Best of the Best Lesbian Erotica

by Tristan Taormino

Pat Califia

  Caught up in the Christmas spirit, Adolpha decided to go shopping. How nice it was of all the merchants to remain open well after dark. In downtown San Francisco, the antique steel-blue lights along Market Street were decorated with enormous candy canes and reindeer. Shop windows were lushly lit, golden boxes full of expensive and precious things. Well-dressed and well-fed men and women hurried along the street, loaded down with shopping bags and parcels, eager to pick up one last present or head for home with the bundles they had already amassed. Between them lurked figures who had not partaken of the season’s bounty; dirty, thin people who begged change from their betters or begged their personal tormentors to leave them alone.

  Adolpha had shaved her cornsilk blond hair at sundown. By now it had grown out to an inch of stubble. The cold was all the artifice she needed to put a cruel blush of color on her Teutonic cheekbones, and her mouth had always been blood-red. Tonight she wore a very brief leather miniskirt and a matching black leather jacket, lined with scarlet silk, of course. The tailoring was Italian, very chic, very naughty. She thought the clothes would have been expensive if she’d had to buy them, but Adolpha never carried cash or American Express. Her big green eyes were her line of credit. Underneath her leathers she wore nothing at all, being immune to the chill. Her black stockings were held up by lacy elastic tops, and she maneuvered on seven-inch stilettos as if the brick sidewalk was just another Paris runway.

  Before allowing the warm air, silver tinsel, and discreet carols of Nordstrom’s to suck her in through its thick glass doors, Adolpha paused and took a deep whiff of the street. Really, she could not see that cities had changed much since 1887. Victorian London had its clouds of coal smoke; San Francisco in 1997 had carbon monoxide. The gutters still smelled of sewage and rotten food. Horse-drawn carriages and electric trolleys seemed equally indifferent to the welfare of pedestrians, and the street people were, if anything, even more desperate, despite the absence of snow. She took in the crowds with the delighted smile of a vegetarian gourmand contemplating the glossy rows of organic produce at the Berkeley Bowl, and swept into Nordstrom’s, eager to enjoy her portion of greed, the joy that comes from avid consumption.

  Riding the escalator was a treat, although she had to resist the temptation to rise an inch or so above the steps and alarm the shoppers thronged behind her. She had artfully positioned herself in line so she would be ahead of a matronly woman who was taking a young boy shopping for a suit. It was delightful to hear their twin reactions to the view, like an operatic dialogue in her head, the older woman’s fear and dismay paired with adolescent disbelief and delight. It was sweet to be adored, and equally savory to scare someone. She resisted the temptation to introduce them to a whole new set of family values. There was time, still, she was fresh from her nap and wanted to look around a bit.

  Of course, she headed straight for the shoe department. The buyers at Nordstrom’s had to be perverts. Just look at all the thigh-high boots, platform heels, leopard prints, Lucite pumps, sharp metal spikes, little-girl shoes with padlocks on the straps. These shoes were positively pornographic, erotic verses in latex, patent leather, kid, and steel. She found a row of seats, made everyone who was seated there leave, and positioned herself in the middle of the row. The chairs were not upholstered with leather, and she frowned at the sensation of plastic against her half-bare bottom. It was annoying to be reminded of the store’s faux elegance, its pretentiousness. Americans craved only the illusion of exclusivity.

  Now, that salesgirl over there, perhaps she was the one to drag under the mistletoe for a nice, long kiss. Adolpha stared at the back of her head until she abandoned her customer, turned, and came to inquire submissively if there was anything that Madam would like to see. She was a cute little thing, with her dark brown hair cut in a Dutch-boy’s bob. Adolpha liked girls who wore ties with boy’s shirts. She was a little thin in her dark slacks and fashionable loafers, but there was no time to fatten her up. Her name was Jamie, this was not what she had in mind when she graduated from high school, she was from Santa Monica, San Francisco was so cliquey and drinks were too expensive, she was thinking about moving back to Southern California and staying with her parents for a while, and Adolpha did not care to pay attention to the rest of it.

