Best of Best Lesbian Erotica 2

by Tristan Taormino

  Ian leaned into the flame and puffed until she was certain that the cigar was lit, then turned her attention to the dame attached to the nails. She was struck by the intensity of the eyes. Ian was captivated as surely as a black widow spider’s mate. The magical moment was broken by Artie’s bellow and his baseball bat hitting the counter. Patrons went scrambling for the corners. “Wel verdomme! Cut that crap out, you rotkoppen, before I collar your kutten and chain you to the goddamned bar. You’re gonna get fucked nine ways to Sunday and I guarantee that ya ain’t gonna like hot pepper oil being used as a lubricant.” The fight stopped mid-punch.

  Artie, the bartender, was a force to be reckoned with. Her no-nonsense approach to trouble was well known in Amsterdam and gaining speed throughout the leather bars of Europe. Like any story in the community, it was embellished and passed along from flapping lip to eager ear. The latest rumor flying around was that leatherboys and baby dykes disappeared, never to be seen again. Secretly, Ian believed that Artie enjoyed the artificially created reputation and did everything to continue its embellishment. Artie continued to glare and the baby butches sheepishly looked down at their Doc Martens.

  Ian threw her head back and started laughing so hard that her eyes watered. The new lady, startled at first, was quickly caught up in Ian’s contagious laughter. She had a delicate, full-throated laugh that was musical. Artie glowered at them as well. No one was above reproach. They moved away from the bar still chuckling to themselves. No sense tempting fate.

  In a better lit corner, Ian sized up the dame, taking a puff on her lit cigar in appreciation. The stranger was a tall drink of water, or so Ian thought until she looked down to gaze upon the five-inch spiked stiletto heels. In the heels were a pair of picture-perfect legs enmeshed in black fishnet stockings. Ian’s gaze wandered up the legs and just managed to spy the garters underneath the brilliant green velvet dress that the dame was l-i-t-e-r-a-l-l-y poured into. Ian’s heartbeat doubled. Ample cleavage peeked out from between the sweetheart neckline of the dress. Ian’s gaze continued upward across that white porcelain expanse of cleavage to return to the most probing gray-green eyes that she had ever seen. Liquid gold floating in a sea of green. Blazing red hair, and not from a bottle either. Cocksucker red lipstick adorned the full, luscious lips. Where had this woman come from? A tourist, perhaps, visiting the bars in the Red Light District? In for a little action? Ian hoped that was the case.

  The dame took in Ian’s perusal with a smile. There was an impish glee in her eyes. Something said but not quite spoken. Almost as if she had the inside scoop on a private joke. Ian smiled back. This was more than she could hope for. “Bier? ” she asked, checking to see that Artie had calmed down. The lady smiled and, to Ian’s surprise and delight, went to the bar herself, leaning toward Artie to murmur the order. The drinks were produced in record speed. When she returned, the dame offered one of the beers to Ian. They clinked their glasses, and Ian downed hers quickly, needing the refreshment badly.

  Almost before the glass was set down, the woman wove her fingers into the hair at the back of Ian’s neck. Situating her lips upon Ian’s, she maneuvered her tongue gracefully and insistently into her mouth, running it slowly and deliberately across her teeth and tongue. The kiss increased in its passion. She gracefully insinuated her leg in between Ian’s thighs, finding the dildo resting there. She pressed the base skillfully into and around Ian’s clit while continuing to explore Ian’s mouth with her own. Ian’s responded. A moan was torn from her lips as she encircled the woman in her arms. Passion won out over patience. They both parted breathless and full of desire. A fine sheen of sweat had broken over Ian’s brow. She had to have this woman. NOW.

  “Let’s get out of this pool hall,” whispered Ian.

  The woman smiled and lifted her glass to Ian, “May you never grow bored and live in interesting times.”

  “Dank u,” responded Ian, and gallantly held her arm out to the woman. The dame flashed a perfectly dazzling smile and took the proffered arm. Heads turned as they walked through the bar. There was a fair amount of whispering and, with each step, Ian’s ego grew. She was on top of the world and certainly felt it. Pushing the leather curtain aside, she felt as if she were floating on clouds. As they stepped around the corner, Ian noticed that the light emitted by the street lamp had a sharp edge to it, and the canal at the end of the Heintje Hoekssteeg seemed to draw closer, then withdraw. Just then she noticed that she was moving in slow motion.

