The Mammoth Book of Lesbian Erotica

by Barbara Cardy

  Kerry said that it hurt and I said yes, it would. That was when she looked at me and could have said something, that this was silly or childish or even crazy. Yet she didn’t. She could have thrown the plant down, even got angry with me.

  Again, she didn’t. My friend stood waiting for my next instruction, blinking a little to get rid of the tears in her eyes. Her cheeks were flushed but I didn’t know then if it was annoyance or arousal. But I did know she had obeyed me.

  I was in no hurry: I wanted to savour the moment. I had just ordered my best friend to hurt herself, and she had done exactly as I wanted. Kerry said something about finding a dock leaf, because that was what she had used on nettle stings when a child. That made me smile. Would we really find another weed in her perfect garden? Anyway, we weren’t going to look for one. I had no wish for her to stop suffering then and deep down I think she knew that.

  I said we should go to the little summer house she had erected at the far corner of the garden. Kez’s retreat, she called it, from when the family were making demands. It wasn’t much more than a large shed, but she kept it tidy with a large but comfortable garden seat on a small verandah. Hidden from the house by evergreen bushes. I went first and she followed, still with the nettle in her open hand. I hadn’t even said anything being careful not to drop it but she was careful. Respectful, I suppose, as it had hurt her.

  In the summer house I sat on the chair and she stood with the source of her pain, motionless in front of me. I took my time, letting her watch me, as I brushed an imaginary insect or small leaf off my skirt. I even pretended I had found a seed of something on me and examined this mystery between fingertip and thumb. Then when I was ready I told her then what I had been wanting to tell her for ages, that as far as I was concerned this was how it should be between us. That I would have to see her hurt more, because I loved her.

  Poor Kerry. She looked just as startled as when she grasped the nettle. But to her credit she didn’t move, or object, though I recall her saying something about not being like that.

  Like what? She didn’t know.

  I said we were like us, two ordinary women – wives, mothers, workers – who had feelings for each other. Strong, unspoken feelings that had drained through the soil of our cultivated lives, down into a deep underground pool. But we had never explored these feelings, never tried to unearth the dark waters of the real us.

  Perhaps we had never wanted to upset the status quo, or possibly we were frightened of our inner lives being changed. I told her that now this doubt was over. We were us from now on because we were right for each other, her and me.

  One on top, the other on the bottom. Me and her.

  She looked a little confused as if women shouldn’t express such thoughts between them, have such a relationship. She started to open her mouth to offer an argument but maybe I frowned, or maybe Kerry thought better of it as a bottom should do, and she bit her lip instead. I asked if she understood, and the woman nodded.

  I was silent as I knew she needed to let all this sink in, but then I wanted to know if she was ready for her next pain.

  I will never forget how she took a deep breath, flushed pink with anxiety and arousal, and nodded.

  Good, I said as I stood, took a tissue from my skirt pocket and carefully grasped the end of the nettle in her hand. I grinned: after all, I didn’t want to be stung, did I? She seemed to understand the hurting was for her, not me. I took the nettle and held it up in front of Kerry. As I looked into her hazel eyes she nodded because she knew I was in charge. My friend knew I held the source of her pain, and her final freedom.

  She asked me if she could ask a question. I said yes, but be quick. She asked me if I would kiss her.

  I said we could kiss only when I had hurt her a little more and she seemed relieved. I suspect Kerry thought I wouldn’t give her any solace, I might cruelly deny her any comfort. Perhaps she feared there would be no reward for being so willing. But I told her that while the flowers among the thorns were important to me too, the honey could only be discovered between the stings.

  She did what I told her to do, rolling up her pale lilac top to show me her breasts. She has a bigger bust than me and her boobs were cradled perfectly in her plunge bra. It made me smile a little as her chest came into full view, thinking that perhaps she had selected this daring bra that morning, knowing I was coming to her house, knowing something would happen between us. Finally.

  Without a word she put her hands behind her, pushing her chest forward invitingly and slowly I drew the stinging nettle over her vulnerable breasts. The rash on those pale orbs was instant and her stifled cry little more than a gasp of exhaled air.

