Best Lesbian Erotica of the Year Read online

  She paused, reveling for a moment in Jennifer’s harsh gulping inhales, her shoulders heaving while she waited for the next blow. Mei shrugged off her suit jacket and tossed it aside, unbuttoned the cuffs of her shirt and rolled up the sleeves to her elbows. Jennifer turned her head to watch, sloe-eyed and flushed. Her bottom lip was swollen from being bitten.

  And that hadn’t even been the best, or worst, that Mei could do. She smirked, flexing her fingers and chasing away the lingering sting in her hand.

  “Anything to say?” she asked.

  Jennifer swiped her tongue across her swollen lip, making it shine prettily. When she answered, it was in a whisper. “Green.”

  Good answer, Mei thought.

  She grabbed Jennifer’s ponytail and looped it around her knuckles, drawing Jennifer’s head back and making her back bow until she couldn’t bend any farther; she was surely feeling pinpricks of pain in her scalp. “Let’s see if you can take a little more this time, then.”

  Mei lifted her other arm and swung it down, just shy of as hard as she ever dared during a session. Jennifer jerked forward, although she couldn’t go far with Mei holding her in place by the hair. Her cry was sharp but cut abruptly off when Mei struck her again, giving her no time to recover from the pain before piling more on. In minutes, her body was limp, kept upright only by Mei’s unyielding grip, and her short cries had weakened into deep sobbing breaths. Her reddened ass had darkened even further, forming blotchy purplish bruises.

  Finally, when Jennifer was shaking and her eyes squeezed so tightly shut that sweat was gathering in the little crinkles at the corners, Mei stopped. They remained there, both gasping like they’d just finished a long, rough fuck.

  Mei’s throat was dry, her arm aching. She couldn’t feel her palm any longer, so flooded was she with adrenaline and endorphins. She uncurled her fingers, now as stiff and brittle as twigs, from Jennifer’s hair.

  “Green,” Jennifer said, panting, before Mei even had to ask. “Green.”

  Delight, and maybe a hint of pride, bloomed in Mei’s chest. She chuckled, still breathing heavily from the exertion. “Okay. The crop’s just right here, leaning against the back of the chaise. I’m going to grab it.”

  She kept a hand on Jennifer’s head while she did, grounding her, and Jennifer indicated her approval with a low, grateful groan.

  The riding crop was Mei’s most basic one: plain black in color, no cutesy shapes or decorations. The tip was small, leather and thick, which made it brutal if Mei put the right amount of force behind it. She liked the welts it left, especially on skin that already had a good dusting of color.

  “I think you’ll like this one,” she told Jennifer. “The initial pain is sharp, targeted, but then it radiates. It’ll throb for hours afterward. A bit knifelike, actually.”

  Jennifer moaned, high and reedy, and shuffled her knees wider, angling her ass up even more. Mei admired the sight: the blend of reds and blues and purples, as breathtaking as a sunset.

  “Well,” Jennifer mumbled eventually, “get on with it.”

  Brat, Mei thought, snorting. She stroked the hair at Jennifer’s nape before she stood back, giving herself enough room to swing the crop. It sang as it descended, the thin plastic shaft slicing through the air, and the slap when it struck Jennifer’s right asscheek was wickedly sharp. The flesh dinted and quivered. Jennifer’s cry was as loud and beautiful as the sound of the crop. Mei waited, giving her the opportunity to experience the full spectrum of sensation.

  “Oh god.” Jennifer’s voice was hoarse. She rocked backward, chasing the sting. “Oh my god.”

  “I’m going to do four more,” Mei told her. She could have been persuaded to do more, if Jennifer wanted to push her tolerance that much, but Jennifer only nodded, her eyes closed, and murmured another, “Oh god,” as she poised herself for another.

  Mei took her time with the last four. Minutes passed between each stroke as she listened to Jennifer’s ragged breaths and pained cries and even caressed the welts with the thumb of her free hand, feeling the heat and the swell and smiling to herself when Jennifer always moaned softly and pressed back into her touch.

  After the final blow, the slap of the crop hadn’t even finished ringing out before Jennifer’s limbs gave. She collapsed with a violent full-body shudder and a low, throaty, “Unhh.” Mei reacted instinctively, dropping the crop and climbing onto the chaise. She wound herself around Jennifer’s slumped body and made hushed shushing sounds into her hair.

