Then they made their way up to the cathedral on a hill overlooking town. They didn’t meet a soul in the narrow alleys, the square in front of the church was empty too, and no one bothered them when they sat down on a low stone wall and blasphemously opened their beers. The sunset painted the roofs a fiery yellow and in the far distance the mountains were blue. Charlie had removed her leather helmet and the evening sun made her short, red hair even redder. With her face framed by unruly curls she looked even less like thirty.
“How come you’re driving around Spain on a borrowed bike?” Jamie asked, curiosity making her more talkative than she was used to.
“I’m on the run,” Charlie said and made a face.
Jamie didn’t want to pry, but after a little while Charlie went on by herself: “I’m on the run from my woman, you see. Not for good—I couldn’t quit her any more than a puppet could quit its puppeteer. I’m just running around as far as the strings will reach, pretending to have a life of my own.”
She said it with a smile, but the light tone seemed forced. Jamie frowned in sympathy but said nothing.
“How about you? What are you running from?”
“How do you know I’m running from something?”
Charlie didn’t even bother to reply.
Jamie shrugged. “All right, I’m on the run from my woman, too.”
She hadn’t thought of it that way before, but when she said it she knew it was true. She was running from the Doris who liked her steady job as a journalist better than a carefree life on the roads with Jamie. The Doris who made her feel superfluous, like the housewife she’d never, ever be. Sure, she could blame the spring that was in the air and in her blood, but she nevertheless knew it was true.
“Your woman, is she…like us?” Jamie inquired.
It wasn’t like her to be this nosy, not like her at all, but she’d rather think of Charlie’s love life than her own. Besides, this butch-on-butch thing intrigued her.
Charlie laughed. “She’s all woman, if that’s what you mean. But just you try treating her like one! You may be tough, but she’d have you on your knees in no time.”
Jamie was silent for a while before she inquired, “What makes you stay?”
“Have you never felt the allure of submission?” Charlie seemed to shrug off the pulp fiction phrase, as though it was a mere matter of taste, like preferring a black leather jacket to a brown one.
Jamie said nothing. They sipped their beers and enjoyed the view and each other’s company in silence. Charlie put down her bottle so abruptly it foamed, threw her arms around Jamie, and kissed her with childish impatience.
“Whoa,” Jamie said when she was done.
She was going to say something more, something about how she couldn’t do this to her woman just because she was on the run, but somehow she didn’t. Doris didn’t kiss her like that. Doris willingly let herself be kissed, and swept off her feet, and carried to the bed, and—Jamie didn’t want to think of that now. She knew she would do Doris wrong, so she chose not to think about it.
“Let’s go someplace,” Charlie said, so irresistibly sure of getting her way.
She would, too. Jamie nodded agreement and they went around the church looking for a reasonably secluded spot. They found one hidden from view by a protruding piece of the cathedral wall and another nearby stone wall. It was risky as hell—if they were caught they’d be more or less trapped, with nowhere to run easily with their jeans around their ankles. Homosexual acts were illegal in Spain, and shagging against a church wall in a Catholic country might be, too, for all that Jamie knew.
For a moment they stood facing each other, not sure how to begin. Jamie hadn’t followed another butch behind a church to take command of the situation. The absurdity of treating Charlie like a femme struck her and for a moment she imagined they’d laugh at their mistake and go back to their beers and their buddy talk.
Then Charlie kissed her insistently and pressed her against the wall. It felt odd but not unpleasant. The kiss soon made her breathless, and the grinding of Charlie’s jean-clad crotch against her own made her clit swell. Charlie didn’t waste any time before she undid Jamie’s belt buckle and button fly and stuck her hand in her jeans. Charlie’s fingers tugged slightly on the damp tuft of dark hair, out of recklessness rather than any studied sadism.
