Table of Contents
Title Page
Introduction
IF YOU CAN MAKE IT THERE, YOU CAN MAKE IT ANYWHERE
BY ANY OTHER NAME
COME TO ME
CRUISING
UNDONE
A SLAP IN THE FACE
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
ABOUT THE EDITOR
ETREATS: LITERARY TEMPTATIONS
Copyright Page
INTRODUCTION: CONFESSIONS OF AN EROTICA READER
I love lesbian sex. I love talking about sex. I love mentally undressing the sexy women in my life. I love planning what I’m going to do when my partner gets home.
I love having sex, curling my hand inside my partner and feeling the intensity of her pleasure. I love her hand curled inside me, the experience of utterly losing control. I love it all.
Outside of actual fucking, my favorite kinky activity is reading erotic stories.
I love crawling inside another person’s imagination. What hot situation will she dream up? Who are the characters, where in the story will they come together, and what will they do once they get there?
I’m a voyeur. By reading erotica I get to “watch” hot women having sex. Sometimes an erotic story presents me with new ideas, and sometimes an erotic story causes me to revisit an erotic scenario or activity I hadn’t entertained recently. You might say that reading erotica keeps me fresh.
It’s no surprise, since I am a founding publisher of Cleis Press, which has published thousands of erotic stories. As a sex educator and sex coach, I deploy erotica as the secret tool for women who feel stuck or emptied of desire. Read sex stories, indulge your fetish, get your kink on, discover your heat, I say.
Since publication of The Whole Lesbian Sex Book: A Passionate Guide for All of Us, I have heard from many, many women, grateful to have a sex guide written just for us—and packed with information, suggestions, and, as one woman wrote, “inspiration, affirmation, and illumination.” Think of Whole Lesbian Sex Stories as the companion volume to The Whole Lesbian Sex Book. Here are my favorite graphic depictions of lesbian sex—stories of urgent sex, kinky sex, vanilla sex, self-pleasuring sex, cross-dressing sex, public sex, butch/ femme sex, voyeuristic sex, BDSM, edgy sex, passionate, dirty sex. It’s all here.
Enjoy!
Felice Newman
IF YOU CAN MAKE IT THERE, YOU CAN MAKE IT ANYWHERE
A. J. Stone
It’s an early fall night when the weather hovers between thoughts of summer, hot and sticky, and then changes its mind and whips into the frenzy of fall. My skin reacts, stands away from bone, supported by fine hairs, and my nipples grow hard, as if touched by a finger or a tongue. It’s late. A girls’ night out—my friend Nathalie and I have splurged on a new and fashionable restaurant downtown just above Wall Street, a neighborhood as sly and mysterious as the weather. Nathalie and I have known each other for years. We roomed together briefly when Nathalie first came to New York; now she lives uptown in an apartment which, until recently, she shared with Mark, her boyfriend of five years. The restaurant is thick with businessmen on expense accounts, pungent with testosterone, cocks at attention and ready to pounce. Nathalie and I gossip and drink round balloons of red wine that pop down our throats and make us as giggly as if we had sniffed helium. Two women in a room full of men, the first women most of them have seen all day apart from their dowdy secretaries or their female colleagues. Two women dressed in revealing clothing—low-cut dresses that slip and tease. A glimpse of nipple, a thigh unconsciously rubbed. Dresses of thin silk that slips into the cracks of our asses as we walk. Dresses clearly worn over no underwear. Dresses to frustrate. A few men buy us drinks but we’re not biting. I have another goal in mind: the blonde sitting across the table from me. Curiosity has been an unspoken dance between us for years, frustrated by our other obligations. Suddenly, we are single at the same time.
We skirt around the tension between us, pumping it up by discussing sex, the first time, the best time, the craziest time. Nathalie puts down her fork in the middle of the main course—medallions of black cod—and runs a hand through her blonde hair. There is a moment of silence before she speaks.
“Remember the week Mark was away on business and we went out to that sushi place and got drunk on sake?” she begins.
I remembered that, and passing out on Nathalie’s bed.
