Best Lesbian Erotica 2010

by Kathleen Warnock

  She was so petite, I could have overpowered her in an instant, but I didn’t want to. I let her hold my wrists with one of her tiny hands, while the other roamed between our bodies to unbutton my jeans and push them down over my hips. As she worked, I kicked off my boots, eager to be free of everything that was in the way of her fingers reaching my cunt. After hours of unrequited flirting, it was a relief—and a turn-on—to be someone else’s toy for a change. Although Aimee looked like she’d stepped off the set of “Leave It to Beaver,” she seemed to be propelled by the same animalistic desires that were churning within me.

  Aimee moved quickly, and my pants were soon an indigo puddle at my feet. Momentarily breaking our kiss, I stepped out of the tangle of denim, still clad in my panties, T-shirt and leather jacket. She kicked one of my feet, urging my legs farther apart, and pulled the crotch of my damp panties aside to get at what she craved. Her slender fingers plunged into my juicy pussy, and her face broke out in a self-satisfied smile as she toyed with my wet hole. With practiced ease, she pulled out and skidded her fingertips over my swollen clit. I moaned loudly at her touch and bore down, desperate for a stronger hand.

  “Turn around,” she said sharply. “Hands against the wall.” I obeyed, palms flat against the cool tiles, and heard another rustle of nylon as Aimee knelt between my legs. She grabbed the sides of my panties and roughly yanked them down my legs, leaving them wrapped around one ankle as she again urged my legs apart. Not wasting any time, she grabbed my hips and pulled my cunt toward her face. I sighed with delight as her tongue teased my clit and slowly traced my slit. She moaned as she sampled my sex, teasing my slick folds for seemingly endless minutes before again flicking her tongue against my clit with a maddeningly light touch. I pushed back against her face, wanting more of everything, and she pulled away and slapped me hard on the ass, making my cunt ache even more for her.

  “I didn’t tell you to move,” she hissed, her voice sexy and commanding.

  I stilled my bucking hips as I savored the lingering sting of her slap and fervently hoped she’d return her attention to my pussy. She kept me waiting for what felt like an eternity, but in reality I knew it must have only been a few seconds. Impatient, I carefully glanced over my shoulder to see Aimee stand and swipe a dollop of frosting off an icing spatula, coating her thumb with pink buttercream. I quickly averted my eyes before I got caught, and my lids fluttered closed as I felt her smear the frosting over my back hole. Aimee worked her butter-coated thumb into my asshole as she simultaneously wiggled a finger into my cunt. I clawed at the wall, feeling my knees grow weak and struggling to maintain my posture. I did my very best to stay still as Aimee fucked both my holes, her other fingers stroking my clit with each upward thrust of her hand. At that moment, all of my thoughts disappeared. All that mattered were Aimee’s insistent digits plunging in and out of my clutching holes, satisfying weeks of longing in a matter of minutes.

  With my eyes shut tight, I focused on the sensation of those slim fingers plundering me. Her body was pressed up tightly against mine as she worked me into a frenzy. The rough, irregular thrusts of her hand and the occasional swipe of my clit had me desperate to come. I was groaning with longing, a sound that seemed to echo loudly in the tiled workspace, even as I buried my face in my leather-covered shoulder.

  “That’s it,” she whispered in my ear. I shuddered at the harsh tone in her voice, all hints of sweetness and light having disappeared. “Come all over my hand, you little slut.” Her dirty words sparked my orgasm, which hit me like a flash of lightning. The sudden spike of pleasure consumed me, making me shudder violently as the sensations suffused my entire being. I cried out as my spasming holes clutched her thrusting digits, and I rode out the final waves of my orgasm as she continued to finger-fuck me until my cries lowered in volume and urgency.

  “Good girl,” Aimee whispered in my ear, sounding pleased with herself as she withdrew her sticky fingers. “But don’t think you’re done yet.” She pulled me away from the wall and urged me to lie down on the floor on my back. I still hadn’t caught my breath from coming so hard and fast, but that didn’t stop Aimee. She pulled up her dress and straddled my face, releasing her crinolines and enveloping me in a white, nylon cloud as her pussy hovered temptingly close to my lips.

