The Mammoth Book of Lesbian Erotica

by Barbara Cardy

  “Hi, Amanda,” said Tory cheerfully, holding her clipboard to her chest, as if nothing had happened the previous day, and, from her point of view, it clearly hadn’t.

  “Goodness,” said Amanda, trying not to sound too appreciative, “don’t you look nice today.”

  Tory spun around once, smiling like the proverbial cat who had swallowed the proverbial canary.

  “Where did you get those fabulous trousers?”

  “A little shop just around the corner from where I live. It only takes ten minutes to get into them!”

  “I’ll bet. They look fabulous,” she said in a low voice.

  “Thanks. Now which of these invoices—”

  “I really think that cotton and leather combination is perfect for you.”

  But Tory was already through with compliments, for she was immediately into her work now. “Mmm-hmm,” she muttered in response, and began to take an inventory of the props, ticking things off her clipboard.

  “Tory,” Amanda said, easing up next to her, “can I confess something to you?”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  Tory bent over to look at the row of urns. They were all on their sides on a table by the wall and there was supposed to be, apparently, some sort of model number on the bottom inside each of them.

  Amanda lost her nerve to make the pass she had been preparing, and retreated into idle conversation. “It really would have made more sense to put the model number on the outside, wouldn’t it?”

  “Yeah. Even in this light it’s hard to tell.” She peered in.

  Her trousers creaked as she bent forward, peering into one urn after another, busily recording numbers on her board.

  Amanda felt the strain. Not only a sympathetic strain for those overloaded trousers and their heavenly cargo, but the strain of her own libido, the confusion (rare for her) of not knowing what to say, exactly, or how to say it. She had to say something, but didn’t know what. Finally, she went fishing.

  “So, uh, Tory, how are things with what’s his name?”

  “Donald?”

  “Yeah, that’s it.”

  “It’s over.”

  “Oh. That’s too bad. What happened?”

  Tory looked at her. “He said he wanted to tie me up and fuck me.”

  “How dreadful.” Licking her lips, and suddenly remembering herself, she stopped.

  “I know.”

  “Especially when a woman like me can do such things so much better. Er, I mean, uh . . .”

  “Huh? You mean you’d like to hog-tie and fuck me too?”

  “No, no. I mean—”

  “What is it with everyone these days? It’s the trousers, right? I wear leather trousers and suddenly everyone goes crazy?”

  Amanda threw caution to the winds. “Oh, you bet! I mean yes, about the trousers, and yes about the tying, and . . . Oh, I’m sorry for being so blunt, dear, but you asked and . . .”

  “Well, I’ve never done it with a woman before, but better you than Donald, I dare say.”

  “You mean I can?” Amanda was momentarily astonished by her unexpected good fortune and Tory’s forthright response.

  Tory snorted. “I’ll believe that when I see it.”

  Amanda was confused, but still hopeful. “But I have your permission?”

  “What?” she said, bending down again to the urns. “Oh, yeah. Sure,” she said dismissively. “Hog tie me if you can, Amanda. You’d be fulfilling my wildest dreams.” And she snorted again. “No disrespect to lesbianism, Amanda, but we both know a woman just can’t . . .”

  Throughout the studio resounded the thunderclap sound of firm human hand on leather. There was a sharp, brief cry, which was abruptly smothered as Tory’s head disappeared inside an urn with a “foop” sound and her pen and clipboard clattered to the floor.

  Amanda stood backed, shocked by herself. She had really let go. “Tory?” she said tentatively, and then smiled.

  But Tory had not likely heard her. Staggering to an upright position, wobbling unsteadily on her mighty heels and rubbing her leather-clad arse, Tory then reached for the edge of the urn which now encircled her neck. At first she pushed upward gingerly, and then more forcefully as the urn refused to budge.

  A smile crept over Amanda’s face as Tory struggled more vigorously. “Unh!” came Tory’s muffled voice, “What the hell?”

  “Having trouble, dear?”

  “Unh! You bitch,” came the mutely echoing voice, “what gives you the right? . . .” Her long-fingered hands continued to struggle with the urn, grasping it in different places, as she tottered uncertainly on her heels, bumping into the table, her delicious trousers groaning and straining as one moment she arched backwards pushing at the urn, and another she bent forward still pushing and twisting.

