Best Lesbian Erotica 2015

by Laura Antoniou

  She bucked beneath the heaviness of the water, helpless before the violent release wracking through her body. She panted at the end of it, squeezed her eyes tightly shut for long moments before opening them again. The queen lay over her, a woman again, her eyes cleared of the white storm clouds.

  Nyandoro pulled her fingers from the damp quiver of Hasnaa’s pussy. “Now, all your lands are wet.”

  She touched Hasnaa’s belly with sticky fingers, swirling dampness over the feminine curve. Hasnaa felt the slightest sensation deep within her, a quickening of life. A child. She blinked in shock, staring up at Nyandoro with the knowledge of what had just happened between them. The queen smiled, a touch of arrogance in her look, the searing flame of unending desire. She got to her knees and spread her legs, showing off the lush abundance of her pussy, the hairs matted with her juices, the pebble of her pleasure large and firm.

  “I’ve given you what you wanted, wife.” Her dark eyes glittered through the rain still pouring from the open roof. “Now, reward me.”

  As Hasnaa levered herself up on trembling arms, she felt a new strength in her body, a fierceness and a hunger. A belonging. Her mouth watered to taste the queen and give her rains of her own to soak all her forests and sweep her completely away.

  “It would be a pleasure, my queen.”

  She dipped her head to drink.

  MURCIELAGO

  Theda Hudson

  Carina stands in the center of our living room. She wears these cream-colored capris embellished with gold and dark-brown embroidery. She has brown ballerina flats with tan knee-high socks with clocking up the sides. Her cocoa-lace Victoria’s Secret bra peeks out from under a tan bolero jacket covered with brick-red and gold ribbon in a soutache pattern.

  I’ve never seen it, so she must have gotten it when she went out to fill one of my innumerable prescriptions.

  She pouts her lips. God I love her lips, full and red. I used to lick them, then French her deep, letting our tongues spar like we were sword fighting.

  But I haven’t for a year now. Now we just smooch like a couple of old grammas. She always does it three times. Like quantity makes up for quality. Smooch, smooch, smooch.

  So Carina poses, lithe and tall like some kind of urban bullfighter, with an espresso-colored beret set at a jaunty angle on her dark hair. I can smell the lavender body wash she uses. She holds a small sheet of purple latex to the side that she flaps back and forth lazily.

  My belly is roiling, has been all day, but if I had taken an Ativan, I would have been muzzy, then out for the count. This is our night, and I’m not going to let anything take it away. She’s getting back into the big time at her job, leaving for Saint Louis tomorrow to work on a project the rest of the week.

  She tosses me a black cap. It has red satin devil’s horns on it, but here, now, they are bull’s horns.

  Taking a deep, calming breath, in through my nose and out through my mouth, I tell myself I can ignore the nausea. I can. I will.

  Oh god, I understand what she’s doing. I do, and I want to cry, she is so great. The cap is a new part of the “if we can’t do that, fuck it, let’s do this and make it ours.”

  I leer at her and slowly pull off my rainbow fuzzy cap and lay it to the side. Without breaking eye contact, I slide it on and push myself up off the couch, putting my head down, and paw the tan carpet with my slippered foot.

  “Murcielago, come to me,” she croons in the exaggerated Spanish accent she made for this game, her brown eyes lazy and sultry as she cocks her head at me.

  Last night she told me about this famous Spanish fighting bull named Murcielago that withstood something like twenty-four sword strikes. It sounded kind of like Marcy, my name. And my last name is Bulitana. She has made him the perfect metaphor for me in my battle with cancer.

  And so I play along, snorting and weaving my head back and forth while she takes up the classic bullfighter’s pose. Then I run at the little square of purple latex and turn just before I would crash into the TV.

  Snorting and blowing, I stare at her with what I think are my dangerous eyes.

  Carina waggles one eyebrow. I pass again and she flips the latex around with a sharp snap, twirls tightly on the balls of her feet, letting one hand run over my back, and gives me a smack on the ass.

