Best Lesbian Erotica 2005

by Tristan Taormino

  When I touched two fingers lightly to her anus, her fluted inner lips unfurled at me, dark as plums. She bucked.

  “Don’t move.” I rested my thumb under her clit, letting my tongue glide down one side of her labia. Her curls tickled my cheek. She sobbed and jerked, twisting toward my mouth.

  “Shh, just feel it.” Her hair moved under my breath.

  She kept twisting. I stood and swatted her ass once, playfully. She squealed. I rested my hands on her thighs, massaging, feeling her heat radiate up through my arms. Her ribs heaved.

  “You felt that too, didn’t you?” I tried not to let my voice tremble. “Don’t make me smack it harder.”

  I knelt again. Still kneading her flesh, I watched her labia contract and spread, a thick-petaled flower. When I saw her inner thighs shining, slick and golden, I couldn’t resist anymore. My eyes stung with tears.

  I leaned in, my tongue tracing lightly over her mound, my fingers covering her clit in tender circles. The smell of her made me lightheaded and I moaned when she finally lifted her head, her back perfectly straight, writhing furiously and shrieking. Her cunt pulsed in my mouth. She shook for a long time afterward, slow delicious aftershocks, turning her head from side to side and cooing softly to herself.

  I eased her off the stool. We stretched out on the cool, dusty floor, cradling each other. Our breath became quieter as the room darkened.

  We went to Aracelli’s place the next night. She shared a West Village loft with her aunt, an art teacher at Cooper Union.

  Aracelli had been inviting me there all summer, but I kept finding excuses to stay away. It wasn’t that I hated the Village; it was glorious. The neighborhood was vibrant, endlessly complex, like a chaotic masterpiece of performance art that was just about to reveal its central theme. Each new block had something fascinating: flame-colored murals and steel statues, tiny stores packed with books, scents of lilies and fresh bread, snatches of mournful clarinet and Creole laughter. Art here was serious; there was an unspoken imperative to create constantly, to produce something that would appall and transport and devastate. To be the absolute best in your field.

  I felt it should have inspired me but instead it made me numb with anxiety, wanting to curl up and hide.

  “Kim, are you okay?” Aracelli was staring at me. Her face was gritty with dust. “You’re all pale.”

  “It’s just….” I rested my palm on my forehead. The crowd surged around us, bristling with energy as the sky darkened. “It’s just so hot. The air’s so heavy.”

  “It’s cooler upstairs. Come on, we’re here.” It was an old art-deco building, gleaming in the last rays of the sun as if it were gold-plated.

  Aracelli’s dress puffed and floated around her legs as she bounded up the stairwell. “She’s away. We get it all to ourselves. Hurry up!”

  I reached the top floor in time to see her poppy-red figure disappear down the murky corridor. Muffled shouting came from the other rooms.

  I sucked in my breath when I followed her through the doorway. The loft’s whitewashed walls were draped with pastel silk prints and grainy, obscure photos. Half-formed statues, made of found objects and spray-painted silver, perched along the moldings like deranged household gods. A patched satin sofa was the only furniture; the rest of the front room was covered in faded, multicolored carpets and velour cushions.

  I was speechless as I walked over to the window. The old-fashioned shutters opened over Washington Park. The sky was deepening to teal, with a haze of rusty brown and scarlet still glowing at the horizon. The park was a nest of tangled green shadows and flaring lights, filled with music and screams.

  “I know, I know. I love it.” Aracelli grabbed me from behind, clasping her arms tight around my waist and rubbing her breasts into my back. Her thin dress was already gossamer with sweat.

  She raked her fingers through my hair. I shook it from my eyes. Her tender fingers found the back of my neck and I moaned.

  “Kim, you look like one of those old paintings of angels.” She kissed my throat. “In your little blue dress, your hair all over the place.”

  I sighed, leaning my head back on her thin shoulder. She ran her index fingers along my arms, from my shoulders to my wrists and back again, light as moth wings. My sex throbbed as if she were already cuddling it in her palm.

