“And lots of ruffles, I bet.”
“Bright turquoise ones. But the ruffles were all on the bottom, and the dress showed off my cleavage, and I guess I looked pretty good. Good enough that one of the other candidates decided to tell everyone I was a lesbian so people wouldn’t vote for me.”
I took a deep breath, remembering a night I thought I’d blocked out pretty thoroughly, as if it were yesterday. “Which I could have dealt with. Hell, I could have batted my eyes at a couple of boys and everyone would have been like ‘Oh, Mary Ellen’s just jealous; Andrea’s so not a lezbo,’ but my mom was one of the chaperones that night, and someone was dumb enough to do her rumor-mongering in the bathroom—where my mom was at the time. I could lie to the entire high school but not to my mom.”
“So after semipublic humiliation you got to have one of those awful talks with your family?”
“Make it a huge fight with my family, the kind where my father didn’t speak to me for about a month except to say ‘pass the ketchup.’ They’ve come around okay since, but then it hit them completely out of left field. I’d tried to fit in, done all the standard girl things—they kept saying a pretty girl like me, a girl with a closet full of nice clothes and shoes, couldn’t be a lesbian.”
“Guess they’d never heard of femmes,” Kate said dryly, then kissed the top of my head, ruffling my short-cropped hair in the process. “I’m sorry about surprising you with the dress, sweetie. I just thought it might be a fun thing to do for the masquerade.”
“I’ve never really talked about it to anyone. It was too painful and too stupid at the same time. All that public drama and I hadn’t even kissed a girl yet! But once everyone including my parents knew…” I took a deep breath. “Well, I just stopped trying to fit in, put my head down, graduated, and headed to college for the summer session instead of waiting until fall. And once I got to school, I decided no one was going to be able to blackmail me about being queer again because I was going to make it obvious. First I got my hair cut. Then I went to a consignment shop and traded in all my girl clothes for a leather biker jacket and some boots. And then I went looking for the lesbian and bi women’s group on campus.”
Kate didn’t say anything, just lifted my chin and pulled me into a dizzying kiss, a kiss into which she seemed to pour her whole heart and all her feelings.
Her hands snaked their way down my back, awakening the skin behind them, to cup my asscheeks. Knowing how I liked mixed-up sensations—a little pain with my pleasure, a little edge with my tenderness—she pinched at the fiery little welts left behind from the afternoon’s adventures.
Yeah, she knew me all right, knew the best way to distract me from difficult memories (or from just about anything else that might be bothering me) was with sensation, with sex. I fell into the kiss, opened my legs to give her hands access to my sudden wetness, let my hands roam over her silken skin.
She didn’t give me a chance to do much to her but backed me up to the other bed, the one that didn’t have our dresses spread out, the one that was already pretty much destroyed by sex, and pushed me down onto it.
Then came kisses and bites, caresses alternating with sharp slaps on my thighs and already tender nipples, just hard enough to be punctuation. She didn’t use any toys, although we had a room full of them, just her lips, her teeth, her clever hands. My brain shut off, focused only on the pleasure and the pain, on the fire and need building between my legs, on the feel and smell and miracle that was Kate.
I can’t take her whole hand without lube and a lot of time, and we didn’t have a lot of time, but three fingers ground into me easily, and then she moved her mouth down to work in concert and I screamed loudly enough that they probably heard me back in my old hometown, let alone in the next room, and bucked and convulsed around her hand.
And as my head cleared, it really cleared. I figured something out that I probably should have figured out about twenty years before. “Stupid to blame the clothes, isn’t it? I was hiding behind them, but they’re just clothes. If I wear a dress with the right attitude, everyone will know…”
Kate kissed me with lips that tasted of me. “That you’re a dyke in a costume,” she finished for me. “A fabulous, flattering costume—but one that enhances who you are, instead of hiding it.”
I glanced over gingerly at the other bed—at the dress, the Docs, the strap-on. “Especially if I have a huge silicone cock making a tent in the front of it,” I said, laughing. “Sure, I’ll give it a try. But you’re going to have to help me into it—and out of it later.”