  “Good girl,” she said. As Jennifer squirmed and whimpered, Mei stroked her sides soothingly. “All done now. You took that so well.”

  With their bodies so close, the scent of sweat, cocoa butter lotion, and hair product was thick and cloying. There too, although much fainter, was the smell of arousal. Mei thought at first that it was in her head, just some sort of mental association being tapped into, but then it grew stronger as Jennifer wriggled and whimpered again.

  And then Mei realized that Jennifer’s hands were between her thighs, that she was touching herself. In the same moment, the narrow tunnel of Mei’s attention, which had been focused solely on Jennifer and her reactions, widened, and she felt the heaviness between her own legs, along with the throb of her pulse and the dampness in her panties.

  “Oh fuck.” Jennifer’s voice was weak and trembling; there was a note of awe, even rapture, in it. She moved her hips in little hitching thrusts, grinding herself against her hands. “Oh fuck.”

  Mei didn’t think about it: she just cradled Jennifer even closer and rubbed her cheek against Jennifer’s sweat-wet shoulder. The position crushed her groin to Jennifer’s ass and dug her hip bones into the fresh bruises and welts. “That’s it.” Arousal was thick in her voice. “Go on. Make yourself come.”

  “Oh god,” Jennifer groaned, and oh Mei could hear it now— the slick wet sounds of her cunt, a soft squelch with each pump of her hips. Jennifer let out a cry that rose sharply and then crested as her legs began to quiver.

  Mei imagined what she would feel like inside, how warm and slick she would be, and in her mind saw herself reaching around Jennifer’s waist and hooking a finger in her cunt, feeling the muscles flutter and tighten as she came. It took every bit of her self-control not to rub herself off right then against Jennifer’s ass. She was crossing enough boundaries already just by holding her, by encouraging her.

  Mei was a professional; she would remain professional.

  After her orgasm, Jennifer seemed to drift, doing nothing but panting harshly and lying limp and dazed. Mei used the time to ensure that none of the wounds were too serious, to slather soothing cream on them and then to simply sit beside her on the chaise, stroking her hair while she came out of whatever head-space the pain had put her in.

  Finally, Jennifer stirred, walking her knees closer to her chest and propping herself up on one elbow. Her once-neat ponytail was now a nest of bumps and flyaways.

  “This, erm. This might have to be our last session,” she said. Although Mei had intended to say the same to her, it took great effort to prevent her shoulders from sinking in dismay. “I…well, I thought going to a professional would keep me from getting attached, but…I might’ve been mistaken.”

  Mei breathed, staring down at her own creased and sweat-stained suit pants, debating. It took seconds for her to come to a decision.

  “It wouldn’t have to be a session. It could be a date, if you wanted. If you wouldn’t mind dating a pro Domme, that is.”

  Jennifer sat up fully, her head cocked.

  “Huh,” she said. “Maybe.” Her lips curved into a smirk, and her eyes gleamed with the same sort of amusement Mei remembered from their meeting at the coffeehouse. “So, for a date… what are your thoughts on knives?”

  EASY

  Anna Watson

  That night, Mister Benson chose me. He came down into the crowd, took my hand and led me away from the press of sweaty bodies. The members of Chicken à la King Drag Troupe encouraged audience
participation, and I’d seen other folks get caressed and treated to lap dances by Fats Dominant, Sonny Boner, Captain Candy and Power Strip. This was my fourth time seeing the Kings, and this time, lucky girl, it was my turn.

