Best Lesbian Erotica 2007 (26 page)

I bucked harder and drove my fingers deeper. Feeling like we’d been reduced, or perhaps elevated, to just the connection between us. Yes, that we were nothing but two pussies clamped wet onto knuckles, jerking faster and faster until we would slump into each other. Into the earth. Yes, we were as high at that moment as we’d ever be again.

With me and Aquarius sharing the tiny bench, our thighs touched. We were in room 11—a closetlike space dominated by a screen and the bluish light it threw off. There were sixty-nine channels on offer and I was letting Aquarius choose. This was, after all, her opportunity to learn.

I’d met Aquarius at a peace rally a year before. She’d been hard to miss as she’d been practically deep-throating a
microphone, belting out chants. Also, with her silky hair and chiselled features, she’d appealed to me in a patchouli kind of way. We took up drinking fair trade coffee together every week, yet despite my longing to make it personal, our talk was always political. Then Aquarius mentioned Andrea Dworkin and I saw my opportunity.

“You can’t understand pornography,” I’d declared, leading her to Slut Cinema. “Until you’ve seen a variety.”

Now Aquarius was picking a channel and the screen was filling with two stewardesses. One was topless, though she had a jaunty scarf tied around her neck. And the other was taking a miniature bottle of wine from the drink cart. Stewardess number one cracked open the wine and splashed it over number two’s tits. Licked it off and then splashed on some more.

“This is a parody of lesbian sexuality,” Aquarius huffed. But I said nothing. She was right—I’d never seen an actual dyke with so much makeup. Let alone such long nails. I was hoping, however, that Aquarius would soon forget about the blue eye shadow. I
knew I
would.

Stewardess number two poured the remaining wine into her costar’s mouth, letting it drip from her face like cum. Then number one yanked up her skirt and wriggled out of her lace panties. The camera zoomed in, filling the screen with crotch—fleshy hairless lips, a ring through the clit. Feeling my own cunt throb, I looked at Aquarius. Her green eyes had gone big and round and she was crossing and recrossing her legs. I snaked my hand between them and, through the thin fabric of her skirt, cupped her hot pussy. Surprised, she stiffened, but then stewardess number one spread herself open and Aquarius relaxed, thrusting into my touch.

Stewardess number two looked appraisingly at her costar’s juicy slit and jammed the empty bottle into her hole. Then as she slipped the bottle in and out, Aquarius slid her hand between my thighs, moving the panties to one side. Yes—finally—Aquarius, who could always be counted on to think outside the box, had her mind (and fingers) deep inside of it.

In the surf we did kicks, flicks and side steps—mamboing together in bare feet. We didn’t have music, but twilight gave us a naked rhythm.

Pisces was my partner, a woman with such grace she seemed to never walk but rather glide. A woman with tiny feet and gorgeous heavy-lidded eyes full of strange light. Pisces was a dancer by profession and passion, so she led. And I loved her, trusted her enough to let her take me into peculiar and beautiful steps.

Our mambo melted into tango—tango with its tragedy of old Argentinean nights and its sensuality of Pisces’ thigh too fleetingly between mine. Then she dipped me, hard and smooth, and I felt our breasts crush together. We surfaced and slipped into another dance. This time whirling like dervishes with our right hands lifted to heaven and our left hands pointed to earth. Our skirts billowing with each turn. “The fundamental condition of existence,” I remembered Pisces telling me once over wine, “is to revolve.” Now, reeling faster and faster, I understood. Neutrons, electrons, protons, wheeling through each sky. Venus, Neptune, Mars, wheeling through each cell. Pisces and I growing dizzy, flushed.

Pisces took me in her arms and we slipped into a waltz. The waves falling in three-quarter time, we step-step-closed with
them, slow enough to feel not just the softness of the sand under our feet, but also its sharpness, its grit. With the strong accent on the first beat, I kissed her hard. Our tongues twisted together like two pink seals and her teeth chewed my lips.

The waltz dissolved, but the dance came back—rough—raunchy—all crotch. Yes, with our hips gyrating we were looping like music and the rub was making a slick fire. Pisces, without missing a beat, brought us to the ground.

Muscle slippery like a fish, she slid against me, letting me feel the hot press of her cunt. I dipped a finger in and wriggled through her juices. Then I pulled out, giving it to Pisces’ mouth. She parted her lips and flicked her tongue over the wet finger—gorged on it as if it were a small, delicious cock. I dipped back in and sucked the fringes of her pussy lips. Her shaved slit looked like an unusual and delicate sea creature—best served raw on the half shell. It smelled like mermaid perfume and it felt like nothing else. Pisces grabbed my hair and yanked me to her clit, grinding her crotch into my face.

