Best Lesbian Erotica 2009

by Tristan Taormino

  “Good grrrl,” he says through gritted teeth. “Tell me how much you like it.”

  “Oh, Daddy, I love it, oh, please don’t stop! Please. Oh, it feels so good, oh, god yes.” My words disintegrate into moans and gasps. Each rough movement of his body echoes on my clit and makes me whimper and moan.

  “You want to move your hips, don’t you?”

  My arms are above my head and I want to touch him so desperately.

  “Yes, oh, yes please.”

  “Do it.” Two words that meet no resistance as my body reacts to his command.

  My hips rise to meet his, and I can feel myself driving into him as I moan. I can feel him close to coming and my own building heat which he taught me to recognize, and all too often to stop.

  The pace quickens and he growls, leaning down to bite my neck hard.

  “Such a good little grrrl,” he whispers in my ear. “You want to come, you naughty little thing, don’t you?

  “Oh, yes.”

  The driving rhythm of his pressing against me is bringing me closer each minute.

  “Your Daddy is going to come all over you,” he tells me and I whimper. “You may come as well.”

  I moan as I feel his orgasm building, and his sharp moans signal his release. He drives his body into me furiously as I feel a scream bursting out of me, struggling not to move my hands, struggling not to grab him to me, moaning as I feel him coming hard against me, growling ferociously, trembling with the power of his body.

  I close my eyes as the powerful orgasm takes me over from head to toes, and he rolls off of me gently. I groan at the sudden loss of his weight on me, feeling suddenly cold, denied of his warmth. He reaches down to undo the straps with nimble fingers and orders me to raise my hips so he can remove the harness from my body. His fingers brush gently against my soaking wet panties making me groan and shudder. He smiles as he puts a blanket over me.

  He smoothes back my hair and murmurs, “That’s a good grrrl.”

  He kisses my forehead. “You’ve made your Daddy sooo happy. You made him feel so good, babygrrrl.”

  I can feel my eyes tearing up as he continues to stroke my hair lovingly.

  “What a good grrrl. You tried so hard not to move, I know that was hard.”

  I nod tearfully.

  He showers my face with soft kisses, letting me breathe in his scent as I close my eyes and feel my body become relaxed and warm.

  “You’re such a good grrrl,” he whispers in my ear. “You’ve pleased your Daddy so much.”

  I snuggle up to him, greedily seeking the comfort of his warmth.

  “Thank you, Daddy,” I whisper.

  “Did you like your presents, babygrrrl?”

  I smile and answer quietly, “Mmm-hmm.”

  And for a few minutes I float away quietly in my Daddy’s arms, knowing that all is safe in the world. I love presents. Don’t you?

  BLADE, INK, STEEL

  Sharon Wachsler

  To the Skin

  Too early, no sleep, on Ella’s arm, all’s black. Buzzed on java shots, skittering heels stick in cracked linoleum, I stumble, catch a wheezing laugh far left. Ella shoves me onto a chair, quick unlocks one cuff, yanks my wrist to the armrest. Click, click, click it closes, and swift she does the other. Seat clanks up like a dentist chair. Ankle shackles ratcheted to a bar below.

  Ella jerks off my blindfold. In sudden flickering fluorescence, dented metal mirror exposes my waxy skin, red-lined eyes. Ella drops into a rocker, nods to coughing tough crushing out her cig in the dim. Tar-fingered stranger slouches over, scissors in one hand, clippers in the other, fists the chestnut hank hanging from my nape to ass. “Nuh!” I toss my head, sick rises at the snick, snick, snick of quick blades.

  “Good we’ve got that ball gag in, eh, Sweet Pea?” Ella smirks. “I’d be so disappointed if you didn’t appreciate Gen’s work.”

  Sweet Pea. I purple: gentle, dainty taunt. If I could spit it, those words—not my hair—would be on the floor, ground into the grimy vinyl.

  Gen bows me. Clippers devour vanity in jagged arcs, tears canyon between cheeks and nose. Then she sits to watch.

  Ella stalks up, jacks my skirt to my hips, lifts Gen’s shears, with a flick she fillets my panties, tosses the scissors, and pries me apart. Scooping my severed braid from the floor, she fans it up my thighs, tickling it against my pulsing cunt, bristles sharp and soft—too light. I jut toward the tease.

