Best Lesbian Erotica 2015

by Laura Antoniou

  Beginning this way every time gives us both a way to go deeper into ourselves, to sink into what we are doing, find ground for the genders we are playing in. My cock in her throat honors how she wants to do girlness, how much we both want her to be open and vulnerable and raw. Her eyes looking up at me and her mouth wrapped round my dick reflect back the masculinity I want to do with her, how much we want me to be cruel and invasive and dominant. I need to see that she wants this, all the way through, and she knows how much I run on adrenaline when we play this way, how it reaches into my core and twists.

  I need to start fast and hard, almost dare myself into it, because this scares the shit out of me, and that’s the only way to get over the mountain of fear that builds in me as I know we are going there. The more fear there is the rougher and faster I need it. I was especially rough that night, ignoring the gagging and groaning as I forced tears from her eyes.

  “That’s right, choke on my cock,” I said gruffly.

  There was rushing in my ears as I watched her choke, tears streaming down her cheeks, her eyes locked on mine, soft, reassuring. I rammed myself into her, cracking her open, thrusting my way inside. I got taller as I fucked her face, wrenching her hair, relentless. I could tell when she started to float, weightless, rapt. I pulled out of her mouth, looking coldly down at her as she took ragged sobbing breaths and offered herself to me.

  I lifted her up from her knees, unlocked her cuffs and seated her in the bondage chair, clipping the cuffs to it and attaching her ankles. I put her in this chair when she’s a girl. It reminds her to keep her legs spread for me.

  It’s a rule of mine. When she’s my girl she is required to keep her thighs apart. They never touch in my presence. It makes her constantly aware of her body, the position she’s in. She is always conscious of her cunt. I want it to feel exposed, even behind layers of clothing. Exposed just by her own awareness. With this one simple rule, I claim ownership of her body, her cunt, her focus. From across the room I am inside her, spreading her thighs, exposing her cunt, deep inside her head.

  The chair is an intensification of the rule. More than that, it takes a private thing and makes it public. I always choose to put her in the chair that faces the crowd, the chair that is the most public. I display her body, spread her thighs for all to see.

  It was crowded that night. By the time I had her bound to the chair there was a circle of voyeurs behind us, devouring her exposure. Dozens of eyes were on her skin. She was trembling. I wanted to intensify the exposure, use their gaze to push her farther, ride the wave of that. I pulled out my knife and slid it along her cheek, her throat. I began to cut off her clothes. The knife bared her flesh to the room, ripping through fabric, revealing her as she struggled to remain utterly still, biting her lip, eyes closed. I teased the knife along her thighs, taking advantage of her closed eyes to pull something out of my bag and get it ready. The knife edged its way closer to her cunt. I spread her to it, teasing it against her, and then rammed my baton into her cunt in one stroke, pulling the knife away. She trembled, stuffed full, her now open eyes begging.

  “Come for me,” I said, pulling her hair.

  She did, her body contracting, trying to push the baton out, even as I held it there, forcing her to take it. Her eyes were wide and dark. I released her hair and removed the baton, wanting her to be aware she was empty and aching. More than anything, when she is my girl, she needs to be exposed and penetrated, made aware of her cunt and the eyes of others.

  “The whole room just saw you come, girl. They know your cunt is dripping, aching to be stuffed full. Their eyes are on you, watching. You can’t hide now, girl. We can see you. You are naked to us.”

  She is so strong. I can’t imagine seeking this level of exposure, this level of vulnerability. She awes me.

  I pulled out my clover clamps and attached them to her nipples. She hissed when I put them on. I let the chain fall, and tugged on it, watching her squirm for me. I wanted her aware of her skin, feeling me penetrate it with pinches and bites. I leaned in to bite her shoulder, tugging the chain, and felt her writhe, her pulse beating under my tongue, my teeth grinding into her.

  I lifted my head and placed the chain between her teeth. She would feel a steady relentless pull on her nipples, and have something to bite down on. She was going to need it.

