Best Lesbian Erotica 2015

by Laura Antoniou

  The décor is muted, in calming shades of blue and gray. The flight attendant, her red hair in a neat bob, asks if I’d like a drink, and on impulse, I ask for champagne. (Another perk of first class: beverage service before we take off.)

  To distract myself, I watch her as she walks away. She has a cute ass, though it’s difficult for me to truly get a sense of it under her generic outfit. Is it bad for me to think that? Will Mindy think less of me, when I tell her (because of course I must)?

  “Before you get too settled,” my pretty seatmate says, startling me out of my reverie, “I have something for you, from Mindy.”

  That pulls an unexpected laugh from me. I’m too stressed, my mind is too befuddled to suss out how Mindy orchestrated this. I manage to stammer my thanks as the woman—“I’m Cerys, by the way”—hands me the box and card.

  The card is one of Mindy’s, monogrammed with a stylized M. Inside, it says, simply, Go to the bathroom and put this on.

  And because Mindy has ordered me to, I go.

  That’s not true. I go because I want to; because I know Mindy’s devious, wicked sense of play; because it thrills me. My clit jumped when I read the words. Anticipating.

  In the tiny bathroom, I stuff the ribbon into the trash and open the box. It’s a hot-pink vibrating bullet, the kind you tuck into the crotch of your panties so it nestles against your lips, your clit. There are no controls, however: only a loop of wire out one end.

  It still gives me pleasure, though; it slips and snuggles against my folds, growing slick, as I walk back to my seat, where my flute of champagne awaits me.

  And Cerys. I slip past her to my seat.

  I don’t realize until I lift the glass to my lips that I can smell my own spicy juices on my fingers. Can she smell them, too? I didn’t bring myself off—that wasn’t explicitly allowed—so why do I feel guilty? She’s watching me, and I take a nervous sip.

  In my pocket, my phone chimes. Crap, I’ve forgotten to turn it off. I pull it out, see a new text from Mindy: Good girl. Now, relax. Cerys will take care of you.

  Before the weight of the words can sink in, the vibrator at my clit shivers. My eyes snap wide and Cerys’s hand is on my glass before I drop it. She smiles again.

  “Relax,” she says, echoing Mindy’s words, and I understand, belatedly, that she’s taking the place of sweet Mindy for the flight. (Or maybe longer. I can’t go there right now.)

  I set down the champagne, text back with shaking fingers: Yes, Ma’am. Thank you, Ma’am.

  Then I turn off my phone and stow it, and, terrified and thrilled on so many levels, drink my champagne.

  * * *

  The cute redheaded flight attendant takes my empty glass as the door closes. She smiles, oblivious to my turmoil, turns away.

  I’ve tried Valium, other drugs, and I hate them almost as much as I hate flying. It’s that loss of control thing. The only thing that calms me down, that grounds me (hah) is Mindy. I feel safe with her—and I recognize the dichotomy, because Mindy will push me to the extremes of my limits, test whether those limits are my true boundaries. I don’t know how she’ll play with the edges of pain and pleasure, humiliation and delight, fear and rapture.

  And yet, I feel safe with her because I trust her. I trust her to recognize which breaking points drive me to new heights and which would be too far. I trust her to take care of me.

  Now, Mindy has entrusted Cerys with my care.

  But it isn’t the same. Cerys isn’t Mindy, doesn’t have that calming, safe quality that Mindy—the plane vibrates, engines engaging as it poises for taxiing down the runway, and my breath catches—and Cerys’s hand comes down on my forearm, her fingers encircling my wrist with a grip more final than metal cuffs. My breath catches for a different reason. I sit up straight in my seat before I realize I’ve moved.

  “Now, here’s the thing,” Cerys says, her lips near my ear, her voice lower than necessary given the rumbles of the plane. “I know you understand what’s going on. You’re a pretty thing, and you’re mine for this flight, to do with what I please.”

  She must have thumbed the remote to the vibrating bullet, because suddenly my panties are humming. Not just a taste like before; this time, she leaves it on. I know it’s the lowest setting—although immediately arousing, it isn’t enough to get me off. (Still, the sound—could anyone else hear?)

