Best Lesbian Erotica 2009

by Tristan Taormino

  That’s all she is interested in. Whereas I find myself craning to catch a glimpse of her tanned cleavage, desperate to brush my fingers over her velvet-clad forearm.

  “Um, good morning, Dr. Hauser.” She smiles, pleased to be recognized. I swallow hard and struggle for coherence. It’s difficult with pussy juice dripping down the inside of my thigh.

  “Um—well—FaceQuest is a startup with a unique solution to the problem of finding people on the Web. We offer an image-search engine, specialized for matching faces in digital images. Our algorithms are based on the notion of caricature.” Venkatesh, realizing that I’m into my pitch, starts the Power-Point, and I gesture at the slides projected on the screen at the back of the booth.

  “We can take a target face and reduce it to a simple sketch, a set of vectors that offers an economical representation of its essential features while still being recognizable to a human. We do the same for faces that we find in the search set. Our matching strategy is more effective than the competition’s, because the vector features of the target and search candidate can be geometrically transformed into the same frame of reference. We can recognize search candidates in a much wider range of head positions—as much as forty-five degrees from face-on.”

  “Interesting. Very interesting.” Marta licks her ruby lips. I swallow hard and work on controlling my breathing. “You mentioned web-searching. Can this technology be used for biometric ID as well?”

  “Definitely. We’re actually in the process of discussion with several government agencies regarding custom biometric applications.”

  “And what’s your role in the company—Loretta?” When she leans forward to read my badge, I catch a faint hint of her perfume. It’s sharp rather than sweet, and reminds me of new-mown grass.

  I hardly recognize that name. Everyone calls me Lori.

  “I’m the leader of the development team.” I pull myself up to my full five-foot-three inches. “I designed many of the algorithms, as well as handling a lot of the coding. My senior thesis at Berkeley involved computer graphics and image processing.”

  “Oh?” She gives me a frank once-over. Like Jim and Venk, I’m wearing a yellow polo with the company logo and navy linen pants. I suddenly wish I were more glamorous. “We should talk some more. Come on.”

  Marta beckons me to follow her over to the exhibitor lounge area. I watch her thighs flex under the emerald nap as she sits down across from me. I hope that I’m not salivating.

  “How would you like a job?”

  “I have a job, Dr. Hausman.”

  “I mean a real job, one where you get the recognition that you deserve.” She licks her lips again. “I could use a bright young woman like you.”

  We’re close enough now that I can see the gold studs in her earlobes and her lack of a wedding ring. Her eyes are so dark, they’re practically black. She holds my gaze, challenging me to accept her offer. I have the sudden conviction that this would be the first of many challenges.

  I can’t take her stare for long. My gaze drops to my lap. I’m horrified to see a darker patch at my crotch. Hastily, I fold my hands over the small area of dampness, praying that she doesn’t notice.

  Her patrician nostrils flare. Her lips bow into a half-smile. “Loretta, can you honestly tell me that your current company appreciates you?”

  I consider the twelve-hour days and the fact that I haven’t gotten a raise in two years. I think about the cramped cubicle and the overflowing bookcase I have to share with Jim. I dare to wonder, for a moment, what it would be like to have Marta Hausman as my boss.

  “Well, Dr. Hausman, FaceQuest was my first job out of college. I’ve been with them nearly three years…”

  “Exactly, and it’s time for you to move on. And drop the ‘Doctor,’ please. Call me Marta.” She’s watching my reactions. I can’t help noticing how her breasts swell under her tight jacket. I am suddenly certain that she’s not wearing a bra. Just the thought makes my pussy spasm with excitement.

  “I’d like to consider making you chief architect of our video analysis products group. Your company is focusing on still images; we’re trying to tackle the much more difficult problem of searching video clips. You’d have complete technical control, subject only to my review. Your own office. Gym and swimming pool on the company campus. All the coffee and soda that you can drink. Plus, of course, a substantial boost in your salary. What do you think?”

  It’s all so tempting. She is so tempting. I’ve always been a visual person and now I can’t shut off the scene that’s running through my mind. I’m on my knees between Marta’s spread thighs. Naked. Unbuttoning the tiny, velvet-covered buttons that hold her jacket shut, one by one…

  “Loretta?” I force my wandering mind back to the present moment.

