Best Lesbian Erotica of the Year

by Sacchi Green

  We fucked trading breath and sounds, me bending deeper in the knees until I was almost lifting her with each stroke. Rae kept one tiptoe anchored to the ground—I had grabbed her raised leg behind the knee and slung it high around my ass, where it scraped the harness strap into my hip bone as she ground onto me.

  Then she stilled, and slid me out.

  The wet of her glinted on my cock, and seeing it, I felt like a fish that had been tossed out of water. I’d die if I wasn’t in her element. But she quickly turned, giving me her back, and bent forward to rest her elbows on the footboard so her cunt tipped up to me as an invitation, slippery, begging. I cupped her smooth ass with my palms and fitted myself into her again, and as I started thrusting, slid my hands into that great notch where a woman’s thigh meets her belly. All the better to hold on to you by, my dear.

  It was easier to fuck like that—or should have been. But soon, I couldn’t catch my breath. The vibes I was packing were killing me. I rode torturous rises and plateaus, and through the delicious agony a worry pulsed in my head: that it was terrible for her, that I wasn’t fucking her properly. I felt like I was spasming and then stopping still while every muscle in my pelvis tightened almost unbearably in response to the relentless titillation. I made noises I hadn’t known my throat could produce.

  On a cresting wave I gritted my teeth, and when it broke my fingers tightened around Rae’s hips as I buckled and dragged her farther onto my length. And I heard her pant, “That’s right, baby, yes. Like that.”

  I opened my eyes; I’d squeezed them shut. I saw Rae’s head turned to the side, gaze locked feline-sure on something to our left. I looked.

  We were framed like a painting in a full-length mirror hanging on the wall, showing feet to heads and every sweating, trembling, curving inch between. All of Rae’s unbelievable inches, her belly swayed with the arch of her back, luscious tits still held up by her ruby bra. Center of the reflection, our hips met, my pelvis smacking into the swell of her ass and every moment captured in the glass and thrown back to us.

  Like lock gears slipping into place, I suddenly understood what she had said earlier. I want to watch you empty out into me. She wanted to play her own voyeur. And consume me by sight.

  So this was the game—I’d still play. Watching our private live movie, I ran my hand up her side just to see what it would look like. It looked damn good, her in my hands. Me fucking her with me.

  That ripped me out of my head, and suddenly, the intensity on my clit was exactly what I needed. I pushed harder to feel more, thrusting steadily with one hand on Rae’s hip, the other hooked over her shoulder, holding her tight in place against me. She moaned long and high while in the mirror, the muscles in my sides and ass clenched in bands, shuddering and tightening as I moved. My body looked powerful but vulnerable, controlled yet unhinged. I looked strong. I looked utterly helpless against what I was feeling, against what she made me feel. And I saw what she was so into, sketching and re-sketching my body and what I could be in it through her gaze.

  Our eyes met in the reflection, and her creeping half smile told me she knew that I saw. She reached a hand back over her shoulder and, reading her mind, I took her fingers in and sucked, getting them good and wet. She plunged them between her thighs and I could see her take the rhythm she needed in the movement of her wrist at her belly. Her own mouth was fallen open, her brows knitted, but she kept her eyes on me in the mirror, drinking, roving. I gripped her breast, kneading as the pressure in me built again, Rae urgently whimpering yes on every stroke I pounded into her.

  She rose onto her toes, knees straightening helplessly as her final build flexed through her thighs and ass, and then cried out, her cunt wringing my cock, tugging me deep into her against my stroke. That sent me over the edge. I curled over so my cheek pressed to her spine, and I rushed out, everything in me pouring into her. Never taking our eyes off us.

  We breathed, Rae trembling beneath me. Shakily, I leaned up and pulled out the vibrator, switching it off and dropping it to the carpet at our feet. Rae rose, too, pressing back against me with her head on my shoulder, bathing my sweat-streaked face in her damp hair.

  “Hey,” I said, suddenly shy, feeling like someone new. Someone who needed introducing.

  She gave my bottom lip a bite. “Hey yourself. How was that?”

  I didn’t know how to answer. It seemed like I’d been kissed awake after a long sleep. I dragged my hand up her thigh, mouthed her shoulder. I wanted more but didn’t know, any longer, where that would take me. I studied our matched hips in the mirror, hers bare and soft, mine crossed with leather. The ways we were similar and how we were so different.

