Giselle Renarde - Best Lesbian Erotica 2011

“Oh, you are so good, Reena,” Priya gasped, fiercely nibbling her partner’s lips.

Reena’s finger now rubbed her clit, making Priya moan in ecstasy. “I want to eat your pussy, Reena,” she begged.

“So do I, darling,” said Reena. “We have so little space here to maneuver… here… let’s…”

They quickly rearranged their bodies to offer their cunts to each other. Without losing a moment, Reena grabbed Priya’s and rubbed her dripping cunt all over her own face like a towel. She then used the tip of her nose to massage Priya’s clit. Moaning with pleasure, Priya parted Reena’s lips with her fingers and buried her face into her furrow to savor her smell, her tongue running inside Reena’s slit up and down. Reena drew up her legs and Priya flicked the tip of her tongue right into her Reena’s cunt.

“Finger-fuck me, darling,” Reena whispered.

Priya inserted her index finger then her middle finger as well and started a pumping motion that threw Reena into rapture, her legs flailing, her cunt dripping more fluid than Priya could lick. Priya could feel that Reena was rushing toward a searing orgasm. She was still a couple of minutes away from one herself, but she wanted to bring Reena off first.

Then Reena shrieked and clamped her legs so tight on Priya’s face that she was almost suffocated. She held her breath like she was underwater till Reena’s limbs relaxed.

“Thank-you-thank-you-thank-you!” sang an exalted Reena, panting, as her hand caressed Priya’s head. “I am so happy. Oh, it’s been months since I came like that. Thank you, darling.”

“I am happy to help you,” Priya told her.

“Let me bring you home,” Reena offered.

“Just a little more of your mouth on my clit…” Priya said, feeling the tension building around her dripping pussy. Reena lapped her pussy with renewed vigor, her tongue flicking in and out and her lips squeezing hard on Priya’s clit. Closing her eyes, Priya could imagine a vat with a boiling, bubbling liquid, waiting for that critical moment when the pot would no longer be able to hold its contents and would boil over in a torrent. She arched her back and moaned as the deluge swamped her, bringing tears to her eyes. If Reena hadn’t grabbed her, she might have flung herself on the floor.

Later, they kissed and slowly explored each other’s body for a long time till the train halted with a jerk. They could see lights on the platform and coolies rushing to and fro. From the signboards, Priya could see that they had reached Kanpur junction. Reena jumped up and started dressing. “Got to get down here, my dearest,” she said.

“I wish you all the best,” Priya told her. “I hope I will see your photo in the papers with a handcuffed Channa Devi by your side.”

“Rest assured, you will see me in the papers soon,” Reena replied, flashing a smile at Priya.

“Don’t take any unnecessary risks, Reena!” Priya said, as she saw her lover tucking her shirttail into her trousers.

“I won’t.” She held Priya by the shoulders and kissed her deeply one last time, before putting on her cap and slipping out of the coupe. Priya started to dress, for Lucknow was just an hour away.

She was still thinking about Reena when the train pulled up at Lucknow. Priya’s father greeted her on the platform.

“How was the journey, darling?” he asked.

“Great,” said Priya, beaming.

“I was worried,” he told her. “Channa Devi, the bandit queen, has hoodwinked the police. She floored a woman cop in her cell, stole her uniform and slipped out of the prison. It’s front-page news!” Priya’s father unrolled the Hindustan Times to show her the picture of the fugitive on the first page.

Even before she looked at the picture, Priya knew who she’d see.

It really had been quite a journey.

We dance on a razor-sharp blade. That’s how humiliation play works, twisting fear and humiliation around desire until the source of her shame is the very thing that makes her valuable. Until I become exactly who I feared. We dance between her destruction and my uncontrolled viciousness, holding each other close, knowing the danger, the sharpness of the edge feeding our desire for blood. Adrenaline courses through us as we play, its metallic scent intoxicating. We know what we are doing, but that does not minimize the risks.

We have a history, and it is part of the fault line that runs under this shaky space where we play. For I am a survivor, and so is she. Sex work is not without its dangers, from cops and johns alike, and she knows that well. I learned fear and violation from more intimate sources, very early. We both learned that sex is shame and were force-fed that shame without our consent. But now we revel in a celebration of the darkness and the joy within sex, and it heals. We choose this, so it can feed us and build us up. And we are stronger for the risk in it. We are stronger for our desires.

There is something very raw and very queer about playing with this kind of power. The queerness of it is what makes it work for us. I know that she could never do this with someone who had a cock that was permanantly attached; the smells and sensations would just be too close. There’s something so peverse about using misogyny as a sex toy; the same misogyny that nearly destroyed me as a girl.

But it is not my self-hate that I pour onto her, it is love. We are in this together, and there is a tremendous love we have built, through tiny rituals and daily glances, through practical support and open celebration. We are a team, dancing together on this edge, knowing we both must use care, we both must watch the terrain. We have spent a long time building the trust needed for this, and it is worth it. For now we can ride that fine edge, lick the blood off our skin and revel in the joy that is possible.

She is dressed like the whore she is. But tonight it is to my specifications. From her fuck-me heels and up the seam in her stockings to her bare back, she is every inch a fierce, proud being. She is the object I desire, the whore I own, and she is dressed this time to please only me. I can see pride in the slight arch to her back as she kneels in the center of the room. And it should be there. I am proud to own this strong, intelligent survivor. I am proud to claim my precious whore. She is proud to be mine, to keep choosing that in every moment.

I can see the edges of her stockings peek out from under her skirt, tantalizing me. Her beautifully large body is offered up for my pleasure, and I revel in the sight of it. I want her fear tonight. And her breath. I want her tears. I want to split her open, fluids dripping. I want to unleash my cruelty upon her. I want to reach deep inside and wrap her around my fingers.

I stalk over to her and yank her up by the hair, dragging her stumbling to the wall. I tilt her head back, my body ramming her into the wall, my mouth at her ear, my cock digging into her ass.

“Spread for me, bitch.”

I kick her thighs apart.

“Yes, that’s it. You love this, don’t you? Fucking whore.”

My baton slides between her thighs, teasing. I ready for the blow. The baton slams into her, hard relentless thuds against her ass. It’s pounding her into the wall, thrusting her onto the edge of orgasm. That’s exactly where I want her. I stop.

I yank her up by the hair and turn her to face me. I grip her face in my left hand, and she knows what’s coming.

“Dirty whore.”

Then I am slapping her cheek, the bite of invasion where she is the most vulnerable. And the violation will not stop. My eyes are locked on hers as I continue to slap her face, watching her as I growl.

“Whore. You were going to come, weren’t you? You know better than that. You get to come when I say. Fucking whore. Who do you think you are, bitch? You think this is about you? You think I give a damn about your pleasure? Selfish bitch, this isn’t about you.”