Best of Best Women's Erotica (34 page)

“Bend over, right here,” she instructed, pointing to yet another pile of dishes. “Since you don't seem to be doing too well the traditional way, I'm going to have you lick these plates clean. Go ahead, I want your tongue on that top one there.” No sooner had my tongue reached out than she lifted up my skirt and started spanking me, first with a light hand and then much harder. She meant business. My tongue lapped and lapped, wishing it was her pussy, working frantically to get through even one dish. I did, somehow getting it to look relatively clean—though who she'd get to eat on a licked-clean plate I didn't know.

“Good girl, now, let's move along.” She placed the clean plate in its own new pile and presented me with more. Some
had chocolate sauce, but even that was hardening into an unappetizing mess. She took pity on me, opening the fridge to take out some whipped cream, then covering the entire plate with it.

“Knock yourself out.”

I plunged my face into the cream, not caring about making a mess (what difference did that really make in this environment?), eager for more strokes. This time, I went at it with gusto, and the more I licked, the harder she spanked me. Then she slipped her fingers into me, not starting with a delicate single digit but pushing three fat fingers inside. I could barely keep up with my whipped cream but I knew I had to if I wanted to keep getting fucked. Just as I was about to come, the alarm went off. Had five minutes already passed?

“Okay, darlin', you're off the hook for now.” She blew a whistle that had been hidden in her pocket and two sexy women in French maid outfits appeared out of nowhere. (I guess I'm not the only one with a cleaning fetish.) Alex led me upstairs and fucked me for the rest of the night, whispering dirty words about suds and sponges and silverware in my ear the whole time.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

SO YOU'RE WALKING UP AND DOWN TELEGRAPH Avenue, up and down, trying not to look like the new dyke in town, trying not to broadcast that you're fresh off the boat, innocent new meat just in from Indiana, come to the big city. Actually, the small city—to Berkeley in fact, because San Francisco is a little intimidating to start off with if you're a twenty-two-year-old dyke who came all the way to California to get laid because you've been dumped by the only other lesbian in Franklin, Indiana, and you just can't take it any more.

The women certainly are pretty, in Berkeley, in the springtime. Campus chicks in blue jeans and T-shirts and bandannas; skin in shades you've never seen on a TV set. Lots of skin—they don't seem to feel the cold that's prickling
your skin. You are determined not to pull the sweatshirt out of your backpack, not to shiver in this dark-green tank top with the scoop neck that shows your ample cleavage for the benefit of any cute chick who might happen to like tall redheads who probably still look like farm girls.

You've been cruising Berkeley for weeks now. Days working over on Shattuck, over at the games store whose owners seemed surprised to have a woman actually want the job. Boys and their toys! Evenings on the street, up and down, occasionally smiling at a woman with short dark hair and long legs, the kind of legs that could reach back and wrap all the way around your neck as you bump and grind, oh yes. Smiling at her and she smiles back and your heart does the thump-thing and then she keeps going down the street, or asks you if you have the time and then keeps going and you're back to walking the street again wondering where the hell women go to get laid in this town.

Up past the hippie chicks, up past the man who tries to sell you beads for your hair at three times what it would cost in Franklin, all the way up to the campus, turn and start walking down again. Maybe it's time to get up the nerve to go into San Francisco, find one of those girl-gyms, those dyke-diners you keep hearing about, uh-huh. You walk down past Cody's Bookstore, hover in the window of the poster shop, scope out the new new age books at Shambhala.

It sure would be a lot easier to walk into one of those diners with a beautiful woman on your arm, a pretty little thing like that dark-skinned girl behind the counter, the one with the long black hair braided down her back, with the tight white shirt that outlines breasts the size of softballs, the one walking over to take something out of a window, the one smiling
at you through the glass. Right. And now she's going to turn away or come to the door and ask if you wanted to actually buy anything or were just planning to hang out there and scare away the customers. You brace yourself, and then she stares at you real serious, and then she winks. Long and slow, and you can't believe what you're seeing, and you check to make sure you've got your pink triangle earring in where she can see it and oh yes, it's there, and then she's coming to the door and it's “I get off in fifteen minutes. Want to buy me coffee?” and you are stumbling over yourself to say yes.

Fifteen minutes and the coffee shop and her name all slide by in a blur—you've forgotten her name but you can't admit it, so you just keep smiling and hope and pray that she doesn't think you're a total twit, a ditz, a baby dyke without a clue. After coffee you're walking down the street and you tell her all about your last relationship and how bad it went, doing your damnedest to convince her of your dyke credentials until she grins and says, “Hush—now is not the time,” and then she pulls you into a doorway and starts kissing you. She is at least a foot shorter than you, but she's up on her toes and pulling you down with no hesitation and the kissing is easy, so easy and hot you're melting into it, and then the door you're leaning on starts to open and you realize that her hand is on the doorknob and her key is in the door and this is, of course, the door to her apartment and she's taking you upstairs, woohoo!

She kisses you all the way up three flights of stairs, and her hands are all over you, over the T-shirt, under the T-shirt, under your bra to cup your breasts, squeeze your nipples, pull you up the last steps with her fingers tight on your nipples and her mouth latched to yours, and you are tumbling into her apartment and closing the door with your bodies 'cause your
hands are too damn busy to spare. She breaks long enough to turn on the light and fire up some candles and incense and turn off the light again and then you are falling to the futon in the living room, lit by candles, the room is full of candles and statues and flowers and incense. You're a little dizzy, but when she pulls off your shirt and bra and starts licking a nipple you have to know, you say, “Hang on,” and “I hate to ask this,” and “What's your name again?” and wait for her to throw you out.

She laughs instead, and says, “Kali; my name is Kali,” and then she gets this wide grin and lies back on the futon and says, “Kali is a goddess, you know? Worship me.”

