Best Lesbian Erotica 2013 (16 page)

I trace my finger down the leathery skin of one breast and up the leathery skin of the other breast. I like the feel of her skin on my fingers. I can see through her blouse the dark mound of her nipple swelling up, a hard little seed that I want to swallow. Her bra pushes her breasts together. I put my hand between them. Warm. Soft.

“Ah,” Annie says, and kisses the back of my neck. She slides her hands down my back into my jeans and kneads the muscle of my ass. She always does this. I always want her to do this.

Annie gets on top of me. I feel her full weight. Mouth to mouth, breast to breast, belly to belly. Her hips plant me farther
into the couch. My hips reach up to her. She slides both hands under my ass, takes a firm hold of each cheek and pulls me even closer as she pushes down. We get a rhythm going, a dance. We move, her belly, my belly, her thighs, my thighs. I can feel the soft fleshy mound between her thighs and the hard bone beneath pushing into me, my own flesh and bone pushing back. We're touching everywhere, pressing every place we're able to press. The pressure and the movement gets more intense. Our tongues are in and out of each other's mouths. Our hands are grabbing, pressing, kneading any piece of flesh we can work except the one spot that wants pressing most. Our pants are down around our knees. I have one leg completely free. My legs are slightly parted beneath her. She could lift up and slide her hand between my legs. I could reach up and find her hot and wet, too.

She's working me. Everything in its time. I'm so wet. I'm so ready to get wetter. For god's sake girl, hit the spot. It's time. Come on, honey. I want it both ways, to be full, completely filled up, and at the same time completely empty, all the way open so it all spills out. Touch me, girl. I want to explode. I'm squirming under her.

The phone rings. Ignore it. Keep moving, keep moaning, keep your flesh heaving against mine, Annie. The phone rings again, unnatural intrusion, blasphemy of the rites of spring. Annie's mouth is on my breast now. She's biting my nipple.
A little harder, baby. Oh. Annie. That's exactly right.

The answering machine clicks on. My voice, “Sorry we can't come to the phone right now…” The machine is on the end table, six inches from our heads. It's turned up full volume because my hearing's not what it used to be. I try to shut it off, but it falls to the floor. My girlfriend's voice comes blaring over the damned thing, “Hey, baby. You out in the garden? Plane's delayed. What
a gorgeous day to be stuck in the airport. Hope you're enjoying it. Love you. Call you when I get to Pennsylvania.”
Click
.

Annie makes a valiant effort to ignore the sound of the busy signal coming from the fallen receiver. She keeps on playing with my breast. But for me, there's a line where pleasurable erotic pressure becomes “stop right now” pain. It's the point where you hear your girlfriend's voice, talking sweet on the answering machine, while your ex-girlfriend has her teeth sunk into your right nipple.

I feel a stabbing ache from my nipple to my crotch. My body stiffens up like frozen roadkill. Annie tries to soothe me. She tongues my nipple softly, strokes the side of my face. I try to melt back into her, but I'm chilled to the bone. A shiver runs up my spine.

Annie sits up. She doesn't try to hide her annoyance. “Sandy sounds well,” she says.

“Jesus,” I say, “Jesus Christ Almighty.”

“What's he got to do with it?” Annie asks.

“Sweet Mary,” I say.

“Well, that's a little better.”

I sit up next to Annie. “Sorry,” I say weakly.

“I thought you and Sandy had an arrangement,” Annie says, in exasperation, rearranging her magnificent breasts in her bra. She glares at the answering machine. “Progress,” she says. She picks her blouse off the floor. I watch as her fleshy breasts slowly disappear under checked cotton, button by button. I stand on one leg trying to pull the other leg of my jeans and my panties up at the same time. I fall back onto the couch.

Annie stares at me. “Look at you. You're shaking. Poor baby.” She puts her arm around me. She's more concerned than annoyed now. I put my head on her shoulder.

“Sandy hates the arrangement,” I whine.

“Wasn't it Sandy who used to carry on about compulsory monogamy?”

