Best of the Best Lesbian Erotica (7 page)

This was only the beginning. After a time, she helped me up and laid me on the bed. She took my clothes off and I was naked. My arousal became intense after many minutes of the most intimate caresses and kisses. And Julio was most generous, allowing me—no,
encouraging
me—to taste her, lick her, touch her. She, of course, did many things to
my
body, and since at some point I was told to open my eyes, I knew that her own eyes never left me. Often they demanded that even at the most intimate moment, my eyes stay on hers. I couldn't look away at those times, and this was perhaps the hardest part, for her eyes, locked into mine, made me feel truly exposed: that she could so easily see my pleasure.

Slowly, very slowly, although my arousal had peaked, receded, then peaked again, Julio was doing things to me that were firmer: rough things with her lips, like kissing me hard, pushing against my lips so that they were cut by my own teeth; invading my mouth with her tongue for long minutes until I was afraid I would not be able to take another breath. In fact, my head began to spin, my breath to come in gasps, my skin to flush from head to toe, bathing me in hot sweat.

At one point I was on my stomach beneath Julio, whose body covered mine, when I heard the door to the room open. When I tried to pick my head up and turn to look, Julio anticipated me and pushed my head back to the mattress, holding a forearm across my shoulders, grasping my head by the hair in one of her hands.

“Don't move.” I felt myself wake up then, but I woke into the middle of a dream. Sometimes I felt many hands on my body, and sometimes they were gentle and sometimes harsh. At times I moaned with pleasure and other times groans tore at my throat. Once I recognized the sound of Marilise's voice,
in response to a murmured question by Julio. Now I knew who had entered Julio's bedroom! But instead of relief, I felt a great thrill of fear. What was Julio doing to me? To us? Then it occurred to me that this must still be a dream. The idea made me relax again.

The candles were burning lower. Their scent, the heavy perfume of roses and musk, was so strong that it was like a veil in front of my eyes. Marilise was naked and she was lying on her back across the bed, her legs dangling over the edge from the knees down, her bare feet on the wood floor. I was hovering over her torso, cupping her soft breasts in my hands, kissing them, sucking at the nipples until she would pull my head up in order to kiss me. Julio had arranged us in this way, motioning me first to remove Marilise's dress, then moving our bodies until she seemed satisfied. My awareness was rising and falling, but it was always centered in my body, whose slightest oscillation I noticed immediately. I realized once that my skin was so sensitive, my nerve-endings so overloaded, that the lightest touch of Julio's fingernail running across my shoulder blades produced violent shivers exploding my body upward. And every cell in my own fingers was alive to the tissues under Marilise's skin. I had not known what a body could feel, really, until that night.

As I continued to play with Marilise, my body gradually melted over hers, so that after a while our legs were intertwined, my chest and stomach on hers, our hands all over each other. We were moaning too, and crying out sometimes. I almost failed to notice when I felt Julio's hands slip something around my body, around my waist and between my legs. It was a strap of some sort and there was something heavy on it in front, but the straps were already buckled before my hand got down to explore this object. I was puzzled when I felt it, and then it hit me! She had strapped a harness to my body and a large rubber phallus hung from it, between my legs where a
boy's cock would be. I choked back my alarm and my body continued moving over Marilise.

My eyes were closed, my lips were on Marilise's neck, when I felt Julio lean over me. Her legs pushed against the backs of mine. One hand pressed down on the middle of my back. Beneath me, I felt Marilise shift, her body tautening because now she was bearing not only my weight as I lay on her, but Julio's as well. Julio's other hand held something sharp. I knew this because at the moment I heard her tell me to hold still, I felt it prick my skin on my right side. I don't think I could have moved then even if I wanted to, because somehow her one hand was exerting a tremendous force on my back, and her legs were jammed up tight against mine. I drew in my breath and held it. The sharp object was a knife. I knew because she told me as she moved its cold blade over my hot skin. My body remained still, but inside everything was vibrating.

