The Mammoth Book of Lesbian Erotic Confessions

by Barbara Cardy

  “I love eating your cunt,” she remarked, wiping her swollen mouth on her wrist. “You’re musky – herbal.”

  “Tha-anks,” I panted. I had no idea I was so orgasmic, but it was the smoothness, the nudeness of my pussy which was driving me over the edge. Before I could push my damp fringe from my eyes she was peeling apart my raw cunt with her fingertips and pushing three slender fingers inside. She found my g-spot, ruthlessly rubbing the vaginal roof in a way that gave me a rollercoaster tummy and made my arse twitch. Just as my whooping breaths were about to explode into another orgasm, she changed tack and, reaching forwards, put her fingertip on my cervix. This was new.

  “Ooh!” I said. That sly, dirty bitch eased her fingertip into the tiny mouth of my womb. A weird, molten feeling swept my legs, somewhere between an anal and a clitoral feeling. I replaced my sodden gag.

  She inserted four fingers to the knuckle.

  “Fuck,” I said. My slick cunt could not resist as she eased her thumb in too and slipped her hand in. I removed the gag.

  “You’re f-fisting me. Fuck, Clea, you’re fisting me!”

  “Quiet,” she said. Waves of lascivious joy built as she eased her bunched fist up and down in my stretched, soaking pussy. A final crashing orgasm rolled over me like breaker after foaming breaker on a perverted lesbian beach. Just as the climax reached its zenith she extended her middle finger and inserted it once more into my tight cervix. I thought the top of my head would come off.

  “Shiiit!” I hissed. “Shit, shit, shit!”

  She eased out her foamy, creamy hand. My shaved cunt was smoking with inner heat. When I got my breath back I turned to her. I was woozy, addled, near sleep, but I wanted her to come! To pay her back for buggering me with her dad’s shaving brush, I went down on her and when her arsehole was good and slick, wormed first one, then two, then finally a straining three fingers up her bum and pumped them in and out as I licked. She bucked in rhythm, gasping with pleasure, her arse squeezing in time with my lapping tongue.

  “Faster!” she gasped.

  I pounded her, licking so hard I’m sure it must have hurt. She came with a hoarse, ragged cry and nearly fractured my hand, clenching her sphincter in spasms of pleasure, muffling her burning face with a pillow.

  All the long night we fucked and slept, slept and fucked, masturbating mutually in the wee small hours, sixty-nining languorously as the sun came up, each gripping the other’s apple-smooth buttocks, dabbling in the blowsy pink pouches of each other’s spread pussies. Our final act, before Clea’s alarm went off, was a slow, achingly erotic scissor-fuck, sliding our poor, sore cunts up against each other, riding each other’s natural lubrications, moving slowly but working hard to squeeze one more tingling orgasm from our numb bodies. We sweated during this one, shaking slowly, rubbing the raw orgasm from our bodies until we came together, gasping with relief, dripping with perspiration and our sweet emissions.

  I left after a heavy-eyed and awkward family breakfast. I could hardly sit straight on the bus ride home. When I got in I slept, but on waking, I stripped, bathed and inspected my new downstairs coiffure. It was unusually puffy after licking, flicking, sucking and fisting all night long. This led, of course, to wanking. I spread myself on my cool coverlet, Clea’s stale knickers in my mouth, and rubbed my smooth, clean, naked pussy again and again, the handle of my hairbrush eased on a tide of oil into a place for which it had not been manufactured.

  IN THE HOT SEAT

  Laura, Sutton Coldfield

  I confess; I already knew exactly what I was going to tell her. I just wanted to bide my time and savour the moment. The scenarios played over in my mind countless times in the long weeks building up to our meeting. It always ended the same way, of course; gasping with pleasure as I reached an inevitable, unavoidable orgasm, remembering the lesbian encounters that excited me the most.

  The doctor looked at me quizzically over the rim of her glasses and asked me when I’d first had lesbian tendencies. I leant back in the adjustable black leather chair and savoured the attention, really soaked it up. A fan frantically rotated on the painted ceiling above me, but still, my normally pale cheeks felt flushed and hot. I told her the truth; that I’ve always been attracted to women, but never wanted to admit it.

