Best Lesbian Erotica 2015

by Laura Antoniou

  This was strange and getting stranger. The bedroom was almost completely dark. The pungent smell of cloves was stronger, fresher. She must have just put one out.

  “Oh, what a sweet boy they’ve sent me this time,” came that voice. I could see her silhouette where she sat in an armchair under the window, which was covered with a room-darkening shade. The eensiest bit of daylight crept in around the sides, but not enough for me to see her face. Funny, as I stood there, swaying slightly, I couldn’t quite remember what she looked like, and as she murmured on and on about what a nice boy I was, how handsome, how kind it was of me to come and see her, a lonely girl on a lonely winter afternoon, I could see only the image her voice had conjured up for me, of that luscious someone, a femme made of pliant and willing flesh, all for me.

  “Come in,” said Sue Anne. “Do come in.”

  I crossed over the threshold and without being told to, went and sat on the bed. It was so dark that even close up I couldn’t quite make out her features. She continued speaking softly, telling me how much she liked a young man such as myself, a polite young fellow, she could tell, not like some of the rascals out there. From her mischievous tone, though, I could tell that she liked the rascals, liked them just as much as us politer guys. This was a femme who liked butches in all flavors, however they came to her.

  “Why don’t you get comfortable—Del, was it? A lovely, old-fashioned name. Take off your boots, honey, so they don’t mar the coverlet. Lie back, that’s right, make yourself completely at home.”

  Maybe the clove smoke was going to my head, but I did as I was instructed, stretching out dreamily on the bed, my head propped up by soft, yielding pillows.

  “Now Del,” said Sue Anne, leaning forward. “The boys say you have a little problem. Do you want to tell me about it?”

  Oh god, that voice! It made me want to spill, to dive into the warmth it created in the room, to wallow in the honey liquid, the smooth lilting hollows. I didn’t know her, she was old, she was old enough to be my grandmother, but that question split me open. I cleared my throat and heard myself begin to speak, the details of my pitiful little story flowing out of my mouth. I told her about Michelle and Jenny, Barb and Marilee, playing to her deep, throaty chuckle, becoming more and more witty as I progressed, my word choice making her hum with approval, my commentary incisive and to the point. I didn’t hesitate to tell her how horny I was, day in and day out, and what a disappointment my last date, poor Sarah, had been. I’d never had such an attentive listener, never felt so at ease discussing such personal business. Femme magic, that’s what it was, a pure distillate of Sue Anne’s long, long history with butches from every walk of life. It was a balm, it was an elixir, it was a gift. It was an incredible turn-on.

  Given all that I was saying, given how she was listening with such generosity, it didn’t seem strange when she got up from the chair and came over to the bed. It didn’t seem strange at all that she would lean over me, begin to stroke my hair, pass her hands down the sides of my face, grasp my shoulders and arms, trace circles on my belly. She hesitated briefly over my chest, and when I nodded, she sighed happily as she began lightly twisting my nipples, all the time encouraging me to continue talking. The nipple twisting made it hard to concentrate, but I tried to keep telling her about my high school girlfriend and her obsession with avocados—she seemed so interested!—until I lost all ability to talk when she began unbuckling my belt.

  “Oh, there he is, so handsome and firm!” she murmured, reaching into my boxers. “He’s been such a brave soldier, and now he must get a little relief.” She gave me a tug, a light slap, then settled into a delicious rhythm, a firm handling that had me vocalizing again, although not in words and no longer particularly witty. It felt so good, god, it was exactly right, and it was building, building, and this was exactly what I’d been needing, except…

  “Sue Anne!” I gasped out. “I need to see you better!”

  She chuckled and tut-tutted, and asked me if I was sure, but didn’t stop me as I flailed about, finally making contact with the bottom of the shade and sending it ratcheting up. The setting sun came streaming right into the room. For a moment I couldn’t see and had to close my eyes. When I opened them, there she was, sitting on the bed, half turned toward me, her hand on my dick, her smiling eyes, the red lipstick on her mouth.

  “Some boys don’t like to see me,” she said. “I don’t mind. I was the same way when I was young.”

