“Need some water?”
She’d imagined being swept off her feet by a woman who dressed up to seduce—a sapphic nymph whose miniskirt weighed less than her mascara; or perhaps a Butch Charming in a zoot suit, with necktie as narrow as the line between her buff haunches. Tina’s presentation, by contrast, was as plain as a white T-shirt and those killer cutoffs. And yet the cunt-tickling immediacy of those gray eyes—which, Nancy noticed, turned silver like out-of-season sleigh bells when they caught the sunlight—made additional finery unnecessary.
“Actually, that would be great.” Nancy again began to fumble with her purse. But, as before, Tina caught her firmly by the wrist.
“On me,” said Tina. With her ungloved hand, she pulled a dollar bill from the front pocket of her cutoffs and, with a gallant flourish, fed it to the cash box.
Before Nancy could thank her, Tina spun around and squatted in front of a cooler at the back of the booth. While Tina retrieved a chilled, dripping bottle, amid much shuffling of the surrounding ice, Nancy devoted her attention to the area where Tina’s cutoffs were cut off, relishing how the exposed round of each smooth buttock hovered just above the corresponding heel of a dirty sneaker. She was sure that any moment now, she’d hear the sound of her own pussy juice sizzling onto the asphalt like the proverbial fried egg. The idea both embarrassed and excited her.
The water could only do so much to cool her down. She hadn’t realized quite how hot a day it was, nor how hazy the sky seemed, all of a sudden, to have become, spinning above the fair . . .
“PEACH. YOU OKAY, BABE?”
She was looking up into Tina’s face. In a flash, she remembered staggering against the serving table—and Tina ushering her to a canvas chair, sheltered from the sun, just as she succumbed to the fainting spell. She hadn’t fainted in years; she’d forgotten how disorienting it was.
“Oh! Oh. Yes. Thank you. I’m fine now.” It was only then that Nancy registered the fact that she was sitting with her legs spread languidly apart, her damp, dainty white panties on display. Quickly—and yet, to a degree, reluctantly—she snapped her knees together.
Tina grinned at her. “Yeah. You look fine.”
Tina had to pack up, and Nancy knew she’d be in the way—a welcome but hampering diversion, she dared to believe.
“I’d better leave you to it, Tina. Thank you for taking care of me.”
Tina beamed at her. “Hey, uh . . . supposed to be gorgeous again tomorrow. Care to join me in the park?”
Nancy flushed. “What do you do? Run? Rollerblade?”
“I do whatever you want me to, Peach.” Tina winked warmly—after which, the discussion of time and place was but a necessary anticlimax.
Again, the daytime nature of the rendezvous went against the grain of Nancy’s stock-photo expectations of candy-coated nightlife. But the vivid reality of her lust for Tina, in contrast to the twodimensional scenarios she’d envisioned, convinced Nancy that, for her, the day belonged to love.
And so, on Monday, hanging out with Tina was literally a walk in the park. The day was even more beautiful than the previous one, and, on an impulse, Nancy had opted to reprise the little peach dress.
“My boss said about five thousand people came through the festival yesterday,” said Tina, as they flopped down on a shaded, out-of-theway hillside. “Funny—I only noticed one.”
Nancy wasn’t sure what to say to this corny but wonderful compliment, and it was a relief to her that Tina continued talking.
“I’m glad you wore that dress again today, Peach. I don’t think women should be afraid to look perfect in the same way two days in a row. Well, I see it’s not entirely the same outfit.” Nancy followed Tina’s gaze downward, and she realized she was out of practice as far as lying on a hillside in a short skirt was concerned. But this time, she didn’t bother adjusting her posture.
Tina’s breasts, behind bra and tee, were tight and hot against Nancy when Tina rolled her nimble body onto her. As Tina kissed her, Nancy reached gratefully for the girl’s butt, which was again clad in abbreviated denim. A primal surge of libido ran through her as lips pressed lips. An ass-squeeze answered the nipple-thrilling foursome at chest level.
“I want you to know, that kiss made me come in my shorts,” said Tina. “I hope you’re okay with that.” Nancy blushed but squeezed Tina below the cutoffs once more, cherishing the unreleased heat between her own legs.