“I will,” she promised. “Besides—look.” She pulled out her garment bag and took out her outfit. “We’ll both be in drag.”
It was a vinyl Edwardian outfit all right. A vinyl Edwardian men’s outfit, tailcoat and pants with the black-on-black stripes, like a Merchant-Ivory film gone wildly askew.
I admit I followed her into the shower and tried to distract her. I even succeeded for a few minutes, but we still made it to the masquerade, Kate in her vinyl Edwardian splendor, me as Jessica Rabbit.
If you imagine Jessica Rabbit with short-cropped hair, big stompy boots, and a plunging neckline that drew all eyes to her dick.
As we entered the room, someone whistled. Heads turned.
And while I still felt weird, I knew we looked good; knew that with our roles reversed so strikingly, in fact, we might look better, or at least more head-turning, than ever.
Yeah, I thought, I’d pick me up if I were single. I’d have picked Kate up if she hadn’t already picked me up.
At first, though, I hid on the sidelines, enjoying the heated, curious glances we were getting, but not sure how to dance in a long gown.
Then a slow, sultry song came on. Kate dragged me onto the dance floor, and I discovered I could dance no matter what I was wearing as long as I was dancing with her.
And when we made our way back to our room, I pulled my skirt up, and then pulled Kate’s trousers down, and I fucked her hard and deep, fucked her thoroughly, fucked her with velvet and vinyl caressing my skin and hers until we both saw stars.
A real butch, I decided as we curled up together, spent, in a heap of costumes that would need dry-cleaning and repair, is tough enough to put on a dress to please her lady.
At least if there’s a strap-on involved.
A NIGHT AT THE OPERA
Evan Mora
I’m waiting for you.
I’m seated facing the entrance to the restaurant, at a choice and intimate table of your liking. I slowly swirl the contents of my glass—something subtle and red, uncorked and awaiting my arrival; a vintage of your choosing. It changes with each sampling—elegant, mysterious, and complex, with a subtle but unmistakable intensity. I am reminded of you.
I sit with an air of casual disinterest in my surroundings, outwardly poised and relaxed. Nothing in my demeanor betrays the nervousness I feel as I await your arrival, save for a slight tremor in my hand as I raise my glass to my lips. I am dressed as you asked, in a simple sleeveless black dress, a favorite of yours.
The door opens and you cross the threshold, your gaze immediately and unerringly finding mine. My heart skips a beat, then resumes at an erratic, accelerated pace. One corner of your sensuous mouth curls slightly upward—I am revealed. I set down my glass and fold my hands in my lap, lowering my gaze. Your effect on me is profound, even at a distance. My body tightens with awareness and anticipation, as though awakened by your presence.
I raise my eyes to meet yours again—they’ve not left my face; I had not expected that they would. I drink in your appearance—your perfectly tailored gray suit with only the top button casually fastened, your black dress shirt accentuating your short dark hair and brilliant blue eyes. The hostess has engaged you in conversation, your body is inclined slightly toward her, and you answer her inquiries in your calm self-assured way, your gaze still firmly holding my own. And then you move, slowly crossing the distance that separates us with lithe, confident strides. I
am held captive by the strength in your frame; your body moves with the fluid grace and power of a jaguar stalking its prey.
You sit opposite me, and though my body yearns for your touch—your lips pressed to my cheek, a casual hand on my shoulder, a simple stroke of your finger on the inside of my wrist—you do not touch me, and my body struggles in desire and disappointment. My discomfiture pleases you, and you do nothing to alleviate it. Instead, you skillfully guide the conversation through appetizers, dinner, and the bottle of wine, coaxing detailed and thoughtful responses from me despite the simmering arousal in my body that refuses to abate. You are fiercely intelligent and demand no less than my complete engagement in this as in all areas. You challenge me—and I am as seduced by the intensity of our debate as I am by the heat of your gaze and the promise of what is to come.
