Best Lesbian Erotica 2015

by Laura Antoniou

  “Not yet.” Her voice turned stern. “Wrangling a bull is one thing. Treating a lady right is something else. Especially your first time.”

  Well, there wasn’t much I could say to that. In fact, I couldn’t think of anything to say, and, while I surely knew some things I’d like to do, I didn’t know how to go about them with a gorgeous, worldly woman like Miss Violet Montez. I’d seen her before at rodeos and suchlike gatherings, and fantasized a bit like I did about movie stars and photos in the kind of magazines cowboys tucked under their mattresses in the bunkhouse, but never imagined I’d get this close. “Yes, Ma’am,” I said, trying to sound polite with just a hint of cocky, but it didn’t come out right.

  “You sit down in that folding chair and don’t stir while I change into something more comfortable.” I perked right up at that, but then she added, “And while you wait, give some thought as to whether you want things sweet, spicy or downright nasty.”

  I knew my preference, even though I wasn’t exactly sure what she meant, but I’d got my brain working enough to know the right answer. “Whatever a lovely lady like you wants is what I want, too.”

  “We’ll just see about that.” She scooped up some clothes from the foot of the bed and edged into the tiny bathroom, leaving the door open. I knew better than to get up from my chair, but I did crane my neck to see what I could see. It wasn’t much.

  The low-necked satin blouse sailed out through the bathroom door, followed by her voice. “Never came across a girl bull rider before in a regular rodeo. Things must be changing for the better.”

  “Not yet,” I admitted. “Not officially. Except at small local shindigs where anything goes.” And where my dad was the biggest rancher around and chief sponsor of the rodeo association, but I didn’t say that.

  Her short black satin skirt with rows of gold spangles followed the blouse, and so did her high-heeled, sparkly cowgirl boots and a pair of nylon panty hose. I wriggled in the chair to see if I could hook that last with my foot, with no luck, but I did get a glimpse of a bare shoulder through the door.

  “Well, you can sure handle a bucking bull, but you need to work on self-control,” she said over that shoulder. “And it remains to be seen how much else you can handle.”

  “Yes, Ma’am.” It seemed like the safest thing to say. Now I could see that she was shrugging into a blue-checked shirt, which didn’t fit much with my hopeful notions of “something more comfortable.”

  I looked idly around the trailer. It was dented and shabby, but with colorful pictures on the walls, mostly old rodeo posters, and some fancy duds hanging on hooks, along with…

  I only just caught myself from bolting straight up. On one hook, coiled neat as a rattlesnake, hung one of the longest bull-whips I’d ever seen. I looked wildly around again at the posters, and there it was, in a corner of what looked like the oldest one: MISS VIOLET MONTEZ, QUEEN OF THE BULLWHIP.

  I’d seen her way back then! She’d been performing her tricks at the State Fair when I was just knee-high to a fence post, and she couldn’t have been much older than I was now. That’d been the day I’d known for certain that girls could do anything boys could do, and better, if they put their minds to it.

  Did she still use the whip? On what? Or maybe who? Some of the racier pictures from those bunkroom magazines came to mind. So did stories from a few paperback books I’d mail-ordered from ads in the back of those magazines. Not enough room in here to swing a whip like that, though. I didn’t know whether to be relieved, or disappointed. So many thoughts whirled through my mind that I didn’t hear Miss Violet stepping out of the bathroom.

  “Like whips, do you?” Her voice, right behind me, made my head swing around so fast my neck cracked.

  Right in front of my eyes and nose, close enough that I could tell she didn’t shave her private parts but did wash them with lemon soap—though not in the last few hours—was a pair of denim cutoffs so short and tight even Daisy Duke couldn’t have got away with them. Looking upward, I saw an expanse of bare midriff topped by the blue-checked shirt, unbuttoned and tied tight under full breasts half-uncovered and straining against such confinement as there was.

  I wrenched my gaze upward to her face, trying to tell whether I was being challenged to release those breasts, or even unzip the shorts and give those private parts an airing.

  She read my mind. “Don’t get big ideas, cowboy. You only get what you earn.”

