Best Lesbian Erotica 2014

BIG LESBO CUPCAKERY D. L. King

The kid, all three feet of him, was standing with his mouth open, lips pressed against the glass, the tip of his tongue moving forward and back, touching the glass in a staccato rhythm. What was that? I mean really, how do people think it’s okay to let their kids do something like that?

Forget that it was going to be the fourth time I had cleaned the display case glass and it was only 10:30. But, hell, how does his mother know I’ve cleaned the glass? He could be contracting Ebola while she tried to decide between the raspberry and the marshmallow. Jesus.

My partner Fran and I had opened Spun Sugar and Dandelion Fluff last September and now, not quite a year later, I can say we may have made a success of it. Yes, I know, but I’m not a very decisive person, as a rule. Anyone who knows me knows that. I’m not much of a baker, either. Fran is the baker. And I’m not that great at naming things. Like the shop: I wanted to call it Big Lesbo Cupcakery. I liked it. It made sense. And there was an established precedent, sort of, with Big Gay Ice Cream, but Fran nixed the idea. I would have been willing to go with Little Lesbo Cupcakery, but she said no.

So, I wait on customers, do the books and clean the display case—a lot.

The mother of the little bastard pointed and said, “What’s that one like?” It was a yellow cake with an unassuming light-golden-brown frosting.

“That’s ginger and honey. It’s spicy.” I looked at the kid again. “It’s an adult flavor. Not something most children like.”

“Oh, these aren’t for him, not at these prices. He’s perfectly happy with Entenmanns.” She continued to browse.

Here’s how the whole thing started: I’d fallen in love with red velvet cake, specifically the red velvet cake from a little bakery in Brooklyn, close to where I worked. I’d been bringing it home every few weeks when I finally asked Fran if she’d ever made it. She said she hadn’t, so we decided to try our hand at cupcakes. I began researching recipes and found that red velvet cake was a very odd cake with very odd ingredients. No wonder I liked it. I found a TV chef’s recipe that felt right to me and gave it to Fran. That, actually, was my whole contribution—finding the recipe. That, and commenting on the finished product. Neither of us had any idea what to expect, but the cupcakes turned out to be the best I’ve had—before or since.

Evidently, Fran thought I wasn’t pulling my weight, that I should have done more to help, or something. Why she thought that (if she really did), I’ve no idea. She’s always telling me to get out of the kitchen. In any case, she had my punishment all set up for me that night.

“Ever hear of figging, my dear?” she said, after she had me spread and tied to our bed, ass up.

I turned my head to look at her. She was carving something with a knife. It looked like wet wood and she seemed to be whittling it into a stake. “No, does it have something to do with vampires?” She smacked my ass.

“No. It has to do with naughty little English schoolgirls in the eighteen-hundreds.”

That’s one of the things I like so much about Fran. She’s really smart and gets caught up in research to find new and unusual forms of punishment for me. She’s totally into collecting all the required paraphernalia and experimenting on me to find out what works best. So, yay for me!

“Figging,” she said “involves fresh ginger root and spanking.”

“Mmm, I like spanking,” I said, wiggling my ass from side to side. She smacked it again and then I felt her opening up the crack of my ass and sliding something wet and cool up and down. She slowly forced it into my asshole, twisting and gently pushing. “Hey, where’s the lube?” I asked.

“No lube. There’s no lube with figging. Don’t be a baby; it’s really very small,” she said as she continued to push the cold, wet root into my anus. “There would be no point to this if you used lube. There, it’s in. See, that wasn’t so bad.”

“Yeah, I can hardly feel it. What was the point again?”

“Just wait.”

And just about then is when the burning began. It was exquisitely sharp and stung the way your skin can sting when it’s really, really cold and you run hot water over it. She could see me clenching and unclenching my ass so she knew it had started to work.

“In the boarding schools, the headmasters would do this to the really bad girls and then cane them. I thought I’d just spank you tonight. It’s more intimate that way.”

She spanked me a few times, transferring the pain from my asshole to my cheeks, which sort of defeated the whole purpose of the ginger, I thought. And I told her so when she asked me how it felt.

“Oh, well I can fix that,” she said, gently stroking my labia with the fingers of the hand that she’d used to peel the ginger, fingers coated with ginger-root juice. She rimmed my cunt before sinking a finger inside me and using another finger to rim my clit. Once the little whimpering noises began, she started spanking me again.

Now, besides my ass clenching around the ginger, my cunt was clenching around her finger. I tried rubbing my mound against the bed, but her fingers never strayed. It wasn’t until I began gasping that she placed her index finger directly on my clit, and I popped like a shaken bottle of champagne. She removed the tapered root from my ass, and then her fingers from my cunt, and almost immediately the burning began to subside.

“Wow, that stuff is unbelievable,” I said. And that incident is why we decided to develop a ginger cupcake. The honey was added later—to the cupcake, not me. The flavors complement each other well. It’s a spicy-sweet treat.

We started commemorating other memorable scenes, like the time she stuffed a giant Atomic Fireball in my mouth and then used duct tape to keep it in. That particular cupcake is a cinnamon-flavored yellow cake with the most amazing frosting. The frosting doesn’t have anything to do with sex, other than it’s an orgasm in your mouth. I never even thought of combining chocolate and cinnamon until I tasted a piece of cinnamon chocolate in a high-end box of candy.

