Best of the Best Lesbian Erotica (40 page)

“I've never seen you here before,” she said. “At first I thought you might be here to watch one of your friends perform, but you don't seem to know anybody. Is this your first time?”

“My second,” I said, and told her about Dave. She knew him, of course, and dropping his name had the same effect it had had with the doorman. It meant I was safe, in on the secret. Dave was one of the few guys a lot of the girls would date without exchanging money. I asked my new friend if
she'd been out with him, mostly to make conversation. With a small smile, she shook her head.

“I don't date men,” she said. “I work them.”

That's how I met Ariel.

Before long I wondered if she was working me too. She was seductive, touching me while we talked, looking right into my eyes while I answered her questions. I had a hundred dollar bill in my pocket and I began to think about giving it to her. What fraction of the money she needed would one hundred dollars be? What would she want to do with me in return? I had some things I was trying to stop myself from thinking about the night I went to the Rose, and Ariel began to seem like a perfect way to forget them, better by far than ordering another martini or even sitting through the rest of the stage show.

“What are you thinking about, Miranda?”

“My intentions are becoming indecent. You're weaving quite a spell, Ariel.”

“Oh, good.” Ariel's hand, under the table, ranged up my thigh.

“The thing that has me confused is, are you working tonight? I mean, I know this is a working bar.”

“I told you, I work men,” said Ariel. She gestured around the bar, and indeed there were a lot of men there, all driven by their fascination with the queens. Some were dressed as workmen and some had on expensive suits; I remembered, as if I'd forgotten it, that I was the only one in the Rose who didn't have or had never had a cock. Once, I'd have thought of it as a place for closeted gay men. Now I knew it was more complicated than that. How I fit in as a genetic woman, though, wasn't at all clear to me.

But it was to Ariel. “I don't take money from women,” she said. “I already made enough today. If you're feeling like a high-roller, you can buy me breakfast.”

Ariel's apartment was close by, one of those beautiful old Tenderloin studios that you'd never expect to find in a rundown building on a mean street. The walk home with her screwed up all my butch-femme cues. Usually I'm femme-of-center, if not aspiring to diva-hood, myself. Tonight, I think out of my desire to melt into the woodwork at The Black Rose, I'd butched it up a little—jeans and a leather jacket, flat shoes. Ariel was much more femme than me, yet she took up so much space. She strode up Jones like it belonged to her, and I felt small by her side, like I needed her protection. She held the door for me, and then I held the elevator for her. This walk wasn't giving me any clues about who might do what to whom.

Inside she bolted the door, kicked off her heels, and pushed me up against the hallway wall. She kissed me hard while she pulled my jacket off, leaving it in a heap on the floor. Her long hands unbuckled my belt and tugged up my shirt, mouth never leaving mine, and I touched her through the slippery, glossy fabric of the clothes she wore. When I got to her breasts I felt the firm enclosure of a push-up bra trapping them into cleavage—she moaned when I found the clasp and freed them, rubbing away the marks of the underwires, raising her nipples up with strokes of my palms. And still we kissed.

Up 'til then it had been an experiment, but her kiss bought and sold me. I wondered how often she found women who wanted her, how long it had been since she'd brought someone home for play, not work, how many she had to convince and what she had to do to overcome the voices in their heads clamoring, “But she's not really a…”

That's not exactly what my inner voices had been clamoring. Like I said, I had some things I was looking to forget. But five minutes into what felt like the sweetest, hungriest kiss I'd ever been lost in, still leaning together against the inside of her apartment door, I'd forgotten everything except this tall, sexy
tornado who was sweeping me away from everything, whose small new breasts just filled my hands, who had my nipples between her fingers, pulling, while she devoured my mouth and my cunt got wetter and wetter.

Her bed had red sheets. It glowed like a ruby in the pale room, and finally she led me there, pulled the rest of my clothes from me, and told me to put my hands over my head and hold onto the bars of the headboard. “I won't need to tie you,” she purred, “if you're a good girl and stay right there.” For an instant I wanted to disobey her—to feel her bind me, capture me, maybe get rough—but in the end I did what she said, wanting to please her, wanting to show her I was there, hot for her, there because I wanted to be.

