Best of Best Lesbian Erotica 2

by Tristan Taormino

  “Yes, very much. Thank you.” He blushed, smiling obviously this time. “Master.”

  I wanted to see if he was hard but was unable to tell because of the way he sat. I moved along quickly, because he had paid good money for the hour, but also because I was incredibly turned-on and didn’t want to ruin the moment.

  “You want more?”

  “Yes. Please, Master.”

  “Are you going to behave yourself if I give you more? You are already very lucky to have been allowed to suck your Master’s big cock like that. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Yes, Master. Thank you.” He played along, knowing full well what he was entitled to during the session.

  “Okay then, you must promise to be on your very best behavior. Bring me a condom, boy.” I wanted to continue as much as he did and was pleased that he returned quickly with the basket of condoms and a bottle of lube. I pretended to eye the bottle he had handed me quizzically. “Oh, you were expecting me to go easy on you, were you?” I toyed with him, for both of us. He lowered his head in response, looking like a child about to break out in giggles. I imagined him being a strong butch lover of mine as I snapped on a glove and prepared to ready his waiting ass. I had him face the whipping post on the other side of the room and undress from the waist down. Off came the work pants and a pair of gray-specked boxer briefs. I noticed he kept his body pressed tight against the post. “Are you nervous?”

  “No, Master.” I didn’t push it, as it was ideal positioning for my own fantasy. I instructed him to step back and make sure he kept his forehead touching the post. He complied with my demands easily, and I threw in a threat about the disciplinary actions I would be forced to take if he squirmed out of position.

  I entered him at first cautiously, with one finger, then two. I realized very soon that he had more experience than he had let on. I ran my other hand through what I assumed to be sweat on his inner thigh. He was moving his body accordingly, so I knew he wanted to be fucked. I thought about what he had said when he came in about not having done “exactly” this before, and wondered what specifically he had meant by that. Was he a fag experimenting with women? A “straight man” who frequented cruise parks, having anonymous lovers nightly? Maybe he had played out similar scenes with a woman lover before, who had since left him or become ill. I speculated for a moment too long and then snapped back to reality. Or as close to reality as I chose to make it: he was my handsome boy-dyke slave, a fine butch bottom, helplessly awaiting my hot femme dick to enter and take him over.

  Caught up in my own imagination, but not so much that I wasn’t paying attention, I spread the soft asscheeks before me and circled the tip of the silicone dick between them. I had, at some point in this fluster of daydream, work, and sweat, remembered to put on the condom. One last time I pushed my lubed fingers in and out firmly, and then pushed myself into him. He let out something between a squeal and a sigh, sounding like a young boy. I liked the power I felt hearing his surprisingly high-pitched sounds and continued to press myself into him and pull back. As this motion quickened and we fell into each other’s rhythm, I began to grind my dripping cunt against her ass, playing with her insides. I pretended that the increasing sweat pouring down his legs was sweet girl cum and held the inside of her thigh against the palm of my hand.

  I noticed that as he got more turned-on and as the fucking became rougher, he pulled away from me more, and pushed his weight against the post. I brought my arm around to the front of her neck. It was soft and tight. I ran my knuckles against his jaw, finding that his teeth were clenched. I ran my hand along his jawline, also soft and unusually free of stubble. His face was trembling with what seemed like fear.

  Leaving one hand on his face, I slowly moved the other hand around to the front of his thigh. It was sticky wet and also trembled to my touch. I tried to stay strong and stern, but was both confused and excited. As I inched my hand upward he jerked away from me. I pulled her close to my body. The hand I had rested on her face came down and pressed against her collarbone. I felt the tiny recognizable ripples of a tensorbandaged chest.

  She heaved the heavy sigh of someone exposing a skeleton. I moved my hand between her legs, revealing for certain the truth to my fantasy and this boy’s well-hidden identity.

  I sighed a sigh of relief, of pleasure, of the unknown future. I sat down on the floor, leaning my back against the wooden post. I pulled her down and continued to hold her against me. My hand ran through her sweaty hair. We had not yet made eye contact. When she finally looked at me her eyes were intense and concerned. “Are you mad?” they asked. I flashed her the same sexually charged and wanting smile she had given me after sucking me off.