“This is heaven,” I murmured when I finally surfaced. “This is heaven.”

Peggy Munson

Daddy puts on his Duran Duran album and I run through the woods. It’s the same recurring nightmare but I am awake. The red velvet hood brushes my cheek, soft as blood splattered on rabbit fur. The last lights of day cut through the trees like a series of incisors. Daddy is a feral version of Simon Le Bon wailing, “I’m on the hunt down after you.” The echoing music makes the branches quiver. Everything is salivation and footfalls and panting breath. My cape flutters in the jet stream off my back. I don’t know why Granny has chosen to live in this spot, but she’s Germanic and odd in her need for privacy and shade. I catch my breath at her doorstep, glancing around with paranoia. I
fondle the laces on my corset. Granny likes me hemmed in.

Granny isn’t really kin. We call her Granny because she’s been in the scene longer than anyone. In the front room, her whips hang on nails and her teacups rest on hooks. Everything looks normal, except that her boi’s dog crate is open. He’s usually there, curled up and resting between chores. Maybe she sent him to buy lube at the general store. I pry open her door. I see Granny’s frilly bonnet heaving on the bed. “I brought baguettes,” I say cheerfully. “And your favorite whiskey, Granny G.” But something is not right. I have a feeling of déjà vu as I lean over her protruding nose and utter the lines:
My what big teeth you have. My what big teeth.
Granny has always been proud of her Ashkenazi nose, but the flaring nostrils are not hers. “Better to eat you with,” snarls the thing in Granny’s nightie.

The figure lurches out of bed and pins me to the maple floor, singing “Hungry Like the Wolf” between drooling snarls. “Eeek!” I scream. Daddy has duped me. He bites at my velvet cape, tearing off pieces like flesh, red filaments flying everywhere. “Grrrrr, you tease,” he snarls, fumbling for my wrists. I struggle to get away as his nostril-steam and claws leave white contrails on my chilly sky-blue skin. I grab his throat and squeeze it until he is pawing the air for breath. I pull myself away, with half of my cape ripped off, and my corset and panties still on. “You whore,” Daddy snarls. I hope he molests me on the half-mulched autumn leaves.

I take off running.

I should have known he’d be in Granny’s bed. Daddy sometimes bottoms to Granny. She probably made him eat her out, something he’s very good at with his long, wolfish tongue and nicking teeth that terrify a clit just enough to make it stand up. Maybe she got the munchies after he made her come, and went with her boi into town. I shouldn’t have stopped in the woods to drink my bottle of Orangina. Daddy pants down the trail as the trees slap me on the ass with their branches, and try to pry their way inside of me. Daddy and the supernatural trees are in cahoots. Daddy calls out to a sugar maple and then its gnarly blackened arms seize me and pull me to its bark. It stuffs a hunk of gingham in my mouth—the handkerchief that fell from my basket of food. It flips me around so that I’m facing a woodpecker hole. “I’ve got her,” says the tree.

“Stop it, you wooden jerk!” I yell as I spit out the handkerchief. The trees cackle. They look so wholesome and Rabbinical with their long beards of moss, but they are dirty, voyeuristic bastards. I rip at the bark with my fingernails. But it’s too late: Daddy strolls down the trail, swinging his tail. His fur pokes around his leather chaps. He spanks a paddle against his left hand. “Toro, toro,” says Daddy, and takes the last of my red cape in his mouth and tears it off. He yanks my panties to my ankles, then spreads my legs out until my panties rip. “You’re too tempting to the animals,” says Daddy. “Tsk-tsk.” He whaps my ass with the paddle and his long, scratchy tongue runs down my ass crack. He starts rimming my asshole and his nose burrows in my crack. He slides his long nose between my legs, sniffing my wet pussy. “Ahhhhhhh,” he sighs. “You smell like a rained-on clove cigarette. No—like a puddle full of dimes.” He has to mull over this for a while, his nose nearly fucking me as it prods around my hole, and his tongue lapping at my pussy juice. I start to whimper from the abrasion of his tongue on my clit and my pussy lips. My clit feels swollen. I thrash against the branches that are holding me. I stare with one eye into the
darkness of the woodpecker hole. “No,” says Daddy finally, after he’s teased me for a while. “You smell like a girl who fucked herself in the woods.” Now he’s angry. “A girl who is not supposed to FUCK herself without PERMISSION.” He slams the paddle very hard on my ass, so I flinch and retract. He is right. After I finished my Orangina, I stuck the bottle in my ass. I noticed the bottle was shaped like a butt plug, with a big bulbous end that wouldn’t slip in and a narrow shaft. I thought how Granny might flog me for being late, and I rubbed my clit and fucked myself with the bottle on my picnic blanket until I came.

