Best of the Best Lesbian Erotica Page 7

  I stood up and was reaching for a towel when she stopped me.

  “Where are you going?” she said pushing me back. “We’re not finished.” I sat back hesitantly as she pulled the plug on the drain. The heat and the steam were making me lightheaded, and the receding swirl of the water easily pulled my body down.

  “I need you to come. Right here.”

  My body tensed. She placed her hand on my stomach and ran it down my belly to my legs as the water slowly drained. She pulled my legs apart and rested my shaking knees against the side of the tub. She leaned back to soak me in. Trails of bubbles and water formed on my body as the tub emptied.

  She turned and reached for the showerhead and my entire body quivered. I lifted one foot and braced it on the opposite end of the tub, arching my back in anticipation. She smiled, watching me squirm. She turned the water on and ran it across her hand as she adjusted the temperature. When she was ready she ran her free hand along the inside of my thigh and gently grazed the tip of my clit with her finger. I hit the roof.

  “In a minute,” she said deeply, taking her hand away.

  She turned the showerhead first to my feet, letting the strong current roll across my toes and around the ball of my foot. The entire bathroom was soaked, and water was dripping down her arms and chest. She worked her way methodically up my calf to my thigh, stopping to let the pressure relax every inch of my legs. I wanted to reach out and touch her slicked-back hair, but my arms were braced against the side of the tub. I could barely breathe as she slowly moved the water up my body from my thigh to my stomach to my chest. The muscles that extended from her shoulders to her neck rippled with her every move. I shut my eyes and arched my back further as the pulsating water hit my nipples. She held it there momentarily, watching the water bounce off me in tiny rivulets.

  With the same slow precision, she started working her way back down my body, pausing slowly at each juncture. She finally stopped and let the pressure work its way around both my thighs. She took her left hand and placed it squarely in the middle of my chest, pushing and holding me down.

  “Are you ready?” she asked. I nodded.

  She adjusted her body slightly before she moved the stream to my clit. My entire body quaked as the rhythmic waves hit me. Both of my legs were now braced against the edge of the tub, which was almost empty, and my body was pressed completely back as the water rolled over me. She moved the nozzle back and forth over my entire cunt. My head spun with a hot dizziness and my body throbbed. I was barely holding on. She was saying something, softly urging me on, but all I heard was the sound of rushing water. The pressure was building up in me and my entire body tensed in anticipation.

  “You are incredible,” I heard her say clearly.

  The sound of her voice hurled me over the edge and I came in violent waves. She held me down firmly with her hand and kept the water pressure directly on my clit. Water splashed out of the tub and poured in streams onto the bathroom floor. My body rocked back and forth for what seemed like hours, each muscle in my body releasing the built-up tension until I couldn’t move.

  Mild contractions were still shooting through my body when she turned the water off. She leaned against the bathroom door and ran her hand through her drenched hair. She was still wearing her jeans and boots and was soaked from head to toe.

  “We are two wet girls,” she smiled. I nodded silently.

  I attempted to get up, but my head was spinning and I stood uneasily. She quickly grabbed my arm and steadied me. She pulled an oversized towel off the rack, wrapped it around me, and took me back to the bedroom. She valiantly tried to dry me off, but I stayed soaking wet for the rest of the day.

  Steam

  Jeannine DeLombard

  Flashing her ID to the Lycra-molded, thong-wearing blond gym bunny as she walked into the Y, Jordan was reminded of her conversation with the guys at Kelly’s Tavern the night before. Straight, they simply could not understand how she, a dyke, could go to the Y everyday and not be overwhelmed by the bouncing breasts, perky butts and tight calves that were always on display in the locker room. Entering it now, about an hour later than usual—she had stopped at the gas company to see what would be involved in converting to gas heat, knowing those old radiators wouldn’t last forever—she noticed that the locker room was almost empty. Too bad, she could have used the distraction of people-watching. Not girl-watching, she thought, throwing down her gym bag and impatiently twisting the knob on her combination lock. Remembering how she had responded to Bob and Al’s jocular amazement with her characteristic gruffness—informing them coolly that she could eat pussy and work out with it too, that being surrounded by the very objects of her desire didn’t faze her as it would them—she wondered why she answered them the way she did, why she didn’t just tell them the truth.

