Best of Best Lesbian Erotica 2

by Tristan Taormino

  Jake continued, “And I am informed that our second rider is a first-timer.”

  The crowd was silenced.

  Jake pulled out a card and read with a smaller voice, “Our contestant and challenger to The Red Rider.”

  A feeble cheer went up, everyone anticipating the great Red Rider’s next win. In all, it had taken him over a hundred rides to win only six times. The odds were low that he would win. But all wanted to see the win as the greatest or the longest ever. They wanted to be able to say, “I was there when Red Rider rode twelve seconds and won his seventh.” Or, “I was there when Red Rider defeated his great rival, The Hood.” All knew that the challenger was an unknown, and the best they could hope for was a record-breaking time for Red. The energy in the room dropped a few notches.

  Jake could feel the change. He was nonplused. He was ready to play his winning card in a deck that was loaded in the house’s favor. He lifted his eyes to the waiting crowd. His voice started low and began to build.

  “Ladies and gentlemen…challengers, past, present, and future…this hour’s Challenger against the great, incomparable Red Rider is, uh, Dale Evans.”

  Dale stood up, her long chestnut hair glinting in the colored lights of the Saloon, her gloved hand rose above her head and waved to the crowd. She did a slight toss of her head and her hair rippled over her shoulder like the mane of a beautiful chestnut mare.

  A gasp rippled throughout the room.

  “A woman.”

  “She’s little.”

  “She’s gonna get slaughtered.”

  “What a rip!”

  Some turned to go, and others, those who anticipated a blood bath, stayed.

  Jake let the crowd hang for one helluva long minute. Then he turned to The Red Rider, who was obviously not very happy with his Challenger, and said, “Red, your choice—who rides first tonight?”

  Red scowled.

  “I might as well get this over with and get back to drinking. I’ll go first. I ain’t gonna pick up the pieces of that little woman after The Rage is finished with her. Some challenger!”

  More than a few in the audience had their hackles raised by this obviously sexist comment. In fact, suddenly the room was split into two camps: For Red and Against Red—which meant For Dale Evans. Interestingly, not one woman in that room placed her bets on The Red Rider. It was unlikely that a win would assure him one or more sexual partners of the female persuasion for the night. Dale Evans, on the other hand, would likely have her pick of bed mates. I wasn’t alone in desiring an evening with this very intriguing woman. Win or lose, I would love to kiss her better, all over.

  Mr. Red Rider, like the Cock o’ the Walk, strode up to The Rage. The Techie slowed the bull down to a roar. All eyes were on Red as he mounted the beast. He fixed his seat. He turned to smirk at Dale. And then, in a flash of the eye and one buck of that raging bull, The Red Rider went flying over the bull’s head and landed ass over tea kettle in the most undignified way, flat on his butt. As he rose, he rubbed his cheeks and skulked out the back door to the sounds of hoots and roars of the women. A hero one minute, a goat the next—it would be a long time before The Red Rider would strut back into the Old Tyme Saloon.

  Jake’s voice broke over the hoopla.

  “Well, folks, it’s up to Dale Evans to defeat our current champeen and win one million credits. Stay on for over the current best, ten seconds, and take home a bonus one hundred thousand credits.”

  Dale rose from her barstool and casually walked to the arena. I was beaming a silly little kid ear-to-ear grin, and for the first time she noticed me. She winked and flashed me a little smile. I blew her a kiss and whispered a prayer in my heart. My boss noticed the kiss, saw that I wasn’t doing the rounds. But he also knew that the place was so enraptured by what was soon to happen in the arena that he was sure that afterward the hooch was guaranteed to flow, in celebration of a win, or the drowning of sorrows depending on which sex you were. As I whispered my prayers, I’m sure he was counting the cool credits in hooch and hits that a win could bring him.

  Dale was now in the arena with Jake. He started to say, “It is my duty to inform you of the rules for riding The Rage.”

  At this point he attempted to drape an arm around her shoulder in a patronizing way. She simply brushed his arm away and spat, “I know the rules and I’m ready now.”

  Someone jeered; someone else hooted.

  Jake said, “Fine.”

  Those of us close up could hear him say under his breath, “Die, you bitch.”

