Best Lesbian Erotica 2013 (20 page)

Something long frozen in me was thawing and breaking up, relief and warmth flooding my body. I pushed Venetia back against the sofa and knelt over her, brazenly humping her face. I'd fucked four women since Kai left me but this was the first time it felt real, an acute awareness of her small breasts and soft hot mouth filling my senses. We weren't going to be done here until I'd mapped and devoured every inch of her, fucked her every way possible. Raw lust suffused my nerves, a tumult of grief and sex building into an insistent tension, and as Venetia sucked my clit, I came in six brutal waves that I rode out shamelessly on her mouth.

I leaned over the couch, breathing hard. My body felt so incredibly light and hot, as if I had restructured the laws of time and space.

Venetia caressed my damp hair. “I knew you wouldn't play games.”

I was exhausted and exhilarated. I pushed Venetia on her back. She spread her long legs wider than I'd ever seen any woman spread, offering up her pussy as if it was the holy grail that had lured Kai away from me. I pulled at her longish pink lips and rubbed her tiny clit, thinking of all the other women we'd slept with before Kai and all the women waiting in our future. Nothing meant anything but what was happening right now.

I slid three fingers inside her. Her cunt closed around me, tight and quivering. She groaned but I took my time, absorbing her warmth and her smell. I stroked her clit and her front inner wall in tandem, slowly, making her kick the cushions in frustration. Then without giving her time to adjust, I fucked her hard and rapid until she was bucking and panting beneath me. Venetia gripped the sofa cushions, groaning out unintelligible sounds and writhing until her small tits bounced in time with my hand. I'd always assumed she would fuck like a pillow princess but she was exploding under me, all wetness and heat.

I withdrew and slapped her thigh. “Get on all fours.”

She obeyed, unexpectedly elegant as she looked at me over her shoulder with those mascara-smeared eyes. I ran my hands up her lean thighs and then took command of her pussy and ass, fucking both in a seesaw rhythm. She dropped her head and howled. How I wished that I was packing, but then again, watching her cunt close around my fingers was spellbinding. Liberation flooded my mind and it mixed with the smells and cries filling my senses until I felt electric with power.
Venetia rocked her skinny hips back to engulf my hands and then she groaned as her pussy squeezed around me, a rhythmic release that ended when she collapsed onto the sofa in a cloudburst of tears.

I stroked her back. The album had played out to the end, the needle repeating its rhythmic coda: bump and scratch, bump and scratch. Venetia crawled into my lap and hooked her arms around my neck and we began again.

 

 

 

 

 

So I have a thing for old butches. Sue me.

Okay, not old. Older. Somewhere around sixty. A
real
butch.

You know the type I'm talking about. They're a dying breed. The youngest ones are about fifty, and the oldest…well, they'll be hard butch as long as they live. Not stone. No, I don't mean the true transmen who didn't have all the modern options for change. I mean the real butches. Chivalry and men's clothing. Short spiky hair usually peppered with gray. As often as not, they're wearing women's underwear, whatever kind their mothers made them wear.

And that's how they are: all hard and masculine on the outside; all soft and 100 percent woman on the inside. They have names like Laurie and Julianne and Caroline, and they're either too old to have bothered changing their names to tough things like AJ and Sam and Drake, or somewhere in that middle period where they took on hippie names like Bear and Blue Jay and Sunny.

I love everything about older butches. I love how they'll open a door for me and then stare at my ass as I walk through. But yet, when I try to catch them at it, they're looking me in the eye every time. I love how they'll get up to do anything physical for me, even when I'm younger and could do it just as well. I love how they each have their own area of expertise that proves they're a successful part of a man's world, whether it be motorcycles or line cooking or accounting or something with animals. I love how they'll squash a spider one minute and the next will scream like a little girl over a snake. I love how they move, with a masculine assurance and swagger, and a woman's gentle tread. And I love how they feel: strong arms and hands, and maybe a little softness around the middle. I love how they can do all the things a man can do, all while making me feel like the center of their universe. And I love how when things get hard, they're woman enough to lean on someone rather than pretend they can do it all alone.