  Amanda smiled, looked at her nails and said nonchalantly, “My dear, I do believe you are having a bit of a problem. Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “Yes. Get me out of here!”

  “Oh. You mean that urn? Are you sure you can’t get it off yourself?”

  “Amanda, I’m really stuck in here. I can’t get out.”

  “Hmmm. Yes, it appears you are. What a silly thing to do, dear, I thought you were smarter than that.”

  “What?!”

  Amanda walked up behind her, then reached in front and started to undo Tory’s wide belt.

  “Amanda, what are you doing?”

  “You’ll see.” She pulled the belt behind, and tied Tory’s wrists behind her. As Tory struggled with the belt, Amanda stepped in front of her, and let her hands play slowly over the leather-encased hips. “My, aren’t you a sweet, helpless thing. Not so smart now, are you?”

  “Amanda? What are you doing?”

  “Amanda, what are you doing,” mocked Amanda, as her hand slipped between Tory’s leathered thighs and slowly but firmly began to knead her groin. “As if you didn’t know. You are pretty full of yourself, aren’t you, dearie, to suppose no woman could take an aggressive hand with you, aren’t you?”

  “Oh Amanda, this is, like, really . . . humiliating!”

  “Shh, you silly little cow.”

  Slowly, Amanda popped each of the four snaps over Tory’s groin, one by one. The lusty leather flap burst open, revealing the crotch of a pair of panties which read: “Serious Enquiries Only”.

  Amanda laughed out loud. “Really? Was that for Donald?”

  “Huh?”

  “Oh, you do look stupid with that jug on your head,” she said, beginning to stroke Tory slowly and firmly through the panties. “Really, darling, a girl young enough to be my daughter should be able to knock my block off – especially in those big boots of yours. My, my.”

  “Ohhh,” Tory groaned, her voice low with shame and pleasure.

  “You do realize, darling, that if you change your mind and say no I’ll just stop and let you go. Of course . . .” and here she reached behind Tory with her other hand, unzipped her bottom, and began slowly to insert her fingers between Tory’s panties and her smooth white arse”. . . nothing can change the fact that I could finger-fuck you front and back as much as I liked, couldn’t I?”

  “Oh . . . oh yes,” murmured Tory as a finger of Amanda’s left hand pushed the crotch of the panty aside and slowly pushed its way up her already soaking vagina.

  “Miss Power Trousers Girl isn’t quite so invincible as she thinks, is she?” Amanda smiled. “You poor, dumb, helpless pussy. Say that for me, punk girl. Admit you’re my poor, dumb, helpless pussy.”

  “I’m your poor, dumb—”

  “Louder, honey. I can’t hear you under that jar you’ve got your pretty little head stuck in.”

  “I’m your poor, dumb, helpless pussy. Oh, no! Oh! Oh, my arsehole? Oh, Amanda, my—”

  “Yes, your precious arsehole dear. Let me guess,” she said, as a finger of her left hand still played slowly inside Tory’s vagina while a finger in the right lightly circled the edge of her anus, “no one’s ever come in by the ba
ck door, have they?”

  “Gnnnghhhh . . . unnnh . . .” Amanda could tell this would be a tight anus.

  “I’ll take that for a no. Well then, dear, this way, please.” Amanda pulled her hand out the back of Tory’s trousers and her finger from her vagina, but caught a firm grip on Tory’s pubic hairs, which were very long and black. She led Tory by her fur across the room as the helpless younger woman awkwardly clumped after her in her heavy boots. They went to the refrigerator, where Amanda let go of her prey and commandeered a few supplies.

  “Are you still there?” asked the helpless Tory.

  “Yes, dear,” she answered. “Now just hold still.”

  Amanda hauled Tory’s super-tight trousers and panties down to her knees, totally immobilizing her. Carefully, with the greatest appreciation, she caressed the younger woman’s thighs as Tory trembled.

  “Aren’t you going to fuck me?” she asked plaintively.

  “Who’s in charge here? Is it you, dear? Because, if it is, how about if I just stand back and you do whatever you think is best.”

