Best Lesbian Erotica of the Year, Volume 1 Read online

  BEST

  LESBIAN EROTICA

  OF THE YEAR

  VOLUME ONE

  BEST

  LESBIAN EROTICA

  OF THE YEAR

  VOLUME ONE

  Edited by

  D. L. KING

  Copyright © 2016 by D. L. King.

  All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted in newspaper, magazine, radio, television or online reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the Publisher.

  Published in the United States by Cleis Press, an imprint of Start Midnight LLC, 101 Hudson Street, 37th Floor, Suite 3705, Jersey City, New Jersey 07302.

  Printed in the United States.

  Cover design: Scott Idleman/Blink

  Cover photograph: iStock

  Text design: Frank Wiedemann

  First Edition.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Trade paper ISBN: 978-1-62778-216-6

  E-book ISBN: 978-1-62778-217-3

  “Mother Tongue,” by Camille Duvall, was originally published in Summer Love: Stories of Lesbian Holiday Romance, edited by Harper Bliss and Caroline Manchoulas (Ladylit, 2015); “Act Two,” by Tamsin Flowers, was originally published in Al Fresco: Five Outdoorsy Tales of Lesbian Lust, (Ladylit, 2015); “Crème Brûlée,” by Sacchi Green, was originally published in All You Can Eat: A Buffet of Lesbian Erotica and Romance, edited by R. G. Emanuelle and Andi Marquette (Ylva, 2014); “Pledge Night,” by Radclyffe, was originally published in Girls on Campus, edited by Sandy Lowe and Stacia Seaman (Bold Strokes, 2016).

  CONTENTS

  Introduction: Act One

  Act Two

  Fuckin’ Nice

  The Last Time

  You Have the Right to Remain Naked

  Mother Tongue

  Pledge Night

  Coyote Girl

  Spa Day

  Revenant

  Off Season

  Taming May

  Crème Brûlée

  Bush Garden

  A Cooking Egg

  Two Women Having Sex

  Ink and Canvas

  Covert Affairs

  A Sense of Coming Home

  About the Authors

  About the Editor

  INTRODUCTION:

  ACT ONE

  I feel like I’ve finally arrived, being asked to edit Best Lesbian Erotica of the Year. And then, of course, I feel like an imposter; they got it wrong, they couldn’t have meant me. The Best Lesbian Erotica series is so iconic and I feel so honored to join the great names in lesbian erotic fiction who have gone before me. This edition marks the twenty-first year of the book’s continuous publication. That’s a lot of history, and a lot of smut. I’m not going to talk about how this book legitimized the feelings of generations of women or how it helped pave the way to acceptance and normalcy (if there is such a thing—and if one would want to identify with a word like that). Those sentiments have echoed down the line of past series editors and they have said it so much better than anything I could hope to add. But I will tell you about what the experience was like for me.

  After the reality set in, I settled back and began the work that would bring an anthology to life. I consider myself an old hand at editing erotica anthologies. I’ve done a good number of them and have the mechanics down. So I put out a call for submissions and waited until the deadline to begin reading—at least that was my plan. I knew, from friends who had edited Best Lesbian Erotica, that they got a large number of submissions, but I wasn’t really prepared for the deluge that arrived in my inbox. I started reading a little early to get a handle on things and not fall hopelessly behind.

  No problem, I thought, it’ll be easy to weed out the poor and mediocre submissions. But there weren’t all that many poor, or even mediocre stories. No, the writers did not make it easy for me. What that means is you, dear reader, hold a collection of truly excellent stories in your hand. At least I hope you will find them excellent. Tastes differ and what I find erotic may not always be what you find erotic. But this I can promise. Each of these gems is a superlative piece of storytelling—a world in microcosm and a piece of someone’s soul. I know, that sounds a little highbrow for a work of erotica, and I don’t mean it to. What I mean is that I stand in awe of these writers and am so happy they chose to share their stories with me so I could share them with you.

