Best Lesbian Erotica 2004

by Tristan Taormino

  I hadn’t expected this from her. Starting out as casual lovers, we had become more like friends in the years we’d lived together. We’d never had the kind of sex they write songs about, but lately I had wondered if she was interested in me at all anymore. In fact, I’d asked her to come to the woods with me because I missed her. I had intended to sneak in a kiss or two to let her know that, although most of the time she was just my friend, there were times when I was struck by an aching desire to sink into her; my whole body into her whole body, like those lumps of clay. I never thought she could be hiding such a feeling.

  I stared at those muddy hands, and the teasing brown eyes above them, and sloshed through the water toward her. I wrapped my arms around her waist and pulled her into the river with me. She landed feet first, splashing us with a wave of cool red water. Her body yielded against mine. May is soft and rounded in a way that screams sex. Without a bra, her breasts overlap her ribs and sway heavily when she walks. I am tall and unwieldy; my bones long and heavy and dense.

  She kissed me, pried my lips open to draw me in. Our tongues twisted and wrestled past each other. I felt the ridges on the roof of her mouth, the sharp edges of her front teeth. Warm breath from our nostrils billowed against our faces, mixing with sweat. The backs of my eyelids were garnet-red, river-red, kissing-May-red. When she pulled away, my glasses were fogged around the edges, so the bank was a green blur. Silt had settled in around my feet in the current and sucked at them when I moved.

  We found a sandbar and I pulled her down with me, our legs trailing in the river. We peeled clothes off, our own and each other’s, enough to get to skin. Our shirts were bunched under our armpits, her shorts snagged around one ankle and streaming in the current as I bent over her. Sweat and water dampened her belly, and the hair guarding her cunt was coarse and wiry, holding water droplets at the ends, and long enough to catch my fingers in. My own cunt was swollen and drooling between my legs. I sucked her nipples, wore away at them with my tongue. We were melting, blending into the water. Water was in everything; the ground soft and muddy, the air steam-humid and sticky, and the two of us, leaking moisture together.

  I scooped my fingers into her the way her fingers had scooped the bank. Inside, she was soft and slick, like wet clay in that state between earth and water. I molded her with my tongue, widening trenches, deepening valleys. She comes more easily when I use a light touch, but I didn’t have the restraint. I wanted to bury my face in her cunt for a year, learn to breathe the waters of the womb again. My own cunt egged me on, swollen and aching. Touch it and I would crack open like a too-ripe melon. May’s soft thighs shuddered and gripped my head, and I kept on until she let me go. We panted together on the bank, lying still. My cunt pulsed and I waited.

  She thrust a knee between my legs, rolled us over and into the water. I went eagerly. Then her hand pressed between my legs, finally. I tried to open my cunt like a mouth and suck her fingers in. I barely noticed her weight on my chest, the silt under my shoulders sliding and giving way.

  And suddenly I was choking, gasping, snorting water up my nose and stinging in my throat, and blind panic grabbed my mind and I heaved her off me and sat up. We stared at each other for a moment, me angry and coughing, her looking stung.

  “You tryna kill me?” Fear does not turn me on. The ache consuming my pelvis, the swollen-to-bursting hill between my legs, was forgotten, drowned by panic.

  She flinched. “Oh god, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean… Are you okay?”

  Of course I forgave her. I always did. I forgive easily, suddenly; May is the one who holds a grudge. Breathing deep between coughs, I tasted the bitter tannin water and smiled. “Yeah. Just let me get my breath.”

  May stroked my wet breast with one hand as I tried to stop coughing. By the time I was breathing normally, my desire for her was already coming back, and May’s caresses gradually shortened, making smaller and smaller circles around my nipples. I moaned through a tight throat, because she liked to hear me, and she took her hand off my breast and bowed over me to replace it with her mouth. I wanted my whole body to open up and gulp her as she moved over me.

