Best Lesbian Erotica 2004

by Tristan Taormino

  “Do you really want this?”

  I swallowed. “It’s a little late to ask that question, don’t you think?”

  Above me, Ria laughed. She began to move with long, luxurious strokes, pushing deep inside me, then inching out, like she was pulling apart melting toffee. My back arched for her. I could feel the sweat gathering along my spine, trailing down the sharp valley of flesh that led to my tattoo. My breath released in a shuddering sigh. “Now. Please.”

  The table groaned under us as she rode me, building up her strength and speed with each stroke. I gasped and panted and pushed back into her, wanting more. Ria cradled my hips in hers, hands curved around my waist as she thrust into me.

  “I missed you,” she said, not meaning a word of it.

  “Just shut up and fuck me.”

  Beyond thought, I spread myself wider to take more of her. I lost myself in the soft liquid suck of my pussy around Ria’s dick, her low moans and the slide of my sweat-soaked skin under hers. Ria’s hands covered my breasts, squeezing the nipples to the rhythm of her strokes. Beads of sweat, hers and mine, splashed against the table. The sensitivity of my back, the friction and pressure of her dick, the hands on my breasts were all pushing me toward the coming I craved. Wetness trailed down my trembling thighs.

  “Do it now,” I demanded.

  Ria’s breathless laughter poured over me as she lifted my hips to fit us even closer together. Her thighs slapped against mine. Faster. Pinpricks of heat flew from our contact point all over me, into me; my body was a ball of light, throbbing, waiting for the right signal to explode. Her gloved finger circled my clit, then finally, firmly, stroked the throbbing bundle of nerves. That was the signal my body was waiting for.

  Her name ripped itself from my throat in a low, ragged moan. I pushed my face into the sweat-dampened leather, shuddering under her. The table shook as I collapsed against it. Behind me, I heard the sound of a condom being stripped off and tossed away.

  “You’re done,” she said.

  I licked my dry lips and took a deep shuddering breath. “I hope so.”

  “I meant your tattoo.”

  “Me too.”

  She gave me instructions on how to take care of my tattoo, looking away as I pulled my clothes back on.

  “Thanks.”

  In the mirror, my tattoo was like a dream. A silhouette of the Goddess of Desire, a writhing, snake-haired woman with her long legs spread and arms open wide to embrace the universe. My own legs trembled as aftershocks of pleasure rippled through my body.

  “Sure.” She looked at me with a slight smile. “This tatt’s on the house. Tell Shelly to give you the money back and I’ll settle up with her later.” This was as close to a real apology that I was going to get from her.

  I nodded and kissed her soft, pouting mouth. “See you around.” After one last lingering glance at her, I walked out, smiling and satisfied. Just like in old times, Ria had given me exactly what I wanted.

  Look but Don’t Touch

  Sparky

  You look down and see the bottle of whiskey lying in casual spills of cum.

  You envy the boys for those quick joyous fountains.

  It will take you much longer.

  The walls are shiny from others before you: a glaze of sperm, sweat, other shoulders in leather jackets, and the strangely mouthwatering smell of cleaning solution.

  Your shoulders are narrow. You fit neatly into this dark box.

  There is no great mystery, you think, sliding a dollar into the glowing slot. Surrounded by darkness, you think of your mom, comforting you in the locker room: “We’re all girls here.”

  But you smell like cool water for men and pomade, and you wear your most dapper boy clothes, black leather jacket and boots. Your hair is freshly cropped and no one can tell the tinge of lip liner. Your hair is carefully in its borrowed tranny boy flip. You are prepared for a mystery date. Who is behind the glass? That is the mystery.

  A bar of light widens. The black window rises.

  Five women in red-gold light are surrounded by mirrors. Dancing naked with their own lush bodies, with the mirrors reflecting silver and red flashes, girls upon girls, like the room is packed. One comes over to see you, dances before you. She has small, rounded breasts, rounded hips, catlike black-rimmed eyes and a ready, naughty smile, stands on tall vinyl stiletto boots. A black bob, a mini-version of Uma Thurman in Pulp Fiction.

  Your face becomes hot. Your ears burn. Your expression is awe and wonderment. She grins down at you, pleased. Seductive. She shows you her breasts; their skin looks impossibly smooth and clean, with golden-rimmed, small nipples. You see the hollow of her throat, her collarbone, her little belly.

  She is the loveliest being on the planet.

  She is naked before you and you can do nothing but look and look.

  You keep looking at her hips, peek at her pussy, and give long lustful looks to her boots.

  “I bet that smile gets them every time,” she purrs.

  You realize you are grinning like a fool. You shake your head no but cannot stop the grin that is shy, nervous, awed.

  She calls the others over. “Look how cute! Look at those dimples!”

  Now you could not stop smiling if you tried.

  Four of them peep in the window at you, pressing against it. They pretend to poke your dimples. “So cute!” Real smiles from them. You want to duck and you are blushing so hard but there’s nowhere to go, the window’s open, and your money is in there ticking away relentlessly.

  They move to other open windows and you are left with little Uma Thurman. “I like your boots,” you say.