  “Sorry, Dr. Hauser—I mean, Marta. I have to get back to our booth.”

  “Think about my offer. Will you?” Her hand is on my bare arm; her skin is oddly cool, or perhaps I have a fever.

  Her cell phone beeps. She whips it out and consults the screen, then turns back to me. “I’ve got a meeting now. But let’s get together after the show and talk some more. I’ll pick you up outside the convention center at five-thirty.”

  “Um…” She strides away into the crowd without waiting for my agreement. I rejoin my curious teammates back in the booth, slightly dazed, knowing that it’s going to be a very long afternoon.

  The exhibits close at five. I spend the next twenty-five minutes in the restroom, touching up my makeup, brushing my teeth, rebraiding my hair, and trying to make my pants more presentable using the hand dryer. Rhys would be so annoyed with me.

  I consider bringing myself off. Maybe that would help me to stay rational and in control, to make an objective decision about my future. I don’t, though. I have this weird notion that Marta wouldn’t want me to.

  When Marta pulls up to the curb in a vintage Eldorado convertible, my surprise almost wipes out my nervousness. I had imagined her driving a fancy pickup, or maybe a hybrid. She laughs when she sees my astonishment. “I like things with a history. Perhaps because I grew up in Europe, where everything is antique.” She leans over to unlatch the door for me, and I get a quick but clear look down her neckline. It appears that I was correct in my guess. In an instant, I’m sopping again.

  “Hungry?” She peels away while I’m still fumbling with the seat belt.

  “No, not really.” I sit back and try to relax. The leather upholstery embraces me in fragrant luxury.

  “Me neither. Let’s just go to my place.”

  She doesn’t really mean that, I tell myself. Not the way I’m thinking.

  “To talk some more about the job?”

  I can barely hear her laugh above the roar of the huge V8. “Right. To talk.” My whole body hums with excitement; the vibrations of the engine just intensify the sensation.

  I expect her to get onto 101 and head down the peninsula, but she surprises me once again, weaving through city streets and up and down hills until she turns into the drive of a two-story Victorian in Pacific Heights. The house is beautifully detailed in green and gold. I realize that it more or less matches her suit.

  Marta comes around to open the passenger side door and extends her hand to help me out of the monster vehicle. The skin-to-skin contact sends a bolt of electricity up my spine. Her grip is firm and lasts several seconds longer than strictly necessary. I’m so nervous I’m practically shaking.

  “Are you all right, Loretta?” She searches my face, sensing my anxiety.

  “Please. Everyone calls me Lori.”

  “I prefer Loretta—much more feminine. It has an aura of the past, the glamour and power of a forties film queen. Don’t you agree?”

  I don’t, but I’m certainly not going to argue with her. I suspect that there aren’t too many people willing to disagree with Marta Hauser.

  The house is cool and dark and smells of lavender. Twilight filters through lace curtains, showing me rooms furnished in th
e lavishly ornamented style of Victoria’s reign. I marvel that Marta Hauser, queen of high tech, would surround herself with these relics of a long-past era. I feel like Alice, as if I’ve stepped through a looking glass and I’m now lost in a world of strange marvels.

  “Upstairs and left to the end of the hall. I want to show you the Turkish Room.”

  Marta climbs behind me. I have the distinct impression that she’s admiring my butt. I’m wetter than ever, and hope against hope that she can’t tell.

  Then I realize it doesn’t matter. If she didn’t want me, I wouldn’t be here, in her elegant retro sanctuary. I don’t know if she was serious about the job, or just trying to lure me into her clutches, but right now, I don’t care. I swing my hips a bit, taunting her. I hear her intake of breath, and half expect her to slap me across my impudent ass, but for now she doesn’t touch me.

  The Turkish Room is somebody’s lurid harem fantasy come true. The windows are draped in heavy, fringed layers of garnet velvet. Oriental carpets cushion the floor, with striped silk pillows piled in the corners. There’s a chaise in one corner, upholstered in gold brocade. A brass filigree lamp hanging from the ceiling sheds rosy light over the scene.

