Lisa dropped her skirt in the doorway, stepped out of it, and turned to face Sam again. She took a moment to make love to the bedroom door, pressing her body along the edge and lifting her knee along its face, showing off. The black leather and her stockings stood out against the white paint of the bedroom door.
Sam stared at her; every move Lisa made felt like foreplay. “Undress?”
“I won’t take orders from you, Samantha. You know that.”
“Please?” Samantha begged shamelessly. “Please. I need to see you.”
Lisa laughed. “Oh, Sam. You’re so easily seduced.” Lisa turned to face Sam again and started to unbutton her blouse. Her thong was pink and her bra matched; both were edged in feminine lace and hugged Lisa’s curves in all the right ways.
Sam got to her feet, not at all surprised to find her thighs trembling with anticipation. She could feel her pulse beating inside of her, bringing on a hot and damp desire between her thighs, and she followed Lisa into the bedroom, lost in a kind of lust-fueled trance.
Sam wanted to taste her lover, make her scream, send her soaring with tongue and teeth and hot breath while the cold, sharp, steel tips of the gift she’d given her lover dug mercilessly into her skin.
Lisa dropped her blouse, and her bra a moment later, on the floor at the foot of their bed. She turned in a circle, putting first one foot and then the other on the edge of the bed and stroking long fingers over her calves for Sam’s benefit before climbing up and seating herself on the edge of the bed, legs dangling enticingly over the side.
Sam’s knees turned to jelly and she sank to the floor in the doorway where she stood, crawling the rest of the way to her lover. Lisa allowed her to worship without restraint.
Samantha sniffed and licked the leather; she bathed the spike heels with her tongue and sucked on their length. Sounds escaped her, moans and gasps, hungry grunts and whimpers. Lisa remained silent and still, indulging Samantha’s darkest, most secret desires without judgment or reproach, with nothing in her eyes but love, and a hot, burning lust.
Sam pushed a hand into her boxers and rolled her hips against her own trembling fingers and still Lisa watched. Then Lisa started talking softly, offering hot, encouraging words to feed Sam’s already aching need. “That’s it, my lover,” Lisa said to her. “I love to see you like this: consumed, entranced, lost….”
Sam cried out, rolling her clit between her fingers. She lifted one of Lisa’s stiletto-clad feet and placed it against her chest, nestling it right between her breasts and leaning her weight against the sole. She let her head fall back and moaned darkly, her climax so, so near—so very near as she slipped two fingers inside herself and rode them hard, nearer still as her clit bumped and rubbed deliciously against her wrist, and then suddenly she was coming. Muscles expanded and contracted, nerves fired and tingled, and her cunt pulsed as her orgasm rolled through her body.
“Oh, yes, Samantha. Yes,” Lisa whispered above her. Lisa remained still until Sam’s breathing evened out, but they both knew what was coming next. Even as Sam returned to herself, her breath grew tight again and her body rebounded energetically, filled with anticipation.
Lisa cleared her throat meaningfully and then shoved Samantha with the foot already resting against Sam’s chest. Sam fell back, landing hard on her ass, and grinned up at Lisa from the floor.
“Who do you think you are?” Lisa asked in a haughty tone, eyes flashing at Sam with just a hint of a grin tugging at the corner of her mouth. “You can’t buy me with expensive presents.”
“Oh, yes, I can,” Sam answered in a low tone as she climbed to her feet, the barest hint of a growl following her words. “Oh, yes.” The shoes were, perhaps, Sam’s fetish, but Sam knew well how much Lisa enjoyed the power they brought her and how aroused she became by the unfettered enthusiasm with which Sam brought herself off—every single time.
Lisa crawled farther back on the bed, but her eyes were locked on Sam’s. “I do like the shoes,” she offered tentatively.
“Yes, I know,” Sam said, with more than a hint of sarcasm. “I can see that.”
“The metal heels are kind of—” Lisa gasped as Sam interrupted her, reaching for Lisa and sharply tugging her panties down over her hips. “Kind of kinky,” Lisa finished, breathlessly.
“Mmm-hmm. Very.”