  Rae watched me watching us. “What do you see?” she asked.

  I shook my head—like Nothing, or I don’t know—but said the truth. “Everything.”

  THE ROAD TO HELL

  Cheyenne Blue

  Eve drives as if the devil is after her, chasing her along the interstate. Off to Colorado. The sun slants low, bruising the dry landscape with a golden glow. The color reminds her of Murphy, their Labrador, who no doubt is sprawled on the couch, his head in Teri’s lap.

  Eve’s heart skitters like a rabbit, making her lightheaded. She sweats a film of nerves even though the air-conditioning is on high.

  She’s going to lose her virginity. That’s what it feels like, even though she technically lost that nearly twenty years ago, the day Teri cornered her in the storeroom of the bakery where they both worked on Saturdays, kissing her sweetly and stickily, touching her in places that took you straight to hell. On that day, age seventeen, going to hell seemed a long way off.

  Hell seems closer now. She’s driving to Denver to commit adultery. She’s going to kiss another woman, touch her, lie with her and find out how she tastes.

  “I could come too, honey,” Teri had said, as Eve flung jeans and shirts into a sports bag with pretend haphazardness— clothes she’d carefully picked out the week before.

  Eve had given her a quick kiss and put as much sincerity as she could manage in her voice. “I wish you could. But it’ll be dull. Talking food.”

  “Imagine if you get the contract!” Teri’s enthusiasm was genuine, and Eve felt a stab of remorse. There is no contract. There is no company in Denver wanting to distribute her line of preserves. There’s only a woman she met on the Internet and the allure of the forbidden sucking her in with silver tentacles.

  Eve imagines she’s dying, imagines she’s facing her maker. It will be a dusty plain, where the land is as unforgiving as the god who made it. She imagines he can prize open the crannies of her mind so the cold plains wind blows her secrets out to paint the landscape. He’d say to her then, at the moment of her death, “Why did you not do it? Why did you not taste another woman? You wanted it so much.”

  Eve knows the god will shake his shaggy head, and pity her for her denial, even as he elevates her to heaven.

  But after tomorrow, she’ll go straight to hell.

  She negotiates the Denver rush hour, weaving across the lanes of I-25 to take the downtown exit to find her hotel.

  “They must think a lot of you,” Teri had said, impressed, when Eve told her where she was staying.

  “They probably put everyone up there.” The lie rolled easily. It scared her a little, how good she is at the lies.

  She wanders through her room examining the toiletries, the minibar, the wide-screen TV. Teri would like this, she thinks, but suppresses the thought. Teri is outside these two days of her life, which are moments out of time, an alternate reality. Afterward, she will return to Wyoming and live happily ever after with Teri.

  They are happy, that’s the thing Eve finds strangest in all of this. She doesn’t want to change her life; she just wants a yardstick to measure it by.

  She’s too wound up to settle. She takes a swift shower and dresses in worn jeans and a white T-shirt. There’s two hours before she’s due to meet LeeAnn—time enough for a beer.

  She fi
nds a bar, sits by the window, and watches the people parade past: cowboy boots, bright shirts, and the smart black suits of office workers. Denver is an uneasy city, she thinks, not quite cow town, not quite metropolitan. She turns to share that observation with Teri, and she’s three words into the sentence before she remembers Teri isn’t there.

  The dark woman who sits where Teri should be lifts an amused eyebrow when Eve apologizes. “Don’t worry, honey, I do that all the time. Is your partner joining you shortly?”

  There’s a not-quite invitation in the gender-neutral words and Eve is surprised. She knows every lesbian by name in the small town where she and Teri live. All eight of them. She’s forgotten it’s different in cities.

  “No,” she says. “I’m here alone. On…business.”

  The woman smiles. “Welcome to Denver. May I buy you a drink?”

  There’s a subtle flirtation in the other woman’s voice, in the closeness of her hand to Eve’s on the counter. Laughter bubbles inside her. She’s here to meet another woman, and in minutes a stranger is chatting her up. A very attractive stranger, she amends to herself. “What about your partner?” she asks.

