Best of the Best Lesbian Erotica (33 page)

Things were getting very hot on stage. Poison was about to break management's strange regulations which prohibited certain sex acts on stage, in the vain hope that this would prevent the theater from being busted. Adolpha was not sure that she wanted to share all of Monica's cherries, and so she strolled on stage, pleased to hear the gasp of surprise and recognition that burst from Poison, who just now remembered having seen her before in all kinds of strange situations. “Go,” Adolpha advised her, not unkindly. “Take all this money and go home, and forget.”

The assembled crowd could not believe their good fortune. Adolpha strolled the perimeter of her Plexiglas arena, letting them get a good look at her light-year-long legs and melon-round ass cheeks. She unbuttoned her jacket enough to give them all a peek at her cleavage, but as the dominant member of this duo, she was not about to shuck everything and shake it for them. Oh, no. That was someone else's job.

“Now that you have begun your instruction, you may proceed to a more advanced level of service,” she said gravely to Monica Bradshaw, who was groveling on the floor, all purpose evaporated from her scrambled and cornered mind. “Put your succulent mouth to my shoe, little girl, and make it pretty. That's it. Yes, you are right to be cautious. I am hard to please. Ass higher in the air, my dear, let everyone see you in this state of need. Now peel them down, my babeling, softly, slowly, an eighth of an inch at a time. Oh, yes, let us all see how wet the shiny curls of your little parts have become. What is it that the sweet one needs? Come follow me, now, my darling little slut, and we will make sure all the gentlemen are equally educated about your base and bottomless need.”

Adolpha pivoted, forcing Monica to come after her, shambling awkwardly on hands and knees, legs spread in a hapless invitation, heart aching for something, but no image to answer her mind's question about what it was she wanted with such fervor.

“Why, this, of course,” Adolpha answered, overflowing with charity. She bent and touched Monica there, in the place that was sore and chafed from being wet for so long, and as Monica came so did many other people. Adolpha's slender finger was like a claw upon her clit, and she gave herself up to pleasure as the fallen deer gives itself up to the arrow in its heart. There was so much money on the stage that Adolpha kicked up a bit of a breeze to blow it toward the exit, where Bo could collect it. She was still standing guard for Poison, who was changing into street clothes backstage and getting one hell of a headache.

“ 'Tis the season to be jolly,” Adolpha announced. She waited a bit, then added, “It is better to give than to receive.” She bent to Monica, kissed her tear-stained cheeks (much saltier than blood, those tears), and stage-whispered, “What have you gotten me for Christmas, my angel?”

Monica stared about herself in shock and disarray. The spaghetti straps of her slip had slunk down her arms, and her body was half-bare, looking hauntingly lovely even in the nasty greenish fluorescent light of the theater. Her voice was rusty from lack of use, but a pressure between her ears told her she must answer this unfair and ridiculous question. “I-I'm afraid I haven't got anything for you,” she quavered.

“Oh, but you're wrong. So very wrong,” Adolpha said, shaking her head. “You have so much to give me. All that you are, all that you could have been, that is the fruit that I am about to pluck.”

Adolpha picked her up with one hand. Monica gasped to feel her feet leave the floor. “Put your soles on my shoulders,” Adolpha advised, and so she did, not having any choice. “Pretend I am a tree that you are going to climb,” Adolpha said, twisting her other hand between Monica's thighs. “A Christmas tree, I think, ablaze with glorious tapers, decked with every bonbon and gimcrack a child's greedy fancy could hope to see. And you are about to become the angel at the top of my tree.”

Monica screamed as Adolpha's hand took possession of her channel, and cried out again in fear and triumph when Adolpha, glaring at the mental effort it took, levitated her until she stood without support upon the air. It looked as if the only thing that held her up was Adolpha's upraised arm and fist. It was a pretty sight, but it apparently had blown the audience's fuses, because the tips had faltered and a deadly silence had fallen over them all. Even those who had run out of quarters half an hour ago were compelled to remain and witness what was about to occur. For once in their lives, they wished an obscuring curtain would fall to protect what was left of their innocence, but they were not going to be granted the mercy of blindness.