“When I woke up, sometime around dawn, I had a terrible headache. I downed a couple of aspirin but I threw them right up. There was this...well...trick I’d learned in college. You were sound asleep...,” Nathalie falters, embarrassed, the color rising in her cheeks.
“Go on,” I urged her, one hand beneath my napkin, playing with my dress.
Nathalie plunges onward. She had pulled up her nightgown and masturbated while I slept soundly beside her.
“I was so afraid you’d wake up,” she says and looks at me, then adds nervously, “I have to use the ladies’ room.”
When she is gone, I signal for the check. I’m not wearing any underwear and I can feel a trail of liquid snaking down my thigh. Nathalie catches my eye as she makes her way across the room but I can’t tell if her eyes are large with fear or desire. The eyes of the other diners follow us as we leave, their cocks thick and swollen. I can bet there’ll be a lot of pounced-on wives tonight, visions of Nathalie and me beckoning forward more than one orgasm. The streets are dark and deserted and shadowed. I weave down the street, dancing to too many glasses of wine echoing in my head, my dark hair as wild as a tussle beneath the sheets. A tune goes off in Nathalie’s head. She spins me and the world with me and I am thrown against a wall. A brief moment and then her tongue is in my mouth, tentative, slight, a drunken experiment, and when she backs away, amazed at her boldness, she leaves me hungry, my nipples reaching out. We walk down the street laughing and I tease her about it.
“Do you want to feel my wet pussy?” I ask her, looking at her out of the corner of my eye, challenging her. She’s unable to answer but I can feel the lump in her throat. She’s never done this before and frankly, neither have I, but the wine, the attention of the men in the restaurant, and her confession have made me horny and curious. I need to be touched, even if I do it myself. And, exhibitionist that I am, I want to be watched.
I lift my dress. Underneath I am wearing stay-up stockings. I circle my clit with my finger, beckoning her forward. First with my eyes and then, “Nathalie,” I beg, my throat as thick and swollen as my cunt. She touches me tentatively, her fingers brushing my hard clit. I moan and close my eyes, then will them open. I want to see her desire, her curiosity, as she sinks her fingers into me. Does she know that I’ve been wet all evening, willing her to do this? Does she know how many times my finger circled my clit at dinner, my eyes creamy not from candlelight but the look down the long slide toward orgasm? Her face is closed to my scrutiny.
I want her to sink her face into my pussy and I tell her so. But she is hesitant. She has not yet found the audacity of desire. I won’t push her yet, although I’m eager to have her mouth on my clit, her tongue deep inside me. I can feel an orgasm barreling down my body. I want to hear my screams echo off the canyons made by the buildings. I want windows wide open and neighbors’ heads thrust out, an audience to my cries. I reach out to touch her and she backs away, but not before I have cupped my hand between her legs. Her cunt beneath her dress is swollen and ripe. She is as wet as I am and I wonder if she stroked herself in the bathroom, bringing herself just to the brink of orgasm. Nervous, she wiggles her hips from my slender hand, but not before I have pushed the front of her dress, light armor that only barely shields her naked cunt from my hand, into her. Her juices leave an imprint on the thin fabric.
I sugges
t a cab but they are difficult to find at this time of night and we begin to walk. She sucks on her fingers, tasting me for the first time, and I play with my nipple, hard through my dress as she watches me, unable to look away. I tell her I want her tongue on me, rough and strong. I can see that her defenses are beginning to drop and beneath her dress, her nipples are as tight as mine. At the corner, a taxi with its off-duty sign slows down for a red light and I step down from the curb.
I roll my window down reluctantly. Instantly I know these two girls are drunk; their eyes are too bright. But I’m going uptown anyway and I figure I might as well make a decent fare off it. They scramble into the back and give me two addresses.
