The Mammoth Book of Lesbian Erotica

by Barbara Cardy

  “What do you want me to do?” I asked. “You know you shouldn’t be goi—”

  “—I know, I know,” she interrupted, then looked long and hard across the table at me.

  Damn, I knew that look well! When Erin levelled me with that stare I knew something heavy was coming!

  “I’m going to ask you something, and no matter what, you’ve got to promise not to laugh . . .” she said “. . . or think I’m weird.”

  “I already think you’re weird.”

  “No, really, Claire,” she pleaded and as I nodded, Erin explained her plan.

  It was simple and perverse, much like Erin herself. In the five years of our friendship I knew my friend had indulged her sexual appetites plenty. Don’t get me wrong, Erin was more tease and flirt than slut, but she had had her moments.

  This was one of those moments!

  Erin wanted to be whipped once a month! A quick, possibly week-night early evening that would probably only take an hour at most (or so she claimed). She said it would be penance for what she knew she couldn’t stop; she had to pay for her carousing and a good beating across her bare ass would help her balance the wild abandon she felt when she did go out. At first I strained to understand; she wanted to be whipped? Beaten? But as Erin explained and I ordered another ice tea, the logic of her plan became clear. And what’s more, I started to realize that I very much wanted to see her suffer in this way.

  True, I loved my friend. True, I would do anything for her, but true I was jealous of her ease with other women and her flirtations. So when Erin asked and then explained that she had the crop, that she would have us meet in her apartment, that she would design the moment, that all I would have to do was show up and show her no mercy, I figured . . . what the hell? I guess we all have a bit of a sadistic streak in us if we can see the purpose it will serve.

  I saw the purpose, and what’s more, I was intrigued . . . and I must admit, even excited by the idea of whipping my friend’s tight little behind for one evening each month. How Erin thought up this particular penance I had no idea, but I realized then, and came to learn later, that submitting to an ass-whipping had been a fantasy of hers for a very long time. With me spanking her for punishment Erin would “kill two birds with one stone”; fulfilled desire masked as constructive behaviour adjustment. And if anything this little “scenario” of Erin’s would just deepen that ache we had for one another, an ache we never had acted on. An ache I wondered if we’d address, let alone do anything about.

  What I couldn’t have imagined was how the beatings would progress to the point where I would come to like them so much . . .

  “I’m sorry, honey, but you need this,” I said then, landing a third tight cut across Erin’s cheeks. Again she easily inhaled through the connection, her little bottom circling slightly as she rode the sting.

  “I . . .” Erin tried and I simply reached back and swat forward again. She yelped and arched her back on the connection.

  “Now, tell me you’re a bad girl,” I coaxed.

  “Nah, na,” Erin resisted, pressing her chest further into the bedspread as if in defiance.

  This was our usual ritual and would continue until my friend confessed her sins. I knew Erin had an iron will and could withstand quite the ass-whipping; we’d stay here all night if that was what it took to get her to finally confess.

  “Tell me,” I demanded and managed a look at the mirror to the side of Erin’s bed. As usual at these times my blue eyes were alight with a flame I never really knew existed and my large chest was rising and falling as that little ass just lay in wait under me. God, she looked good, it was all I could do to keep from kneeling right there behind Erin and licking up her quivering thighs. I knew her pussy was as hot as mine; I’d be able to taste it even through her thong. With her tight, olive-coloured ass just beginning to show some deep square marks I was split, as usual, between continuing to beat Erin and kneeling to eat her from behind! This was the awful wonderful tease we both worked through these nights of Erin’s whippings. And the more turned on I became and knew I wouldn’t act on it, the more severe her beating. Had Erin planned it this way? God I hoped so?

  “Swip-Pat. Swip-Pat.” the crop said to her cheeks as I connected dead centre and Erin moaned aloud again.

  “Tell me you are a bad girl,” I demanded and again I brought the crop back, then forward to her waiting ass. This time I flicked the second hit upward; just the slightest bit and I heard the cut as it caused Erin to rise up on her hands.

