Best Lesbian Erotica 2012

by Kathleen Warnock

  “More, baby, please.”

  “Aren’t we a greedy girl?”

  My girl.

  For a second, my thoughts are interrupted by the reality of the situation, and I run my nails angrily down your back. As you cry out in pain, I put my mouth to your skin and lick the sweat from you. I can taste blood. This is my territory.

  “Give it to me!” Your arms are erect and pulling at everything in reach. Dragging the sheets beneath you, you press and push yourself out violently to fuck me back. You know I’m gonna make this one hurt.

  My jeans are soaked with the wetness escaping from my boxers. Adding my fourth finger and my thumb, I watch in awe as my fist disappears inside you, and I push down hard on your back, trying to steady myself as the sensation overwhelms my head and my heart. You gasp and suck at the air as my fist rolls and turns beneath your womb. I’m aware of sounds coming from my throat and I’m aware, too, that I’m about to come.

  Guttural sounds escape from your chest as you cry out and thrust against my arm. My fist goes deeper into you, pushing you farther open as your tight ridges contract and throb around my hand.

  Suddenly, I feel your swollen cunt gushing and spitting into my palm, pushing me over the edge completely. Cum flows over my tightly curled knuckles and down my wrist onto the bed beneath you. My clit finally finds its relief against my jeans as I press against you, and I fall against your back over our bed, for the last time. My fist is still buried in your belly, and you hold my arm to keep me there, rolling back and forth on me softly, lost in your thoughts.

  There are tears in your hair.

  And on your back.

  I don’t want to move.

  MY FEMME

  Evan Mora

  I’m standing in our garage, door shut, single bulb burning, which might seem like a strange place to be on a hot summer night in the city. But I heard her, my boi, a couple of blocks away, and I know it’s her ’cause the rumble from her engine, the biggest, baddest sound around this organic-Pilates-Prius-loving neighborhood.

  “My Femme” is what my boi calls her. The Femme is a 1978 twenty-fifth-anniversary edition, vintage teal-blue Corvette. She’s got a 5.7-liter engine and can do 0-60 in 6.6 seconds flat. Not that I care about any of that technical stuff. No. But the Femme sure is pretty. She’s got more curves than a Playboy Playmate, and she turns heads like nobody’s business.

  When I’m behind the wheel, T-bar roof open, Farrah-locks flowing, I’m like a straight boy’s wet dream come true. Sid calls me a cock-tease, which may or may not be true, but it does make me giggle when boys stop in their tracks and mouth a slack-jawed “Whoa” as I cruise by. A femme in the Femme…

  When Sid’s behind the wheel, it’s an entirely different story. The boys, they give her a thumbs-up and want to know what’s under the hood. But the girls—I’ve seen them, biting their lips and flashing their smiles, wondering who this butch Daddy boifriend is and how they’re going to get themselves a ride.

  And she’s given plenty, I know, in her bad-boy, back-alley, late-night past. But not to me. Never to me. Sid and me, we met in the winter, when the Femme was sleeping peacefully, dreaming dreams of spring. By then, we’d U-hauled it to a tree-lined street in the East End, setting up house like respectable thirtysome-things and sipping chai lattes with the neighbors.

  But I’m jealous. It’s crazy, I know, but true nonetheless. I’m jealous of all the open-mouthed cries and wide-spread thighs that have graced the inside of that car. I wanna feel the slip-slide of sweat-slicked leather beneath my ass and Sid’s fingers pumping into me; I want to fill all the air inside that car with the smell of my sex and the heat of my body and the breathy sounds of my moans.

  So here I am, standing in our garage, waiting like a predator to pounce. They’re in the back lane, Sid and the Femme, so close I can feel their vibrations. The door begins to rise like a peep show window on my strappy heels, painted toes and thirty-four inches of smooth, tanned legs that disappear under my micro-mini. Sid revs the engine appreciatively, and the sound goes right to my pussy.

  The car edges forward with a throaty purr, the tip of her hood coming to rest between my legs. Sid kills the engine and closes the garage door, and for a moment, there’s only silence. Then the passenger door opens and I saunter ’round, bending low so I can look inside. Sid has a hard time looking past my bikini top and the ample cleavage on display. I know my boi, and I know what she likes, and I know how to get what I want.