  “Yes, Ma’am!” I’d do most anything for a woman who knew not to call me “cowgirl.”

  “All right then. You can stand up.”

  Fast as I stood, she backed up quick enough that I didn’t get to brush my own tingling chest against her bountiful one. Then she was sitting on the edge of the bed, one of those high arrangements with drawers underneath to save space. She crossed her long legs, bare all the way up to kingdom come and down to a pair of dusty boots that had seen real work, not like her fancy sparkly ones.

  “Now take off your belt.”

  My belt? With my brand-new, shiny, trophy buckle? I unbuckled and slid the worn leather out of the belt-loops so fast my split-second of hesitation couldn’t have showed. I hoped. She just held out her hands, palms up, and I laid my prize possession across them like an offering.

  I was all set to reach for the zipper of my jeans, but she ordered briskly, “Now turn around.”

  I turned.

  Faster than I’d got it out, she had the belt back in the loops with the buckle perched between the small of my back and my ass. “Slip your hands down in there right over your butt.”

  It was awkward, but I did my best, ending up with the backs of my hands right against my skin and the belt buckled around both hips and wrists. I could’ve wriggled loose, of course, but by then I was bound and determined to please her enough to earn, well, whatever reward there might be. Besides, the feel of my own hands against my buttcheeks, especially if I wiggled my fingers, was tantalizing in an odd sort of way. Maybe soon it would be her hands there. One way or another.

  “Turn around again.”

  I turned. She leaned back a bit. Her shirt looked likely to slip right off one or another of her breasts, if not both, and I could see the outlines of her nipples poking out like they wanted to speed up the process. It occurred to me that she was enjoying all this a whole lot, which made me enjoy it even more.

  “Not bad,” she said. “I’ll give you a little reward you haven’t really earned yet.” She stuck out one of her boots and nudged me in the crotch with its toe. “You can clean up my boots.”

  The boots were even grubbier than I’d noticed at first, with worse things than dust on ’em. Well, so were mine just now, and the crotch of my jeans wasn’t much better after riding the bulls. It was getting mighty damp, in fact, which could be a help in the cleaning department. I mounted that boot.

  My elbows stuck out enough to give me some balance. Carefully, so as not to put much downward force on her foot, I squeezed my thighs around the stiff leather and moved myself back and forth, first by tilting my hips, then taking tiny steps forward and back. My jeans got a whole lot wetter. My rhythm got faster. The pressure between my legs was building so high I could hardly stand it.

  Her face didn’t give me any clue as to whether I was pleasing her, but her nipples seemed to be poking out even more, which didn’t soothe my state of frantic arousal one bit.

  “Self-control, hotshot, self-control,” she scolded. “Keep your attention on your work.”

  That last part sounded so much like my mother you’d think it would dull my urges, and it did for a bit. “Toby, pay attention to your work!” Ma had scolded, time after time. She’d come West as a schoolteacher, a good one, and even after she married my dad she kept on as principal when the area got populated enough to need that big a school. Ted and I had got pretty well educated in spite of ourselves, even though we tried not to let on. It was a strange feeling to be minding Miss Violet Montez the way I’d never minded anybody since my mother passed away.
Strange, but exciting, and that was downright weird.

  “Don’t slow down! Where’s that bull-riding stamina?” She slid her foot free and ground the boot’s toe into my denim seam right where it crossed my clit. I jerked and bit my lip to hang on, and dug my knuckles into the flesh of my butt, which made me jerk even harder.

  “Time for the other boot, before you run out of steam.”

  If I got any more steamed up I’d explode all over her trailer. I almost said so. Luckily her other foot creeping up my inseam distracted me. I didn’t know whether talking back would bring on a punishment, or make her give up on me, but I sure didn’t want to risk the second. I stared down and concentrated on rubbing that second boot with my thighs and crotch. It didn’t seem to be getting any cleaner, in spite of how wet I was.

  “Ma’am,” I said, meekly as I could manage, “I’m afraid my pants are so grubby by now they’re just adding dirt to your boot.”

  “I believe you’re right,” she said. “I can smell those britches from here, reeking like a cross between a bull pen and a harem full of horny women.”

