Best Lesbian Erotica 2004

by Tristan Taormino

  Like, I’ll see how many times I can fully extend my tongue and retract it in one minute. And then, counting silently, I do 100 tongue rolls to the left, 100 rolls to the right, and then 100 center waves, with a little back flip of the tip. I even brought in a hefty baby rattle to do lifts with: fold the tip under and around the bar, lift for 20 reps, then rest, then 20 more, rest, finish with 30. Shit, I can about do push-ups with this thing. Man, I should have this baby registered or something, maybe like for Guinness.

  And this is all genetically controlled, ya know. Actually, I do know, because I studied genetics and biology in college. But hey, would any of these “professionals” take me for a college grad, or even a person with half a brain? After all, I wear a shirt with my name on it….

  Come mierda; most of them don’t even look at me when they enter. A few make nice, and a couple of secretaries have slipped me their phone numbers. But man, only a pendeja shits where she eats, huh? I figure all that good pussy can wait. I got a girlfriend, and she’s so ultrafine, I don’t even want to play around. And ooo, she’s been muy gratificado with this desarollo, too.

  Hey, when it’s late and quiet and the corridors are empty, sometimes I get this makeup mirror out to check how I’m doing. Yes, you have to possess the right code sequences to do this move: a back flip and roll. Or this one, where I punctuate sticking it out about an inch and pulling both sides up to create a trough, by pinching in the tip so it looks a little like a clit. Hey, an artist has gotta admire her work. My natural endowment, my experience and hard-won champion artistry, plus the sheer stamina I’ve acquired from all these nocturnal workouts…they all enter into it.

  I tell ya, the Old Lady’s been thrilled….

  But that ain’t all the lowly servitor does during her shift, no señor. Not after I got to be buds with Wild Davy. Man, he was the shit; sold killer-assed, drive-yo-Mama-blind primo weed to a quarter of the lab rats for locura prices; and laid it on his fellow Guardlings for practically nada. Wild Davy sold so much he retired behind it after like two years. But not before that techno freak sleepless fuck seamed into every friggin’ cam and computer in the building, tying them all into this little zoom box I got strapped under the console.

  Wooo! I sit here and spy on all the stinkin’ docs and their gofers and ferrets, now that everything’s rigged and totally accessible. They have no idea Big Sistah is watching!

  Hey—you wouldn’t believe how many of them jack off in their “research rooms.” Or how many have call girls come in at lunch time. Now I know they can’t possibly realize how ludicrous they look when they’re only wearing socks, a watch, a T-shirt, and a condom on a half-mast little dick.

  Never mind all the quickies and blow jobs amongst the fuckin’ staff. And FORGET the downloaded porn! Jesus H. Christ! Talk about your tax dollars at work! Woo-hoo!

  In the face of all this ridiculous-assed stuff, I thank the Goddess and whatever gods there are that I was born queer. Whew!

  Needless to say, I spend a lot of evening shifts in between rounds trying to amuse myself in ways other than by watching bad reruns of this same old shit—which is where the tongue laps really come in handy. Say, what if someone catches you en medius, and asks “What are you doing?” “Nothing” doesn’t permit much beyond that perimeter, even for someone with a brain. I mean, what does it look like you’re doing? Wiping peanut butter off your lips? Shee-it, man. Can they really scope out Sapphic Artistry in the ring?

  Speaking of which—I’ve been noticing that damn Dr. Roberta Russell. Okay, I admit it, I find brains awfully sexy in a woman. And not only does she have doctoral degrees out the wazoo, but she’s got curves that should come with warning signs—they damn sure look dangerous from here.

  Plus she’s got plenty of at-ti-tude. I saw her coldcock a flirting lab rat at ten paces just a week ago. He thought he had a smooth line and he was hitting on it. But he was hittin’ on nothing—a fact she made demonstrably clear with one line and a slight raise of an eyebrow. The dickless wonder tucked and limped away….

  She’s coming in late again, I note as La Doctora approaches my desk around ten. The denizens have to sign in and key the elevator with their cards anytime after six.

  “Good evening, Doctor. More after-hours research?” I inquire pleasantly. She looks right at me, in a very…direct sort of way.

  “Yes. In fact, when you make your rounds at eleven, I’d appreciate it if you’d stop by my office. I’ll require some assistance at that time, Sergeant Rivera.”