  Dale Evans carefully mounted The Rage. She adjusted the stirrups so that her spurred heels were at the level of the sensors that, when kicked, rocked The Rage into even more fury. She grasped the reins in one hand. Then she plunged her spurs into the animatron’s sides, the bull snorted, lurched forward, Dale caught herself, her thighs gripping tight on the big beast’s back. The animal bellowed like the ear-splitting sound of a foghorn of old. It bucked, front legs aggressively, jerked onto its back legs, all the while throwing its head from side to side trying to gore off its rider. Sweat beads of concentration dripped down Dale’s brow. The bull was shaking its burly head, showering those nearby with foamy saliva. The bull snapped and reeled. Dale only clung tighter. Every muscle in her quads was pumped and straining to keep her seat on the beast. With every violent movement of the bull, the two rode as one. Under her glove, no doubt her hand was white to the knuckle. The Read-o-Graph seemed frozen, the seconds suspended in time.

  Dale heard in the background voices yelling, “Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.”

  The crowd roared, she’d beaten the Red Rider’s best. The counting continued, “Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen….”

  And then a simply amazing thing happened at thirteen seconds when time was on Dale’s side: The Rage began slowing down. First the bucking stopped, then the bull’s big head and tail drooped down, and finally the bellowing became a sick-sounding bawling moan like a baby calf wanting milk from its mommy, and then the machine just stopped. Stopped dead.

  Dale slid off the bull onto legs that felt like jelly, but she never hit the ground because I was there to catch her. She simply looked up into my eyes and before she fainted said, “Oh, my.”

  The boss instructed Big Eddie, the bouncer, to carry her up to his private suite. And then he gave me the night off. I guess he figured he could guarantee his gourmet meal ticket if one of his employees was her lover. I beat off her admirers.

  When Dale woke up in the boss’s king-sized bed, I was there holding a glass of pure Aqua Gold to her lips. She sipped it gratefully. With the most sultry voice imaginable, she looked into my eyes and said, “I do believe I’ve died and gone to heaven.”

  She then drawled, in a sweet southern accent that sounded like music to my ears, “And who might you be, my angel?”

  She was as smooth as silk, and now I felt like I was going to faint.

  “I work here, I’m Tessie, one of the bar girls.”

  She toned, “Hmmmm. Well, Tessie, I want to give you a big southern kiss for letting me wake up to an angel.”

  She put her arms around me, and ever so gently her tongue found its way into my mouth. Before I could come up for air, I was panting.

  She reached under my outfit and teasingly said, “I thought it would be me who was a little swollen—you must be a very empathetic person.”

  I could only nod in pleasure, as she had found my nipples firm and ripe beneath my bodice that was part of the Old Tyme Saloon uniform. Her gentle hands lightly caressed my breasts, my nipples hardening even more. I felt like I was going to come right then under her touch.

  She continued, “Help me slip these chaps off. And give me a hand pulling off these boots—but mind the spurs, ’cuz a cowboy may go to bed with his boots on but not this gal.”

  I unbuckled the chaps, which smelled of leather, and I wondered if they were real or just sleather (synth leather infused with leather scent buds). The spurred boots clunked and jingled to the
ground. She pulled off her gloves, finger by finger, and then those slender fingers started to undo my dress hook by hook, punctuated by tongue probing and stroking. She nibbled my ear and I could hear her sultry voice begin to moan and pant. She was as turned on as I. I helped unbuckle her belt and she lifted her butt off the bed as I slid her jeans over her hips and to the floor. I gasped. Underneath she was wearing a black leather strap-on. It was gleaming from a mixture of sweat and cream, for, while the ride had turned the bull off, it had definitely turned Dale on. When the jeans slid to the floor, the dildo stood at attention.

  She laughed, “Ahhh yes, meet Dick—at your service and for your pleasure.”

  I stammered, “How do you ride with that beast between your legs.”

  She laughed, “Oh, I just kind of tuck it back. It flattens and acts as a cup to protect my privates.”

