Best of Best Lesbian Erotica 2

by Tristan Taormino

  She stopped.

  “Roll over.”

  I did, and she pulled me down so my knees and ass were outside the car. They definitely had a full shot of me now. Then she pushed my skirt up to my waist, and I heard her unzip her pants. I looked back to see her slide a fat dildo out of the crotch of her pants.

  She had packed for dinner out with her parents.

  I smiled.

  She pushed my knees farther apart and my boots scraped across the dirt. She bent her head down, pushed my cheeks apart, and slid her tongue into my ass. Her movements were slow and juicy, and I practically dripped onto the ground I was so wet. I love to get fucked up the ass.

  She dipped her tongue into me and rimmed me hard. I pushed my ass into her face and used my own hands to spread myself even wider. She groaned from deep inside her throat as she met my resistance with her entire mouth.

  After a minute she slowed and then stopped. She spread my ass farther and placed the tip of the dildo outside of my asshole. She dropped it down and pushed it slightly into my cunt to get it wet, then brought it up again and slowly started to push into me.

  I lay still while she worked it in. She placed both of her hands on my hips and used them for leverage. After a few minutes of slow rocking the dildo was all but an inch in. She paused then pushed the last inch in hard and held it there tight inside of me.

  She brought her hands up to my shoulders and pulled them back as she started with slow short pumps. She gradually increased her speed when she felt me pushing against her. I felt the leather smack against the inside of my thighs. She was on her knees between my spread legs with her hand on my shoulders fucking me up the ass with my favorite dildo. I was in heaven.

  She took one hand off my shoulder and brought it around to the base of my cunt. She moved up to my clit and started to massage me. My ass tightened around the dildo, and I gritted my teeth. She bent over and rested her head between my shoulder blades and whispered in my ear.

  “Come right here, baby, with me up your ass and these two getting off on you.”

  She clamped her teeth down on my neck and bit and kissed me while she stroked my clit. My ass loosened, and she moved into strong pounding strokes. I grabbed the edge of the seat as I came. My body jerked hard as she pushed and continued to rub her fingers over me.

  I imagined them watching me come and wondered if they’d ever seen two dykes do it before. I bit my lip and strained my arms as I held onto the upholstery.

  She slowed and lay on top of me for a minute breathing, catching her breath.

  “Whore,” she joked. I pictured how we must have looked from fifty feet away.

  “You’re the whore! This was totally your idea.”

  She sat back and slowly eased the dildo out of me. My muscles contracted with the final pull out, and I relaxed. I pulled my skirt back down over my ass as she took the dildo off and threw it onto the floor in the back seat.

  “I hope we don’t get pulled over.”

  I’m sure the cops would love to confiscate a dildo off of two lesbians.

  “Can you see them?” she asked looking back. She was wiping the dirt off of her knees.

  I nodded my head. I didn’t particularly want to see them. What if they were totally gross and disgusting? I wanted to imagine them as gorgeous and bisexual.

  As I got into the front seat I felt the stickiness between my thighs and squeezed them together tight. My ass hurt as I adjusted myself and put my seat belt on.

  “They’re driving by.”

  I looked in the rearview mirror, and sure enough their car was inching toward ours. We both sat waiting to see what they’d do. As they passed they just smiled and nodded. The woman was fixing her hair. The man just grinned. They didn’t look gorgeous or bisexual.

  As she started the car, I curled up around her arm.

  “We need to go out with your parents more often.”

  “We sure do,” she said as she pulled out onto the highway and headed home.

  Always

  Cecilia Tan

  Morgan was always the one who wanted a child. Even when I first met her, before we got involved, before we got engaged, always the talk of motherhood with her, of empowering Earth-mother stuff and of making widdle baby booties. I, on the other hand, had always said I would never have children, was sure somehow that I would never decide to bear a child, and yet I had always thought about it, secretly. So when I fell in love with Morgan, and she fell in love with me, and we had a hilltop wedding where we both wore white dresses and two out of our four parents looked on happily, I figured I was off the hook on the parenting issue.