  She teased me until she had me writhing and thrusting my cunt into her hand. Her thumb fit perfectly inside me, anchored me to her as her tongue lapping my clit sent me quivering and my head tried to float away and join the leaves shivering in the breeze above. I closed my eyes. The light-and-dark pattern on the backs of my eyelids danced and shuddered, and then my whole body was dancing and shuddering with it.

  Then May crawled up beside me, and we lay together in the shallows, the damp yielding sandbar under our heads. A breeze too high for us to feel it stirred the treetops, making splotches of yellow-green light and gray-green shadow dance over the ground and our bodies. My limbs were heavy, sinking into the sand and water, the current pushing vainly at my thighs. I didn’t want to move ever again.

  But after a while I started to notice the mosquitoes and gnats whining around our bare bodies, and the broken fossil jabbing me in the shoulder, and the way the mud was drying on our bodies in spite of the sweat. May must have noticed these things too because she slid out of my grasp and got up and started getting dressed. I dragged myself up to follow, pulled my own wet clothes on. I found her shorts downstream a few yards, caught on a branch, and fished them out of the current for her.

  May reached up to run her fingers through my hair, playing with the sand-matted ends at the back of my neck. The woods lay quiet around us. We turned our backs to the river, trusting it to keep our secrets, and found the path back to civilization.

  “Why don’t we do this more often?” I said.

  “I guess I forgot how much fun it was.”

  “So now that you remember…?”

  May grinned. “Don’t tell me this isn’t enough to satisfy you for at least a week.”

  “A week’s not so bad,” I said, carefully neutral. I wanted to chew her labia.

  May skimmed her water-wrinkled fingertips down the edge of my face, down my neck, reaching under my shirt; brought them up again, and licked them. “So we have a date? Next week?”

  “Hell, yes.”

  We ducked through the whippy sweet-gum branches and out into the bright day-lit road. We swaggered home feeling good, and the sun cracked the mud from our skin, leaving little flakes of sex on the hot asphalt.

  In the Beginning There Was a Fantasy

  Jeni Wright

  This is a story about loneliness, the kind of loneliness that starts off as a piece of sharp-edged sea glass and ends up being smooth and worn and safe. I was in the middle stage, where the broken parts are still jagged but don’t draw blood anymore. Then you called and instantly I was back at the beginning. Wherever that was.

  Maybe the beginning is the night I got drunk at the beach and used the empty bottles to make the sea rocks feel my pain, maybe the beginning is the afternoon you met me for lunch, maybe the beginning is the morning I wanted to wake up next to you. I don’t know anymore.

  This is a story about loneliness and its value. I know loneliness, it works me like a starved jaw, trails me like the wedding veil I want to wear one day. Morning noon and night I plot myself out of its reach.

  You called last week and I felt everything I wasn’t supposed to, wished for everything I was supposed to ignore. I’m tired of being out of your reach.

  Today I was too slow, my loneliness caught up, and now I have to lie here and pretend you’re with me.

  There is so much hardness in you I want to feel next to me, on me, in me. Your dick over my clothes as we slide up and down the living room couch, your knee on the inside of my thigh when you kiss me at the front door, your belt-buckle under the heat of my dripping pussy. There’s so much hardness in you: the bones of your forearms, elbows, fingers, pelvis, thighs, shins, ribcage, and the rawboned hardness in your dark brown eyes.

  It’s dark outside. I lie here, doors locked, lights out, window open. I get up to look for matches and a candle. I light the
one with the longest wick and go back to my mattress.

  Your hand lifts the strap of my thin white tank top, the one with the faded pink triangles, and slips it over my bare shoulder.

  You have magic inside you, you draw a line with your thick black boot and dare the beast to cross it. Fuck loneliness, I’ve got a fantasy. You’re in it.

  My left nipple is exposed now, my left arm also. I’m getting goose bumps. The rest of me is hidden under a white cover, newly-washed. I removed your boots at the bedroom door but your feet are still big, and black. Your sleeves are rolled up and I want to place my tongue in the crook of your arm.