Lisa lay back on the bed, looking flushed and beautiful, and Sam crawled over her, forcing her legs apart with a knee. Lisa’s long legs were still sheathed in her smoky-colored thigh-highs, and the stilettos gleamed despite the half-light in their bedroom, brighter and bolder than Dorothy’s ruby slippers, and so much sexier, too.
Sam felt the hard steel of the stilettos scrape along the backs of her knees as Lisa opened for her. They kissed deeply and for a long while until Sam started to rock against Lisa, making her break the kiss to gasp and groan.
“Yes, Sam, yes,” Lisa said softly, grinding her clit into the smooth strength of Sam’s thigh.
Sam cupped one firm breast in her hand and lowered her lips to Lisa’s stiff nipple, winning another gasp as Lisa arched up to meet her mouth. Lisa’s nipples were sensitive and it didn’t take much attention to get her going. Sam kept after them until Lisa started to pull back a little, and Sam knew she’d had enough. That was Sam’s cue to move.
She bent at the waist, pulling her hips away from Lisa, and Lisa whimpered. “Sam, Sam…”
“I’m right here, baby.” Sam slid down her body, peppering Lisa’s skin with soft kisses and gentle nibbles, and Lisa apparently caught on because she settled down and seemed to let herself relax.
Sam thrust out her tongue and teased through Lisa’s dark curls and then lower, dipping into the warm heat of Lisa’s pussy, soaking in Lisa’s sweet scent and finally tasting her.
Lisa gasped. “Fuck, Sam! Please, don’t tease,” she begged and raised one stiletto-clad foot, bringing it to rest on Sam’s shoulder, just beside her ear where the shiny steel heel could not be ignored.
Sam moaned, the shoe taunting her out of the corner of her eye. “That’s not playing fair.”
Lisa laughed.
Sam turned her head and licked the leather where she could reach it, and then Lisa’s other foot came up to join the first, perching on Sam’s other shoulder. “Fuck, Lisa.”
“Do it, Sam,” Lisa ordered, and Sam pushed her tongue back into Lisa’s folds. “Oh!” Lisa cried out and Sam took control, rubbing her tongue across Lisa’s clit over and over until Lisa’s hips started to rock. The heels dug into Sam’s shoulders and she loved every little pinch and stab and burn, knowing Lisa was losing control, knowing she was sending her lover over the edge.
She slipped two fingers inside and Lisa tightened around them with a moan, using the leverage she’d won to lift her hips slightly off the bed. Sam kept after her clit hungrily, working the sensitive nub between tongue and teeth, sucking and rubbing and sucking again, keeping the rhythm deliberately sporadic.
“Sam!” Lisa shouted. “Oh, fuck, Sam! Don’t…please…I need more!”
Sam relented finally and devoured Lisa with purpose, giving her the constant friction that Lisa was begging for.
“Yes, yes!” Lisa moaned and arched. “Sam! Oh, god, Sam!” Her body twisted and writhed as she worked against Sam’s mouth, pumping her hips harder and faster until Sam gave in and let her take over. Seconds later Lisa came hard, her lovely, curvy hips jerking and spasming as Sam continued to lick and suck. “Oh, Christ, Sam…enough…fuck…enough!”
Sam pulled away, panting and licking her lips triumphantly. “Fuck, I love those shoes.”
Lisa nodded from where she lay, still breathlessly spent on the bed. “Hell yes, they’re definitely keepers.” She shifted and crossed her legs so they could both get a good look at the stilettos, then bent and turned her ankle around until the silver metallic heels were caught in the streetlight that shone in through their bedroom window. Spiked heels, patent leather. “They’re beautiful.”
Lisa could call it S
am’s fetish, but Sam knew so much better.
PUNK LOVE
Victoria Gimpelevich
The concert is in a tight, dark little punk venue. Layers of graffiti scrawled over everything in sight, toilets you can get an STD from, and a ground-level stage for the band with only a duct-taped half-circle to separate it from the rest of the floor. Half the audience is also playing tonight, or dating members of the bands. It’s the kind of place I’d spent most of high school in, sneaking out at night to catch the latest show, blending into the studded crowd, proudly bearing the symbols of local bands and patchy dye jobs. Now the show just makes me feel old, nursing the beer that most of the kids here would need fake IDs to buy.
