Best Lesbian Erotica 2013

WINNER TAKE ALL Andrea Dale

“Okay, contestants, listen up,” the DJ said. “We start in five minutes, at eight a.m. sharp. Remember, one hand has to be on the vehicle at all times—your whole palm and fingers. You can switch hands as long as one is fully on the car. Except for during the fifteen-minute breaks, one every two hours, which I’ll announce. You may not kneel, sit, lean, blah blah blah.”

He didn’t really say, “Blah blah blah.” I just tuned him out. I knew the rules by heart. I’d been prepping for this contest.

Yeah, it’s tacky and stupid, the whole “keep your hand on the car longer than anyone else and win it” schtick, but the fact was, this truck would be a godsend for the nonprofit I managed. Even if I didn’t win, the publicity would help tremendously.

But I was here to win.

I stretched, bending over ’til my palms touched the ground (thank you, yoga classes), and continued to size up my opponents.

I’d placed myself between the two people I thought would be least competitive. One was a nebbishy-looking guy, on the thin side, who kept nervously pushing up his glasses. I was banking on him forgetting and pushing up his glasses with the hand that was supposed to be on the truck.

On my other side was a pretty, petite blonde. For the life of me, I couldn’t imagine why she’d want or need a truck. She didn’t look the type to set foot in one. She was wearing painted-on jeans—probably designer, but I wouldn’t know designer jeans if they were cupping my own ass—and low-heeled gray boots. Her makeup was impeccable, her big blue eyes made wider by the judicious use of mascara and her luscious lips glossed a lickable red. I suspected she didn’t usually wear jeans; she looked like the type who wears little skirts and high heels.

Nothing wrong with that, if that was your thing. I certainly enjoy looking at pretty women in little skirts and high heels, and fantasizing about getting up under those little skirts and seeing what kind of panties—if any at all—they’re wearing.

I’m not a skirt-wearing type of girl myself, and today was no exception. I’d dressed for comfort: jeans, sure, but broken-in, soft ones that wouldn’t constrict movement; sneakers with gel insoles; and a T-shirt advertising my nonprofit.

“What’s the Kensington Bird Sanctuary?” the blonde asked maybe ten minutes after we’d gotten started. She had a light, breathy voice, which suited her. Her dangly silver earrings caught in the light as she cocked her head at me.

“It’s a rehab facility for birds of prey,” I said. “I’m the manager. We could really use this truck to transport injured raptors to our facility.”

Her laugh tinkled. “Oh, see, that’s not fair,” she protested with a little pout. “You’re trying to get me to sympathize with you and lose.”

I shook my head. “Not at all,” I said, and it was true. She’d asked, after all. “I just automatically try to drum up support. It’s the curse of running a nonprofit.”

“All right, then.” She favored me with a dazzling smile, even white teeth and juicy lips. “I’m Grace, by the way.”

“Teddie,” I said, waving my free hand.

“Nice to meet you,” she said. “Very nice to meet you.” Her voice went a little lower then, and I swear I saw her look me up and down and up again. She delicately bit her lip.

Was she flirting with me? Really? I couldn’t imagine it, but it still gave me a little tingle. I cleared my throat. “Ditto.”

She asked me a bit more about the sanctuary, and I learned she was a buyer for a chain of fashion boutiques. The more we talked, the more I realized for all her cuteness and little-girl voice, Grace was smart and accomplished.

After a while, though, I was feeling antsy, so I put my other hand flat on the truck, pulled off my first hand, and turned around. I made nice with the nebbish guy for a few minutes, but he wasn’t all that into chatting.

The first contestant to call it quits did so after the first break. One down, eight to go, and the truck would be mine.

If I didn’t get too distracted by Grace, that is.

Her shimmery gray top was cut low, so if she moved just the right way your eye was drawn to her cleavage. Well, my eye, certainly, and the eye of the guy on the other side of her.

Over that, she had on an open-knit shrug that tied just under her breasts, enhancing the view. The crimson matched her lipstick. Her outfit was simple, yet all pulled together—it really was an outfit, an ensemble, as opposed to some clothes she’d just thrown on that morning.

Me, I’d never gotten the hang of that. My idea of “layering” is throwing a hoodie on over my T-shirt when it gets chilly.

The guy on the other side of her started chatting her up. Big surprise.

She gently rebuffed him, her voice sweet, her smile brilliant.

He wasn’t the type to take no for an answer.

“Look,” she said finally. “You’re not my type. Really not my type.”

He made a final try.

“You want to win this thing?” Grace asked. “Then stop. Talking. To. Me. Because if you don’t, I’m calling the ref over here to say you’re harassing me, and who do you think he’ll believe?”

The guy retreated, but I barely noticed. I’d heard something unexpected in her voice. A steeliness.

At first I thought I imagined it; it didn’t fit with her breathy voice.

My rational brain may have insisted that I imagined it, but my body clearly heard it—and reacted to it.

Right down in my three-for-five-dollars cotton panties.

Grace turned and flashed me her dazzling smile. “It’s all about psychology,” she said. “The psychology of getting people to do what you want. It’s about figuring out what they want. Putting your hand on a car for hours and hours, just to win it? It’s like a psychological form of bondage. Being told, Don’t move,” and as she spoke her voice got that steely undertone again, the one that made my inner muscles clench.

I straightened my back, like a new recruit snapping to attention… or a submissive posing for her mistress.

I heard Grace’s breathy chuckle, and I knew she knew what I was thinking.

“Oh, yes, just like that,” she said. “Some folks like cuffs and ropes and shackles—need them, even—but others… others know choice is as good a restraint as anything. It’s all about power, and most people think the top has power, but that’s not true. The bottom does. The bottom chooses to submit. Holds her hands out for the cuffs. Presents her sweet ass for the spanking. Doesn’t come until she’s told to—or comes on command, anytime, anywhere.”