It’s late and I’m tired and I’m gunning for home and a few clicks across the porn channels before I pass out, my spent cock in my hand. The thought is enticing and I drive fast. It’s strangely quiet in the backseat. And then I catch moaning. Damn, I think, two drunk girls. That’s all I need, one of them sick in the backseat and an extra half hour while I have to clean it out, not to mention a little something less in my paycheck when they’ve got to take the whole car in for a shampoo. I glance up at the rearview mirror to check the backseat. The dark-haired girl, in a thin dress, coat off her shoulders, lies against one window, eyes half-mast, her hand lazily circling her nipple. The moans are coming from her mouth. I slow down, my cock suddenly hard and pulsing, straining to catch a glimpse of the other girl. I find her blonde head bobbing up and down, buried between the legs of the dark-haired one. I can’t really see what’s going on but I begin to guess, my imagination racing, as the dark-haired girl’s moans direct her friend’s movements. I raise my eyes and we catch each other in the mirror for a brief moment before she turns away. She must know I’m watching, listening, because she keeps looking up, her eyes seeking mine. I strain to catch her words as she begins narrating, her voice thick with lust. Lick me, suck my clit, she says. She pulls her dress down a little further and her nipple, pink and taut, springs free. Oh, a little sigh escapes from my mouth. I want my mouth on that nipple, to circle it with my tongue and bite on it and feel her clit jump against my swollen cock. Oh, yes, she moans, and every promise leaps out from her eyes. I’m imagining her, slick and tight, riding my cock. The cab slows as I stroke myself, pumping my cock in my fist, trying to keep my mind on driving. A red light up ahead brings my eyes back to the road. The light is green too quickly and I wish for another excuse to stop so I can use my other hand to pull at my balls, stretching the skin tightly over my cock. I search the rearview mirror for the black eyes of the dark-haired girl.
The cabdriver agrees to take us both uptown with a first stop at my house and then on to Nathalie’s and we scramble into the back. I have a goal that doesn’t involve a second stop but I don’t argue when Nathalie pipes in with her address. I get in first and Nathalie hangs back for a moment, as shy and eager as the new girl in school who dreams of being a cheerleader, before she scoots in beside me. Then she slams the door and by the time she has settled herself beside me I’ve pulled my skirt up and have begun playing with myself in earnest, my head leaning against the window, one hand manipulating my clit, the other hand pulling my nipples into hard points. For a moment, Nathalie can only watch in fascination, her mouth open. And then I see her tongue, moving quickly back and forth against her front teeth, debating. I push back the lips of my pussy, my clit swollen and red between them, as an offering.
“Please...,” my voice begs.
I want her kneeling between my legs, sucking at my clit—I want her so badly that I almost begin to weep. I know that I could bring myself to orgasm quickly. I also know how unsatisfying that would be.
“What do I...,” Nathalie’s voice falters, confused, worried about what to do in this unfamiliar, familiar territory.
I plunge my fingers into my cunt, hitting my G-spot, and for a moment there is nothing but my cunt, my fingers. I will myself reluctantly back to the present, back to the goal. My fingers are luminescent with my own juice and I reach over, slipping them into Nathalie. Her hips press into my hand. She looks at me, then down at my fingers moving in and out of her cunt and then back at me and I can see the astonishment on her face. Nothing in her experience has prepared her for this—not Mark, three nights a week, not Joe, the best-sex-ever, not even Ian, the one-night stand who introduced her to anal sex. Her hips move in circles and her clit retreats and I can feel, from the way her muscles tighten, how fast her orgasm is building. But I don’t want her to come just yet. That will be later, when I have time to explore her, tease her, stretched out on my bed. Right now I want to pull her to the edge of desire, the place where all of her inhibitions disappear and there is nothing but body and want and need and hunger. She grabs my retreating hand and forces my fingers to her mouth, sucking each one slowly, telling me in silent language how much she wants me. I moan, pulsing in time to the motion of her mouth. With her other hand she begins to explore me, first tentatively, then more insistently, her fingers parting my pubic hair, pulling at the curls. Her head bends forward to examine me and I can feel her hot breath and I rise to meet her mouth. I groan, my eyes rising, and briefly meet the eyes of the cabdriver in the rearview mirror. His eyes are large and dark and I recognize the look in them and know that his cock is hard in his fist. Another moan escapes my lips. Nathalie’s tongue darts out, hard and pointy, and laps at my cunt, following my fingers’ lead, my pleas. My moans give her courage and she rakes at my clit with her teeth, pulling the lips down, her tongue exploring the crevices, my clit in her mouth being sucked like a small cock. She teases me, stopping and starting, knowing the rhythms of my cunt as she knows her own. I break the gaze of the cabdriver and watch Nathalie’s movements intently as she inserts two fingers into me and I begin the slide into orgasm. I have only come like this a few times in my life, hovering between life and death, and when the explosions have ended, I pull Nathalie’s head up and kiss her on the lips, tasting myself on her. When the cab jerks suddenly, I know that our driver has not been far behind...