Jamie winced a little when Charlie touched her sensitive clit, and Charlie perceived it and avoided direct contact. Instead she let her hand slip and slide in the hot wetness of Jamie’s cunt. Before Jamie knew it, Charlie had shoved a finger inside her. Jamie never let anybody do that, not even Doris. That was simply not the way it went. But she let it happen now, surprised at how easily she succumbed to the bittersweet pleasure of being taken. She’d thought her armor more solid than that. But it only took one cocky tomboy, unlike any she’d met before, and she was done in.
Charlie fucked her with her hand for a bit, kissing and biting Jamie’s lips. She had her other hand around the back of Jamie’s neck, tickling the short, downy hair there and teasing the nerves, making goose bumps all the way down Jamie’s back. Jamie had hardly known she had such a sensitive neck. There was a lot she hadn’t known about herself. Like how she longed to lose control, for instance.
Charlie turned her around, making her face the wall, still fucking her with her hand. The other hand had left Jamie’s neck and was pinching and kneading her pale, muscular buttocks instead. Then the hand left her arse and fumbled with something else, presumably Charlie’s own fly.
Something slid into Jamie from behind, something larger and smoother than a finger. Though not cooler—it must have been warmed to body temperature inside Charlie’s slacks. Jamie was shocked. Not even she had one of those! Charlie’s cruel mistress must be well equipped.
It stung ever so slightly but that was to be expected, since technically, she was—had been—Anyway, she was not the one to whine about a little pain. It felt right somehow, like penitence. She knew she had no other choice than to relax and receive. Bracing herself would only make it hurt more, and she wasn’t sure she needed to repent that badly. Charlie wasn’t going to stop. She’d seemed like a sweet enough kid, a bit forward but no match for Jamie. Or so Jamie had thought. But she must have some pent-up frustration from being that lady’s toy—Jamie could tell from the determined way she thrust into her.
So she relaxed and received. Charlie had her in a firm grip around her leather-clad waist, both her hands pressing on Jamie’s clit. With each jerk of her hips the pressure of her hands increased too. Now Jamie had an awfully sensitive clit. She used to get off just from riding her motorbike. She suspected Charlie did, too, from the way she was panting as she rubbed against Jamie’s arse. Anyway, that meant it didn’t take much for her to come, but she was unprepared for what the orgasm felt like with the cock inside her too. Normally, she felt the contractions as vague spasms, but now her muscles had something to grip and every time they contracted the pleasure intensified. It beat the breath out of her so that she couldn’t suppress a groan.
Apparently pleased with her accomplishment, Charlie let herself go and came as well. Jamie could hear her gasp right next to her ear. Her red curls tickled Jamie’s neck as she momentarily rested her head on Jamie’s shoulder, then her head was gone and she was all buttoned up before Jamie had the chance to collect herself. When Jamie turned around to face her, flushing cheeks and somewhat rapid breathing were the only signs she showed of any illicit activity. As for Jamie, she leaned heavily against the church wall, still fumbling with her button fly. She, who was always so cool and collected!
When she’d pulled herself together, they shared a cigarette on the low stone wall with the view. Jamie’s knees were so shaky she wouldn’t be riding a motorbike anytime soon, a strand of hair had actually managed to come loose from all the Brylcreem, and the crotch of her rolled-up jeans was all wet and sticky. She didn’t usually get so very wet, but then she didn’t usually get fucked either.
“I didn’t
think you had it in you,” she said, referring to the way Charlie had dominated her.
“I wouldn’t have done it if I hadn’t known you were up to it,” Charlie asserted, back to her sweet self.
“How did you know?” Jamie asked. “I didn’t know myself.”
“Oh, I can tell,” Charlie said lightly. “I didn’t know I wanted it until I got it either.”
“You do this a lot?” Jamie asked, curiosity once again winning over her habitual reserve.
Charlie shrugged and grinned. “Not an awful lot. Most of the time I’m with my mistress, meek as a little lamb.”
“And she…takes you?” Jamie knew this was none of her business, but after what she’d let Charlie do to her she didn’t care.
“Me regularly and other boys and girls occasionally.”
Jamie was too awed not to ask further questions: “She takes boys too?”
She wanted to make sure Charlie had meant proper boys and not boys like the two of them.