  How high could this thing go? What would it…she…do to me?

  I shudder. Public orgasms are my albatross, my most hated delight.

  Mindy knows that—had exploited it on multiple occasions. Which means Cerys knows it, too.

  “We have several hours,” Cerys murmurs into my ear, her voice light and airy and innocent to everyone but me, who heard the power, the control, “so you might as well sit back and enjoy it. I haven’t yet decided if I’m going to make you come, or keep you on the edge the whole time…or even make you come again and again until you beg me to stop. I saw you look at the pretty flight attendant—what would you do if I told you to get her phone number? What if I told you to tell her, in great detail, about the vibrator spreading your sweet, pink pussy lips, snugged up against your quivering clit?”

  I squirm in my embarrassment and arousal, staring at the seat back in front of me. The plastic screen, showing the end of the safety message, slides to an ad for the in-flight movie.

  I barely see any of it, my mind’s eye on the thoughts of the flight attendant’s full lips parting, her eyes widening in astonishment at my predicament. Would she be disgusted? Excited?

  And then there’s Cerys, so cool and calm, whispering the filthy images while looking the epitome of the proper businesswoman. To anyone else, her hand on my wrist probably looks like she’s comforting me. To me, it’s as good as an iron shackle.

  Suddenly the vibration between my thighs stops. I almost cry out from the lack of it, pressing my lips together at the last moment to catch the sound. Cerys chuckles.

  And I realize I’ve completely missed our takeoff. We’re already in the air.

  * * *

  The flight attendant—her badge says JANE—returns for another drink order, and I feel myself blush. She is cute, but I hadn’t consciously processed it until now.

  Oh dear lord, is she part of this, too? Has Mindy told her, or has Cerys? Does she know?

  It doesn’t matter if she knows. This is part of the mindfuck, and it doesn’t matter whether I’m aware it’s part of the mind-fuck or not. What matters is that she might know, and the very idea of her knowing is the turn-on.

  I ask for water, and she hands me a foil packet of salted peanuts (nobody with allergies on this flight, apparently), and her smile makes me quiver, deep inside.

  “You do like her,” Cerys murmurs against my ear. “How adorable.”

  When Jane returns with my water, I reach out for the plastic cup, then nearly drop it when the vibration on my clit unexpectedly whirrs to life.

  Once again, Cerys catches my drink. She smiles at Jane. “She hates flying,” Cerys confides. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of her.”

  The double meaning makes the heat rise in my cheeks. My flush deepens when Jane says, “Well, let me know if there’s anything I can do to help,” and Cerys purrs, “Oh, don’t worry, we will,” in a tone of voice that makes the double meaning that much more obvious.

  To me, anyway. Oh, that maddening, delicious, terrifying mindfuck. The knowledge that I’m not in control.

  But protected. I have no doubt that Cerys knows my safe-word and will respect it if I use it, if I call the whole thing off.

  I have no doubt that Mindy knows I wouldn’t do that, and Cerys probably knows, too.

  When we’re allowed to use approved electronic devices, Cerys produces an iPad and two sets of earbuds, which she plugs into a splitter that plugs into the tablet, so we can both hear what’s being played.

  “Mindy sent me some fun videos,” she says, her voice as natural as if we were going to be watching cute-kitten videos. But I know b
etter. “She promised me you’d enjoy them.”

  By now, I’m in such a mental state that my brain can’t fully comprehend what we’re going to watch. But as she takes her time loading the video—deliberately going slow, I suspect, to give me time to think about it—I know it will be something sexy, hot…and potentially embarrassing.

  I flush again, a whole-body thing, a wave of hot and cold crashing over me as the first video begins.

  Why is humiliation so damn arousing?

  I remember the scene well. (How could I ever forget something like that?) We’d gone to the monthly play party, and I’d been cuffed to a spanking bench. There were cutouts in the bench so my breasts hung down, and Mindy had dangled the wicked clover clamps in front of my face, delighting in my reaction.

