Best of the Best Lesbian Erotica (16 page)

 

 

 

 

 

I fucking
love
a woman who knows what she wants.

She was so wet that my two fingers slid inside her, smooth, like they belonged.

Her eyes were closed, a half-smile was on her lips. The hot, slick, sweet fucking pull of her lit a fire in my belly. I remembered her fingers measuring my wrist earlier, and smiled.

She was tight at first, and I touched her gently, my fingers inside her, flicking up behind her clit, playing with her as she opened to me. One finger, then two, then three…back to one finger sliding in and out so slowly—and she hissed under her breath at me, frustrated, pushing her cunt at my hand, trying to capture more, more.

I rolled her over fast, pivoting her neatly despite the rope at her wrists, and gave her six fast, sharp smacks on her quivering butt. She yelped with the first few and began kicking, so I held her legs for the last two, then rolled her over to face me again. Her round butt was way too tempting, and if I didn't get it out of sight I might spank her all night.

She waited, breathlessly watching, impatiently squirming, as I placed the bottle of lube in a hot water bowl, put a few extra gloves by the bed, and stripped. The tank top came off easily, boots with a bit of effort, then jeans and socks joined the pile on the floor.

I snapped on a glove. When I glanced her way, eyebrow cocked, she flushed a little. Her eyes round and innocent, she bit her lip, pulled her knees up, and slowly parted them. I hurried.

Climbing back on the bed, I touched her hands and arms, checking for temperature difference, ready to shift ropes if need be. As I felt one hand, then the other, she returned the squeeze. Her slim fingers went around my wrist again, an unmistakable gesture of measuring, of gauging the thickness of my wrists and the size of my hands.

She was greedy and opened to me quickly, flowering around me as I fucked her deeper and deeper, doing the holding back for both of us as she thrust toward me. I took my time, making sure she was relaxed, going to three fingers, then four, tucking in my thumb and adding more lube. She was slick and hot and her core was calling to me—then she relaxed suddenly, pulled her knees up a bit more, and went still. She held her breath as I pushed past the last bit of tension and curled inside her, grasped by her wet cunt.

Inside her.
Struck by rapture, I could not move at all until she demanded it, couldn't imagine a moment more perfect than this until she proved it to me, pushing herself farther onto me, wrapping her cunt around my forearm as she made a continuous purring sound, groaning with pleasure. I rocked my hand inside her, feeling her respond instantly to my changes of pressure and tempo.

 

No matter how many times I fist a woman, one thing never changes: the sense of awe I feel as the thickest part of my hand
slips past the tension and the last few inches of me disappear inside her of their own accord, slick and with a rush. My hand curls into a fist like a sleeping cat, and her cunt flutters around me, around my wrist. Sometimes she is so tight I can't move for a while, and I sit there, shaken to my core at the trust and raw energy between us. Sometimes she has room inside right away, and I can pump inside her. My mind is entirely wrapped in my fist at times like these: wrapped in my fist and all the way inside her cunt, hot and slick and wet and pulsing. I can fuck forever like this, the familiar burn in my shoulder muscles ignored, almost unnoticed.

 

I pushed the heel of my left hand against her clit, putting on a bit of pressure—just a little. Her sweet cunt convulsed around my fist again. She sucked in her breath and moved her hips against
that
hand now, grinding her clit against me, spiraling up toward coming.

“Stop.”

She blinked at me, hips still moving, faltering only a little. “Don't move. Not even an inch.”

I relaxed the pressure on her clit and stopped the motion of my other hand.

“You're doing just fine. You are so fucking hot, such a pretty nasty thing, impaled on my fist.” Her breath hissed out, releasing tension with it. “I love it when you want more. Play the game with me.”

She relaxed against the bed, opened her legs farther, and concentrated on feeling my hands.

