Best of the Best Lesbian Erotica (23 page)

“Your ass is so red,” I tell her. “And warm. Touch it.” I pull her hand forcefully down to touch the warm, puffed skin where my hand has fallen, then spank her hard where her hand isn't, so she collapses onto me because she cannot brace herself.

“That's it,” I say. “Relax.” I spank her hard and fast repeatedly, all around her ass, varying the tone, the way I cup my palm, the way it lands, until it sounds like a kind of applause.

“Do you like doing this?” she asks, insecure, timid, when I have stopped to catch my breath.

I spread her cheeks open again and stroke one finger slowly up and down the crack. “Oh, yes,” I say. I feel myself getting wet. I feel the heaviness of her vulnerability and the weight of her trust. My cunt hovers on air above her like a thundercap.

I lean down and move my tongue around her earlobe, into the shell of her ear, through the tiny labyrinth at the top. Her ear becomes moist with my breath and my tongue, and I feel the heat and condensation of my words when I speak. “I want so much to go inside of you,” I say.

She moans. Her eyelids tighten.

“Oh, please,” she begs.

The room we are staying in tonight could be anywhere. It has the standard two beds, the nightstand with a Bible in the top drawer, a round table and two chairs, a television in a cheap particleboard TV stand. We've turned the TV on to mask the sound, because somebody might wonder, somebody
might knock when they hear the echoes of my hand. A cooking show is on, and interspersed with my slaps rises the voice of the chef. “The inside should be tender and pink…” he says. Slap goes my hand on her ass. “They can bite when they're alive….” Slap on the tender skin around her asshole, slap on her quivering cunt. “Cook until moist and the outside is lightly seared….” Slap on the back of her thighs, her ass, her cunt, her ass. She is moaning deliriously and then I fuck her, my finger sliding slowly into her asshole, in and out. The sounds of the TV rise in the background, and I imagine someone watching us, I imagine the voices are people watching and her ass is pointing to the camera, wide open and exposed. Her asshole puckers around my finger, squeezes, then widens. “Oh, honey,” she says. I give her more then, two fingers, sliding gently in and out and then harder, with the full force of my weight, the crook of my arm working like a fulcrum.

“Too much?” I ask, spanking her hard while I'm penetrating her.

She doesn't answer, so I spank her harder.

“Too much?” I ask again. She shakes her head. I spank her harder. She is biting the sheets. I spank her again and again with my fingers thrusting into her. Then, in a moment of pause, I gently pull myself out. “Don't move,” I say to her. I untangle myself from beneath her and she keeps her ass up in the air, waiting for me.

“Beat them into soft peaks…” the TV chef is saying. Her red ass is high in the air like a cherry lollipop while I strap on the dildo I have brought. “Don't move,” I order her when I see her flinching in discomfort. She wriggles her ass higher for me and I adjust the dildo in the rubber ring. I climb on the bed behind her and grab her hips with both my hands to pull her ass back and higher into the air. I spread her knees apart slightly. Her cunt hangs down heavily from the weight of its hunger. I rub the dildo against her wet labia so gently she
thinks it's my hand. “Close your eyes,” I say to her, and when she does I open the lips of her cunt with two fingers and press the dildo up inside her, quickly, so that her body almost buckles. She is so moist and ready it slides right in, and I move it in and out until her sounds get deeper, her mouth widens as if on the same circuit as her cunt. Her throat opens too, so that her sounds are more hollow, deeper, as I thrust into her. I feel the flat end of the dildo pressing against me, too, and it makes me want to fuck her harder so I can feel it pressing into me. I grab at her hair like a mane, ride her bareback for a while, reaching around and squeezing her breasts while I push into her. We fall into the same rippling motion for a while until I feel like we are on the same carnival ride, the same garish, cheap ride.

I'm sure sleazy things have gone on here, in this room. It is a bargain-traveler, lunch-hour-with-your-secretary kind of place. The Bible hides in the drawer like a silent witness, recording stories. We've been in other places like this one, meeting halfway between our homes, in the middle of nowhere, because we might get caught by those who really own us. I can't help it; I kiss her on every elevator, sticking my tongue into her wet mouth, then walking off when the door opens as if nothing ever happened. Of course, it is those who try to be the Easy Riders of sex who always capsize, and it is like that with us. When I am inside her in this room, I want to stay inside forever. I want to quarantine in her body.