  I drew the nettle across twice, once each way, and then down between her breasts bringing a renewed gasp from my friend – my pain lover – each time.

  I asked if she wanted more, and she nodded, trying not to cry. Striving to be quiet, hands clamped behind her, knuckles white as she fought the new agony consuming her senses.

  Kerry followed her next instructions perfectly, undoing her jeans and letting them fall, easing her plain white cotton pants to halfway down her thighs with legs slightly apart. I placed the nettle, not so dangerous now but still with a bite, on the crotch fabric of her pants. Damp, I noticed, as they should be. I could see her trimmed pubic hair with a little moisture glistening on it. Tiny dew drops, you could say. Dear Kerry, who moaned slightly as I put my face close to her sex as I breathed in the muskiness of her arousal. I knew what she wanted and she knew it too.

  She also knew what was to come. How much it would hurt, and she was patient because she loved me. I motioned she should pull her cotton pants up, crushing the last of the nettle’s venom against her pussy. At last as the nettle made contact with her puffy nether lips, brushed up against her engorged clit, she gave a small scream. It hurt and her hands clenched, knuckles whiter than before. Above me, I could hear her sobbing, aware her body was shaking.

  A tear fell past me.

  Kerry was crying and moaning now and I stood, told her I loved her and for the first time kissed Kez like a lover, not a friend. Between the sobs she accepted my deep and searching kiss, my tongue in her mouth. I broke the kiss, put my left hand over her mouth and with my right hand I slowly pressed the crotch of her pants up, crushing the nettle’s leaves even more into the folds of Kerry’s inflamed sex.

  I told her I loved her deeply as I worked my fingers against Kerry’s swollen, wet pussy, the venom of the crushed leaves burning into her. Just as I wanted my love to burn into her.

  That was when the woman came. The first time at my hands. When she had stopped trying to scream, I took my hands away and kissed her deeply again. A reward she had longed for.

  It would be perfect to say that at that moment, a butterfly – a delicate and pretty creature she had always wanted more of in her beautiful garden – had alighted on my friend. A symbol of our new found love. But nature isn’t quite like that.

  The insect that landed on her was a wasp, and she flinched as it crawled over her naked, quivering breast. Kerry, hands behind back still, didn’t move but she was terrified. My friend, my lover, looked at me imploringly. She didn’t utter the words but I could tell what she was thinking, what she wanted to say: please, not this.

  I said, my darling, we have to have pain and pleasure, don’t we? Sharp edges in the softness, cruelty in the midst of joy. Crush the wasp to your breast, I told her, and we will make each other come with our tongues.

  And we did in the peace and quiet of Kez’s retreat, hidden from the world, when she had stopped crying.

  Tess of the Suburb’s Bills

  H. L. Berry

  “You missed a fantastic Sociology lecture today,” said Helen.

  “Really?” Abigail Vailing looked up from her work at the kitchen table.

  “Yes, really. Lady Chatterbox was on top form.”

  “Was she talking about the impact of prostitution on the postwar British middle classes?”
r />   “Abby, as I’ve told you on numerous occasions, Lady Chatterbox is not running a brothel.”

  “Well no, of course she’s not now, because I shut her down.”

  “She was helping students with their coursework.”

  Abigail laughed. “Is that what they call it these days? Well, all I can say is that it’s a pretty lame metamorphism.”

  “I think you mean metaphor. And . . . oh, never mind. She was asking after you.”

  “She wanted to know whether I’m still keeping an eye on her, no doubt.” Abigail folded her arms and smirked.

  “No, actually, she was asking when you might be likely to hand in your assignment.”

  “Pah! Lecturers ask that all the time.”

  “They only ever ask that about you, Abby, because you never hand in your bloody assignments. If you’re not careful, you’re going to fail the course.”

  “I don’t care about that. I’m following a higher calling now.”

  “Oh, Abby.” Helen put her hands on her friend’s shoulders. “Even if you don’t grow out of this silly Nightgirl thing, how will you fund her without a job?”

