Best Lesbian Erotica 2013 (18 page)

Leona shrugged. She playfully pinched at Ida's waist and continued to ignore the comment. “Anyone ever tell you that you're remarkably thin for someone who cooks so well?”

Ida tucked her chin. “I suppose it's because I nibble.”

“And you never stop moving.”

And Leona never stopped watching her. She watched Ida walk from the stove to the island in the middle of her kitchen, from the table to the sink. Leona watched the perspiration roll down Ida's neck, watched her calves flex and release, watched the muscles in her thin arms contract as she lifted pans and casseroles.

“What about you? You work out to keep in such good shape?”

Leona sucked her teeth. “My father seems to think I'm getting bigger by the minute.”

“And what do you think?”

“I think that I like to eat and everything I put in my mouth sits on my hips like a couple of saddlebags.”

Leona couldn't be sure, but she thought that maybe Ida
glanced down at her hips for verification.

And it was then that Leona decided she should kiss Ida.

It was a simple kiss on the neck. Leona was certain it wouldn't hurt anything. And maybe Ida wouldn't even notice it. And if she didn't notice that, surely she wouldn't mind a tongue on her velvety collarbone or a hand on her elbow that slid down her arm and locked loosely around her wrist.

And as it turned out, Ida didn't mind any of these things. Ida sighed as if these very things were what she had been waiting for all along. So, Leona held her by the waist and brought her close. She kissed her on the lips. They shared the taste of lime on each other's tongues.

Leona knelt in front of Ida, brushing her cheek against the front of Ida's flowery dress. Leona lifted the dress, held it in a bunch at Ida's waist. She kissed each side of Ida's stomach and sucked gently on her navel.

And somehow, finally, they found their way down to Ida's kitchen floor.

Leona slowly lifted Ida's dress and pulled it over her head to expose her red panties.

Leona was wet at just the sight of her, at the thought that she was seducing Ida. And Ida, she was smiling.

Ida's back arched at the feel of Leona's tongue on her nipples. She giggled at the light sensation of Leona's breath on her lobe.

And when Leona smelled the hint of lime and could barely smell the shrimp anymore, the telltale sign that the meal was done, Ida came on her own kitchen floor.

Leona kissed Ida on her knees, ran her fingers across the softest parts of her thighs.

She whispered, “I'm hungry.”

Leona was sitting in her father's kitchen thinking of Ida when he asked, “So, you learning much over there?”

And Leona smiled and said, “Yes, I'm learning lots.”

In fact she had learned just recently that Ida was quite ticklish, that the tile on her kitchen floor had six different colors in it, that Ida's favorite color was blue, that her cottage had been handed down to her from her great-grandmother and most important of all, she learned that Ida loved strawberries.

Leona had fed them to her last night after they had rolled around naked in Ida's bed for nearly two hours. They had eaten strawberries and drank champagne and Leona had stayed the whole night.

Her father nodded, satisfied. “Good,” he said. “You'll have to cook me something soon.”

“Yes, Daddy,” Leona said. “I will cook you something very soon.”

Then he lightly pinched her arm.

“Looks like you might be doing a little more eating than you are cooking in my opinion, though.”

And Leona had to keep herself from blushing. Ida had said that she liked the extra fluffiness on her. That it made her warm and juicy.

And warm was what Leona felt as she thought about seeing Ida in three hours. Juicy was the feeling between her legs as she thought of Ida coming to the door and greeting her naked.

Leona leaned back in her chair, stretched, and waited.

 

It was supposed to be almond-crusted tilapia, but Leona had let the thin pieces of fish bake too long and they stuck to the bottom of the pan because she hadn't used enough olive oil, so the only thing salvageable were the almonds.

Leona watched Ida place them on her lips and swipe them into her mouth with her tongue.

“I burned Daddy's ribs, too,” Leona said.

Ida laughed. “I'm sure he didn't mind.”

Leona shook her head. “No, he was pretty pissed. He loves barbeque. He told me in about three different ways that I had ruined a damned good slab of meat.”

Ida chuckled. “You'll make it up to him. I'll fix you up a tray and you can pass them off as your own.”

Leona shrugged. “Maybe. I don't know if it'll fly, though. I'm going to have to start explaining myself soon. All these lessons and the only thing I'm really learning to do is set off smoke detectors.”

Ida came closer. “Surely that's not all you've learned to do, Leona.”

And she reached for Leona's hand and placed it between her thighs. Ida lifted it up so that Leona's palm was resting against her cunt.

Leona felt she was warm there. And Leona, she was warm, too.

And soon, Leona was no longer worried about the fish. Soon, she lay with Ida in her bed kissing Ida's fingertips, shoulders and knees.

Ida tasted better than anything Leona had ever dreamed of putting into her mouth. Ida was bitter and sweet, she was tender and moist.

And when Ida came against Leona's mouth, Leona was full, full as if she had dined five times at the center of Ida's hips.

 

They often talked after, which was how Leona learned that Ida was a Gemini and grew up in Syracuse and was never formally trained to cook. It was also how Leona learned that in six weeks, Ida would be leaving for Paris.

Leona had reached up and smoothed out Ida's thick eyebrows. But now she brought her hand back down, quickly, as if she had been scorched.

Ida would be personally trained by French Chef Something-or-Other and as Ida went on and on about it, Leona looked at her, looked for some sign of remorse that she had to say the words, or even better, that suddenly she thought she might change her mind and stay after all.

But Ida just kept talking.

“A spot suddenly became available. And all this time I've been telling myself that it's just too late, that I'm too old for any more lessons and I already know everything I need to know, but it's a very coveted position. I'd be a fool to turn it down.”

