Best Lesbian Erotica 2010

PINUP Vanessa Vaughn

I sat at the front of the library in my usual place. It wasn’t much, but it would do for now, a simple grad-school job. I inhaled a long breath, taking in the beautiful clean smell of books. Usually, I felt comfortable here.

But not now. Not since she started working here.

We had been watching each other silently for weeks, but hadn’t been properly introduced. I had my own name for her: Bettie. That’s what I called her in my head. That’s what she seemed like. Something a little old fashioned; cute, but maybe a little cruel; somewhere between the ultimate pinup queen and a Dewey-decimal-reading, card-catalog-loving student librarian.

As I wheeled across the computer lounge to help someone else, I could feel her eyes on me again. This back and forth was our dance, our game. I wanted it to be over, but I wanted it to continue. Most of all, I wanted her.

I knew what she would see as she looked me over again. The line of my chin was sharp and boyish, sometimes a startling contrast to my plump, pink mouth. Wild short-cropped hair crowned my head in a butch fauxhawk. In the back of my thoughts, I wondered if she might prefer a girl who was a little softer, a little more feminine, but judging from the way she had seemed to fixate on me, I knew I should put that out of my mind. Unconsciously, as I thought of this, I reached up to run my hand along the side of my head. I hoped that she could just make out the muscled curves of my upper arms under these loose-fitting short sleeves.

I looked down at my strong hands clinging to the large wheels. She must have noticed them. I wasn’t fragile and hoped she didn’t expect me to be; in fact, I was quite the opposite. Was the wheelchair something she always took note of? If it was, I prayed it was a turn-on, something new and unknown. Sex with me was warm skin mixed with hard muscles and cool smooth steel. It could seem a little different, a little kinky. I hoped she was intrigued. She sure as hell seemed to be.

I turned toward her again, catching her in the act of watching me. She started as I locked on to her green eyes once more. I was certain I could look right into her head and see hundreds of twisted scenarios swimming there. I was certain she wanted me. She seemed captivated as she leaned toward me over her desk, but it was she who looked away first, her cheeks reddening, apparently a little flustered.

She picked up another book, running the spine across the scanner ever so slowly and reading the computer. It was obvious she was conscious of me as she continued with her work. Her actions were graceful and deliberate. She raised two fingers to her stylish dark-rimmed glasses, adjusting them gently on her nose. She pretended to concentrate on the screen as she twisted a strand of long black hair with her fingertips. Placing the first book aside, she grabbed another.

I felt myself shiver as I watched her moisten her glossy red lips with her tongue.

This is getting ridiculous, I thought.

In that moment, I made up my mind. I grabbed the nearest book and pulled up to one of the computers. I ran a quick search and hit the PRINT button, snatching the warm page from the tray. Wheeling across the entryway and making my way behind the long desk, I pulled up behind her. She smelled like cinnamon, sweet but full of spice.

Bettie continued her work, not yet sensing my presence. Lifting the date stamp, she pressed it firmly to a card on a book’s back cover. Red ink seeped from the rubber sides as she held it there. I imagined her delicate hands pressing against my neck that way, firm but tender. I imagined what she would feel like against my skin, against my fingers. Involuntarily, I twisted. I could feel myself getting wetter.

“Excuse me,” I said gently, clearing my throat.

It startled her. As she whirled around, I found myself face-to-face with those green eyes.

For a moment, she couldn’t speak. Neither could I. She had seemed like a dream before, something far off and untouchable. Now she was real. I was sure she was thinking the same thing. This was her warmth next to me. Her skin was so close, I could reach out to touch it if I was brave enough.

I reached across and laid the printout on her desk, brushing her arm with mine. The touch seemed to send a jolt through her. She was roused from her open-mouthed stare. She turned her head to read the document but kept the rest of her body still.

As she looked away, my eyes were on her legs. She wore thin transparent black stockings. I watched as she shifted under the short skirt, revealing more of her thigh.

I felt goose bumps run up my spine. What a tease. She sucked on the end of her pen, drawing attention to her mouth. “I see the problem,” she told me. “The books you’re looking for are translations. They’d be in another section. Upstairs.”

She turned to look at me head-on. “I’ll show you,” she said simply. She didn’t wait for a reply. Standing suddenly, she walked toward the elevators.

I watched her go. Neat black seams ran up the back of her stockings. On her feet were black patent-leather heels. These pieces of clothing were common enough, but on her, they seemed indecent. I hadn’t quite expected them. She stopped and stretched to the side to push the elevator button with a short red-enameled fingernail.

I came to my senses and pulled up beside her. We took the elevator to the fifth floor, the second from the top. I followed as she exited and took a quick left. “People don’t come up here much,” she explained with her back to me as she walked. She turned and shot me a cautious look.

