Best Lesbian Erotica 2013 (17 page)

But I knew she was waiting outside. I knew she'd know what I'd been doing.

And somehow, I didn't want to disappoint her. It was crazy, I knew, and yet I also knew that if I got myself off, I'd be… disobeying, maybe?

Grace hadn't said a word about what I could or couldn't do—and, indeed, we'd only just met, so who was she to give me orders anyway?—but I instinctively understood what she expected of me, and I wasn't about to let her down.

No matter how desperately I wanted to.

It was hard to pee, being this aroused, but somehow I managed. I staggered out of the restroom feeling flushed and desperately unfulfilled.

Grace gave me a stunning smile and a bottle of water then headed into the bathroom.

She also patted me, every so subtly, on the bottom as she sailed by. She didn't say a word, but I swear I heard “Good girl,” in my head.

The local TV station came to interview us, asking each of us why she or he had entered the contest. The nebbish guy surprised me by saying he wanted to use it to pick up chicks. Of course I used the opportunity to talk about the Sanctuary; how we relied on donations, how important this would be for us.

I somehow managed to not sound distracted. I'm a good public speaker and I could talk about the Sanctuary for hours, but I also know how to distill it into a few pithy sound bites. Still, I could smell Grace's delicate perfume, and I was constantly aware of the throbbing wetness between my thighs.

Plus I was dying to hear her answer to the question.

She laughed, the sound a gentle and genuine delight. Even the camera guy instinctively smiled.

“Oh, goodness,” she said. “I just can't resist a challenge, you know?”

Then, as soon as the camera swung away, she winked at me, and I got the distinct impression that winning the truck wasn't really the challenge.

I
was.

I squeezed my legs together and immediately regretted the action, since it just made me hyper-aware of my sodden crotch, my aching clit, my empty pussy begging to be filled by beckoning fingers.

As the contest wore on, she continued talking, her light voice spewing filthier and filthier things pitched low enough for only me to hear. Of course, as the contest wore on, people dropped out, so the remaining contestants adjusted themselves with more space between each of us.

Except for Grace, who stayed close to me…and I, admittedly, made no attempt to move away from her.

Close behind me, she whispered, “What's your poison, Teddie? Restraint? Cuffs and ropes and shackles, even if they're not needed? Orgasm restriction or forced orgasms, over and over? Blindfolds and gags? Spanking, whipping, caning?”

Behind my eyes I envisioned everything she was saying. Grace coming toward me with silvery handcuffs and chains spilling from her small hands. Grace wearing a strap-on dildo, her slender hips rolling as she thrust into me. Grace standing over me, holding a paddle, raising her arm…

And, almost ridiculously, in all of the scenes, Grace's makeup was perfect. She would never, I knew, break a sweat. And her nail polish would match the leather of the harness she wore, burgundy or royal blue or purple.

My palm, where it lay against the truck, was slick with sweat—in fact, I could see my handprints all over, from all the times I'd switched hands. The small of my back was slick with sweat, too, and I knew I was flushed.

“Answer me, Teddie.” Her voice was light and airy, laced with control and command.

“Yes,” I blurted. “All of it. Whatever pleases you.”

Without thinking, I started to turn, forgetting to put my other hand down before I started to lift my first hand.

“No!” Her hand shot out and pinned my wrist, keeping my palm flat on the side of the truck. It was the first time, in this whole long day, that she'd touched me flesh-to-flesh. The sudden
feel of her fingers encircling my wrist, restraining me, triggered the long, slow roll of a mini-orgasm, coiling in my belly and uncoiling in my cunt in a series of shivery spasms.

My knees almost buckled, but I caught myself. Then I almost jumped out of my skin at a shrill whistle behind me.

“No touching the other contestants!” the judge, a florid-faced auto executive, barked. “Number Four, you're disqualified.”

Grace was Number Four.

I remembered to change hands appropriately, even though they were shaking from the remains of my orgasm. “No, it's okay, she wasn't trying to distract me or anything, she's fine—” I protested.