“Aye, there are ways of doing that,” Charlie mocked, amused.
“I know that,” Jamie retorted, annoyed that Charlie had thought her an imbecile, “I just don’t see why a woman would want to do that.”
“Oh, I can see why…” Charlie said.
“Each to her own,” Jamie muttered, recalling how Charlie had had a crush on a boy, once.
She supposed that if you had to do it with a man, that way was better than the ordinary way. But she would have none of it. She sucked on her cigarette and fell silent.
After a while Charlie jumped to her feet, reaching out her hand to Jamie: “It was nice meeting you. Perhaps we’ll see each other on the road again.”
Jamie shook her hand, an awkwardly formal good-bye, but one she too preferred to a kiss or a hug.
“Sure,” she said. “Nice meeting you too.”
She remained on the wall and lit another cigarette as Charlie disappeared from view. After a while she could hear the engine of a motorbike, the most beautiful sound. From where she sat, she caught the occasional glimpse of the lone headlight on the dark streets as Charlie rode out of town.
IN THE SAUNA
Stella Watts Kelley
Bridget was the kind of woman whose presence conjured immediate fantasies in anyone who loved women, the kind of woman who turned cowboys into stammering fools and made straight women question their sexuality. She was equally beautiful with or without makeup, dressed in strappy black heels, plunging-necked halters and silky black skirts, or in running pants, dripping with sweat from a gym workout. The teenage boys in her fitness class couldn’t get changed fast enough; they trotted behind her, ready to do an hour of push-ups and crunches if that was her wish, grateful for the opportunity to be in her presence.
Soft spoken with a ready laugh, she was simultaneously elegant in bearing and down-to-earth, a nature girl who loved to surf and snowboard. She wore low-rise jeans and clingy shirts that somehow managed to look both sexy and restrained. I first met her at a preschool potluck dinner at our children’s school. Our families often ate together; our husbands became fast friends and often went mountain-biking. And every time I looked at her, I wanted to take her clothes off.
She was not the first woman to arouse desire in me; as a child, I often had crushes on my female friends. But my husband and I met when we were quite young, before I’d had the opportunity to explore that particular aspect of my sexuality. And so, for more than twenty years, my desires remained known only to me, lying dormant because of both my vow to my husband and, frankly, a lack of opportunity. I sometimes wondered what would happen if the opportunity presented itself, but decided I’d leave that bridge uncrossed.
One summer, when our sons were invited to a birthday party at a classmate’s house, Bridget suggested we spend our free day at a nearby spa. Our husbands thought it great that we were having a “girls’ day out” to pamper ourselves and looked forward to our returning open armed and relaxed. In the empty changing room, we found our lockers, one next to the other, and began to undress. Between periods of comfortable silence and light conversation, initiated by Bridget, I listened, offering a word of agreement here and there. Mostly, I watched her undress.
I had never seen her naked. As she removed each item of clothing, she placed it in the locker. First she took off her T-shirt, revealing a slender but muscular back, evenly tanned a deep cinnamon. Her silky auburn hair brushed the middle of her spine, and as her hair shifted, I noticed a small tattoo of a Chinese character on her left shoulder blade. I wondered what it signified but didn’t ask. I removed my own shirt and bra, noting the contrast between my pale skin and her darker hue. As she reached to put her shirt in the locker, my gaze shifted to her breasts. Her small breasts were perfectly formed, petite, round and plump, each tipped with a small areola and lovely, deep pink nipple.
We removed our pants, and as I bent slightly forward to take down my denim capris, I peeked from under my own long hair as her jeans slid down over her thighs. Could she tell I was watching her? No, she seemed focused on what she was saying. Her words were just sounds coming from her mouth; I couldn’t hear their meaning, but I loved the calming sound of her voice, the delightful music of her laughter, the flash of her smile. As I watched each piece of clothing come off, my mouth went dry. I longed to touch her but kept my hands on my own clothes. So this is what it feels like for men, I thought. As a woman, I was used to being watched. Now, I savored the role of watcher.
