The Mammoth Book of Lesbian Erotic Confessions

by Barbara Cardy

  And I am free again. I am not engaged to Gary, the fork lift truck driver. I don’t work on the production line at the metal box factory. I am Princess Eleanor.

  Queen Shar sat opposite, her eyes revealing little more than the smoke of a smile. I knew I must be silent. It was obvious how delighted we both were that the other had shown up.

  She pulled my coffee towards her and sipped.

  The intensity between us was so fierce I was sure the entire cafe, the entire High Street, was aware of it, but the world travelled on around us, leaving our exquisitely private bubble untouched.

  Her eyes became loud with pleasure, amusement and love, but her voice was quiet and stern, with that faint Russian accent, when she said, “You have been found guilty. This court is fair. What sentence do you feel is right and just?”

  In the thrall of her beautiful gaze I had no hesitation in saying, “I think I deserve a proper good spanking.”

  “Then it shall be done.” She knocked back the coffee as if it was a whisky and stood up. “You must come with me, Princess Eleanor.”

  In silence, Shar drove me to the other side of town. We went up the stairs to the third floor. She unlocked a door. There were two suitcases inside with airline tags on them. “I need to go home for a while,” she said. “This is friend’s flat.” She flicked the topic away with an elegant finger, and a glimpse of pain in her eyes, only adding, “I delayed departure only for our reunion. There is war. My grandparents need me.”

  I caught a stitch in my heart with the thought of losing her so soon, a sharp and unexpected pain.

  A stool was set in the middle of the tiny lounge, a coffee table obviously pushed aside to make space for it. It wasn’t just any stool – it was the stool.

  She gripped my arm, turning me to face her, and I found myself lost in a kiss I can scarcely describe, it was so soft and yet insistent. The warm touch of her hands on my face relaxed me further and even when they moved to undress me, I couldn’t have felt more at ease. Everything was right.

  It had been agony deciding what to wear for the reunion, but inspiration made the decision easy. I was a factory girl but today I was dressed as a business woman in a white blouse and flattering black skirt.

  Queen Shar undressed me with cruel slowness. The buttons on the white blouse released with lingering care. The white lace figure-enhancing bra I’d bought to show her how grown up I’d become was unhooked and discarded without her even touching me. I so wanted her touch. And then the slow slide of the zip, the fall of the black skirt revealed – my white school knickers.

  “Oh!” she said with a delicious, knowing smile.

  For once I was grateful for my mother’s policy of “you’ll grow into them” – but when I’d struggled into them before leaving for the reunion, they’d felt a little too intimately tight. In the mirror the camel-toe effect looked so rude but I’d trusted my instincts.

  When Queen Shar’s finger traced that white cotton line between my legs, I shivered with pleasure and knew it had been the right choice. She kissed my lips and then my throat and my head lolled back in bliss.

  She whispered, “Princess Eleanor is cold and she must be warmed up.”

  The firm grip of her hand on my upper arm, masculine in its implacable confidence and power, again took charge as she turned me round to face the stool. “First I will warm you, Princess. Then I will spank you.”

  I loved her fake accent. I loved the newfound freedom of my passion.

  “You stand still with your palms flat on the seat of the stool. You will be brave and not cry out loud. Obey?”

  “Obey,” I replied solemnly as I bent forwards, hands on the stool as ordered, and closed my eyes, swimming in feelings, striking a noble, defiant pose.

  Her hands caressed my bottom with tender respect, and then her fingers explored the intimate lines created by the knickers, reaching between my legs from behind until one finger pressed so firmly, so exactly, on the right spot, I gasped.

  She said, “When you disobey and make those sounds, I can ask question. Your answer will be truth-pure. Yes?”

  “Yes.” I bowed my head now in submission.

  “Your boyfriend is . . . ?”

  “Gary.” I said it in a whisper, not out of respect for him but in awe of the presence of her fingertip.

  “Has Gary ever done this to you?”

