The Mammoth Book of Lesbian Erotica

by Barbara Cardy

  “Mobile’s flat,” says Nell shortly. “I’m going to Maguire’s.”

  Alex’s face is open, bewildered. “Why? You’re drenched! Let’s go home . . . I’m starving.”

  Nell rounds on her, and snarls, “Then I suggest you find a chipper. There’s no dinner, and I’m sick, sick, of waiting around until you deign to remember I’m here.” Her voice rises, spills over in a tirade of wounded, forgotten misery.

  A woman scuttles past, huddled under an umbrella, and eyes her apprehensively. Alex darts her a sideways glance and grabs Nell’s arm, steering her back to the car. “If you want to fight with me, fine, but do it in the car, not the street.”

  Nell grunts and shakes her hand off, but stalks back to the car. Wounded pride, affront, and anger simmer in the moist air.

  Inside the car the words lash like tentacles. “Forty feckin’ minutes I was waiting. Inconsiderate doesn’t even begin to describe it! You don’t need a lover; you need a chauffeur, a cook, a cleaner—”

  “I already apologized! For feck’s sake, Nell, do I have to grovel? And that’s why we have a mobile phone, so we can call each other! It’s not just a pretty paperweight to cart around.”

  “Oh, so I’m now responsible for charging it, as well as everything else around here? I might as well be your slave for all you notice me!” Alex’s face spurs her on; it’s bewildered but an edge of irritation shows around her eyes. “When was the last time you did anything for me?”

  “Stop playing the martyr. You know it’s not like that.”

  “Well, it feels like that!” She goes to jerk the ignition, but Alex’s hand on her leg stops her.

  “I’m sorry,” she says, quietly. “I should have noticed the time.”

  Nell stares stonily ahead. “It’s not the first time.”

  “No, it’s not.” Alex hesitates, and her palm smoothes over the inner seam of Nell’s jeans. “I am so lucky,” she says. “To have you in my life.”

  The heat of Alex’s hand warms her through the rain-sodden denim. “Fine words,” she says. “They’re easy, aren’t they? Words. You string them on a page, one after the other. You must think that. Words aren’t as important as what you do.”

  “Is that what you think?”

  “Isn’t it true?”

  “No.” The word is low and forceful, and Alex’s fingers bite into Nell’s thigh. “You do wonderful things. You make words fly off the page and into my head. You have a gift for that.” She laughs. “I’m sure you could even make me want to eat porridge oats.”

  Nell’s surprise tumbles out. “I didn’t think you even knew what I was working on.”

  Alex smiles and her hand rises to cup Nell’s cheek. “Of course I know. I hear you talking, even if sometimes I don’t always reply. I love you, Nellie.”

  The edges of bitter, dark anger melt away, dissolving into the evening rain. Nell swallows, and her fingers find Alex’s, curling over her hand to clasp them tightly. She leans her face into Alex’s palm, and her breath hitches in her chest at the touch. So sweet, so hot.

  Alex sees her forgiveness and leans forward seeking her lips. The kiss is intoxicating; a meshing of breath, of lips, of tongues. It escalates, swelling into something that takes Nell away from her sodden clothes, and the cold car. Alex’s fingers trail down Nell’s cheek, matching the fire her lips are creating.

  It’s urgent and it’s frantic, this kiss, taking Nell back to the earliest days of dating. When they were so consumed by their need for each other that any dark corner, any small time alone, was a chance to caress. She drowns in the kiss, allowing the spark to ignite to flame. It’s incandescent, escalating until the desire coiled in her belly streaks lower. Nell’s fingers clench in Alex’s hair, twining the dark strands around and around her fingers, binding them with silken ropes.

  The car is dim, but Nell sees Alex’s eyes glittering in the orange glow of the street lamp. Her breathing labours and her heart skitters in her chest.

  “Let me show you just how much I love you,” Alex says, and her fingers reach purposefully for the snap on Nell’s jeans.