  The woman inclines her head. “I should have said I used to do that all the time. My partner died two years ago. But sometimes I still turn to where she’d be to share something with her.”

  “I’m sorry.” The words are inadequate, but what else is she supposed to say? “I’d love a drink. Pale ale, please.”

  The woman signals the server, and then holds out her hand to Eve. “I’m Justine.”

  Eve introduces herself, and takes Justine’s hand, holding it for three heartbeats too long. She’s practicing flirtation, because it’s been so long since she tried the moves—the tilt of the head, the slow smile. It’s different on the Internet, where she has the veil of anonymity and can be someone she’s not. Until later this evening when she is to meet LeeAnn, the not-quite-stranger. LeeAnn is blonde and statuesque, with a figure like a model in a men’s magazine, and she wants to eat Eve’s pussy, to munch it. She’s typed the words in private chats, words that have Eve snaking her hand into her pants to bring herself off with short, quick rubs, fearful of Teri catching her.

  Eve tries the head tilt and the smile on Justine to see if it works, and is rewarded with a flicker of Justine’s eyes down to where her breasts barely swell the white T-shirt. The pale ale arrives and Justine’s gaze breaks when the barman sets it down.

  Justine smiles, slow and knowing. “Here’s to new friends.” She clinks her wineglass against Eve’s beer and drinks as her gaze seeks out Eve again. “So tell me, Eve who is not from Denver, what is your business?”

  For a second Eve thinks she’s been caught, that Justine knows there is only dirty business. Her smile freezes as she realizes Justine’s noticed the hesitation.

  “You said you were here on business,” Justine clarifies. “I’m asking what it is you do.” Her direct stare seems to pick Eve’s true intentions out of her brain. “Are you an accountant? Maybe a vacuum salesperson.” Her smile makes it obvious she knows Eve is neither of those.

  Eve hesitates. Hide the truth, she thinks, evade, tell lies if you have to. “I sell handicrafts,” she says, in an approximation of the truth.

  “That you make?” asks Justine. “You and your partner at home, maybe?”

  “Something like that.” Eve’s short in her reply; the paranoia about what she is really doing in Denver puts rudeness in her voice.

  “It’s okay, honey,” says Justine. “You can keep your little secrets.” Her smile is feline, and she places a hand on Eve’s leg. “I don’t know who you are, or what you’re really doing in Denver, but I thought you might be open to some…company.” Her fingernail drags small circles on Eve’s thigh.

  Eve sees knowing in Justine’s dark eyes. As if Justine has been in Eve’s position, sitting, jittery and on edge, about to do something that puts everything that is precious on the line. The urge to confess rises in her throat. Justine is not her god on a dusty plain, but Eve wants some sort of judgment. Maybe Justine is a smooth swinging city woman, who will laugh at the insignificance of what Eve plans. Maybe she and her partner had an open relationship, sucked and fucked with strangers. Or maybe she’s a church lady, bound to her partner until death did them part, and she’ll demand they drop to their knees to pray.

  “Actually…” The neutral look on Justine’s face encourages her. “Teri and I have been together all our lives. But I’m here to meet a woman I know from the Internet.” She steals a glance at Justine. Her expression—open, encouraging—makes her forge on. “I’ve never slept with another woman in my life. Don’t get me wrong, I love Teri, but I want to know what it’s like with someone else.”

  “You could have gone to a sex worker.”

  “True, but that’s not for me. I need a connection with someone. I met LeeAnn in a lesbian chat room. Physically, she’s everything my partner is not. She’s tall, blonde, immaculately presented. She knows it’s just for one night, she’s okay with that.”

  “And then you’ll go home and carry on as normal?”

  “Yeah. That will be the end of it.”

  “Will it? What if it’s just the start?”

  “No.” There’s conviction in Eve’s voice. “I won’t let it be. I love Teri. She’s my soul mate. This is a onetime deal.”

  “What about guilt? Will you be able to look Teri in the eye?”

  “I don’t know,” Eve admits, “but I still have to do this.” She looks down at her hands, wound tightly together in her lap. Justine’s fingers still rest on her thigh. Eve could stretch her own fingers and brush them across Justine’s, but she doesn’t. Things are complicated enough. “LeeAnn wants to do things to me that Teri won’t. She wants to use…toys. And she wants to munch my pussy. Teri loves going down on me, but that word, ‘munch,’ it conveys such enthusiasm.”

