Best Lesbian Erotica 2009

Home > Nonfiction > Best Lesbian Erotica 2009 > Page 5
Best Lesbian Erotica 2009 Page 5

by Tristan Taormino


  Now, face-to-face, it was evident that the femme taskmaster had disappeared. The new April was radiant and vulnerable. “You feel good,” she said. She pushed the straps of her dress down and, arching her back, offered her newly exposed breasts.

  Charlie’s tongue flicked over the hardened nipples as she massaged April’s walls with slow, measured strokes. Legs wrapped tightly around her waist. Suddenly, April’s quick breaths turned into moans.

  The quivering started at Charlie’s fingertips. Charlie watched entranced as the waves of orgasm quietly spread out to the surface. Fighting the impulse to scream had forced tears from April’s eyes. With one last shudder she went limp. “Don’t move,” she whispered. “Please.”

  “So, do you still think I need lessons?”

  “No,” April said before laying her head on Charlie’s shoulder.

  Charlie was awash in sexual energy. She wanted to drop her pants and rock her clit against April’s lavender-painted toes. Instead, she gently lowered April to the desk and announced she was going to the bathroom. She was glad that no one was there to see her scramble out of the room disheveled. Summoning the image of Ruth was enough to put her own fire out and get her back to the business at hand.

  Before putting the second phase of their plan into action, Charlie checked in with Toi. She walked into Rockalene’s executive suite to find her sitting behind a large mahogany desk. “Girl, you should have knocked,” Toi said. “I was ready to hurl this phonebook at you.” She pointed at the purple glove and smirked. “So, did you handle Ms. April?”

  As much sex as she’d had in her life, Charlie couldn’t understand why talking about it still made her blush. “Yeah, you could say that.” She tossed the drenched glove in Rocky’s recycling bin. “What happened to your host?”

  Toi pointed at the empty sofa. “She said some stupid shit about wanting to put me between a rock and a hard place.”

  Charlie found the butch guru on the ground tied up with phone cord. It wasn’t needed—she was out cold. “So you knocked her out?”

  “It’s not my fault Rocky’s got a glass jaw.” The computer beeped and ejected a disk. Toi replaced it and clicked the mouse a few times. “I’m copying her hard drive. We need to know everything she knows. Ruth is concerned about her crew, but we need to see the big picture.”

  “Okay, finish up. We’ll be running out of here soon.”

  Toi waved her away.

  According to Ruth’s spy, the bathroom shared an air duct with the security office. Charlie’s first stop was the utility closet where she found turpentine and paint thinner. Bolting the door to the ladies’ room, she removed the grate over the vent. This time she put on a pair of gloves and soaked a bunch of paper towels in the turpentine. They were dropped down the shaft first. She poured paint thinner down behind them, making sure it flowed down the sides and didn’t splash.

  The fumes were giving Charlie a headache. She splashed water on her face before tossing down two lit rolls of toilet paper and her gloves. Though flames had spread quickly through the duct and had spilled over into the bathroom, she walked out as if nothing unusual had happened. An assortment of alarms sounded and the sprinklers came on.

  The noise brought both Toi and April into the corridor. Toi gave Charlie a high five. “Excellent,” she said. “Our part is over, let’s get out of here.” Then, Toi turned to April. “You better wake your girl up and get her out of here.”

  April looked from them to the smoke billowing from under the bathroom door. “What did you do? Who are you?”

  Charlie blew her a kiss. “We’re Poontanganistas, baby! Liberating the world one pussy at a time!” Just then, the lights went out. She grabbed Toi’s hand and ran.

  Once they were far enough away from the compound, Charlie took out her binoculars. Fire engines had started to arrive and the employees were out on the lawn. In the back, Ruth and friends were leading a group of disoriented butches away from the BRC.

  After learning about Operation Butch Ambush, the rest of the Toi Bois were extremely unhappy. El and Denny felt as original members of the Fierce Fucking Four they should have been consulted. Several Bois hated the idea of helping a rival organization.

  Except for reminding everyone that it was a spur of the moment, do or die situation, Toi sat grim-faced through the tongue-lashing. By the third round of beer the conversation had turned congenial and all had been forgiven.

