Best Lesbian Erotica 2015

by Laura Antoniou

  I was getting light-headed, but realized I was being turned, rotated around my spine. My feet had left the floor. I spread my arms wide and tossed my head back, my hair falling onto the heads of my idolaters. I rotated and rose, my own personal cirque du soleil crucifixion. I hung at shoulder height in the depthless fog, my legs spread wide. I felt lips on my labia, a tongue exploring my vulva. There were two fingers socketing in and out of my asshole. There must have been six hands on my breasts, four more squeezing my buttocks. God knows how many more all over me, supporting me, but sliding around like snakes or otters. It was like having a barrel of hands and lips poured all over me, like hanging under a shower tap of liquid flesh.

  I was really starting to feel it by then, hyperventilating a little. My pussy was like some sort of freeway for random transient traffic; my tits were slick with pressure and pleasure. I was lying on my back, but being carried around, sort of tossing on waves of avid women. I saw a henna head buried between my thighs, felt the sucking on my clit, and thought, Why you little slut, jumping from Luz to me.

  The silliness of that one hit me, and I started laughing. I laughed twice, then the first orgasm hit me like a slap in the face. All that tactile hustling just soared up and blew me out. I went limp on dozens of hands, my head flopping back and my eyes rolling shut. I vocalized something, but don’t know what. It got torn away by the mist, by the seething jungle of hands and fingers and lips.

  I was lying on a bench. Or more like a blanket of moving hands tossed over a bench. I’d look up toward the light and see only a moving crowd of bodies and backlit faces around me, feeling nothing but a universal generic caress all over. There was a pair of hands cupping my throat, another holding my feet up while several sets of lips massaged my inner thighs, sucked at my twat. There were lips running around all over my torso and tits. I was straddled again and again, wet pussies pressed to me and wiping me down. I came again.

  And again. And so on.

  And on.

  I was rotated onto my stomach, cocked into an ass-up position, and the slick stream of meat flowed over my rear-access profile. My ass was buffed to a sheen, my pussy pummeled and fisted, my asshole tickled and tortured, both holes simultaneously and serially invaded.

  But nobody sat on my face. Nobody stuck anything in my mouth but a kiss. It was like I was meat for them all, but they didn’t make me really participate. I don’t know if there were some sort of bylaws for the Steamdyke Club, or if it was just some tribal pack consciousness. Later I was grateful for that because eating pussy wasn’t something I’d done and it didn’t particularly appeal to me. I would have, though. I was slapping my lips on anything that came into range, sucking at tongues and lips and tits. I was also lunging my pussy up into whatever might be up on it, in between periods of total semi-pass-out passivity when another wave of orgasms blew me away. I was being reduced as if I’d jumped into a blender, souped down to undifferentiated response jerks, waves of sensation rolling over me from all directions, making little peaks and valleys where they met each other. I was hamburger being patted into shape, out of my mind from a continuous throb of uncounted orgasms, cumming my soul out, my self completely lost in the uncontrollable flash flood of stimuli. There was no longer any question of orgasms, plural. I was aglow with one solid dark sheet of oblivion, one single pulsing gasp. What I’m saying: I totally lost it. And some of what I lost, I think, was gone for good. Good riddance, I guess.

  I felt a pair of lips on mine and slowly realized there were just those two lips, very firm but gentle. An enchanted wake-up kiss from Neverland. I didn’t open my eyes, but came to realize the lips belonged to Luz. I was lying on my back on a bench; somebody had draped a big towel over me and it was soaked. I was devastated. No question about talking. I lay there and attempted making a fist or opening my eyes. I still throbbed inside, felt scrubbed out and sandblasted. They chewed me up and left me torn down for rebuild. And Luz had come to scrape me up and take me out. When I started responding to her kiss, she put an arm under my shoulders and one under my knees and picked me up like a baby. Strong six-footer versus ninety-eight-pound petite, not a strain. She carried me out through the shifting gleam and held me up to the shower, sluicing me with hot water, then cool. She laid me on a wooden bench by the lockers and got me into most of my clothes.

