Hands of a Woman: Erotic Lesbian Fiction

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Her sounds of delight and the deep shudders of relief that rolled through her body in the wake of my stroking fingers filled me with delight and a hunger for more of her. The sweetness of her body meeting and filling my mouth, my hands, wherever I touched, felt right and completing, as if I had been born to make love to this woman, and was remembering her body rather than learning it deeply for the first time.

I got her shorts off, she got my jeans down. I dumped a whole plate of eggplant on her belly. She was laughing, her belly bouncing under me. She was slicker than peanut oil. I was sweating and messy. She was much older than me, almost clinical as she proceeded, which not only aroused me but made me like her better.

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Somehow things were more in balance than earlier in the evening. I wished she had brought a camera with her so we could have taken pictures of me masturbating to the sight of her naked body — and ever after I could torture myself over what she had done with them. I will ride you like a nightmare.

You are the winged horse Pegasus who would not be saddled. Strain under me. I want to see your muscle skein flex and stretch. Such innocent triangles holding hidden strength. I fear you in our bed when I put out my hand to touch you and feel the twin razors turned towards me. You sleep with your back towards me so that I will know the full extent of you.

It is sufficient. Come at me as if I were worth your life — the life we make together. Take me like a turtle whose shell must be cracked, whose heart is ice, who needs your heat. Love me like a warrior, sweat up to your earlobes and all your hope between your teeth. Love me so I know I am at least as important as anything you have ever wanted. She bit my neck until I thought her teeth would break. Thank God. I like it when it hurts.


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Vaginal trauma is what I live for. Skeletal friction first and then my skin is the softest skin. When she comforted me, I loved the comfort. When she hurt me, I loved the pain. When she controlled me I loved the capitulation. When she serviced me I loved the intent. Coming out is not the end of insanity, you know. The fingers push her back to my ovaries, making red blood waves. I pull my fingers out and let the blood ooze gently onto my hand. I cup a handful and let it drip on my flesh.

First on my round belly, just a drop enclosed within my navel, then on my nipples. Bruised breasts, going from purple green to tender brown. There is a powerful message in the red fluid that is my blood. It is trickling down through the orifice, the mouth-like opening at the tip of my tit. Buscando y arrancando. There are rough ropes tied in intricate and ornate knots. I am being held by these threads like my flesh is being sewn shut, the needle being held by a hand blurry in my vision.

Roots sucking the water. I felt her nipples under my palms and I think I died. I lost track of everything. And even after I finally could stop, I knew that I would never be finished. Slept with was hardly the phrase, certainly not fucked.

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How this is sometimes not done, not spoken, in her room, the beer at their lips, the moment with nothing to say between them. Then sometimes she would fall asleep in the curve of the breasts, in the crook and keen musk of thighs, the slip of the skin. She wants nothing more. I had one brief moment of self-consciousness, when I saw myself as from a distance, straddled by a stranger in an unknown house, buckled inside that monstrous instrument, panting with pleasure and sweating with lust.

Then in another moment I could think nothing, only shudder; and the pleasure — mine and hers — found its aching, arching crisis, and was spent. After a second she eased herself from my lap, then straddled my thigh and rocked gently there, occasionally jerking, and at last growing still. Her hair, which had come loose, was hot against my jaw.

At length she laughed, and moved again against my hip. I dug her neck into my teeth. Then I nailed her hands against the floor. Her pincers tore at me. I followed everything inside me. From now on her legs would always be spread open. I stormed her openings as if she was beleaguered fortress. We held hands and told each other our stories of childhood. What will never be seen. She was discovering the little organ that the cock imitates. My limitations are too painful. I transformed into the sex of a dog, red and unbearable to my own eyes. We fucked in bathrooms and alleys bold as boys, bent over porcelain sinks that creaked from the wall with the weight of her hand inside me.

The rustle of clothes and rats, clink of belt buckles and feet on broken glass. When someone saw us by accident, I let them be embarrassed. Shame was like a dirty tampon pulled from my body and flung in the bucket when I was with Iris. Then I touched her. I touched her face.


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  4. So smooth she was! So warm! She began to shake. I supposed she was still afraid. Then I began to shake, too. I forgot to think of Gentleman, after that. I thought only of her. I feel myself getting lost under her skirt. There is just me wanting her wet heat forced down in this delicious dark isolation.

    Her knees pin my shoulders to the bed, as her fingers twist in my hair to force my tongue deeper in.

    You know where I want it, girl. There is a sense of her growing frenzy as my tongue curls around her clit to take all that she has to offer. An insistent downward thrust tells me how much she wants it. Memories are re-awakened as her delicious girlscent closes the gap between my college youth and now.

    I realise how much I have missed the taste of woman, and drowning in such a flow. I feel her hand reach back to my parted legs, fingers finding my wet wanting and slipping into me. I close my thighs to keep her hand exactly there, wanting her to go deeper into me while my tongue finds new ways to explore the woman she is. There is a rising in the gyrations on my face, a frenzied downward thrusting to take all from me. My body rises to meet her probing fingers and we pulse together, fused in our mutual ecstasies.

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    She picks up an innate sense of me, aware of my peak as it approaches and timing hers to match it precisely. My screams are drowned within her, as she takes all from me, driving deeper so I know nothing but her primal urge, only the pulsations that match my own as we explode as one, a single entity of lust for one another. Held down beneath her demanding, I can see nothing, leaving only the touch, taste, scent and sound of what she is. She rolls sideways off me, but keeps my head clamped between her thighs, exactly where I need to be. I do not want to lose her taste just yet.

    I keep my tongue where it is, I am so needy of her, and she of me as I feel her rising again to meet my thrust. She pulls me deep in once more, I want to drown this way with warm juices in my throat, forced to drink all that she is. Again we hit climax, then again. She knows how to bring me off time and again. It as if we have known one another for years. I feel the muscles of her thighs relax, and I disengage my head from her clamped thighs, and find my way to her waiting mouth. The moist flow of her is carried on my tongue as she tastes her own need of me. Our kiss is long and deep and unending.

    I cradle myself softly on her shoulder, held in a warm embrace. I let it rest there, and her hand finds mine, and squeezes it tenderly. We lie consumed for the long afternoon, a haze of mutual climaxes that meld one into another until we end in an entwined knot of sleepy arms and legs, unwilling to let go, too exhausted to do more.

    This story was originally published on MyErotica.

    33 Literary Books With Great Lesbian Sex Inside Them

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