  This book, like all my books, is eclectic. That’s because my tastes are scattered. I’m like the child who can’t stop picking flowers in a field because the next is even more beautiful than the last. There’s no theme here, other than women and sex, but that’s what you want in a book of lesbian erotica, isn’t it? The stories meander from dramatic to funny to important to sad, from long-lost love to down and dirty raunch. I’ve often heard people say, “It’s an anthology. Feel free to skip around.” I always cringe when I hear that because (here’s a little secret) I agonize over the order of the stories. I’m pretty sure all editors do. But I get down on the floor and move them around, like pieces on a game board. It takes a while, and I have to keep shooing the cat off them. But it’s important for the order to work for me (and hopefully for you, if you don’t skip around).

  The first story—in this case, “Act Two,” by Tamsin Flowers— sets the stage for drama; it gets you primed and ready for all that will follow. And the last story, “A Sense of Coming Home,” by P. A. Nox, brings you to where I hope you want to be—a new beginning. And, in between those two stories? The meandering path of life: a sorority initiation; a lover who knows your worth, even when you don’t know it yourself; envy, jealousy and the heat of competition; meeting the kind of good, perfect girl you never thought you’d be into; karaoke night in your favorite girl bar. Like I said: life. Add the unexpected (because life does that from time to time), like a story of Victorian manners; a spy versus spy tale or that of an Apache and a curandera in 1800s Arizona; and then, just for fun, a revolutionary tale; of fetishistic clothing and the proletariat.

  There are authors you’ve come to love and expect to find in a book of this caliber, like Sacchi Green, Radclyffe, Valerie Alexander and Annabeth Leong. There are old friends, like Tamsin Flowers and Roxy Katt. And then there are writers with whom you may not be familiar, but I’m betting you’ll hope to see again and again, like Elna Holst, P. A. Nox, J. Belle Lamb and Samantha Luce.

  Like I said: eclectic.

  Yes, it’s Best Lesbian Erotica of the Year, but it’s also a D. L. King book. If you like that sort of thing, I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised. If you don’t know whether you like that sort of thing or not, I hope you’ll also be pleasantly surprised. Enjoy the meandering. Sure, skip around if you must, but if you’d like to get into my headspace, read these snippets of life in the order laid out before you and be transported.

  D. L. King

  New York City

  ACT TWO

  Tamsin Flowers

  I push the girl back roughly until she’s pinned against the ancient stonemasonry. I’ve got one forearm across her chest. She can’t move, but neither does she want to. We’re deep in the shadows of a secluded archway, but even out in the open piazza, she willingly licked ice cream from my fingers, with a tongue that held the promise of other, sweeter explorations.

  Her chest swells and falls under my arm and the cold, clammy air carries the dense smell of her sweat to my nostrils. I lean forward and catch her bottom lip between my teeth, sucking it into my mouth. Her body relaxes and she reaches one hand up to the back of my neck, pulling me closer so she can prolong the kiss
.

  I close my eyes. This is a moment I’ve imagined so many times. Not with this girl, particularly. But with similar faceless, nameless girls, who over the years, have fueled me in my single-minded determination to make the vision a reality. To put a face and a body to the fantasy. This girl, Mercy, has finally stepped into the role.

  Why is she the one? What does she have in common with the girls I’ve conjured up in my mind?

  They all share a lover. The lover Mercy has for real.

  I push a knee up between Mercy’s legs. She’s wearing jeans and I press hard enough to feel the thickening of the fabric where the leg seams meet at the crotch. I rub against it, grinding it into her, and she moans without taking her mouth from mine.

  Loud voices, speaking Italian, pass close to the arch and we freeze for a moment. Then I grab a handful of her short hair at the back and yank her head away from mine.

  “Meet me tonight at nine in the Orto Botanico—the botanical gardens.”

  “I…” she stammers, then stops.

  “Can you get away?”

  “Earlier? Celestine dines at nine. She’ll expect me to be there.”

  “I want you at nine.”

  I don’t wait for her reply. I let go of her abruptly and leave the cool shadows for the bleached intensity of the piazza. My heart pounds as I walk away from her. Now, after so many years, I’ll be able to repay Celestine Bouchard for what she did.

