The Mammoth Book of Lesbian Erotica

by Barbara Cardy

  I hadn’t even realized that she had come out into the yard. When I heard her cry out a sizzle of fear shot through me. Was it the baby? It was way too early. She still had nearly two months to go.

  “Holly?” I felt my face flood with colour. My voice was not only loud but panicked.

  “I’m fine,” she called.

  When I popped my head over the fence, she was bent over clutching her belly. Her hair hung forward and the light spring dress she wore let me see just how big she had really gotten. She was either laughing or weeping. With her hair hanging in her face, I was positive which it was.

  “I am a giant sissy,” she wheezed and I let the breath rush out of me. She was laughing.

  “Braxton Hicks?” I asked, removing my gardening gloves.

  She nodded again and finally looked up at me. Those magical eyes full of warmth and kindness. “Yep. I have them all the time. It’s that sometimes, when they catch me off guard, I go all . . . girly.”

  “Well, if I can remember correctly,” I chuckled, “some of them can be pretty damn intense.”

  She nodded. “I’m getting scared, Mary,” she said softly. “I’m not sure I can do this. I mean, I know I don’t really have a choice.” More laughter and she clutched her belly harder. “He is coming out one way or another, but as far as the bravery I had . . . it is failing me.”

  Oh, I remembered so well. The duelling emotions. Being ready to feel normal again, have your body back to yourself battling with the increasing fear that you simply did not have the strength to make it through the birth itself.

  “Can I help?” I asked and then loathed myself at the thought of being alone with her. Of gaining access to her company under the guise of being helpful. But I did want to help, I reminded myself. I also had ulterior motives and that made me feel like a shit.

  “Could you . . .” She trailed off, uncertain of her request most likely.

  “What?” I prompted. Deep inside I was praying. Praying she would ask me to come over or if she could come over here.

  “Come over?” she finished with a sigh. “I know I am being very juvenile, but sometimes being alone makes it even scarier. And you, well, you, have done this twice and maybe if we can just have a cup of tea and talk for a few minutes, I will remember that women do this all the time and live to tell the tale.”

  The flood of warmth and joy that radiated under my skin was overwhelming. I took a deep breath and reminded myself that she was simply looking for some company and reassurance. That this did not mean a damn thing. “Sure. Let me go wash up and I’ll walk over.”

  “Thank you, Mary. I really appreciate it. I’m sure you think I’m silly . . .”

  “Not at all,” I said quickly. “In fact, I remember it well, what you’re feeling. It’s normal and it will pass.” I waved my dirty hands at her and laughed a high nervous laugh. “I’ll be right over once I’ve cleaned up.”

  I didn’t let myself think about the fact that I scrubbed as if I were going into surgery or that I chose my most flattering floral dress to wear. I tried to recall the last time I had worn a dress during the day, I couldn’t. Then I pushed it from my mind. After all, this did not mean a damn thing.

  Her house was as inviting as her nature. Done in warm colours and eclectic furnishings. It made you feel welcome and safe the moment you entered. Holly already had a pot of tea and cookies on the battered mission-style coffee table.

  I accepted my teacup and drank it plain. I didn’t trust my shaking hands with the delicate cream pitcher or sugar bowl. I tried not to grimace at its natural bitter taste.

  “How can I help you, Holly?” I asked and then wanted to kick myself for the pretentious tone in my voice. I was being so stilted because I was so nervous, but Holly didn’t know that.

  She shrugged, suddenly looking way too young for me to be so infatuated with her. I knew she was twenty-eight but at that moment she looked maybe sixteen. “I guess I’m just lonely. I want someone who’s been there to listen to me for a few minutes.”

  “Family?”

  “They don’t approve.” She dipped her head again and I let the subject drop. I wondered if they didn’t approve of her pregnancy or what I assumed to be her sexuality. Did they find it offensive that she liked women?

  “The father?” I deliberately kept my voice light and non-judgmental.