  I’m sure she emitted a frustrated sigh. She knew, and I knew, that she’d need to re-phrase the exact same question again. The doctor was a busy lady; a professional. She did not need this. She asked when my lesbian inclinations had come to the forefront. It was textbook stuff.

  I closed my eyes and felt welcome cold air blowing against my face. I told her that I was eighteen and on holiday in the south of France with my parents. My folks pretended to be respectable and old-fashioned, only we spent our days on secluded nudist beaches because my father was insistent that “the sand is much better quality there”. Of course, it had nothing to do with Dad checking out the naked women, who’d play bat and ball and Frisbee all day long with everything going in all conceivable directions.

  The doctor interrupted me, told me I was drifting from the point. Her voice was completely expressionless, her tone without any emotion. She clicked a black high heel shoe against the laminated floor.

  I managed to disguise any irritation and continued in full flow, telling her that the nudity didn’t really do anything for me, that it was too exposed, too blatant. Then one evening, after a long day at the beach, I was sent to get some food from the camp site. The sun was fading and there was a nice breeze. A girl was serving. She was probably in her late twenties and, oh my word, she was stunning, with long brown hair down to her cute little upturned arse, olive sun-kissed skin and a French accent that just made me melt.

  I sensed the doctor leaning forwards. You’re listening now, I thought. She’d stopped scribbling notes in her pristine blue folder. I imagined her breasts straining against the fabric of her cream blouse and I wondered what panties she wore under that pencil skirt of hers.

  I went on with my story. When I got to the front of the queue, the girl smiled at me. It felt like a secret smile, though, like she knew exactly what I was thinking. She took my order, hurried around preparing the food. And then . . .

  I paused at this point. It was solely for dramatic effect, naturally.

  She asked what happened next. There was a suggestion of interest in her voice that was not previously there.

  I told her that the girl leant forwards to get something from the bottom shelf, that her white T-shirt was loose. She was not wearing a bra. And that I saw everything.

  Everything?

  Everything, I repeated, with a smile. I told her about the perfect, soft, round tits with tiny dark nipples that I’m sure – no I’m certain – looked hard to the touch. How it was just for a few, wonderful seconds before the girl leant back and the moment was gone. The girl handed me my order and gave me a look that said everything. She knew exactly what I had seen.

  The doctor ran a delicate hand through her long, tussled dark hair and asked me how it had made me feel.

  And I told her exactly how it made me feel; that I was hornier than I’d ever been in my whole damn life, how it was the first time I’d felt my cunt twitch without me even touching it. I ran in the direction of the tent as fast as my legs would take me. The excitement was just too much, though. The camp swimming pool was on the way. There were only two people in it, a man and a woman, probably in their fifties. I had my swimming costume on underneath my shorts. I tore the shorts off and I lowered myself into the steaming Jacuzzi, where I frigged myself underneath my swimming costume until I came almost immediately, in fast, maddening spasms.

  She made some more notes. I dared not look at her; dared not look at the expression on her face. There was a faint, musky smell of sex in the small office and, probably a little too optimistically, I wondered whether it was solely from my own arousal. I adjusted my short, tight skirt.

  Still, her tone remained neutral when she asked me whether I felt the event changed my attitude
to sex with other women.

  I resisted the temptation to tell her how it really made me feel; how my body trembled with excitement all day long, burning with lust and desire. My fascination was only further enlightened by my first lesbian encounter, at a drunken party, with a cute girl (I’ve forgotten her name) with a light sprinkling of freckles on her cheeks.

  I told her that it made me want it more, that I had a burning desire to tease, to do anything that was out of the ordinary.

  She asked for a specific example.

  Damn, I thought. I could sure give you a specific example. I longed to slip my hand inside my low-cut top and massage a nipple. They craved to be touched, to be stroked.

