my body, as my foot found, not space and a step, but a solid floor. As I was getting myself together, she slipped something over my eyes, with elastic behind my head. Fur: a material I recognized from far-off days of semi-interesting sex.
She spun me around, so that her voice was in front of me. “What do I look like?”
I opened my eyes, but it was as if I had not. “I don’t know.”
“Good.”
“Why? So you are ugly!”
She laughed. She took me by the hand. She pushed my left shoulder, she pulled my right, and I began to turn around. Then she told me to spin around myself, until she said to stop. I got dizzy first.
“Okay.” She took my hand and began to lead me. Remembering the step, I resisted.
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll…see.”
“Will I?”
“Don’t you trust me?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then what are you doing here?” I tried to figure out which way I was facing, but the spinning and walking backward had confused me. I liked the sound of her voice, though, which was husky, as if she were thirsty, as if she were getting a cold, as if she had talked too much all day.
We stopped, I heard a slight creak (a door being pushed open), then, after she warned me to lift my foot a little, my foot landed on a somewhat softer and more absorbent surface, which I realized was wood.
I felt wind, I heard a kind of aching sigh, I heard the click as she turned the lock on the door.
“No,” she said, grabbing my arm, for I had reached for the blindfold. Her fingers felt strong. At first I liked it, but then I felt cornered, and I grabbed at her like a cat.
She pulled my hands away and pressed them to my sides. I pushed up as hard as I could, but though I work out, I couldn’t get anywhere. I heard her chuckle. Finally, I stopped trying.
“Promise not to try to take the blindfold off?” she said in an amused tone.
“Yes.”
She let go. I stood there, my heart pounding, panting from fear—and, I admit, excitement. My breathing sounded loud in my ears, like my grandmother’s used to when she slept in my room. At the time it had made me want to kill her.
“Can I sit down?” I asked, less to sit than to do something to cover up my loud breathing.
She didn’t say anything. I waited awhile, then asked her again. Still silence. Had she left the room? I crossed my left leg behind my right and began the process of lowering myself to the floor, which was much more difficult than you’d imagine without visual cues.
“Don’t do anything unless I tell you.”
I stood awhile more. Sweat was emanating from me, not from one particular place but in a kind of suffused oozing. The floor creaked.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Chris.”
“Chris what?”
“I don’t want to say.”
“Is Chris your real name?”
“No,” I admitted.
“What’s your real name?” I was silent.
“Oh, you’re one of those,” she said. “You’ll learn soon enough.” A long pause. “Chris,” she said, exaggerating the Chris, “it’s warm in here, don’t you think?”
I shrugged. “It’s okay.”
“Well, I’m warm.” Pause. “Would you like to take off your shirt?”
“Uh. Sure.”
I began unbuttoning my shirt. As I had never worn this shirt before, I had trouble getting the buttons out of the button holes, which made me self-conscious (lest she think I was nervous), so I tried to move faster, which made me more clumsy. Finally, I got it off. Not wanting to discard it, I held it in my left hand. How much did it weigh? Six ounces?
> I was conscious of my erect nipples.
“Drop it.”
“It’s…clean.” (I didn’t want to say “new.”)
Snicker. I let go. “No bra.”
“No. I…I used to be small. Not that I’m big now, exactly, but I keep forgetting.”
“You forget?” She sounded incredulous.
“In the store I mean. I haven’t bought a bra in…so long.”
“I see…”
What did she see? Oddly, I felt almost sleepy.
“You work out?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
She continued questioning me in this calm and impersonal manner, as if at a doctor’s office. The calmness was reassuring, though it gave me the feeling she was disappointed in my appearance. But perhaps she was merely nervous about how I’d feel about hers.
I could both hear and feel the floor move as she approached. Her breath sent little waves of warm air at my face, waves that must have smelled nice, since they did not repel me. I smelled armpit smell too, not so nice, but that could have been me.
I waited, but she did not touch me. If she had, perhaps I would not have begun to get wet.
“Can I take the blindfold off now?”
“No.”
“When can I?”
She moved away, with her breath and warmth. “Please finish getting undressed.”
Please: What did that mean? I didn’t know the rules. Would she say, in the same neutral voice, please bend over so I can shove a dildo up your butt?
Slowly I unbuckled my brown leather belt, unbuttoned the top of my shorts, unzipped the zipper. The shorts began to slip off me, and I held them so they wouldn’t.
“Let go,” she said.
As my right hand let go, my shorts tilted and I heard my keys drop out. I restrained an intense urge to pick them up.
“What’s the problem?” The fingertips of my left hand still clutched my shorts.
I didn’t want to put the idea of running off with my clothing into her head, if it was not there already. “I’ve never done anything like this before,” I finally said.
“You’ve never taken off your shorts in front of another woman?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Do I?”
We were silent awhile. The ticking—was it my watch? “I… I’m scared,” I said.
“Of course.” Silence. “What are you most frightened of?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’m sure you do.”
“Being hurt, I guess,” I finally said. But that wasn’t it, exactly.
“Chris.” She said it reproachfully, almost sadly. “You do know that some of the things we might do together might hurt you, don’t you? That’s partly why you’re here, isn’t it?” she said in an insinuating fashion.
“Now let go of those shorts, and take off your underpants too.”
This was difficult, as I could not raise my foot to take my sandal off with my shorts around my ankles. Nor could I kick the sandals off. When I tried to bend I got dizzy. Finally I had to sit down, pull off the sandals, and then remove the underpants.
“This is really embarrassing,” I said, then stood up.
“The little femme,” she said, I suppose in honor of the lacy black underpants I had bought from Victoria’s Secret in honor of our “date.”
“I’m not sure what I am,” I replied.