Whenever the blade stopped and I felt it press into me, sometimes pricking, sometimes only scraping its cold hardness over me, my body would tense and then release from deep inside. If I screamed at any point, I wasn't conscious of it, but I must have, because several times Julio's hand moved from my back to my mouth and she covered it, murmuring soothingly in my ear. Marilise had begun to move more forcefully under me, her backside arching up from the mattress to push into my groin. Her eyes were sometimes open, but mostly they were shut and I became interested in making her open them. Like Julio, I wanted to see what was in her eyes.

I didn't notice right away when Julio put aside her knife. But when I did, I felt relief, not because I was no longer afraid, but because I could now move more freely. I really needed to move; the tension had built up in my body until I knew that the torture would end only when I could release it.

Julio took me by surprise. Quite literally, she took me. One minute every fiber in me was concentrating on the woman
under me, and the next minute I felt something slim, warm and firm at my asshole. It stroked me there, and I began to wonder if I could hold on or if I would struggle with all my might to escape. She seemed to know what I was feeling, because she began to speak to me as her finger moved around my perineum.

“Ah!
Si,
Dani, yes!
Mi joven, mi niñito,
now is the time! Little one, you are about to lose your virginity. You will accept me down here, and you will thank me. You will not try to move away from me. You can't anyway,
jovencito.”
Julio's finger continued its probing, then it disappeared momentarily before I felt it again. It was wet now and somewhat slippery. The deeper in it went, the more it turned and stretched me, the louder became my groans, which I propelled, quite unknowingly, into Marilise's mouth.

When I finally thought I would slip into madness if Julio didn't stop, her finger once again left me. I held still, feeling hollowed, and waiting for whatever else she would do to me. Her finger did not return, but was instead replaced by something much bigger, much wider. I couldn't see what Julio had, though later, much later, I did. It was a hard, giant pod of some kind, from one of the trees that lined Havana's streets, flaming out huge flowers in brilliant tropical array. The pod's shell was dark brown, very smooth, and nearly ten inches in length, its diameter between an inch and two inches. In fact, it tapered to a fairly narrow end of about an inch, and it was this end she had introduced into my virgin ass. But that night, I could only feel it and I tried, I did try, even against Julio's orders, to move out of its reach. I failed, and only felt it slip in deeper as my trembling body cringed away.

At some point as she worked this amazing tool into me, Julio had also reached around my body and I felt her hand brush my body, felt warm liquid pouring from between my cuntlips. The touch was almost, though not quite, incidental

 

 

 

 

 

So evening came, and morning came; it was the first day and then the second before we left my apartment. We walked the wet streets as if we were inside of a bubble, one of those scenes you shake and the snowflakes fall. It wasn't snowing yet, but the air was heavy, the sky a mist of gray guncotton.

We bought coffee in paper cups and continued on, going nowhere. Shade stopped in front of a vendor hawking hats, modeling a few as I sipped my coffee through a crack in the plastic lid. She chose a black knit cap, the kind worn by urban thugs on television. “Are you planning on turning over a candy store?” I asked. She smiled, said the hat made her feel tough. But she was more of a sap than I was. When we passed the multiplex just as the feel-good movie of the season was about to begin, she begged me to go inside.

“Come on, Rachel,” she cocked her upper lip at me. “Ever make out in the movies?”

I didn't have to answer. I'd always been urbane about movie going, arriving early to be coke-and-popcorned by the first preview and barring all communication once the lights went out.
On occasion, I'd even shushed a peanut-gallery commentator or two. But there I sat kissing in the back row like a clumsy adolescent, though not my adolescence for I'd never even kissed a boy until I was eighteen years old, and I never would have imagined that all the boys I'd kissed since then would be obliterated by one woman in a dark movie theater.

We were feeling good, so much so that we skipped out before the movie ended—yet another filmgoer's faux pas—and ran back to my apartment, forgetting that we'd originally come out for food and toilet paper.

