The Mammoth Book of Lesbian Erotic Confessions

by Barbara Cardy

  The sound of the thumping music and shouting voices was instantly cut off, replaced now with the faint sound of leather creaking and cracking, and muffled cries of pain and pleasure. We were standing in a red-lit hallway that led off into the dark. There were red, padded doors lining either sides of the hallway. From behind these doors came the lashing and slashing sounds, the shouts and squeals of passion.

  “Sabrina!” I shrieked, shattering the relative calm. “Sabrina,” I whispered, “what is this place? What have you gotten me into?” It was just like our college days, only much more well-organized, professional rather than amateur.

  “The name says it all, girl,” Sabrina replied. “Spankers.” She kissed me on the lips. “Ready to really renew our friendship?”

  My face burned, like my lips. I’d had a brief lesbian fling with Sabrina back in college; nothing serious, just sharing the same bed in our tiny dorm room for a few nights after my boyfriend at the time had dumped me, just experimenting. We’d never brought it up, or followed it up, again.

  But now Sabrina was pulling me forwards with the same old urgency, to a place I’d never expected to go. It was called “Hell’s Classroom – Bad Girls’ School”. Last door on the left.

  Sabrina popped the door open and we went inside, into a small classroom populated with six wooden student desks and one wooden teacher’s desk, a blackboard complete with chalk and brushes, a presidential portrait; and one severe-looking “teacher” wearing a shiny red latex bodysuit open at the breasts and pussy.

  “You’re late, girls,” the woman snapped, rising from her desk and striking a wooden yardstick against her flattened palm.

  “Sorry, Mrs D,” Sabrina snuffled in a little-girl voice, bowing her head. She quickly tucked her lithe form into a student desk, and I followed suit, staring at “Mrs D”.

  She was in her mid-forties, her dark hair pulled back into a tight bun, her smooth, dark face devoid of all make-up. She had large, brown eyes and plush, full lips, both eyes and lips shining malevolently. She wore horn-rimmed glasses to go along with the outrageous bodysuit and four-inch red-leather heels. Her bare breasts were small and taut, tipped by coal-black, thick nipples, her pussy strip-shaved with a line of dark fur.

  “What is nine times eight?” Mrs D asked Sabrina, strutting up to the blackboard in front of us.

  “Ummm . . .” Sabrina got it wrong.

  Mrs D struck the blackboard with her yardstick. “372 divided by 12?” she rasped.

  Sabrina got up, picked up a piece of chalk and bit her lip, staring at the blank blackboard. She chalked “12”, then “372” next to it, drew a half-bracket between the two numbers. But thanks to calculators and computers, she’d forgotten the science of long division.

  “Bend forwards,” Mrs D snarled, exasperated at the girl’s dawdling.

  Sabrina slotted the chalk back onto the ledge, then gripped the bevelled bottom of the blackboard, moved her long legs back and bent forwards at the waist, sticking her bum out from under her short, pleated skirt. Mrs D flicked Sabrina’s skirt fully up with her yardstick, then smacked Sabrina’s bare bottom with the stiff, three-foot wooden length, making me and my girlfriend jump.

  I hadn’t realized Sabrina wasn’t wearing any underwear, had never expected to be watching her get whacked on the bare butt by a dominatrix dressed as the teacher from hell in a faux classroom setting in the dungeon of an all-female BDSM club. Sabrina’s pale, mounded buttocks quivered and clutched, the soft, smooth skin flaring red where the brutal yardstick had flailed.

  “Thirteen times eleven?” someone hissed.

  I gave my head a shake, tore my widened eyes off Sabrina’s blushing bottom and gaped at Mrs D. She was staring straight at me, her question hanging out there like the threat it was, yardstick rubbing against her palm.

  “142! No, 143!”

  “Stand up. 11,988 divided by 18.”

  I dropped the chalk and my head when, like Sabrina, I couldn’t figure out the answer without my smartphone. She helped me step back, bend forwards. The blackboard shook in my damp hands. Mrs D picked up the hem of my skirt and set it down on my arched lower back, then slashed her wooden ruler across my pink-pantied bum.

  I jumped and screamed, Sabrina along with me, holding my hand.