I glanced around. Only a single student was briefly visible in the aisle all the way at the other end of the floor, his arms full of books. We passed rows and rows of deserted stacks before finally stopping. She eyed the paper in her hand as she checked the numbers, adjusting those adorable black glasses.

Bettie turned and walked halfway to the end, long legs placed gracefully one in front of the other. I followed close behind her. She took one more glance at the paper before she stopped and slowly bent over at the waist, reaching for a book on the bottom shelf.

My heart leapt into my throat.

Tease is right, I thought. It was obvious she was doing this for my benefit. In those heels, I could see everything from this angle, her pert backside framed with a lacy black thong. Without saying a word, she was making it clear what she expected; and I eagerly indulged her.

I picked up a book and smacked her firmly on that perfect ass. She let out a little cry of surprise as I did this, but she didn’t protest. She held her position. In response, I smacked her twice more, this time hard. I could see pale red marks forming on her skin.

“Stand up,” I said.

She complied. I reached forward and spun her around. She had a startled look on her face, obviously surprised by my strength, and I liked that. I pulled her hips toward me roughly and she smiled. That smile took my breath away. She looked gorgeous but ferocious at the same time, like a beautiful animal. Her green eyes flashed and her glossy lips quivered as she eyed my body. Then I saw the vaguest change in her expression. I could tell she had made her mind up about something.

Slowly, she disentangled herself from me and righted herself. I was puzzled for a moment as she wordlessly began to back away. I was confused. Was she leaving me?

No, she wasn’t, I realized with relief. Instead, she seemed to be leading me somewhere. Bettie backed up slowly and seductively, beckoning me to follow her by crooking her red fingernail in my direction. She placed one high-heeled foot delicately behind the other as she slinked backward along the row of books. She moved gracefully, but in an exaggerated undulating way that was all hips and shoulders and green eyes. The only thing I could compare this seductive motion to was a cat—and not some simple house cat, but a jungle cat, some kind of lioness or panther, something sleek, but no doubt dangerous.

I put my hands on the sides of my chair and pushed toward her, following as if in a trance. I heard a pencil cracking under one of the wheels. All the time, I eyed those legs of hers. They were long and curvaceous; legs that went all the way up, up under that short skirt that swished as she stepped backward. I noticed a tattoo curling up her right ankle, a black dragon with a twisting body of intricate scales and teeth and claws. It fit her, and it was definitely hot. Tattoos usually were.

As I tried to take in the sight of her, we rounded the corner, passing the rows of book carrels and desks. She never took those eyes off me. Bettie continued, moving into the farthest corner of the library. Then, she reached out to her left and opened a door. It was a door to one of the group study rooms—yes, the room was small, and the large pane of glass would allow anyone standing out here to see right in, but it was still slightly more private than where we were.

Bettie stepped inside, pushing a book cart up against the wall and out of our way. As I entered, she closed the door decisively, and then moved toward me. I reached out to pull her closer. To my surprise, as I caught her waist, she grabbed my wrists and maneuvered herself out of my grip. She pointed an index finger toward the ceiling, waving it back and forth, correcting me playfully as the side of her mouth twisted into a smile. “Uh-uh,” she warned. “Did I say you could touch me yet?”

Still a tease! Well, I could certainly play right along. “No,” I said, smiling.

“No, what?” she said.

“No, ma’am,” I agreed. She seemed satisfied with that. I watched as she moved as close as possible and raised one leg, resting a foot on my chair next to me, encased in one of those cruel five-inch black heels. She considered me a moment as I waited. This was agony. God, I wanted her. But I resolved to be patient. I closed my eyes, anticipating, conscious of each shallow nervous breath.

“Now you may touch me,” she announced. Again, I reached for her, but she stopped me. “Uh uh uh,” she sang. Now she looked stern. “No hands.”

I happily complied. Sliding her panties to the side with my mouth, I gently licked the length of her. She moaned at my touch. She was as wet as I was. As I pushed my tongue up into her she leaned her head back with a sigh, putting a hand to the back of my head. I circled my tongue in a regular pattern as she moved with me, hips rotating more and more eagerly as she balanced precariously in those patent-leather shoes.

As I tasted her, I thought of cinnamon again, dark spice mixed with sweetness. I felt intoxicated. I could feel my own pulse quickening, sounding in my head. My chest rose and fell quickly. Bettie pushed against me, letting out little cries. I could tell she was getting more and more excited.

Suddenly, she pulled away, pushing my lips and tongue from her. She stepped closer and hooked a leg over the side of my chair. She sat as if offering me a lap dance, straddling me boldly.

So this was what my beautiful librarian was capable of!