“Sorry, those are the rules,” he said.

I thought about calling him an ass, but that wouldn't have looked good for the Sanctuary, so I bit my tongue.

“It's okay,” Grace said, with a dazzling, sweet smile that made the judge's shoulders untense, just a little. “He's right—I wasn't paying attention, and I broke the rules. She deserves the truck more than I do, anyway.”

But before he could lead her away, she went on.

“Win this truck, Teddie,” she said, in the same tone she might use if she were commanding, “Lick me until I come.” She leaned in, ignoring the judge's frown. “If you do,” she whispered, “I'll punish you. But if you don't…”

She shook her head, and then she was gone, leaving me with a whiff of her perfume and a final sharp tremor in my clit.

And I knew if I was the last person standing with a hand on the truck, I'd win a hell of a lot more than the contest.

 

 

 

 

 

If her daddy had had his way, there would have been a party. Something big and nice to welcome her home from six years down South, but Leona had told him no.

She knew he meant well, but she also knew that she was too old for parties. Leona hadn't had one since her Sweet Sixteen and hadn't enjoyed one since she was twelve. Now she was grown, twenty-four in fact. She could drive and vote and smoke and drink liquor. And she had done all those things and more. She'd had five lovers and had even broken a heart or two.

But she couldn't really tell her daddy about that.

She couldn't really tell her daddy anything right now, as he sat across the table from her, scooping them generous servings from a salmon casserole.

“Tell me if you like it,” he said, as he leaned back in his chair and folded his arms.

And Leona forked up a small bit off her plate and chewed, nodding.

“It's good, Daddy. Did you make it?”

She figured it might have been something he took up while she was away, like his pottery and the woodworking he had dabbled in after her mother died. After all, Leona had been dabbling in body painting and snapping nude photos of gorgeous women in her own spare time.

But her daddy responded, “I didn't make it. Ida did.”

A new girlfriend? No. He would have said something.

Leona's eyebrows wrinkled in vague recognition. “Oh, yeah. That caterer,” she said.

Her daddy nodded. “Right. I get her to bring the food in for our meetings.”

Leona took another bite of the casserole and said, “Well, she did a great job.”

And her father was as excited as if he
had
made it himself. Then he said, “She's agreed to give you a few pointers in the kitchen.”

Leona swallowed her bite of casserole. “Agreed?”

“Well, yes. I saw her in town one day and I mentioned that you would be coming home soon and you weren't too familiar with the ways of a kitchen so she suggested—”

“
She
suggested?”

“Okay, I asked. Anyway, what's the harm? It wouldn't hurt you to make a potato salad and fry a few pieces of chicken now and then.”

Leona dropped her fork and folded her arms. “Then this is about your ongoing love affair with deep-fried poultry?”

Her father half smiled. “What can I say? I like my fried chicken.”

And that was okay, Leona supposed, since everyone had her weaknesses. Tall, golden women with nice, strong legs happened to be hers.

She realized her father was talking again.

“Surely you made friends with some of those girls down in Georgia, and not one of them baked a chicken in front of you or made a bowl of macaroni?”

Leona twisted her lips in thought. Yes, she
had
met Southern girls indeed, many Southern girls, and they had taught her many delicious things, but none of them involved a pot or a stove.

And none of them, not one of them cared that she couldn't cook, not Mindy or Sylvia, or even Bethany, but her father wouldn't want to hear that.

It would be nonsense in his eyes, some foolishness she learned at school, so Leona let it be.

Besides, he was so pleased with himself that it was almost cute and the hopefulness in his eyes and the twitch at the corner of his lips let Leona know that he was seeking the same excitement from her.

So, Leona smiled wide and took another bite of the creamy casserole.

Then she shook her head and said, “Just tell me when, Daddy.”

 

Leona wasn't exactly sure what to wear to a cooking lesson, so she settled on a tank top and jeans. Ida, who lived in a small cottage on the outskirts of town, came to the door in shorts and a T-shirt.

