Best Lesbian Erotica 2009

by Tristan Taormino

  “Oh, man,” she groans under her breath. Beneath her bravado, I realize, this woman is shockingly innocent. What she really thinks of as her knowledge of the world is partial knowledge of a small corner of it.

  Beneath her jeans, Bernie wears sensible panties. I manage to pull everything down over asscheeks which look appealingly pale, like paper waiting to be written on. I can feel her tense muscles under a layer of fat. My own cunt feels hot and moist.

  I’ve left her legs free so that I can pull her clothing completely off them. I let her watch me, head turned, as I wad up her musky-smelling pants and underwear and throw them into a corner as though aiming for a wastebasket. I can see from her red face that my implied value judgment does not escape her.

  “Hold still,” I tell her. She tries to lower both her heels to the floor, but they don’t quite reach. “Don’t worry,” I assure her, removing her shoes and (phew!) pungent socks and sending them to join her clothes. “Your feet will be secured, but these cuffs are different from the ones on the desk.” I guide one of her ankles toward a hinged cuff, handmade from a tin can, which is connected by a chain to a bolt in the floor. Like the resourceful dyke who made them, the ankle-cuffs show creativity with a lack of finesse.

  These cuffs are spaced far enough apart to keep a victim spread open slightly beyond her comfort level. Once both of Bernie’s ankles are held fast by the tin-can bands with a little lock on each, I explain what she can’t see. “You look delectable, Bernie.” I imagine her ass growing as flushed as her face, as it soon will. “Try not to move your feet at all because those cuffs have sharp edges. You could get cut if you struggle.”

  She moans as though she can hardly believe how easy it is to sink into bottom space. I reach between her legs to check her soft cunt-folds, and find that she is already wetting the desk. Her clit is probably as large as it ever gets. “Good,” I tell her. “Your attitude seems much improved already.”

  She twitches almost imperceptibly as I stroll to the small fridge, open it, and remove the long plug of ginger that I peeled yesterday, hoping I would get a chance to use it. It feels cool, damp, and slippery, even on the broader end that is designed as a handle.

  She tenses immediately when I gently spread open her anus and push the plug into her, inch by inch. At first, I can sense her relief that the thing feels cool and harmless. As the heat of her body warms up the plug and brings out the natural qualities of ginger, she gasps. “It burns.”

  “So it does,” I agree. “It’s ginger, a very old remedy for listless horses and naughty schoolchildren in an era of corporal punishment. Let it focus your attention, Bernie.” I let her consider her dilemma for a few minutes as she squirms, trying to find a comfortable position.

  I walk to the closet, open it, and find what I’m looking for. I bring back a variety of implements, which I handle casually, just at the edge of her field of vision.

  “Bernie,” I muse. “Is that short for Bernadette?”

  “Yep. When are you going to take that thing out of my ass?”

  “In a while,” I assure her. “It needs to do its work. Ginger is wonderfully effective in curing arrogance. Bernadette, you seem to have been named for a saint. Did you attend separate school?”

  “Yeah,” she groans. “Damn nuns on my case all the time.”

  “And now I’m on your case.” I put a smile into my voice. “I’m not a Catholic, but I’m not much different from them. Teaching is a sacred calling in itself, and I’m honored to serve the Goddess after whom I was named. You wouldn’t have the right to call me by my first name, of course, even if you knew it.”

  I walk to the side of the desk, and dangle a flogger before her eyes. “And now to the business at hand. Your ass needs some attention on the outside too. I always let my students make choices, so you can choose the thing I’m going to use on you. This is a flogger.” I lay it on the desk beside her. “This is a rattan cane, and it carries more of a sting.” I lay it beside the flogger. “This is a paddle. The wood is nicely finished, don’t you think? It could make your bottom glow all over.” I put it down beside the other things.

  I can see tears in Bernie’s eyes as she turns her head away. Her wimpiness disappoints me.

  I stroke her hair, which is softer than it looks. “Bernie, you’ve been punished before, haven’t you? Not by your choice.”

  “Shit,” she mutters. “Damn drunks in my family. And the nuns. They all thought I was guilty of everything unless I could prove I wasn’t.”