  “Get in,” she says, voice rough with desire. I lower myself in and close the door.

  “Get rid of the bikini top.” It lands on the floor, and heat flashes in her amber eyes.

  “Show me,” she says—fuck she makes me wet—and I cup my breasts with my palms.

  “Pinch them,” she says, and I tug at my nipples until they’re pebble hard and I’m squirming in my seat.

  “You got anything on under that skirt?” I spread my legs open wide and Sid groans—she’s a sucker for a fresh Brazilian.

  She leans over me, vintage leather creaking, the subtle musk of her cologne surrounding me a heartbeat before her tongue is in my mouth and her fingers penetrate my cunt.

  We kiss, we combust, we go up in flames. I wind my arms around her neck, thread my fingers through her hair, stroke my tongue against hers. All the while she teases me, explores me, testing my wetness with her blunt fingertips, painting them along the length of my pussy.

  “Wider,” she whispers against my lips, and I inch my ass toward her, one foot on the dashboard, as open as I can be. Three fingers replace two, then four replace three, and Sid fastens her mouth to my breast, licking and sucking the rigid peak until I’m just about ready to explode.

  “So fucking wet…” She’s pumping me now, the wet sound of my pussy a shameless turn-on.

  “I want you to fuck yourself on my fist,” Sid says, her tongue lapping up my mewing assent. She holds her hand still, leaving the rise and fall to me, letting me work my cunt down over her knuckles, stretching wide, so wide, until she slides inside. I can feel her hand, and it feels so good, balled into a fist deep inside me. Slowly, she moves, then faster and harder, until her forearm is pistoning into me.

  “Now,” she says, against my lips, then her tongue fills my mouth once more. I moan, half lost, and slide my fingers to my clit, circling, then stroking in rhythm with her thrusts.

  “That’s it, baby…” She tastes like salt; her sweat and mine. We’re panting instead of breathing, and my frenzied crescendo of “Yes baby, yes baby, oh, fuck, yes baby!” ends with a rush when my hips snap up and my cunt clenches around her fist and I come so hard my back arches off the seat of the ’vette like a bow.

  In a minute or five, we untangle ourselves with as much grace as we can, given the confines of the Femme. She reeks like sex, and I know I’ve got a smug smile on my face, but I don’t bother to try and hide it.

  “You pleased with yourself?”

  “Mm-hmm.” I am. ’Cause Sid and the Femme? They’re mine.

  I lead the way out of the garage and back to the house, making sure there’s plenty of sway for my boi’s hungry eyes to follow. Right about now, she’s got a hard-on the size of Texas, but luckily, there are still plenty of hours until dawn.

  HOW HE LIKES IT

  Xan West

  I learned quickly that he likes it when I beg. During our first encounter in that bar bathroom, my leopard-eyed Sir showed me that. He doesn’t need me to be on my knees (though he does not object, particularly when I’m focused on taking his cock down my throat). It’s not about my shame, or my abject posturing. For him, it is about the frequent acknowledgment of both my desire and his control. He is particularly fond of the word please, and truth be told, I love hearing it escape my lips. Just saying it gets me wet. Me begging is not just how he likes it, it’s how I need it. I ache to bring my raw dripping need to him, offer it up to him, spill it into his lap.

  That’s exactly where he wanted me that night: in his lap, aching with
need. He wanted to watch me writhe with it, wanted to savor the sight of me begging. He wanted to hold me down and watch me have my desire held against me, until I was burning, sobbing with need. He wanted to grasp his control firmly, and decide whether he would let me get what I begged for. He had described it for me, in detail, watched my eyes widen at the thought of it, my breath quicken with the knowledge that he wanted to offer me to another, while he held me and felt me writhe.

  I was his to offer, and glad of it: Glad to be valued so much that I was worth offering to others. Glad to be seen for who I was, my exhibitionistic desires celebrated; to have the opportunity to give myself to him exactly how he likes it.

