The Mammoth Book of Lesbian Erotica

by Barbara Cardy

  She bowed her head and kissed Vivienne’s neck, bit her earlobes as her heart raced. Her fingers moved to explore the other woman and they masturbated each other with growing vigour.

  Their lips met once again, bodies pressed close. Sue’s palm pressed against the shaven mound between Vivienne’s legs as her fingers pushed in and out, the older woman’s fingers mirroring the same movements as they climbed towards the height and heat of ecstasy.

  Breathing heavy, hands exploring, bodies close, and the air filled with their scent, Sue and Vivienne were caught up in the intensity of the moment. Their spare hands stroked and grasped with growing urgency, fingers of their other hands moving in and out, in and out.

  Sue let out a long, low moan of intense pleasure as she came, Vivienne following only moments later. Their fingers slowing, they collapsed to the floor together and lay down in each other’s arms.

  When she opened her eyes, Sue found Vivienne staring at her. “Did I pass my staff assessment?” she asked quietly.

  “With flying colours,” replied Vivienne. “But I might have to give you another assessment tomorrow.”

  They chuckled as they held each other close and enjoyed the gently fading sensations of orgasm.

  “I have something to admit,” said Vivienne with a hint of nervousness.

  Sue looked into her eyes with genuine concern. “What’s wrong?”

  “It wasn’t just Kerry’s idea to get you down into the stockroom for some extra fun. I saw your first encounter on the security monitor and talked to Kerry about it.” Vivienne sighed. “It was a way to get you up here and . . .” She paused. “I’m sorry.”

  Sue stared at her as she took in her words. “I’m glad you did it. I’ve been fantasizing about this ever since I first met you.”

  “Really?” responded Vivienne in surprise.

  “Really,” replied Sue as she leant forward and kissed the older woman tenderly. “Anyway, I’ve always wanted to star in my own erotic movie,” she added.

  The two women smiled and laughed. They held each other close in the small office. Slowly their bodies became aroused once more and their lips pressed close. A beam of sunlight shone upon their nakedness as they entwined on the floor in the heat of passion, lost to the world, but found in each other.

  “Please”

  Linda Suzuki

  I never liked teaching in spring. Classroom windows are open, sounds of games played on the quad drift in with smells of new mown grass and apple blossoms – no teacher has material to compete with that. So when the dean invited me to teach a class for the spring semester, I turned her down – saying (honestly enough) that my research left me no time.

  A week or so later, I was at a department happy hour, standing with a group of colleagues when someone asked this question: If you could teach any class – any subject, any structure – what would you teach?

  The answer came to me easily because I’d thought about it so many times, and it came out of my mouth easily because I’d had a few glasses of wine. “History of Erotic Fiction,” I said, much to the delight of the rest. Only then did I notice that the dean had come up behind me in time to hear.

  “How serious are you?” she asked, smiling. And before I could answer, asked, “Serious enough to teach it this spring?”

  She had called my bluff, called it in front of a half dozen other professors, and everyone was looking at me, waiting for my answer.

  I restricted the class to seniors, on the theory that the students would be over 21 and I would have to field fewer irate phone calls from parents. I also restricted the class to language-arts majors, to keep out the football players, frat boys, and other voyeurs. On the first day of class, I had ten students – the maximum number I had agreed to take.

  The syllabus was straightforward. We began with cave paintings, then pulled back the curtains on successive eras, surveying the erotic fiction that was one of the few human constants across continents and cultures. Grades were based on weekly papers that were due at the beginning of Monday’s class. Each paper consisted of over one thousand words of erotic fiction written in the style of the culture we had studied the previous week. (With one exception: The week we studied cave paintings, I had the class create their own symbols and tell an erotic story with finger paints – flattened cardboard boxes standing in for our cave walls.)

  It was hard to say who enjoyed the class more – the students or me. The debates were lively, the questions challenging. The students were all good writers, some even rising to excellent – and one was extraordinary.

  Her name was Sloane. I had seen her around the department, but didn’t remember having had her in a class before. And I would have remembered. Whenever she walked through the door, I always expected everyone in the room to stop talking. She was the most beautiful woman any of us was ever likely to see in person – who for some reason, had enrolled anonymously at our college, disguising herself behind nerdy glasses, her hair in a careless ponytail. But regardless of what disguises she wore, she could not hide those high cheekbones, green eyes gazing up at me from behind thick lashes, full lips that slipped into a daring smile at the slightest provocation. On the first day of class, she caught me staring at her – and looked so willing in return – that I had to make a conscious effort not to look in her direction at all, or else I’d lose track of what I was talking about.

  Perhaps it was because she was so beautiful that I expected so little from her. But what I got – week after week – was easily the best work in the class.

  Unique among her peers, Sloane wrote all her stories in the first person. There was no distance between the author and the actions of her protagonist as she fucked her way through the centuries. After the first few papers, Sloane’s work began to read like a time-travelling novel, with breathtaking references to her heroine’s past and future sexual encounters. With each successive chapter, Sloane gave herself completely to some new fetish – but despite her well documented orgasmic satisfaction, left no doubt that she had not found that special something she was looking for. By process of elimination, I began to get a clearer – and more arousing – picture of what that something might be.

