Best Lesbian Erotica 2010

FLICK CHICKS Allison Wonderland

From my place on the chaise, I examine my lover, observing her primping ritual at the vanity table. Sitting on the cushion, clad in sheer chiffon chemise and sugar-cone cup bra, Mae looks like she belongs to a different era, an era of starlets and glamour girls and pinup queens. When passersby pass Mae by, they often pause for a moment, expecting the scenery to segue from Technicolor to black-and-white.

Mae plucks her lipstick from the tabletop, swivels the tube and glides the wedge along her lips, creating a circle of crimson. Next are her eyes, the lashes extended with mascara, the lids anointed with gold powder—glitzy gold, like the statuettes dispensed at the Academy Awards. Now, the coiffure: Mae’s hair is her crowning glory, Jean Harlow blonde with Bettie Page bangs. She unrolls the pistachio pinsetters, arms raised and bent at the elbows, resembling a ballerina poised in pirouette. When she is finished, she scrutinizes her reflection in the mirror. Sliding her glasses onto her nose, Mae peers through the cat’s-eye frames of the spectacles, studying the visage of a vixen.

“Let’s get cracking.”

Mae jerks at the sound of my voice. She hates it when I do that. Frown crimping her lips, she turns in my direction, sees me reclining on the lounge, limbs limp, head cushioned by a fluffy round pillow. Pinched between my fingers is a vinyl riding crop, its shaft tapping against the veneer of the maple wood.

Mae rises to her feet, saunters over to the settee, her slender heels stabbing the parquet floor. “What’s this?” she demands, fingering the fabric of my brassiere.

My attire is nearly identical to Mae’s. Garish garters engird my thighs. Black satin gloves conceal the flesh from forearms to fingertips. Nylon stockings cleave to my calves, travel to my toes, and then disappear inside shiny black stilettos. However, unlike Mae and her missile cups, I have opted for a simple black bra.

“What’s wrong?” I pout, feigning innocence.

Mae seizes a strap, stretching it away from my shoulder. Upon release, it snaps against my skin, evoking a savory synthesis of pain and pleasure.

“I don’t like the bullet style,” I assert, guiding my body into a sitting position. “It looks like something that belongs on the obstacle course at driving school.”

“You…” Mae starts, but this is as far as she gets. I watch as her gaze strays to the implement in my hand, watch as her eyes glide along the shiny black switch.

“I know what you’re thinking,” I drawl, pressing the tip of the whip into Mae’s shoulder, eliciting titters and trembles.

Mae settles onto my lap, the lacy accents of her scanties tickling my thighs. “Oh?” she queries, digits stroking the curve of my hip.

My limbs quiver at the contact. “You’re thinking—”

“I can speak for myself, thank you,” Mae affirms, and snatches the whip from my grip. She hops off my lap, strides to the tripod assembled in the center of the room.

I watch as my lover adjusts the camera. “Well?”

“Hmm?” Mae murmurs, lips pursed in concentration.

“What are you thinking?”

“Oh.” She laughs, looks up at me. “I was thinking,” she says, “that it’s time to spank your fanny, Dani.” Mae’s tone is flippant, almost nonchalant, but her expression belies the inflection in her voice.

I study my lover’s eyes behind their tilted frames. The irises glimmer, incandescent, like a theater marquee.

In a matter of minutes, we will be transported to the 1950s, recreating the tame but tantalizing stag films that featured the three B’s: bondage, backsides and Bettie Page. Mae and I own a production company, creating erotic films for the nostalgically inclined. We work both behind and in front of the camera. Not out of necessity, although finances are a factor, but by choice.

A year ago, however, when Mae first proposed the idea, I chafed at her suggestion. Porn? She wanted to make porn?

The word reeked of peep shows and peeping toms.

I envisioned films with such titles as Rock Around the Cock and A Tale of Two Titties.

I envisioned our audience: men in flimsy beige trench coats, drool pooling in their jowls, sweat drenching their brows.

I imagined…

Here, Mae interrupted my imaginings, first with a kiss, then with a compromise. “You’ll only have one costar,” she promised. “Me. It’ll be just the two of us.” Then she added, thinking that she could change my mind by changing words, “And we won’t really be making porn. We’ll be making… period pieces.”

I remained skeptical.

“Just the two of us,” Mae reiterated. “And perhaps some equestrian equipment…”

Inevitably, I warmed up to the idea, because the more I deliberated, the more alluring the proposition became. It began to intrigue me—the thought of someone looking, desiring from a distance, aching to touch yet not being able to. And so I agreed, and Cup of Tease was born.

“You ready?” Mae inquires, angling the lens toward the settee. On celluloid, the mint green upholstery will be converted to a grainy gray.

“Picture you upon my knee,” I croon. “Just tease for two and two for tease.”

Mae’s smile segues into a smirk. “Actually, Dani,” she says, tapping the riding crop against her calf, “you’ll be on my knee today, remember?”

She gestures for me to lie down. I take direction well. Maneuvering my body into repose, I melt into the cushion, the satin fabric conforming to the contours of my figure.

Mae pushes the record button.

Action.

Expelling a yawn, I pretend to stir from slumber, extending my arms behind my head, arching my back like a feline stretching after a nap. I ball my fists, twist them in front of my eyes, back and forth, to and fro.

I look straight into the camera and gasp, expanding the oval of my mouth, widening the circumference of my eyes, as though I have just been caught unawares. But soon my surprise transitions into curiosity. I wave at the lens, fluttering my fingers, batting my eyelashes.

