Best Lesbian Erotica of the Year, Volume 3 Page 14

  “I’ll die if I can’t touch you, Hayley!”

  “You won’t, because I won’t let you. Because I’m not through with you yet. I’m She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed and I’m only getting started!”

  Much later, when Hayley had finally recovered, she reached again for Pim. Touched her without rules. Without restraints. With only deep longing. And found that all her phobias had fled. Nestling into the woman she loved, Hayley whispered, “I think I’m beginning to understand why they call you ‘doctor.’”

  PERFUME

  R. D. Miller

  It’s our fifth anniversary. Five years I’ve been with this woman; she’s beautiful, kind, and intelligent. There are plenty of days when I wonder how she ended up with a dumb butch like me, but when she looks at me she smiles like I’m an unexpected rainbow in the sky. Before her I was lucky if my relationships lasted six months, so it’s hard for me to believe that she’s still by my side; even harder to believe that I’m still by hers. I was mostly the fuck and run type; maybe I’d make a lady breakfast in the morning, but that was usually as far as it went. This year I wanted to show her what a fucking miracle she is, so I planned a trip to the South of France. My friends told me I was a fool not to take her to Paris. I shrugged and said, “I got this.”

  See, I know her; I have studied and learned her in ways it had never even occurred to me to be curious about before. She has this thing about perfume. She says she got it from her mother who taught her how to apply it, just so, in all the right places to attract men. She dabs it into her belly button to diffuse it with her body heat. She adorns the back of her hands so when she gestures it leaves a trail of scent in the air, drawing people in. The first time she told me that story she giggled like a maniac at the irony of her mom insisting perfume would land her a good man. I fell in love then and there. Who knows, perhaps it had something to do with the perfume that wafted off her skin; hints of jasmine over a sandalwood base. It drew me in, made me want to be closer, made me want to touch her.

  On our one-year anniversary she confessed she thought that me falling for her had everything to do with her perfume. I insisted that perfume had nothing to do with it, that I had fallen for her smile, her laugh, her lips that I couldn’t stop staring at, couldn’t stop wanting to kiss. Those lips that I still can’t stop wanting to kiss. She arched her eyebrow and told me she believed her mother’s words; her scent had captured me, and she intended to keep me. Then she kissed me, and all I could think was how happy I was to be kept.

  So I brought her here to Grasse, France, the perfume capital of the world. Where seventeenth-century stone buildings rise up on the hills and narrow cobblestone alleys hold delightful crêperies, colorful cafes, and tiny perfume shops. There are countless fields of jasmine and May rose surrounding the town and the intoxicating smell of flowers permeates the fresh mountain air. From the square in the old town center you can see the ocean; it’s only fifteen kilometers to Cannes and the Côte d’Azur. She was so excited when we arrived. She delighted in exploring, her eyes shone as she took in every vista, every alley, every charming little shop. She smiled at me like I was a field of lavender in full bloom.

  It’s late June, solstice is upon us, and in France that means it’s time for Fête de la Musique. It’s a night filled with live music everywhere; every street corner, every square, every balcony fills with the sounds of music, dancing, and laughter. Before we left home, we had decided that we would be open to adventure, to exploring and being in the moment, with Fête de la Musique and perfume our only itinerary.

  As part of our vacation, I arranged for us to tour all three of the largest perfumeries in Grasse, and today was the first. It was a fairly quiet day in this ancient village; most of the tourists had already left in anticipation of the nighttime festivities in nearby Nice, Antibes, and Cannes. We pulled our rental into the nearly empty parking lot and she was bouncing in her seat. I’d never seen anyone so excited about perfume.

  We went in and met our tour guide, a tall brunette with big brown eyes, and curves that made the highway to Monaco look like a straight shot through the desert. We were the only two visitors scheduled for her English language morning tour, she explained as she stepped between us. She boldly linked her arms through ours and ushered us into the museum to start the tour. She led us through leisurely, teaching us about the history of perfume, the company, and the building. She told us about the art form of creating scent and the science of making it stay. My girlfriend was mesmerized by the whole process. She marveled over the large stainless steel vats, read every explanation on every exhibit, gasped in surprise when she heard that it takes three tons of flowers to get just one liter of essential oil. She hung on every word the guide said.

