The Mammoth Book of Lesbian Erotica
Page 8
The coach came over the brow of the hill, silhouetted against a rapidly falling dusk. If this was her pursuers, she thought, then so be it. She sat on a milestone and waited.
The coach was drawn by four black horses, mares, she thought, her country girl’s eyes spotting the difference. It slowed, showing a driver wrapped in an all-enveloping black surtout, muffled against the likelihood of snow. She could not tell if it were man, woman or child: just a hunched figure holding the reins in gloved fingers. The coach came to a standstill with a rearing of horses.
“You poor thing!” The voice came from inside the vehicle. It sounded like warm rain. It was not a soldier.
In the doorway stood a woman, clearly a woman by the way its capacious fur coat hugged its contours. The hood was up, but nestled in the folds was a face, luminous in the twilight, with eyes like the two lone candles in a church.
“You must be perished, my dear. Give me your hand.” The hand was tapered and warm, the fingernails dyed a purply colour. Natasha stepped into the coach which, at a word from its owner, began to move once more.
Inside was deliriously warm, lit dimly by ornate lamps which swung on chains from the ceiling. It was so dim that she smelt the room at first, rather than saw it: a magnificent scent. The woman had been burning spices, rich aromas suggestive of old wood and the Far East.
“Sit down,” invited her hostess. Natasha sat down, on what? It was hard to see in the gloom. This was a much bigger coach than any she had ever been in. It was like an omnibus, a private barouche. The couch she sat on was soft and springy. It had a silky covering. The dimensions of the space were unclear, but she was glad to be out of the cold wind and seated for the first time in two days. She could feel no wall behind her. The woman called out for the driver outside to slow and as the coach rolled along she lit a tiny stove and warmed some water. Whilst it heated, she sat by the cold, tired girl’s side, making solicitous noises, brushing her tangled hair from her eyes. The woman questioned her and gradually, Natasha told her story. The woman’s voice said she was appalled, but even in the gloom Natasha could see her eyes widen and her pupils dilate. In telling the tale of her captivity she had spared no detail.
“My name is Natasha,” she volunteered. “What is yours?”
“I must bathe these cuts of yours,” was the reply. “The water is ready.”
“Where are we going? Is this coach yours?”
Her hostess made no answer but added to the water a scented oil which filled the cabin with a mouthwatering astringency. Natasha’s eyes had adjusted to the dark well enough now. She was intrigued to discover that she was sitting on the end of a large bed. Her heart fluttered.
The stranger removed the ruined shoes and, raising the skirt, eased down the tattered stockings, revealing the torn and bruised limbs beneath. The woman’s hands were firm and she plied the medicinal cloth with tenderness. Natasha listened to the wind outside and the crunch of the coach’s wheels on the frosty earth below their bodies. Above these sounds she became aware of another noise. It was coming from the woman. A soft noise, a kind of gentle mewing. Her bedside manner was not as professional as it appeared. The “washing” crept further up her legs. The edge of her already rucked skirt was getting wet. She felt a kindling in her belly, a little like the moment when, blowing sparks on a handful of straw, it flickers into fire. She hid her hungry look and bit her lip.
“What are you doing?”
“Your poor legs,” came the uneven reply. “Will you let me remove your skirt?”
“I, I don’t know.”
With a force that belied the caring in her voice the woman dragged the skirt down Natasha’s thighs. The knickers came too. Natasha wondered if she noticed the pearly sheen on her underthings which had blossomed at the first touch of the woman’s hands. Next Natasha’s blouse was raised over her arms, her slip and underthings coming too, exposing her skin to the lips of the warm air around her.
“That’s better,” said the woman. Natasha sat further back on the bed, utterly naked in the half-light, her buttocks slithering on the shiny coverlet, aware of her own wetness and the rigidity of her nipples. She was still prepared to be coy if that was what was needed but, despite her empty stomach and her exhausted limbs, a deeper need was surfacing. The coach rattled on, its motion jiggling her breasts slightly, making her whole body experience an imperceptible state of flux, like the thrumming of a hummingbird’s wings. Her stomach mimicked her body’s tremors.
