Best Lesbian Erotica 2012

WHEN YOU CALL Sharon Wachsler

I cry out. She shoves her cock into my mouth. “Give it to me, baby, oh, you need it, you need it.” I choke on her soft hardness and suck and open and tears fall down my face for wanting her, for loving her, for giving her this release. Something clatters to the floor as she fucks my face, her hand in my hair, and suddenly she is yanking me off her and reaching between my legs—“So wet, so wet.” She slides two fingers in before I can say, “Stop, yes, no, I want more. I was feeding you.” Here, like this, my words don’t have to make sense.

She wants me and I want to give her all I can. There’s so little else I can give. She can take all of me, every hole; she can fill and I’ll give. That’s why she fucks the water from me, so my cunt is gushing—and yes—“Yes,” she reassures, pushing me down, reading my frantic words. “I put the towel down. It’s okay. Let go. Give it to me, give it to me.” And I fall back and open, and liquid drips from my nipples from her sucking, and my cunt streams onto the folded cloth cradling my ass, and my eyes tear, and my nose runs. I am streaming for her, I am screaming for her.

And then a terrible pause: Whose name did I scream?

And it takes me a real minute—sixty ticks of the second hand—to sift through past lovers, recent conversations, common phrases: Caren, Carla, car, Connie, Con. Con. Yes, she is smiling. She is full of herself and of sating me. I must have said Con or Connie. I slump back onto the pillows. She stretches over me like a bridge and retrieves my glasses from the floor. “Oh,” I say, laughing, “so that’s where they went. I didn’t even notice they were gone. You look so good blurry.”

“I can always see you.” She taps her temple, then pulls herself away. “I need to take a shower.” She is coated with me, everywhere. My hair sticks to my forehead and neck. My ponytail must have come loose. I scrounge for a scrunchie to scoop the loose strands into a knot.

I try to swallow the knot in my throat. I focus on her eyes—handsome, expectant—her glasses too far down her nose. Her lips are moving: “Okay?” She pats my knee. “Do you remember now? In the car I told you I was going out with Caren to that new French film? That I needed some ‘me’ time? And you said, ‘Okay.’ You sort of waved it away, like it was no big deal.”

“Yeah, vaguely.” I said. “Reading all those subtitles would give me a migraine?” It’s true. It hadn’t seemed important because when she told me, it made perfect sense, then. As long as I know what’s going on, I can relax. I trust her. Neither of us trusts me. No, I recite to myself, not me, the disease.

“Yes, I’m sorry.” My face burns. Why do you always have to be right? I had felt so indignant, enjoying my anger, when I’d accused her: “I understand why you need to go out sometimes without me, but you could at least have told me ahead of time, so it wouldn’t feel like you have to sneak around, like I’m some sort of encumbrance—” I’d stopped to swipe the tears and snot off my face. “Like I’m too stupid to understand. I could have made plans, too, you know.”

Now she pats my hand. “It’s okay, sweetie, it’s not your fault.” She sighs.

“Don’t feel guilty.” Just a little. I pull my hand away, pick at my thumbnail. She’s patting my hand like a child’s. When this fist is in your cunt, you’re giving over to a woman.

“I don’t,” she says flatly. “I know I need this. I also need to shower. I smell like work.” Con reaches across the couch to hug me, whispering, “I love you,” but I pull myself away. I’m not your charity.

“Go change,” I say. Don’t change. She heads to the bathroom and the sag of her spine strikes me: haggard. Where is her swagger? I hear the shower blast, water hitting the tub. “I’ll get your coat,” I call, my hair pulled back, neat.

I’m sucking her tongue hard in my teeth. “French kiss” wanders into my mind. Why, when, the French are so fastidious and controlled, do they call jamming this organ into someone else’s mouth, “French”? My tongue babbles against the roof of her mouth, rolling across her teeth. Enamel on enamel: I love it when we scrape at the rough edges, where pieces of ourselves might break off into each other. I am straddling her, she grunts beneath me and I flatten myself on her, so warm. “Lu—” I start to say, but stop, keep swiveling my hips. “Love,” I morph it. “Love, Conileh.” I bite her neck. They both loved me to bite their necks. Both fat and butch and computer engineers. Both needed lessons in how to interpret their feelings. I taught Lu to dance with my ass pressed against her groin. That got her onto the floor. Soon Lu wouldn’t even leave the floor. Then she left. Connie already knew how to dance. She regrets—regrets for me—that I can’t dance anymore. I brought it up once, that I recall. She said, “We dance our own way.” But I know she misses moving that way, the right way. I dance on Connie’s dick, though. I shimmy all over her. I told Connie to learn to put herself first, to figure out what she’s feeling, to fulfill her needs. Now she is, goddammit. Now she’s using phrases like “me time.”