  “I think you should measure my foot first,” Adolpha purred, and crossed her long, long legs. Jamie sank to her knees and removed one of Adolpha’s viciously high heels. The foot arched in her hand like a cat imperiously ordering you to pet it right there. So Jamie stroked it, and for some reason the rasp of the black silk stocking against the palm of her hand made her feel hot and sweaty inside the buttoned-down Oxford shirt that concealed her small breasts. She wanted to loosen her tie.

  Instead, she ran her hands up Adolpha’s legs, confirming with her fingertips that the stockings were perfectly taut and the seams aligned as if they’d been painted on with a laser. The muscles in the calves bunched beneath her hands, and she kneaded them, and continued kneading up, shifting her hands to palm the inside of a pair of perfect slender thighs. The silk stockings were like sandpaper on the sensitive inner surfaces of her hands, and she wanted so much to soothe them against this woman’s skin.

  Somehow she had forgotten to put the scale beneath her customer’s feet, and was kneeling instead between her legs. She could see Adolpha’s sex, the pink lips clearly visible because the pale pubic hair had been severely clipped. Jamie’s breath caught in her chest. She ran her hands off the tops of the silk stockings, toward skin. But she barely got to experience the downy texture of Adolpha’s thighs before her head was rudely shoved down, into the gray Berber carpet.

  “Measure me with your mouth,” Adolpha said, and the words were like a sonorous hymn in Jamie’s head, a Gregorian chant that heralded and sanctioned the forbidden. She was afraid, afraid, but then there was a warm feeling like a touch behind her eyes, and she knew only desire. She took Adolpha’s stockinged toes into her mouth, and adored them with her tongue. She was vaguely aware that customers were standing around in shock, watching a tall blond woman with a crewcut spread her legs and feed a salesgirl her feet. The manager of the department was heading toward them, and Jamie did not understand why he had not already shouted at her to stop, stop! But then it seemed to her that everyone was frozen in place, because Jesus told us to love one another, and here she was loving someone perfectly. It was like a nativity scene, she thought as she licked up toward Adolpha’s knee caps. People would stand in front of them with their hats in their hands and admire them and think deep and beautiful thoughts, they would be inspired and awe-struck because it was holy, holy to press her mouth against the elastic roses and hunger for Adolpha’s symmetrical Art Deco labia and the pink topaz of her clitoris.

  Then her mouth was on rose petals, skin at last, and Adolpha’s long fingers were in her hair, guiding her. Jamie had vague memories of a drunken party long ago, falling backwards onto a friend’s bed, an awkward pleasure provided with pearl-tipped cheerleader fingers and lips that tasted of peach, passing out more because she was not sure she wanted to reciprocate than because of her blood alcohol level…but this was not like that. There was no intoxication except the sweet smell of Adolpha’s body, no awkwardness at all because she was firmly held, directed, and there was no possibility of failure. She would give anything, anything to do this perfectly, to hear just one small sigh of delight from the woman who had gathered her up and given her a purpose.

  So she used her puppy tongue and dizzy lips to give Adolpha pleasure for as long as she would graciously suffer it. And Adolpha was happy to take from her, to muss her hair and smear her face, and brand her soul with a deep hunger for cunt. It was delicious to allow a human being to feed on her, Adolpha found. It felt so wicked, and it was also endearing, to see them parody the act that sustained her own life. Caught up in fantasies about Jamie’s fragile neck and strong young heart, Adolpha came, and quickly came again, mercifully blinding Jamie to light and sound by enclosing her in th
e grip of her strong pale legs. Jamie thought she would weep, she was so delirious and glad.

  Then she was tossed back on the floor, out of breath, confused and bereft. The carpet burned her hands, and she had a bump on her head, she had landed that hard. Adolpha had spotted her prey. As she got to her feet, ready for the hunt, she did Jamie the favor of making everyone forget what they had just seen. Everyone except Jamie, that is. Let her sort it out, Adolpha thought, amused by the many possibilities that presented themselves. There was room for one more sweet young submissive in this wicked world. Let her find her proper place. Adolpha grinned, and mentally whistled for her quarry.