  But what exactly was the truth, Jordan wondered as she started to undress, gazing down at high, firm breasts dotted with the occasional mole and framed by her deeply tanned, hard upper arms. For the truth was that no one at the gym—in or out of the locker room—interested her. Like the woman who checked her ID, they all seemed to be aerobicized, Nautilized versions of the same type—lean, pristine, and made-to-order. She knew if she told her drinking buddies that, they’d not only shake their heads in disbelief, but think her even stranger than they already did. Her job on the road crew of the Pennsylvania Department of Transportation gave her one-of-the-boys status in the bar. But just as the guys on the job always reminded her that she was a woman by making sure that she got stuck with the least challenging and most dangerous task—flagger—they reminded her too that she was a dyke with their never-ending questions and uneasy ribbing. If she told them she simply wasn’t attracted to the babes that lubricated their fantasies, they wouldn’t believe her—they’d just bust her chops and talk about sour grapes.

  Worst of all, Jordan reflected as she sauntered topless over to the toilets, past a bulky figure almost hidden by the mists in the gang shower, she was afraid that they were right. Outward appearances, she knew, confirmed that she was a dyke: her gravelly, mumbling way of talking; her long, confident stride; her jeans and workshirts; hell, even her job on the PennDOT road crew screamed dyke—that was easy for anyone to see. What was harder to perceive were her inner doubts and anxieties. The few times she had ventured into the women’s bar in Philly she had taken a woman home, almost as if to prove something to herself. Every time it was the same. At first the very prospect of being with these women excited her: the breasts spilling out as she unhooked their lacy bras, the round ass emerging as she carefully removed their pantyhose. Yet, when faced with their nude, expectant bodies, she lost all interest. Was it sour grapes? Were the women in bars like that somehow inferior to those who gave themselves to men, to her drinking buddies? Or was she just a sexual freak—attracted to neither men nor women? What made these women so uninspiring for her?

  Thinking about this—something she usually tried not to do—upset her, and she slammed the stall door, making the woman in front of the mirror interrupt her pre-stepclass makeup session to look up sharply at Jordan. Feeling awkward and out of place, Jordan thought about calling today a wash and just going home. She didn’t think she was up to the nonverbal competition that always took place between her and the guys in the weight room. Not today. Today she wanted to let off some steam, but not in the usual ways, by lifting or drinking. She wanted a different kind of release. Instead of heading back to her locker, Jordan went to a part of the locker room she seldom visited, where the sauna and steam room were. Entering the latter, her jeans still on, Jordan thought wryly to herself, if this doesn’t do it, nothing will.

  At first the billows of white air and the hissing pipes made her panic, blocking her lungs and nose. But soon the dim fog calmed her and she sat down on one of the concrete benches that lined the small, tiled room. Shutting her eyes, she imagined her tension dissipating into the vapor that surrounded her. Work, the guys at Kelly’s, the indifferent parade of nude wo
men—none of that seemed to matter any more. Jordan felt her pores, her lungs, her very soul being purified by the hot whiteness. After a while, when the hissing had stopped and the air cleared a bit, Jordan became aware of the itchy dampness of her jeans and decided to take a cold shower. Hell, maybe she’d even lift after all. When she opened her eyes, however, she was startled to see standing in front of her the woman she had noticed showering earlier. Trying not to be rude, she couldn’t help but stare at the woman’s sumptuous breasts spilling over her ample belly, which jutted out defiantly, almost obscuring her wide, lush hips and her abundant thighs. Breaking out of her trance, Jordan felt instantly embarrassed and opened her mouth. Before she could say anything, however, the woman cupped her heavy breasts in her arms and mashed Jordan’s face into them.

  At first Jordan, feeling ridiculous and ashamed, tried to pull away. But the woman was stronger than she looked, and her breasts were both reassuring and exciting. Slowly, aware that she had just lost a battle of some sort, Jordan stretched her arms around the woman’s plush waist in a futile attempt to contain her and, thereby, to regain control. But she couldn’t. Instead, she stood, pushing the woman down as she did so, registering with satisfaction the gentle smack of the woman’s flesh as it made contact with the hard tile floor. Realizing how hot the woman’s skin felt against her own steaming skin, it occurred to Jordan what she was about to do.

