Best of the Best Lesbian Erotica (15 page)

“You want to suck me, don't you?” you ask. I know better than to answer. “I asked you a question, girl. Answer me.” And with that, the hand that was releasing you comes under my chin, lifts my head, and stings my cheek, all before I can think to form an answer. “I said answer me.”

“Yes, sir,” I manage to mutter. Although the hard floor is beginning to hurt my delicate knees and my feet are starting to throb from having been packed into shoes all day, I take you in my mouth and suck. I take you all the way into my throat, the way I know you like. I know you like to watch me suck you off. First the head with my lips and tongue, I circle around you, feeling you feel me. Then I move slowly down you, nodding just slightly and opening my mouth wider to accommodate your size. Deliberately and agonizingly I move down your shaft until I have your entirety in my mouth. “That's it, girl,” I hear you say, but your voice is barely audible over the sound of your cock beating against the back of my throat. Saliva starts to ooze from the corners of my mouth and down my chin. You keep your hand on the back of my neck.

You start to rock on your heels. Back and forth pushing yourself deeper into my mouth. Deeper and deeper until I gag a bit. Not too much because I know you won't be happy about that. And you push in farther. Faster into one hole when really it's the other that wants you. The one getting cold from the hard, vinyl floor.

You pull out, take my chin in your hand, and lift my head up. No words are exchanged, only a look from you that says something like “follow me,” but something else like “careful, girl.” You turn, and I follow. You know I'd follow you anywhere, but you also know I don't have to. You sit and pull me onto you. Not onto your lap really but onto your cock. My back to you. Your one hand maneuvers yourself under and into me, and the other reaches behind you. I know what you're doing, and you know I know.

I suck in air hard through my teeth as you enter me. From behind but not really. Through the hole you made in me, that part of you that just left my mouth became a part of me. My cunt opens for you. Wide. One of your arms wraps tightly around my belly to keep me pumping. There is no resting, no stopping. Keep the motion going. Out of the corner of my eye I can see it again, the glimmer and sparkle as the last remaining bit of sunlight hits your pointed steel.

Moving from my belly to my mouth, your hand repositions itself with rapidness and stealth. All I can taste is the sweat on the palm of your hand. To keep me silent. To keep me from uttering any sound when that knife of yours is raised to my neck.

I can feel the sharp edge dig into the soft side of my chin as I raise and lower myself onto you. Pumping and fucking harder and harder, I can taste the salt on your hands and the blood that soon may be oozing from my skin. I bite my lips to keep silent; I bite your hand to keep you there. I like to feel you under me, my weight and the weight of my sex burdening you. Your attitude summed up with a flick of your wrist and the click of your knife. I like it when you threaten me. I like it when you hurt me. I like it when you make it sting, but you also know I don't have to.

 

 

 

 

 

The first time I was bound, she wound strips of a mutilated white cotton nightdress around each wrist, chiding me for my rude behavior. How dare I make fun of her exquisite gowns, delicately edged in lace, gathered slightly below the bodice and sweeping to cover my feet while floating above her own delicate ankles. I'd laughed at them, these gently worn, sensual garments of such feminine intensity that I could not even imagine them near my skin, unless they were clinging to her body, then pressed next to mine. But wear such a thing? No, not I.

When she picked up the scissors, I laughed aloud and shivered in mock fear. When she made the first cut, just below the neckline, I started to reach for her, to stop her from destroying such a pretty thing. But her arms tightened, and all the concentration in her eyes pinned me to the bed. I had to watch her rip through the thin cotton, making ragged, long tears that rapidly became strips of anonymous white material, ethereal yet stronger than I might have guessed.

I pulled one hand away, testing her fortitude, and she slapped me with an imperious look. It was delicious. I let her
bring my hands together, wrapping them around with one strip, and then across with another; then I relaxed back onto her rich linen sheets and hand-embroidered pillowcases.