With a fluid, natural ease, Tina started to grind, mound to mound. The summer dress graciously made way for her, and Nancy glowed from the friction of warm denim directly against her soft panties—which today, as Tina had observed, sported manic peach stripes.
Nancy had been fucked now and again this past winter, taken by a small assortment of fingers and tongues and strap-ons. But none of that could compare to the seamless bliss of Tina’s shorts rubbing up and down, up and down her panties. Her clit buzzed with joy, and she came so tenderly that she felt tears welling up.
BECAUSE TINA WORKED FIVE NIGHTS at the restaurant, she and Nancy spent nearly a full week playing in city parks, public squares, and collegiate quadrangles before enjoying a single evening together. Nancy had never felt so thankful for the flexible schedule that her status as a grad student gave her at this time of year.
“You know what the sexiest place in this city is?” Tina asked rhetorically over their Saturday lunch of falafel. She took another bite. “Okay, the sexiest place in this city is between your legs. But do you know what the sexiest establishment is?”
“Tell me,” said Nancy, eager to find out what hot spot might meet with Tina’s approval.
“The car wash. I want to take you there now, if that’s all right.”
Nancy, six months away from a PhD, admitted to herself that she still had a lot to learn. “Sure, if you think your car needs it.”
“I think I need it, Peach.”
The baked vinyl of the passenger seat slapped Nancy’s thighs pleasantly as she squirmed into the subcompact.
“Oh, you’d better take your panties off before we get there,” said Tina, matter-of-factly. “Time will be of the essence, my friend.”
Nancy felt her own essence brimming to the surface, and by the time she’d wiggled out of her knickers, they were already fragrant.
Tina’s favorite car wash offered a solid three minutes of automated, unattended cleansing, during which the driver had no obligations. “Better than a motel room at Niagara Falls, don’t you think?” said Tina, as sensuous sheets of frothy water cascaded down on their cozy shell and sinuous fingers spidered under Nancy’s skirt.
Tina had the three-minute finger fuck down to a science, and Nancy briefly wondered how many other summer-skirted femmes had made this journey with her. She noted that the car had, in fact, been fairly dirty—so perhaps she was Tina’s first passenger of the season.
As the car hemmed and hawed patiently along the assembly line, Nancy, too, grunted and chugged back and forth along the interactive railroad track of Tina’s hand. The vehicle was completely engulfed in its industrial-strength shower, but Nancy, though seated in a pocket of dry air, could swear that her cunt was every bit as wet as the windshield. She felt immersed in a nurturing soup: The Toyota became a womb, even as her own womb throbbed to Tina’s velvet strokes, with an increasingly heavy tension.
“We’re almost done, Peach,” Tina groaned, and Nancy saw that her girlfriend’s other hand was deep in her own shorts. When the car gave a great lurch into the heat-drying segment of its itinerary, Nancy’s cunt clamped spasmodically around the fingers that were making love to her. She let her clit explode against the thumb that had been coaxing it toward euphoria.
While Nancy melted in orgasm, she stared at Tina’s face. It was a face that was also orgasmic, but which, instead of melting, seemed to be frozen as rigid as the beautiful arm that grew—like some slender tree trunk—out of her pants.
“I WANT TO GET DRUNK with you tomorrow night,” Tina told Nancy before dropping her off in
front of her apartment, en route to her final restaurant shift of the week. On the stoop, Nancy smiled at having to take her panties back out of her purse in order to access her keys.
Saturday night, spent on the terrace of a lively Market Street bar, was a blur of pilsners and wooing. Techno rumbled from inside with the otherworldly, muffled resonance of music heard through closed doors. Nancy sat shyly, perched like a bird, basking in Tina’s attentions. Words of admiration and gestures of affection became more effusive with each beer that Tina downed, and Nancy didn’t mind in the least. It was fun being seduced, when you knew the ending.
It was odd—this was the kind of place she’d expected to be on a balmy night like this, right here on Market. But she’d also, until last Sunday, expected to be on the market. It was almost a little sad. Almost. She looked up from her glass, realizing that Tina had stopped talking. The girl was just staring at her in drunken contentment, as if she could contemplate Nancy forever.