  “My God, you’re good. You’re—”

  “Shut up, pussy. Hey, wait a minute, is that someone knocking on the door?”

  “Oh, my God!” squealed Tory desperately from within the urn, “didn’t you lock the door?”

  “Why no,” said Amanda thoughtfully, “I really don’t think I did. Funny, that. You’d think I would have.”

  Tory went hysterical, renewing her yanking at her bonds, making a pathetic attempt to shake the urn off, babbling about how she couldn’t be seen that way et cetera, her white thighs swaying and tottering as she wobbled pathetically in her great boots, until Amanda interrupted her freakout with her own laughter and went and locked the door.

  “Stupid bitch,” she laughed, smacking the young woman on the arse as she came back from the door, “no one was knocking. You punk girls look pretty imposing but you panic easily, don’t you? Now bend over.”

  Tory obeyed. “Now,” said Amanda firmly, “beg for it.”

  “What are you—”

  “Beg for it dear, and accept what I give you.”

  “Please?”

  “Oh. I guess you don’t want anything, then. All right. I’ll just untie you then and—”

  “Oh! Please fuck me, Amanda, I’m begging for it. Please? Please? I’ve never begged for it before, I’ve—”

  “Shut up, cow. I hear you. Now bend over. All the way, yes, that’s it, oh, you’re such a flexible young thing. Mmm, now I’ll just push one finger up your tight little quinny, there we go, feel nice? And for the other hole a lovely surprise!” Tory shuddered as Amanda slathered the crack of her arse with lots of cold mayonnaise. “A lovely big surprise . . .”

  “OH! Oh Amanda, please! Oh please not quite so fast . . . oh, my fucking . . . oh, what the—”

  “It’s a carrot, dear – not particularly long, but nice and fat. Just hold still while I pump you up nicely. That’s it. You’re being fucked with a carrot, dear. Remember that next time you get a little full of yourself. Remember you were once full of carrot and mayonnaise instead. Mmm, yummy. Now just a minute while I pull up a chair for myself and tuck into a nice fat trout I caught just a little while ago in a jar. Now, what is this I’m fingering here?”

  “A nice fat trout.”

  And Amanda did just what she said, pulling up a chair and, while still working Tory’s arse with the carrot, began to push her unusually long tongue up Tory’s cunt, licking, sucking, stopping on occasion to remark on the delectability of the meal, and continuing as Tory groaned louder and deeper, her now husky sobs reverberating from within the urn.

  “Still feeling smug, my little fishy?”

  “Oh no. Ohhhhh . . .”

  Tory had just about been brought off when there was a knock on the door and men’s voices outside. “Hey! Why is this door locked? Hello? Is there anyone inside?” There was a confused murmuring and then both women heard someone distinctly say, “I’ll go get Stan. I think he’s got the key.”

  “Shit!” the women whispered harshly in unison. Seeing Tory’s tied hands begin to fumble in a panic with the carrot buried deep within her arse, Amanda nearly came.

  “Amanda, please. I can’t . . . can’t get this carrot out!”

  “No time for that, you idiot!” hissed Amanda. Swiftly and authoritatively, she hauled up Tory’s trousers and panties, levering her arse back inside the leather and zipping it closed over the insolent carrot. With lightning speed she untied Tory’s belt and handed it to her, then stooped to refasten the snaps between her legs.

  “But, Amanda,” bleated Tory, “I’ve got a carrot up my arse! And the jug!”

  “No time. Damn, this pussy panel is tight. How the hell did you ever . . .?” she muttered as Tory hurriedly put the belt back on.

  The door rattled and then came open. Three men, photographers of the magazine, walked in. “Amanda? Why didn’t you open the door? Didn’t you . . .? Is that Tory? Why does she have that urn on her head?”

  “Because she’s stuck in it, poor thing. Can’t you see? Lord knows I told her to be careful, but somehow . . .”

  “Really? You mean she can’t get out?” The men asked incredulously. “How in the hell . . . ?”

  “Amanda,” whined Tory pathetically, “please! I can’t be seen this way!”

