Best Lesbian Erotica of the Year, Volume 3 Read online

  Then she tugs me across her lap. Oh no. I wasn’t counting on this. I’m still on my back, across her legs, and I guess the flight attendants could take me for her wife, sleeping on her, if they walk by. But she doesn’t seem to care about the flight attendants. She’s feeling every part of me she can, running her hands over my breasts, down my stomach. Impatiently she pushes my dress all the way apart so I’m essentially naked under the blanket. Oh god. I remember how easily I could tell the college girl was touching herself under her blanket, and I realize anyone who walks up or down the aisle past us will notice there are two women moving suspiciously under the blanket, one with her legs spread.

  But I can’t stop. Her fingers are thrusting inside me again, and I’m riding them shamelessly, my breasts bouncing as she pulls the blanket down to expose them. Some tiny practical part of my brain wonders if we’ll be arrested if caught, but it’s all so exciting that I spread my legs wider.

  And then she stops.

  I squirm in complaint. She laughs a deep, low laugh and pulls the blanket back up to cover me again, then turns me on my side so I’m facing her crotch. I understand.

  I take down her jeans as best I can. Her body is smooth and thick, with hard thigh muscles that give way to the surprise of her pussy—which is just a shadowy delta in the dark, but the heat and the smell of her fill my nostrils and take me to the heaven I’ve been dreaming of. Her lips spread out under my tongue like butterfly wings, gleaming and wet. Dipping my fingers inside her, I lick her swollen pink clit as best I can, not as deft as I’d normally be, but good enough that her thighs open farther, straining against her jeans. The soft squishy noises of my fingers moving in and out of her cunt tell me how much she wanted her own nameless fuck. My tongue swims over every creamy inch of her, licking up the honey from her inflamed slit. One muffled grunt and her hands clutch me as she comes, her hips rocking into my face so hard that I’m convinced she’s going to wake someone up.

  Then she pulls me up and positions me so I’m sitting on her lap. She can’t possibly think we’ll get away with this. But she’s pushing inside me, going up my cunt until she’s all the way in.

  It feels so good I want to scream. She’s holding me tightly, a good thing as I’ve lost almost total control. I pitch forward against her muscled arms, struggling to stay silent while she fucks me in a ragged, seesaw rhythm. Back and forth, back and forth. I’m hot, sweating, my hair hanging in my face. And then I look up and see that we have been caught—the blonde trophy wife across the aisle is shamelessly leaning over to watch while her husband sleeps next to her. So I pull down the blanket and give her a show, letting her see how two women can fuck each other blind. My stranger is losing control herself, not holding me quite as carefully now, and instead we’re twisted in a kind of sideways doggie-style, she ramming me so forcefully that I drop my head and bite my arm as I explode in silence, squirting all over her lap and the seat until it’s dripping down my thighs.

  She lets go of me and sinks back into her seat, squeezing my tits in what seems to be a final thank-you and good-bye. I grope for my dress and wrap it around me as best as I can. The blonde smirks at me as I get up, legs shaking in my spiked heels. Continuing up the aisle again, this time I really have to grip the seat backs for balance as the tiny floor lights swim at me. At last I come to my row and climb over the woman next to me, jostling her a bit as I sink into my seat.

  The view from my window is pure stars. We’re nowhere right now. I love this moment between nations, between identities, between consequences. I revel in it for a moment, then pull my real clothes out of my bag and do another under-the-blanket performance—slipping into sweatpants and T-shirt, stuffing my dress in my tote. Then I pin up my long hair and pull on a sleep mask for a nap. Just a few hours now until I’m somewhere new, until I’m someone new. A woman of stealth and mastery, who can materialize in the arms of strangers and vanish before being captured.

  MORNING FOG

  Scout Rhodes

  It’s dark, still. I hear no predawn bird cacophony like I would at home, but there’s a subtle uptick in cars passing on the city street below as morning commutes begin. I wake up early, always, having been born and bred on a farm, but this morning I wake up earlier, alert the moment I feel her shifting as she begins the slow swim upward from the depths of heavy sleep. Everything smells so different; her skin, the scent of her cat in the apartment, old books on the shelves, sandalwood soap, the West Coast fog that blankets the city overnight, this ancient wooden building hammered together just after the quake and fire, woolen carpets on the floor, remnants of last night’s supper in unwashed pots in the sink.