I flop down to watch TV, loud, even though the noise makes me nauseous. I don’t ask when she’ll be back. If she’ll be back.

Con grabs my hips, pulls me roughly toward her. I feel her dick slithering, bumping inside of me and lean back so it rubs my G-spot. I can’t stand how good it feels. I almost fall over. She groans and grunts, pulling me against her, my breasts swaying, hair swinging into my eyes, hips burning from being stretched so far apart (she has no idea how much this hurts, but so much hurts me that I don’t tell her; it’s too much) my clit banging against the harness ring. God, how I love her.

“Uhn, uh, uhn,” she grunts as she drives into me. I open a blurry eye to adore her sweaty face, her intense—almost angry—look of concentration.

She asked me once, “Are you fantasizing about someone else?” Startling. “No. What on earth made you think that?”

“Because you keep your eyes closed.” Do I? “Oh, I guess I didn’t know I did that. You keep yours open?” Before she answers, I know: “Yes, I love to watch you.”

“I love to be watched. I love you to watch me,” I purr in her ear. She moans. Sometimes I open my eyes to see her watching me. I straddle her lap. Her eyes roll back and I grab her by the nape, pull her in, biting her lower lip. I roll into my mind, my hips rocking against hers. “I guess I just can’t concentrate with my eyes open. All the sensation, I want to feel it, with my body.”

I know she’s there, looking at me. The way into my mind is with hands and words and sounds, grunts and sighs, and a dick between my thighs and fingers digging into my hips. Make me yours. Pull me in. My mind is the safety. The fault lines, too.

“I’m entering this—you—with my eyes wide open,” she told me in the beginning. But nobody really knows me until they’ve entered me, my illness, my life. That, I remember. She tells me we’ve had several conversations about it—that the illness won’t drive her away. Then why don’t I remember? Something like that, I’d remember, wouldn’t I? She says she wrote it down, but I can’t find the scrap.

I’m trapped in the middle of a suspension bridge: I can’t believe she’ll stay; I can’t ask her to keep telling me she will. I don’t want her to know that I lose the pieces I write down. She might look at me that way—too much sympathy, like how her friends look at her when they say how good she is, how brave, how strong. They tell me how lucky I am. I know I’m lucky. Why don’t they tell Connie how lucky she is? They don’t hear her groan or feel me grip her when I come; they don’t watch us giggle on the couch or smell my lamb stew simmering on the stove. I know she is lucky, sometimes. Sometimes, I forget.

“Come on me!” she commands. “I want you to come on me.” There’s no dick this time, the first time; just me and her on the couch, the television on. The film becomes foreign as I climb onto her; she’s groaning in time. Just her rough jeans and my yielding leggings, bumping my pussy against her zipper as she grabs me ferociously by the throat, growls into my ear, “Come on me, baby—”

“I don’t know if I can—”

She bites off my words. “Come on me, come on me!” She is shaking me, grabbing my ass, hard. “Soak me, I want to feel you soak me,” and I scream with surprise as much as pleasure. I’m so turned on by her wanting me that bad that the words alone reach into my cunt, squeeze it free: there are convulsions from my cunt, my stomach, teeth, mind, clench and release, wet heat staining our laps. “Oh, yeah, baby; oh, yeah, oh, yeah,” she’s saying, pulling me against her, our breasts tumbling together.

It becomes our joke: remote-control orgasm. She tells me to come and I do. Her desire for me is my desire. Is it funny how much power she has over me? For her birthday I gave her a book of erotica. On the flap, I inscribed, I’ll always come when you call. What if she stops calling? Like Lu, who called me: a burden. No, I correct myself, not me. The illness. Lu stopped calling. “The illness is too much for me.”

I don’t understand too much. For me, it’s always a matter of too little. Too little I can do, too little I can remember. Too little keeping me just crazy enough to handle it. People used to chuck me on the shoulder, “Geez, you’re too much!” But that was before. Now it’s even more true.

