“How about the tail?”
She turned around and bent over. Cotton tights visibly stretched tighter through two large holes below both buttcheeks. It was a lovely ass—shapely, sculpted to perfection. The female ass—enticing, delicious, delectable, the most tender rump of revelry and redemption: All in One.
“Oh, my! No tail there!” I admired. “You sure you’re the Devil?”
“I’ll let you decide. More gin?”
I’d already guzzled her perfect martini unusually fast and almost said yes. But what if I was talking to the Devil? What if I had, in fact, unknowingly mixed ritual metaphors and inadvertently sent up unintended smoke signals? When I declined, she glanced at me quickly, then smiled.
“Shall we move on then?”
I grinned, feeling heat between my legs throbbing hard where you notice most, just watching the sizzle behind the bar, sensing the implied power and sex in every flick of her wrist, waist bend, hair toss, cigarette pull, and pursing of her lips as she sucked tequila through a red straw.
“Sure…. Let’s move on.”
We continued down the long hall, walking past endless closed doors with muffled, barely audible music playing inside, until we reached a large atrium. My hostess led me inside a lush paradise of tropical trees and exotic flowering plants. Perpetually trickling water created a sense of energy and tranquility both. Haunting, hypnotic flute music played softly in the background.
I followed her along a sandy path to a stone grotto of clear water with white mist steaming from its calm, shiny surface. She leaned against a large rock near the grotto’s edge.
“Shall we?”
She began unlacing her shoes. I did the same with mine. Then she slowly unbuttoned her jeans…peeling away her creamy tights…releasing the halter top. Damn! What a sight!
Winding her hair behind her head, she secured it with a wooden barrette that appeared suddenly in her hand. A strand of curly hair escaped the restriction and hung down her left temple. Spectacularly nude, she eased down natural stone steps into the water and stood waist-deep, slowly spooning water over her neck and shoulders, scooping it with cupped palms, trickling it down her arms and breasts. Smiling back over the curve of her bare shoulder, she invited me to join her.
“It’s wonderful. Come on in.”
It looked wonderful. Thrilling, in fact. I’d never imagined the Devil looking so goddamned beautiful, so radiantly irresistible, naked in the steamy semi-dark.
Removing my clothes, I stepped down into the water. The temperature was perfect. Fine sand tickled the bottom of my feet and squished through my toes. I couldn’t help smiling as I waded toward her.
“Feel good?” she asked, turning toward me.
“It’s perfect.”
She began spooning water over my shoulders and arms, watching with a faintly wicked smile, eyes hooded, as it trickled over breasts and nipples that instantly puckered and swelled. Stepping closer, she traced her fingertips across both collarbones, slid down both armpit curves to my tits, caressing them with watery palms before dialing hard engorged nipples gently between thumbs and forefingers, dialing for home, dialing for down under.
I inhaled sharply and arched back, barely able to stand the intense ache surging through my body. Enjoying the sensations, I opened my mouth and released whatever sounds—mostly soft laughter—wanted to escape. When I felt her lips kiss the side of my neck, I gasped.
“We could make a deal, you know,” she whispered in my ear.
“What kind of deal?” I whispered back, fighting the jellying weakness in my knees.
“I could tell you stories.”
“What kind of stories?”
“The kind that sell. You’ll have all the success you want.”
She was kissing the other side of my neck, sending shivers down my back.
“What’ll it cost me?”
Moving along my chin, soft lips traveled to my lips.
“Your soul, of course.”
She was kissing me so sweetly, it was hard to imagine I was kissing the Devil.
“My soul.”
Her tongue lightly touched my lips, requesting entrance. Eagerly, I took her inside, tongue meeting tongue, sucking in and pushing out with mounting hunger and desire.
“Your soul,” she repeated, stepping closer until our bodies touched, tit to tit, pelvis to pelvis, submerged pubic hair tickling thighs, slipping toward V-groove heat.
It was a novel experience: selling my soul to the Devil. An incredible experience. Electrifying. I tilted my head farther back and purred like a cat—one happy pussy—rocking my crotch on her thigh as she kissed and nuzzled under my chin, down my neck.