  “We are very good friends,” she said with a smile. “And he still treats me very well. He has his own life, though. This,” she swept her hands over her swollen belly, “was nothing more than a mistake fueled by tequila and commiseration. He was having trouble with his girlfriend and . . . and so was I.”

  I nodded. “I understand. It happens. And the girlfriend.” Then breathed and then felt stupid again. I was pretty sure I had seen the girlfriend.

  “Donna was furious when she found out. She wanted me to give the baby up and then she would stay with me. I couldn’t. I couldn’t give him up,” she said, her pale face flushing with colour. “It isn’t Samuel’s fault. That will be his name, Samuel. I can’t give him up and she can’t live with the consequences of my misjudgment.”

  Now I really was beginning to see. No wonder she was terrified. She had a family who didn’t approve, a friend who was involved but not a partner, and a partner who had given her an ultimatum. A terrible one, at that.

  “What can I do?” I asked, taking her hand. I rushed on before she could speak because the moment my skin touched hers, I started to burn all over. A heady, hot feeling of want that made me want to either clutch at her and kiss her, or flee the room. “I am always home. The kids are older. They have keys. If you need someone to take you to the hospital when it’s time, or be your coach, or drive . . . whatever you need,” I tapered off, dropping her hand because I was certain she could feel my attraction to her just from the contact.

  Then she laughed in earnest. My nipples grew hard and I felt the blush in my cheeks re-ignite. I didn’t know it was possible to grow so aroused by the sound of another person’s laugh. This time, she took my hand. Her hand was pale and so thin. Delicate fingers that had somehow escaped the normal ravages of swelling from pregnancy hormones.

  “Just coming over to sit with me is wonderful. I . . . like you, Mary. You’re very nice and you’ve been where I am. Well, you had a husband and did it the right way, but you know what I mean.” She put my hand on her swollen belly and at that moment, the baby shifted in her womb. The pulsing sensation and slow roll of fetal movement filled my palm and I smiled.

  “A child is never a mistake,” I said and pushed against her flesh. The baby inside of her responded and pushed back at me. I laughed. I couldn’t help it. “Not if the baby is loved,” I finished.

  “Very loved. More than you’ll ever know,” she said.

  “Oh, I know,” I assured her. He moved again in there, little Samuel, and I was transported back to my own pregnancies. The cravings. The mood swings. Sitting and watching a foot press up from the inside, forcing my flesh out and pushing so hard that I could make out the tiny nubs of toes. “God, you must be horny,” I blurted without thinking and then instantly snatched my hand away.

  My God, I had gone insane.

  Now Holly’s laughter filled the house. She clutched her stomach and tears rolled down her cheeks as she laughed. I was too mortified to be aroused this time.

  “Ah, God, Mary your face. No! Don’t be upset. It is entirely true. True, true, true. I think I could hump the sofa.”

  Between her admission and my embarrassment, I started to wheeze laughter right along with her. She took my hand again, and put it right back on her stomach. I caressed the taut skin and hummed low in my throat.

  Holly reached out and smoothed my hair off my face. An sizzle of electricity furled down the back of my neck. I wanted to say it but I was terrified.

  “Mary?”

  “Will you kiss me?” I asked, shame seething inside of me. I didn’t care. “Would you kiss me the way that you kissed her?”

  Her
blue eyes searched my face and I had a brief hot stab of fear. I had fucked up. I should have kept my mouth shut.

  “I saw you up there,” she admitted and the shame became a roar in my ears.

  “I didn’t mean to . . . I wasn’t expecting to see—”

  And then she kissed me. Her lips were as sweet and intense as the color indicated. The first brush of her mouth over mine so soft I wasn’t sure it was real. Perhaps I had imagined it, I wanted it that badly. Then her soft wet tongue parted my lips and swept into my mouth and I knew it was for real. Everything inside of me grew warm and soft. Everything inside of me rejoiced at the tea scented breath and the intense contact of her tongue on mine.