Connie is calling me, my name, and “baby,” which I love. That, itself, gets her another shower. I’m sobbing into her shoulder as she rocks my ass in her wide-open hands that can hold so much, pressing me into her lap as I come and rent my throat with her name, wordless. She croons, “Oh, baby, yes, baby, give it to me. Give it all to me.” I always do. “I love it when you come on me,” Connie whispers. Then I always will. If you come to me, I will come on you. However you want. How often you want. Remote control girlfriend. I come fully loaded, no warranty on parts or labor. I am tuned in to her frequency, ready to be activated.

I look at the door. There on the knob is her pebbly wool coat. She forgot it. I totter over, rehang it in the closet. Connie never notices the cold.

I’m watching “Stars on Ice,” remote in hand, when Con enters. Somehow between all the commercial interruptions I’ve forgiven her for knowing what I’ve forgotten, because I’m happy to see her. I twist in my seat, “How was the movie?”

“It was okay,” she sighs.

“That’s a ringing endorsement. I’ll make sure to add it to my rental list.”

“Caren was getting on my nerves.”

“Really? Why?” So there. I put concerned sympathy on my face.

Con flings her shoes toward the boot tray, misses, hits the rocking chair. It sways back and forth, deciding whether to fall. “She talked through half the movie and then she gave away the ending! I wanted to throttle her with her Twizzlers!” I laugh and silence the TV. Con flops next to me.

“You are the perfect movie date, did you know?”

“No, I’m not. I can never keep track of what’s going on. Half the time I don’t even remember if I’ve seen it before.”

“Exactly. So you never ruin the ending!” She smacks my ass, then grabs a piece of rock candy from the coffee table, knocking the remote onto the floor. The crunch is so loud when she bites in, but Con doesn’t like soft candy. With her mouth full of fillings, she tempts fate.

“You’re making a mess,” I grumble, snuggling up and trying to decide if I’ve been complimented or insulted. “Well, you wanted to get to know Carla better and now you have.” Connie’s glasses are at the base of her nose. I push them back up to her eyes.

“It’s Caren. Remember, you met her.”

I raise an eyebrow.

“At my fortieth birthday party,” she sighs.

I wish she’d stop sighing. “Well, there were like a hundred people there—” I point out.

“Thirty-seven.”

“Whatever. A lot… Wait! Was she the one who ate all the shrimp?”

“No, that was Sylvia. Caren was the blonde with the long nails.”

“You expect me to remember the nail length of forty-seven guests?” I poke Connie in the ribs, tickling her. She’s back. Carla was annoying.

“Isn’t that the kind of thing femmes are supposed to notice?” she pokes me back, then glances at the TV, eyes widen: ESPN. “What were you watching?”

“Football.”

“No, you weren’t.”

“Yes, it was the Bears against the Blue Jays.” I think these are real teams.

“Try again,” she smirks.

“Okay, figure skating. Kurt Browning. Yum.” I lick my lips. She swats me. “So, what movie did you see that blabby Carla ruined?”

“Caren. Amelie. And she didn’t ruin it entirely. You should rent it. It’s good.”

“Oh, bleagh, that’s French, right? Subtitles? I’ll take a pass.”

“Whatever.” She shrugs. “I’m tired. Let’s go to bed.”

“Let’s.” Plural. I love that. “Okay,” I grumble, for show. I stand, then stumble, almost fall. Connie throws out her arm to steady me.

“Do you want me to help you walk to the bathroom?” She looks scared. I hate that.

“I’m fine.” I twitch her hand off my shoulder. Why does she have to make such a big deal of a little stumble? It could happen to anyone. “My legs are just a little stiff from being folded on the couch.” I recite my mantra: “I got by before you; I’ll get by after you.”

“There is no ‘after me,’” she retorts.

“Whatever,” I shrug, fighting the urge to be mollified. Does she think that if she’s not here every second I’ll shatter, like an hourglass tumbling off a ledge? “You really oughta get out more. Nobody likes a hovering butch.”

Con scowls at me, opens her mouth to say something, shuts it again. “I’ll meet you in the bathroom, then.” She turns on her heel.

“It’s a date!” I call, over-the-top giddy-girly, but she’s already stalked around the corner. I grip the wall for a second, make my way into the hall toward the sound of running water. Water. Shit. Water. “Hon,” I call, trying to quell my panic. “Can you check the stove? I think I—”

“I turned it off before I left,” she calls back. “I’ll buy a new teapot tomorrow.”

