The Mammoth Book of Lesbian Erotic Confessions

by Barbara Cardy

  Bored.

  I remember the day that all changed very clearly, like it was yesterday. We’d had a few weeks of very hot weather and I used to get a glass of wine and my Kindle and sunbathe in the back garden. We have neighbours but most of them are out at work during the day so it’s pretty private and there was nobody to spy on me when I was out there. It passed the time.

  But on that day my reading was disturbed by a football bouncing over the fence into our garden and landing in the decorative pond Callum had built. It was followed by a silly-sounding voice that said, “Can we have our ball back, missus?” It sounded a bit like a child and I briefly wondered why a child would be off school and playing football at this time in the day, when Karina, our neighbour on the left hand side, appeared over the top of the fence, grinning at me.

  Because I didn’t think anyone was about, I’d taken off my bikini top but I felt shy and pulled it up. She told me not to bother on her account and that I didn’t have anything she didn’t. Fair enough. What she thankfully hadn’t spotted, I hoped, was that my fingers had been doing the walking and when the ball came over I was seconds away from a powerful climax, something I don’t often get from Callum. I was daydreaming that I was at a garden party and everyone there was watching me masturbating. Maybe I’m a secret exhibitionist.

  I apologised and told her I hadn’t thought anyone was about.

  She told me she was bored, too, and fed up with staying home all day with nobody to chat to. I know what she means – the neighbours round here are so stuffy, I don’t chat to them much anyway. But Karina seemed nice so I invited her round for a coffee. Instead she suggested I go round to hers for another glass of wine.

  I said I already had a bottle open in the fridge, then realized that probably sounded rude, as if I was refusing her friendship. We’d lived next door to each other for about four years and had never spoken apart from a good morning or good afternoon if we happened to pass outside. “Plenty for both of us,” I added.

  “Your place or mine?” she asked in a poor imitation of a Hollywood movie gangster accent.

  We settled on her place and I fastened my bikini and put on a wrap to go round there, the bottle of wine and two glasses in my hand. She was at the front door waiting for me and closed it when I entered, the air-conditioned coolness making my skin goose up.

  She invited me through and skipped off upstairs to get her bikini on.

  As she went, she pulled off her shirt over her head. She had nothing under it but was so at ease with doing it there was nothing provocative in the move. Even when she turned round to ask if I needed a bite to eat, giving me a full view of her lovely boobs, it seemed so natural. I’ve never been happy baring my body, but I guess she’s freer than I am. She disappeared upstairs and I went through to their garden, where she’d already put out a couple of cushioned loungers.

  A few minutes later she came back, a big bag of kettle chips in her hand. She’s very easy to talk to and I regretted never having made contact before. Her skin’s quite pale, as blondes’ skin often is; I count myself lucky that I have fairly bronzed skin to start with – some people say I look Spanish or Italian.

  As if reading my thoughts, she told me she had to be careful about sunbathing as she burns easily, and started rubbing herself with sun cream. Her front and legs done, she asked me if I would put some oil on her back and shoulders. My puritanical upbringing was shouting at me (in retrospect maybe I realized something was about to happen), but it would have been silly to refuse, so she told me to hold out my hands to squirt the lotion in. When I did it, before she squeezed the bottle, she sniffed – I blushed like mad because I knew she could smell me on my fingers. My blushes just admitted it to her.

  “Don’t worry about it,” she told me, “we all do it.”

  It didn’t stop me blushing though. She turned her back and I sploshed some cream on her shoulders, right on her spine, making her start because it was cold.

  “Ever done it with another woman?” she asked suddenly, so suddenly I thought I’d misheard. I asked what she said and what she meant. Mutual masturbation. Of course I denied it. I hadn’t.

  More to change the subject than anything else, I smoothed the cream on her shoulders. After a few minutes she unfastened her top and took it off, explaining she didn’t want lines. I could hardly object; she’d caught me topless before, but I didn’t feel very comfortable. No, that’s not right. I felt tense, as if I was doing something I shouldn’t or that something was about to happen and it was getting out of control.

  She told me I had a very gentle touch and I thanked her, but what she did next completely floored me. She reached round as I was applying sun cream to her hips and pulled my hands onto her breasts, holding them there so I could feel each oily mound resting in my hands. I tried to pull away but she held them there for a few seconds before letting me go.

  My mind was a confused mess. Why had she done that? Was I just being too prudish? She was so completely nonchalant about everything, the next moment we were settling back on the lounger and chatting about mundane things while we sipped wine and ate those crisps.

  After a while she picking up the sun cream and asked if I wanted her to do me.

  “No!” I said; an immediate defensive reaction.

  She said OK, but was obviously surprised and perhaps even a little offended by my sudden outburst.

  I told her I didn’t mean to offend her and apologized for reading so much into virtually nothing.

  Or so I thought.

  But I didn’t manage to finish my words. Quite suddenly she was kissing me, hard on the lips. Whether it was the shock or the wine or a combination of the two, I still don’t know, but I felt completely powerless to object. A bit like a rabbit that gets caught in your car headlights and can’t move.

