Чарли Андерс: Best Lesbian Erotica 2010

I made my way down her belly, admiring the feel of it with my mouth. The underlying muscles were smooth and toned but not overly muscular, and the tiny fleshiness I’d noticed earlier was delicious under my lips. I licked and kissed the area above and below her belly button, then teased the inside of it with my tongue before moving down. All the while, my fingers worked their way inside her, massaging in and out. She began to arch now, and I could feel her wetness running down my fingers. When my mouth reached her pussy, she parted her legs fully, resting one up against the top bench. I repositioned myself between her legs and went down on her.

Her scent was familiar, like my own pussy when I’ve been sweating, a smell I’ve always loved, but there was something different too, a deep earthiness all her own that was almost perfumey. Her swollen cunt opened itself to me as I licked her inner labia upward in long, slow strokes. I stopped at the base of her clit, and the teasing had the intended effect. She moved her pelvis toward my face, and when I didn’t oblige, she began to softly plead with me, “Please, please.”

I began to move my tongue in slow circles, lightly sweeping over her clit. On the third time around, as my tongue touched her clit, she reached down, grabbed my head and held it in place. I applied firm pressure with my tongue, and she arched up fully and came. I felt the shudder down the whole of her body, and the sudden release of fluid. Being on the receiving end of her cum was sexier than I could have imagined. Above me, her mouth panted and gasped. I pressed my lips to her belly for a moment, giving her a rest before going down on her a second time.

She hugged me gently with her legs and then, in one motion, sat up on her knees and pushed me backward onto the bench with her hands. She lay her damp body on top of mine and kissed me deep and hard; her tongue penetrated and explored my mouth, kissing me from every angle. She moved her pelvis against mine, and I moved with her, feeling her wetness mingle with my own. She reached down and began fucking me hard with two fingers. At the same time, her mouth followed a path down to my breasts. Its route mimicked my own mouth’s path on her, but where I had been gentle, she was rough and furious, devouring me with her lips and tongue—and occasionally, her teeth. Her intensity made me hot, and I groaned.

One hand continued to move inside me, while the other grabbed the flesh under my ribs, fingers wrapping around to my back. She took my nipple into her mouth, and I almost yelled as I came, arching my pussy into her palm. She sucked hard at my nipple, her tongue flicking across it at regular intervals, and I once again moved my pelvis to meet her hand as she penetrated me over and over again. The sauna had stopped radiating heat, but it was still hot inside, as we sweated and slid against each other in the dim light.

Bridget’s head came up from my breast; she flipped her hair back over her shoulders and came back to my mouth. She kissed me hard again and in seconds was down on me, her tongue inside me. In her frenzy, Bridget’s body had pushed me forward so that my head was now nearly underneath the top bench near where the two pairs met in the corner. I reached up and held on to the bench above, flexing my arms above my head and spreading my legs wide. I came again, this time ejaculating. She let out a moan of delight, and before I could respond, she was down on me again until I couldn’t take any more and lay there panting, her body limp on top of my own.

When we walked out of the sauna, collected and nonchalant, towels wrapped around us, the spa was empty except for a light visible through the steam room window. In the shower, we washed and caressed each other behind the curtain. We shampooed each other’s hair and openly took in one another’s naked bodies in the bright daylight, no longer stealing glances. We giggled like girls and kissed under the spray of the shower before drying and dressing.

Before we left, Bridget turned to me and said, “I always felt this waiting to happen with us. Didn’t you?”

As we made our way out into the day’s bright glare, I felt her fingertips reach out and brush mine, gently squeezing and then letting go.

“Sing O daughter of Zion. Shout O Israel, be glad!”

Ruby sang harmony as the choir led the congregation in a lively rendition of the hymn, raising the spirit with up-tempo clapping. It was sweltering under the big tent, and they had been leading the worship for over an hour, but nobody was tired, nobody was sitting down, and nobody was going home. They had come to hear Reverend Goodblood. He had been here at the fairgrounds in St. Johns leading the Jubilee for six days, and he was just getting them warmed up. Cyril Goodblood wasn’t a healer or a prophet; he was just an honest preacher who had listened to that still, small voice, and wanted to share it with the world. In his touch, just the same, there seemed to be a kind of inner healing, and the ladies of the flock were particularly drawn to it.

She had driven every day of the Jubilee from her parents’ home in Eagar about an hour south to hear Reverend Goodblood. He spoke to the flock in a quiet voice, his silver hair parted on the side and greased back with Brylcreem and his sleeves rolled up above his elbows in the heat. He had a kind face with a long, prominent nose—aquiline was the word Ruby thought of, something she’d read in a romance novel once—and his wise and comforting eyes were the shade of a late summer storm coming in over the White Mountains.

She thought if she could just get down to the front of the altar this time when the reverend made the call, he might bless her with a little laying on of hands. She just needed a touch of the reverend’s grace to rub off on her, just a little prayer. There was trouble coming, and only the Good Lord could get her out of it.

Sydney watched the congregation from behind the staging area, waiting for her, eager for her. They were in love with her creation. The Reverend Cyril Goodblood had won them over and swept them away into an ecstatic religious experience. She didn’t care what they called her, as long as the money kept coming in for “the Lord’s work.” Tonight was the last night of the week-long Jubilee, and it was time for Cyril to bring it on home.

The local minister was introducing Cyril now, and people were nearly crying in anticipation. Sydney smoothed her hair down and tugged her pin-striped vest into place, making sure that Cyril looked the part, and with a wide grin, she came around the partition and thanked the minister, shaking his hand with a firm, two-handed grip. The congregation clapped enthusiastically as she stepped up to the wooden pulpit, and then perhaps realized that clapping was not the thing. Reverend Goodblood was a man of God, not a celebrity. The clapping quickly morphed into clasped hands and a chorus of soft thank-you-Jesuses and praise-the-Lords.

“Thank you for the warm welcome, Pastor John,” said Sydney. “It’s a blessing to be here before the beautiful family of God.”

Sydney preached as Cyril for a good three hours, watching the women fan themselves, red cheeked and glowing in the humid heat, and the men listening intently, unfazed by the sweat dripping down their good shirts.

In the third row, she caught the eye of Mrs. Edgar Ellison. Barbara “Bobbi” Ellison was just on the plump side of pretty, the kind of girl you could get a good handful of. And when Bobbi had called on Reverend Cyril last night after the service, Sydney had done just that. It was easy to tell when a woman had come for the Goodblood touch. They blushed before they’d ever said a word, touching the reverend’s hand just a little too long, breathing a little too fast. There almost seemed to be a competition among the women that came to her services to see who could win the reverend’s favor. The ladies of Apache County seemed particularly hungry for closer communion.