  I walked out to the front on Jell-O legs, stepping very careful; owl eyed and quivery as a fawn. I’d have been better off crawling, but Luz was there at my elbow, steadying me and chuckling. The front-desk woman was a Mexican-Indian-looking gal in her midthirties, stocky and busty. I sort of recognized her face, but lord knows what she was doing the last time I saw her. I gave her a dazed smile and said, “Thank you.”

  She gave me a big grin and said, “Al contrario, guera.” Luz laughed and slapped her a high five. I stumbled out the door with whatever degree of dignity you might carry after you’ve been had by the house.

  At the car Luz just slipped a hand in my purse and came out with my keys. She stacked me in the passenger seat and reclined it back a bit, then got in and fired it up, sitting there a minute listening to my well-tempered Camaro rumble and growl and fart. I leaned over and put my head on her shoulder, kind of snuggled up to her like a kid. I still felt empty inside. But not drained and bleak, more rinsed out. Rode hard and wet and ready for the stable. I said, “Gracias, Luz.”

  She turned and kissed me and said, “De nalga, chula mia.”

  Turning out onto the street she said, “You’re jumped-in now.”

  I was like, Huh? I said, “Initiated? Into what?”

  “NBA,” she said, laughing. “Nasty Bitches Anonymous. It’s good you came. And you played it just right. Didn’t even embarrass me or nothing.”

  “Like I had a choice.”

  “You had a choice, Cammita. That’s the whole point.” She drove me home and walked me in, pushed me over on the bed, stripped me down and tucked me in. But didn’t stay. I was asleep before she left the room. Took off with my car for three days, I might add, but had it washed before she brought it back.

  I never went back, and she never invited me again. I don’t think you get that treatment on a regular basis. What I figured: I’d seen an ultimate extreme. I don’t see any possible way you could get any further sexual response than that, no further conclusion you could cum to. What the extremes in life are, they’re like the white lines they draw around the places we play sports. You need to know where they are, but you don’t play there, you play on center court, at the key, between the hash marks. I couldn’t tell you what I found out in there, or what fell into place the next week or so. During which I was unusually quiet, almost meek. Zero interest in sex. Very pensive. But I knew it was important stuff to know, and did something to the way I walk in the world and what goes on in my head when I turn out the lights.

  One more guerrilla. Moving silent and semi-visible through the mist.

  KISS OF THE RAIN QUEEN

  Fiona Zedde

  Hasnaa, the chief’s fifth most beautiful daughter, had been sold for rain.

  She held her head high as she alighted from the luxurious palanquin, usually reserved to carry her father or one of his wives. She was at her new home now. The palace of the Rain Queen. Or, as her father called the woman, an imposter.

  The Rain Queen’s lands near the sea were lush, the greenest part of the great continent that Hasnaa had ever seen. Although the sun was bright in the sky, the very air smelled like rain, a seductive and wet scent she’d only experienced a few times in her father’s village. As the men had carried her in the palanquin, she passed beautiful flowers and animals running wild on the Serengeti, tall trees, women dressed like warriors practicing their martial arts under the open sky.

  Hasnaa stepped onto the soft and rich black dirt, her sandaled feet sinking in with the sound of a sigh. She furtively stretched her cramped body, not wanting the four manservants to see her weakness. After all, she had done nothing more than spend the thirteen-day journey swaying in
her loneliness while the men carried her on their shoulders.

  The four men, their bodies roped with muscle and their flesh moist with sweat, stood still while Hasnaa stared at what was to be her new home. Instead of the semicircle of huts with the chief’s residence at its apex, the Rain Queen’s home was a single large and ornate structure made of white stone, coral from the nearby sea, and spread out for nearly a maili like the petals of a sunflower. They had been welcomed through an unguarded archway into a large courtyard with neatly swept dirt.

  The joined circle of buildings around the courtyard were low and white, beautiful with blooming flowers bursting from every doorway. The loveliness of the palace was strange. Even frightening. It was nothing like where she came from, her village of floating dust, men and boy children with their spears and animal skins. Here, there were only women. Girls playing hand games together on benches as they sang in a language Hasnaa had only heard in dreams from her long-dead mother’s lips. Young babies resting on straw mats at their mothers’ feet, laughing and content.

