Best Lesbian Erotica 2012

by Kathleen Warnock

  I don’t know why the feeling of you cupping my jaw while you kiss me makes me so hot, but it does. It could be the kissing scenes in old movies—you knew those chicks fucked, but how could they, so delicate and proper and well dressed? But you know that behind closed doors they engaged in unabashed, unexpected fucking. At least the lucky ones did.

  I squeeze your naked ass hard with both hands and I grind up against you, spreading a trail of little kisses along your neck. My senses are overwhelmed with your reaction to what I’ve got hidden in my pants, something I put on when I got home, purchased especially for this occasion. You moan and press yourself back and forth against it, leaving a warm sticky trail on my cutoffs. I tell you it feels good. Beads of sweat drip from your hair onto my arms, chest and face, leaving the scent of your coconut hair conditioner everywhere.

  My hands snake up to the small of your back and you lean down into my face, kissing me hard as we rock against each other. Our lips wet and slippery, our tongues entwined, you raise yourself up higher on your knees, pulling up my tank top to rub your moist curls against my abdomen. My hands run up the backs of your thighs, pushing your skirt up until it’s caught around your waist, cupping your ass, giving it tight rhythmic squeezes. You moan, arch your back, your pussy pressing harder against me, fucking at me. I run my fingers along the tops of your stockings, let them stray into the dark, warm place where your thighs meet, just below your ass. You groan and your legs bend as your thighs part for me, then you whimper as my fingers caress them, grazing your pubic hair from behind, titillating you further. You rest your forehead on my shoulder, panting. So many choices for my next move.

  “So, wife, what would you like to do now?” I whisper, still caressing you between the legs, just next to your pussy, the velvet-soft skin of your inner thighs.

  “I brought burgers home from work,” you whisper as your fingers open my fly just enough that you can pull my fabulous new hot-pink cock out, bending it in ways I imagine would hurt if it were real. But when you wipe your hand through your come and begin to stroke the length of it, it’s more than real enough. I groan as you start slowly jerking me off, pressing the base of it hard against my soaked clit with every stroke.

  “Ugh, burgers, yeah, let’s just stop now and have burgers,” I whisper, stroking your pussy gently, as your come drips down my hand. You gasp. I grab your hips and lower you toward my cock. You ride the tip of it for a moment, your mouth open, your eyes closing with pleasure, rubbing your clit against it. I slip it into you quickly, pulling you down until you are sitting in my lap. You shudder, whisper my name. I keep hold of your hips and begin to move you up and down, thrusting up into you, sure and slow. I stare at your hands as they unbutton your shirt to reveal your fantastic tits in their little black satin bra. I press my face into your cleavage and breathe deeply—like the white stuff in the middle of Oreos, that’s what your body lotion smells like. I keep my hands on your ass as I rub my face all over your tits, biting at your nipples through the satin as I fuck you.

  “Oh, yeah,” I say.

  “Oh, yeah? My legs are gonna break off at the thighs if we stay in this position much longer.”

  I laugh. You wrap your legs around me and I put my hands on your ass, staggering two steps to gently lay you down on the coffee table, and start fucking you again. The pressure of the base of the dildo against my soaked clit is immensely pleasurable, but it’s only one of the things that makes me keep fucking you. The main thing is the sounds you make, and after that, how beautiful you look, lying on your back under me, hair spread out around your head, your face flushed with sex. Your eyes are closed and your mouth is open, smiling, making the most erotic little grunts in time with my thrusts.

  “Oh, baby, I love you,” I whisper into your ear, listening to your breathing, ragged and excited, tiny gasps. I wrap my left arm around your shoulders and rest my head against yours, breathing hard, holding you close, our bodies sliding against each other. My right hand snakes up your side, caressing your skin, moves up onto your breast and stays there, squeezing in time with my thrusts.

  “Oh, yeah, baby, just keep fucking me.” Your voice is deep and makes me want you more.

  I fuck you faster, deeper, dripping with sweat. My cock slides in and out of you, pressing against your clit, against my clit. I bite your shoulder harder than I mean to. I whisper that I’m going to come.