  I grasped the head of Dick and it was her turn to gasp. She was obviously wearing the latest sensor-activated strap-on that stimulated clit and cunt with the merest touch of the dildo. I leaned my head down and ran my tongue around the tip of Dick, whose finely shaped contours were not a mimic of a penis but a unique creation. It was warm, soft yet hard. The head was similar to a small tongue and as I sucked, it moved. And she moaned. Dale held my head between her hands. Her hips rocked gently forward as my mouth explored the taste and touch of her Dick.

  “Oh girl, that feels so good. Please take all your clothes off. I want to taste you and smell you.”

  As she spoke, she undid the shiny buttons of her silk shirt, leaving only a bandanna tied around her slender neck. Her small, perky breasts did not need the taming of a constrictive bra. They only needed my lips to nibble and gently pull each brown button to erection. She pulled me down on top of her. Strong arms embraced me, firm hands traced the curves of my body, soft lips suckled my brown nipples. I held her close, my fingers wandering around this new-to-me body, every muscle cut and firm. I love the feel of a woman who wears her muscles well defined. As my fingers touched her, her tongue explored every inch of my flesh. Tracing the soft, downy hair from navel to pubis and beyond, I was trembling when her breath lightly caressed my labia. She did not linger but savored every moment as she moved downward, traced down each leg, licked behind each knee until she sucked and gently bit each toe. Finally, when she ventured back up to the jewel of my desire, I was panting to have her fingers inside me, her tongue lapping up my nectar.

  As if she had memscan, she fulfilled my desire. And, then as my body burst into orgasm, I felt the tip of the dildo slip past my labia and fill my pussy. My muscles clenched tightly, drawing her into me, my arms holding her as if I never wanted to let her go. She rode me as gently as the little beast I am. My hips involuntarily bucked as orgasm after orgasm swept over me. Her moaning and quaking were evidence that we were coming and coming and coming together. Our bodies were slick, the bed was wet as our passions overflowed. With a sigh, I lay in her arms, with her still inside me. The little tongue of Dick was gently pulsing inside me, massaging the spot that sent small earthquakes through my body.

  Dale smiled at me, sighed, and said, “Now, I know I’m in heaven.”

  Redemption

  Michael M. Hernandez

  She parted the heavy leather curtains and entered the bar, one of the oldest on Warmoesstraat, suffering that temporary blindness that accompanies travel from light into darkness. At the moment it was impossible to see without infrared vision. It was easy to believe that it was the bartenders’ fault. The fumbling around in the darkness ensured that the power balance remained with those who were serving. Then again, more than likely the reason for keeping the bar so dark was that darkness invited raw sexuality. Light tended to drive out the beast within. The darkness served another purpose than employee entertainment. It allowed those sitting along the bar to feast their eyes upon their future conquests without the potential “victim” receiving the reciprocal benefit.

  Ian knew that if she could just stroll up to the bar without tripping over anyone or her own two feet, her eyes would adjust in the amount of time that it would take the bartender to bring her a drink, and that itself would increase her opportunity to score tonight. In this bar, the balance of power was paramount. Appearances were everything. Anyone who forgot that would soon have the tables turned.

  She was the smoothest of operators, clad immaculately in black leather from the Daddy cap on her head, down to her steel-toed motorcycle boots, blending easily with the raw masculinity of the majority of the bar’s patrons. She wore faded blue button-down 501s under her chaps revealing a rather large basket. As she approached the bar, she absentmindedly reached down and stroked her cock. Her leathers, while clean, did not radiate that polished gleam that came from the pristine butches or leathermen. While she respected the traditional values of the older generation, such fastidiousness was not her style. She was dependent on her ability to blend into the background. All the good hunters in the animal kingdom depended on good camouflage. The respectable fade of her leathers increased her chances of remaining hidden in the alley, of watching from afar without being spotted, and of disappearing without a second glance. She could move through the Warmoesstraat and be noticed at the time of her choosing.

