Best Lesbian Erotica 2013

by Kathleen Warnock

  I had turned up just half an hour before last orders, wanting to minimize any awkward chitchat. At 11:00 p.m., the bell rings and Maureen, the barmaid, starts slinging the locals out with a clanging singsong of “Finish up folks please!” As she trundles by with a cloth and a bottle of anti-bac spray, Maureen drops a key discreetly onto the table in front of Justine. Nobody else in the pub would have seen her do it, but we hear the light clack of the key on the wood and the mood steps up a gear. I sense them grow more tense. Justine, used to being followed, downs the vodka and orange she has been nursing and everyone else copies. Jen, the boyish blonde, tucks a roll-up cigarette behind her ear in preparation. As the last punter leaves and Maureen locks up the doors behind him, she nods to us. Justine zips up her wax coat and smiles at us, but her smile has changed. It’s not the wide-mouthed, cheery grin of earlier, but a small, sly, knowing curl of the lips. Wordlessly we all get up and follow her to the side door and out into the passage between the pub and its surrounding walls. As the others file by I borrow a light from Jen. We exhale and I say, “What’s in it for Maureen?”

  “Last time she joined us,” says Jen in a low voice as she walks ahead. “Not tonight though.”

  I want to say something conversational but Jen’s tone tells me the time for jabber has passed and all my questions will be answered some other way. I smoke hard in the cold night air and follow her into the dark.

  The six of us slip through the long grass at the back of the pub to the woods behind. Here the lights from the pub kitchen fade and I have to keep my eyes on Jen’s coat to stay on the path between the trees. The air is cold and the leaves drip with rain that chills my hands and the back of my neck. I begin to feel jumpy in the shadows, feeling the mud slick under my boots. This is how people end up chopped into pieces in the trunk of someone’s car, I think. Then Jen glances over her shoulder to check that I am still there. I like the strong curve of her chin and the sharp cut of the hair at the nape of her neck. I feel a flutter of vague, basic lust and follow.

  We walk until we reach a large shed with brown paint peeling from its brick walls. Justine, with a sly glance up the mud path, unlocks the door and opens up. From my place at the back of the crowd I can smell the inside: earth, dead leaves, paint and wood. We file in.

  Inside the place is dark until Justine lights a camping gas lamp and a few candles that stand on a chipped old coffee table. Moth-eaten rugs and a few damp cushions are scattered around the small, low space. We sit cross-legged on the floor.

  The atmosphere presses down hard on all of us. There is an overriding sense of longing in the room, as if our collective wants are spilling out onto each other. Most of all there is expectation, a hint of desire, and something almost cannibalistic. I realize all eyes are on me. Kim and Marge are looking politely from lowered eyes, but Sam and Lisa are restraining the urge to nudge each other and nod at me. Jen is looking at me with the kind of bold, butch appraisal I would usually object to, but doing so would seem churlish under these circumstances.

  Justine smiles levelly at me and places a hand on my arm. She seems to be the one most comfortable with what we all know is about to happen.

  “I know a friend told you to come along,” she says. “Did she tell you what happened last time?” She squeezes my shoulder lingeringly.

  You did tell me. “I ended up sitting in the middle of them and taking everything off,” you said. “I showed them how I do it when I’m alone,” you breathed, your hand following your thoughts and my hand following yours.

  I begin to unbutton my coat and Justine nods encouragingly. I pause after that, not sure if and how to go on. Jen, who had been leaning back in the shadows, kneels closer to me and removes my shoes, so tenderly and with such confidence that I realize whatever girl she is brooding over must have been worshipped.

  I take off my shirt and jeans. I find it hard to meet anyone’s eye as I do it, though I can see Marge’s arm curled almost supportively around Kim’s shoulders, while Sam and Lisa hold hands. I imagine you undressing here in the cold, under these women’s eyes, and thrill to echo you as if it brings you closer to me.

  I can feel the pent-up lust my still-young body naturally creates, but also, the deep-seated, instinctive fear of other women’s eyes on my body, and most of all, the overwhelming pointlessness everything has had since you disappeared. I have halted.