  “‘This” started out as a rub of her finger, immediately becoming a shimmering spangle of feelings which I instinctively tried to suppress until it exploded all through me. I remember thinking I’d walked into the most beautiful flower shop in the world but the whoosh of colour and the slow shower of petals I experienced came from me. I’d thought ecstasy was a drug.

  “No,” I managed to say eventually.

  “I guessed. You will be silent now.”

  She slapped my bottom. That’s all it was, just a firm slap, but then there came another and another. With one hand pressing the small of my back, she slapped me with the other hand and then changed sides.

  I could feel my buttocks warming evenly all over – a strange, gradual sensation. I was finding it harder to keep quiet and became aware that I was panting. And in the sweet mystery of all that was happening, I learnt that orgasms don’t just come in singles, days or weeks apart, they can come . . . I crashed through the second climax like a runner breaking the tape – but I couldn’t stop running and cried out, “Oh, Queen Shar, my Queen Shar!”

  She stopped. In the quiet there was only my panting and the sound of her leather jacket telling me she was breathing heavily, too. Looking back now, I realize that was the first time I’d ever thought of leather as being sexy.

  I expected a question, but the silence hung in the air until she said, “Stand up.”

  She bunched the knickers and pulled them up tight between my cheeks. The sexual effect was incredible. “Now you will bend right over the stool and you will grip its legs.” She kept hold of the knickers and used them to coax me over into position. The firm way she handled me and the anticipation of having my now-bare bottom smacked was intensely exciting. “Now. Truth-pure. You will answer with one word only. You work?”

  “Yes, with Gary at the factory.”

  “That is too many words. The factory is good?”

  “No.”

  “This Gary – is he fast lover or slow?”

  “Fast.”

  She spanked me and I discovered the difference between a slap and a spank. The sound hit me first and then the after-burn took over. I gripped the legs of the stool harder.

  “Too fast?”

  “Yes.”

  She spanked me, and although it hurt in the moment, I was finding the complicated after-effect sensuous and rewarding.

  “Gentle lover or rough?”

  “Rough.”

  She spanked me. The sensation of the previous blow tingle-tangled with the weight of the latest one.

  “Too rough?”

  “Yes.”

  She spanked me and then changed sides.

  In those moments of respite I wanted to cry, not because I was in great pain but because of the discovery with every spank that “truth-pure” is a needle, sure and sharp, and you can’t argue with it. I was silent in the knowledge.

  “You don’t come together.”

  “No.”

  “You come alone, when he’s finished.”

  “Yes.”

  She spanked me. I’d thought the needle couldn’t get any sharper.

  “You don’t love him.”

  “No.”

  The next spank was harder than all the others and with it she uttered the words with unforgettable vehemence: “Dump him!”

  She swapped sides and although I accepted the inevitability of the next blow, I dreaded it because my bum was on fire and . . .

  But she touched me. Instead of pulling the knickers tight again, she loosened them and let go of me. I heard her take a step back, heard her breathing. I kept very still, trying to process truth, sen
sation and lust . . . lust because, bent over the stool, all I wanted to do was see her, touch her and thank her.

  “One thing, final,” she said icily. “I am Queen Shar?”

  I loved that question mark and responded to it with my childhood response without hesitation, “I am Princess Eleanor, loyal to Queen Shar.”

  Her answer was new and stronger than anything before in our play. “And one day you will be Queen Ellie.”

  In the following silence I felt the soothing touch of her hands over my tingling buttocks and then she took down my knickers with care and said, in a clear, everyday voice. “You are free now.”

  I got up, turned and with a quick, bare step took her in my arms, hugging her hard but kissing her soft, trying to say thank you. Her returning kiss was loving but restrained. When she broke it, I whispered shyly, “Your Majesty, may I undress you?”

  She nodded and led me to a bedroom where she sat on the edge of the bed and leant back, contemplating me, flecks of uncertainty showing momentarily in her eyes.

