Best Lesbian Erotica 2015

by Laura Antoniou

  In the kitchen, I turned on Marlene Dietrich dramatically singing “Black Market” and swung my well-oiled hips. I let the warmth of the after-fuck flow through me lazily as I vigorously beat the eggs, water, cheese and a hearty sprinkle of coarsely ground black pepper with a fork, then slid them into the hot skillet. Soon the omelet was bubbly and I plopped bread into the toaster, singing along with Marlene’s racy double entendres.

  I could hear Eartha Kitt’s husky voice as I strolled back into the living room, carrying a silver tray with plates of hot omelets and crisp buttered toast. As I walked through the French doors into the living room, you were humming to Eartha while rubbing your wrist. I cleared the low engraved-copper-tray coffee table of leather-bound books, dime-store mysteries, a prickly tomato pincushion and a clutch of fountain pens and put down the tray, then sat down next to you, massaging your wrist and hand, pressing my thumbs into your over-fucked joints. We ate, denim knee to flannel knee, and shoulder to shoulder, devouring the steaming eggs quietly.

  Eggs and toast finished, I suddenly became nervous and insecure. Was this just a queer, kinky, senior-citizen version of the one-night stand? Did I want this invasion of heat and conversation in my midst, winding its way through my apartment and life? It was easy to know what I wanted when my legs were spread—my cunt and your hand conversed fine. What the fuck was I doing? I must have jolted in panic, because you removed my empty plate from my lap, leaned over and snuggled me against your shoulder.

  You said softly, “Hey, you.”

  I said, “Hey, you too,” back. And this is how it all started.

  SECOND DATE

  Miel Rose

  It is our second date and I still don’t know what to call you as your fingers wrap themselves around my throat. You haven’t told me, and it didn’t occur to me to ask. My back is pressed firmly against the wall of this hallway and as your hand squeezes, your lifeline heavy on my windpipe, words well up in my mouth like saliva. Yes, please, more, thank you, and behind them this desire to name you, name exactly what you are to me in this moment.

  Sir feels most safe, standard, but there is a little girl deep inside me who has already claimed you for her Daddy and that word feels large and weighted in my mouth, a stone held protectively underneath my tongue. This girl is desperate to know what she has done to make her Daddy so angry he would wrap his fingers around her throat, constrict air and blood, choking out his sweet-princess-baby-girl-sugar-darling in the hallway between kitchen and living room. Because this is what she wants to be to you: treasured and precious and small and cared for, Daddy’s angel, sheltered in his strong arms. Made to do unspeakable things, knowing she is safe because her Daddy would never truly hurt her…not really.

  The problem is, I haven’t told you about her yet. The problem is, while you are my perfect wet-dream butch Daddy, I have no idea if this is a role that has found a place within your desire.

  I have told you about other aspects of my need to submit. The part of me that is loving every ounce of brutality dealt by your hand, that longs for force and velocity to bring your palm to my cheek, that wants your teeth sinking deep into the meat where the base of my neck joins my shoulder. Tomorrow morning I want to wake up to a visible map blooming on the surface of my skin, undeniable evidence of where we have been.

  I’ve told you that I like to be roughed up during sex, told you what kind of pain I like and to what degree. I have not told you about how this kind of treatment has the tendency to open a deep and vulnerable rawness inside me, to crack me open like a pomegranate, my red jewels spilling everywhere.

  Because, baby, it has been a while since I let a butch touch me like this and it is only our second date, and I like you way too much for the small amount of time I have known you. I am not ready to be cracked open for you, all seeds and red juice, all that potential sweet and tart and available. I want to stay inside my own skin, contained, private. I do not want to be that girl who gives you access to her pussy and her heart on the same night.

  But your hand grabbing my throat is so many things. It is sweet and delicious and causing this fierce panic to blossom in my stomach. My heart is swelling and cracking open, and I know that all of this is visible in my eyes. I can tell that you have recognized what you are seeing when your grip relaxes to a caress and you ask me, “You all right honey?”

