The Mammoth Book of Lesbian Erotic Confessions

by Barbara Cardy

  One ritual that never changes between us, is riding the old rocking horse. Aha! You spotted the word: “us”. Yeah, she’s on it backwards occasionally, as well. As you can imagine, it’s become a mute friend, getting worn out by our clits.

  Oh, and yes – I nearly forgot: I now have long, sleek, blonde hair, look sexy-chic and dress in expensive leathers. I’m a totally different, confident and successful woman now. Not bad for a no-good-drop-out waif who nobody cared about.

  “I knew you’d succeed,” she keeps saying with pride, and on my thirtieth birthday she made me a full partner.

  So, as I speak and conclude my story and look at her sitting opposite on this quiet, early evening after work, sipping a cool glass of wine, my serene, beautiful partner, who I’ve come to adore and love passionately, smiles at me.

  “Let’s go eat out and have dessert at home,” she purred.

  Who was I to complain?

  THE COMMUTER

  Wendy, Washington

  It started with my usual bus ride. It’s a route that avoids the freeway, as my office is on one of the many shorelines that grace Seattle. The bus glides right in front of my office building. I’m an office manager for a young management firm, and probably the oldest of the employees. They ride their bikes and mopeds, sit inside and outside, some not even coming in, preferring to work from home in their pyjamas or not, I suppose, but for me, I like my office and the interaction, and making sure the paperwork is in order for the various firms we are contracted to. I direct the ITs to computer crashes and make sure the office is running smoothly, a job that with each passing year gets less and less strenuous. But I won’t be laid off. We still have clients who deal strictly with paper and manila envelopes. My computer’s address book is full, but my rolodex is still atop my desk.

  They threw me a cupcake party for my fiftieth birthday. I was surprised. How did they know? But of course, information on each other permeates our screen reminders. I was touched, the cupcakes were luscious.

  In the office, I constantly catch snatches of conversation about how dates went and didn’t go. I’m one of the single ones, married awhile back, divorced and now satisfied to watch the field, rather than play it. Satisfied somewhat, anyway.

  In my office, it’s hard not for me to get horny. I’m an unrepentant crotch-watcher, and when one of my cow-orkers comes from the copy room sporting a long one down the thigh, or a biker shows a hard, hot slant in his biking shorts from his balls across his thigh, or a young girl swivels her chair leaving her legs open just so, the pale skin disappearing beneath the flimsy shade of a retro sundress, I feel the quiver in my quim. My eyes watch those things as they parade around the office, come in and ask me questions, stand, listen and go get more coffee. The tight jeans. The summer dresses, showing the contrasting-colour thonged bottoms. Or nothing at all, just the jiggle of firm bottoms. Bare feet slipping from shoes. The occasional absent-minded rubbing of a hard one against the edge of my desk, sprouted mainly because he’s young.

  There’s a loose screw that’s just a notch above my eyesight in a panel on the women’s restroom. That screw is the one I see when in the midst of masturbating my head rises, and my eyes pop open as my fingers do their thing. My faithful screw. God help the workman who comes in someday and tightens it.

  One morning I sat on the bus, in the front, on the side-facing bench. I like sitting close to the front as I can get off the bus quicker. I’m not one to like shuffling to the door. But the front has its down side as that’s where the quirkies and the crazies sit, too, some smelly from too many days without showering. They sit across from me and stare, with no book or paper. I feel uncomfortable if I’m wearing a skirt, thinking their eyes are waiting for my parting thighs.

  But that morning, a young woman danced onto the bus and sat across from me. She was black haired, buoyant and tattooed. She wore several earrings in one ear, and a black bra under a white T-shirt. Her skirt was plaid, her boots hefty and clunky. But her face was that of an intelligent angel, with flawless skin and bright red lips. Her eyebrows were sharp and black. I smiled at her and she smiled back, then pulled out a copy of Josh Bazell’s Beat The Reaper, a book I had been longing to read. I watched to see where she was in the book, but it was near the beginning. No use in asking how she liked it. I pulled out my own reading, a downloaded review of the newly revived Death of a Salesman. Over the top of my sheets, I watched her. She scratched. She scratched far up her thigh, and opened her leg, revealing briefly a pair of white panties. She smiled as she turned the pages. She decided to rest her booted foot on her other knee, and there she was, displayed in all her glory to me, the white panties covering her black thatch.