  This was, of course, before John, and way before Jillian. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

  Back up to the summer of 1989. New England. Cape Cod. Morgan and I are in a hammock in the screened in porch of her aunt’s summer house. The night is turning smoothly damp after a muggy day, cars hiss by on pavement still wet from the afternoon’s rainshower, the slight breeze rocks us just enough to make me feel weightless as I drowse. I am on my back with one foot hanging out each side of the hammock; Morgan rests in the wide space between my legs, her spill of brown curls spread on my stomach and her knees drawn up close to her chest. The hammock is the nice, cloth kind, with a wide wooden bar at either end to keep it from squeezing us like seeds in a lemon wedge, not the white rope type that leaves you looking like a bondage experiment gone wrong. Morgan’s hands travel up my thighs like they come out of a dream. It never occurs to me to stop her. Sex with Morgan is as easy and natural as saying yes to a bite of chocolate from the proffered bar of a friend. Before her fingers even reach the elastic edge of my panties I am already shifting my hips, already breathing deeper, already thinking about the way her fingers will touch and tease me, how one slim finger will slide deep into me once I am wet, how good it feels to play with her hair on my belly, how much I want her. With Morgan, I always come.

  Imagine afterward, lying now side by side, holding each other and sharing each other’s heat as the beach breeze turns chilly, when I decide to propose to her. I am gifted with a sudden and utter clarity—this is the right thing to do. It has been six years since I came out as bisexual, three years since I began dating women, but something like ten years of getting into relationships with men and constantly trying to disentangle myself from them. It’s not that I don’t like men. I like them, and love them, a-proverbial-lot. But I’ve never been able to explain why it is I’ve always felt the need to put up resistance, to define myself separately, to have my foot on the brake of our sex lives, with a man. I always do.

  But here, with Morgan, the urge to resist is not even present. Maybe it has nothing to do with men versus women, I think, and maybe it has everything to do with her. She’s the right one. And she says yes.

  So we got married, that part you knew. Marriage for us did not mean monogamy, of course—rather we defined it as “managed faithfulness.” We had our boundaries, our limits, our promises, and our outside dalliances were allowed. But when you’re happily married, who has time or energy for all the flirting and courting and negotiating with someone new? Neither of us did for several years. And that’s when John came into the picture.

  Morgan always toasts the bread a little before she makes cinnamon toast. Always two ticks on our toaster oven’s dial, then on goes the butter and sugar and cinnamon, and back in for the full six ticks. I’ve tried making it without the pretoasting and can’t tell the difference, but she insists.

  A raw spring day in Somerville, me in galoshes and a pair of my father’s old painting pants with a snow shovel, cursing and trying to lift a cinderblock-sized chunk of wet packed snow off the walkway of our three-decker. On the first floor lives our landlady, one frail but observant old Irishwoman Mrs. Donnell, on the second a new tenant we haven’t yet met, a single guy we hear walking around late at night and never see in the morning. Hence me trying to shovel the late-season fall, two April-Fool’s feet of it, because I’m pretty sure no one else will.
Morgan inside rushing to get ready for work, emerging soap-scented and loosely bundled to plant a kiss on my cheek as she steps over the last foot of unshoveled snow onto the sidewalk (cleared by a neighbor who loves to use his snowblower). She’s off to catch the bus to her job downtown as facilities coordinator at the Theater Arts Foundation. I heave on the remaining block of snow with a loud grunt and perhaps it is my grunt that keeps me from hearing the noise my back must surely have made when it cracked, popped, “went out” as they say.

  I am hunched over in pain, cursing louder now and not caring if Mrs. Donnell hears it, when another person is there, asking if I’m all right. His hands are on my shoulders and he slowly straightens me upright. It is the new tenant, wearing an unzipped parka and peering into my face with worry. I tell him I’ll be all right; he says are you sure. I say yes but I’m clearly not sure—it goes back and forth the way those things will until it ends up somehow with me in his apartment drinking some kind of herbal tea and then lying face down on his Formica counter with my shirt on the floor while his thumbs and palms map out the terrain of my back.