  “Yeah…okay,” you moan and grab my ass, your feet high in the air behind me, pressing your pussy against me faster and harder, starting to come as I start to come. Your gasps and whimpers send chills through me, my toes feel cold and I come with you, my face pressed against your neck.

  Eyes still closed, I kiss you. Your mouth is hot and wet and tastes like sex.“I love you,” I whisper.

  “Yeah. For seven years now.” You laugh. “Happy anniversary.”

  “Yeah, happy anniversary.”

  I pull out of you gently and we sit together on the couch, pressed up close, stuck to each other. I reach for the bag of burgers. Life is good.

  SKIN DEEP

  Anna Watson

  Rosa was such a slut that it took her the better part of a year to realize there was a pattern to Terry’s disappearing acts: a moon pattern, to be exact. But for a while there, Rosa just wasn’t paying attention; so every time Terry pulled one of her no-shows, Rosa would just chalk it up to a bad mood and carry on with her fabulous life. Rosa’s postmonogamous, polyam-orous motto went something like this: “There are a lot of apples bobbing around in the barrel.” She had several players on offer, casual and less so, who were often available when Terry broke a date and who were more than happy to welcome her into their arms (and mouths and cunts). It had taken Rosa no little time to reach this place, physically, spiritually and mentally, and she thoroughly enjoyed being there, often congratulating herself on the sweet fruits of what had been (and continued to be) very hard labor. She had discovered that being a slut, one with manners and morals, was just as difficult as being a model wife.

  But once she figured out what was going on with Terry, she felt pretty stupid. Why hadn’t she paid more attention? She had felt Terry pushing her away and she had gone off to frolic elsewhere without checking to see what was going on. She had waited for Terry to come to her when maybe it was time for her to go to Terry. Terry, with her suits and her buzz cut, her ripe biceps, her complicated, delicious old-school self. This was not someone Rosa wanted to let drift away, especially since Terry was smart and tender and made Rosa laugh. The two of them had already been through a lot of emotional shit together, pushing each other’s buttons, all that. They’d wrestled with monogamy (Terry), emotions out of control (Rosa) and who knows what all, but they’d come out on the other side of it, to a better understanding and a deeper trust. Oh, Rosa liked Terry.

  Dialing, Rosa thought, There are six thousand nerve endings in the clitoris. This fact always gave her strength. When Terry answered, Rosa said, “Hey, baby,” in a way that usually had Terry growling out cocky commands like, “Get your fine ass over here right now, girl, so I can pin you up against the wall and fuck your brains out.” Tonight, though, she just sighed and said, “Oh, hi, Rosa.” Right on time, by Rosa’s count. Damn, she was regular.

  “What’s wrong, hot stuff?” That got her butch up.

  “Nothing! Why? What would be wrong?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. You just sound a little…achy.”

  There was a long pause, and then Terry said, through gritted teeth, “So I have a couple cramps, so what?”

  Rosa made a low femme croon in the back of her throat, not nervous anymore, going on instinct. Rosa knew, deep in her femme heart, that it wasn’t that Terry didn’t want to let anyone in, let anyone see her as vulnerable; it was just that she’d been so burned in the past she couldn’t admit to herself how good it might feel to let someone in. It hurt too much to believe that someone could minister to her, that she could let go of some of that all-important control.

  “You can come ov
er if you want,” Terry managed to choke out, then quickly banged down the phone.

  “Be right there, baby,” murmured Rosa.

  When Rosa pushed open the door to Terry’s apartment, the butch was sitting on her black leather couch, leaning back, legs apart, watching TV. She was wearing boxers and a tank top and had a studied nonchalance about her: Who, me, crampy? To Rosa, she looked like she needed to be curled up in a ball with a blanket over her and Rosa’s hands kneading her sore lower back. She didn’t suggest it, but she thought at it so hard that Terry shifted uncomfortably and brought her legs together. One knee began to jiggle nervously.

  “What?” she barked.

  “Nothing.” Rosa started to unbutton her blouse, and even in her compromised state, Terry was taking an interest. Underneath, Rosa had on her sexiest bra, her boobies-on-the-half-shell, pink-and-black lace froth bra, Terry’s favorite. She was also wearing the miniskirt Terry once confessed had nearly killed her the first time she’d seen Rosa wear it. No panties. Rosa slipped off her blouse and let it drop to the floor.

