Best Bisexual Women's Erotica

by Cara Bruce

  As I straddle her lap, she turns to meet my kiss. The dildo slides into her easily. “You wanna fuck him with me?” She’s rising up to reach each thrust, controlling the speed of the fuck. The friction of the cock, with her warm cunt rubbing against me, drives any thoughts of her husband out of my mind. I squeeze one of her breasts, letting the nipple, red and hard, glide into my mouth.

  I press further, her body growing tense beneath my touch, until I can feel the scream building. Suddenly her orgasm is raging through me. Pounding the dildo in as far as I can reach, I come all over her cunt.

  After I’ve had a minute of licking the sweat from her skin, I gather up her belongings and slip my dress over her head. “It’s a little small, but we can’t have you driving home naked.”

  “You did all this just to fuck me?” she asks. “I don’t understand.”

  I get her feet untied. “Yes, you do. You’ve never come that good in your life. Uptight yuppies like you and Dean, with your white-bread sex lives, always have nasty fantasies. I’ve never found one yet I couldn’t play the game with.”

  I free her hands and she massages her ankles, then stands. “So you kidnapped Dean too.”

  “I found your photo in his wallet,” I say. Straightening the sheer sleeves at her wrist, I give her a short kiss. “Figured the two of you probably belonged to the same gym.” I lead her to the door. “Time to go, sweetie. Your husband will be expecting you home.”

  Digging through her bag, she comes up with a pale blue business card. “I’ll be working late next week.” She smiles, then quickly looks away. “I park in the east-end garage, second level.”

  “Sorry, Karen.” I admire the way she purses her lips. I kiss her again, and the touch of her tongue snakes into my cunt. “Half the fun is in the element of surprise,” I explain, knowing that I’ll be waiting for her again in the dark.

  Hands

  Ariel Hart

  It’s all about hands, you see. Everything. Life. Lust. Hands do the work. Hands give love, punishment, joy, cruelty. Hands commit acts of shame. Hands make the money. And because of this, hands are very important. Hands have to look good. And that’s where I come in.

  I keep moving. I always keep moving. That’s my secret. But since I’ve told you, it isn’t a secret anymore, is it? People tell me their secrets all the time. Maybe it comes from being poked and stroked. Maybe it comes from being touched in a way that no one else touches them and from being made beautiful. At least until the cuticles grow in or the linen tips wear off. My customers tell me their dreams, their desires, their disappointments, their frustrations. And they feel good afterward. They feel good for many reasons.

  I’ve been told that I have very understanding eyes, dark and full of compassion. I’ve been told a lot of things. Maybe people think I don’t understand, because I speak with an accent: I am not from around here. Maybe that’s why they talk so much and so honestly. But I understand every word. I come from a place where there is more poverty and sadness than in this place. Where people worry about their families going hungry instead of broken nails. But broken nails and broken hearts are my salvation.

  I can see it happening the moment they sit in my chair. They relax, unwind, unravel. If I am working in a posh salon, we might be in a small, comfortable private room and they might be wearing a silky robe embroidered with the salon’s name. This makes it easier. Easier to see. Easier to reach. They talk and talk. I listen. With my ears and with my eyes.

  I deftly use my little curved scissors, clippers, and knives. I file away at imperfections and replace them with smoothness. At some point, I realize that pieces of my clients are chipping away, falling free, being liberated. By the time I squeeze droplets of astringent onto their fingertips, they are lost. Sometimes there is a little sigh of pleasure, of relief. Sometimes it only shows in their faces. And that’s when I set to work.

  I place their hands together, as if in prayer, then surround them with a steaming washcloth. Then I open them toward me and release a dollop of pink cream into the heel of each palm and work it into the skin. My touch is sure and firm yet gentle. I work on the palm first, then extend the massage to include each finger. I knead and pull. Occasionally they say something like “This is my favorite part,” but when they do, their voice is weak and far off and their eyes are murky. I can tell that they are moist between the legs or that they are hard, depending on their sex. This is the moment I suggest something extra, something more: a deep penetrating body massage, a waxing, a special cleansing treatment.