The stranger’s ache was perceptible now. Still pretending to wash Natasha she knelt on the bed in front of her, rubbing her stomach with the cloth. The warm water ran down her belly and pooled in her lap, matting her pubic hair. The cloth cleaned her pubis, gently, dipped between her buttocks and down the backs of her legs. Natasha’s lips parted. She never broke eye contact with her companion. Gradually the woman leaned further and further over until Natasha was forced to lean back. Gravity and the rocking of the coach took their course, and the two ladies reclined, the still fur-swathed stranger sprawling on top of Natasha, nestling between her open legs. The experience of having her nakedness covered in heavy, silky fur, fur which moved with the impatience of arousal, was entirely new to Natasha and entirely welcome. Without further pretence, their mouths met in a deep kiss. The woman’s tongue crept over the threshold of Natasha’s small mouth and her taste was dark, something like the very rich black cherry preserves Natasha had eaten as a girl, something like that, but behind it the bitterness of black coffee, or warm liquorice. The tang of Roubles. Natasha’s thighs parted wider as the stranger ground down her furred hips into the throbbing bed.
“Can you pay the fare?” the woman asked.
“I don’t have any money,” replied Natasha, smiling.
The woman licked her lips. “Good.”
“What is your name?” Natasha asked again.
“My name?” the woman breathed. The warm air filled Natasha’s mouth. “For tonight you may call me Lara. Now. Answer my question. Can you pay the fare?”
“I hope so,” replied the naked girl.
The woman smiled and stood, unfastening her coat, parting the glistening fur. Underneath, her skin shone with health and warmth, naked, as Natasha knew she would be, undulating like the steppe itself. Her small, neat triangle competed for glossiness with the tumbling mink on either side, and there were clear marks of dew on her ample thighs. Her nipples too were erect, tickled now by the tendrils of fur at their tips.
Stalking around the cabin, rocking her body expertly to keep her feet against the roll of the coach, Lara assembled a small group of objects.
Natasha lay on her front, her buttocks wobbling, watching the enchanting creature pick up a bottle here, a jar there, and last of all, a large Russian Doll, what Natasha’s mother would have called a Babushka.
“What’s that?” she asked, as, still furred, Lara kneeled beside her on the bed.
“Your fare,” said Lara.
The Babushka was similar to others Natasha had seen, and yet somehow different. It was, as ever, a painted, wooden representation of a woman, hourglass shaped, but longer than usual, skilfully rounded at top and bottom like an Indian club. It was about ten inches long and as smooth as glass. She could not imagine it standing up very well.
Lara unscrewed it in the middle and brought out a second doll, perhaps eight inches long. This she opened to reveal a more peculiar specimen, dotted as it was with little wooden pips, like semi-circles. The third, bumpy one opened to reveal a small, perhaps four-inch doll, and inside this forth, a fifth, a tiny one, the smallest of all, long and curvy like the rest, a shy smile on its face.
Lara loomed over the girl, her hair trailing over her face. She kissed her neck and throat, leaving raised irregular flushing wherever her lips and teeth touched. She kissed Natasha’s breasts, sucking softly at the nipples, making the girl grit her teeth and hum her approbation. The fur still rippling over her, Lara licked Natasha’s belly, her underbelly and then tugged at her pubic hair
with her teeth.
“Yes,” she murmured, “there.”
With her eyes closed Natasha heard a rattling sound, as if Lara were flicking her own teeth with her fingernails. The woman teased between her legs, licking her thighs, blowing maddeningly on her clit. Natasha’s juices oozed from her cunt like a sweet syrup, trickling over her bottom. Lara’s fingers dithered there, smoothing her perineum, stroking the lower vee of her slit. Natasha waited for the tongue on her cunt but, to her surprise, felt a warm, sudden mouth on her anus. She gasped and half-closed her legs. Lara was making a meal of Natasha’s fundament, holding apart her twitching thighs and suddenly, the girl was intrigued to feel a small, hard object, being rolled by Lara’s tongue. She raised her head and looked at Lara’s face between her buttocks just as the woman eased, with a practised tongue, the smallest of the dolls from her mouth directly into Natasha’s exquisite anus.