  The fire in my belly and the wonderful achy burning feeling all over my bottom made me drunk with love. I knelt and started to take off her boots. Her eagerness betrayed her cool demeanour, so in mischief I slowed down.

  She smiled a smile I will always remember, uncertainty gone from her eyes, replaced by desire, desire for me.

  I slid the zip down the back of each boot with tender care before taking them from her. She wriggled her toes in freedom. I held her ankles together and kissed each toe in turn. Her muted squeal of approval thrilled me.

  I got up and took both hands, pulling her up. Beneath the leather jacket she was naked and even as it slid off her shoulders, my lips found one nipple and my hand the other. My free hand, eager and hunting, found the zip at the back of her skirt. She shimmied it off her hips and was naked beneath it. I stroked her pussy in timid wonder.

  Then Queen Shar took over, kissing me hard, her hands holding my head still until breathless we broke apart.

  She stripped off the duvet. “Get on the bed,” she ordered.

  I lay in the middle, naked and ripe with love. And then to my surprise and delight she pulled three long, flexible canes from under the bed and, one, two, three, slotted them down through the handles at the side of the mattress. Each one had a string at the end.

  We used to make tents when we were girls and this version had been our most sophisticated – she pulled each cane over by the string to form an arch and tied it to the opposite handle.

  She tossed what I now realized was an oversized duvet over and joined me beneath in the “tent”.

  In the dusky light we touched and kissed and cuddled in a way we never had as children and I felt, with blinding clarity, that I was on the crossroads of my life. It wasn’t about the next kiss or the next wonderful sensation. I was standing there at the crossroads and scattered everywhere around in all directions was the rest of my life. And my Queen Shar was going away.

  She clamped a hand roughly over my mouth, pressing tight but murmuring, “You must listen. It wasn’t meant to be this way. I must go away. We might never meet again.”

  I tried to protest but she pressed harder.

  “We might never meet again and we must live these moments that way. Listen. You work, which is good for money, but factory isn’t right. Top computer girl in all school, ahead of all the boys? No! No! Find a course, study. Change your life-course. Dump Gary, you deserve better. You deserve this.”

  She took her hand from my mouth and replaced it with her lips, the stark contrast exquisite. Her words swirled off into memory without argument and the tide of my feelings rose up all over again.

  “You deserve this,” she whispered as her hand parted my legs enough to allow her finger to enter me. “And this,” she murmured as it slid up onto my clitoris and loved me slowly. “And this.”

  I sensed her reach under the pillow, felt something hard entering me and then the most delicious purring vibration began inside me. Her finger returned to love me and her lips found my nipple. I dissolved into jelly.

  The last thing I remember before that unique orgasm was her saying, “And this . . . search for it, without me. Find it. You deserve it.”

  It was the longest, most intense, quivering moment of all and it felt in that one instant as if this was life and all of life.

  She kissed me all the way back down to earth, removed the vibrator and cuddled me into a deep blue oceanic sleep.

  When I woke, she’d gone. I was alone in our beautiful tent. I got up, hoping she’d be in the kitchenette, but the flat was silent and cold.

  There was an envelope on the coffee table, addressed to Princess Eleanor. I opened it. There were instructions – to take down the tent. Put clean linen on the bed. Take the canes and the stool and the vibrator. Take our memories – and the knickers – and keep them safe. By order of Queen Shar. And then a postscript: Live Life!

  SPANKERS

  Carly, Springfield

  It was my last night with my friend, Sabrina, and her husband, Don. I was scheduled to fly off home the next morning, back to my own husband. So, Sabrina suggested a final night out on the town, just us two girls.

  I was really amazed at how much Sabrina had changed. I’d first met her back in college, when we’d been paired up for a dorm room. She was such a wild child back then, always getting into trouble and hardly ever studying. Her black hair had been razor-cut and streaked with purple, her tats on full display on her arms, chest and lower back, her wardrobe consisting of little more than slash-skirts, booty shorts and torn crop tops, the girl sporting ear and nose and nipple and pussy rings by the dozen.

