Lesbian Erotica
"Perfect Dessert" a sex story by Heather Monaco
For Marc, my favorite voyeur.
We are sitting center stage in the hotel restaurant when she catches my eye. She is in the booth behind us, white tablecloth a snowy field before her, the claret of her wine glowing in the soft light.
I am unable to avert my gaze; one glance and I am caught in her trap. She is dark and petite, her hair a walnut sheet across her shoulders, her skin golden. The corners of her lips curl up slightly as I stare back. There is no mistaking what she wants.
My expression stops you in mid-sentence. You turn slightly, briefly admire her form, then reset yourself and continue with your story. But now, you are intently watching me watching her. Your voice has turned smoky. I want to sway my hips to its rhythm. I feel my nipples tighten into buds beneath my satin bra. She does not release me, and I feel the flush of desire spreading like a stain across my skin. I am branded. I can feel others turn to look; the energy blazing between us pulling them in. Their perusal, combined with yours, is an aphrodisiac. My skin begins to tingle.
She sips her wine. My eyes slip to her lips; my lips part. I sip mine and feel the slow burn of Zinfandel across my tongue. I swallow, and heat fills my chest, my belly. I realize that it is not the wine.
You fall silent. The waiter approaches to refill my water, and you wave him off. That sexy smirk forms on your lips. You lean back in your chair, entertained by the intense flirtation you are witnessing. Your keen interest adds fuel to my fire.
She moves her hands to her lap, and I can tell by how she settles into the cushion that she has spread her legs. I watch her arms move and realize she is stroking her thighs, her belly. One hand sneaks up, squeezes her breast, pulls the nipple. My legs part -- an automatic response. It has been months since I've had a woman, and I crave her. I run my hand up my leg, smoothing the silk of my skirt up and over, exposing the silk of my thigh. My skin goes electric, and I feel my pussy throb once, twice.
"I think I'll go to the ladies' room," I say. I remove my napkin from my lap, still holding her gaze, fold it, place it next to my plate, stand.
"Don't hurry back," you say your voice a deep rumble. "And take your handbag."
The ladies' room is well-appointed: a low couch in velvet, eight-foot mirrors in gilded frames, tawny marble tile. I approach a mirror, remove a lipstick from my bag, begin smoothing it across my lips. I feel the air change and she is gliding past me, recapturing my eyes in the mirror as she passes. I recap my lipstick, turn to watch her. She washes her hands, begins to leave.
"Follow me," she says.
My body complies immediately, no thought involved. We pass the lobby elevators, continue down the hall. Her scent overwhelms me -- citrus and grasses, a hint of musk. We walk down the silent, plush carpet. She stops at an unmarked door, turns the handle. We step in. We do not speak. The darkness envelops us, and before the door is closed her lips are on my throat. In seconds we are a tangle of tongues and hands.
"Wait," I say, my mouth twisting away. I fumble in my bag for my cell phone. I feel her breath on my shoulder. She kisses me there, setting the skin on fire. I push a series of buttons; the flash is telltale. You will receive a picture on your phone shortly.
"All right," I say, and I lean to find her mouth, extending the camera to frame the shot. It flashes. I wonder if your cock is hard, thinking about what I am doing. I wonder how hard you will be when you receive the first photo. When you get me back to our room.
She caresses my bare arms, unbuttons my blouse. Unzips my skirt, pushes it to the floor. Her small hand explores my smooth pussy. The camera flashes. You are witnessing what is happening to me, via satellite. I see nothing in the blackness, but I can feel her, kneeling now, pushing my panties aside, spreading my lower lips with her fingers, her tongue, her mouth. I lean hard against the door, my legs trembling, feeling the initial bump and swirl of pleasure building inside of me. She sucks my clit -- stronger at the base, softening as she reaches the tender tip. Her tongue flicks it, her lips slide against my labia. I can feel the moisture -- my wetness, hers -- dripping down my thighs. Her fingers roam back, find my asshole, massage and tickle it. I push my hips toward her face, step my legs wider. And then she has two fingers in my ass, her thumb in my pussy, pressing gently.
I aim the camera, the shutter clicks and I see by the flashed light that she is looking up at me.
Even in the dark, she is watching me, and that simple knowledge brings my orgasm to a head -- so fast, such a surprise that I lose my balance. I slide down the door until I'm sitting on my heels. My mouth finds hers again, and then I am guiding her back, coming to my knees, bending to kiss her breasts through her halter, my hands finding her curves in the blackness.
Then I am pushing up her skirt, pulling down her panties and diving into her sweetness. She tastes like cloves and honey, and I dip my fingers in, suck them. I begin licking her slowly, pulling her lips into my mouth, lapping her clit. My tongue finds its way to her asshole, and I begin to lick it furiously. She moans and begins bucking her hips. I slide three fingers deep inside her, find that magic spot, and press my thumb against her clit. I aim the camera and take a shot. 
Again, her eyes catch mine in the brief light. Her moans grow louder and more urgent, and I feel the muscles inside her pussy begin to shake. Her fingers tangle in my hair. Her pussy and asshole start to throb in a tight rhythm. And she gasps, cries out. A gush of warm, sweet liquid splashes my face, fills my mouth.
My dinner is cold and boxed, sitting next to your phone, when I return to our table. I lean down and kiss you deeply, offer you my fingers, watch your eyes as you taste her on me. I glance at her table; you've paid her bill. You are always such a gentleman. My reward waits: You have ordered me vanilla ice cream with caramel sauce, my favorite. I dip in the spoon, lick it clean.
Copyright December 2005
Published with permission from author on OystersandChocolate.com. Copying or reprinting this work in part or in whole without permission is illegal.