  “Are you?” my eyes asked back.

  To Fuck or Get Fucked

  Rakelle Valencia

  I like to fuck. In a fuck or get fucked world, I’m the girl, I’m supposed to get fucked. But like I said, I like to fuck.

  Maybe it started with the butt boys. Oh, but it probably started before them. I’m not saying the boys were my first. Then again, I’m not saying they weren’t. It was the butt boys who gave me the hunger to fuck, who showed me the power and desire of the fuck, who taught me to crave the undulation of bodies slamming and slapping in rhythm and against the rhythm. Boys just seem to know how to have fun, they know how to fuck. So yeah, it started with the butt boys.

  Having someone bent over or writhing beneath me is all the same, gender-wise, and it’s all very different. I’m not saying I would still do the boys, and I’m not saying I wouldn’t. But the girls…girls know how to take it. A good chick likes to get fucked.

  Now I know that callin’ ’em chicks can sound derogatory, but it’s not. I use chick with the highest regard. And the ones I call chicks probably call themselves chicks too. It takes a lot to stand up and say you’re a chick. It takes a lot to get fucked like I’m talkin’ about, and to be a good fuck.

  Like this one chick, she couldn’t wait for me to strap it on with her. In fact, she needed it so fast, she was always trying to get me to pack. But I don’t pack. So she did the next best thing. And I’m telling you this chick was all-the-time crazy to get fucked. She made me a special strap-on. It was a beauty.

  I still have it today, wouldn’t be caught dead without it, and wouldn’t trade it for the world. I’m talking no manufactured deal for this girl. I’m sold on this used-to-be one of a kind. The thing was pure genius with a touch of class and individualism. I like that, class and individualism.

  I started callin’ it The Snap-on Strap-on. The name stuck.

  I heard it the other day in that well-lit, frequented, women-owned, adult toy shop one block over from Main Street. My chick, she made up a bunch and they stocked ’em. Hot item too, ’cause it’s not what she does for a livin’, and she can only make so many, and I think girls are finding out that the personal touch with these beauties can be real handy.

  What do I mean by that? Have you ever used ’em? Strap-ons? I mean, think on it. If you’re not packin’ then you’re not ready. Do you warm her up first, then say, “Oh, excuse me dear while I step into this ugly, drab, black harness”? Then you know what happens. You fight with the damn thing, a tangled mess wrapped around a stiff backing that always seems to be on the wrong side until you work out all of the angles. That done, your next worry is gettin’ into the contraption. Meanwhile your girl’s coolin’ off.

  Worse than that, you jump off her bed to cram one foot at a time into the leg loops, and you end up fallin’ over, eliciting whoops and hollers of laughter from above. I’m not unathletic, and I’m not saying I had been drinking or was on anything, you know? But if you’re still thinking on it, you tell me how you’ve pulled off being suave with those manufactured strap-ons. Maybe something like, “Excuse me a moment while I freshen up,” as you make the mad dash elsewhere so you don’t look like a fool. Like I said, your girl’s coolin’ off, you know?

  Now let me tell you about these beauties, these Snap-on Strap-ons
. Man, you can get these things on anywhere anyhow. You can get in ’em and out of ’em fast, real fast, in case you had to either way. I’m not saying I ever had to get out of one fast, I’m just saying it’s an option. But I will say I’ve had to get into one fast.

  Like that one time she had to have it, you know. We were in a memme mobile, a small sedan, and I wasn’t gonna play Gumby, but she had to have a little somethin’ somethin’ and I was right there with her. I’m talking I was right there, wetter than a Slip ’n Slide at a family picnic on a hot July day. Nothing to worry about though, I had a Snap-on Strap-on and was ready for action in seconds.

  This thing is as crazy as her. It has snaps on every strap, at every juncture. She took those beefy, plastic snaps, like you’d find on dog collars, and put one on either side of the waistband, and one on each leg strap, all in the back, off to the sides, adjustable too. In the front, a rubber ring, held in place with those silver, flat snaps that you’d find on denim jean jackets, and the works had no backing. No backing. I remember going into the toy store with her when she first presented her invention; the girl behind the counter was aghast, opening up her sweet, tiny mouth in horror, scrunching her baby-blues and freckled brow: “No backing? How does the dong stay in place?”

