Best Lesbian Erotica 2009

by Tristan Taormino

  “Look at me,” you say, and I do. I watch you release the button on your jacket and shrug it off, then toss it to a chair by the door. You remove your cufflinks, then your watch, placing them on the console table. You roll your sleeves up to mid-forearm, then unbutton your black oxford and leave it hanging open, lying in contrast to the white tank top revealed beneath. I drink in your appearance hungrily: your dark hair falling casually across your forehead; the slight flush staining your cheeks; your small firm breasts and taut stomach outlined by your tight white tank. I watch as one hand descends, wraps around your cock. I watch you stroke yourself, your cock still wet with my saliva. You are wildly beautiful, and I want you more than my next breath.

  You tell me to get up, and with slow deliberation close the gap separating us until I can feel your hot breath on my cheek and I need to look up to meet your eyes. You keep inching forward until I have no choice but to take a step back, and then another, until I’m up against the door with nowhere left to go. You ask me if I enjoyed dinner. I tell you I did. You ask me if I enjoyed the opera. I say yes. You shake your head, eyes glittering dangerously—I know better than to lie to you, you say. You pull my dress up until it’s bunched around my hips, and your fingers find me again, thrusting deep into my slick hole, your eyes never leaving mine as I gasp with pleasure. You press your body against mine, still inside me, fucking me with a hard even rhythm, telling me how you watched me squirm in my seat, how you smelled my arousal, like some bitch in heat. “Isn’t that right,” you say, and I nod my agreement—I am whatever you tell me I am.

  “You want my cock, hungry bitch?” you growl in my ear. I whimper and close my eyes, drunk on the heady combination of your words and the feel of your fingers pumping my cunt. But then you slap my face and I cry out, jolted back to the moment, mind racing, trying to figure out what I’ve done to displease you. “I asked you a question,” you say, “don’t make me repeat myself.” And I trip over myself in my eagerness to be redeemed, nodding my head, mewing my assent, telling you in a halting breathy voice I barely recognize as my own how much I want to feel your cock inside me, how starved I am for it. I beg you to fuck me, and feel my cheeks flood with heat. I am the greedy whore you name me, my hungry cunt aching for release, and all the while you finger-fuck me, grinding into me up against the door.

  I am rewarded for my answer with a kiss, and for the first time tonight I feel the sublime touch of your lips against mine, your tongue teasing the corners of my mouth then aggressively demanding entry. I moan and eagerly yield to the pressure of your kiss, hands snaking up your chest to delve into the soft hair at the nape of your neck, revelling in the feel of your tongue stroking wetly against my own. You kiss me hungrily, dominating my mouth with ruthless intensity, the heat between us rising white hot.

  You grip me by the waist, never breaking the kiss, and lift me up, my back still pressed against the door. I wrap my legs around your waist and you lean into me hard, moving one hand beneath me to bring yourself into position, and then I feel the thick head of your cock probing the mouth of my cunt, finding no resistance, and then filling me, inch by agonizing inch. Hands beneath my thighs, your hips thrust slowly forward as you lower me more fully onto you, until I am filled to overflowing with you, breaking the kiss with a gasp as my body stretches to take you in. You smile then, the corner of your mouth moving upward with that same slow seductive curve you flashed in the restaurant. “Is that what you want?” you ask me, rocking forward again. “Yes!” I hiss, and I feel you deep inside of me, feel you fucking me at last, feel your hips grinding into me, driving out the rhythm my body’s been craving all night.

  There is no teasing in this now. You are strength and force and raw sex, giving me all that I can take, fucking me hard and fast, hips pistoning into me, growling that you want my orgasm, you want to feel my slobbering cunt clench around your dick, you want to feel my nails digging into you, hear me grunting, taste the sweat on my skin. I feel the tension rising in my body, feel it coiling tighter in my belly with every brutal thrust and moist word you breathe. My thighs clamp around your waist even tighter, wanting more of you, ravenous for you even as you fuck me with a roughness that borders on violence. I know I’ll hurt tomorrow—feel that sweet ache in my cunt that reminds me of this, of you. I moan with pleasure at the thought, and grab on to you all the harder, working my cunt feverishly on your cock in time with your raw thrusts until orgasm tears through my body and I cry out my release. You keep fucking me, never slowing your rhythm as spasms of pleasure rock through my cunt, and one wave of pleasure spills into the next until I think I can’t possibly take any more.