She was still breathing hard, sitting on top of me with legs parted in that thin black thong and black seamed stockings. The buttons of her cardigan sweater were straining to cover her breasts. She started to grind against me, pushing her crotch against mine so firmly and rhythmically that now my breath was trembling too. She arched and leaned her head back as she continued to move on top of me, her perfect chest now even with my face.

“Now you may use your hands,” she instructed. I reached up and tore away her tight black sweater, popping off several buttons in the process. As I tugged the sweater free of her, I noticed another tattoo, this one covering her entire upper arm. It was a Varga Girl—a brunette like her—with a tropical flower in her hair and both legs raised playfully into the air, her small dainty feet pointed. Seeing this, I wanted her even more. I even felt a little light-headed, like a passenger in a rapidly descending elevator.

Bettie’s nipples were pert from her excitement as much as from the cold air. The only word that came to mind when I saw them was: delicious. Like an exotic ice-cream sundae. Strange, I know, but the way her white creamy skin stopped suddenly to give way to round pink nipples that were almost red made me think of smooth vanilla ice cream topped with bright red cherries. As she tilted her head to the side, strands of her dark black hair drizzled across them like chocolate.

Head cocked to the side, she leaned in for a kiss. Her fingers fumbled at the front of my pants, finding the buttons of my fly. She undid them just enough, then plunged her hand inside, eagerly seeking me out.

Finally, I thought. In that moment—her hand cupping my sex, her legs straddling me, her plump lips on mine—I finally felt close to her. As she slipped her fingers into me, I felt myself melt. Every muscle in me tensed, but then instantly gave way. I felt whole again. I felt complete with those delicate fingertips sliding inside, repeating again and again. The entire sensation was too intense, a slow unstoppable building of pressure.

As she did this, my hand moved against the outside of her panties, pressing the silky fabric against her clit with my thumb. I put my other hand to one of her perfect breasts, kneading its softness. I brought the round hard nipple to my lips, imagining the taste of cherries.

The fabric of her thigh-high stockings brushed against my arm. Her long dark hair fell across my face. Those green eyes stared back at me now, inches from my own, as we breathed in unison, grinding against each other’s hand. We tried to stay quiet as we strained against one another. Even our breath was soft and intimate, a contrast to those hard heels, the cold metal of my chair.

She whispered in my ear before she came, pushing deep inside me and curling her fingers in a come-hither gesture, as if beckoning me forward. At that, we spasmed at the same time. I rocked forward, resting my chin against her shoulder. I felt her silky pulse against my fingertips. Her expression froze, mouth open, eyes closed, brows crinkled together in an expression of perfect oblivion. Each of us shook as we finished. Our torsos jerked involuntarily—like churchgoers flailing and speaking in tongues, overcome by the Holy Spirit; like clubgoers on the dance floor, glowsticks winding up our arms, gyrating in some primal dance.

When our bodies finally came to rest, we sat like that for several minutes, weak and trembling. I gently nuzzled her rouged cheeks and kissed her eyelids. Her neck and chest were flushed, blissfully pink. She moved her arms along my muscles, then brought her mouth to my shoulder and gently nipped at me with her teeth. She growled playfully, and then bit harder. As we pulled our hands from one another, the book I was carrying fell from my wheelchair and landed faceup on the ground.

Bettie unwound her long limbs from me and leaned against the chair, kneeling to pick up what had fallen. She looked like pure sex, crouching there in her stockings and heels, tattoo displayed proudly on her shoulder, hair slightly mussed and tangled. We both glanced down at the same time to read the words on the page.

She ran her hands up the sides of the steel beams, the fabric of my pants, reading them like Braille. Picking up the book, she asked if I still wanted to find the original poem. I smiled. “Don’t worry about the translation,” I said. “I prefer ours.”

She laughed, and I wanted her all over again. It was not a nervous girlish giggle, but a throaty chuckle, pleasant and dark. As she tilted her head back, I noticed those perfect teeth again, but they didn’t seem as pearly white as before. Now her lipstick had rubbed off, but earlier they had contrasted incredibly with her red gloss.

Bettie leaned far back then, reaching out with one arm, her other hand on the floor for balance. Her fingers scratched around on the book cart, searching for something, but for what I had no idea.

At last she found it. Bettie knelt in front of me and grabbed my wrist. She popped off the black plastic cap with her teeth and pressed the rubber date stamp to my forearm, holding it there for a long moment so the thick red ink would not smudge. Then, she stood, picked up her cardigan, and walked toward the door.

I looked at my arm, puzzled. 08-17-09. That was today. “What’s this?” I asked.

“A date,” she whispered. She popped off the plastic cap again and looked me over sternly. “Would you like another?”