  “Fuck them!” I was thrusting into her hand, grabbing for her waist, my gaze locked with hers. “Why don’t you put that cocksucking lipstick to some good use?” Those words came out of my own mouth! I heaved myself up, swung my legs over the side of the bed, and helped her down onto her knees, right where I wanted her.

  “Oh, sweet boy, sweet kid,” she crooned before fastening that gorgeous mouth onto my dick and giving it to me good. I didn’t think, then, about old or young, just knotted my fists into the coverlet and pumped until I was coming, shooting my load, gasping with such a profound sense of release that I felt a rush of tears. Sue Anne licked her way off my dick and looked up at me. In the light, even in my post-come daze, I could see how old she was. I could see that she had a slight tremor, that her eyes were sunken in their sockets, her cheeks were wrinkled, her lips—the lipstick now smeared all over my cock—were thin and pale. But she was smiling so damn pretty, and had the cutest, smug look on her face, a look that said she knew exactly how I was feeling and what she had done for me. It was the sexiest look I’d ever seen in my life, and I was hard again in an instant. She laughed, and took me back into her mouth.

  I told her afterward, and it was true, that our fucking that afternoon was transcendent. I wanted more, but she wouldn’t let me. “I’m a one-time-only kind of girl,” she told me over the phone, me practically coming all over the place hearing her amazing voice again. “Besides, didn’t anybody tell you about Buddy? She just doesn’t like it if the baby boys keep coming around, and I wouldn’t want to hurt my Buddy. She and I have it all worked out, and honey, you got yours and you got to move along. I primed your pump, baby bird, and now it’s up to you.”

  I was upset at the time, even drove by her house once or twice until I made eye contact with Buddy and decided to hightail it back to Northampton. She was right, though. Something inside me had been turned on (pardon me) and it wasn’t more than a month later that I met Sharon. You can see us dancing at Diva’s, and she doesn’t mind, doesn’t mind a bit when we take a break and I order a Tom Collins, buff up the lighter I keep solely for nights like these, muscle past all those poseurs surrounding my Sue Anne, offer her her favorite drink, and, with oh, so much reverence, put a flame to the tip of her clove.

  GIRLZ IN THE MIST

  Cammy May Hunnicutt

  I only went there once.

  But I’m really glad I did.

  Maybe just to know it’s there, even if it’s not quite for me. A magic world that just wraps you up and does away with you, until there’s nothing left but a throb and a glow.

  Never-never land.

  No boys allowed.

  Luz invited me to come with her but was pretty vague on where we were going. Somewhere over in Hollywood, about halfway for both of us, so we met up at the Denny’s on Gower and took my car to this “spa.” I took one look and said, “This is the cool place you want me to see, bitch? It’s a gay bath house.”

  She gave me a coy smile and said, “Not on Wednesday nights it’s not, puta. Park over there. You’re going to like this. Or your money back.”

  “Money?” Hadn’t mentioned that.

  “Your turn to treat.”

  Great.

  We went on in and all I saw was women. So it must have been Wednesday. This very severe gal in her forties gave us towels and little bracelets with locker keys. She looked right through me, but gave Luz a kind of constipated smile, so I guessed my friend was a repeat customer.

  The locker room was nothing special. No posters of pride par
ades or Orlando Bloom with his loaf hanging out or anything. Strip down, lock it up, head for the steam room. You had to walk through a shower to get there and Luz turned it on, adjusted it to nice and warm and started scrubbing up. Looking at me, smiling, flaunting her body.

  Which was darned flaunt-friendly, let me tell you for true. She’s over six feet of lean, mean athlete, my usual partner for highly competitive beach volleyball. Honed legs and stomach of a fighter—with a couple of knife scars to back it up. Strong, hard breasts with nipples like black olives. Burnt butterscotch Latina-tone skin with creamy caramel inside the tiny bikini tan lines. Face like a barrio street angel, big black eyes under no-nonsense Frida Kahlo eyebrows, nipple-length hair so black the highlights are almost blue, like those neon lowrider paint jobs. She didn’t make a move to touch me, and I didn’t either. We’d done some major touching on other occasions but don’t mix it up all that often. A very special friendship that rests on some delicate spacing. For one thing, she was born as lesbian as it gets, and I don’t see myself that way. Just like to fool around with pretty women now and again. For another thing, we’re neither one of us the type for long-term hookups.

