Best of Best Lesbian Erotica 2

by Tristan Taormino

  “Ask nicely,” I tell you, speeding up my hand on your clit. “Oh, fuck.”

  “I said ask nicely.” I push two fingers in your cunt. You clutch my arm.

  “Kiss me, damn it,” you say as I play with your clit and move my fingers in and out of you.

  “What was that?” I ask. I start fucking your wet cunt, pushing my fingers deep. My thumb on your clit. You’re groaning with each thrust. Keep trying to grab me, pull me to you. I keep pushing you down. Keep thrusting.

  “Please,” you moan, your hips rise, try to push my fingers deeper into you with each thrust.

  “Please what?”

  “Please, please, kiss me, please.” You pant between words.

  “Ah, that’s a good boy,” I say. I let go of your arms above your head. You yank me down on top of you, cover my mouth with yours, groan and swear as I fuck you. You come smooth and heavy. Your moans vibrate through me.

  2.

  It’s been a few weeks since our last encounter. Another fight. They keep happening. Our fights remind me of my best friend at ten. How we used to touch tongues in the corner of the schoolyard, get mad, and not talk to each other for weeks at a time, then one day start touching tongues again.

  You call and ask me to come over. You have something you want to show me. When I hear your obnoxious laughing voice on the phone asking for me, I forget why I was so mad at you.

  You come over to show off your new boy clothes. You say you really feel like a guy in them. Shirt and vest. I tell you that you look hot because I know you want to hear it. You tell me, like it’s not a big deal, that I’m the only person you’ve mentioned all this boy stuff to. I’m surprised. Flattered. I offer to take pictures of you exploring your guy self. You refuse. But I persist and get you. Sitting on the couch, legs spread, taking up space; the rapper look, you call it. Your arm bent, scratching your chin; intellectual. Standing, doing a muscle pose; jock. This is all leading up to one thing, only I don’t know it.

  You want to go out together to the local straight slutty bar. We’ve talked about it before. I haven’t been since I was in high school. Avoided it since I came out. But I love the idea. I put on lipstick for the first time in ages. Tight jeans and a skinny-strap tank top. For me, this is a performance. Reclaiming sixteen with more power than I ever felt I had then. I know for you, this is it.

  We take the bus downtown in silence. Avoid stares. It is our first public appearance as any kind of couple. Your first public appearance as a guy.

  Once in the bar we meld into the place. You quickly become my tough-ass boyfriend for the night. Stand on the sidelines, cocky and casual, and watch me dance. I play up to the bio boys until you can’t resist and try to feel me up on the dance floor. I pretend to protest, giddy and turned on. You work on one of the straight girls dancing beside us and I pout and act like I’m pissed off. A jealous girlfriend. Until you turn back around to me, push me up against the speaker, and dry hump me, in front of all the bio boys and their straight girlfriends. Your packing cock in your skater pants bulging against the crotch of my pretty-sixteen-year-old-girl jeans. We stay long enough to make a scene. Both of us wet.

  “I’ve decided,” you say as we head home to your place, high on the night. “I want you to fuck me with my cock.”

  I’m shocked. I’ve brought up the idea of me fucking you before, but you’ve always refused. Fingers, yes. But never the cock.

  “The only way it’s gonna happen,” you say, not looking at me, “is, you’ve gotta be a guy.”

  I am never boy. My cunt drips.

  “Are you sure?” I ask, anxious about my boy performance abilities.

  “Yeah, I’m sure.” You pause. We approach your apartment.

  “You can write a story about it,” you say finally. “ ‘I fucked this guy once….’ ”

  I smile casually, acting as if I’m not completely nervous and turned on at the thought of being a guy myself, let alone fucking you. You look at me, knowing.

  Once we’re inside your apartment, I close the door, kick off my shoes, and push you against the living room wall. “Sounds good. But first I want slave-boy to work for his pleasure.” You lift up my shirt and start playing with my boobs. “I want you to eat me out. Some good, old-fashioned, cunt licking. And if you’re real good,” I say slowly, “then maybe…I’ll put on your big old cock and fuck you with it.” Which makes you smile and move your arms into a surrender position.