“Let’s blow this place. I want a venue with a bar,” I say—I’m down to the last beer I smuggled in. Kids in painted leather jackets are flocking to an open box of cigarettes, hoping there are enough to go around. “The band members are the only ones even old enough to buy cigs here.”
“Chill out. We always go to bars, I’m sick of them.” Miles is my date for the night, my gay boyfriend, the cornerstone of a relationship neither of us can mess up with the complicated emotions of sex. He’s a convenient partner for family events where lesbianism means the end of financial support those months where minimum wage doesn’t quite meet both rent and student loans. “Besides, I wanted to see where people like you come from”—a jab at my tendency toward Doc Martins, faded band shirts, and pants that should have been thrown out three holes ago.
“Fuck you. I’m sexy and you know it.”
“Only lesbians think that work boots and flannel are an attractive combo.”
“You’re not exactly fresh from Abercrombie & Fitch yourself, speaking of stereotypes.”
“That’s because I have fashion standards, not fashion obsessions. Now, is this next one done setting up yet?”
The average time between punk sets is half an hour, but the next band is late, and we are starting to push forty-five minutes of the same Clash-era mixed soundtrack on loop. The band finally starts to tune their instruments, and for some reason I’m drawn to the guitarist. She’s the only female in a band of four—singer, bass, guitar, and drums. She has bright blue hair, the kind that leaves your bathtub streaked with color long after it’s faded out of your hair, that she brushes out of her eyes while tuning the guitar. The gesture is casual, speaking of comfort in her skin. I like a girl with confidence.
The lights dim, and people drift from outside back into the room. The guitarist plays with her legs spread wide and the instrument swung low, using the none-too-subtle phallic imagery of her male counterparts. Her entire upper body rocks back and forth to the beat of their first song, torso moving to the harsh beat so that straining against a fitted shirt I can tell—
“Oh, shit, she’s not wearing a bra,” Miles says. “That’s great.”
“Yeah, it is.” She’s pretty, soft features clashing against rough-hewn fashion. “Do you think she’s a dyke?”
“Only one way to find out,” he says. “I hope she is; you haven’t been laid in ages, and you’re such a downer when you’re not getting any.”
I roll my eyes at Miles and move in closer to the band. A small mosh pit has formed, full of punks ramming into each other and singing along to what lyrics are understandable over the static of bad speakers. The guitarist is absorbed in playing, and what strains of her instrument I can hear are reminiscent of Sleater-Kinney, or maybe that’s just wishful thinking. They’re not bad, but they’re probably never going to have a following outside this state.
I move in closer, hoping for a better look. Like, maybe her nails are short or something. An indicator would be nice. The overlap between dyke and punk fashion sense has gotten me into trouble before. I think someone bats for my team, but then no, I’ve just got one pissed off straight girl on my hands.
I like the edge to her motions: jerky, like she means business, like she’d know how to fuck. So I chug what’s left of my beer, toss it toward a corner, and join the fray. It’s been a year or two since the last time I joined a mosh pit, and a clip to my jaw reminds me very quickly what it’s like. Being lighter than most of the guys I’m moshing with, I get knocked around a lot. But rearing back and slamming into them is exhilarating. The mixture of pain and adrenaline puts me back in my body, giving a high much more active than the sluggish alcoholic joy I’ve gotten hooked on.
The song ends and my arm is aching, in a good way. I’m closer to the “stage,” so I have a better view of the guitarist. She’s thin, with the kind of perky tits that let you get away with going braless. Her eyes match her hair, and she lacks the usual thick, black mascara that punk girls favor. The unpainted face looks good on her, and the creeping feeling on my clit reminds me that it has been too long since I’ve been with a girl. The feeling spreads, and I know I’m wet, probably leaving a dark stain in my boxers. I imagine the guitarist’s hand in my crotch, helping me along, returning the favor for her. She should have strong fingers, calloused from the firm strings she plays. I like it a little rough.
