Literary Lesbian Erotica
"Darkness You Need," an Oysters sex story by Caitlin Hoffman
You need something dark. Why do I feel like you know me? I feel you press into me, and your eyes glow with something I cannot and will never be able to describe. I know you always used to run from me, but you’re not running now, are you?
I need something real. You’re not even here with me. My fingers run through mist and your body, those gorgeous, tiny curves of yours, the wispiness of your legs, the gentle perfection of your stomach. Your body hardly solidifies against the air. Each stint of desperation and anxiety that clings to my throat is the only way to tell that you’re actually here. I can’t believe this is actually happening. If it were real, it would hurt too much, and if it were another fantasy, that would just kill me. Maybe you’d be safer, trapped inside my mind. Neither of us would be able to hurt you there.
You let out a moan. Otherwise you’re so quiet. Your body feels like a river of tears. More than that -- you’re an ocean. One that’s raging, and yet so still. At high tide, yet unable to force the water into movement. You’re in arrest. I hear your heart beat, pound even, and for a moment it’s all I know. How can you be all I’ve wanted, all I’ve ever wanted to be, and everything I’ve looked down on, all at the same time?
Your hair is so soft; you toss your head back and it sprays into my face. It’s the mist of your ocean. I crane my neck to kiss your collarbone; I swirl my tongue delicately; all of your skin is so shockingly soft, and for a moment I’m desperate to find just one flaw, one scrape of proof that you’re actually human. I find none. Your hips start to rock, and I know what it is you need, but I’m hesitant. I like to tease.
I whisper how I want you to beg for me, and your mouth opens wide. I’m not even sure you’re aware of it -- it’s like a reflex, a shock, and in the dark your expensive lipstick shines. I think of smearing it all over my inner thigh, and I can smell your wetness. I think of the only part of you that’s deep, because I know that anything else you’d ever show is shallow as hell, but the insides of you will be so deep. Maybe I should be a little rough, I think, and I grab a handful of your hair and jerk you back onto my shoulder, finally finding your lips again. You grab back, clutching at me, trying to turn so we’re face to face, but I’m not ready for that yet (in fact, I’m kind of scared), so I put my other hand firm on your hip, so you have to work to get my lips on yours.
You taste like ice cream, honey, or gummy bears. I wonder how many boys have kissed you, or if it’s all just talk. Then I wonder how many girls have kissed you, and a part of me just knows that I’m your first. My insides are groaning for a tongue rolling inside of them, and I mimic the action by swirling my tongue in your mouth, sucking hard on your lower lip, messing up all that pretty sticky lip balm of yours. You gasp and you moan into my mouth, almost limp, but also clenched and desperate. In that moment, I know you need me. You need me more than you’ve ever needed anyone.
I start tracing circles around your collarbone where I last kissed you, my tongue still working the soft center of your mouth, and then my fingers delicately slide into your bra. Already so sensitive, so primed, your hips jerk even harder. The scent of you becomes even stronger. I wonder if you’re dripping wet yet, and my mind can’t help but wander to places where I’m sucking and slurping up all your juices until you shudder and scream and come, legs wrapped around my neck, surrendered to sensual oblivion. I imagine what it would be like to hear you beg for more.
I can’t give way to my carnal impulses. I can’t let you feel heaven yet. I need to do this right. I know I should take my time, because before I know it you’ll leave.
I have to do whatever I can to make this last.
I need you to stay with me as long as possible.
I give you a part of what you want, by taking my fingers and rubbing your erect nipple between them. First I rub, then I swirl, then I tug, then I pluck. I pluck until you’re whimpering in time to every movement my finger makes. I think about how I want to pluck your tiny nipples raw, and instinctually I growl, a guttural, animal noise. At first I’m embarrassed for showing you how much I’ve dissolved in your pheromones, but then I realize that no one’s ever made that noise for you before, because you push your head back further into the curve of my neck, parting your lips like you want to say something, but instead I clutch your other breast, and you let out a cry.
You’re not moaning anymore. Your vocal chords can’t contain themselves that much now. You’re beyond holding back. I thrust my hips into your small, round bottom, and I can no longer take it.
Both my hands slap down to your knees, and my fingers massage all the way up to your inner thighs. Everything buzzes and grips, and I can already feel the insides of your thighs are soaking wet. You’re soaking wet for me. Soaking. Wet. For me. My head spins, you keep jerking your hips forward, and I bet that your clit is just begging for my fingers. Probably throbbing, pulsing, trembling. I imagine your insides pushing, contracting, moving with the rocking of your hips, ready to feel my finger and tongue inside.