  Nell bats feebly at those insistent fingers. “Not here,” she says, but it’s as if the voice is someone else’s; it’s weak and slides away unheard. She darts an anxious glance out of the car window, but there’s nobody there. No one to notice. She and Alex are cocooned in their own world with walls of steamy glass and worn upholstery. It’s the two of them, together, as they were meant to be. She lets Alex’s fingers snap the buttons loose and delve inside, down between her thighs, down to the moist, dark places.

  One part of her mind wonders at herself; making out in a car park, in the orange streetlamp’s glow, but that fleeting thought spirals off into the rain as Alex’s fingers tread familiar pathways. The hard kernel of hurt and anger transmutes to the aggression of passion. She spreads her thighs as far as the tight jeans allow.

  Alex curls a probing finger around, up into Nell’s cunt, sliding easily in the slickness, wet like the Dublin night, instantly sodden. A second finger joins the first, and Alex twists so that her thumb rubs steadily on Nell’s clit. It’s as if there’s a thread connecting her pleasure points. Each tender stroke over her clit makes her burningly aware of her nipples peaked against her bra. Her lips tingle with the remembrance of Alex’s kisses. Her body pulses with anticipation.

  Nell bites her lip, concentrating on the implosion. Alex’s done this so often, but each time feels vibrant and new, especially here, away from the comfort zone of their bedroom.

  “Are you still mad at me?” Alex’s voice penetrates the ripples of impending orgasm.

  “No.”

  “Do you love me?”

  “Yes . . .” Nell’s back arches, away from the seat, and her fingers curl around the door handle. The rigid plastic bites into her palm.

  “Tell me how much.”

  “I love you, oh, God, Alex . . .”

  Alex’s fingers thrust, filling her easily and her thumb plays steady rhythms on her clit. Nell bites her lip, concentrating on the way the ripples expand from her cunt to her belly, her belly to her breasts, her breasts on, outward until her whole body is awash with one long paean of pleasure. She closes her eyes and visualizes Alex’s fingers, and the journey they are taking.

  A car passes down the street and its headlights sweep across her closed eyelids, blinding white.

  She shouts as she comes, an involuntary rush of noise, as she clenches down on Alex’s fingers. Her tension blows out the window in a wild, white-heat explosion. And after pleasure’s peak, the sweetness and mumbles of love and warmth.

  When she opens her eyes, Alex is smiling gently and her fingers wipe away moisture from Nell’s eyes – tears she didn’t remember shedding either in anger or in passion. Deliberately Alex holds her gaze as she licks her fingers clean, tasting salt from different places

  Nell draws a shuddering breath and releases her grip on the steering wheel one finger at a time. Her focus shifts to outside her body, to the drumming of the rain on the roof, and clammy denim around her thighs. There’s blood in her mouth, coppery hot, where she’s bitten her lip. Her thighs relax and she realizes she’s been arched over the seat.

  Alex watches her with a small smile, but there’s a hint of insecurity in the frown creased between her eyes.

  The pieces of her life settle around Nell, meshing themselves back together: the words she tries to write, their home, Alex’s job, and Alex herself. The roles they play and how they fit together. The important things shine through the clear air between them.

  She reaches over and takes Alex’s lips in a soft kiss, resting her forehead against her lover’s, enjoying the closeness.

  “There’s no dinner,” she says, as her stomach rumbles an accompaniment to her words.

  Alex shakes her head, “It doesn’t matter. I’m not—”

  Nell stops her word with another soft kiss. “Let’s get fish and chips and take them down to Dollymount Strand. It’ll be quiet there. Ver
y quiet. And after we’ve eaten, I’ll show you how much I love you.”

  Erotic Fantasy

  Susan Wallace

  She stepped into the dark hotel room with trepidation. The door clicked shut behind her. She could hear her own breathing and feel her heart thundering in her chest.

  “Are you here?” she asked in a whisper, voice wavering, revealing her nervousness.

  “I’ve been waiting,” came the reply, the older woman’s voice husky.

  “Can I put the light on?” Amy wiped sweaty palms on her black skirt.

  “No!” The reply was stern and immediate.

  From the concealing darkness came the sound of movement. Bare feet padded on a thick carpet, coming closer.

  Silence returned.

  Amy couldn’t see anything. There was no light from even the faintest source. She swallowed hard.

