The Mammoth Book of Lesbian Erotic Stories

by Barbara Cardy

  Emily did not need to think twice. This was most definitely an emergency. She searched frantically in the drawer, pulled out a dildo. She leaned back in her chair, rested her heels on the edge of the table. The result was instantaneous. Emily bit into her hand hard as the toy entered deep inside her.

  The following night, Emily was again full of nervous energy. Her body longed for Deana. Again Deana showed her no attention during the show. She was the perfect meek maid following orders. It was only when she was changing that Deana discreetly whispered in her ear, “Be out on stage in ten minutes and under the bed sheets. Don’t make any moves in bed until I say that you can.”

  The hall was deserted. There was no light and no sound. Emily pulled the sheets over her body and closed her eyes. She was anxious. What if Deana did not come? Finally, she sensed some muffled movements at the other end of the bed. A hand brushed between her thighs, raised her dress high over her hips, pulled her panties to one side. The tension had been building in her body all day. Emily knew that she was already soaking wet. A tongue licked and teased and toyed with her clit. Her hands gripped the sheets. She longed to reach out and press the tongue down harder against her ripe little bud, but she knew only too well what her instructions were. Instead, her teeth bit into the covers as she attempted to restrain her uncontrollable cries of passion.

  The lights clicked on. She heard stilettos on the stage. “I guess you now know why I couldn’t resist having her tongue between my legs the other night.” Emily frantically twisted her neck sideways. It was Deana walking towards her. So who on earth was under the bed sheets? Emily pulled at the covers.

  She gasped with surprise. The flowing red hair and wide smile were instantly recognizable. It was Natasha, the makeup girl. The same Natasha everyone thought was so very sweet and innocent. Emily sat open-mouthed in shock for just a moment. Then she laughed, realizing that everybody probably thought exactly the same way about her.

  Deana joined the two of them in bed, under the hot spotlight of the stage. The lovemaking was sensual and divine. Emily mused, as she lay on her back recovering from a glorious orgasm, that, yes, this was most definitely her biggest role so far.

  HOLY MATRIMONY

  Chloe Ramsay

  Is there anything softer than a woman’s kiss?

  I don’t mean a quick peck on the cheek or what they call an air kiss – they’re just social graces and fairly pretentious at that. Mind you, they do have a place.

  Without a hello kiss I wouldn’t be with Heather now.

  How vivid that first touch was. The wedding of a friend’s son. Neil getting married to Claire – a straight (in the way of innocence, though I have little doubt their sex life is equally straight) couple whom everyone views as “nice”. Claire looks like the kind of girl whose knickers drawer is all white and for whom the most wicked thing she’s ever done is say shit when her casserole burns.

  But maybe I’m doing her a disservice. Maybe she and Neil are at it like rabbits day and night. I don’t care one way or the other. Not my thing, see?

  Jenny, Neil’s mother, a fussy martyr of a woman who likes the sound of her own voice more than anyone else does, invited me, thanks to Zumba classes we both go to. Quite why she should invite me when I don’t know the happy couple defeats me. But I’m glad she did.

  I was a bit nervous when I walked into the reception hall. The church was OK because it was all quiet and choreographed and I didn’t need to say hello and how are you and all the social ice-breaking words. But the reception was a different matter: probably eighty people and only one I’d ever met before. We had the usual receiving line as we went in, with the bride and groom and their parents shaking hands with relatives and friends and the likes of me – someone they’d never seen before and would probably never see again. Air-kiss city or what? Mwah, mwah noises filled the air.

  They also had the bridesmaid. Heather. Right at the end of the line. I spotted her as I was drawing near, right next to Neil’s dad. She spotted me, too, I could tell. I wonder if her pulse quickened at the sight? I know mine did.

  Mwah, mwah – Neil’s mother. Mwah, mwah – Claire’s father. Mwah, mwah – Claire’s mother. Mwah, mwah – Neil’s father.