Adolpha began to turn Monica's body, still holding her up in the air. Slowly, slowly, she made her rotate, gradually picking up speed until she was swimming in a circle upon the impaling fist of her captor. Despite the sobs of orgasm and terror that came from her victim, Adolpha insisted that she hold a graceful pose straight out of Swan Lake. This was supposed to be a dance club, after all.

And then the ballerina came to earth, soaked with sweat and other juices, wrung out and exhausted by passion fulfilled, fucked beyond her wildest dreams of sexual excess. (Which, in Monica Bradshaw's case, had actually been domesticated dreams of passion defeated.)

Adolpha slowly and deliberately tore the clothing from her body, discarding each tiny rag as if it were putrid. She bared her fangs and approached the cringing woman. Once, twice, three times she slowly chased her widdershins about the stage, and now some of the men in their booths were screaming and pissing themselves with fear, beating on the walls to try to smash their way out.

Really, it was a pity, Adolpha thought, by all rights it should be the men whose lives she took. They were the ones she hated. And she didn't mind killing them on general principle, especially if she happened upon one in the act of assaulting or abusing a woman. But she didn't like the way they smelled. Their blood had an offensive taste, as if it was slightly spoiled. And then there were those prickly necks, ugh, it was like trying to eat a salad of stinging nettles.

Adolpha loved other women. Their bodies stirred her the same way that works of fine art or great vistas stirred other people. Women were her passion, firmly at the center of her life. She had always felt that way, even before the world had a word for gay girls or bulldaggers or lesbians or dykes. This obsession had made her peculiar even in a culture that had no strictures against same-sex intimacy. And now, because this
was where her lust had taken her, she would not even need to harden her heart before she received what she needed to live.

And so she took Monica in her arms, caressed her back and shoulders, and granted her the favor of one last climax, one that was so intense it brought tears to both of their eyes. Monica hardly noticed the fangs in her neck or the fading of her own vital signs as her blood passed obediently into Adolpha's painfully hungry mouth. As Adolpha's arms tightened about her, Monica's loosened until they fell back limply. There was barely enough blood left in her body to leave a faint trail down Monica's shoulder and breast. Adolpha dropped the body before she could see the pitiful red drops kiss the chilly, lifeless nipple. She felt no gratitude, just repletion.

She was warm now, heated to boiling, full of light and life, happy and sleepy and not a little high. She licked her teeth and contemplated the little crowd that was motionless and mute, still in thrall to her terrible will. She was tempted to simply leave the body and go, and let them all deal with the consequences, as expiation for their crimes against women. While she thought about it, she made all of them wail for Monica's death and scratch their own cheeks and chests. She tweaked each one of them, pinching out the bits of them that were mean or thoughtless toward women, twisting their narrow little souls in a more matriarchal direction. By the time they left this place, they would not remember what they had seen, and none of them would ever again fondle his secretary's bottom, slap his wife, pay a housekeeper minimum wage, or slight his daughter's ambition. And all of them would sleep with their hands clasped tightly around their own necks, curled up in the fetal position, as if they dreaded the sharp teeth of some night-flying succubus.

Adolpha forced herself to pick up Monica's remains. Her skin cringed instinctively from contact with the corpse. Humans were so distasteful when they were empty, as
unsightly as used-up tins of soup. Her brother Ulrich was fond of mortals, wasn't he? Then he ought to pay his last respects to this one! His insufferable mortal companion could help Ulrich to fill in her grave.

There was just time to leave them both this little token of her affection, before dawn crowded night from the sky, and the crawl space of the Neptune Society's crematorium became Adolpha's shroud. She sought the wild dark wind, thinking how very glad she was that she had not left all of her Christmas shopping till the very last minute this year.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Of water?” Erin asked her lover, as she ran a hand through her short blond hair. “I don't get it. Is it going to be really cold water?”