The singer tells about their next song, but I’m not listening. I’m staring hard at the guitarist, wondering if she can feel my gaze, if the thoughts of what I want to do to her are sending a chill up her spine. I’m wondering if she’s single. A metal ring wraps around her asymmetric bottom lip. I imagine the cool metal contrasting with the warmth of her lips. It gives me the determination to plow to the front of the pit as they begin to play again.
A boy with checkered bleach squares on his head knocks me farther than I intended, and I crash straight into her. The guitar riffs stop for a few seconds as she regains her balance, but this is a punk band so she’s not too surprised, and soon picks up again as though nothing has happened. I get back up and flash an apologetic smile, but her focus is back on the music.
Miles is laughing at me when I get back to him, so I hit him in the arm.
“Ow! Don’t take your shortcomings out on me, Casanova. I can’t help it if you’re a klutz.”
I wander outside as her band begins loading their instruments up into a trailer. The guitar is packed away quickly, but the drummer is left running back and forth, carrying the awkward parts of his drum set. She leans against a wall, watching him work. She fishes a cigarette out of her pocket. A hand rummages through another pocket, not finding what she wants.
“Need a light?” I walk over, lighter proffered.
She looks up, bright eyes showing recognition. “Sure.” Her voice is even, confident like her movements, with a slight forced huskiness that tells me she’s trying to act tough tonight.
“Just wanted to apologize about trying to kill you earlier.”
She lights the cigarette, sucking in as she holds up the flame to get the tip to catch. “Don’t worry about it.” Her nipples are visible through the T-shirt, tempting little pebbles just begging to get sucked.
I realize too late that I’m staring. She has an eyebrow cocked, more amused than angry. “It’s usually the boys who stare.”
I should mumble an apology and go back to Miles, but I’m horny and that makes me brave. “You’ve got beautiful breasts; it’s hard not to stare.”
She laughs, the badass body language gone for a second, as she’s caught off guard. It’s not what I was expecting, but her face softens and there’s an impish humor hidden in it. “Well, that’s an honest answer at least. None of that ‘my mind just wandered and I wasn’t really looking’ crap.”
“What can I say? I’m a straightforward kind of gal.” I’ve got one arm next to her, leaning against the wall doing my best James Dean. Muffled voices and untuned instruments drift out from the other end of the wall. “What’s your name?”
“Kat.”
“Do you happen to like girls, Kat?” I ask, leaning in more so I can feel her breath on my neck, hoping I’m not pushing too far.
“Depends on the girl. I don’t usually come to shows looking for a date.” Her mouth is barely open and I move in closer
, lick her bottom lip, teasing, asking, waiting for permission.
She grabs my head and pulls my mouth onto hers, fully covering her soft, strong lips. That’s all the permission I need. I slide my tongue past her teeth and fill her mouth with it, rough. The cigarette drops to the ground, and a hand clamps on to my ass as her tongue fights for control of the situation.
She sees something, and her lips retreat to mouth an insult. At first I think it’s for me, but then I follow her gaze to the bandmates watching us, making obscene gestures.
“Fuck off, guys,” she says, jerking her head at them.
They laugh and don’t move, saying things I can’t make out.
“You wanna blow this joint?” she whispers, tongue flicking over my earlobe.
An image of Miles leaps, unbidden, into my mind. But he’s a big boy and can get home by himself. “Sure.”
She pulls me into her truck, the trailer full of instruments still attached, and we take off. The stereo is on too loud, and she cranks it up more as she drives. I slide a hand up her thigh until I’ve reached the crotch of her jeans and firmly stroke her clit through the fabric. Her breathing gets heavier and the car accelerates. Her hips grind against my fingers, and I can smell that she’s wet. Or maybe that’s me.
After a few sharp turns we’re in an alley, slamming the doors of the truck behind us. This time she’s got me pushed up against the side of the truck with icy fingers climbing up the back of my shirt and undoing my bra. There’s no fumbling with the clasp, just one fluid motion that speaks for years of practice. She jams two fingers into my mouth, then three, and when I suck on them, she flashes a predatory smile.
“I’m going to fuck you ’til you beg me to let you come,” Kat says, wiping my spit down the front of my pants.
Best Lesbian Erotica 2009 Page 7