  Toi again took center stage. “While Ruth was busting up the BRC, we decided to do a little digital Dumpster diving. I haven’t parsed all of the data yet, but ‘Butch Ambush’ was just the tip of the iceberg. We may have made a powerful new enemy.” She paused to let the statement sink in.

  Denny yelled, “I guess we’ll just have to keep kicking ass! Who are we?”

  “The Poontanganistas,” the others cheered in response.

  Charlie felt the familiar vibration in her pants and checked her cell phone. The pleasurable tingle had come from Anna. “I think we’ve got a new recruit.”

  BAIT AND SWITCH

  Nairne Holtz

  After paying La Passion’s entrance fee, my lover Kirsti and I were stopped by the coat check girl and informed that there was a dress code or, rather, an undress code. I slipped the long loose cotton shirt I was wearing over my head—the garment had disguised the sluttiness of my camisole and silk shorts on the subway—and handed it to the coat check girl while Kirsti waited silently, arms crossed over her chest. She was wearing dark green cargo pants and a black T-shirt and had no intention of removing them, although ahead of us we could see other patrons were considerably more déshabillées in bikinis, lingerie, short skirts, and halter tops. Was Kiss My Passion, the monthly women-only night at Montreal’s premier swingers’ club, the right place for a butch? Kirsti had joked that if we succeeded in picking someone up, I, the femme, would be the bait, while she, the butch, would be the switch.

  I placed a reassuring hand on Kirsti’s arm, although I, too, had begun to wonder if this was a good idea. When I turned forty last year, I hadn’t thought much about it. But a few months ago when Kirsti had accidentally taken one of my blood pressure pills because my pills had gotten mixed up with hers, I had thought to myself, “Nothing signals middle age like matching pill boxes.” And I admit it depressed me. But a red sports car and a trophy wife were out of the question since I didn’t drive, loved my girlfriend, and preferred to be the trophy.

  “Are you coming?” Kirsti looked over at me, and I followed her long stride down a dark hall to a swanky lounge. The club was in an old bank so the ceilings were high, and the ornate columns and moldings from the bank’s Art Deco days had been maintained. The lounge had a stone floor, and lined along it were a series of white leather chaises and pouffes on which women sat together holding drinks. Pink string lights dangled from a crossbeam; their dim wattage made the cavernous space seem more intimate.

  “I’m getting us some drinks,” Kirsti announced after I sat down on one of the pouffes. She made a beeline to the center bar where a woman in a black bra and tuxedo jacket was serving alcohol.

  While I waited for Kirsti to bring me a cocktail, I glanced around. Many of the women were in groups and seemed to know each other. Kiss My Passion was known for attracting suburban bisexuals, whom I had hoped would be bolder than lesbians. But a flat screen television mounted on the wall showing amateur lesbian porn was the only action going on. There weren’t that many women, perhaps sixty or seventy, which wasn’t all that surprising. It was a sticky summer night, and the air, the streets, everything in Montreal was more still than usual. Residents had fled to the country or a beach while those with less money hung out on their wrought iron balconies, beer or wine in hand.

  In the city of Montreal, sin was conducted with an insouciant Gallic shrug. Whatever you wanted could be found. What we wanted was discretion, and the tacky reputation of a swingers’ club was a draw; we weren’t likely to run into our friends, although it had been a friend that inspired the fantasy K
irsti and I hoped to act on at La Passion. When my old friend Annabelle had moved back into the city and started holding play parties at her loft, Kirsti had been impressed with her. We didn’t go to her parties, but Kirsti, marveling at Annabelle’s lush figure and naughtiness, said, “She’s like Bettie Page come to life.” “Would you believe we had a fling?” I replied. Kirsti’s mouth dropped open, then she chuckled. “You two? You’re both femme.” She paused. “So, uh, what did you guys find to do with each other?” I was appalled. “I fucked her with a dildo. God, you’re sexist.” I had been so busy being offended I hadn’t thought about the implications of Kirsti’s question. But I did later when Kirsti laughed about a male friend of ours whose girlfriend had once been a lesbian. “I’m sure he’d love to have a threesome, but she’d probably bonk him over the head if he suggested something like that. Why are guys so into that?” I had smiled. “You tell me. The only time you ever wanted to know what I did in bed with someone was when it was another femme.”