“That was five years ago when she had the hots for her sister's neighbor. She's decided that open relationships work better in theory than in practice.”

“All theory. No action,” Annie sighs. “Never mind. I still love you, you sexy thing.” Annie knows me well enough to know it's going to take me quite a bit of time to unthaw again.

I say, “Shit.”

Annie stands up, pulls on her pants, tucks in her blouse. “I'm going home,” she says, “to finish this business we started together all by myself.”

She holds my face between her hands and gives me a suction-cup kiss on the forehead. That's what I like about Annie, she takes life as it comes. She's not angry, still a tad irritated, but what the hell, she's got the right.

“Thanks, Annie,” I say. “I love you, too.”

I watch her as she moves toward the door. I'm a lump of deflated libido. I see her through the window as she walks toward the daffodils. I watch her bend at the knees and lean forward. Her sturdy thighs support her. Her butt sticks out. This posture suits her. Her curves perfectly complement the landscape of the garden. Does she know that I'm watching her?

She sure does. Beautiful, mellow old girl. She's trying to direct my attention to the flowers, but I'm looking at her. Her smile is upside down. The garden is only a backdrop. Annie's the focal point. My spirit rises with her as she stands, waves at me and points to the flower she holds in her hand. Her grin gets closer and closer as she walks back toward the house. I turn the knob. It's warmer outside than it is inside. The warm air spills in my door. Annie offers me a daffodil, fully bloomed, from my own garden.

 

 

 

 

 

“Okay, contestants, listen up,” the DJ said. “We start in five minutes, at eight a.m. sharp. Remember, one hand has to be on the vehicle at all times—your whole palm and fingers. You can switch hands as long as one is fully on the car. Except for during the fifteen-minute breaks, one every two hours, which I'll announce. You may not kneel, sit, lean,
blah blah blah
.”

He didn't really say, “Blah blah blah.” I just tuned him out. I knew the rules by heart. I'd been
prepping
for this contest.

Yeah, it's tacky and stupid, the whole “keep your hand on the car longer than anyone else and win it” schtick, but the fact was, this truck would be a godsend for the nonprofit I managed. Even if I didn't win, the publicity would help tremendously.

But I was here to win.

I stretched, bending over 'til my palms touched the ground (thank you, yoga classes), and continued to size up my opponents.

I'd placed myself between the two people I thought would be least competitive. One was a nebbishy-looking guy, on the thin
side, who kept nervously pushing up his glasses. I was banking on him forgetting and pushing up his glasses with the hand that was supposed to be on the truck.

On my other side was a pretty, petite blonde. For the life of me, I couldn't imagine why she'd want or need a truck. She didn't look the type to set foot in one. She was wearing painted-on jeans—probably designer, but I wouldn't know designer jeans if they were cupping my own ass—and low-heeled gray boots. Her makeup was impeccable, her big blue eyes made wider by the judicious use of mascara and her luscious lips glossed a lickable red. I suspected she didn't usually wear jeans; she looked like the type who wears little skirts and high heels.

Nothing wrong with that, if that was your thing. I certainly enjoy looking
at
pretty women in little skirts and high heels, and fantasizing about getting up under those little skirts and seeing what kind of panties—if any at all—they're wearing.

I'm not a skirt-wearing type of girl myself, and today was no exception. I'd dressed for comfort: jeans, sure, but broken-in, soft ones that wouldn't constrict movement; sneakers with gel insoles; and a T-shirt advertising my nonprofit.

“What's the Kensington Bird Sanctuary?” the blonde asked maybe ten minutes after we'd gotten started. She had a light, breathy voice, which suited her. Her dangly silver earrings caught in the light as she cocked her head at me.

“It's a rehab facility for birds of prey,” I said. “I'm the manager. We could really use this truck to transport injured raptors to our facility.”

Her laugh tinkled. “Oh, see, that's not fair,” she protested with a little pout. “You're trying to get me to sympathize with you and lose.”

I shook my head. “Not at all,” I said, and it was true. She'd asked, after all. “I just automatically try to drum up support. It's
the curse of running a nonprofit.”