  Laughter. “What, no tears now?” Ella feeds the dark shock inside me, brown ponytail swirling my cunt, silken ends whisper at pussy lips. I strain at the restraints, loose a whimper. She snakes it out, glistening with cream, smears my cheeks, chin, nose with my reek. Lazing, she puts the twist between her teeth, sucking like a cigar. Nods to Gen: “Tastes like a cunt.”

  Then Gen’s back, cutting relentless. Wielding a razor, scrapes my scalp.

  The scratching distracts me as Ella throws my damp hank in my lap, releases a wrist. “Unbraid it,” she says. Shaking, my fingers finish, she reclasps the wrist.

  She licks her lips to suck the end again, flicks her Zippo, flames the tip. Brunette spider’s threads curl quick like spent filament. She drops it in a chipped glass dish as it opens into charred gray dust.

  I sit transfixed till Gen spins me, holding a second mirror behind. The front’s still a blunt cut, but from nape to crown the back’s a quarter-inch except the stark letters carved to the skin, not even stubble there: ELLA’S. I quiver as Ella un-cuffs me to run my hands over her name. Over and over and over. ELLA’S. Over and over.

  Flipping Gen ten bills, Ella grins, “Get lost for twenty.” Pumps the chair low, unzips her jeans to unleash her dick, my mouth. I reach, one hand finds her cock, the other fingers my scalp, and suck her: heaven. Now I know, Samson should’ve kissed Delilah’s dick.

  Tight and hot I blow till her stained fingers push mine away. She rakes me with blunt nails and I feel her brand—the razor burn.

  In the Skin

  Ella recuffs and gags me, frees my feet, flags a cab, herds me onto vinyl. Dizzy with possession, I rock, thighs squeezed, rubbing my scalp against the seat, reading it like inverted Braille. Vise-gripping my wrist, she snarls low so the driver’s not wise, “Trying to get off?” Slicks two fingers under my skirt and into me. I gasp, arch to get her deeper.

  Slap, slap! She smacks the Plexi. “Next Seven-Eleven.”

  Cab swings wide, and Ella jerks out of me and cab. My yelp muffled, I shiver in the empty. Back, she cradles cherry soda and yogurt, releases my mouth, strawing the drink. “Suck like it’s mine.” She squeezes her crotch. I gulp the sweet while she tumbles the yogurt. “How would you eat yourself?” I lap the spoon.

  Low, “You’re too in your head. I’m getting into your body.” I moan. “Know why it’s all cherry? Cuz I’m gonna bust yours all day, Sweet Pea.”

  The dairy sours. I choke it down, open for the gag. “Good.” Then, “Here!” she hollers. Cabbie jams to the side, Ella’s pulling me out before I read the signs. Inside, walls crawl with arms, backs, necks, lined, linked, inked. I skitter back, but Ella’s palming my skull. “What do you say?” She rubs: ELLA’S.

  “Tina!” she belts.

  A juicy olive femme dances in, hands her a drawing. “Beauty, eh?”

  Ella pats her ass. “Perfect.”

  Tina swings to her table. “Hop up!” She caresses it. Ella hoists me.

  Tina smiles, lays paper in my lap, talking as she traces a lithe stem branching up, delicate fronds unfurling. “These two little blossoms will be white,” the tattooist says, pointing a red-tipped finger. “The leaves, stem, and pods will all be green of course. Sweet, eh?”

  They turn to me. I freeze. All I see: that tender vine.

  “So,” Tina lays down her pen. “Read and sign this—consent, liability, notice of safety practices, et cetera.” I see the exit, my chance.

  Ella rises, steps toward it.

  I scribble, fitful, my signature illegible. Ella pivots, flash
es “Lay down.” Casual, she flicks my skirt back, baring me. “It will fit?”

  Crimson, I cringe. Tina frowns, “Don’t you want this?” Motions to my mouth. “Better take that out.”

  I look down, try to catch Ella’s eye, but she’s turned, tracing her name in caps on a scrap, a big apostrophe S, gaze lazing to the door.

  Tina touches my face with a lacquered nail. “Hon, you’re the one who’ll wear it. You gotta love it.” I swallow the lump, nod, let myself fall limp as Ella walks over again.

  Tina unwraps gel and razors. “Great,” she says, beaming. “The stem’ll start here,” a red-tipped finger touches above my thigh, “avoid the crease, leaves and flowers curling up….” Finger arcs my mound. “A pod hanging on each labia majora.”

  Ella sits to the side, I press my head into the table to feel the empty places, tasting pools of magic cherry Kool-Aid in my mind. Watch her watching Tina shave me smooth, transfer the pattern. I slip into the slick, slick, slick and Ella’s eyes.