You get my point already, yes? I love a real butch. And I love to make love to a real butch.

 

I go to this womyn's gathering every year. Twice a year, actually. It's a small writer's retreat where we all get to know each other a little bit at a time over the years. A few new womyn come each time, but there are plenty of us who've been coming for years and always will if we can.

Every six months I go to this retreat and drool over the butches. There's Laurie, who looks so much like a man you sometimes have to do a double take, until she opens her mouth and has the voice of a small woman. There's Bear; she can cook a meal and serve it up with a smile; she's small and dresses like a'50s greaser. There's Sunny, whose eyes make me want to melt; she comes with her high femme partner and they sell icies out of an old ice-cream truck.

I love to sit on the rock wall outside the dining hall, pretending to write, and watch them go about their business. I love to flirt with them across the salad bar. I love to accidentally bump into them. Feel their hands steady me, and look into their eyes while they offer an apology, even though they're not at fault. I love to tease them about not going swimming on the hottest days, when all us femmes and soft butches are already in the water.

I've been enjoying these retreats for a bunch of years when this year something changes. There are no cliques at this retreat. Lunchtime comes and we all sit willy-nilly together. And this time, Laurie sits down right across from me. It's the first time I've really talked to her. We talk about what we write, where we live, what we do to pay the bills. I ask her opinion about a piece I might read during the evening open mike session. She likes it. We both go to turn the page at the same time, and her hand brushes mine.

I'm already on fire. It's been too long since I was with a woman. I see a blush rise to her cheeks and think maybe it's mutual. I offer to share a few other pieces; it's an opening of myself with no risk to her. She bites, so we find a quiet corner with some uncomfortable chairs (because there are no comfortable chairs at the retreat).

I watch her read, her eyes moving over the words, her expression subtly changing with the poetry. I'm not fool enough to hope for more, I'm just enjoying this little bit of Laurie that's all mine.

She smiles when she finishes. Sits for a moment. We talk about the pieces, when I wrote them and for whom, if they're still true. She says she'd like to get to know me better. Can she take me out to dinner? I bite back my urge to yell, “Hurray!” and offer a demure, as-femme-as-I-can-make-it, “Yes.”

She takes me out to dinner. Casual place, good conversation,
lots of eye contact. She comments on how I hold my knife and fork, European-style, never putting down the knife. She takes my hand. I can feel her pulse. Or maybe it's mine, which is hammering in my throat.

Back at the retreat, she gives me a hug. At first I think it's too chaste, but then I realize she's put her whole body up against mine. As I wrap my arms around her, I can feel her back muscles bunching with her movement. I can feel her breasts pressed against my own.

I want more, but I'm no fool; I know how I should play: real butches call the shots. Femmes make themselves available. They bat their eyelashes, they accidentally brush their hands along exposed skin, they stick out their breasts and wiggle their asses. If they're really brazen, they wink. They do all this to let the butch know they're interested, but the butch has to do the asking. The butch has to take on the risk, so if anyone's at fault, it's her.

I'm not a traditional femme. I play by my own rules, leaving the butch enough control to feel safe, while taking enough to make me feel empowered. I push my whole body against hers, trying to melt into all the spaces between us. I squeeze her hand as we part. I turn back to look her straight in the eye and thank her for a wonderful, if too-short, evening. I smile. I don't wink.

 

The next evening, I do my open mike bit with Laurie in the audience. Volunteers serve a late-night snack after, and she brushes against me as she moves past to the end of the line. Then she's sitting with some of her friends, and I'm doing the same. But our eyes keep meeting across the room. She looks down first once, then I do. She's definitely pursuing, and I'm not fleeing.