  In the theater world a backrub is a euphemism for sex. (“Hey, come upstairs, I’ll give you a backrub.” “Oh, those two, they’ve been rubbing each other’s backs for years.”) So you’d think I’d know. But no, there’s no way obviously that he could have planned that I’d try to lift too much snow. No, it was an honest case of one thing led to another. Maybe a couple of resistance-free years with Morgan had dulled my old repeller-reflexes, and we…well, in specific, after they had done their magic with my spine, his hands strayed down to my ribs, and he left a line of warm kisses down my back. He had longer than average guy hair, straight and tickly like a tassel as it touched my skin. I moaned to encourage him, my body knowing what I wanted before my mind had a chance to change the plan.

  Morgan always says I plan too much.

  My father’s oversized pants slid to the floor and kisses fell like snowflakes onto the curve of my buttocks, feather light, and then a moist tongue probed along the center where it went from hard spine to softness. We got civilized after that, and went to the bedroom and it wasn’t until we were lying back having one of those postcoital really-get-to-know-you talks that Morgan came and knocked on the door. No bus, saw your galoshes on the second floor landing she explained at her seeming clairvoyance, to which I replied This is John.

  John always says, “How do you do” and bows while he shakes two-handed when he’s formally introduced.

  Our first threesome happened right away, that night after dinner fetched on foot from the Chinese restaurant on the corner. On our living room floor, the white waxy boxes and drink cups scattered at the edges like spectators, the elegant curve of our bay windows standing witness to his hand between my legs, Morgan’s mouth on his nipple, my lips on Morgan’s ear, John’s penis sheathed between us, my chest against his back while he buried himself in her, her tongue on my clit, his nose in my neck, my fingers in her hair, our voices saying whatever they always said, mmm, and ahh, and yes. I didn’t know if this was going to be one of Morgan’s experiments in excitement, or one of my few dalliances, or one of John’s fantasies come true. What it was, which I didn’t expect, was the beginning of something more solid, more intricate, and more satisfying than any twosome I had known.

  John always buys two dozen roses on Valentine’s Day, which he gives to Morgan and me one rose at a time.

  When was it, maybe a year later, when Morgan became director at TAF and John, who was in computers, had a discussion with Mrs. Donnell about buying the building. Morgan always loved housewares, I’ve always loved renovation and design. The idea hit us at Christmas dinner, Morgan’s parents’ house in Illinois, her mother on one side of her, me on the other, John on my other side, and all manner of relatives near and far spread down the two long tables from the dining room into the ranch house living room, in folding chairs brought for the occasion in minivans and hatchbacks. Turkey so moist the gravy wasn’t needed, and gravy so rich that we used it anyway. Wild rice and nut stuffing heaped high on John’s plate, shored up by mashed potatoes, his vegetarian principles only mildly compromised by the addition of imitation bacon bits on green salad. Family chatter and laughter, Morgan’s father sometimes directing men’s talk at John. And somehow the discussion turning to Mrs. Donnell and her plans to sell the house, and somehow our three hands linked in my lap, under the table, and John announcing to everyone, suddenly, that the three of us would buy the house together, voicing the thought that was at that moment in all three of our heads, even though until that moment we’d never contemplated the idea.

  I always clean the toilets and the sinks but I hate cleaning the shower and bathtub. John, who has a slight paranoia about foot fungi, loves to do the shower and tub. If only we could convince Morgan to do the kitchen floors.

  If my life seems like a series of sudden revelations, that’s because it is. The most recent one was watching Jillian walk her stiff-legged toddler’s walk from one side of our living room to the other. I knew then what Morgan looked like as a child, what her exploratory spirit and her bright smile must have been like when she was knee high.