“Ah!” cried the girl, half sitting up, shocked at the sensation of hard, smooth wood in her rectum. Her anus had yielded surprisingly quickly. It was a tiny doll, only the size of a peanut in its shell, but still, there was that buzzing edge of pain in the pleasure which made any action in that particular region so interesting. It wasn’t something Natasha was particularly used to, but it wasn’t something she was against. In raising up her torso she sat down on the object. The doll popped entirely inside.
“Ah!” she gasped again.
Lara smiled like a cat and crawled across Natasha, pressing her to the coverlet. She kissed her once more. Natasha tasted the salt-and-cinnamon of her own loins. She lapped at the older lady’s lips.
“Is the fare too much, my sweet?”
Natasha shook her head. The doll was within her, concrete, like an imminent need. Lara put her mouth to her pinioned victim’s ear and whispered:
“I will eat you now. Work on that little dolly, and when you feel like the time is right, give it back to me.”
Lara drew the fronds of her furs deliciously down Natasha’s palpitating body and settled again between the girl’s splayed legs. Natasha’s knees, wide apart, swayed to the rhythm of the galloping coach. With two fingers she smeared aside her own slippery lips allowing her liquid pinkness to gape.
Lara began to lick – softly at first, like a breeze, up and down the vertical lines of Natasha’s vulva, just tracing its shape. Natasha quivered and parted her legs further, her hands between her legs, holding tenderly Lara’s sculptural cheekbones, feeling the woman’s face muscles twitch as she feasted on her wetness. Natasha was maddeningly conscious of the velveteen luxury of Lara’s fur-wrapped shoulders caressing her thighs. Lara lapped, an accomplished lap, a muscular, steady tongue, lathering Natasha’s labia with her agile tip, laying down sparkling layers of saliva, drawing out an effulgent sheen of warm honey. Occasionally, Natasha heard her swallow. Each stroke was imperceptibly firmer than the last, opening the girl’s cunt with coaxing and compliments.
Natasha revelled in the exceptional licking. She had never been licked so well. Those girls she had tried to teach at the palace. Amateurs. Ingenues. Cold-tongued and awkward. Eager but inept. Even when she had turned the tables and instructed, bringing the shivering young women to surprised, profane climaxes, she had not been able to transfer her ability. This was more like it. She held the backs of her knees and arched her spine.
The flowering of her vulva was having an effect on the muscles of her pelvis. As ever, she could feel her insides getting hot, aligning themselves, steeling themselves for orgasm. This was only too perceivable in her rear, where the muscles of her passage were clenching around the little intruder, getting a grip, all the more because Lara would occasionally target one of her licks to Natasha’s small, sensitive, drawstring entrance. She recalled her cunnilinger’s instructions. As she moaned and rocked her hips, she concentrated tentatively on manoeuvring the doll.
Lara reached Natasha’s clitoris for the first time with a tremolo touch which sent molten streaks of pleasure to the girl’s pointed toes. She screwed up her pretty face and bore down. It was a delicious feeling. She felt the sensation under her tongue, liberating and awful. With surprising ease the small wooden doll crept from her anus, bringing with it a heavenly ache. She cried aloud. Lara, who seemed to know the signs, met it with her mouth and pushed it in again.
“Eep!” gulped Natasha, who, reaching for her own clit, pushed out once more. Again, the doll was intercepted at its delectable zenith and once more firmly inserted by Lara’s clever mouth. They were playing chess with a single queen. Eventually, as her revolving finger worked to a frenzy, the little piece of wood popped free into Lara’s smiling mouth. She firmly removed Natasha’s hand and leaned over her once more. The doll dropped from her teeth, trailing spit, and landed on Natasha’s lips. It tasted of plums and wood and her own darkness.
“The fare not too much, my love? You can get out if you want to.”
“No.” gasped Natasha, slightly bewildered from being so close to orgasm and from having just passed a small wooden toy into a stranger’s mouth.
