Best of the Best Lesbian Erotica (35 page)

Suddenly my body jerks. My lover opens her eyes, looks up at me and smiles. The scene in my mind of her—of our—demise washes through me. And my rage, which is merely
my terror disguised, coils into energy in my fist. With control learned from centuries of practice, I lash back my desire to tear open the body before me. I remember to breathe. I pull back my hand, breathe deeply and slide my fingers into my lover again. Her cunt sucks me in. I coil my fingers into a fist and relish the heat and soft flesh that surrounds it. I choke back my tears. At this moment, I know that my lifetimes of of loneliness are now past. I remember to breathe in. And exhale. My lover moans. Softly. Tears trickle down my face.

I am desperate now, trapped within a torrent of emotions I cannot endure. I look down at my lover who chooses this moment to slip her left hand between her legs. Mercifully I am swept out of myself and into her passion. I am desperate to please her now. Desperate to escape myself. I lay flat on my belly between her legs and match each thrust of my fist against her movements. Her desire is the only hope I know now. I wrap my left hand around my right forearm, and I keep pace with my lover's rhythm. Time is now measured by the sweat that trickles down my back. An icy sheen spreads across my flesh. I grit my teeth and force my body to keep pace with her need. I can no longer think. I can barely breathe.

My lover's fingers now ravage her clit. Her right hand clamps around my wrist. She, not I, now sets the pace of my fist. I close my eyes and obey her directions. My shoulders ache and my forearm burns with exhaustion. I am angry again. Angry at my lover's desires. Angry that I may fall short of her need. My mind screams at me to pull my fist from her cunt and stop this madness. At this point, when I know I have failed us both, we reach the crest of her desire. A final tremor plunges across my lover's body; it spills downward and crashes into a spasm around my wrist. Her body goes limp. We each breathe deeply. Slowly. In unison. She loosens her grip on my wrist. I rest my head on the sheets. As I lie there, my mind whispers to me that I will never feel the depth of passion my lover does. It
tells me I will never experience anything but a sense of duty. But then my left hand slides down in between my own legs and I touch my wetness. It is at this moment that I know, once again, my mind has lied to me and, for one more day, for one more moment, my lover and I have deceived my self.

My passion for my lover is not lust. I know lust. Always short-lived, lust never lasts. A throbbing abscess in need of quick, sure lancing, lust is demanding, relentless, a persistent whore who offers fortunes and delivers nothing but mouthfuls of ancient, soured dreams. I know lust. Lust has had her way with me.

My passion for my lover is a place that I journey to. A place not within my body but between her flesh and mine, between my mind and her body, between our breaths. The place that goes against the grain of everything I was raised to be.

 

 

 

 

 

Okay, I admit it: I love giving blow jobs. I didn't like it with men, in fact, I never did it with men. I learned how to give good head from a very hot, very butch, dick-wielding lesbian. I was twenty at the time, living a happily lesbian-feminist-separatist existence, snug in my non-role-playing p.c. academic world. I think I hated men as much as I loved women. I was
repulsed
at the thought, mention or sight of a penis. Then, one day, making gentle, tender, PG-13 love with my sweetie, she stopped me and said, “I'm sorry, I just can't do this.” I sat up, shocked. “What? What did I do wrong?” She shook her head. “No, it's not that. It's not you. I just can't do this soft and sweet ‘I'll go down on you, you go down on me' thing. I don't want you to lick my pussy.” My face fell. I was bewildered. Until she finished her sentence: “I want you to suck my dick.”

Okay, so I was only twenty, and out a mere three years. I'd only had sex with one woman before her, my college room-mate, and our sex was very egalitarian and vanilla. We were so innocent, we naively used dental dams every time even though neither of us had ever had any kind of sex with anyone
else ever. We'd heard about lesbians getting AIDS, so we were careful and dutifully devoted to our latex. If we didn't have it, couldn't get it, we didn't have sex. Period. We laugh about this now, only wishing our dedication to safer sex had followed us into our older, more promiscuous years. So my knowledge of lesbian sex was pretty slim. I'd never seen a porno. I'd never heard of a dildo. I thought B&D meant Black and Decker. And I was puzzled as to how this new, older, wiser and more experienced lover wanted me to suck her “dick” when it was clear she didn't have one. I was, nevertheless, intrigued.