I suck and pull on your earlobe, and one of my hands strokes your inner thigh while the other moves slightly upward, then pulls away at the last minute, which makes your knees buckle and your voice break in desperation. Now you are begging, your tiny, pretty voice whimpering in my ear, “Please, please, please...” Your ‘please’ breaks into me, makes my liquids rush, makes my mouth dry, makes my breath quicken and my heart feels like it’s going to beat out of my chest, creating a mess of honesty, love, and shame everywhere.
Touch by Kathy Slamen
I can’t respond to you. I don’t feel worthy enough just yet. Instead, I obey, longing to satisfy you, and bring my hand up again. I start by tracing my nail around your cunt, then taking my thumb and just touching the inside of you. All it takes is that little bit of pressure, and your juices gush out as if at my command. I take them and spread them all around, you bite your lip, and your eyes roll to the back of your head.
I intake a breath, and finally press my thumb onto your clit, and that almost sends you right over the edge. You’re nothing but a body of convulses and jerks and moans. The dam that was holding your ocean back is starting to crack. I’m not going to mock, not now, not when I finally have you in the place I’ve needed you to be for so long. I can’t do anything now but savor this moment. I can’t do anything but give you exactly what you want.
You’ve got me wrapped around your finger, but you’re too deep in pleasure to know it. I take my one hand and use it to press you closer to me, while my other hand starts working your clit, using your wet arousal to make it smooth and soft, just for you, just so you won’t have any discomfort. Your words have transcended into breaks in sentences, shudders in syllables. Your crooning, gasping, and biting of lips make you look like an animal. I realize then that you always had that animal somewhere inside. An animal that wasn’t determined by sneers, shallowness and politics, but a real creature full of lust, intensity and desire. One with instincts to fight and moan and fuck and bleed.
I start to pick up the pace, thrusting into your back at the same rhythm of my fingers rocking onto your most sensitive spot, the spot that I know will take you to a place nobody has before. My middle finger penetrates you and it becomes immediately coated in your juices, and you squeeze on it so tight and that makes me wonder if you’ve even had a man inside of you yet. If you’ve ever even had a man finger you yet. It makes me tremble to think that I’m the first to have felt you like this.
Then, I start talking to you. At this point, I can’t help myself. Your rhythmic purring and tight, swerving body is just too much for me. I tell you how ‘I want to taste you’, how ‘Your pussy is so tight and wet for me’, ‘You gorgeous fucking creature’, ‘...so god damned beautiful’, ‘...you like me there in between your hot thighs, like me fingering you and pulsing on your clit’, ‘Baby, you have no idea, you drive me crazy’, ‘Wanna hear you come baby, wanna hear you come...’
I’m driven mad by my own talk, burdened with erotic salivation. Before I can break from your intoxication, your small form starts shuddering against me, writhing in a center of demonic, orgasmic sensations. You come so hard you nearly scream, bucking wildly like a horse that refuses to be broken. I encourage your wildness in the moment, while my finger speeds up so fast you can hardly handle it. You almost fall to the floor but never reach it because I’m there for you, to hold you up.
Now I know indefinitely that a boy has never made you come before. The aftermath hits you hard, so hard, and your chest heaves with a long, low gasp, entering the realm where heaven isn’t a spiritual plane, but a state of mind.
Coming back to your body, you try to learn how to breathe evenly again, still staying limp and weak in my arms, and I don’t care, because I want this moment to last forever. I want to keep you in my arms forever.
But of course, perfection never lasts. I knew it wouldn’t, but it still cuts like a knife when realization dawns on you, and you let out a gasp of another kind: a gasp of disgust.
Hurriedly, you hoist yourself up, pushing away from my gentle embrace, face contorted with shame and loathing. Trying to straighten out your hair and skirt without looking at me, I can tell you’re trying to think of how to pretend away what just happened. You couldn’t stand to admit to my face what just happened. Finally you look up at me, flushed and shaking, still breathless, and now, so angry.
“If you... if you tell anyone, I will seriously kill you.”
I say nothing at first, do nothing at first, except bury my pain into my sneer and run my tongue across my bottom lip, raising both my eyebrows at you suggestively. It’s far easier to be snide than it is to be honest about how you make me feel. I figure that you’ll leave right away, grab your Gucci purse and strut off with as much dignity as you can create a parody of. But you don’t. You stand there, still shaky like a leaf, your arousal still drying on your thighs. You stare at me, entranced by my bottom lip.
“You’re telling me you didn’t love it?” I take a step forward, the toss in my hips demanding power. You look into my eyes, pupils dilated with shock, because you know that you can’t ever lie away what you just felt.
“Don’t. Tell. Anyone.”
Finally, you leave, your scent still clinging to the air. I’m alone in the dark, my chest still heaving. Your figure struts away from me, becoming smaller and smaller until you turn a corner, without a single look behind you.
You’ll never be able to deny what we did. And you’ll always be running away from me.
Originally published May 2011