Taking my hand, she led me further into the grotto toward where the sound of falling water got stronger, to a rocky waterfall behind a dense patch of tall ferns. Smoky torches flickered among trees as we approached the falls, creating long shadows in feathery mist still rising off the water.
When we reached the ferns, the Devil smiled coyly and said, “I’ve reinvented the waterbed. Care to see?”
“Love to,” I mumbled.
“Slide in on your stomach. It’s more fun that way.”
She took one step up. Water cascaded down exposed buttcheek curves and the hot slit between them. Silently I whistled at the incredible sight that vanished too quickly inside the lacy ferns. Within the shadowy dimness, I heard splashing water and the Devil calling: “Come on! You’ll love it! I promise!”
I plunged head first, sliding on my stomach across sheeting water over soft chamois cloth, water spraying my face, laughing with surprise as I glided toward my hostess. The Devil lay on her back, both hands holding her hair, elbows in the air, water splashing her head and lovely shoulder curves, covering tits and jutting hipbones that rose from streaming water like four lost islands in need of discovery. Tilting her head back made water rush over her face, eyes closed, mouth open, gurgling, spitting, laughing. Long, wet, black hair swirled around her shoulders. The sight was totally awesome and beautiful. I paddled toward to her.
Opening her eyes, grinning, she said, “What do you think?”
“It’s fabulous! I want one!”
“You’ve got one…right here…forever.”
She reached out a long arm and pulled me down, kissing me hard but playfully, laughing, before rolling me over into the water, soaking my hair. Still kissing, we rolled again, back and forth, over and under, slipping, sliding, splashing, laughing until our breath came short and fast, and the energy inside the fern fort crackled with sex and intensity.
Ending on top, I parted her legs with my thigh, slid slowly down her long body, kissing her stomach, dipping inside a watery, studded navel before continuing to her pubic mound, where black hair waved underwater like moss in a gentle tide. It was so dark, mysterious and hypnotically beckoning, I took a deep breath and plunged head first into deep-sea diving. Vive Calypso!
Nibbling and sucking, my mouth the mouth of an angelfish, I darted my tongue through wavy moss to nuzzle and tease, releasing air bubbles on her swollen clit until she yelled.
“Oh, my God!” the Devil exclaimed.
Still nuzzling, I slid my arms around her butt and rocked back on my knees, pulling her to my mouth, resting her ass on my tits.
“Je-sus!” she exclaimed again. “I haven’t done it like this lately! Wait!” A pile of purple pillows appeared from nowhere to support her back. “That’s better. Continue. Please!” she urged, eyes hooded with pleasure as she rocked her pelvis in rhythm to unseen drums that beat louder and faster, accompanied by louder gasps and moans.
Cupping my hands in water, I sprinkled her hot, red, cunt mouth with rainbow-colored drops like tiny gems that glistened in her short wet hairs. Pale moonlight beamed through a high glass ceiling overhead as I began retrieving those gems with my tongue, exploring slippery vulva crevasses before plunging as far inside the Devil’s Sinkhole as my tongue could reach.
“Oh, myGod myGod myGod!” chanted the Devil
.
Lapping droplets of dew—the Devil’s Dew—hot, silky, creamy smooth, I sucked mouthfuls, tongue probing, hands massaging double circles in soaked bush, pressing her clit, doing abracadabra magic until the trick worked and the Devil spasmed, arched, and exploded: “JesusHolyHellthat’s—too—good!”
Totally aroused, I came myself just hearing her. I had to yell too, I was so thrilled, and the night was just beginning.
“Watch…the water flow changes,” the Devil said minutes later as we lay side by side, hot bodies touching in warm water that poured down the rock wall at the bed’s head; it stopped suddenly as waves began surging upward in a tidal rhythm that echoed through the grotto.
“Whoa! From Here to Eternity!” I laughed as a wave flooded between my legs, swept over my stomach and breasts to my neck, then retreated, thousands of watery fingertips slipping down my body before a new wave surged, covering us again.
She rolled over, smiled her same wicked smile, and slid on top of me. Pleasure shocks ricocheted through my body, matching the surf pounding over us. She stared into my eyes, radiating an intense hypnotic heat that took my breath away, serious for a change.