  “It’s not silly, Helen.” Abigail tilted her head to one side. “But I do see your point. Perhaps I’ll get Brendan to hack into the university computer and adjust my grades.”

  “Abby! You can’t do that!”

  “No, you’re right,” said Abby. “His kid sister Georgina would be even better. She managed to get into the Government gateway site.”

  “That’s a public site. Anyone can get into it.”

  “Sure they can.” Abigail winked.

  Helen changed the subject. “I was chatting with Tess over lunch.”

  “Tess?”

  “Tess Carlin. You remember? She used to live on the floor above, but moved to that house in the suburbs with a bunch of other students.”

  “Oh, yes. Blonde hair, green eyes, a bit dim.”

  “Pot,” muttered Helen. “Yes, that’s her.”

  “How’s she doing?”

  “Fine, except she’s finding the bills a lot to cope with.”

  “I thought she lived with Anna, John, Simon and Dave. When did the Bills move in?”

  “No, you muppet. The phone bill. The electricity bill. Food bills. She’s struggling to make ends meet.”

  “But she’s studying accountancy, Helen. I remember she produced a sixteen-page spreadsheet before she moved, setting out her budget for the next three years.”

  “Well, she must have made some errors.”

  “More likely one of her housemates is spending more than his fair share.” Abigail looked up and grinned. “You know what this means, don’t you?”

  Helen’s shoulders slumped. “No, Abby, please. No.”

  “Yes! This is definitely a job for Nightgirl!”

  It was drizzling, and the tarmac surface of the deserted car park was wet. The puddles reflected the orange light of the few working streetlamps. A lone pigeon walked carefully around the edge. It stopped and cocked its head to one side as though listening. With an explosive burst of sound and light, the Night Car barrelled down the street opposite and shot through the car park entrance, fishtailing wildly. The pigeon scrambled into the air, leaving a few feathers behind. Abigail, dressed in her spandex Nightgirl costume, yanked at the steering wheel. The car pirouetted through three hundred and sixty degrees and slithered to a halt. A blue glow lit the underside, and in the bonnet a red light oscillated back and forth.

  Abigail climbed out and shut the door. She pointed a remote control at her car and clicked a button. The locks clunked and the lights faded. Abigail looked around and strode across the car park towards a row of semi-detached houses. Her red cape flapped behind her. She reached for the set of lock picks in her belt and headed for number 27.

  The lock was old-fashioned and no match even for Abigail’s limited skills. She punched the air in delight and put the picks back in the pouch on her belt. Inside, the hallway was dark. Abigail headed for the stairs. Flat E was at the top of the house, spread across the generous loft. She knocked at the door.

  “Hello?” Tess peered through a gap in the door.

  “Hi!” Abigail grinned. “I’ve come to help you.”

  “Who are you?” Tess opened the door fully and peered closely. “Abigail? Abigail Vailing? Is that you? What are you doing here, and why are you wearing a mask?”

  Abigail drew herself to her full height. “I’m Nightgirl, crime-fighting super heroine, and I’m here to help you with your bills.”

  “Nightgirl? But you’re Abigail Vailing. I sit next to you in our Organizational Analysis classes.”

  “Well yes, that’s my secret identity, but after dark I’m Nightgirl, the Dim Defender. How come you recognized me? That never happens to Superman or Batman.”

  “I knew your voice. And your eyes.” Tess looked up and down Abigail’s body and grinned. “Look at you, girl! You look fantastic.”

  Abigail grinned back, and twirled. “Do you think so? I’ve always worried that it makes my bum look big.”

  “Are you kidding? Your bum looks perfect, and so does the rest of you. Hell, I wish my stomach was that flat.” Tess reached out and ran her hand around Abigail’s waist. “Wow! The material feels amazing, doesn’t it?” She let her hand slip down over Abigail’s hip and bottom. “What are these knickers made from, PVC?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And why are they on the outside?’

  Abigail giggled. “I’ll show you. Look!”