  Oh help me! That would be her puss if the panties were gone.

  The bus rolled along, and we jostled and jiggled. Her legs stayed open. I blushed, though out of a sense of embarrassment for her – as if she’d be mortified if I pointed out to her that I could see everything, though unfocused. She turned the page and laughed. Something funny happened. It was a gentle, infectious laugh that I might’ve joined had not my throat been filled with my heart.

  Then her smile left her face and she seemed to lean forwards. She put her foot flat on the floor and held the book with both hands. I sighed. The bus picked up speed as it crossed the bridge and careened down South Lake Union. She bit her lip and slid a hand down between her legs, as if to force her thighs open, then touched herself right on the panty. Just a flick. I gasped and shuffled my papers. They got away and fluttered down in front of me. Mindlessly, I chased them to the floor. I was gathering the sheets when I looked between her legs and saw her slit in faint, pantied glory. They were well-worn white panties, almost transparent. It was brief. I coughed out of lust. I could feel the bus rumbling on the road, through my knees and hands. I gathered the papers, then looked up again. She was down there with me, in a squat. I saw her near entirety, legs splayed, thighs with wonderful definition all the way to her heavenly, hairy pussy.

  “You OK?”

  Yes, I thought, I can see your pussy.

  She helped me to my feet. I sat back, and she sat across from me, smoothing her skirt.

  “You sure you’re all right?”

  I nodded. The bus stopped and she leapt up and out, flicking me a brief wave goodbye.

  At work, I rushed through the lobby and onto the elevator. I could see only my stall in the restroom. I gave furtive hellos as I flew past fellow employees.

  Inside the stall, I raised my skirt and slid down my panties. As my butt touched the seat, the images of her parted thighs came into focus. My fingers went to work. I shook and shuddered, eyes closed, thinking about her threadbare undergarment and the thatch of black bush that pushed against the panel. My fantasy might have been less detailed than reality, but I brought forth a come that suppressed all true accuracy. She could have had her legs wide open with her fingers parting her labia for all I imagined. I imagined one shoe falling from her foot as she sat across from me, smiling and strumming for my hungry eyes. I bit into my sleeve, as my third wave nearly brought forth a groan that surely would be heard for what it was. I looked upward to see my faithful screw as I dabbed my clit, one shoe off, bare foot feeling the cool, tiled floor.

  Reassembled, I joined my co-workers.

  “You must really have had to go,” said Jena, a woman holding a stack of papers, “you just rushed right past me into the can.”

  “Sorry, good morning, Jena.”

  That night, I relived my bus ride with no limit to my noise making. I came like a rocket. I laid in bed thinking about her. Wondering . . . we had sat like seasoned patrons in a theater, her and I, she with her book and I with my roaming eyes.

  There were two other commutes of note that week. The girl was present for both. Each time she showed me something new. One morning she wore ballet flats and a short skirt. She crossed her legs slowly, showing me the strip of a red thong that seemed to part a slash of black hairs. I wondered if she bikini-waxed. The ne
xt day it was back to boots, and this time, the book was Jackie Collins. I was a bit disappointed. Such a downward slide in reading matter. But that was until she opened her legs wide and touched her inner thigh. It was a faint pink panel that swashed her cunny that day. She rubbed her legs together, then cleared her throat. I was rooting for Jackie. Give her more, Jackie, make those legs fly open.

  My trips to the restroom had caught the attention of my receptionist, who thought I should make a doctor’s appointment. Prostate cancer is nothing to sneeze at, she said, frequent, urgent trips to the bathroom is the first sign. I looked at her and smiled, sure that women didn’t have a prostate gland.

  “I’m okay. It’s just the amount of juice I drink at breakfast.”

  I went to my office and closed the door, blushing hard. My God, was I that obvious?

  But nothing prepared me for Friday.

