The Mammoth Book of Lesbian Erotic Confessions

by Barbara Cardy

  I said that’d been dangerous, but good for her. I knew plenty of scumbags; especially the weirdos who think they’ve got a free ticket to be abusive.

  She looked timid and uncertain when she asked if I’d take the case. I agreed, wondering what else I could say to keep her there. She was enchanting.

  She was genuinely concerned, though, asking was I sure, what if someone recognized me and connected me to seedy places I might’ve visited years ago and what about my reputation, having her as a client in a public court. I told her not to worry. In a client/lawyer situation no one would crucify me for defending her and if his lawyer raised dirt I’d raise a lot more.

  She sighed deeply again and her bosom heaved. I had difficulty diverting my eyes and had an urge to kiss and tongue the crack between her breasts and all the other cracks she had. I coughed in silent frustration. We were done for now and she stood up to leave, asking me to send my invoice to her private address.

  I stared at her and said my services would be free. She replied I was kind and asked would I really do that. I said only for her and if she wanted anything else – anything – she only had to ask and I’d be there for her beautiful, charming self. I supposed she was used to flattery, but she didn’t indicate that. I was blatantly flirting, but, hey, at that moment I would’ve cut off my right arm for her.

  When she left, it only took a few minutes to size up my course of action. Who needed a court case for a scumbag? Please understand, I’m not usually one for contacting crooks in the Mafia world, but I’ve represented a few and, quite frankly, if you win, they regard you as a friend whether you want to be or not. Anyway, sometimes a dirty duty has to be done.

  My contact was a guy named Mario and I dialled his number to “hire” him. I knew he loathed female abuse and killed such men for sport, so to speak. He was riled up and ready to go before I finished relating the circumstances, which is why he got into trouble so much.

  Confidentiality is paramount for a dominatrix, especially credit card information; but I had it on file. From that I got the guy’s address, obtained his marital status and job details and how often he took a crap. He worked for the government. He’d be a wimp.

  “Sure, my friend,” Mario said. “I’ll handle it. We’ll eat at Da Franco Ristorante afterwards and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  “I never called you,” I replied. He knew what I meant and that I’d pay him cash out of my own pocket, untraceable and no questions asked.

  A week later I received a letter from the scumbag’s lawyer abruptly stating that the case was dismissed on the grounds of mistaken identity – the fuck-head. I owed Mario a favour.

  I took the letter as my entry into Judy’s personal life, yet I’d no idea what to expect. Would she find me attractive? Would she be objectionable or readily sympathetic about my planned gesture to visit her? I juggled my thoughts back and forth and decided to take the risk.

  The following Sunday, I learnt she’d decided to have a lazy day, so she was surprised when someone buzzed her apartment. No one did that without calling ahead and clients only used her advertised number to be directed to the “dungeon” she owned in a grey stone building facing the waterfront, on rue de la Commune opposite Alexandra Quay.

  “Yes,” she said curtly over the intercom, indicating irritation at being disturbed.

  “It’s me,” I replied, and she recognized my voice and let me in. I took the elevator.

  “Well, well,” she sang, sounding happy after opening the door, and planted a full kiss on my lips, which made me tingle with pleasant surprise. “Doing the social rounds or what?”

  She suddenly realized she hadn’t taken a shower or groomed herself, and pulled the collars of her robe together, trying to hide her chest and flicking her head back to get her long unbrushed hair off her face. She apologized because she wasn’t expecting anyone. I didn’t give a damn. She looked good to me and I had a great urge to paint her – lots of times, actually.

  I stood there grinning foolishly with a bunch of red roses to signify, I hoped, the possibility of romance, and two bottles of prosecco to indicate a celebration.

  In my opinion, prosecco is the same kind of stuff as regular French champagne. It’s a sparkling wine with a little less body and a lighter taste; not as good, but tasty nevertheless and comes from Italy at considerably cheaper prices. However, a while ago, to save for an evening with a very special lover, if I was lucky enough to get one, I bought a top prestige cuvée – a magnum of 1976 vintage Dom Pérignon champagne – that cost over a thousand bucks.

