Чарли Андерс - Best Lesbian Erotica 2010

“Sorry, officer. I’ve seen a lot of people at the Jubilee this week. Don’t recognize her.”

Sydney watched them drive away and then lifted her head to the humid summer night sky. She put her hands on her knees and swore long and loud at the clouds that had refused to release their bounty all through the long, sweaty week. She looked down at the wanted flier she still held in her hand, “Ruby” smiling up at her.

“This is my commandment, that you love one another,” she murmured.

The clouds burst suddenly, pouring down on her and on Ruby’s crooked smile on the paper as the monsoons finally came to the mountains. Sydney was instantly soaked to the skin.

She sighed and dropped the soggy flier into the water swelling at her feet. “Well, dammit,” she said. “Jesus H. Christ.”

The purple-pink sky was beginning to show the first hint of sunrise as I slammed the taxi door shut behind me. I was on my way home from an all-night party in the city, having spent the past five hours in a dimly lit warehouse, surrounded by thumping music and sweaty, gyrating women. It was perfect foreplay—or it would have been, had I actually been able to score. But after spending more than an hour dancing up against a handsome baby dyke, I came up empty. Her ex suddenly showed up, turning what I thought was a tough little piece of work into a lovesick fool right before my eyes. As soon as she bit her lip and said, “Excuse me for a minute,” I knew I’d be going home alone.

A minute turned into fifteen as they huddled in a distant corner and no doubt professed their undying love for each other, while I was left at the bar with my cunt empty and throbbing. With a resigned sigh, I downed my drink, picked up my leather jacket and headed out into the cool predawn air to hail a cab.

Fortunately, the city was on the verge of awakening, which made my trip home a fraction easier than it would have been an hour earlier. See—chatting up that girl wasn’t a total waste of time , I told myself as I slid onto the pleather backseat of a beat-up Yellow Cab.

The driver ignored me after taking note of my destination, which was fine with me. I was in no mood to chat. He was a young guy who stank of cigarette smoke and cheap cologne, seeming as if he’d just pulled an all-nighter himself. He sang along brightly to some horrible ’80s dance-music station that served as the soundtrack to my entire trip home. I tried to tune out the Nu Shooz duet going on in the front seat as I stared at the city lights streaking by outside the window. The slashes of color looked otherworldly up against the backdrop of the slowly brightening sky, a visual echo of the flashing lights of the club I’d just deserted.

I don’t know what I was thinking, heading out to a party when I had a morning meeting with a client. No, that’s wrong. I knew exactly what I was thinking. I was as horny as hell and hoping to pick up. It had been weeks since I’d gotten laid, and I was hoping for a little no-strings-attached action—which isn’t as easy to find these days as it used to be.

I glanced at my watch and figured I had time for a catnap and a cup of coffee before I had to present my best businesslike face to my prospective customer. I design websites for a living, which gives me a flexible schedule, but I still do my best to maintain a professional demeanor when dealing with clients.

The taxi slowed as it headed down my street and pulled up in front of my building. The block was dark, except for a lone, brightly lit storefront that assaulted my tired eyes. I shoved some cash into the cabbie’s hand and stepped out onto the street. The store was directly across from my front door. It had been a grungy tire-repair shop for years before the rent became too high and Mugsy packed it up. It had been closed for months, but I’d noticed that in the past few weeks, the windows had been cleaned and covered inside with brown paper. When the old wooden window sashes were painted a tooth-aching shade of pink, I assumed it was going to be some kind of kids’ clothing store to serve all of the hipster families that were beginning to pour into the neighborhood. But now, as I squinted against the light and stared into the bare windows, I saw that it was yet another cupcake bakery. I rolled my eyes as I thought, Great, that’s what we need. A bakery. What the hell is wrong with a liquor store?

The walls of the store had been painted the same Technicolor pink as the outside trim, in contrast to the white tables, chairs and molding. The chrome-and-glass showcases lining one side of the store were filled with a rainbow-hued selection of tiny cakes. As I stared, I caught a brief glimpse of a blonde rushing across the store with a coffeepot in her hand, and that’s the exact second I remembered I didn’t have any coffee of my own in the apartment. Looking to ward off the inevitable headache, I decided to see if I could score a cup from my new neighbor.

I crossed the street and pushed the door, which—thank god—opened. As I crossed the threshold, I was hit with the sickly sweet scent of sugar and it nearly took my breath away. As I inhaled a second time, I felt a wave of relief wash over me. Underneath the room’s cloying perfume, I discerned the soothing scent of brewing coffee. My eyes scanned the counter, and I spotted a slowly filling pot.

“Good morning!” said a bright voice behind me. I jumped at the cheerful words and turned quickly to see someone who appeared to be straight out of central casting for an MGM musical. It was the petite blonde I’d seen seconds earlier, but this time I was able to get a better look at her. The waves of her honey-blonde hair shone like a supermodel’s and her wide eyes were a bright blue. Either she’d had a good night’s sleep or she was riding a permanent sugar high. Her chipper voice was nearly as much of an assault on my senses as the scents and sights before me. She wore a white dress with short, poufy sleeves and a skirt that looked as if it were supported by layers of frilly crinolines. Over it, a pink-gingham apron protected her pristine frock. Her shapely legs were encased in nude-colored stockings that led down to pink shoes with sensible heels. Standing there in my black leather jacket and ratty jeans, I felt like I was in a time warp—a 1950s greaser who had stepped into her pretty pink parlor.

I was speechless as I took in the sight of her, and I was suddenly shy about my appearance. It was almost as if I expected her to tsk at me like a disapproving mother. But that was my own crazy head talking because she did no such thing.

“Welcome to Cupcake Heaven. I’m Aimee!” she said, extending her hand toward me. Acting on autopilot, I took her delicate hand in mine and shook it, checking myself at the last minute and lightening my touch before I crushed her with my stronger grip.

“Cupcake Heaven?” I asked, barely hiding my smirk.

“Yes,” she said, batting her long lashes and glancing toward the parade of little cakes marching across a rectangular paper doily. “A little piece of heaven you can hold in your hand,” she added slyly as she returned her gaze to me, her look all of a sudden seeming much less innocent. Her eyes roamed up and down my figure, taking in every inch of me. And in an instant, I felt myself switch from hunter to hunted. It still seemed like a dream, but the aching hunger in my sex that hadn’t yet been satisfied urged me to keep my options open.

“Today’s the Grand Opening,” she said, her voice a little lower in pitch but still maintaining its singsong quality, “although I wasn’t quite ready to open yet. But I can make an exception for secial customers.”

I stared back at Aimee, communicating my interest with an unblinking stare. “Well, then,” I said as I considered the living, breathing confection in front of me, “this must be my lucky day.”