Best Bisexual Women's Erotica

by Cara Bruce

  “Right, let’s go,” she said, almost businesslike.

  As I buttoned my shirt and followed her out, I caught sight of the security camera pointed at us. I grinned at it.

  We held hands all the way back to my flat, but we didn’t speak. I unlocked the door in silence and showed her in. We each removed our shoes at the door, something I always do. She ditched her coat and bag on my sofa, watched as my cat darted out of the room, and looked at me.

  “Um. Do you want a coffee, or—?”

  She shook her head, standing in the center of the living room, smiling at me. “Which room is your bedroom?” I led her in, closing the door behind us.

  Lisa embraced me. “You’re very sexy,” she said quietly. Her lips brushed against the corner of my eye. “I don’t know if you’re aware of that.” She held me by the waist. I couldn’t speak; the silence was deafening and I didn’t dare breathe. The next thing she said was barely audible. “I don’t know if I’m what you were looking for tonight.”

  That wasn’t something I had expected to hear. For a moment I was too taken aback to answer, then I blurted out, “But I’ve wanted you from the moment I saw you!”

  Lisa looked straight into my eyes for a long moment, looking a little uncertain. Then her confident smile returned. “OK,” she said, still smiling at me. “OK.”

  I didn’t know why she would need reassurance, but I pressed myself close to her and kissed her for several long minutes. With both hands I gently eased her black top up over her head. Her small, pert breasts were bare and in perfect proportion to her lithe body. To the right of her navel was a capital R in gothic script.

  “What does that stand for?” I asked.

  “Shhh.” Her fingers caressed my lips. “I’ll tell you later.” I was distracted by her half-naked body and sat down on the bed while she stood before me; I dipped my head between her breasts, sucking and kneading them gently. Lisa leaned her head back and moaned.

  “That feels beautiful.”

  With one hand I traced my nails up and down her naked back; with the other, I gripped her waist, keeping her in place. She shuddered as I scratched her particularly hard, and I stopped for a moment, worried that I’d hurt her.

  “No. Don’t stop.”

  I kept on scratching as I gradually worked my way down from her perfect breasts to kiss her tattoo, then lick slowly all the way up her cleavage to her neck. I tugged gently at the side of her neck with my teeth, provoking another blissful moan. Now was the time. My tongue trailed down her body and my fingers reached out to undo the fly button of her combat trousers. It was then that I noticed a bulge. Tentatively I stroked it through the fabric. I felt it swell a little more at my touch.

  I looked up at Lisa. She was looking straight down at me, obviously worried about my reaction.

  Well, yes, I was surprised. It’s not what one would normally expect to find at this point. And I wasn’t sure exactly what would happen now, what she would want to do. But I had already decided that a night with Lisa could only be a good thing.

  My face broke into a broad smile. I couldn’t stop beaming. After a moment Lisa smiled back.

  “You’re still what I’m looking for,” I told her.

  With that she regained her confidence. She bent down and pushed me backward so that I was lying on the bed. Crawling on top of me, she kissed me hard, pinning my arms to my sides as she undid the buttons on my shirt with her teeth. The woman had skill! She removed my bra. Her hair trailed across my skin as she sucked my nipples. She released my hands, but I lay there unable to move for a moment, giving her just enough time to unzip my jeans and wrest them off along with my socks.

  Now I was only wearing my underwear. I was a little nervous but my clit was throbbing so much, I wasn’t going to dwell on any hang-ups. Lisa moved my legs apart so that she could lie on top of me. I could feel her thrusting against me as she continued kissing me deeply. Her tongue stud clicked against my teeth. Her breath was heavy. I held her tightly by the shoulders and moved with her. I could feel how hard she was for me. My panties were soaked.

  Lisa grabbed me by the hair, forcing me to keep my head down on the bed. With her other hand she played with my right nipple.

  “Do you want to?” she said in a low voice.

  I nodded. “Yes.”

  She peeled my underwear off, and I reached out to finally unbutton those combats. She was wearing plain black panties, which I removed, finally revealing her thick cock. It stirred at my touch. I reached across to my bedside table to get a condom out of the drawer and put it on her.