Now I knew why Ariel groomed herself differently from the long-nailed queens at the Rose. She spread my legs wide, pulled on a latex glove, reached across me to the nightstand for lube, and then began working fingers into my ass. “Don't move your hands,” she whispered, while hers invaded me, one long finger at a time, first working in and then starting to fuck—repeating again and again until she had three up my ass and I was as stretched out and full as I'd ever been. Her other hand, ruby ring glinting in the low light from a streetlamp, lay splayed across my belly, holding me down, thumb slowly working my clit, while she fucked my ass with the other. I held the bars but soon writhed crazily with the sensation, and as she fucked me more and more fiercely I raised my legs to her shoulders, spreading my ass as wide to her as I could, wanting to let her get at me as deeply as possible. When she felt my body tighten up in an imminent come, she stopped playing with my clit altogether, pulled my nipple hard, and I orgasmed from her pumping hand alone, coming until I was curled up practically sobbing—but still holding the bars.

“You're so good!” I gasped when she was finally done with me, and she gave me that small smile again and said, “What I like about assholes is, everybody has one.”

I still didn't know if she had a cock. After she had my ass I lay panting and swimming in the afterglow of all the sensation, 'til finally I had recovered sufficiently to explore her. Her skin was soft, and she was an intriguing combination of curves and muscles, with a body that was not quite womanly.

I pulled her skirt off, ran my hands all over the firm swell of her ass, which she raised so I could get her panties off. Underneath I found still more fabric, a dense shiny lycra clinging tightly to the curve of her crotch. Rubbing my hand across it, like I would any pussy, Ariel writhed from the pleasure, then whispered, “Go ahead, take it off too.”

The lycra peeled away and revealed it, still soft, the hair compressed around it from the tight gaffe she wore to hide its bulge. Was this the moment men paid her for, to see the unimaginable—a cock on a woman? Was she ashamed of it?

“Nice clit, girl,” I breathed, petting it top to bottom so it stayed, for the moment, in its tucked and flattened position. “Big.” Ariel's laugh didn't have any shame in it, and before long her big clit was in my mouth, getting only a little hard as I flicked my tongue across it. “Can you come this way?” I raised my head long enough to ask, and she nodded, gasped, “But I hardly ever ejaculate any more.” I worked a couple of fingers up her ass while I worked her clit, and I knew when she came because her hips rose up off the bed and her hands clutched at the red sheets.

She came again, and so did I, over and over, when she rolled me onto the bottom and thrust against me like a classic tribade, her sex and mine rubbing ecstatically together. She got a little harder doing this, but not much, and it felt perfect, her ass in my hands, rocking and humping, while we kissed
or sucked up red roses of blood nearly to the surface of each others' necks.

She brought me coffee in the morning. There she was in the light of day, makeup off, naked, still easily six feet tall, rangy and baby-titted like an adolescent. Gorgeous in a way I'd never seen anyone be gorgeous before. After only one night with her I was starting to see the world and its possibilities in a new way.

“Ariel,” I began, “I've got a million questions to ask you…”

“Don't they all,” she said, but she kissed me.

I started to ask them over breakfast.

 

 

 

 

 

Once upon a time, there was something in her that called out directly to my cunt and said open-open-open as if it were a department store on sale day. She was the salty sweat-tang of the Pacific, my California girl. When we fucked, I took her whole fist in me and I would rock and squeal and squirm, open, open, open to her, and mostly I would look into her coffee-brown eyes and say, “Oh, girl, oh, my girl,” her hunger feeding my own until we would both die from excitement and I'd curl myself around her, still shuddering in orgasm, and kiss the back of her neck, pressing my smile into her. I was in love, her little steamed dumpling, needed and content.

So how come I don't like it now that she's a man?

Don't assume—it's not the cock issue, even though all my friends insist it is. All he really got was a bigger clit, and that's just more for me to love. It's like a Malibu Barbie dick. And I do love it. At least in theory I do.