  I love it here. I carefully snake my arm around her waist as her hips move a little, big spoon and little spoon, and rest my hand on her warm, silky belly. I am wide awake, and waiting patiently. She is so soft, even as I brush the skin of her broad, naked shoulders with my lips, that I am compelled to gently stroke her belly hair as I would a kitten curled against me. I should let her sleep, but she’s already waking on her own, and I desire her intensely.

  Here we are, she and I, two old queers who have endured long, curious, circuitous lives that have brought us to this place, this morning, this moment. We’re neither of us gold star anything, having fucked men, women, trans folk, and many, many people between the two of us. We’ve both borne, breastfed, and raised children created the “old-fashioned way,” which makes us pariahs in certain hard-line lesbian circles. We both identified as bisexual in our youth, we’ve both married men in our time, we’ve both been subjected to degradation and abuse at masculine hands, but now we’re both butch dykes, and we’re both survivors. That’s it— we’re gold star survivors. Isn’t that enough? It sure feels like a lot, after far more than a century of combined years.

  Two gold star survivors who found each other in this crazy, neo-fascist cesspool that America has become, and we hold on to each other for dear life while living in the crosshairs. We hail from opposite coasts but managed to find each other, and we’re not letting go. At this moment, we cling to each other in her bed in the heart of San Francisco. She is rousing from sleep, enfolded in my arms, her naked ass pressed against my belly, so inviting. I kiss her shoulders again and then the back of her closely shorn head, she wiggles and moans, and this is how it begins.

  I trail my fingers softly up and down her belly, along the lines of her rib cage, brush against her right breast. Her nipple contracts and hardens into a perfect nub, which I roll between my fingertips like a red pebble plucked from the sand of Ocean Beach, like a memento. She whimpers as I stretch and pull her breast, arches her back, grinds her ass into my groin, and my own nipples contract in response, my clit jumps and thickens in its hood, a sudden surge of wet in my cunt oozes onto my thigh.

  She is no longer sound asleep. The tattooed flock of birds on her torso are fluttering their wings, turning their heads this way and that, greeting the day.

  I roll her onto her back, kiss the soft folds of skin on that long neck of hers. We are old people, both of us, and we are so hot for each other it drives us half mad. No one told me this would happen, this reawakening of desire after the half-century mark. It was like a surprise birthday party thrown by one’s closest and dearest friends, unexpected and utterly delightful, warm and loving and with plentiful food and the best cake. My hand moves from her breast to languidly pry open her long legs. She is toujours prêt, always ready for me, slick with precome, clit swollen and protruding. How I long to take her engorgement into my mouth, to suck it like a candy, her flavor on my tongue like Turkish paste, sweet and salty and nutty.

  I dip between her labia with my fingertips and stroke her cunt from clit to asshole, back and forth with a feather touch on this rare and wondrous canvas. Hips rise with each brushstroke, and I know she aches for my fingers, my fist inside her.

  Like heartache, like a dream, I slip one finger inside her cunt, reaching to press the soft pad that fully wakes her lust. Her eyes flutter open and she looks at me, not yet able to speak, but I know exactly what she wants. I slide two fingers into her hole, three fingers, four, stretching her wide and deep. Now I’m on my knees between her pale, grasshopper legs, and I reach up with my left hand to tug and twist her right nipple, the favored one. Her body gently undulates, wavelike, with the combination of pain and pleasure.

  I am so hungry for her, so very greedy. There is a trickle of precome, my own, sliding down my thigh and my clit throbs sympathetically, responding to her sensuous ripple. I turn my hand inside her, my thumb finds its way to that special spot to the side of her thickened clit, pressing into the flesh there until she shudders. Who am I to deny her the sensation she craves? I cup my thumb into my palm and push into her cunt slowly, turning and twisting, spiraling inward like a nautilus shell. Close my eyes and feel my way. She whispers, “Pl-pl-please,” and with one more plunge and twist, my hand is inside her clutching cunt. My hand curls into a fist, thumb tucked inside, and I explore. My knuckles press against her cervix, I gauge her reaction and turn my fist again.