  “Well?” I prodded.

  My friend looked over her shoulder; dammit, she was still smiling!

  Had we come to that delicate point? Could Erin now endure every bit of pain I could muster? Had my effectiveness as her punisher been exhausted? This was exactly why I had brought with me the secret weapon I had for tonight’s session.

  “Have you been a bad girl?” I asked aloud, loud enough to be heard if one had been standing on the other side of the thin apartment door listening. And as Erin bent her head forward, preparing to lay her chest and face down once again, her apartment door swung open!

  She felt the rush of cold air before Frankie came in. But before she could readjust, pull her skirt down; assimilate what in the hell was actually happening, Erin’s neighbor was down Erin’s hallway, in her bedroom, smiling down at us.

  “Wow, you weren’t kidding!” the lanky Asian man exclaimed, stroking his goatee.

  “Cla . . .” Erin tried, nearly standing up off the bed. I leaned forward and sliced her ass my hardest yet to keep her bent in place.

  “Frankie, Erin’s been a bad girl,” I chuckled, tapping the switch on my friend’s bare ass. For her part Erin stayed bent, moaning, as she tried her damnedest not too look over her shoulder at smiling Frankie.

  “She gets these once a month, but tonight she won’t admit she’s been a bad girl.”

  “Oh, I think she has been,” Frankie added and we both chuckled.

  I could see this attention, this matter-of-fact way we were talking over her was killing Erin. Frankie had been Erin’s neighbour and a good friend for some three years. He was the type of guy a girl could come to when she had a problem, or just wanted to talk, with no fear of him misconstruing a quiet evening as anything more then just that. Frankie knew Erin was gay, as he knew I was, but he had the type of well-balanced ego that would never allow him to assume he and a gay woman would be anything more then friends; the very reason Erin had grown as close to him as she had, and why I had invited him over this night.

  For her part, my friend was moaning ever so slightly. Shifting her hips, shucking back and forth, Erin afforded the attentive Frankie quite a view of her ass. I knew she so wanted to stand up, end this torture, but at the same time I knew if Erin was half as wet as I was she’d really want this to continue; her embarrassment all the more sweeter with Frankie ogling her and me readying the crop for what she knew would be her worst smacks yet. I knew when I asked her again Erin would admit to being bad. But she wouldn’t get the chance without paying for it.

  “Well,” I said, still tapping her tight cheeks. “Have you been a naughty girl?”

  “Yes,” Erin whispered.

  “Well, take down the thong, honey,” I said.

  I sensed Frankie halt in muted delight as Erin reached under herself, pulled the cotton thong out from between her cheeks and hammocked it mid-thigh. This last bit of humiliation was normal for us; I always liked to give Erin her last few with her ass completely bare, but with Frankie standing there I knew this moment held a new dread to it.

  He and I both could see that thin glisten at the centre of Erin’s winking chestnut.

  “Tell Frankie and I that you have been a bad girl,” I said, reaching the crop back as the tall man next to me offered a sharp inhale. “Say, ’I have been a bad girl’,” I said and to both Frankie’s delight and mine (and I’m sure a little bit of Erin’s as well) Erin managed:

  “Oh God, I . . . I have been a bad girl! Oh God, Cla
ire! I’ve been a bad girl!”

  “ZIP”, “ZIP”, “ZIP”, “ZIP”, I swatted my best friend, Frankie sighed and I grew so wet it was all I could do to keep standing!

  Ten minutes later Erin and I stood at her lime green kitchen counter sharing a beer, while Frankie sat in her living room watching the last two innings of the game.

  “That was really evil,” my friend reminded me for the fourth time.

  “A last resort,” I said, passing across the cold bottle. “You left me no choice.”

  “I, ah . . .” she tried, but stopped to lift a long gulp from the frosty amber-colored glass. She had kept the dress on and I could see Erin’s pinpoint nipples peeking through the thin material; there’d never be a question for me if she enjoyed these spankings!

  “You want the punishment to count,” I explained. “I have to bring in my own little ideas from time to time.”