  The camera was before me, getting a close-up of my face and those glittering silver clips. I squealed and I pled with my eyes, no, no, and Mindy had laughed. The camera zoomed back a little, to show more of my body, and I was forced to watch myself as Mindy snapped those evil clamps onto my already reddened nipples. My body stiffened—in the video, and now, too, in sympathy—as the exquisite pain coursed through me. I’d screwed my eyes shut, and Mindy had jiggled the infernal chain that linked the clips and warned me to open my eyes and keep them open.

  I stare into my own eyes now, watching them glaze over as Mindy went to work on my ass with a paddle. Through the earphones I hear each thwack, see my body lurch and the chain swing, and I remember the sting of the paddle, the pain of the clamps that was so close to pleasure.

  Hear the humiliating moans coming from my slack-jawed mouth.

  I clamp my lips together now, to keep myself from moaning aloud.

  Cerys slips the earbud from my right ear and leans in. “You look so amazingly sexy there, darling. And so helpless. What a naughty, naughty girl for enjoying that. Can you imagine if Jane walks by and sees it? She’ll know exactly what type of slut you are. Or if someone in the seats behind us stands up and looks over?”

  I gasp. I’ve been so focused on the video that I’ve forgotten where I am, forgotten that there are other people around to potentially witness this.

  “I’m tempted to pull out the earphone plug so everyone can hear you pleading to be allowed to come.” Cerys’s tongue snakes out to slide along my ear, and I tremble.

  Tremble because in the video, even thought it isn’t visible, Mindy is teasing me with a dildo, and I am indeed begging for release.

  Tremble because the vibrator against my clit surely has been bumped up to a higher setting, and my own need is growing. I would’ve thought I needed even more stimulation to come, but the public humiliation—even if some of it was only currently threatened—might prove to be enough of an incentive.

  I shake my head, just a tiny bit, denying that Cerys should let the passengers hear the video, but I still don’t say my safeword, and her chuckle, breathed against the tender flesh of my neck, is painfully erotic.

  She turns the vibrator back down, and then off, just in time for me to watch myself come, screaming my thank-yous, my eyes still open because Mindy had commanded it.

  If Cerys hadn’t turned off the egg, I suspect I would’ve come in empathy.

  Instead, I’m left hanging, desperate, my thighs clenching and releasing, my hands gripping the armrests. My forearms couldn’t be tighter against those armrests if I were cuffed to them.

  I don’t want to come in public.

  But I really, really want to come. Need to come.

  Thus far, Cerys has kept the remote in her suit-jacket pocket.

  Now she takes it out. It’s a small thing, black, a rectangle that fits in the palm of her hand.

  Oh god, anyone can see it.

  She turns it over in her hand as if inspecting it, tapping the plus-sign-shaped toggle that adjusts not only the intensity of vibration, but also the pattern of the vibrations.

  Oh. That’s new. Instead of a steady hum against my swollen, needy clit, now there are pulsations. Random pulsations. Cerys can’t decide on a rhythm, and that’s driving me mad with need and lust.

  I want to hiss, “Pick one!” but I can’t, I’m not allowed.

  Buzzpausebuzzpausebuzz. Buzzpausepause. Buzzzzzpause.

  I want to scream in frustration, but I can’t do that, either.

  And then, to my horror, Jane is making her way down the aisle again, checking to see if passengers need anything, a trash bag open to accept discards. Her efficiency is my personal hell.

  Of course, she stops at our row. “Is that a remote-controlled device?” she asks. “I’m afraid they’re not allowed on flights.”

  “Oh, no, this is Bluetooth,” Cerys says. I have no idea if she’s lying or not. “I checked ahead of time; it’s allowed.”

  Still, I’m frozen, terrified and aroused. Cerys had threatened to tell the flight attendant of my predicament.

  What if Cerys gives her the remote?

  The thought of Jane being complicit, of Jane finding out about my torment, would’ve sent me over the edge if the vibrator had been on. Just the thought of Jane’s brown eyes widening as she processed what was going on… Would she be disgusted? Intrigued? Would her lips slowly curve in an evil smile as she held out her hand…?

  My entire body tenses; I’m sure my expression is one of pleading and humility and submission.

  But Jane’s smile is simply efficient and friendly as she says, “Okay, great. Just make sure you’ve got everything stowed for landing.”

