The Mammoth Book of Lesbian Erotic Stories

by Barbara Cardy

  “I never laid a finger on the wench,” said Zoe defiantly.

  “I will have the truth of this. Take her to my chamber and I will know by cock-crow.”

  Once inside and alone, Zoe explained that she had been making her way back to her owner’s home when she came across Daphne and a man making love on the ground: “When they saw me, the girl screamed and the man ran off. When your priestesses arrived, the girl swore it was me who was trying to take pleasure of her and kill her.”

  “And how do I know if this is true?”

  “Because I say so.”

  “Careful, slave, you speak to a goddess.”

  “Your gods are not my gods,” she muttered under her breath but still too loud.

  “How dare you!” screamed Aphrodite, her eyes blazing as she seemed to physically grow before Zoe.

  Aphrodite pointed and then shook outstretched arms in Zoe’s direction. Chains coiled either side of Zoe, rising into the air like twin cobras. And like a serpent’s strike, they wrapped themselves around her wrists before snapping back to cinch around stone pillars on either side of her, stretching her painfully tight. Speechless and clearly terrified, Zoe could only watch as Aphrodite came toward her and, taking a dagger from the table, cut her shift from her body with two swift slashes, leaving her naked.

  Aphrodite then raised her arms high above her head, put her hands together palm against palm, and began to sway hypnotically in front of Zoe. And as she did so, there came the pagan, erotic swirl of pan pipes, but soft as if heard from a great distance. Aphrodite seemed to become more snakelike before Zoe’s astonished eyes. She could see the tantalizing outline of her body shifting beneath her robe. Sinuously, she coiled around her, under one outstretched arm, behind her back and then in front of her again. Suddenly, Zoe became aware of an unfamiliar pulling feeling deep within her womb and a spreading wetness between her legs. She was becoming highly aroused; although the terrified young woman could not have said for the very life of her what “it” was, as Aphrodite suddenly sank to her knees before her. A tongue, that Zoe could have sworn was forked, flickered out and caressed the very end of her nubbin and she came instantly with a wordless scream of passion and anguish.

  Aphrodite recoiled as if it was she who had been bitten by a snake. “How dare you, wench! How dare you!” she thundered. “I gave you no permission.”

  And taking a whip made from braided leather, she began to lash Zoe across her breasts, chest and belly, each stroke raising an almost instant thin red weal.

  Zoe bore her punishment bravely and in silence but eventually gasped: “My lady, Goddess, I am truly sorry. I’m just a poor slave girl and I have never yet lain with man nor woman.”

  “You are a truly a virgin?” Aphrodite echoed in wonderment. “Then you could not have despoiled poor Daphne.”

  A wave of Aphrodite’s hand and the chains fell away from Zoe’s wrists. Aphrodite led her over to a bed: a wooden pallet strewn with animal pelts and fleeces and soft cushions. She bound a silken scarf around Zoe’s eyes and warned her: “It is forbidden for a mortal to look upon a goddess naked. If you remove the blindfold then you will die.”

  She lay Zoe gently down upon her back and slipped off her robe with practiced ease. Naked now, Aphrodite took a jar containing Greek yoghurt, honey, herbs and spices and oh-so-gently began applying it to the marks of the lash. At first Zoe shivered and writhed beneath her, soft little moans escaping from her lips. But gradually as the soothing lotion began its work, Aphrodite could feel Zoe relax, her beautiful young body becoming limp and compliant. Aphrodite continued applying the lotion, with hands skilled with eons of practice, until the front of Zoe’s torso was covered with a slick film from neck to groin. Then she knelt astride the girl, crotch to crotch, and kissed and licked and sucked the cream from her body until Zoe began to writhe and moan again . . . but this time in pleasure not pain.

  “Lie still, girl, and I will pleasure you. But swear to me once again that you are a virgin. If you lie I will know, and to lie to a goddess is to die,” she warned.

  “I swear, my lady, by all the gods of Greece and by my own gods, I swear.” Aphrodite went to a chest and returned carrying a marble phallus so huge that if Zoe had not been blindfolded and could have seen it she surely would have screamed. Aphrodite carefully applied the last of the cream to the phallus, making sure it was coated along its whole length.

