Best Lesbian Erotica 2012

VACATION Ali Oh

This is my vacation. It includes waking up at 5:30 or earlier every morning to Jae’s screaming nieces, sleeping on a couch because I, in my infinite wisdom, forgot to bring my air mattress, and most of all: stress. The lesser stress of worrying that her family doesn’t like me and is judging my every motion, word or thought. (I’m sure they can read minds, right?) And then there’s the greater stress of her family having too many people, too little money and certainly not enough time.

Yet Jae and I want to make this our vacation. We’ve taken time off from work to relax. And we… well… we can make some adult fun happen.

It starts in the car on the way back from Orlando, after dropping off her brother’s computer for repair. We’ve been teasing all day—remarks here and there, subtle touches. Jae slapped my thigh while we were waking up. The tension had been building and all I wanted to do was fuck. I said so. I told her we had to make it happen. And she kept saying, “We’ll see, we’ll see.” Which I understand. How, in a house with so many little monkeys, can adults have their own time-out? I’ve made an executive decision to take it outside the house. Jae is driving and I am so hard that I ache. The blood rushes in and makes me stiff, makes my face flush. I reach my left hand under her seat belt and pull her button loose, slide my hand farther down. There’s a sensory aspect, something about just feeling. I feel things I don’t usually notice, when I’m not staring at what I’m doing. I run one light finger up and down—she opens out, flower-like and just as soft.

“What’re you doing?” Jae always asks this when I’m being especially naughty; especially forward. Harnessing my attraction is not my strong suit, so I hear this phrase often.

“Playing, baby boy.” I keep running my finger over her slit. I watch her. We aren’t naked, so I can’t see her body. I can barely see her eyes for the sunglasses, but I can watch her face. I can feel her tense up every time my finger brushes her clit, like that spot makes electricity just for me. She jolts as I find it again and circle around it with one finger. She grabs the wheel, and I see her knuckles white against the black leather. I slide her between two of my fingers, rubbing on either side. She’s wet for me—judging from how much, I think maybe she’s been wet for a while. When did it start for her? She moves a hand to her face, puts one delicate finger between her parted lips, a silent sigh held back as my slick finger plays. She’s my boy, sure. But there are moments when I see her vulnerability; where I see how much she wants me to top her. This’s one of them.

I keep making her gasp. She’s supposed to be driving seventy, but she’s at sixty-four and falling. Cars are zooming by and I say nothing—I want her to lose her mind. I don’t want her to worry about the landscaping truck next to us, the driver attempting to watch. I can’t take it anymore—she’s so beautiful, and as she gets more slick I can’t help myself. I rip my button open, tell her I’m not wearing underwear, start touching myself as I’m watching her at the wheel. I’m louder (I’m usually louder). I start to moan and she inhales sharply. I know exactly what she wants—she need not ask. It’s written all over her open mouth, her hands gathered at six o’clock; in the way that she shifts, trying to get my fingers lower, into her opening. She wants me to fuck her on the highway.

“Can you drive?”

“Yes.”

I inventory my fingers, numb from the seat belt pinching my wrist. But I don’t care—I want to feel her envelop me, come all over me. She feels like silk. I fuck her first with one finger and finally, I hear a noise. A squeak and a whisper. Two. She opens for me and I feel her drip down my fingers. I slip one finger into me. Then two. “Fuck me harder, baby boy.” She likes when I play like that. When I tell her how thick she is, how much she fills me up.

I make her come on the hour drive back to her mother’s house. She squeezes my fingers and I am so lit on fire, burning so hard, I start to squeeze my own clit. “Baby, I’m gonna come. I’m gonna come all over you.”

She never speaks—she never says how she likes it, how she’s gonna come, how she’s fucking me. She doesn’t need to. She’s pulling my fingers in now, gasping and checking that she’s still driving straight. We come together, all over our seats at sixty-four miles per hour.

“Did you like that, baby boy?”

“Fuck.”

We aren’t the same for the rest of the day. We need more. We wait until everyone’s asleep before I start again. I climb on top of her, wasting no time. But Jae surprises me. Every so often, she wants to own me. And it just so happens that today, I want to be owned. I give in, no fighting. I don’t flip her back over after her hand slides under my boxers; I don’t make a fuss as she stretches them so she can fuck me hard, three fingers pushing me apart and splitting me open. My baby boy wants to take me, and for once I’m going to let her. I ride her hand, rocking back on her lap, pushing her farther into me. She stops. “I think we need to put you up on the kitchen counter.” I’m surprised. She doesn’t do this, not in her mom’s house. After a whirlwind of movement, I’m perched on the counter tiles, boxers on but stretched to allow her mouth. She wrenches my legs apart and pushes me against the cabinets. Her head is between my legs and I grab a handful of her hair as my blood heats up, and I feel myself get wetter as her tongue circles my clit, as she flicks languidly up and down, over my slit. It’s hurried—we need this. We need this so badly that neither one of us is out of her pajamas. This is necessary.

I come in her mouth like a punch and I scream soundlessly into the dark kitchen. I claw at her back, mouth open and wanting to receive her. I’m wishing we had a single toy in our suitcase; wishing she could strap on a cock and I could suck on her until she comes in my mouth, return the favor. I want to unhinge my jaw and swallow her whole—I feel raw, animal. I try, after I stop twitching. I slither off the counter and I want to flip her. To make her mine—own her. But she stops me. “You made a promise.” I did. I forgot. I said I wouldn’t top her here, not when the screaming could so easily reach prying little monkeys’ ears. But she made me no such promise. Without ever discussing it, I turn. I switch my hips out, press into hers. She’s facing my back and she breathes into my ear. “Fuck.” Her hands are not masculine, but they aren’t feminine either. They’re strong. Hers. They can cradle me and command me all at once, the latter being a power she usually skims over. Her hand is on my shoulder now, and she shoves; lays me out on the counter as if to say she’s not finished yet. I feel I’m dripping down my legs—this is unlike her. But we haven’t fucked in a week (and that is a long, long time). I swell again, blood on fire, pounding through every part of me and stopping to make me hard. Is she fisting me? That’s not possible. We don’t have lube on this vacation. But I feel my hips spread apart, ease open and pull her hand. Three fingers, perhaps. Maybe four. She fills me and I brace myself on the counter, legs trembling. The smooth tiles are teasing my fingers and I wish I could yell, bite something. But I am left to my own devices and I’m holding my scream in my throat once again. I keep pushing back—I feel her directing me, telling me how to move, how to receive. (It is not something I’m used to.) I feel teeth on my ass. I hope it bruises as she bites me—I love being marked. Her tongue slides across, on an adventure to find a spot that makes me squeal, push and beg to be fucked. She finds it as she starts rimming me and I ball my fist, smack the mocking white tiles. I don’t know how she touches me, fills me from every direction. But she pours herself into me, somehow. My legs become useless wooden stilts as I come again, arms scrambling to support the weight of two women wrapped in complete rapture and forced silence.

Thank goodness for vacation.