  Terry cleared her throat.

  “You look nice.”

  “Thank you. Gonna invite me over?”

  The light in Terry’s eyes dimmed and she halfheartedly patted her knees. Probably feeling too tender for any lap sitting, thought Rosa. Poor baby.

  When Rosa was thirteen and had first gotten her period, she’d walked on air for weeks. Her pagan, hippie mom had celebrated with her, making her a moon bracelet with twenty-eight antique red glass beads. They were women together now! Even though figuring out the hardware hadn’t been that easy, and even though she sometimes had bad cramps, Rosa loved this longed-for change. Getting her period made her walk differently, her hips moving more, her breasts out and proud, everything about her shouting, “Look out world, there’s another woman on board!” But for Terry? It must have been like dying: the death of all her boyish hopes. What did it mean to her now, sitting there, knowing that Rosa-the-femme was profoundly attracted to the masculine in her, and feeling that most womanly of all feelings, the cramping womb, the blood, the monthly disaster? Rosa’s whole body softened, and a voice in her head said, Gentle, gentle, as she went to Terry and sat on her lap, being careful not to jostle her too much.

  Rosa let Terry start. That’s how she had to do it, Rosa could tell, if there was any chance of reaching past the hurt. Terry caressed Rosa’s breasts, licking and sucking the nipples, lifting each one in turn out of the lacy cups. It felt good, of course. Terry was hands-down the best lover Rosa had ever had, but she could tell the butch’s heart wasn’t really in it. Slowly, Rosa snaked her arms around Terry’s neck and started thumbing those delicate hollows at her hairline. Terry’s eyes closed and her hands stilled on Rosa’s breasts. Rosa pretended not to notice, keeping her breathing labored and hot, not that she really had to try. Having her hands on Terry, feeling the tremors go through her as she stroked that most responsive and sensitive of all sex organs—her lover’s skin—always turned Rosa on.

  The TV was annoying with its inane chatter, and Rosa managed to step on the clicker to turn it off without dislodging herself from Terry’s lap. Terry dropped her hands to her sides and sank back into the couch. Rosa stroked down her arms, relishing the strong biceps, lingering there until Terry’s lips parted, her eyes closed and she drew in her breath quickly, sinking even deeper into the cushions.

  “Mmm,” hummed Rosa. She was wet and juicy and just about now, had Terry been on top of her game, she would have rolled Rosa over and given it to her good, but tonight wasn’t that kind of night. Tonight, it was Terry who needed attention, whether or not she would ever admit it. Rosa didn’t need her to say anything, at least not in words. Terry’s body had been talking to her from the moment she’d walked in. Rosa traced the contours of Terry’s left bicep with one nail, gently cupping the right bicep with her other hand. She pressed both muscles with the pads of her fingers, then danced her fingers down the butch’s arms, forging a teasing, random trail of sensation across Terry’s hands, up her shoulders, around the back of her neck, through her cropped hair. After a bit, Rosa slid to the floor and massaged Terry’s calves. Terry shivered and jerked and gasped as Rosa touched her. Her nipples hardened beautifully through the white cotton of her shirt, calling to Rosa, but she kept her distance. Terry opened her eyes once, but Rosa didn’t meet her gaze, just let her see the curtain of hair falling over her face as she bent to blow a stream of air over the place on Terry’s thigh she had just licked and nibbled. The room grew darker.

  After a long, dreamy time, knowing Terry was firmly situated in her manhood now, pulled there in incremental tugs by Rosa’s clever fingers, wet tongue and judicious application of pressure, Rosa took her hand.

  “Bath time,” she said.

  Terry’s eyes shot open again, and this time Rosa looked. She gazed. She smiled and made another soothing sound, one of those sounds femmes have a whole repertoire of, sounds to soothe the quailing butch. Terry almost smiled back. Then she frowned, looked away and grunted. “But I’m menstruating.”

  Well, of course she wouldn’t “have a period” or be “on the rag” or any other girly euphemism. A little bubble of giggles threatened to burst from Rosa’s lips, but she swallowed before it could.

  “So?”

  “I don’t use tampons.”

  Well, of course not.

  “So?”