It's late. I hug my friends and walk into the evening coolness. The retreat has a number of small, bare-bones, hotel-style cabins
and a dining hall. The walk between the buildings at night is refreshing, with large starlit expanses between the cabins and only a few porch lights. It starts out that way tonight, and then all the sudden I'm warm. Hot, actually.

Laurie calls my name. I turn to watch her saunter up to me. I want to reach out and touch her, but I leave that to her. I turn toward my cabin and she falls into step with me.

“Can I walk you to your room?” Her woman's voice is strong. She's not really asking a question so much as presenting me an opportunity to stop things before they go too far.

“I'd like that.” I want things to go too far.

When we get to my room, I stand aside for her to come in. I lock the door so there's no chance of interruption. Perhaps this is going a bit too far, but maybe she's trying to understand a femme of my age. I'm nearly twenty years her junior.

She smiles. “I was going to do that.”

In an instant, I'm shy. I'm blushing, and I don't usually blush. But I have nothing to fear. She's a real butch and knows how to handle the situation.

“Can I hold you?” Still standing, she opens her arms to me.

I take the three steps across the room to her, and she folds me in her arms. My head is tilted up, and her lips come down to meet mine. She's not much taller than I am, just enough to make me feel the physical differences between us. Her kiss reminds me of the similarities. Her lips are the soft fullness of a real woman. Her feet are planted wide, and her strong arms hold me, which is good, because I might fall over otherwise.

The kiss is electric. It's hot and wet and tongues and lips. My hand is on her face and I feel her jaw working with the kiss. There is nothing else. There is only this kiss.

She pulls back, ever so slightly, and breathes, “Wow!” before plunging in for more.

We kiss for hours. No, I know that's not true. We kiss for what feels like hours, simply feeling each other responding in kind. After an eternity that I do not want to end, I feel her reach for the hem of my shirt and lift it. I move to make it easier, letting the shirt slip over my head, and watching her slowly release it to fall on the floor. The cool air from the open window touches my skin and makes my nipples pucker. I wasn't sure she could see that in the dim glow coming in from the porch light, but she reaches out a hand to brush one of them, and I shiver.

Then I am shy again. I like to be clean for sex. I like my lover to be clean too. I try to put on my best demure femme face and ask, “Shower?”

She nods. Takes my hand and pulls me into the bathroom. The showers are short. There's only a stall, so we don't even try to share it. She comes out of her shower after I'm already dried and primped enough to satisfy my femme ideals.

Even in the almost nonexistent light, I can see her dark nipple pointing toward me through the steam. It's too tempting. I bend down, looking at her until the last possible moment, and run my tongue over her nipple. She lets out a little breath, and puts her hand behind my head. I lick again and again hear her sigh. And then I wrap my mouth around her nipple and start to suck. Gently at first. You never know how hard or soft a woman likes it. I suck harder as her hand tightens on the back of my neck. She moans.

She releases me and steps back.

I give her room to dry off and do what she wants with my toiletries. I'm trying not to rush things. Let her set the pace. When she looks at me again, I back out of the bathroom until the backs of my knees meet the bed, which isn't very far.

She comes to me and we mold our bodies together in another kiss. Only this time there's no clothing between us. The shock
of her skin on mine makes me glad I've got the bed for support. The electricity of the kiss ratchets up a notch. I only know this isn't a dream because no dream feels this good.

Then it's Laurie's turn to look shy. “I don't have anything with me…” she mumbles.

I don't know what to say that won't overwhelm her, so I turn, reach down, and pull my toy bag from under the bed. I always travel with my toys—you never know when you might need them, if only for a solo act.

She looks at the bag, then steps around me and sets it on the bed. A small smile touches her face when she pulls out the dildo and the vibrator. Then she breaks out into a big grin when she pulls out my fully adjustable leather harness. I rub my breast against her arm as I put the lube on the bedside table, just in case.

Laurie wastes no time or effort in putting on the harness and securing the dildo. Then she looks at me and pauses, as if I'm supposed to do something. I revert to what I know best: I take her other nipple in my mouth.