  Wonderland, indeed.

  “Make yourself comfortable,” Marta purrs. “I’ll be right back.” She disappears through a curtained aperture in the right wall.

  I perch on the edge of the chaise, not wanting to stain the covering with my juices. My heart beats wild and fast. My nipples are puckered into aching knots that press painfully against my bra. I start to get nervous again.

  I must be insane to be here. Marta is so out of my league. Plus getting it on with a potential future boss, no matter how hot she is, definitely doesn’t sound like a good career move.

  On the other, I’m always so practical, and where has it gotten me? I’m overworked, lonely, and horny. Maybe I can use a bit of insanity.

  It’s probably no more than five minutes, but my wait seems endless. I’m startled when Marta finally parts the draperies. One look at her and I know I know I’ve entered the asylum.

  She’s a vision of elegance and perversity. In lieu of her suit, she’s wearing a man’s robe of paisley quilted silk. She’s carrying an article that I recognize as a riding crop. And she’s smoking a cigar.

  The fragrant smoke weaves through the air. I am suddenly light-headed.

  “I told you to make yourself comfortable. Do I have to discipline you to get you to obey me?” She gestures at me with the crop. I’m simultaneously terrified and terribly aroused.

  “No—no, Ma’am.”

  “Get those clothes off, then. Now.”

  I strip as quickly as I can, acutely aware of her dark eyes on me. In thirty seconds or less, my clothes are in a tangled pile on the cushions. I stand naked in front of her, suddenly embarrassed by the dark fuzz on my legs and in my armpits.

  Marta inhales, deep and slow, then releases the smoke through pursed scarlet lips. She is silent as she circles my body, judging me. She’s achingly close, but she does not touch me. I tremble every time I sense her moving.

  She pauses behind my back, and brushes the riding crop lightly over my buttocks. I freeze. Will she beat me, mark me, make me hers? I brace for the pain, fearful yet strangely eager for the new sensation. Instead she places the crop where I can see it on the lounge.

  “Not today, little one; not this time. Not as long as you are a good girl.” I feel her heat, smell her musk mixed with the fruity cigar scent. My legs are rubbery, unstable. She massages my buttocks, molding them in her palms. All at once I feel her finger sliding from behind into my soaking cunt. I clench my muscles around the slender digit, trying to keep her inside me, but she slips free and holds her finger in front of my face. I breathe in my own damp, ripe aroma.

  Her voice next to my ear is soft and smooth as velvet. “You certainly are a wet little girl, Loretta. A deliciously wet little slut.” She pulls my plait out of the way and kisses me just below the earlobe. Her lips send shivers racing through me, electric arcs that spark across my nipples and converge on my clit.

  I’m dying for more, but she pulls back after that brief caress. Her fingers ghost down to the small of my back, where she pulls off the elastic that secures the braid. “When you’re with me, I want your hair loose, free. I want to see it flowing over your shoulders.” She arranges it that way as she speaks, then circles back around to evaluate the effect.

  “Much better.” She flicks a lock away from my breast, almost but not quite touching me. “But I certainly don’t want to hide those adorable tits.” Seating herself on the chaise, she beckons me to her. My nipples are just at the level of her lips. She warms one with her breath, and it tightens visibly. I want to scream, to beg her to touch me. She’s running this show, though. We both know that.

  She fastens her mouth on that needy nipple. I close my eyes as pleasure and relief overwhelm me. She sucks steadily. My clit twitches and dances as if her mouth were down there instead. I moan and try to rub my hungry pussy against her robe. She bites down hard on the swollen bud of flesh between her lips.

  “Ow!”

  “Naughty little slut! Maybe I need to use my crop after all!” Her actions don’t match her words, however. I imagine her seizing her instrument of punishment and throwing me over her lap so that she can chastise me. Instead, she sinks to one knee in front of my pussy and opens me with her mouth and fingers.

  I’ve been horny all day. The first broad strokes of her tongue are nearly enough to push me over the edge. Sensing this, she backs off, teasing me with licks and nibbles that build the tension without satisfying me. Her fingers probe my slippery depths, but she is expert in avoiding my clit. I grind myself against her mouth, unable to resist trying to take control. She reacts, once again, by pulling away.