  This time it is Marge who snaps me out of it. She waits until I look up and meets my eye. She is steely gray and blue-eyed, with a strong, trustworthy face. When she speaks her voice has a rich timbre and a warm West Country burr.

  “It’s only flesh and blood, chickadee,” she says. “Don’t have to give us no more than that.”

  Somehow she sounds warm and wanting at once. I want to show her, this old and grieving woman, my body, my poor starved skin, and see how my pain might match up to hers. The thought of sharing something that is so close to passion—grief—turns me on and I slip out of my underwear quickly before I can change my mind.

  I am naked in a darkened room with six women. I blame you for this. You always make me do things I wouldn’t otherwise. I realize that I have been living every second for a year as though you have been watching me, even those hours when we were apart, and it has made me brighter. I have written not a word of the novel I set out to but the hundreds of love letters I have written to you, sent or not, are the best work I’ve ever managed. I couldn’t have done it without you having drawn me clearer like an artist tidying up her masterpiece.

  Jen is looking at me like a woman in a drought confronted with a lake. She is slim, strong, silent and sewn up with chivalry. I can see the lean muscle of her shoulders and the frown quiet, moody women wear. You taught me how to want a woman when I hadn’t before. It is easy to want her, so I do. I decide to perform for her.

  I place my hand on my neck, running my fingers from there to my collarbone, and sigh as the familiar lines of my palm graze my breast. I wonder if this is too quick or too coy for the group. I look at Justine, who has slipped off her coat and unbuttoned her Levi’s. She is lying back on a cushion, still smiling around at us all as she trails her hand lazily across her navel.

  I run both hands now to my hips. You loved to hold my hips. The day we first made love, you came into my kitchen as was habit, and as I stood with my back to you making coffee you said I had the proportions of a model, but scaled up. I laughed hard, unsure of whether it was an unwitting put-down or an innocent compliment. Then your hands were on my hips and your breath on my neck and my world fell apart.

  My hips fit into my palms as softly as horse chestnuts fit into their silky shells and for a moment I am lost in myself. When my hand sweeps to my thigh and then to the softest skin where my legs meet I hear a sigh—I am not sure whose—and I am aware of the women again.

  I look up and see them in flashes. Justine is ahead of me, her slim hand working smoothly inside her jeans. Sam and Lisa are kissing tentatively, as though it has never happened before, nipping at each other’s lips like nervous little birds. Kim has moved so Marge can cradle her across her lap, holding her in a close bear hug. Jen is still and soundless, her arms wrapped around her knees and her head cocked to one side as she watches me. I make it my mission to crack her. The need to make her react spurs me on as my fingers feather out across my cunt and I tip back my head.

  In my mind’s eye you are here. You watch me, as you watched me a hundred times in bed, as the thick bulb of my middle finger finds my clit; the thin, vibrant seam of me; and then the deep opening below, before moving away, teasing and tasting. I become aware of the curling smirk on my mouth, the one I didn’t know I had until you pointed it out. Jen laughs in the back of her throat. She has seen that smirk before on the face of someone she loves. I settle into the smooth rhythm of my fingertips and open my eyes to see her crawling toward me on the grainy floor.

  As she reaches me I see the others around beginning to let go as if they are in a sort of trance. Sam and Lisa, whose passion is so c
learly near the surface, are the most susceptible. Sam has pulled Lisa’s scarf and blouse from her and is planting thousands of hungry kisses on her shoulders and throat. They only have eyes for each other and are only here because they need this secret mania to truly show themselves to each other.

  Marge has her hands—wonderful, leathery brown hands that held the same woman for years—gently planted around Kim’s flushed round face. Kim is looking up at Marge with a kind of disbelieving joy. Kim slips up her own skirt and lavishes the attention her husband doesn’t know how to give to her own full, curved legs. Justine has shrugged off her shirt and jeans and is touching herself at an unabashed, luxurious pace.

