Best Lesbian Erotica 2005

by Tristan Taormino

  Bel writhed into the bed, glistening wetness now coating her thighs. She tugged at the ties on her wrists. “Please… please,” she moaned.

  “Yes, me love?”

  “Put it inside me…please….” Max grinned; she loved this moment, this instant when Bel begs for fulfillment. But she wanted to wait, to prolong the moment a few seconds more. She seized a goose feather from the table and began to run it over Bel’s sensitized back, up the inside of her thighs, and over the soles of her feet. Bel shrieked with pent-up frustration and desire.

  Max, still dragging the feather over Bel’s back, unbuttoned the front of her breeches and dropped them to the floor. Dipping her finger in the bowl of warm lard that she kept near the fire for such occasions, she slid her finger slowly and steadily into Bel’s asshole. Her efforts were greeted with Bel’s enthusiastic moans and frantic efforts to open her legs even wider. Leaning down, she sank her teeth into Bel’s shoulder and bit sharply. She cried out again, and Max grinned as she used her other hand to rub lard onto the wrapped leather that she wore as a false penis.

  Balancing herself over Bel’s broad thighs, she slid a finger inside her lover’s wet slit, then brought it to her lips, savoring the taste and smell. Then, spreading Bel’s cheeks, she drove the hard piece of leather into her. Bracing herself with one hand, she wrapped the other in the long red tresses, pulling Bel’s head back and arching her neck. Bel’s shudders signaled the beginning of her orgasm. “Not yet. Not until I say so,” she growled.

  Bel tensed, bucking beneath her with the effort of holding back. Max’s head spun with desire. “Now!” she yelled. She thrust hard, the leather straps that held the penis rubbing against her until the touch of rough leather and Bel’s soft skin took her. She fell, shuddering, onto Bel’s quivering back as both collapsed exhausted into the sodden bedclothes.

  After some sweet time, Max pulled the piece of wrapped leather from Bel and kissed her gently. Untying the restraints, she held her lover tightly in her arms, listening as Bel’s breathing slowed. “Can I taste you tonight?” Bel’s large blue eyes had a anxious, pleading look in them.

  “How can I say no to that face?” Max responded, smiling. Her fingers found the buckles that held the straps in place, opening with the ease that came from long practice. Bare of its usual covering, her skin tingled in the cool air. Bel’s eager tongue slid down her neck, over her collarbone, to her breasts, leaving a trail of goose bumps in its wake. Then she paused, the tip of her tongue caressing Max’s nipples until her back arched slightly in pleasure.

  “Oh, that’s good, my girl,” Max groaned. She seldom let Bel pleasure her this way, but tonight it felt right. Bel slid lower, tongue trailing slowly over Max’s stomach and thighs until she worked her way to Max’s slit. There she paused, tongue lapping faster, rhythmically seeking her lover’s release. Max writhed in pleasure for as long as she could bear it, then gently stopped Bel. “Enough, love. Can’t calm down enough tonight. Come here.” She pulled Bel up close and held her.

  They lay quietly for a bit. “ ’Tis him you’re thinking on, ain’t it?” Bel asked apprehensively.

  “Aye. How can I not? Who is the bastard? Where does he hide himself? How the hell am I going to find him? I want the bleeding sod dead for what he did to Annie! She was good to me when I was but a sprat, better then me whole family, and I’ll have vengeance for her, or know why.” Bel shook her head, having no answers for this. Max looked down at her. “Think on it girl, it might have been you out on Tavern Street.” A cold rage filled her at the thought.

  Unspoken questions danced through Max’s mind. If she was aroused by her power over Bel, how did Smiling Jack himself feel about the women he murdered? She knew she was no killer, except to avenge those of her own that had been done wrong. She had a brace of pistols for Jack when she found him, and few enough questions then. But sometimes she wondered how thick a line separated her from him.

  Not that those questions were enough to stop her quest. The next night and the next, she went out hunting the Ripper. He began to loom large in her mind during the daylight hours as well, a menacing cloaked figure with a bloody great butcher knife, disappearing around every corner and down every alley. The newspapers reported more murders, more speculation, and still she couldn’t find the bastard.

