Best Lesbian Erotica 2012

by Kathleen Warnock

  “Late? It’s only two.” I felt like she ought to know I didn’t consider two in the morning late, but at the same time I didn’t really know what she knew. “I work better at night,” I explained, but that didn’t seem relevant to her.

  “You shouldn’t stay up sketching all night,” she teased. Her voice had the warmth of a cashmere blanket. When she spoke, I wanted to wrap myself in her words. “Do you want to turn into a vampire or something?”

  The innocence of her tone made me chuckle. “Yup, that’s it,” I said. “All artists want to be vampires. That’s why we work under the cover of darkness.”

  “Oh.” She stretched out like a tabby. The way she looked at me, with total honesty, made me wonder if she didn’t take me a little too seriously. But when she raised her eyebrows and crossed her long legs like a pinup model, work was the last thing on my mind.

  Setting down my pencil, I crawled on top of her and nuzzled in. Somehow I knew she’d giggle. As I kissed up and down her neck, she laughed so loudly I’m sure my neighbors thought they were in on our joke. “Suck my neck,” she cried, loudly. Her lithe body writhed beneath me. “Bite me!”

  I wrapped my lips over my teeth like a toothless granny and chomped on her neck. She giggled so hard I thought she was going to die. I loved that something so simple evoked such a huge reaction. “Stop, stop,” she wheezed between sputters of laughter. “Stop, I can’t breathe!”

  Showing mercy, I leaned away for a second. Her chest heaved as she sighed, giggled, sighed, giggled, her pixie face framed with messy orange curls. The weathered cotton of her cami was so sheer I could see her pink nipples forming tight buds underneath as her breathing regulated. A surge of electricity shot through me. I barely knew who she was, but I knew I couldn’t resist her.

  Pulling her top off, I dove at her white little tits and sucked her hard nipples. They were like candy on my tongue. I loved her tits. If I had two heads, I’d have sucked them both at once. She ran her hands through my hair, moving my mouth from breast to breast as I thrust my hand beneath her shorts. Her slit was wet and waiting. When my fingers dove inside, she sighed and grasped my hair in her little fists. If I sucked hard, I could get her whole tit in my mouth, but she seemed more interested in the finger-fucking.

  “I want to take this to the next level,” she panted. In my books that meant fisting, but as I prepared to give her another finger she let go of my hair and rolled onto her belly.

  I gasped as she fished through my night table. “Your back!” Why did her back come as such a shock when her clothes and her lips and her hair seemed so familiar? Had I never seen it before? Had she never rolled over naked in my bed?

  Looking up at me, her eyes wide with alarm, she asked, “What’s wrong?”

  My head seemed to be shaking of its own volition. My whole body felt prickly and hot. I was horrified. Or was I fascinated? Maybe both. I was transfixed, at any rate. Her back was carved up like…well, really, the only comparison I could draw was, “You’ve got a back like a bathroom wall!”

  A cheeky grin bled across her lips. “I like that,” she said. “A back like a bathroom wall. I’ve never thought of it that way.”

  “Who did this to you?” I asked, though it was obviously more than one person. There were different names, phone numbers, quotes and political messages, styles of handwriting. Was it still considered writing when it was carved into a girl’s back?

  “Some people get tattoos every time they think they’re in love,” Cat reasoned. Her tone was dreamy and casual. She turned her head until her chin rested on her left shoulder, and pointed to the name there. “The first girl I slept with was Roxanne. I thought I was in love with her.”

  All I could do was stare. I didn’t want to touch it—I didn’t want to hurt her—but I wanted to know how her scars would feel against my skin. “And this was her idea of a tattoo?” I asked, tracing the big x in the name with my fingertip.

  “No, that was her idea of love,” Cat replied. She shuddered as I stroked it. Her scar was the softest skin I’d ever touched. “Love and possession were the same thing to Roxanne. She sat on my back. She wasn’t big, but she had some serious muscle to her. She sat with her ass in the curve of my back and her knees pressing my arms into her carpet, and she pulled this knife out of her pocket.”