When I thrust into her one last time, she starts heaving out noises I don't understand. At first I think she is laughing, then I realize she's crying. “Oh, sweetie,” I say to her. “Honey.” I stroke her back while I pull gently out of her. “What is it?” I am concerned. She falls onto her side and I am next to her, pulling her to me, squeezing her. “Oh, God,” I say. “What is it?” For a minute she is sobbing too hard to talk, and then she pulls me closer to her, sealing all the seams of our two bodies.

“I feel so naked,” she says to me. “Will you cover me?” And I do, I pull the blankets over her, pull her close, press my body into hers, stroke her gently and say, “Sweetie, I'm here.” This is because she likes to be protected, I think to myself, holding her against me. And whatever I fucked out of her pours out for a good ten minutes while the cook on TV whisks, beats, purees, and tastes the “exquisite balance” of what he has created. Meanwhile, we enjoy our symbiosis for a minute, the flow of her tears against my chest where I'm holding her, the intertwining of our legs. I think how I'd like to walk up to her on the street, where we would pretend we're not together, then drag her into an alley, press her hard against a brick wall and kiss her there, feel the friction of her leather jacket against my breasts, the warmth of her flesh beneath the tough hide of her, the softening of her body beneath mine, time and distance melting away.

The cheap hotel has a certain neutrality, like household objects that are as basic and complex as the wheel. And she, too, has spanked me here with belts, with lobby magazines, with a single calloused hand. She and I like to switch our power game: we like to meet halfway. And I can tell, once her tears relent, that she is creating castles out of garbage again. She scans the room. I can almost see her mind concocting beautiful, B-movie fantasies.

“That table,” she says to me, pointing to the corner of the room. “I plan to bend you over that table and take you later. If you're lucky.”

She and I, we like the simple pleasures.

I give her a conspiratorial smile. Then I kiss the moistness off her cheeks, counterproductively, as my lips make her wetter and the tenderness makes her cry more. Finally she just pulls me into her with our full bodies pressing tight and says, “I can't believe I let you see me like this.” And then I think I love her.

 

 

 

 

 

Vee stance, Salutation, Sink, Salutation.
The surety of each move, the rhythm of my body strong with itself.
Vee stance, Salutation, Sink, Salutation.
Through the open window of the chapel, crab apple rises on the breeze, wafts in reminding it is May. Early May. I watch the instructor dressed in black, her body fluid, each move water pouring from a vase. She circles around the five of us, eager, awkward students. My dance card empty. She circles around and calls the steps, watching as we move through the beginning level.

 

I, at the beginning level. Two years later from you. I seek the balance in my body, in my life. Marvel at my two hands, open-palmed, before me. Fingers tight and fingers splayed. In T'ai Chi Ch'uan, it is the Yin and the Yang. The duality of life. The wanting and the not wanting. And the body in relation. The instructor starts at the front of the room, facing the wall, her back to us. At her neck, her dark hair tapers into a vee.
Vee stance.
Vee.

(You in your white blouse, after a shower and your hair in a vee.)

 

Her hair is not sweaty, although she removes her over-shirt and stands before us in black. Sculpted biceps emerge from her short sleeves, already tan this May.

 

Outside, the city traffic, a siren in the distance, the wonder of a mockingbird in this city. (I live in this city now.) Inside, the choir practices in the room beneath us, chords rise through the marble floor, gyrate in the air as I swing my hips. My legs are firm from rollerblading, my weight balanced.
Horse.
And my hips sway with gyration, vibration. I notice the instructor notice my hips in gyration. She averts her gaze quickly, but not before I recognize the look in her dark eyes. Duality. I feel it in my own sometimes, my body sticky with sweat, passing young dykes on the corner, by the train station. I rollerblade the bike path to pass by, my hips swaying above well-defined legs. Look them full in the eyes; I don't look away. I don't look away from the instructor now although she wants me to, I can tell. Her Yin to my Yang.