  She peeled the panties down a couple of inches to reveal a chrome zip. “That goes right down between my legs!”

  “Really? Can I feel?” Tess didn’t wait for a reply. She ran her fingers down the zip and inside Abigail’s red PVC panties. Abigail wiggled her hips. “Blimey. I can see why you’d want to keep that hidden. Why did you get trousers like that?”

  “At first they were the only ones I could find on eBay, but now I find them quite convenient, actually.”

  Tess winked. “I bet you do, honey. Anyway, look at me, being all rude. I haven’t invited you in.”

  She held the door open and Abigail stepped into the flat. She looked around the large, open space. “This is nice, Tess.”

  “Yes, it’s not bad. I share a kitchen downstairs, but I’m lucky that this flat has its own ensuite shower room. The others have one between the three of them. You should hear them in the mornings.”

  “Helen said you’d been having trouble with your bills.”

  Tess frowned. “Yeah. I can’t understand it. I worked it all out so carefully, but the phone bill is about three times what I’d expected. The electricity is a bit high too, and I’m even spending more on food than I thought. I seem to go through a box of cereal a week.”

  “Don’t you split the bills?”

  “No. I rent the house and sublet rooms to the other three. They pay me a fixed amount each month. I had hoped it would cover some of my own costs, but it’s not even close at the moment.”

  Abigail gave Tess a solemn look. “Tess, I’m sorry to tell you this, but there’s a high possibility that at least one of your housemates is ripping you off.”

  “Oh!” Tess put a hand up to her mouth. “But they’re so nice. They wouldn’t do that, would they? How can you be so sure?”

  Abigail clenched her fist. “It wouldn’t be obvious to someone like you, Tess, but to a trained and experienced crime fighter like myself, it sticks out like a sore thumb. Someone is abusing the trust you have placed in them.”

  “But what can I do about it?”

  “Don’t worry. Now I’m here, we’ll soon get to the bottom of this evil plot. The first thing we need to do is commence a surveillance operation.”

  “You mean spy on them?”

  “Yes. We’ll start with the guys, because in my experience, only one in . . .” Abigail silently ticked off her fingers. Her lips moved slowly “. . . eight villains is female.”

  “Okay. John is in room C an
d Dave is in D. They’re both on the floor below. Simon is on the ground floor in room A.”

  “We’ll spy on Simon first, then, because he will be the easiest. Looking through first-floor windows is tricky unless there’s a tree opposite.” Abigail looked hopefully at Tess. “There isn’t one, is there?”

  Tess shook her head.

  “Never mind. I’ll go and see if I can see what Simon is up to.” Abby unclipped a case from her belt.

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s an extendable periscope. I’ll crouch outside his window and use this to look inside.”

  “What if his curtains are drawn?”

  “Villains never draw their curtains.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it makes them look suspicious.”

  “But if you can look in and see what they’re up to, doesn’t that make them even more suspicious?”

  “Well, yes, but – never mind. You wait here.”

  “Can’t I come with you?”

  “Not yet.” Abigail pointed at Tess’s white blouse. “You’re not dressed right.”

  She crept downstairs and out of the front door. There was only one window on the ground floor, to the left of the door. Abby crawled along in the shadows until she was underneath it. She extended her periscope and smiled. The curtains were drawn, but they didn’t quite meet in the middle. Abigail peered through the gap.

  Simon was lying on his bed in jeans and a T-shirt, watching a small portable television. A cup of coffee steamed on a bedside table. As she watched, he picked it up and took a sip. He looked back at the television and chuckled.

  Abigail was just shifting position, trying to get comfortable, when she heard the front door open and close. She froze. Footsteps scrunched on the gravel path. Abigail had to bite back a scream when someone sat down beside her.

  “Hi, Abby,” said Tess. “I got changed into some dark clothes. Is this better?”

  Abigail’s heart was still pounding. “Golly, you gave me a fright.”

  She looked at Tess, who was wearing black slacks and a black polo neck sweater. “Well, your clothes are better, but the blonde hair is a bit of a giveaway. You could do with a hat.”