  Then a million burning needles break my skin. The stabbing switches on and off with soothing swipes. Lidocaine cream, I learn later, makes it such a pure pain, tides of cool and hot rocking me. A minute, ten, a hundred, endless—wipe, burn, wipe, burn, holding still, exposed, exquisite. The searing juices my cunt, heat rising pungent past Tina’s needles.

  Four hours gone: I’m drunk on pain, Ella’s triumph, Tina’s rhythmic swipe, sting, swipe, sting as she wipes away black and green and white—and red so beautiful, can’t believe I’m setting it free.

  I’m desperate for Ella’s dick, tongue, thumb, touch. Finally, Tina flashes glass at me. In the mirror, I’m transformed: Ella’s tender cunt.

  Through the Skin

  Aftercare words blur as Ella pays, pushes me into a back-room chair, sits on its counter. Blissed, I eye Ella’s dick, try to tickle my clit. Slaps my hand—“Lucille!” she bellows.

  Billy-Idol dyke ambles in, gleaming metal beads.

  Another paper. I sigh, sign, smiling. Unbutton my top, finger a nipple.

  “She tweaking?” ’Cille frowns.

  “Nah—endorphins. New tat.” Ella lifts my skirt. I squirm forward, giving blondie a good look. She chuckles.

  “You’ll oversee aftercare?”

  “What do you think?” Ella jaws.

  “A’ight,” ’Cille raises palms in surrender. “But take that out.”

  Ella scowls, releases my mouth. “Lean back, Sweet Pea,” sotto voce. Ceiling swirls. She motions to ’Cille.

  “Here,” Ella touches my uninked, inside labia.

  “Oh.” I tilt toward it.

  “And here.”

  “Aye-ah.” I wriggle.

  Lucille shakes her head, looking down at me. “I can’t do this if you don’t hold still.”

  “Ella touched me,” I explain.

  “Christ.” Lucille slops coffee on her T.

  Ella looms. “I’m chaining you. Don’t move.”

  I nod, peaceful.

  Astringent tingles my clit hood. Fantastic lights dance, but I statue. Purple pen dots, Ella and ’Cille eyeball angles, tilt, peer.

  Then red-hot pinwheels fire left, clean pain—just a taste—the pulling, fishing-line fine, until the tug, when I think I might come, but it’s not enough. Again the pierce, this time right, I bite back my cry. Sweet hurt, tickle, tug. Tightening, fastening clasps, that pinching has my hands gripping, Ella’s tongue circles her lip.

  Hand glass held below my open lap. “Here.” Two tiny steel hoops, each gold-beaded, gold links hanging between. My pearl, pulsing pink, draped in gold.

  Ella stealths to me, slipping her littlest finger under, tugs feathery. My eyes roll.

  From her pocket Ella spins a new ring: thick gold band, a long strand dangles a clasp. “You’ll heal, then who owns you, Sweet Pea?”

  I make my mouth an O. Ella slips the ring between my lips. Kingly, she holds her hand out to be kissed. I slide the ring down her fourth finger like unrolling a rubber, tasting the metal tang, licking her underside’s wrinkles.

  We kiss. Ella takes me home.

  BENEATH THE CARPET IS THE FLOOR

  Anna Watson

  The park ranger tells me she’s put in for a transfer. She’s craving forest, she says, enough salt spray, enough sand-logged condoms snagged out of the dunes, enough trying to educate the public about sandpipers and their nesting needs.

  “It’s your job to educate the public,” I say. And me, I think, what about me?

  “Down with sandpipers,” she says, “up with spotted owls.” She wants to go to Northern California and leave me and my beach shack behind, just when our fucking was reaching what I can only refer to as new heights.

  Now, for instance. She stops talking and snaps her fingers, pointing to a spot by her right boot. I drop in an instant, hearing myself murmur in my head, Assume the position, which is on my knees, legs spread, hands upturned and balanced lightly on my thighs. Back straight, tits out, head slightly lowered, eyes downcast. I read about it in a book, and the first time felt silly, but that low hum of pleasure in her throat made it all okay and now I do it without thinking. Not thinking is the key, actually.

  I feel her hand on my head, rough and gentle at the same time, exactly the way she’ll absentmindedly rub a dog’s head, one tied up outside a store, for example. She rubs my head, then she reaches back and grabs a fistful of hair, yanking my head up until I’m nose to dick, taking in the bulge in her uniform pants, unable to look elsewhere.