  I dared a quick look. Her tight shorts were looking damp at the seam, too. “I could wash up,” I offered.

  “You just stay dirty until I tell you otherwise! Now pick up those panty hose and use them to clean my boot.”

  Pick them up while my hands were still stuck down the rear of my pants? Impossible! Which was likely the point. Punishment was on the way. That was fine with me, but I still did my best to follow orders, hooking the toe of my boot under the panty hose, kicking them high up in the air, and ducking my head to try to catch them on my neck. Nearly made it, too.

  But crooked elbows weren’t enough to keep my balance, especially when something, maybe even Miss Violet’s other foot, tripped me up. I went down on my knees, hard, my upper body sprawling over her thighs and my face planted right down in her crotch. I tried to act like the wind was knocked out of me, but to tell the truth I was gulping in her warm, rich woman-scent.

  Miss Violet wasn’t fooled. She lurched her hips up, and for a brief second I even got to taste the wetness seeping through her shorts, but then she threw me off onto the floor. It was only when my hands broke the fall that I noticed they’d come out of my pants.

  She stood above me, arms crossed over her breasts, a fierce frown on her face that didn’t quite go with the gleam in her eyes. “Get up. And get the whip.” I got up.

  There might have been others in the trailer I hadn’t noticed, but I went right for the coil upon coil of the bullwhip. My pants, loose now that my hands were freed from the belt, rode dangerously low on my hips, but I managed to lift down the heavy coils, carry them to her and loop them over her outstretched hands.

  She looked down at the whip for so long I was worried she’d forgotten me. Finally she looked up. “High time this lady got to dance again. It’s been too long.” That fierce look took hold of her again. “Take off your shirt, go stand right up against the door and keep your hands raised to the top of it. Surely you can do that much right!”

  I did just what she said, not even pausing to straighten out and tighten my belt. Chances were she’d order me to pull the pants down anyway. But for what seemed like a long while nothing happened, except a few sounds of motion behind me like she was looping and relooping the whip. I tried to remember things she’d done with it at the State Fair: hitting targets, flipping fence posts end over end, sending wagon wheels whirling through the air, even making pictures with its curves and loops high over her head, outlines that looked like ocean waves or a mountain range or even handwriting in some unknown language.

  She hadn’t used it on living flesh, human or animal, but I had no doubt that she could kill or maim with it if she had a mind to, or just etch lines into skin precisely where she wanted them to go. Maybe even my skin. A shiver, more of anticipation than dread, ran all the way down from my scalp to the soles of my feet.

  But nothing happened. “Ma’am,” I said finally, when I couldn’t bear the wait any longer and my upraised arms were aching, “Miss Violet, please, Ma’am, can I look around at you?”

  “When I’m good and ready,” she said sharply, and before I could draw another breath something lashed out fast as lightning, wrapped around my butt, and jerked my pants down to the floor, belt, underdrawers and all.

  “Now,” she said, “you can turn around.”

  I turned and stared. Naked now all the way down, pants tangled around my boots so I couldn’t walk if I tried, I should have felt shame, embarrassment, confusion or fear, but something more powerful swept over me. Something like, like…awe, but even stronger.

  Miss Violet stood tall, shirt, shorts and boots discarded, naked as I was except for the bands of bullwhip wrapped from one forearm up to where they bound the whip’s grip to her shoulder. Shortened like that, there was no more problem with lack of space to swing it. The tightly plaited strips on the outer layer of the thong looked like the patterned skin of some exotic snake climbing down to her hand that gripped it three feet or so above where the long, narrower fall piece was attached. When she twitched her hand, the thin cord at the end, the “cracker” that makes most of the noise when the whip slashes through the air, looked like the tongue of a snake flickering just before it decides to strike.

  There’d been a snake charmer lady at the State Fair, too, in skimpy, gaudy duds meant to look Oriental, with a snake around one arm and another draped across her neck. Miss Violet was as far beyond that sideshow faker as a statue of a Greek goddess is beyond a kewpie doll.