  There was a time when Celestine and I were friends. When we first arrived to study opera at the Conservatoire in Paris. But not for long—it’s hard to maintain a friendship with your biggest rival. And Celestine was a thief. First it was parts. She would audition for the parts I wanted, and she would petition directors for the parts I got. We were the two best singers in our year, so it was natural that we should be chasing the same dreams. But only one of us played dirty.

  I’ve always had the more powerful voice of the two of us, but she scores on delicacy, refinement. Beauty. She makes the perfect princess. I’m better at playing the serving wench or the whore. The critics have said Carmen could have been written for me. That didn’t stop her taking the part, though, in our final year at the Conservatoire. But, my issues with Celestine aren’t to do with the singing or which of us has the better voice.

  Celestine Bouchard, feted by those who know absolutely nothing about opera as the greatest voice of a generation, stole the love of my life. It happened more than a decade ago, and I haven’t not thought of my beautiful Suzanne for a single day since. Celestine took her out of spite, then broke her, like a spoiled child bored with a new toy within minutes. I couldn’t pick up the pieces. No one could. I don’t know where Suzanne is now, and I don’t kid myself that if I found her we could have what we had before. So I’ve taken other lovers, plenty of them, while I’ve been waiting for the moment that Celestine should appear in the crosshairs of my sight. And now she has.

  She’s here in Trieste—it’s the International Opera Festival— to play Cio-Cio San in Madame Butterfly. In a bitter twist of irony, I’m here to sing Carmen, the role we were tussling over when she stole Suzanne. If I can’t take back what’s mine, I can at least take what’s hers. Mercy. The beautiful toy with which Celestine is currently amusing herself.

  The city is enchanting and sultry as I wind through the narrow streets at dusk. An assignation after dark. Meeting my rival’s lover in a silent garden. It’s worthy of an opera plot. I’m on a mission to seduce and Mercy’s sweet young flesh will taste all the sweeter with the knowledge that Celestine will be wondering where she is. There’s a thrum of expectation pulsing through me, a delicious tension. The night air caresses the bare skin of my arms with a lover’s touch and I hear cicadas singing in unseen courtyards and gardens as I walk by.

  Tonight, Suzanne, I finally get to lay your ghost to rest.

  I make my way on silent feet to the entrance of the Orto Botanico. Relief floods through me when I see that the gate’s been left open a crack. My bribery didn’t go to waste and now Mercy and I will have the moonlit gardens to ourselves. I slip inside, leaving the gate a little wider open than I found it. I’m several minutes early, so I don’t imagine Mercy’s here yet. In my experience, quarry runs late while predators have a tendency to arrive early. I walk slowly along the central path, past the empty ticket office, through a series of stone arches and up toward the lotus pond. This is where I want to make my play.

  The air is heavily scented with honeysuckle and rosemary.

  In my mind’s eye, I see Suzanne, as she was when I saw her last. A lump forms in my throat but it makes me more determined to do what I’m about to do. Mercy will be mine and Celestine will taste the bitterness of regret.

  A footfall behind me makes me start. I turn and look but there’s no one there, no one on the path. Leaves rustle and I think…I think I hear a breath being drawn.

  “Mercy?”

  “No mercy.”

  Oh my god.

  I recognize that voice. It’s as familiar to me as my own.

  “Celestine?”

  Celestine Bouchard steps out of the shadows of a stone arch onto the moonlit path. It’s been eleven years since I’ve seen her this close, in the flesh. I’ve pored over her picture in magazines, and I saw her sing once, from the very back of the Royal Opera House. But here she is, living and breathing, in front of me, in the dark and deserted Orto Botanico in Trieste. Long hair streaming down over her shoulders, almond-shaped eyes wide as she searches me out. In the creamy moonlight, she’s as beautiful as she ever was. Because, of course, she’s made enough money to hold on to her looks.