  “Like what you see?”

  “Yes, Sir!” And I like what I hear, the way her voice deepens when she’s topping me, the desire bleeding through.

  “Tell me what you want to do.”

  “Sir! I want to suck your dick, Sir!”

  She pushes my head back down and lets go of my hair. “Oh, that’s imaginative,” she sneers. “The girl wants to suck my dick. Suck your dick, Sir!” She mocks my trembly, eager voice, and I blush, tears rushing to my eyes.

  “I can do better,” I whisper, settling back into position.

  “Hmm.” She moves across the room and I can hear her unzipping her bag. That black leather bag. Sir’s bag. I feel a rush in my cunt and I make sure my back is straight. I can’t help breathing faster and there’s an itch on my cheek but I don’t scratch. She’s back, lifting my chin with the butt of the small whip. I’m looking at her manhood again, tears spilling from my eyes.

  “I’m giving you another chance,” she says, sounding bored.

  “Thank you, Sir!” I hesitate, unsure if I should go ahead. I am intensely embarrassed and am starting to sweat. I know exactly what I want to say, but getting it out is almost unbearable. I know I have to. I can’t.

  “I’m waiting.” She taps my chin with the whip butt and I gasp.

  “Sir!” I can always say that, and I have said it in so many ways, screaming it when I come, gasping it when she beats me, sobbing it when she holds me. “Sir!” I force myself to continue, “I want to bring my face right up close to your fly, Sir, but not quite touching. I want to breathe on your cock, Sir, so you can feel it through your trousers, and then I want to slowly put my lips there, Sir, I want to feel it pressing against my mouth, the sweet weight of it, I want to move my lips up and down, Sir, get your trousers wet, bite a little, Sir, use my tongue, and then…”

  She stops me by putting the butt of the whip across my lips. I risk a look up at her and she’s smiling.

  “Good girl,” she says, then frowns to see me looking. She lets the whip drape lazily across my back and sighs. “How can a good girl be so bad? Lie down!”

  I’m on my stomach before she’s even finished giving the command, with my lips as close to the tip of her boot as they can get without touching. I am safe here. A friend once wrote in a poem, “Beneath the carpet is the floor,” and I never feel the profound and simple truth of that more than I do when I am prostrate before Sir. Forever. I could lie here forever.

  She shifts her boot so the tip is between my lips
. “This is my dick,” she says, and I am busy immediately. Her dick, she’s letting me pleasure her dick. My pussy is wet and my tits hurt, squashed under me. I push with my toes to get a little purchase and she rocks her boot in my mouth, demanding more, as much as I can take. I open. I am hers. I breathe and suck and lick, sand from the beach mixing with my spit, the leather taste, the polish, no, the primal salt of her dick.

  When she finally pulls away, I am breathing hard, spit running down my chin, mouth sore and filled with grit.

  “Look up,” she orders, and I tilt my head to see she’s unzipped her trousers and is cupping herself through her shorts. “Do you want me to fuck you, little girl?” She strokes herself.

  I can hardly believe my luck. “Yes, Sir!” I say as smartly as I can through my swollen lips.

  She steps on my head, forcing it to the floor. “I’m considering it.” She twists her boot back and forth like she’s grinding out a cigarette. I can feel my hair tangle and pull. She presses hard, one final time, then walks off.

  “Panties down, ass up,” she says and then she’s gone, the screen door slamming. I know where she’s going—down to watch the breakers as she smokes. I used to hate the smell of cigarettes. I used to have a big NO SMOKING sign up on my door.

  I pull down my underwear and decide to leave them shackling my ankles; she didn’t tell me to take them off, just down. I flip up my skirt and hunker down on my elbows, getting my ass as high as it will go. It’s uncomfortable and hurts my elbows and knees. I wish she would come back. I wish I could just lie on the floor again. I’m cold. What if someone comes by? I know I’m not allowed to move, my cheek itches, my back is starting to hurt. Sir. I concentrate on Sir, the breeze catching the smoke from her cigarette and carrying it away, her eyes on the sea; maybe there’s a seagull out there, getting lunch. Then I stop thinking, or rather, I just think about the floor. How it’s holding me up. How solid it is. How much I can count on it to be there.

  The screen door slams again and she is standing behind me. She stands there for a long time, observing, every now and then making adjustments with her boot. Panties off. Ass higher. Knees farther apart. Chest closer to the floor. That’s right.