Leona decided that shorts really suited Ida, the way her long legs extended from beneath them. In fact, Leona thought as she studied Ida's brown knees, she might mention to her that she should consider never wearing a pair of trousers again.

Leona had never noticed the rebellious kink of Ida's hair, the way it sprouted from her scalp in fuzzy curls that she had dyed strawberry blonde. And Ida's lips were full, pink without any
lipstick, moist without any gloss. She wore a tiny diamond stud in her left nostril and two silver hoops in each ear.

Ida smelled like lilac. Leona assumed it was powder. And she might have asked, but she didn't know Ida that well, only that she was a few years older and minded her own business.

So, instead of saying all these things, Leona extended her hand and introduced herself.

“I'm Leona,” she said. “My father tells me I could learn a thing or two from you.”

Ida smiled. “I don't know if that's true, but I told him I would show you some of what I know.”

She let Leona in.

Leona observed Ida's vibrant choice in furnishings, the orange wing-backed chairs, the golden loveseat. The wood of her coffee table and curio were dark. Her hardwood floors were clean and glossy.

Leona lingered behind Ida, her ears attentive to music playing softly in the background, something jazzy by a woman with a deep, raspy voice. They made it to Ida's roomy kitchen where she had various bowls and pans set out.

“I don't normally give classes, but your daddy was persistent, carrying on about the duties of a lady and whatnot. You planning on getting married or something?” Ida arched an eyebrow.

Leona laughed and shook her head.

Ida continued. “Well, at any rate, I figured I could keep it simple and show you meat and potatoes, fried chicken and gravy, but that would be a blatant waste of time and energy. I'd much rather show you those really special dishes for those special occasions, for romantic nights when you want to impress someone special. Like this.”

Ida offered Leona a small bowl with dark, oval shaped fruit and thinly shaved nuts scattered about. The sweet smell of
coconut rum wafted through her nostrils.

“They're figs,” Ida said. “I let them soak in the fridge overnight. Take one.”

Leona took the fig and bit into it. The juices from the fruit and the rum danced on her tongue, tickled her throat and warmed her chest. The almonds were crispy and were a nice effect to the sweetness of the figs and the rum.

“I'm going to use them for a fig rum loaf.”

It was a simple lesson, in which Leona spent only an hour and a half in Ida's kitchen. Leona giggled when she left, because she was starving.

The loaf would need to sit for twenty-four hours before it could be eaten, Ida had told her, so Leona walked home, figuring that she'd have a turkey sandwich later.

And maybe it was the rum. Or maybe it was the jazz. But late that night after Leona had eaten her sandwich and she lay alone in her bed, she remembered the taste of rum and the smell of coconut, she remembered pretty brown legs and a head of curly, golden hair and she parted her legs and reached down and thinking of Ida, she pleasured herself until she grew tired.

 

Ida was a wonderful teacher. She'd been on this earth thirty-one years after all. She had seen things, tried things, and Leona felt like her little stint in Georgia was nothing in comparison.

Leona smelled the fresh herbs Ida waved back and forth in front of her nose. She had never even heard of thyme, couldn't quite tell the difference between cilantro and parsley, and Ida had decided that since Leona was still scorching rice after two weeks of lessons, maybe they should meet three times a week instead of two.

Not that it bothered Leona. She had grown comfortable
being in Ida's house, sitting at her table, standing in front of her stove, leaning on her counter.

And now, she was watching Ida set aside the herbs and squeeze a lime over a pan of shrimp.

“You have to be careful cooking with citrus,” Ida said. “It tends to dry out your food. But the shrimp will cook fast anyway so we don't really have to worry about that.”

But Leona was more interested in rubbing the lime across Ida's lips and licking the remnants off.

She realized that she was still admiring Ida's lips when Ida said, “You know, Leona, if you don't start paying attention, you won't be any better a cook than the day you walked in this kitchen.”