  “you are the backing,” came the reply. And it works, you know. No stiff, fussy, triangular-shaped piece of vinyl or leather to chafe the crease of your thighs to your pussy if you’re a skinny drink like me. And the best part, the dildos are more easily exchangeable without breaking the action too long, if you know what I mean. With no backing, I’ve got it down one-handed, while the other hand stays busy in the slick and slippery.

  But that’s not what I was trying to tell you. It’s not about the dick, it’s about the fuck. It’s about the chicks who like to get fucked. And I love to fuck. To fuck or to get fucked. Well, like I said, I’m supposed to get fucked, but I so like to fuck.

  I like to crawl up between a pair of thighs and bury myself in their adjoining crevice, open, wet, and inviting. Maybe one leg is bent upward, hung over the crook of my elbow so I can grasp a fleshy thigh as I thrust in the missionary position, our torsos sopping with sweat, gliding over each other, nipples plucking at nipples.

  Chicks are fascinating to fuck, and I like to be sunk home as any man does, as any boy needs, as any girl can do. Flip them over with some slap and tickle before greasing my silicone prick and hammering it home, watching her asscheeks ripple in response to my erotic pummeling. Smacking sounds of naked skin greeting naked skin, whimpers and moans entering in chorus, white knuckles gripping hip handles, and the body beneath, flushed and tensed in its buildup to release.

  And I need this. I need to fuck. Sometimes the fuck is so alluring, so powerful in its promise that I beg to get off beforehand. “Get me done so I can last,” as if I were a young, pubescent male ready to pop with the opening of the latest, coveted issue of Penthouse.

  I’m not saying it’s all like that, but I like to fuck for hours, where my knees get raw, my pubic bone believes that the dong is now embedded, calcified in, and muscles ache with the burn and twitch in exhaustion, and my clit is so hard that I know it would hurt to touch or that I’d pop off with the wafting of a mere breeze.

  It’s not about the dick, it’s about the fuck. I like the fuck and I often come while doing it, in waves of spasms as she sits aloft, humping and pumping until she squirts her juices down my rubbery rod, over my flat, thin stomach, trickling past my hips and through my groin. The wetness like a salve soothes and softens the fierceness of my fuck, and it threatens to take me into a dizzying euphoria of a post-fuck snooze. But I don’t want to go there, and wish she wouldn’t let me. Some do. But not a chick, a chick likes to get fucked.

  You Can Write a Story about It

  Jera Star

  1.

  I wait to meet you on the porch, your silver roller blades shining all the way down the street. I finger the chain around my neck as you approach. We are still awkward at first on these casual rendezvous we’ve been having. You’re used to fucking friends. I’m used to fucking strangers. We are neither friends nor strangers. I’m a pink-haired hippie bi chick. You’re a crew-cut wannabe-cop boy dyke. Sometimes, we fuck.

  “Hey, T,” I say.

  You’ve come over after watching that movie you love with the character named Troy in it. Where you got your boy name, the one you just told me about today. I haven’t yet called you by it.

  “Yo, what’s up?” you ask. I ignore your question. I’m distracted because you’re wearing a red baseball cap backward— my weakness. You sit down beside me on the porch to take off your blades. “Oh, I saw a shooting star on the way here,” you tell me, excitement in your voice. You remind me of a little kid and I find it endearing. A nice change from your usual cocky, obnoxious talk. We sit for a while and talk about the stars. Then I bring you inside. You swagger up the stairs to my apartment. Follow me down the hall to the couch in the spare room.

  “How was your day?” I ask.

  This time you ignore my question. Instead you say, “You have strong hands.” I know you are trying to move things along to what we both really want to be doing. But still, it’s one of the few compliments you have ever and will ever (I realize later) offer me. I relish it. And take your bait.

  “You want a massage?”