  My left hand is on her right tit, kneading and pulling at the stretchy red nipple. My own emptiness torments me. I take her clit into my mouth, desperate to be filled, too, and suckle that tender organ. We are connected, the circuit is complete: hand, tit, mouth, clit, cunt, fist. I suck her wetly, slurping her clit as I would a raw oyster, salty with seawater. I am the anglerfish’s mate, locked into her body; my purpose is to serve her pleasure. My fist belongs inside of her. I turn my hand again, twist her nipple, mouth her engorged cunt, and sense the growing come start in her belly, rolling forth like a full-moon tide.

  I feel the planet spinning slowly as I turn and knuckle inside her slippery cunt. My fist is the axis around which everything whirls: clouds, continents, oceans, life. Fog drifts in through the open window and coats my skin, my hair, with moisture as if I were in the mossy forest back East. She is babbling now, meaningless fragments of words that tumble from her open mouth, urging me on. Her cunt begins a slow clenching pressure around my wrist as she squirms, flails, hands clutching at blankets, hips jerking, legs starting to shake. I breathe, “Come for me. I want you to come for me now.” She roars skyward as she comes and it fills my ears, the sweetest music of sex and pleasure. Her cunt bruises my wrist in a circlet that I will feel for many days, remembering, as I lift my mug of tea, turn the doorknob, button a shirt, pick up my backpack.

  One more turn of my fist inside her, one more twist of her nipple. My sharp teeth sink into her thigh, and she is coming again, ejaculating, gushing her come up my arm, yelling into the foggy room.

  Our breaths are ragged as we ride out the aftershocks. I slowly unfurl my fist as I gently slide my hand from her cunt. I hold her to me as I mutter quiet and sweet endearments into her ears. I kiss her soft skin, her neck, her cheeks, her swollen lips. She drifts back into the dark waters of sleep; it is very early, after all. I pull the blankets up around her naked shoulders and tenderly tuck her in, and slide carefully out of the bed.

  There is a robe on the chair, woolen and itchy but warm against the fog. I pull it on and glide barefoot across the apartment into the little kitchen to put on the kettle for tea, and dig around in the refrigerator for wild mushrooms, eggs, and goat cheese for our omelet breakfast. The cat appears from nowhere, like magic, and winds herself around my legs, begging for her morning kibble and fresh water. I pull back the curtain in the kitchen window to peer out at the fog as it rolls through the city streets. There is a hint of yellow and pink eastward over the building outlines, a few morning birds tentatively chirp, and the promise of another sweet day with my beloved is kept.

  WHERE THERE’S SMOKE

  M. Birds

  “The woman in the woods been asking for you,” Kyle said when June saw him, leaning over the pharmacist’s counter.

  “The hell she was.”

  “Well, not you specifically, but . . . you know. Your goods and services. Told her I’d pass the message on.”

  June chewed on her lower lip. “No thanks, man. What if she’s a cop or something?”

  Kyle snorted. He and June had grown up together, danced with each other at their high school’s half-assed prom. June was still dreaming of leaving then—getting out of their tiny town, moving to the city, going to school. She’d had big, big plans.

  “That woman ain’t no cop.” Kyle shook his head. “You’ve seen her.”

  June had seen her. Everyone in town had seen her walking through the slushy streets with boots that cost more than a month’s rent. Some artsy type from the city, renting Frank Pinchbeck’s cabin for the season. Even though the snow was finally melting, the woman in the woods seemed constantly wrapped in plaid and flannel, huge wool coats and cashmere scarves.

  “Could have money,” Kyle said, considering. “You should cut me in.”

  June rolled her eyes. But the next day, she filled her messenger bag and headed into the woods.