  “Genevieve. Geneva.” She’s the only one who ever calls me Geneva. She looks me up and down inquisitively. “You’ve hardly changed.”

  “You’re a little fatter, my love.”

  “It’s good for my voice. You’re looking a trifle bony.”

  “I weigh the same.”

  We reach impasse.

  Mercy has spilled and my plan’s thwarted. I turn on my heel. I’m not going to hang around and make small talk with the bitch.

  “You took the bait. I knew you would.”

  What the hell?

  I turn back to face her, looking at her askance. But I keep my mouth shut because I know she loves the sound of her own voice.

  “See? You’ve just taken it again. You really are easy to manipulate, my sweet Geneva. I picked Mercy because she was so very like Suzanne.”

  I hadn’t even seen it. No one was like Suzanne in my eyes. But taking a step back, looking at the girl through Celestine’s eyes, I can see why she might think them alike. A certain physical resemblance, a similar economy of movement. The same dark eyes. Anger erupts deep inside me. Why should she want to bait me? It was she who did me wrong. I’m the injured party. I take a step toward her and she stands her ground, watching me with lazy eyes, a smile playing fleetingly on her lips.

  Slapping Celestine as hard as I can gives me immense satisfaction. It’s not quite the revenge I’ve imagined, but the sound of my palm making contact with her cheek cracks like a gunshot. She grunts softly but stays put. I’m begrudgingly impressed and I’m not sure what to do next. Damn the woman. I’m not going to engage with her further.

  Again, I turn back toward the gate.

  Her voice is quiet. I strain my ears to hear what she says.

  “Have you ever wondered why I took Suzanne?”

  No, I’ve never wondered that. Anyone would want Suzanne, even if they didn’t already hate me. I carry on walking, quickening my pace to get away from her.

  “Suzanne was never my type. Mercy isn’t my type.”

  I don’t want to stop. I don’t need to hear more of whatever story she’s weaving. But my feet slow their pace. At the next stone arch, I sink back into the shadows. Curiosity has got the better of me, and I know I’ll regret it.

  She slows too, sensing my presence without needing to see me, like a cat.

  “Geneva? I know you’re here.”

&
nbsp; As a singer, I can control my breathing. I make it shallow and silent.

  Celestine pauses, listening. Then she speaks again.

  “I never meant to hurt Suzanne. Just you. What happened with the girl was collateral damage, as they say. She was young and she got confused. She thought she was in love, but she meant nothing to me.” Celestine leans back against the wall, standing not three feet from me. She knows exactly where I’m lurking. “It was so easy to tempt her away from you—not very bright, eager to believe the lies I told her.”

  Celestine’s words bring Suzanne momentarily back to me. A faithful puppy with pale eyes and a gap-toothed smile. Then, not so faithful.

  “I could never understand, cheri, why you took such undemanding lovers. Never a girl who could challenge your intellect. Never a woman who spoke her mind.”

  She pauses, I suppose to let me justify my choices. But I don’t.

  “Did you never want something more interesting to pass the time? Someone who could press the buttons in your mind, rather than just the one between your legs?”

  I break cover. These are awkward questions that have come to me in sleepless hours. I walk fast, taking a sharp turn from the main path, up toward the glasshouses. I don’t hear Celestine pursuing me, but I’m sure she hasn’t finished with me yet. The woman’s like a terrier—harrying till she gets her way, gets what she wants. My vocal parts. My lover. For her, it’s as natural as breathing. What’s the bitch after now, tonight, in the Botanical Garden in Trieste? The satisfaction of seeing me break? Does she want to make me cry?

  I won’t fucking give it to her, whatever it is she wants.

  The glasshouse door opens with a whine and I slip inside, enveloped by the heavy air. The fetid scent of decaying plant matter and overripe fruit assaults my nostrils and the damp heat makes my skin prickle. It’s darker in here but the pale flagstones underfoot show the path ahead as I venture into the lush growth of the interior. I walk slowly to keep my footfalls silent. Large drops of water burst against my head, my arm, and when I brush past an overhanging branch, a flurry of droplets feels like rain.