by Sacchi Green
BEST
LESBIAN EROTICA
OF THE YEAR
VOLUME THREE
BEST
LESBIAN EROTICA
Of THE YEAR
VOLUME THREE
Edited by
Sacchi Green
Copyright © 2018 by Sacchi Green.
All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted in newspaper, magazine, radio, television or online reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the Publisher.
Published in the United States by Cleis Press, an imprint of Start Midnight, LLC, 101 Hudson Street, Thirty-Seventh Floor, Suite 3705, Jersey City, NJ 07302.
Printed in the United States.
Cover design: Scott Idleman/Blink
Cover photograph: iStock
Text design: Frank Wiedemann
First Edition.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Trade paper ISBN: 978-1-62778-286-9
E-book ISBN: 978-1-62778-500-6
CONTENTS
Introduction
Ninjutsu • Valerie Alexander
Morning Fog • Scout Rhodes
Where There’s Smoke • M. Birds
Husher • Sommer Marsden
Fearless • T. C. Mill
The Night Shift • Pascal Scott
The Auction • R. G. Emanuelle
Rainbow’s End • Emily L. Byrne
Oliver: Twisted • Nanisi Barrett D’Arnuk
Fuck Me Like a Canadian • Raven Sky
Jani-Lyn’s Dragon • Nat Burns
Rules • Lea Daley
Perfume • R. D. Miller
Trying Submission • Xan West
Yin and Yang • Mags Hayward
Still Marching • Victoria Janssen
Sweet of My Heart • Anna Watson
About the Authors
About the Editor
INTRODUCTION
We open a book hoping to be taken somewhere—to faraway places, into the lives and inner thoughts of intriguing characters, or into times past or even unexplored depths of ourselves. If the book is classed as erotica, we also expect to be intensely stirred both sensually and emotionally. The beauty of an anthology is that we can expect to be taken in multiple directions, and meet an assortment of characters with a wide range of viewpoints. The drawback is that with short stories we often wish for more time with these characters, these sensations, these adventures. But writers with a special gift for short fiction can still draw us deeply into the brief length of their work, with multidimensional characters, vivid settings, intriguing story arcs, and, of course, sex as intrinsic to the story as any setting.
I’ve been lucky enough in two previous volumes of this series to be the editor who gets to read the flood of submissions and decide which of the best, in my opinion, should be included. I could never fit all of the very best into the limited space of a single anthology, so I try for a balance, and as wide a variety of themes and styles as possible, especially those I haven’t seen before. Originality is high on my wish list.
Here are some hints as to where the stories I chose will take you, and what you may find there. Could there be a better start than the fantasy-fulfillment story, “Ninjutsu,” set on a plane high above the Pacific en route from Tokyo to Honolulu? And what could feel more real than longtime lovers waking in the “Morning Fog” of San Francisco? How about touring the South of France in “Perfume,” a massage in a Moroccan public bath in “Fuck Me Like a Canadian,” a cabin “Where There’s Smoke” in the snowy North Country, and the surveillance area above the ceiling of a Las Vegas casino where “Oliver: Twisted” begins?
New York City figures in at least three stories, playing different roles. In “The Auction,” the city is an artsy background for socialite fundraisers. In “Trying Submission,” it’s an upscale background for a decidedly non-upscale character. And the Harlem of 1931 in “Sweet of My Heart” is the home of a Peace Mission’s free meals where even a dance hall girl could be fed.
While most of the stories have contemporary settings, two more are set, at least partially, in the past. If you’re old enough to have been swept up in the rock and blues bands frenzy of the ’60s and ’70s, you may catch the significance of September 1970, and even if you aren’t that old, you’ll find out in “Jani-Lyn’s Dragon.” And in “Still Marching,” old friends who met and parted twenty-five years ago at a march for abortion rights in Washington, DC, bump into each other at a present-day march in Philadelphia.