  I once had a regular customer, an attractive, well-coiffed woman in her late forties, who at this point liked me to touch her from the other side of the table. Mrs. Winston’s legs would be slightly spread. Her satiny robe would be pushed up past her knees, and she would wear nothing underneath. I would reach forward and insert my thumb into her cunt so that my other fingers would be free to stroke her clitoris, which would already be swollen and erect. Her thighs would be soaked. The seat of her robe would be damp.

  Sometimes, I wouldn’t even have to move my hand. Mrs. Winston would press her hips in tiny circles against my palm. When I looked into her face, her eyes would be closed and her jaw would be slack. The contraction of her cunt muscles would draw my thumb in even further. There would be a hundred little heartbeats in her pussy, which would start off strong, then ebb like a disoriented tide. When the pulsations stopped, she and I would proceed just as before. We would never speak of what happened. But at the end of my shift, there would always be a sealed envelope waiting out in the reception area, my name written in sharp, frilly script. And inside the envelope would be a generous tip.

  Mrs. Winston was a steady customer. She made an appointment each week without fail, sometimes two. Her hands were in good shape. She washed no dishes; she did no housework. Yet she seemed to need her weekly treatments. Once, I did something different. Instead of using my hand, I applied my mouth. I just fell to my knees and crushed my face between her legs. She gasped in disbelief yet she didn’t push me away. I pursed my lips around her fiery little clitoris and sucked. I sucked it into my mouth and trapped it against my teeth. She came even faster than usual, but she did not return to the salon. However, at the end of my shift, in a sealed envelope, there was a gratuity even larger than the one she generally gave. That was the last I saw of her.

  Another time, there was a client who wanted a depilatory, a shave. The salon was busy, so they asked me to do it. We had a special table for this in a different room. The woman was young and slender with short, spiked hair that was peroxided the color of straw. I later heard talk that she was a powerful person in the music industry, but I never learned what she did.

  When I entered the room, she was waiting, sitting on the high, cushioned cot, smoking a cigarette. “I’d like the whole works,” she told me. Meaning, she wanted to be shaved from her ankles to her belly. First, I had her lie back. I lifted her salon gown and had her spread her legs. There was a tuft of jet-black hair so thick I couldn’t even see her pussy lips through it. I grabbed a pair of scissors and, with a comb, began pulling her pubic hairs away from her skin, then snipping away the clumps of fuzz. Slowly, a fleshy mound began to emerge. Her labia was full, like a mouth about to pout.

  “You have wonderful hands,” she said shyly as I slid the comb above her narrow slit. I noticed that the hairs were soaking wet around her hole. The aroma was nice: of sex and sweat and the sea. I gave her a close trim, then began to wipe the clippings away with a hot, wet towel. I worked the towel between the chinks of her cunt and swabbed both sets of lips. Her knees eased wider and wider apart. I sensed what she wanted, but it was too soon and she was a brand-new customer. So, I reached for the shaving cream, which was kept piping hot in a dispenser.

  I began with her legs, slathering the heated cream along the entire length. I opened a fresh razor and moved it from ankle-bone to knee, leaving behind slick, smooth skin. Her cunt waited impatiently. A ribbon of its juice drooled down the crack of her ass a
nd onto the cushion below. I noticed this when I tucked a soft, fluffy towel under her bottom.

  It is very tricky shaving cunts, especially ones with such prominent lips. I applied swirls of the warm cream to her mons, then ran a finger down the chink in the center to expose her slit. There was a change in her breathing, especially when I cupped my hand over one half of her pussy, making sure to encase the lips to protect them from the razor’s edge. I started at the bottom, then worked my way up, moving from thigh muscle to delicate, perfumed flesh. Then I did the other side. The dark hairs fell away. I cleaned the razor often in a bowl of steaming water, exposing the vulnerable white flesh hiding beneath her garden of fur.

  The woman’s clitoris stood free, proud, almost as though it wanted to be noticed. I positioned two fingers on either side of the fleshy button to shave the stray hairs surrounding its hood. She shuddered. I scraped the skin clean until it resembled a plump peach, though it was much softer than that pulpy fruit. From the faucet, I drew another pan of warm water. I dipped a small hand towel into it, then wrung it out. I wiped her legs clean of shaving cream, took another towel, wet it, then applied the damp heat to her cunt. She sighed, clasped her hand on top of mine, and held it there.