  This was Monica Bradshaw, who had honey-brown hair with artificially-enhanced blond highlights, freckles on her shoulders, and a mouth that was too tight to be beautiful. Monica Bradshaw was terrified of turning thirty. She had an MBA from Harvard, and she was working as a manager for a company that was not a bank and not a stockbroker, but it did something with money, Adolpha was too impatient to figure out exactly what. Monica Bradshaw was pissed off because she kept hitting the glass ceiling. She wanted out of her current job, which was supervising secretarial services, so she could get her smart-yet-sensible shoes on the fast track to real money and prestige.

  Just one week ago, the higher echelons of her company had okayed her proposal to down-size her department. Monica had promised them the same level of service with a much smaller investment in employees’ salaries and benefits. One-fourth of her staff was going to get their layoff notices tomorrow, a week before Christmas. If this didn’t catch the eye of the oldboys’ network and put her in line for a promotion, Monica Bradshaw had a backup plan, which was to fire everybody and obtain “administrative support” from independent contractors.

  Adolpha was more than happy to give Monica Bradshaw the recognition that her talents deserved. Almost lovingly, she petted her way through the obsessions, phobias, traumas, irritations, and fetishes hidden in the cortices of Monica Bradshaw’s maniacal little mind. Adolpha did this as she stalked behind her intended, who was whisking through the lingerie department. Her first act of possession was to take hold of Monica’s frantic wolverine personality, tear up her list of rush-rush-rush things to do, and send it away on a tropical puff of indolent air. Slowing down, looking a little confused and concerned, Monica began to actually look at all the lovely silky things around her. And she dutifully picked up the items that Adolpha selected for her. Looking a little distracted, she shed, one by one, her navy blue blazer, her blouse, a white satin Bali bra, a gold chain, a skirt that matched the blazer, white flats, pantyhose, and a scrungy pair of old Jockeys for Her which had been the only clean underwear in Monica’s drawer when she got dressed for work that morning.

  “What, no ankle chain?” Adolpha laughed, and pivoted the puppet to make it face her for the first time.

  Monica Bradshaw was not happy with what she saw. Adolpha reminded her of the white-trash punk girls who occasionally intruded on her much more middle-class circle in high school, girls with wild colors in their hair and switchblades in their Hello Kitty pocketbooks. No one could have mistaken Adolpha for anything other than a woman, but her affect was far from womanly. The ultrashort hair combined with the micromini, deep cleavage, and nasty shoes sent strong conflicting signals. “Come here, if you want to be killed” was the slogan that came to Monica Bradshaw’s mind.

  “Aren’t you the clever one?” Adolpha said aloud, and erased the insight. She made her chosen one pirouette in the aisle, and as she turned, she donned, one by one, the pieces of the costume that Adolpha had made her glean from the pastel rows of slinky merchandise.

  First she rolled stockings up her shapely, aerobicized legs. They were a dark brown color, and had no seams, but they were silk, thirty dollars a pair if anyone was counting anything other than Monica Bradshaw’s perky, ruddy nipples. Adolpha abhorred nylons. Monica then stepped into a pale pink G-string, and a matching push-up bra. Over that went a champagne-colored, mid-thigh length slip in moiré silk. It was slit up the back far enough to provide a glimpse of the top of Monica’s stockings, and cut so exquisitely that lace would have been superfluous.

  “You don’t really need shoes, because you’re not going to be walking much,” Adolpha said. She allowed Monica to come to a halt. She was a bit out of breath. But she had performed the difficult maneuvers with an unusual amount of grace. Could it be that there was another side to this petty bully of a middle-manager, something in her soul besides a pocket calculator and the day’s NASDAQ quotes? She looked lovely, dressed this way. The colors Adolpha had picked made her skin look translucent. Adolpha bit her lower lip and made Monica perform a series of ballet exercises, using a rack of garter belts as a barre. Not half bad. “Perhaps you do need shoes. Dancing shoes,” Adolpha said, and with that thought a star was born.

  On their way out of Nordstrom’s, Adolpha snagged a pair of pink satin slingbacks and personally slipped them onto Monica’s somewhat oversized feet. “Let’s find a more appreciative audience,” she told the shivering woman, and took her down the escalator toward the street. “The women in this place look as if they’ve never had an orgasm, and the men look as if they dribble rather than spurt.” They headed for the Tenderloin, protected from unwanted attention by Adolpha’s fierce powers. It was dark and cold. The wind had picked up, and sped between the tall buildings with a vengeance. Adolpha disliked the taste that exhaustion lends to the blood, so she picked Monica up and carried her along. She did not bother to dispense forgetfulness as they traveled. What were these weaklings going to do, stop her and take Monica away from her? That would be amusing.

