Lesbian BDSM Mega Bundle

by Ella Ford

  I started to turn around, momentarily confused by the sudden interruption to the conversation I was having. My friend Jessica glanced over my shoulder and I saw her face darken.

  “Aw shit Nicole, it’s Abigail,” she whispered with a familiar grimace, “and it looks like she’s fueled and ready to fly.”

  I sighed and turned my body, rotating around on the barstool. Suddenly, a cold splash landed in my face, causing me to shriek in a most undignified manner. Mother wouldn’t have been impressed at all. I blinked and swept my hand over my dripping cheeks, the stench of liquor causing my eyes and nose to sting, confused thoughts running through my mind. As my vision cleared, Abigail’s tall figure swam into focus, standing over me like an angry goddess, eyes wide and nostrils flaring.

  “What the fuck Abigail?” shouted Jess behind me. I sensed her stand from her stool and begin to move around me. I held out my arm, touching my hand to her hip and gently stopping her approach. It wasn’t worth it.

  “What’s your problem Abigail?” I said, trying to keep my voice as calm as possible, doing my best to ignore the hobo-aroma rising from my designer dress and the burning pain in my eyes. “Brett and me are over, ancient history.”

  Abigail glared at me with the entitled weight of generations of Massachusetts Monroes, her hands on her shapely hips, feet apart like a prize fighter. She looked as if she was going to either strike me or burst into tears. And all of this over Brett Steiner, a dumb jock with a toned body and honey voice who I’d had a fleeting college romance with over six months ago, before moving on to the next in a long line of exploratory couplings.

  “I know, and he’s mine now,” she spat, swaying on her five inch heels, “you cunt,” she added as an afterthought with a self-satisfied expression on her face. There was a gasp from behind me and the bartender glanced in our direction with an annoyed look that indicated an increasingly stretched tolerance for this initially entertaining girl-fight.

  “You’re welcome to him,” I said and shrugged. I knew girls like Abigail Monroe and I knew that the one thing they hated the most was not getting the attention they craved so much. I began to turn away from her, back to the bar.

  “Don’t you ignore me skank!” shrieked Abigail suddenly, grabbing my hair and pulling me back off the bar stool towards her. I felt myself begin to topple and scrabbled at the slippery bar, but it was too late. I fell backwards and slipped off the stool, landing awkwardly on my heels and falling down to my knees before Abigail.

  There was a flurry of activity as Jessica stepped over me and pushed Abigail back, bumping her into another group of girls further down the bar, then the sound of breaking glass and sudden surprise. Oh hell, I thought to myself, trying to rise up from the rough wooden floor, I’m in a damned bar fight! Mother definitely would not approve.

  I glanced up to see the neighboring girls scattering from their stools like a flock of starlings, rounding on the staggering Abigail and Jessica in a blur of long nails and swinging purses. An unknown figure stepped back and bumped my shoulder, knocking me off balance again. I collapsed to the side against the bar with a jarring blow that forced the wind out of me then drew my knees up to my chest and cowered beneath the lip of the bar, trying to avoid the flailing forest of legs and heels as the fight escalated to a wild maelstrom of pushes and shoves and clawed fingers, girls squealing and crying out and cursing.

  “Okay folks, show’s over,” said a deep voice from behind the bar. There was a slam of wood on wood and the heavy thud of footsteps, then the burly bartender rolled into the crush of fighting girls like a bowling ball into pins. The girls scattered again, fleeing from Jessica and Abigail like an evaporating gas. I closed my eyes and protected my head, glancing up when the commotion died down.

  “Time to go ladies,” said the bartender and I saw him grip Jess and Abigail by their bare arms, dragging them across the bar as if they weighed nothing at all. My best friend and my nemesis stumbled along behind him, cursing and threatening and crying out in pain. Of the other girls, there was no sign, only a lingering scent of expensive perfume and liquor.

  I put my hands onto the floor and pushed myself up to my feet, wincing as my knee bent straight, expecting the bartender to come back and drag me out with the other two. But he never returned and I seemed to have gotten away with it for now. Breathing a sigh of relief, I sat back down on my barstool and pulled out my phone, intending to text Jess and sneak out of the back entrance. I was underage, just turned twenty, and really didn’t need to explain to mother why I’d spent the night in the local jail.