“Perhaps we’ll find out.”
I was now barefoot and naked, my hands over my breasts. For all I knew, the windows were wide open, and people in the apartments across the street could see me.
“Turn around so I can see the rest of you. Slowly.”
As I turned I felt awkward and unattractive, the parody of a model.
“Move your legs apart.”
I did this slowly, as the gunk was creating a suction between my thighs. It made a slight noise as it broke, which I hoped she could not hear.
“My, my,” she said. Very lightly I felt her fingers brush the hair around my vagina, or rather (as hair has no feeling), I felt the pressure of the hair moving the follicles. Then it seemed to stop, although I felt (or thought I felt) the warmth of her hand above my skin. At times I can be aroused by anything, and I felt gunk moving down my legs. Moving slightly, as if to shift weight, I moved my legs farther apart, willing not just her fingers but her hand inside. Instead, she moved her hand and ran her fingers down my face. With the light breeze (open window? fan?) the gunk dried into a mask.
If I was excited (and I was!) it was not so much because of what was happening as because it reminded me of something I had seen in a porno movie. The predictability of my response—as if I were your standard male voyeur—irritated me.
She stuck her fingers in my mouth.
“Do you like to taste yourself?”
I shrugged. “’Sokay.”
“Just okay?” She moved her fingers in my mouth until the soapiness was gone, then returned them to where they had been before.
“Keep them apart,” she commanded. I had started, or perhaps had just started to think about, contracting my legs around her hand.
“God,” I said. “Oh God.”
“Surely you’re not going to come,” she said.
“Jesus.”
Jesus. I bit my lip. I was dripping. I haven’t felt like this before, went through my mind, though of course it wasn’t true. I wanted to howl. I was moaning. She withdrew her hand.
“God, please don’t stop,” I begged.
“Don’t,” she said. “I don’t want you to.”
“I can’t help it. Oh God...” I grabbed her hand and tried to shove it in my vagina. “Please.”
She grabbed my left arm and twisted it behind my back. I fell onto her, felt her solid muscle.
“Who makes the rules around here?”
She turned me so my back was toward her. Her right hand moved around my body to grab my right nipple. She squeezed it between her thumb and finger. At first the pressure felt good, because the pain distracted me from my desire, then the pain itself became the problem. “Ow,” I said. “Ow…ow.” She put her left hand around my neck and yanked. My feet slipped and I was leaning against her, her body supporting me. Once I stopped fighting this I relaxed and let myself sink into the pain. The pain was so deep it was no longer connected to the nipple but spread in waves. But somehow it didn’t matter. Then she began twisting her hand, and the pain was again sharp and discrete, as if a pin were going through the center of my nipple. I became worried, not about the pain, but that she might do permanent damage to my nipple.
As I tried to pull away, she grabbed my left nipple with her left hand. This fresh pain distracted me from the old one. Then she squeezed more sharply with her right hand and the lower part of my torso twisted in that direction. Soon this alternation of pain became a rhythm, and I again relaxed.
At that moment she dropped my right nipple, grabbed my hair, pulled my head back, and sucked, really hard, on the side of my neck. It would be a gigantic hickey. Then it became a bite. I felt like she was eating me. Like she was an animal. “Ow. Oh. Ow.” Her teeth dug into me. What if she drew blood? Wasn’t she worried about AIDS?
She stopped for a minute. She pulled back my hair, so my throat was exposed to her.
I wanted her to bite it, suck my blood, make me part of that strange race.
She pulled my hair harder. “So, Chris, does it matter what I look like?”
“No.”
Seduction
Terry Wolverton
Night drew a filmy curtain of darkness over the city, a veil of cinder that blotted the stars. Kendra unbolted the door to the crumbling warehouse, and the sky disappeared, giving way to a thin, watery light cast on walls of scarred concrete.
As the young woman led the way up five steep flights of musty stairs, Lee grumbled, “I’m too old for this.” Inspired as she tried to be by the undulation of Kendra’s ass ascending before her, she found the setting put a damper on her lus
t. Her knees ached from the climb, and the squalor of the dank old building did not fuel the aura of romance.
The loft they entered after Kendra released three locks was large and filthy, full of decrepit furniture scavenged from curb-side and strange configurations of objects arranged in a manner that was meant to be artistic. Perhaps there had been a time when Lee might have found the scene exotic, the proverbial walk on the wild side, but now it only wearied her. She longed for the neutral luxury of her hotel room, its gleaming tub outfitted with Jacuzzi jets, the chocolates left on the pillow like a lover’s departing kiss, crisp sheets turned down, inviting.
That’s where she’d intended for them to end up, after a quiet, elegant dinner in the Village, but Kendra had refused. “It’ll be so uptight, so straight!” she’d whined in protest. “Come to my place—it’ll be more fun.”
It was a tactic Lee had used herself, a fatal blend of reprimand and promise that had proved effective in countless situations. Now here she stood in this grimy loft on the edge of what was once the Bowery.
Sound was blasting from some walled-off corner at the far end of the room, the same robotic, vicious beat Lee remembered from the club the night before. She cocked an eyebrow in question.
“That’s just Arturo,” the young woman explained with a breezy wave in the direction of the noise. “One of my roommates. Don’t worry, he’s cool.”
At this news, Lee slumped into a chair, raising a swarm of dust from the hideous polyester spread that draped it. The frantic bass called forth an echoing throb behind her eyes.
“Isn’t that a riot?” Kendra giggled, pointing to the bedspread’s lurid pattern. “Nimo got it on Orchard Street for three bucks.” There was marvel in her voice for someone who could glean such treasure with such economy.
Best of the Best Lesbian Erotica Page 13