  You hear the click as she rests one high heel on the window ledge and bends over so you look up the spike heel and vinyl boot to her incredible round ass. She peeks at you from above her delicate pussy lips and asshole, smiling because, you think to yourself, now she knows. She knows how to get you. You feel tormented with need to be licking those boots.

  She turns to face herself in the mirror and lowers herself below your window. She writhes back and forth. You realize with delight that she is fucking your imaginary cock. She’s smiling sweet and wicked, as if she knows exactly how hard this gets your clit.

  The black square of window lowers. She bends down to grin underneath, waving. You see the shiny toe of her boot, and are left in darkness.

  You feel wired and keyed up, you’ve been here a long time and are likely to stay longer, not willing to jerk off like the others. You told yourself to come here for the experience but you will get yourself turned on until you want to climb the booths, kiss and claw at the glass, so near to those girls. Wanting to please them all.

  The next booth smells salty and familiar. You realize it’s freshly-pumped semen that glitters on the floor. You feel a sense of solidarity. You put twenty into the slot. You are in for the full ride.

  The window rises. You lock eyes with a new dancer, across the carpeted, mirrored stage. This one has a cute black bob with little ponytails and bangs. She has little Cupid’s-bow pouty lips and huge dark eyes with long lashes. She wears white thigh-high fishnets with bits of lace at the top and high-heeled sandals.

  But most of all she has a body that is so lush and curvy, it looks familiar. It could be your own. She has a rounded tummy and her hips and thighs are buttery and luscious. With her black hair and sexy tummy, she reminds you of your first girlfriend. She is innocent and powerfully sexual. It is like the glass is gone.

  She looks unimaginably soft and delicious. You want to roll around on top of her and feel her up, lick up and down her luxurious hips and belly.

  She comes up and licks her lips, pouting and sexy, thrusting her heavy breasts, writhing her hips against the window. Her lips are trembling. You realize it’s an effort for her to keep from cracking up. Soon she cannot stop smiling. Her eyes are half-lidded. She is everything lush and full, and you want to take her around the waist and wrap her legs around you. But she’s behind the glass.

 
You ponder what to say. Poetry? Blank verse? “You are so cute,” you say at last.

  She smiles for real, her eyes lingering on you. “So are you!”

  Her name is Persephone and that is not, she informs you, her real hair. She leans over to pull the wig a little. Her hair is blonde and cropped short, recently shaved.

  The window closes and opens again, slowly revealing her white fishnets and finally the lace trim and her ass. She’s talking to the other dancers. It’s late now, and the catlike Uma Thurman dancer from earlier is stretched out against one wall, naked except for her boots, a lazy smile on her face. You are one of two people still watching. The dancers lounge around naked and hot under the lights, beautiful and untouched. It looks humid. You want to fan them with palm leaves. Suck on ice cubes and breathe mist into their lips. Wear your own outfit of gold sandals, and be their altar boy or temple acolyte….

  Persephone does a silly dance, climbs up the pole and twists her way back down, does handstands for you. She comes back to your window and her eyes focus on you, serious, thinking. She undulates and smiles, showing you her ass, her tits, her shoes, her pussy, right at eye level. You cannot look away, you are enchanted. She is pink and luscious, sparkling, red-gold from the lights. She licks and bites her own nipple and you finally feel your clit so warm and hard the feeling has spread throughout your lower body, the urgency of this is unfuckingbearable.

  You feel overwhelmed. You do not know what to do. How do guys deal with this? You look at the pools of semen with new understanding, but you’re not about to do that here. Instead you feel wild, panicked, worshipful, at a standstill, spending more and more to keep seeing the girls deliciously naked and close enough to touch but you can’t, and your breath is steaming up this little stinky booth.

  The window lowers. The darkness is comforting after such staring at the light.

  You walk outside into the San Francisco night. You turn and the lights of the Golden Gate Bridge stretch across the bay. They are shimmering in the fog. You think of the shimmering girls in their mirrored fishbowl dancing late into the night. The bridge and the girls: glittering, remote, and comforting all at once.

  Never Say Never

  Rachel Kramer Bussel

  I can only come when my legs are spread apart as wide as possible. It doesn’t matter what else is going on at the time; if my legs are spread, I come so hard I feel like a rocket about to be zoomed into space, wild and breathing fire and out of control. I like the way my legs stretch and pull apart and cause all sorts of divine sensations in my cunt. Even the tiniest movements make my insides quiver and quake; sometimes I feel on the verge of tears, the sensations are that intense. Nothing else can compare. All of my partners have been more than happy to oblige. It’s really the only thing that works with me. At least, that’s what I thought.

  Until Jesse.

  One night, I was at a play party, a pretty quiet and slow one, which was fine with me. I decided to attend because it was the only game in town and I didn’t really want to be home all alone, but I wasn’t in the most sociable mood. I was sitting alone, eating chips and gazing off into space, physically present—but mentally off in my own dream world.

  “What are you into?”

