Best Lesbian Erotica 2014

A GOOD WORKOUT Sinclair Sexsmith

You check out my ass in the mirror across from mine, and that’s when I know that you want me. I’ve got one of those too-small towels wrapped around my waist and another too-small towel draped over my shoulders, and so do you. The half-dozen girls in the locker room are wearing their towels up over their breasts, with a second one twisted up on their heads. But we don’t need that. Your hair is the same length as mine, cut way above the ears, but yours has that faux-hawk, which tells me you might be a few years younger than I am. Mine I sweep up and over in a wave like I took a palm full of product and ran my hands over my head—which I did.

I wash my hands and head for the steam room, catching your eyes in the mirror for just the quickest inviting smile. I can feel the pulse in my muscles from the 5k run I just finished on the treadmill and the quick set of weights I lifted to keep my shoulders strong and open. My neck feels loose, my fingers feel heavy, my thighs feel solid.

When you chose the treadmill next to mine, I didn’t think much of it. I read you as a guy for a full minute until you stopped walking and started running, and I stole a glance and noticed the smooth girl curve of your chin. Your run was lithe—supple and graceful, full of ease. I struggled with my breath and concentrated on my feet hitting the treadmill. I slowed down and caught my breath, sped up and pushed myself, slowed down again. You stayed steady, one foot in front of the other, sweating but not out of breath, listening to your iPod while I watched a rerun of “Sex and the City” on one of the flat screens.

When I left the weights to head down to the locker room, I thought I felt your eyes on me, but I didn’t turn around to look. You were doing assisted pull-ups by then, your blue basketball shorts bunched by your knees as you knelt on the machine, your biceps popping. I heard you groan only once.

Not that I was watching.

And now I lay myself out on the high bench in the steam room. I’m the only one in here. I unwrap the towel and let my skin sweat the work out of me, feeling my muscles relax, the blood still pumping inside, the tingling sensation that rises after using my body. I breathe in and out, focusing on the place where my body hits the air, the place at my nasal septum where the air is leaving my body, cooler from inside my lungs than it is in the steam. I can’t stay in here too long, but I love how it leaves my body supple. It feels like a cleanse, a good sweat, while working out feels like a release of toxins.

I always have the urge to run my hands over my body, feel my skin slick with sweat, open my legs and let everything get washed by the hot steamy air. I always think of that story from Nancy Friday’s book, My Secret Garden, where two women in the steam room get it on—definitely a story that told me I liked what these women did together a little bit more than I expected.

I let my body sink into the tile bench, and for a short minute all is still; then the door opens, releasing a gush of steam and sucking in cool air in exchange. I don’t have to look up to know it’s you. It seems obvious in this moment that you’d follow me in here. You sit on the bench below mine, and your head is aligned with my knee. You sigh, hands on your thighs, legs parted. I can just make out your shape through the white steam. The back of your neck starts to drip. You take the towel from your shoulders and reveal your chest, small and tight and muscled, your nipples hard and pointed, rosy pink. I have the urge to reach out and twist them, feel them hard between my fingertips. I resist.

When you lean your head back and I feel your hair touch my knee, I take the hint and shift, bending my knee up over the edge of the upper bench. You sigh again, this time more of a groan, and your desire is palpable. Your eyes are closed, but you turn your head and your face is between my thighs. My heart pumps faster in my chest and my stomach rises and falls. You only wait a beat before turning your hips and gripping my inner thighs in each of your hands. You take a long inhale of the wetness that has gathered, my pubic hair thick and wet, already swelling. You take my clit in your mouth without fanfare, just slide it right in and run your tongue along the shaft. Your hands grip harder and your throat opens to take me deeper, your nose buried in my flesh. I know I must smell, musty and thick and sour, and you lap it up with your tongue, your lips pursed, shoved against me hard.