  This and the tenderness in your eyes could undo me, could reduce me to a sobbing mass on the floor. But I am committed to this course of action, determined to have sex with you tonight without breaking open, without making accessible the tender regions beneath my ribs and without the word Daddy accidently slipping past my lips.

  So, “Yeah, fine,” I say, pushing past you and heading for the bedroom, pulling my dress over my head, hoping to distract you with skin and curves and flesh spilling from foundation garments.

  While I haven’t known you long enough to fully realize exactly who I am dealing with, I get the feeling as you cross the room toward me, your eyes intently locked on mine and nowhere else, that I should have known better than this. That I have highly underestimated you if I think I can get away with smoke and mirrors, this slight of hand, as if my internal process were a shiny coin I can hide up my sleeve. I am not wearing sleeves and your hand is hot and dry where it grips my bare arm. Your other hand comes to rest on my cheek as you continue to look me in the eye, gaze sharp, mouth quirked slightly at the corner.

  “What’s going on in there, darlin’?”

  I see calm and confident strength in your eyes, a soothing counterbalance to this anxiety riding the swell of feeling inside me. That look in your eyes makes me want to believe in a world where I was never labeled “too much,” where that fertile and messy and powerful landscape of emotion is not only tolerated, but maybe accepted and a little sought after. I want to believe in a reality where you can handle me, in all of my parts. My insides ripe and accessible, burst open and artfully arranged for you on a platter.

  I make a decision and say, “Can we just talk a bit?”

  You nod and I take your hand and lead you to the couch. I tell you a story of a little girl whose needs were not met, of a teenager bleeding internally. How she was told that she cried too easily, cared too deeply, laughed too loud and wanted too much. I tell you how that little girl inside me wants so badly to feel cherished and cared for and as the words want and Daddy come out of my mouth, you pull me deep into your lap and cuddle me close.

  This one gesture is like salve on old, festering wounds. Layers of neglect, calcified like limestone, start to loosen and prepare to slough off. I lean my head against your chest and breathe in your cologne as you stroke my hair: musky sandalwood, a suggestion of pepper. I let myself relax and feel what this safety is like, even though I know it is a fleeting thing. I am a grown woman, struggling to integrate my past with my present, and wanting desperately to embrace my future. This small moment of time, relaxing into your lap, being held in your strong arms, is a precious gift.

  My nose is pressed against your neck right above your collar and I shift so my lips fall to your skin. A low rumble comes from your chest, a purr or a growl, and your hand tightens on my hair, tugging at the roots. My tongue snakes out to taste your skin and you groan, “Sweet baby, you wouldn’t tease your Daddy, would you?”

  My body turns into yours, my tits pressing against your chest as my mouth makes its way to your ear. “No, Daddy. I just want to make you feel good.”

  I rock my ass into your lap, feeling what you packed for me. Your hand grips my jaw, and you kiss me for the second time ever.

  Your tongue slips inside my mouth and this small entrance into my body triggers a massive need to have as much of you inside of me as possible. It feels like summers when I was a kid and would cram as much Bubblicious bubble gum inside my mouth as would fit. I would work my jaw furiously, chewing the wad, and loving the feeling of my mouth so full. At the same time there was this inexplicable and overwhelming desire to swallow the whole mass down my throat and
this is what your tongue in my mouth is like. I want to swallow your tongue to make room for your fingers, your cock, your cunt, hard and wet underneath, whatever part of you I am allowed to bring into myself. I want to bring you into myself, want to be stretched by you, filled to capacity, brimming over.

  In this moment of feeling overwhelmed I whimper around your tongue and you stop, say, “You all right, Princess? Does it hurt?”

  “Yes, Daddy.” I feel small and fragile and hovering on the verge of panic. I am walking an edge here and while it looks like your desires are the mirror image of mine, I am still terrified I could lose it all.

  “Show me where it hurts, baby.”

  I hide my face in your neck and mumble, “It hurts everywhere, Daddy.” “Show me.”