I am distracted by the sensual movement of your thumb stroking the curve of your wineglass. I can’t look away, watching the pad of your thumb move in small lazy circles on the smooth surface of the glass. You ask me a question, but I’m rendered incapable of speech, transfixed by the hypnotic movement of your hand. My body swells and responds as though it is me you are caressing, as though it is my flesh you are exploring and not some inanimate vessel. I close my eyes for a heartbeat as a wave of intense longing floods through me. I am helpless, trembling at the mere suggestion of your touch. When I meet your eyes, I see the knowledge of your power over me reflected in their depths, and I am stripped, as surely as if I were standing naked before you.
We are headed to the theater, so I excuse myself to the restroom for a moment, in hopes of regaining a measure of control over my arousal. I brace my hands on the edge of the sink, head lowered, drawing deep calming breaths. But my respite is short-lived. I hear the barely perceptible sound of the door swinging open and look up into the mirror to find you slowly advancing toward me. I move as though to turn toward you—but you stop me with a shake of your head. My back is to you, our gazes locked in the mirror, and you halt your advance only when your body is a hairsbreadth away from my own, your heat mingling with mine.
Still, you don’t touch me.
You lean forward, placing one hand immediately in front of my own on the edge of the sink, your mouth—your beautiful sensuous mouth—next to my ear. You tell me to take off my panties, and I gasp at the intimacy of your command. I hesitate for only a fraction of a second, but I know it’s too long, and your hand moves with decisiveness from the sink to the back of my neck, and I am slowly bent forward at your insistence, moaning now from the combined pleasure of your touch and the vulnerability of my position. With your other hand, you reach beneath my dress, fingers splayed, palm sliding up the inside of my thigh until you reach my wetness. I am drenched with my desire, and whisper only “Please…” but I am denied even now, and your knuckles only glance over my flesh as your fingers wrap around the fabric of my thong and tear it off with a firm jerk of your hand.
My body trembles in the wake of your controlled aggression. You relinquish your hold on my neck, your hand slowly descending, tracing the curve of my spine, moving outward until it rests lightly against my hip. I feel you then—for one brief, almost imagined moment, I feel you—feel the reflexive tightening of your grip in the same instant that I feel your hips rock forward, the thick length of your cock unmistakable against my ass. I close my eyes, drowning in the sensation of you pressed so tightly against me…but just as quickly, you’re gone. My eyes snap open and I cry out at the loss of your touch, but you are already moving to the door, holding it open and waiting for me to precede you out of the restroom, tucking my ripped panties into your suit jacket. I search your face for evidence of your desire, for some small sign that lets me know you are as affected by this exchange as I am, but your composure is intact, your face a mask that gives no emotion away.
We leave the restaurant, walking the short distance to the theater in silence, yours contemplative, mine tormented. I am awash with arousal, miserable with desire for you, and my body is proclaiming its need of you with wet, aching clarity. I am acutely aware that my sex is exposed beneath the thin veneer of my dress; the cool evening breeze kisses the moisture that has accumulated there and my cheeks flood with shame. I feel your knowing stare, and struggle to regain my composure, but I can’t. I know that if you were to lead me down any of the shadowed alleys we are passing and push me to my knees, your hand knotted in my hair, pressing my face to the front of your suit pants, I would eagerly use lips and teeth and tongue to free your cock and greedily swallow the length of it. I would work your cock until I gagged, until every inch of you was wet with my saliva, until your breathing grew ragged and your hips jerked convulsively and you threw your head back with the force of the orgasm tearing through your body. I would beg you to let me touch myself; I’d stroke my clit for you right there—on my knees, on the pavement in that shadowed alley until my cunt clenched and my clit exploded and I cried out my pleasure for you.
But you don’t lead me down any alleys…you remain collected, smooth, and utterly in control.
Tosca is superb, but right now I hate Puccini. I hate the seconds and minutes and hours that stretch between this dark theater and lying naked beneath you. I hate that I think these thoughts, squirming quietly in my seat, when you are so clearly enjoying the performance. I feel like I am somehow letting you down because I can’t rise above this driving need pulsing through my body. I worry my hands distractedly in my lap, unable to keep them folded demurely as I should.