  But, I’m digressing.

  So I’d confronted her by surprise and we sat down on a sofa. I told her she looked a picture of delight. I was pushing the envelope but she didn’t seem to mind; from the way she kept blinking her eyes with her lips slightly curled up at the edges, and the ways she allowed her robe to flap open enough to reveal more of her illusive crack, and below it, her slim, inviting legs, with one thigh crossed over the other, I was sure she was encouraging me.

  We chatted about the case, which I explained without going into details and not mentioning Mario by name. I said it hadn’t cost a dime. She didn’t believe me and said it wasn’t fair to give my services for free and then pay someone to do whatever it was had been done. I gave her a freaky lawyer’s smile. Then she breathed one of her exasperated sighs that I found kind of cute – well, anything she did was cute – and excused herself while she showered and took the bottles of prosecco to put in the fridge.

  The way she sashayed out of the room agitated my vagina and made me wet.

  She came back refreshed, without make-up, with her hair bundled up into a top-knot, dressed in a sapphire blouse, tight white slacks, no bra and bare feet. She was sexy as hell and I nearly lunged at her in my eagerness to feel her gem of a body.

  She was a beauty without a single blemish on her skin, but, perhaps due to the lighting, I noticed for the first time how old her eyes were in contrast to her near-fortyish age. It hinted that she’d seen a lot during her life and had taken it all as a burden on her own soul. She gazed at me wisely, I thought, and must’ve been considering the odds. If she was on the same wavelength, yeah, I’d have to agree that a match between a dominatrix and a lawyer would strike some as being a rare concoction.

  I started twiddling my fingers and couldn’t keep still, constantly shifting to sit in different positions, although I was comfortable. She noticed and asked why I was fidgety when I was always cool, calm and collected and I replied that I didn’t know. She said I knew very well and asked was I nervous. I said yes, mumbling, “Because of you,” and biting my tongue with an image that she’d kick me out, using her spiked high-heeled boots. Instead, she put her hand on my thigh and gave me another wise look.

  She suddenly veered away from the conversation. She got up, proposing brunch, and didn’t wait for a reply. I shouted after her and said, naively, that I didn’t think she could cook. Her head leaned out of the kitchen and she asked me if I thought she was only capable of smacking people – of course she could bloody well cook! I could only remark, “Oh,” and then she added that that sort of remark could result in a sore bottom.

  Well, she likes doing that, although I did tell her I wasn’t into it myself. Yet here I was, involved with Judy the Dom and wondering what her approach in the bedroom would be, if indeed she was one who wanted to practice in private what she forbade professionally.

  She informed me her eggs benedict recipe was a dream and I replied that it sounded great. She scampered back with a pot of Mocha Java coffee, mugs, cutlery and serviettes on a tray and asked me to go out onto the balcony and set the table. It didn’t take her long before she shouted that the meal was ready and she was coming. I suppose it was meant to be a warning.

  I remember the minute she stepped onto the balcony; it was the moment that changed our lives. She was naked. I suddenly lost interest in eggs benedict. She giggled as she bent over to kiss me and started taking off my clothes as well. I didn�
��t object. It was a nice warm day and the balcony was surrounded by green opaque glass, against which stood a higher lattice trellis encased in evergreen ivy. No one could see us. Funnily enough, I wasn’t embarrassed. In fact, I thought it was kinky.

  I scoffed the delicious meal with glee and could have had another portion. After we finished, she gave me a strange, inquisitive look.

  “Sammy,” she asked softly. “Do you think we could?”

  It was like she was carrying on with the thoughts I’d had, on the same wavelength. I’ve always wondered how she did that, but all she says when I ask is, “Voodoo.”

  I told her eagerly that I believed we could make a go of it. She threw a lot of barriers in the way, but I would hear nothing of them. I said the fact we had different professions would have nothing to do with our relationship. But she was worried about her business and I assured her nothing had to change. It sounded like we were having a business conversation, negotiating terms, but of course we were only trying to put everything into perspective.