Lara told Natasha to sit up. “Oil for the pussy and cream for the rose,” she purred, pouring drops of gold from a stoppered bottle onto Natasha’s wide open cunt.
“Shouldn’t it be the other way around?” asked Natasha, breathing deeply as the warm lubricant landed in blobs on her raised clit. Lara took a fingerful of snowy ointment from a blue-glass jar and anointed Natasha’s anus with it, slipping a long-nailed finger inside. She lay Natasha face down and began to bathe her back, shoulders and buttocks with her limber tongue. Natasha had a desperately sensitive skin. The tonguing made her writhe like a snake, causing her to part once more her blushing, sticky thighs.
Lara bent scientifically between the girl’s open legs, gazing at her upraised rump. Natasha resisted the temptation to masturbate. She dare not peak and miss what was ahead. She felt that sensation of fear and anticipation which is true desire, when the mind says: I don’t know what you mean to do to me, but I want you to do it.
The first thing she felt was something pushing at her cunt. Her lips were parted by cold wood and she felt a carved Russian lady slip inside. It was the second doll, a good size and she gasped, contracting her vagina. It was pushed all the way in and she heaved her hips, thrilled at the sensation of being fucked by this beautiful woman. Then another blob of cold ointment landed just where she needed it. Her sensitive rear was again invaded by the tiniest doll, its passage easier now after its first intrusion. It felt good, slipping in there on its bed of cream. It slid all the way and she felt her asshole closing behind it. A lascivious smile played on her lips as the small doll in her back passage nestled up to the larger one in her front. Then, to her surprise, Lara’s mouth returned. Another slightly larger Babushka, thick with cream, was nudged against her anus. Pressure was applied, the doll being pushed seemingly by Lara’s clenched teeth. Natasha swore aloud as her anus was eased apart and the doll forced inside, pushing its partner in deeper. “Fuck,” was all she could manage.
“Good girl,” cooed Lara, working the doll in her vagina. That felt good. It slipped substantially in and out, its hippy contours stimulating beautifully. Natasha was now up on all fours, her hair hanging down, watching between her legs as the woman in furs slowly fucked her with a painted wooden toy, slick with oil and honey. She reached for her clit but her hand was grasped.
“Not yet,” teased Lara, and before Natasha could even cry out, a third little doll, the middle sized one, was inserted halfway into her dark passage. This was much bigger and stretched her uncomfortably, stopping halfway at the nipped in waist of the saucy Russian lady, her hand-drawn smirk protruding. The pain flashed down her legs and into her stomach, her nerve endings sparking, processing the discomfort automatically into sheets of ecstasy. She groaned a long “ohhhh” and drooled slightly. She wiped her mouth. She wondered what the toy looked like, jutting between her peach-like buttocks, wagging like an ornate tail, her sensitive membrane stretched thinly around its modest bulk.
“Fare not too much?” inquired the coated woman. “Can you afford it?”
Natasha panted an affirmative and parted once more her legs. She had utterly surrendered.
Lara resumed her licking. She fell upon the young woman’s pussy and ate ravenously, sucking her clitoris as if it were a sweetmeat. As she licked, her left hand fingers toyed with the lower entry, just as the right hand beckoned at the entrance of her vagina, agitating the occupants of that dark hall. Natasha, now well into the game, pushed and clenched, pushed and clenched, easing out with difficulty the third doll, with which Lara fucked her at intervals, twisting it round, pushing it in. Expelling it gave her mouth a divine taste of copper coins. Soon all three were out, lying lacy with frothy cream on the bed. Natasha felt loosened and slightly crazed. She was cresting a wave of desire which shrieked to be satisfied but could not bear to be dissipated.
“Well done,” cried Lara, coming alongside her mate and kissing her warmly. Their tongues played together. Natasha, in her wantonness bit Lara’s full lips.
There were blotches of red on Lara’s breast, her nipples were hard and a spider-web of silky threads was strung between her knees where her own juices had trickled and become enmeshed. Nevertheless, her briskness did not abate.