  I pirouette in front of the deep-green moleskin couch with the cushion that is now dipped from me living on it. Carina calls it Recovery Central. I call it comfy, especially with Morton, our little black and silver tabby, for company.

  I’m not supposed to let him get on me since I’m immune-compromised, but try and stop him. Carina spends a lot of time brushing him in the mudroom and even got him to submit to bathing once a week. He knows by now that he can’t lick me and that my comforter-covered lap is as close to cuddling as I can manage, so it’s worked out.

  Carina waves her little cape, teasing me, and I toss my head and charge, feeling the cool latex slip over me.

  When her arms go around me, I give in and let her pull me up to face her. She nuzzles, not touching; she can’t do that since the chemo is toxic, sort of like an über-bad poison ivy that you can get from anything I excrete.

  But her warm breath, smelling of that wintergreen gum she chews all the time, puffing against my cheek, then my neck and over my shoulder feels wonderful.

  “Ahh,” I groan. The sensation travels all the way down my body, ending up in my pussy, which glows like an ember in a long-banked fire.

  “You ready, my precious Murcielago? You ready for the real dance?” she murmurs in that Spanish accent now sounding incredibly sexy, all hoarse with desire, with love.

  “Yes, Carina,” I say, like Gomez Addams would say to Morticia. We went as that crazy couple for Halloween the month before I was diagnosed. She was so hot in that black dress, cut down to her navel, the long black wig shading her face as she looked up under her brows at me. I’d creamed that pin-striped suit before we got home. And then I creamed it again, my face buried in that V, my fingers buried in her cunt under the folds of that soft dress.

  “Then come with me.”

  I follow her swaying ass to the bedroom and let her strip off the flannel jammies that I live in. You can’t really tell I had cancer. Even though I’ve had tons of chemo and two surgeries, I don’t look drawn, my color is good, and I wear a scarf or a knit cap most of the time. Not because I’m ashamed of being bald, but because it’s too cold otherwise. Who knew hair made that much difference?

  Carina pushes me back onto the shocking-green beach towel covering the bed’s blue fuzzy coverlet. I put my hands behind my head and watch her slip the bolero off. Her skin is coffee with a dollop of cream and super smooth.

  I like to touch her. I can if I make sure my hands are clean and dry. I like to wash them and then take the towel into the bedroom so I can make a big deal out of staring into her eyes while I meticulously dry my hands and fingers. She always shivers, knowing what I will do when I lay the towel down, and I love knowing that I can affect her like that even now.

  Her tits are round and firm, with dusky areolae, and they jiggle when she lets her bra fall away. I can lick them if she showers when we’re done. And I do. I lick and nuzzle and suckle like a hungry little baby.

  She puts her arms out toward me and shakes her boobs like a stripper. I groan watching. Sometimes, she does it right in my face and I breathe in her musky fragrance.

  I’m growing warm, which is nice. Sometimes I want to, but I just can’t summon enough energy or desire through all the side effects of the stuff I take to offset the ups and downs of the drugs that are supposed to cure me.

  But now, I want her. I want her close; I want her hands on me. And she knows. She shucks the flats, pulls off the socks and flips them away from her, then shimmies out of those bling-bling capris and the lime-green G-string, leaving the beret on. She lets me have a good look before she turns to the wooden icebox that doubles as a cupboard in the bedroom.

  She pulls out a pair of pur
ple latex gloves and holds them up, looking from them to me, lifting her chin and her eyebrows.

  God, she is beautiful, and I love her so much in this moment. And I am totally grateful. I know how hard this has been for her. Not just the worry, but all the work.

  There’re all the innumerable doctor appointments and tests, cleaning my PIC line every day in the first months when I came home, then ordering all the prescriptions.

  That would be enough for anyone, but the house has to be scrupulously clean, too, the kitchen immaculate. And the food I can eat when I have an appetite has to be washed and thoroughly cooked. It’s hard work on top of her usual job.

  I’m definitely warm now, a buzz rumbling in my pussy.

  She climbs on the bed like a cat and pushes my legs apart, kneeling between them. Her skin is soft and smooth against my legs and I rub them against hers.