  Eventually she broke.

  She told me she’d wanted to do that since she first saw me. I didn’t know what to say.

  She said she needed more oil and told me to hold out my hand again. I did as she asked, but this time, after she’d squirted a generous blob, she pulled my right hand down, used her left to pull her pants aside and pressed my hand in between her legs. Just like that. I tried to pull away but she held me, telling me she was desperate and needed it. I know how she felt. She had stopped me half way through pleasuring myself, so I needed it too. She started to move my hand backwards and forwards until I was doing it on my own, my fingers dipping inside her on each forwards stroke. It felt uncomfortably comfortable. A few minutes later she tensed, reaching a jerky, noisy climax.

  After a few seconds she asked me to carry on, telling me I was “just so beautiful.”

  That made me laugh. I don’t think I’m beautiful. I’m just . . . me. Average. Ordinary.

  Her turn to laugh. “Let me guess,” she said. “Moral upbringing, parents go to church every week, husband more interested in work than home . . .”

  She described me exactly.

  Suddenly she was up, holding out her hand for me to follow her.

  I asked where we were going but she pulled me to my feet, leading me inside the cool house again.

  “Where are we going?” I asked again, a bit nervous.

  Upstairs, she told me, and when I hesitated she added that we were going to look in a mirror and to stop being scared.

  I followed her upstairs and she led me to stand in front of the full-length mirrors that formed the doors of her built-in wardrobes. She stood behind me and spoke.

  “Just look,” she said. “I know you look in a mirror every day, but do you actually see the real you? Or just the you everybody’s manufactured?”

  I had no idea what she meant.

  She said to look at my face and stroked the backs of her fingers down my cheeks, saying I have nice, fine cheekbones and perfect skin. And my hair . . . she ran her hands through it, so flowing and thick and shiny, she said. Then she added, “As for your figure . . .”

  Time was stretching somehow – I should have pushed h
er away and left that room, but even as I thought that, I instantly remembered what I’d be escaping to, and that, when I really thought it through later, was more something to escape from. I had no value in my relationships. People didn’t need me – they needed the space I occupied. Callum wanted a wife; the fact that wife’s name was Carol was irrelevant. I’m not saying he doesn’t love me, “Carol”, but he needed “the wife”. In the same way my kids need “the mother” without considering what goes on inside that mother.

  Karina interrupted my reverie, telling me she knew what I was thinking. “You’re wondering what happened to the girl within,” she told me.

  How did she know that? Some kind of telepathy? I needed to know. Why was my neighbour so far ahead of me?

  She said she’d been there. Done it. She felt the same way.

  “So you snog your neighbours?” I responded. Did I sound disapproving? What right had I to disapprove?

  She said no, she’d never done that before, honestly, so I asked her, “Why now?”

  She said it was a spur-of-the-moment thing. Because I just looked so gorgeous. It took her a lot of courage, she said. Her face was near mine, her breath in my ear. It was a pivotal moment while her face started to move slowly, nuzzling my hair against my neck.

  She says I smell so fresh, her nuzzling turning to a series of small pecking kisses on my neck. Her hands, meanwhile, had encircled my waist; I wanted them as they stroked the flesh of my tummy. Behind me I could feel her pressing against me, from her pelvis pressing into my bottom to her button-hard nipples grazing my back.

  And I watched as her hands moved slowly up as she increased her kissing of my neck and made me shiver. I knew where she was headed and I didn’t want to watch, so I tipped my head back onto her shoulder, closed my eyes and gave her full access to my throat. Her hands continued, outside my bikini top, cupping my boobs and flicking my nipples with her nails. She moved slightly and I felt my bra being pulled up and my breasts falling out underneath.

  Keeping one hand on my left breast, her other hand started downwards, across my belly and into the waistband of my bikini, not stopping until she had curled a finger inside.

  That embarrassed me and I turned towards her rather than let her (or perhaps me) see what was happening. All that did was make me walk into an inevitable kiss. With my eyes shut it was easier to not think about what was happening: that kiss and her hand mauling my boobs in a gentle, feminine, understanding way. I wasn’t being man-groped, I was being caressed by someone who knew what she was doing, all – I later found out - solely from her frequent treatment of her own body. Her right hand was between us again, sliding noisily into me. She stopped long enough to drag my hand back to her and we did each other, our hips jerking and the kisses coming so utterly naturally.

  Make no mistake, this shrinking, inexperienced violet was giving as good as she got, in terms of the kiss anyway, and when she unfastened and removed my bikini top so our chests were crushed together, I was lost to the mutual warmth of it all, my eyes firmly shut so I didn’t have to admit to my reflection what was happening to me. The only time I opened them was when one of us reached our orgasm. While trying to deny I was having lesbian sex with my neighbour, something compelled me to watch her face, or mine, in the mirror, at the moment of climax.

  We saw sense later that afternoon, guiltily breaking and going back out to the garden, both of us remaining giggly, topless and coiffing wine until it was time for Sarah and Anna to come home from school.