I gasp with surprise at the feel of your hand on my thigh, and am immediately stilled by its solid pressure. Though I can’t make out the nuances of your expression, I feel your gaze locked on mine and feel a moment of quiet comfort—there is a measure of ease to be found in knowing that the play of emotions and wants coursing through my body are directed by you, like the maestro with his orchestra below.
With aching slowness your hand traces invisible patterns across the top of my thigh. I scarcely breathe for fear that you will stop, and am rewarded for my stillness when your hand dips lower, to the sensitive flesh of my inner thigh. The sound of the opera recedes, and my world narrows to the feel of you stroking me, inching closer to my wetness. Still, you keep me off balance, refusing to settle into a predictable rhythm; you stroke me and then pause, and I can do naught but tremble and hold my breath until you resume. Your fingers linger teasingly at the edge of my skirt until I bite my lip to keep from moaning aloud in supplication. Then with a sinfully slow slide they ease beneath the material and continue ever higher, until you are stroking my cunt, spreading my folds and taking possession of the wetness that meets you. My thighs spread farther apart of their own accord; this is my offering to you, this hot flood of arousal. Here in this confined space where I am stripped of words and actions to show you how I feel, it is all I have to offer. It is yours—it belongs to you, as surely as I do.
I know you approve because the heel of your hand clamps down on my pubic bone and your fingers penetrate my cunt so that you’re gripping me firmly, my slick sex held tightly in your palm. You lean into me and whisper that I’m going to come for you, right here in the middle of the theater, sitting perfectly still, and without making a sound. Your voice is like sex to me; I feel each word you breathe into my ear across my clit, so wet for you that it drools off your knuckles and trickles between the cheeks of my ass. I nearly come from your words alone and nod my head, though really, it’s not a question of agreeing. You slide your fingers out of my cunt and up to my clit, all teasing gone, demanding my orgasm with hard strokes, and then I’m coming in waves, cunt heaving as pleasure wracks my body. A second rush begins to coil in my belly, but you stop your movement and say, “Enough,” and I gasp—halted immediately on the edge of that precipice and robbed of breath, the pain it produces as acute and intense as the pleasure that hammered through me moments ago.
You wait until the sensation subsides, then remove your hand, wiping it clean with a handkerchief produced from your pocket. I
feel dizzy and disoriented, and the final moments of the opera pass in a blur of music and applause, bright lights, and the buzz of conversation sliding past me. I am aware of only the firm pressure of your hand in the small of my back, guiding me through the noise and into the quiet of your car, and of the constant thrum of my arousal as you guide us skilfully through the night, your beautiful square jaw thrown into profile by the passing headlights of oncoming traffic.
You don’t touch me again until the door of your penthouse clicks shut behind us and you push me to the ground, one hand opening your fly even as your other reaches in to free your dick. I scramble to my knees as you grab the back of my head and then your cock is filling my mouth. I grab on to your legs to steady myself as hard silicone buries itself in my throat with a rough thrust and I feel myself choke on its thick length, tears filling my eyes. I am filled with bliss, so wet I’m running down my thigh, thrilled at last to be able to touch you; to be used by you; to please you. You fuck my mouth and I struggle to take you in with some measure of grace but I cannot, and feel myself sinking into sensation: the feel of your suit pants beneath my fingertips, the wet slide of your cock over my lips, the feel of your hands knotted in my hair, pulling my head toward you in time with the rhythm you drive out with your hips; your smell, a heady combination of cologne and arousal assaulting my senses. The silence is broken only by the shallow erratic sound of my breathing.
I want you to come. I want to feel you unravel and lose control. I want to feel the tremor in your thighs, feel your hands tightening in my hair. I want to show you how good I am for you. But you have other ideas. You relinquish your hold on me and take a step back, robbing me of your warmth and support and I falter, kneeling awkwardly before you, eyes downcast.
Best Lesbian Erotica 2009 Page 13