  Her dad always told June she had a green thumb. Potted plants, even goddamn vases of flowers seemed to thrive when June touched them. The Wander-Inn wasn’t exactly the place for a greenhouse, but June’s dad kept the flower boxes full, built a raised garden plot round back where the parking stalls were. In summer there were always fresh pansies in the rooms, even when they were empty. June’s dad was like that—a man with an eye for detail, and no sense of the big picture goddamn whatsoever.

  When he died, and June and her mom realized how fucked the hotel was financially, they had a couple of choices. They could try to sell or they could beg, borrow, and steal from everyone they knew in the hopes of getting their heads even somewhat above water. June learned pretty quick (an eighteen-year-old with big plans) that her green thumb could be used for more than just planting pansies.

  She went to the city and bought a High Times magazine on her nineteenth birthday. By the time she turned twenty, she had enough for lights and soil and seeds, and by twenty-one she was a business owner. She didn’t grow a lot, but enough to keep the bills paid, enough to make sure her mom never had to worry about where their next meal would come from. And she didn’t sell to kids, and it was all legal now anyway, right? June tried to justify it to herself on nights when she’d had a bit too much to drink.

  She didn’t end up going anywhere, not to the city and not to school. How could she leave her mom on a sinking ship like the Wander-Inn? No, June stayed and made money and worked the front desk, staying up late to read about fertilizer and pH levels. She didn’t smoke the stuff herself (got all paranoid and red-faced that one time in high school) but she lived in a tourist town, and there were no end of willing customers.

  June stayed. And if she dreamed some nights about smoke-filled city bars where women wore leather and dark lipstick, well—no one needed to know about that.

  The woman in the woods was smaller up close. She answered the door in a sweater, peering out at June with wide, light eyes. June almost took a step back at the sight of her high cheekbones and long neck. The woman looked like a bird made of glass. June was afraid of breaking her.

  “Kyle—from the pharmacy,” she said awkwardly by way of introduction. “He told me you were looking for me.”

  The woman said nothing, just blinked at June with long eyelashes. It was impossible to tell how old she was—maybe late thirties? Older than June but not much. Her skin was flawless, blonde hair razored short against her skull. June felt shabby by comparison, dressed like a hillbilly in her oversized jeans and her dad’s old shearling coat.

  “I’m June.” She stuck out her hand, because fuck knew what else she was going to do.

  “Miriam.” The woman in the woods didn’t shake June’s hand and June noticed the curves of her long fingers, the way they stuck tight together like she was wearing mittens, knuckles round and swollen. “What do you want exactly?”

  “I wanted to see . . . ” June paused, chewing her lip. “If there was anything you needed. Kyle said there might be.”

  “Kyle from the pharmacy.�� Miriam crossed her arms. She glanced back into her cabin, and then out toward the path leading through the woods. “Did you walk here?”

  “Yeah. Didn’t take long. I live in the Wander-Inn. I mean, I own it. Or my family does.”

  “Is that the one that looks like an Alpine resort? It’s very . . . very, um . . . ”

  June laughed and nodded. “Like a time warp, isn’t it? Like someone from the sixties saw one postcard of Switzerland and then dropped acid and thought ‘I should build that.’”

  “I was going to say—quaint.”

  “Sure you were.”

  Miriam’s mouth curved just slightly, the smile there and gone so fast that June almost missed it.

  “I suppose you should come in.” Miriam stood aside, gesturing with one thin arm through the doorway.

  June slid out of her wet boots, hung her coat on the hook by the doorway. She didn’t even try to pretend she wasn’t looking around. She’d never been inside Frank’s cabin, had no idea he’d spruced it up so nice for tourists. It had high ceilings and shiny hardwood floors. A fire was going in the grate in front of a vintage-looking leather couch, artfully draped with a bright wool blanket, and most of the flat surfaces had jarred beeswax candles flickering. June whistled low—then immediately blushed. Christ, this woman probably thought she was some bumpkin who’d never seen fire before.

  “It’s nice,” she said to cover her embarrassment.

  “It suits my purposes.” Miriam followed her in, looking uncertain. “Do you want—tea or water or anything?”

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