Best Lesbian Erotica 2012

MY FEMME Evan Mora

I’m standing in our garage, door shut, single bulb burning, which might seem like a strange place to be on a hot summer night in the city. But I heard her, my boi, a couple of blocks away, and I know it’s her ’cause the rumble from her engine, the biggest, baddest sound around this organic-Pilates-Prius-loving neighborhood.

“My Femme” is what my boi calls her. The Femme is a 1978 twenty-fifth-anniversary edition, vintage teal-blue Corvette. She’s got a 5.7-liter engine and can do 0-60 in 6.6 seconds flat. Not that I care about any of that technical stuff. No. But the Femme sure is pretty. She’s got more curves than a Playboy Playmate, and she turns heads like nobody’s business.

When I’m behind the wheel, T-bar roof open, Farrah-locks flowing, I’m like a straight boy’s wet dream come true. Sid calls me a cock-tease, which may or may not be true, but it does make me giggle when boys stop in their tracks and mouth a slack-jawed “Whoa” as I cruise by. A femme in the Femme…

When Sid’s behind the wheel, it’s an entirely different story. The boys, they give her a thumbs-up and want to know what’s under the hood. But the girls—I’ve seen them, biting their lips and flashing their smiles, wondering who this butch Daddy boifriend is and how they’re going to get themselves a ride.

And she’s given plenty, I know, in her bad-boy, back-alley, late-night past. But not to me. Never to me. Sid and me, we met in the winter, when the Femme was sleeping peacefully, dreaming dreams of spring. By then, we’d U-hauled it to a tree-lined street in the East End, setting up house like respectable thirtysome-things and sipping chai lattes with the neighbors.

But I’m jealous. It’s crazy, I know, but true nonetheless. I’m jealous of all the open-mouthed cries and wide-spread thighs that have graced the inside of that car. I wanna feel the slip-slide of sweat-slicked leather beneath my ass and Sid’s fingers pumping into me; I want to fill all the air inside that car with the smell of my sex and the heat of my body and the breathy sounds of my moans.

So here I am, standing in our garage, waiting like a predator to pounce. They’re in the back lane, Sid and the Femme, so close I can feel their vibrations. The door begins to rise like a peep show window on my strappy heels, painted toes and thirty-four inches of smooth, tanned legs that disappear under my micro-mini. Sid revs the engine appreciatively, and the sound goes right to my pussy.

The car edges forward with a throaty purr, the tip of her hood coming to rest between my legs. Sid kills the engine and closes the garage door, and for a moment, there’s only silence. Then the passenger door opens and I saunter ’round, bending low so I can look inside. Sid has a hard time looking past my bikini top and the ample cleavage on display. I know my boi, and I know what she likes, and I know how to get what I want.

“Get in,” she says, voice rough with desire. I lower myself in and close the door.

“Get rid of the bikini top.” It lands on the floor, and heat flashes in her amber eyes.

“Show me,” she says—fuck she makes me wet—and I cup my breasts with my palms.

“Pinch them,” she says, and I tug at my nipples until they’re pebble hard and I’m squirming in my seat.

“You got anything on under that skirt?” I spread my legs open wide and Sid groans—she’s a sucker for a fresh Brazilian.

She leans over me, vintage leather creaking, the subtle musk of her cologne surrounding me a heartbeat before her tongue is in my mouth and her fingers penetrate my cunt.

We kiss, we combust, we go up in flames. I wind my arms around her neck, thread my fingers through her hair, stroke my tongue against hers. All the while she teases me, explores me, testing my wetness with her blunt fingertips, painting them along the length of my pussy.

“Wider,” she whispers against my lips, and I inch my ass toward her, one foot on the dashboard, as open as I can be. Three fingers replace two, then four replace three, and Sid fastens her mouth to my breast, licking and sucking the rigid peak until I’m just about ready to explode.

“So fucking wet…” She’s pumping me now, the wet sound of my pussy a shameless turn-on.

“I want you to fuck yourself on my fist,” Sid says, her tongue lapping up my mewing assent. She holds her hand still, leaving the rise and fall to me, letting me work my cunt down over her knuckles, stretching wide, so wide, until she slides inside. I can feel her hand, and it feels so good, balled into a fist deep inside me. Slowly, she moves, then faster and harder, until her forearm is pistoning into me.

“Now,” she says, against my lips, then her tongue fills my mouth once more. I moan, half lost, and slide my fingers to my clit, circling, then stroking in rhythm with her thrusts.

“That’s it, baby…” She tastes like salt; her sweat and mine. We’re panting instead of breathing, and my frenzied crescendo of “Yes baby, yes baby, oh, fuck, yes baby!” ends with a rush when my hips snap up and my cunt clenches around her fist and I come so hard my back arches off the seat of the ’vette like a bow.

In a minute or five, we untangle ourselves with as much grace as we can, given the confines of the Femme. She reeks like sex, and I know I’ve got a smug smile on my face, but I don’t bother to try and hide it.

“You pleased with yourself?”

“Mm-hmm.” I am. ’Cause Sid and the Femme? They’re mine.

I lead the way out of the garage and back to the house, making sure there’s plenty of sway for my boi’s hungry eyes to follow. Right about now, she’s got a hard-on the size of Texas, but luckily, there are still plenty of hours until dawn.