“You will, honey. Now, lie down, close your eyes and prepare for heaven.”
Sophie did as she was told, but her body stayed tense as Diana caressed her first with her voice . . .
“. . . forget for the moment where you are, think of something that makes you happy. Think of a place, a memory, a dream; something so good you want to live and relive it forever.”
Her voice went on and on sending Sophie back in time to the sea and the first time she rode a wave to the shore.
“Very good. Your body is responding to your mind, as it is to my touch.” Her oiled hands moved lightly over Sophie’s body as she lay on her back. “There’s nothing to be afraid of here. As they said in Cabaret, ’In here, life is beautiful.’ N’est-ce pas?” Then, “Would you like music?”
Sophie shook her head. Diana’s voice was all the music she needed.
“And now, it’s time I think to remove your nightshirt. There, that’s better. Now, if you will roll over on your side, I’ll massage your back.” As she drew soothing, sweeping strokes down and across Sophie’s back, she said: “And now, for your butt. Stay relaxed while I massage and pummel it and draw it up and away from your cunt.
“Do you like that? Yes, it’s good. Do you like your cunt? Germaine Greer says a woman should love her cunt. Two grunts if you don’t, one if you do.”
The single grunt from Sophie drew a deep, rich laugh from Diana. “I thought so, and why not?” In one movement she flipped Sophie on to her back and spread her legs. “What a beautiful cunt, and such a wet one.”
“I’d like a mask for my eyes, face.”
“Very well, just for your eyes, but believe me, soon you will rip it off, then ask for the shield to be removed from the mirror. Ah yes . . .
“. . . our bodies are instruments to be played upon. Accept this, relish it. It is why you were made this way – for physical, mental and emotional satisfaction. Women have pleasure at their fingertips, and they don’t know how to use it.
“I shall teach you, and you’ll never want to get out of bed.” Her rich laugh filled the room. “Of course, that’s not true, but even when you’re not pleasuring yourself or someone else, your body will be alive with the memory. You will walk, talk, look, smell like the sexy woman you are.
“Now, don’t be alarmed, I am just touching your pussy ever so lightly. Do you know why women are afraid of growing old? Because they’re scared of losing their femininity; their appeal. They’re afraid it is the end of pleasure, of joy. If they only knew it is theirs for life. Partners may die, or turn to someone younger. No matter. Women are self-sufficient and they literally have the whole world in their hands – your beautiful cunt, my dear, is now voluptuous, so soft and receptive – they don’t have to have a partner. Of course it’s better if they do, but it’s not the end of the world if they don’t.
“We women are so lucky. Our entire bodies are there for our sensual delight. And we have a whole arsenal of caresses, fantasies, dildos, butt plugs at our disposal.
“Are you cold? No? Because if you are you will soon be warm, very warm. Now I am just lightly holding your breasts with one hand, while the other gently touches the lips of your vagina that is now so very enlarged.
“Soon – and I’m telling you this for two reasons – one, to prepare you and two, for you to prepare yourself. Anticipation, my dear, magnifies the moment of realization. Soon I will put my fist into your cunt and gently move it around. I note the anticipation pleases you.
“Where was I? Oh, yes. Women are a world unto themselves, and when they realize how autonomous they are, what a law they are unto themselves, they will walk, laugh, sing and dance with such joie de vivre they will never again fear age.
“Do you like that? My kneading your cunt? Just grunt, my dear. I’ll understand. Of course you love it; it’s what you are made for.
“Sometimes, when I’m feeling – oh, outrageous, I think I must invite men to see how a woman should be made love to. I tell them about the all-important G-spot, but I’m afraid it would go over their heads, just make them as randy as all hell and, thinking with their cocks, they’d learn nothing.” Again her laughed filled the room.
“I am now paying a little attention to your clit. Just lightly – it is such a sensitive little thing, it prefers to hide behind its shield. Treat it roughly and it will reject all advances, and retreat.