“All right, then.” She favored me with a dazzling smile, even white teeth and juicy lips. “I'm Grace, by the way.”

“Teddie,” I said, waving my free hand.

“Nice to meet you,” she said. “
Very
nice to meet you.” Her voice went a little lower then, and I swear I saw her look me up and down and up again. She delicately bit her lip.

Was she flirting with me? Really? I couldn't imagine it, but it still gave me a little tingle. I cleared my throat. “Ditto.”

She asked me a bit more about the sanctuary, and I learned she was a buyer for a chain of fashion boutiques. The more we talked, the more I realized for all her cuteness and little-girl voice, Grace was smart and accomplished.

After a while, though, I was feeling antsy, so I put my other hand flat on the truck, pulled off my first hand, and turned around. I made nice with the nebbish guy for a few minutes, but he wasn't all that into chatting.

The first contestant to call it quits did so after the first break. One down, eight to go, and the truck would be mine.

If I didn't get too distracted by Grace, that is.

Her shimmery gray top was cut low, so if she moved just the right way your eye was drawn to her cleavage. Well, my eye, certainly, and the eye of the guy on the other side of her.

Over that, she had on an open-knit shrug that tied just under her breasts, enhancing the view. The crimson matched her lipstick. Her outfit was simple, yet all pulled together—it really was an
outfit
, an ensemble, as opposed to some clothes she'd just thrown on that morning.

Me, I'd never gotten the hang of that. My idea of “layering” is throwing a hoodie on over my T-shirt when it gets chilly.

The guy on the other side of her started chatting her up. Big surprise.

She gently rebuffed him, her voice sweet, her smile brilliant.

He wasn't the type to take no for an answer.

“Look,” she said finally. “You're not my type.
Really
not my type.”

He made a final try.

“You want to win this thing?” Grace asked. “Then stop. Talking. To. Me. Because if you don't, I'm calling the ref over here to say you're harassing me, and who do you think he'll believe?”

The guy retreated, but I barely noticed. I'd heard something unexpected in her voice. A steeliness.

At first I thought I imagined it; it didn't fit with her breathy voice.

My rational brain may have insisted that I imagined it, but my body clearly heard it—and reacted to it.

Right down in my three-for-five-dollars cotton panties.

Grace turned and flashed me her dazzling smile. “It's all about psychology,” she said. “The psychology of getting people to do what you want. It's about figuring out what
they
want. Putting your hand on a car for hours and hours, just to win it? It's like a psychological form of bondage. Being told,
Don't move
,” and as she spoke her voice got that steely undertone again, the one that made my inner muscles clench.

I straightened my back, like a new recruit snapping to attention…or a submissive posing for her mistress.

I heard Grace's breathy chuckle, and I knew she knew what I was thinking.

“Oh, yes, just like that,” she said. “Some folks like cuffs and ropes and shackles—need them, even—but others…others know
choice
is as good a restraint as anything. It's all about power, and most people think the top has power, but that's not true. The bottom does. The bottom
chooses
to submit. Holds her
hands out for the cuffs. Presents her sweet ass for the spanking. Doesn't come until she's told to—or comes on command, anytime, anywhere.”

My head reeled even as my nipples snapped to attention faster than my back had, and blood rushed to my groin, making me aware of my clit, my lips, the way my panties clung to my crotch.

That innocent, breathy voice coming out of that pretty little blonde form.

Aren't dommes supposed to be tall, imperious, stern and wear black leather? Not petite, angelic, smiling and wearing ruffly colorful fashion?

Maybe that's why she was affecting me the way she was. She wasn't a cliché, wasn't someone who used the tired old props.

In other words, she didn't need a dungeon to be a domme.

The DJ called another scheduled time-out.

Argh
.

The showroom had only one tiny ladies' room, but Grace and I were the only two women left. She let me use the bathroom first, which was nice, except…damn.

Damn if I didn't want to plunge my hand down into my jeans, into my cotton panties, and stroke away the slick, needy urge she'd raised in me. A few minutes of privacy, that was all I needed.