Best of Best Lesbian Erotica 2
Page 24
Ms. Carlyle looked interested.
“So anyway, this magnificent lesbian poet said at the end of her set that she was influenced by a Victorian writer by the name of Emily Wittingham. I wanted to go up to her and ask her for more information about that writer, but I didn’t want anyone to think I was a lesbian––”
“Oh. Yes. Of course,” Ms. Carlyle interjected with a sweet smile.
“So I went to the library and I looked on the Internet; I even called the Library of Congress. I can’t get my hands on her!”
Ms. Carlyle pushed a real swig of lemonade up over her teeth and then gulped. “Yes, dear. I am very well acquainted with the work of Emily Wittingham. She had a way of using rhyme and meter to stimulate the subconscious of the reader. One could read a piece about a woman playing the piano––a popular pastime of middle-class women in those days––and end up turned-on without knowing why. There is one poem called ‘Crushing Cotton’—I could swear it is about two lesbians pushing their pussies together.”
My mind slipped out of my body and I was visited by visions of naked blondes, brunettes, and redheads with throbbing, hot-red cunts slung, sprawled, and spread-eagled on clouds of cotton before me. The all wanted my hand inside them.
“Norma. I know you’re hot, baby.”
“I beg your pardon? How do you mean?”
She laughed good-naturedly. “You need something wet on your hands.”
I was immediately embarrassed––and so damned aroused by the possibility that she knew about the dozens of lesbians I had humping in my head.
“When the extremities are cool the entire body cools.” She wiped the perspiration from my top lip with her soft fingertip. Her glance down at my hefty cleavage, which was now heaving violently, elicited from her a very soft but audible, “I ache to fuck you.” Suddenly she sat up straight, squinted her eyes playfully, and then leaned back languidly in her chair. As she spoke with me her hand busied itself with stroking away the droplets of water that had formed on the shaft of her glass. She resumed her commentary about Emily Wittingham.
“What Wittingham is able to do, and better than any lesbian writer since, is penetrate you so deeply…that you are actually forced to abandon everything you’ve learned about how poetry should be interpreted and feel what you’re reading. Don’t initiate a partnership with the poet in creating the meaning, just allow me––I mean, Emily––to caress your mouth, your eyes, your ears, and even your skin as you see, speak, and feel the piece.” Ms. Carlyle licked her lips in enthusiasm. “A real high-caliber writer knows how to take her own ideas and disguise them within the perspective of the character, do you know what I mean? And she’ll pump and pump and keep pumping into you that part of herself that makes her original.”
I nodded––trying not to lick my own lips.
“Have you ever seen the movie God, Give Me Wings? It starred Daisy Andersen and Celia Davis. They are a couple offscreen. Daisy does the writing, I believe. And Celia directs most of the pictures. Well, a little after the second act, the climax––which women artists are noted for fabricating better than men––Daisy slips her hand into Celia’s drawers and steals the cherry––”
“Oh, yes. The only clue that she had been visited by the virgin nymph.”
“Okay, darling, well that came from a Wittingham poem. Emily believed in immortality. But she lived in a period in which scientific and technological knowledge was not as vast as ours. She knew the only way she could become immortal was through her poetry. The poem itself still resonates––to those who can even find it. Technological advancement doesn’t necessarily inspire good taste.” She sipped a little of her lemonade at that and sucked a juicy piece of pulp through her teeth. “Fascinating isn’t it, dear?”
“Quite.”
“Have you ever had an artist suck you so deeply into her fantasy that way? The good stuff can be difficult to get, but the resolution of the tension is exhilarating just the same.”
“I think I’ve just broken into another sweat.”
“That’s Emily. She knows how to touch you.”
“Glory. When I was handling my load without you I was so tense––”
“Come in the ocean…. Swim with me.”
At that moment I realized that one needn’t ever say yes to a proposition such as that; a slight drop of the jaw will suffice. Professor Carlyle, serious, fiercely intelligent, and––I’d just noticed it––incredibly soft skinned, had just asked me to go skinny-dipping with her…and I couldn’t wait. She rose from her chair and stood before me, looking terrific in her white linen blouse and matching pants. She took me by the hand and led me barefoot down to the beach. She came close and did to me what I’d fantasized about since the first day she had entered the lecture hall and introduced herself to the class.