  We talked for about two hours, had a few gin and tonics between times and then decided to fetch the prosecco and flutes, kissing now and then as we did so, gliding our hands softly across our boobs, backs and bottoms, gradually building up our appetites for whatever would happen, which was obvious to both of us; and yet we held back. We returned to the balcony, still au naturel, both wanting each other, but needing to know more about ourselves first.

  She poured and made a toast as my glass clinked against hers; then I told her what’d been on my mind for a long time.

  “I’m fairly well off and thinking of quitting my job,” I said.

  She asked me why and I told her because it bored me, that I dabbled in sketching and painting and it’s what I wanted to do, especially erotic images of her. She beamed radiantly and said she’d always fancied herself hanging on a wall, nicely framed and nude. I said I’d do her from all different angles and she cheekily inferred I didn’t just mean paintings. We were making ourselves randy as the sun began to sink and it got a bit chilly, sending us indoors. It was a seduction towards the first chapter of our new beginning.

  In the meantime, she asked me if I liked Frangelico, a hazelnut and herb-flavoured liqueur. We laughed when we both declared it was a favourite. I said it must be our karma, but she rebutted by saying she didn’t believe in that rubbish since there were few things in life that couldn’t be avoided, because we do what we do willingly and can reject what we don’t want. I couldn’t argue with that.

  I thought Judy must be more experienced sexually than me, but I was totally inaccurate with my assessment. The answer wasn’t complicated, she said. Her daily routine was anything but sex, despite the clients being naked. She’d developed a technique of regarding them as objects, rather like a doctor. She’d had sex, of course, but always knew she was more inclined towards a lesbian relationship, but had been too reticent and, to repeat the standard excuse, too busy to bother.

  After supper she fetched two cordial glasses with a half-full bottle of Frangelico to complete the celebration of the case and our joyful rendezvous. And I suppose, with the barbequed steak, mixed salad, ribald laughter and plenty of booze, we gave ourselves the necessary Dutch courage to giddily meander to her bedroom.

  When we got there, giggling like a couple of kids, she grabbed the blanket and sheets and flung them on the floor shouting, “Whoopee!” Then she pushed me down and jumped on me.

  It’s amazing. I hadn’t had the same feelings with the other women, except Leah. Consequently, we went at it enthusiastically with the exultation of two bodies simply being together and enjoying our mutual discoveries.

  I’ll never forget that night. We were animals. Our love making was soft and sensual, rough and hard, using all the invigorating protrusions we could get at, which often didn’t seem quick enough as we rolled about, she on top and then me, fighting, it seemed, for every ounce of sex in us, fingering our nipples, licking our clits, sinking our entire faces into the sweet juices of our cunts, stimulated by the exotic taste of them. Then I chinned her warm chasm again, lapping her insides with my tongue, making my nose tease her clit until she writhed and screamed from the sheer joy of her pulsating orgasm. Then she fisted me, sucking my clit gently at the same time, until I too was beyond control and my whole body jerked from the gleeful spasms that spread through me like a ferocious, untamed fire.

  The perspiration from our efforts was warm and sticky, but we held each other tightly as if there was no tomorrow. And as the evening light faded into darkness, we declared our love and dropped off to sleep, each apart with our dreams, yet together in our embrace.

  When we awoke, cuddling comfily, she asked me what my fantasies were. I thought about it briefly and reinforced my dislike for spanking and blurted out my partiality for anal and my fear of being tied up, gagged and helpless. I don’t think anything could surprise her about human nature and the frailties that could plagued one’s consciousness, because, with that wise look in her eyes, she clamped my legs together with hers, put her hand over my mouth and smacked my thigh, which was unexpected, and I suddenly thought, “Nah, she wouldn’t do those things to me.” Then she promised plenty of fun, because fantasies and fears together can fulfil elusive desires. Her fantasy was dominance and sex in a “strappado” position with a woman she loved – namely me – which she’d not tried before. Perhaps we’d like it. I said I’d give it a try, but I’d no idea what it was. She said wait and see, it was new for her too, which left me on tenterhooks, only to discover later what she’d meant by “elusive desires”.