  Busted. It wasn’t every day that I made my girlfriend blush.

  Kirsti pressed a drink into my hand, something white and frothy with a cherry and a slab of pineapple pierced by a cocktail umbrella. “I brought you a piña colada.”

  “Perfect.” I sipped my drink while Kirsti gulped down a beer. When she had almost emptied the bottle, she set it on the floor. Then she reached over and tucked my slightly damp, freshly washed long hair behind my ear and whispered, “You look lovely, by the way.” Her tone was gentle, and I realized that she had gotten over some of her nervousness. The alcohol probably helped, especially since she wasn’t much of a drinker.

  “Thank you,” I whispered back. She surveyed me for a moment, then her hand caressed my waist, sliding the black silk material of my camisole over my pale skin. The sensation was slippery-soft, leaving a wake of relaxation that twisted into excitement when her hand slid around to my buttocks. When she fingered the strings of my thong, which reached just above my black silk shorts, I inhaled sharply. In anticipation of this evening we had not had sex for two weeks.

  Kirsti withdrew her hand. “I think it’s time for you to go fish.”

  “Where I grew up, as long as you were in the right place, the fish would come to you,” I said. I had been raised in Nova Scotia in a cove by the sea. If you rode your boat to the shoals and ledges where the water was warmer, you could always catch something. Mind you, you never knew just what you were going to get. The trawl line could deliver an ugly wolffish or a live crab trying to pinch you.

  Kirsti laughed. “The only fishing I did in Thunder Bay was ice fishing. Most times you would sit there for hours in the cold on a windy lake and nothing happened.”

  “Okay, okay.” I surveyed the room. It was like being at a supermarket; a few women were good-looking, some were decidedly not, most were ordinary. If you got to know them, they might become beautiful, but that wasn’t what this night was all about. “I’m going to get another drink.”

  As I waited for my drink at the bar, I heard Kirsti call my name. I looked over at her and she tilted her head in the direction of a woman who sat by herself on a sofa. She was pretty and plump with a shiny tumble of black hair that was shampoo-commercial perfect. Her skin had an ivory-olive tint that suggested she was maybe Greek or Lebanese, which was a plus. It meant I wouldn’t have to do this in French or apologize for my crappy French.

  I left all of my change as a tip, picked up my drink, and sauntered over to her. “Hi,” I said. “I’m Ramona.”

  “I’m Sara.”

  “Can I buy you a drink?” It was a line that got the message across. I didn’t feel like wasting my time making inane conversation about our jobs or where in the city we lived.

  “Sure,” she said, standing up.

  I suddenly remembered that Kirsti was the only one of us wearing clothes with pockets and consequently was carrying our money. “Actually, my girlfriend will be buying you a drink,” I said.

  “Where’s your girlfriend?” Sara asked.

  I pointed out Kirsti, who immediately looked at the floor. Sara peered at her, taking in Kirsti’s tall, rangy body, short silver-blonde hair, and slightly scrunched up face.

  “You’re lesbians?” Sara asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “I used to have a girlfriend, but now I’m married with a kid.” A large wedding band and engagement ring encircled Sara’s fingers.

  “And you’re a little bored?” I asked.

  “Oh, yeah,” she said with a grin.

  There was a promising recklessness in that smile, and she had these adorable freckles across her nose and cheeks, little flecks of light. My attraction to femmes was more sensual and aesthetic, but I figured if she was more of a top, we could be a tag team, bossing Kirsti around, telling her to get on her knees and service both of us. And if Sara was a bottom, well, telling girls what to do got me wet.

  After introducing Sara to Kirsti, I took some more money from Kirsti and went to get Sara a glass of wine. When I returned, I found them engrossed in a discussion of their pets. In best let’s-get-this-party-started mode, I waited for a break in their conversation before handing Sara her drink and saying, “It doesn’t seem like the women here are doing anything besides talking.”

  Sara looked me in the eye. Hers were a deep brown with thick lashes. “I don’t know if I could have sex with a complete stranger. But I could probably make out with complete strangers. At least if I have another drink. Um, the action is happening downstairs.”