  It was sunny that morning and the commuters were few. They had opted to take the day off, I assumed, something that I thought about doing, but I couldn’t miss my favorite show. I sat in my seat, as the bus rolled to her stop. She appeared in a T-shirt, no bra and her trademark short plaid skirt. She smiled and said, “Good morning” to me as she sat. I got ready for further conversation, but she pulled out John Updike’s Couples and opened mid-book. I sighed. I’d read that book, as well. I thought, I’ll ask how she likes it, thus far. But before I spoke, she raised to her tiptoes and parted her legs, and there, with no panties and no hair, was her pussy. Bare and pink as a lily. She ran her hand over it, then quickly closed her legs. I thought I spotted her eyes look up at me, but I was unsure. Too aroused to care, I sat with my magazine, waiting. Waiting for another flash. It came with a subtle leg cross. As subtle as a woman can be with a shaved puss and short skirt. Her hand rested in her crossed thighs and as she turned the pages her leg jiggled. Sweat broke out on my forehead. I opened my own legs slowly, but wore panties. Not a visual equivalent for her. Just as the bus reached her stop, she opened her legs and dipped her finger inside herself. She stood and smiled, the same goodbye-bidding smile, calm and assured, then left the bus. I watched her dash into an older building with the name “Foster” over the door

  My heart was beating like mad. My pussy was keeping time to the rhythm. I sat in my seat wondering if the bus driver could see me if I took a dip into myself. My legs quivered, opening and closing. I needed to come, bad.

  I was poised that morning, though. I greeted each employee with care, and even set meeting times and looked at reports. I sat on the edge of my seat wondering when, oh, when I could play with myself. They came and went; even the bike messenger with the big cock stood around, torturing me. His dick and my commuter’s pussy. The combination was too much. I excused myself and hurried to the elevator, down to the supply room floor. There was a restroom there, I remembered from my temping days. No loose screw, but it will have to do, for I was roaring. I closed the handicap stall door, and relished in the amount of space, as I raised my leg on the handrail, and looked at a drawing of a cock entering a pussy, which someone had drawn in exquisite detail, on the door.

  I got off quick, shuddering and bouncing, my breathing in sporadic shots. My leg almost spasmed from being perched on the bar. but my vagina was crying tears of joy, as my fingers worked all around my labia and against my clit. Each vision of her bald slit broke into particles, each one containing another more vivid image. I saw her stand and walk across the aisle to my seat, raise her skirt and press her pussy against my waiting tongue. I lapped at her as she gripped the hand railings. Oh Jesus, then the bike messenger entered her from behind, first of all sliding his cock between her legs so I could get a brief taste, before it disappeared up her ass . . . Mercy! Mercy!

  I shouted. I clasped my hand to my mouth and went quiet, hoping no one heard me. I sat still. Waiting. My panties were almost under the stall door, into the stall beside me. I retrieved them and put them in my purse. My shoes were off and scattered on the floor. My blouse was unbuttoned. I nearly stripped for this one. Damn her. But thank you dear girl . . . thank you.

  The rest of the day, I worked in a cloud of arousal and fear as I sat panty-less amongst my co-workers. I knew there were women in the office that didn’t wear undergarments, but I wasn’t one of them, and to be in their company, surreptitiously, was doing a number on my head. I kept sliding in my seat, hoping I wasn’t leaving a stain. During a meeting, I reached for a scratch and felt no barrier as my finger went straight to my cunny. I parted my legs and took a dip of defiance. It felt wonderful. At the end of the day, I stood around and chatted, flaunting my near naked state to an unknowing audience. I walked with a swishing feeling, my butt smoothed by the skirt, nothing else. I wondered if anyone noticed.

  My night was filled with self-induced passion. My hands were all over myself. I plucked my nipples, thinking about sitting at my desk, legs open. Hoping someone would drop something. I imagined being in the copy room when Marsha a young intern, was changing the paper. I’d squat down with her, revealing myself wet and inviting, and Marsha would smile wickedly, lead me over to the coffee counter, help me up and open my legs for a finger thrash and a lick. Then a quick flick of her tongue, a precursor to things to come.

  And come I did. Hard. My hips journeyed from my mattress skyward, as my bus mate’s face came into view, her hand as busy as mine across the aisle from me. In my repose, I smiled.

  I rose from the bed and went to the bathroom. Sitting on the toilet, I shaved my pubes then ran my hand over the smooth, pale skin. I checked my labia with a mirror, my arousal so riveting, the mirror shook. I opened my legs wide, and wriggled my feet. I couldn’t wait for Monday.