With her tongue pressed into my mouth she slipped her hands under my half-shirt and pulled my breasts so firmly that I fell into her. She slid her hands from under my shirt slowly, savoring every inch of my perky, tight girlishness. She cradled my temples and pressed her face into my hair. Her long, aristocratic nose was nestled in my ear as she fumbled with the belt buckle on my denim shorts. I had to help her undo the buckle. She never broke the connection of our faces, but seemed pleased as punch when she grasped my rear to remove my panties and found I wasn’t wearing any. My shorts dropped once they were completely unfastened and I stepped out of them. I stood naked as I watched her undo her own blouse, and parted my legs slightly to enjoy the sea breeze as it caressed my very moist, downy mound and labia. I reached out to assist Professor Carlyle in removing her garments, but she nudged my hand away. As she let her blouse and lace brassiere fall from her body, I gasped. Don’t show me everything, I don’t want to come yet. I was pleased to see I was not the only one standing on the sand with breasts that stood up when unbound by a bra. She got out of her pants quickly, then exposed her whiter-than-white teeth at me expectantly. I looked down at her pussy. I could see the long strands of dirty-blonde down through the lace front of her Victoria’s Secret underwear. She looked down at herself, and grabbing a good portion of the material, very smoothly and with much pomp, ripped her drawers down her pelvis and hips and off. She stepped toward me gracefully––like a lady, stroked my left cheek with the lace, and pressed it gently against my nose. She dropped her underwear beside us and we just stood there, each with her hands about the other’s waist. Each woman’s cunt pressed firmly against the other’s cunt. She kissed me.
I sucked my middle finger and tickled her asshole a little.
She chuckled. “Shall we?”
“Let’s.”
The surf had risen a couple of inches on the waterfront, washing our feet and our clothes away at the same time. I would be naked with her forever. We’d removed all our garments and waded into the deep, wet sea. Stripped of our clothes––and all pretenses.
At Long Last
Madeleine Oh
This was it.
As the train slowed, I snapped my novel shut and pulled my suitcase from between the seats. In a few minutes we’d be face to face after thirty years. Was it curiosity or obsession that had me haring up to Scotland to see the man who’d shattered my twenty-two-year-old heart when he married my cousin, Penelope?
Why was I here? To see how the years had treated Alec? Did I hope to find him sporting a massive beer gut or sagging jowls? Perhaps recovering from a triple bypass and double hip replacements? Sitting in a wheelchair pushed around by his brand-new trophy wife?
If he looked the same as he had at twenty-five, I would rail against the injustice in the world. He didn’t. But he wasn’t the one who was recognized first.
“Jasmine Waters! May I call you Jasmine?”
It was Emily, wife number two. One of my faithful readers. “Of course you may. It’s my name.”
“But is seems so….You being so famous and….”
“You must call me Jasmine. Alec does.” She all but blushed. How deliciously English and young she
was, like a fat ripe plum, ready to drop off the branch into my hand.
“He calls you Jazzikins.”
He would. He had. Couldn’t call me Jazz or Jasmine the way everyone else did. He had to make up a special name that still had the power to tweak my soul. Standing beside her was my old heartache himself. “Hi, Alec.”
A man who had left his wife with an autistic teenager and a senile mother-in-law had no right to thrive on it. But heaven help us all, he was still gorgeous. His dark hair was halfway gray, but it looked good on him. And as for his laugh lines, where had they come from? From smiling to himself as he walked away from his responsibilities?
“Jazzikins!” His smile was so sincere, I wanted to spit. “Fantastic to see you!”
I held out my hand before he had a chance to even think about hugging me. “Alec. It’s good to see you.” That wasn’t a lie. I was satisfying my curiosity and, to be truthful, he was as easy on the eyes as ever. He still had a smile to invoke impure thoughts in virgins’ minds. It had in mine. He’d just never delivered.