 

She wears silver bands on both hands. Her middle fingers are crooked, I notice, when she stands before me to adjust my arms. She avoids my eyes until she is through touching me. When her hands drop and my arms are correctly positioned, she looks at me before turning to the next student. Meets my eyes.
Salutation.
This goes on for weeks, but each week, I notice, she lingers a bit longer, praising my grace. Her hand adjusts my wrist, slips lightly up my bare arm. The Yin and the Yang between us. The wanting and the not wanting. She meets my gaze silently, holds it as she moves away. The mockingbird. The siren. The choir. The look in my own eyes. I tell
her I may not be able to make class next week, I have late business outside of the city.

 

(I live in this city now.)

 

“Come,” she says. “Come late and I'll stay after class with you; we'll make up what you miss.”

 

Late and in work clothes: T'ai Chi in short skirt, black nyloned feet. Jacket and heels tossed to the corner.
Separate, Withdraw, Push, Drop. Separate, Withdraw, Push, Drop.
We have become a class of three now. A gay man, a straight woman, and myself. And the instructor. The straight woman stands in front of me and I mimic her movements. Fluidity is something only inside of me now. The instructor comes to me (open), demonstrates what she wants me to do.

 

“Do it for me,” she says. Scent of sandalwood between us, her hands on my waist, squaring my hips, my shoulders. A current runs through me at her touch; my nipples pierce the lace of my bra, strain through the silk tee. I focus on the piano in the corner, the vase of irises on top, knowing if I meet her gaze I will stumble. I startle myself (beginning level).

 

“You need to work on the new steps,” she says. And the others close the door behind them as they leave. She demonstrates once more what she wants me to do. This time her eyes do not leave mine, even when her body turns away. This time when I feel her hands against my skin, I do not try to control my quickening breath. The wanting. The not wanting.
We stand in the center of the room; ahead the piano with its narrow strip of mirror sends our midriffs back. I see her fingers on my waist, crooked fingers, her black cotton peeking from behind my blue silk. She presses herself against me, her breasts against my back, her taut nipples matching my own. In the piano mirror her hands across my torso. And tighter. Tighter. Deep breathing.

 

“Don't forget to breathe,” her tongue flicks my left ear. Lingering chills. Her warm breath.

 

In the mirror, I watch her hands glide over the fabric of my breasts, watch and feel my nipples pinched, straining through the silk. Gasping, I collapse against her. In the mirror, her left hand disappears. She is searching for something. I feel my skirt rise, her knee between mine from behind.
Horse. Lift and open.
Ankle. Wrist and reach. Her hand against me, searching. I feel her lips flit across my neck, biting, sucking my flesh. In the mirror, her right hand slips under my silk tee and pushes my bra aside. Fingers moving beneath fabric. My nipple on fire. My knees forgetting their strength. The mockingbird's incessant courtship call. And the choir.

 

I turn away from the mirror.

 

(This road away from you begun.)

 

I turn to the instructor, learning. Leaning into her: press my mouth over hers encircle her body in my arms. Who is gasping now? My hands slip under her T-shirt. My fingers define the bones of her back. Trace the bones, slowly. Then hard.

 

“The door is unlocked,” she tells me, her fingers pushing aside the crotch of my panties.

 

“Lock it.” And my hips rise to her.

 

“No,” she says. “I can't. Even if I could, the sextons have a key.”

 

Her finger inside me, thrusting. The scent of sex, sandalwood, our sweat, the crab apple. The taste of her lips.

“Take me in the bathroom,” I plead, and we walk, me backward and oh her finger inside me, the endless distance to the door: one animal, four legs.

 

Block and Grab, Press, Roll, Separate. Block and Grab, Press, Roll, Separate.
The tumblers click in the lock and she turns to me. I know that look in her eyes. I know the look in my own right now, although I cannot see the mirror. She lifts the silk above my head and I am before her in my black lace bra. Her mouth moves to mine. The lace forced away, exposing my right breast. Her lips claim territory from my lips to my nipple. Her teeth send sharp gusts of pleasure-pain. The duality.