 

I fucked her hard, suddenly, my fist pushing her limits, stretching her with each thrust. Mouth opened, she stared at the ceiling for a second, making no sound, then gave a muffled shriek with each inward push, louder as I got faster, until she was continuously wailing, stopping only for gasps of air. I
caught her at the edge of hyperventilating, eased in and out of her more and more slowly, brought her down, and pulled my hand out of her, just part way.

Gasping, she stared at me with disbelief. I poured a thick stream of warm lube into the convenient channel provided by my curled palm, then around my wrist. I smiled at her, feeling tender, drinking in the sight of her flushed face, lips parted, eyes half-lidded.

“Remember, don't move. Ready?” She started to nod, stopped, and arched her neck as I went in again, unbearably easily this time, feeling no resistance as it seemed she pulled me right to the bottom of her cunt. I replaced my left hand over her clit and pressed as I started fucking her again, slowly at first, then harder and faster, reaching a peak, then more slowly again, then still more slowly as she gasped a wordless protest.

She groaned then as I slid in so slowly it took a full breath cycle to sink all the way into her. She lost control and bucked against my hand.

“I thought you weren't supposed to be moving...” I stopped, let my hand go limp inside her, went with her movements instead of against them so she couldn't catch any friction or pressure, and took my other hand off her clit.

Scream of protest.

I ran my hand along her smooth brown skin until I reached her breast, grasped her erect nipple between two fingers, and rubbed my thumb over it hard. Another gasp and clench, as she pushed her body toward me. I gave her nothing.

I could hear a slight noise and realized she was grinding her teeth.

When a few moments had passed and she had not moved again, I brought my fingers to her clit and began strumming it slowly, trying to tease her into moving. When she was still, only whimpering slightly, I started fucking her again, still
moving so easily inside her that I felt I could crawl all the way. She made such beautiful sounds, such cat-in-heat sounds… It was time to up the ante.

“Now I want you to be quiet.”

She cast me an incredulous look, more than blunted by her fuzzy expression, but she went silent, only the hiss of her breath, the flaring of her nostrils, and the expression on her face showing what she felt. I pulled her legs up over my shoulders, leaned over her, and fucked her hard again, watching the tug of emotion behind her eyes, which got wider and wider the harder we fucked. After what seemed like an eternity of pushing and pulling, sliding through her in an erotic haze, she whispered something I had to slow my movements to catch.

“Please let me scream,” she repeated, and I saw stars.

I felt a snarl involuntarily lift my lip as I let myself go, sliding all the way in with each stroke, watching her yank mindlessly at the rope around her wrists, muscles straining, as she wrapped her strong thighs around me and pulled me closer, shoving back at me, impaling herself on my forearm as I fucked her into a place where she couldn't remember my name or hers. She chanted “Fuck fuck fuck fuck...” each time before she screamed.

 

I could feel the moment when it was arriving, and I placed my wet thumb on her clit, my left hand pressing into her belly, feeling my fist inside her as it pistoned back and forth. I nudged her clit from side to side in rhythm with my thrusts, and within seconds she sucked in her breath, long and deep, and just fucking exploded, wrapped around my fist so tight I could feel my wrist creak. I felt it deep in my cunt, she came so hard; arched off the bed, stabbing herself on my arm, working her clit against my thumb, shuddering over and over, her cunt pulsing now, beating like a great, slow heart inside her.

 

 

 

 

 

Not just the outer but the inner door was unlocked, as they often are in crummy tenements.

I walked up the stairs, six-pack in hand, metal indented from decades of footsteps, walls bumpy from ancient attempts to make interesting the “texture,” the paint chipped, graffitied, peeling, names of old lovers
(Mike & Cathy forever, Julio loves Sandy)
etched by key or knife into its surface. Garlic, marijuana, fried chicken, rotting food—Spanish music and kids screaming and TV for the various constituencies mingling in a way that was pleasantly familiar. In the past I had known buildings like this so well, with their geographically labeled (NE, SE, NW, SW) apartments, their bags of garbage (brown bag inside plastic) tied up outside the doors, the forgotten joys of downward mobility, whether involuntary or chosen.

