Best Lesbian Erotica 2013

by Kathleen Warnock

  Her tongue probes my mouth and she grabs me by the collar; I reach up her shirt. I am so dangerously close to her heart.

  “Frankie,” she breathes.

  “Please don’t say anything,” I tell her, sliding off the mattress, my face between her legs. I push her skirt up; her panties match her bra, red lace on gold skin, a perfect frame for her hip bones and the slope of her abdomen. My arm under her hips, I feel like I could take her to the moon. I adore her; I want to rip her apart. I bite into her thighs, carefully at first, then harder and she cries out. I lick my way up, push her panties aside. Slowly, slowly, I trace her with my tongue; her breathing quickens; I paint figure eights on her most delicate parts. I spread her legs farther and slide two fingers inside her. We fall into rhythm; my hand slips into the heat of her wetness, she opens to me, her body bucks. She shakes, I give her more and she pulls at my hair and gasps. Her thighs clench and I wrestle her onto her stomach, press her face into the thin blankets. She is taking my whole fist and I’m wondering how we got here, why she’s leaving, but I don’t have time, tonight won’t last forever, this is it. She digs her nails deep into the mattress.

  “Frankie,” she is almost screaming but I can’t listen, “I—”

  “Don’t talk!” I hurt inside; I want her to hurt; I want her to hurt good. I lift her up to her knees with my hand buried inside her. The light from the kitchen is streaming in and she’s glowing lunar. Her skirt is hiked around her waist and I smack the ethereal curve of her ass. My palm makes contact with a blaze of sound, flesh echoing in my pounding head. Again. Again. It’s almost cathartic.

  She grinds back on me, open to my invasion, to my anger, to my ferocious worship of her body. I see her in slow motion: her shock of dark hair, her flawless skin, the cycling swing of her rounded hips, the tops of her thigh-highs that are starting to slip down her sleek legs.

  She slams herself harder onto my fist.

  Her breathing is choked out between moans. I grab one of her breasts as I push inside her, then I hold her around the waist; my hand rushes down to give her pleasure; I push my hips toward her. I want her to feel what I feel; I want her to be lost in the throes of ecstasy; I want her to be ravaged by this heartbreak. This is our first night, our last night, our only night. I want her to explode.

  She puts her hands against the wall, lifts her hips higher, crying out with every thrust. Her muscles are tightening around my hand, her body falling into frenzy. I’m blind with desire. I run my tongue along her spine; I fuck her in a burst of fury and force her over the edge; she sounds panicked as she comes.

  Her aftershocks are like electric tremors. She collapses beneath me and I spread my limbs across hers like I’m hiding her from the world.

  “Will you miss me, Frankie?” she murmurs.

  “I don’t know,” I lie.

  We don’t talk anymore. She falls asleep. I kiss the back of her neck and stare around my room in the dark. I’m awake for what feels like hours, holding her close to me, breathing in the smell of her body, the smell of her perfume, trying to steal every last second with her and lock the moments away for safekeeping. Inevitably, my time runs out and I am lost and dreaming.

  When I wake up, she’s gone. There’s a letter where she’d been sleeping. I don’t read it. I won’t ever read it.

  Christy, je t’aime.

  AMATEUR NIGHT

  Maggie Morton

  Was I really going to do this? Was I really going to dance in front of almost a hundred complete strangers? Yes, they were all queer, so it wasn’t like I was adding fuel to the patriarchy machine, or having straight, male eyes leer at me, something I never liked. But I was nervous enough stripping down in front of girlfriends. Not that I had one right now, because I doubt too many women want their partners to strip down to nothing in front of so many people, to dance, to shimmy up and down a pole, and then to give a lap dance to the highest bidder.

  Yes, I told myself, I was going to do this. Because it was for charity, and because really, what was a little nudity among strangers? It wasn’t like hundreds—or thousands—of women didn’t do the same thing every day. It’s for charity, it’s for charity would be my mantra.