  I run my fingernails lightly over her pale, freckled back. “I believe in your innocence, Bernadette. Really. And I’m not willing to punish you for anything you haven’t done. I’ll give you a safeword. If you really can’t stand what I’m doing, you can say “purple” and I’ll stop. Now I know you’re tempted to safeword the plug out of your restless butt, but you’d be letting yourself down. You have courage, don’t you?”

  I am pleased to see that she isn’t willing to brag. “I’m no jam-tart,” she says as modestly as possible.

  “That’s what I thought. You can stand a certain amount of pain, especially when it’s for a good cause. There is a grammar of physical experience just as there is a grammar of language, Bernie. Giving and accepting the right sensation at the right time is as fine an art as the effective placement of a modifier beside the word it serves. There are connections among all things. If you take your discipline well, you’ll love the reward. Now choose.”

  “Paddle.” She avoids my eyes.

  “It’s the devil you know, isn’t it? Wise choice.”

  I stand behind her, practicing my swing as I study her inviting ass. Whack! She jerks.

  “Aw!” she yelps. “My ankle.”

  “If you’ve cut yourself, I’ll clean it later. Meanwhile, be careful. We’re not finished.” Whack! I love the sound of solid wood connecting with less-solid flesh. Whack!

  I watch her striving mightily to lie still as each impact sends echoes through her flesh and jiggles the ginger against her delicate membranes. Whack!

  “Oh!” The diphthong has a beautifully rich sound, suggesting shock, surprise, discovery, shame, surrender, and deep pleasure all at once. She reminds me of Archimedes exclaiming “Eureka!”

  I speed up. Whack! Whack! Her bottom is red all over, as I promised. She still hasn’t used her safeword. “Can you take two more, Bernie?”

  “Yeah. For you, Doctor Chalkdust.” She wants me to know that she is capable of chivalrous sacrifice. She wants herself to know that she is capable of responding with dignity to pain and humiliation. I feel inspired.

  I focus more energy on the next swing, which connects solidly with her butt. Her cheeks are still quivering as I give her the last one. “Aw-oh-ooh!” That sound again.

  “Good girl,” I tell her. “I might gag you in the future, but this time, I like to hear you.” I pull the plug out of her anus with teasing slowness and throw it onto her clothes.

  I can easily fit three of my slim fingers into her gaping, overflowing cunt. I know that a few strokes would send her crashing into an orgasm almost strong enough to knock her out, but I want to prolong the suspense for both of us.

  “Now you get a reward, honey,” I tell her. “Gentle fingering to get you off, or a hard, deep fuck with a strap-on. Which would you prefer?”

  “Oh,” she moans as though my words alone have brought her close to the edge. “Please, please fuck me, Doctor Chalkdust.”

  I am quite heated myself, and my clothes feel excessive. I pull off my T-shirt in one motion, fold it neatly, and lay it on the oak chair. I quickly pull down my burgundy raw-silk pants and my black satin panties, and lay them atop the shirt. My shoes have a place beneath the chair, and I stand on the Persian area rug for a moment, enjoying the sensations of fiber under my feet and air on my skin.

  I let Bernie stew in her own juice as I replace the flogger, the cane, and the paddle in the closet, where I gird my loins with the leather harness that holds my prized smoked-glass dildo
. I will need to stand on a stool, so I pick up the one that waits in a corner of the room, and set it down between Bernie’s spread legs.

  The sight and the heat of Bernie’s red buttcheeks are directly below me as I guide my hard, cool instrument deeply into her eager cunt. I reach under her to find and torment her swollen clit with cruel squeezes, pinches, and pulls. She almost screams with each thrust of my hips.

  I coordinate my breathing with my rhythm. When I know I have enough air in my lungs for speech, I query her. “Will you ever make assumptions”—thrust—“about women you’ve just met”—thrust—“again, Bernie?”

  “No-ohh!” She doesn’t try to modify her answer. She is coming uncontrollably. I’m not far behind her in any sense, but I need more direct stimulation.