I went up the stairs as far as I could, until I faced a metal door to the roof. This location alarmed me.

Feeling stupid, but following instructions, I shut my eyes, albeit I could raise the lids slightly and see through my eyelashes.
I shifted from foot to foot, then leaned with my back against the iron railing, which I rolled against to work out my muscles. Finally I sat down, and despite my intense curiosity and nervousness my mind began wandering until I almost fell asleep, as I have upon occasion in a dentist's chair.

“Are your eyes shut?” a voice startled me.

“Yes,” I half-lied, my heart pounding as if I had been caught doing something forbidden.

“You're supposed to be standing. Get up, but keep your back toward me and your eyes shut if you don't want to be sent home.” A bit awkwardly, for I was feeling dizzy, I pushed myself to my feet.

“Move forward, so you're not leaning on anything.”

I did. “Okay. Now reach out with your left hand, backward, until you feel the banister.”

The cool railing felt good in my hand, though my sweat made me grip even harder.

“Good. Now move to your right…more…more…
Stop.
The stairs are right behind you. A few more inches.” I shuffled my feet very slowly until I could feel my heel sliding off the edge of the step. “Good. Now walk down. Slowly.”

“Backward?”

“Yes.”

“I can't.” I was petrified, afraid I'd fall into the void, or that she'd push me (even though her voice was below me.)

“Of course you can. You just feel with your foot until the step disappears, then lower yourself very carefully. Don't worry. I'll be there if you fall.”

I let my left hand slide slightly down the railing, whose knobbiness (from decades of paint?) I was now grateful for, as it helped anchor my hand.

“What about the beer?”

“You won't need it.”

“Are you sure?”

She said nothing. I reached out my right hand but could not touch the wall.

Finally, ever so carefully, I moved my right leg down onto the next step. Then my left.

Still proceeding cautiously, but slightly faster, like a child learning to walk, I backed my way downstairs.

I heard a click and felt, rather than saw, a darker blackness.

“One more step,” she said. I lowered my foot—then a tremendous jarring went through my body, as my foot found, not space and a step, but a solid floor. As I was getting myself together, she slipped something over my eyes, with elastic behind my head. Fur: a material I recognized from far-off days of semi-interesting sex.

She spun me around, so that her voice was in front of me. “What do I look like?”

I opened my eyes, but it was as if I had not. “I don't know.”

“Good.”

“Why? So you are ugly!”

She laughed. She took me by the hand. She pushed my left shoulder, she pulled my right, and I began to turn around. Then she told me to spin around myself, until she said to stop. I got dizzy first.

“Okay.” She took my hand and began to lead me. Remembering the step, I resisted.

“Where are we going?”

“You'll…see.”

“Will I?”

“Don't you trust me?”

“I don't know.”

“Then what are you doing here?” I tried to figure out which way I was facing, but the spinning and walking backward had confused me. I liked the sound of her voice, though,
which was husky, as if she were thirsty, as if she were getting a cold, as if she had talked too much all day.

We stopped, I heard a slight creak (a door being pushed open), then, after she warned me to lift my foot a little, my foot landed on a somewhat softer and more absorbent surface, which I realized was wood.

I felt wind, I heard a kind of aching sigh, I heard the click as she turned the lock on the door.

 

“No,” she said, grabbing my arm, for I had reached for the blindfold. Her fingers felt strong. At first I liked it, but then I felt cornered, and I grabbed at her like a cat.

She pulled my hands away and pressed them to my sides. I pushed up as hard as I could, but though I work out, I couldn't get anywhere. I heard her chuckle. Finally, I stopped trying.

“Promise not to try to take the blindfold off?” she said in an amused tone.

“Yes.”

She let go. I stood there, my heart pounding, panting from fear—and, I admit, excitement. My breathing sounded loud in my ears, like my grandmother's used to when she slept in my room. At the time it had made me want to kill her.