  Someone had just invaded my quiet little area, barging right up to me in such an aggressive way I had to look around to make sure we were at the same staid party that happens every month. We were, even though I almost never see women act so boldly there. They usually eye each other all night and make suggestive comments and then at the very last minute quickly ask if the other one wants to play, knowing that there’s only time for the shortest of scenes.

  I was impressed with her audacity. I knew her name, Jesse, because everyone knew her name. I’d never spoken to her and she’d never so much as glanced at me before that I could tell, but I guess she’d noticed me lurking around. Maybe she was more observant than I’d given her credit for. She didn’t ask me first whether I was into her or wanted to play. I guess that was implied by the way I slouched against the wall, without trying to slink away or avert my eyes. Or maybe she was just one of those women filled with so much self-confidence that the idea of someone not wanting to play with her is completely foreign. In my case, her hunch was correct, but I didn’t want to make myself seem that easy. I stood there staring coolly back at her. The body language of consent was all she was going to get.

  “I said, what are you into?” she repeated, this time with an edge to her voice. I hadn’t answered yet because I don’t have a set answer, a one-size-fits-all play requirement; for me it really depends on the person, the setting, the context. It’s an odd question to me too; how will I know what will work with her until I try it? So I gave her a broad but definite response.

  “I don’t know if this is what you’re looking for, but I really like to come with my legs spread as far apart as they can be. That always works for me.”

  I didn’t tell her it was the only thing that worked for me, didn’t think I had to. She just looked at me; I couldn’t read her gaze. She seemed slightly unpleased, but she just took my hand and led me into a room. She closed the door; I didn’t look to see if she locked it, only half caring. I like my privacy too, even at a public play party.

  “So I’m not quite sure I understand what you mean. Why don’t you show me this fabulous way you like to come with your legs spread?”

  I was sweating and my heart was pounding. She was acting friendly but I still felt intimidated, waiting for the other shoe to drop and her secretly nefarious intentions to be revealed. I was used to tops telling me what to do, not asking for things from me. Maybe in this case she was doing both. I liked her and was turned-on but wasn’t sure if I could follow her instructions. It’s one thing to come alone, twisting and turning into all sorts of bizarre contortions to reach that pinnacle of pleasure, but doing it in front of another person, especially one who’s demanding it, was going to be a bit daunting.

  I quietly asked if she had a vibrator. She handed me a small but powerful black plug-in one. I gripped it tightly, noting the controls, then closed my eyes, afraid seeing her would affect me too much. I lay down on my back, spreading my legs widely. Then I turned it to the highest speed possible, the sound drowning out her breathing, and pressed it against myself. I felt my clit light up, straining for more contact, and spread my legs wider. I love how flexible I get when I’m aroused. I had my legs as wide apart as I could get them, when she came over toward me. She leaned over me, put her hands on my feet and pressed hard. Now I was totally split apart, the pain streaking down my thighs, twisting my pussy and making the vibrations that much more intense. I was having trouble breathing, but I didn’t mind. She kept pushing, staring down at me like some devious X-rated aerobics instructor. I could imagine her saying “Feel the burn,” as she kept bearing down on me, my cunt utterly exposed to her powerful eyes. I started to rock back and forth slightly, really getting into it, knowing that she was safely holding me, when the power stopped. She’d unplugged it somehow; I was so lost in my thighs and clit that I didn’t notice until it all came to a grinding halt. I stared up at her beseechingly. She couldn’t be making me stop now, she just couldn’t.

  “That’s enough of that for now, I just wanted to see what you like. Very good. Now we’re going to try something new,” she said briskly, like she was my boss giving me a challenging new assignment.

  I wanted to protest, but there was no time. She pulled me up and had me stand with my hands over my head. My heart was still beating fast, and I had no idea what was about to happen. She shackled my wrists above my head, and while they didn’t feel uncomfortable, I found myself starting to squirm. She pushed me toward the wall, facing it, and didn’t have to tell me to stay there. I was turned-on but there was very little I could do about it besides pressing my cunt against the wall.

  Then I felt her start to bind my ankles. I opened my mouth, but just held it open for a minute. What could I say? She obviously knew what she was doing and h
ad a plan for me. It felt kind of good actually, the soft rope pressing into my taut ankles, yet I couldn’t help wanting to spread my legs, even a little. All I could do at that point was rise up and down on my toes and wiggle fruitlessly against the ropes. When I tried that, she looked up at me with a severe expression, daring me to protest. When she’d finished with the last knot, she told me, “I think you’ll change your mind, sweetheart, just wait and see.” I had little choice on the waiting since I was now at her mercy.

  I could feel myself getting wet, a liquid refutation of my wiggling protests. She leaned into my ear. “I’m going to spank you and whip you now, and you’re going to like it, I can tell. I’ve heard about you, you little slut, acting all quiet and shy but I know what you really want. And it’ll be all the better because I’m gonna make you come with those pretty legs pressed together as tight as can be. I know you want to show off, you want everyone to see your nice, wet pussy, and how far you can spread those legs. You’re good at that, I already told you. But I’m not gonna let you show off that pussy or move those thighs, not this time.”