  Aimee’s cunt was bare—no hair, no undies—and the subtle perfume of her aroused sex made my mouth water more than any treat in her store ever could. I grabbed her ass, feeling the coarse texture of her ruffled garter straps under my hands as I palmed her cheeks and pulled her toward my hungry mouth. She was dripping with honey and I dove right in, lapping at her slick sex and savoring her sweet flavor.

  I delved between her pink folds and began fucking her with my tongue, enjoying the musical sound of her pretty sighs and the feel of her skirts scratching my face as she bucked her hips. I was eager to make her feel as good as she’d made me, so I honed in on her puffy button, taking it between my lips and teasing it with my tongue.

  Having such direct attention being lavished on her sensitive clit seemed to send Aimee into overdrive. She took her pleasure from me with an increasing fervor, grinding against me and dancing in circles as she rode my face. She was a hypnotic mix of sugar and spice, her deceptively sweet look a saccharine cover for her barely concealed lust. I was thankful I’d gotten the chance to peel back her frilly wrappings and discover the sexy woman that lurked within.

  I doubled my efforts on Aimee’s cunt, and she matched me stroke for stroke as she bucked toward my face. I snapped her garter straps and stroked the smooth tops of her nylons as she writhed above me, rapidly approaching her limits. Before long, Aimee cried out and shuddered in my hands as she came, sending a flood of sticky juice into my mouth. I lapped up the remnants of her release, listening to the sound of her breath returning to normal.

  When she’d regained her senses, she climbed off my face and sat next to me. Her cheeks were flushed becomingly, but she looked no worse for wear. I knew I couldn’t say the same for myself. I felt thoroughly tossed, and I was sure I looked it, too—especially in the bright, early morning sunlight that was now streaming into the kitchen through the overhead skylights.

  I glanced at the wall clock and saw that I was running out of time. I needed to get home and wash the scent of sex off of me, so I could meet my client and pretend to be a somewhat professional businesswoman. I hastily apologized to Aimee, who didn’t seem to mind in the least. She had her own business to attend to, with the grand opening and all.

  She stood and straightened her dress, flashing me another bright smile, and disappeared out front. By the time I’d redressed myself and emerged from the kitchen, Aimee had poured me a cup of coffee to go and handed me a small cardboard box wrapped with red and white string. “Breakfast,” she said, smiling. “I’m closing around seven tonight. Come back for dessert,” she added with a wink before I turned to leave.

  After my morning meeting, I sat in my apartment and stared at the box of cupcakes that Aimee had handed to me as I left her store. I’d never been much for sugary treats, but I considered one of the little cakes for a moment and then took a bite, feeling the buttercream coat my tongue and appreciating its sweetness. It was delicious and surprisingly satisfying—much like Aimee herself. At that moment, I knew I’d return for more.

  I think I’ve developed a serious sweet tooth.

  BLOOD TIES

  Alex Tucci

  Aunt Rachel was my grandmother’s youngest sister, which makes you my second cousin. She had you late in life, so we were only a few years apart in age. Aunt Rachel gave me the love and acceptance I didn’t get at home. It was that love that allowed me to leave this small town. Her belief that I could become anything I chose to be gave me the courage to walk away from all that I had known, to make something meaningful for myself in the world beyond its borders.

  I thought the sun rose and set on her, though I didn’t always understand her. We had long, rambling conversations. She understood, years before I d
id, that this town would kill my spirit.

  And now I’ve come home, to say good-bye and wish her well on her next journey. With her passing, I’ve also come home for you.

  When I began to write, Aunt Rachel encouraged me. Not believing people would find anything of value in my words, I was hesitant at first. I showed her my tamer stories and poems, basking in the warmth of her praise for my talent.