  When she was home, Bel began to fret over her in a way that Max found irritating. On one occasion, the local bobby even asked Bel some questions about Max, just enough to make it clear that Mr. Cruther’s behavior was becoming suspicious. After that, she stayed in for a night or two, long enough for Bel to think all was well.

  But blood and knives filled Max’s dreams, and more than once she woke screaming from nightmares. It was those dreams more than anything that drove her out into the dark alleys of Whitechapel night after night, fearing sleep. The newspapers all speculated on Jack’s identity, and the police net tightened around Whitechapel but still he slipped through, continuing his bloody work. The knowledge drove Max until her eyes stood out from shadowed sockets, glittering with an unhealthy gleam, and her breath wheezed in her lungs from walking in the burning fog at all hours.

  Finally the night came when Bel could stand it no longer. Knowing she must do something, she wandered their house looking for something, anything, that would distract Max enough to bring her back. The whip sat neglected along with the ties, and her fingers only stroked it for a few regretful moments. It wouldn’t be enough, not this time. But she wouldn’t give up yet. Her steps led her to the kitchen where she saw her reflection gleaming dimly at her from across the room. That was it. It had to be.

  She took one of the knives from the table and gingerly tested its gleaming edge. The blade was fine enough to split a hair from her head, and she shuddered at its deadly possibilities. Shivering, she rested the gleaming blade against her neck, the exposed skin of her collarbone, letting its cold promise seep into her bones. She imagined it in Max’s hands, could almost see her blood gleam on the dark steel.

  Hoping she had the courage to endure what she dreamed of, she put it on the table next to their bed. Then there was nothing to do but wait, so she did. When Max finally returned after midnight, bleary-eyed and edgy, Bel was kneeling on the threadbare carpet in the hall, long hair loose around her shoulders and nightgown open at the neck to display her ample bosom. “I did not go to the cobblers today, as you wanted…,” Bel began softly.

  Max grimaced in fury but forced the words down. She had always feared what might happen if she let her temper go, and tonight the thought made her grind her teeth together. “No, lass. I scarcely know myself tonight. I’d flay you before I knew what I was about.”

  Bel continued kneeling, her hands unlacing the top of the nightgown further. “And I’ve not washed the bedding, as you asked.” She could feel herself growing damp as she knelt there, shivering with trepidation and chill with Max’s eyes fixed on her. They were so strange tonight, those eyes. She hardly recognized them.

  With a sudden movement, Max threw her coat and hat aside. She leaned down and ripped the nightgown open to Bel’s waist, dragging it over her shoulders. Bel looked up and met her eyes, breasts heaving and mouth slightly open, breath coming in pants. In a snap, Max pulled off her scarf and blindfolded her with it. Then she pulled open her breeches and pulled out the false penis. Grabbing the back of Bel’s head, she shoved it into her open mouth. Bel’s eager tongue slid over the leather, welcoming it as far down her throat as Max could shove it.

  Max shuddered as Bel’s eager hands wrapped around her hips, pulling the leather penis further into her mouth. Ah, this felt good! But it wasn’t enough, not tonight. Pulling the leather from Bel’s mouth, she dragged her swiftly to her feet. Bel stood trembling while Max tied her hands together with rope from the hallway closet.

  “Well, my girl, what are we going to do with you tonight?” Max’s left hand twisted Bel’s nipple, making her yelp in surprise and pain, and something deeper that sang over Max’s skin and into her fevered brain. Sh
e pushed Bel hard against the wall, then ripped the nightgown from hem to waist. Her fingers drove savagely inside Bel until she cried out and spread her legs further. Max slammed her hand into her warm, wet welcome until Bel could hardly stand.

  “Oh, please…the bed…let me lie down…please….” Max grabbed the rope around her hands and towed her swiftly up the stairs, only just able to make sure she didn’t stumble. Pulling Bel into the bedroom, she grabbed the knife and cut off the rest of the gown.

  Then it struck her. “What’s this doing here, ey?” She touched the flat of the blade to Bel’s neck and watched her quiver.

  Bel whispered, “Oh please…it’s for you. Please…don’t stop.” Max stroked the blade down Bel’s skin, then over her bare nipples, watching them harden in response. By now, Max could smell her own desire and bared her teeth in a savage grin to feel Bel tremble as she ran the knife over her body. She quickly pushed Bel onto her back and then bound her to the bedposts. Her own clothes were hurriedly removed, breath hissing between her teeth in conflicting urges.