  The following day was Monday and neither of us wanted to get up. We just lay there, holding each other, saying nothing. I don’t know why it was funny, but I laughed because I didn’t have any important appointments that couldn’t be cancelled; she hadn’t either. So we smiled and shrugged, took a shower and ate a leisurely continental breakfast.

  As she asked me to tell her more about my wish to be an artist, an idea suddenly formed in my mind.

  “You know,” I said. “It would be nice if you came to live with me. I’ll work from home and also be your exclusive, personal lawyer, and it’s a short commute to your dungeon.”

  She asked me where that was. I said in the boonies, McMasterville on the Richelieu River, with twenty-five acres, two horses, a cow, five chickens and a goose that roams about thinking it ruled the place, as well as an overweight cat called Plumpy and a mangy stray dog named Muffin, that wouldn’t go away.

  She asked me if that’s what I really wanted, to be with her. I said yes, absolutely, positively yes. So instead of going to work, we took a trip to my place and there was no turning back.

  On the way, she asked me to stop at her dungeon. She ran in and returned quickly with a sports bag, threw it on the back seat and said, “OK, let’s go!”

  We soon arrived at my property. I had spent years renovating the old farm house and she adored it. I left all the oak cross and vertical supporting beams in place and exposed the interior plastered walls to their original bare stone work, which gave a “dungeon-look” to all the rooms, which was not intentional but now took on a different meaning. I also knocked the original two bedrooms and bathroom into one, resulting in a huge loft-type area, and again had to leave all the wood beams and supports in place to avoid collapsing the roof.

  Throughout the house were scattered a noticeable mismatch of antique furnishings I’d picked up over the years, including a four-poster bed. She was instantly enamoured when we entered the bedroom, and noticed a large butcher’s hook on the centre ceiling beam, from which hung an ornate wrought-iron chandelier with eight lights that I’d purchased during a trip to Budapest. Next to it, five feet away, was another hook that was there when I bought the house.

  I saw her tongue pass swiftly across her lips before she turned to me and said it was a fortunate room and ideal for what she had in mind. I asked her what and she said she’d planned a surprise and that the hook hadn’t been anticipat
ed, but would make the scene extremely acute for me. I was none the wiser.

  We went downstairs and I made coffee. She sat on my “Throne Chair”, as I call it, a carved piece of furniture that was the centrepiece of the room, looking like a princess about to voice a command, expecting to be instantly obeyed. Then she stared at me with a crooked smile and suddenly fetched the bag that she’d dumped by the front door and repeated what she’d said in the car: “OK, let’s go!” And I followed her meekly upstairs.

  She told me to strip, then gave me a hair band and found a pair of my high heeled shoes to put on while she began explaining the items as she took them out of the bag. It was a simple assembly, but only the double dildo and tube of jelly were familiar.

  She produced a rope made of scarlet blue nylon with matching velvet wrist and elbow bands. A third item was a black steel rod attached to ankle restrainers. It was obvious she was going to tie me up, but I trusted her even though I was beginning to feel queasy. But the fourth item gave me the creeps – a studded dog collar. She told me these were the basics required for a “strappado” – a restraint position – that could be quite disturbing and painful if a victim suffered it for a long time. Therefore, her fantasy was to make me powerless and bring me to agonizing heights of pleasure that I couldn’t imagine.

  I watched curiously as she looped the rope to the spare hook on the ceiling beam. She told me to stand under it two feet back then fastened my ankles to the rod, after which she bound my wrists and elbows tightly together behind my back. She attached the rope to the wrist restraints and hoisted my arms backwards and up to keep me suspended in the same position, my heels fortunately supporting my feet – otherwise I’d be on my toes – yet automatically forcing my spinning head to bow downwards as though in prayer, with my bottom sticking out for the taking, all of which was exceedingly uncomfortable. I was trussed like a chicken ready for slaughter. I shivered helplessly in my stark nakedness when she patted my butt sharply on each side. I didn’t like any of this at all.