  Jen reaches me on all fours, poised and curious. I wonder if she wants me to stop what I am doing to myself and turn to her. Although I’m not au fait with the roles we are all playing, I realize from her catlike position at my side that she is rarely, if ever, “done.” It is clear from the way her eyes rush from my hand to my curling toes to the flush creeping up my throat that she revels in giving pleasure. She is waiting for permission.

  I nod and she reaches out. She traces a cold fingertip across my starved lips. I haven’t been kissed in what seems like an age and my mouth trembles at her touch. She lowers her head to the curve of my breast and begins a slow, expert journey across my skin with her lips and tongue. I gasp, thinking first only of the sensation, then of her, then of you. Her lips close on my nipple and her tongue makes slow circles around it, sucking harder as she shifts to lie beside me. I reach instinctively to stroke the smooth hair at the back of her neck and press her harder to me. She groans softly and is answered by a little half laugh from Justine. I see her watching Jen intently and realize she is the one Jen is pining for.

  Around the room, the mood is thicker and watching them I feel my own desire harden. Sam and Lisa are locked together on the floor, their arms and legs entwined, kissing frantically as their hips grind together with increasing urgency. Marge is still cradling Kim, but now she is working her hand inside the younger woman in time to Kim’s soft panting. Kim watches Jen and me, transfixed. I shut my eyes and listen to them all, the sounds of hands on skin and lips on lips in an ancient rhythm, almost trying to pick out those special sounds you made for me alone.

  Jen climbs above me. Her mouth is on mine, insistent yet soft. She tastes of beer and tobacco and I smell her: hair wax, wet grass and cheap soap. I feel as though I am being unfaithful to us, then I picture you with him and I wrap my legs around Jen’s waist.

  Her belt is cold against my thighs and she is breathing hard against my neck. I tug at the buttons of her shirt and reach underneath. I press her breast hard, knowing she won’t like to be caressed. She allows herself to arch her back and groan. She isn’t like you. She is tough and moody and feels heavy. You were like sunlight in my arms. I want her to fuck me, to envelop me with brutal sensation and drive you away. I wrap both arms around her neck and press myself, hot and wet, against her jeans. She presses back and I growl, “Fuck me,” into her ear.

  The words increase the tension in the room. Kim, her former shyness gone, has raised her knees and spread her legs wide as Marge presses her whole hand roughly against her cunt. Sam is lying on her back, her hands over her own mouth, as Lisa kneels between her legs, licking and gripping Sam’s hips. Justine is on her knees, her hand working furiously, watching us intently.

  Jen’s fingers push into me and I forget everything for a few seconds. She holds still within me, letting me tense around her hand, before she begins to push back and forth. She uses the power in her hips and back to drive her hand harder, her whole body working in a fluid wave. She has her eyes closed and mouth open in an expression of pure oblivion. I wonder if she is picturing someone else underneath her and it turns me on. I picture you fucking me like this and my body responds with another wave of arousal although my heart cringes. I kiss Jen, my mouth open, pushing my tongue roughly against hers. I squeeze my legs tight around her and grind my clit against her belt buckle. I am pushing savagely against her, forcing her to fuck me harder with her hand trapped between us, and she loves the aggression.

  In a corner somewhere I hear someone come. With my eyes squeezed shut I can’t tell who it is, but I hear the rushing thrust of hips and hands reaching a peak, then slowing and intensifying, then dying away. Like magic it works on the rest of us. Justine begins to make a low, humming sound in the back of her throat and Kim lets out a series of surprised, delighted gasps. The forbidden sound of another woman’s most private pleasure adds to my own and I begin to feel the familiar tension in my legs and stomach.

  As I build to my orgasm, coherent, reasoned thoughts are pushed aside and random images break free in my mind. I see hands and mouths and breasts and shoulder blades moving to my rhythm in my head. I see myself in snatches. I wonder if any of these women fucked you like this and the idea takes hold. In my mind’s eye the women are in this room just as they are in reality but underneath Jen, bucking and gasping, is you, not me. I watch you in my mind, a drop of sweat clinging to the hair that falls over your eyes, your head thrown back, your toes crossed in that way that you do when you’re lost in it all. My head fills with echoes of your cries and I swear I can smell you. My body contracts and I let out a howl, half joy, half anguish, and shudder into climax. Jen clamps a hand over my mouth to quiet me and I scream out the pleasure and pain into her palm.

