The Mammoth Book of Lesbian Erotic Confessions

by Barbara Cardy

  By the way, my name is not really Carla Hayes and her name isn’t really Jenny Paragon. Some of you would know my name if I told you. It’s not a marquee name, but I do make a living at what I love. “Jenny” taught me to be not only a woman’s woman, but to teach others to be the same.

  I CHASE STRAIGHT GIRLS

  Mona, Winnipeg

  I read a blog post a couple weeks ago explaining the “common misconceptions” with regard to lesbians. There’s only one point I remember, because it made me laugh out loud. It talked about how straight girls are afraid of us because they’re so anxious we’re going to hit on them. According to the blog, that “never” happens. We dykes have expert gaydar, we know our own kind and we never stray.

  Well, let me tell you right now, that’s total bullshit.

  I chase straight girls all the time. I chase them almost exclusively. The more a woman insists she’s not into other women, the more I want her. It’s the thrill of the chase, I guess. Bathhouse and bar chicks are boring – they’re so fucking easy! I can walk up to a group of pretty femmes on the dance floor, and those girls will be licking my boots by the end of the song. Where’s the fun in that? Fawning femmes are neat when you’re just coming out, but I’ve been around the block so many times my head is spinning. I like a challenge.

  Lately, I’ve developed a taste for married women, the yummy mummy, rich bitch types in particular. They’re so resistant because they’ve got husbands and kiddies – though sometimes I think they’re more concerned about what the neighbours think. Luckily, I’ve devised a brilliant way to slip inside these women’s homes when they’re alone and lonely without sparking gossip across the entire block: I started up my very own little one-woman painting business.

  I figure this is pretty brilliant. See, a lot of these yoga mums have money to burn on all this home décor bullshit, but they’re too lazy to paint their own damn walls. At the same time, they’re not totally comfortable inviting some strange man into the house while hubby’s at work and kidlets are at school. Perfect business opportunity! I posted signs all around the swanky neighbourhoods advertising the services of a trustworthy female painter. Got so many damn phone calls the first day my voicemail overflowed!

  It’s pretty much always the same story: I come in for the initial assessment and the quote, and they kind of cringe at the sight of me. I’m no Bettie Page, that’s for damn sure, but what I lack in looks I more than make up for in confidence. And you know what? That’s what straight girls are after. I come on to them in their own homes, and by the end of that first visit they’re laughing at my crude jokes and writing me a cheque for paint supplies.

  Last week’s conquest was a prime example. Crystelle was another one of these blonde bombshell grapefruit diet types with legs to her tits and tits to her teeth. We’re talking drop-dead fucking gorgeous. This woman could have done porn – she certainly had the name for it, and a body to match.

  So I came over on the second day of Project Crystelle with my paint and my tape, a drop cloth, rollers, brushes, all that jazz. She’d hired me to redo her dining room in the new season’s ugly-as-shit fashion colour, and who was I to refuse? If I did a good job all around, she’d surely hire me back next year to paint it all over again.

  While I covered her solid dining table and hardwood flooring with heavy cotton cloth, she stood in the doorway watching my every move. Well, I wasn’t going to waste an opportunity to flirt. I was shameless about it, in fact. What was she going to do if I got a little too crass, call my boss? So I looked that pretty woman up and down and I told her flat out that I wouldn’t mind dropping her on the table and painting her naked body with my tongue.

  Obviously, Madame Crystelle wasn’t used to being spoken to that way, and certainly not by the help. Her eyes blazed with an emotion that had long been familiar to me – a combination of rage, curiosity and instant infatuation. Even though she folded her arms across her big boobs and took a step back, I knew I’d have her on that table by the end of the project. She obviously wasn’t getting enough from Mister Man. I could feel that from her, like a gaping wound. The girl needed to get her pussy licked, and she needed it soon.

  That first day on the job, Crystelle would go away and come back, always hovering in the doorway like a ghost, like she thought I couldn’t feel her presence there. She only spoke up once, to say she was having a pot of yogurt and to ask if I wanted one, too. I jumped on that, telling her I loved yogurt because it reminded me of pussy: sweet and tangy, always leaves you wanting more.