  When she spoke again, her voice was hoarse. “Oh, Kim, I want to tie you somewhere and just fuck you and fuck you and fuck you until you’re screaming for me to stop.”

  The wide darkness outside seemed to suck at me. My head spun. I tried to back away from the window but Aracelli gripped my neck and bit my ear. Her hips pressed mine into the window’s ledge. I pressed my palms into the rough frame, bracing.

  “Screaming and screaming until I gag you.” Her nails in my throat made me whimper. “I’d gag you and make you come the way you’ve always needed to, come so hard you’d forget everything.”

  She knelt. I was already wet, panting when she pulled my panties to my knees. She tilted my hips back and just rested her languorous tongue on my still-folded cunt, soft and maddening. The darkening streets swam before my eyes.

  When she finally fed me her strong fingers, one after another, my broken cries were sucked into the heavy, humid wind.

  We woke late the next morning, strewn flat across her aunt’s futon. We hadn’t eaten anything the day before and we were weak with hunger. We clanged down the staircase and burst out to the sparkling clear day.

  We started with our usual coffee and one biscotto each, just to check out a dark, stylish café. We added more pastries, growing even more famished as we ate. The second breakfast turned into lunch. We finished with an armful of chocolate bars, giggling madly on a sun-warmed stone bench in the Chinese garden, sucking the last melted bits from the foil. I couldn’t remember when I’d eaten so much. My blood was so full of sugar that the world seemed painfully bright.

  With my shoulder leaning on Aracelli’s I looked out over the slow-moving crowd and realized suddenly it was all laughably easy. Absolutely anything was possible. I let myself tumble down and rested my head on her lap. I didn’t care who saw us. Above me, she closed her eyes and lifted her sharp chin into the sunlight. Tendrils of wisteria and honeysuckle hung low, shaking vivid petals into the breeze.

  We sat that way until the sun sank behind the trees.

  “Come on, we shouldn’t wait too long.” Aracelli’s voice had a leaden ring as we descended into the deserted subway station. She tugged me into the women’s bathroom. Filthy shadows pooled in the corners.

  “Wait for what?” I felt like I was drunk.

  She knelt in an open stall, leaning over the toilet, her left arm working frantically at her mouth until her back spasmed. The smell made me retch and I stepped back.

  She coughed only once and stood up, pressing a tissue into her lips. Her skin seemed to be dusted with ashes. I gulped, sucking in air around my tongue, willing my stomach to stop clenching on itself.

  “What,” she barked. But I still couldn’t speak. She glared, her eyes dull as charcoal.

  “I’m sorry.” I turned away. “I don’t do that. I—I don’t think it’s healthy.”

  “You don’t….”

  “I just, you know, diet.”

  “You diet!” I didn’t need to see her face. Her laughter was strangely loud. “Well, Kim, no wonder….”

  I faced her now. My ears rang and the miserable room went dim.

  She yelled in earnest. “Don’t give me that bullshit, Kim. What, you’re just going to let all that sit on your stomach?” Her voice ricocheted over the tiles. “With auditions in six days? Jesus Christ, you’re going to gain, like, five pounds.”

  I flinched, blinking. Panic flooded my mind. I felt my skirt already growing tighter around my thighs.

  I knelt where she had been and looked at my hands. “I don’t know how,” I murmured.

  Her voice was gentle, almost sweet. “Here.” She crouched close beside me, holding out her long, b
ronze palm. “Use two fingers, hard, on the back of your throat.”

  I tried. It just tickled. I hadn’t thrown up since I was five. My eyes became wet.

  “Press really hard, on the part where your throat becomes soft.” Her voice was brittle with impatience now. “Christ, either do it or not.”

  I reached further back, gingerly, breathing in little gasps, until I found the spot that made me gag. Before I could pull my hand away, Aracelli grabbed my wrist and shoved it toward the back of my head.

  She stood up as I finished.

  I couldn’t stop sobbing afterward. My temples throbbed and my insides felt as though they’d been soldered into a black, smoking mess. I felt her standing over me and thought she would leave in disgust. Instead she knelt and wound her cool, slim arms around my neck, pulling until I fell back into her, holding my damp head under her chin. Her skin smelled like baby powder and vanilla lipgloss. She trailed her slender fingers through my hair.

