Best Lesbian Erotica 2011

LITTLE LOU Gala Fur Translated by Noël Burch

It was preview time in Paris galleries, and I parked my midnight-blue Mercedes in front of Les Larmes d’Eros. Even as I closed the door, a wind blowing up from the Bastille found its way through the zip of my rubber sheath dress and chilled my thighs. I parted the black drapes that masked the doorway, anxious to find refuge within the comforting walls of a gallery where connoisseurs of fetish art gathered once a month.

A transvestite in governess guise, white scalloped apron over a blue mohair dress, relieved me of the chinchilla stole that kept my bare shoulders warm. It was a typically Parisian get-together, full of men in black, all thrilled to be rubbing shoulders with enticing submissives and budding dominatrices. I recognized a few familiar faces; among them, Little Lou. Coquettish in a plaid, schoolgirl miniskirt, she shone forth in a circle of men who were hanging on her every word. A tousled mane of red hair danced flamelike over her rodent-face and was set off nicely by the dark clothes of her timid suitors. A memory of her naked body flashed through my mind: a pretty body, dense and flexible as a gymnast’s, glimpsed emerging from her bathroom one day while I was visiting. With feigned embarrassment, she’d drawn the towel she was holding over her breasts but made no effort to hide her pubis, plucked clean as a Métro ticket. She’d shown me her bedroom through a half-open doorway: a canopied bed with a pile of dildos beside it in lieu of teddy bears for that ambiguous Lolita, who was a head-huntress by day for a major European consultancy.

Planted firmly on her black suede booties in front of the framed photos by Gilles Berquet on display, Lou watched me out of the corner of her eye as if to say, “Don’t you think I deserve a beating for making a spectacle of myself in front of these hungry wolves?” It turned her on to flirt with the unpredictable. Her eyes shone and she was talking a blue streak now to her little court, rushing to finish her sentence before I cut her short, tormented by the delightful fear the domina might burst through the circle of admirers, hurl her to the floor, humiliate her in front of everybody. Suddenly the sparrow darted away from the flock of crows, pecked a few peanuts from the bar and came to me holding out a glass of champagne with her fingertips.

“In that stunning rubber dress, you must have dominated a few women in your time, haven’t you, Gala?”

“When the subject interests me.”

“And if I begged you?”

“I could be really sadistic and say no, Little Lou.”

“What if I spilled a glass of champagne on your boots, would you slap me?”

“I might be tempted to redden those lecherous cheeks.”

She came closer and lowered her voice.

“When I was a kid, my mother used to slap me as hard as she could. You can’t imagine how I loved that! A good smack… takes me back…like Proust’s madeleine… Please, Ma’am…”

“And what do I get in return?”

Her expression became very businesslike.

“Any photo on the wall. Tell me which one, I’ll steal it for you.”

I was sure she was bluffing, she’d promise anyone the moon for a slap in the face.

“There’s an alleyway not far from here, nobody will see us.”

“I don’t care if anybody sees us. Look, over on the right: I want that photo, La Pisseuse.”

“You’ll get it, I promise.”

She took my arm and led me to the door, balanced on her high heels.

There were no streetlamps in her alleyway. A moonless night and not a passerby in view. Gradually, my eyes grew accustomed to the dark. I gazed at Little Lou’s lunar face as she stood with her back to a door. She trembled before me, like a trapped rabbit. She waited. There was exaltation in her eyes and fear on her lips. I felt a surge of irritation and slapped her with all my strength. It was the first time I’d slapped a woman. Impulsively, she kissed the back of my hand.

“Oh, thank you, thank you!”

With the second slap, I realized this was turning me on. A thrill ran though me; I was really high now, and I boxed her ears again and again, quicker than a riding crop, a dozen times at least, with splayed fingers.

“Thank you, Ma’am.”

She stood there with her nose in the air expecting some show of affection from me, a caress or a few kind words. As none was forthcoming, she bared her breasts and leaned back against the portal. I felt provoked by those round tits with their large areolas, straining against the plaid braces of her pleated skirt. I slapped her bosom with the back of my hand, being careful not to cut her with the stones on my rings. I was touched by the tenderness of her pale skin, and I bent forward to suck a nipple while kneading her other breast with my free hand. The whole surface of my tongue explored her bosom in slow motion, intent on savoring the faintest bristling of dread here or there on that delicate skin.