“Um, you want me to what? But...” She shushed me. “Honey, do you know what I'm thinking when you put your sweet lips on me?” I didn't. “I'm thinking of how I want them wrapped around my dick. I'm picturing my clit, hard and extended into a lesbian cock, hot and engorged for you, and I'm picturing you wanting me and taking me into your sweet little mouth.” My eyes about popped out of my head. But I was eager to please. So she reached under the bed, pulled out a small red velvet bag and ordered me to close my eyes, and when I reopened, there she was with a proud set of balls and an eight-inch dick strapped to her pelvis.

We began my lessons that evening. I found that, from my first taste, I
loved
that dick. I was a natural, pulling her into my throat, sucking her skin against the roof of my mouth, running my tongue along the length of her. I have a big mouth for a little girl, and I nearly wet myself the first time I was able to take all of her, swallow her whole, and hold on to her ass while she buried that dick in my face. I liked feeling the length of her stiffness disappear into my mouth, and letting my tongue play at the ridges, while my nails raked the underside of her balls, then, lightly, flicking my tongue catlike at the head, barely tasting her, tickling the tip until she could no longer stand my teasing and grabbed the back of my head, forcing herself down my throat, jamming her cock, hot and swollen, into my
face, fucking me full-force until I was so full of her I thought I would cry. I became an avid dick-sucker that summer. I loved my newfound way of pleasing my lover, on her terms. My physical acceptance of her cock was my way of embracing her butchness, of surrendering to her will. I never licked her clit again after that. It was me and the dick—anytime, anywhere she wished. We'd go out to dinner and she'd be packing the smaller one, and I'd make a game of rubbing the ball of my foot against her under the table. I would cup her hardness in the cab on the way home and she'd struggle to keep a straight face as I went down, right there in the back seat, the knees of my stockings getting dirty as I knelt before her, smearing my lipstick on her pants, then deepthroating her butchness, taking as much of her into my body as I possibly could, wanting her dick, her desire to completely engulf me. When we got home, she'd relax before the television, legs spread, in the silk boxers I'd bought her, her dick poking through the fold in the fabric and I would have to stop whatever I was doing and go to her and try to get her attention, by kneeling at her feet, massaging them, then working my way up to her hard-muscled thighs and finally playing with her cock as it stood there, at attention. I would roll her hardness between my hands before taking her into my mouth and she would play games with me, looking over the top of my head at the television, but getting gradually more distracted by my grunts of pleasure as I noisily sucked at her, allowing her rubber to slap against my lips and the roof of my mouth. Once I got really into it, my whole head bobbing up and down on her rigidness, frantically fucking her with my face, she would have to take note, and though the TV would still be on, the program was abandoned, as we fell to the floor, her grunting and thrusting her hips towards my face to give me more, more, as I let her feel my teeth and sucked her as hard as she had fucked me the night before. She grabbed a fistful of long disheveled hair and held my head still
as she had her way with me; I kept my lips in a perfect tight
O
as she rocked back and forth and then slammed her body into me full-force, coming hard into my mouth. I sat still, holding her in my mouth, cradling her dick between my lips until she quieted down and gently pulled me up onto her chest, which heaved under her ribbed tank top. Her dick was strong and beautiful and possessed us both with a force that can barely be put into words. I just know that I have never felt so powerful, so sexy, or so very femme as when I am before a lover on my knees, taking her into my mouth and giving her all I have to offer.

Don't get me wrong: I love getting fucked—fingers, dildos, fists—but nothing beats the exchange of power when I am sucking my butch off. I give a good blow job, and I love it, and I love the way it makes my butch feel. I can tell, because in addition to “sweetheart” and “honey” she calls me “the best little cocksucker in the world”—a title I am proud of as it is my way of giving back the love my butches have so freely lavished on me.