  Her cheeks are shiny with my moisture. Her lipstick is smeared. I glance down and see that my bare mons is streaked with crimson, just as I fantasized.

  The sight alone almost makes me come. Marta crushes me to her body, kissing me fiercely. I taste my oceany juices and Marta’s cigar. Her tongue probes my mouth as her fingers return to my cunt.

  I’m close, so close, but she keeps me hanging. We’re nearly strangers, yet somehow she has this diabolical knowledge of my body and its limits.

  When she releases me, I’m breathless and ready to beg.

  “Please…Marta…”

  “What is it, Loretta? What do you want?” She pulls herself back to her feet and gives me an arch smile. Of course she knows what I want, what I desperately need. She shrugs off her robe, and I gasp at my first glimpse of her nakedness.

  She’s tanned all over. Her skin has a golden sheen that cries out to be touched. She’s muscular and curvy, the swell of her luscious breasts contrasting with her sculpted biceps and quads.

  She’s so gorgeous that she’s scary. Especially with the jet black dildo that juts out from the harness strapped around her hips.

  She gestures toward the chaise. She doesn’t need to say a word. Awkward, unable to look away from her, I shuffle backward until I feel the chaise edge against the back of my knees and sink down onto the brocade. The shiny fabric feels smooth and cool against my bare thighs and steaming pussy.

  Marta steps closer. I can’t help shrinking away from her. Before I know it, I’m on my back, settled in the cushions. She towers over me. The dildo bobs in front of my face. Her eyes drill into my soul.

  I know what she wants. I want to satisfy her, to obey her, but I can’t make myself do it. She grabs the pseudo-cock and shakes it. “Suck me. Make my cock nice and wet, Loretta. That will make it feel so much better when I push it into you.”

  “I—I don’t—you…”

  Her dark brows knit together, in annoyance or in confusion, I can’t tell which.

  “Don’t you want to please me, girl? Don’t you want me to pleasure you?”

  “Yes, but…I’m a dyke. I like women. I don’t like cocks.”

  “Not ev
en mine? I think I can change your mind.” Like lightning she’s on me, spreading my thighs with hers, positioning the tip of that enormous phallus at the entrance to my cunt. She grips it in one hand and rubs the polished knob over my clit. The sensation drives away any thoughts of resistance. As my hips buck and jerk helplessly, she thrusts the fingers of her other hand into my soaking folds and swirls them around.

  “You don’t need any lubrication, girl. You just need to be fucked.”

  With a practiced thrust of her hips, she embeds the dildo deep in my cunt. The invasion shatters something inside me, some pitiful, silly resistance that I was clinging to. I scream and arch against her, wanting more, wanting whatever she can give me.

  She moves like a dancer, sweeping the dildo in and out of me with the same confidence she exuded on the conference stage. First she pumps into my depths. Then she retreats to the fringes of my labia, teasing me with the most delicate strokes. Her breasts bounce deliciously with each thrust. I long to run my tongue over their perfect roundness, to suck on the crinkled nipples until she moans, but I’m helpless, pinned to the chaise by her force. I’m filled, shattered, torn, and tottering on the edge of total ecstasy.

  It’s nothing like those clumsy, fumbling men. She smells divine, the musk of her own excitement mingling with her foresty perfume. She is completely in charge as her own climax beckons. She slams her cock into me, again and again, as rough as any man could be and yet totally feminine. I’m bewildered and delighted and finally, at last, I stop thinking altogether.

  My body is swirling electricity, sparks and waves of energy, a thousand nuances of pleasure. My mind is unfocused, roiling colors and textures, even the lustful images purged away. I open my eyes for an instant and see her amazing face hovering over me, full of joy and triumph. Her gaze locks on mine. Then she throws her head back, grinding her artificial penis into my pussy, overwhelmed, overwhelming me.

  After all her force, the climax is intense but not violent. It swells up and spills smoothly through me, exquisite, soft and yet irresistible. Then as the velvet whispers of the first orgasm are fading, I come again, sharp and powerful as a grenade exploding in my cunt.