At the touch of my tongue, her flesh shivered a bit then blossomed forth, placid and warm. I raised her pleated skirt and drove an imperious finger into her slit. She spread her thighs to the limit: her sex was wet, her muff was soaked. I held her pinned to the door with my right middle finger jammed into her pussy and my mouth clamped over her breast like a suction cup. She panted; she shuddered. Now and then, my thumb dealt with her clitoris, exerting calculated pressure three or four times, bringing the whole weight of my hand to bear on the tip. Meanwhile, I kept on sucking, as if I wanted to swallow her breast. She uttered a savage shout. I felt her wet vulva throb and flow over the back of my hand. I stopped and drew back. I spun her round and shoved her roughly up against the door, bent on making her pay for my burst of tenderness.

“Pull up your skirt.”

Hanging from her shoulder was a rectangular case; it might have contained a laptop. I yanked it away, and as soon as her skirt was up I used it to swat her behind several times.

“Now you’re going to show everybody your red cheeks.”

Groggy from the wallops of the case, she looked up at me with wild eyes, already buttoning her blouse. The skirt fell into place over her thighs.

She preceded me into the gallery, anxious to show her marks to her admirers. In the light, the shape of my fingers was plainly visible, printed above her jawbone like an X-ray. Lou turned her head from side to side, as if admiring a pair of earrings in a mirror, but the expected commentaries and wisecracks were not forthcoming. She hurried over to a press attaché who’d been smiling at her from afar, twisting her neck in such a way that the woman’s gaze fell near her ear—wasted efforts.

She took down the photo I coveted, paid the asking price and brought it to me with misty eyes. She propped her trophy against a radiator. The monochrome print showed a white plate on an ancient wood floor. A brunette stood jauntily with hands on hips, aiming her urine at the plate; her waist was cinched in a tight corset with a pair of sculpted breasts bulging over the top. Lou took my hand. We communed in silence before the performance in the photo. As an epilogue to a furtive trance, the force of the enactment carried us away. But suddenly my deep indifference to her attractions spoiled that beautiful euphoria. My grip on her hand weakened. Aware of my detachment, Lou withdrew her hand and licked my palm like a dog. It was her way of saying good-bye. She vanished through the door-curtains with her hand on her cheek.

A singer from New York waved to me. I’d interviewed her in the days when there still were BDSM magazines in France. Muffled up in a pink angora sweater, Emily was smoking an extraslim on the sly. Seeing I was alone, she came over and held out a damp hand. The woman in her life had just walked out on her. Her pupils were dilated by tranquilizers, and she rolled her eyes as she beseeched me. “I’m a little heart for the taking, Gala, a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity…. I’ll be your submissive and you’ll see just how submissive I can be! Do with me what you will!” I felt sorry for those trembling lips, that lost-blonde-with-no-collar look. She clung to my arm. I felt the moist warmth of her palm through the rubber sleeve. She lived in a hotel in the 12th arrondissement, close to the Métro entrance: one room and a washstand with a shared loo on the landing. Her dream was to be taken in hand, in the name of love and solidarity. Submissives always knew how to get my pity. Except that the woman who surrendered to those periwinkle-blue eyes would have to possess qualities I lack. The need to love, for example, even if a stray arrow from Cupid’s bow does get to me now and then. And a taste for blondes… Not to mention the self-denial involved in any relationship with a tyrannical submissive. Still shaken by the intensity of my experience with Little Lou, a gratuitous and transgressive act, I resented Emily’s forced landing in my field. I thought of lending her money to salve my conscience, but then I had a fit of pride, pleaded a previous engagement and walked away.

It was snowing. Lou was propped against my front fender, her hair dotted with flakes. She gave me her address. She knew I wasn’t going to take her home with me. When I dropped her off on rue Mademoiselle, she kissed me on the cheek. Watching her disappear inside the apartment house, my conscience was clear: I’d driven her home hadn’t I?