“And now, what I have here is a dildo. I’m sure you are familiar with them. Like cocks, they come in all sizes. This is a medium size – not too fat, not too long, just right. I have lubricated it just a little but you are so wet, my love, it is not really necessary. Gently in and move it all about. Aah, you like that. Perhaps later you might like a longer one to reach your innermost recesses. Mmm?
“Groan and moan all you like, my dear. This room is soundproof. Ah, the stories it could tell. Now, go easy, you mustn’t come yet. We’ve a long way to go before I let you come. Oh, yes, it is I who am in control. You realize that now, don’t you? I have taken control of your body. Do you like it? No, no. It’s not time yet. We’re not nearly done.
“You’ve not yet endured the exquisite agony of the butt plug. If you haven’t had that, you are in for a taste of heaven. When it hits you, you can swear and scream all you want, honey, because that’s what you’ll feel like doing and your cunt will run like a river. But, even then, you can’t go. Even then the game’s not over. Now, a longer dildo? Yes?
“Uh huh. That’s better, isn’t it? It goes where no man has gone before.” Again she laughed. “It’s okay – moan and groan as much and as loudly as you want. It’s your party. What’s that? You want the butt plug. Are you sure?”
“Yes, yes. I’m sure.”
“Quite sure?”
“I’m fucking well quite fucking sure.”
“Very well. Roll on to your side while I oil the plug a little. There. Relax into it and enjoy. Well, I can see that you do. Now, I’ll alternate. First in/out with the plug, then in/out with the dildo. I see that puts you in a spin. You can’t stand it? I thought you were enjoying it. Just a joke, honey. You want to come?”
“Yes, yes, yeeeeeeeeees. Come, come, fucking well come.”
“Not yet. Now for a little teasing. Just stay very still while your passion recedes a little. You are hyperventilating, and we can’t have that. Just let your breath drop back to as close to normal as you can make it. That’s better.”
“Please. Please let me come. Make an end, Diana.”
“You’re sure that’s what you want?”
“Yes, yes, yes.” Sophie ripped the mask from her eyes.
“Very well. Now, instead of moving the plugs one after the other, I’ll manipulate them both together. Ready? In, out; in, out. Two in, two out, two in, two out.”
Sophie groaned in agony. “I can’t take any more. Release me. Let me go.”
“Do you want the mirror?”
“Yes, yes, yes.”
“Good.” Diana pressed the button and the shield rolled back. “Now you can watch yourself come. Ready?”
All Sophie could do was whimper, and then came the “Oh, my God, ooooh, my Go . . . o . . . od. I’ve never ever . . . never ever . . . never ever . . . felt . . . like . . . this . . .”
“Don’t be scared. Your body is bucking like that because it’s such a powerful orgasm, my love.”
“Ss . . . sh . . . shattering.”
When it was done Sophie let out a string of curses, before finally settling into a series of happy sighs.
At that point Diana pulled the cover over Sophie’s depleted body. “A sleep is what you need, mon amie. I’ll be back in 30 minutes.”
When Diana returned Sophie was stretching like a cat.
“How do you feel now?”
“Wonderful, just wonderful. It’s like I’ve been given a whole new body – mind.”
“Shower and dress while I prepare coffee. The kitchen is to the left of the cubicle.”
Sophie sipped her coffee in silence. She f
elt unreal, as if she was floating high above the world. “How can I thank you, Diana?” She shook her head. “Words – they’re never there when you need them.”
“You’re free now to give and to receive.”
“Back there I felt as if you were my lover.”
“And for that time, I was.”
Sophie sighed.
“I’m thinking of giving advanced sessions.”
“There’s more to learn?”
“Lots more, especially between two people.”
“You mean . . . ?”
“Oh, yes. Definitely,” she grinned, “a hands-on job. However, I’m only offering one place.”
“Oh.”
“Don’t look so unhappy. I’m offering it to you. Would you like to become my lover?”
Sophie’s spirits went from zero to the skies, and the quantum leap took with it the power to speak.
“One grunt for ’yes’, and two for—”
At Sophie’s single, definite grunt Diana’s laugh exploded, filling the room, bringing tears. “With two people involved, the joy, the discoveries are endless.” She stroked Sophie’s hand. “Do you know what I’d like to do to you first, my love? I’d kiss your beautiful butt, and then . . .”