You've never touched a goddess before, but your mama didn't raise no fools, and so you get her and you out of clothes as fast as you can, before she has a chance to take a proper breath or change her mind, and then you're kissing her. Sucking on her toes and calves and knees and thighs, up around her clit, up her curving stomach and softball breasts, down to fingers and up again, kissing and sucking and licking until your mouth is dry and her skin is wet and shaking in the wavering light of what seem a hundred candles.

You worship her with mouth and hands, you slide a finger in her cunt and then another until they are slick and salty, and you bring them up to your mouth and taste them, lick them with Kali's eyes on you, glittering, and she breathes “More,” and you go down, you breathe on, lick, and suck her clit, slide two fingers in again, thrust back and forth and she is writhing beneath you, she is silent but her body speaks. It whispers and moans and whimpers and screams and she is almost there and you can't quite do it, you can't get her there, you can feel the crest waiting there, the last lap, the last mile, and you're not going to
make it, you're not good enough and you are ready to lay your head down on her stomach and cry if she will permit it.

You stop, removing the once-thrusting, now-sore fingers. She whimpers, and your stomach churns, and you take a deep, gasping breath. Kali opens her eyes then and sees you and she is not angry. She is twisted in on herself, she is bathed in sweat, dripping in the candlelight, and she says, “It's okay,” and takes a deep breath and you can see that she is going to try to come down, to relax, to let it go and, dammit, that is not good enough, you know you can do better than this—and then inspiration hits. You slide back down, your mouth is on her again, on that sweet-salty mound, on that wet nubbin, and while you lick and she convulses silently again, starting the climb again, your hand reaches out and grabs a candle.

Your eyes are closed against her skin but you can feel the slim, cool shape of it, bubbled with old dripped wax, long and hard and untiring. You wave it in the air to put it out, you wait for it to cool as your tongue tickles and touches, twisting to penetrate every crevice, every inch it can reach, and when it is exhausted, when it feels that it is about to break in two, to shatter into a thousand pieces, that is when you reverse the shape in your hand and slide it into her, into her dripping cavity, sliding it smooth and hard into her, and Kali gasps beneath you and her hands come down to your shoulders, her fingers dig into your skin, and you know that you guessed right. You push and pull, thrusting hard and fast until finally, finally her back arches, her hips convulse, and she freezes still and silent for an endless, aching time, and even if your fingers and tongue fall off you are not going to move one inch in the wrong direction. And then she relaxes.

She pulls you up, after a time, and you make love in all the
clever ways that two young dykes in the prime of their strength and stamina can, and she discovers how easily you come, how even nipple-sucking can do it, and she says that she might forgive you for that someday. Hours pass, and the candles are long burned out, and you are settling down to sleep but can't quite get comfortable, there's a lump, a bump in the sheets under your hip, and you realize that you've left the candle there and are surprised it's still in one piece and you reach down and pull it out and in the thin moonlight you realize that it isn't a candle after all.

A statue of a goddess, a naked goddess, and the bumps you took for dripping candle wax are breasts and curved hands, many hands, and you catch your breath, wondering if you have committed some form of sacrilege, if Kali will recoil in shock, horror, dismay, and she must see it in your eyes because she laughs and laughs and eventually, gently, explains that she is not religious, definitely not Hindu, that her family was in fact Catholic.

She herself had turned atheist long ago, she says, and got the statues from the new age bookstore free. She tells you that she only keeps them around 'cause they're pretty and they seem to turn on the chicks, and you blush and are grateful for the thinness of the light. She also says that even if she did believe in the goddess, she doesn't think She would mind being deep inside a woman's wet cunt. Then she confesses a secret—that Kali is only her work name, after all, that it impresses the bookstore clients. Her true name is something she takes seriously, and she never tells it to lovers unless they stay around long enough for breakfast. And when you get over being embarrassed and amused and slightly shocked, you tell her that you think you could probably arrange that.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

JEALOUSY. THE PERSON WHO HASN'T FELT IT cannot know how much it hurts, or imagine the madness committed in its name. In my thirty years I have suffered it only once, but I was burned so brutally that I have scars that still haven't healed, and I hope never will, as a reminder to avoid that feeling in the future. Diego wasn't mine—no person can belong to another—and the fact that I was his wife gave me no right over him or his feelings; love is a free contract that begins with a spark and can end the same way. A thousand dangers threaten love, but if the couple defends it, it can be saved; it can grow like a tree and give shade and fruit, but that happens only when both partners participate. Diego never did; our relationship was damned from the start. I
realize that today, but then I was blind, at first with pure rage and later with grief.

Spying on him, watch in hand, I began to be aware that my husband's absences did not coincide with his explanations. When supposedly he had gone out hunting with Eduardo, he would come back hours earlier or later than his brother; when the other men in the family were at the sawmill or at the roundup branding cattle, he would suddenly show up in the patio, and later, if I raised the subject at the table, I would find that he hadn't been with them at any time during the day. When he went to town for supplies he would come back without anything presumably because he hadn't found what he was looking for, although it might be something as common as an ax or a saw. In the countless hours the family spent together, he avoided conversation at all cost; he was always the one who organized the card games or asked Susana to sing. If she came down with one of her headaches, he was quickly bored and would go off on his horse with his shotgun over his shoulder. I couldn't follow him on horseback without his seeing me or raising suspicion in the family, but I could keep an eye on him when he was around the house. That was how I noticed that sometimes he got up in the middle of the night, and that he didn't go to the kitchen to get something to eat, as I had always thought, but dressed, went out to the patio, disappeared for an hour or two, then quietly slipped back to bed. Following him in the darkness was easier than during the day, when a dozen eyes were watching us; it was all a matter of staying awake and avoiding wine at dinner and the bedtime opium drops.