  “You think you can handle that, slave-boy?” You nod keenly. I push you to the floor. Unbutton my fly. “And you know what I think about good head,” I say as I take off my shirt. “It’s hard to come by, don’t you agree?” You nod again. I unclip my bra. Get rid of my pants and underwear.

  “I want it like this,” I say, and kneel over you. “With a wall to cling to when I come.” I put my arms, my boobs against the cold wall. You slide down onto your back. I bend over your mouth and feel your tongue. My breath catches. “But, as you know, few people can ever really satisfy me.”

  I bend down lower. You grab my cunt with your whole mouth. I groan. “Do you think you can, slave-boy?”

  “Oh, yes, Mistress.” I shiver.

  “Good. Because I want to come. So you’ve got to keep it up good. Do you think you can, long enough? Suck my pussy with all its fur until I come? Yeah, that’s right, just like that. Oh, fuck, yeah. Do you think you can keep it up, slave-boy? ’Cause I want to come and I want to come good. Long and full and all through me like electricity or something. Can you do it, slave-boy? Come on, keep it up, keep it up. Come on do it keep me coming come on, keep me coming, I’m going to come, no, keep it slow keep it slow, I don’t want to come yet. I said, do it slow now, slow now, yeah, that’s right. Can you keep it up, boy? Can you? Come on, more tongue, I said more tongue, boy, yeah that’s right, faster now, speed it up a bit, tongue and mouth, faster…just like that. Yeah, that’s right. Do it like that…. Can you keep it up? ’Cause I want to come so you better keep it up, I said yes, more, faster, faster, fucking fast I said goddamn it. Fuck, keep it coming keep it coming keep me coming there I’m there, I’m there I’m fuck I’m coming goddamn you fucking coming fuck fuck fuck fuck. Commming. Unh unh unh unhhhhhhhhh. Fuck boy, that’s it. Hold me now. Just hold me.”

  I press my cunt into your belly and let your arms go around me. Just long enough to get myself together. Then I sit up and look at you smiling. All proud of yourself.

  “So you think you deserve a fuck for that?” I laugh into your neck for a long time.

  In the bedroom, you dress me up in your shirt and vest.

  “So who am I?” I ask.

  “Steve.”

  “Who’s Steve?”

  “Just Steve,” you say. I laugh.

  “And who are you tonight?” I ask, expecting you to say Troy.

  “Tammy.”

  “Your girl name?”

  “Yeah, or you can call me slut, bitch, whore.”

  I’m blown away. You are never girl. Talk about gender fuck. I get even wetter. Wonder if I’ll be able to comply. “Those are harsh words,” I say. “You know what a good girl feminist I am.”

  You smirk. “Just wait, you’ll like it. It’ll be easier than you think.” You get out your big rubber dick and strap it on me. I like it. You are right. I immediately start to feel cocky. Don’t know exactly what you mean by “Be a guy,” but I like the feeling of the cock between my legs, attached to my body for a change.

  “I want you to dominate me,” you say. “I want it hard. Lots of swearing and shit. I’ll protest, but you make me take it. Be aggressive. Be an asshole. Call me a cunt. Yeah, cunt, that’s a good one.”

  I’m unsure of how to begin. I push you down on the bed.

  “Oh, please stop,” you say. Your voice is suddenly higher pitched. I take it as a sign to start being an asshole.

  “Shut up, cunt, Steve’s going to do whatever the hell he pleases.”

  You jump up at me, ferocious. I make you stop. Tell you to lie back an
d shut the fuck up. And you do it. You moan.

  A moan I’ve heard many times. A pleasure moan. I still don’t feel like a guy, just an asshole wearing a guy’s shirt and vest. But it’s enough. I start to get into my role. I put my hand on my new dick. It’s hard. So am I.

  “And what I please is to fuck you, bitch.”

  You moan again like you like it. “Please don’t,” you say, pulling me toward you at the same time.

  “Ah, come on. I know you’re a whore. I know you want my big fucking dick pumping your nasty cunt.” I shock myself with what I’m saying. You like it.

  “Oh, don’t make me, don’t fuck me,” you say. Then cry, “Oh fuck yeah,” when I slap the cock against your thigh. That makes me hot.

