Best Lesbian Erotica 2010

BRUSH STROKES Elizabeth Cage

When Kirby joined the advanced Pilates class, I noticed her straightaway. She was tall and slim, with short dark hair and a generous smile. But it was her body that attracted me. It was toned and sculpted, and I could tell she did weight training. I love a toned, muscular female body. It just turns me on big-time. So when she asked if I wanted to join her for a drink one night after class, I said, “Yes,” without hesitation.

We went to a quiet bar round the corner and as I sat opposite her sipping a Bailey’s Glide, I noticed how elegant and smooth her hands were and how long and shapely the fingers. I suddenly imagined them inside me, exploring and teasing. I couldn’t help smiling as my clit tingled.

“Am I missing the joke?” she asked, bemused.

I blushed furiously. “You’re very good,” I blurted, adding quickly, “at Pilates.”

“It’s a form of exercise I really enjoy,” she replied. “And my body is so much more flexible and strong as a result.”

I nodded, wondering just how flexible. I had been feeling horny all week. I blamed this on the fact that I was between girlfriends and hadn’t enjoyed a sexy encounter for over a month. I’m also an impatient person at the best of times. I’d hoped the Pilates classes might have slowed me down but I still spent most of my life rushing around between work and social engagements. Relax and chill were not words in my vocabulary.

“You seem on edge, Tara. Is everything okay?” Kirby asked, and she stretched out her hand and pushed a strand of my unruly blonde hair behind my ear. She smoothed it back into place, fingertips brushing the nape of my neck. God, did she have the magic touch! I wanted to sigh pleasurably, to rub my head against her hand like a sensual cat. Instead I muttered awkwardly, “Damned hair, always getting in the way. Greasy, needs a wash.”

She said: “I’ll wash it for you.”

Was she serious?

“You have beautiful hair, Tara,” she said. “Like long, luscious threads of golden flax. And I would love to wash it for you.”

“Are you a hairdresser, then?” I asked, somewhat taken aback.

She shook her head.

“I just think it can be a sensuous experience, for both parties.”

“Okay,” I said. “You’re on.”

“My place, then?” she suggested. “I only live down the road. Are you sure you’re up for this?”

Ten minutes later, I found myself sitting in a chrome-and-black chair with my head leaning back over a shiny white basin in a smart designer bathroom, wearing only my sports bra and bum-hugging yoga pants, while Kirby massaged delicious peach blossom and ylang-ylang shampoo into my scalp. It felt wonderfully relaxing; I luxuriated in the heavenly fragrance, my senses surrendering to her expert touch. Carefully, she rinsed off the rich lather with the showerhead, spraying cool water in powerful jets. (Unlike my hairdresser, she did it without getting water in my ears). I heard myself sigh while she toweled my dripping hair almost dry with a big, fluffy white towel and when she finished, she leaned over and kissed me lightly on the lips. It was electric.

Unable to restrain myself, I grabbed her head with both hands and pulled her to me, pushing my tongue into her mouth and kissing hard. Without saying a word, she gently but firmly took my hands and placed them behind my back, and swiftly pulled the belt from a bathrobe that was hanging on the door and looped it around my wrists. I had not expected this, but it only made me tremble more as I find mild restraint to be a turn-on. Whispering in my ear, she said, “The best things should be savored slowly.” She took my hand and led me into the bedroom, which was neat and minimalist like the rest of the flat. Tidy and highly organized, I thought, tingling in anticipation. As she sat me on the edge of the huge bed, I spotted a large array of brushes regimentally lined up on the dressing table. Was I in for a spanking? I could feel the wet patch forming inside my tight yoga pants. Yes, please, I thought hungrily.

“Are you comfortable?” she asked, running a finger lightly down my arm. I shuddered and nodded, hardly able to contain my excitement. She walked over to the dressing table and selected a large wooden paddle brush. I closed my eyes, waiting. And waiting. Then I opened them again, wide with amazement, as she proceeded to brush my hair, in long, loving strokes.

“This is a Mason Pearson brush,” she explained calmly, ignoring my reaction. “The company was established in the nineteenth century to manufacture exquisite brushes by hand. This one has spired tufts of boar bristles, which is kinder to the hair and scalp, and grooms without tugging. A perfect design for shiny, vibrant hair.”

I was bemused. She had me bound and helpless, half-naked, in her bedroom and just wanted to brush my hair? It was weird—yet, I had to admit, each stroke made me feel strangely relaxed. After a while, she got up and went back to the table to select another brush. I tingled again. Maybe she would spank me now?