Damn, damn, damn. The third damn teapot this month. Lu, screaming, waving the burnt-out pot, “Why don’t you write things down? Why don’t you set the timer? Can’t you get organized?” Handing me the receipt—making sure the money for the replacement comes out of my disability check, not her hard-earned one. It didn’t do any good to explain, “I did write it down, but I lost the paper. I did set the timer, but I forgot what the ‘ding’ meant.” Rolling her eyes, stomping away. Lovely Lu. Long gone.

Ears burning, my toes touch cool tile. I collapse onto the toilet seat, my hand over my face. “I’m so sorry. I’ll pay for it, of course. I’m really, really sorry.”

“Whatever. It’s only a pot. A fucking ugly one, too.” She snorts, “Ha!” at some hidden joke. “Those big, purple flowers! Oh, god! You put us out of its misery, babe.”

“But… but, you picked it out.” Startling. I lean sideways to look at her face, slip, right myself.

“Haven’t you learned by now that your lover is a genius? It was on sale. Practically free.”

“Well, still, I should have paid attention. It’s a waste.” I’m a waste.

“You should be glad that you didn’t get killed in a fire,” Con spins, cheeks splotched, eyes bright. “Kettles can be replaced. You, babe, cannot. Get over it.” Her voice rough, breaking, Con turns back to the mirror, swipes at her cheek.

Her moods flash past so fast. Where did that come from? “You’re upset. Are you mad about the pot?”

“No! Wait—yes. I’m mad that you think I care about a fucking ugly teapot. And I’m scared that I never know if I’m gonna come home to a burned-down house with you dead inside. And you bet I’m mad that you don’t see the difference. But mostly I’m mad that I have to keep convincing you how much I love you.” Facing me now, tears dropping onto her shirt.

Why does she have to get so melodramatic? “You don’t have to worry. Really. I’m fine. I’ve gotten along this far without burning down the house. I’m not going to die.” You’d get over it. And the other thing? No. Better not. Yes. “Besides, what do you mean, ‘you have to convince me’? I know you love me as much as you can, and if you can’t say it—”

“Can’t say it? I do say it! Christ!” She pounds the sink with her palm so that bottle of red mouthwash topples toward the drain.

What does she say? I look at the stained sink, the grimy mirror. Maybe I can clean in here, the next good day I have. “You say it?”

“Yes, I do.” Her voice softens. “I would think that would be the kind of thing you’d remember.” She tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear.

“So would I,” I lower my head, sniffling, the strand falling back into my eyes. She tells me how much she loves me. I feel myself turning to vapor, rising like steam above our heads. I wonder how often? I condense suddenly, plummet back down to the toilet seat with a thud. “I know—you’re right. I should write these things down. I should get organized.”

Connie leans against the sink, her mouth open. “That’s… what… I’m… saying?” She draws out each word.

“Well, Lu—”

“Fuck Luanne and the femme she rode in on!” Connie grabs her toothbrush and squeezes the paste so fiercely that it misses her brush and lands in a spiral on the floor. “Which was you, by the way,” she adds, applying a fresh squiggle of paste onto her brush with shaking hands and attacking her mouth.

“Easy honey. You’ll break a tooth.” I try to laugh, but my throat is dry.

“I know you think I’m her, but I’m not.” She spits into the sink. “And that’s not the illness fucking with your head, babe—it’s you.”

“It’s you, babe! It’s you!” Con turns from the mirror where she’s buttoning her pressed, white shirt.

Modeling the new red dress I bought for her fortieth birthday party, I execute a careful twirl. The short rayon skirt billows up around my thighs. Con catches me at twirl’s end, sliding her hand up to squeeze my ass.

“I guess you like it, then?” I bite her earlobe, tonguing the golf stud. She’s got on her dress shirt, black slacks. A silk tie with delicate pink petals lies on the hamper, waiting.

“I’d like this—” she slaps my ass, “in anything—in a garbage bag.”

“Well, then, I guess there’s no need for finery,” I make to slip away, but she pulls me in tight.

“Finery is good, too,” she kisses down my neck to the V of the dress, her right hand under the fabric, gliding to my breast.

I gasp, “I need to sit down. I’m going to fall.”

Con hoists me off the toilet lid, then pulls me back down onto her lap. “I’m dizzy, hon,” I mumble into her shoulder.

“Put your head down.”

We roll me over onto my belly, my forehead resting on the cool floor, my thighs across her lap. The nausea and dizziness start to pass as my ass begins to tingle, and a new lightheadedness emerges. Fingers run up and down the backs of my legs, making spirals on each upturned cheek.