  We kissed for a long time, kneeling on the bed naked, her cock rubbing against my thigh. I lay down again and pulled Lisa back on top of me. She bit my ear lobe gently and pressed her breasts to mine. I parted my legs and suddenly she was inside me. We were rocking, slowly at first and then faster, faster. I buried my head in her neck and covered her shoulder with bite marks as she writhed and tried to avoid my teeth.

  “Sorry,” I said.

  Lisa shook her head and with one hand grabbed me by the hair again, keeping me in my place. Her other hand encircled my neck. My eyes widened as she gently but firmly held me down by my throat.

  “Shhh,” she whispered, smiling. She started to thrust harder and I could feel her move deeper inside me. I relaxed as much as I could, allowed her to manipulate me, stared up into her face as she watched my own. Finally she released me, moving her attention to my breasts, which she gripped as she rode me. I returned my hands to her own breasts and pinched her nipples as she moaned.

  Opening my legs wider to better accommodate her, I reached up to pull her hair so that she would lower her lips again to mine. I scratched her back again and she thrust harder in return. All that could be heard were the involuntary guttural sounds we made as we focused on thrusting even harder. The bed was rocking and the headboard banged against the wall. Lisa grabbed my breasts so roughly it hurt—in a good way.

  The bed slammed harder and louder. Now I was gasping for breath, with Lisa’s cock plunging into me. I dug my nails deep into her skin and heard her swear. I came suddenly, panting and exhausted. She collapsed beside me a moment later.

  We lay there on top of the tangled bed sheets for a moment, trying to get our breath back to normal. I was sure I was glowing.

  After a few minutes Lisa reached out and took my hand.

  “It stands for Richard,” she told me. I squeezed her hand and raised it to my lips to kiss it.

  We gradually crawled under the covers and slept, holding one another. In the morning, after breakfast in bed, we exchanged numbers and she headed back to Glasgow.

  “Make sure you phone me,” she said. “I’m going to be moving back to Edinburgh, you know, and I want to see more of you.” She kissed me once more and bit my lip playfully. And then she was gone.

  I lay in bed for a long time staring at the ceiling and reliving the night before, step by step, with the aid of my own hands. The old woman from downstairs rang to complain about last night’s banging. I let the answering machine take it. When I finally got up, I went to my computer and deleted the e-mail from Chris. I was more interested in the future now.

  On the Care and Feeding of White Boys

  R. Gay

  It was an ordinary Thursday morning when my girlfriend and I decided that we wanted a white boy. She was drinking her coffee, and I was running from the bathroom to the bedroom and back trying to get ready. As I slipped a shirt over my head, Jasmine stuffed a piece of dry white toast into my mouth, kissed me on the cheek, and said, “We should try a white boy.” I took a bite of my toast, swallowed hard, and wiped the crumbs from my lips. “That’s not a bad idea,” I finally said. So later that day, she called me at my office and suggested that we strategize as to how we were going to find the right white boy to bring to our bed. That night, she came home with a bag from Barnes & Noble. “Here,” she said, handing me a book entitled The Care and Feeding of White Boys: A Guide. “They’ll print anything,” I sa
id, but we sat on the couch anyway, and eagerly pored over the book’s pages. Jasmine even took notes. Precision is very important to her.

  White boys enjoy sporting events, particularly those where white and brown boys dressed in tight-fitting pants shove each other across a large grassy field.

  We decided to canvas the upcoming football game. It was homecoming weekend at the university; the stadium held 70,000 people, so logic dictated that we’d find at least 50,000 white boys of which we only needed 1. The numbers were on our side. But that weekend, as we froze under a cold and clear November sky, watching red-faced white boys with beer foam smeared across their lips and hoarse voices from cheering their team to victory, we realized that we needed a different approach. There was very little cream in the game-going crop.