  More impossible questions that only a fourth grader could answer came fast and furious. Sabrina and I lined up against the blackboard, Mrs D behind us, sharply whacking Sabrina’s buttocks, then mine. Simple addition and subtraction, which our addled minds couldn’t handle. The crack of rigid wood against delicate, quivering butt cheeks, the shrill cries of girlish voices. Mrs D thrashed us for our ignorance, trying to get through to us with her yardstick, and succeeding, on one level, at least. My bottom and body blazed, the pain singed up from my smacked ass and scorched all through me, shimmering into something else – pleasure, as it slowly dissipated.

  Sabrina kissed me on the mouth whenever I was punished for my ignorance, and I returned the favour. We were in this together, us against her, two schoolgirls taking cheap shots from our shared enemy, soothing the brutal beat of discipline with soft, warm, wet kisses, adding to our rising emotions. I pressed my mouth against Sabrina’s trembling lips when she was lashed by Mrs D, swallowing up the girl’s gasp of hurt and delight. Our bottoms were soon latticed with red, flaming streaks where the yardstick had landed.

  The subject shifted to geography. The weaponry of wanton instruction shifted to a strap. Mrs D set her heated yardstick down across her desk and pulled a black leather strap out of a drawer, then strolled alongside us quivering girls again. The strap was about a foot long and two inches wide, a quarter of an inch thick, with a pebbled surface. They’d been banned in licensed schools for decades, but not Mrs D’s classroom of lesbian correction.

  “The capital of Australia?”

  Sabrina moaned, “Sydney?”

  Crack! Right across her seared buttocks. She was jolted by the heavier, harder blow, the pain in her blistered bottom driven in even deeper. I grabbed her in my arms and we hugged each other tight against the onslaught, desperately kissing, Frenching, filling our screaming mouths with our searching tongues.

  “What is a land mass surrounded by water on three sides called?” Mrs D hissed in my ear, deftly shifting the strap over to her other hand so she could swing at my butt.

  By this time my skirt and panties were off, spanked or stripped away, lost, anyway, in the cauldron of hard learning. I was as bare and blasted as Sabrina from the waist down, my bum cheeks bright red, pussy brimming with juices.

  I’d never experienced anything like it, had never realized the deep-down excitement spanking could bring one, how it could meld friends into lovers. I assumed that’s why Sabrina had chosen the classroom setting, to blaze a future for us out of the wild past. Or maybe it was just her idea of perverted penance, for all the trouble she had caused in school; or perhaps it was punishment to be dished out to her for cheating on her husband with another woman. I’m not sure, and I sure didn’t care right then, caught in the crossfire of the all-girl spank conflagration. I was in it to the end, both our ends.

  “An island?” I gulped, even though I knew the answer was wrong when it kissed from my lips to Sabrina’s. I just yearned to bond with the girl as fully as two women can.

  Mrs D accommodated my wicked desire, with extreme prejudice. She whipped my butt with her strap, and I was shocked up against Sabrina, vibrating with sensation. Our boobs squished together, nipples jabbing hard and throbbing, pussies touching and melting.

  More questions were flung at us, and we blithely and incorrectly answered. More blows were administered down upon our buttocks. This was Jeopardy! of the most deliciously jeopardizing, where every wrong answer was the right answer. Mrs D blasted our impudent bottoms, juicing us together. We clung to one another, rubbing pussies, swirling tongues, grinding nipples, taking our punishment as one and revelling in the pure pleasure of it all.

  It went on until Mrs D finally concluded th
at we two were just too stupid, or sexed-up, to have any worthwhile knowledge beaten into us. Then she switched to inflicting ultimate joy on us, to preserve her strength and sanity.

  She stood behind me and jammed her strap in between my legs, along my pussy. I jumped, staring into Sabrina’s eyes, my slit firing with feeling, just like my bum was beaming with it. And then Sabrina jumped in my arms, as Mrs D thrust the strap right along my pussy into my girlfriend’s swollen lips, then scrubbed back and forth, rubbing both of us at once.