  “I’m not finished,” I said softly. I reached for the other dispenser filled with hot lotion. I rubbed it into my hands, then slathered it onto her legs. Firmly, I massaged her calves, the taut muscles behind her knees, her thighs. Then I squeezed out more molten cream. I worked it onto her mound, in between the flaps of her labia, with firm fingers. I took her clit between both thumbs and kneaded it like a tiny, fleshy bit of dough. “It’s important to keep the sensitive skin moist,” I told her. And she agreed with a nod.

  She came.

  I could see the clenching, the spasms of her orgasm. Whimpering and shaking, she grabbed the sides of the table. Her pussy lips fluttered and gulped. I wanted so much to kiss them—they seemed to be in need of a kiss. But after Mrs. Winston, I wasn’t sure how she’d react. Finally, I kissed her cunt anyway. She tasted salty and sweet. I flicked her swollen clitoris gently with my tongue. Then I took each flower-like lip into my mouth, tugged it, and released it so that I could watch it unfurl.

  She pulled on my hair. Should I stop? I wondered. No. She shook her head and motioned for me to move on top of her. I hesitated a moment, then slid my white pantyhose down to my shoes. I straddled her face, knowing I was very wet myself, hoping she wouldn’t drown. What did she think of my plump, little morsel as I lowered it onto her face? I sensed that her tongue had been in places like this before. I allowed myself a pleasure I rarely do as I pressed my mouth into her crotch. I came, too. But somehow, it didn’t feel right.

  As I finished pulsing against her face, she climaxed again. Quickly and deeply, guiltily. I took another fresh washcloth to swab her cheeks and chin. Kira explained that she was from out of town and was only visiting her company’s New York office for the day. “I thought I deserved a treat,” she whispered as she stood on wobbly legs, crushed two twenties into my hand, then left, thanking me.

  I don’t want you to get the idea that I stalk customers who are lost and lonely, or that I’m a prostitute. It’s nothing like that. But when I see people aroused or at ease, erect or wet, something inside of me gives way, gives in. I figure, why not? What have I got to lose? I live alone. I don’t have many friends here, and there’s no family. It makes me feel…something. It makes me feel as if I’m part of something.

  Do the salons know? Do they care? Their main concern is that customers keep coming back. Is it illegal? Probably. But I don’t stay in one place too long. That’s why I try to keep moving. It’s safer that way. I don’t get too close. I don’t get too attached. And I never get caught.

  In the men’s grooming parlors, it’s different. Maybe because guys are slower to admit what they’re feeling. I can count the incidents with men on the fingers of one hand. They aren’t used to being touched, unless it’s in a sexual way. Casual touching makes them uncomfortable. They don’t know what to do when someone strokes their skin, pampers them. Women love this, live for this—men look as though they want to crawl under a rock, at first.

  So, I try to get them to relax. To talk about themselves. It isn’t easy but after a while they do. After a while, they like it. And that’s the key: to help calm them. It makes me feel good, to see a guy walk into my room twisted into a big, tense knot and in a few moments have him puddling into my hand. It’s an amazing transformation—and all because of a few well-placed rubs.

  When the manicure is almost finished and I begin massaging his hands, the man usually becomes uneasy. I imagine this is because he feels good, too good, and he doesn’t want to give in to it. Maybe he thinks it’s a sign of weakness. But when I see him shifting around uncomfortably in his seat, that’s when I set to work, kneading his palms, tugging on his creamy fingers as if I’m jerking him off. If he’s wearing a robe, his arousal is evident by the pup tent in his lap. Otherwise, his trousers are uncomfortably tight, making the bulge of his stiff cock unmistakable.

  The next moment is a highly sensitive one. But something, some silent signal from him, urges me either to continue or to stop. Sometimes it’s a vague bob of the head, a slight indication to his crotch. Sometimes our eyes meet. Sometimes it’s in the way he breathes. I remember one man’s eyes were closed, his head slightly bowed, but I sensed that he was waiting for me. Waiting for me to go further. I did. There was only my narrow work table separating us. I reached beneath it and through his robe. His cock was hard and damp. He sighed with relief when I closed my fist around it.