  I smoothed my hands over her belly as she held my head and kissed me long and slow, I found the engorged peak of her breasts through her gauzy dress and rolled her nipples between my fingers. They stiffened instantly and I pinched firmly but lightly. She hummed into my mouth and stroked my jaw with her hand.

  My head was buzzing, my body vibrating. She was as lovely to touch as she was to watch. I broke the kiss though I didn’t want to and kissed down her throat and over her collar bone. The skin had grown rosy and splotchy from her arousal. I sucked her nipples through her dress, knowing from experience that the sensation would shoot straight to her pussy. An invisible line of pleasure from breast to cunt. In response she arched up against me as much as her burdened body would allow. I pressed the heel of my hand against her mound and let my middle finger trail the seam of her sex. I could feel that her panties were damp even through the cotton of her dress.

  “Mary, you don’t have to do this. I know that you . . .” She stopped talking when I pushed against the swollen nub of her clit with my fingertip.

  “I want to do this,” I said, kissing over the expanse of her belly and drawing her dress up as I moved.

  I remembered it so well, the intense horniness of pregnancy. One day threatening anyone who tried to touch you with a swift, painful death. The next feeling like a mad woman, you craved sex and orgasm and human contact so much. I lifted the dress, taking her in with my eyes. Pale and big and sweet. She was ripe beyond words and her belly flickered and undulated under my gaze. He was moving. I didn’t have any of the hesitation that a man might in this situation. I knew fully well that nothing we did would hurt him in any way. His mother, however, might find some pleasure. It was an effort to relieve her of her panties but we managed.

  I slid my tongue down the darkened line from her belly button to her pubis and Holly ran her fingers into my hair, stopped, and clutched me there. My tongue parted her swollen labia, so dark raspberry from the hormones she looked ready to burst. I suckled at her, taking in the sweetness of her. Realizing that I had never tasted another woman besides the taste of myself on my husband’s mouth. That I had never wanted to taste another woman until I met Holly.

  “Mary, Mary,” she simply said it over and over like a chant as I licked her. I paid careful attention to her clit, tiny and hard between my lips, as her juices coated my face. She painted my chin and my throat as I ate her and it was my intention to capture every last drop of what she gave me.

  “Shh.” I didn’t want her worrying about me, I wanted her to worry about her. I pushed two fingers into her already clutching pussy and arched them as long and deep as I could. I increased the pressure of my tongue, lapping and swirling at her while she held my head and made soft sounds.

  I flexed my fingers, searching deep inside of her, and finally finding the soft plush swatch of flesh, I stroked her G-spot gently at first. When her cunt flexed around me and seized my fingers tight, I increased the pressure and sucked hard on her clit.

  Holly came undone crying out my name. It was the sweetest sound I had ever heard. I let my fingers play inside of her as flicker after flicker traveled her tight sex. She sobbed and a tiny bit of fluid slicked down over my thumb. Between the intensity of her orgasm and the attention to her G-spot, the tiniest trickle of urine had escaped.

  “I’m sorry,” she murmured, half laughing but blushing furiously. She gazed at me with one eye as if to decrease her embarrassment.

  “It happens all the time. You have a large passenger on board,” I said softly and winked. And to show her how little it bothered me I pressed that spot to my lips and licked it clean.

  She blushed again but stroked my cheeks. I stayed between her legs, fingers deep in her, gazing up at her over the huge terrain of her pregnant stomach for a long time. When she drew me up to sit next to her, she handed me my tea and said matter-of-factly, “If you’ll give me a few moments, I’d like to return the favour.”

  “It wasn’t a favour,” I said sipping my tea as if nothing had happened. The tea was cold but the bitterness gone. Now it was tinged with the sweetness of Holly still in my mouth.

  “You know what I mean.” She put her hand on my leg and just left it there. She didn’t move at all but the warmth of her hand was enough to start a small flood in my own panties. Yet, I didn’t want her to feel pressured.

  “You don’t have to return anything. I did it because I wanted to.”

  “And so do I,” she said, moving her hand just an inch. “I’ve wanted to for a very long time.”