  Crystelle blushed and bit her bottom lip. I asked her if she’d ever tasted pussy, and she busied herself, wiping down the kitchen counters, which were already spotless, pretending like she hadn’t heard me. I asked again, and she giggled and said no, no she never had.

  “Well,” I said to her as I handed back my spoon and empty pot of yogurt. “If you ever get the urge, I’ve got a nice wet pussy that’s ready just for you.”

  She let her hair fall in front of her face, as if she could hide how eager she was to take me up on my offer. All she said was, “Good to know”, before turning away to wash my spoon.

  When I went home that night, my muscles were aching from a long day’s work, but my pussy was ten times worse. Self-denial was part of the game when you chased straight girls. Lobster wouldn’t taste as sweet if you ate it every night, would it? Same goes for women.

  Second day on the job, I arrived at Crystelle’s house after her husband had left for work and she’d dropped the kids off at school. When she opened the front door, man, my eyes nearly popped out of my head! What she had on barely passed for clothes: retro short shorts, white with turquoise trim, and a tube top that barely covered her nipples. Crystelle’s huge tits overshot the thing in every direction. I couldn’t take my eyes off those beautiful breasts because I was so sure they were going to come flying out of that teeny tiny top at any moment.

  I said something stupid like “nice outfit”, and stepped by her so close I could feel her body heat through my clothes. That outfit was a sure sign she was ready for me. She must have spent the whole night imagining how it would happen. I wondered what was going through her mind as I set up for the day, pouring more paint and dipping my roller into it, spreading a slick coat against her walls. I’d primed them the day before, so this was the first time she was seeing the ugly tangerine colour I was putting up. When I asked her what she thought of it, she just said it was fashionable. Her friends would be impressed.

  “But what about you?” I asked. “Isn’t there anything you want that’s just for you?”

  When Crystelle didn’t answer, I knew it was time to take a risk. I set down my roller and strode across the room, but when I looked up at her, she was biting her lip, trying not to cry while her eyes got all pink and puffy.

  Crying women turned me on like crazy, and when twin tears fell down her cheeks I grabbed her and held her close, kissing her hard. She made the sweetest sounds, like kittenish sobs, but I didn’t let go. Pressing one hand to the small of her back, I traced the other down her ass, squeezing one cheek through those sporty-girl shorts.

  At first, she didn’t react. She let me kiss her, but she didn’t reciprocate. Then her tongue started writhing against mine, twining and whipping in my mouth. She held my face gently, and the move was soft but it made me sizzle. I slipped both hands beneath the waistband of her shorts, and she groaned as I gripped her ass. I wasn’t gentle with her. She had the choice to pull away if she wanted to, but I wasn’t going to make that an easy decision.

  I was the one who broke away from our kiss, but only because I knew how to make her weak in the knees. I licked her neck and she shuddered, moaning softly as she jerked her head to the side. “Oh, that feels good!”

  “Yeah it does,” I said, super-cocky, before sucking at her throat.

  She pulled away, gasping. “No,” she said in a whisper. “Don’t leave any marks.”

  I squeezed her butt even harder, and asked, “Why not? I want y
ou to think of me every time you look in the mirror.”

  Crystelle blushed and giggled, but said, “My husband . . .”

  “You think he’ll notice?” I asked, even though I knew that comment would cut close to the bone. “When was the last time he even looked at you?”

  Bowing her head, she bit her lip and squeezed her eyes shut, like she could lock up those tears. I’d gone too far. See, I can read these straight women like a book and it’s clear to me when their husbands have strayed, or just lost interest. Crystelle was a gorgeous woman and I told her so. When she didn’t believe me, I showed her how serious my attraction was.

  I told her she had great tits and I wanted to see them. Well, that obviously embarrassed her, but not enough to keep her from tugging her tube top down. Her tits sprang up like flowers in the springtime, and the fragrance of her skin struck me like a sweet perfume. She had pretty pink nipples that pursed against my cool breath. As a mother of two kids, she’d either had work done or she was insanely fit. Either way, just the sight of her made my pussy pulse. Crystelle was the kind of woman most men would follow to the ends of the earth. Me? I already had her in my grasp.