  This is my fantasy and it’s as real as the fierce-ass wind running wild though the treetops outside my window.

  You place your tongue on my nipple, the left one, the one that’s all sharp and pointy because it’s cold in our bedroom. Your warm mouth makes me wonder what it would be like to have a baby. Can I have a baby with a butchdaddy? I decide. Yes.

  Did I imagine her voice in my ear, whispering I’d be the flyest mom on the block? I imagine the pictures I’d carry in my wallet. The expressions of straight people who’d never believe me.

  Your teeth on my nipple make me bite the insides of my cheek. I want more. I always want more.

  I know you will give it to me.

  Your smile is a sliver of total wickedness when my eyes finally focus. My dizziness does not prevent me from turning over on the bed we set up ourselves. Together. I follow the hand guiding my hip and allow myself to be open to you.

  I want you to give it to me, sweetheart. Please. Please. I won’t say God or any other word that has no place here. I’ve learned the hard way to give credit where it is due, and God is not the one who makes me open my mouth wide and beg.

  You do. You’re in my asshole like you promised me, you came in like the gentle daddy you are, but now I’m hot and you’re fucking me so fast I forget to breathe. Now you’re going slow, slow, slow enough for me to feel every inch of your thickness, your rock-steadiness, your assurance of your right to view my open asshole. I blush. Somehow you know my embarrassment, even though you’re behind me. My face is tilted to the side, pressed to the sheet, staring at the ocean you’ve painted on our walls. I know you like to see my face, my eyes and mouth especially, see how they change shape as you fuck me. You put your hand to my cheek, gently, trail it down to my neck. You order me to talk, to tell you how I feel inside. I feel safe and very lucky.

  “Your…thing feels so good…in me.”

  How can I be so shy when it comes to saying it out loud?

  You pull out quick enough to make me hiss. You flip me so quickly your eyes are a shock when they appear. Looking straight down at me, you hold your tool inches from my chin, say

  “This is not a thing. What is this?”

  I don’t want to answer, my shame is hot and delicious and incapacitating, but you wait for me, eyebrow cocked.

  “I know my little girl knows the name for what was inside her.”

  I do. I do know the name. I know it by heart, I learned it the same night first your dildo then your fist went inside me, made me open up more than I ever had before.

  “This is your cock, your dick, your hardness, your gift to me.” You smile.

  You help me see what I don’t want to witness. My loneliness trails me, snaps at me, helps me to see. I need both of you to survive until I can become my fantasy.

  You Can Write a Story about It

  Jera Star

  1.

  I wait to meet you on the porch, your silver roller blades shining all the way down the street. I finger the chain around my neck as you approach. We are still awkward at first on these casual rendezvous we’ve been having. You’re used to fucking friends. I’m used to fucking strangers. We are neither friends nor strangers. I’m a pink-haired hippie bi chick. You’re a crew-cut wanna-be-cop boy dyke. Sometimes, we fuck.

  “Hey, T,” I say.

  You’ve come over after watching that movie you love with the character named Troy in it. Where you got your boy name, the one you just told me about today. I haven’t yet called you by it.

  “Yo, what’s up?” you ask. I ignore your question. I’m distracted because you’re wearing a red baseball cap backwards—my weakness. You sit down beside me on the porch to take off your blades. “Oh, I saw a shooting star on the way here,” you tell me, excitement in your voice. You remind me of a little kid and I find it endearing. A nice change from your usual cocky, obnoxious talk. We sit for a while and talk about the stars. Then I bring you inside. You swagger up the stairs to my apartment. Follow me down the hall to the couch in the spare room.

  “How was your day?” I ask.

  This time you ignore my question. Instead you say, “You have strong hands.” I know you are trying to move things along to what we both really want to be doing. But still, it’s one of the few compliments you have ever and will ever (I realize later) offer me. I relish it. And take your bait.