The excitement in Ida's voice made Leona smile in spite of herself.

So, she said, “I understand, honey. I would go for it if I were you, definitely.”

Leona said the words only because she knew she had to say something. She said the words because, otherwise, she would cry. And Leona was twenty-four years old, and that was simply too fucking old to cry.

Ida was talking again. Her voice was soft and raspy now.

She turned to Leona and said, “How do you think your daddy would feel about it?”

Leona hoped Ida couldn't detect the change in her voice. She hoped that the tears wouldn't roll down her face and fall onto Ida's arm.

Leona said, “Well, I know he loves your fried chicken, but he'll find another caterer for his meetings.”

Ida laughed. “Silly girl. I'm talking about you. I'm talking about you taking off with me. What would he think about that?”

Leona tucked her head in the crook of Ida's arm and inhaled the light scent of lilac from her skin.

No, Leona wasn't sure how her daddy would feel, but she was already imagining herself awakening with Ida in a foreign land, eating new and exciting foods that Ida would cook for her and feed her from her hands. Already Leona was imagining whispering words in broken French in Ida's ear.

 

As she chopped red potatoes, tossed in fresh scallions and added sour cream and mayonnaise, Leona agreed that maybe, yes, every young woman should learn how to cook. She herself had caught on, finally.

She stirred her pot of green beans. She covered the pound cake she had left cooling.

Her father would be happy with the meal, and he would most certainly be proud of her. And he would love the fried chicken.

He'd be just tickled about the whole thing.

And Paris. He'd get over that eventually and maybe one day he'd even be happy. Leona set up the dinner table nice and pretty with a six-pack of her daddy's favorite beer in a bucket of ice.

Leona wished she could be there to see the look on his face.

But instead she would be sitting in the passenger seat of Ida's convertible. And by the time he found the note, she and Ida would be on the plane.

And seven hours after that, Leona and her lover would be in Paris. They would both learn new things: Ida the ways of French cooking; Leona, new ways of loving Ida.

And that, Leona knew, was the most important lesson of all.

 

 

 

 

 

Morning. Alarm, get out of bed, pee, feed fish, shave, shower, brush teeth, dress dyke-to-die-for in CK boxers, Carhartt and steel-toed breakers. Thirty-one minutes.

Coffee. Strong, large, homo milk splashed in. Get on the subway. Eight minutes.

Commute. Read digital paper: war, riots, famine, recession, murder, six-hundred-billion-dollar Apple, nuclear arms, hatred, violence, world's smallest lizard discovered in Madagascar; awesome. My stop: off the train. Nine minutes. Up the escalator while checking smart phone Next TTC: Bus in three. Walk off escalator and see you. Morning routine shattered.

Three minutes turn into thirty seconds as I pretend to flip through my smartphone with heavy-duty case, eyeing you all the way. New job? Interview? Not a regular. In six years on the same bus, I've never seen you. Black brogues gleaming with buffed polish, pant-cuffs ironed, pleats crisp, butt round. Black leather jacket perfect fit to slim waist and strong shoulders. Black,
trim hair screams
dyke.
Nose and ear piercings catch sunlight sifting through grimy depot windows. You look up and see me, I glance directly at you, shades covering my eyes that take you in, outwardly full of nonchalance, inwardly captivated. No smile from you, no smile from me. Butch dance.

I move toward the platform and ensure I almost graze you, seated on the bench. Not looking back, I feel you rise and follow as I exit through the doors into the cool morning air. I turn on the platform; you are behind me, flipping madly through your smartphone with heavy-duty case. I stand still: you stand still next to me. We flip in silence, electricity flashing between us. The bus arrives. I sit; you sit across from me, able to see me in peripheral. I face you and cannot avert my eyes beneath my shades. We are still flipping as the bus departs. Four minutes.

If I knew you, we would be fucking. We would sleep in, late for work or appointments or interviews, and not caring. We would sleep in and be late because the night before we would have been out and up late.

 

You said pick you up at eight: dinner for two then a little dirty dancing,
per se
. We were dressed identically; black steel-toe garrisons polished, black leather jackets and chaps gleaming. Only subtle differences defined our one from the other. Your T-shirt said EAT ME, mine said BITE ME. The jeans covering your ass were black, mine blue. Your hair was black, short, curled with gel; mine light brown, shaved short.

We held hands into the restaurant, eyes locked: hungry. Ravenous actually. Eating was divine in your company and I know you felt the same way about mine. One hundred and six minutes.

Out of the restaurant, hands locked, straight to the not-so-straight kinky queer bar where we were welcomed with warm
smiles, sly glances and lusty leers. Ice-cold beer in hand, you pulled me to you and whispered for my ear only:

Fuck me tonight
? I squeezed your ass.

No, fuck me
.

Play first
?

'
K
.

Planning an evening was that easy with you.

We were surrounded by sex; patrons dripping, shirtless; hot-as-hell staff; porn offering suggestions on the big-screen. My cunt became a throbbing brute. Beers flowed and I had to piss. Big shock…so did you. Bathroom was dimly lit and steel, stalls were dimmer and offered guaranteed good times; just dial…you hauled me in. Guaranteed good times.

Our lips met with fervor, supple butch lips wanting every taste of our kiss. Tongues intertwined, needing full submersion. Calloused hands grasping leather pulled us closer: tough, butch hands. My cunt was gripped, full-hand-hard through my jeans; I was so fucking wet. My earlier request was honored as you slid my hand over your open fly. Dick. Hard-rubber-no-questions-asked-dick.
Fuck me
.