  I resisted temptation and decided on an example to share. I explained that it was when I was working in the City, when I was only twenty. I was the one who ran around doing all the jobs nobody else wanted to do, like making the teas and doing the filing. I told the doctor that it made me feel important, right in the thick of the action, surrounded by execs in suits, and yet she just fiddled with the nib of her pen. She wanted me to get to the point. It felt good, knowing that I had aroused her interest.

  I continued to tell her how a woman sat opposite me on a train to London Bridge every day. She was probably in her early forties and looked like she had an important job, as she was always immaculately dressed in suit jackets and taking urgent business calls. At first we just exchanged polite smiles. She wore a wedding ring. Then one morning I wore black fishnet stockings under a skirt that fell about half way up my thigh, and at this point I pulled my own skirt a few inches higher to demonstrate the length to the doctor. I ran a hand over my smooth, naked thigh and told her that when I casually glanced up, the woman was staring, open-mouthed, and that I recognized the look from the men in the office. It was a look of pure, unadulterated lust. I smiled at the older woman and she blushed, went as red as a beetroot. It felt kind of exhilarating, that effect. The woman was much older and more important than me and, of course, she was married. And yet, I said to the doctor, I knew I was calling the shots.

  She nodded her head and I continued. The teasing stage continued for quite some time. One day I “accidentally” left a button on my blouse undone. The bra that I wore underneath was skin-tone colour and most definitely encouraged the imagination. Another time, I parted my legs just a few extra inches, allowing her gaze to travel all the way along the trail of my smooth thighs. I’d smile at her knowingly, but it was only ever brief and fleeting. I could tell by her nipples, poking through her blouse, that she was aroused. All the other passengers, sat on either side of us, were blissfully unaware of anything untoward going on. It was all very innocent. This continued for weeks. The train journey became the most exciting part of my day.

  The doctor asked how things came to a head.

  I told her that it was a Friday morning in the summer. It was absolutely pouring down with rain and felt very warm and sticky. The woman sat opposite me as usual. I could smell her sensual, feminine perfume, but I completely ignored her, avoided any sort of eye contact. I could feel her frustration. The train reached the station and I stood up to depart. Just as the doors opened, I turned and looked her straight in the eye. She held my gaze. Getting off the train, I took a completely different route. My hair was damp from the warm rain. My skin glistened. When I glanced around, the woman was behind me, trailing me by about twenty yards. I smiled. I just knew that she would follow me.

  When she kept moving towards me, I continued.

  I stopped under a little tunnel, I explained to the doctor, which was sheltered from the rain, and stood against the brick wall. Just hundreds of yards away, the city was packed full of people, professionals in suits on their way to work. Here, there was nobody. I heard high heels tentatively clicking against the cobbled pavement. The woman appeared around the corner. Her face was flushed and her steps looked uncertain. She must have known that she was taking a massive risk, that she might have been making a huge mistake. But still, she walked closer, her eyes darting from side to side. She stopped inches from me, and for a moment, just stood there, anxiously waiting.

  “What did you say to her, Laura?” She wanted to know.

  “I waited until she looked at me in my eyes,” I told the doctor. “Then I said, slowly and deliberately, ‘So, are you going to fuck me or what?’”

  The doctor cleared her throat. “And?”

  “And,” I replied, now unashamedly rubbing a hand against my nipple through the light fabric of my blouse, “she did.”

  There was further coughing. On cue, she asked if I could provide any specific details.

  I explained that the woman rolled the hem of my skirt higher, so that it rested on top of my ample hips. She didn’t bother taking my panties off; she just pulled them to one side. The woman forced her face between my juicy tits and tore at the bra with her teeth before hungrily sucking on a hard pink bud. There was a ferocity that I hadn’t expected. This seemingly respectable married woman had fizzled over the edge. A finger was pushed inside me, and then another. I raised my legs and wrapped my thighs tightly around her slender waist. I bit into her neck in a desperate attempt to restrain my sudden uncontrollable gasps of pleasure. A train approached on the track on the bridge. Everything started shaking. Nothing could be heard over the sound of the train. I screamed at the top of my voice as she fingered me to an orgasm.

  There were more scribbles. The doctor asked if I ever saw the woman again.