  She was so tall I barely had to bend to lick her tits. Sweeping one hand to the front of her very tight shorts, I found her pussy shaved – hot and soft and so wet, her juices were dripping down her thighs. No panties on this one, not even a thong! I groaned as I pressed my fingers between the folds of her blazing cunt. In my mind, I could see what a pretty pussy she had. Her mound was creamy white and her labia glistening pink. She was ready to come at my command, and I would surely take her there more than once before the day was through.

  As I teased her fat clit with my fingers, I also flicked her tits with the tip of my tongue. Crystelle made it easy for me by squeezing her breasts together, so close her nipples almost touched. Her skin tasted salty and sweet, and I couldn’t get enough. I lapped at her tits, side to side, sucking, even biting as she cradled them for me.

  When I slipped my left hand between Crystelle’s bum cheeks, she arched and yelped, “What are you doing?”

  Poor woman – her husband had never tried to shove anything up her ass, and she’d never thought to ask for it. Even with me, someone she’d never have to see again once the painting was finished, she was very reluctant. Just the thought of a relative stranger prodding at her asshole made her feel awfully embarrassed. At least, that’s what she claimed. I’m sure she was exhilarated as well, because when I kept right on pawing at her bum she never once told me to stop.

  “Doesn’t it feel good?” I asked between licks at her nipples. I circled one finger around her puckered little asshole while my other hand went crazy on her clit. “Don’t you want more?”

  She gave in, crying out, “Yes, oh please more,” as I sucked her nipples one after the other. Her skin was so soft against my tongue that I couldn’t wait to taste the pulpy flesh of her pussy. There was nothing I loved more than eating a woman out. Girls went wild when I got between their legs. But I wanted to make Crystelle come so hard her knees gave out before getting her up on that table and making her come all over again.

  I rubbed her clit in sweeping loops and her ass opened up just enough for me to press the tip of my finger inside. She groaned in a wonderfully throaty way that made me tremble, and I knew I could get her over the edge if I just kept sucking her tits, playing with her pussy and fingering her ass.

  Her pebbled nipples felt so damn good against my tongue, I imagined stripping out of my overalls and rubbing them against my fat clit. But I knew that wasn’t in the cards. The thing about straight girls was that they didn’t know what to do with another woman. It was easy enough for Crystelle to lie back and let me pleasure her, but I didn’t expected reciprocity. I wasn’t that stupid.

  She held my head with both hands and pressed it like a vice when she came. Crystelle was a screamer, and she obviously wasn’t concerned that the neighbours might hear, because she went on and on, crying out streams of pornographic curses. Her ass clamped down on my finger and her hips bucked wildly against my hand until she’d obviously had enough and pushed me away.

  But I hadn’t taken my fill of Crystelle, and I pushed back, urging her up on the table.

  The drop sheet shifted under her bum as I pulled off her shorts and her tube top. When she was totally, beautifully naked, she spread her legs. She was still gasping for breath as I got my first look at her pussy. It might have been pink before I’d arrived that day, but after the fuss of my fingers on her clit, her labia were brilliantly red and engorged. I couldn’t resist their call.

  Tearing a brand new paint brush from its plastic wrap, I went to her, bending between her knees. She asked what the brush was for, but I said it was a surprise. It had a thick base, brightly lacquered with shimmering blue paint. It would be perfect.

  I teased her thighs with the horsehair bristles, and she laughed, but that was the least of my plan. When I got near her pussy with it, she asked if I was going to brush “down there”. Her trepidation opened up the part of me that loved sparking fear in another woman’s eyes, but when I teased her cunt with the bristles she just giggled. I shoved the handle up her snatch, but that was only to get it good and slathered with her pussy juice – it really wasn’t thick enough to make much of an impression, as much as she cooed with delight and leaned forwards to see the paintbrush jutting from her pussy.