  Jasmine and I had discovered our mutual white boy fetish early on in our relationship. For our three-month anniversary I gave her a “Hollywood Hunks” videotape: four hours of tanned and greased white boys grinding and grunting toward ecstasy. I was nervous about the gift at first, but when she clapped her hands, immediately put the tape in the VCR, and proceeded to watch all four hours of the tape before dragging me to bed, I realized that I had indeed given a gift that would keep on giving. While we both acknowledged that we could never spend the rest of our lives with white boys, we concluded that there was something indescribably desirable about them—particularly ones who were lean and beautiful, relatively pale with enough hair to hold onto.

  But we never acted on our forbidden fetish, mostly because we were afraid that the Lesbian Admissions Committee would rescind our toaster oven and membership cards. Instead, we titillated each other with loudly whispered fantasies of a white boy lying between our dark and softer bodies, as he slid his cock into our mouths, cunts, and asses and then left without asking to spend the night. We made a list of “Five Eligible but Unrealistic White Boys” we would bring home with us if all the world were a stage: Brad Pitt, Keanu Reeves, Kevin Spacey, River Phoenix, and Edward Norton. And the book became invaluable.

  White boys travel in packs, particularly when visiting large retail arenas known as shopping malls. They rely on each other for camaraderie and moral support in these retail arenas, particularly when in view of members of the opposite sex.

  Our second strategy was to patrol the two shopping malls in town. Unfortunately, our Saturday expedition proved fruitless. The white boys we found were too young, too attached, too dirty—so on and so forth. Our spirits were falling. What had seemed like a simple task was becoming quite an ordeal. The next week, Jasmine called and told me to meet her on campus for lunch. She held up the book, with a paragraph highlighted.

  White boys are often ambitious because they carry with them a sense of entitlement. In an academic environment, they thrive in fields such as business, agriculture, and sports medicine.

  We decided to scope out the College of Business Administration. We met at the entrance armed with a Polaroid camera and legal pad. As I snapped pictures, she took notes. That night after dinner, we reviewed our selections. It was a tough choice. They all looked so clean-cut and eager, finely chiseled beneath T-shirts or polos and faded jeans. We finally decided on a tall, thin brunette feigning boredom as he ducked into his classroom. The picture we had was truly captivating. I was particularly enamored of the way his hair fell into his face and the wire-rimmed eyeglasses he wore, as if he was so far above his environs that he stayed out of mere spite.

  We met at CBA for the next week, but were unable to find our chosen white boy. Again, our spirits fell, but I posited that perhaps our prey was a graduate student in a class that met once a week. The next Monday, we arrived early, and, as luck would have it, there he was, wearing corduroy slacks, a powder-blue dress shirt, those glasses, and a stunning expression of boredom. I wiped the palms of my hands against my jeans, squeezed my girlfriend nervously, and approached the white boy.

  “Can I have a word?” I asked. He arched an eyebrow, and shrugged his shoulders. I nodded toward Jasmine. “We’d like to talk to you. We’re recruiters,” I said, lowering my voice. His expression of boredom lifted as he quickly agreed. We arranged to meet at a local bar for drinks later that night.

  Jasmine and I were nervous, arriving at the bar half an hour early, easing our tension with gin and tonics, two ice-cubes, one lime. I held her hand under the table, idly tracing the thin lines of her palm as we at once hoped and dreaded that this was indeed the moment. He was fifteen minutes late, extending his hand in casual greeting. His first name was Mark. We didn’t bother asking his last.

  White boys are comfortable in the bar scene due to the overwhelming presence of fermented hops and members of their peer group. Statistics show that most white boys enjoy beer.

  After he got himself a beer, the white boy sat across from us, crossing one leg over the other. “What company are you from?”

  Jasmine and I exchanged a look. “We’re not exactly from a company.”

  He leaned forward. “Are you headhunters?”

  We nodded. “In a manner of speaking,” I said. “We’re in the process of recruiting one young man. There is no pay to speak of. But we would like to think that the benefits are enough.”

  Mark started to stand up. “I’m not interested in the Peace Corps.”

  I grabbed his wrist, feeling the bones lying just beneath his skin. “We’re not with the Peace Corps.”