  I admit I may have missed a sentence or two, distracted by the tactile nature of our very friendly guide. As the tour continued, her smile became more flirtatious and her touch more frequent. She particularly liked to touch and squeeze my forearms when she was making a point; she must know what that does to a butch. I laughed it off, and I thought my girlfriend did too. I chatted amicably with her as the tour continued and easily developed a friendly rapport.

  Halfway through the tour, our guide suddenly pulled a pen out of her pocket and wrote her number on a scent-soaked fragrance strip. She had just used it to demonstrate a musk that she swore was an aphrodisiac; she claimed that it could win over even the most stubborn of hearts. As she scribbled down her number she told us excitedly about a medieval village not far from Grasse. Tonight, for Fête de la Musique, there would be an all-female punk band playing in the courtyard of a small castle. She told us about a charming inn nearby where we could sleep, and that she would be there with her friends; she hoped we’d join them. She held eye contact with me as she pressed the musk-scented strip of paper into my hand and her touch lingered as she moved forward to continue the tour. I was certain her body brushing against mine as she moved past was purposeful. I thought it was funny. I guess I think it’s obvious to everyone that I’m so very unavailable; perhaps not.

  As the guide moved on ahead I turned to my girlfriend and excitedly began talking about the punk band. Watching an all-female band playing at a medieval castle was pretty high on my list of best fucking things to do on a vacation, ever! She didn’t reply as I kept rambling on about the castle, just turned and followed our guide as we were led farther into the perfumery.

  We’re in the gift shop now and I have finally figured out that my girlfriend is feeling jealous. I can tell she’s mad by how straight her spine is, her severe glances, and the sharply polite responses she gives as we explore the shop. I reach for her, to rest my hand casually on her hip, to let her know I’m not swayed by the number in my pocket, or the sexy French accent. She moves away too quickly, and it’s obvious that she doesn’t want my touch right now. Jealousy, possessiveness, totally not her thing; but for some reason this curvy brunette tour guide has her on edge. I know she’s trying to find something nice for her mother; that was one of the reasons she wanted to come here. I decide that in this mood she’ll browse better if I’m out of her way, so I excuse myself and go to the washroom.

  I enter the women’s restroom and stop to look in the mirror for a minute. I laugh to myself at my girlfriend’s jealousy. I tousle my short hair a bit in a halfhearted attempt to tame it before giving up; it’s pretty unruly anyway. I splash some water on my face and wonder how long I should stay in here. As I contemplate, the door behind me opens rather suddenly and she sweeps in, all fire and edge. Her voice is low, a growling, demanding tone that makes my stomach drop. “Stall! Now!”

  I’m not sure what’s happening, but my god she’s beautiful. Her face is flushed, her eyes flashing dangerously, teeth bared when I hesitate to obey. “Now!” That one word is spoken with such authority that I don’t think, I obey immediately and walk into the far stall. She’s right behind me, stalking her prey.

  As soon as we’re inside she quickly shuts the door and locks it. I turn toward her and befo
re I can speak, question, or smile, she’s on me. She pushes me up against the bathroom wall, her eyes pools of black, pupils blown wide. My mouth goes dry. It seems all the moisture is needed elsewhere. Her hands are on my hips immediately, and her perfect lips are at my ear. Her warm breath sends a shiver down my spine. “You like the sexy French girl, do you? You want to fuck her? Hear her pretty little mouth call your name?”

  I’m caught off guard by the vulgarity. Not that I mind, but it’s so unlike her. I open my mouth to tell her no, I don’t want to fuck the sexy French girl, I only want to fuck her. But before I can say a word, my mouth is full of her tongue. She kisses me; it’s rough, deep, full of fire. She pulls back, leaving me breathless. Her hands move to my waist, urgently tugging the end of my belt free from the keeper, unfastening it.

  “It looks like you need to be reminded whose girl you are,” she growls in my ear. “Who you belong to.” She isn’t normally jealous, and she hates when women are treated like possessions. I know I shouldn’t find this hot, but my god she’s sexy like this— commanding, dominant.

  My pants are unfastened now and she roughly shoves her hand down them. She pauses, just long enough for her eyes to lock with mine and check for consent. I’m nodding like a madwoman, praying she doesn’t stop.