  Before removing it, I lowered my face between Crystelle’s milky thighs and licked her clit. She just about climaxed the moment my tongue met her bud! It made me wonder when her husband had last pleasured her this way. Not that I was an expert on men, but it seemed to me they didn’t know what they were doing when it came to clits. If they did, there wouldn’t be so many married women and straight girls giving in to my advances.

  I flicked Crystelle’s raspberry bud with the tip of my tongue, and she grabbed my head, pressing it side to side like she’d done before. That didn’t dissuade me. I licked her even harder, with the meat of my tongue now, showing her just how velvety smooth I could be. She went wild, kicking and screaming until I pulled the paintbrush from her cunt.

  Her feet fell to the table and she gazed down at me beseechingly, as if to ask why I’d taken her toy. But that toy could be put to better use. I pulled hard on the drop cloth, bringing Crystelle’s ass to the edge of the table. Instead of letting her feet drop, she perched her ankles up on my shoulders. She watched me, wide-eyed, as I pressed the tip of the paintbrush handle against her puckered asshole.

  “What are you doing?” she cried, and then said, “No!”

  I said, “Yes,” and my word was final.

  Hovering between her thighs, I licked her clit with focus and power. Her asshole opened up like magic. I shoved the brush in slowly, hoping her pussy juice was enough to lubricate its path. She squirmed and squealed, but she didn’t say no again, and from what I could hear while I ate her pussy, she seemed to enjoy it.

  There’s something special about the sight of a woman with a paintbrush shoved up her ass.

  I sucked her clit and she came hard, screaming everything but my name. Her words turned into gibberish. She writhed on the table, grabbing at my hair and pulling it with those long, strong fingers of hers. I kept at her even when she said it was too much. I pushed her limits, fucking her ass with the brush, making her come harder by the second.

  When I decided she’d had enough, I backed away, leaving the paintbrush sticking out of her asshole. I liked the way it looked.

  She was dazed, that was obvious. She lay there on the table as I got back to work. Whether she was sleeping or watching me, I didn’t know. Eventually, she asked if I would pull the paintbrush from her ass, and I did, handing it back to her like a gift. She took it with her but left her clothes on the floor as she walked upstairs. The shower hissed and she was in there for a good long time.

  When she came back down, she was dressed in pants and a long-sleeved shirt. She was cool with me, almost frigid, but that was al
ways the way with the married ones. It didn’t take long for the guilt and regret to sink in. This society programs women to feel bad about feeling good. That’s just how it is.

  I never expect these girls to fall in love with me, and I don’t think they ever do. That’s not my goal, anyway. I like being single. I like chasing straight girls. I love the thrill of the sport, but I’m more of a capture-and-release type hunter. They can keep their husbands and their kids and their big-ass houses and their boring sex lives. They can keep their memories, too – of that one time, that secret time, when they were seduced by a raunchy painter.

  Crystelle could be cool as she liked, but she’d never forget the woman who ate her pussy on the dining room table, the woman who diddled her clit and shoved a paintbrush up her ass. And I’d never forget her either, because I had my own reward. When she left to pick up her kids from school, I shoved her wet shorts and her tight little tube top in with my gear. If I ever got lonely, I could always bring those out and give them a sniff, and remember the sweetness of a straight girl’s pussy.

  COMING OUT

  Isobel, California

  My friend Renee was the most beautiful woman in the company. She was tall and slim, with a great figure and a face like a model. She was always beautifully dressed – tasteful and business-appropriate, but tending to the provocative, with tight skirts, bright colours and low-cut tops. All the men in the office followed her with their eyes every time she came to my office. I often saw them hitting on her. She was friendly, even flirty, but I never saw any sign that she was responding to any of her eager admirers.

  Our professional relationship was very good. As the only two female department heads in the company – and both young and attractive single women – I knew we were the subject of gossip and speculation. She was three or four years older than I was and had more experience in management, and I would not have been surprised to find she was jealous or competitive. But she had been nothing but welcoming, even congratulatory, when I was promoted and often dropped in to chat and provide advice. I admired Renee’s easy style.