  “Any way I can help you, Doctor, I am only too happy. You just need to ask.”

  “Yes, I’ve observed you being helpful to other women, so I’m counting on that. Um, I don’t think I’ve ever been told your first name.”

  “My first name?” (Whoa! Where’d that come from?) “People don’t use it much around here, at least, not the docs. But, it’s, well, it’s rather long, and friends just call me Lu. With a U.”

  “Lu? Lu Rivera—has kind of a ring, eh?”

  I look at her pretty closely to see if she’s bustin’ on me or not, but she just looks as though she’s mulling it over.

  “Well Lu, see you later. And you can call me Bobbie.” She smiles, a big red splash across her face, with some nice white showing between.

  Bobbie, huh? Wonder what she needs help with. Well I’ll be damned—she’s walking to that elevator like she’s hot. You know, like she needs to be careful with how those legs move across each other, cuz the friction might ignite her middle in an awful powerful fire. You don’t think…me… ai no…¡ai cunyo!

  Eleven o’clock, and all’s well. Except for me. While I’m prowling the halls with the requisite macha swagger and attention to door details, I’m also shaking like a grade school girl at her first dance—not to mention sweating like a puerca looking over at the chicharrón stand, wondering what the hell to expect next. And whatever it is, it’s coming up. Because this is her office.

  Well, here’s the door. The door. Of course I took the liberty of looking in on the good doc before rounds. She was just staring at her computer screen, which faces away from the cam so I’ve No Clue, Lu. Since she doesn’t wear glasses, I can’t even get a reflection there. What’s up with this woman?

  Knock-knock, tembladora calling. “Dr. Russell? It’s Security.”

  “Yes Lu, come in.”

  So I wipe my sweaty palm on my shaky thigh and turn the knob. And pause to adjust from the hyper-lit hallway to the sudden half-gloom. It seems like about the only light is a line along a worktable. Wait, what’re those, candles? Man, open flames are so against regs! And they smell like musk or something.

  Where’s the Doctora…¡Ai Madre, she’s standing right there, wearing only a black slip and a big smile!

  Like a jerk, I just squeak, “Doctor Russell!”

  “I’d hoped you’d call me Bobbie, Lu.”

  “Yes, Bobbie, of course,” I stumble. “You wanted me to help you?”

  “Indeed I did. It seems that the recent late nights allowed me to see an entirely different side of you. I always thought you cut a handsome figure in that uniform. But those baby rattle exercises definitely caught my eye.”

  Shit! She saw me!! Oh shit!

  Whoa, she’s walking toward me, all hot and determined. Pulling on my tie and roping me close to her, she says, “As a scientist and a woman, I want to investigate just how developed that organ has become.”

  I can feel the heat rising off her and smell the estrogen in the air—she’s completely ready. When her mouth reaches mine, that’s it, I’m gone. I toss off my hat and undo the tie while she watches, real close up. I unfasten a few buttons, but we begin to embrace. And it’s instantly exciting. She’s a skilled kisser, and her flesh trembles with life at my slightest fingertip touch. Her nipples swell and push against the slip—and into me.

  I pull her closer to me, breast to breast, lip to lip, hip to hip. I slip a hand down to the hem of the slip, touching nylon and her own smooth silk. Her hips roll and
I slide up further, and then further still, meeting a little rill of wetness. ¡Que mujer! ¡Que boca, que tetas, que chocha! I want to fuck her brains out right there on the floor, suck the clit right off of her! Arrrrrrr!!

  Ah, but I have to hold on just a minute. I won’t sweet talk, no, I’ll go medical on the doc while I work my hands over her.

  “Ooh Bobbie, I want to slide my tongue up into your Grafenberg spot and trill on it. Then I want to back out slowly from your vaginal opening, and slide up one inner vaginal lip to your urethral opening and then down the opposite side and on further to the perineum….”

  “No no no!! No clinical terms! Just give it to me raw. Pisshole, cunt lips, pussy, ass,” Dr. Russell cries as she pulls my head down and right into her cunt, finally roaring, “Come on!”

  So I do. No talking, no nothing, sin los previos, just my face planted up under her slip. Licking away, I put my hands under her ass, lift her up, and ease her down onto the thick pile rug. Still licking, I roll her over and prop her up so that she straddles my face as I lie on my back.