  “You want a massage?”

  You sit on the floor in front of the couch. I start massaging your shoulders through your clothes. After a minute, you bring out a little container of strawberry massage oil from your pocket. I laugh, getting the point. I take off your shirt. Drip the oil onto your back. You say it feels like lube: cold and hot. I massage again, starting at your neck. Mold your skin. Flex my fingers around your muscles. Shoulders, upper arms. Move my hands in front to your pecs. Careful to avoid your breasts. I stretch your arms up and lay them back down against your sides. Touch my fingers to your lower spine, one of your erogenous zones. Stay there for a while, applying pressure. Playing. You cut right to the chase.

  “So, Sue, tell me about your first kiss.” You want to get at my fantasies. This is what we do for each other. I like the question.

  “It felt so good I thought I could go on kissing him for hours. But then later, behind the portable, after school, he said, ‘What do you want to do to me?’ I didn’t want to do anything to him. I wanted him to do things to me. I wanted him to lick my whole body. All the way from mouth to clit.”

  “What else?” you ask as I work on your shoulder muscles.

  “Hmm, I was too shy to tell him what I wanted. So we just kissed some more,” I answer, absorbed in my hands pushing into your back. “Eventually I told him I didn’t want to be monogamous and he didn’t like that.” You laugh, not sure about it yourself.

  “Tell me, Sue, what you want me to do to you. Who, what, where you want me to be.”

  I smile.

  You try and grab my tits and I love it. You try and tickle me and I don’t like it. We laugh as you try to tickle me and I tell you to stop.

  “Don’t,” I say.

  “Don’t what?” you say, grabbing my tits again, putting your hands in my pants. “Don’t Boy-T? Don’t Daddy? Don’t Troy? Don’t touch my tits? Don’t touch my clit? Don’t make me come? Huh? Don’t what?” I squirm. Hot, fucking hot.

  “Daddy,” I moan, wanting your hand on my clit. “Daddy, please.” I squirm more as you fondle me, feel me, make my clit swell. You take your hand away.

  I whine, hurt, sad, “Daddy, please. Come on Daddy. Give me. Give me please. Daddy, please.”

  You give in and give me some more. Turn me over on my stomach. I moan and cry with the sensations in my cunt. Your hand still fingers my clit. I want more, you pull your fingers away. I whine.

  “Oh, poor baby,” you say. “What’s wrong? Is there something wrong, baby?”

  “Please, Daddy.” I’m close to crying. You put your fingers back.

  “There you go, baby. Come on. You’re a good girl.” You move your finger faster on my clit. I moan and say “Please, daddy‚” again and come madly, sweetly, sadly in your arms.

  “Do you love me?” you ask.

  “Yes, Daddy, I love you.”

  I shed some tears. We are both quiet.

  Finally I say, “And you, T, what do you want me to do, be for you?”

  I straddle y
ou. Take off my shirt. Kiss you. Take off my bra while you watch. Take off your jeans and boxer briefs and spread your legs. Move down your body to your belly. You feel vulnerable with it exposed, I know. I linger there, my eyes on you. My tongue licking around your belly button. I start fingering your clit slowly, gently.

  “Do you do this to all the boys?” you ask.

  “Just my slave-boys,” I say. You make small moans. I stop playing with you. Ask, “Were you a good boy today?”

  “I hope so,” you answer. You always make me laugh.

  “You think you deserve this?” I ask.

  “Yes, Mistress,” you moan as I push one finger inside your cunt.

  “Why do you think you deserve this?” I play with your clit some more.

  “Because it feels so good.” You start humping my finger. I bend down to kiss you and just when you’re ready for it, I pull away. You try to bring my lips to yours again. I don’t let you.

  “Ah, Boy-T wants to kiss me does he?” I say to you, holding your arms above your head.

  You close your eyes. “Uh-huh,” you say, still humping.

  “Now why would I want to let him do that?”