  “Take your goddamn pants off and turn over, slut,” I say. I rub my hand up and down my dick. You stay where you are and watch me. “You heard me. Turn the fuck over, slut! That’s right. Now just lie there while I boot up.” I put on a condom, drip some lube on your ass. You moan loudly.

  “Shut up, bitch,” I say and put my cock against your thigh again. You catch your breath.

  “Oh no, please.”

  “Oh yes. Lift your ass, girl. I said lift, bitch.” You lift.

  “Here I come. Oh yeah, take it like the whore you are.”

  I slowly move my cock into you.

  “Oh no, please don’t.” Your voice is still high. You moan a moan I’ve never heard before. Then grunt, “Fuck yeah.” An affirmation.

  “Can you feel that?” I ask. I reach my hand around in front and finger your clit. “Can you? You fucking whore.” You grunt loudly.

  “I said shut up and take it, bitch.” I push in further and start thrusting.

  “Yeah,” you say, “fuck me hard.”

  “Oh I will. That’s right. Take it. Fucking take it, bitch. Steve’s going to fuck you silly. Fuck you till you can’t see. Fuck you till you come all over my cock.”

  “Fuck. Yeah.”

  “That’s right, Tammy, let Steve fuck you like you deserve. Take it, girl. Fucking take it till you come. You’re going to gush, aren’t you? All over me. I said you’re going to come, aren’t you? I said come, goddamnit. Fucking do it.”

  “Oh yeaaah, fuck me….”

  “I said shut up, cunt, and come for your Daddy.” And you do. Loud and labored. You soak the sheets. Your cunt throbs long after I stop thrusting. I lie on top of you, exhausted.

  “Hold me,” you say. You’ve never asked me to hold you before. Boy. Girl. T. I hold you.

  3.

  We don’t talk for months. Why? Because you’re an asshole. Because I’m a bitch. Because you’re insensitive. Because I’m too sensitive. Because we walk two completely different worlds. Today, I don’t remember why. Just remember wanting you. Today, I walk through this street. I miss T goes over and over in my head. When I get home I call you. Ask you to come over. And of course you do. You always do. No questions asked. This is what we do for each other.

  I put on lipstick and meet you on the front porch, even though it’s freezing out. I don’t tell you about my day, even though it was bad. I don’t ask about yours. I am so glad to see you. I can tell you’re glad to see me too. But we pretend we’re not. We stare at each other in the cold. You and I, we sure know how to pretend.

  “Well, aren’t you going to ask me in?”

  “Yeah, yeah, come up.”

  You follow me to the top of the stairs, through my apartment door. “Look, T,” I say, turning around. Your arm is in the air. You drop a snowball on my head.

  “Oh, you bastard,” I laugh.

  “Aw baby, what’s wrong?” Your annoying sarcasm. You laugh too. Brush the snow off my head, my shoulders. “What’s wrong?” You stop laughing. “Baby?”

  I don’t say anything. Bring you into my bedroom. Pull you down beside me on the bed. Lie with you. You caress me. Move your fingers over my clothes, over my body. My eyes are closed. If this is the only thing we can do for each other, so be it.

  “So T, tell me about your first kiss.”

  You don’t say anything right away. Then, “I was nine. He was a man.” You say it so calmly. Like it’s normal. Then I wonder, what the hell is normal?

  “And how was it?”

  “It was an all-right kiss,” you say.

  I’m quiet. You continue to caress me. Slow, sensual. Unusual for us. We stay like that for a long while. Until you move your hands gently under my shirt. My skin gets goose bumps. My cunt gets wet. My body responds with movement. You take my shirt off. Get more aggressive. Kiss my body where your caresses were. Pull at the button of my jeans.

  “I want you,” you say.

  “I want you too. I want your fist.”

  “You got it.”

  You move down my body and undo my jeans, pull them off. Slide your hand over my underwear. Apply pressure on my clit. My hips rise and grind. You take off my underwear. Slide your hand along my wetness. Rub a finger against my clit. I open up to your fingers. You push and play with my clit. In no time my cunt gathers around your whole fist. It is always faster and easier with you than with anyone else. I love it more than anything else we do. But I always have to remind you I don’t want thrusts. You like getting pumped and don’t understand why I don’t. But you do what I ask. Just leave your fist there in me. Still.

  “It feels so…comfortable,” I say.