  “Please, gentlemen,” said Amanda, suppressing a smile as she grabbed the mortified Tory by the shoulders and speedily piloted her to the door. “This is embarrassing enough for the poor girl without your impertinent questions. You needn’t concern yourself about this incident or mention it to anyone. Rest assured that I will get her out at once.”

  Amanda wheeled Tory down the hall, and into the lift. As it went up, Tory wailed, “Oh, my God. I can’t believe that happened. I have never been so totally humiliated in all my . . . I mean they all saw me with this jug on my—”

  Amanda pushed her into the corner of the lift and pressed her knee between Tory’s legs.

  “Still ready to come, my little bovine? I’m still in control, you know. If you don’t think so, I’ll just let you wander the hallways, mooing for help.”

  “Oh. Please, Amanda, whatever you do, finish me first, please.”

  When the elevator door opened, Amanda grabbed her firmly by the elbow and piloted her down the hallway. They passed a bewildered-looking secretary: “Don’t worry, Amie,” chirped Amanda, “I’m just taking Tory here to the caretaker for some help. Everything’s just fine.”

  In Amanda’s office, door locked, Amanda again tied Tory’s hands behind her and peeled her trousers down to the knees.

  Tory bent forward as commanded as Amanda again played with the carrot and tongued the depths of her womanhood in a most authoritative manner. Again groans and shudderings echoed from within the jug as this time Tory came, helplessly, in repeated waves of delighted transport.

  Of course, the jug had to come off sooner or later, and nothing was more suited to the purpose than one of Amanda’s heels, deftly wielded by a firm hand, smashing the urn in a thousand pieces. It was time, then, of course, for bewildered Tory’s tongue to do some work of its own, for Amanda’s own need by that time was, needless to say, quite intense.

  Everyone around the office bought the story that Tory had become trapped in the urn through some strange “accident” – which neither she nor Amanda ever explained. Basically polite people, the workers all refrained from asking further embarrassing questions. They did notice, however, that it was not long afterwards that Amanda and Tory became an “item”, as it were, and word went around that the romance had been sparked by Amanda’s being so helpful to the trapped and humiliated woman in her hour of need.

  Well, they probably weren’t that far from the truth, after all.

  Own Gaol

  Vav Garnek

  Vanessa Clarke took a lot of time and trouble getting ready.

  She hadn’t seen Steve for a couple of weeks and she knew he would have wanted her – exp
ected her – to look her best.

  She had a long leisurely bath, the water slick with a heavily scented oil that left her skin feeling silky smooth.

  Then, pink-skinned and slightly damp, she sat, still naked, at her dressing table and did her make-up. Her hair was a dark, almost chestnut brown, naturally thick and curly, and she piled it up high on her head keeping it all together with a large, metal clip.

  Her face was long, angular even, large hazel eyes set in skin that stopped just short of being olive. Lots of eye-make up – thick black lines on both lids – and shadow in a dark, bruised purple, blusher heightened her already prominent cheekbones and painted her lips scarlet. Scarlett O’Hara. Scarlet woman. Finally she chose “Obsession” as her perfume – because it was Steve’s favourite – dabbing it behind her ears, at her throat, beneath her full breasts and finally along the crease of her sex. He’d like that.

  Vanessa had carefully lain her clothes out on the bed before bathing: matching bra and briefs in thin black net, so fine and wispy it almost wasn’t there at all. Black, wrap-around miniskirt that split up one thigh, a transparent black blouse through which her bra was all too clearly visible, flesh-tone lace-topped stockings that shimmered as she walked, swayed, in her black stilettos and flattered long, toned legs that didn’t really need any help.

  Finally she slipped on a tight-fitting puffa jacket, padded in metallic silver, with “FCUK” in large letters emblazoned across the chest. Dispassionately she considered herself in the mirror and wasn’t altogether sure she liked what she saw. The overall effect was striking right enough, but possibly a little too tarty for her tastes and not entirely appropriate for a woman of very nearly twenty-nine. But then it didn’t matter what she thought, it was what Steve thought that counted.

  She walked the short distance to the Tube, and at King’s Cross caught the Cambridge train and from there to the small market town of Bury St Edmunds, before catching the bus for Sudbury.