  You sit on the floor in front of the couch. I start massaging your shoulders through your clothes. After a minute, you bring out a little container of strawberry massage oil from your pocket. I laugh, getting the point. I take off your shirt. Drip the oil onto your back. You say it feels like lube: cold and hot. I massage again, starting at your neck. Mold your skin. Flex my fingers around your muscles. Shoulders, upper arms. Move my hands in front to your pecs. Careful to avoid your breasts. I stretch your arms up and lay them back down against your sides. Touch my fingers to your lower spine, one of your erogenous zones. Stay there for a while, applying pressure. Playing. You cut right to the chase.

  “So, Sue, tell me about your first kiss.” You want to get at my fantasies. This is what we do for each other. I like the question.

  “It felt so good I thought I could go on kissing him for hours. But then later, behind the portable, after school, he said, ‘What do you want to do to me?’ I didn’t want to do anything to him. I wanted him to do things to me. I wanted him to lick my whole body. All the way from mouth to clit.”

  “What else?” you ask as I work on your shoulder muscles.

  “Hmm, I was too shy to tell him what I wanted. So we just kissed some more,” I answer, absorbed in my hands pushing into your back. “Eventually I told him I didn’t want to be monogamous and he didn’t like that.” You laugh, not sure about it yourself.

  “Tell me, Sue, what you want me to do to you. Who, what, where you want me to be.”

  I smile.

  You try and grab my tits and I love it. You try and tickle me and I don’t like it. We laugh as you try to tickle me and I tell you to stop.

  “Don’t,” I say.

  “Don’t what?” you say, grabbing my tits again, putting your hands in my pants. “Don’t, Boy-T? Don’t, Daddy? Don’t, Troy? Don’t touch my tits? Don’t touch my clit? Don’t make me come? Huh? Don’t what?” I squirm. Hot, fucking hot.

  “Daddy,” I moan, wanting your hand on my clit. “Daddy, please.” I squirm more as you fondle me, feel me, make my clit swell. You take your hand away.

  I whine, hurt, sad. “Daddy, please. Come on, Daddy. Give me. Give me, please. Daddy, please.”

  You give in and give me some more. Turn me over on my stomach. I moan and cry with the sensations in my cunt. Your hand still fingers my clit. I want more, you pull your fingers away. I whine.

  “Oh, poor baby,” you say. “What’s wrong? Is there something wrong, baby?”

  “Please, Daddy.” I’m close to crying. You put your fingers back.

  “There you go, baby. Come on. You’re a good girl.” You move your finger faster on my clit. I moa
n and say, “Please, daddy‚” again and come madly, sweetly, sadly in your arms.

  “Do you love me?” you ask.

  “Yes, Daddy, I love you.”

  I shed some tears. We are both quiet.

  Finally I say, “And you, T, what do you want me to do, be for you?”

  I straddle you. Take off my shirt. Kiss you. Take off my bra while you watch. Take off your jeans and boxer briefs and spread your legs. Move down your body to your belly. You feel vulnerable with it exposed, I know. I linger there, my eyes on you. My tongue licking around your belly button. I start fingering your clit slowly, gently.

  “Do you do this to all the boys?” you ask.

  “Just my slave-boys,” I say. You make small moans. I stop playing with you. Ask, “Were you a good boy today?”

  “I hope so,” you answer. You always make me laugh.

  “You think you deserve this?” I ask.

  “Yes, Mistress,” you moan as I push one finger inside your cunt.

  “Why do you think you deserve this?” I play with your clit some more.

  “Because it feels so good.” You start humping my finger. I bend down to kiss you and just when you’re ready for it, I pull away. You try to bring my lips to yours again. I don’t let you. “Ah, Boy-T wants to kiss me, does he?” I say to you, holding your arms above your head.

  You close your eyes. “Uh-huh,” you say, still humping.

  “Now why would I want to let him do that?”

  “You know you want it,” you say, impatient. You shake your hands out of my grasp. Pull me down against you again. I let my tongue brush your lips. Then I grab your hands and put them above your head one more time. You like it.

  “Slave-boys don’t kiss without asking,” I say. “I want Boy- T to learn how to be a gentleman.” You smile and grab my boob real quick. Cocky, as usual.