“Jazzikins.” I restrained a wince. “After all these years.” He grabbed my hand and pulled me into a hug before I could evade, planting a great smacking kiss on my left cheek. While I took a deep, cleansing breath, he stepped back, looking me up and down as if contemplating a purchase. “I still can’t believe it! You’re here, and all because of Emmsy. Who’d have thought it?”
Thought what? That I could write? That his wife could read? That he was incapable of using anyone’s full name? I made a point of not snarling. “How could I not come? Invited to Scotland by a loyal and ardent reader?” He’d better not think I’d spent all day in a train for him. But he did.
“Alec,” Emily put a hand on his shoulder. Marking her territory, perhaps? “Let’s head for the car. I bet Jasmine wants to kick off her shoes and have a drink.”
I decided I might like her, even if she had supplanted my cousin, and hoped her idea of a “drink” entailed something more than a cup of tea. I couldn’t help wondering what Alec had told her about me. Was I his ex-wife’s cousin, the sister of a school friend, an old, lost love? Most likely, none of the above. Maybe he never remembered breaking my heart.
His dark-green Jaguar was an improvement on the Deux Chevaux he owned the last time I’d ridden with him. His transport might have changed but his laugh hadn’t; neither had his voice, or the way he drove too fast, and slid through lights as they changed. He made a very Alec crack and Emily laughed, throwing her head back a little, shaking her long, chestnut-colored hair and showing the vulnerable expanse of a long, pale neck. I’d always longed for a long neck. Still, I had bigger boobs—but she had Alec.
Did I honestly care now? Come to that, had I ever really been in the running? I’d fallen for him like a felled oak. And gotten over him, or so I always told myself. I wasn’t the type to do unrequited love. But I’d hurt. Standing as bridesmaid at Penelope’s wedding was an agony I hoped never to repeat. Now was payback time! Alec owed for breaking my virgin heart, leaving a gaping hole in my cousin’s life, and for the handicapped son he’d abandoned. Penelope wouldn’t seek revenge. She was far too kind and up to her eyes with providing care. Simon missed his father desperately, Alec’s mother was too senile to realize he’d gone, and poor Penelope was aging daily.
But I was here and willing, and as we settled in the living room, overlooking the garden, I prepared to settle the score. One way or another.
Trouble was, I liked Emily. I could hardly fault her for falling for Alec; I’d done the same when I hadn’t been that much younger. And she was a fan. She had every one of my books in hardback and all but kissed my hands when I gave her an advance copy of the new one. Hard to hate a woman who admires your work and mixes a mean g-and-t.
By the time we were halfway through dinner, I was seriously thinking about smushing Alec’s face into his tiramisu as he pontificated about local politics, the virtues of his new car, and the tremendous responsibilities of his job. How many more “Jazzikins” and “Emmsies” and “old things” was I prepared to endure? It was the last that got to me the worst. He had two years on me and I didn’t have gray hair. Thanks to science.
Emily was far more tolerant than I. That’s what love does to you. But I caught the occasional spark of irritation, and the glances of female complicity she shot my way.
I grinned back as her dark, gray eyes flashed amusement and when she hugged me for helping her load the dishwasher, I squeezed back. Her body was warm and soft and her breasts pressed nicely against mine. She was my height, her body firmer and her breasts higher, but we fit together, the old and new loves of Alec Carpenter.
“How’s the coffee coming along, girls?” he called from the sitting room. Emily looked ready to give him hot coffee where it hurt.
It was an odd after-dinner conversation. Emily wanted to talk about my books. I was more than happy to oblige. Alec didn’t exactly sneer at mysteries but he came darn close. Then he committed the cardinal sin. “How much do you make on a book?”
“Tell me what you earned last year, and I’ll tell you what I made.”
He declined the invitation with an irritating laugh. “Oh, Jazzikins! You’ve changed.”
In more ways than he could guess.
I broke up the evening by pleading weariness. Emily kissed me good night with a promise of tea in the morning. Her lips were warm and ripe and young. Hugging her was a joy. I looked forward to my early morning cuppa.