  “To keep me honest, right?”

  “Yes, to keep you honest,” I agreed and as Erin walked from my side I halted her with my hand to her elbow. I smiled and turned her as to face me.

  “Claire!” my best friend exclaimed as I reached under her dress.

  I felt up between her thighs for the quaffed landing-strip between her legs. Erin had kept her thong off, as I had hoped she would when Frankie and I had left her to make her way off her bed and into the living room to meet us. I was being bolder then I had ever been with her, taking a liberty I never had – but wished I had – before.

  “This night’s full of new developments,” I explained as Erin swooned there with her ass in my face as I sat under her and explored.

  “Claire,” Erin repeated, shuttering my name through her thin lips.

  I opened her with my fingers, spreading her heavy wet lips, tickling her thick clit with my index finger. Laying herself almost back fully on my hand, Erin’s dress swayed ever so slightly as I fingered her. She was so wet, so responsive, it was all I could do not to prolong my fingering, but the poor girl had suffered enough. As I heard cheers from the living room television I began to circle my finger quicker across Erin’s thick clit.

  “Claire,” she sang and placed a hand back on my shoulder as I continued to look up at her and circle my finger.

  “Cla . . . Cla,” Erin said and I watched as her thighs began to quiver the slightest bit.

  “Come for me,” I simply said and Erin gulped and her whole body shook as my hand glopped with her wetness and she stood there.

  During a few whippings Erin had got close to an orgasm, there had even been a time or two I allowed her a few seconds to circle her pelvis across her bedspread, but as far as I knew she had never come when I was with her. Maybe she released when she went into the bathroom to clean up afterwards (God knew when I usually got home I couldn’t keep my hand from my pussy) but there in her kitchen we were being quite “obvious”.

  “Come, my naughty girl,” I whispered and Erin looked down at me over her shoulder and then squatted hard on my hand. Arching her back she let loose right there in her kitchen!

  “Shit . . .” she growled. I wasn’t sure if Frankie had heard her, but then again I didn’t much care!

  Another hurtle jumped, I thought as I tickled Erin’s silky lips and she moaned in submissive satisfaction. Could I fucking wait another month for another fleeting night?

  Love is Blind

  Alex Woolgrave and Jules Jones

  There are disadvantages to living with a writer. You get woken up at four o’clock in the morning as they hunt down That Brilliant Idea That Won’t Go Away.

  You peer over their shoulder, and see the unexpected line: “Lilian’s bosom was barely covered by the thin shift that was all he allowed her . . .”

  You try to reason with them gently. “Now, Edith, there are times to write erotica, and then there’s four o’clock in the morning, a time which exists solely to remind us of our own mortality.”

  Edith blinked at me slowly, eyes unfocused and hair sticking up all spiky from the pillow. “Not solely.” And managed an unexpectedly coordinated grope.

  “I s’pose one of the advantages of being a lesbian is that the other party can find the clitoris when she hasn’t got her glasses on and isn’t really awake,” I said.

  She grabbed the notepad and wrote that down.

  “. . . and one of the disadvantages is that a lesbian writer will probably reach for the notebook in mid-grope.”

  She put that down, too, then grinned and put her thumbs up. Judging by where, I wasn’t going to complain, at least not more than by adding, “If I was shacked up with a bloke, at least I could rely on the cock overriding the brain.”

  “We multitask,” she said.

  “Yes, you multitask. I bet you’ll be mentally taking notes even as you . . .”

  “No, I’d rather try something out to see if it’s actually feasible. I wouldn’t have woken you up to try, but seeing as you’re awake . . .”

  I sighed and settled back. “Obviously I’m not going to be allowed to go back to sleep until you’ve worked out whatever it is.” Especially not if she was doing that trick with the knuckle of her thumb pressing against my clit. That would keep me awake for some minutes.

  She withdrew her fingers, and there was a lot of fiddling and rustling. / ought to begetting suspicious right about now, I thought, as something soft came round my wrists and was tucked carefully in, before my hands were pulled above my head.