  With my other hand, I worked the dispenser and filled my palm with the warm, thick lotion. I coated his cock with it. He groaned again. The ring of my fingers made a slapping sound as I moved it up and down. Now and then, I caught a glimpse of his swollen, purple cockhead as I jerked his shaft with one hand and cradled his balls with the other. He was an older man—gray hair, distinguished-looking. A partner in a law firm, I think. And I was making the jism ooze out of the tip of his rich, powerful dick and drizzle down my fist.

  There was another one, a high school senior getting the works—a haircut, a shave, and a manicure—for his prom. I was to give him the manicure. I wanted to get a good look at him, so I told him to get on the table, that it was customary. He didn’t know any better so he did this without question. I stripped him naked and began massaging his feet, working my way up to his thighs. His cock was short and thick. It stood like a stump out of his groin. Every time my hands moved near, it would leap and jump with excitement. I did this just to tease him and to amuse myself. But it didn’t last very long.

  A few moments after I put my mouth on his young tool, it started to spurt like a garden sprinkler. Was this the first time anyone had sucked his cock? Maybe. He shot all over my hair, my face, my clothes. He was mortified, kept apologizing as he gathered up his robe and left in a hurry. Waiting for me in an envelope in the reception area was a crumpled bunch of dollar bills. I figured that his parents had probably given him a certain amount of money for the salon and tip, and that he contributed the rest for the special treatment from his allowance or paper route. It made me smile.

  Then there’s the old gentleman. Quiet, serious, widowed. I wasn’t quite sure what he was after. Then I realized that what he wanted most was to talk. About his wife. I listened. I think he came to me just to be touched. Touched by another human being, but not in a sexual way. In a tender way. He came to me every week without fail, just as he did his laundry on a certain day and his grocery shopping on another. One week, after I finished buffing his nails, I pushed the table away and curled up in his lap. His hands didn’t know what to do at first. Then, he just held me. We didn’t move. We just breathed and held each other. After a few minutes, he eased me off his lap, stood up, and left.

  The old gentleman always manages to find me no matter where I happen to be working. He makes an appointment for every Wednesday at two. Sometimes he cries. Someti
mes he rocks me. Sometimes he says nothing at all. Other times, he just kisses my hand and goes. You see, it’s all about hands.

  Hilary’s Swank on Billy the Kid

  Lana Gail Taylor

  Keifer’s mother named him after a movie star. You know, Keifer Sutherland? I sometimes tease this Keifer that the other Keifer was practically dumped at the altar by Julia Roberts.

  So this Keifer starts in on me about how my mother named me after a horse. It’s not as bad as it sounds. Cassandra was my mother’s first horse when she was eleven: a golden palomino mare that stood sixteen hands.

  “Tall and lanky just like you turned out,” mother often quipped, before adding, “Girls love horses first. Then they love boys.”

  I loved horses until I was thirteen and fell madly in love with Drew Barrymore. I probably liked boys, too, by then, but Drew kept me up at night cutting photos of her out of magazines—Seventeen, Young Miss, People, Cosmopolitan—and then tacking them to my bedroom wall. Once I smeared red lipstick across my mouth trying to look like Drew and then I held my face close to her picture, staring at the dots in the paper before pressing my mouth to her pink, glossy lips. The kiss felt flat, tasted a little bitter, but still I felt a tickle. When I did it again, my mother walked in on me. She laughed, asking, “Cass, what are you up to?”

  I answered, “I think Drew looks good in my lipstick.”

  Mother peered at the lip mark and then said, “I think she does, too.” Then she ruffled my hair and left me alone to pursue my obsession. I don’t think she was worried about it. My mother is fucking cool.

  When I was fifteen and making out with boys by then, I discovered my older brother’s stash of Penthouse. I was entranced by the colorful spreads of naked women, beautifully brazen, unfettered by clothes, and even more entranced by photos of women kissing each other’s breasts and cunts. I felt the flush in my cheeks. A heart was beating in my underwear. I paged further into the thick, heavy magazine and found pictures of a male model with a muscular ass and greased-up cock poking at a woman’s wide-open cunt lips.