  Oh hell, I thought to myself, glancing at my phone and realizing that my battery was dying. Could tonight get any worse?

  “Nice fight,” said a voice beside me. I glanced to my left and blinked, surprised by the sudden attention. A woman sat alone at the bar, sipping from a glass of bourbon without ice. “Shame you missed most of it though,” she added sarcastically, a wry smile forming in the corners of her mouth. She looked older than me, and from an entirely different world. Her hair was cut short and slicked back on her head with glistening product, bleached blonde with darker streaks. Her face was gaunt and tanned, large blue eyes that appeared unfathomably feminine against her masculine features, high cheekbones and thin lips, a strong, manly nose. She was wearing a black leather jacket and white t-shirt with faded, ripped jeans and high black boots.

  Still bewildered from the fight, I managed to force myself to nod and smile, then turned back to my drink and my phone.

  “Kinda makes you feel alive don’t it?” the woman said and I realized she was staring at me. “Like eating pussy,” she added with smirk, then took a long gulp from her drink.

  I blinked, shocked by what she’d said, half convinced I’d misheard. “I-I wouldn’t know…” I said, bereft of any clever comeback. My heart was still beating quickly, my mind racing, I was worried about Jessica and angry at Abigail, and the last thing I needed was to get into a situation with a dumb hick local. Honestly, I don’t know why Jess liked to come to this bar. It was so downmarket. I turned back to my phone and wished she would go away.

  After a few seconds, I sensed a presence beside me, and looked up to find the blonde woman had moved down the bar, taking Jess’s stool and sitting down with strangely graceful motion. My heart sank. I was in a situation whether I wanted it or not.

  “Where are my manners?” said the woman with a smile. “Speaking so coarsely to such a delicate flower,” she continued, voice dripping with contempt. There was something strangely compelling about the butch woman, an unmistakable feeling of command and authority.

  “That’s quite alright,” I said, believing that if I didn’t cause a scene she would leave me alone. If only I knew.

  The woman took a sip from her glass. “Let me buy you a drink,” she said with a mock conciliatory tone. “To make up for my rudeness.”

  I started to protest but the woman ignored me and gestured down the bar at a pretty barmaid, a raised eyebrow and flick of her slender finger signalling what she wanted without a single word. The barmaid nodded quickly, and I swear I saw a note of nervous fear sweep across her face. The girl flashed me a quick look, the kind of appraising glance that you might give a friend’s new date. It was strange and disconcerting and I didn’t know what it meant.

  “Coming right up,” she said with a forced smile.

  I turned back to the blonde woman and tried to relax, knowing that I should leave the bar and meet up with Jessica, still half fearing the burly bartender’s return. I reeked of liquor and my knee still hurt, but an ingrained sense of politeness prevented me from escaping the rough woman’s company. I tried to relax.

  “See, I’m not really so bad,” said the woman, turning her body to face me. “I’m Suzanne,” she added, “my friends call me Suzy.” She nodded quickly.

  “H-hi,” I replied, my voice seeming meek and timid in the company of her commanding presence. “I’m Nicole, Nicole Preston,” I finished. I held out my hand, a limp, delic
ate offering that she took and shook with a powerful grip that made me gasp in surprise. Her fingers were long and slender, with short, unmanicured nails, skin that was worn and rough, but still quite soft and warm.

  Our drinks arrived and the pretty bartender set them down in front of us, then gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “Th-these are on the house, Suzy,” she said, then turned and hurried away, flashing me another of those strange looks that seemed half pity, half curiosity. I wondered what on earth was going on.

  Suzy took a long sip from her refreshed drink then sighed and studied the short glass. There was an uncomfortable silence between us that I was increasingly convinced only I found remotely uncomfortable.

  “Listen, Suzy, I don’t mean to be rude,” I started, finding my voice as the frantic and undignified fight faded in my memory, “but I should go and find my friend, she’ll be waiting for me outside.” I shifted on the seat and started to move.