You bring one hand over to cup me underneath and I feel your fingers gently in my crack, palm against my opening, holding my lips like I have balls, high and tight and smooth. I feel your finger find my asshole and shift my body to give my consent, pushing gently against, and you slip inside, just to the first knuckle, easy with all this steam. I grip your hair, because that’s what a faux-hawk is for. Long enough to grab on top and move your mouth around how I want it, where I want to feel it. I fuck your mouth while keeping your head stationary and you work your finger gently and firmly in my tight hole, your tongue wide and throat open. My hips open and I thrust into you, ready to come, thinking about shooting as my clit pulses and contracts, my body shuddering.

I pull your head back as I get supersensitive to the touch and you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, look up at me through the steam.

I grin. I breathe and feel my feet on the floor, get my bearings and don’t waste time. You are on the edge of your seat; I easily grab your waist and flip you around, your ass against me, my arms around you, one hand pushed between your legs and the other twisting those pink nipples. As my fingers find you wet and open you bring my other hand up to your mouth and suck two of them down, tongue swollen, lips wet. I keep my grip around you as I plunge two fingers inside you deep and you groan again, that same release that all those pull-ups had you uttering, the same instinct to buckle and pulse overtaking you. I pull my fingers out slick with your juices and find your clit, start jacking you off, the shaft of it hard and swollen under my fingers, throbbing with my touch.

You quicken under me.

I pull you back against me and our bodies slide against each other, your back against my large chest, my nipples still hard, my stomach against your lower back, your ass against my pelvis. If I had a cock, it’d be in your ass right now, and as soon as I think that I can feel it, you press back against me as if opening up, squirming, and I keep my grip as I reach around you to jack you off. You aren’t easy to get off, I can feel it, that barrier between us, but I can feel how you like to be taken, how you like to be a boy under my touch, how you like to bend over and give it up for me, because that’s how I like it, too.

Our bodies are talking to each other without our heads getting in the way. Our cocks are hard and thrusting, and I am thrusting, and you are thrusting into my palm. Your hand pushing my fingers deeper into your mouth though it is open and you’re breathing around them; I feel your breath cooler than the air. My arms are dripping with sweat and steam; I can feel it rolling down my skin. You groan and I feel the vibration of your tongue on the pads of my fingers. You shudder and your back arches and I hold you up. Your other hand goes down on top of my hand between your legs and you start working it faster and faster, just a little bit up and right of where my fingers were, moving me over, until you stumble forward just a little and I feel your stomach crunch, tighten, your shoulders curl forward, your muscles shaking against me, and you come in my hand with a gush of heat and liquid.

You get ahold of your heavy breathing like you did on the treadmill and come back to a soft even in-and-out, your arms holding you up, bent forward over the low bench. You straighten up your body and lean back against mine for a moment, then grab your towels, wet and heavy on the tile bench of the steam room, and whip around. When your hand grips the handle of the door you catch my glance for a minute and give me that cute, sly boy half-smile, and then you’re gone.

I sit on the lower bench for a moment, feeling my breath again, my body spent and tired and ready to go home. I rinse off quickly in the shower. You’re in the stall two doors down when I enter, but you’ve left by the time I am done.

I do a quick fix to my hair in the mirror over the sink and you’re almost done putting your faux-hawk back up in place behind me, our towels wrapped back around our waists, slung over our shoulders, as if nothing happened, when a woman walks in with a start. “Am I… what are you… wrong… uh?”

We catch each other’s eyes in the mirror. Usually this type of thing gives me butterflies and cause for concern. Usually I am an impostor in women’s bathrooms and locker rooms; usually I am seen as an outsider, potential predator, problem, misfit, outlaw. But here there are two of us, and we just chuckle as she very obviously scans our bodies for signs of hips and breasts and then, embarrassed to be staring, scurries off.

By the time I’m done with my hair and emerge into the changing room where the lockers are, you’re dressed and shoving your gym clothes into a barrel bag. You make a point of coming over to get a tissue right next to where I’m standing, unlocking my locker.

“I don’t usually… uh…” you stammer, not talking to me but talking near me, keeping your chin low, shifting from foot to foot. Your handsome face gives you away: you’re a pretty boy, and you date pretty girls. Not hunky butches.

“I know,” I say. “Me either.”

Your eyes twinkle as you look at me one last time. “See you around,” you toss over your shoulder. “Good workout.”