  Fishing around in the drawer of my night table, she finally found what she was looking for: a scalpel with a shiny metal grip. When she passed the knife to me, I was surprised by its weight in my hand. “She took her time marking me with it. She dragged the knife into my skin and I could feel it cutting through me. Just one straight line to start the R. I could feel that I was bleeding, but she leaned down and drank up every drop. No good wasting it on the carpet, she said. She did another line and drank the blood from that one, but then she said that was enough for one night…”

  “For one night?” I stammered, shaking my head. I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t had my finger on the very R she was talking about.

  “Yes,” Cat replied with a simple nod. “And I promised to stay with her until she’d finished putting her name in my skin. We did a little more each time. She’d lick my pussy or fuck me with her fingers, and then as the grand finale, she’d carve me up. We never lost a drop of blood to the carpet.”

  “What?” I didn’t want to seem judgmental, but it was just crazy, wasn’t it?

  Handing me the scalpel, Cat giggled, “The bathroom wall wasn’t built in a day. It’s taken years to get to this point.”

  With a combination of nausea and awe, I traced my finger down from Roxanne, through a phone number with an international area code, and the words Art is Life. There were more names than I could stand to read. Though I felt no sense of ownership over Cat, it hurt me to think of her with all those other people. I wouldn’t let myself count how many names had stained her back with blood. But the worst part was that mine wasn’t one of them. Looking down at the scalpel I thought, The next person to hold this thing will never know I was here. I had to leave my mark.

  Cat rested her head on my pillow. She wasn’t looking at me when she asked, “Do you want to add your name to the bathroom wall?”

  “Yes,” I replied before she’d finished speaking.

  The biggest space I could find was down in her lower back, nearly along her side. Anywhere else, I’d have to condense my name to a diminutive, but I felt like if I was going ahead with this I might as well carve Marjane out in full.

  My heart raced as I visualized the knife cutting the first line of the M. I traced the scalpel through the air, imagining exactly what that line would look like: mostly straight, with a slight curve at the bottom.

  “Remember to catch my blood after you make the cut,” Cat called as I leaned in to put scalpel to skin. “Best way is with your tongue. Just suck it up. It’ll heal faster, too.”

  “Okay,” I agreed, leaning in very close. I rested the point of the scalpel millimetres away from her flesh and held that position so long my hand started to cramp. What was I waiting for? Pressing the tip of the knife into her skin, I drew it down, around and out in one swift motion.

  Cat shrieked in what sounded like half pain and half orgasm. I licked the line of blood tumbling down her flesh. The moment that thick metallic redness met my tongue, I knew I could never go back. Those few drops of sweet blood seemed to course through my veins, warming my toes and exploding like a supernova in my pussy. I gasped at the sensation her life force generated in me.

  Setting the scalpel on my night table, I flipped her onto her side and grabbed at her tits as I licked the incision. I felt like an animal. Her blood made me wild. As I sucked the blood, my throbbing clit drove me to trib on anything close by—and that anything ended up being her smoothly-shaven leg. I suckled her side. She nourished me. Her blood ran hot through my body, and I knew if I didn’t get to feel her wet pussy on mine I would lose my mind.

  In one motion, I tore off Cat’s ruffled boy shorts and pressed them against the bleeding li
ne in her side. Her legs were long but her body easy to manipulate. When I tucked my body neatly between her legs, she sighed, “Oh, Mari, Mari, Mari,” and my lungs just about exploded. Her voice contained all the passion of the willingly seduced.

  Cat threw her leg over my shoulder. I kissed it, leaving a path of red blood as I sunk into the V of her thighs. She pressed her wet pussy against mine, and I pressed back against her moist folds. Together, we were juice. We were one big pool of pussy juice lapping like waves against distant shores. The pressure of her wet lips on mine drove me wild. My body burned with her blood.

  Neighbors be damned. I cried out in an ecstasy of blood and sweat as my soul blazed. Cat was shouting too, incomprehensible niceties as she circled her hips to press against me. We were stuck, pussy to pussy, bound together in a writhing mass that seemed more than the two we were. As I lay face up on my bed with a strange girl between my legs, I felt a sense of invigoration attached to my postcoital exhaustion.