  I pulled out my favorite cane. It is rattan, thin and whippy. Her thighs were exposed perfectly for it. This was no slow, even buildup. It was about opening her up, ripping her open, and that was clear from the start. I drove the cane into her, relishing the sounds it forced from her, slicing into her thighs. The more I drove it into her flesh, the larger I grew. This was more than just dominance. When I take my masculinity and rub it against her girlness, I feel gigantic, and she is so fragile in comparison. This is one of the lines we ride with this kind of play, and one of the many risks inherent in it is that it might actually reduce her in her own eyes, or in mine. That I, or she, might actually be unable to see how strong she is. Part of the intensity comes with the risk. At that moment I stepped outside myself just a bit, to check in with myself, read her a bit closer, before sinking back into it.

  I began to breathe with her, building, ramping the pain up, barely pausing between strokes. I rained fire onto her, purple welts forming. Her eyes were closed tight, her teeth gripping the chain, her face contorted in pain, and she finally began to try to get away. Of course she couldn’t. That was the point. She was trapped, her legs spread wide, attached to the chair by ankles and wrists, her cunt exposed to all and those naked, vulnerable, sensitive thighs sliced into, relentlessly, no matter what she did. She began to shake her head no, not caring about the pain it caused in her nipples. But she did not say her safeword, did not do the one thing in her power that might free her. Then it happened. The invasive pain spilled through her and out her eyes, tears streaming down her face.

  “That’s right, cry for me. It will only make me want to beat you and fuck you harder, girl.”

  I struck harder, repeatedly, watching it sink in. Seeing that she was helpless, exposed, vulnerable. That I would take it all from her. That she was free to move all the way through it and out the other side. It took me a long time to get her to a place where she was willing to cry. Before me, she had not met a top that didn’t stop the second the tears started flowing. She still didn’t quite trust it, needed me to show her, again and again, that I would keep going, that she could be that strong, give that much, let me see her tears.

  The pain moved through her in waves, pouring out her eyes, and I could see the joy spread over her face. She was beautiful in that moment, and I savored it, pouring pain into her and watching it flow through her, riding that. It was time. I set down the cane and took my cock out of my jeans, pulling on a condom. I slid in slowly, luxuriating in every inch of penetration, watching her eyes. I leaned in and licked the tears from her cheeks as I felt her let go. I began to fuck her, my hips ramming into her sore thighs, making her scream, as the chain fell from her mouth.

  I growled, “Mine,” in her ear as I slammed into her, feeling her body begin to shake as the sensations overwhelmed her. I removed a clamp, ordering her to come for me. She began to sob as she came, my cock driving into her, pain racking her body, her senses on overload. It felt like perfection to claim her.

  “Mine,” I snarled, as I removed the other clamp, watching her body move, struggling against her bonds, tears streaming down her face. I leaned in and bit her as I fucked her, pounding into her with my cock, driving into her with my teeth, opening her up for my pleasure. I growled into her skin as I bit, my hips slamming into her rapidly, my hands fisted in her hair.

  She was sobbing loudly, and it felt so damn good to hear it, the sound reaching right down and stroking my cock in a long velvet caress. I lifted my head and grabbed her eyes with mine.

  “You are mine. My girl. Come for me, loud.”

  She began to shudder and moan, her cunt contracting so hard on my cock, tears pouring o
ut of her eyes.

  “My girl,” I growled as I came, my hands gripping her hair as I spurted inside her cunt. I closed my eyes and held her, just held her for a long time, savoring the feel of being inside her to the hilt. I carefully pulled out and discarded the condom, cleaned her off gently and gave her some water. I got her down from the chair and brought her over to the couch, seating her at my feet, and stroking her hair.

  She laid her head on my thigh, holding tightly on to my boot, and trembled for a good long time. Then she was quiet and still, her hands on my boot slowly easing. She lifted her head to look up at me.

  “Sir?” she said.

  “Yes?”

  “May I please clean up the space and go change?”