  I’d gotten mixed up in some of her hijinks, almost gotten expelled along with her a couple of times. But, somehow, we’d still both managed to get our degrees – hers in Fine Arts and mine in Commerce. And then we’d parted company, headed back to our home cities, only speaking to each other every six months or so after that.

  Just talking to her on the phone over the years, however, I could tell she’d matured and settled down. But, still, it was a shock to see her face-to-face for the first time in ten years, and meet her husband. I could hardly recognize the self-proclaimed “crazy chick” from college. Her hair was styled short and conservative, the tats covered up or removed, almost all the piercings sealed up from lack of jewellery, her personality downright calm and collected. And her husband was exactly the kind of milquetoast I never in a million years would’ve expected Sabrina to marry, if she ever did marry.

  Don’s a pharmacist, with a personality as bland as a little white pill. He’s short, balding and plump, with a round face, grey eyes and wire-rimmed glasses. Sabrina towers over the man, and uses her pretty face and lean, attractive body to obviously get anything she wants. But she still treats him with respect and borderline obedience. They seem to have a very happy, if extremely low-key, marriage.

  The couple had taken me out to dinner, the theatre, some museums and art galleries, but I’d never actually been out with Sabrina alone until that last night of my visit, which I was seriously thinking then would be my one and only visit. But that’s when all sweet hell broke loose, and Sabrina showed her true colours once again.

  The woman had changed into a short, plaid skirt, a white blouse and black buckle shoes, and had mussed up her raven hair. Some of her tats were showing again, and she was wearing a silver nose ring and earrings, the indentations in her tied-up blouse indicating nipple rings. She urged me to dress like I was back in school, too – grade school – but she wouldn’t say why. She just promised me “an education”, as I slipped on a short skirt, my pearl-white blouse and a pair of knee-high black boots, and tied my long, red hair back with a blue ribbon.

  I watched her heavily gloss her lips and rim her eyes with mascara, some old, warm memories suddenly flooding back to make me hot all over. Something more exciting than “The Mousetrap” was going to be sprung tonight, I just knew, even before Sabrina gave my nipples a playful twea
k and flicked her serpentine tongue over my lips.

  She kissed Don on the top of his bald head, and we were off.

  Sabrina handed me the card in the car. It was an eggshell-white business card, with “Spankers – We’ll Make You Blush” embossed on it in blood-red letters, along with an address, phone number and website.

  “‘Spankers’?” I asked.

  Sabrina smiled and patted my bare knee, driving out of the parking garage and onto the city streets. “It’s a club. A place I go to – occasionally. You’ll see.”

  I saw. Never’d seen anything like it before.

  It was located in the basement of a decrepit old brick building in the downtown core. Music blasted my ears and flashing lights and strange sights blinded my eyes, as soon as we descended an iron staircase and pushed our way through a heavy, red metal door. It was a small bar filled with big sound and wild people – all women, almost all dressed in various shades of form-fitting leather, PVC and latex, most exhibiting more tats and piercings than an outlaw bikers’ convention, some wielding whips, chains and other torture devices that would’ve been at home back in the day of the Inquisition.

  I took a step back, stunned.

  Sabrina took my hand, pulled me forwards.

  The pair of us girls were dressed downright churchly compared to the perverted-up throng of women. Angry-looking dominants and meek-looking submissives stared at us as we threaded our way through the mob and the tables, the ladies sneering and whimpering as befitted their positions on the peccadillo pecking order.

  “Do you want a drink!?” Sabrina screamed at me when we reached the black leather bar set against the far, red velvet wall.

  I jerked my head from side to side. Alcohol couldn’t have prepared me for this, and it couldn’t anesthetize me to it now.

  “Good! It only dulls the pain!” Sabrina yelled back. “And we don’t want that!” she added with an evil grin.

  The old Sabrina, the wild, young Sabrina. Her red-glossed nails bit into the palm of my hand as she dragged me through a thick-padded door at the back of the bar, down a flight of crimson-carpeted, concrete steps.