  I sit up and point to the spot between my breasts where the pain is radiating from, right over my beating heart. Your lips are so soft when you lower them to my skin, your hands firm on either side of my rib cage. My heart is beating so fast under your lips, and I can’t seem to get enough air into my lungs.

  I gasp out, “Daddy, that’s making it worse!”

  Your eyes are saturated with desire and your voice is a rasping husk. “Where else does it hurt, sugar? Tell me where I need to make it better.”

  There is a conflict of need inside me. My little girl is turning my cheeks bright red, ashamed of how much she wants her Daddy’s hands in forbidden places. The masochist inside me wants you to slap me across the face as hard as you can, hold me down over your lap and spank my ass until I bruise, then fuck my pussy with vicious precision. Anything to drive me deep inside my body and quiet this overwhelming internal cacophony.

  I start to hyperventilate and you sandwich my face between your hands. You give me a shake that is both small and fierce and say, “None of that, now. Use your words, baby girl.”

  You take a deep and obvious breath to show me the way and I follow your example. When I have some breath back, I lean in and whisper, my cheek flaming hot against yours, “It hurts between my legs.”

  You clear the tension from your throat. “That sounds serious, darlin’. I better take a look.”

  You lay me down, my back sinking into couch cushions. You peel my panties away from my body and when you spread my legs my hips feel spring-loaded, like a bear trap. Your brow creases in mock concern as you stare down at my pussy, holding my legs firmly open so they won’t snap shut.

  “Hmmm. It is really swollen down there, sweet girl. Does it hurt more here”—your thumb strokes my clit—“or here?” Now the circumference of my opening.

  I am squirming out of my skin. I am shy and breathless and desperate and I want you everywhere at once. “It hurts both places.”

  “That is serious. But don’t worry; Daddy’s going to take good care of you.”

  The tears well up in my eyes all on their own and they are spilling down my cheeks before I can stop them. You lie down on top of me, your hips spreading my legs wide, and trace a tear’s path down my face with your thumb. I try to hide my face from you but there is nowhere to go. You grab my chin and make me look at you. “None of that,” you say, “I want to see it. It’s sexy when my little girl is so open and vulnerable for me.” You rock into me, a small, slow movement. It is just enough to feel the hardness of your cock through your jeans and suddenly I am on fire.

  “Oh Daddy, please.” The tears continue to stream from my eyes as your hands swallow my wrists and bring them up over my head.

  “Please, what, baby?”

  You continue your slow-motion rocking and I am trying to thrust myself against you, but your weight is solid, pressing me into this couch, hampering my movement.

  “Please Daddy, please, please…”

  The dam has burst and my mouth is on autopilot and it feels so fucking good.

  “Tell me what you want. I want to hear you say it.”

  I feel little and grown at the same time.

  “I want you inside me, please Daddy? I want your cock inside me.”

  The noise that comes out of your mouth is both amused and satisfied. You lower your lips to mine and your tongue is in my mouth again, thick and hot and then gone.

  “I’m not sure you deserve it yet,” you say and suddenly your weight is being removed from my body. Before I get the chance to feel completely unmoored, your hands are there, pulling me up to sitting and back onto your lap.

  Suddenly I am all petulance. “I thought you said you would be good to me,” I say, hot and embarrassed, more tears welling up in my eyes.

  I am full-on pouting and you chuckle and bounce me on your lap. “I am being good to you, sugar. I’m giving you exactly what you need.”

  There is a bubble expanding in my chest and I give in to it, letting it pop and come out as a sob. You make mock-soothing noises, still laughing at me, but it feels somehow safe and incredibly sexy that you are being mean to me like this.

  You let me cry it out, your hands roaming over my body, and as my tears slow to sniffles, you ask, “You want to prove yourself, baby? You want to show me how much you deserve your Daddy’s cock inside you?”

  All my petulance is cried out and I cannot think of one thing I would not do to please you and show you that I am deserving of your attention.

  I lean in and nuzzle your neck. “Yes, please, anything.”

  You sigh. “Sweet baby, you almost make me want to go easy on you.” Your hand fists the hair at the back of my neck and you force me down and over your lap. I am all adrenaline, heart expanding, blood pulsing between my legs, angling my ass up underneath your palm.