  “The water…”

  Rosa didn’t say anything else, just placed Terry’s hand up under her skirt on her bare asscheek and led her to the bathroom. Terry couldn’t help but follow, stumbling a little, loose-limbed and confounded.

  “Undress,” murmured Rosa as she bent to turn on the water. Terry usually liked Rosa to undress her, but tonight Rosa thought she wouldn’t want that particular intimacy. Kneeling, Rosa ran the bath, poured in bubble bath, laid out the ball made of netting her niece called a “ballerina,” the liquid soap, the sugar scrub. Then she reached behind her without turning and Terry took her hand and quickly stepped in. Bubbles covered her lower half as Rosa gently pushed her head forward and began kissing the back of her neck until she relaxed slightly. Rosa kissed some more until Terry was holding the sides of the bath as if she was afraid she would slide completely under. Rosa soaped up the ballerina and lathered Terry’s back, up and down, side to side. Terry’s leg jerked as Rosa hit a particularly sensitive spot, and water splashed in Rosa’s face. Terry opened her eyes and grinned.

  “You have a mustache!” She gently wiped suds from Rosa’s upper lip, and Rosa could feel a shift: Terry was starting to want to take the wheel. Rosa leaned in and let Terry kiss her, and their tongues danced and wrestled until the pressure of Rosa’s hands on Terry’s shoulders made her gasp, draw back, surrender to the massage. Rosa opened the sugar scrub, loving the nasty texture as she stuck her finger in: it was oily and gritty and smelled of sandalwood and roses. She slathered some on Terry’s arms and circled first one and then the other with both hands, slowly down, slowly up, turning and twisting along the way, stopping to draw her nails through the sludge. Both of them were panting. Rosa slopped more scrub on Terry’s back and got into the bath, not bothering to undress. Her skirt floated up as she slotted her body to Terry’s, the feel of Terry’s strong back against her sensitized nipples exquisite. She rubbed her tits through the sugar scrub, her hands around Terry’s waist for purchase. From there, she moved her hands around, finally finding Terry’s lower back with her knuckles and palms.

  The ballerina floated by and Rosa loaded it with liquid soap, reaching around and massaging the front of Terry’s shoulders, her pecs, her small breasts with those long nipples she loved to suck; down her belly, her hips, back around to the top of her ass. More soap, and then Rosa dipped; she took the plunge, down the crack of Terry’s ass, holding her firmly, her face pressed against her shoulder, cemented to her with glop. And then, after a long, lingering hug, Rosa detached and swished and splashed her way around front so they were facing each other. She
washed Terry’s feet and toes, ankles and calves, her strong thighs, and then, for the first time ever, she touched her butch. There. Terry went very still, then pushed up against Rosa, all at once, so hard that they both almost went under. Now Terry was stretched out the length of the tub, her head resting on the back slope, propped up by the smooth porcelain, eyes closed. Rosa just kept up her gentle washing. Just washing, she thought, and then she said it out loud, softly, into Terry’s shoulder. Terry gave the smallest of nods and her body tensed as the ballerina moved. Rosa felt the coiled energy, the start of something. How many times had Rosa been here, between a lover’s legs, jonesing for their pleasure, their cum, but now, right now, both Rosa and Terry hesitated at the same moment, and in that moment, Rosa could feel Terry withdraw. Terry closed her legs, pulling Rosa close, and they stayed holding each other until the water was cold. Maybe they were both crying. Maybe only one of them was.

  After a long time, they showered together, then Rosa left to slip into bed. She could hear Terry getting a pad, getting set up. When the butch joined her in bed, she was wearing boxers but no shirt. An act of trust. Another one.

  “Do you want me to fuck you?” Terry asked, always the gentleman, although Rosa could hear the fatigue in her voice, feel how her body longed for rest.

  “Yes,” said Rosa, and Terry began to reach under the bed for her dick. “Tomorrow.” And as Rosa’s fingers again reached to soothe Terry’s lower back, the butch sighed, and allowed herself to relax into sleep.

  ENVY

  Lulu LaFramboise

  Your car is like your cock, you’ve always said. You do the driving, precise and fast, and I never touch a thing. Except I also climb inside the machine of us, and sometimes I give directions.