“Yes? And then?”
“You will see.”
“Diana, you’re teasing me – again.”
“Occupational hazard. Now, when are you available?”
Suddenly, Sophie remembered the photo and all excitement went from her.
“What’s wrong, Sophie – it is Sophie, isn’t it?”
Sophie gasped. “How did you know?”
“You’re so much like her.”
“Who?” Sophie knew it for a silly question.
“Your mother.”
“You knew all along?”
“No, not until a few minutes ago.”
“Is that why you want me – because I’m like her?”
“No. I loved you long before that. I loved you the minute you came in the room looking so scared, so uncertain.”
Sophie took the photo from her wallet – the photo of a much younger Diana in the arms of Sophie’s mother. She gave it to Diana. “I found it among her things after she died. You can have it now; I don’t need it any more.”
“No, Sophie, you don’t.” Diana dropped the photo and held out her arms as Sophie snuggled safely into harbour.
Inside
Cheryl Moch
I like being inside. My least favourite phrase is “let’s go”. I don’t like air blowing on my face. The wind alarms me. I like knowing that the air I am breathing is air I’ve already breathed.
As a child I studied peanuts, peapods, certain fruits, fascinated by how they were tucked so neatly inside their skin. I focused on the border between container and the contained, the inviting edge where things both come together and come apart. I admired clams and pitied butterflies as they left their cocoons to fly off to uncharted skies.
I liked to think of my body as an enclosure, my brain resting in the tidy capsule of my skull, my body the repository of so many busy organs.
I am happy only in my house, perched as it is on a cliff at the edge of the sea, the sea in which my parents perished. I am the master of my universe right here and if I want, Countess, Duchess, Empress, Queen. Small and insignificant in the world, I loom large in my own house. I venture no further than my own garden.
There’s nothing I want that I don’t have here: from the wall of glass in my living room I can check the ocean’s many moods. Everyday is different and, though I have been here most of my life, I have never seen two days exactly alike. I do not want for company. The local bookseller stops by with some frequency, pleased to provide me with current titles so that together we might discuss them. The local grocer makes deliveries, bringing me the choicest of his produce. A neighbouring fisherman brings me the best of his catch, straight from the sea to my kitchen table.
My father, an artist of enduring reputation, built this house. It has become an icon of modernism, with its sleek lines and glass walls. My father’s paintings of this house hang in museums around the world. It was at his knee that I learned to paint, but eventually I rejected slimy oils for hard enamels. I like the way the molten glass clings to the metal, forever bonded. In my studio I have a small kiln, and it’s there I fire the miniatures that now command enormous sums. My dealer comes to me three or four times a year and eagerly scopes up each finished piece, each one a tiny cosmos no bigger than your palm, placed in gilded frames I’ve learned to build. Celebrities and CEOs collect them. My dealer brings with her all the juicy art world gossip I care to hear, and she would gladly sell the number of works I give her ten times over had I been able to create them more quickly. Each piece is slow, intensive work, demanding patience and a steady hand. Since demand exceeds supply, collectors vie for these pieces. They sometimes contact me asking to buy one, offering tremendous sums. I leave these matters to my dealer. Sometimes such collectors show up at my door, their expensive cars parked outside. I always let them in, glad to have their company for a while. I show them around my studio. I serve them champagne. They admire my home, the outstanding view of the sea, the paintings my father left behind. They flatter me, in their skilled way. But still, I sell them nothing. I’m an artist, not a businesswoman. I advise them to call my dealer.
It was a hot summer day when the first woman came to me. I don’t know why this one came – she was not an art lover, or a collector. I first spotted her as she climbed the stairs leading up the cliff from the beach to my garden. The binoculars I keep at the window have superior optics and I watched as this woman climbed with ease. She was an athletic woman of no more than 30 – about my age at the time. But still, the climb is steep and strenuous and with the powerful magnification, I could see the beads of sweat collecting on her body as she climbed. She stopped once to wipe her brow but she continued on at once, at a brisk pace.