Laurel smiled reassuringly. “Just water, and no, it won't be cold. Just a drop at a time.”

Just a drop at a time? That doesn't sound so bad. Not like the cane or being flogged.
Erin smiled to herself.
I can take that.
But she couldn't help being nervous, because Laurel had that smile on her face. And of course Laurel was going to tie her down for this; if Laurel thought she had to be tied down…well, it didn't bode well. Then again, maybe Laurel just wanted to see her tied down; she often did.

“Okay,” she said aloud. “It sounds like fun.”

Laurel chuckled. “I'm sure it will be.”

She smiled and looked Erin over. As always, Erin felt small, somehow reduced by the fact that she had no clothing on while Laurel was fully dressed. Laurel didn't go in for formality; she
liked Erin to call her Laurel even in the middle of a scene. But she did do some things traditionally; Erin was wearing a green leather collar that Laurel had locked on her a few minutes before. She always wore a silver ID bracelet with Laurel's name engraved on it; she'd worn it for three years now and never regretted it. Well, hardly ever. There were times when she was up on the St. Andrew's cross being flogged, before the endorphins had kicked in, when she would find herself wondering what she was doing there, letting this nice-looking, kindly eyed, soft-voiced bitch do these things to her. Those thoughts rarely lasted long, however. There was never any doubt in Erin's mind about who was in charge.

“Now, sweetheart, bring the labia spreader downstairs with you.”

Erin grinned; she liked the labia spreader—it gave her a wonderful feeling of exposure. Sure, it was humiliating, but she liked being humiliated. And hurt, and teased, and…Her grin got broader as she rummaged through the lingerie drawer and pulled out a tangle of green leather. As she left the bedroom and headed for the stairs to the basement, she ran the leather straps through her fingers. Laurel just had to be different. It was a good thing that she also had the money to indulge herself. She liked seeing Erin in dark green leather, and so it was that simple: all of Erin's leather was dark green. Even in the Bay Area, that took some doing, and Erin knew that there were a couple of leather workers who had reason to be thankful for Laurel's particular tastes.

She tapped lightly on the basement door; this was one formality that Laurel insisted on.

“Come in, dear,” Laurel called out, and Erin tried to look graceful as she walked into the room. “Now, let's get you into that.”

A few minutes later, Erin was lying on the big table, which was covered with a rubber sheet. It felt clammy, and Erin was
once again grateful that Laurel didn't go in for rubberwear. She'd seen people at parties dressed all in rubber and had always felt sorry for them. She looked to one side as Laurel moved into view.

“Where did you get that?” she asked, nodding her head toward the odd-looking stand that stood next to the table. Hanging on the stand was an enema bag.

“Greg had it. I think he adapted a plant shelf or something.” Laurel's voice was matter-of-fact as she began to strap Erin onto the table. Erin tried to relax as her wrists were strapped down. Then Laurel moved to buckle a pair of thigh restraints onto her, and Erin began to worry a little.

“I'll have to give him a hard time,” Erin said, trying to relax as Laurel fussed with her positioning. “Only dykes can do that kind of thing. Next thing you know, he'll be driving a truck.”

“Now there's a scary thought. Okay, how are your legs doing?”

“Fine.”

“Can they stay like that for a long time?”

“Sure.” Erin gasped as Laurel ran a finger up the inside of one of her thighs. Then the waist restraint was being buckled down.

“Try to move.” Erin squirmed. “Harder than that, really fight it.” Once Erin had stilled, Laurel made some more adjustments. “Do it again. Okay, that's good.” She swung the arm of the odd rack over the table.

“This reminds me of that episode of
Star Trek.
The one with the aliens doing experiments.”

“That only describes thirty or so episodes. Now, listen to me.” Laurel adjusted a hose that ran from the bag until the odd-looking tip at the end of the hose was positioned above Erin's cunt.

“Yes, Laurel.”

“Like I told you, I'm going to let drops of water fall on you. One drop at a time, in a steady, regulated drip. You don' t have to do anything; just lie there and feel it.”