Home again, as if we'd never left the bed, I was overwhelmed by my craving for Shade, my longing to bind her hands and feet so she couldn't leave. Yet, whenever I tried to express these feelings without sounding like the mildly neurotic, too-needy, intimacy-shy adult I was, my language retreated to the vapid patterns of pornolinguistics.

“I'm waiting for this to blow up,” I said, moving my leg beneath her until I felt her on my knee.

“What?”

“This you and me against the world thing.”

“Don't say that.”

“It can't last.”

“Yes it can,” she said, and despite the barrage of phone messages we ignored, I believed her. I would have believed anything she told me with her body on mine, her fingers slipping inside me, and her teeth biting my nipples a little bit hard, which I discovered I liked. Though I couldn't come, I felt closer than ever, beyond it even, the way the graze of a finger can, in the right circumstances, be more intense than a grasp. Still, there was the dark-continent part of me that believed our relationship would not be fully consummated until I had an orgasm.

Day four, alone in the shower, I gave in and masturbated. Though it wasn't the climax I'd wished for, I came in about
two seconds. It was insidious, a litmus test that left me feeling physiologically defective. A sexual misfit. Not like Shade who could come when I fucked her, but only if I used two fingers at about a forty-five degree angle so the base of my hand hit her clit and, even then, only after she'd gotten off once already some other way. This kind of specificity amazed me. Clearly, Shade's was a sexual history spawned by trial and error, along with a few creative lovers all of whom I'd become insanely jealous of; jealous because they'd been with her, but also because of the things they'd done together. None of the men I'd been with even liked being on their backs.

In all fairness I couldn't blame them entirely. I never said what I wanted, what I liked, and through my frustrated silence I'd grown contemptuous of their easy orgasms. I'd lorded my frigidity over them as if it were a sacred cow. But it ruined me sexually. “I understand now,” Shade said. It was day six, and I'd finally confessed that I was indeed troubled by my not coming.

“What?”

“The other night, at the benefit. There's just no letting go for you, is there?”

“I guess not,” I looked up from the couch where I'd been clipping my toenails. She was sitting at the counter in my bathrobe, drinking a glass of orange juice and not reading a magazine.

“It's all inside,” she pointed to her temple. “That's the real sex organ, the rest is just friction.”

I pursed my lips, returned to my clipping.

“No, really. We'll figure it out.”

Let her hope, but I knew better. People who came easily never understood this, how it felt to be perpetually on-the-verge, revved-up, and good-to-go, but then you're going and going and going and suddenly everything shuts down like someone flicked a switch in your head. Whatever you do
next is inconsequential, you've passed the point of no return. Bottomed out. Sometimes when I hit bottom, I became so dejected and angry I couldn't speak for hours. Other times, I could pretend I'd actually come, feeling sated enough by wet sheets and a lover's arms. With Shade it was mostly the latter.

She took the nail clipper from my hands and sat down next to me. “There's something I want to ask, don't be mad, but…” She giggled so I knew it wasn't serious. “In your closet, I saw these…these boots.”

“They're the real thing, straight from the dungeons of Mistress Wanda Lynne.” I explained about the mishap on the set, yet in the telling it seemed as if the entire day had been lived by someone else.

At Shade's request, I took out the boots, and together we inspected them. “They're sort of scary,” she said.

“I don't think so.”

“Put them on.” She smiled, and within seconds was helping me into the thigh-highs I'd inherited from the pissed-off dominatrix, inherited because that idiot porn star Robbie Rod had cajoled me into trying them on when he must have known it was bad karma to wear a dominatrix's boots without asking. That day I'd been devastated, but balancing around my apartment for Shade I wished I'd thanked him.

“Take off your underwear,” Shade said, and I did, the sun making waves through my dirty blinds, and it was naughty and illicit, as if we were slumming in a dive bar in the middle of the afternoon. But if in these shoes with Robbie Rod I'd felt like a cheap whore, with Shade I was a woman, or I'd accepted some idea of femininity that had always felt like an act with men. I liked being sexy, I liked her watching me being sexy.