“BATHROOM’S OVER THERE,” slurred Tina as they stumbled into her kitchen, with a nod more or less in the appropriate direction. Nancy had confided on the way up that, after three beers, she was particularly interested in seeing that feature of the apartment.
“But I have to tell ya, I never trust a woman till she’s peed on my kitchen floor.” Tina laughed. “Just kidding, Peach. Don’t know why I even said that. Like I said, bathroom’s over there.” She pointed.
Nancy froze. She studied Tina and felt a delicious tide of pilsner bobbing against the perimeter of her control.
Tina looked puzzled. “Go ahead, sweetie. I’ll wait for you. Not going anywhere in this condition.”
Nancy didn’t move.
“Babe,” said Tina. “Was just a dumb joke. I’m drunk, damn it.” She laughed again.
But Nancy couldn’t laugh off Tina’s remark. Oh, she knew it was a joke, but to her, it was also a challenge.
It would never have occurred to Nancy, on her own, to do this. But now she felt drawn, by an overpowering compulsion, to the necessity of lifting her skirt and yanking the gusset of her panties to one side—right here. And, joke or no joke, she didn’t think Tina would be displeased.
It was something she had to do, in more ways than one.
Not since she’d fainted in front of Tina’s booth had she felt her body being overwhelmed in this way, translating a highly charged atmosphere into a corporeal event—a metaphorical, yet all-consuming orgasm. The difference was that this time, Nancy was consciously taking her own helm.
Her rain came easily, a shower broadened and emboldened by beer and intimacy. And as she poured, she reflected—and amplified—the erotic lightning from Tina’s eyes with her own. She thought she could sense the floor shifting, transforming her from seduced to seducer; while through the window behind her back, she imagined the glow of an unseen city, burning a notch brighter from the electricity of her Saturday-night kitchen show.
“Sweetie!” Tina seemed so moved that she was in danger of sobering up. “Sweetie,” she repeated, speaking the endearment in a hushed, reverent tone.
And now Nancy laughed. “Quiet,” she teased her hostess. “I’m busy.” And she felt Tina’s eyes on her little crotch, as it busily pissed her into Tina’s hypothetical trust. I’m peeing on her floor, and now she’s mine for keeps, she half-joked to herself. And again she laughed. It was a laugh of freedom and release, which made her sound drunker than she was. It was a laugh that reverberated off Tina’s ceiling, while her water hissed and splashed and pooled cheerfully beneath her. Still flowing, she danced for Tina—a private version of a dancing-in-the-streets dance. As she pirouetted, her eye caught a crescent moon in the window, leering at her in a spirit of good-natured debauchery.
Between her residual inebriation and her acute excitement, Tina could barely manage to towel the floor and peel Nancy’s panties off her. Finally, she grabbed Nancy’s ass—just as she’d seemed to, from a distance, in the first moment of their friendship—and guided her to the bedroom. “Never seen anything like that,” she said wetly into her woman’s ear, en route. The words made Nancy tremble.
Tina was ever gentle, but very strong, and despite the diminishment of her motor skills, she lifted Nancy onto the bed, legs spread wide. Nancy’s head swam as Tina addressed the meal between her thighs with a feathery ravenousness. Even the way the gal’s thumbs dug into her fleshy bottom was tender. Nancy writhed, and the aroma of her arousal became so intense that she imagined she tasted her own nectar on her lips.
She gave herself over, and Tina’s tongue soon brought her to such a rarefied plane of ecstasy that she could only flatten her arms and legs against the mattress, in imitation of the invisible plateau on which she quivered. Then the magic carpet of glass shattered into a thousand clitoral beads, each of which burst into a sticky firework of warm fruit juice. And Nancy was riding every ride in Disney World at once, her brain humming so loudly that she didn’t even hear herself scream.
In the still that followed, Tina turned somnolent between Nancy’s legs. So instead of licking Tina where she longed to, Nancy simply kissed her thick head of black hair. “Tomorrow,” she whispered. She fell asleep thinking of round ass cheeks under denim, and of a savory pussy pouting for her beneath lush, black fur.