  Only then do you stop, lowering me spent and exhausted to the ground. I want nothing more than to curl into you and rest, but there’s no respite for the wicked. You turn me over so that I’m on my knees in front of you, shoulders on the ground. You kneel behind me, one hand on my ass, the other guiding your slick cock into my aching cunt until I am impaled on your thick length. I can’t help but moan at the feel of you filling me, and again as you start to move, slow thrusts pulling back until only the head of your cock is in me, then forward again, feeding me your cock a bit at a time. You tell me to stroke my clit for you and I whimper a little, my flesh overly sensitive to the touch, but I obey you, circling the engorged tissue with light strokes. You tell me you want me to stroke myself for you like that until I come again, and I know a moment’s misery because I don’t honestly think I can. You slap my ass hard and I cry out—“Do it,” you say, punctuating your words with hard thrusts.

  It’s easier somehow like that—with your cock driving into me aggressively, your hands gripping my hips tightly. I’ll have bruises there too, evidence of your possession. I like your marks on me; I feel less naked in my nakedness with them. You moan then, and your fingers tighten reflexively on my hips, the speed of your thrusts increasing. Some primal feeling breathes new life into my sex, and I press my fingers more firmly into my clit, feeling it pulse, feeling that delicious tension start to rise again in time with your arousal. I hear your breathing, shallow and erratic, feel the tremor in your hands as your pleasure mounts, and stroke my clit harder, feeling my own pleasure rising in turn. I am undone by the feel of you coming apart, losing control as you pump your cock into me as hard and fast as you can, until I hear you cry out your own release, and my orgasm hits me like a freight train.

  We collapse in a heap of tangled limbs and rumpled clothes and lie quietly until our hearts slow and our breathing calms and the cool air chills the sweat on our heated skin. You stand, offering me your hand, and lead me to your bed without a word. With gentle fingers and soft kisses you remove my clothes, and then your own, pulling back the coverlet and sliding in beside me, urging my head onto your shoulder, and covering us in a warm cocoon of blankets. You kiss my forehead tenderly and whisper that I am a good girl. That I am your girl. My heart soars. I belong to you.

  PLEASE (ACT III)

  Linda Suzuki

  After we watched the sun set, I surprised Sloane with the news that we were going out to the women’s bar. She looked hurt, and I knew she was wondering if I was bored with her. Still, she dressed without complaint to my specifications, in a white tank top and jeans with nothing on underneath. As we drove toward the city, she was pensive, staring out the window.

  There were nearly as many women on the sidewalk outside the club as there were inside. The women outside smoked, or waited for friends, or had dramatic confrontations with their exes. I parked around the corner where no one from the club could see us.

  “Wait ten minutes before you come in,” I said. “When you get inside, get a drink and finish it, then come find me.”

  I walked around the corner, but instead of going into the bar, I crossed the street and stood in the shadow of a doorway, watching. Exactly ten minutes later, Sloane turned the corner and I watched her walk through the crowd outside the bar. Every woman there followed Sloane with her eyes. A few of the braver butches even spoke to h
er, attempting a seductive, “Hey,” or “How’s it going?” Sloane returned their greetings with a shy smile, but hurried into the club.

  When I got inside, I saw that Sloane was ordering a drink from the bartender, so I walked to the bar at the far end of the club and ordered my own. From there, I found a bar stool in a shadowed corner and sat watching Sloane. As soon as she had taken a sip from her bottle of beer, the woman standing next to her was offering to buy her another. She and Sloane chatted for a moment, but then Sloane went and stood at the edge of the dance floor. Several women asked her to dance. I couldn’t hear her over the throbbing music, but she seemed to have told them that she was waiting for someone. I guessed that because the women continued to watch her, as though wanting to see who that someone was.

  Sloane finished her beer quickly, set it down on an empty table, and crossed the room directly to me. I was impressed—I hadn’t even seen her searching the room with her eyes, but there was no doubt she knew exactly where I was.

  “I was scared you wouldn’t be here,” she whispered in my ear. She stood between my legs, pressing against me.

