Best Lesbian Erotica 2013

MORNING COMMUTE Penny Gyokeres

Morning. Alarm, get out of bed, pee, feed fish, shave, shower, brush teeth, dress dyke-to-die-for in CK boxers, Carhartt and steel-toed breakers. Thirty-one minutes.

Coffee. Strong, large, homo milk splashed in. Get on the subway. Eight minutes.

Commute. Read digital paper: war, riots, famine, recession, murder, six-hundred-billion-dollar Apple, nuclear arms, hatred, violence, world’s smallest lizard discovered in Madagascar; awesome. My stop: off the train. Nine minutes. Up the escalator while checking smart phone Next TTC: Bus in three. Walk off escalator and see you. Morning routine shattered.

Three minutes turn into thirty seconds as I pretend to flip through my smartphone with heavy-duty case, eyeing you all the way. New job? Interview? Not a regular. In six years on the same bus, I’ve never seen you. Black brogues gleaming with buffed polish, pant-cuffs ironed, pleats crisp, butt round. Black leather jacket perfect fit to slim waist and strong shoulders. Black, trim hair screams dyke. Nose and ear piercings catch sunlight sifting through grimy depot windows. You look up and see me, I glance directly at you, shades covering my eyes that take you in, outwardly full of nonchalance, inwardly captivated. No smile from you, no smile from me. Butch dance.

I move toward the platform and ensure I almost graze you, seated on the bench. Not looking back, I feel you rise and follow as I exit through the doors into the cool morning air. I turn on the platform; you are behind me, flipping madly through your smartphone with heavy-duty case. I stand still: you stand still next to me. We flip in silence, electricity flashing between us. The bus arrives. I sit; you sit across from me, able to see me in peripheral. I face you and cannot avert my eyes beneath my shades. We are still flipping as the bus departs. Four minutes.

If I knew you, we would be fucking. We would sleep in, late for work or appointments or interviews, and not caring. We would sleep in and be late because the night before we would have been out and up late.

You said pick you up at eight: dinner for two then a little dirty dancing, per se. We were dressed identically; black steel-toe garrisons polished, black leather jackets and chaps gleaming. Only subtle differences defined our one from the other. Your T-shirt said EAT ME, mine said BITE ME. The jeans covering your ass were black, mine blue. Your hair was black, short, curled with gel; mine light brown, shaved short.

We held hands into the restaurant, eyes locked: hungry. Ravenous actually. Eating was divine in your company and I know you felt the same way about mine. One hundred and six minutes.

Out of the restaurant, hands locked, straight to the not-so-straight kinky queer bar where we were welcomed with warm smiles, sly glances and lusty leers. Ice-cold beer in hand, you pulled me to you and whispered for my ear only:

Fuck me tonight? I squeezed your ass.

No, fuck me.

Play first?

No, just fuck me.

’K.

Planning an evening was that easy with you.

We were surrounded by sex; patrons dripping, shirtless; hot-as-hell staff; porn offering suggestions on the big-screen. My cunt became a throbbing brute. Beers flowed and I had to piss. Big shock… so did you. Bathroom was dimly lit and steel, stalls were dimmer and offered guaranteed good times; just dial… you hauled me in. Guaranteed good times.

Our lips met with fervor, supple butch lips wanting every taste of our kiss. Tongues intertwined, needing full submersion. Calloused hands grasping leather pulled us closer: tough, butch hands. My cunt was gripped, full-hand-hard through my jeans; I was so fucking wet. My earlier request was honored as you slid my hand over your open fly. Dick. Hard-rubber-no-questions-asked-dick. Fuck me.

Fingers first, I got a taste of and for your lust. Fuck and ring finger to open me up: index and pinkie heading toward my ass, palm pressed and powering my clit. My back leaned against the stall wall, steel and black leather hard against each other. My legs were open, my chaps and jeans well below my ass as you gave me a warm-up before the meet. You dipped down to run your tongue over my clit, depriving me of my kiss. I wasn’t worried. Fuck, don’t stop! Fingers in my cunt, mouth hard over my clit: I’m coming dyke, don’t even bother with that cock, your hands and face are bliss! Not so fast, butch.

Your eyes rose to meet mine and I tasted my lust on your lips. Hmm, horny? Said quiet while the guy pissed in the urinal behind steel only inches away. Fuck you. Really? Cocky now that you’ve got your cock in your hand and my full attention. Fuck me, fuck I need you in me. Your body hard and covered in leather like mine, working with me as I slid slightly down, legs spreading just enough for your blissful black brilliance. Fuck that feeling.

Your cock impaled me. My cunt was so amazingly ready. Lips held to yours, tongues tasting full mouth, I was stonewalled in ecstasy as you crushed my body to the steel behind me. No more minutes in the day. Nothing more than us fucking dykes. Your strength pumped and hauled my body back and my cunt forward. I grasped the leather of your shoulders as the wonder of your cock filled me and I came. My legs gripped your hips grinding: rhythm in tandem. Your tough hands grasped my ass and pulled yourself into me; I was in heaven for fucking you. I came again and again: lips locked to yours, releasing my passion through every pore in my body.

I loved the way you fucked me, every time, every way. Gasping together with me, you pulled out and grinned that cocky grin; you know I love it. Let’s get home, the morning’s only just begun. Two hundred and thirty-four minutes.

You ring the bell one stop before mine. Fourteen minutes.

I barely remember getting on the bus. I wonder if we’re thinking in tandem, flicking and swiping away on our smartphones. My screen timed out ages ago, its blackness stares back at me, daring me to fill in the blanks. You stand, turn your back to me, head to the front of the bus. I look up at you full-on through my shades, willing you to look back. The driver opens the door and you step off, but not before glancing back at me, right back at me, and I know we are on the same page. The door closes behind you and I sit, grinning in my seat under the red of the streetlight. I stand and ask the driver to open the door again. I call out to your back, not twenty feet ahead of me: “Hey, can I buy you a coffee?”

You turn, and say, “I thought you’d never ask.”

Fuck, I’m going to be late for work…