  I rose early that day and went through my things, choosing carefully a skirt that would do the trick. I found an old pleated number, navy blue. I tried it on and though it was a bit tight, I rejoiced in the sinfulness of its length. I bent over in front of the mirror. My thighs showed dangerously high, the hemline barely covering my bottom.

  I wore sensible shoes and a short-waisted jacket. It was sunny. The weatherman promised a warm day, but I was already sweating. My legs quivered. When the bus arrived, I boarded under the smile of the driver and took my usual seat. I almost shrieked when the cool plastic and my bare butt met. I crossed my legs and thought I felt a squish of moisture ooze between my thighs. I pulled out my book. I wanted to finger myself so bad.

  As the bus approached her stop, I felt waves of arousal and fear working my heart. What if she was not teasing, just clumsy? What if she was just a young girl riding the bus, being friendly and here I was about to show her my vagina? What if she screamed? Or worse, what if she took the day off?

  The bus stopped, the doors flapped open and an old guy got on. He was moving slow. In my head, I was pushing him to the back of the bus. Then, pulling a cart, came my girl. She was dressed in a short, green, rumpled skirt, with fishnet stockings and red tennis shoes. She wore a white blouse with two buttons undone. She was as lovely as ever, no makeup, alabaster skin against her shiny black hair. She wore green eyeliner today, and burgundy lipstick. She handed the cart to the old man, who pulled it further to the back of the bus. She smiled big at me and though she looked at my skirt, she said nothing. She sat across from me in her usual seat and reached into her backpack for a book. She parted her legs and showed me a sight that took my breath away: she had shaved, as well. Her pussy was full with luscious, fruitful labia, bright pink, delicate and lacy. The insides of her thighs were smooth and I detected a slight scent of body lotion. I shuddered. I parted my legs for a plunge, when she closed her legs and placed her book on her lap. She smiled at me. I closed my legs quickly, my face crimson, which I was certain she noticed.

  We rode with our respective books, until I crossed my legs, slow and high. I watched her over my reading and saw her eyes rivet to my parted thighs. She licked her lips, looked down at her pages and slid a hand inside her blouse. She turned the page and watched for my next move.

  I went on, unabashed. I ope
ned my legs wide and rubbed my bare puss. She watched and bit her lip, uncrossing her legs and re-crossing them onto her hand. She set her book aside, and jiggled her leg. Her lips quivered. I placed my book in my lap and pushed my skirt so I could get my fingers inside my slit. As the bus jounced, we played with ourselves, in brief flicks, each of our books hiding our naughty business, until she leaned forwards and came, covering it with a cough. She sat up, red-faced and smiling. I was close, but in need of further assistance . . .

  It was her stop. I almost cried. She stood, walked to me, holding her book in front.

  “How’s your book?” she said in a whisper.

  “Good,” I said in a lustful croak, “how’s yours?”

  “Happy ending,” she said.

  She stood in front of me, moving closer, letting a few people pass before getting off herself. I smelled her lotion. I smelled her most private scent on her fingers as she held her book.

  She turned, stepped off the landing and stood at the bottom of the steps for a brief moment, then walked to her building. She looked back. I never saw her on the bus again.

  A RESPECTABLE WIFE

  Carol, Lancashire

  That’s what I am – a respectable wife.

  Anyone would tell you. Brought up by “nice” people (I hate that mundane word), did my homework, got my exam results, did a three-year course in history at a good university, got married at twenty-one, had two children, now at school. I consider myself well educated.

  Thinking back on it, I followed what everyone sees as life’s pattern. I did what was expected of me. But when I turned thirty last year, I looked back on my life and wondered where all the fun was. Answer: what fun? OK, I’d been a bit wild at university – parties and the occasional joint, but nothing too outrageous, but I’d quickly settled into being a suburban mum. Callum, my husband, works in merchant banking and, apart from a very good salary, gets impossibly good rates on our mortgage so we have a beautiful home and when we had Sarah and Anna, I gave up work. I always intended to keep working, or at the very least go back to work, but Callum insisted there was no need, despite my protests that it had nothing to do with need, and his parents and my own bullied me into staying at home, even though I was bored out of my skull during the days. I did a bit of voluntary work – still do – but I felt like a Stepford Wife – dutifully waiting for my man to come home, looking immaculate and with a meal ready for my hunter-gatherer.