  She tried to mention it to confirm her observations, but her tongue felt thick and dry. The words just would not come. Panic caused adrenaline to flood through her system, but it was not enough to speed the passage of time. Just then she noticed that her legs were jelly. She staggered as the night rushed in to greet her. The last image that she saw was the face of the dame above her, bearing the most incredible smile. It looked…perfectly wicked. “Wel verdomme?…” was the last thing that she managed to say before she lost consciousness.

  Morgan had been furious when Denise suddenly dropped out of the program. Denise represented several months’ worth of cultivation as potential material for the Marketplace. Morgan, unlike other spotters, employed the services of various under-scouts to do most of the legwork. This ensured that Morgan did not waste all of her time culling through individuals who would never even be considered for training. The job of the scouts was to bring potential property to her attention. If it proved worthy of consideration, the scout received a fee. A scout was given three opportunities to present talent. Three strikes and you were on your way out. Three outs and you were kapot. Morgan had developed a nice network that allowed her to present ten to twelve candidates for consideration per year. It was expensive for her, but worth it, if she could keep up that pace.

  Denise presented rather unique properties. A novice who had very deep-seated desires plus intelligence, wit, imagination, and a sense of adventure while exuding a naïveté that was unparalleled. A battery of tests had been performed to determine the extent of Denise’s potential.

  Then, this, dumkopf—no, this kuttenkopf—had just waltzed in and done as she pleased, ruining months’ worth of work, not to mention the lost fees. It was not the first time that Ian had interfered with Morgan’s plans, but it would be the last. “Justice, justice shalt thou pursue” ran through her mind, although deep in her heart Morgan knew it was revenge, not justice. She should not take it so personally, but Morgan took everything personally.

  She had carved out a reputation for herself for being a fair, but wicked, top. She abhorred femmes who pretended to be stupid or who used their body to manipulate others into doing what they wanted. Morgan’s style was more direct. She was the preeminent flirt who was quite able to clearly communicate her needs during the seduction. If the other person was willing to participate, then everyone was happy.

  In the past few weeks, she compiled information about Ian, her tactics, her prowling ground, what she smoked and drank. That was another thing that the scouting system did well: compile information. Well, someone had to teach this kuttenkopf a lesson. Ian’s interference, coincidental or otherwise, just wouldn’t do. Morgan should have moved in a little more quickly on Denise, but wanted to make sure that the proper level of desire had been attained. Denise was more than a bottom, she had service in her blood. Clearly, that little delay gave Ian the edge. Denise was ready and was losing patience for the delays and hoops that Morgan was making her jump through to get what she wanted. Well, little Denise got more than she bargained for. It might still be possible to salvage the situation, but only at great effort.

  Morgan owed the two punks, but paying off those debts would be more of a pleasure than a chore. The diversion caught Ian off guard, gave her an amusing distraction that allowed for a spectacular entrance and seduction. Such a challenge: to distract another hunter, even an amateur. So delightful to succeed so utterly. Well, enough of those delicious thoughts for now. Justice would be hers and it was time to pay the piper.

 
Ian opened her eyes and immediately regretted it. What little light illuminated her surroundings had a hazy sort of quality. Her tongue still felt thick and her hip hurt. She tried to wipe the sleep from her eyes, learning then that her wrists were securely fastened by thick leather restraints, the kind that they use in psychiatric wards, to the chair that she was sitting in.

  The itchiness around her chest and crotch became more acute as she grew more conscious. Ian saw that a small network of wires crossed her body, disappearing under her shirt, down her jeans, and on her hands and feet. The wires all left her body and ended in a black box that Ian recognized as a machine used by physical therapists to make atrophied muscles jump with small, uncontrollable jerks—making the machine popular with certain fetishists, as well. Ian attempted to pull her wrists out of the restraints, but between their design and the strength of the chair, it was impossible. There was nowhere for her elbows to go. The restraints were tight enough to bind her, yet loose enough to be comfortable if she didn’t thrash about. No way out of these at the moment. If only she could get to her belt. She had a long wire taped to the inside of it for emergencies such as these.