  Sir knew me from the start, knew things about me that I had not even fully seen. He was a mirror to my power and grace, showing me how beautiful I was in his eyes, how gorgeous my pain was, how delicious my tears, how much my desire moved him. That is the best a lover can offer, to really see us, and celebrate what they see. It is a rare and precious thing to be seen and valued for who we are. So often, I had been told I was too much, too loud, too smart for my own good; took up too much space, was too needy, too sexual. Sir had other things to say about my hunger, my desire, my size, my power. My reflection in his eyes told me I did not need to hide my need or my self; I could bring it all to him; I could not possibly be too much for him. It scared me every time, felt risky every time, and was exactly what I wanted.

  I had not met Dexter before that night. Christian had told me about him, of course. The mentor who had taught my Sir everything he knew about leather; the first transman top he ever met. They had topped together; it was part of learning. But this was different. I was the first girl that my Sir was going to offer to Dexter after seven years of estrangement.

  Dexter was on the staff of the kink conference in DC. We came out a day early because of this. We had a room in the conference hotel, and as I unpacked for us, Sir made final arrangements. I ate before he came, ordered the room service, set up the cigars on the balcony, and dressed to Sir’s specifications, my hands fumbling and nervous as I attached my garters, my eyes wide as I saw my reflection. I looked like an offering, my hair curling around my shoulders, my small tits raised and bursting out of the tiny shirt, boots drawing attention to the fishnet stockings, skirt short enough to just reveal the tops of the garters. I had been preparing for this all afternoon, luxuriating in a bath, rubbing lotion on my skin, trimming and primping and readying myself, down to the small plug I slid into my ass. By the time he arrived, I felt grounded in myself and who I was, and my body was preparing his welcome in anticipation.

  He stalked in with quiet power, greeting Sir with warmth, taking his time to look me up and down. His eyes were feline too, and I could feel my back arch a bit under his gaze. I was ready for him that minute, ached to drop to my knees before him, could not take my eyes off of him. But first there was dinner, and my job to serve it, to allow these men to touch me as I served.

  After dinner, there were cigars on the balcony, and me holding the ashtray on my now bare chest, my back to the world, their voices winding with the smoke around me, wrapping round my bare skin, sliding between my thighs. I could tell that Sir was pleased with me by the way he absently rested his boot on my thigh, knew that he was happy to sit here with Dexter, catching up, and showing me off. Every time Dexter chuckled, my clit would pulse, my ass would clench around the plug and my lips would part with a sigh.

  I was aching already and they had barely acknowledged me. How would I survive the full attention of both of them?

  Sir turned to Dexter with a sly smile, and said, “Shall I prepare her for you?”

  Dexter nodded, and took the ashtray from my chest.

  My heart started racing. Sir walked ahead of me, giving the hand signal to crawl, and so I did, Dexter’s eyes on my ass as I left the balcony.

  I approached Sir slowly, with that catlike crawl he loves so much. He was on the bed, and as my eyes met his, a shock jumped between us. He reached down, pulling me by my hair and bending me over his lap. It felt so good to be there, his hands all over my skin, my head hanging over the side of the bed.

  Then I felt it. That squirmy twisting as he pulled the plug out. I am never prepared for it, but when it comes as a surprise it grabs onto the center of my chest and squeezes, bringing a tinge of nausea with it. My hands grabbed for the bed as he slowly slid a new plug into my ass, cold with lube. (I knew it instantly; it was the Tristan anniversary edition plug, the one I drooled over in the store, the one he got me for my birthday.) It is so intense when it first comes in, I literally can’t breathe for a moment. My eyes were closed, my head ringing, and then I let my breath out. Sir tapped on it and I shuddered.

  It is a shift, to go from the expectation of silence, to the expectation that I will show him my need. I am often tentative at first, finding my voice and movement. He pressed me down onto him, so I could feel his cock against my belly, and my ass clenched in response. It was so full, my hand kept fisting the blanket. Then the baton hit my ass, driving sound from me, garnering me praise.

  I held on tight, knowing it would last a long time, each stroke reverberating through the plug, slamming sounds out of me. It felt like a pounding relentless fuck, getting hit with that baton, hard and ramming, and it made me grind my cunt onto him and moan. I forgot everything but that I was on Sir’s lap, my ass stuffed full, getting pummeled by his baton. The room disappeared, contracted to my need, which had been building all day. I began to beg, pleading with him to let me come for him, describing how much I needed it.