I let her touch me, smiling and sighing between the giggles, and reached for her as if to fight, aching for the strips to be tighter, to keep my hands above my head so there was no way I could impede her progress as she continued to make her points with maddeningly light slaps to my body. I reared up once, to kiss her, and she pushed me back as easily as I could push her slight body around and yes, I let her.

I wanted to see what she was going to do.

Because no one had bound me before.

But we were young and shy and the boldness we showed on stage and in the dark corners behind the scenery vanished into the awkwardness of authentic intimacy. She reared back herself, and during the silence, we both made our decisions. We were apart before long, and she remained a sharp reminder of the dangers of straight women, the perfidy of femmes. And she made me hunger for shadows of her for years, until at last I laid myself down for a woman in a gown, and sighed in perfect release and abandon.

 

Or, maybe it didn't happen that way at all, maybe I imagined it.

 

Because the first time I was bound, it was to my own bed, by a man younger than I; he was an aching, beautiful boy, expertly instructed and coached by the one who knew exactly what she wanted. He danced and ran and shook his body in delight, never still, never at repose, even when he snuggled up to me in the coldest moments of the night. He grinned when I sought his eyes and told him it was time, and he eagerly handled my toys and used them in careful progression, making me crazy with need and then falling on me with a passion so pure
it had to be exactly as he claimed—virginal. We gave each other a sacrifice that year, cutting into ourselves and handing over the warm, moist parts that were our secret passions.

I bared myself for him, and he bared himself to me. He struck me with all his youthful strength, and crammed folded towels in my mouth to muffle the cries, and held onto me later, when his body twitched in a sleep without rest. He didn't tease, couldn't know how to tease, and so he satisfied me fully, and made me feel that I might actually have a way to fulfill this desperate need in me.

I knew precisely what he was going to do; I was his instructor.

I needed to be in charge; no one had ever bound me before.

And so he knew where the tools were, and knew exactly the kinds of stimulation I wanted, where, how often, for how long. I was in absolute control of my tender young faggot, my sweet lonely lover, and was able to surrender to my passions, if not to him.

 

Or maybe it didn't happen that way at all.

 

Because, really, the first time I was bound, it was by a stranger. A tall, powerful woman who could have lived my life twice with time to spare. She buckled worn, leather cuffs onto my wrists and locked them in place and slapped me, hard. I could not look at her while she completed the rituals that transformed her from the rough-voiced seducer in a crowded and smoky bar into the sleek, silken seductress who could charm the most frightened young woman into a very dangerous game. I knew the proper words to say and the proper games to play, but still I went with her to a place I did not know, leaving no one behind to call for me, or to know into whose hands I had given myself.

She stripped my body and tied me up tight, and for the first time, I truly felt the pull of restraints placed on me by another, the weight of my own body, the limits of my own strength. And she stroked my face tenderly before striking me again, and again, and kissed the blood from my teeth and lips, so I could see it on her when she drew away. In a too-late moment of indecision, I tested the bonds and found them locked onto me, impossible to slip or lift off. And I knew what it meant to be truly helpless, at another's mercy. Alone, with a person who was known for being merciless.

I had no idea what she was going to do.

I was terrified, because no one had ever bound me before.

She brought weapons before me—silky, dangerous weapons like herself—and let me be romanced by them before they launched into brutality. Opening my bruised mouth, she commanded words from me, and got only sounds, and her fury was so magnificent that I knew she was beyond human. She demanded worship. And in the end, she got it. At a price so great, I was never to see her again.

 

No, it didn't happen that way at all.

 

The first time I was bound, it was by words alone. “Stay there,” and “stand still,” and “don't move,” uttered with a playful, casual simplicity, punctuated by stinging cuts, which threw ripples of distraction all along nerve endings. A light voice and soft hands, and a test that was designed for me to fail. I ground my teeth and set my body and keened lengthy screams that echoed in my skull but actually came out in hisses and gasps. And the more I obeyed, the harsher it was, until the agony exploded and waves of nausea swept through me. Drunkenly stubborn, I locked my limbs in place—I would stay there, stand still, and not move, until rivers of blood covered my body, until my lungs couldn't draw another breath, until
the starbursts of pain behind my eyelids became one bright red light and I fell to the floor and didn't know anymore.