“Mason Pearson are good,” she said, taking an oval satin wood brush with white bristles from a red oblong box, “but these are my favorites. Traditionally made by Kent since 1777, the world’s oldest and most prestigious brush manufacturers.” Her tone was fluid, mellifluous, like her brush strokes. “All handmade and of the finest quality,” she practically purred. She smiled at me. “And this one is especially good for deep penetration… of the hair shaft.”

I swallowed hard as Kirby sat beside me on the bed and raised her hand. After using the brush on my still-damp hair for another twenty strokes (I found myself counting) she gently removed my bra and kissed each hard brown nipple, before recommencing her brushing ritual.

“Another twenty strokes,” she murmured and I found myself counting, again, wondering what she would do when we reached twenty. At eighteen I was trembling again, at nineteen I wanted to explode.

“Twenty,” she said decisively, putting the brush on the bed. Then she placed her hands around my waist and slowly, oh-so-slowly, peeled off my yoga pants and placed them on the plush carpet next to my bra. She wrapped her arms around me, caressing my breasts while breathing in the scent of my long blonde hair as if it was the most exclusive perfume. Then she dropped down onto her knees and parted my legs, burying her head between my thighs against my soaking wet cotton thong and inhaling deeply. I groaned.

“Please,” I begged, my anticipation straining at its leash, my whole body on fire. I needed release.

“I like to take things slowly,” she insisted, looking up into my eyes, her fingers and hands caressing my neck and hair, her body so close. I had no choice but to accept and enjoy. It was torture, but exquisite torture. She butterfly-kissed from the nape of my neck, along my back and down to the base of my spine. Everything was tingling.

Then she moved beside me and pulled me over to her, sitting me on her knee. I felt her nipples, hard against my back. I wriggled and circled, trying to tease her and she moaned with pleasure, but after a few moments of this, she smiled again and lifted me off, this time seating me on a chair in front of the dressing table and mirror. I stared at myself, my face flushed, mouth open, legs wide, my cunt sticky. Kirby looked as if she was deciding on another brush to select, tormenting me, before standing behind me once more.

“You like bondage, don’t you?” she said.

“Yes,” I gasped.

“So do I,” she replied, and she proceeded to plait my hair into a long braid, fastening it with a deep blue velvet ribbon where it stopped just above my hips. Bondage of the hair.

“I adore long hair, Tara,” she said, kissing the long golden plait. “My favorite fairy tale is ‘Rapunzel.’ It turns me on.”

She moved the chair back and crouched down before me, like an adoring suitor, and I noticed that she was holding a tiny, delicate brush with feather-soft bristles. “I made this myself,” she said, pulling the wet fabric of my thong to one side to reveal my aching, longing, throbbing pussy.

I didn’t need to count this time. She only had to touch my clit with it once and I watched my reflection in the mirror as I came instantly and intensely. I was still moaning with pleasure as she untied my hands and lowered me gently onto the bed, stroking me again each time the orgasm subsided, fanning another stronger wave of ecstasy with her masterful touch, watching me. Eventually, I had to push her hand away, gasping, “No more, too sensitive!” and she lay beside me, caressing my hair.

When my breathing returned to normal, I wanted to give Kirby some fraction of the pleasure she had given me, so I pushed her back onto the bed and slowly pulled off her white T-shirt and sports bra, letting my long plait drape across her breasts, hooking my fingers inside her drawstring yoga pants and slipping them off, before slowly peeling off her tight black boyshorts. Then I played with her glistening cunt, using the end of my braid like the soft brush she had used on my clit, lightly stroking and teasing. I wanted to thrill her, to send her into a frenzy.

I could see the excitement in her eyes as I used my tongue and mouth on her, licking and sucking her hard bud greedily. She arched her back, now reaching the point of no return. She looked up and I slipped a finger inside her, rubbing her clit with my thumb. I could feel her coming, and at that moment, I lifted my head and yanked off the blue ribbon, letting my long hair tumble proud and loose on my shoulders like a golden waterfall. She cried out “Rapunzel!” and as her body shuddered into spasm, I was overwhelmed by her powerful musky scent as her creamy fluid oozed onto the cotton sheets.

Instinctively, I rubbed my flaxen tresses into her delicious gaping cunt, soaking up her strong juices.

“Oh, dear,” I said sweetly, running my hands through my now-sticky hair. “And it’s only just been washed.”