  It was hot up on stage, and I couldn’t see the audience very well because of the bright lights. I could hear my friends screaming my name, though, and I was so nervous I almost jumped back down to join them, but Mister Benson had hold of my hand in a commanding grip. Tall and slender, he was wearing a Daddy cap, a leather vest over his white T-shirt, jeans and chaps, and some shit-kicking boots. He led me over to sit on a single bed, all frilly and pink, that had been wheeled onstage. Beside the bed was a nightstand with a phone, a deck of cards and a vase holding a single red rose on it. Grooving to the beat of the loud funk coming over the sound system, the rest of the Kings presented themselves to me. Sonny Boner, his impressive package looking good in his bicycle shorts, gave me a friendly pat on the shoulder. Power Strip kissed my hand, so dapper in his striped zoot suit. Captain Candy brushed back his long hair so I could see the gold rings in his ears, and blew me a sexy kiss. Fats Dominant came to attention and gave me a snappy salute, handsome as hell in his sergeant’s dress uniform. Mister Benson just looked haughtily into my eyes and then away, never letting go of my hand. I was so flattered by the silent, exaggerated way they were welcoming me, playing to the crowd like the yummiest treat had just been dropped in their midst. And the male, pussy-driven energy they were giving off was really sending me.

  “We’ll be back,” Mister Benson whispered, his lips brushing my ear. “Don’t go anywhere.”

  The Kings grooved off the stage and the lights went down, leaving just a spot on me. The music stopped and the crowd held its breath. This was the last number of the night.

  I sat there feeling silly, but feeling turned on. This would be something I could tell the grandkids about: the time I’d been in a number with the handsomest, sexiest, most popular drag kings this side of the Mississippi. My friends passed me up a beer, which I chugged, then passed back. I took a deep cleansing breath. I was in for the duration. I wanted to be. But truthfully, along with the turn-on and the fun of it all, I was struggling with just the teensiest worry.

  See, I have this problem. Or you could call it a talent. A gift. The thing is, I’m a seriously sensual girl. I swear that every-thing—smells, tastes, sounds, the way things look and feel—goes straight to the pleasure center in my brain. And from there, on down. See, I’m easy, is what it is. To put it bluntly, I’m the kind of girl who can come at the drop of a hat. You don’t even have to be touching me. Once, I came in the movie theater watching Vasquez in Aliens. I came, clutching my fag friend’s arm so hard he squealed, when we went to hear Leslie Feinberg read from Stone Butch Blues. I’ve come listening to k.d. lang’s alto croon, and from a lover feeding me just-picked raspberries, warm from the sun. Being pressed up against a butch in a crowded bar, the feel of her suit on my bare arm, the smell of her cologne? Oh, baby! I’ve come watching a super-in-love couple dirty dancing, and you better believe I came when Lynnee Breedlove ripped off her shirt at a Tribe 8 concert and I caught it full in the face. I still have that shirt, and if I lick it, I can taste her sweat. Makes me come.

  Usually when I come like that out in public, no one notices. I mean, it’s not like I start panting or screaming and thrashing around. It’s kind of decorous and private, really: this utterly delicious, ladylike wave of sweetness, starting in my pussy and traveling all through my body. If you were watching, you might see me shiver a little, and my face turn red, like I’m blushing. No big deal. Usually. The thing is, I can’t control when it will happen, and I definitely can’t stop it once it starts. Up here onstage, on a bed with the Kings? With a spotlight trained on me? Oh, geez.

  When the music started up, at first I didn’t recognize the song. It seemed too slow for the Kings, who usually perform to fast, racy tunes. The telephone on my nightstand rang. It was Mister Benson, asking me if I was okay, and telling me to just relax and let the Kings guide me. He told me to stay on the phone, that he would be seeing me soon. At that moment, the vocals started. I sat there getting goose bumps as the Kings came out, one by one, moving slow and sultry, as Janis Ian began to pour her heart out in that quintessential teenage girl angst song, “At Seventeen.”

  I pressed the phone to my ear as my invented lovers approached me. The Kings weren’t lip-synching; instead they moved sensually to the music, sexual fantasies called up from the depths of every lonely baby femme’s girlhood. They preened and showed off, displaying their individual personas, inviting me to look, to take. Each man opened his heart and pulled out a piece of his soul to offer me in tribute.

  Captain Candy knelt beside me and began running his hands up and down my legs, leaning down to kiss and fondle my high heels. I relaxed into the heat of his palms. Sonny Boner and Power Strip embraced and began to pull off each other’s clothes, looking right at me and giving the awkward, small-town girl the thrill of her life when they ended up in just long white dress shirts with their strap-ons peeking out. Fats Dominant lowered himself to the bed, leaned against the headboard, and gently pulled me between his legs, my back to his big belly. Mr. Benson appeared and took the phone from my slack hand, hanging it up. He joined Fats Dominant on the bed and began trailing a little leather whip lightly over my body. The other three gathered around, touching my head and shoulders, my legs and feet, transforming me from ugly duckling to femme goddess.