Lying half under a sheet the next morning, uncovered from the waist down, Nancy enjoyed the subtle breeze from the window, welcoming its dry kiss along the crack of her derriere. She was pleased to observe that she’d awoken with a hungry tickle in her cunt, rather than a hangover. And she detected the heat of Tina’s face against her leg.
“Dumplings stuffed with rice . . . ginger . . . and marinated seitan . . . served in almond-coconut curry sauce,” Tina murmured secretively, kissing Nancy’s thigh after each ingredient.
Nancy emerged from her sheet, smiling.
“I meant to tell you that a week ago, Peach,” Tina explained. “But you distracted me.”
Nancy, wide awake now, closed her eyes. The fingers of sunlight on her eyelids mimicked the proud grasp of Tina’s hand on her open juncture, a crossroads of a thousand delicacies.
ABOUT THE CONTRIBUTORS
Janine Ashbless is the author of two collections of erotic fairy, fantasy, and paranormal stories (Cruel Enchantment and Dark Enchantment) as well as three erotic fantasy novels (Divine Torment, Burning Bright, and Wildwood), all published by Black Lace. Her short stories have been published by Spice, Black Lace, Nexus, Xcite, Racy Pages, and Cleis Press (including one in Best Women’s Erotica 2009). She was Jade Magazine’s Erotic Fiction Writer of the Year in 2009. She lives in the U.K. and blogs about minotaurs, Victorian art, and writing dirty at www.janineashbless.blogspot.com.
Rachel Kramer Bussel is a New York City-based author, editor, and blogger. She is senior editor at Penthouse Variations, former Lusty Lady columnist for The Village Voice, sex columnist for SexIs Magazine, and host of the long-running In The Flesh Reading Series. Her work has been published in over one hundred anthologies as well as Cosmopolitan, The Daily Beast, The Frisky, and other publications. She’s edited over thirty anthologies, including Dirty Girls: Erotica for Women (Seal Press), and has won several IPPY (Independent Publisher) Awards in the Erotica and Sexuality/Relationships categories. She teaches erotic writing workshops nationwide and is the author of the forthcoming novel Everything But . . . and the nonfiction book The Art of the Erotic Love Letter. Visit her at www.rachelkramerbussel.com.
Heidi Champa has been published in numerous anthologies, including Best Women’s Erotica 2010, Playing with Fire, Frenzy, and Ultimate Curves. She has also steamed up the pages of BUST magazine. If you prefer your erotica in electronic form, she can be found at Clean Sheets, Ravenous Romance, Oysters & Chocolate, and The Erotic Woman. Find her online at heidichampa.blogspot.com.
Sienna Conroy is a chef with a passion for the written word. Her publishing credits include the Wicked Escapes Ezine (2007), the Apollo’s Lyre website (2009), the Moon Town Café newsletter (2009), and Oysters & Chocolate (20
08).
Emily Croy is a freelance writer based in the Pacific Northwest. A literary snob by day and a peddler of erotic words by night, she is always eager to titillate.
Trish DeVene is a freelance editor and lives with her husband and kids in a western suburb of Chicago. Her fiction and poetry have appeared in Rose and Thorn, Gold Dust, Not One of Us, Byline, Sounds of the Night, and Karamu, among other speculative and literary publications, as well as the anthologies Apparitions and The Cougar Book. Her poetry has won the Rhino Reader/Writer contest, and her fiction has received honorable mentions in Ellen Datlow’s The Year’s Best Fantasy and Horror (2004 and 2005).
Saranna DeWylde is a cross-genre writer, dipping her toes in erotica, romance, and horror.
Jeremy Edwards is the author of the erotocomedic novel Rock My Socks Off. His libidinous short stories have been widely published online, as well as in some forty anthologies—including Oysters & Chocolate: Erotic Stories of Every Flavor and three volumes in the Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica series. He has read at New York’s In The Flesh, Philadelphia’s Erotic Literary Salon, and (via telephone) In The Flesh: L.A. He has been featured in the literary showcase of the Seattle Erotic Art Festival, and he is a frequent contributor to Scarlet and Forum (U.K.) magazines. Jeremy’s greatest goal in life is to be sexy and witty at the same moment—ideally in lighting that flatters his profile. Readers can drop in on him unannounced (and thereby catch him in his underwear) at www.jeremyedwardserotica.com.
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