 

When he was Mary, I wanted to live between her thighs. Her cunt was the sweetest thing I'd ever tasted. I ate her clit like
a last meal and held her hips while she bucked into my face. I drank from her and made her weep and wail. She actually screamed with pleasure. I could have eaten her forever. My Mary. My girl.

 

Now, it's so many things. He can't seem to settle on a name. “Call me Jack, no, Phillip—no, do I look like an Alex? Try Alex.” And he's so fastidious now. Last night, I felt him run the duster over me while I was sleeping. I wonder if his final surgery will involve implanting a squeegee in his arm. He asked me to call him Gunther this week. My Gunther, my surfer dude. I started to cry, and he used Lemon Pledge where my tears landed on the coffee table.

 

I fell in love with Mary at the beach, at a bonfire party full of drama-fucks with goatees. We volunteered to make a beer run, and walking up to her truck she'd stop every few steps to look at some strange treasure visible only to her in the sand. She picked up a broken sand dollar with more care than I would have thought possible and studied it as if it might contain the secret of life. If she looked at me that way, I thought, I might turn to gold. I brushed her shoulder.

“What would you do if you found me out here in the sand?” I asked, washed in shame and embarrassment the second the words were out. I held her gaze, though, and waited for her to laugh. Instead, her face grew thoughtful.

“You? Well, first I'd need to look you over,” and her hands were there, right on my shoulders, turning me so gently I almost burst into tears. She turned me so my back was to her, then ran her hands down my sides, resting them lightly on my hips and drawing me to her. My body was singing sweet gospel. I felt her breath on my shoulder.

“Then I'd need to sniff you—to make sure you're fresh.” She giggled, but then her lips were grazing my neck as she
breathed in, sending words like hot and wet into my bloodstream, taking my soul with her. We didn't even kiss on the mouth that night, but we never made it back to the party.

The next morning, she brought me coffee and some daisies she'd picked herself, with obvious care.

 

He spent most of this week at the gym, snapping towels at other men's asses, looking at his own ass in the mirror and comparing notes. Guy stuff. He asked me if I'd mind if he grew a goatee. “They can do it with hormones or hair plugs,” he said, “like Elton John has.”My little Elton Artfuck. I go into the bathroom, so I can cry over the sink.

 

She was my earthy whore when I loved her. Now he says, “Suck it,” and looks away. He gets off on it, though, and he still comes like a girl, all fierce but soft underneath. Still vulnerable. My sweet thing. It's now, when I'm pinning him down, licking the length of his shaft and pushing the hood back with my tongue, that it feels like old times. I run my thumbs over his nipples—Mary was an A-cup, so he hasn't bothered with any reductions yet—and watch him struggle with how good it feels. It feels good to me, too, to see him like this. I take his entire dick in my mouth and tell myself it is a dick, and yes, my girlfriend is a man, but instead of freaking out I am becoming more turned on, I think because he
does
look so beautiful right now, squirming and filling my mouth with that sharp secret taste. I run my hands all over him, teasing his curves, making him moan, thinking, my man, oh, my man. And something hidden deep in me is breaking up, a lifetime of theory converting into ragged need.

“Honey,” I say, taking a deep breath and hoping many things at once. “Honey, I need you to fuck me. Now.”

He is turned on by what I'm saying, but it's obvious I'm not being clear. “I want you inside me.” And this time I dip down and lick his length once more, to illustrate my point.

He sits up and looks at me like he is from Mars and I am from Venus. My heart is thudding in my ears, the soundtrack to my brain, which is chanting fuck me fuck me faggot boyfriend girlfriend lover lover lover fuck me now. We are facing each other, and I never noticed what a strong jaw he has until now, and before that thought can get far he has grabbed my shoulders and pinned me to the bed and Lord help me Lesbian Feminist Collective but I am spreading for a man, and just thinking that is making me come. He has to push hard on me to get his cock between my labia, and the pressure is making me come harder, and he slides up until the tip strokes my clit on one side and now the other,andIamaslut,andIama whore, and I am divine.