Best Lesbian Erotica 2012

by Kathleen Warnock

  “Okay, okay. I’m with you. So continue, my divinity incarnate. So what’s the problem?”

  “Well, I feel the zing and all, but by no means do I feel detached. In fact, just the opposite. It’s like God has filled me full of warm honey, I feel it sliding and oozing all throughout my body. When I walk, each step feels like I’m touching an electric fence with my feet. It makes my whole body shake. The birds all look at me differently, like I’m one of them and they’ve been waiting and wondering where I’ve been. I want to hug all the trees, lick all the flowers, stick my nose in gym towels…I know it’s crazy but everything just feels so rich and”—she paused, struggling to find the words—“makes me ache all over.”

  I looked at her, wondering if I was missing something. “So what’s so bad about that? Seems like maybe dry old Sister Abigail just missed the juicy parts.”

  “I know, I thought about that…until the thought of her and juiciness started to make me gag.” We laughed again, bubbles rising from just below our ribs. “See the problem is, it’s making me want things that I never heard of God wanting. It’s firing me with a sweet hunger!”

  “You mean like wanting a big old slice of hot apple pie, a scoop of vanilla ice cream melting and slipping and sliding off the side? Pretty sure Jesus never placed that order.”

  Sharon closed her eyes and I could see her thinking, her mouth watering so hard that she had to swallow, licking her lips with the extra wetness.

  “Not exactly.”

  “Well, what then?” The bench was pressing hard into the bones under my butt. I unfolded my legs and let them drop to either side, straddling the rough board. Sharon’s hands remained on my knees as she leaned forward conspiratorially.

  “It makes me feel carnal,” she whispered.

  “You’re just horny, dipshit!” I said diagnostically. “Totally normal, according to People Magazine. We’re in our ‘hormonal phase’ so we’re supposed to be lusting after guys. It’s our duty!” I made it my business to stay educated—watching Oprah, reading Cosmo Girl and Sugar—and from all I could gather, we were supposed to be a cauldron of bubbling hormonal angst. Not that I was feeling much of that, but that’s what the experts said. Seeing that this information hadn’t calmed Sharon, I went straight to problem-solving mode, “So who do you think is cute? Kevin from Calculus?”

  She shook her head. “I get all that you’re saying, honest I do, but something about this feels different, much more important than Kevin could ever be.” She paused and looked down at the narrow stretch of plank. Her thumbs pressed into the inside of my knees as she spoke across that bridge, “See, I feel all that… but I feel it toward you.”

  I seemed to have stopped breathing. I could feel a shallow pulse at the point where my butt hit the bench. In the distance, a bell rang and I could hear our classmates spilling out of fourth period. Her palms burned into my thighs, the heat at that point of contact chilling the rest of me.

  “Okay.” I swallowed, finding just enough air in my lungs to speak.

  “Okay?” she repeated back, questioning.

  “Okay,” I repeated, trying to pull myself back into my head, back into the place where Oprah and People and Sister Abigail made everything make sense. “Okay, we can figure this out. I don’t think you need to worry. I think you’re just a little confused is all. You don’t need to get all bent out of shape. I don’t even think it’s even God or anything ‘touching’ you. I think what we have here is a case of ‘hormonal verum obvius nefas locus!” I said, proud of myself as much for my cleverness with Latin as for having navigated us back to the safe shores of generalized adolescent angst.

  “Okay, eh?” she repeated, with a dare in her voice. Looking me directly in the eye, she slid her hands up along my thighs, her palms tracing each rise of crisscrossing muscle over bone as her thumbs traced an ever more dangerous course along the soft inner edge. A jolt of energy vibrated through my body when her wrists hit the edge of my jumper, gathering it like a wave, pushing it toward the surf line at my hips. “I can hear God whispering—I can, with all my soul—and he’s telling me to do this.”