There are various themes included in the anthology. I had quite a few submissions featuring coffeehouse encounters, but “Husher” is the one I chose for its deft and evocative style. There were also several submissions involving cancer, something I hadn’t seen before, and others referring to trauma from past abuse; I went with “Fearless,” which included both, along with a beautifully uplifting conclusion. Of the several stories I received featuring differently abled or neuro-atypical characters, I settled on “Trying Submission,” with a vulnerable character who lingers vividly in my mind. On another tack, “The Night Shift” proves to be just the right time for accidental phone sex. Then the familiar professor/ former student theme of “Rules” travels in unexpected directions and gets as steamily entertaining as they come, while the queer bookstore in “Rainbow’s End” provides an ideal place for a hesitant would-be writer to find just what she hardly dared hope for. And in the beautifully balanced “Yin and Yang,” a contemporary ballet dancer and her lighting-technician lover make the perfect team, while the writing, alternating between lyrical and straightforward, makes the perfect presentation of their story.
Yes, all of these stories include hot, intense sex, in its many-splendored manifestations. I’ll leave you to discover those, scene by scene. A word of caution: you may not get jet lag from this journey, but a suitable recovery period between stories is highly recommended. Trust me.
Sacchi Green
Amherst, MA
NINJUTSU
Valerie Alexander
Rain is falling onto the tarmac. It’s a soft rain, small puddles reflecting the red and blue airport lights. From the gate window I watch the drizzle, as if concerned that my flight out of Tokyo will be grounded. But really I’m standing at the window to assess my fellow passengers behind me, all reflected in the glass. And to show off my dark-red wrap dress and spiked black heels, which have drawn some curious looks. Most everyone at the gate is dressed for comfort, the better to sleep through the red-eye flight to Honolulu.
We’re flying on a 747 tonight. From the number of people behind me, it doesn’t seem the flight is full. That’ll make things easier.
I adjust the enormous tote bag cutting into my shoulder and look down the tarmac as far as I can. Baggage handlers are driving their carts through the rain. For a moment I envy them—what a life that would be, working around planes at night instead of in office cubicles in the daytime. Then again, maybe planes wouldn’t be as sexually fascinating if they were my job.
Our 747 lands. Everyone looks out the window. The dress is planned, but this gesture isn’t: I put my hands on my hips and lift them, raising the dress slightly. Just a few inches, from my knees to almost midway up my thighs. Still gazing out at the rain, like it was an unconscious gesture, like I’m lost in thought. Then I release the dress to search through my bag, frowning with preoccupation, and turn.
More than a few people are watching me. Some men think they saw the accidental leg show of a respectable woman. But other women aren’t fooled, I can tell by their w
ry, calculating eyes. I find a seat and play with my phone, bringing my long black hair over my shoulder and setting my bag next to my heels. I’m stealthy as I scan potential targets. The American college girl in the sweatshirt is too young—I need someone older, with self-control. A thirtyish blonde gives me a gorgeous smile but she seems to be playing trophy wife to the older executive next to her. Maybe the jock would do, the one who’s all tanned muscles and unlaced tennis shoes. She looks like a few conquests have passed through her hands. And then there’s the butch woman with short black hair and a handsome, tired face. She’s wearing a classic white T-shirt and jeans, arms spread insolently to claim the seats on either side of her.
Then we’re boarding. As always the procedure of finding my window seat, stuffing my carry-on in the overhead compartment, and locking my seat belt gives me an excited flutter of trepidation. I lean my head back against the seat and close my eyes almost all the way, until I look asleep. This way I can still keep a watch on the passengers and make note of their seats—but unfortunately I am too far up to see much.
The flight attendant delivers her routine. Emergency exits, which restrooms we can wait in line for and which we can’t. The price of Wi-Fi, movie headsets, and drinks. I tune her out and watch the rain streak the window. A baggage vehicle is still parked beneath our plane, the handlers efficient as they throw suitcases into the 747’s lower deck.