  “Mmm,” we say at the same time, then laugh.

  She leans over me, her arms on either side of me, so close I can feel her heat. She chuffs her breath lightly over me, starting at my neck and working her way down. I can feel sweat start to build with its acrid chemical smell.

  I feel embarrassed, but she’s told me she doesn’t care. She says she’d take any side effect if it meant I would live, that I’d beat the Big C.

  “Breathe, Murcielago,” she says. “Just be. Enjoy the moment. Be in it.”

  Early on, I would get upset when nothing would happen. “But it is happening,” she insisted. “We’re together, cuddling, touching, being together, and that is a gift right there.”

  When I was still in the hospital, I would see her face when she came back from the little kitchen and I’d know she’d been speaking to the other patients’ families. She’d try to mask the horrors, the tragedies they’d shared, but I knew my Carina as well as I knew my own hands. My heart would beat faster, and I’d be afraid that I wouldn’t survive.

  But I knew had to, just so I could wash that fear away from her face. And I had. Not twenty-four cuts like the bull, but I’d given the Big C the finger at every turn.

  She breathes over my pussy, and I lift up. Then she lays that square of purple latex on my mound and bends over it. I watch her extend her tongue out and lap delicately between my lips through it.

  “Ahhh,” I say, pushing up toward her like a crocus to the spring sun.

  She chuckles low in her throat and pushes her tongue between my lips through the rubber. It feels weird, but dirty. Somehow the idea that we aren’t supposed to be doing this, but she insists, and does it through the plastic is really exciting. Breaking rules is part of the allure, finding our own way is more of it, and I mentally flip the Big C the bird.

  That gives me a twinge that plays alongside the buzz that her tongue creates, and I moan.

  She sucks and nibbles and licks through the latex and everything tightens, growing warm in the well in my center, my sexual core. I could come wet and that excites and scares me all once.

  I used to come wet prodigiously, a flood that would soak the towels we shoved under me. They are the best, most satisfying, most exhausting orgasms I’ve ever experienced. And Carina would take pride in making me come like that.

  But now, it’s just a deluge of toxic chemicals and some of it could get on her.

  What a quandary.

  She smacks my flank. “Stop thinking and just Be. In. The. Moment,” she growls and goes back to work.

  But how can I? Maybe if I just go for an orgasm and stop the flood. I can do that, although it’s always dissatisfying. But I don’t want to cause problems just to please myself. I need to consider Carina and any danger I could pose for her.

  Which is another thing I hate about cancer. It takes the front seat all the time. Not just an elephant in the room, but a host of requirements, taboos, special considerations. I hate it. I hate me for having to give it such privilege.

  “Do I have to smack you again?”

  “No. No,” I say and settle back in.

  Carina buries her face in my cunt and attacks. I think about breaking rules, pushing the cancer to the backseat, and enjoy that idea, trying to let go. It works enough that I let go, feeling the warmth rising along with the pleasure.

  She gets me up close to the edge. We haven’t been here often, and it usually takes longer. Much longer, with no guarantee of success. Even with the Magic Wand, which used to be an immediate success.

  I’m right up at the edge and push and push, trying to find a path, a tremor, a buzz that will let me get over the edge, with a waterfall or not.

  Carina kneels up and smiles down at me. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

  “Yeah. It does.”

  “This will be good, too.” She waves the purple latex gloves at me and slips one on with a decisive snap!, grinning wickedly.

  This is another part that gets me excited. When I was in the hospital, we started asking about sex. It was weird. No one wanted to talk about it, not the oncologists, not the nurses, not even the counselors. They all recommended complete abstention.

  “So, I can have cancer,” I said to my oncologist. “I can recover, but I can’t enjoy the basic pleasures that come with life?”

  He just shrugged. “Better to be safe,” he said.

  Finally, one nurse told us they all fear a pregnancy, which would likely have horrible defects from all the chemicals. When we mentioned that we were a lesbian couple, with no plans for kids, and perfectly capable of practicing outercourse, she shrugged. “Lawsuits.”