My head reeled even as my nipples snapped to attention faster than my back had, and blood rushed to my groin, making me aware of my clit, my lips, the way my panties clung to my crotch.

That innocent, breathy voice coming out of that pretty little blonde form.

Aren’t dommes supposed to be tall, imperious, stern and wear black leather? Not petite, angelic, smiling and wearing ruffly colorful fashion?

Maybe that’s why she was affecting me the way she was. She wasn’t a cliché, wasn’t someone who used the tired old props.

In other words, she didn’t need a dungeon to be a domme.

The DJ called another scheduled time-out.

Argh.

The showroom had only one tiny ladies’ room, but Grace and I were the only two women left. She let me use the bathroom first, which was nice, except… damn.

Damn if I didn’t want to plunge my hand down into my jeans, into my cotton panties, and stroke away the slick, needy urge she’d raised in me. A few minutes of privacy, that was all I needed.

But I knew she was waiting outside. I knew she’d know what I’d been doing.

And somehow, I didn’t want to disappoint her. It was crazy, I knew, and yet I also knew that if I got myself off, I’d be… disobeying, maybe?

Grace hadn’t said a word about what I could or couldn’t do—and, indeed, we’d only just met, so who was she to give me orders anyway?—but I instinctively understood what she expected of me, and I wasn’t about to let her down.

No matter how desperately I wanted to.

It was hard to pee, being this aroused, but somehow I managed. I staggered out of the restroom feeling flushed and desperately unfulfilled.

Grace gave me a stunning smile and a bottle of water then headed into the bathroom.

She also patted me, every so subtly, on the bottom as she sailed by. She didn’t say a word, but I swear I heard “Good girl,” in my head.

The local TV station came to interview us, asking each of us why she or he had entered the contest. The nebbish guy surprised me by saying he wanted to use it to pick up chicks. Of course I used the opportunity to talk about the Sanctuary; how we relied on donations, how important this would be for us.

I somehow managed to not sound distracted. I’m a good public speaker and I could talk about the Sanctuary for hours, but I also know how to distill it into a few pithy sound bites. Still, I could smell Grace’s delicate perfume, and I was constantly aware of the throbbing wetness between my thighs.

Plus I was dying to hear her answer to the question.

She laughed, the sound a gentle and genuine delight. Even the camera guy instinctively smiled.

“Oh, goodness,” she said. “I just can’t resist a challenge, you know?”

Then, as soon as the camera swung away, she winked at me, and I got the distinct impression that winning the truck wasn’t really the challenge.

I was.

I squeezed my legs together and immediately regretted the action, since it just made me hyper-aware of my sodden crotch, my aching clit, my empty pussy begging to be filled by beckoning fingers.

As the contest wore on, she continued talking, her light voice spewing filthier and filthier things pitched low enough for only me to hear. Of course, as the contest wore on, people dropped out, so the remaining contestants adjusted themselves with more space between each of us.

Except for Grace, who stayed close to me… and I, admittedly, made no attempt to move away from her.

Close behind me, she whispered, “What’s your poison, Teddie? Restraint? Cuffs and ropes and shackles, even if they’re not needed? Orgasm restriction or forced orgasms, over and over? Blindfolds and gags? Spanking, whipping, caning?”

Behind my eyes I envisioned everything she was saying. Grace coming toward me with silvery handcuffs and chains spilling from her small hands. Grace wearing a strap-on dildo, her slender hips rolling as she thrust into me. Grace standing over me, holding a paddle, raising her arm…

And, almost ridiculously, in all of the scenes, Grace’s makeup was perfect. She would never, I knew, break a sweat. And her nail polish would match the leather of the harness she wore, burgundy or royal blue or purple.

My palm, where it lay against the truck, was slick with sweat—in fact, I could see my handprints all over, from all the times I’d switched hands. The small of my back was slick with sweat, too, and I knew I was flushed.

“Answer me, Teddie.” Her voice was light and airy, laced with control and command.

“Yes,” I blurted. “All of it. Whatever pleases you.”

Without thinking, I started to turn, forgetting to put my other hand down before I started to lift my first hand.

“No!” Her hand shot out and pinned my wrist, keeping my palm flat on the side of the truck. It was the first time, in this whole long day, that she’d touched me flesh-to-flesh. The sudden feel of her fingers encircling my wrist, restraining me, triggered the long, slow roll of a mini-orgasm, coiling in my belly and uncoiling in my cunt in a series of shivery spasms.

My knees almost buckled, but I caught myself. Then I almost jumped out of my skin at a shrill whistle behind me.

“No touching the other contestants!” the judge, a florid-faced auto executive, barked. “Number Four, you’re disqualified.”

Grace was Number Four.

I remembered to change hands appropriately, even though they were shaking from the remains of my orgasm. “No, it’s okay, she wasn’t trying to distract me or anything, she’s fine—” I protested.

“Sorry, those are the rules,” he said.

I thought about calling him an ass, but that wouldn’t have looked good for the Sanctuary, so I bit my tongue.

“It’s okay,” Grace said, with a dazzling, sweet smile that made the judge’s shoulders untense, just a little. “He’s right—I wasn’t paying attention, and I broke the rules. She deserves the truck more than I do, anyway.”

But before he could lead her away, she went on.

“Win this truck, Teddie,” she said, in the same tone she might use if she were commanding, “Lick me until I come.” She leaned in, ignoring the judge’s frown. “If you do,” she whispered, “I’ll punish you. But if you don’t…”

She shook her head, and then she was gone, leaving me with a whiff of her perfume and a final sharp tremor in my clit.

And I knew if I was the last person standing with a hand on the truck, I’d win a hell of a lot more than the contest.