  She heard the sound of heels on concrete and caught a whiff of perfume before she saw the dame appear. “How was your nap, dear?” the redhead queried.

  “Whoever you are, I’m sure we can work this out. All you need to do is let me go and….”

  “What’s the matter,” Morgan’s voice dripped with sarcasm, “don’t you like my hospitality?”

  “Hospitality??! Is that what you call it. Look, lady, I asked nicely. Don’t make me lose my temper. This is nonconsensual.” Morgan laughed as she approached Ian. “Well, goodness knows that I wouldn’t want to do anything like that.” Morgan slapped her across the face so hard that Ian’s ears rung. She got less than an inch from Ian’s nose and whispered in a breathless sexy voice à la early Lauren Bacall, “Don’t insult my intelligence by mentioning consensuality. That’s never stopped you before—or didn’t you recognize the recipe for the mickey that was slipped in your drink? Artie told me you should be familiar with it. So then,” she lilted mockingly, “you have no idea what this is all about. Do you?”

  “Barst,” Ian spat through gritted teeth, angry at her situation— and astonished that Artie knew about her little helper. Filing that away to ponder on at a later date, she glared into the startlingly gray-green eyes of her captor and growled. Ian was not a bottom and was not about to be treated as such by the likes of this bitch—rotwijf, she growled to herself—or anyone else for that matter.

  “Tsk, tsk, tsk,” said Morgan shaking her head. “Manners. Manners.”

  “Barst!” Ian spat again. “I demand to be released this instant.”

  “Released? As you wish.” A knife blade immediately materialized under Ian’s chin, pricking her ever so slightly. “Ask and ye shall receive. Luke 11:9,” the woman said. She deftly began to slice the jeans off her and in the process “accidentally” cut Ian’s left thigh. “Oh, dear,” cooed Morgan as a thin line of blood started its descent toward Ian’s knee, “how clumsy of me. I should tell you that I can be a dumkopf. Oh well, it is of no consequence. These things do happen. I suppose that you should be particularly careful if you see any sharp objects in my hands. One never knows,” she said as she waved the knife over Ian’s thigh, “what may happen.” The end of her sentence was punctuated by another rapid slice. Ian felt the burning sting before she saw the knife move and heard a sound escape her lips before she could stop it. “This will never do,” smiled Morgan as she wiped her knife off on Ian’s face. “I think I must find another way to release you.”

  The smell of blood assaulted Ian’s nostrils. She closed her eyes as a wave of desire washed over her, piqued by the smell of blood, feeling her body dance between fear and desire. Ian had been a blood whore from day one, but this little foray made it clear that, if she was not careful, her passion would betray her in front of this rotwijf.

  Well, this was certainly going to be fun. Morgan noticed Ian’s breath catch during the brief drawing of blood. Morgan continued to cut away the jeans, being particularly careful not to cut her prey anymore. In this case, it just wouldn’t do to allow the pleasure to outweigh the fear.

  “There is nothing like a virgin bottom,” Morgan teased the squirming butch. “I’ve heard about people who exclusively topped, but I’ve never believed it, really. It’s a simple matter of knowing the territory. Exclusive tops lead a rather one-dimensional life, wouldn’t you agree?” She paused, as if for a response, but Ian remained silent and struggled briefly against the bonds.

  “I have been waiting patiently for this opportunity,” Morgan continued, tapping her knife on Ian’s crotch. “ ‘To me belongeth vengeance and recompense.’ Deuteronomy 32:35, or, as they say in Sicily, ‘Vengeance is a dish savored cold,’ and vengeance shall be mine.”

  “Barst,” Ian answered, spitting a wad of saliva onto Morgan’s left cheek.

  Morgan knew she could not tolerate Ian’s breach of etiquette for even a moment. Sometimes she gave latitude to a person exploring their submission and masochism, as she had with Denise. But, of course, it was this kuttenkopf who spoiled it all.

