Best of the Best Lesbian Erotica Page 6

  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.

  We danced naked, and I was suddenly tall. She put me in her lace bra and spun me around. “There, now you look like a porn star.”

  “I have way too much pubic hair.”

  “Let’s get rid of it.”

  “You serious?”

  She nodded, cheeks dimpling foolishly, but I knew she was indeed serious. She said she’d always wanted to shave a woman and, at that moment, she could have said she wanted to have a threesome with a goat, and my response would have been, “Let’s find a petting zoo.”

  An occasional advocate of the clipped bikini line, I had the necessary accoutrements. Scissors. Shaving cream. Disposable razors. Vitamin E capsules and aloe vera lotion. Shade draped a towel over the toilet seat and sat me down, spreading my patent leather legs. She picked up the scissors and my thighs caved inward. I had this fear of sharp objects near my pussy, especially when they were in somebody else’s hands.

  “It’s okay,” she said. She kissed the top of my clit and stroked me with her fingers; already I wanted to scream. I leaned my head back, felt the pull of my pubes, the cold metal of the scissors and, then, a tense snip. My eyes shut to the clip of the shears, the hum of Shade’s voice.

  When I next looked down, my pubes were tightly buzzed; sort of prepubescent, sort of in-the-Navy, yet caught between these shiny leather lampposts. I almost liked my own body. Shade smiled and filled her palm with shaving cream as my heart beat wildly.

  She started shaving from the top. The back of my neck tingled, and I had to bite my tongue to keep from whimpering. I could feel my legs shaking the closer she came to my vagina. “Trust me,” she said, two fingers spreading my lower lips so she could get in further with the razor. “I was always really good at shaving the balloon. It was my favorite booth at the town fair. I won prizes.”

  “You’re such a little suburban girl.”

  “I never said anything different. Everyone just assumes I’m from Brooklyn or wherever. From the hood, as it were.”

  “I’m more from the hood than you are.”

  “Exactly, but it’s like that’s the past I should have.”

  “You can have mine if you want.”

  “That’s very kind of you…can you move your left leg up a bit? There, that’s it.” My right leg slanted against the sink like a contortionist’s so Shade could get underneath. I was flooded with visions of losing my balance and sacrificing my clit to a disposable Bic. No coming, ever. Not even the hope of it. I shivered, felt the muscles in my stomach contract.

  “Relax,” Shade said, as if she’d read my mind. She softened the scrape of her razor, stopping every so often to stroke me with her fingertips. I felt them so intensely, the opposite of relaxing.

  She pulled back, tapped the razor against her chin. “I’m wondering, maybe we should leave the hair on top.”

  “You’re the stylist.”

  “Here.” She tilted a hand-held mirror toward me.

  “Ugh, it looks like a mustache.”

  “Our customers are mad for it, we call it the Charlie Chaplin.”

  The little black hairs sneered above my cunt. Bald, I could hand
le, but these few molded strands reeked of a slow, uncomfortable death. “More like Adolph Hitler,” I said. “I hate it. Get it off.”

  She grabbed my chin in her free hand, kissed me, then returned gallantly to her shaving. When she finished she rubbed me clean with a warm washcloth, and I felt pampered, cared for in a way I’d never experienced.

  White fluorescents streaming, she dropped to her knees in front of my bald vagina. She licked me slowly, so tenderly it hurt more than the pull of her razor. She pushed my legs farther apart, fingered me. On her knees, she was licking me and fucking me, and I could feel it this time, feel it for real. I was thinking please, please, please…but I lost it again, was soon ambushed by those familiar frustrations. There was just no letting go. I lifted Shade’s head. “You’re all wet,” she panted. I started sobbing.

  We fell down on the cold bathroom floor, Shade’s arms mainlining relief as I wailed maniacally. I said I was sorry for not coming, and she said it was okay, it didn’t matter. “I was almost there, I swear it,” I hiccuped, and she held me, for hours it seemed. I’d never cried in front of a lover before, never cried so deeply with anyone before. Such emotion frightened me, felt more foreign than my shaved vagina.