  “Kim, what did you expect?” Her voice was very quiet.

  I was usually the first one at the studios in the morning, so I was surprised to hear voices in the cool, clean hallways that Wednesday as I arrived. A group of girls already huddled near the office doors. I made my way through them, slowly. I tried to listen for gossip, but there were only quick whispers, full of hissing rage.

  A sheet was hung at the top of the bulletin board. Summer Workshop Performance Cast List.

  Before I could read further, my shoulders tingled. I turned around. Aracelli gave me her mildest doe-eyed smile.

  “What the hell, did you see this?” I pointed toward the board. “Auditions are this coming Saturday, aren’t they? This must be a mistake.”

  “Well, they asked a few of us to audition for the principal roles last week. Everyone else will be the corps.”

  “They asked—” I pressed my hands to my temples. My stomach squirmed, turning ice cold. I realized my mouth was open and I shut it quickly.

  “Don’t get mad at me, Kim.” Aracelli’s tone was perfect; affectionate and reasonable. “Am I supposed to insist that they audition everybody?”

  I laid my palms on my burning cheeks. A few girls were staring at us.

  “Kim, a good solid corps dancer is so immensely valuable to a company.”

  I closed my eyes and felt her arm slip around my shoulders, hugging tight before she disappeared into the murmuring crowd.

  Una

  Andrea Miller

  The first time I ever really talked to Una, she was sitting at a café terrace, sipping iced mochaccino. “Hey, honey,” she said, as I passed by. “I like the way you walk; can I film you from behind?” I finally put it together, then, that all those cute waitresses I’d been scoping out over beers were actually one woman: Una. The thing is, she always looked so different. Sometimes she’d have on a wallet chain and a wife beater, and at other times sequins and stilettos. And everything changed with the clothes, even the way she put a drink down, even the way she walked. Swagger to hip swing, if you know what I mean.

  Una had the latter going on right now and she was prancing circles around me, shoving bikinis and thongs into a suitcase for a road trip—a slow drive down the East Coast to the dyke event of the year in South Beach, Miami. I, on the other hand, was staying home for a spring that smelled like dog shit and mildew because I couldn’t take the time off work from my glamorous job at a used bookstore specializing in porn and romance novels.

  Corey and Mel, Una’s travel companions, were waiting for her in the living room. Una had recently met them at the bar and she wanted us to be couple friends, but there were problems with that. They usually pretended I didn’t exist and, although always inseparable, they were only a couple every second day. Today they seemed very much in love—their tongues down each other’s throats.

  By the time Una put on her shoes, I was pretty depressed. Missing her already, I desperately wanted a few minutes alone with her, but that was impossible. “Film us saying good-bye,” she said, thrusting her camcorder at Mel. Kissing me hard.

  The door clicked shut and I spent an hour smoking cigarettes and trying to call friends who weren’t home. Then I decided to start watching the videos Una kept in the bedroom. I’d seen many of them before and I had certain favorites, but I hadn’t a clue how to find them on my own. Although the tapes were neatly labeled and lined up on the shelves, there were more than two hundred of them and the labels were cryptic—usually one or two words that barely connected to the content. So I just chose that first tape because it was at eye level. I popped it in, turned down the lights, and crawled into bed.

  At first there was only a muffled sound and an image of a floor, with table legs in the background. Then, suddenly, Una filled up the screen, cowboy hat tilted to one side, chaps framing her cunt. She was kneeling on the ground, flashing her crooked smile, and working oil over her tits. Tits that were the size of plums and that were now glossy like them, too.

  When Una had pinched her nipples into pointed stones, she slid a hand down her ribs and between her legs. She brushed her fingers over the clipped fur then, licking them, used the slick of her saliva to rub her clit. My own cunt creaming at the sight.

  Una reached for the lube and squeezed it into her hands and over her snatch—even let it trickle to her asshole. Then she picked up a long, black dildo and stroked it until every ridge of it glistened. She rested the flat dildo base on the floor, squatted over its cock head, and lowered down. The mouth of her pussy swallowing.