  And then – Heather. Mwah – God, she’s sexy. Mwah – I want, gimme. Her hands taking mine. Soft, feminine hands, holding gently and with no intention of letting go. Her perfume, one I recognized yet couldn’t name. Her hair, soft on my cheek, a strand refusing to leave my lips as I slowly pulled away. Her neck, inched from my eyes, begging me to bite it, kiss it and make her scream with lust.

  “Hello, Chloe, how are you?” Like long-lost friends. She had obviously listened when I was introduced to the others. Neil’s dad asking if we knew each other, Heather saying we were friends from way back and she hadn’t seen me for ages and we simply had to catch up on each other’s news. Me, nodding lamely, captivated by her.

  Mwah a third time – her on me. An excuse to whisper in my ear, “I want you.”

  No doubts. No “are you gay?” stuff here. Confidence. Beauty. Need.

  Mutual need.

  From that moment we were on a collision course and we both knew it. Me, sitting on a circular table with five strangers. Her, sitting at the top table, making strangers out of her friends by being totally preoccupied by making eyes at me. Me, my palms damp, knickers too. My nipples hard, anticipating her lips. Every so often that look, unspoken shapes made by her lips when all attention was on speeches and food and wine and wedding cakes.

  “I’m going to fuck you,” the unspoken words said. “Tonight.”

  “And I’m going to let you,” the shapes of my mouth sent back.

  Come on, everyone, eat up. I need to touch and need to speak and all of you are in my way.

  Speeches; interminable speeches. Laughter, polite rather than sincere.

  Then, blissfully, the end. People leaving tables. Heather weaving through the crowd, passing my way. A slip of table napkin pressed in my hand as she passed. Then she was gone.

  I looked at the slip of paper under cover of the crowd.

  “218”. A room number.

  Time to join the chase. But the first barrier, Jenny, fussing as ever. Me, polite, thinking, Get out of my way, you stupid, inconsequential woman. Me excusing myself. Needing to freshen up; at least that’s my story.

  Glancing back from the doorway to make sure nobody’s following, though why should they?

  A small crowd waited for the lift. No time, so up the stairs I went, floor two. The signs on the wall directing me left, more signs on doors saying 202, 204 . . . and eventually, 218.

  The same as any other door. On the outside.

  Tap, tap, tap. Would she be there?

  A noise from within, the door opening, arms reaching for me, pulling me in, crashing me against the wall as her foot kicked the door shut.

  Lips devouring mine, almost painful in their gentle insistence. Sweet agony. A need to be closer together than was physically possible. Lips, tongues and hands sought places they’d never been before.

  She pushed me backwards, my eyes closed and danger of falling over. But I didn’t care. The bed halted my legs’ progress but the rest of me carried on, landing heavily on the bed with her on top, following, scrabbling, wanting me. My arms round her neck, pulling her in. I will never let you escape, Heather. This kiss must last forever. Eating and drinking and talking are unimportant compared to this kiss.

  Her perfume invaded me, filling me with her beautiful feminine scents. Her breathing, or was it mine? Maybe it was both of us, but was there no other sound in the world anywhere?

  We rested a brief second, staring into each other’s eyes and smiling because . . . who knows why? Who cares why? Because life, in this microcosm, was ideal, was perfect.

  The pause was short-lived, as if to give us time to take aim. Then we descended on each other again, rolling, laughing and most of all kissing. Her hands were on my boobs and mine on hers. This was silly. It was brutal.
It was clumsy. It was man-like.

  We stood; we faced each other. She reached for me and turned me round. She lifted up my hair from my neck as she pulled the zip of my dress from far north to deep south, then attacked my neck with long, shiver-making kisses and bites. My dress ended up round my waist and I watched in the mirror as her hands came round to cup my braless breasts, her thumbs flicking across the nipples that were already too sensitive to touch.

  But I wanted a go. I turned to face her, reaching round to unfasten the long zip of her claret-coloured bridesmaid’s dress as she devoured my breasts with her eyes. As soon as I got the zip down she followed with her mouth. I feared I would explode and embarrass myself. But I believed then, and have proved it since, that she could easily make me climax just from the way she sucks my breasts.