  The woman sawed that flesh-heated length of leather in between our shaking legs, along our shimmering cunts, rubbing us wonderfully. We undulated to the hyper-erotic rhythm of her butt-crasher-turned-pussy-pleaser, riding it.

  Mrs D joined the yardstick back into the fray, gripping the strap and stick together and buffing our dripping slits with both. She slapped Sabrina’s ass with her free hand as she did so, then mine, doling out a little more pain to heighten our surging pleasure. They were love-taps compared to the lashes she’d ladled out with the flat sides of her tools of the teaching trade, but they did the job, exquisitely, spanking us past the point of no sexual return, sealing our renewed lovership in scorching ecstasy.

  Sabrina moaned, then wailed, shivering in my arms and against my breasts and pussy. I felt her hot juices of joy gush against me, into me, and I joined her in pressurized orgasm. My stroked clit burst and a sheet of white-hot flame tore through my body and into my lover. We were consumed in the inferno of our mutual, monstrous bliss, souls seared with sensation, like our bums.

  Mrs D’s hard face never lost its stern expression. She kept right on stoking our molten cunts and smacking our burning bottoms, until we were spasming on the very edge of sweet unconsciousness. A true professional right to the end of our educational session.

  Needless to say, I was shaken and staggered by the amazing experience, both physically and emotionally. I couldn’t sit still on the plane for more than a few minutes at a time. And now I can hardly wait to go back and revisit my wild friend who has changed on the outside, maybe, but not on the inside – where it really counts between lovers.

  ROSES AND PROSECCO

  Samantha, Montréal

  It was early morning as I drove across Pont Champlain on my way to work in Montréal, crossing the St Lawrence River that a French explorer, Samuel de Champlain, first pioneered.

  A mist rose above it that partially covered the view of the city, making the distant, eerie skyscrapers look mysterious as their lights peeped dimly through its haze. It was chilly and damp with a window open, but I knew there was promise of a sunny day.

  I live on the South Shore and it’s a forty-five minute journey each way, as long as I can beat the peak hour traffic. If reports indicated long-term congestion I’d sometimes call one of my few friends for dinner and a pleasant oral afterwards, depending on the mood. I say “few friends” because it’s the truth – there are two, to be precise, neither of whom wants a committed relationship. That has usually suited me because of my working schedule and commitment to the legal profession, but lately work and my relationship with my two fuck-friends have become stale.

  As I drove, I recalled my first encounter with the same sex when I was eighteen at a pyjama party for girls only. Some idiot suggested we wear Baby Dolls, and we all arrived with our bottles of beer and liquor together with plates of titbits. I drank as much as anyone else, but wasn’t used to it and got smashed. Then I said the wrong thing to a blonde a head taller than me – about six-four – and I was in her home.

  I’m usually reserved and polite, but with the booze my remark was too bold. I think I told her that for a person her size a frilly pink outfit was silly and made her look gawky, then I hiccupped and smiled. She didn’t.

  A few hours later she sidled up to me and suggested a game of Ping-Pong in the den. I was stupid enough to agree. Even so, when we got there, I thought it strange that she locked the door. She fetched a table tennis bat, saying she was the only one who would play the game. I hiccupped and smiled again, unaware of her intension, but became agitated when she tied my hands behind my back and gagged me with a handkerchief. I was too far gone to resist.

  She kissed my lips roughly, making them tingle thrillingly, and then grabbed me. She flung me over her knees, bared my bottom and whacked me until I yelled and cried. She asked me who was silly and gawky now and I remember stuttering that I was. She continued for several minutes, then picked my limp body up, threw me on a couch and finger fucked me rapidly until I came. After that, she kissed me savagely and I began to respond, but she stuck the bat handle in my cunt and made me writhe until a second orgasm hit me.

  I can’t remember her name; but despite the spanking – which was awful and never happened to me again – it made me realize that I would be a lesbian for the rest of my life.

  At university my roommate, Leah, found me irresistible and it wasn’t long before I succumbed to her enticing toughness, from which I learnt my favourite way to be handled sexually: rough, with good dollops of TLC afterwards. She wasn’t a beauty by any stretch of the imagination, but she was attractive and had a good, kind heart. She was also honest, loyal and didn’t mess around, which pleased me; I won’t dedicate myself to anyone who doesn’t have those traits.