“You can reconsider, you know.”
“Reconsider what?” I asked faintly, not wanting to think.
“Our bargain. It’s not final yet.”
“Oh… When’s it final?”
“You’ll know.”
She began sucking and tonguing a nipple. I moaned and grabbed her head in my hands as she teased the other. I opened wide, wanting her whole body between my legs, wanting her to fuck me. Absolutely. Totally. It was exactly what I wanted, what my body ached for as she continued kissing and licking everywhere through the rushing water.
“I—uh…”
“What?” she stopped and looked up at me, smiling, knowing.
“I—uh…”
“Go ahead. Say it. Tell me. I like hearing it.”
Another wave crashed against the graceful slope of her bare back, rocking her body against mine, pushing her pelvic bone against my crotch. My eyes closed, heavy with desire. Another wave. More rocking. I opened wider, wanting her badly, hands sliding to her shoulders, pulling her closer.
“Fuck me! Please!” I shouted, laughing, running my toes up the watery back of her legs.
“You sure?”
Another wave rocked her against me.
“Oh, yeah!” I answered, tightening my legs, pressing up against her.
Instantly, I felt a hard jelly tip teasing inside me on the next surge in, jazzing my G-spot. I splayed my legs wide as she rocked farther making my cunt spasm and grab. I slid my hands the length of her body, feeling the leather strap across the hollow of her lower back before grabbing her cheeks and pulling her in hard, rocking, fucking in the tide and moonlight. Drums pounded. Want and fire intensified inside as she rocked, pushing faster in and out.
I dug my fingers into her butt as I arched up to slam against her before rolling over so I could ride on top, stroking cunt and clit simultaneously. I continued banging up and down until I yelled then laughed and giggled, gasped, then yelled some more, loving it—the fucking—bucking on and on! Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh—Yes!
I thought the next morning I’d feel terrible, having drunk martinis, fucked with the Devil, and sold my soul the previous night. Surely, I’d be paralyzed by some wretched emotion: shame, guilt, horror, dread, panic. But no. I felt remarkably well, replete, satisfied, happy, luxuriously stretching in the warm sunlight that dappled me through a lacy canopy of tall ferns, listening to water trickle melodiously throughout the grotto.
When I found my hostess later, sipping champagne, reclined on a red velvet divan under a massive oak branch on a grassy slope outside, I asked about the bad part.
“What bad part?”
“The bad part that comes from selling your soul.”
“Why? You starting to worry?”
“No. Surprisingly. Not yet. I feel too good to worry. I like it here.”
“I thought you might.”
So far, the Devil has kept her promise. Every time we make love, I find myself afterward wandering to the same room—a medieval chamber lit with large candles dripping molten wax puddles. Dusty books line tall dark walls surrounding strange ornate symbols on a polished wooden floor. I sit in the same chair always, straight-backed with ornately carved arms, upholstered in royal blue. A shiny black raven appears as soon as I enter, flying through a high window to perch by my shoulder while I write without effort, seemingly entranced, pen flying, story after story.
For this I made my Faustian deal with the Dark One, waiting for the day when the horrible bill comes due, when a profound evil, cruelty, deception, or unkindness is finally revealed to my utter horror and dismay. So far, however, my tantalizing hostess remains beguiling, whimsical, ever surprising, and, at her very worst, devilishly elusive.
Thus I live, remaining at the Devil’s beck and call, anytime day or night. Even now I hear her in the Zen garden with its sweet, pink cherry blossoms and natural steam bath. Or perhaps she’s in the Turkish room of giant pillows, scented oils, and suggestive music beginning a slow, sinuous, sexy rise to dervish climax. Or she’s stark naked and picnicking in a wooded glen as in a Manet painting, blades of tender grass tickling the backs of her knees and gently insinuating between her legs, waiting for me to find her. Very soon now, I must leave my high turret window to answer her call wherever she may be—I have no choice—and the soft, singing crack of her eternal whip. Poor me. Poor, poor me….
Last Pan of the Season
Debra Hyde
I hate mornings like this, mornings when you wake up so horny that if your cunt was a hand, it’d be a clenched fist. I hate it because I can’t relieve myself of the tension, even rising early the way I do. I can’t afford to. I can’t lose time to the sun.