She was wearing a bikini.
People say I get my height and beauty from my mother and my fortune and talent from my father. This woman seemed to be about my height but the distribution of her taut flesh was different. Encased in her bikini top, shaped like twin clamshells, were large breasts.
My own breasts are quite small and I watched hers with interest as she climbed. They quivered slightly, and I felt an odd stirring as I watched them at a huge magnification. I’d felt this kind of stirring once before, when I was a teenager, for one of my father’s young models. We furtively and passionately kissed in the bathroom one day, and I managed to slip my hand inside her panties. I had just wiggled a finger inside her when there was a knock on the door and she quickly pulled away.
There’s a switchback at the top of the stairs leading from the beach, and I knew my view of this woman would cease until she emerged in the garden outside my studio window. I put the binoculars down and quickly went to my studio, stopping for a moment to look at myself in the mirror. I ran my fingers through my dark hair, cut short as a boy’s.
The flower garden outside my studio was in full bloom. I’d had a hedge of sunflowers planted there that summer, a mammoth hybrid variety that grew to nearly seven feet tall. When I looked out, this woman was reaching up to one of these gigantic blooms perched on its curved stem. She was long-legged and trim. I didn’t want to startle her as I quietly slid open the French doors that led out to the garden.
She must have heard the sound and turned to meet it.
“Is this your garden?”
I assured her that it was. I expected her to apologize for the invasion, but she didn’t. She seemed a woman used to being welcome. Her gaze met mine and we looked at each other for a moment. She smiled.
“Would you like to come in? To see the house?”
My house, as I’ve said, is a visual icon. It appears on picture postcards sold in tourist shops on our island, on travel brochures and advertisements. My father’s paintings have assured the immortality of this image. Yet this woman seemed t
o have no interest in the house whatsoever. One of my father’s paintings of the house adorns a wall of my studio, a large work, still as he hung it some years ago. It’s one of his best works and has never been seen outside of this room. Visiting collectors have offered millions for it. It drew no comment and barely a glance from this woman. She had no interest in my kiln, or the unusual magnification glass, framed with brass fittings, that I use to help me position the tracings of granulated glass that create my pictures.
I let her precede me as I showed her around. I wanted to see her from behind, the cheeks of her ass firm and muscular in their little crocheted bottom.
In the living room, she stood for a moment, admiring the sea from the wall of glass, then turned to face me.
“Where’s your bedroom?” she asked me and when I didn’t immediately respond she added, “Where you sleep,” as if I did not comprehend the meaning of the word.
In my bedroom I’ve created my own cosmos. The room is small, barely larger than my king-sized bed. The walls are lacquered a deep plum, nearly brown. Blackout shades ensure round-the-clock darkness and the a/c is always on. I like to sleep cold and quiet. The ceiling of my room is thick with fairy lights, a private Aurora Borealis. They’re on a dimmer to create a variety of moods. As we entered, I put them on just high enough to see the tanned glow of her skin.
“Nice,” she said, climbing onto my bed, and sitting with her legs spread wide so that I could see a little curl of pubic hair escaping from her bikini.
I imagined deep holes, moist hidden passages.
Who made the first move? It’s hard to say. She patted the bed next to her, inviting me to sit. Instead, I climbed on top of her, straddling her, my own legs spread. I pinned her beneath me and she did not protest as I pressed my cunt hard against hers, my linen clothes rough against her nearly naked flesh. I breathed in her salty smell, kissing her soft neck, thrusting my tongue into her eager mouth. I pulled at her silky hair and she groaned.
As I undid the buttons on my shirt, she watched me, stroking her own crotch. As I’ve said, my own breasts are small but they are shapely, my shoulders and arms strong and sinewy. She reached for me as I removed my clothes but I pushed her hands off and once again pinned her body under mine, spreading her legs with my knees, forcing them apart. I pressed my own small breasts against her firm substantial ones.
The Mammoth Book of Lesbian Erotica Page 40