  I hardly remember what happens immediately afterward but somehow we are all dressed, a little fatigued, and splitting off in the car park. Justine is the only one who meets anyone’s eye. Jen looks at her meaningfully but doesn’t say a word to anyone. I leave with a nod.

  Driving home, too exhausted to cry, I wonder if I will go back again. I wonder if this is healing or hurting me. You had hoped it would heal me and help me learn now that you are gone, but I don’t know whether I will ever be able to make love to someone without you filling my head.

  When I pull up at my drive I am so I tired I almost forget to lock the car. Dragging myself to the front door, I stop in my tracks. Sitting solemnly on the doorstep under the porch light, there you are, shivering and red-eyed. My brain fizzes when you look at me. I move to speak but you answer me with your eyes, pleading and dark and sorry.

  “Is it too late?” you whisper, as I step unsteadily to the front door. I sink to my knees beside you on the step, unable to speak, and shake my head.

  UNDERSKIRTS

  Kirsty Logan

  Girl Number One

  She found me with my hands around chickens, fingers stretched wide, thumbs over beaks. My skirt, mud weighed, tugged at my ankles as I dipped low. Silly to curtsey while armed with birds, I knew, but it had to be done. If I’d let go they’d’ve flown at her, chuttering through her red hair. And what a sight that would’ve been! The lady, still horsed, with her legs one on either side and her skirt hitching up to show a hand-span of stocking. And her horse as white as cuckooflowers, with its little red haunch-spot not quite hidden by the bridle. I kept my thumbs tight over those dangerous beaks.

  So there I was, tangle skirted and chicken full, and I’ll never know what she saw in me then. Enough, any case, to offer coins to my father—bags full of glinting, enough to make his moustache disappear into the folds of his lips. For my mother, it was the title. Lady’s Maid. Fine fetters for the youngest of eight, last to leave. No word from my siblings for years, long gone as they were—the last we saw was the hellfire from their heels across the tops of the hills. And my betrothed, he of the thick knuckles and pale gold hair? The transparent boy who tumbled me across hay, who licked at my earlobes and stickied my palms? I forgot him within a day.

  I’ll never know what My Lady saw in me, but I know what I saw in her. She was a mirror. Mud weighed and bird handed as I was, she still knew me. She knew the things I had been thinking, down deep between my lacings, under the wooden heels of my shoes. The words I shaped with straw before kicking away: she knew them. We were tied as sisters, cousins, lovers. This link
between us is a red silk ribbon, a fine silver chain, a length of daisies punched together. It’s the loveliest thing I ever saw.

  The Housekeeper

  I’ll not be taking part in Mistress’s activities, oh no. She brings the girls up to the house and that is as it is, but I’ll have none of it. She’s a fancy lady, no doubt. But even fancy ladies don’t need a dozen handmaids, and them changing every few weeks to a new crop of girls. It’s to the end that I can’t even remember their names, not a one, not a single one. Just a you there will suffice for that sort of girl, to my mind.

  Such harlotry in their little looks! Mouths round and red like quims, and their bodices low as anything. The mistress must pick out the stitches before she gives the girls the dresses, mark you. No proper dressmaker would make a lady look such a pinchcock.

  The first maid was fine enough—Mistress did need help with her dressing and suchlike, and her red cheeks and brown hair looked regular enough to fit in at the house. For a while she tied Mistress’s corsets and arranged Mistress’s hair, and I kept firm out of their way. Plenty to keep me busy kitchen-side. But I couldn’t pretend I didn’t see what Mistress was about. Tip-tapping through the back corridors where she’d no business to be, flipping up skirts and losing her rings inside girls. Mistress parading those wagtails thinking it was like to tempt me, thinking I was like to be kept feverish at nights with thinking of their ways, that I was like to be some dirty tom. And me with my eyes on the floor like I’m meant! They’ll go to the devil, the lot of them. I’ve got two eyes; how long can I pretend I don’t see, hmm?