  Justine is silent for a moment, then she says, “When are you meeting LeeAnn?”

  Eve checks the time. “In about twenty-five minutes. I should go. I have to get back to the hotel.”

  Justine stands. “I’m coming with you.”

  Startled, Eve stands as well. “There’s no need for that.”

  Justine’s dark eyes are inscrutable. “I think there is. You need someone at your back. Don’t worry, I won’t interfere, but not everyone is as they appear on the Internet. You meet LeeAnn in the bar. I’ll be sitting across the room. If you like what you see, I’ll leave after thirty minutes. If you don’t, then you can make an excuse and come and join me.”

  Eve hesitates, but Justine’s words make sense. But she’s only known Justine for less than an hour—she’s known LeeAnn for months. It will be okay. “Come on then.”

  They don’t speak as they walk to her hotel. Eve gets a drink at the bar—red wine, not pale ale—she wants to look sophisticated, and besides, too much beer and she’ll be peeing all night. She looks around. LeeAnn isn’t here yet; there’s a couple in one corner, two businessmen deep in conversation at the bar, and a man reading The Denver Post alone at a table. No LeeAnn. Eve settles into a chair where she has a clear view of anyone who enters the bar. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Justine doing something on her phone at the bar.

  The minutes tick on. The businessmen leave, the couple order food, Justine is watching the Rockies game on TV. The man is watching her over the top of his paper, she realizes. She looks away to discourage his gaze. Her glass is empty, and it’s twentyminutes past the time when she was to meet LeeAnn. Eve orders another glass of wine. As the server sets it down, the man folds the paper and leaves it on his chair. He rises, and walks across to her, stopping in front of her chair, uncomfortably close.

  Eve looks up, and lets her glance flick away dismissively.

  “Eve?” the man says. “I’m LeeAnn.”

  She remembers little of the next few minutes. There was a blur of raised voices, of red wine roiling in her stomach, and anger lighting her blood. There was the
slap, startling and sudden, his red cheek, her shaking legs. Then there was Justine, her hand underneath Eve’s elbow, urging her to leave, asking for her room number.

  When her mind clears, she’s sitting on the edge of the big king bed for which she had such hopes. Justine emerges from the bathroom, presses a damp washcloth into her hands.

  When Eve can speak without her voice shaking, she says, “I guess it serves me right.” She looks at Justine. “Did you know? Or guess?”

  “A bit of both. When you said ‘munch’ it sounded familiar. It’s an unusual description. Then I remembered something online about a man who posed as a lesbian to pick up lesbians. He used that term.”

  “What’s the point of that?”

  Justine shrugs. “Power? The age-old idea that a lesbian is just a woman who hasn’t met the right man?”

  “I feel so fucking stupid.” Eve’s voice is small, weak. She can’t think of the past weeks without shame—mainly that she was so stupid, falling for the oldest Internet trick in the world. The buzz of arousal that shaded her actions for the past weeks has withered and died.

  Justine sits next to her and takes Eve’s hands in both of hers. “Don’t beat yourself up, honey. It happens. You’re not the first, you won’t be the last.”

  “Maybe, but it’s the last for me. No more chat rooms, no more cybersex…” She shudders, caught in the falseness of it all. “That man, getting off on… I’m going home tomorrow. I’m obviously not cut out for adultery.” The god on the plain will send her to hell, for her intent was there, even if there was no action. And Teri…the guilt will come. She will go home and give Teri all the love in her heart, too wracked with the guilt of her betrayal to consider straying.

  She just wishes she had experienced something to make that guilt worthwhile.

  Justine shifts, and takes Eve’s hands in her own, leans in and kisses her. Her lips rest on Eve’s, a breath of hesitation. Eve feels the curve of Justine’s lips as she smiles. Justine stays still, their mouths touching, their hands entwined. There’s an offer in the kiss, an offer to salvage something of the evening. With a thrill, Eve realizes she’s considering it—more than considering it. She wants it, wants Justine with an urgency. It’s not just the situation, or the timing, or even the knowledge that it’s now or never; Eve feels free again, and the thrill beats an urgent tattoo in her belly.