Best Lesbian Erotica 2013 (15 page)

“Is it okay to laugh while you're doing it?” she asked.

“Sure! Ain't nothing wrong with that. Just have yourself a good time.” Michelle resumed her massage and Savannah let out a little moan. “See, this is better, isn't it?”

“Oh, yeah. I was thinking what to do about Junior when you pulled up the drive. And I thought to myself, who's going to know more about what a woman likes than a woman who knows what other women like?”

Michelle chuckled. “I'm glad my reputation is good for something.”

Savannah opened her legs a little wider and Michelle made her way down, stopping to lick the moisture pooled in Savannah's navel. She blew onto Savannah's bush to separate the hairs and saw a little pink skin hiding inside. Parting the hairs with her fingers, she could see a slight glistening. She reached both of her hands beneath Savannah's butt and raised her up to her mouth. She kissed and licked high up on both sides of her legs before settling into the wet center of her youthful womanhood. Again, Michelle took her time, a fact Savannah seemed to appreciate. No one's daddy was going to interrupt them. Her tongue ran over and around, inside and out; she suckled and kissed and tried to think of ways to give pleasure, ways that were most likely new and wonderful judging by the hardened nub nestled beneath the younger woman's mound.

Without warning, Savannah bucked up as if her butt had caught fire. “Oh! Oh! That's it! Oh!” Michelle released her hands and let Savannah's bottom rest on the towel. “You did it! I did it!” she cried. “I finally had an orgasm! Wow!”

“You never had an orgasm?”

“Nope.” Savannah looked sheepish. “Never did. Until now, that is.”

“Well, hallelujah!”

“It was incredible! Like I'm shivering from the inside out.
But…I was hoping you'd, you know, with your fingers. And now it's over.”

“We can still do that,” Michelle said.

Savannah sat up wide awake. “Really? But I already…”

“That's okay. We just keep doing it, that's all. Since this was your first, take a little break and enjoy the feeling.” Michelle nudged Savannah back onto the towel and gave her a little body massage to keep her interested. After a few minutes, she positioned her leg between Savannah's and pressed in over and over with her firm thigh. Then, she moved her hand down to Savannah's fuzzy bush. She licked a finger—not that she needed to—and held Savannah on her nub for a few moments without moving. They kissed and Michelle rocked her finger a little at a time until it had entered its mark. She kissed Savannah's neck as she worked her down below. It was a challenge to stay focused and not think about coming. Her own twat, which pulsed and dripped pussy juice down her leg, was becoming as insistent as Savannah. Michelle finger-fucked her for a good, long while, and with one thrust, Savannah announced to everything within a mile her unbelievable pleasure. Michelle's fingers were squeezed so tight she thought the circulation would quit. And then Savannah shuddered and fell on her back, exhausted, catching her breath.

“Holy Christmas! I had another one! So this is what you and LaTanya were up to.”

Michelle pressed on her own clit. The pressure had gotten almost painful and she could feel it throbbing. It wouldn't take much for her to come. “Not exactly,” she replied while trying to even out her breathing. “It's different; with everyone it's different. You were amazing.”

Savannah propped herself up on her elbows. Her dark body gleamed as dappled sunlight danced around across her skin. She
glanced at Michelle's hand, which seemed frozen with tension. “And then did LaTanya take a turn with you?”

“Sometimes we took turns and sometimes we did it together. I know I could use a little help right about now. This has gotten me all worked up. In a good way, mind you. But you don't have to. I can do it.”

“No, I want to! Let me. Lie down. Right here.” She patted the ground, sat up and made a space on the towels for Michelle. “I probably won't be as good as you. I've never done this—to myself. I told all my girlfriends I did, but that was only because they said they did it. Really, I never have.”

“Are you sure you want to?” asked Michelle.

“It was better than I ever imagined. Like a triple rainbow, and peach ice cream, and all my favorite things in the world. Now I know what everyone's talking about. I want to try. Let me try.” Savannah's eyebrows arched upward in a nuanced gesture, the same pleading Michelle saw earlier in the pool, and she knew she could not refuse.

