Best Lesbian Erotica 2012

ENVY Lulu LaFramboise

Your car is like your cock, you’ve always said. You do the driving, precise and fast, and I never touch a thing. Except I also climb inside the machine of us, and sometimes I give directions.

I knew when I first saw your hands how many girls you’d fucked, and also that I would be your last. You held my gaze for that extra moment, but I held yours for longer. I had you.

What I mean: I follow your commands in bed, but you know what I want, and I know how to soothe you. An example: the time you had me place an ad online. I would be a good girl; Daddy spank me; only phone sex please. It was the men who responded, the dirty grunting fools, and they called me names while I slowly spread my legs wide upon our bed. The best one didn’t know he was on speakerphone as he ordered me to worship him, to wait to touch myself until he said the word. I didn’t have to wait: you were already slapping my inner thighs with the palm of your hand, letting your fingers graze my clit as you reached back for another smack. Your eyes were blazing as the stranger claimed he wanted me, but it was your dick I wanted inside me, your hands around my throat, punishing me for my indiscretions, this insatiable need for more.

And the caller was getting rougher, calling me “bitch” and “whore,” and you mouthed the words, pinning me down. He didn’t know your cock was out of your jeans, straining—didn’t know you were so stealthy and silent as you bit my chin and pulled my hair. And then you were inside me, the full length of you, fucking me as hard as the stranger claimed to be. We could hear him jacking off, and you matched your thrusts to his, your hip bones slamming my ass, your eyes wild and mean for all the men, like him, who never saw you at all.

We used him, we did, that man on the phone; we used him up and left him spent and gasping. But your cock never goes soft, and your envy streaks to the horizon. The phone clicked dead and I begged you to stop.

“No,” you whispered. “You wanted him.”

I promised you then that I didn’t, but I’m telling you now that I did. Because there is always a stranger in bed with us, an extra pair of eyes: an ex, a student, a prisoner, a phantom desire that makes us hot. And that night there was the real cock you wanted, filled with the blood and pulse and cum of you—that fierce, unquenchable need. So yes, I wanted him, because you wanted him too.

You flipped me over, bound my hands behind my back with your shirt. I glanced at your chest, shiny now with sweat, your beautiful scars pale crescents below your nipples. I tried to catch your eye, but you were slicing me with your gaze.

“Take me, bitch,” you said. “For all the women who wouldn’t.”

You pulled me roughly to the edge of the bed by my wrists and tipped my ass upward with a slap. I felt the tip of your cock bobbing at my clit as you maneuvered me, pushing my face into the bed, shoving my legs wider and wider apart. I was splayed for you, exposed, my cunt still humming from the sex before. It wasn’t enough. You touched me, and I was wet, I knew it, but you accused me of not being ready. You spanked me, hard, on my ass, and then shoved your fingers inside me. I gasped.

“Shut up,” you said. “This is nothing.”

And then I felt your dick at the rim of my asshole. I bit my lip; did you even have lube? Your fingers—three, maybe four—were working inside me, probing at the ridge where I fall into coming, and I could feel your knuckles at the edge of me, forcing their way inside and your thumb, that sneaky thumb, tucked in close. And then your fist, your whole fist was in me, and I was around you, bucking against you and you were ramming into me, through me, pounding. And then: light. A searing, ripping light, from the base of me, up and through my spine. You had spread my asshole wide with your free hand and forced your cock inside with one hard slam. I screamed, but you jerked back and did it again. Your fist in my cunt pulled me toward you and you fucked my ass with a fury, rearing back and bucking into me, faster and faster.

“Take it, my little fag girl,” you yelled, your breath fast, about to come from the friction in the jeans you still had on. “You like it when Daddy fucks you raw. Tell me how you like it.”

“I like it, I like it,” I whimpered, though I was splintering apart from the pain. “I’m your fag. I’m anything for you.”

I could feel your cock and your hand meeting inside me, filling me to bursting, and I needed to come; the endorphins would melt the pain in my ass, would lift me, free me, undo me. I was choking with need. You must have sensed this, because suddenly, you pulled out, and my ass stung with relief. You told me to turn over, and I did, your fist twisting inside me.

“I’ll suck you dry,” you said, and your mouth was on me like a clamp. Your fist was pounding harder now, doing the work that your cock had performed on my ass. I felt your teeth on my clit, too sharp, and I arched up in alarm, but then you were sucking on me, pulling my clit into you like you owned it, your tongue rough on its tip. I surrendered to your mouth, your fist, the suction that didn’t yield until the tears were squirting out of the sides of my eyes, and my heart was stopping with my held breath, and finally, I burst apart and everywhere.

Your car is like your cock, you’ve always said. But the girl in the passenger seat gets the best ride.