  “What do you mean ‘you wouldn’t know’?” she said, still staring at her drink. It seemed as though she hadn’t heard what I’d said.

  For reasons I still can’t articulate, I sat back down on the stool. Something in the tone of her voice, her casual dismissal of my attempt to leave.

  “I’m sorry?” I said.

  “When I said that fighting made me feel alive, like eating pussy,” she breathed, her voice low and deliberate, every word pronounced with slow precision. “You replied ‘I wouldn’t know’,” she added.

  I felt a strange feeling of nervous tension rising through my body, a certain feeling that there was more happening in this situation than I yet realized. But there was something else, a curious reaction to the blonde woman’s hypnotic tone and commanding presence, an inability to disengage and leave.

  “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to insult you,” I said, trying to sound genuinely remorseful. “I’m just not a lesbian.”

  She slammed her drink down on the bar and whipped her head around to face me, large blue eyes wide and glaring. “Excuse me?” she demanded.

  “Oh, I-I… I just… I didn’t mean,” I stammered, flailing around for a way out of this situation.

  She glared at me with those piercing eyes, mouth curled in a snarl, an intense look of venom and fury on her face. Then, in an eyeblink, her face softened. Her eyes seemed to sparkle and gleam and her mouth creased up in that half-smile that seemed to be her resting state.

  “Oh honey, I’m just shitting with ya,” she drawled, the faintest hint of an accent pushing through her low tones. I felt myself relax slightly, against my better judgement. “You don’t need to be a lesbian to like eating pussy,” she continued, sipping from her drink, never once taking those irresistible eyes off mine. “You just need to do as you’re fucking told,” she added, almost as an afterthought, an unmistakably dark tone pushing through the soft smile and friendly eyes.

  I blinked and inhaled quickly, shocked by the whole situation, shocked by the way she flipped casually between good natured small talk and sordid insinuation. But if I’m perfectly honest, though it surprises me even now after all that has happened to me, I didn’t find her way disagreeable. There was something intriguing and irresistible about her, a feeling that had no analogue in my vocabulary, for I’d never experienced it before. But it found purchase in my psyche nonetheless. I found myself drifting into her gaze, cowed by the intensity of those deep blue pools, offering no words to counter her strange suggestions, floating freely and waiting for her to speak again.

  And then my phone buzzed. I gasped in surprise and looked away from the woman.

  Where r u? Find me in Oscar’s, usual booth.

  It was Jessica, at last. Oscar’s was an all-night diner across the street from the bar, a usual meeting place of ours.

  “That’s my friend,” I said, turning to the woman who was gazing forwards and sipping from her drink. “Thank you so much for the drink, but I have to go now.”

  She didn’t respond at first, and simply stared at the rows of liquor bottles behind the long bar. Then she turned to me, her head sweeping through the angles between us like a lighthouse’s bright beam. Her eyes locked on mine as I was standing to leave and I froze in place, unable to do anything else.

  “Go to the bathroom. I’ll be with you when I finish my drink.”

  The bar around us faded quickly into irrelevance, the constant hum of voices and movement becoming a low buzz that seemed distant and vague. Her words hung in the air like a gas, tangible and real, echoing around my confused mind and racing thoughts.

  “I…” I began, but had no follow-up, just the meek protestation that was an almost reflex response. My conscious mind was screaming at me to say something else, to pour my disgust out in a hail of refusal and resistance. You can’t tell me what to do! How dare you! Do you know who I am! I told you I don’t swing that way! I’m calling security! All of these thoughts bubbled to the surface of my awareness but evaporated before reaching my mouth. I remained mute and ineffectual, staring at her with a stupefied expression on my face, half standing, half sitting.

  To this day, I don’t know why I didn’t leave, why I didn’t shake my head and make for the exit. I wasn’t scared of her, not exactly. She was certainly not my usual kind of acquaintance - ripped jeans and leather, rough skin with elaborate tattoos, smelling of faint deodorant and sweat more than expensive perfume - but she wasn’t outwardly intimidating, more stern than scary. And there were plenty of people around, enough that I could have had the attention of four or five gallant white knights within a few seconds of my cry for help if I thought I really needed it. But there was something about her, something irresistible and compelling, a particular manner of speech and body language that cried out for attention and was given it willingly.