  This time, there was no pause to admire the curves of Bel’s body, to prolong her lover’s longing until it was nearly unbearable. She knelt between Bel’s thighs with a pantherlike swiftness, her hands trembling with something she hadn’t known she could feel. She grabbed the knife’s blade, not caring if she cut herself or not, and shoved the long wooden handle into Bel. Bel’s back arched as the handle slid in and out, coated thicker each time with her own juices.

  Max was dizzy with power and desire. Seizing the candle by the bedside, she held it over Bel’s writhing body, carefully tilting it so the hot wax splashed on her belly. Bel screamed softly from the unexpected sensation and pulled back hard on the ties. She shook with a force that almost broke the leather as the knife hilt was once more slammed into her. Putting the candle aside, Max leaned down to sink her teeth into Bel’s thigh. She had left the knife handle inside Bel and found she liked the way it looked, dangerous and shining in the candlelight as Bel’s muscles clenched around it.

  Max straddled her thighs, letting Bel feel how wet she was. Bel tugged futilely at her bonds, trying to get to her. Max began rubbing herself on Bel’s softness, letting it caress her own hot flesh as the edge of the blade caressed her skin. Then she slid up to Bel’s face, and placed her knees on either side of her head. “Lick me,” she commanded, and Bel’s eager tongue slid inside her.

  Max’s back arched as she rode Bel’s tongue until she came, hard, filling Bel’s mouth with her taste. She climbed off Bel and looked over her lover’s body. Small burns marked her thighs in red streaks. The knife handle was still firmly clenched in Bel’s cunt, her slick wetness coating it down the blade. Max pulled the knife out and looked at it. Bel groaned and moved her hips as though begging for more. Max ran the tip of the blade lightly over her thighs, pleased with her response.

  Undoing the ropes, she flipped Bel onto her stomach and fastened her once again to the bedposts. Going to the closet, she pulled out a flexible cane. Putting the knife aside for the moment, she began to lightly smack Bel’s calves and thighs. Bel’s moans inspired her and she worked her way up and down her lover’s back, striking a little harder each time. “How much can you take tonight, me girl? Can you take all I’m going to do?” Max growled menacingly as she applied the cane.

  Bel’s shriek after a particularly sharp blow made Max pause for a moment. Her hand ran slowly up Bel’s inner thigh as she writhed and attempted to move closer to Max, to coax her fingers inside her wet warmth. The welts on her back stood out in sharp relief against her white skin, and Max ran her fingers over them, gently tracing them.

  She found she wanted more, more power than she had ever exercised over her lover before. The Ripper knew the power of life and death; why shouldn’t she? She wanted to see blood on the knife’s edge, to know the power of the open cut. She wiped the tears from Bel’s wet cheeks and whispered, “Do you trust me, darling? I’m not done yet….” Bel nodded, her eyes still covered by the blindfold. Max could see her stiffen a little, expecting the cane.

  Once more the knife was in Max’s hands, the cane laid aside. She hesitated a long moment, listening to the call of steel and blood. Slowly and gently, she ran the knife’s sharp point over Bel’s shoulder, feeling the skin shift beneath it. Then she sank it in, cutting a series of shallow lines on Bel’s left shoulder, her hand trembling with the effort it took not to do real harm. Bel screamed as Max drove her other hand into her slit so that she felt the two sensations at once. Bel came hard, pulling Max’s hand further inside her as she shook and quaked. Max leaned down and licked the blood carefully from Bel’s shoulder before she cut the ropes to set her free.

  With an effort at self-control so profound she shook with it, she put the knife back on the table. The tang of Bel’s blood still on her lips, she slipped the blindfold from her lover’s eyes. She saw Bel’s gaze light on the blade, still stained with a drop of her own blood, and Max flinched a little. But she had stopped, not shedding her lover’s blood wantonly or brutally. Bel’s eyes glowed with something that she had not seen in them before: a strange mixture of lust, terror, and surrender.