  Kneeling, she reached down to put her hands between the woman’s legs. As she tried to spread the woman’s thighs, Jordan’s rough, callused hands quickly got lost in the soft, pressing, resistant flesh. She was surprised; somehow she had assumed they would respond to her touch just as a sealed envelope slides effortlessly open when held over boiling water. Glimpsing the curly light-brown hair that was all but covered by the two voluminous thighs, Jordan was inspired to renew her efforts. Realizing that pushing harder would only create more resistance, she decided to knead the flesh as she would dough in an attempt to make its plump firmness yield to her desires. She was rewarded to feel the woman’s body relax and the legs finally separate. Rewarded and frustrated anew, for as they did, the woman’s abundant belly cascaded down between them like lava, once again filling the crevice she had struggled so hard to expose.

  Frustration gave way to admiration—awe, really—as Jordan gazed upon the seemingly endless expanse of soft white skin in front of her, an expanse punctuated only by the pucker that she supposed marked the woman’s navel. Somewhere in the recesses of her mind she marveled that this massive being had once been contained in a space as small or smaller than the one to which she was so determined to gain entry.

  The woman was quiet. Not a moan or a sigh to tell Jordan to go ahead, to touch here, caress there. For a second, Jordan was tempted to give up. Fucking bitch, she should be happy to get it this good. Then she stopped herself, suddenly aware that the privilege and the pleasure were all hers, aware that the woman, by letting Jordan immerse herself in her boundless softness, was doing her the favor—a favor that Jordan was anxious to repay.

  As she realized this, Jordan noticed that the slight jiggle in the flesh of the woman’s stomach was increasing rapidly, that it echoed the sudden heaving in her chest, a heaving that made her huge flattened breasts bob and toss about like waves on a stormy sea. Clearly the woman wanted to be fucked almost as badly as Jordan wanted to fuck her. Perhaps, Jordan speculated, eyeing once again the seemingly impenetrable folds of flesh that blocked entrance to the woman’s pussy, perhaps she is as frustrated as I am. Perhaps she wished she was as flat and skinny as a supermodel, and that I could reach down and finger her just like that. Thanking God that she couldn’t, Jordan plunged her hands into the deep horizontal line that separated the woman’s stomach from the tops of her thighs.

  Pushing the woman so that she lay all the way down on the floor, its hard whiteness contrasting with the flushed softness of her skin, Jordan pressed her own body flat against the damp tiles, and was delighted to find herself inches away from the woman’s open, moist pussy. Of course it was big, soft and inviting like the rest of her. But still, Jordan hadn’t expected this and was amazed by the pussy’s plump fleshiness as she sunk her tongue onto the woman’s swollen clit.

  She had only been there a few seconds when she realized that she was being enveloped by the woman’s body, her huge thighs pressing against Jordan’s face and neck, the firm belly bearing down from above. Distracted only momentarily by a feeling of claustrophobia, Jordan regretted putting the woman on her back. She wanted to continue to fight that stubborn flesh, as she had to get where she was now. Deftly, she maneuvered herself onto her back, pulling the woman over her as she did so. Now the woman was sitting on Jordan’s face, her round knees anchored firmly on either side of Jordan’s face. Her voluptuous thighs cushioned Jordan’s head, rendering the tile floor benign. Resuming her ministrations, Jordan tried to see beyond the underbelly that jiggled in time to her increasingly frenzied tongue strokes. Hoping to catch a glimpse of the woman’s face, and there to read her desire and excitement, Jordan realized the futility of her effort and resigned herself to reaching up and, grabbing the woman by her gently pumping hips, pulling her warm fullness even closer into her face. Suddenly aware of the throbbing in her own clit, Jordan thought of reaching down to touch herself. Before she could, however, she felt her hips rise into the air, and her pussy contracting repeatedly with the waves that washed over her. All she could do was press her face even more deeply into the woman’s pussy, rolling the hard, tart sweetness of her clit on her tongue the way you would a raspberry in a mouthful of champagne.

  In her post-orgasmic stupor, Jordan observed that the woman, while excited, was nowhere near climax. Briefly, Jordan was tempted to succumb to her own satiety and exhaustion, to shove the woman away, leaving her breathless and wanting on the tile floor as she walked out of the steam room and got dressed. No lovely reciprocity, no awkward attempts at politeness—how liberating that would be.