  Morgan wiped her face and turned her attention to Ian’s jockey shorts, poising her knife over Ian’s crotch. Most butches had one major weakness: their dildos. She noted that Ian immediately froze, not even breathing for a moment. Morgan carefully cut away Ian’s shorts, allowing her meat to spring free. “And what have we here? A Marty. I thought that they stopped making these years ago.”

  Even in her panic, Ian was impressed that Morgan recognized her cock. Italian design, produced in America, a “Marty” was the top of the line. The crème de la crème of cocks. It was comfortable yet practical, soft enough for that deep-throat action yet firm enough to fuck with. None of the usual 6, 7, 9, and 13-inch standard sizes. If you wanted one 4 and 3/8’s long and 3 inches in diameter, Martino Bagnelli would design it for you. Of course, being the artist that he was, he would try to convince you of what he perceived to be the appropriate size based on your height, weight, body type, and hands. Apparently Bagnelli did not quite understand the concept of packing versus fucking dicks.

  Her romp down memory lane was interrupted as Morgan’s knife touched the head of her cock. Ian began to sweat. She was really attached to this dick and could not bear the thought of losing it. There was no replacement for it, and would not be, since Bagnelli had disappeared or retired, depending on which rumor you believed. Clearly, whatever she had said at the bar could not have offended this woman enough to subject her to a castration! She tried to remember the events leading up to this little scene. The concentration required to think and stay still was beginning to give her a headache.

  “It is a beautiful piece of work,” Morgan said, tapping her knife on Ian’s cockhead. “It’s a shame to ignore it, no matter who it belongs to.” She reached over and embedded the knife in the table next to the black box, then took a condom, opened it, and slipped it into her mouth. She kneeled, placing her hands on Ian’s legs. Leaning over she slowly moved her open mouth near the cock. Ian felt the warm moistness as the dame blew air onto her lower abdomen, her cock, and legs. Once the mouth came near her cock again, Ian pushed her legs toward Morgan, hoping to shove just the head into that waiting mouth. Her efforts were rewarded by a severe burning sensation when Morgan used her thumbs to stretch open the cuts on Ian’s thighs. Morgan rose on her knees and nuzzled Ian’s cheek. Lowering her voice to a breathless whisper à la Marilyn Monroe, she said, “Thus far I have only corrected your bad manners. Soon enough you will learn that I will hurt you because it gives me pleasure.” She leaned back and gazed into Ian’s eyes. “Nothing and no one can save you. Remember, you asked for this.”

  The words shook Ian to the core, making the trickles of blood on her thighs feel ice cold. How was it that a woman whom she did not know, whom she had not met before, could echo her words so clearly and concisely? It was not exactly
a line. Ian did not believe in lines, but she had performed the exact series of moves—that chin nuzzle, the voice inflection, the heightening of the fear factor that could be considered her personal trademarks. Edge players tended not to discuss their techniques. She had declined to teach a number of workshops on edgeplay for the weekend kink crowd, the sexual tourists. Her dialogue tended to change with the reactions of her prey, but these words were too familiar.

  And then her cock was deep in the mouth of the dame, being worked slowly back and forth. Ian felt the friction of teeth sliding across the shaft, and the throbbing of a tongue against the head that vibrated down the core of the dildo to her clit. All the moves she demanded from her tricks. Wel verdomme! That thought cleared Ian’s head for a moment, a small part of her brain able to still think as the cocksucking shifted in speed and intensity. This little bar pickup was not a random encounter, but preplanned and perfectly executed. Ian thought back on her previous expeditions. She would have noticed this dame at a bar irrespective of how she was dressed. Ian had a photographic memory when it came to faces. She had not met this woman before and had never seen her at a contest or other leather event. But clearly, she was no tourist.

  Ian closed her eyes and tried to think of something else, but she could not escape the throbbing and sticky wetness of the blood moving down her thigh and the pulsing of her clit against her dick. She moaned as the woman swiftly buried her mouth all the way onto Ian’s cock, taking it to the back of her throat with no effort at all.

  Just before Ian was ready to explode, Morgan pulled away, and with a quick flick of the knife she still held in her hand, she cut the dildo harness off of Ian. Removing the Marty, she placed it on the table next to the knife, a bizarrely erotic still life.