  She leaned forward even farther, lifting her hips slightly off the bench, the weight of her body pressing deep into the crease where my hips split thigh to pelvis, and pressed her lips directly onto mine. I tried to lean back but her hands were leveraging my spine, holding me upright. At first, her lips were hard, the tautness of muscles just beneath the flesh, insistent on my own. But then something softened, a fullness came to both our mouths and I relaxed into the gentle press. Like church bells, something called me, compelled me in, and I felt our lips part and the sanctuary of her mouth, my mouth, our tongues, come alive. Her thumbs slid deeper, pressing into the surprising wetness of the cotton fabric in my crotch and I felt myself arch forward to meet her. My tongue slipped into the bejeweled cavern of her mouth, teased with the dangerous sharp edges of her teeth, slipped gently across the pinkness of her gums. She took my lower lip between hers and pulled, swallowing me into her mouth, making me wish she could inhale all of me. She held my lip between her teeth for just a moment—danger and delight—and then released. I pulled back and gasped for a breath, staring at her wide-eyed. In my ears, a ringing silence. For a moment there was nothing but this: a feeling, a thing, a whole world that had sprung into being only seconds before yet had existed for all eternity.

  “See?” she said, “You can feel it too! I think this is what God really is.” Her moist eyes penetrated mine, offering an enormity that unhinged me. A bell rang marking the start of fifth period. A car alarm bleated anxiously from the parking lot. I teetered on the edge between worlds then tipped involuntarily. Even as the heat of her hands worked at my hips, I could feel a cold rod move up through my butt toward my head, filling the space she had just revealed in me. It pushed me upright, as Sister Abigail said it would, and forced Sharon’s hands away. Pressing my skirt back along my legs, pressing the rough fabric back into my skin, I swung my legs across the bench and pressed them together to face the proper direction out toward the field.

  Sharon stayed straddling the bench. She reached one hand toward my back, sensing the coldness that had filled me, but I shook it off. For a moment all was quiet as I rehearsed carefully in my head. The words that finally formed had such certainty that I knew they must be true. “This is not God working through you, this is confusion, the Devil, temptation…but this is certainly not God. We must be strong.” I spoke all this toward the field, as if giving a sermon. I could imagine Sister Abigail nodding her affirmation from below. I knew Sharon would be devastated and ashamed; she’d need my compassion. I was holding God’s will and he would guide us through this. I turned to face her finally, prepared to be strong enough for the both of us, even as I expected her to be in tears.

  She was not.

  She shook her head as she stared at me, those same brilliant eyes fiery and not the least bit ashamed.

  “You’re wrong! This is God…in all his glory!” she shouted, tossing her arms and gaze skyward in imitation of a holy-roller preacher. “And you felt it too! You felt the sound of the bleachers cheering vibrating up through your ass. You felt the heat from a thousand suns flow through my thumbs into your crotch. You felt the sky unfold on my tongue, the earth compost us through the press of our lips. You felt the world screaming with delight as we touched…and it scared the shit out of you!”

  “Did not!” I said defensively and looked away. “Sure, it felt nice but it’s not real, Sharon. It’s not how it’s supposed to be.” She was quiet so all I could hear was the sound of my own breath, air flowing into the top of my lungs and then quickly back out again. I felt safe in this tiny container.

  “Don’t do this,” she said, gently placing her hand on my back once again. This time I didn’t shake it off. “You know, there are moments when we make choices that matter. Like when the football players are down there,” she said pointing to the empty field. “Run or pass? Cut upfield here or over there? Dodge that
tackle or run right through it? They never know for sure but they’ve got to choose, or the game chooses for them. You’ve got to trust your instincts too, or you’ll never know what could have been.” She pulled her hand away but I could still feel the heat of it searing through to my heart.

  “You know now, you’ve felt it, but you’ve got to choose for yourself.”

  Sharon stood and shook herself nose to tail. She ran her hands down along her sides and across her butt, smoothing her jumper. Reaching down, she pulled up her kneesocks, smoothing them into place with a slow touch that made my belly ache hollow.

  “This feeling, this is God, and nothing you or Sister Abigail or anyone else can say will make me feel any different.” She grabbed her book bag and hopped down the bleachers then trotted back toward school.