  What went before had been some kind of game. Now, however much Miss Violet’s curving hips and full, luscious breasts tipped with jutting brown nipples made me want to fuck and be fucked, I wanted even more to fall on my knees in front of her. To show respect for her greater power and let her use me any way she wanted.

  I almost did fall on my knees, but she motioned me to turn back to the door, and I just managed it without stumbling. The whip teased me at first, trickling down my spine, curling around to nip at the sides of my breasts, drifting across my buttcheeks. My legs were as far apart for balance as the pants at my ankles would allow, and when the whip’s tip rose up between my thighs to tweak my tenderest parts I jerked so hard I almost toppled backward. In my imagination first it was a real snake, then it was Miss Violet’s finger, and I couldn’t even tell which made me the wettest.

  When the pain came, it was more like ice at first than fire. Thin slices across my shoulder blades, buttcheeks, thighs, too random in the beginning to brace against, accelerating after a while into a storm of strikes that inflamed already-sore places until I felt like I must be red-hot as steel being forged into a blade. A blade to serve Her.

  I may have cried. If I did, it wasn’t for the pain. The pain was just the means to bring it out. The unfairness of life…of death…Cindy, my mother…the huge, unknown world stretching in front of me…

  When the whipping stopped, I didn’t know for a while if it was just another pause. Then Miss Violet’s whip-free, snake-free arms came around me from behind, her breasts pressed into my sore back, and she wriggled her cunt against my butt. “You sure stripe up nicely, tigrina. Don’t worry, hardly any blood. Guess you’d better ride on top tonight, though, for the sake of my sheets.”

  So I did. Miss Violet was still a goddess, with or without a whip, far better in the glorious flesh than any Greek stone statue. I paid close heed to what made her writhe and cry out with pleasure, and went over the edge a time or two myself when she pumped her knee into my crotch while I was sucking her breasts so hard she yelled but kept hold on my short hair to urge me on. After a while she showed me just how far my own body could rise above anything I’d ever imagined, spurring pleasure with pain to newer, sharper peaks, until we were both so worn out we could scarcely twitch, and her sheets were soaked with sweat and our mingled juices and the occasional streak of blood after all. Even the leather-bound handle of the bullwhip had come in for some soaking and lay pung
ently damp beside her pillow.

  After a while I asked drowsily, “How come you gave up on your bullwhip act, Miss Violet? You were the best! Doesn’t seem as though singing at small-time rodeos would pay better.”

  She propped her head up on one hand. “There’s things men will stand from a young good-looking girl that they won’t abide anymore when she’s a grown woman. You’d find that out soon enough even with bull riding, so you might as well understand it now. There’s a big world out there with chances for you, so don’t get stuck here if you can help it.”

  I didn’t want to think about anything but being there with her right that minute, but deep down I knew she was right.

  When I rode back to the ranch at daybreak, too drained to sort out the remnants of pleasure and pain and smoldering resentment, Daddy was waiting in the barn. He couldn’t quite meet my eyes. “Looks like maybe you’d better go back East to school, Toby, the way your Mama always wanted.”

  “Looks like,” I agreed. And that was that. I knew he felt guilty for the way he’d raised me, but I’d never have survived any other way. If he thought going to school back East would teach me properly womanly ways, though, he was dead wrong. Going to a women’s college didn’t make a lady of me, but I sure learned a lot about women.

  And thanks to Miss Violet Montez, whip artiste extraordinaire, I had a good deal to teach, as well.

  ARACHNE

  Catherine Lundoff

  Warp and weft, shuttle and thread, the cloth springs from my fingers like a blossom. Its bright threads will call to passersby in the marketplace, coaxing them to my father’s stall. Its beauty will cry out for them to touch it, to possess it. Warp and weft, gold and silver. My hands fly.

  So passes my youth. No young man or village matchmaker comes to see my father for my hand because I am stooped from bending. My dark eyes are wide from staring at the loom morning and night and my fingers curve more easily into the threads than into the cupped fingers of a young man’s hand. Still, my cloths are worth more drachmae than those of any other weaver in this city, enough so that my widowed father can hire help at the stall and can buy a husband for my sister. I find that I want none of my own, even if one wanted me.