Best Lesbian Erotica 2011

THE STRIPPER AND THE BUTCH WANNABE Renée Strider

Van’s new girlfriend, Julia, was a gorgeous femme, a weekend stripper, and a top in the bedroom—or any room. Van loved femmes. The sight of Julia in her normal outfit of blouse and close-fitting business skirt always sent a surge of pleasure through Van, who loved Julia’s svelte figure, especially her tight round ass and long legs made even more shapely by the high heels she usually wore.

Van didn’t mind Julia being a stripper, as long as she didn’t have to go and watch her lover being watched. She had once asked Julia why she stripped, and Julia had said that the extra money helped support her habit, a taste for expensive clothes and paintings. Besides, she enjoyed it and got to use some of her dance training.

What Van did have a small problem with was that Julia was always in charge when they had sex. Van, whose real name was Vanessa, considered herself a butch, and felt that being dominated by her girlfriend was just plain wrong. But Julia had never taken Van’s butchness seriously in the month or so that they’d been lovers. She often called Van her “sweet little butch,” even though Van was taller. Van was—and looked—younger, though, so that probably didn’t help.

Julia came home late at night on weekends—often Van picked her up—still smelling of sweat and smoke because she preferred to shower at home. When she was warm and clean and soap-scented, Julia was always ready for sex.

Last Saturday, with her damp, black, shoulder-length hair combed back from her face and her color high from arousal and hot water, she’d approached Van, who was sitting sprawled on the couch, waiting impatiently and wet with desire. Julia was naked except for a towel knotted around her waist. She knelt in front of Van and took off her lover’s socks and unbuttoned her Levi’s and yanked them off, along with the briefs. She didn’t let Van do anything. The tone had been established, somehow, right from the beginning. And Van could hardly complain, especially at a time like this, when Julia spread Van’s legs wide, urging her to tilt her pelvis toward Julia’s waiting mouth. Groaning blissfully, Julia sucked her and licked her to a jerking climax.

Van was still limp and moaning softly when Julia got up, untied the towel and straddled her. She arched against Van and grabbed her hands, pulling one to a breast and one between her thighs. She rocked on Van, onto her hand, forcing the fingers deeper. Van tugged on one of Julia’s hard nipples and shivered as Julia’s hands caressed her roughly under her T-shirt. They kissed, their tongues repeating the rhythm of Van’s thrusts into her, until Julia convulsed with a sharp cry.

Obviously the sex was good, but Van thought it could be even better, at least for herself, if she could just gain some control. So she hatched a plan.

Early the following week, she bought a new suit—at a men’s store, of course. It was charcoal, of the finest summer wool and, although it wasn’t custom-tailored, it fit her slim androgynous lines perfectly. Elegant. Then she had her hair cut very short, so close to her head that not the slightest trace of curl remained.

That Friday, she was supposed to pick Julia up at the strip club after her second show and as usual, spend the night. Van decided she would arrive early this time and actually watch Julia perform. She wanted to know her new lover better, even if it meant seeing Julia exposing her body to strangers.

Van dressed carefully. To get the wet look she liked, she applied some gel to her buzzed hair still damp from the shower. A small gold circle glinted in one ear. Under her new jacket, she had on a black silk shirt, short sleeved and unbuttoned at the collar. On her feet, she wore ankle-high boots of satiny-smooth black leather.

By the time she arrived at the club, a knot of nervous anticipation had formed in her stomach. She had never been inside the Plaza Gentlemen’s Club (written discreetly on the outside in blue neon script). There were two more signs, both framed in lights but not too garish, considering: EXOTIC DANCERS / EVERY NIGHT AND ROXY ROCKS / EVERY WEEKEND.

Roxy was Julia’s stage name. She had her own sign because she was the house dancer—the best performer and the most popular. To keep her there, the club paid her a salary. According to Julia, this was unusual. Normally the strippers at this club made their money only from tips and from private dancing in the Champagne Room. Roxy did take tips but didn’t do private dancing. There was no public lap dancing here. For that, you had to go to a dive of a strip club a couple of blocks away, the sort of place where they had hung grungy signs with stuck-on red and black letters, like OIL WRESTLING / XXX STYLE.

Van entered the Plaza. After paying the cover, she stood for a moment looking into the bar, enjoying the loud dance music. A handsome, muscular bouncer looked her up and down boldly, eyebrows raised in appreciation.

“Good evening, sir,” he said. “There’s still an empty table near the stage.”

“Thanks. I see it.” Van almost laughed out loud as he did a double take at the timbre of her voice. He looked a little disappointed, but grinned widely.

“Nice suit,” he said.

Van was relieved that her table wasn’t very close to the stage, and separated from the action by another table. As soon as she sat down, a waitress in a black bunny costume without the tail and ears but showing lots of cleavage and bare cheeks, took her order for a double scotch.