  So we read everything we could, talked to other patients in our respective circles, read blogs and figured out ways to enjoy ourselves. When my drug-laden body would cooperate. A bigger finger to the Big C and all the rules it and the medical establishment thought it could lay on us.

  The other glove follows and Carina waggles her fingers at me and then makes a come-here motion with her middle finger and I groan as my body recognizes what that will do to me when she slips that busy finger into my cunt. I close my eyes and concentrate on the heat growing, filling my core, and try to hang on to that excitement.

  When she gets to the bowl of my hips, she lifts her hands up, supporting herself with her belly muscles, and starts tracking her fingers over me—shoulders, arms, breasts. She gently moves the PIC line off my tit, letting it fall to the side. Then she pays special attention to my rosy nipples, which have risen up into hard little pegs.

  I give over to her as she traces arcane lines over my belly, closing my eyes so I can enjoy her touch.

  I hear the snick of the bottle and the flowery clean smell of the lube hits my nose. I open my eyes to see her tip the bottle of Caribbean-flavored lube toward me like she’s making a toast.

  She upends the bottle and she meets my eyes as a generous drop falls onto her finger. The late afternoon light peeking in around the blinds makes her finger shine.

  She flips the cap back with a snap and lays the bottle aside. As her finger slides into my snatch, I close my eyes. The lube is cold and smooth and her latex-covered finger skates over my clit like she’s going for the gold medal. My thighs tighten and my belly clenches. It feels good, whispers of pleasure coursing through my body. I try to encourage it, concentrating hard on pulling those little bits together into a whole cloth that I can wrap myself up in.

  “Relax, Murcielago,” Carina whispers. “Just be, enjoy it. You try too hard and get wound up.”

  Moaning in frustration, I take a breath, then another, let everything relax, drift. I just want this night to be wonderful, pleasurable, with a climax both of us can enjoy.

  She slides over and over my clit, twirling, pirouetting gracefully, ramping up, slowing down, pausing to pour a few more drops of lube over me. The cold meets the heat she’s engendered and I gasp, leaping when she slides two fingers between my lips and up into my cunt. I bear down, squeezing, hugging her fingers, as she rubs the front of my cunt, stroking the prostate there.

  I feel the upwelling and I know I could come, come wet, come hard. If everything
will just cooperate. But what if it doesn’t? Our evening will be a shambles, and Carina will cuddle me and whisper that it’s okay.

  But it won’t be. The cancer and the chemo and all the shit I’ve been through to live will win.

  “Stop thinking, Murcielago,” Carina commands. “Stop fretting. Be in the moment, let it happen. We have all evening. I’m not going anywhere.” She wiggles around between my thighs. “And neither are you.”

  I settle back down again and she reaches up to pinch my nipple. I whimper at the sharp pain, and then moan as it travels through my belly and pokes at the warm well of pleasure she’s creating.

  She runs a fingernail down my belly, and I can feel it through the rubber glove. She grasps my hip and traces the line of what she calls my bone-china before sliding down to join the other hand, her thumb ringing the doorbell, even as she pushes through the front door with her other fingers.

  Ah, ah, I’m finding the rhythm more often than not and the warm feeling grows, rises. Then the feeling fades and I groan, feeling hot and sweaty and frustrated.

  “You’re working too hard, Murcielago. Let it come to you. Let me bring it to you.”

  I growl and roll my shoulders against the towel. This is not going to work. She’s going to go tomorrow and I’ll be left with this memory and the Big C will be hanging over it all.

  Smack! She slaps the outside of my thigh and the shock of it makes me open my eyes, even as the sharp pain chases the trails of pleasure her fingers engender, pushing me surprisingly close to the edge.

  “I’m serious, woman. You need to get out of your own way and just Be. In. The. Moment.” Each word is punctuated by a smack and stroke on that little spot, that lovely little doorway to the secret well of gushing pleasure in me.

  We stare at each other as she works to bring me up to that climax, her eyes smoldering, her hands demanding. I am pulled up to the brink, the well filling, filling and then suddenly overflowing.