The flaunting and flashing is next. I contort my body into various cheesecake poses: lying on my belly with legs flexing, lying on my back with legs kicking.

I rise to my feet, pucker my lips, smack them together, blowing invisible kisses to the camera. I am cheeky and coquettish, wholesome yet wanton.

I begin to wriggle. I swivel and shimmy and sashay, my body undulating like a Slinky. When I dance, I dance for Mae and Mae alone. I watch her watch me from behind the tripod. She slides her glasses down the bridge of her nose, revealing her eyes, sienna swirls of desire.

In the next moment, Mistress Mae enters the frame, switch clenched in her grip, scowl tugging at her lips. Mistress deplores dancing. Mae’s gloved hand wraps around my arm, her fingers singeing my flesh. I pout, I whimper, I grovel, sniveling like an infant. But to no avail. Mistress drags me to the settee, flings my flailing body onto her lap. My resistance is a ruse. In reality, the thought of the forthcoming flogging kindles my arousal. I can feel a puddle forming inside my panties, the sticky cream clinging to the fabric.

Mae’s palm connects with my backside. I yelp, thrashing my legs in a semblance of suffering. Mistress makes contact again. My feet and fists pummel the air in fictitious agony. I writhe against her lap, the material between my legs smearing nectar onto my mound. It feels warm and waxy, like butterscotch.

Mae yanks my panties from my bottom, exposing the cheeks and cleavage of my rump. I twist my head to look at her. She winks at me, the corners of her mouth pointed upward, so smug, so sultry. Mae’s fingers graze my flesh. She is tender at first, stroking me the way a guitarist strums the strings of her instrument, lulling me into a false sense of security.

The blow stings, like a slap across the face, only not so unpleasant.

Then harder. But not hard enough. The honey hue of my skin camouflages the strawberry shade of the marks, and she has to hit me harder for them to be visible.

The next strike is hard enough to brand me with her hand, to leave an indelible imprint on my flesh. I wait for more, expect it, thirst for it. But it doesn’t come. I mewl, craning my neck to see why she has stopped. Mistress raises the riding crop, swishes it in front of my face. Saliva pools in the recesses of my mouth. The punishment isn’t over; it is merely entering the next phase. I wince, displaying a façade of fear.

Mae’s tongue touches the tip of the whip, tracing, stroking, the way she licks the frosting off a cupcake. My hips buck, betraying the illusion. Mistress shoves my head back down, her fingers tangling in my hair, her nails scratching my scalp. I hiss at the sensations, clenching my eyes shut.

Three whops land in quick succession. The pleasure zips from my posterior to my pussy, the way a spark surges along the fuse of a stick of dynamite. My panties are saturated, the juices creeping along the edges, soaking the chiffon trim, en route to Mae’s thighs. She shifts, lifts her leg slightly, pressing it into my cunt.

The switch sears my bottom. Pangs of pleasure whisk through my body, overwhelming my senses. Another twinge, another twitch. My muscles ache, but I disregard the pain. I can feel a rectangular welt beginning to take shape, a welcome complement to the impressions of Mae’s hand.

I have lost count of the number of times the crop has made contact with my rump. I no longer have the energy to engage in such useless tasks as tallying thrashings. Instead, I invest my energy into relieving the unceasing ache between my legs.

Lids screwed shut, lashes scraping the skin beneath my eyes, I flail my limbs at full throttle, gyrate my pelvis, grind against Mae’s thighs, smearing my juices on the alabaster skin.

To all outward appearances, I am a woman ensnared in the throes of agony. Yet while my convulsions convey misery, Mistress knows better. Mistress cannot be fooled. Mistress knows when I come.

Soon after, Mae taps my bottom with her hand, indicating that the whipping is over. I rise to my feet, bringing my hands to my backside, a pretense of protection. Mae brandishes the whip in my face, a threat of future floggings if I’m naughty again. I bow my head in deference and pout, the corners of my mouth sagging like wilted violets. Mistress smiles, pleased with the effect of the punishment. Gently, she tugs my panties back into place, concealing my bruised bottom.

I watch as she exits, no longer visible in the frame. She retreats behind the camera, deactivates the device, and returns to my side. Smiling, she reaches behind me, squeezes my cheeks. I flinch, teeth nearly puncturing my lip. The flesh is throbbing now, but the pleasure is worth the pain, the pain worth the pleasure. Mae slides a hand inside the elastic band of my panties. Her fingers soothe the soreness, her touch tender and hesitant, as if I am made of glass.

“Next time, I’ll handle you with kid gloves,” Mae teases, pressing her lips to mine.

“Then you’ll have to find a new costar,” I threaten, reciprocating the kiss.

“Picture you upon my knee,” Mae croons. “Just tease for two and two for tease.”

“Actually, Mae,” I say, and snatch the whip from her grip, “I’ve already been upon your knee. You, however, have not yet been upon mine.”

Mae glances at the camera.

“Is there enough film?” I ask.

“Yes,” she answers, tracing the outline of the welt on my backside. “Let’s not do a sequel, though. Let’s just pick up where we left off.”

I nod, contemplating Mistress’s comeuppance, deliberating where to stand since sitting is out of the question.

“What should we call this film?” Mae inquires, brows furrowed in thought.

I remove her hands from my body, stroll toward the vanity, deposit the riding crop between the perfume bottle and the lotion dispenser. I scan the table, surveying the various accoutrements. The hairbrush catches my eye. It is the paddle kind, its square head large and expansive. “We should call it,” I begin, curling my fingers around the handle, “Bottoms Up.”