  With one hand behind her, propping her up, the other resumed rubbing her clit. And she really got into it, just bounced up and down on that dick until she suddenly stopped. Pulled out and repositioned. This time to have her asshole hovering over the head. I winced then because Una still owned that dildo. I’d had its thickness in my cunt a few times and I couldn’t imagine it anally. But jerking off, Una pressed into the tip. And as she got closer to climax, she couldn’t help grinding down, impaling herself.

  Most of the videos on the shelf were like that—Una getting off solo somewhere in some kind of glam outfit. She used the videos for foreplay, although I knew she also watched them on her own ’cause I’d caught her a few times. Jacking off to her own recorded moans.

  Una usually filmed herself, but sometimes she got someone else to do it and for the past year that someone else had been me. Filming her still made my pussy drip every time. Yet as titillating as it was, it also frustrated me.

  Sometimes I just wished we could have normal sex—you know, in bed with the lights out—because with Una, if it wasn’t the camera, then it was watching the action in a mirror or doing it in public, in danger of getting caught. And it seemed like she only ever paid attention to my pussy for the effect of it—how she looked sporting the strap-on, or how her tongue looked curling to my clit. I guess I’d started thinking that way the night we fucked behind an Italian restaurant.

  All I could smell was pizza and all I could hear were the cooks chopping and talking in their singsong way. But I was licking Una’s snatch and the rub of it on my tongue was making me juicy. Suddenly she shuddered, grabbing the back of my neck. And just as suddenly, some guy named Tony opened the back door, ending our game. So I was still all creamy and pent up when we got home and I wanted nothing more than to have Una fuck me with that dildo of hers. I saddled up to her and whispered my proposition in her ear, but she just snorted. “Honey,” she said, “butch is no deeper on you than your baseball cap. You don’t even play ball.”

  I didn’t exactly identify as butch, but what she said hurt because it was intended to and because it made me worry. Made me worry I wasn’t what she wanted and that she might find something tastier at the bar.

  I desperately wanted to hear Una’s husky nighttime voice and her firecracker laugh—sudden and loud. But when I came home with takeout five days after her departure, there was still nothing on the answering machine. Still no call from Una. Disappointed and driven to vice, I cracked open a beer and popped in another v
ideo. But this tape didn’t feature Una jacking off, and the pizza cheese felt suddenly gummy in my mouth.

  Una was on her hands and knees, wearing a schoolgirl uniform—knee socks and a kilt that was riding up her ass—and Karen, her ex-girlfriend, was looming above her with a paddle in hand. “Next time,” she said, her voice all sugar and metal, “you’re gonna do what Daddy tells you to.”

  Karen leaned down and pulled up Una’s skirt, exposing white little girl panties that matched creamy white thighs. She ran the paddle over the bare skin, over the cotton, and Una quivered as those first few soft smacks came down. Got harder. Knocking the wind out of my jealousy. I was getting wet for the scene, for Una and even for Karen. I’d never met her before, but on the screen she had a voice like chocolate and movements that were both fluid and crisp. I liked the way the line of her cropped hair met her neck and I liked her golden skin.

  Karen paused, slid the edge of the paddle between Una’s legs, tracing her slit. Then, with careful fingers, she pulled down her panties and fondled her tight globes. Una leaned into the touch and Karen smirked, the muscles in her forearms twitching.

  “You want Daddy’s cock inside you, baby? You want Daddy to make you cum?”

  “Oh, yes,” Una panted, now out-and-out grinding her snatch into Karen’s hand. “Make me cum, Daddy. Please make me cum.”

  “Are you forgetting Daddy hasn’t finished punishing you yet?”

  “Oh, Daddy, my pussy’s so wet. Please, I’ll be good,” Una begged. But Karen took her hand away and grabbed her by the hair. Shoved her glazed fingers in her mouth. Watched Una lick them.

  “You’re like a bitch in heat,” Karen sneered. Then she brought the paddle down again—this time hard and fast. Noisy smacks louder than the phone ringing.