  At first, Sloane’s heroine was fucked by both men and women, but as the weeks passed, she was taken increasingly by women alone. It began to dawn on me only then that Sloane might be queer. (Internalized homophobia, I chided myself, to assume that no woman as beautiful as Sloane could be a dyke.)

  But it was not just that Sloane’s fiction was well written, it was not just that she could write to any time or any style, it was that her work was truly erotic. After the first week, I started saving her paper until last and would grade it in bed, just before I switched off the light – letting her words intertwine with my own fantasies, barely able to scribble my critique before reaching between my legs to satisfy the need her words never failed to create.

  I had been teaching then for about 15 years, and this was the first time I had ever read a student’s work for my own pleasure. I delighted in handing out the graded papers each week, perpetually turned on by my secret, watching Sloane out of the corner of my eye. Did she have any idea how many times I’d gotten off on her words, or how often my fantasy as I came included her naked body, stretched beneath mine in total submission?

  Whenever I handed back graded papers, I reminded the students to see me during office hours if they had questions about my critique. A number of them did, some just angling for a better grade, some genuinely interested in improving their writing. However, since Sloane consistently earned the highest marks in the class, I was surprised to find her waiting to see me during my office hours early one evening. She sat across the desk from me, on the edge of her seat, and handed me her paper from the previous week. I skimmed it quickly, as though to refresh my memory – although I had come often enough to those words that I could hardly forget them – then looked up. “Tell me what you want.”

  Perhaps I imagined it, but it seemed as though she blushed a l
ittle. She lowered her eyes to the desk. “Please tell me what you meant about remembering the reader’s purpose.”

  I read over my words, then laid the paper on the desk and leaned back in my chair. “Why do people read?” I asked.

  She hesitated. “To learn . . . to go places they . . . to experience . . .” her voice trailed off. She was embarrassed by the inadequacy of her answer.

  “Why do people read erotica?”

  Her eyes met mine and a small smile played at the corner of her lips. “To . . .” She tried to gauge how far she could go with a full professor.

  “Say it,” I encouraged her.

  “To get off,” she said, and I could tell she was trying not to show how turned on she was by saying those words aloud.

  I nodded. “Sometimes, it seems like you’re a little ashamed of your readers – writing as though you want them to believe that you believe they have some intellectual purpose for reading erotica, writing as though you don’t know what their hands are doing while they read your words.”

  She held her breath. “I know.”

  “Then you know something very powerful. You know what your reader wants. You can give it . . .” I waited for the words to sink in “. . . or not. But either way, you need to understand how power works.”

  The last paper of the semester was due the last day of class. I had given the students free rein to pick any era, any topic, any format – but reminded them that the paper would count for half the final grade. When the class ended, I stayed in the classroom, talking with students – and although Sloane stayed too, she hung back from the crowd as though waiting. Finally, she was the only one left, handing her paper to me, but not letting go of it until our fingers had brushed together under the pages. The sheaf of paper was thick, far thicker than a 1,000-word paper would be. Before I could ask her why, she said, “I graduate the day after tomorrow.”

  “Congratulations.”

  She went on as though she hadn’t heard me. “But I’ll be on campus through the summer. I’ve got an internship on this study that just got funded.”

  “Tell me what the study is about.”

  She waved impatiently, “It’s over in the Speech Department. Something about diagnosing aphasia in pre-schoolers. I’m really just babysitting.” She looked down at the floor, and spoke hesitantly. “But what I wanted to say is that I’ll be here all summer, and if you want . . .”

  The classroom door opened and the departmental secretary stuck her head in. “Sorry to interrupt, you’ve got a call from IT. Something about your security code.” Then she just stood there until I realized she intended to wait and walk back to the office with me.

  “Thank you,” Sloane said to me. “I wish I could have taken more from you.” And with that, she was gone. I walked with our secretary back to the office, and spent the next half hour on the phone with IT, straightening out a problem with my laptop, getting wet again each time I imagined what Sloane had been about to offer me.

  At home, I stacked the papers on my desk, determined to critique them all at one sitting, turn in final grades in the morning, and get on with my summer.

  The stories were all good, and the more pleased I was with the quality of the work, the more I looked forward to reading Sloane’s paper which waited for me at the bottom of the pile.

  By the time I settled into bed that night with my self-congratulatory whisky, Sloane’s paper, and a red pen, I was tired, my eyes dry and my hand cramped from writing. Still, I didn’t for a moment consider putting off reading her words until the next day. She was to be my reward.

  The work was titled Please . . . and subtitled “A Play”. She had excelled at the short story format all semester, so I was a bit surprised at the change in medium. However, another of my students had written a screenplay, and several had written poetry for their final assignments. I turned to the first page. Written carefully in the centre – in what I assumed must be Sloane’s handwriting – were these words:

  “Just as cave paintings should be seen, plays should be performed – not read. I promise you that I know my role.”

