The Mammoth Book of Lesbian Erotic Confessions

by Barbara Cardy

  The sight of her perfectly shaped bottom overcame my inhibitions as I spanked her. Her throaty, sexy responses spurred me on.

  Suddenly she’d had enough and stood up, rubbing her bottom.

  I turned her round to face me, saying, “I’d like to do that.” My hands caressed the hotness of her cheeks as I kissed her, searching for a gentleness that might somehow convey my happiness, my thanks for this unexpected private love.

  At last she said, “You are just the best kisser of all time, Veronica, and you slap a mean smack.”

  We laughed and I felt like a girl again, such an impossible feeling. One minute I’m shy to be holding hands and the next . . .

  “I think I know just how that feels.” she said, eyeing the dough. “What next?”

  “Next we wash our hands again, because this is a kitchen, Kate, not a playground.” I tried to sound stern but the mischief in her smile made me laugh.

  “Yes, Miss.”

  We washed each other’s hands at the sink. It was the strangest feeling but I didn’t feel at all guilty to be naked; my feelings had been stripped bare and the desire to touch and be touched roared in the background no less fiercely than the oven. I dried her hands with care and felt that there was time and room for everything, everything. I was even wondering what it might be like to have my bottom smacked.

  We went back to the dough, my feet almost getting tangled up in my skirt and pants on the floor. I kicked them aside and started to divide the dough with Kate watching, a willing pupil.

  “Now we have to prove the yeast.”

  “Innocent?” she interrupted, stroking the small of my back. “It’s totally innocent, I reckon.”

  I was giggling like I used to in school, but the stroke of her fingers over my skin as I worked was utterly intoxicating. How did she know to touch me just there exactly like that when I’d been yearning for David to do this for years but had been too shy to even suggest it? No, to be fair, I’d suggested it but he turned it into a full back massage – delightful and sensual but disconnected from what I’d actually wanted.

  Connected to her touch, my voice sounded almost underwater and wobbly as I said, “We divide the dough between these two tins.”

  Her fingertips tortured me and with each caress it felt as if she was also stroking my nipples as they tingled in expectation of the next stroke.

  I coughed just to be sure I’d be able to speak and said with remarkable clarity, “I need two polythene bags, Kate. You’ll find them in the drawer over there, and could you bring the olive oil with the black and gold label, please? You’ll find it in the cupboard two along from the fridge.”

  “Yes, Miss.”

  I watched her walk over to the cupboard, her bottom blushing and my only regret was that the stroking of her fingers had stopped.

  As she returned, her nipples fascinated me. They looked as touch-me full and as achy as mine.

  I tried to pretend that the bread-making still mattered but realized in that very same moment that it did.

  “What makes it extra virgin?”

  I concentrated on my hands as they slid the bread tins inside each oiled bag and sealed them. “I think it means the first press.”

  I turned and saw her oiled finger moving over her lips as if applying lipstick and then, dream-like, her lips were sliding over my nipples, first one, then the other. Her hands pressed my breasts together and that dull, yearning ache fizzed into a brilliant starburst of pleasure.

  “Lovely tasting virgin,” she whispered.

  It occurred to me the last time I felt this dizzy I probably was a virgin.

  Shaking, I heard myself say, “Let’s go to bed.”

  She stopped kissing me.

  I set the timer and led her upstairs to the tiny, single-bed guest room.

  Kate closed the door behind us and from then on took the lead in every possible way.

  I have to tell you that what happened next astonished me. She dominated and I was overwhelmed. Her kisses were hard and ravishing, she had her arm round my shoulders, pulling me close as her finger played havoc with my clitoris – nothing subtle or slow or even painful – just this headlong rush of irresistible fluorescent pleasure scorching through me. The intensity of her strength and her speed shocked gasps out of me. It was like nothing else I’d ever experienced.

  David is wonderful, I have to say. But with him it’s like a symphony building. With Kate, that time, it was more a brilliant, brilliant thirty-second advert on the telly. I’m gasping, helpless, breathless, wanting her to slow down, knowing this can’t last, wanting it to last but unable to make it l-a-s-t!

  The bomb went off and there was nothing else but a firework display with every colour you can think of being chucked out of the sky in bouquets. Her kiss softened gradually as if in synch with the falling and my shimmering feelings.

  I was so sensitized, I actually wanted rid of her finger, which, though motionless, still pressed hard.

  As her kiss softened I became unexpectedly aware that the pressure on my clitoris was relenting too and in its wake I realized it wasn’t over. The colours were falling slower than any firework and I was falling in a pleasure dilemma. If she rubbed me again it would be agony, whilst the continuing retreat of her pressure was so exquisite.

  When it came, it felt like nothing else – and I knew, or thought I knew, what was coming. At the very last moment, her feather-touch finger detonated my clitoris all over again.

  I jackknifed, knees drawn up to my chest as the unashamed ring of ecstasy shouted triumphantly through the house. I sobbed with pleasure, wanting her to kiss me, but instead, with a quick, rough movement, her finger plunged into my vagina, making me gasp and want her still deeper. She kept my legs from straightening, pushed them harder up against my chest and pressed deeper. I was struck dumb. Wide-eyed but seeing nothing, impaled on the tip of a moment . . . timeless stillness . . . I was aware of her breathing, her relentless strength and the wonderful smell of her . . .

  My sky deepened and darkened into touch-paper blue. Screaming white lines scribbled all over it, graphing the fury of an earthquake. The depth of the climax, coming from an unknown place somewhere inside me, thundered into my core.

  Utterly exposed in the white light of pleasure, I remember her finger withdrawing and hearing a woman crying and being shocked to discover that it was me.

  Kate cuddled and whispered, stroking the small of my back, now stretched so tight by the foetal position. She let me go, allowing my legs to stretch out so we could lay full length against each other. Her wicked, wicked hand innocently stroked my pubic hair as we kissed.

  Aftershocks rendered me incapable of speech. Feelings speckled my insides. The stroke of her hand was mesmerising.

  Her face became troubled with uncertainty.

  “Sorry I had to be a bit quick and rough.” But her smile returned as she added, “Mind you, if you hadn’t smacked me so well, I’d never have had the confidence to pay you back.”

  I took her beautiful face in my hands and kissed her. Just as we snuggled up close and content, the timer went off in the kitchen. We jumped apart as if it was a fire alarm.

  “Fucking hell!” she said giggling, “What’s that for now?”

  “Hopefully, it means we can put the bloody thing in the oven.”

  “I’ll do it,” she said, getting off the bed with youthful grace. The blush on her bottom had faded a little already.

  When she reached the door I said sternly, “Oh, and, Kate, please don’t say ‘fucking hell’ like that.”

  Her eyes clouded.

  “Say, ‘fucking heaven’!”

  I loved her smile.

  “Yes, Miss.”

  I lay in bed, my body bathed in the afterburn of the pleasure she’d given me, and wanted nothing more than to return each and every sparkle of love to her – and to hear her cry out in joy.

  Much later, still naked, we ate a slice of that bread, still warm from the oven and, no, I didn’t taste my te
ars, I tasted life and the future of my family.