  Holly is due in two weeks. We are content to share our afternoons. Sometimes in my bed, sometimes in hers. She comes to dinner and plays games with me and the children. They adore her and cannot wait to meet Samuel. Neither can I.

  Holly has made it clear that she is asking nothing of me. But there is so much that I want to give her. I have made it clear to Holly that I am asking nothing of her. But she has given me so much already.

  We are okay with waiting to see how it turns out. Either way, Samuel is coming, and he will be very loved. By more than just Holly. No matter what the end result may be for us.

  Butterflies and Stings

  Angela Steele

  The kids were playing some computer game and our husbands were watching a football match when Kerry first grasped the nettle.

  Kerry was showing me round the garden and I recall she saw it first: the nettle growing among her flowers. Dear sweet Kerry, who spent so many hours pruning and planting and trimming, had finally let a mere weed escape her attention. I remember how embarrassed she looked that something had slipped through the garden fork as it were, that a wild plant had grown unsuspected among all the order and neatness.

  I laughed when she made a fuss over it because I am not as diligent as her when it comes to such things. In fact, I knew it was a nettle but I didn’t know what the plant that sheltered it was called, but it was one she liked. A shame that I should know so little of the natural world around us – but then I like to think I know the natural world within us. My friend even looked embarrassed about something that would sting amongst things that looked so pretty, as if that mattered.

  Of course, it mattered to her. I could tell. But then I had known Kerry for ages – since before our kids were born – so I knew her better than most people did. That was why I said she should leave it. Let it be.

  Oh she said, looking even more flustered, I couldn’t do that. It had to come out, she said. That was when I said to Kerry she should grasp the nettle. No garden fork or trowel or even gardening gloves. Do it then and there and pull it out.

  The look on her face was priceless. My good friend Kerry – Kez, she called herself – staring at me as if I as mad. But I wasn’t: I simply knew it was time for her to do what I said.

  Kerry is the kind of woman you would pass in the supermarket and not notice. She’s about average height, average build, average colour. Pretty when she wants to be, and she had made an effort today. Perhaps that’s why I thought it was time for me to establish what I wanted, what I knew she needed.

  I do know she hadn’t noticed the many times when we had been together before that, when she had done what I’d said. Small things admittedly, but she had followed my suggestions. Or my orders, depending on how you see it. After all, when do hints become imperatives
? In my mind, they had stopped being things in which she had a choice quite some time ago.

  She was looking at me now as if slightly bewildered but that was because of what was going on in her. She was becoming aware of exactly how it was between us. Who gave the orders.

  A brightly marked butterfly flew before us, landing on the nettle for a moment. Unsure if this was the right place for it, the creature’s wings barely stilled before it flew on in the warm sunshine, fluttering in its zig-zag way. I was aware of Kerry watching it and then her gaze going back to the weed.

  It was quite a moment when she did what I told her in the garden that afternoon. I even told Kerry to use her right hand to grasp the nettle. I have to confess here that I thought, should she masturbate later with that hand, the sting would remind her of my control.

  I can recall her hesitating as she crouched by the nettle, taking a deep breath, steeling herself for the pain of grabbing the nettle. Oh, I know, people say by grasping it you don’t get stung. Well, maybe they are right. But the purpose of my friend doing what I said wasn’t to avoid pain.

  So she was cautious and hesitant and she got stung. I think there must have been a goal in the match on TV because we heard the men shout just as she closed her hand on the nettle. A suitably dramatic moment, I suppose. Those lovely long fingers of hers enveloping something unpleasant. No, not unpleasant: something unexpected and sharp.

  Then my friend stood up, looking utterly distressed, biting her lip and grimacing slightly. Oh, poor Kerry! She had tears glistening in her eyes as she stood there with that weed in her right hand. You see, even then she knew instinctively she hadn’t been given permission to let go. Only when I said for Kerry to open her hand did she do so and there was the plant, rich green with spiked-edge leaves, slowly unfurling in her palm. A rash of little red and white blotches all over the woman’s open hand. Perfect.