“What about the dresses?” I mumble. Not dresses. Guesses. “Guests, I mean”—trying to grab hold of anything: the floor, my thoughts, the cold radiator’s foot.

“The guests can wear their own dresses. Christ! I love your ass!” Con’s hand smacks my ass; my clit reverberates against her thigh.

Yes, that’s true, their own dresses. “There’s dip too,” I offer. Please, please, hit me again. Her hand whistles down, thwack, thwack, thwack. I scream and moan and wriggle. All I see is red, a tent of red around my head. The dress, I realize, she’s pulled up my dress. My head is swimming in it. I’m so wet. Too wet. “Your pants,” I moan. “They’ll stain. What about the guests?”

“Fuck my pants,” she grunts. And I do. I hump against her leg; her hands, my ass, all have turned red; I can feel it. I see it in the red around me. Whistling smacks, shrieks piercing air, her hand coming down, coming down, coming down. “I love you,” my mind whispers.

“I love you baby, baby, baby, I love you, love you. Uhn!” It’s her—her real voice, sweating out the words, muffled by my dress. And the high keening, like a siren as she pushes two fingers in and I writhe and ride, wailing, to the rhythm of her slaps and thrusts. “Come now!” her voice suddenly rough, pushes me over. I howl, pulsing against her fingers. I hold her inside me, letting her feel my power, my inner strength, striated, squeezing. Finally, opening.

My throat is raw. My cunt is raw. I feel fresh and spent, together. The tile has warmed beneath my head and hands. I can still hear the screaming.

“Ups-a-daisy,” Connie calls from somewhere above. She’s trying to pull me up to her, but I need to be down, low, on the ground.

“The floor,” I try to unstick my tongue. “The floor is soft.” Soft? No, that’s not the word. Smooth? I try to explain, but Connie understands and is gently lowering me, on my side, to the bath mat. She places a folded towel under my head and I curl toward it.

“I need to turn off the kettle before we burn another bottom out,” her voice retreats, the pounding of her feet shaking the floor. Suddenly the strident call is interrupted with a sharp chirp that fades into a hiss.

Con’s face, puffing, appears above me. “Just in time. That’s why I decided to hurry things along a bit. Sorry about that.” She collapses with her back against the sink cabinet, her legs across mine.

“Oh, I didn’t notice,” I murmur, feeling hair in my mouth. The fancy French twist I’d spent an hour creating earlier has come undone.

“What didn’t you notice? The kettle? Or me hurrying things along?”

“Either. Neither.” I giggle, thick-tongued.

“I’ll bet you didn’t. Well, we both better find new duds, babe,’cuz you’re wrinkled and I’m stained. Also, I’m wrinkled and you’re stained.”

“Guess that makes us a good pair.” I’m waiting for my head to stop spinning.

“Guess it does,” she huffs, hauling me up. ”Pair of what is the question.”

She guides me to the bedroom where we stare into the closet, trying to figure out how to re-cover ourselves.

“…with me?” Con’s brow furrows.

“What? Yes, of course I’m with you.” What were you saying though…? “What was that last bit?”

She pretends to bang her head into the mirror above the sink. “There was no ‘last bit,’” she grumbles around her toothbrush.

“I just suggested that since you’re in here you might want to take a shower.”

I raise my eyebrows.

My lover waves toward my armpits. “You stink.”

I glare.

“Darling?” She bats her eyelashes in a way that looks totally ridiculous and insincere.

“What about you? When was the last time you bathed?”

“Oh, it’s been… a while.” Her brushing has returned to a steady rhythm. “I’ll join you, if you like.”

“You just want to get me wet and soapy and have your way with me,” I accuse, hopefully.

“Okay,” she grins, jiggling the red plastic brush in her mouth. A thin foam of toothpaste dribbles onto her chin and splatters onto the floor. I can see the moisture evaporating as I watch, the foam drying, sticking to the floor, where it will soon resemble a cum stain. Con never mops the floors. They’re perpetually gritty. That dried, papery blotch of toothpaste drool will probably stay there forever. I’m fascinated by it. It crinkles around the edges, becomes delicate, like flower petals.

Connie takes off her clothing, steps into the stall, turns on the water. Steam rises. She motions to my shower chair. “Milady, your chariot awaits.” I take a moment to adore her body, the layers of soft flesh over hard muscle, her right breast a little fuller, more pendulous than her left. Her eyes. It’s me. “Are you coming?” Connie stands naked, streaming, soap in hand, beckoning from the stall. I rise, releasing my hair from its clip. I always come when you call.