  He ran one hand through his hair and sat back down, taking a long sip of beer. “Can we cut to the chase? I have work to do.”

  I leaned back. “As do we.”

  Jasmine leaned forward. “To put it plainly, we’re looking for a white boy, for one night. We picked you.”

  He arched both eyebrows into question marks. “For?”

  I recalled the book’s advice.

  White boys prefer a direct approach. They lack a certain patience for the subtle nuances of flirtation.

  “Again, to put it plainly, to fuck.”

  Mark coughed, spewing a stream of beer onto the table. “Come again?”

  Jasmine stood up, circled the table and patted Mark on the back, gently massaging his shoulders, her lips hovering right next to his ears. “We want to fuck you.”

  He cleared his throat. “Why me?”

  “Why not?” I asked.

  Mark crossed his arms across his chest and shrugged his shoulders. His voice turned shy, “When do you want to do this thing?”

  Jasmine and I smiled at each other. “Soon. Very soon.”

  “OK,” he said weakly, his voice cracking.

  Jasmine squeezed his shoulders harder. “We only have one question. Are you multiorgasmic?”

  White boys are very sensitive about their sexual prowess, particularly in the face of cultural myths about sexual organ size and performance. Exercise caution when broaching the subject of sexual performance.

  Mark’s face reddened from his hairline to his chin and he uncrossed his legs, nodding rapidly. “I can hold my own.”

  I handed him my business card, with our home number on the back. “Think about it, and give us a call. Saturday night works for us. We hope it works for you too.”

  Jasmine patted his shoulders one final time, and we left, leaving Mark at the table with his beer, bafflement, and a business card. We giggled like schoolgirls in the car. “I’m so hot,” she whispered, sliding her tongue inside my ear as I tried to concentrate on the road.

  “I am too,” I murmured. Before I knew it, her hands were under the waistband of my pants and her fingers were on my clit as she told me all the nasty things we were going to do this weekend. We’re lucky we made it home safely. She was very distracting.

  Mark called two days later. We had almost given up on him and were making plans to attend the upcoming monster truck rally when the phone rang.

  White boys are delighted when surrounded by noxious fumes and vehicles of exaggerated size. They are thereby afforded the opportunity to make loud noises and watch people do the things they wish
they could do as well. (See football.)

  “It’s, uh, Mark,” he said, quietly.

  I smiled widely. “Mark! We were afraid we wouldn’t hear from you.”

  “When do you want to do this?” he asked. “How does Saturday at seven sound?”

  “I’ll be there,” Mark said, taking down our address.

  When I got off the phone, I jumped into Jasmine’s lap, kissing her face. “We don’t have to go the monster truck rally! The white boy is coming.”

  “Well, I should hope so,” Jasmine answered with a drawl.

  “We’re very bad girls,” I whispered.

  “There are worse things.”

  On Saturday, we were nervous. We tried to watch Lifetime movies to get a few extra pointers on white boys, but it was difficult to concentrate, with the prospect of our evening on our minds. Jasmine cleaned the house. I barbecued steaks and baked potatoes on the grill, then prepared a tray of fresh oysters and lemon.

  Unless you have found a vegetarian, the white boy’s meal of choice will include red meat and starches. If in doubt, sear the meat on the outside, leaving the inside a cool red. They feel that bloody meat enhances their masculinity and, while medical fact disproves such a belief, it does no real harm.

  Mark arrived fifteen minutes early, a fact we both noted with pleasure. While we ate, Mark and Jasmine engaged in a polysyllabic discourse on theories of effective group management. I stifled my boredom and studied our white boy. Mark had breathtaking, aquiline features. His eyes were a pale and watery blue that offset the light brown of his hair. His fingers were long and thin and looked incredibly soft, betraying the fact that he had probably never worked a hard day in his life. He wore a powder-blue dress shirt, again, plus khaki slacks and hiking boots, the white boy uniform in our part of the country, according to the book. When he spoke, his Adam’s apple quivered, and I wondered what it would feel like beneath my lips.