Best of the Best Lesbian Erotica (37 page)

“Daddy-takes-good-care-of-you-doesn't-he?” You grunt each word between strokes.

“God, yes. Yes you do, Daddy.” I answer as I move my cunt harder over your cock and my excitement builds.

“Daddy?”

“Yes?”

“Can I please touch my clit?”

You answer by untying my right hand, which I quickly move between my legs. For the first time that night, I really now how wet and swollen I am as I find my engorged clit and I begin rubbing it, deliberate and hard. You slow to match my pace, your cock stroking, grinding inside me purposefully and your belly keeping the plug in place. Until it is too much
for me and there is only one conclusion—I hope. So I ask, “Daddy, can I come please?” Near-panic permeates my words as I am half expecting you to say no, so used to the teasing, the buildup, which I now know is half, or more than half, of everything here.

For a long moment you cease your movement and my breath catches in my throat as we seem to hover over the “no” that we both know is coming. Then you give me another stroke, your cock burning into my cunt, and then another and nother, until can't hold back anymore. Finally, when I am moaning and crying out, you release me by saying, “Yes, boy, you can come.” And I do, all over myself, all over my beginnings, my starting place, my point of conception, all over my daddy's relentless, driving cock.

 

 

 

 

 

I went to Le Body Shoppe in the warehouse district in New Orleans when I was down there on business without Baby. The guy behind the scratched-up plastic barrier took my ten dollars without looking at me, and when he finally did I thought
uh-oh, here goes
, but he only glanced up to check my age.

“You a college boy?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“Half-price,” and he gave me five back. It was damp, wrinkled; it swathed my four fingers when placed in my expectant palm.

I was given a towel, three rubbers. A key with a silver safety pin.

I glanced up at the scratchy black-and-white television set behind him showing
Jeopardy
, and then at the sign above it: “This Establishment Serves Exclusively the Male Community.” I wouldn't have called it an establishment.

I waded past the requisite treadmills and step-machines. I peeled off my T-shirt in the locker room, left on my white tank top. The humidity in the room surpassed the wetness outside.
A middle-aged white man bent over his shoelaces, untying and then tying them again. He glanced at me over a rounded shoulder. No eye contact. My jeans bunched around my ankles. I stepped out of them deliberately, holding my boxer briefs up with one hand, balancing myself on the bench with the other. Underwear under the briefs, stuffed with a rag.

The steamy room boasted six guys posing around the hot tub. Two in bikinis. The others wearing nothing. All of them white. One was really hot, smooth, thirtyish, a ringer for that queen Matt Damon. He nodded at me to sit next to him, dangle my calves in the tub.

“Shy,” he said.

I smiled, nodded.

“Jake,” he said, putting his palm in the crook of his thigh, right where his balls were collapsing into themselves.
That's a boner
, I thought, trying to suppress a laugh. Excluding videos, I hadn't seen one since high school. It was fat and shiny, sticky, clumpy. I felt like an adolescent all over again. Icky. Gross.

Wouldn't know what to do with it if I wanted to. Couldn't give myself over. Without giving an inch, I said, “I want to watch.”

We went into a changing room. A guy was in there waiting, on the floor. I sat on a stool in the corner, put my hand over my crotch. Jake rested his dick atop the other guy's ass. They knew each other, no negotiations necessary. The guy on his knees pushed his ass toward Jake, pulled it back, arched his back, bowed it—anything to invite Jake to start moving, anything.

Jake pumped two loads of into palm, slapped it into the guy's crack. His asshole twitched, gaping. I squeezed the muscles inside me, in spurts of two, pushed down on the rag in my crotch at my pubic bone. I watched four of Jake's fingers disappear. Then his dick, and the guy on his knees grunted, exhaling loudly.

Jake went slowly, like I would. Like I imagined I would. I tensed my ass muscles with every thrust. I closed my eyes and then it was Baby there, on her bed, still in her work clothes, skirt hiked up over her hips, pantyhose at her knees. I could smell myself, acidic sweat, yet sweet, like it comes up and hits me sometimes when I shift in my seat on the subway. Like Baby leaves on my stomach in the mornings.

Jake's tight thighs slapped into the guy's ass, and the hollow beat of it burned onto my brain. He came. I barely noticed. Pulled it out just before—more I didn't need or want to see. I got what I wanted. My ten, no, five-dollars' worth. Well worth my time. It was easy for me to say no to being next.

“You're not leaving, are you?” Jake asked me when I stood, dizzy.

I nodded. He came close, planted himself right in front of me. At that second it hit me how cocky I'd been to think I could pull this off. He kept looking at me, smiling, like they all do in the videos after coming (and I thought it was just good acting).

“Yeah, I gotta get going,” I said softly, nonchalant.

“Maybe tomorrow,” he said, putting both hands on my shoulders and squeezing, “you'll take off one of these.” He snapped my tank-top.

When I got back to my hotel room I mounted two pillows and got off in about two minutes. Then I called Baby.

“You'll never guess where I just got back from,” I said, excited, still out of breath and wet.

“Where? How was your meeting?”

“Didn't you hear what I said?”

“Yeah, where'd you go?”

“Forget it, I'll tell you when I get back in town.”

 

Baby didn't have any time for me when I got back. A conference, two big evening meetings. On the fifth night of this I
went alone to a bar downtown. I ordered an old-fashioned and saw an old friend, Jules. She asked where Baby was.

“Business as usual,” I said.

“Trouble with the missus?” Jules teased, sucking on a beer. Jules had been the first to give me shit for shacking up with Baby, gave me a funeral the night before I moved my few things into her uptown apartment.

Then Jules's new girl came up, whining to play pool. Jules shrugged and looked at me apologetically, as if to say “we all fall.” Her girl was cute, real cute—nice legs. That I can forgive.