  “You may,” I said, smiling, stroking her cheek, and then watching her as she cleaned the chair and then walked away. She once told me, “Being a girl is like being without armor. Sometimes like being without skin, even. Your power is in your vulnerability and openness. Most of the time, girl is not a safe thing to be. That’s why I treasure being your girl, it’s a safe place to touch that danger and roll around with it. But sometimes, when I’m putting myself together after you rip me open and poke my soft spots, what I really need is armor. That’s one of the best times to be your boy.” That’s what we had planned tonight. He asked specifically for that, said he wanted to walk out tough and strong and wearing his armor.

  He moved differently when he was my boy. His center of gravity was lower, and he swaggered. He strutted over to me, grinning, stopping to stand crisply before me, hands locked on wrists behind him. I eyed him slowly. He was looking sharp in BDUs, tight enough to show the dick he was packing, black ribbed undershirts three layers deep and shiny black Corcs, his hair slicked back. I love a boy in an A-line shirt.

  “Grab my bag, boy,” I said, and stalked off to claim a semi-private space. I found a perfect corner, where the light was dim and there was no equipment. When he’s my boy, I want him standing. He’s tough. He can hold himself up. I pulled on my leather gloves and backed him into the wall.

  “That’s it boy. Just you and me and a wall. Show me how strong you are, boy.”

  I started steady, pounding him with my fists, going after his muscles. We breathed together, slow and easy. My blows were ramming into his pecs, his biceps. Going after his quads. Rhythmic, even pounding setting the stage. This was about strength, endurance. Mine, and his.

  “Show me what you can take, boy. What you’re made of.”

  I slammed him into the wall with my bulk, reminded him that I have one hundred pounds on him. He stuck out his chin, just a bit. I slammed against him again, propelling my weight into him. Again, taking his breath with my girth. Again. His eyes started to get glossy. I stepped back and began to kick. I drove my boots into his thigh muscles, delighting in the sound of him grunting with each blow. I used my knee to strike his thigh, watching his eyes get darker.

  Sinking into thud roots me, pulls me deep into myself. Using my whole body helps me reestablish, find my footing. He’s not the only one that needs to put himself back together, and he knows it. Knows that this is for both of us, that I need this as much as he does, and his job is to feed the energy back to me, to help keep it cycling between us.

  I moved up closer to him, pulled on my SAP gloves and began to pound his pecs. Steady. Repeated. Relentless. Lead shot hammering his chest. Holding his gaze.

  “Take it for me, boy.”

  It was intense for him. I knew it. His breath became more ragged, his jaw clenched. I could see the determination in his eyes. I just kept ramming my fist into him, watching him closely.

  He is so strong. I know what it is to endure this, to stay standing through it, to face my own limits and keep pushing them. He awes me.

  “That’s my boy,” I said as I hit him. “Show me how tough you are. Take it for me.”

  He did. Not a sound. He stood still and took it for me, his jaw clenched down on it, his hands fisted, frustration clear in his eyes as tears slid down his cheeks. We both ignored them. They were meaningless, as unimportant as the people quietly watching us. What was important was that he stood still and took it, for me. He made me proud, and I let it show in my face.

  I pulled out my knife and stroked his throat with it, teased it against his lips and grinned at the sight of his tongue snaking out to lick the blade, his lips opening to it, his hand slipping up to hold my hand steady, begging in his eyes. I nodded, and allowed his hand to clasp over mine, holding the knife, watching his mouth engulf it, his eyes wicked and triumphant. Sucking off a knife takes talent, practice, love and deep respect for a sharp blade. My boy was very good. It was a delicious sight, and I savored it, groaning, my dick throbbing.

  “That’s my good boy,” I whispered roughly.

  I put my hand on his chin and held him, easing the blade out of his mouth, wiping it on his shirt and putting it away. I pulled out my baton, and flipped him over, slamming him into the wall with my weight. I kicked his feet apart and slid the baton between his thighs, teasing it against his asshole until he moaned. I pressed him up against the wall and growled in his ear.

  “Mine.”

  I stepped back and began to pound his ass with the baton. There is something about that deep thud, right there, that feels like you are getting fucked. He groaned, leaning against the wall, offering his ass to me, luscious sounds leaving his lips with each strike of the baton. I stepped toward him and ground my cock into his ass, pulling him away from the wall.

  “Stand up for me, boy. Take it.”