  The melancholy, haunting song went on and on, and the audience roared and whistled and hollered the names of their favorite Kings. I was sweating, my pussy swollen and moist and practically on view in the short skirt I was wearing. My breathing quickened and Mister Benson shot me a look. I shifted my bottom, pressing back into Fats Dominant and getting a good feel of his hardpack. The room started to spin. It was going to happen; there was no way of stopping it. I looked desperately around for something to help me, something to calm me down, but just ended up locking eyes with Mister Benson, who had the smallest of smirks on his handsome, cruel face. He cracked the whip, making me gasp. Then, very slowly, he brought out the tip of his tongue and touched it to his moustache. The red, glistening tip of his tongue flickered out once, then again. He lifted a finger to his mouth and sucked it, briefly, before drawing it lovingly down his body. His eyes never left mine for a moment. The boys surrounding me, sensing a change, began touching me more intimately as they swayed to the music, lingering on my calves, my ankles, my neck, my belly. I could smell their sweat, their cologne, the musk from between their legs. And I came.

  It started with a quivering, deep-down flutter in my pussy, and I couldn’t help it, I lifted my ass off the bed. The Kings had my hands and feet and I pushed up, up, my skirt lifting to show my wet panties as I writhed and moaned—this one was hardly decorous. I could feel my nipples straining deliciously against the material of my blouse, and I knew my whole body was flushing red with pleasure. I couldn’t help it. I shouted. I came shouting Mister Benson’s name, and just as things were getting really out of hand, the song ended and the curtain came down to thunderous applause.

  The talk later was that it had all been planned. Most of the Kings didn’t believe I’d really come—they thought I was a big exhibitionist who had concocted the whole thing to show off. Not that they were complaining, since it had been their most popular number ever. Before I left the stage that night, though, Mister Benson gave me a full-body hug, pressing his dick right between my legs and causing major aftershock. He handed me the rose from the nightstand along with his card, cell phone number scrawled on the back. Because Mister Benson? He knows an easy girl when he sees one, and that, apparently, is what Mister Benson thinks is just a little bit of all right.

  GRINDHOUSE

  Valerie Alexander

  The marquees of Times Square scream with light and color as I walk down 42nd Street. Hellcat in High Heels and Space Invasion 56, shrill the grindhouse theaters, advertising double, t
riple and all-night bills. Under the brilliant displays, the usual denizens of Times Square mill around the sidewalks: drag queens, hustlers, drug dealers, tourists, cops. One of the friendlier hustlers interrupts his transaction to holler “Cynthia!” my way. Most of the regulars know me by now, the dancer from the burlesque theater up the street who comes down here once a week or so.

  It’s a raw wet March night. The rain has just stopped and the wind feels good on my face after being in an overheated dressing room. My long brown hair is tucked under a cap, just in case any customers recognize me as a girl they’ve seen dancing in pasties, sequins and feathers. Burlesque might be a dying art form today in 1955 when anyone can buy girlie magazines or even see nudist colony films right here on the Deuce, as we call it, but plenty of Times Square trade have a foot in both worlds.

  The 42nd Street subway entrance awaits down the block, beckoning me to my neighbor’s party with his phony Beat friends. Or I could go to my favorite Village bar, where the possibility of a raid isn’t as terrifying as the possibility of seeing my ex, Dee, slow-dancing another femme to heaven in her arms. But my mission tonight is more private. More exciting. Something no one knows about but me.

  I head inside the Smokes & Curiosities Shop. Ignoring the furtive men flipping through magazines, I pick up the newest copies of Frolic and Titter and go to the counter with a pounding heart. The proprietor doesn’t disappoint; he pulls out a newspaper from under the counter and opens it to show me a new issue of Strange Ways.

  “Something special, if you’re interested,” he says. That’s what he always calls it: something special. Strange Ways is so taboo it can’t sit on the shelf with the other cheesecake magazines.

  “Thank you,” I say primly and pay for the magazines as if I’m not already squirming inside.