I try to keep focused on the road, periodically glancing into the backseat where the dark-haired girl has locked her gaze on mine. My hand moves with her friend’s head bobbing up and down and I know how warm and wet that blonde’s mouth would be, wrapped around my cock. The dark-haired girl looks away and I’m frantic, trying to catch her eye. My rhythm falters for a moment. But the growing series of moans from the backseat is a command my cock cannot resist. My hips buck upward, my foot jerking on the gas pedal and I empty myself deep into my hand, the dark-haired girl’s screams a call that pulls my orgasm from me in violent spasms as I turn the corner to the first stop...
“Just below the streetlamp,” I tell the driver, “then you can take her...”
Nathalie interrupts me before I have a chance to finish. “No second stop,” she says.
I look over at her as she springs out of the cab, already halfway up the steps to my apartment, and then I lean forward to check the fare. The driver and I study each other’s faces in the light, my mouth slick with my own juice, and then he catches my eye and an understanding passes between us. I reach into my wallet and press a bill into his hand. He closes my fingers around the crisp currency.
“My pleasure,” he says.
The wine whispers the Sinatra lyric to me as I scramble up the steps. If I can make it there, I’ll make it anywhere. Nathalie pulls me to her, reaching over to suck on my earlobe. Then the door to my apartment clicks open and we are inside.
BY ANY OTHER NAME
Kristina Wright
There are times when living with someone can be a joy. Waking to a warm body beside you, her scent on your pillow. Having a friendly face to hold your hand across the dinner table as you recount the adventures of the day. Sharing your toaster and your heart with someone who knows you better than you know yourself. Yeah, living with someone can be wonderful.
And then there are the days where you’d give anything to live alone, with no one to worry about ex
cept yourself and maybe a goldfish. As I stared at the red Honda parked in front of my townhouse, I contemplated the perks of fish ownership.
Rosalie was home.
I coasted my bike to a stop, reluctant to go inside. She had stormed out the night before, angry and silent, leaving me to guess what the hell I’d done wrong.
I’d been up most of the night alternating between worrying about her and being mad because she knew I was worrying about her. I called her office in the morning, but the bitchy receptionist said she was out showing houses all day. By six, I’d worked myself into a self-righteous frenzy. Rosalie could be a moody wench when she wanted to be, and I was in no mood to put up with it.
I was half-tempted to turn my bike around and spend the night at the library. Let her worry for a change. Instead I grabbed my books out of the handlebar basket and headed toward the house. Rosalie always said I looked like a schoolgirl with my long red braids and shiny yellow bike. I told her I was still a schoolgirl—a twenty-six-year-old perpetual student. I was finishing my degree in Women’s Studies at Florida State and working at the library in the evenings. When Rosalie had a couple of glasses of wine in her, she would leer and say she could teach me all I needed to know about women. She was right.
I opened the front door and breathed in her unique scent of organic lavender shampoo and baby powder. No matter how mad I was, the smell of her made my heart flip-flop in my chest. I heard the shower shut off. My first impulse was to confront her and ask her where the hell she’d been. I decided that was exactly what she expected me to do. So instead I grabbed a bottle of juice out of the fridge and curled up in a chair with a biography of Margaret Mead. Let Rosalie come to me for a change.
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