  “Relax, girl,” she instructed as she slipped just the first inch inside Zoe’s quim. “There may be some pain to start with. But what you feel is the ‘Horn of Zeus’. Legend has it that it has magical properties and that once a woman has ridden it she will never want another from any man.”

  Aphrodite took it slowly feeding the mighty cock of rock in inch by inch. Initially, Zoe did cry out in pain as she felt it was just too large and she must be split in two. But in time the whole length of the thing was sheathed inside her and once again pain and pleasure sweetly fused together. Gently at first but then faster and harder, Aphrodite worked the cock in and out and Zoe’s body began to move in counterpoint, meeting thrust with thrust.

  Suddenly reality shifted and Zoe screamed out in terror: “Goddess, the thing, it is alive. It moves with me!” And at that instant the great cock “came” and it felt like a volcano erupting deep within her loins. Zoe came too, transported to the heights of Olympus . . . never had she known such ecstasy and such sweet agony or that they were even possible.

  Goddess of Love, Aphrodite held her in the throes of passion, forcing her to climax time after time, with fingers and with that forked tongue and with the Horn of Zeus again until Zoe could bear it no longer and passed out . . .

  “Helen. Helen. Wake up. Are you OK?” Someone was shaking her none too gently by the shoulder.

  Helen opened her eyes and found herself staring into the blue of Zoe’s. “Yeah, yeah I’m fine,” Helen answered a little groggily. “I think I must have just dozed off for an instant. Time to be getting back, I suppose.”

  An awkward silence grew between the two of them during the drive back. They went into the hotel bar and each had a cold beer.

  “Come up to my room,” said Helen and was surprised to find it was a command and not an offer.

  She led the way and, once inside, still without a word, she stripped and lay naked on the bed, legs parted in invitation. “Make love to me. Worship my cunt,” she ordered. And as Zoe peeled off her yellow top, half turned toward her, Helen noticed the delicate pink tracery of old scars, terribly old scars across her breasts . . .

  STRAWBERRY SHORTCAKE

  Olivia London

  My last relationship was like this, Fiona thought, as she skirted her thumb over an obscenely ripe avocado. Mush. Approaching what she assumed to be a three-foot display of fruit, she picked up a navel orange only to leave a hole announcing its cardboard backdrop. The sunny spheres had been cleverly arranged to make you think you had entered the Garden of Eden, not a harried grocer’s lack of surplus.

  Yes, Hannah with her mediagenic countenance had promised Fiona the world and things just hadn’t gone as planned. Seems the ambitious actress had never gotten over her ex, after all. Perhaps it wasn’t fair to compare her former lover to cardboard, though. Hannah and Fiona had been good together. Hannah had never lied or cheated and, these days, that was something to brag about.

  “You shouldn’t have pressured her to move in with you,” Fiona’s mother would say while handing her daughter a mixing bowl and a potato peeler. Her mother believed idle hands led to the devil’s gain whereas Fiona believed the best way to keep hands busy was to position them deftly into the moistened envelope sealing her creamy thighs together.

  She had to smile now, thinking of her mother preparing dinner while Frank Sinatra crooned from a portable CD-player. How many times had her father waltzed his wife around the modern kitchen while singing along to the old-fashioned tunes? They were an odd couple, her parents. Her mom was an Italian with a Vesuvian temper, constantly talking even when th
ere was no one in the room. Her father was a taciturn sort from Anglo-Irish stock. The poor man had never tasted a decent marinara before meeting his Sofia.

  “And yet my folks stayed married for decades,” Fiona told her friend Becky over drinks après Hannah. “Well, I’m going home to Pinky, my vibrator. Unless, ahem, you want to come over and keep me company?” Fiona reached over to run a palm down the length of her friend’s long, silky blonde tresses. She loved how a lock could curl and hover just an inch or two shy of her friend’s ample breasts. In real life, the two women hadn’t gone beyond hugging each other goodnight. Enter one of Fiona’s fantasies however, and you may find a certain china-boned redhead perched on the mound of her luscious blonde crush.

  “We’ve been through this, Fi. You know I’m not bi. And I won’t let you turn our night out into a Lesbian Reform Party. Look, those guys at the bar have been staring at us. Check it out.”