I just have to say, though, in case you feel like trying it; it’s almost impossible to stay gagged with a Fireball for long. Another fun thing to do is Red Hots. Have you ever had Red Hots up the twat? They don’t really do much. But, if your girlfriend chews them up, then paints your clit with the juices, it isn’t bad.

We have a cinnamon cupcake that has a French vanilla frosting decorated with mini-heart-shaped Red Hots.

Cinnamon isn’t bad, but it isn’t as good as peppermint oil when Fran really wants to get my attention. Last Valentine’s Day, I came home from work to find rose petals scattered on the floor, leading down the hall to the bathroom. I opened the door and she was waiting for me, a bath drawn, with more rose petals floating in the water and candles burning around the edges. It had to be the most romantic thing I’d ever seen and she’d done it for me.

She started a mix of jazz on the iPod and helped me off with my clothes and into the bath. Soon she’d stripped down and joined me. She had me lie back against her, her legs wrapped around mine, feet on the inside, trapping my legs open. She said she wanted to bathe me and pamper me before dinner.

She soaped up her hands and ran them over my neck, kneading the sore muscles. It was absolute heaven. Her soapy hands met at my neck and slid their way down my chest, separating to smooth and squeeze my breasts, pinching and kneading my nipples, making my skin come alive. She slid her hands to the sides and soaped my underarms before letting her fingers caress and knead the muscles in my arms, all the way down to my fingers. I was so relaxed, I could have fallen asleep against her, in the bath.

But she had other ideas. “Stand up for me,” she said.

“What? Why?”

“Because I can’t adequately get to the bottom half of you while you’re sitting on your ass. All right, don’t stand up, just kneel up, that’ll probably work.”

I did as she asked and she replenished the soap in her hands and caressed and kneaded the cheeks of my ass, running her fingers around the tops of my thighs and into the crease between my sex and my legs. It was all so languorously sweet. I had my hands against the front of the tub, bracing myself, wishing she’d delve in for the kill and I began to whimper.

“What’s the matter, baby? Do you want something?” she teased.

“Yes, please,” I moaned. “Put your fingers in me. You’re driving me crazy.”

“All you had to do was ask, lover.”

She reached for the soap to slick her hands and smoothed them through the hair above my opening, sliding them down farther, squeezing and rubbing my labia, running her hands up and down, caressing the silky tissues, before sliding two fingers inside me and using her thumb and forefinger to squeeze my clit, hard. Just as I started to convulse in the most delicious orgasm, the burn set in. But it was too late to worry about; I was coming and my brain lost all cohesive thought. I could feel her fingers stroking away inside me as I continued to vibrate with an orgasm that just wouldn’t stop.

When the aftershocks began to subside, she withdrew her hands and scraped her nails over my vulva. “That was lovely, sweetie. How do you feel?”

I sat back down and started to curl up against her when I noticed the insistent burn deep inside, and the slightly less insistent burning of my clit. Quickly, I grabbed my clit, under the water, and started massaging it. “What—?”

“Just a little peppermint oil shower gel,” she said, turning my face to her and kissing me.

My clit stopped burning almost immediately, once the soap had been rinsed off, but the walls of my vagina continued to burn throughout dinner. The food was marvelous but I couldn’t stop rocking and grinding my cunt against the chair.

“Don’t worry, baby, I’ll make it all better after dinner, or at least I’ll scratch your itch.”

So yes, we do have a peppermint cupcake. It was a big seller at Christmas. It has white chocolate frosting with crumbles of red and white peppermint candies on top. The cake is marbled yellow and chocolate, with peppermint oil in the chocolate.

Frosting, by the way, is my weak spot, especially the cream cheese frosting we make for the red velvet cupcakes. And here we are, back to red velvet again. But that frosting, whipped at high speed—forever—becomes the lightest, most amazing confection. A generous dollop on each of Fran’s nipples will keep me busy for a while, at least until the frosting’s gone. The stuff is like sweet, sticky air.

We make savory sweets, too. Chipotle peppers and tender bodily tissues don’t really go together. At least, they don’t in my opinion. But the perfect mixture of chipotle and chocolate can be an aphrodisiac in its own right. That particular frosting tops a banana cake. We have a maple and bacon cupcake and a lovely vanilla cupcake with vanilla frosting, drizzled with a balsamic glaze.

Of course, we also have the cupcakes everyone already knows and loves, like chocolate/chocolate and vanilla with strawberry frosting and sprinkles, marshmallow, custard crème-filled cupcakes with colored frosting—everything you’d expect, but it’s the unexpected flavors that make life interesting, in my book.

The woman with the annoying child finally made up her mind. She ordered a dozen vanilla cupcakes. Half with vanilla frosting and half with chocolate. I wasn’t surprised, really. You can tell the adventurous from the ordinary. As I stepped from behind the display case with my bottle of glass cleaner, I couldn’t help hoping that Fran would have something interesting up her sleeve when I got home. Maybe I should text her and tell her I thought it might be time for something new; compliment her on her awesome research skills; tell her we needed a new flavor; tell her I needed a new flavor.

Vanilla’s fine for some people and I’m not saying I don’t like it sometimes, but Fran and I? We’re anything but vanilla. Hey, that could have been a good name for the shop… Oh, well, Spun Sugar and Dandelion Fluff is fine—I’ve learned to love it. (I still think Big Lesbo Cupcakery would have been better.)