  “Look up,” I told her. She raised her eyes to the small balcony above the dance floor. Legend had it that the bar had once been a bank and the balcony was for an armed guard who kept watch from there over everything happening on the floor. Now, the balcony was used only for storage, littered with broken chairs and empty kegs. The balcony was high enough that it was above the steel grid holding the dance floor lights, so the only light was the reflection from the mirrors on the walls below.

  I drew her tight against me so she could feel through my jeans the strap-on I was wearing. “I’m going to take you up there and fuck you in front of all these people.” Her hand, which had been resting on my thigh, moved up higher so it was hidden from view in front of her. She ran her fingers over my crotch, tracing the outline of the dildo.

  I could see she was surprised to feel that it wasn’t the fourteen-incher I had strapped on to fuck her with before. I turned her around to face the dance floor, and pressed the dildo against her ass so she understood. She leaned back and began subtly rubbing herself against my crotch.

  “But first,” I whispered in her ear, “you’re going to let me watch you make some other woman cum.”

  She tensed but said nothing.

  “The next woman who walks through the door alone,” I told her. “Dance with her and when you’re sure she’s wet, make up some excuse to come back over here alone.”

  Sloane walked back across the dance floor to the door, just in time to meet a woman dressed in full cowboy regalia, with black boots, tight black jeans, a silver belt buckle, a black shirt with silver collar tips, and a black hat. The woman’s cowboy nonchalance disappeared completely the moment Sloane asked her to dance. I’d never seen Sloane dance before, but it didn’t surprise me that she moved seductively, suggestively, her hips keeping time with the music, and all the while keeping close contact with the two-stepping dyke. They danced until they were both sweating under the lights, then sat out a song at the bar over beers. The woman could not keep her hands off Sloane, and could not keep her eyes from darting around the room, ready to challenge anyone she caught looking at Sloane. When their beers were gone, the woman led Sloane back to the dance floor and they danced even closer than before, the woman’s hand low on Sloane’s ass, drawing them together.

  Midway through the song, the woman leaned in close and whispered in Sloane’s ear. Sloane pulled away from her with a smile, then whispered something back, turned and walked across the room to where I sat.

  Sloane’s eyes were bright with anticipation as I pressed a tiny tube of lube into her hand. “Go to the bathroom,” I said. “Get your ass nice and wet for me.”

  I felt more than heard the moan that escaped Sloane’s lips, as she turned to go. I caught her hand and drew her down close so that my lips were against her ear.

  “Take her with you, let her do whatever she wants—except make you cum.”

  I watched Sloane cross the dance floor and saw her catch the eye of the woman who by then had returned to the bar to nurse her bruised ego. The woman glanced in my direction, but didn’t appear able to see my eyes in the shadows. Then she hurried after Sloane.

  Sloane chose the stall farthest from the door. The woman entered a moment later, pushing against each of the stall doors, finding the doors locked or the stalls empty. When she reached the last stall, she pushed open the door and found Sloane leaning against the wall, waiting. The woman kissed her at once, forcing her hands up under Sloane’s shirt, and fondling her nipples roughly.

  “My mistress wants you to watch while she fucks me up the ass,” Sloane whispered.

  The woman stopped and looked around.

  “Not here,” Sloane smiled, “Out there. But first,” she held up the small tube, “she wants you to get me nice and wet for her.” Sloane turned, facing the wall and bracing herself against the cool tiles. The woman reached around and opened the fly on Sloane’s jeans, then pushed the jeans down around her ankles. She grabbed the lube from Sloane and squirted it onto her fingers. Sloane bent down lower, giving the woman easy entry into her asshole. The woman began moaning the minute her first finger slipped inside. Sloane told her how good it felt. The woman slipped another finger inside, and Sloane said, “God, yes.” The woman began driving her fingers deep into Sloane’s ass, and Sloane could tell the woman was instantly on the verge of cumming. Sloane talked dirty to her, begged her to fuck her ass harder, until the woman let out a long sigh and bent her body over Sloane’s, cumming with a force that left her trembling. Sloane stood up straight, pulled her jeans back on, and pressed her whole body against the woman’s. “Now you get to watch her fuck me,” she whispered and walked out.