  “They look like frat boys. I’ll bet you another drink they’re only gawking because my hand came dangerously close to cupping your breast just now.”

  Becky took a deep breath and straightened her carriage, a maddening gesture as it made the thin material of her sweater stretch across her tantalizing bosom.

  “I’ll say it again, Fi: you know I’m not bi.”

  Fiona had her comeback faster than a shot of tequila. “You’ll never know unless you try!”

  Becky squirmed in her seat, ducking her head to hide a genuine smile. “I don’t get it, Fi. You’re smart and sexy. This is San Francisco. You should be getting laid every night.”

  “I’ve been holding out for you.” Until Fiona had uttered the words, she assumed she had merely hit upon a dry spell, a vug in the quarry of lesbian love. Now, she knew. Her heart cried out for Becky Malone.

  The lovely blonde took a sip of her margarita and focused on a freckle directly below her friend’s lower lip.

  “Um, dare I ask why you named your vibrator Pinky?”

  Because it makes me think of how impossibly pink and pretty the corolla of your pussy must be, Fiona thought. Makes me think of you in my bed writhing and moaning as your entire being succumbs to orgasm after orgasm. I could alternate tapping your clit gently with the head of my toy while caressing and kissing your inner thighs. I’ll treat your vulva like a sacred vessel that should be filled to the brim with pleasure. My love will so inhabit your loins you will surrender to no one else and sup on the flavors of ecstasy only I can provide.

  “I gave my vibrator its name because it’s pink.”

  “Well,” Becky smirked, “you best go home and use it.”

  And use it Fiona did. Her apartment was dark save for a beam of amber light emitting from a corner street lamp. She dropped her purse on the floor and kicked off her shoes. Her sweater and bra went the way of the handbag. She peeled off her jeans but kept her panties on, liking the friction of wet woman lust against a cotton crotch panel. Fiona let her fingers glide under the elastic waistband until they found a trimmed tuft of pubic hair, a red bush to match the mane she didn’t bother much with, preferring to pull it back into a ponytail.

  Fiona went to her bedroom and lit a cinnamon-scented candle; she loved how this prop cast all but her immediate need in shadow and cradled the aroma of love. She tumbled into bed braless, panties already in a dither and began what was fast becoming the de rigueur element of her sex life.

  She kneaded her groin while prodding her clit with an index finger. When she was with another person, Fiona didn’t have to rely on imagination. When alone, however, she went all out, imagining things she wouldn’t dare tell anyone, lest they think this frustrated minx was turning into a royal perv.

  But there in her mind’s eye was Becky begging to be spanked. She wanted to be punished for teasing her poor pussy-hungry friend. She wanted Fiona to swat her tender bottom and trembling loins then don a strap-on to fuck her like a man, only harder.

  And then, oh yes, as she was pulling Becky’s hair by the determined fistful, just enough to make the scalp tingle, and as she staked a claim to the vagina she was in as if it were own, then she could roll over and cry out in ecstasy, as the orgasms were so intense they made her knees buckle, and curl into a fetal position, shuddering and shaken to her core.

  She drifted into a deep sleep where she met with a blonde nurse taking her temperature. Fiona had a fever. The kind woman in uniform lifted her patient’s head and adjusted some pillows. She brought a cup of liquid to Fiona’s lips and made her drink. She leaned over to kiss Fiona on the cheek and let her breasts graze the patient’s neck and chest. Then the nurse left the room and closed the door behind her.

  Heavenly nurse must have returned though, for Fiona heard a persistent knocking. She woke to the sound of her own voice chanting, “Come in! Come in!” until she realized there was someone pounding on her front door.

  She dressed quickly and ran to the peephole, desperately hoping not to find Janice, a needy neighbor who already owed Fiona for a favor too many.

  Fiona gasped with delight as she opened the door.

  Not waiting for an invitation, Becky let herself in, immediately noting the bra on the floor.

  “Why, Fiona. Do you always answer the door braless?”

  “Do you always knock on friends’ doors in the middle of the night?”

  “Only the fuckable ones.”

  Fiona didn’t have a shot-glass-ready answer for that. Becky reeled her in for a long, deep kiss, one hand cradling the back of her head while the other circled the small of her back. The blonde fantasy turned flesh kissed Fi like she had never been kissed before.