  Behind her, her father’s men shuffled their feet, waiting to be received by the Rain Queen and then dismissed. Hasnaa hid her own unease.

  She kept her face tranquil and regal. Although the truth was that she was neither. The second born of her father’s seed and twelfth favorite of twelve children, she had felt carried along on a tide of fear since her father told her she was to become the Rain Queen’s bride. Many moons ago, that fear had become resignation. Only recently had it turned to anger.

  Hasnaa had wanted children but because of this marriage to another woman, she wouldn’t have any. Her hands clenched at her side. She breathed deeply and forced the anger back to its cage.

  She shifted her body, preparing to wait for a long time while the sun caressed her neck and bare shoulders. Even the heat here was different. It did not burn. Instead, its touch was almost playful as it stroked the skin left bare by her skirt and ciwaya that covered her breasts, a new garment she had to wear as a recently married woman.

  The men stopped moving. Their silence was as immediate as it was unexpected. Hasnaa felt a light brush of awareness at the back of her neck, felt more than saw her father’s men twist around to see who had entered the compound. Without turning, she knew it was the woman she had married by proxy from hundreds of miles away.

  Hasnaa forced herself to remain still at the sound of delicate footsteps behind her. She did not want the woman to know that she was afraid.

  The queen spoke. “I accept the gift you have brought to me. Tell your chief I am well pleased.”

  She gave the ceremonial words that Hasnaa had been afraid would not come, nervous that the Rain Queen would dismiss her father’s lie of a gift. “You may stay until the morning,” the woman continued. “Be welcome to my food and hospitality. Drink, eat, and take word back to your chief.”

  Chief. Even in her father’s absence, the woman was respectful to him. The chief of the Izana people was not so kindly disposed toward her. At every opportunity he had taken the chance to mock the Rain Queen and her power. He made sure to stress to Hasnaa over and over again that this woman was no true queen, that she was an imposter.

  “Never bow your head to this woman,” her father had told her many times as he scowled at the rainless skies. “She is not my queen, and she is certainly not yours.”

  In her village, the rains had been meager for the past two seasons. At first, her father had tried to call upon the rainmakers directly, paying the most renowned ones to stand in the center of the village and beseech the gods to make fertile what was barren and scorched from the high sun.

  But there had been no rain. Her father believed only in the power of men. Everything came from the father to the son and to the next son and so forth. Women, for him, were to bear children and take pleasure from. The idea of sacrificing to a Rain Queen or even acknowledging that such a person was needed, galled him to spitting in the dirt.

  He did the opposite of what the law stated: For favor from the Rain Queen, the regent with power over the waters, offer your most favored woman child and the bounty of the skies will be yours.

  And so, because of this, he had sacrificed his least favorite child.

  Behind her, the manservants drew a collective breath of relief and quickly gathered the palanquin and left in the direction the queen must have indicated. Light footsteps sounded again near Hasnaa and a scent of flowers touched her nose. The scent was both sweet and seductive.

  The queen stepped forward. And Hasnaa gasped softly. From what her father said, she had expected a woman who carried herself like a man. She expected a tall and strong-boned warrior with the arrogant look of some chiefs. But the queen looked, simply, like a beautiful woman.

  Nyandoro. The Rain Queen.

  Although she had a man’s name, she wore her femininity like a perfume.

  She was dressed in a long tunic a brighter blue than any sky, than any orchid, Hasnaa had ever seen. The fabric flowed from her shoulders, draping over her full-hipped body with a disturbing intimacy. A stack of delicate gold armlets rested just above her elbow.

  The queen was delicate, no taller than Hasnaa’s shoulders, with her round face, large cat’s eyes, and full lips touched with a stroke of pink. There was no hair on her head to distract from the loveliness of her face. Her beauty was shocking.

  “I expected you to be very ugly.” Nyandoro’s voice was amused.

  With those few words, she let Hasnaa understand that she knew of her father’s trickery. As she slowly circled Hasnaa again, the tunic swayed on her body, fluttering at her ankles and revealing bare feet. She wore gold rings on her toes.