  I wouldn’t write what I came to think of as my real stories until I went away to college. They began to emerge, gushing forth, in the deep hours of my nights. While others slept, I feverishly put pen to paper, pouring out the tales that struggled to be born. Stories of rage and desire, they reflected emotions I’d kept bottled up, believing that no one would understand, or approve of, the things I buried in the deepest corners of my soul.

  From across the crowded assembly hall of the church, I notice you watching me. You make the slightest motion with your head as you turn and walk out. I excuse myself, following you, trying desperately to appear as if my heart isn’t trying to beat right out of my chest.

  I tell myself this is about seeking life in the face of death. I accept the possibility this moment may never come again. I want it, nonetheless. I follow you downstairs, hypnotized by your swaying hips. How long have I yearned for this moment, dreaded it, dreamt of it? More than twenty years? Really? For some people, that constitutes a lifetime.

  But ours has never been a family that rushes into things, impulsive and daring. Needing to be just that, I chafed under that steadiness. Your mother knew it. She knew it about you as well. But your relationship with her was different than mine. Complicated and often unspoken emotions always churned just beneath the surface.

  We’ve known each other our entire lives. I left to find my way in the larger world. You stayed in the familiar cocoon of our hometown. I had dreams and ambitions. I know you had dreams too. Why did you set them aside and remain? There are so many questions I’ve never asked and you’ve never volunteered to answer.

  You open the bathroom door and turn on the light as I step in behind you and lock it. We stand there, looking at each other while the tension between us builds to the breaking point. We reach for each other, our mouths coming together for the first time, though I’ve dreamt of kissing you for years. Your lips part under mine as your tongue pushes its way into my mouth. Warm, wet velvety softness makes me groan as I think that your pussy must feel like this too.

  My hands fumble with the clasp of your dress. What I really want to do is just push the damn thing up, yank your panties down, and fuck you until you scream. But we’re in the basement of the church—old taboos die hard. So I fumble on, finally getting the clasp undone and pulling down the zipper, careful even in my haste not to tear the fabric. You step out of the dress, and I discover that you aren’t wearing panties anyway—one last act of rebellion. Looking at me, but not really seeing me, desire and some darker emotion cloud your eyes as you reach for my belt.

  I try to stay focused on what’s happening in the here and now, but my mind keeps wandering back in time….

  “Shawn! Shawn, where the hell are you? Mom says you best get your butt in the car before you get left!”

  On that day, I tried to ignore my brother’s voice, bellowing my name and breaking my concentration, as I watched what you, my cousins, were doing near the pool table in Aunt Rachel’s basement.

  You didn’t know I was there, or so I thought. If I was discovered, Carl and Tommy, Uncle George’s boys, would probably threaten to beat me into silence. Although I was only twelve, I knew you would be in big trouble if you got caught messing with the boys. And that’s what you were doing. Carl and Tommy had you sandwiched between them, Carl behind, Tommy in front, their hands and mouths all over you. Your hands were pulling Carl’s hips against your ass, while you ground your hips into Tommy’s crotch.

  We lived in the country, so I knew what was going on—mating animals took care of that early. I had never seen people go at it like this, however, except in the occasional magazine I sneaked from my brother’s room. I liked to stare at the naked women and imagine they were mine. I got all hot and excited when I looked at those pictures, but watching those boys paw at you just made me sick.

  Watching you didn’t make me sick. I got all sweaty and tongue-tied around you. And you seemed to know it. You’d mess up my already messy, short brown hair and tease me until I blushed furiously. Then you’d laugh and saunter off to tease the older boys, lush hips swaying as I swallowed the dry lump in my throat. The guys never seemed to get tongue-tied around you, but I somehow couldn’t be as cool as they were.

  I didn’t know what to do with how you made me feel: hot and cold, sweating, heart pounding, burning wetness between my clenched thighs. I only knew that it was somehow going to go hard for me if anyone ever found out. So I kept my thoughts to myself and watched you from a distance, wanting, yet fearful that you would notice how I could never seem to tear my eyes away from you.

  I heard Connor’s voice getting closer. The basement door flew open as feet pounded down the stairs. “Shawn, are you down here?” Connor hollered as he ran down the stairs.