She brought it wearing a short pink robe with satin rosebuds scattered over the yoke. It suited her, bringing out highlights in her dark hair. She blushed deliciously when I told her so. Alec had seldom told me that I looked beautiful either. She sat on the edge of my bed and I watched her firm nipples ride underneath the thin cotton. I’d found my revenge. I just had to find the means.
Alec handed it to me at breakfast.
Emily was annoyed.
I was thrilled.
“Why this weekend? Didn’t you tell them you had a visitor?” Emily gave him the closest thing to a pout I’d seen yet.
“Never mind.” Time to smooth some amicable oil over the marital waters. “If Alec has a crisis at work, he needs to go.” Emily muttered disagreement.
“I knew Jazzikins would understand.” I got Alec’s best smile, and heartfelt regrets. He did both really well. “I feel terrible mucking up your weekend when you’ve come so far.”
“You haven’t mucked it up. Emily and I will frolic together in the fleshpots of Aberdeen.” Emily’s face brightened. Alec glowered. No other word for it. I gave him my sweet smile. “She’ll look after me, I’m certain.” He looked worried. He should. “You go take care of your crisis. Don’t bother about us.” I sure wasn’t going to bother about him. And if I had my way, neither would Emily.
He streaked off in his Jaguar. Emily and I set out in her little Fiesta. Size was of no importance.
“Take me on the tourist tour,” I asked. “Show me the sights, and all the bookshops. We can stop somewhere for lunch and somewhere for tea and somewhere for a drink, and if we really feel like it, another somewhere for dinner.”
She giggled like a schoolgirl let out of boarding school. We visited the bookstores, and had coffee in a dark-paneled café where we sat close in a corner and she confided in me that Alec worked terribly long hours. His new wife felt neglected. She took me to the rose garden and the maze. We got nicely lost, and held hands muddling our way out.
She drove us to the beach. “It’s almost deserted,” I said looking at the great crescent of golden sand. “No one’s swimming.”
“Too damn cold. This is the North Sea.”
It wouldn’t stop me. “I’ve got to put a toe in after coming this far.”
I left my shoes in the car and ran across the beach. Emily hesitated a few seconds, before following me. The tide was out. I zigzagged over the hard sand, glancing over my shoulder. Emily followed, cutting corners to catch up. I let her, just as we neared the water.
“Never!” She followed me, and gasped. “This is ridiculous!”
I wouldn’t argue. We ran along the water’s edge, keeping to the firm sand. My toes were tingling with cold as I outran Emily again. The girl was no marathoner, that was for sure, so I slowed to take her hand, as I made a beeline for the car.
By the time we got there, my feet were numb and turning red, and my calves stung from salt water and North Sea wind. Emily was shivering. “Alec will never believe we did that!” Her right eye watered from the cold, but she grinned.
“Why need he know? Do you tell him everything?”
She shook her head. Slowly. “Not everything.”
Smart girl.
We wiped our feet on Alec’s cricketing sweater. The closely knitted wool warmed our skin as it absorbed the damp and the sand. The sweater was unwearable by the time we were finished. Emily shook her head at it. “He’ll throw a wobbly when he sees that.”
“Let’s save him the worry, then.” I took the sand- and salt-encrusted heap and tossed it toward the beach, where the wind caught it momentarily, whipping it higher before it fell, wet and heavy, on the sand.
Emily watched it arc up and fall. I wasn’t too sure of the look on her face. Regret? Shock? Worry? Until she smiled. “I doubt he’ll miss it until next summer.” She shrugged. A wry smile twisted her mouth. She took my hand and squeezed.
I pulled her to me. Slowly. Giving her time to draw back, I wrapped my arms around her and dropped a soft kiss on her forehead. “I’ll never tell,” I said. She kissed back, a soft whisper of skin on my chilled lips. The warmth of her breath was lost in the wind but the heat of her body wasn’t. We stood, arms entwined, warming each other against the wind. It wasn’t enough. Emily shivered. “We need to get out of the cold,” I said. “Where’s the nearest place for a drink?”