  The entrance to the balcony stairs was down a short hallway that also led to the loading dock out back. Sloane took her time climbing the stairs, enjoying the sensation of her dripping pussy and asshole with every step. On the balcony, I was leaning against the wall just above the dance floor, and I smiled as I watched her make her way to me. When she stood in front of me, she returned my smile, then without a word, undid her jeans, pushed them down, and stepped out of them. She paused for the briefest of moments, then also lifted the tank top up over her head so that she stood completely naked in a room full of a hundred women, none of whom would have believed what they were seeing if they’d looked up at the balcony.

  Sloane bent over, bracing her hands against the balcony rail and spreading her legs wide apart. The lube ran in shiny rivulets down her crack. I unzipped my jeans, reached in and pulled out the dildo, and rammed it into Sloane’s asshole, not stopping until my cunt was pressed against her ass.

  She yelped in pain, but the sound was drowned in the music. I stroked in and out of her asshole until Sloane’s pain gave way to ecstasy and she arched her neck in pleasure, begging me to fuck her. It was then that I spotted the woman Sloane had danced with. She was standing against the bar at the far end of the room, gazing up at us, her mouth slightly open, her eyes glassy as though she’d been hypnotized. I dug my fingers into Sloane’s hips to pull her toward me each time I thrust forward, and when she came, I was buried deep inside her. Sloane’s eyes were closed, but I got to watch the woman below as she came too.

  HARD TO GET

  Rachel Kramer Bussel

  With some girls, you know the minute you meet them you’re going to wind up between their thighs, your tongue coasting along their lower lips, diving deep inside, lapping up their sweet sex juices until they’re almost gone, then making more. You can tell from the way they say your name, a certain lilt that makes you picture them calling it out, hoarse and breathless, during sex. You know from the sparkle that bursts from their eyes, from the shiver you get as their fingers oh-so-gently stroke your arm. Gay, straight, bi—it doesn’t really matter what these girls call themselves, they give away their fuckability instantly. Once you feel that spark, that surge of heat that plummets deep ins
ide, dropping from the catch in your throat to the pounding of your heart to the somersaults in your stomach before giving way to the heat blasting through your pussy, they’re all yours—and vice versa. Any obstacles in your way, be they a boyfriend or the fact that you’ve never even met, are nothing compared to the insistent, urgent way your whole body tingles, propelling you forward, and you know that the minute you make contact, she’ll feel that magic dance like you’re two magnets drawn together as naturally as the sun shines every day. Getting those girls to succumb to your charms is fun, hot even, but it’s hardly a challenge.

  With other girls, though, it takes longer for the magic message to work its way between you. It’s like you can see it, hear it, taste it, and touch it, but they’re tuned to a different frequency, and your task is to make sure they hear yours so loudly it fills their heads with nothing else. For me, Nikki was the second type of girl. I think I made my way through all her friends before she so much as deigned to call me by name. It was never “Angie” or even “Angela” or “A,” as some of the girls called me. It was just “Hi” or “Hey” or even a nod, her eyes glassy, seeming to look anywhere but at me. She was never rude, but I got the sense that Nikki wanted to get away from me, was just waiting for me to leave so she could cut loose. I hadn’t done anything to offend her, except date her friends, and run my eyes up and down her luscious curves. But beneath her hostility I knew there was a heat I had to touch, to conquer, to stroke until she exploded against my touch, melting in my arms. More than once, I called out her name as I touched myself, wishing her fingers were inside me, mine inside her, both of us wet, wailing, willing. But Nikki’s the kind of girl who’s worth waiting for.

  One night I sat on a chair at the bar, with Tracy on my lap, her petite body fitting easily against my sturdier one, making me feel powerful beneath my men’s button-down shirt and brand-new jeans, my hair shorn so only the lightest layer graced my head. I was every inch the powerful butch to her femme, one of the few black couples at the club who clung so tightly to roles many thought were over and done with. When her ass pressed backward against my crotch, I almost felt like I had a real cock between my legs, not just the one I’d put on for the night. But even as intoxicating as Tracy was, and Cara, Janet, and Nina before her, something about Nikki made her stay on my mind. Later that night, when Tracy got on her knees before me, wearing only a hot-pink push-up bra and tiny Day-Glo pink thong panties that seemed to light up against her deep brown skin while she smoothly took the silver silicone dick between her lips, I almost called out “Nikki,” catching myself just in time. “Nice, that’s nice, baby,” I said.