  “I can’t believe I licked your blood,” I said, in amazement. It occurred to me I should clean her wound with something more than my tongue, but when I lifted her little cotton shorts from her side there was nothing there but a clean cut in her flesh. No blood. I stared in disbelief. “I cut you. You bled. Why aren’t you bleeding now?”

  Cuddling her head on my pillow, she giggled. “I told you your tongue would seal it up.” Her eyes seemed to melt from sky blue to sea-foam green as she held my gaze. “How did it taste?”

  “Good,” I said. I could still taste the metallic sweetness of her blood on my lips. When I licked them, all her strength surged through me. “It tastes incredible, actually.” So incredible I began to crave not only its taste but also the surge of fiery power that coursed through my body with every lick. Each night I carved a new line and sucked the blood from her fresh wound. She gave herself over to me. When I looked at her back, I didn’t see a bathroom wall anymore. I saw generosity of spirit. Cat was the most benevolent creature I’d ever known.

  It would take twenty-three nights, I estimated, to spell out MARJANE all in capital letters.

  “What are you?” I asked on that final evening. Only the last line of my E remained to be carved. As I sketched her, I could only think how normal she looked. She couldn’t be human, could she? Was I? At one time yes, but not anymore. I could feel the change in my body and my cravings.

  “I told you when we met,” she said with a smile. “I told you who I am.”

  My pencil scratched against the paper as I shaded her inner thighs. That night, she wore a satin slip that barely covered her hips when she lay on her side. I licked my lips. Sex and blood were becoming one in my mind. Cat had everything I wanted. “I don’t remember,” I confessed. I hoped she wouldn’t be upset.

  With a chuckle, she said, “I’m the Catalyst. You wanted to switch your days to nights. You wanted to give your life over to art. I am the way. I’m the means to that end.”

  I didn’t understand, and that’s what I told her, though I suspected if I’d concentrated more on the conversation and less on my art I might have figured it out on my own. As much as I wanted to put down my pencil, I couldn’t do it until I’d finished her portrait. It was the only way for me to keep her, in any sense.

  “Haven’t you ever heard that art is life?” she giggled. I couldn’t get over how coy she was, even though she was living in my bed.

  “Sure,” I said, still putting pencil to paper. “It’s carved into your back—Art is Life.”

  “You want to be a true artist,” she replied, tracing her big toe up the back of the opposite calf. “Where do you suppose all that life force comes from? If it came from you, your art would eat you alive. You’d be dead in a day. If you want to create like the masters, you have to live like them.” Taking the scalpel from my night table, she held it up like an instrument of worship. “I’ve given you a taste. Now you have the blood lust. I’ve been your mother and suckled you with my life, but after tonight you’ll be on your own to procure your meals. Do you think you can handle that?”

  My pencil fell from my hand. “No,” I said. My head seemed to be shaking. I couldn’t stop it, even as I dropped my sketch and ran to join her on my bed. “You’re my source, Cat. If you leave me, I’ll die of thirst.”

  She ran her fingers through my hair and planted a sweet kiss on my forehead. “You can fly, baby bird,” she assured me. “I know you’ll figure it out.”

  “No, I really won’t.” I was starting to panic, but her smile reassured me.

  “Where’s your confidence gone?” she asked. “You’re more innovative than you know, so don’t go asking me where your next meal is coming from. I can only tell you where to get your last supper.” She cocked her eyebrow as she handed me the scalpel. “Finish the E.”

  The instrument had never felt so heavy in my hand. I suppose I must have known all along my ginger Cat was initiating me into another realm of existence, but I hadn’t counted on her leaving until I was ready to let her go. Now the end was drawing near.

  She sighed into my pillow as I traced the knife through her flesh. The sensation of cutting deep into her skin was familiar to me now, but no less invigorating. After a brief moment of molecular shock, small drops of red rose to the surface. My legs quivered even though I was sitting. My heart seemed to beat in double time. I licked my lips.