  “Er . . . Edith. We don’t normally do this sort of thing, do we?” I mean, not that I was disgusted, or even averse; I’d just never thought about it. Going straight from not-even-talking-about-bondage to I-have-something-round-my-wrists was a little unsettling.

  Especially as my little fluffy Edith, the mystery writer, was usually a little careful to keep a separation between life and art, and – hang on – wasn’t known for her steamy erotic scenes. I said so.

  “No, I haven’t so far. But I have got this scene where the heroine is handcuffed to the bed – no, nothing kinky at all, the villain is trying to threaten her. I was going to say it wasn’t erotica.”

  I opened my eyes. That must be why there was a set of handcuffs on the bedside table. Not fake leopardskin cuffs (not real leopardskin either), not leather or rubber (did people use rubber cuffs, if they had a . . . rubber kink?) – standard police-issue handcuffs.

  The handcuffs she’d got for “Writing Purposes” on Thursday, when she’d realized the most straightforward way to acquire handcuffs was from a sex-shop, and she’d frogmarched me right down there because she was too shy to go in on her own. “Now, Sally, you go in and get me a set of handcuffs. Nothing kinky, mind.”

  It had flown right out of my mind because I’d picked up a couple of optional extras that we did like, but the handcuffs had come home to roost. On my wrists.

  “You don’t mind being a model?” she said anxiously. “I have padded your wrists so it shouldn’t hurt.”

  “What happens to your heroine, in the end?”

  “Alive, and happily married. I’ve got to pretend it’s a bloke to sell the book, and he’s got a touch of the Mr Darcy about him -which I have to keep playing up to boost the conflict – but the nice side of him is pretty much you with a moustache. Well, more of a moustache.”

  I was sensitive about the facial hair, which had certainly not reached the moustache stage. I pretended to scratch an itch on my cheek, and she tutted mildly, and pulled my hand back into place. “Even if I minded, Sally,” she said, “it’ll go away as soon as you’re off that drug.”

  And that was why I’d lie here and let her handcuff me, if she so wished. She didn’t care what I looked like, as long as I was me. She had no tact whatsoever, but she was warm-hearted, funny, and intelligent, and her bluntness was never malicious. And she’d just said I was her Mr Darcy only less of an arsehole.

  I stopped trying to look daggers at her, and realized it had been wasted effort without her glasses.

  She picked up the handcuffs and handcuffed me to th
e brass bed frame. We’d had this bed for years. “Edith, why did you get this bed six years ago?”

  “Because we needed a bed after you broke the last one. Oh, I see – no, I certainly didn’t get this bed because I wanted to put it in this mystery, I was doing a historical at the time, and I wanted to be convincing about sex in an old-fashioned bed.”

  I tried to work out whether that reassured me.

  Edith managed to put the handcuffs on me without putting her glasses on first, which was a bit surprising. The way she was kneeling by the bed in an adorable state of rumpled myopia as she concentrated on it suggested it was a bit of an effort.

  “Edith, is your villain short-sighted?” I asked, as she finished securing the handcuffs so that my hands were through the bars of the bedframe, with the handcuffs on one side of the bars and the rest of me on the other.

  “Yes, about as much as I am. The heroine’s managed to kick his glasses off—”

  “While he was wearing them?”

  “—oh, all right, knock his glasses off during the fight. That’s one of the things I’m testing. Is he actually able to function as a villain in a state of extreme short-sightedness?”

  “So that’s why you wanted to test handcuffs in the middle of the night without wearing your glasses. Does it have to be four o’clock in the morning for plot reasons?”

  “No, that’s just when it occurred to me – could he get the handcuffs on her if he can’t see what he’s doing?”

  “Yes. If he doesn’t mind looking like a prat.”

  She sighed. “You’re not taking this seriously, are you?”

  “Sorry.” She really did look adorable when she went into Authorial Fluster mode.

  “You know,” she said, “this villain has a beautiful woman at his mercy and he hasn’t even twirled his moustaches at her yet. Do you think he’d get . . . interested?”