  I began to pound his biceps with the baton, watching the bruises blossom. He growled and stomped his feet as the blows continued, struggling to take it. As it went on, first one bicep, then the other, he began to shake his head and clench his hands, eventually pounding his fists into his own sore thighs. I did not stop until his arms began to tremble.

  When he’s my boy, he doesn’t want me to fuck around. He wants to be pushed to his physical limits, again and again. To constantly prove to himself (and to me) that he is tough enough, strong enough. That he can stand up and take anything I can dish out.

  I set the baton down and pulled my belt from my jeans, snapping it.

  “How many months have you been mine, boy?”

  “Forty-two, Sir.”

  “That’s right. Forty-two strokes it is. Count ’em for me.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  My belt is serious business. It is always the last toy I pick up because it inspires my most intense sadism. The counting is as much for me as for him. This tool, more than any other, finds me wanting never to stop.

  I grinned as the leather bit into his back, and went after his traps first. He was counting steadily as I hurled the belt at him with a red haze around me, and a metallic scent on his skin. I growled, driving the belt into his back, my cock throbbing, his voice grounding me. I stepped forward to rest my cheek against his back, heat rushing off his skin in waves, his adrenaline-soaked sweat setting off a sharp tang in the back of my throat. I snarled and rained fire onto his back with my belt, in roaring relentless flames, no time between strokes, just one long maelstrom of energy building between us.

  Some small part of my brain registered we were at thirty-seven. I stopped, wanting to savor the last five strokes. His breath was ragged, and he was shaking. I breathed in slowly, tasting the pain steaming off of him, and sliced into him with all of my strength. Thirty-eight. Drove my hunger into him, raw and ravenous. Thirty-nine. Forty made him scream, sound pouring from him, rendering him unable to count.

  “Take it for me, boy. Show me your strength. I know you can do it.”

  “Forty, Sir,” he said shakily.

  I growled, “Mine,” as I ripped into him with my belt. Forty-one. I carved into his back, the full force of my weight behind the last blow. Forty-two. I wrapped the belt around the back of his neck, lifting it to his lips to kiss, as I pressed him into the wall, breathing him in.

  “That’s my boy. I am so pr
oud you are mine,” I whispered.

  I unbuckled his belt and slid down his pants, letting him step out of them and lean against the wall in his jock.

  “Stay right there, boy.”

  I pulled a chair over and sat in it, turning him to face me. I pulled out my cock, suited it up and stroked on the lube. I placed his hands on the back of the chair and pulled his hips toward me, easing into his ass, his boots firmly planted on the floor. Damn did he feel so fucking good.

  “Stand up and ride my dick,” I growled. He did, growling right back, jamming his ass onto me, riding my cock. He is a delicious fuck, and I told him so, a stream of obscenity pouring from my mouth and egging him on. He rammed his ass onto my cock so hard I began to close my eyes, my cheek resting on his shoulder, my nails gripping him, delighting in the feel of him riding me.

  “That’s it boy. Fuck yourself on my cock. Show me how strong you are. Give me the ride of my life.”

  He was magic, my boy. Pulsing with intensity, his eyes locked on to mine, his jaw clenched, as he worked his ass onto my cock, taking it into him, growls and groans getting louder and louder.

  “Mine,” I snarled. “Mine. My boy. Hold your breath, clench down on my cock and come for me, boy.”

  I grabbed his hips and jammed him onto me as I came, feeling him shudder, pouring into him, feeling it build and build as he clamped down on my cock, clamped down on his breath. I held my own breath as long as I could, until I released us both, holding his eyes and watching him explode when I ordered him to let it all go. He began to tremble from head to toe. His eyes held fireworks, feeding me that energy, his hips riding me like there was no way to stop. It went on forever.

  We slowly floated back into ourselves. I began to stroke his skin. It felt so amazing. I grinned into his eyes, hugging him close to me.

  “You sure are strong, boy,” I said, laughing delightedly. He grinned back at me. We breathed together, settling back into our own skin. I whispered praise in his ear as I stroked him, easing him off my cock gently and standing up to gather him close into a deep hug that lasted a good long time.