  Tossing the scalpel to the night table, I threw my face at her side and savored the taste. Her blood ran through me as I sucked it from her body. Its sweetness filled my cheeks and its warmth burned inside me. She sighed at the sensation, but I knew how nice she’d feel if I pressed my palm against her pussy.

  Cat seized up, tossing her head back on my pillow. As I squeezed her pussy lips together, she moaned my name, Marjane, and pressed her thighs tight around my hand. I stroked her gorgeous slit. Her juice soaked my bare fingers while her blood drenched my lips. When she reached under my top and grabbed my tits, I sucked her side with renewed vigor. Her soft hands felt incredible. Why does she have to leave? She squeezed my breasts as I lapped her blood in ecstasy. Why can’t she stay with me? Nourish me? Feed me?

  My hand went wild on her slippery clit and she threw her head to the side, pinching my nipple hard. Her sweet blood coated my lips when she came loud as ever. She was pain and she was joy. Her scream was the cry of an infant entering this world with the wisdom of the ages. She gave me all.

  How can I describe Cat but to say she was my creator and my creation? She was the Catalyst who sparked my blood lust. She was my artist’s enabler. Without her, what would I be? Normal? What artist could live that way? Normality, mediocrity—artists cringe at these words.

  I don’t remember Cat leaving. Of course, I didn’t remember her coming either. In and out like a lamb, but a lion in the interim. I understood why she had to leave. There were others like me, other artists fated to add their names to her bathroom wall. She had to tend to them all, and there was only one of her. In that sense, I marvel at the number of weeks she devoted to my personal catalysis. The taste of her sweet blood planted a longing in my veins, but I’m on my own now, fending for myself. It’s a task in everyday eroticism and as sexually charged as you can imagine, but not as challenging as I’d anticipated. You’d be surprised how many backs are out there, just waiting to be scratched.

  THE PRODUCE QUEEN

  Michelle Brennan

  I have a confession to make, a dirty little secret, a skeleton to pull out of the closet. I like produce. Rather, I love produce—in fact, I might even be in love with the endless array of fresh fruits and vegetables that satiate my excitable palate every day. It’s not something I can comfortably talk about with my friends just yet. While the girls sit around the office fawning over their latest Perez Hilton–approved celebrity crush, there just doesn’t seem to be any appropriate place to put in a good word for the solid and committed cucumber I enjoyed the night before.

  My heightened appreciation for fruitage began innocently enough when a lover sli
pped a condom-covered Clementine up my cunt and instructed me not to drop it. I swooned with sweet delight at the challenge. My clit was tortured and teased mercilessly, with taunts of what would happen were I to lose it; however, my Kegel muscles are well trained, thanks to Betty Dodson, and I managed to keep that little bulb tight in its instructed spot.

  Soon after my date with Clementine Cutie Pie, I began to notice that my commute home from work was taking longer than usual. Before I realized what I was doing, I found myself at the farm stand by my office, gazing wistfully at the grapefruits and giving them a little squeeze to see how ripe they were. I’d move on to the peaches and my eyes would gleam while I tickled their fuzz, hypnotized by their intoxicating perfume, then I’d snag a few blueberries to pop in my mouth before racing home to make dinner.

  My obsession with food only got worse as the weeks passed, and I could barely make a salad without some ingredient tempting me to play dirty games. On one sunny spring afternoon, I was traipsing through the farm stand when I came upon the loveliest avocado I’d ever laid eyes upon. Its ripeness was pure perfection, giving in ever so gently between my squeezing fingers. Inside that rough outer exterior was a supple, creamy, bright green center, and I could taste its guacamole. Warmth crept between my thighs as I scurried up to the cashier. There were only two people in front of me, but their sizable purchases made my foot start to tap uncontrollably, although it wasn’t their fault that I was eager to embark on a date with the most supreme avocado in the market.

  On the way home, I was like a high school girl on a first date. I could wait no longer! I stopped at a dark and deserted passage covered with old graffiti tags and broken beer bottles, a safe haven for any alley dweller. On this particular day, the dwellers were dwelling elsewhere, and I wasn’t focused on anything other than what was in my brown bag, so I took a swift turn between the two tall buildings and gave my sweet avocado a little shake in its bag.