Savannah was a good student. She imitated some of the things Michelle had done and made her wait. Michelle was fit to be tied by the time Savannah got around to pushing in one of her fingers. Michelle came instantly. And being a good student, Savannah had also learned that unlike her experiences with Junior, coming didn't mean stopping. By the time they finished with each other, the sun had lowered in the sky and the unbearable heat had slackened. They took one last dip in the pool, splashed around and embraced in the cool water. Buddy wandered by with his food dish in his mouth, and dropped it by the lounge chair. He let out a shrill yawn and looked up at Savannah expectantly.

“Someone's hungry, huh, Buddy?” Savannah said. “Guess it's time to get out.”

After they dressed, Michelle embraced Savannah again and kissed her deeply with her tongue. She looked into her dark brown eyes. “Now you promised not to tell and I'm going to hold you to it. This here's a small town and I'll find out if you do.”

“What's to tell?” said Savannah. “That Junior and I broke up and now I'm going out with you? What do you suppose folks would say about that?”

Michelle smiled and kissed Savannah on the forehead. “They'd say, ‘I never did understand why a smart girl like Savannah was hanging out with that Peyroux boy.' And I'd have to agree.”

 

 

 

 

 

I am vainly, passionately in love with my garden. I consider each crocus bud to be swelling by the grace of the sweat that dripped off my neck while I planted last fall. The curves of the tulip leaves are the curve of my back, straining with the pitchfork over the compost heap. I have an ex-lover, Annie. My old girlfriend appreciates my vanities. She's a fecund woman of fifty-five. Fecundity. God, I love that word. A word that celebrates the muck and mire we all spring from, the richness of life. A word you can use without feeling corny about the filling, swelling, bursting going on inside and outside of you.

Like everything else in nature that's alive and kicking, my ex-girlfriend and I know a sexy season when we feel it. Spring is fucking time. Since we broke up, there have been some years when I don't see Annie all winter long. But you can bet your last tube of Vagilube, she's going to show up at my front door, sometime before the season begins and as sure as taxes are due, smiling like she never ever did one wrong thing. She's
the first sign of spring: soft, moist and furrowed.

This year Annie came on April first, All Fools' Day. I know because my present, love-her-madly-till-death-do-we-part, girlfriend left for a conference in Erie, PA that morning. My girlfriend's tracks where still fresh on the driveway when
knock, knock, knock
, Annie's at my door.

We sit quietly in the living room. I pour coffee. Her body, full on my couch, extravagant, is what my grandmother would have called pleasingly plump. In fact, Annie looks a lot like my grandmother, except her hair is not gray. Annie dyes her hair red; not auburn,
red
. She looks incredible. It's one of those days when the light is so bright and the air is so clean that everything seems possible. I look out the window. I see my neighbor's rusty trash cans on their sides near the border of my garden. The damned kids have thrown them over the fence again. When I smile at the sun bouncing off the dirty metal barrels, I know Annie and I are going to end up naked.

It's always the same. We start out polite, acting like we aren't affected by the bulge in the daffodils anymore, pretending we don't have some unspoken pact to celebrate the rituals of spring together, year after year. We're dying to find out what changes and what remains the same, but we start out slow, just in case one of us has decided that we should quit while we're ahead.

Annie and I were born the same year in the month of April. We met in the spring, twenty-two years after our separate births. We were young together. We were young together until we were forty-six. Then we weren't together and we weren't young. Middle age: I've never been able to wrap my mind around that season of life. It's not what I expected. I thought middle-life would take over and make me respectable, settled, comfortably bored. Now Annie and I are both fifty-five, on the cusp of old age, approaching old-ladyhood as unsettled and wanton as we
were thirty-three years ago. Annie says you're only as old as you feel. Well I feel fifty-five springs horny.

I look at Annie, wrinkles deepening around her eyes as she smiles at me. I see old familiar lust forming in the lines at the corners of her mouth. She brings her coffee to her lips. There's a fold inside her elbow that I don't remember from last year.
Annie, we're turning into old women with desire tucked in the bends and kinks of our skin.