  “I am not the most beautiful, true.” Hasnaa raised her chin, defiant. “But you cannot send me back. You’ve already accepted me as your bride.” Despite her confident words, her knees shook. She did not want to go back to her father as a failure.

  “I wouldn’t dream of sending you back.” The cat’s eyes tore Hasnaa apart, lingering on her throat, her breasts beneath the fall of beads and the thin cloth. “You are already mine.”

  Something about the way she said the words made Hasnaa fear for her father’s safety and for the rains he so desperately needed. But she refused to show that fear. “Will you make him suffer?”

  “He has already created his own suffering.” Nyandoro looked over her shoulder toward a darkened passageway. “Attend her.”

  Within moments, a flock of brightly dressed women flew from one of the entrances to tug Hasnaa away. One moment, she was in the presence of the Rain Queen and the next she was being swept down a brightly lit hallway and into a large suite of rooms.

  It was all so quick: a flurry of sound and the scent of sun-warmed flesh. The women were covered from shoulder to ankle in soft cloths that brushed their bodies in a way that made Hasnaa agitated, made her palms itch and her mouth dry. There was a sensuality to their covered flesh that she, who had been raised in a village where the girls went with their breasts uncovered until engaged or married, had never experienced before.

  “So pretty,” she heard one of them say in the Ndebele language that had been her mother’s. A language they did not know she spoke.

  “She’s not so nice as all that. Aneni is much prettier.”

  “But our wife does not want her.” A lovely woman, like a warrior with her muscled arms and proud forehead, tugged off Hasnaa’s beaded throat ornament. “She did not take her to bed after that first night, everyone knows that. Pretty means nothing to her.”

  Hasnaa shivered. The women plucked off her clothes without asking, tossing aside her Izana garments to leave her naked in the bright room. She twisted away from them but they effortlessly caught her, held her prisoner in their nest of scented female flesh. She smelled them, tasted her own unease behind her teeth. The women were not shy about staring at her body, assessing it and comparing it to theirs. One of them, a woman who had as many years as her long-dead mother would have, pinched Hasnaa’s thighs. “So firm.” She l
aughed.

  Hasnaa tried again to back away from them, unused to such sensual play among women. They only laughed and touched her even more.

  “Stop it.” She clenched her fists. Her heart beat like a war drum in her chest.

  But the women ignored her. Instead, they herded her toward the tub, a hollowed-out tree smoothed from many years of use. She could smell the herbs that floated on the water’s surface. Mint and sweet flowers. Hasnaa didn’t want to dishonor herself, or her father. But she felt the fear rising up hard in her. A heavy thudding of pulse and heart and rising body stink that made her want to claw at them.

  Three of the women pushed her toward the tub of water. They were so insistent, their femaleness so overwhelming. In desperation, she spun and turned away from them, dropping into a low warrior’s crouch like her brothers had taught her.

  “Leave me alone!” she shouted.

  The other wives stopped and stared at her, obviously startled. One of them seemed as if she would cry at any moment.

  “Our lady will be angry with us!” she gasped with a hand over her mouth.

  The one who had pinched Hasnaa earlier stepped forward and spoke in her father’s language. “We are here to bathe you.”

  Hasnaa shook her head as their hostility rolled over her like a cloud. One of the women darted forward and grabbed her. The others followed, pushing her toward the tub that was big enough to swallow her body. She shouted again for them to leave her alone.

  She had already agreed to be the sacrifice, to allow her sisters to keep their lives and her father to keep his honor. But what did that leave for her? Was her life to be over as soon as she stepped into that tub? The women rushed at Hasnaa again but she twisted from them, her body slippery with the sweat of her fear. She cried out again, although she knew there was no one to help her. She had to save herself.

  Hasnaa grabbed a stone jug that stood on a high pedestal nearby. She smashed it against the floor and swept up a shard of the pottery in her hands. The sharp edge cut into her flesh but, intent only on protecting herself, she barely winced at the pain. She whirled with the weapon, panting, trying to keep all the women within her sight.