“I’m sorry, Daddy,” I’m begging now. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Bitch,” he yells. A birch tree turns around when he says
bitch
as if he’s called its name. It thrusts a bunch of branches toward Daddy for him to make a switch. He starts to beat my ass, the branches stinging up and down my legs. I moan and plead for him to stop but wow, it feels incredible. “Oh, Daddy,” I moan gleefully. I’m swimming in endorphins when he pins me fast against the bark. He mounts me from behind and pumps his cock into my ass. He fucks me for a while like that, his hot breath scalding me. “Oh fuck me fuck me fuck me,” I scream, stupid as a little girl with nothing but a ruthless id. Before I come, he pulls his cock out and slips another condom on. He tells the trees to look at me. “Look at my little whore,” he says. “Look at my puddle full of dimes.”

“She’s hot,” the trees exclaim in unison. They point between my legs where I am dripping wet, where I am opened up for all to see. “Look at her lipstick cave.” They’re leaning in, blocking the moon and stars so that I only see the shining eyes of animals.

“Her lipstick cave,” says Daddy. “Yes, that is exactly what it is.” He takes his finger and he spreads my pussy lips. He sniffs me with his nose again, and pries the hole with nose and teeth so I am gasping, moaning for his cock. He pulls a tube of lipstick from my satchel, then applies it all around my pussy so it makes a little mouth. “I want to hear you scream,” he says. “And plead and beg for help. No one can hear you here. Meanwhile, I want a blow job from your cunt.” He rams his cock inside of me.

I squeeze his cock with all the muscle I have left. He rocks and heaves and thrusts.

The trees begin to clear away as he is fucking me, so that I’m floating in a meadow, lashed to just one tree. He’s burning up my lipstick cave. He’s ripping all my animals to bits of bones. I am the dissolution of a hundred fairy tales. I am a girl made up of screaming, hungry red. “What big—” I gasp. “What big you have.”

“Just come, you little bitch,” he orders me, and wraps his arm around my throat. “Come like you’ve got some teeth.”

When I see Lo I have the most awful impulses. I have the most gnawing, stabbing, torsion-of-stomach pains. I have dirty, vile, horseshit-covered-cobblestone ideas. I am a French novel used as toilet paper. I want to do things that would make you sick. In bathroom stalls, in alleys lined with fire escapes and brick: I want to fuck this girl until she cries out Uncle, skewered on my dick.

She is older than her namesake, but not by many years. She twirls hair around one finger, oblivious, only as old as the gap between us, working her

Barely

Legal tender

Currency.

I am a wretched, pummeled heap of human bones watching from across the street. I am
that
dirty old man in an archetypal trench coat, pulling my meat beneath the tweed. The sky is a single ironed crayon, translucently cornflower blue. Lo buys one baguette, and butters it from top to bottom before settling in to eat, her plucky lips noshing the edges, teasing all she ingests. Her coffee melts into tanned skin. Her fingers give a hand job to the baguette. Every gesture she makes is so erotic. I stroke my stiff cock and gasp. The whole world hangs where it is—a hundred wordless games of hangman—until she gets up to leave the café. Her skirt forms a coy paper fan.

I grow flushed looking at her. I am the rosiest rube.

Then wagging tongues follow her like rattling cans.

 

She has read the
CliffsNotes
and knows this story. How one day she will peel me off of her like old tin that has crashed around her body, how needy and car-wrecked I will be. At night, she kisses my hip bones, bending them like luthier’s wood. She sees the harmonics of her laugh and my stiff dick. I know I’m a sick old man. Ah, but I drive down the winding road of her body. Ah, down the blind, sexy curves (with cut brakes of cut nerves). I skulk behind her tall-backed chair as she does her homework, then press her hands to the stiff wooden arms. “Gotcha, whore,” I bark. I run my fingers over the front of her T-shirt until she is writhing, making the chair dance around. I slide her skirt away and shove aside her panties and make my way inside her carefully, carefully. Her pussy is dripping. I tell her:
Take it hard, make it fit.
Later, she holds her narrow fingers over my eyes and implores me, “Don’t peek.” Then she works her poisonous mouth on my dick. Later, I watch her pomegranate body unpeeling, all of its encapsulating red. She laughs, my little Lo, and lo I am done in.