  Landing. Oh god, most accidents happen during takeoff or landing, and we survived takeoff, and…

  That infernal egg buzzes to life again, and I bite my lips together to stifle a moan. I swear I can smell my spicy-sweet arousal; I’m so wet that I fear I’m going to leave a spot on the back of my skirt, which everyone will see when we disembark. My pussy lips slip and slide when I clench against the maddening sensations.

  I feel like I’m losing my mind.

  It’s a familiar feeling, and yet, without Mindy, a petrifying one.

  Deep breath. No, Mindy put Cerys in control. Mindy wouldn’t have done that if she didn’t trust Cerys. If you trust Mindy, you must trust Cerys.

  But Cerys, sexy domme Cerys, has put the remote back in her suit-jacket pocket but is clearly still thumbing it to higher and higher settings, and her luscious lips are at my ear again.

  Her fingers are at my throat as she tells me how she wants to unbutton my blouse, expose my lace-covered breasts. She knows

  (she says, and she’s right) that my nipples are rock hard and will be clearly visible, distending the ecru fabric, and she wants to take them between her fingernails and scrape and pinch and twist them (and what a pity it is she doesn’t have nipple clamps handy). My hips jerk at the concept, at the memory and the desire/hatred for the painful clover clamps on my sensitive nubs.

  And then her tongue drags along my ear again and she says, so close, “I’m sorry—well, no, I’m not, not really—but Mindy told me what I had to do. She wants me to report back about how good you were, how you reacted.”

  Oh, no. Yes.

  Please.

  No.

  Yes?

  “It’s not my choice to do this,” Cerys confesses, “but I’m so glad I get to. Mindy says you’re exquisite when you come.”

  And to my horror, I knew—as I’d probably known from the time Cerys admitted she was working with Mindy—that I would be coming, publicly, on display, on this plane.

  And there was not a damn thing I could do about it.

  Safeword notwithstanding, I needed to come. That need had superseded any other imperative except my humiliation, and it was rapidly overtaking that.

  No, the humiliation was adding to my need, and I’m sure the look I shot Cerys was pure desperation, but all she did was lick her plump bottom lip in anticipation and smile, and thumb the wicked bullet vibrator that nestled against my throbbing, needy clit to its highest setting.

  My need ratcheted higher, higher, higher, until I
cracked apart, shattered, aflight. I clenched and shuddered, my hips rising a fraction of an inch above the seat and then pressing down again, over and over, even as I bit my lips together to keep from screaming or moaning or pleading, although pleading for what? I didn’t know.

  The humiliation of coming in front of all the passengers and crew was enough to keep my orgasm fucking me as solidly as a dildo.

  Didn’t care.

  Couldn’t think.

  And when the tremors subsided—and Cerys turned off the vibrations, a relief and yet not, and murmured “Welcome to Dallas, sweetheart”—I knew even though the plane was on the ground, I was still flying.

  STRONG

  Xan West

  For A., who said it deserved its own tale

  For both of us, gender is both complex identity and elaborate sex toy. But not just that. It is not easy to grow up breaking the gender rules, to live lives visibly nonconforming. Gender is a dangerous and delicious edge at which we play, knowing that we may inadvertently step on the minefields of our gendered histories and present struggles. Part of the thrill is that danger. We push gender to its own edges, play its sharpness against our throats, fear in our mouths, ache in our guts, building armor against becoming what we fear.

  Gender is the core. It drives our relationship. As a trans-gender butch, for me playing with gender is an edgy and necessary thing. For my genderqueer submissive, whose gender ebbs and flows in life and in play, the conscious choice to play with gender confirms self, breaks boundaries, allows catharsis. My submissive is both my girl and my boy. Tonight she was going to be one and then the other.

  When she is my girl, I always start by fucking her throat. It is the most personal hole, and I claim her there first, make sure she knows she is helpless to stop me. Her job is to open to me, give to me, feed me with her eyes. I begin by placing the cuffs on her wrists, then lock them together and force her to her knees. My hands grip her hair, and I force her mouth onto my cock. This is how we start, every time.