  Her dress fell away to reveal a white, boned corset, its cantilever bra offering her breasts to me like a last supper. The dress fell further, revealing man-fantasy white nylons and suspenders and the tiniest of silk thongs, wickedly black in contrast to the bridal white of the rest.

  I didn’t have time to drink in the vision as she pushed again and I fell on my back. She was at my dress immediately, pulling it off and discovering my thong was every bit as brief, every bit as black and every bit as wicked as hers. Almost identical, in fact. Maybe we connected before the wedding. Maybe we were soul mates.

  And, in my case, that’s all I was wearing.

  I watched, transfixed, as her fingers pushed into the waist-band, making a delightfully obscene bulge in the front. But no way could I watch for long. Her second finger saw to that, sliding between me and sending me sensations I’d only ever thought I could produce in myself.

  Soul mates, yes.

  Much like most women, I guess (or so the self-appointed experts tell us) I get more out of external caresses than from any kind of penetration. Rubbing (gently, please) my clitoris is fantastic until I get too sensitive, and I’d never had much success with the elusive G-spot.

  Until that day.

  Her eyes locked on mine as she deliberately and visually turned her hand over so her palm was uppermost, moments before sliding deep inside me in what can only be described as a hooking motion. Her fingernails almost scratched along my front vaginal wall, slowly and with purpose. Slowly, in . . . and in . . . and in . . . and—Oh my God!

  She found it, or if not it, she found something. I nearly jerked to the ceiling as she touched it and held me down with the knuckle.

  Then again, painfully slowly until I had no ability to breathe. I grabbed hopelessly at her hand, grasping her wrist but having no strength to actually do anything.

  I am hers, possessed, owned, defeated.

  And she moved lower, sliding across the bedcover, sinking to her knees on the thick hotel-room carpet.

  I knew where she was going but I would surely die if she got there.

  I should be considerate. I should be giving something in return.

  But I couldn’t.

  All the world existed in her fingers. All the world quickly transfered to her tongue as it stabbed me right on the tip of my clitoris. She moved, not only in contact with me in two places: the tip of her tongue vibrating my most sensitive part and the fingernailed tip of her finger unrelenting on that amazing new territory that she had discovered and that was now hers for as long as she wanted it.

  I don’t remember my climax. Odd, because I’m fairly sure it was the best one I’d ever had up to that point. Not since because she can do it again whenever she wants. And she has, and continues to do so.

  She let me rest after that. I had to; all my energy had gone. It gave me time to look at her. Man-fantasy gear or not, she looked very edible.

  “That’s a wicked look,” she said to me with a smile.

  “I want you,” I said back. “But I’m exhausted. Your fault.”

  “In that case, I shall do the work,” she countered.

  She stood, swaying slightly to some imagined music we could both hear. It took her five minutes to lose the thong. And not a second wasted. It was a dance, sure, and just about the sexiest dance I’d ever seen. She gyrated, pulled it down, pulled it up, pulled it tight, pushed her own fingers down the front just as she had with me, letting me hear a wet, disgracefully sexy squelch to prove to me she was just as turned on as I was. She removed her fingers, put them to her lips but stopped a millimetre away, moving them instead to my greedy lips, where I devoured this second-hand taste of her.

  It just made me want more. But she wouldn’t be hurried. She gyrated inches from my face then. (OK, I admit it, I sat up to be closer.) I could smell that perfume again, irrevocably linked forever with the scent of her femininity, clean, fresh and intoxicating. I leaned forwards quickly, lips and tongue at the ready, but she was far too fast for me, darting out of the way and teasing us both.

  “Lie back,” she said. “I want to do it.”

  Do what? I wondered. But I complied.

  I watched her pull the thong down and off, and I could see tiny droplets of moisture as she climbed aboard. She pushed me back, forcing me to lie down, straddling me, cutting off the light, descending on me as if I had no choice.

  Maybe I didn’t have any choice.

  Maybe I didn’t want choices.