  She has limited ability to control her movements, and I am afraid that all the cuffs will damage her more than I intended. I withdraw from her and undo the wrist-cuffs. I step down from the stool and watch as she cautiously raises her head and back, stretching like a cat as she lowers her arms.

  I notice that standing bondage has its own esthetic appeal as she stands upright, legs still spread. “Hold still,” I tell her as I kneel behind her to insert a little key into each little lock and open each ankle-cuff. She no longer seems to be feeling the sting from the cut on her ankle, so I decide to treat it with antiseptic and a Band-Aid once my own needs have been met.

  “You’re free,” I point out.

  This moment always gives me a certain frisson. Like most of the others, she is still bigger and stronger than I am, and far from being a committed and disciplined student. I know very well that her transformation has only begun. “Would you like to taste me, Bernie?”

  She faces me with an amazed grin and reaches forward with outstretched arms as though to lift me off the floor. She stops short of touching me. “If you’d like me to, Mistress Doctor Chalkdust. You’re so beautiful.” She closes her eyes, apparently expecting me to kiss her. “Taste” to her seems to mean a French kiss.

  “We can kiss as much as you like, honey,” I tell her, “but first I need your hot tongue on my clit and as far inside me as you can reach. Fingers would be welcome too.” I pull the stool away from the desk, sit on it, pull the clip from my hair and shake it over my shoulders. Then I spread my legs.

  Bernie kneels before me, carefully keeping her butt away from her heels. She presses her mouth to my cunt as though my nectar actually had the power to heal her. I steady myself with my hands on her shoulders.

  She is clearly a dyke who takes pride in her work. She daringly grazes my clit with her teeth as her tongue slides along my wet folds to find my dark, hidden core. She reaches in with one finger, then two, as she patiently rubs various spots on my inner walls to find the most sensitive place. This is one area of skill in which she definitely has experience.

  She finds the right spot and presses her advantage. “Ah! Baby, that’s—it,” I moan, spasming against her mouth. As I hoped, she keeps going until my orgasm dwindles to a last little squeeze.

  She grins proudly up at me, slowly licking her wet lips. “D’you like what I do, honey, Professor?”

  “What’s my name?”

  “Doctor Chalkdust, Ma’am. Sorry about that. Sometimes I get carried away.”

  I can’t help laughing. “So do we all, Bernie. It’s all right this time, but make an effort to remember correct forms of address.” I ruffle her hair. “You gave an outstanding performance,” I assure her. “You have great potential. Did you know that?”

  I am moved to see tears in her eyes. “No, Doctor Chalkdust. I didn’t really know that.”

  I move the stool aside so that we can lie in each other’s arms on the patterned carpet, momentarily feeling as innocent as children or puppies. Now it’s time to kiss, hug, and tickle each other in gratitude and relief. As I expected, she loves playing with my long hair and hardening my nipples with her talented mouth.

  “I hope your friends will forgive us,” I tease her.

  “I don’t care,” she swears with the fervency of her kind. “I don’t care. Doctor Chalkdust, I’m so glad I met you.”

  “I’m glad too,” I laugh, “you uncouth lump.” I am grateful to Athena, Goddess of knowledge, for continually sending me what I need as She sends me the ones who need me. My life feels like an endless work-in-progress in which all the modifiers turn out to be perfectly placed.

  VELVET

  Lisabet Sarai

  I must really be horny, to be sitting here fantasizing about the keynote speaker. I squirm in my chair and worry that I’m making a damp spot. The geek next to me appears to be equally captivated by the woman at the podium; there’s a big bulge in his lap. I wonder if he’s catching my telltale scent. Marta Hauser, founder and CEO of VideoPlayHaus.com, takes control of the stage. I can’t take my eyes off her. She’s the only woman on the SoftCon opening panel, addressing the ostensibly earthshaking topic: “The New Net: Convergence or Confusion?”

  In contrast to the casual beige of her fellow Silicon Valley visionaries, Marta wears an emerald green pantsuit of rich velvet that molds perfectly to her body. The businesslike cut only makes her curves more obvious. She takes the mic and struts around like the star that she is. The velvet gleams in the spotlight that follows her.