  I longed only to comfort her back, be good to her, but my own feelings were so overwhelming they left me mute and immobile. Ultimately, I was afraid I’d failed her and would always fail her because I couldn’t give her what she wanted. I couldn’t give her everything.

  Darkness eclipsed my studio, offering a night-and-day contrast to the two of us in this light-bright bathroom.

  “I’m starving,” Shade said.

  “I know, but I can’t move.”

  Gently, she lifted me, put her arms around my waist and hugged me. “Sorry I ruined your fantasy,” I said.

  “You didn’t ruin shit.”

  “It’s not what you wanted; it should have been sexy.”

  “It is, Rachel,” she whispered, her breath mingling with my ear lobe. “It really is.”

  I don’t know whether I believed her or not, but the words felt right. As did her body on mine, stumbling from the bathroom and collapsing back into bed.

  Water Marks

  Dawn Dougherty

  I have a love affair with bathing.

  My cunt starts to throb the second I turn on the tap and hear the soft splash of the water against my claw-footed, porcelain tub. I draw a daily bath, sliding my body inch by inch into the piping-hot water and watching my skin turn pink before it slips beneath the bubbles. I soak for at least an hour, barely moving except to stretch my back or rest my foot on the edge, letting the water and bubbles drip down my thigh. When I’m done soaking I pull the showerhead into me and let the water vibrate over my clit until I come with the same lapping precision of ocean waves. For years I masturbated no other way, preferring a steamy, warm bath to any bed or couch. When I go to visit friends or family, the first thing I check out is how clean their tub is and what the water pressure is like.

  In my bathroom I have four different kinds of bubble bath; three different types of scented bath oils; and multiple candles, loofahs, and sponges, all within arm’s reach. My showerhead is a two-speed adjustable shower massager with a hose long enough to reach wherever I may be.

  I know if a woman is a good match for me based purely on her feelings about bathing. I once asked a lover if she would like to take a bath with me. She crinkled her nose in disgust and said, “In water?” We lasted three weeks. Another time I had filled the tub and gotten in fully expecting my current lover to join me. She came into the bathroom, took one look at me and said, “Sorry, but I’m just not into taking baths.” I had sadly resigned myself to solitary pleasures.

  The first time my new lover said that she liked her women wet, I was sure she meant between their thighs. She smiled and went on to explain that what she really liked were women soaked in water. My eyes lit up.

  “I really have this thing for wet women,” she said. “I love women walking in the rain, washing cars, taking showers or baths. It just gets me so hot.”

  Did she say baths? I had to replay the last part in my head several times to make sure I wasn’t hearing things. I tried to contain my euphoria as she told me about her past lovers and how they used to get in water fights and fuck afterward with water dripping off their bodies and into their cunts. She said there was nothing better than bathing a soaking wet femme with hair dripping down a curved, soft back. I was delirious.

  We had been dating for only two weeks when she bought me a mouse pad decorated with big, fat water droplets. I couldn’t touch my mouse without envisioning us completely drenched. Several days later she left my apartment early for work while I was still sleeping. When I awoke there was a note on my pillow that said simply, “I need you wet.”

  The following Sunday I drew a bath.

  She was sitting on the couch reading the paper when I went into the bathroom, lit a candle, and turned on the water. I picked out a freesia-scented bubble bath and watched as it drizzled into the swirling water and started to foam. I placed a fresh bar of raspberry soap, a soft yellow bath sponge, and a white cotton washcloth on the windowsill next to the tub. The glass had already fogged over. I slipped out of my jeans and sweatshirt and put on my peach silk robe, and gave the bathroom a once-over. The room was filled with the smell of soap and candles and steam.

  When I went out to the living room the paper was folded neatly next to her on the couch and she was sitting quietly with her arms crossed. She had been waiting.

  I sat down on the couch next to her. “I’m going to take a bath,” I said, trying to appear casual. “You can join me…” I paused, “or, if you like…you can bathe me.” I was awkwardly playing with the hem of my robe.