  So I waited backstage, waited my turn, wearing a well-tailored vest and slacks and the sluttiest shoes I could find: Lucite and with much higher heels than I was used to. I’d practiced walking in them at home, noticing how they made my hips wiggle back and forth, how they made me stick out my ass, and especially, how they made me look girly as fuck. And fuck, now it was my turn, the femmy DJ calling out, “Next up, we have a lovely lady who goes by the name of Jasmine. Let’s give her a warm welcoming. Here’s Jasmine!”

  That was my cue. I had chosen Marilyn Manson’s “I Put a Spell On You” as my song, and as the deep, thudding notes began, I slowly, timidly, walked onstage. The lights were brighter than I had expected, and I could barely make out the crowd, though I could certainly hear them, whooping and catcalling as I began to dance.

  I started with a few hip thrusts in time to the music, and then I made my way over to the pole, the music seeming to lead me along, guiding my way, which I hadn’t expected to happen. Fuck, I thought as I reached the pole. This is easy!

  Then, as I had planned, practicing in my bedroom, came the part where I’d begin stripping down. That came surprisingly easily, too, because instead of undoing my vest, button by button, I ripped it open as the song grew louder, the buttons flying off, my breasts now completely bare. And I grinned as I heard the crowd’s reaction, a loud, boisterous, incredibly positive reaction. Apparently, they approved.

  Just before the song got to its loudest part, I got ready: all or nothing now. Yes, I had just shown a bunch of strangers my tits—and loved it. But would I love showing them everything else, too?

  Yes, came the answer, as I dropped my pants and strutted out of them, now clad only in a lacy black G-string, my bare, often-complimented ass now revealed. And then a further shock came as I hooked my leg around the pole and spun—once, then twice—arching my back as I did. If the crowd had gone wild before, that sealed the deal. And then, all too soon, the song was over.

  Now came the bidding. And then the lap dance, the part I’d been dreading most. Now the only worry I had—no worries about the lap dance, not anymore—was that I wouldn’t earn the marriage equality organization enough. Yeah, the crowd had seemed to approve, but still, people could be fickle, couldn’t they?

  I had no reason to worry, though—two women in the crowd got in a fierce bidding war over me. Me! The girl who could barely take off her clothes in front of just one person; the girl who had just stripped down to practically nothing in front of so many people; the girl who had just enjoyed stripping in front of so many people! By the time the bidding ended, my lap dance was going to cost the winner seven hundred and fifty dollars. Wow. All that? For me?

  I couldn’t make her out; the bright lights were still shining in my eyes and when I got down off the stage, it took a few moments to adjust. Thank the goddess, she was cute—shiny black hair pulled back into a ponytail, a curvy figure and a grin that told me, yeah, she was certain she was going to get her money’s worth.

  “I guess we’re supposed to go into the back room, now?” she asked me.

  “Yep, that’s the plan.” So I led this cute, curvy gal into the back room, where she settled onto a small, burgundy couch. I pulled the curtain shut, and now I was ready for my close-up, Ms. DeMille.

  The next song started playing in the club’s main room—a slow, jazzy number with a female vocalist, her voice rich and sweet. Perfect.

  “I’ve never done one of these before,” I told the woman as I approached her.

  “Nor have I received one. But based on your performance onstage, I doubt you’ll have much trouble.” She patted her knee, spreading her legs a little, and the genderfuckery of those two minor actions began to make me wet. Did strippers normally get wet when they gave their patrons lap dances? I didn’t know the answer, but in this
case, the answer was a very moist yes!

  I strutted toward her, much more confident, some of said confidence arising from her certainty that I could pull this off—and pull it off fucking well. After all, this woman wouldn’t have paid that much if she didn’t think I was worth it, would she?

  As the singer crooned over the club’s loudspeakers, I climbed onto the woman’s lap, nothing but a G-string hiding my pussy, and began to grind against her. She bit her lip, and I watched as her eyes scanned me, settling on my breasts for a few seconds, then finding their way down my torso and stopping where our private parts met. I found myself worrying that I might leave a wet stain on her pants, but that worry faded away as I realized I was grinding against something hard, solid and phallic.