  She must be satisfied with that because her hand is suddenly inside of my underwear, and I am dripping for her. She gasps. She bites my earlobe, says, “You are so wet! My butch likes being shoved against the bathroom stall and fucked, does she?” She slides two of her long, talented fingers deep inside me. I try to stay quiet but I hear a keening moan and realize it’s coming from me. She slides her fingers in and out, brushing over my G-spot every time. She knows every centimeter of my body by now; she knows how to play me. She knows I’m practically gone, she knows; and so she stops, withdraws. Suddenly I feel so empty, so wretchedly forlorn at the loss of her fingers. I whimper.

  “Are you wet for me? Or is this for the fucking tour guide? Answer me!” Her breath is hot in my ear.

  “You! Always you,” I manage to choke out, desperate for her to continue.

  “I’m not convinced,” she replies. “You thought she was hot. You flirted, you took her number.”

  “I . . . the concert, I . . . castle, I . . . please, baby.” My frustration is growing. I can feel her fingers toying with me, circling the opening of my vagina, tormenting me with pressure too light to be friction. Her breasts are pressed tightly against my chest, her breath teasing my ear.

  “Please what?” She dips her fingers inside, barely, just enough to make me whine again.

  “Please . . . please fuck me . . . ” I’m beyond caring, I’ll beg, I’ll do whatever she asks if she’ll just keep fucking me in this bathroom stall, in the gift shop of this perfume factory, in this lovely fucking provincial town that always smells of flowers. I’m sure I’ll laugh at the imagery later, but for now I can’t think about anything but her fingers.

  She sinks in farther, to her knuckles. I breathe out, unsteady, shaken, needy. She smirks. “You want the French girl?”

  “No! Fuck! You know I only want you!” My hips have grown a mind of their own; I’m humping at her fingers, desperately searching for more friction.

  “Whose girl are you?” she demands as she thrusts all the way in, drawing a yelp of both surprise and delight from my lips.

  “Yours.” I moan. She thrusts again. “Yours.” She twirls her wrist and moves her dexterous fingers, pressing them up into my slick walls. “Fuck! I’m yours.” She picks up her pace, and presses the heel of her hand into my clit. “I’m yours! Only yours.”

  I hear the bathroom door open, the click of heels on the tile floor. I know she hears it too, but she doesn’t stop; she wants them all to know whose girl I am. She wants them to know she’s fucking her fine butch in their bathroom. I’d likely be embarrassed if I could form coherent thoughts, but all I can see, smell, feel is her; her fire, her passion, her.

  A tap turns on, the water runs; she bites down on my earlobe and swirls her fingers just so, just the way I like. I bite my lip to hold back a moan but it still escapes. It energizes her and she adds a third finger. I suck my breath in and gasp in pleasure. The tap turns off, I hear a soft giggle and the sound of heels retreating. The door opens and closes again.

  “Fuck, baby, she heard us!” I’m half expecting a security guard to run in and arrest us or something.

  “Good.” Her voice is rough, low, dangerous. I feel myself get even wetter, impossibly wet. “Mmmm, you like me fucking you like this, don’t you?” I tilt my head back, concentrate on her fingers. “Answer me!” She bites me again, and another moan escapes.

  “Yes! Fuck, yes!” My answer rushes out and curls around her ears. She grins, a wolfish, carnivorous grin that I don’t see often. She’s usually soft, lovely, beautiful. Our sex life is very mutual, except when we get rough. When we fuck, I fuck her. When we play, she submits to me. But sometimes . . . sometimes, fuck, sometimes . . .

  She sets to work, skillful fingers playing me like an instrument. With just a few more pumps, a few more swirls of her wrist, she has me teetering on the edge. My body is tight and rigid, my throat exposed as I tilt my head back.

  She licks my neck where the skin is taut against the rushing blood. She can taste my pulse. She burrows down, finds the edge of my collarbone and bites down. As she bites she presses her hand hard into my clit and pushes her fingers up against my G-spot. I come. I fucking explode! I’m loud but brief as I cling to her, my short, neatly clipped nails digging into her skin.

  I’m panting for breath and she’s smiling, smiling like this is the best ride at the amusement park, smiling like I’m the fucking sun. “Whose girl are you?” she whispers, softly.