She looked around curiously at the large, cabaret setting as she sipped her drink. The floor lighting was muted, provided mostly by a dim lamp on each small table and by light reflected from the thrust stage jutting into the room. She knew Roxy wouldn’t be able to see her from the stage. It was bright, with spotlights trained on two wild-haired dancers who were down to fluorescent lime and orange thongs. They took turns undulating against the pole and each other to a techno beat. Van hadn’t expected to enjoy it, but she did, admiring their supple naked bodies, and relieved that neither of them was Roxy.

As far as she could tell, the audience consisted mostly of men, with a few mixed male-female groups. Between her table and the stage sat three women, obviously dykes. They had barely glanced at the good-looking butch as she sat down, apparently also taking her for a man. Van smiled, then felt a stab of jealousy when she thought she heard one of them say, “Roxy.” She didn’t like the idea of men drooling over Roxy but hadn’t even considered that lesbians would also be part of the audience.

The spotlight on the stage went out, and the volume of the music lowered. The two strippers came down to the floor and mingled, chatting at each table and collecting the cash placed in their hands or tucked in their thongs. When Orange Thong reached the dyke table, one of the women pulled her close, stroking her bare butt. The stripper giggled and pushed her away.

“Not now,” she said. Van wondered if they were lovers.

When the dancers reached her table, she was generous. She placed some bills in their hands, and they thanked her and smiled prettily. Lime Thong kissed her cheek and called her “Loverboy,” and suggested they meet in the Champagne Room.

Suddenly, a pale blue light bathed the stage. For a few moments, all was quiet, then a murmur rippled through the audience. Van caught her breath. Roxy stood there motionless, dressed in a full black leotard. Only her head and hands and feet were bare, tinted blue. Her eyes were closed, head thrown back, light catching her blue-black hair. Suddenly a blast of music—angry, in-your-face, screaming rock. Roxy didn’t strip, just danced to the hard pounding beat. Van sat mesmerized, watching her lover’s athletic moves. Halfway through the song, Roxy rolled down the bottom half of the leotard, removing it to the rhythm of the music, muscles flexed in her bare thighs and calves. The audience yelled and whistled, including the women at the table in front of Van.

Roxy took off the black top more slowly. The audience seemed to hold its breath, and Van’s cheeks burned. It seemed as intimate and sexy as if Roxy were taking it off just for her. Roxy even seemed to look straight at her, and Van had to remind herself that she couldn’t be seen from the stage. When the music stopped and Roxy finally stood there with legs apart, hips thrust forward and arms upraised, she was wearing red—a short, skintight camisole and bikini bottom. Van’s eyes were riveted on her nipples, their outlines clearly visible. She recalled sucking them, and a flame of arousal burned in her gut. Roxy pirouetted a couple of times to provide all on the floor a clear view as the audience clapped and yelled their approval.

The next piece was traditional striptease music, accompanied by brilliantly harsh lighting and the sound of catcalling and cheering. Obviously the audience recognized “The Stripper.” Van knew that Julia chose her own music for Roxy’s gigs, and this was just the kind of song to appeal to her sense of humor. The familiar, brassy rhythm made you want to swivel your hips and take it all off, very slowly. Which is what Roxy did—almost. She was already nearly naked when she began her bump and grind, but it took her all of the song to strip down to a tiny white thong. Van couldn’t tear her eyes away, just like the audience. She felt herself getting wetter and was glad she was wearing dark trousers.

The last song was languid and bluesy—a woman’s voice, a tenor saxophone, a muffled drumbeat. Julia always liked to end sets with slow sensual music. Of the three, this was Roxy’s longest, most erotic performance. Her skin shimmered with a light sheen of sweat in the pale pink spotlights. Van could see the muscles ripple in her limbs and belly and ass as she danced and writhed and taunted her audience to the heavy beat. Her rosy-red nipples stood out from her glistening breasts. Roxy’s black hair shimmered around her head. Van wondered if the audience was as aroused as she was, especially the dykes who gazed up at the stage as if hypnotized.

On the last few bars of the song, as the stage lights intensified to white, Roxy suddenly pulled away the thong and spread her legs wide. Van stared in shock at the familiar sight of the trimmed, arrow-shaped hair at the apex of her thighs. Roxy thrust her hips forward, giving those near the stage a teasing glimpse of what the arrow pointed at. Then she flung the thong into the audience, above the heads of the dykes. Automatically Van reached up and caught it easily. The audience whistled and howled as Roxy pranced around the edge of the stage.

Shaken, Van got up from the table, stumbling a little, still holding the thong in her hand as she made her way out before Roxy could come down and mingle.