  “You’re packing?” I asked her, giggling a little.

  “I almost always pack in public,” she replied, grinning at me.

  “Well, you get three songs,” I told her, and then before I could stop myself, I continued by saying, “and I think that’s long enough for a quick fuck.”

  “Are you…are you serious?” She stared at me, wide eyed, and for a moment, I worried I’d zoomed straight past whatever boundaries she had. I was just about ready to pull my foot out of my mouth and apologize, but then she said, “Lift up a little, I need some room if I’m going to get it out.”

  So I lifted up onto my feet, watching as she pulled out the dildo I had felt through her slacks. It wasn’t huge, but it would certainly get the job done—“the motion of the ocean” and all that being quite true in my experience.

  It may not have been big, but I certainly felt it slide inside me, felt it spread me open, felt it especially as she began to move her hips in small, undulating movements. She was writhing like I had up onstage, but this felt even better than the thrill I’d felt as I stripped off my clothes. Yes, it felt far, far better.

  “Why don’t you fuck me for a while?” she asked. “Why don’t you fuck my dick for a bit, cutie?”

  “Sure,” I said, my voice breathy, and on my knees, I began to rise up and down to the beat of the music; small, controlled movements that brought heat to my cunt, wetness, too, and this woman’s dick felt better and better with each movement I made—up, down, it didn’t matter, it just felt good. And “That… feels…so…fucking…good,” was all I could get out of my mouth. We were on to the second song now—it had just begun a few moments ago, but I was already almost ready to burst.

  “Get on your knees,” the woman told me. “I want to fuck you from behind.”

  I complied instantly, climbing over her lap and onto the couch. Then I got on my knees, my elbows hanging over the couch’s edge. Its back was low, so my own back was almost flat, something that worked to my advantage, because along with the dildo came the woman’s fingers, gently rubbing against my asshole, a gentle tease which seemed almost certain to send me over the edge, if only my clit got the tiniest amount of attention. I reached down and began to rub it, the woman’s left hand gripping my left hip, her right still teasing my ass. I began to rub faster, somewhat furiously, because the third song had started, and I knew this song, knew it was short, fast, and perfect to get off to. Hell, I’d done that before, a few girlfriends ago—we’d fucked on the living room floor, one of my few acts of kink, and it had gotten kinkier, because she somehow talked me into letting her fuck my ass with our strap-on. It had hurt a little at first, but I had found over the span of just a few minutes that I liked—or possibly loved—how it felt. But there was only that one time, until now. Now I was seconds away from coming. And then I felt the slight pain, and the slight pleasure, of what felt like her pinky’s tip sliding inside me, into my ass, and I bit my arm so I wouldn’t scream as I came. I found myself fucking her dick as the orgasm took over my body, just like the thrill of stripping had taken me over only three songs ago. This felt better. And the dirtiness, the sheer kinkiness of fucking a stranger after stripping onstage made the throbbing pleasure spreading across my cunt move farther and farther toward an almost godly experience. I hadn’t come this hard, since, well…ever? Was this what really did it for me? I wondered about this as my body grew limp. I was spent, even though I was still incredibly turned on, but after an orgasm like that, there’s only so much you can do.

  And forming complete, intelligible sentences was clearly not part of what was possible for me at the moment. “That’s…wow. That was…mmm, yeah. Thanks.”

  “Good one, huh?” The woman slowly pulled her dick out of me, and I slid the G-string back on. A lot of good that flimsy piece of fabric would do, considering how wet I still was.

  “You know,” she said, tucking the dildo back into her slacks and zipping them back up, “that’s probably the best seven hundred and fifty dollars I’ve ever spent. I wasn’t expecting to get a fuck out of the deal, but I’m certainly not going to ask for my money back. Damn, honey, you’re a wildcat in bed.”

  Now that was something I’d never heard before. “Think I should go into this for a living?” I asked her, giggling a little at the thought.