  It warmed her soul and she pushed her hand inside until she could form a fist inside her lover. Bel clenched, quaking and twisting around her hand, long red hair soaked with sweat. When she stopped shaking, Max pulled her hand gently out and dropped to the soaked sheets beside her lover. Bel shuddered and collapsed on Max’s shoulder. Max held her until she fell asleep, then bandaged her shoulder. She blew out the candle and sat thinking in the dark until sleep took her. Tonight, she had called her demons when she chose and dismissed them when their time was done; that was enough for now.

  A fortnight later, the papers screamed that there was an end to killings in Whitechapel. The Ripper’s reign of terror had ended. What had happened? Had he tired of his game or died in a madhouse? Had he stalked the wrong prey and ended up dead in the Thames or at the end of a longer, sharper blade than one of his own?

  No one knew for sure, but Max stopped prowling the streets at night. The strange, feverish light in her eyes was replaced by a newfound calm. True, when Max put up her pistols along with her long nights, Bel thought that there was less lead shot than she remembered. But Max volunteered nothing and Bel did not ask, opting instead to savor her nights on the knife’s edge.

  My Debut as a Slut

  Jean Roberta

  “Crystal,” said Brock, listening to herself as she studied my alert, cotton-covered breasts. “That’s what I want to call you. I want you to be clear and open to me, nothing fancy.” She stretched a bare, smoothly muscled arm across the table to reach for my hand. Her grip was hot.

  I looked at the biker dyke for whom I had given up an afternoon in the university library. My parents, the historian Abraham Chalkdust and the linguist Anna Parle Chalkdust, had named me Athena before I was even a footnote in their lives. Now I was a thirty-year-old teaching assistant taking a break from my Ph.D. thesis by drinking vile coffee in a flyspecked café because Brock had brought me here. I wondered if she would take me on a bike trip to hell, and how long I would hang on.

  I dared to look into her compelling gray eyes. “I don’t know how to be a chick named Crystal,” I confessed. “Will you show me?” I pulled the brass clip out of my long chestnut hair, hoping this was a start.

  Brock grinned wickedly, squeezing my hand. The yellowish light from a hanging lamp gave her short wood-brown hair a perverse halo. “You know how, baby, you just don’t want to admit it,” she told me. “You should act like the slut you are when I show you to my friends. It’s not your literary theories that’ll make an impression. Even when I’m not touching you, pretend I’m squeezing your ass and pinching your nipples whenever you’re with me. You like to show off, Crystal. I could see it when I met you at the club.”

  I had ventured out to the dyke bar for a drink, consciously hoping to meet some compatible Women’s Studies majors. Brock had claimed me instead, or I
had found what I was really seeking. It was like a serendipitous experience in the library, such as the time my mother’s book on eighteenth-century sexual slang fell off its shelf and hit me on the head.

  Brock slid close to me in the leatherette booth, pressing a hard thigh against mine. “Put your jacket over your lap, honey,” she muttered into my ear. She didn’t really seem to care who heard. I focused on my breathing as I carefully covered myself.

  Brock’s tanned, expressive face looked radiant. “Did I tell you my old buddy Keith is back in town?” she asked conversationally. “He wants to meet you.” One of her hands was sliding over my hip, then pulling down the zipper of my pants. Her hot fingers burrowed under my panties on a downward expedition over my quivering belly.

  “Brock,” I whispered. “We can’t do it here.”

  “Sssh,” she replied with a grin. “Do you want everyone in the place to hear you?” Her fingers reached my clit. After a dramatic pause, they teased it like a cat playing with a mouse.

  I was in exquisite distress, as usual whenever I was in Brock’s company. I felt my wetness gushing over her determined fingers, making it pointless for me to deny the obvious. I clenched my teeth to hold back a moan.

  “You’re too quiet,” she warned me. “If you’re not going to talk to me, make some noise.” She pushed in until two of her fingers were knuckle-deep in my cunt. Their insistent stroking pulled my attention back to where she wanted it.

  “Keith?” I babbled desperately. “Is that the guy who sells…?” I spread my legs and tilted back to give her more room. A man at the next table seemed to be watching us, but I couldn’t afford to look at him.

  Brock’s fingers sank in as far as they could. “Yep,” she remarked, and in a lower voice: “sit forward.” I obeyed, and the resulting friction brought me to a crisis point.