  The night we made Jillian we had a plan. We didn’t always sleep together, or even have three-way sex together, but we knew all three of us had to have a hand in her creation. For months we had charted Morgan’s period, her temperature. We cleared a room to be a new bedroom and put a futon on the floor, lit the candles and incense (we’re so old-fashioned that way) and made ready. Imagine Morgan, her long brown curls foaming over her shoulders, her back against the pillowed wall, her knees bent, framing her already seemingly round Earth-mother belly, watching us. John kneels in front of me, naked and somber-faced. I will not let him stay that way for long.

  I begin it with a kiss. I kiss Morgan on the lips and then John and we pull away from her. I take his tongue deep into my mouth, my hands roaming over his head and neck, and he responds with a moan. My hard nipples brush against his—my hands on his shoulders I continue to kiss and wag my breasts from side to side, our nipples brush again and again. Then I am licking them, my teeth nipping, my hands sliding down to his hips, one hand between his legs, lifting his balls. He gasps and throws his head back. My mouth is now hovering over his penis, hardening in my hand. I reach out my tongue to tease. Instinct begins to overtake the plan, his hands are reaching for me, he pushes me back, his mouth on mine, his tongue on my nipples, his fingers seeking out my hottest wettest places and finding them. He knows my body well, he slides two fingers in while his thumb rests on my clit.

  Morgan watches, her belly taut, her hands clenched in the sheets.

  He is slicking his hand wet with my juices up and down his penis, and then he climbs over me, my legs lock behind his back, and he settles in. Tonight there are no barriers between us. I let go with my legs and let him pump freely. If I let him I know he will grant me my secret wish, to make me come from the fucking, from the friction and rhythm and pressure and slap and grind. I am sinking down into a deep well of pleasure, his sweat dripping onto me, as he becomes harder, hotter, faster, tighter, his jaw clenched, and I become looser, and further away. The turning point comes though with a ripple in my pelvis, and then every thrust is suddenly bringing me closer to the surface, up and up again, drawing me in tighter, closer, until my wish comes true. I break the surface screaming and crying, and calling out his name, and thinking how good it is to have learned not to resist this….

  His eyes flicker with candlelight as he strokes my hair and jerks from me—the plan is not forgotten after all. His penis stands out proud and red and wet and the strain of holding back is evident in his bit lip. Morgan’s nostrils flare and she slides low on her pillows. I go to her, my fingers seeking out her cunt, which is already dripping, my mouth smothering hers, our tongues slipping in and out as I confirm what we all already know. She is ready.

  And I put myself behind her, my hands cupping her breasts, my legs on either side of her, as Joh
n lies down between her legs. My fingers sneak down to spread her wider, to circle her clit and pinch her where she likes it, while he thrusts slickly, my teeth in her neck, her hair in our faces, the three of us humping like one animal, all of us ready.

  Morgan always comes twice.

  There’s nothing like a grandchild to bring parents around. So Jillian has six grandparents and none of them mind enough to complain about it. We always have them here for Christmas now, we’ve got the most bedrooms and the most chairs. Jillian will always be my daughter. John always shovels the snow. And Morgan always says we could make Jillian a sibling— that it could be my turn if I want. I don’t know. I just know that I love them always.

  Becoming Stone

  Sandra Lee Golvin

  Summer is becoming. Gone to Africa says A. Now you on the blue couch becoming my fist. My arm becoming the cradle. Your hair becoming the yellow dream.

  I did dream you another summer. I was trying to decide about my life. I was believing in the I of decision making. I was believing in the I of dreaming. Now that I does not know so much and would say you dreamed me or perhaps the dream dreamed us both. An old lady’s corpse was being kissed. In the kissing she became you, the fairy tale princess. Someday my prince(ss) will becoming. I will becoming her. Or him. We had not yet met, my I and yours. Not then. Not that summer.

  You were wearing chocolate panties. Even now, with my fist inside, the wet silk wraps my wrist at the place where it wants cutting open. You let me be the one who knows. I so wanted that. I have a chocolate dick, the one A never liked because it looked too real. You don’t mind though. You’re such a girl. Until you, being the girl was my job.