  Despite the heat of the fall day, everything seemed to wither and turn cold before my eyes. The green of the grass dulled and a thin haze washed the blue from the sky. The wood of the bench turned silvery and a splinter tore at the back of my leg. I sat steely, straight and still, watching her depart, yet inside I could feel some crazy longing still cupping the tiny ember she had ignited in my belly, protecting it until a day I too would catch fire.

  HEARTFIRST

  Kiki DeLovely

  I don’t know if I’ve ever witnessed anything more sexy than the intent and intensity in her eyes as she shakes her head no, slowly, side to side, when what she really means is “Fuck, yes.” As though she’s disbelieving of just how incredibly right it is. As if everything about me is so right that it’s wrong. She takes her sweet time with that simple motion, as if she hasn’t the slightest need to rush, despite the fact that other parts of her may be moving at much greater velocities. This apparent discord—between both the unspoken verbal and the pace of the physical—although seemingly misaligned, has a radical effect on my desire and even brings a sort of asymmetrical balance to my lust. It’s allowing my passion to course wildly through my mind and, hence, my body—blood pounding like wild ponies through my veins and racing to deliver an aching throb of need to my cunt.

  Though she’s only known me a few months, she has this madness-making ability to cut me to my core with little effort.

  We’re surrounded by people waiting to be seated, but once she’s locked me in her gaze, all I can see is her. She takes a slow gander at me; eyeing my feet dangling on the last rung of the bar stool, trailing up my unladylike-positioned legs, fixing briefly on the lacy frill at the hem of my skirt (just long enough to lick her lips), before continuing upward. I wrap one of my patent leather heels around the back of her leg, innocent enough for public purposes, and pull her in a little closer. She closes her eyes, keeping them closed a little too long, and inhales deeply. A lecherous grin creeps across her mouth.

  Leaning into my face, she pauses for several seconds—my heartbeat quickens in my clit—then makes her way to my ear. “You know that intoxicating scent of yours?” She waits just a beat for her rhetorical question to sink in and then continues, “I can smell you from here.” My blush is hard and immediate, wondering: if she can smell my cunt in a crowd of people, who else can? And not caring in the slightest—feeling so gorgeous and cherished, so very pleased to please her with my scent alone.

  I close the door behind us and she doesn’t make me wait—thank heavens she doesn’t make me. No romantic foreplay, no taking her sweet time, no making love to the goddess inside me. No. Thank my luckiest stars. No, she shoves inside me fast and hard. Faster. And harder. In and out. And in. And out. So many times, so fucking fast, I feel like I’m about to lose my mind. She knows I’ve been needing this too damn long to have to wait even a second longer to have her. So she pounds away at my cunt like she wants to break me in two, like a rapacious beast. And I thank the planets for aligning our worlds, calling forth this limitless ravaging.

  She slides two of her free fingers into my mouth and I begin to suck. As I take them in, she grunts out of euphoria but still wants more. Plunging her fingers deeper down my throat, farther until I’m gagging, she leaves me trying just as hard to suck in air as I am willing more of her into me. I need more of her inside me. Obligingly, she adds another finger and takes me over and over again and won’t stop after I’ve come once, twice, ten times. I lose count as I go out of my mind because she won’t fucking stop, won’t give me a chance to catch my breath, and I no longer care if I ever breathe again. She pounds me like she’s furious at the universe for having kept us apart so long and she has to make up for all those lost nights of passion and sweat, the days of lust and pure bliss. I scream and writhe and cry out until I have no voice left.

  It is only later, much later, quite a while after she’s fucked me into oblivion, that she doubles back, retraces her steps, straps on her cock and takes her time. Slowly. So excruciatingly slow. She teases me to a point of so much more pain than her more violent actions could ever cause. I can’t stand it, and it’s only then that the tears start to rise. I can sense the first one welling in the corner of my eye, feel it catch in my throat, as she pushes into me so I can feel her going on forever. Do they even make cocks long enough that you can enter someone for days before hitting a wall and then withdraw for the following week? That is how long it feels like it’s taking her to complete just one thrust. And the intimacy of it all is terrifying.