Old women, I like the sound of that. I touch my neck, my skin warm and loose. Old women, sitting on the couch unfolding. I like the feel of it. Especially in spring. Spring has a way of honoring the layers of life that came before. The thicker the blanket of dead leaves, kitchen scraps, manure and snow, the more succulent the hyacinth's new shoots. I like having all those winters, all those springs backing me up. It's good that I'm still alive. I'm just starting to get the hang of life. It's mostly the dying at the end part I'm having a hard time adjusting to.

I lean back on the couch and close my eyes. Annie sits quietly beside me. She touches my hand. Softly her fingertips turn over my memory. I think of Annie's hot breath on the back of my neck, her fingers reaching around my waist to unzip my jeans from behind. I don't think of us as any age. I remember how the sweat forms in the small of her back as she moves on top of me and calls my name. I try to remember where we found the guts to take these liberties so long ago. Even youth doesn't give two women license to do these things together. Maybe age stops asking for permission.

I open my eyes and smile at Annie. The older I get, the better my long-term memory gets and I can't remember Annie ever asking for permission to do anything. Maybe she was old before her time. She never asked me if she could sleep with other women when we were together. We had a deal. We were doing
the “don't ask, don't tell” thing long before the military.

But sleeping with other women wasn't why we broke up. Our deal worked out fine for the most part. It was good we broke up. It was getting so we weren't being nice to each other on a day-to-day, everyday schedule. It was time to go our separate ways. So we did.

“Let's see the garden,” Annie says.

We walk out to the yard. We gossip among the crocuses. They're in bloom, tiny things, only six inches from the ground, but they're full of themselves, screaming yellow and purple. The first to flower, brave little darlings. There's a chill in the morning air. Still, you can feel it's going to be a warm day. The ground is damp. It feels nice to sink into each step just a little as we walk. Annie compliments my tulips, marvels at how many there are, more than last year, more than the year before. They're all up, awake, out of the ground, seven or eight inches high. The leaves are striated green and rusty red, profuse and pushing. They're not ready to bloom. They have maybe a foot more to grow and gallons of sun to drink.

It's the daffodils that grab us, stop us in our tracks. We stare for a full minute before we walk toward them, our mugs of coffee steaming in our hands. The daffodils are swollen, not one bloom actually open among one hundred. They're straining. They want to get
on
with it, bad. They're tired of waiting. You can feel their impatience, just a little more time, just a little more light, a little more sun. Something inside them is pushing.
Open
. This is the time.
Open
. This is the place. No shame. They stand in clumps, leaves turning toward the sun. If it were rain, they'd be just as ready. They know who they are, what they want.

Annie and I stare at each other and sip. Annie presses the warm mug to her cheek. The coffee steam rises. I brush my own cheek against my own cup and stare at Annie. It's the morning
sun, it's the season, it's me that makes Annie's face glow, but it's something else, too. Annie's happy. She's happier than I've seen her in a long time. She's in love, not with me. She has a new lover. I'm not guessing. I've met the woman. Nice woman. She makes Annie happy. I wonder what kind of deal Annie has with her new lover. I don't ask. Annie doesn't tell.

I push Annie's new lover out of my mind. I push my own lover as far out of my mind as she will go: Erie, PA. The light is at that certain slant that Emily Dickinson doesn't describe. It's the ‘Fuck it. This is the only moment that ever was or ever will be' slant. It hits Annie full in the face. She really is illuminated. She doesn't blink. She looks me straight in the eye.

“I want you bad,” she says.

We walk back to the house. We sit on the couch. It's still warm where our bodies had been a few minutes earlier. This time there's no space between us. Annie pulls my face to hers. She kisses me, full on the lips. I snuggle my face between her breasts. I love her skin, especially the
V
between her breasts. The skin there is more furrowed and wrinkled then the rest of her. Beyond the
V
on Annie's breast are the places where the sun doesn't shine, pale, tender. I like those places, too.