 

 

 

 

 

Every boy has his beginnings, some starting place, a point of conception. Although my boy evolution started long before, every time I was called “young man” in the barber shop; every time I saw myself in the mirror and realized I looked more and more like a picture I had of my teenaged grandfather, a sweet pretty boy with a severe haircut; every time some chickenhawk fag cruised my ass, it really sunk in, stuck me hard with a needle of perverse stickiness, with the smallest strongest phrase and the loveliest of positions.

 

“Please, Daddy,” I utter. Your hand clenches my shoulder and you breathe in roughly, quickly. And then I descend further into my new life as you shove me down until my chin touches the glossy wood floor. From there all I can see is your boots, for which I start the lowest possible approach. Your boots, boots I want to lick and suck, sweetly, voraciously, in the same way I want to move my mouth and tongue over your daddy-cock. I crawl with my elbows bent out, my bare stomach and chest sliding across the cool floor, my ass rounded in the air.
I again look up at you, my daddy, finally looming over me, stroking the bulge in your Levi's. I wait trembling, my lips opening hungrily; slightly and for several long beats, you lock gazes with me as you continue stroking yourself.

Until your deep whisper, “Kiss them,” frees me.

Relieved, I murmur thickly, “Thank you, Sir,” and then lean forward until my lips graze the gleaming black surface covering your right foot. Then, with a hint of swollen tongue, my mouth skims the pungent smoothness.

“Boy!” you snap, “I want to
feel
you working!”

“Yes, Sir,” I mumble into your boot. I press harder, my lips becoming tender against the firm leather as I work from your left to your right foot, but your impatient exhalation of breath tells me that you're not happy, yet. My kisses become pure pressure as I try to give you more sensation, until you hiss, “Use your teeth, boy!”

“Y-yes s-Sir, thank you, Sir,” and I eagerly dig my small, sharp teeth into your boot.

Your whisper breathes out, “That's right.”

Encouraged, I outline your foot with my mouth and teeth, teeth that are happy to bite, to sink into something so good. Teeth that focus my frustrated young energy into a wild animal cling. And cling to you I do, losing myself in my jaw's grip on my daddy, losing myself in the boy I am becoming, who like a pup nips and clutches desperately for attention.

“Stop,” you growl. “You've got to leave some space for other marks.”

Panting and trembling, I drop from my lock on you, a difficult thing for a boy who didn't even know he so desperately needed a daddy until earlier that evening.

 

“What I'm really looking for,” you said, leaning back comfortably in you chair at the café as the lines on your handsome face deepened around your broad smile, “is a boy.”

Clutching my cooling cup, I jerked out of my well-practiced coffee house slouch to prime attention as my good boy with good posture zinged into every bit of my being. All it takes is for me to hear a gorgeous older butch-boy, such as yourself, utter those beautiful words.

“W-well,” I sputtered. Unable to articulate clearly, a rare thing for my wordy self, I struggled on, “Uh, uh, I-uh…” Finally I gave up and awkwardly gestured toward myself, myself being a tall, lean boy-dyke with a military haircut and an angular pretty-boy face, then taken over by a smile of delight and the extreme happy desire to please.

You ignored my offering and continued, “And what I really want to do is play
daddy
and boy.”

My attempt to swallow some coffee halted abruptly as I gagged and coughed on misdirected liquid. When my coughing continued, you stood, moved closer to me, and hit me on my back a few times. Finally my choking stopped and, red-faced, I looked up into your concerned paternal gaze. Then you smiled and said, “Good boy,
good
boy. Let Daddy help you.”

“Oh god, yes,” I said thickly, slowly allowing this to begin. “Please do, Daddy, please help me,” and I permitted my needy words and starving gaze to seek from you what I then knew I wanted, and must work hard to prove I deserved. You leaned down, disengaged my hands from the mug, took them in yours and pulled me up, helping me to stand on suddenly wobbly legs. And then it was me, with a beaming face, looking down at your short, white-blond hair and intent face. You reached up and sweetly traced the line of my smooth jaw with your fingertips and then moved down to clasp my right hand. With a sudden tug, you pulled me toward the door.