  She said, “Wet down your hair, guera.” She just loved my hair. She’d told me all Latina chicks secretly yearn to be blondes, have blonde babies. I put my head under the spray and shook it out and she smiled, reached over to kind of smooth it down and jerked her head at the tiled passage to the steam.

  My first impression was that I was swimming through light. The room—rooms, actually, a little labyrinth of tiled chambers—was full of steam. Duh. And lit by dim, buttery, industrial-style lights on the walls. The light just flowed around in the steam, reflecting off itself. It was like being in a dust storm of warm, moist light. With a faint smell of eucalyptus and something else. Maybe sage. The body-temperature fog muffled sound. It felt like a silent underwater world with only a faint hiss in the background, like a radio that had lost its signal. I padded along, wading in luminous vapor. Luz strode through readily, heading somewhere in the small rooms and corridors. I felt, rather than saw, that there were other people in there with us. They were shadows on the multilevel benches around us. An inventory of dark ghosts stocked on shelves.

  Visibility into the cottony white sheen was pretty limited and seemed to vary with which direction you were looking. It was a sort of culture medium gel, warm and moist as an orifice, full of female bodies moving lazily around. I couldn’t tell how big it was, how many people were there, what they really looked like. It was a diaphanous veil that I was imbedded in like a gold fish in a white sea. People were talking, but it was a dull hum with no words. I heard moaning, but it seemed stylized, like a loop of an Enya video. The light shook and shimmered as dark silhouettes moved around me. A face would emerge, or a lovely pair of breasts topped only by a mop of wet hair instead of a face. An outline of two women hugging, full asses emerging and sinking into the fog. A big, really ugly woman stood right in front of me, then turned and disappeared, her flaccid butt hanging in my vision like the Cheshire smile. Wonderland, I was thinking. The Cave of the Lost Girls.

  I asked Luz, “Who are these people? Some sort of lesbo jamboree?”

  “You don’t know shit about lesbos, gringa. Believe me.”

  “And you should think I should know more? That’s why you brought me here?”

  “I brought you here because they’re going to take one look at you—sweet little blonde lingerie model—and lick their lips and vote me president of the Dykes with Two Strikes Club.”

  Oh, goddamn it. I said, “Luuuuucy…” but she interrupted me.

  “Now, see…” She leaned down from behind me with her head right on my shoulder. “You gotta know more about who you are or you’ll never find out who you aren’t.”

  “Who said that? Schopenhauer?”

  I felt her shrug instead of seeing it. “It’s tagged on an overpass in Echo Park.”

  She put her hands on my waist, spanning the top of my hips, and said, “They’re freedom fighters, ’mana. Guerrillas in the mist.”

  “Freedom from what?”

  “Not ‘from what.’ ‘To what.’ You’re going to find out.”

  She started moving away from me, leaving me standing in the void. I asked her what I was supposed to do.

  “Just stand there,” she said. “See what you get. What does that take? You’re Little Miss Gutz Girl and all that; just hang.” She started moving away, dissolving into the fog. Her voice had a kind of bottom-of-the-well hollow sound even just a yard or two away, telling me, “Hey, I brought you here, guapa. I got your back. And your ass.”

  I watched her fading into the white wall, stopping in front of a woman with skin so pale I could only pick her out from the mist because she had really vivid red hair. I could see a sort of slow-mo, unfocused ballet as Luz moved around her, checking her out, looming over her. Luz can look pretty intimidating close-up like that with her strong features, laser gaze, big brown combat-ready body, tats and scars. Lil Red was getting that weak-in-the-knees look. I knew the feeling: getting Luz’s full attention is like standing in front of a cannon and wondering when it’s going to go off.