  The touch of fingertips on her right thigh made her jump. She gasped in surprise and tried to make out the woman she knew was before her, but she was hidden in the darkness.

  The fingertips stroked her skin, moving to the damp crotch of her pale panties.

  Amy took a deep breath. She shivered involuntarily as her knickers were slowly moved aside. A fingernail moved along her lips from bottom to top, pausing at her hooded clitoris for the merest instant.

  A hint of warm breath brushed against her legs. She felt her skirt being raised and a strange kind of helplessness in the darkness.

  The finger moved between her lips with a gentle pressure. They held it in their weak, moist grasp and Amy caught her scent rising. The finger pushed deeper. It slid inside and she leant against the door, finding comfort in its solidity.

  Her breathing became heavier as the finger began to explore. The blackness of the room increased the sense of its presence, heightened its movements so they became all consuming. The sensations took over. In those moments her vagina was the centre of her existence.

  A second finger entered. She inhaled with pleasure and licked her lips. The hairs on her bare arms rose. She tingled. Then the touch of a tongue upon her thigh made her . . .

  There was a knock on the lecture room door and Miss Spencer quickly turned over the story she’d been reading at her desk. Wendy walked in without waiting for a reply, displaying her usual confidence, something afforded her partly by the fact she was a mature student of thirty-eight, ten years the senior of Miss Spencer, her tutor.

  “Did you like my work?” asked Wendy as she strode over to the desk in a pale blue summer dress, its hem not far below her waist.

  Miss Spencer took in the bright and breezy creative writing student, gaze lingering on her shapely legs and the soft bounce of her large breasts, which were unsupported as usual. “It was . . .” She searched for suitable words as she felt herself blush, running a hand through her shoulder length, dark hair.

  “Yes?” responded Wendy expectantly as she perched on the corner of the desk, her dress rising slightly.

  Miss Spencer noted the wisp of black pubes which were visible and could see that it wasn’t just bras that her student didn’t wear. She averted her gaze, looking up to see that Wendy had noticed, a wry grin on her dark face, which was framed by tumbling ringlets.

  “I haven’t finished reading it yet,” said the tutor after a pause, wanting to avoid talking about the piece of erotic fiction which had so unbalanced her. There had never been a student who’d written erotica before. It wasn’t that she didn’t think it had its merit, it was just such a surprise, as was its content.

  “What do you think of it so far?” There was a mischievous sparkle in Wendy’s brown eyes as she regarded Miss Spencer, catching the scent of her mild arousal as it drifted from beneath her dress, the sight of her tutor looking between her legs having sent a small shiver of delight through her.

  “It’s well written,” conceded Miss Spencer.

  “Did it turn you on?” Wendy fixed the other woman with her gaze.

  “I hardly think . . .” began Miss Spencer defensively. “Only, there’s not really much point writing erotica if it doesn’t turn on its readers.”

  Miss Spencer felt her cheeks flush again. She had to admit the story had made her excited and she could still feel the heat between her legs.

  Wendy’s grin grew. “I can see from your expression it did have an effect.” She slid forward a little on the corner of the desk, her dress riding higher, revealing more, her fleshy lips apparent amidst the dark pubes.

  Miss Spencer glanced at them and felt her heat grow.

  “Do you like what you see?”

  “I . . .” The tutor was at a loss for words.

  The door to the lecture room burst open and a knot of students bustled in, barely noticing the two women at the front desk as they playfully jostled, laughed and joked with each other while going to their usual seats.

  “I’ll speak to you after class,” said Wendy, reaching out and squeezing Miss Spencer’s left hand with a show of affection, which made the tutor curiously excited. It held a potential, a promise for the future, which she hoped, would bear fruit.

  Other students filed into the room, most in their late teens and early twenties. Wendy slipped from the desk and walked to one of the seats at the front of the room. She took out a writing pad and a pen, smiling at Miss Spencer.

  After the final stragglers had arrived, Miss Spencer stood before the students and began to talk about the exercise she wanted them to begin during the two-hour class, an autobiographical piece which featured an event that had changed them forever. Once she’d given her instructions Miss Spencer sat back at the front desk and turned her attention to the stories she had yet to mark, well aware which one she’d last been reading. She turned the sheets of paper over and continued to read Wendy’s piece of erotic fiction, the heat in her vagina growing once more and her nipples straining against her bra beneath the cream top she was wearing.