  Back home, I wondered whether the girls – or Callum, when he came in – could see anything different about me; whether they could detect guilt – but the girls wanted their tea and TV and Callum wanted to delay our meal slightly because he had some calls to make. And so I sat after my meal with another glass of wine, my Kindle, my memories and dwindling guilt, reading the same page over and over again because my mind was completely elsewhere.

  The following morning, fuelled by a vivid dream of Karina and I being discovered naked together by Callum and his parents, I waited until the house was empty before taking a deep breath and going next door.

  She opened the door, rather sheepishly, and invited me in.

  “Karina,” I said, at the very same moment she said, “Carol”

  And then it was all too easy. The guilt was mutual; an equal and shared thing. We didn’t need to forgive each other because the balance was perfect. Instead we crashed together again, trying to devour each other, our pulses racing and our breathing pounding. I was pushing her until her back hit the wall and she could go no further. We found each other’s bodies with a new confidence; all reticence had evaporated – we just needed each other.

  After a few minutes we parted, both of us smiling because we knew we had an entire day ahead of us.

  “Come on,” she said, holding out her hand for mine and leading me back up to the same bedroom as the previous day.

  We both knew why we were there this time. Rejoining the kiss, we spent deliberate minutes exploring each other through our clothing before gradually, trading item for item, we stripped each other nude and fell into bed. I had to remember she was no more experienced than I was. It was a case of feeling our way about. And, more excitingly, kiss our way about.

  Sure, I masturbated, more often than I’d ever admit to anyone, so I knew the mechanics of it all, but doing it to yourself is a whole world away from someone else doing it. Callum did it for me occasionally – or more accurately for himself, but he was clumsy and didn’t ever do it quite right. This time it wasn’t me calling the shots – Karina’s fingers thrilled me, at times going against my natural rhythm or touching a spot I wouldn’t normally have touched, and that felt so new and unexpected.

  I enjoyed touching her, too – when you’re touching yourself, you can feel both sides (through your fingers and at the same time through your body) but with her, all I could feel was my fingers; I had to watch her reactions a moment afterwards to gauge how it felt to her. I had this constant urge to push as many of my fingers, three of them, into her as possible, while she bore down on them She later said we’ll manage a whole hand one day, but for now we were way off that.

  But not once did I actually feel guilty. If anything, I felt free – free to be me and not just meeting someone else’s need. It didn’t take us long to climax. She pushed me on my back and really went at me, rubbing fast yet gently; some sixth sense telling her the way I like it. When I had my orgasm and calmed down, I pushed her down and did it back, then we lay in each other’s arms for a while, chatting and laughing.

  “Are we lesbians?” I asked her.

  It made her laugh. She had no idea and didn’t care for labels. I didn’t care either. Why try to fit labels?

  Later on she tried what we both knew we would do. She knelt over me and we kissed, then after a while she moved down slightly to do my nips. I held my breath as she moved lower, making a trail of kisses along my tummy, her hair tickling me and giving me goose bumps. She moved lower again until she was kissing my mound and pulling my private hair between her teeth. I shut my legs; for some reason I felt self-conscious that after all the action of her fingers it would smell or taste nasty, but she just wrenched them apart and dived in. The feeling of her tongue there was just dreamy, and when she surrounded my clit with her mouth and sucked my lips inside her lips, if you get what I mean, and kind of swirled them around in her mouth and ran her tongue along them, I just couldn’t stop coming.

  I’d imagined I’d be really scared about doing it to her but after how I’d felt I couldn’t wait. I tried to remember what she’d done so I could do it back to her; she seemed so much more experienced, even though she insists it was her first time too. Whatever; I made her come and come until we were both completely exhausted. I loved her taste. I licked and sucked and wished I could drink her (I tried it once, some time later, getting her juices onto a spoon as I pushed it in and out of her, then collecting it in a glass so I could drink it afterwards).

  We
had a shower and some lunch and then got ourselves all worked up again, spending most of the rest of that day head to toe, kissing and licking and touching where we fancied. I was sad when it was time to leave.

  “Enjoyed yourself?” she asked me when we were dressed again.

  “Mmmm,” I crooned.

  She asked if I wanted to do it again.

  “Yes, right now. Tomorrow. The day after . . .”

  We kissed and had a final exploration of each other’s bits before I had to go back home.

  That was our first real day, but we’ve had plenty more. Callum thinks I’m more relaxed and I guess he’s right. I almost laughed out loud when he said he was glad Karina and I had become friends.

  “You’re good for each other,” he said in a kind of condescending way.

  If only you knew, I thought.

  But we see each other most days and even on the days we have good intentions we usually end up making love. Our periods are just a bit of an inconvenience but whoever’s not on gets a special session from whoever is.

  Yesterday I was talking with Callum about holidays; we’ve not had one for ages.

  “You and Karina ought to go away together, you’d enjoy that,” he suggested.

  Too right we would. I called her to see what she thought and we’re making plans. A week or two on some quiet beach in the sun, with nobody we know and no pressures. Wow. Best of all, no having to go home at nights.