  Suddenly I saw the blatantly false red hair fly up into the pale air and fade away from my sight. Luz’s favored pickup technique, commonly known as the Fireman’s Carry. Believe me, it makes a statement. I was betting that henna hair would be hanging upside down, tossing around as her invisible face plowed between Luz’s taut thighs, her own legs resting on wide shoulders and kicking as she got mopped out.

  But also betting that even in the middle of scarfing her favorite flavor—raspberry red—Luz would be aware of me, watching my bare back. The gang-girl way she’s wired. I relaxed and just stood there in the middle of Dr. Sappho’s Pandemonium Shadow Show, waiting it out. I’m small, but major tough, nobody to mess with. But being naked and presenting is a little different situation. Like, do you find out where the lines are drawn before they’ve moved in on you?

  It came fitfully, hands reaching out from the mist to stroke me, hands on my back and ass, weaving into my wet hair. I stood still, not knowing where the next touch would come from. It didn’t feel like getting cruised by a wolf pack, though, more like wearing a gauze blindfold while a new lover discovered, explored and started to torment.

  Women appeared out of the fog, not just passing by but stepping in to confront me, to check me out. I just stood there as eyes resolved out of the whiteout and looked into mine, boldly scanned my body. One husky black woman in her forties smiled at me and I smiled back. I felt a soft, almost tentative, hand on my shoulder blades, but didn’t move. It slid slowly down the curve of my back, caressed my asscheeks, then was gone. I didn’t react or turn around. Just the feeling I got, how I should play it. A slim white girl with small tits and pale eyes materialized out of the shining mist and cupped my breasts, holding them, massaging them slightly, not meeting my eyes but staring at my nipples as if hypnotized. At the same time I felt the arch of a foot caress the inside of my calf and slowly slide up my thighs. When it touched my pussy, it sort of moved back and forth, then slid back down. Immediately I felt two hands roughly grab my buttocks and start squeezing and grinding them. In the process fingers slid along the rails of my pussy. Which was getting a little warm and moist, but that also faded into the air around me. The whole place was moist and warm and sexually charged. The air itself was moving around on me and into me. I shifted my stance: feet farther apart, my hands on my hips, my tits arched up into the nebulous glow.

  A short Chicana or Filipina girl moved in from my flank, straddling my hip to press her belly against my pelvic bone and stroke me with her hands, front and rear, then grab me by the notch of my crotch. She sunk her fingers into my pussy and started sliding hers up and down my leg. I didn’t move.

  The black woman was back, still smiling. Until she took one of my nipples between her lips and started jerking her head back and forth, worrying my tit like a dog with a bone. She lick
ed and slobbered on my nipple, drooling a stream down to my ribs. Then slowly, her lips left off with the nipple and started a long, slow slide down my torso. She reached behind me as she landed on the floor on her knees, kissing my mound. The other girl still had the fore/aft grip there, but she kissed me steadily and sloppily anywhere she could make contact. Another pair of hands came in under my armpits, dragging the thumbs along the shaved strip there, and grabbing both tits for a series of squeezes, my nips slipping between the fingers.

  A tall ash blonde with a thick, waist-length Scandinavian braid moved up behind the black woman loving up my crotch, straddling across her shoulders as she took my face in her hands and started moving her lips around on it. Licking inside my ears, sucking on my nose, teasing a tongue between my lips. She leaned into me, pressing the squeezing hands harder onto my boobs. An unseen woman embraced me from my other side, her hand sliding down the crack of my ass and a long-nailed finger, slick with some sort of lube that had a wintergreen tang to it, delicately inserting itself into my anus. Another pair of hands slipped up my inner thighs and buried a pair of thumbs all the way into my pussy, where they twiddled and danced to a different drum.

  I was surrounded by women, all touching me, pressing against me, handling and possessing me. The insertions and caresses were building up a fire in my loins, as they say, the sheer strangeness and “strangerness” of it making it that much more exciting. I was allowing unknown, even unseen, people to take liberties with me that I would have denied a lot of lovers. I was tolerating my own violation, erasing something individual about myself. And I had the help of many willing hands.