  Her jet black hair is short, parted along one side with spiky sideburns that accentuate her cheekbones. Her eyes are dark, too. Even from the middle of the auditorium, I can see that her ripe lips are painted crimson. I imagine those lips claiming mine, firm, no nonsense, and then I imagine them lower, smearing my belly with scarlet, marking the insides of my thighs with lipstick brands before fastening on my aching clit. I can feel the soft nap of her trousers caressing my flesh as she parts my thighs with her own.

  I’m so horny that it hurts. I consider slinking off to the ladies room, but I don’t want to miss an instant of Marta’s performance. I try to focus on what’s she’s saying. I’m sure that it must be intelligent if not enlightening. I keep getting distracted by the V of tanned skin above the closure of her jacket.

  Finally she concludes, to rowdy applause, and reseats herself as the moderator calls the next speaker. I skim her bio in the program: American mother, German father; degrees from the University of Heidelberg and Stanford; stints at HP and Oracle before she left to start VideoPlayHaus.com, her phenomenally popular site for collaborative video editing. When VPH went public last year, she became one of the few women among the ranks of Valley millionaires.

  Another technology mogul, a pudgy guy in a denim jacket, drones on about ubiquitous computing and the personalization revolution. Marta scans the audience, looking bored. For a moment, I have this bizarre notion that she’s staring at me. I hold my breath, my heart slamming against my ribs. I swear that I can see lust in her eyes.

  Dream on, girl. What interest would a hotshot like Marta Hauser have in you? You don’t even know if she’s into women.

  It’s just frustration. Since Rhys moved out nearly a month ago, I’ve been a veritable nun. I’ve been spending even more time at work than usual, trying to keep my mind occupied, trying not to miss her.

  Rhys claimed that she left because she couldn’t compete with my job. But that wasn’t the real reason for the breakup.

  Thinking about those days makes my pussy ache. I close my eyes and see Rhys’s bronzed, compact body, her modest breasts with their purple-grape nipples, her bare pubes and downy thighs. It’s so easy to picture her bold eyes and crooked smile, her buzz cut and her tattoos.

  I told Rhys that my long hair didn’t make me any less a lesbian. She’d nod, but then she’d start to give me grief about the traces of makeup I wear to work, or the fact that I occasionally splurge on a manicure.

  Then there was the strap-on. I tried to make her understand, but she tended to take the whole thing personally.

  I miss Rhys now. If she were to show up with her harness and that pink, veined dildo, I’d very likely spread my legs and beg her to take me.
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  But she’s undoubtedly at work over at the Sisterhood Bookstore on University Avenue, and I’m here at Moscone, flogging my company’s products. And it’s time to get back to the booth.

  Jim looks up from his laptop and grins. “How was the keynote session? Did you get startling new insights into the awe-some future of technology?” Venkatesh, who’s adjusting the LCD projector, just waves hello.

  “Nah, same old, same old.” I consider telling them about Marta Hausman; the guys love it when I talk to them about hot women. Somehow, though, that doesn’t feel appropriate, especially when we’re trying to be professional. “Anything exciting happening here?”

  “It’s been pretty slow. Probably because of the keynote. After coffee break, it’ll pick up.” Jim gestures at the fishbowl labeled WIN A FREE THUMBDRIVE FROM FACEQUEST. “All the morning’s cards are in there.”

  I grab a handful of cards and start leafing through them, looking for any likely prospects. As team leader, I’m nominally in charge of the booth. But I hate the business side of my job.

  “Tell me about your company. What does FaceQuest do?” The question is soft but clear, carefully articulated, with the faintest hint of an accent. I nearly jump out of my trousers. Scrutinizing the business cards, I hadn’t noticed her approach.

  She’s here, in the flesh, standing in front of me in that outrageous velvet suit and waiting for my answer.

  She’s not as tall as she seemed onstage. That doesn’t diminish her attitude of command. Her nose and chin are perhaps too sharp, but they’re offset by the plumpness of her painted lips. She’s not smiling at the moment. She’s serious, wants to know about our products, is curious to discover whether there’s some potential benefit there for her own company.