  She tasted as good and fresh as she smelled as I licked at her, far too keen to do any real good.

  “Slow down,” she told me. “Let me do it.”

  She held my hands, taking them above my head and holding them there. I’ve never really tried bondage, but I will. Whenever Heather decides.

  Her hips were moving slowly backwards and forwards, painting my mouth with the wetness of her secret self. My tongue couldn’t hope to keep track – I was too blessed out for coordination – but I tried, and now and again her bitter-sweetness hotted my taste buds. I strained to peer sideways, seeing us in the mirror, a writhing, gyrating Heather atop a completely submissive Chloe. As one. A Heather-Chloe.

  She pulled my hands up, urgently pulling off the shoulder straps of the corset and yanking it down so she could maul her own breasts using my hands. They were hard and beautiful and I wanted them. I wanted all of her.

  But at the moment I had what she cared to give me – nothing more, nothing less.

  She shouted obscenities at me, but not in a bad way. It meant she was going to come, and the constantly leaking fluids coating my face and mouth were evidence of it. When it hit her, she pulled my hands tight into her chest and squashed me with the rest of her. At that moment, her climax was so powerful (she told me afterwards so I know it’s true) that whether I could breathe or not didn’t concern her. Frankly, neither did I.

  We spent the night together, annoyed that we had to return to the wedding for the couple’s sake, despite the fact the delay was such sweet agony.

  We’ve been together since. We laugh about that day.

  As darling, beautiful Heather says, “Did you take this woman?”

  WOMEN’S TOP FANTASIES

  Dominique James

  Anyone know what women’s favourite fantasies are? My work as a psychologist gives me access to all kinds of medial papers, most of which are so boring they’re little more than a good cure for insomnia. But when I received notification about a survey of women’s favourite fantasies – buried amongst all that highbrow stuff . . . Well, who can blame a girl for taking a peek? In reverse order, they are:

  10. Casual sex with a stranger

  9. Group sex

  8. Female domination

  7. Having sex with an audience

  6. Sexual surrender

  5. Lesbianism – usually when your man watches

  4. Being a prostitute or lap dancer (being paid for sex)

  3. Being had by two men at once

  2. Gender swap

  1. Rape

  Now I’ve always been one to enjoy sex to its fullness. My husband Philip can testify to that. My personal list of favourite fantasies is not so far from the official version, but reading i
t set me thinking. And that’s never a good idea. I started to formulate plans of how I could combine several of these fantasies together, for my own amusement and Philip’s.

  And I wasn’t going to leave them as fantasies.

  Going down the list with a red pen I tried to combine as many as possible. First, I discounted a few. Female domination: yes, I could go for that, but it also mentioned using a strap-on dildo on your man, which I have no real desire to do, especially knowing that it would freak Philip out after he’d had a rigid sigmoidoscopy a couple of years back. If you don’t know what that is, let me tell you it involves a device called a rigid sigmoidoscope being inserted into the patient’s rectum. It’s not a huge device and, considering Philip thinks nothing of persuading me to take his cock inside my rectum (and without flattering you, darling, your cock is bigger), the yelling and screaming when he had it done made the whole idea unthinkable. So that bit goes off the list (though the female domination bit stays firmly on it).

  Philip is, to say the least, a jealous man. If another man comes on to me at a party or a conference, Philip’s hackles start to rise and he gets all caveman, which is just fine by me (you brute!), though I wish he realized I am more than capable of getting rid of unwanted male advances. So being had by two men at once also got crossed off the list. To be honest, it doesn’t do a lot for me anyway, since I know the male version of that fantasy is a lot less gentle than the female version.

  But the rest . . . why not? I’ll describe for you what happened when I managed to carry out my plan. It involved a day carefully chosen to have no distractions and interruptions, a good supply of red wine, locking all the doors in the house and switching off all the phones.

  And my best friend Debbie, who’s every bit as wicked as I am, recently divorced and stunningly gorgeous. So gorgeous I can fully understand why every man who sets eyes on her wants her. So gorgeous that, if I’m going for it, I want her.