She walked around to the alley behind the club where other times she had waited in her car. It was dark there, except for a single lamp above the door. Well away from the light, she slouched against the wall and pressed a hand between her legs to relieve the swollen ache. She still held the thong in her other hand. She sniffed it, groaning, and tucked it in her breast pocket, like a handkerchief.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she took out a Cuban cigarillo from its slim box. The flame of the lighter caught her face momentarily, highlighting its angles in the surrounding gloom. A film noir moment, she thought. She drew the aromatic smoke deeply into her lungs. Julia would be about half an hour, she figured. After pacing back and forth for a while, she felt loose and relaxed and resumed her position against the wall, careful to stay in the shadows.

She had just flicked away a second half-smoked purito, its pale tendrils of smoke still drifting in the darkness, when the door opened and Julia stepped out. She was wearing stilettos and a clingy dress with thin shoulder straps, revealing skin that glowed in the golden light. It was a warm night. Van unfastened another button of her shirt.

Julia peered around, searching for Van’s car. Just as her lover started to turn to head toward the side of the building, Van took a deep breath and swaggered into the pool of light, hands in her pockets. Julia stopped dead, startled. Van saw caution in her face, then recognition as Julia’s eyes widened at the sight of the elegant butch.

“Van! I thought I smelled the… Oh… You look so…” The words trailed off as Julia raked her eyes over Van, taking in the cropped hair and suit. For the first time in the four weeks they’d been lovers, her voice sounded uncertain.

“I watched you in there.” Van didn’t smile. Her eyes glittered as she approached.

“You… you did?” Julia’s expression was hesitant but contained a hint of excitement.

Van could see her breathing quicken and felt her own pulse speed in response. Julia didn’t resist when Van pulled her in and kissed her throat. The slightly salty taste of Julia’s skin and the faint smell of sweat aroused Van even more. She slid her hands down Julia’s smooth, warm back to cup her ass, and Julia arched against her, giving a tiny whimper, the beginning of a moan, as she clutched Van’s shoulders. Inserting a thigh between Julia’s, Van pushed her roughly backward into the shadows.

“Turn around and put your hands on the wall,” she said curtly, and Julia assumed the position. She spread her legs just enough, arching her head back and shuddering as Van ran her hands over Julia from behind, from hard nipples to stomach to underneath the short dress. Julia’s thighs were bare, no stockings. With one hand on her belly, Van pulled Julia hard against her. For Van nothing was more erotic than a woman’s firm behind against her groin, and she bit her lip to keep from groaning. With her other hand, Van caressed the damp, thin cloth between Julia’s thighs from hard pubis to soft crotch, then slid her fingers beneath the edge, into the slick heat. This time Julia really did moan, and she writhed her hips to make Van’s fingers go where she desperately needed them. But Van avoided Julia’s clitoris and only stroked on either side and into her. She had never felt Julia so wet. She withdrew her fingers.

“Oh, fuck!” Julia gasped. “Oh, god, don’t—”

“Turn around,” Van commanded again. Julia did, sagging weakly against the wall, wobbly in her high heels. Both of them were breathing hard. Van fell to her knees on the rough pavement, no doubt wrecking the new trousers, but she was beyond caring. She dragged Julia’s bit of underwear down and off, over her shoes—another thong. She tucked that one in her pocket too. She pressed her hands against Julia’s inner thighs to open them farther, and Julia hauled her dress up to her waist and shook and moaned as Van rubbed her whole face against Julia until it was wet. Van was delirious. It was almost enough to make her come. She had tasted Julia’s cunt before but only on her own fingers. Van grasped Julia’s hips to angle it harder against her mouth and licked the length of her, thrusting her stiff tongue into her lover. Finally Van sucked her clit and Julia came in her mouth, crying out her release.

They sat in Van’s car near the front of the club under a streetlamp. It lit up the interior enough to show both of them, disheveled and flushed and sweaty.

“Quite the butch, aren’t you,” Julia said, examining Van with eyes still hazy from sex. Her hand lay on her lover’s thigh.

“Told you. How about staying at my place tomorrow night?”

“If you come and see me dance first.” Julia’s eyes drifted to Van’s mouth.

“I’ve been wondering,” Van said, before she lost her concentration, “did you wear anything when you chatted up the tables after?”

“Ah, you should have stayed longer. Find out tomorrow.”

Van took the thongs out of her breast pocket and held them out to Julia, a white one and a black one. “I think these belong to you.”

Julia looked surprised. “Two?”

“I caught the other one. Did you throw it to me?”

“I didn’t see you. It’s too dark on the floor.”

Julia shifted on her seat and turned her head away, looking out the side window. Van could see the outline of her jaw clench as if she were suppressing a smile. She reached out and stroked the back of Julia’s neck very lightly and was rewarded with a shiver.

Grinning, Van shifted the car into gear.