Alone again, and another drink gave me the courage to turn away from the bar, peek at the girls. A few nods, more acquaintances. Probably looked like I was looking again.

She zeroed in on me the minute she came through the velvet curtains. She wore tight Levi's and an even tighter black scoop-neck bodysuit thing. Smooth skin, as Aryan-looking as Jake in New Orleans. But a girl. Just my type, just my fucking luck.

“My cousin lives in Brooklyn,” she said, motioning toward the bartender. “I come into the city from Philly once a month.”

“What are you having?” I asked, then repeated the order and plunked my last five dollars down on the bar.

“So ‘You come here often?' is out of the question,” I said, both my elbows on the bar.

“Where's that girl you're usually with?” she asked. “I remember you from the last trip.”

“She's at home.”

“Oh, you live together?”

“I live with
her
, her place. I don't have a place.”

“My cousin's sleeping out tonight. Wanna come back with me?”

“What's your name?” I asked, stalling.

“Betty.”

“What else would it be?”

“So, you game?” She looked at me so calmly, but I could tell that more than these last few minutes were riding on this. Did she know what she wasn't getting in to? Things are rarely what they seem.

“I don't have a dick,” I said, knowing it'd throw her off.

But she didn't flinch. “I've got one at my cousin's.”

I laughed—such a programmed response, tough yet so clearly threatened.

“Oh, or you don't want to use one, that's okay, too,” she said, louder than I would've wanted her to. She said it the way Dorothy said “You're nothing but a cowardly lion.” And she was right. A dare.

It wasn't Baby who'd been afraid all this time; it was me.

I went with her anyway—to prove to myself, to Baby, even to this stranger. We got off at the “D” in Park Slope. Walked up to a building where one of Baby's friends from her past lived. “You know Gigi?” I asked.

She didn't answer. She opened the door to Gigi's apartment. It was empty, but a candle was lit and Peggy Lee played softly on the stereo. She pressed her hand into mine and took me to a back room: futon on the floor, pillows, more candles, lube, a dildo, (a
dildo
), and two glasses of red wine.

“Why—” I started, but she shhsh-ed me and gestured toward the bed.

“No questions,” she said, turning. “I'll be back in a sec.”

I sat down on the bed, waiting. She turned the music up. The fucking thing just sat on the pillow next to me, daring me. “Step up to the plate and be a man about it.”

Talking dildos? I must've been trashed. But it went on: “This reluctant butch thing can only go so far. Frankly, it's no longer endearing—just annoying.”

I lunged at it, stuck it through the limp harness, dangled it at eye level. “Is that a challenge?” I asked. Just then the door opened, but it wasn't the girl anymore. It was—it was Baby!

“Baby!” I stood up. “I can explain—”

“You don't have to explain anything,” she said, slipping out of her silk robe as she approached me. “Show me what you did in New Orleans.”

I looked down at the lifeless tangle in my hands. “I didn't
do
anything in New Orleans.”

“Then show me what you
saw
,” she demanded, unbuttoning my pants. She crouched down in front of me, piling my jeans and underwear around my boots. She grabbed that thing and strapped me in, licked it, then my stomach, then between my fingers.

Baby lay down on her stomach, looked back up at me.

“Baby, you are too good to me,” I said, but she didn't respond—with words.

I pumped two loads of lube into my palm and rubbed the length of the dick. It got warm. Baby arched her back, pushed her head into the pillow. I kept stroking it while Baby watched. She whined. The length of it.

I could feel warmth moving up my spine from the small of my back to the base of my neck. Like ice dripping over the length of me.
Oh my god
, I thought—and then said out loud, “I have a boner.”

“You do, honey. You do what you want with it.”

Oh, Baby.

 

 

 

 

 

When I first started doing erotica readings, women who didn't really know me came up afterwards and said, “Gurl, I had no idea! I always thought you were such a good girl.” They would do a mildly tortured-looking Pollyanna grin on the “good girl” part. “Now you acting all wild, reading about fucking in all these different positions. Damn!”

Then they would call out to a friend, “Hey girl, can you believe that was Cecelia up there?”

Poised to put in her two cents, the friend would cock her head, “Okay?! I was on the edge of my seat—I just couldn't believe my eyes!”

Then girlfriend number one would counterpoint with, “You remember when she first moved here? She was so quiet and proper acting!”

Girlfriend number two parried back with, “Didn't
say
I almost didn't recognize her?!”

It was like being at a family reunion, trapped between two aunts who since time immemorial had been dueling over who
was the first on the scene at your most vulnerable or humiliating moment:

“Well,
I
was the one who helped her when she had her first period and bled through her drawers while we were opening up the Christmas presents.”

The only relief is in the recognition—often just before you de-evolve into a state of twelve-year-old, preteen humiliation—that you're just this moment's fuel for a verbal duet that began long before you were born.

But at least these two sistahs were ready to believe I might truly be the person they saw on stage.
My
friends acted like the cousins who expect you to still be the goofy one years after the end of adolescence (not to say goofy is bad, I can get behind a goofy-sexy woman—she's not afraid to fall off a table and stay on the floor to get you on your knees
.)
In my family, cousins cultivate the spoken read like nobody's business, emulating the verbal sparring they saw around the holiday tables of their youth, when the previous generation would come together to pick apart turkey and childhood foolishness. Like making up new names for the cousin who as a toddler used to invade the compost pile and dress up in banana peels. Or acting out the tale, with full sound effects, of the sibling who at five years of age ripped down part of a wall when wearing nothing but Wonder Woman underwear and a sheet tied around her neck as she jumped off the back of the sofa while holding the
curtain cord proclaiming herself Panty Girl, come to free all children from the tyranny of nap time and lima beans.