And I did fall, but not to the ground. Instead, I spiraled inward, and my obedience to the commands left my body no choice but to ignore those petty, spiteful stings. They faded into distant jabs, which distracted me from myself, and when they rose in a flurry of angry impotence, I ceased to mind them at all.

I didn't know what was happening.

I had never been bound before.

Not much later, hands beat against my locked arms and fingers and bent me forward and at last I moved, and the sizzling, crackling awakenings of my body finally made me cry out. I could barely hear him, cradling me, his once cynical voice trembling with shame and horror and fear, as he asked over and over again, why I had not moved. I knew then that he could hold me no longer, and so I let him soothe me, and did not remind him whose bonds had held me so fast. I knew that he hated me then, and I allowed that hate to fill me with much-belated pain, and freed myself minutes after he left me for the last time.

 

No, it couldn't have happened that way.

 

No, really, the first time I was bound it was after years and years of bondage, when I was handed two pairs of cuffs and told to put them on. When I passed under the bed legs the rope I cut the night before, and lay down in a genuine state of fear. Not of her, but fear that because I had never been bound, I shouldn't have been there, hadn't earned my way to that strange bed and those accurate hands.

And with the two items I had brought and the one she had, she taught me what it was like to be tied, to be spread so wide that there were no safe places on my body. She taught me that
wherever I had gone before was not accessible through her, and when at last the tears came, I gave myself to them wholeheartedly, never losing myself, never turning away.

The cuffs were snug and light, and when I pulled against them, I did nothing but press my body wider for her. And in time, when I was turned and moved, it was her voice that held me and the bondage seemed almost superfluous. I struggled against the ties and sighed in agony as they refused to give, and in one blissful moment, reared against them, fingers curled and my entire body tensed to tear them from their anchor points. They held. What a luxury to be so tightly bound.

“Luxurious, ain't it?” she breathed into my ear.

And I cried again, clean tears that poured through me, soaking my face, my hair, the sheets beneath me, because I was so grateful for that moment.

You see, I'd never been bound before.

And when the bonds were gone, I found that they had stayed with me anyway, and I slept in them and wore them for quite some time. The marks were not to fade from my body for months, years maybe, but the cuffs are still there, waiting for the rope under the bed.

 

But maybe that wasn't the way it happened at all.

Maybe it's still to come.

 

 

 

 

 