I amend my earlier fantasy. I wouldn’t have a job on the tarmac at night but a stealth vocation. I’d wait in the shadows of the plane’s giant wheels and then, when the baggage handler drove up her cart, I’d walk out of the darkness toward her without a word. I would be like a haunt, a succubus, who materialized under resting planes to unbutton the uniforms of hardworking women and lure them into the shadows. Sinking to my knees on the tarmac or maybe bending over with my dress up around my waist and my hands on the tires as they fucked me from behind. Then vanishing without a word.
I don’t know where these types of thoughts come from.
Tokyo’s neon glow falls away like an abandoned electric birthday cake as we rise into the sky. Eight hours until we touch down in the soft Honolulu dawn. My seat companion wants to know if I’m from Japan or the States and if I’m traveling for business or pleasure; she’s not being nosy, just making what she considers polite conversation. I don’t mention that this is not a vacation for me but an exodus. That I’m leaving Tokyo, and the woman I lived with there, forever. My seatmate would think a divorce is something I’d need to be consoled about and just possibly she might probe for some kind of lesbian details to titillate her book club with back home. So I just say I’m looking forward to the Honolulu beaches, smile, and put my headphones on—a social code internationally understood.
She reads for about an hour before turning off the light and going to sleep. Many of the passengers seem to be asleep, though it’s not terribly late by Tokyo time. A few reading lights still shine down from the cabin ceiling, other rows illuminated by the glow of laptops and tablets. I turn on my side and stare out the window. The clouds have a tinge of pink against the indigo night. If I ever won the lottery, I would fly internationally every weekend. I would never leave airports; I would be untraceable, a ninja of the air. And it would all be for moments like this, the darkness of the cabin and the thrum of the engines disguising me as I carefully slide my hand up my thigh. Going slow, like a stranger would, testing the waters of my receptivity.
Which a real stranger did a few years ago. It was shortly after I moved to Japan, on a different red-eye flight. She was straight, I thought, a businesswoman in a well-cut suit who didn’t speak to me before takeoff. Her hand dangled from the armrest at first, then gradually draped over it until her fingers grazed my thigh. She seemed asleep. I didn’t move her hand. It was a cheap thrill, a strange woman’s fingertips on my leg, an inch from the hem of my dress. Was it really an accident? I couldn’t tell. I opened my legs experimentally and she shifted, eyes closed, fingers moving up my leg. I opened my legs a bit wider and her hand moved in deeper, fully between my thighs. It rested there for a full minute or so as my pussy throbbed wildly—and then as her thumb stroked my inner thigh, horror at what I was doing shot through me like a scalding rocket. I got up and went to the restroom, where I furiously rubbed myself off. When I got back to my seat, the woman seemed to be deep in a nap and didn’t touch me.
Just an interlude. Something that could be framed so many ways—an opportunist, like the arrogant rugby player who used to play with my breasts in the dorm shower; a transnational sleepwalker; a mind reader.
But it didn’t matter what the businesswoman was. It mattered what I was: an adulteress, opening my legs for a stranger five months after moving in with the woman I said was the love of my life. And when I went to my partner a few weeks later, guilty yet still racked with dreams of anonymous sex, she looked disdainful. “Why would you even want that?” she said when I asked her to play a game of pretend with me. My shame intensified. I should be content with our cuddly sex three or four times a week. But the fantasy came back stronger than the shame, and soon I was getting off to it on a regular basis, imagining myself with anonymous women I saw in public gardens and museums, stores. Which was as far as I let it go, until now.
My panties are soaked. I shift in my seat and carefully hook my finger through the elastic, then pull them down my legs. No one can see me, but I’m still careful as I slip them over my heels and stuff them in my bag. I curl under the blanket again, lifting one leg slightly. It’s important to be quiet, though I don’t think anyone could hear the movement of my fingers over the dull roar of the plane. And anyway, that’s not what I want tonight. My fingers on my cunt feel wrong. Too familiar. Pointless. I close my eyes and remember the businesswoman stroking my inner thigh, my certainty then that she was about to take over my pussy with silent confidence and mastery—and for the eight thousandth time I wish I had let her continue.