  “No, but I would like to suggest your next few hours would be best spent back at my loft. You know, this isn’t my only dildo. I have one that oscillates, one that vibrates, and one that—”

  “Eats out whoever’s being fucked?”

  “Ha! No, I’m afraid not. I take care of that part myself.”

  “Well, we really should make sure you get your money’s worth—and then some. Just let me get my clothes, and I’ll meet you outside.”

  “Oh, you aren’t going to go outside like that?”

  “I may be brave, brazen, what-have-you, but I’m not crazy.” I giggled again, then slowly raised myself back onto my heels, still a little weak from my orgasm. “See you in a bit.”

  She took my hand before I left, stopping me from leaving. “Name’s Miriam, by the way. And is Jasmine your real name? I know you’re never supposed to ask strippers that, but thought I’d risk it.”

  “I’ll tell you later,” I told her.

  But I never did. We fucked for hours that night, back at her place, but right after she drifted off to sleep, I made my exit. Jasmine was just an act, after all. Maybe parts of her would survive after that night—I sure hoped so, and it certainly seemed like they would. A wildcat was awakening inside me. I was ready to let down my hair; to go wild; to scratch, growl, roar and fuck like I never had before.

  And no, it wasn’t my real name.

  CRAVE

  Fiona Zedde

  Twelve years after Alva left the island, I still dreamed of her. Those dreams were heady and ecstatic, fed by her ambiguously worded letters that gave teasing glimpses of what her American life was like. She told me of the first boy she kissed—she didn’t like it—then the first girl who wasn’t me, and after that the first time she let someone else touch her in the hidden places that I’d always treasured. I never told her that for me there was no one—no man, no woman—who could take her place in my heart or in my bed. Over the years, the tone of her letters changed. I became an observer of her desires, no longer the object of them. She put distance between us. Soon, my dreams were all I had.

  Those dreams were plain, no disguised agendas, no twinned meanings. In the twilight hours, her touch immolated me. It roved with ease over my skin, setting each nerve ending alight, licking my breasts, belly and hips until I arched off the bed, gasping. Many nights I woke with Alva’s name on my lips, my fingers buried between my damp thighs, and the phantom smell of her draped over me like silk.

  Weeks ago I awoke a few minutes past three a.m. Unable to sleep, I madly scribbled my feelings in a letter to her. At morning’s first light, I dropped it in the mail. Afterward, I felt as though I had broken some unspoken rule. Alva never responded. The dreams kept coming and the world itself seemed to conspire to press all its concupiscence on me. Everywhere I looked, people were falling in love and making love. It was in their soft, sighing smiles; the entwined hands, playful touches and ripe laughter as they walked
past me in the streets. I even noticed the flush-red hibiscus blossoms with their sticky yellow pistils and moist, inviting insides open to hummingbirds and bees alike. I missed her. I needed her. Then I found out that she was coming.

  What the gossips said was that she had been banished back to the island, for lying with American girls. Her mother thought that life back in Jamaica with her father would straighten Alva out. But wasn’t she a grown woman, twenty-six, with income of her own like me?

  My sisters brought me word that she was coming back, watching my face to see what would show. Did they see my relief? The relaxing of the tension that slid into my body twelve years ago when she flew away from me? I didn’t understand then, but I do now. She got the prized passport and the sponsorship of her mother. I didn’t, so I had to stay. No amount of crying or bloodied wrists could change that. At fourteen, what did we know about love anyway? But I thought I loved her, thought I would die without her near me. I wondered what she thought now.

  The first day that I knew she was mine, Alva and I had left school to play in the park and on the beach nearby. We picked up sweet-fleshed plums from under the trees growing on the path to the water. Under the incandescent heat of the afternoon sun, she shyly pressed the fruit to my mouth and I bit. The temptation was too strong to resist, so I went willingly with her under the canopy of sea grapes where she touched me and rewarded my affections with warm, fruit-flavored kisses. After that, we dreamt together. We planned to leave Morant Bay for Kingston, get jobs in the city and live in a house with plants and a kitchen full of food. We were happy. Then her mother came from New York and took her away from me.