  Two drinks later, Sara gave us a tour of La Passion. While jazz had played in the upstairs lounge, deep house music pumped through the downstairs. A bank vault had been turned into a dungeon where we found a few women whipping each other. Beside the dungeon was a special bedroom for exhibitionists, which had mirrors on the ceiling and cameras on the walls. The porn shown in the lounge had been a live recording of two older women whom we could now see in the flesh using vibrators on each other. Kirsti turned away first, suggesting we go into a cubicle.

  The cubicles had privacy; a curtain could be drawn across the door. They were, however, cramped. In fact, they were like prison cells. Cheap tiles covered a floor that held only a futon mattress covered in easy-to-clean plastic. Remembering that this place was usually patronized by men as well as women, I felt a bit disgusted.

  Sara and I sat down on the futon while Kirsti kneeled on the floor beside us.

  “So what would you like to do?” I asked Sara.

  She smiled at both of us. “I like other people to decide. Surprise me.”

  A twinge asserted itself between my legs. “I want to put on a show for Kirsti,” I said. “I want you to lie back and let me touch you.”

  Kirsti stood up and grabbed some white towels that were hanging on a hook in the wall. “Here, this will be more comfortable for you two.” She laid the towels out on the bed, and Sara stretched out on one. She was wearing a crimson dress with a plunging neckline, and Kirsti reached over and fondled one of Sara’s breasts.

  “I’ve wanted to do that since I saw you,” Kirsti said.

  Kneeling behind Kirsti, I put my hands on her hips. “Hey, we’re not at the switch part yet.”

  “Sorry about that,” Kirsti said, sounding completely insincere. Our relationship, both in and out of the bedroom, was an ongoing struggle for power. But she got out of my way, and I crawled on top of Sara. She smelled lovely, her perfume musky but subtle. I tucked away her hair and began to nibble on her neck. When she moaned, I pulled my mouth away.

  “Close your eyes,” I told her. I felt nervous. It had been a while since I had had sex with someone besides Kirsti, and Sara was femme. Femmes were always scarier than butches.

  She shut her eyes, and I kissed her. Wet, glossy lipstick smeared across my own, and she cupped the back of my head with her hand, bruising my lips with a hard kiss and candy-sweet lips. I lightly slipped my tongue in and out of her mouth, under and over her lips, tasting and teasing her until I felt her large breasts push ag
ainst my small ones, felt her wide hips pump against my leaner ones. It was all quite delicious, but I wondered what to do next. If Sara just wanted to make out, should I be stopping? I turned around to see what Kirsti was doing: nothing except looking at us with a dazed expression.

  “Tell her to take off her dress,” Kirsti said. Her voice sounded tight—I realized she was enjoying this.

  “Roll over, Sara,” I said. She complied and I unzipped her dress. Then she turned over, sat up, and pulled it over her head. Her bra and underwear were foam confections of nylon and lace, a pleasing contrast to the tone of her skin, the voluptuous surface of which was flawed only by a caesarean scar. I ran my hand along the slope of her stomach, her dark ribbon of scar, and then bypassed her panties for her inner thighs, which had the hot and slippery feel of freshly ironed cotton sheets. As my hand skated across the smoothness, I let my thumb graze the crotch of her panties. Every time I did this she moaned. When she started wriggling around, trying to make me touch her more intimately, I turned my attention to her full, round breasts. After reaching around and undoing the back of her bra, I began pinching her puckered nipples. Although her skin was damp with heat, she shivered.

  Kirsti came over and half-sat, half-lay on the bed, her head propped against the wall. “Very pretty.” She reached over for a moment to run her hand through Sara’s hair while I sucked on Sara’s nipples. “You two make a very pretty picture,” Kirsti said as she drew her hand back and began to unbuckle her belt.

  Sara opened her eyes. “I’ve changed my mind.”

  “About what?” I asked, although I had a good idea.

  “Fuck me,” she said.

  “Well, Kirsti’s going to do that,” I said. “But first I want you to do something for me.”

  “Anything,” she gasped.

 

‹ Prev