  The only thing that held her there was the insistent warmth that slowly flooded the area between her legs. At first she tried to ignore it, but, as it grew more persistent, she tried to devise ways to appease it. Gripping the woman’s hips even more firmly, she wrestled them, still thrusting, down again to the floor. Standing, she looked at the woman through the lingering dampness. The woman’s eyes were shut; her face, turned to one side, impassive but for the faintly creased forehead, the slightly flared nostrils and the dry lips, which she sought to moisten with the pink tip of her tongue. Her body, which shocked Jordan all over again with its pliant immensity, rocked slightly, its creases and rolls reconfiguring themselves with each new movement. As Jordan eased off her worn, damp Levi’s, revealing bicycle shorts, and, beneath them a pair of thinly jutting hips and another, lower bulge, Jordan knew that she would not leave—could not—until she had fucked this woman as God, nature, or the planets had clearly intended her to be fucked.

  Crouching as she peeled off the Lycra shorts, Jordan lowered herself onto the soft, billowing bed that was the woman’s body, and slipped herself—or, rather, that part of her which was not herself—into the woman’s wet, waiting pussy. Bracing herself against first the floor, then the warm, full rolls on the sides of the woman’s body, Jordan slammed into her with a force bordering on fury. Looking down, she dimly saw the woman’s breasts as they jerked and swelled in time to her rhythmic thrusts. Gazing at the abundant belly that helped to hold them in check, Jordan was just beginning to marvel anew at the abandon with which it spilled across her hips when she felt a tremor deep in the woman’s body. Like the sensation you get when you touch the railroad tracks and feel the rumble of a distant train, Jordan felt both curiosity and terror, anxious to see the promise fulfilled and yet afraid that its coming would destroy her by its sheer force. As the tremor turned into a pounding and the pounding turned into an explosion, Jordan held onto the woman’s churning, thrashing body, pumping her own hips until she too exploded.

  As they lay there, spent and ga
sping for air, the faint hissing sound resumed, and Jordan felt her sweaty body grow increasingly damp as steam once again filled the room. She eased out of the woman, pulling herself up and, with a twinge of regret, off those gently pressing breasts and the firm convexity of that stomach. Groping, her eyes still shut, Jordan made her way over to the bench, which was somehow reassuring in its hardness. She sat there for a while, not thinking, not moving. Opening her eyes, she felt herself in a dream, surrounded by the clouds of hot, white air. Focusing, her eyes sought the form of the body that had given her such amazing pleasure, only to be distracted by the shaft of light and cool air that shot through the suddenly opened door—a light that was immediately obscured by the shadow of the figure who stepped into it, ushered out by billows of steam.

  The Little Macho Girl

  Kate Bornstein

  It was terribly cold and nearly dark on the last evening of the old year, and the snow was falling fast. In the bitter cold and encroaching gloom, the wind whipped through the clothing of any poor souls stranded outside, to freeze them in their very tracks.

  She clicks the remote once.

  “Fuck The Weather Channel,” she says to herself. “Goddamn depressing, that’s what I say.”

  The American Bandstand guy has replaced the images of the storm on her forty-eight-inch screen. Dick somebody, right? What the fuck is he laughing about?

  Safe and warm tonight inside her office on the thirty-fifth floor, she draws her bare feet up beneath her in the large leather chair behind her executive-sized desk. Both pairs of her shoes are ruined or gone. A young man lifted her not-yet-out-of-the-bag Reeboks on the subway. He’d been part of a gang of performance artists, who’d laughed as they’d danced off with her running-shoes, saying they could use them as cradles for the twin births in their nativity program. She had to wear the fucking Gucci’s to the office—ruined those suckers in the slush, damn it. And she’d had to carry those goddamn sample cases the whole way, as though she were no more than a common salesperson. She shudders and draws her feet further up beneath herself. Leave it to the Chinese Army to want to do business on New Year’s fucking Eve. Well, she wasn’t going to lose this account—no way. Sheffield and Buck had bids in, but her own company’s blades were going to be the official knives of the Chinese Red Army, and it didn’t matter to her whether she had to miss New Year’s Eve to cinch the deal.