You think I'm going to tie you down and fuck you, don't you. You think I'm going to strap on a dildo, and do this intercourse thing, play butch boy for you, and let you scream and carry on, indulge your rape fantasies and all that good stuff, that stuff that gets you so hot, that makes you drip wet…. I can see you dripping now, from the way I grabbed you by the hair and forced you into the bonds, spread eagled on your bed. Maybe it's the bed, especially, that makes you think we're going to fuck, and maybe it's all the hints you've been dropping me about the way you like it, the things you've done…you're a smooth bottom, practiced, you've been with badder bitches and butches than me. So if I'm going to give you what you want, I know, I've got to give you something you don't know you want. I'm going to start with my finger. I pull off my leather glove and toss it away, and work my index finger right between your wet lips, right into the hot spot, and into you it goes. I can see the look in your eyes—what, no foreplay? no clit action?—but as my finger slides as deep as it can go, your eyes close and you gasp with deep pleasure.
Then two fingers. You don't need foreplay, you don't need lube, sweet thing, your cunt is hungry and I'm going to feed it. Next, I pull a dagger from my pocket. It's not a dagger, it's a letter opener, but you don't know that. I see you gasp and flinch and squirm—you think I'm going to pretend to cut you, run the tip all over your flesh, across your nipples…. I see your eyes go wide as I dip it between your legs. Have you figured it out yet? I slide the dull metal into you, using the flat blade like a tongue depressor, to peer into the folds of your flesh. Your vagina convulses as you realize what I'm doing and you strain against your bonds, helpless to stop me. I know if you really want to stop me you'll say the word. But you're too interested, wondering what I'm going to do next. I pull a magic marker out of my pocket and write my name in flowing script across your belly, then cap the thing and hold you open with the fingers of one hand while I slide the hard plastic cylinder into you. Your legs are shaking as I move it in a wide circle…what are you thinking, darling? Have you ever put a magic marker up your cunt before? Is this something you used to do when you were a kid, under the sheets at night, terrified of being caught, but unable to stop your own lust—what did you turn to when your fingers weren't enough? The marker is not large, but it is hard and foreign, is that what's making you shake? The thought of this thing protruding out of your body, probing into places it was never intended to go? You almost laugh when you see the kielbasa, a thousand phallic puns half-remembered flicker across your face as your eyes take in the curve of sausage in my hand. No, I wouldn't, you think. But I will, and I do, rolling a condom onto the end for full phallic effect and pushing the thickness against your lips until they give way and then inching it inside. You whimper, a sweet sound. It feels big, I know it, I see you clenching and relaxing, trying to take it in—good girl. It's too soft to fuck you with so I settle for burying it a few inches deep and then
leaning down to bite off the end. When my nose rubs your clit I stop my nibbling and pull the meat out of you, toss it away. Too late I realize I should have made you eat some of it, should have let you taste your own juice on it. No matter, there is more in store. The unlit end of a burning candle. You twitch as you feel the heat of the flame although I'm the one who gets wax on her hands as I'm moving it from side to side inside you. A pair of black lacquer chopsticks, so thin you barely feel them at all, until I split them like a speculum and widen you side to side, top to bottom. I let you lick them when I'm done. What else can we stick into your cunt, my girl? I've used up the things that I brought with me, so I cast about your apartment looking for more. You've got dildos galore but they don't interest me, cunt girl. I roll a condom over an Idaho potato I find in your fridge, cold and fat and wide, and I push the tip of it in as far as it will go. I fuck you with it until it is sliding in up to its widest point, and you are moaning and thrashing. Have you ever been fucked with something this big, cunt girl? You probably have, I don't kid myself after all the hints you gave me. Have you ever slept with a man? The potato is getting slick and hard to hold onto, but I'm shoving it with my palm into you now. I bet you have slept with men, before, even if you haven't said anything about it to me. How could that hungry cunt resist? A pole of hard, hot flesh, that fits snug and twitches in response. I'd love to have one, myself, love to have one to ram into you and feel your wetness on every nerve ending. But there's no use wishing for things I don't have, and what I have is you, wide open before me, your cunt is my cunt and I can put anything into it that I like. The potato slips out onto the floor and your head jerks up, your vagina gasping like a fish, so empty, so needy. A bottle of shampoo. The handle of a hairbrush. Pinking shears. Yours is the cunt that ate Tokyo. When I'm done with you there won't be a phallic object left in your apartment that doesn't smell
like your desire. Everything will remind you of me. I am just beginning to wish I had a crusty baguette to go with the kielbasa when I decide maybe you've had enough. You sense the hesitation and look up, hope in your eyes. No, I'm still not going to fuck you. You realize it when I pack the harness back into my bag. You want to ask so bad, I see you holding back, you want to beg me for something but you aren't sure whether you can abase yourself that way. Silly girl, you'll let me stick anything into your slit as long as you're tied up. Maybe next time, I'll sit and watch while I order you to stick things up into yourself: a flashlight, a fake rubber dog bone, the old standby: a cucumber. Maybe I'll take photographs of each of these things sticking out of your cunt to horrify my politically correct friends. You're biting your lip with impatience—I'm sorry, my sweet. I get this way sometimes. For now, what kind of a top do you think I am? Don't worry, I'll get you off. After all, I've brought a whole array of things to try on your clitoris: fur, sandpaper, chains, a nail file, macramé rope, a hairbrush, a braided thong, and when I run out of those I'm sure there are more things here I can try. I'm not tired, not in the least.