  Tonight she wasn’t looking for anything in particular. Butch, femme, either/or, punk, something else. Thrill-seeker tourists from Germany or the United States were always good and hungry. Anyone would do so long as they were a good time. Gender was irrelevant. It was all about a quick thrill, sex in a public place, and her getting her rocks off. She didn’t have to go far nor did she have to take her clothes off to bury her cock in some young mouth. The alley behind the bar would do quite nicely for starters. Her dick twitched. She could smell a potential partner within a two-mile radius. A little verbal sparring and the next step was the alley. If “it” sucked well enough, they’d go back to her fuck pad in the Jordaan. Blindfolds were used as a matter of course. The combination of blindfold and her neighborhood, which was less than welcoming at night, also prevented visitors from appearing at her play space uninvited. She’d interrogate a scene out of “it,” then play to her heart’s content, although her heart was not usually the organ that got the action. Actually the word play was too mundane of a description of what she did. It was more like…feeding.

  That was it. She consumed her prey. It was the emotional juices that she craved as well as the physical ones. Emotions such as fear, desire, passion—that is what she sought to elicit. That, and the skeletons that everyone hides carefully in the closet.

  Barst safe, sane, and consensual! It was the edge of non-consensuality that lured her and in turn lured her victim. No, victim was too harsh a word. Quarry was more like it. She did not feed often. Prey that proved satisfactory were few and far between, but when found, a veritable pleasure. She, like her cats, played with the mousies before the spilling of guts upon the floor, metaphorically speaking of course. Through her skill, Ian was able to carefully excise and bring the souls of her partners into the light of day where she played until she tired and moved on to the next one.

  If her quarry showed enough initiative to stop the scene, she did so promptly, reapplied the blindfold, and drove back to the bar. No looking back, no regrets, no second chances. She played for keeps. Catch and release kept her skill honed. Only once had the prey really meant it. The others complained all the way back to the bar about the scene having terminated. Some begged for a second chance, but Ian was resolute. Rules, while bent from time to time, were never broken. In that she was absolutely intolerant. She had no intention of changing a damned thing. That was the way she did things now. No long term commitments. No mess. No smell. No headaches. No transatlantic phone calls in the middle of the night. No scathing notes pinned to her door with knives. No clothing chopped into tiny bits or personal effects hoarded or destroyed. Oh, her life had drama enough, but it was limited to the drama that she carefully created for herself. She ran the fuck and if the fuck did not want to be run it could go e
lsewhere. There were plenty of other fucks for the having.

  Somehow, she had failed with the last one. Denise. The fact that she remembered a name showed how much that one had gotten to her. It fueled her hunger. A real virgin was a rare find these days. Oh, not that type of virgin. It was innocence that drew her. A clean slate. Fresh, undiscovered, unexplored, untainted by the views of the so-called community. That one filled her thoughts and dreams until she screamed at the walls. She had taken her sweet time and then tossed her out when she had been sated. It had been sweet, but the woman wanted to cling to her for some reason. Unacceptable. It was now a matter of principle. Verdomme! “Never go back,” she whispered under her breath, and that statement was enough to create the reality for her. She tore herself away, slightly angered at her daydream through the past.

  Ian was hungry tonight, very hungry, but she refused to let it show. That would certainly deter her potential candidates for the evening. She slowly unwrapped a cigar and worked it in and out of her mouth, coating the end with saliva. She removed a small silver cigar cutter from the breast pocket of her motorcycle jacket and precisely placed a V cut in the cigar. She surveyed the room as she placed the cigar between her lips, rotating it counterclockwise.

  Two young punk dykes practically tripped over each other in an effort to light it for her. The cute punk with the jet-black mohawk glared at the shorter skinhead whose scalp was adorned by an elaborate and colorful Celtic knot tattoo. In a split second the room erupted into violence as the mohawk took a swing. Her target deftly removed her face from the fist’s trajectory, miraculously causing mohawk to miss. They somehow managed to get into a bear hug and proceeded to knock over several chairs, then fly over a table before crashing to the ground. It was a scene right out of an old Western.

  While Ian was enjoying this entertainment, a set of long, perfectly painted red nails came suddenly into view. The thumbnail expertly flicked the head of a safety match, providing the fire for her stogie. Impressive, she thought, very promising, indeed. This one knows that lighters are not for cigars. Even more impressive was that fact that the femme was not afraid to split a nail or ruin the polish. Hmm, wonder what she’s lookin’ for? Ian flashed a wolfish grin. The dame flushed. Good, good. This looked promising. Promising indeed.