  When she looked up she saw Wendy looking at her. Miss Spencer’s eyes drifted to the view beneath the table. The thirty-eight-year-old student’s legs were open, the hem of her dress at her wide hips. Her index finger glistened as it pushed in and out of her vagina.

  Miss Spencer could hardly believe what she was seeing and couldn’t tear her gaze from the seductive sight. She stared at the rhythmic movements of the finger as it plunged inside and then slid out, its pace and vigour increasing now she was watching.

  Wendy savoured the small, discreet audience, kept her eyes open and firmly fixed on her tutor. Her pulse raced as she masturbated for their mutual enjoyment. The orgasm came closer, her finger’s movement quickening further.

  Miss Spencer could feel the wetness between her legs. She longed to stand, to cross the small distance between her desk and the student before her. The story Wendy had written had stirred her, awoken feelings, given her a desire for fulfilment.

  Wendy’s dark legs spread wider as two fingers entered and her thumb rubbed at her clitoris. A redness touched her cheeks as her body tensed, her eyes narrowing and mouth slightly open.

  Miss Spencer watched as Wendy trembled, knew the wonderful pleasure that was spreading from the epicentre between her legs.

  The sound of chair legs scraping on the floor gave Miss Spencer a start. Flustered, she looked towards the back of the room as Robert, one of her less gifted students, rose from his seat.

  As Wendy pulled her dress down to cover herself, he walked to the front of the class and placed a single sheet of paper on Miss Spencer’s desk, only half a side actually having been written upon.

  “I’ve finished,” he announced. “Is it all right if I go now?”

  Miss Spencer tried to compose herself. “Erm . . . Well, it’s supposed to be typed up and handed in next week, but I suppose, as it’s such a short piece, I can make an exception.”

  Robert trooped out of the room with his rucksack slung over his shoulder. Miss Spencer turned back to Wendy, who raised her fingers to her lips and sucked them with slow deliberation, holding her tutor’s gaze me
aningfully.

  At the end of the class the other students left for their lunch, hurrying from the lecture room. When everyone else had left Wendy slowly approached her tutor. She stood before the petite woman who she lusted after and smiled down at her.

  “Would you like to come to mine tomorrow afternoon?”

  Miss Spencer stared into her eyes and hesitated.

  “Please,” added Wendy. “Maybe we can try a little role-reversal.”

  “Yes,” replied Miss Spencer in a whisper, surprising herself with her answer.

  “Here’s my address.” Wendy placed a piece of paper on the desk.

  The door opened and Mr Woods, the media lecturer, put his head into the room. “Are you ready for some lunch?” he asked.

  Miss Spencer looked into Wendy’s eyes and then turned to her colleague, who had been unsuccessfully pursuing her for months. “Okay,” she replied, standing and collecting her papers together.

  “See you tomorrow,” said Wendy as she walked to the door, Mr Woods holding it open so she could exit.

  Those three words filled Miss Spencer with excitement as she looked up at her student and smiled before Wendy disappeared from view.

  Miss Spencer’s heart began to flutter, its pace increasing as she turned onto the street where Wendy lived. Not far now, she thought, feeling incredibly nervous.

  Soon she was standing before a blue front door. She stared at the paint and took a deep breath. Beyond it lay the realm of the unknown, of a future yet to take shape. Beyond the door was Wendy.

  She smoothed the blue skirt over her slim hips and brushed the collar of her dark coat, flicking back her long, black hair. Her right hand rose slowly and she knocked three times. Stepping back, she took a couple more deep breaths in a futile attempt to calm herself.

  A few moments passed and her nervousness increased. Then she heard footsteps from within and the handle turned. Wendy’s smiling face greeted her as the door swung open to reveal a long hallway decorated in soft, pastel colours with a fawn carpet and stairs rising to the left.

  Wendy’s gaze took her in, moved down and then back up her body. Miss Spencer tingled, as if the appreciative look had somehow caressed her.