  “I haven’t heard that one before,” you say. I smile. We’re quiet. You keep it in until I’m ready for you to take it out.

  “You’re still bleeding.” You show me your hand covered with my blood. “Do you have a piece of paper? I’ll make a handprint.”

  I still feel full. Flayed. Prelingual.

  “Well, you’ve got one inside you already, anyway.” You lie down beside me. Lay your hand on my breast. We stay like that for a long time.

  “Will you run me a bath?” I ask.

  I stay in bed while you go. You clean the tub for me. Then run the water hotter than I’d like. Use shampoo to make bubbles. I know you feel chivalrous. Like this is what a guy does for a girl. Takes care of her.

  “I wonder if what we are is anything like being straight,” I call from the bed.

  “We’re still dykes,” you say, sounding offended. Sometimes it’s true. That’s exactly what we are. Sometimes we’re not. Sometimes, I guess, it just doesn’t matter.

  When the bath is ready, you call me. I get in and the water is too hot, like you thought it would be. I turn on the cold and swirl it around. You close the toilet lid and sit on it. Watch me. You’ve got your boy vest on. I like you watching. I turn off the cold water and lie back. Warm. Smothered. A feeling I rarely enjoy. When I ask you to join me in the tub, you refuse. You don’t say why, but I know you well enough to understand what makes you feel vulnerable. You leave the room.

  I think about how it feels to do this typical boy–girl thing with you. Sometimes I play girl, and sometimes I am girl. I get confused about which one is which. I think about who you are to me. How, sometimes, you are what I need in the most surprising ways. I hear you in the kitchen.

  “Hey T,” I call from the bath. You stop moving. You’re quiet.

  “Yeah?” you finally respond.

  “Co’mere.”

  You come back into the bathroom with your swagger. Your casual air. “What?”

  “Kneel,” I tell you.

  “Kneel where?” you ask, pretending to be unsure about wanting to kneel for me.

  “Beside the tub,” I say, pointing beside me. You just look at me for a second, making like you don’t want to. But you do.

  “What?” you ask again as you kneel. There’s a staccato sound in your voice.

  I sit up a bit in the tub and look at you. “Kiss me, Troy.”

  You hesitate ever so slightly. Then get yourself wet leaning in for the kiss.

  Look but Don’t Touch Sparky

  You look down and see the bottle of whiskey lying in casual spills of come.

  You envy t
he boys for those quick joyous fountains.

  It will take you much longer.

  The walls are shiny from others before you: a glaze of sperm, sweat, other shoulders in leather jackets, and the strangely mouthwatering smell of cleaning solution.

  Your shoulders are narrow. You fit neatly into this dark box.

  There is no great mystery, you think, sliding a dollar into the glowing slot. Surrounded by darkness, you think of your mom, comforting you in the locker room: “We’re all girls here.”

  But you smell like cool water for men and pomade, and you wear your most dapper boy clothes, black leather jacket and boots. Your hair is freshly cropped and no one can tell the tinge of lip liner. Your hair is carefully in its borrowed tranny boy flip. You are prepared for a mystery date. Who is behind the glass? That is the mystery.

  A bar of light widens. The black window rises.

  Five women in red-gold light are surrounded by mirrors. Dancing naked with their own lush bodies, with the mirrors reflecting silver and red flashes, girls upon girls, like the room is packed. One comes over to see you, dances before you. She has small, rounded breasts, rounded hips, catlike black-rimmed eyes, and a ready, naughty smile, stands on tall vinyl stiletto boots. A black bob, a mini-version of Uma Thurman in Pulp Fiction.

  Your face becomes hot. Your ears burn. Your expression is awe and wonderment. She grins down at you, pleased. Seductive. She shows you her breasts; their skin looks impossibly smooth and clean, with golden-rimmed, small nipples. You see the hollow of her throat, her collarbone, her little belly.

  She is the loveliest being on the planet.

  She is naked before you and you can do nothing but look and look.

  You keep looking at her hips, peek at her pussy, and give long lustful looks to her boots.

  “I bet that smile gets them every time,” she purrs.

  You realize you are grinning like a fool. You shake your head no but cannot stop the grin that is shy, nervous, awed.

  She calls the others over. “Look how cute! Look at those dimples!”