  She sighed deeply, unfolded her arms, and pressed her soft lips firmly against mine. The faint smell of coffee lingered on her mouth. “I’ll take the latter of those two options.” She kissed me once more and then turned my head to the side and whispered in my ear, “I was praying you would ask.” A tremor started at the base of my neck and worked its way down to the tip of my toes.

  “Give me a minute,” I said as I got up. I could feel her eyes on my ass as I walked out of the room.

  The tub had filled nearly to the top and the bubbles formed high, soft peaks. Perfect, I thought. I turned the knobs off and put one foot into the fiery water. It took me several minutes to adjust to the temperature. I lay back and momentarily hesitated while I debated leaving my hair dry (I was having a good hair day, after all). In the next instant I plunged my head into the sizzling water and came up with a mass of wet, dangling hair. I pondered how I wanted her to first see me. I leaned forward with my arms wrapped around my legs and hair hanging down my right shoulder. I sat up tall with sudsy nipples just above the water line, hair fanned out across my back. I finally settled on leaning back with one knee bent slightly above the water.

  She opened the door and caught me mid-thought. My stomach did a somersault as she paused at the door and stared at me. The only sound was the water dripping slowly from the showerhead and her deep exhalation. She stood in the doorway for what seemed like an eternity, watching me.

  “That is the best image I have ever seen in my entire life,” she finally said.

  I tried to hide my smile. She moved toward me and bent down on one knee next to the tub. She reached down and pulled me up against her. She kissed me hard on the lips as the water swooshed around us. Her hands went immediately to my hair, and our lips parted long enough for her to moan “Oh, god” softly while she buried her hands in my wet curls. She leaned back and pealed off her already wet T-shirt. She had a tiny labrys tattoo on her right shoulder. Her arms were hard and flexed effortlessly as she adjusted her kneeling position on the floor.

  She settled me back into the tub and picked up a sponge. She soaked it thoroughly and released the water over my bent neck, watching the water form slick clear trails down my back and over my shoulders. The water cleared the bubbles o
ff my body and she kissed the clear spots on the back of my neck. She soaked the sponge again and ran it across my shoulders, watching the water run over my breasts. She soaked the sponge and squeezed the water out over and over again, across my back, my shoulders, and my nipples. I was on fire watching her watching me. Both of us were soaking wet.

  She picked up the raspberry soap and lathered it up in her hands. She slowly washed each and every inch of my body. Starting with my fingertips, she methodically ran her soapy hands over me until every muscle in my body ached for her. She washed my breasts in easy, soft circles while I lay against the back of the tub. She lifted each of my legs out of the water and, starting with my toes, worked her way to my inner thigh with small kneading rubs. After finishing each section she took the sponge and rinsed me off with painstaking gentleness.

  When she was done washing my body she brought me to my knees. The water ran off me as she took turns sucking on each of my nipples. My soft, wet body touched her hard, angular one and the shapes fit together like pieces in a puzzle. My arms wrapped around her neck and held tight. Water trickled down her back.

  “I want to wash your hair,” she whispered. I nodded and turned and sat down with my back toward her. She reached for the shampoo and then stopped.

  “Um…how much of this do you use?” she stammered. I looked at her inch and a half of hair and grinned. I held her hand open and squeezed out just the right amount. Without skipping a beat she buried both of her hands deep into my hair and lathered up the long tresses. Thick soapy suds fell down my back into the water.

  “God,” she moaned again. She spent fifteen minutes lathering my hair as the suds fell in large clumps around us. Her forearms were covered with foam as she reached around and cupped each of my breasts with two sudsy hands, squeezed hard, and kissed my shoulder. Her nipples grazed my back as she bit me eagerly. She pushed my head down slowly and rinsed the shampoo out of my hair. My eyes were closed as the water poured over my head, and I heard her breath quicken. When she was done I flipped my head back and water splashed across the room, hitting her in the face. She laughed, gave me a kiss on the lips, and said, “You are heavenly.”