  I peeked from my hiding place under the stairs, watching Carl and Tommy frantically pulling it together as they grabbed pool cues. You combed your fingers through your hair, trying to act as if you’d all just been playing a game.

  “Hey guys, have you seen Shawn?” Connor asked. “Mom’s pitching a fit. She got into it with Aunt Rachel again. I just love these family get-togethers, don’t you? Praise the Lord, and pass the potato salad—and don’t forget your boxing gloves.”

  The three of you laughed with Connor, Tommy telling him, “I was just showing Mindy how easy it is to wipe the floor with Carl’s ass at pool.” You all followed him up out of the basement while my heart pounded with fear under the stairs, praying you wouldn’t find me. Connor and my male cousins could get downright mean at times. Not that I didn’t give as good as I got, but three to one wasn’t great odds.

  I waited until your voices faded before daring to step out from under the stairs. As I ran up the steps and reached for the doorknob, the door swung open. You were standing on the other side. You looked at me for a moment, anger, defiance and amusement warring across your face. Finally, you reached out and ran one fingernail down the inside of my arm, raising goose bumps as you went. You looked at me in a way I had never seen you look at me before, and the bottom dropped out of my stomach.

  “Connor’s looking for you. Our mothers got into it again, but I suppose you already know that. If you don’t want to walk home, you’d better hurry up.” With that, you walked away, glancing over your shoulder as I stood rooted to the floor. “Are you walking or riding, Shawn?” you asked.

  I took a deep breath to steady myself. “I think I’ll walk. I can’t stand listening to Mom rant about Aunt Rachel,” I said as I walked through the door you were holding open for me.

  As I passed you and stepped onto the porch, you grabbed my shoulder. Leaning into my back hard enough for me to feel your breasts pressing into my shoulder blades, to smell the clean Ivory soap scent of your skin, you whispered in my ear, “Someday you might understand what you saw down there, Shawn. When you do, if you want to, come talk to me.”

  I stood stock-still for a moment, brain trying to digest what you said. Then I wrenched myself away from you in one long stride. I hurried away from you, being very careful not to fall going down the porch steps. Suddenly I felt as though the earth might split open and swallow me whole if I didn’t walk very softly. I didn’t look back, fearing what I might foolishly do if I looked at you again.

  I walked home, kicking at the dust and gravel along the shoulder of the road, seeing you in my mind’s eye: honey brown hair, warm topaz eyes, all curves and soft girl skin, tanned from the summer sun. Across your lightly freckled face spread a slow, lazy smile, as if you knew things that no one your age could or should. Your eyes turned almost yellow whenever the sun shone directly in them. Ca
ts have eyes that color, and they suited you well—you had the same grace and sensuality cats possess. And just under the surface, I’d always sensed the wildness in you, though it would be years before I understood that and everything else I felt around you.

  I discovered, later that night in the dark privacy of my room, that I could make the burning ache inside me go away for a while, even if it was a sin. Guilty, trembling, impatient fingers rubbed the wetness between my legs, your face behind my tightly closed eyes, taunting me and pushing me until I exploded and fell, shattered and bereft, back onto my soaked sheets.

  Our lives went on, but there was something new and dangerous hovering beneath the surface when we were together. We never spoke of that day. As I became a teen and a young adult, you started treating me as a peer, rather than a younger cousin. I told you my dreams and you told me yours. We whispered secrets to each other, but never spoke of the emotions that stood between us, perhaps believing if we refused to acknowledge them, they would go away. But they never went away; we just buried them deeper.

  In the church basement, you tug on my belt, your hands shaking as badly as mine. I take your hands away and tell you to wait. I start to unbuckle my belt, and you say, “I can’t believe you had the guts to show up here packing.” I laugh and tell you, “I can’t believe you even know what that means.” You toss your hair back and look me in the eye. “Just because I live in the boonies doesn’t mean I’m stupid or clueless, Shawn,” you say, as your fingertips graze my ribcage, raising goose bumps on my skin and making my nipples painfully hard beneath my shirt.