So I throw on some clothes, grab socks and my work boots, and quietly steal into the kitchen. I don’t want to wake Annie; she can sleep for a time yet. What needs to be done can start with me.
A quick breakfast of toast and coffee, and I’m out the door and down the stairs. Our shop is a stone’s throw away, the walk-in basement under our old Pennsylvania German row house. Good thing it’s close—time’s fleeting. Today’s our last chance to work meat magic.
Magic, that’s what I feel every time I jiggle the key free of the lock and step into our shop. The white plaster walls, the glass-front refrigerators and deli display cases: I’ve known them all my life. They haven’t changed an iota. But what has changed is that it’s mine. All mine. Finally.
I go into our workroom and run the tap. Water sputters and the pipes rattle, and as I wash my hands I know I’ll have to call the plumber soon. We were lucky we made it through the winter with just air in the pipes.
Later, though. That can wait until later. I’ve got pots to boil, pans to rinse and meat to grind, and I’ve got to get it done before the chill of the morning fades.
I fill two big pots with water—it’s the first step to the last pan of the season—and while I wait for it to boil, I wash loaf pans. Not bread loaf sized, but longer, long enough that a “half a panhaas” would roughly match your average banana bread.
At the sink, I think about our meats. Do we have meats! Dinner sausage, plump and filling. Smoked sausage, perfect for stews. Sweet bologna and Lebanon bologna, lunchmeats fermented to a rich, smoky perfection. Ring bologna so good you’ll never again eat that crap they try to pass off as meat at that kiosk in the mall.
I think about how busy this weekend will be. Everyone knows the weather’s warming fast, bringing scrapple season to its annual end. I’ve planned a third more meat than usual, anticipating the demand.
While the pots work their way to the boiling point, I clean shop, sweeping the floor and wiping countertops. It’s mindless work, so mindless that my thoughts wander to Annie. Sweet, luscious Annie.
I think about how her slip-of-a-willow body bows before my trunk of a butch body; about the softnes
s of her breasts, their petite fullness, their always-ready-to-respond nipples, nipples that I know have gone hard when I’ve not yet touched them just by the way Annie moans. Then there’s that soft, sparse tuft of hair between her legs and the sweet cleft that leads me to her delicious wetness. I think about the bud of joy that perches there, waiting for me to coax Annie’s pleasure.
God, she’s beautiful. From head to toe and everything in between, Annie is beautiful. I never tire of wanting her.
And I want her so badly that it’s all I can do to put the pig’s knuckles to the pot when the water finally boils, Then I dash to the house, climb back into bed, and slip my arms around her. By the time I start to roam her body, the crotch of my jeans has grown downright damp.
Later, when I pack and tuck myself back together, I think of my wet jeans. I tell myself we’ll have a lot more than just the smell of cooking meat rising in our midst. I pat my crotch and smile, already set for more.
Making scrapple is a long process. After the meat boils for a couple of hours, you have to remove it from the water and let it cool thoroughly. You set the water aside—it’s now a reserve broth—and you find other stuff to do. Typically, I work in the smokehouse while Annie contacts various farmer families for goods that today’s younger generations don’t have time to make from scratch anymore: chowchow, pickled red beet eggs, pepper cabbage, and shoofly pies (dry- or wet-bottomed, but let’s not go there).
It’s late morning before Annie and I actually get things going, but once the meat’s cool, we swing into action. I strip the pig’s knuckles and chop up lots of lean pork shoulder. Annie measures and mixes the cornmeal and spices, paying special attention to the pepper. With our recipe, it all comes down to the pepper.
I struggle to concentrate on my work. It’s not easy with Annie so close. I’m aware of every nuance of her body as she moves. Her breasts dance as she stirs the dry measures and the cool air of our shop keeps her nipples enticingly erect. Even the dress she wears tempts me, clinging suggestively in all the right spots. I’m all too aware that I’m only three steps away. It wouldn’t take much for me to come behind her, stick my hand under that hem, and find a lush, warm paradise.
Best Lesbian Erotica 2004 Page 18