  Strange thoughts pawed at my mind. Thoughts that were sparse and novel, using untouched regions of my young brain. What did her skin smell like? What did her mouth taste like? Would she be gentle? Would she be... rough?

  I’d never, in my whole life, felt so attracted to another woman before, never even contemplated such sordid considerations. Yet with every passing second, the thoughts become more insistent, more bold.

  “O-okay,” the word crept out of my mouth on a sigh, nothing more than a whisper, a thought given form.

  Then she turned away from me and back to the bar, dismissing me as though I was nothing, provoking a distant feeling of rejection in my confused mind, tinged with a strange need to please her.

  Hopping down from the barstool, feeling bewildered and confused, I hurried across the bar to the bathroom and the beginning of my strange new life.

  ---

  The bathroom was dimly lit with a low light, the usual collection of stalls and sinks and chattering pairs of women. I brushed past a girl as I entered the room, ignoring her concerned expression and the question she asked me. “You okay honey?” she said, then drifted by and through the door. I found an unoccupied sink and leaned against the counter, peering at myself in the mirror.

  I gasped as a stranger gazed back at me, barely recognizing my own reflection. My usual pale skin was ashen and grey, honey blonde hair still wet from Abigail’s hurled drink. There was a strange flush on my neck, a pink glow that was half unfamiliar arousal and half blind fear. I felt strangely exposed, inching the low black dress that I’d worn that night up my chest and down my thighs in an attempt to cover myself.

  The door behind me swung open then creaked shut.

  “Leave,” said a familiar voice. There was a murmur of protest from the other girls in the bathroom. “Now.” Then a quick clicking of high heels on porcelain tiles as the bathroom emptied.

  I looked up into the mirror, focusing my attention behind me. The woman stood in the doorway, peering at me with those hungry eyes, gaze crawling over my body with no attempt to hide her interest. I felt myself shudder, a thin shiver that ran up and down my spine. I’d never felt so alone, so vulnerable, so exposed. So thrilled.

  “Alone at last,” she said with
a smirk, then began to walk the length of the bathroom towards me, pushing open the door of each of the stalls, glancing in and verifying that their occupants were indeed gone. She reached where I stood and I remained motionless, leaning against the counter, unable to speak or move. When I felt her hand touch my shoulder, I flinched; when I sensed her fingertips tease down my back, I sighed; when she gripped my bottom, I moaned and closed my eyes. But I never resisted, never told her to stop.

  “Straight, rich girls are my favorite kind of pussy,” she breathed, gazing at me in the mirror. I lifted my head and sighed, studying the reflection of the pair of us. Her intimidating form towering above me, one hand on my ass, the other tenderly sweeping the hair off my neck.

  She leaned forward until her head was beside mine, then whispered into my ear. “What do you say, Nicole Preston? Are you going to be a good girl, or a bad girl? Because you know what happens to bad girls, don’t you?”

  I closed my eyes and breathed in, filling my nose with the overpowering sense of her. Her faint perfume, the cloying aroma of leather and sweat, the sharp liquor on her breath. I felt enclosed and trapped, a deer in a snare. I couldn’t move, pinned against the counter by her body and my own unfamiliar desire.

  “Good… I’ll be good,” I said and I knew that I would be. As good as she wanted, whatever she wanted.

  Then she grabbed my hair and pushed me forwards, forcing me to bend over the counter. I squealed and lifted my hands to my head, panic suddenly gripping my mind. She pushed her leg between mine, tapping my shoes with her boot, forcing my feet apart. I staggered and let my weight rest on the counter, painfully turning my ankle as I slipped to the side on my precarious heels. Then she yanked my dress up, pulling it over my bottom and exposing me with a single motion. I cried out, “No!” but it was too late and my protestation was half-hearted.

  At once, her hand moved between my legs, grabbing my panties and pulling them down around my knees. I gasped again, shocked by the escalation, terrified that someone would walk in and see me like this. But in the back of my mind, I felt curiously safe, strangely protected by the woman who was groping and exposing me in such a rough and insistent manner.