  I told her that no, we always travelled in a different carriage afterwards. There was just one time, when we passed each other in the street, a few months later. We just exchanged a delicious, knowing smile. It was our little secret.

  She continued with her notes. Her handwriting was very creative, with exaggerated curls at the beginning of her letters.

  “So what’s your diagnosis, doctor?” I asked, sitting upright in the leather chair.

  She looked at me now. Her hazel oval eyes sparkled. She laughed affectionately. “I’m sorry, Laura,” she said, “but I’m not a psychiatrist.”

  I knew that already, of course I did. She was a sex therapist. I had volunteered to contribute to her latest book which, she said, was an in-depth analysis of female fantasies.

  She said that she really appreciated my contributions, that it was most enlightening and would definitely enhance her research.

  She looks the perfect professional, I thought, in her skirt that falls just below the knee and cream blouse with just one button left undone. Her thick, dark hair was tied back in a bun behind her neck. There was just a subtle layer of lipstick on her full red lips. I knew that it was just that, though – a look.

  I flatly asked her, without blinking an eyelid, whether she felt that she had gained a greater understanding of what made me tick sexually.

  She flashed a smile which displayed a row of perfect white teeth and said that yes, of course she had.

  “It’s just I guess I’ve been a bit selfish,” I said, moving closer to her in my seat so that I could almost sense her body heat. “One aspect that I failed to disclose is that I’m excited by exploring what makes other people tick sexually, just like you are.”

  She looked less controlled now. Her top lip trembled, ever so subtly.

  “I assure you that all my research is for my book, Laura,” she said, avoiding eye contact. “There is no other possible benefit.”

  I moved closer again. The sole of her shoe brushed against my knee. The delicious scent of her perfume was more apparent now, but that was not the only aroma in the room.

  “Okay, doctor,” I said, remaining professional. “If you assured me that, theoretically speaking of course, if I slid my hand between your legs, I wouldn’t find that you were soaking wet, I’d completely accept your word for it.”

  She visibly gulped now and said that as it was just theoretical, any conclusion will be inconclusive.

  My hand slowly slid along her long legs, brushed against the surface of her black tights, a
nd I felt her tremble. Her hands grasped the handles on her chair. I noticed her fingers reddening. My caresses continued higher. She made no attempt to resist them.

  I whispered in her ear, as my fingers pushed the frilly panties to one side, that it was fortunate, then, that my own research was much more practical.

  Her juices were flowing, trickling all the way down between her buttocks. She felt sticky and deliciously hot.

  I muttered that the practical research was much more conclusive.

  The doctor moaned, deep from the throat, and tugged on my blonde hair. My index finger circled her clit, which stiffened under my touch.

  “I’ve been teasing you all along,” I said, probably confirming what she already knew all too well.

  She kissed me passionately, her tongue snaking inside my mouth. She tasted warm and sweet and sensual. I increased the intensity on her clit and she responded by playfully biting into my upper lip. My own cunt was pulsating. I knew my panties were drenched. She pulled her lips away from my mouth. She could not take any more.

  “I’m such a bad girl,” she moaned, as her body shuddered and she came over my hand in long, shattering waves.

  She panted in my ear. Her breath was warm and damp. She frantically struggled to unbutton my blouse, but her fingers were trembling. She pulled my firm tits over the top of my lacy bra and firmly groped and squeezed them. There was a hunger, a need in her touch. My nipples responded instantly. I’m such a bad girl, I’m such a bad girl, I remembered her saying.

  “I think that you like to be treated like a slut,” I muttered, pressing her mouth over my nipple. Hot saliva trickled between my round globes. She nodded her head and moaned approval. She continued sucking my ripe nipple, the tip of her tongue rolling over the bud.

  “You act and dress all prim and proper,” I continued, my voice just a growl, “but really your sexual cravings are stronger than any of the women you interview. You are a real slut, doctor,” I cursed, pulling on her brunette hair. She momentarily prized her limpet-like lips from my nipple and moaned, “I am such a slut, Laura, and I like to be treated like a slut, too.”