Read Online Best of the Best Lesbian Erotica by Tristan Taormino - Free Book Online Page B

just friction.”
    I pursed my lips, returned to my clipping.
    â€œNo, really. We’ll figure it out.”
    Let her hope, but I knew better. People who came easily never understood this, how it felt to be perpetually on-the-verge, revved-up, and good-to-go, but then you’re going and going and going and suddenly everything shuts down like someone flicked a switch in your head. Whatever you do
next is inconsequential, you’ve passed the point of no return. Bottomed out. Sometimes when I hit bottom, I became so dejected and angry I couldn’t speak for hours. Other times, I could pretend I’d actually come, feeling sated enough by wet sheets and a lover’s arms. With Shade it was mostly the latter.
    She took the nail clipper from my hands and sat down next to me. “There’s something I want to ask, don’t be mad, but…” She giggled so I knew it wasn’t serious. “In your closet, I saw these…these boots.”
    â€œThey’re the real thing, straight from the dungeons of Mistress Wanda Lynne.” I explained about the mishap on the set, yet in the telling it seemed as if the entire day had been lived by someone else.
    At Shade’s request, I took out the boots, and together we inspected them. “They’re sort of scary,” she said.
    â€œI don’t think so.”
    â€œPut them on.” She smiled, and within seconds was helping me into the thigh-highs I’d inherited from the pissed-off dominatrix, inherited because that idiot porn star Robbie Rod had cajoled me into trying them on when he must have known it was bad karma to wear a dominatrix’s boots without asking. That day I’d been devastated, but balancing around my apartment for Shade I wished I’d thanked him.
    â€œTake off your underwear,” Shade said, and I did, the sun making waves through my dirty blinds, and it was naughty and illicit, as if we were slumming in a dive bar in the middle of the afternoon. But if in these shoes with Robbie Rod I’d felt like a cheap whore, with Shade I was a woman, or I’d accepted some idea of femininity that had always felt like an act with men. I liked being sexy, I liked her watching me being sexy.
    We danced naked, and I was suddenly tall. She put me in her lace bra and spun me around. “There, now you look like a porn star.”
    â€œI have way too much pubic hair.”

    â€œLet’s get rid of it.”
    â€œYou serious?”
    She nodded, cheeks dimpling foolishly, but I knew she was indeed serious. She said she’d always wanted to shave a woman and, at that moment, she could have said she wanted to have a threesome with a goat, and my response would have been, “Let’s find a petting zoo.”
    An occasional advocate of the clipped bikini line, I had the necessary accoutrements. Scissors. Shaving cream. Disposable razors. Vitamin E capsules and aloe vera lotion. Shade draped a towel over the toilet seat and sat me down, spreading my patent leather legs. She picked up the scissors and my thighs caved inward. I had this fear of sharp objects near my pussy, especially when they were in somebody else’s hands.
    â€œIt’s okay,” she said. She kissed the top of my clit and stroked me with her fingers; already I wanted to scream. I leaned my head back, felt the pull of my pubes, the cold metal of the scissors and, then, a tense snip. My eyes shut to the clip of the shears, the hum of Shade’s voice.
    When I next looked down, my pubes were tightly buzzed; sort of prepubescent, sort of in-the-Navy, yet caught between these shiny leather lampposts. I almost liked my own body. Shade smiled and filled her palm with shaving cream as my heart beat wildly.
    She started shaving from the top. The back of my neck tingled, and I had to bite my tongue to keep from whimpering. I could feel my legs shaking the closer she came to my vagina. “Trust me,” she said, two fingers