  Once she’s on top, I wrap my tongue around the hood of that clit, and rock her from side to side so fast and so smooth you can’t even tell when my thumb pushes back and up on the hood, and my tongue drills on the seed pearl like a sapsucker drilling for the sweetest spot. She just starts moaning and shaking and groaning, and whispering, “It’s good, oh, it’s g-o-o-d, oh, oh yeah, oh!”

  Hell, I’m just getting started. Whoo, honey, I work her like I’m on the Grand Tour and her pussy holds all the stops. And I keep on until she says she can’t stand it and then keep on until she’s begging for more. And don’t worry baby, there’s plenty to go around, because I’ve been honing it for decades and I live to have my head between those legs and my mouth on those juicy pussy lips.

  And when she can’t speak and she damn sure can’t come any more, I suck out every drop from her gushing cunt hole, and lightly kiss her lips.

  After quite a long moment, she gasps, “Oh, Lu, I needed that.”

  “Evidently. And I’m happy to be of service,” I say as I stand, straightening articles of clothing as I proceed from prone to upright. One kiss on the face lips, and I start to walk away.

  Shaking a bit, she pulls herself up on one elbow, legs and slip still askew, and asks: “Wait, where’re you going?”

  “Back to work.”

  “What? You…you can’t just leave!”

  “I have to finish my rounds. Otherwise, how should I explain the time gap in the Log? ‘Conference with Dr. Russell?’”

  I finish tying my tie, adjust my holster, set my cap at the right angle, and head out into the hallway.

  A Tangle of Vines

  Cheyenne Blue

  Marianne lived in a house surrounded by sunflowers. Sunflowers, wheat, and vines, symbols of abundance, of the good life, of fecundity and indulgence and lazy summer days.

  It had been four years since I’d seen her last; long enough that she’d produced a son, the heir that her husband demanded. Long enough that she had settled into her life in rural France, shouldering her way uncompromisingly into the community, talking French with her strong American accent—French to the villagers who shrugged with Gallic nonchalance and pretended not to understand; English to her son, who would only answer in French.

  I arrived in a hire car to a flurry of laughter, hugs bursting out onto the stone driveway, a reunion under the pale blue sun-washed shutters, a meeting that rolled back the years to when we were young, and stupid and drunk on what we might become.

  Marianne screamed her joy, and there were tears in her eyes as she hugged me. “Suzie! Merde, it’s good to see you!” she said, when the euphoria had subsided enough that we could speak coherently. “Come in and have a beer!”

  The farmhouse was cool and disorganized: a stone flagged kitchen, with a haphazard collection of children’s toys and empty wine bottles by the door; a playpen under the stairs; a ripe, oozing farmhouse cheese collecting flies on the counter. She pulled glasses from the cupboard, a bottle of Picon, small bottles of lager, crackers, the cheese, and then we were outside on the uneven patio, sitting on the wooden bench, raising our glasses to friendships old and renewed. Her husband, a military man, was away again, this time a peacekeeping tour of duty in a foreign country that maintained an uneasy truce with its neighbor; a parry here, a thrust there, the bluster and ever-present threat of chemical weapons or nuclear attack.

  “When he’s home,” she said, “my heart rejoices, for oh…about three weeks. Then I count the days until he leaves.”

  We toasted her husband, her reason for being here, in the country, by the estuary, the salted air encrusting on her washing, coating her vegetables, coarsening her hair. We toasted her child, a precocious darling with a funny little voice, a child of two cultures and none.

  We sat, the two of us, and drank and talked, letting the sun lower itself into the sea. The beer ran out, so we opened a bottle of wine, then another. Her boy ran around us, in and out of the vines, bringing us small treasures for admiration—a perfect curled young green vine leaf, a favorite picture book, a ripe tomato from the vegetable garden.

  The long twilight drifted into dusk, and dusk into night. The stars rose, silhouetting the tangled rows of vines, washing the farmhouse in a surreal light. The buzz of small insects shrilled into the soft night, as we sat and drank and talked and drank and laughed. Marianne’s son gave up trying to capture our attention and fell asleep on the couch in the untidy lounge, curled up in a knot with the sun-bleached sheets, taken in from the clothesline.