  Just when I think it’ll never end, she pulls out of me completely. She needs more of her inside me. So she smears thick lube across her entire hand, up over the knuckles, all the way to her wrist. I gasp in anticipation. I don’t think I can take that much. But she proves me wrong; of course I can, four fingers are sliding inside me with ease and it’s only a matter of seconds before she curves in her thumb and my pussy swallows her fist whole. Surprisingly quiet, I’d have expected screams to be tearing through my vocal cords now. Instead my diaphragm drops and I feel another opening up from deep inside. My rib cage expands and the back of my throat dilates as I wish it would when I deep-throat her cock. With the sharp twist of her wrist, she forces me to hit a pitch so high it’s barely audible and I shudder as the orgasm echoes throughout my entire body. I feel a sound escape my chest, originating from lower still. The purest note that ever graced my lips, it sails right past them and floats up in the air. I imagine an opera singer hitting her highest note.

  When I go in for her well-guarded pleasure, I’m careful. I read every last cue of her body; initiating as though it’s about me. It isn’t. It’s about her. And us. But I’m good at making it seem like it’s about me, at burrowing down somewhere sacred. I straddle her leg, grind my wetness against her thick thigh, moan in her ear about how good she’s making me feel. As my tongue searches out her tragus piercing, she groans, and I can feel the reverberations making their way through her body. Knowing how erogenous this spot is—this tiny flap on the inside of her ear—knowing just what to do with it, is a powerful blessing. I take the ring between my teeth and tug, gently at first, and gradually work my way up to the point where it’s either going to rip out of my teeth or her ear. It’s one of my favorite ways to get her going. And one of hers.

  Fucking her is a precious gift and I honor it, giving this intimate interaction the reverence it deserves. Her desire is tangled up in mine and it’s impossible to separate the two. So I treat it as one. Make it about how she’s getting me off while I’m edging my way in, down to the place inside her that calls for me and has been secured, sentry protected.

  I move my hips in a tight figure eight and grind harder against her thigh, my juices gushing down her leg. She begins to grunt, “Oh, god…” but before she’s even made it to the second word, I’m pressing my hip into her sex, and then she’s adding a few syllables to a monosyllabic word, elongating the moan buried mid-oh while I draw out her pleasure. I wrap my mouth around her tit, my tongue delighting in how its efforts are rewarded by the feel of her nipple tightening, beginning to rise, pleading for more. I graze my teeth against it, reaching over to pinch and slightly twist the other one, bite
down and then release. I bring my free hand to my lips and slip two fingers into my mouth. After a slow, deliberate extraction, they glisten prettily with my spit in the low light. I lower them between her thighs, as I watch her face. Easing my fingers into her ass first, working them against her G-spot until she’s wordlessly begging me to slide into her cunt.

  I delve in heart-first, straight down to a deep, well-hidden place. It scares her to no end, yet she grants me access. I know even before her tears surface, that I have found her inner aquifer. I have reached the place inside her and saturated it with love and all things beautiful, filling her in ways she didn’t think possible; making it known that I treasure and adore all of her: her multilayered, gorgeous self; her powerful presence; her soft underbelly. No matter what the world has told her—I have delivered the message that she is strong and sweet and capable and good. And right. So very, very right. In all of who she is, in exactly how she makes her way through the world. She is praiseworthy and perfect. Which is not to say she is unflawed. There are fights in our future about toothpaste and how she wasn’t there for me that time. But now, in this very moment, I am loving her so completely: every drop of her, prized and celebrated.

  Something about her sparks my overwhelming need to protect her. She learns that she can stay here, nestled deep inside me. I’ll squeeze my thighs together, holding her there, letting her fill me; I’ll protect her from the outside world, not letting go. This is the place where she can cry and feel safe and overcome by it all and she can just be.

  When the deluge gives way to drizzle and then dries into traces of salt on her cheeks, she runs her fingers between my lips. “So. Fucking. Wet.” We float somewhere above this tangible world, we vibrate internally on a higher plane. Grinding against each other with a deep-seated fury, we amplify our envy of that other world where our souls are melded together without seams.