  Fiona reluctantly released her friend and took a step back.

  “Look, I don’t want to question my good fortune, but you’ve always been so adamant about your preferences and I don’t want to be some experiment.” Better to masturbate than be someone’s quaint experience.

  “No, I had my experiments in college. I’ve wanted you for so long. I was just afraid of ruining our friendship. Sex has a way of, I don’t know, a way of . . .”

  “Making people fluid-bonded?”

  Becky laughed. “I bet that doesn’t mean we drink out of the same glass or order the same cocktail from now on.”

  “It means two people sleeping together in a monogamous relationship. A lot of times when you tell people you’re bi, they assume your life is a roulette wheel of sexual positions.”

  “Well, I still hope screwing like mad doesn’t ruin our friendship. I can’t promise I’ll never want to be with a guy again.”

  “Just let me know if you meet someone new. Male, female, alien or mineral.”

  Fiona let her hands roam down Becky’s back until they rested naturally at hip level. Becky took those hands and guided them a little lower.

  “Squeeze my ass.” Becky’s face presented the naughty smile of a temptress used to getting what she wanted, and wasn’t about to be denied.

  “Such a tantalizing tush.”

  “Would you laugh if I asked you to spank me?”

  Fiona slipped her palms down Becky’s unzipped jeans, already commandeering the cool flesh of that coveted womanly bum. “No, darling. I think a spanking is your due, after dragging me to that wretched straight bar. Come. My bedroom abhors a vacuum. Let’s fill it.”

  Fiona had a queen-sized bed, which was the perfect trampoline for female fun. The blonde and the redhead adjusted to each other’s curves and kissed with lengthy abandon.

  Fi reached between Becky’s legs and was instantly ensorceled.

  “Becky, baby. You’re so wet.”

  The blonde cupped Fiona’s breasts and asked in all seriousness, “Do you want to make me wetter?”

  A rhetorical question. Without waiting for a response, Becky draped her lovely torso over the strength of Fiona’s lap, lifting her rump in an obvious act of obeisance.

  Fiona was instantly aroused. A bare bum was like an unset table; what ensued could result in a fine repast or send both diners away hungry.

  F
i’s palms kneaded each luscious lobe of B’s womanly flesh until one cheek then the other appeared to be blushing. With a smooth behind as white as talcum powder, it wouldn’t take long to trace the imprints of Fiona’s swats.

  A loud swoosh! reverberated in the room as Fiona’s splayed hand met its mark. After a half-dozen claps, B’s thighs parted and Fi smiled at a strawberry-shaped birthmark just below her new lover’s crissum. She would make for a delicious strawberry shortcake, Fi thought.

  But first, she wanted to hear her lover squeal, hear Becky call out her name, either begging for a reprieve or crying out for more.

  Fi could feel heat everywhere, traveling up her forearms and between the spaces of her fingers as the buffets rained down with thrilling increments of intensity.

  Becky shifted sideways in Fiona’s lap. Fi, assuming her lover had had enough, started to get up.

  “Just a little more!” Becky begged.

  Fi’s nipples stood sentinel while her pussy wanted to float. She had never had such a submissive lover before and the naked roundel at her disposal was intoxicating.

  Her hands seemed to be moving now of their own accord on a running track of desire, each swat springing away with brio to heed the call of the next. When she paused to catch her breath, B shunted her dorsal in a most demanding fashion, making Fi want to spank her all the more.

  “Oh, you impertinent girl, you really turn me on.”

  Finally, when the percussion of swats sounded to Fiona’s ears more din than music, she turned her lover round in a supine position. Becky’s face was as flushed as her derrière and a spatter of tears daubed her temples like pressed clover.

  “That made me so happy. I can’t explain it.”

  “We don’t have to explain or make excuses. Let’s just be good to each other.”

  That sly grin again. “It would sure make me feel good if you fucked me with your fingers.”

  “Oh, Becky.”

  A dream come true! How often had she fantasized about this? How often had Fiona’s friends shaken their heads over Fi’s penchant for straight-girl crushes, always referring to the eager redhead as a reckless dreamer?