She removed her red satin thong as I reached down to pull my jeans and underpants off. As I balanced briefly on my left foot, my head came tantalizingly close to her beautifully formed buttocks. I felt if I wasn’t careful, my hair might brush against her smooth, rounded cheeks. I imagined how it would feel to be on the receiving end—her long, soft hair brushing my bare behind. I picked up my panties and put them in the locker; they were damp and smelled musky. Standing there naked before her, I felt wet and vulnerable.
Bridget grabbed her towel and turned away, heading into the spa. I followed, trotting along behind like the boys in her class. We pondered the choices: Jacuzzi, steam room, or sauna. Bathing suits were required for the Jacuzzi, but no one was around, so we slipped in bare. Above us, high windows flooded the room with daylight, diffused by a tint in the glass. From where we sat, we could see the sauna door at the head of a narrow hallway. Past it, farther down, was the steam room.
Bridget pressed a white, plastic button on the tile floor to start the whirlpool. As the jets rumbled into action, I positioned myself in front of one and felt it pound onto the small of my back. I opened my legs and lifted my pelvis off the bench so that the water in the center of the pool was forced up between my thighs, offering a gentle massage. As I stretched my legs forward, my left calf brushed Bridget’s. She smiled and didn’t move it away. Had that been a smile of pleasure at the sensation of our legs touching, or was she merely being friendly? I allowed our legs to touch for a moment longer, but the electricity traveling up my limbs was too much. I moved it away.
We chatted for a bit, then she leaned backward, eyes closed, arms draped across the sides of the tub, neck arched against the tile. Her cheekbones were high, but not overly defined, her eyelids small and delicate, fringed with long, ebony lashes. Her brows were neatly tweezed into lovely, gradual arches, thicker near the bridge of her nose, thinner at the outside edges. Her ears were dainty and delicate, like little shells. I imagined tracing their edges with my finger, leaning over and gently kissing her tiny lobes, my breath warm, my tongue exploring inside them, my mouth moving to kiss her neck below.
I closed my eyes and pondered where I was going with this. I’m married, I thought. I’ve never even been with a woman before. Am I going to just fantasize all day until I’m insane with desire? I watched her brush a damp strand of hair from her face. How delicious it would be to have a secret. I leaned back and tried to push all thoughts from my mind. After a while, Bridget opened her eyes. I suggested we move on to the steam room, which she thought
was a good idea since we were already wet.
I placed my towel on the bench and sat down; she put hers right next to mine. My skin prickled. I wondered if she felt the electricity between us. I looked at her, and she smiled at me. I smiled back, swallowed and looked around at the white tiles dripping with condensation. The air felt oppressive, sensual. I tried not to look at her. Before long, we were both perspiring, and from the corner of my eye, I watched a rivulet of sweat make its way from her neck, between her soft breasts, across her almost-flat stomach, athletic and toned except for a perfect little pillow below her belly button. The rivulet continued on past her navel, then disappeared into the neatly trimmed brown bush between her legs. How I longed to trace its path with my finger.
There was a loud hiss as fresh steam filled the room. Bridget’s face glistened through the fog. She began talking again, and her warm, quiet voice echoed against the tile walls. She wondered aloud at my surprising silence. She asked whether something was bothering me. That depends on how you define the word bother, I thought. It was all I could do to answer her without stammering.
I tried to think of something to say, something that would lead me where I wanted to go, but all I could muster was a bland response about enjoying the heat. She didn’t seem convinced, so I mentioned that I didn’t often have the opportunity to relax this way. I caught her eye, and she smiled. My heart raced.
“I know what you mean,” she said, reaching toward me and covering my hand gently with hers. I felt the electricity again and wondered whether that touch had been a communication, an indication of her own desire.
The heat was getting uncomfortable. Bridget suggested a cold rinse to follow the steam. I laughed to myself, the old cliché about horny husbands and uninterested wives coming to mind. So, this is what I get for my lustful thoughts: a cold shower.
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