  The next page began with the word “CHARACTERS” printed in bold face, and underneath that, these words:

  SLOANE

  Sloane has always desired domination at the hands of another woman – someone older, stronger, more able to control her than lovers her own age. She keeps this fantasy to herself, sure that few understand her desire, but also sure that when the woman appears who can dominate Sloane the way she needs to be dominated – they will both know it. And then Sloane will need only to wait to be told what time, what place, how to please . . .

  On the next page, the words “ACT I” were printed in bold face. The rest of the pages were blank.

  The next morning, I left the critiqued papers with the department secretary – each paper sealed inside an envelope – and turned in my students’ final grades. I was mostly packed, but finished a few last minute errands, locked up my apartment, and drove to the lake.

  The lake house had been in my family for three generations, coming to me after the death of my parents. My grandfather had built the house and, even though it was meant only as a summer getaway, he designed it to withstand the storms that blew off the lake all winter. It still gave me a sense of strength.

  I aired out the house, tended to the immediate chores, and fell asleep exhausted.

  Graduation was the next morning. Sitting on the porch, looking out over the lake while I drank my first cup of coffee, I imagined the cap and gown parade, the incessant clicking of cameras, the faces of proud parents. I knew the ceremony would be over by noon, Sloane would no doubt have a celebratory lunch with her family, then drive the hour to the lake. In the instructions I had written on her paper, I told her to arrive no later than 4.

  She was a few minutes early, on edge because she had sped the whole way out of fear of being late. I opened the front door and stood leaning against the frame, watching her pull a bag from the trunk and lock her car. She didn’t realize I was watching until she started up the porch steps, then gasped when she saw me.

  “I’m sorry,” she said automatically, “you scared me.” Then blushed when I only smiled at her nervousness.

  I held out my hand and led her inside. When I had shut the door behind us, I took the bag from her, and told her to go to the bedroom upstairs, at the back of the house. She started to say something, but then turned and climbed the stairs, looking back at me over her shoulder for the first few steps.

  The sauvignon blanc was so cold that it frosted the inside of my wine glass.

  She was in the back bedroom, sitting at the foot of the bed, arms crossed as if to protect her from the cold, even though the room was warm. I lifted my glass to her lips and let her take a sip, while I tucked a few stray locks of hair behind her ear. I rested my fingers lightly against her neck then bent to kiss a drop of wine from her bottom lip. Her eyes were wide and bright with fear, desire, it didn’t matter which. I resisted the urge to tell her so soon how well she was doing.

  I crossed the room and made myself comfortable, sitting in the window seat so that the slanting sunlight blinded her when she looked toward me.

  “Undress for me.”

  She hesitated. She could not see the smile that briefly crossed my lips. I was glad we were going to get past any reluctance early on.

  “I won’t ask again,” I said, speaking more slowly.

  She lowered her eyes and unbuttoned her blouse, then shrugged out of it and let it drop to the floor. She was wearing a white silk camisole, her nipples outlined clearly against the fabric, and I knew she had worn this specifically for giving me the pleasure of watching her take it off. She moved slowly, the silk shimmering as she lifted the camisole over her head, and let it drop to the floor as well. She shook her head to rearrange her tousled hair, then reached behind her for the zipper of her skirt.

  “Not that.”

  She stopped. I took a slow sip of wine, my eyes fixed on her body.
Watching me for confirmation, she reached behind and took off the half-bra that had been proffering up her breasts to me so wantonly. All defiance gone, her cheeks were red with the first blush of shame, and her eyes were on the floor.

  I took another sip of wine, then set the glass down. “Turn around and kneel on the edge of the bed.”

  She did as I told her, teetering a bit to keep her balance on the deep, yielding mattress. I came up behind her and ran my hands across her belly, and then her breasts. My fingers were cold from the wine glass, but that wasn’t the reason she shivered at my touch. She leaned back, her head resting on my shoulder.

  “What was the name of the last woman who fucked you?”

  “What?” She seemed genuinely surprised by the question.

  My hands trailed from her breasts, over her hips, and slowly up her back to her shoulders, increasing the pressure until I bent her forward. She braced herself on the mattress with her hands.

  “The name of the last woman who fucked you,” I said, in a tone that made clear she would pay later for making me repeat myself.

  “Sylvia.”

  I bent over her, tangling my fingers in her hair, making my hands into fists that pulled hard and held tight. “So ’Sylvia’ is going to be your safety word. Say it and I’ll stop.” I leaned in close to her ear and whispered, “But then you go back to Sylvia.”

  She nodded and I stood up behind her. “Feet on the floor, elbows on the bed,” I said evenly, then turned away, confident that she would do as she was told. I went back to the window seat, which concealed a lid, opening to a large cubbyhole beneath.

  I knew that she was curious. I had seen her looking around when I first came into the room, which was empty except for the bed – a large four-poster sitting high off the ground, affording no cover for anything to be hidden beneath. Other than that, there was nothing. No furniture, no art hung on the walls, no carpet over the hardwood floors – simply the bed, which faced two windows and a door leading out onto the captain’s walk. Because of the heat, I had opened the heavy outside door, and from time to time, a breeze knocked the lighter screen door gently against the frame. Long, sheer, white curtains billowed around the windows.