  She introduced me to the sensuality of massage, applying lubrications and using a strap-on dildo for pleasures I never knew existed. She was very persuasive and cajoled me into doing things I thought would be rotten. I’m referring to my first anal ramming, which wasn’t my idea of “female” sex. But after she’d greased my entry and we got into a side position, she inserted it and began to move softly in a tantalizing rhythm . . . and my attitude slowly began to change.

  I can tell you it’s a fantastic position for intimacy. I was lying on my side and she was lying behind me. Being cuddled and having my back parts lovingly kissed at the same time sent glorious shivers through my body, and my anus relaxed. I didn’t realize until then how sensitive and sensual it could be. It set my internal nerves on edge, teasing and rousing them to speed through my body and set fire to all the other nerves within it. And when she put her arm around me and fondled my vagina and aching clit with her fingers, I felt as if I would die from the ethereal sense of being out of this world and in another place.

  When I had the first orgasm, I thought I was going to die again, until two more followed in succession and I realized I was definitely alive. In reversed positions, the satisfaction I received from satisfying her was incredible too.

  Leah died in a car accident before the end of the first semester. I always wondered what would’ve become of us if the tragedy hadn’t happened. I was terribly sad and cried for days. I didn’t have another college relationship after her and concentrated on my studies and career. I’ve been a lawyer for twenty years now and really want to quit and be an artist. I’m also becoming bored, tucked away on my hobby farm alone and sticking things into myself for temporary satisfaction, not that my orgasms are inadequate; it’s just not the same as when they’re caused by a horny companion.

  But let me take you back to the present.

  I parked on my habitual slot off rue St Paul in the old city area because my office is on rue Saint Sulpice, a short walk away. My secretary greeted me as I entered. She’s shared by the other two lawyers in the firm, Miranda and Amon. I’d just taken off my jacket when Miranda asked if I could spare a minute and I stepped into her domain.

  “I’ve got a stinker,” she said, opening a buff folder. “There’s a certain Lady Geneviève, who smacks bottoms for a living and got herself into trouble – real name, Judy.”

  I knew her, because I’d advised her on legal matters before when she started her business. Miranda seemed to be eternally embarrassed of cases involving anything that wasn’t straight. I knew what she was up to when she said she wasn’t sure if I wanted to handle it.

  She said she was overloaded at the moment – liar – but thought she was putting me in a difficult position tha
t would compromise the firm by having the likes of Lady Geneviève as a client. I asked what she’d done, to put her out of her misery, because she clearly didn’t want the case.

  Her answer made me chuckle. Apparently, Judy half-killed a guy who was now suing for assault and battery. I said he was stupid and couldn’t win. She queried that, and I explained a dominatrix offered a service, a contract, which never exceeds the client’s wishes.

  She came to the point and asked if I wanted to defend her. Of course I did; it was right up my alley. She breathed an audible sigh of relief.

  At 2 p.m. the next day, the vivacious lady sauntered into my office. She was dressed elegantly and her titian-coloured hair was pinned up on the back of her head. I’d only met her once before and had forgotten how absolutely stunning she was.

  We shook hands and gave each other a polite hug and blew kisses in the air. I asked how she was doing and she puffed with exaggerated exasperation and told me she was royally pissed off. I asked her to tell me about it.

  “It’s in the file, Sammy,” she said. “I already told Miranda everything and she cringed at the details.”

  We laughed. I said I was her new lawyer and to repeat the details. She smiled. I found it endearing and wanted to strip and ravish her. Then I reprimanded myself and got my mind back on track. It was unusual for me; but there you are – a lawyer who is human.

  Apparently, he was a top bureaucrat from Ottawa, a miserable fink who’d tried to abuse her; he’d wanted sex. I knew two facts for sure; clients paid up front and sex was taboo in her profession, so I asked what he’d done. When she’d refused and asked him to leave, he’d gotten out of control, bad mouthed and threatening. She’d kicked him out, naked, throwing his clothes after him. I asked her how she’d kicked him out. She said she did it literally, so bad her spiked high heels nearly went up his ass, the scumbag.