  “If you want to be my sweet little princess, you better take this spanking for me.” Your hand that is not on my ass is firm on the back of my neck, pushing my face into the couch, and you squeeze down for emphasis. “Show me how brave you can be.”

  “Yes, Daddy.” My ass is moving against your palm in anticipation, and then empty air as you raise your hand and let it fall with a loud smack on my bare skin. You repeat this again and again, the pain hot and sweet, sharp and then diffuse in the moments I am allowed to process it. I am counting in my head and then losing track as you begin to concentrate on my sweet spot and every slap sends vibrations deep into my cunt. I have never been so close to coming from a spanking before, and when you stop so abruptly I cry out in protest.

  You maneuver past my legs and out from under me. You are behind me and your cock is out of your pants, the head pressing against the opening of my pussy and then filling me up. Your hands are pressing me face-first into the couch, holding my wrists together at the small of my back. I am already on the verge of coming, and although I don’t know you yet, don’t know your body and the signs that would herald your approaching orgasm, I am guessing by the way you are frantically thrusting inside me that you are close too.

  I am about to ask you for permission to come when you growl out, “Come for me, baby, come on, give it to me,” and I am undone. I am tumbling over. I am screaming and spurting and messy and burst open and I am whole.

  LATE SHOW

  Lisabet Sarai

  “Haley’s back.”

  Suzy might as well have stuck my finger in an electric socket. I forced myself to breathe.

  “Mama?”

  JJ sensed my sudden shock. I loosened my death grip on his pajama top.

  “It’s okay, hon. Now the bottoms…” Wiping my sweaty palms on my skirt, I helped my son wriggle into the loose cotton garment.

  “You sure?” I flung the deliberately casual question over my shoulder at my friend, amazed that my voice didn’t shake.

  “Saw her at Kroger, buying a six-pack. Same old Haley.”

  “Yeah, I guess.” How did she look? I wanted to ask. Does she still have that swagger, as if she owned the world and just let the rest of us live here? Did you talk to her?

  Did she mention me?

  I changed the subject instead. “Thanks so much for helping me out, Suze. I owe you.” Normally Jack’s mother took care of JJ when I ha
d night shifts, but she had her bridge club on Saturdays, so I had to adapt.

  “No problem. We’ll have a great time, won’t we, JJ? Want to watch Shrek again?”

  The boy let out a whoop and streaked into the living room. Suzy grinned. “Wish I had a five-year-old’s energy!”

  I gave her a hug. “We’re not cheerleaders anymore, but we’re doing okay.” After checking my makeup, perhaps a bit more critically than usual, I stuck my phone in my skirt pocket and headed for the door. On the way out I ruffled JJ’s straw-blond curls. “Bedtime no later than seven thirty, young man.”

  “Okay, Mama.” He was already fiddling with the video remote.

  “I should be back by midnight, if not before.”

  “Have a good evening.” Suzy plumped herself down onto the couch next to JJ. “Eat some popcorn for me. I’m still on that diet.”

  “Come on, you know I can’t stand the stuff! After four years working for Mr. Parsons…”

  “Just pulling your leg, girl. See you later.”

  The sun was just sinking behind Broad Hill. There was plenty of time to walk. I often did, except in winter, since the theater was barely a mile from the little house I’d rented after Jack left. The twenty-minute stroll gave me a chance to clear my mind, to recover from the constant bombardment of my darling son’s requests and needs.

  Tonight, though, my thoughts spun like the Tilt-A-Whirl at the county fair.

  Haley. Oh god help me. Just hearing her name was enough to open the floodgates of memory. Haley in loose shorts and a tight top, brandishing her field-hockey stick like a weapon as she sprinted across the athletic field. Haley lounging in the swing on my dad’s front porch, with a cigarette dangling from her tempting lips and a challenge in her hazel eyes. Haley in the dark—silky skin over solid muscle, nimble and knowing fingers, brazen tongue, voice like warm honey pouring into my innocent ears.