  He told me I had to wait.

  I began to whimper, words escaping as I throbbed and thought about his cock swelling under me, picturing my ass with the black-and-blue plug, knowing he wanted my thighs and cheeks to match it, aching for release.

  I was lost in my own need, writhing on Sir’s lap, when I felt Dexter’s hands grip my hair. I spasmed, loud begging noises coming from my throat, until they were silenced by his cock, hard and thick and made of unforgiving silicone. Sir kept slamming the baton into me, and it drove my mouth onto Dexter’s cock, his hands holding me there, taking my throat for his own, claiming me.

  “I know how much Christian likes the sounds you make. I want to feel you begging around my cock, girl,” he said.

  I worked to get louder, choking on his cock, my whimpers so loud in my own head, tears flowing. I could feel my need covering my skin, wrapping me up; my cunt grabbing air, aching to be full too; my throat gaspingly crammed. It was so much, too much, building and building inside me with nowhere to go. I began to beg louder, desperate to come, and I could hear Sir chuckle.

  “No, girl. You don’t get to come until he does. So you better please him.”

  I began to sob, choking, helpless, my hands reaching for Dexter, grasping for his thighs, holding on, as if I was going to wash away. I looked up at him, eyes begging, throat closing on his cock, needing him to come. I formed the words around him somehow, over and over.

  “Please, Sir. Please. Please. Please, Sir.”

  I didn’t know if he could understand, but I said it again and again, taking him into me, aching for him, all my need concentrated on his release. His hands gripped my hair tighter, moving my mouth how he wanted it. Yes, I thought. Yes, use me, take me, claim me. Sir offered me to you, and now I offer me too. Take what you need from me. I want you to have it. Please take me. Please.

  There is no greater high than this, when I give myself over, my need wrapping around another’s. I wanted him, wanted to please him, wanted him to use me, wanted to be given and taken, to be worthy for exchange. Sir began to beat my inner thighs, and I wanted to be sore and bruised for him, ached for it, wanted these men to take exactly what they needed from me.

  Dexter shuddered in my mouth, growling, his hands holding me still as he thrust, deep in my throat, coming. I closed my eyes and savored it, knowing I had pleased him.

  “Come for me,” Sir said.

  I did, letting it out, mo
aning around Dexter’s cock, writhing on Sir’s lap as he continued to slam the baton into my thighs, holding on as hard as I could. It felt so good to come, so right.

  I felt limp, as they moved me around, got me situated, ready for the next thing they wanted to do to me. It wasn’t until I felt myself being held down and spread wide that I fully opened my eyes. Sir had my head resting on his bare cock, his thighs pressing my arms into the bed. My ass was propped up on a pillow, my skirt pulled up, and Sir’s boots were spreading my legs, holding me open. I was cradled between his legs, held open for Dexter, who could see everything. My eyes met Dexter’s, captivated, as Sir laid his gloved hand across my throat. Oh.

  Dexter pulled his belt from his jeans, the sound making my heart race.

  “You need to be marked here too,” he said, running his hand along the front of my thigh above my stocking.

  Yes, I thought. Mark me.

  “Please,” I said, my voice trembling.

  Belts reached inside me. The pain invaded, ripped through me, wrapping round my throat and stopping my breath. He did not warm me up, and I wanted it that way. Wanted him brutal, wanted him to claim me without holding back. Wanted to show him how my Sir had taught me to take pain, savor its delights and feed it back to him, tears streaming, moaning for more. I wanted his belt deep inside me, as his cock had been and hopefully would be again.

  “Take it for me,” he said.

  I took him in, tasting like liquid metal in my throat, trembling with the intensity of his belt, and let the pain pour out of my eyes, stream out of my mouth; let my cunt drip with it as my ass clenched around it. I begged him for more even as I screamed, my hands clutching the blanket, safely held down by my Sir, feeling him smile proudly at me.

  My thighs were on fire, and the flames took me over, until I could feel my cunt burning with it, my chest hot, and I was begging to come for him; could I please show him how much I appreciated his cruelty, please, Sir.