  Besides, she was busy working on Monica, fondling her breasts and her consciousness. The tits were nice, but the rest of it was such a mess. It would have taken hours for Adolpha to change the root directory of Monica’s mind. The fundamental assumptions (“I will never have enough,” “No one cares for me,” “I am not safe,” “I need to ignore other people to get what I want,” etc.) were hard as bedrock. Adolpha tried dislodging Monica’s obsession with money, and met with surprisingly stiff resistance. So she planted a little seed in the granite of Monica’s heart, a little spark of erotic hunger. The red vine of sex need grew quickly, twining itself about the green vine of cash hunger, and Adolpha laughed to think where she was taking this rare plant to flower.

  Finding the red-light district is the same in every city, she thought. As drunks and shit get thicker on the street, so do hookers and drug dealers. Soon she was in the middle of a neighborhood that offered wares every bit as expensive as the big department stores on the main thoroughfare. But this sort of business could not put its merchandise in bright windows. The darker and dingier an establishment was, the more piquant its commodities. Adolpha stopped outside a place she knew quite well, a dance emporium called Sugar and Spice. Its signs declared “And everything naughty, that’s what our girls are made of!”

  Adolpha sent Monica through the door ahead of her. She wanted to see the reactions of the patrons to her new acquisition. Feeling cruel, she did not soften Monica’s perceptions of the place. She just kept her walking forward, making her stalk like a panther in heat toward the stage. But inside, it was the soul of a prim, bright young woman who looked down on sluts and strumpets, an ambitious professional who would never dream of sleeping with her boss to get ahead, who heard men hoot their lust at her and smelled the freshly-spilt semen in the private video booths.

  The main attraction at Sugar and Spice was a large, glass-enclosed stage surrounded by booths, where patrons kept a blind from coming down and closing off their view of the dancers by constantly feeding quarters into a slot. This created a distance between the strippers and their admirers that Adolpha found completely appropriate. Let men hang their dripping tongues and dicks out, panting like the dogs they were for a favor they would never receive. She sent Monica among them like a clipper ship, majestically overturning dinghies with its wake. Like the noble wolf she was named for, Adolpha
followed her, declaring the boundaries of her territory. A lucky few of the customers managed to touch the tips of their fingers to Monica’s silk slip, creamy breast, or dusky thigh, but when they saw Adolpha’s snarling mouth and prominent, pointed teeth, they suddenly felt rather the opposite of being blessed by fortune.

  Adolpha had been here before. It was one of her favorite places to hunt. In a small city like San Francisco, it was necessary to become familiar with the few places where prey could be snatched that would not be missed. One of her favorite dancers was performing, a tough little Asian punk who wore combat boots with a ballerina’s tutu. Since she had already removed her top, there was no telling what blasphemy she had done to fashion and femininity to cover her breasts long enough to get up on stage. She had a platinum-blond stripe in her long, thick black hair, and she wore kabuki makeup. Her name was Poison, and her dance was full of martial arts moves that made the more traditional shimmying she did seem ironic to any observer who was not a halfwit. Adolpha thought Poison was delightful, as touchy about her independence as a Shinto priestess, thoughtless about displaying her sexuality, as if the world had already been made a safe place where women ruled, inviolable as Amaterasu.

  Adolpha ejected one of the spectators from his tiny enclosure and sent him away with a strong suggestion that he find a video viewing booth with a glory hole and suck cock until his throat was pummeled raw. She directed Monica to take his place, and stood behind her to prevent her from being violated by anything other than the spectacle of female flesh, pride, and hostility. She also sorted out some of the male reactions that were going on all around them and funneled a few of them into Monica’s mind, so she could feel her own body charged with the adoration and raw need the audience brought into the dark plywood stalls along with their heavy rolls of quarters.

  “I am going to make you do that,” she told Monica Bradshaw, who was breathlessly observing Poison’s hands, cupping tits and crotch, and tits again. “Then you will be the one who makes them feel that way.”