  “Yours. Holy fuck, I’m yours.” I’m panting, leaning against the wall because I think my knees might buckle if I move. She slowly removes her hand, brings it to her mouth, and licks me from her fingers. I tremble with desire as I watch her and my voice squeaks as I try to speak: “Always yours.”

  She looks smug as I struggle to compose myself. “That’s right, baby girl. You’re mine.” She leans in and kisses me; it’s soft, gentle, full of love.

  When she steps away I miss her immediately, but she smiles brightly. “We’d better get out of here before they send security in after us, no? I have to find something for Mom, and the candles here just smell so lovely! We should get a few. Plus, we have to find that little inn Gabrielle told us about near the concert tonight; you know we’ll both have some drinks, so we’ll have to stay over.”

  I’m at a loss; the transformation is so sudden. Her edges are soft again, the searing heat is back to a radiating warmth. I blink stupidly as she leans in and kisses me softly on the lips. She smiles, and even blushes as she glances down at the disheveled mess her butch girlfriend is in, standing against the wall in this bathroom stall.

  “Besides, it looks like you’re going to need some cleanup time before dinner.” She winks mischievously at me. I sputter an attempt at answering as she turns and struts out of the stall. She doesn’t stop to wash me off of her fingers and before she exits she throws a pointed look back over her shoulder, instructing me to hurry.

  A few minutes later I come out of the bathroom and see her paying for a pile of candles and a nice bottle of perfume for her mom. She’s smiling and laughing with Gabrielle, the tour guide. I approach and get a once-over from both of them, and Gabrielle laughs and blushes knowingly. I sputter yet again, wondering where my butch cool went as I try to make an excuse for taking so long in the bathroom.

  She laughs at me, smirking as she offers a friendly handshake to Gabrielle, the hand she just fucked me with; one last display of dominance. Then she slips her arm around my waist and steers me toward the door, telling Gabrielle we’ll see her later as she whisks me out of the perfumery.

  TRYING SUBMISSION

  Xan West

  From Shocking Violet

  Liliana was glad she got to the restaur
ant first. She picked out a table near the bathroom where she could have her back against the wall and watch for Roz to arrive. She’d spent all afternoon figuring out what to wear, before settling on her denim mini, music note leggings, Ursula T-shirt with the neck cut out, leather jacket, and Docs. She’d agonized over how to wear her hair (two braids so she could wear a hat and scarf and wouldn’t fuck it up), and how to do her makeup (cat-eye with purple lipstick so dark it was almost black). She’d already made this date into a huge deal in her head and Roz hadn’t even arrived. Liliana grabbed her cane in both hands and pressed it into the floor, trying to settle. She closed her eyes, taking a slow breath. When she opened them, Roz was there, smiling down at her.

  Her smile was spectacular; it made her eyes go all crinkly at the edges. Her hair was short and natural, her eyes accented with royal blue, her lips a deep, dark red. Roz wore jeans that seemed painted on, with this floaty teal blouse that bared her gorgeous shoulders, and draped to perfection. Silver hoops dangled from her ears. Liliana couldn’t help the smile that cracked her usually stoic face. She wasn’t even sure she wanted to. Roz was utterly magnificent, and her presence just wrapped Liliana up, made her feel both fluttery and certain.

  Roz asked if a hug was okay, and Liliana nodded, putting her cane aside. Liliana rarely felt small, she was too tall and fat for that to happen much. Roz wasn’t actually bigger or fatter than her, but somehow, with Roz’s solid arms holding her, dammit she felt vulnerable. The hug was exactly what she needed, probably too much of it, because her eyes began to sting and her heart started racing. Then it was over, and Liliana picked up the menu, trying to get her heart to slow down, to get herself under control. When it was time to order, she barely got the words out. Her damn heart wouldn’t slow down, either. She excused herself and made her way to the bathroom.

  Liliana’s shields must be leaking. That had to be it. And that needed to be tended to right away. She could do this. It was no big deal. She had time. Roz would wait. This was a single stall bathroom, so no one would fuck with her. That was why she’d suggested this restaurant, which was close to empty, even on a Saturday night. Well, that, and the armless sturdy chairs. No sense taking another fat woman to a place where neither of them could sit comfortably.