Suddenly hot and restless, I sit up straight and shake off the blanket.
The airplane cabin is quiet. It’s fairly late Tokyo time now and most of the passengers are asleep. Three rows ahead of me burns one overhead reading light.
I twist in my seat to survey the rows behind me. Darkness. Pure darkness.
I get up and climb carefully over my sleeping seatmate. The obvious choice is the front restroom just seven rows away. Instead I make way down the aisle to the back.
Muted, tiny lights embedded in the floor guide the way. I hold on to the seats as I pass through the dark cabin, taking my time. My pussy feels so wet and full that I want to take my dress off right here and proceed naked through the dark. My eyes adjust well enough to the dark that I catch her watching me—the woman with the short dark hair, leaning her head back and evaluating me with a dark, calculating gaze.
And the seat next to her is empty.
I continue through the dark cabin. The two rear restrooms are occupied. I wait, noticing that in the very last row there’s a suspicious movement under a blanket—it’s the college girl and she’s none too subtle in what she’s doing under her blanket. Apparently I’m not the only one who gets inspired on night flights.
Someone else lumbers down the aisle toward me. A thicknecked, fiftyish man. “Both full?” he murmurs to me in apparent courtesy of the sleeping passengers around us. I nod and then one of the restroom doors open—and I vanish into the restroom and lock myself inside.
I’m so wet that my thighs are sticking together. I run my fingers over my pussy and smear them on my neck, between my tits. Then I pee and wash up, fix a bit of smeared mascara, and leave.
No one’s waiting. Good. The college girl seems to have joined the other passengers in slumberland. There’s not a single reading light in this section of the cabin. Slowly I make my way up the aisle until I locate the row of the dark-haired woman I exchanged gazes with earlier. The seat next to her is still empty.
I slip into it without looking at her.
“Could I have a blanket please?
” I ask a passing flight attendant. If she remembers this seat was empty before, she doesn’t blink. Instead she brings me a navy airline blanket and I thank her and fluff it out. Still without looking at my new seatmate, I lift the armrest between her seat and mine. Then I curl up under the blanket, facing away from her, and settle in.
Nothing happens. Maybe she thinks I’ve ordered too many drinks, a woman lost in the wrong row of seats. Maybe she’s got a wife at home. Or maybe she’s just not into anonymous sex with aggressive femmes.
I shift a bit under the blanket, gradually moving my ass back until it’s close to her hip. If she ignores me, I’ll leave.
She shifts, just a restless passenger trying to get comfortable on a red-eye flight. But now our bodies are touching.
Under the blanket, I undo the wrap dress and pull it up to my hips. Then I gather the blanket tighter around my front, drawing it up until I can feel the cool cabin air teasing my bare ass.
More movement from my butch stranger. It starts with her knuckles resting against the back of my thigh. I bring my legs up closer to my front, uncertain of what exactly is exposed back there but knowing it’s a lot. And something lightly brushes my ass— fingertips, then an entire calloused palm on my left cheek. My heart is pounding. I think I might come as soon as she touches me for real.
But she takes her time, feeling my ass, squeezing it, not concerned at all with trying to feign a sleepy accident like my previous airplane stranger. This is a woman who understands why I came to her in the dark plane. Her fingers dip between my legs and push right inside me, two of them, filling my cunt so insistently that I bury my head and bite my arm. Oh god, this is going so much farther than I really thought it would. I’m going so much farther than I thought I would. Waves of heat and excitement soak me, starting at my scalp and sweeping down my body, stiffening my nipples and filling my clit with a tight electric tension.
I might need more than this, getting fingered so thoroughly on a plane by a silent handsome woman. I might need a lot more. I roll back toward her, just lying back in my seat now, and spread my legs under the blanket. She goes back in from the front. But this time she doesn’t finger me; instead she plays with my entire pussy, lightly pinching my lips and tugging them a little, circling my clit. I keep my eyes closed. I’ve forgotten exactly what her face looked like in the airport, and I like not knowing.