  We talked on, and the talk gave way to drink-induced euphoria. Marianne put on some Latin rhythms, and returned through the doors, her hips twitching, long russet hair streaming behind her as she salsaed her way out into the night.

  She sat again, and we clasped hands over the armrests in that unspoken communion that women sometimes share. She poured more wine, sloshing it over the rim of the tumblers so that it puddled like blood on the wooden table, then pulled me into a hug, tight, close, so that my head rested down on her shoulder, short blonde hair to long fox hair. I turned my cheek so that I could feel the pulse in her neck, warm against my skin, and slipped my arms around her waist. We stayed like that, rocking together for a moment, before she pulled away, standing unsteadily, and moving inside.

  I waited, with a faint sense of disappointment. She was tired, she had gone to crash, and I was not ready for the night to end. I laid my head back against the stone wall of the farmhouse and closed my eyes. Then the music blared again, and she was back, pulling me to my feet, slipping off her shoes.

  “Let’s dance, Suz!” she cried, and the moonlight glossed her cheekbones as she threw her head back, highlighting her face with an edgy beauty.

  I allowed myself to be pulled to my feet and obediently followed her stumbling lead, into the garden, past the raspberry canes fallen in drunken profusion, out past the end of the orderly part, down through the waist-high weeds, to where the sunflowers and vines met in a tangle of muddled cultivation. A step, step, hop, a stumble, a laugh as we blundered our way along, the gasps of hysterical laughter wafting away, bouncing off the solid walls of the farmhouse, floating over the nodding heads of the sunflowers, down to the estuary, down to the sea, over the ocean. Who knows how far our laughter traveled that night? A glance back at the house to chart the familiar, then Marianne was tugging me forward, into the vines, where the leaves curled out from their strings, tendrils of entanglement and enticement.

  I held her waist, and followed her lead, a step and hop and kick, down the rows we salsaed, following the music in our heads as we moved between the lines, brushing off the curling green leaves. The loamy dirt pushed between our toes, bare feet sinking slightly into the soft earth. Our dance disintegrated into a shuffle, then an amble, and finally we just relaxed into the night, our arms around each other’s waists, as we stopped midway along a row of the vines.

  My senses burgeoned, a combination of wine
and moonlight, loam under my feet and the fresh smell of new growth, the distant tang of salt sea air. Marianne turned her head, and I saw her lips, softly parted, before she came closer, kissing me softly, on the side of my mouth, then, when I didn’t resist, on the lips.

  We had never done this before, she and I, never shared experimental explorations as younger women. I had gone straight to male lovers, and she, I assumed, had done the same. But over the years, the boundaries defined by gender, by sexuality, and acceptability had blurred to a faint line, and her kiss wasn’t shocking or unwelcome. It just was.

  We kissed, hesitantly at first, then with increasing ardor, but with such tenderness, such a simple extension of our friendship that it grew in intensity as naturally as the vines around us bore grapes. When she stroked my hair, when I ran my hands along her shoulder blades, when she pressed soft kisses to my eyelids, there was no decision to be made, it just was.

  Her hand slipped under the hem of my T-shirt, stroking the skin above my waistband with a soft touch, each finger imprinting itself on me. It dragged slowly up toward my breast, and when she cupped it, stroking a careful thumb over my nipple, the die was cast. It was just Marianne and I moving further along the line to love.

  I pushed my hands into her hair and continued to kiss her. Slow languorous kisses, deep drowning falling kisses, where we moved and melted into each other. There was no hurry; unlike our frenzied laughter of before, now our movements had a slow gliding quality. The advance and retreat of tongues, mating and withdrawing, had the ritualistic well-honed precision of a ballet.

  She pulled her T-shirt over her head, allowing me to explore her breasts. I did so slowly, carefully, tracing a fine blue line with my tongue, examining the fine hairs around her nipples, chocolate-drop mother’s nipples. Her body intrigued me; long arms, wiry muscles and bumpy elbows, and I put my mouth to the splatter of freckles on her shoulder, opening over them, scraping gently with my teeth. Her long hair drifted over my face, coarse from the salt and the soap she used to wash it, tickling my nose. I kissed my way up to her neck, burying my face in the curve of neck and shoulder. She stiffened slightly as I breathed over her, the ridge of muscle pushing into my face, then relaxed again, humming and sighing in an undulating pitch, as I stroked her skin with my tongue.