The proof was in the pudding of her hands. Fi need only ride the slippery slope that was her lover’s want.
“That spanking really turned you on. Now I have to fuck you.”
Fiona found that strawberry birthmark and licked it as if she could extract the very pith of the fruit. She let her glossa glide to her lover’s mound and licked there too, as Becky moaned and writhed in spasms of approval.
While lavishing her lover’s labia with deft lingual whorls, Fiona thrust one then two digits into warm, throbbing quim. Becky’s cunt was slick with desire and lust but it was also tighter than a button-down shirt. When Fi pushed a third finger inside, B arched her back and groaned in ecstasy, murmuring hushed, unintelligible words.
When Fi fastened her lips to her lover’s clit, while pumping away with a triad of fingers, it was almost more than Becky could bear. A freshet of fluid streamed forth, creating a rivulet down B’s plush inner thigh.
“Don’t stop! Please, make me come.”
Becky’s wish was Fiona’s volition, setting tongue and fingers aflame. When Becky came with raucous waves of pleasure, she cried out her lover’s name over and over again.
This was what it meant to be loved, Fiona thought, as she burrowed into Becky’s post-coital embrace. Having your name passed to you like an imprimatur from your woman’s lips. Like hearing the voice of an angel.
As the night crested toward dawn, Fiona and B surrendered to a few moments of slumber. Fiona woke with a start, though, wondering if she had been dreaming of strawberry birthmarks and long golden tresses. No, this was her dream made flesh, a vision in cool, crisp sheets entwined in Fiona’s grateful arms.
There was just enough street light to cast Becky in silhouette and Fiona gave thanks yet again for the gift of a city that never stops glowing . . . ever refulgent with the brightness of soft, womanly love.
Fiona smoothed a curl away from Becky’s forehead and lightly caressed her cheek. She was so lovely, this femme who may or may not have been experimenting with lesbian love. Who knew what the future would bring? For the moment, Fiona was happy and her joy was like the benison of a new day, until the dark with its inevitable temptations came to pass.
MEN!
Dominique James
Maxine sighed as yet another man misunderstood her.
The party was interesting enough, but every party she went to these days seemed to have some boorish man or other who – fueled by too much alcohol – was ready to give his take on lesbians. She’d heard it all before and had all the answers off pat by now. It just frustrated her having to keep giving them every time.
Someone had obviously, and probably maliciously, pointed her out.
“So you’re our resident rug-muncher, eh?”
How she hated that expression.
“No, I’m a lesbian,” she retorted with as much bad grace as she could muster.
“What you need is a good hard cock and a man who knows how to use it. That’d cure you.”
That old one.
“Why, do you know any?” she countered. “What I need is for you to get the fuck out of my face!”
He didn’t move; he just grinned inanely back at her.
“And what you need is . . .” A knee in the groin reinforced her message. Time to go before he recovered and got violent. That type often did.
She wanted to go anyway. Michele would be home by now. Waiting. Soft, yielding, pliant and compliant.
She managed to hail a cab within seconds. Stunning good looks and a shimmering evening gown covering a figure most men could only fantasize about – yet could never have – saw to that. Thankfully the cabbie didn’t want to talk. Good for him. Maxine wanted to think.
Why did men assume lesbianism is an illness, and can be cured? Worse still, why does every one think he is that cure?
“I don’t need a bloody cock!” she exclaimed aloud.
“Sorry, love?” the cabbie asked.
“Nothing. Thinking aloud.”
She gave him a good tip, more for not wanting to talk than anything else. And for not making any assumptions or accusations. A rare gentleman.
The curtains on their house were drawn, soft light evident through the fabric.
“Max?” Michele called as she came out from the lounge.
“You were expecting someone else?” she answered wearily. Then she apologized. “Sorry, darling. Bad day. And that reception . . . Men!”
“Sounds like you need a drink,” Michele suggested.
“Fuck the drink,” Maxine told her. “I need this.” Pulling Michele toward her, Maxine’s lips descended on her lover, not brutally but urgently, savoring her clean, sweet taste and femininity. Eventually they broke.
“I had a shower,” Michele told her, explaining the bathrobe she wore. “Mine wasn’t the best of days either.”
“Sorry. Here’s me bitching and I never asked you how it went.”
“I got the order. And the obligatory grope.” A pause. “As you say . . . Men!”
Another kiss, more breathless this time. An antidote.
“You look gorgeous,” Michele told her. “I could eat you.”
“Great idea,” Maxine laughed. “Come here.”
As Michele stood before her, Maxine slipped the knot on the robe, which fell away to reveal the body she adored, naked and goosebumped after the shower. She slipped the robe off Michele’s shoulders and let it fall to the floor, keeping hold of the belt as it went.
“Turn around.”
When Michele had her back toward her, Maxine wrapped the belt around her wrists, not too tightly, but very firmly – just as they both liked. Michele purred.
“Now I’m all naked and you’re all dressed,” Michele complained.
“So undress me too. Use your teeth.”
They’d played this game before, and they both loved it. They swapped roles equally; it didn’t matter who did the undressing, who did the tying. It just didn’t matter.
Michele moved round back, nuzzling her way through Maxine’s hair until her teeth found the zipper. The dress was tight enough that it stayed in place as she pulled, lower and lower until she had to sink to her knees to reach the bottom. Rising up again, she kissed her way up Maxine’s spine, using little butterfly pecks that made her lover shiver as she traveled. She kissed rather than pulled the dress down Maxine’s shoulders until it slipped to her waist, then spent more time kissing her neck and ears as Maxine’s hands came up to stroke her hair and keep the contact.
“No bra?” Michele noted. “No wonder the bloke was after you. I would be. Hell, I am!”
Then it was round the front, where Maxine’s pert, beautiful naked breasts awaited her, begging to be kissed and sucked, making Maxine shiver and shake at the pleasure of it all. Back up, tilting Maxine’s head backwards with her own as she gently attacked her throat, finally reaching her mouth as they locked together in a deep, meaningful and very satisfying kiss.
“Get on with it.” Maxine grinned at last.
It was an easy job for Michele to tug at the waistband of the gown, slipping it round Maxine’s hips until it fell gratefully to the floor, where she stepped out of it.
Less easy was the tiny scrap of a white thong that formed Maxine’s only remaining covering. But neither woman was in any hurry. Michele slipped to her knees again. She could feel the belt loosening from her wrists, but she didn’t want to be free just yet. She faced the thong. The easy way would have been to drag the side strings down on each side a little at a time. Too easy. Instead she kissed down its front, pressing her mouth into the warm V between Maxine’s thighs, inhaling the fresh, feminine scents there.
More impatient by the second, she pulled the waistband at the front down a little until she could tug gently at the hairs the action had revealed. Then round the back, her tongue following the natural valley formed by Maxine’s buttocks.
That was when the belt fell off.
Maxine hadn’t noticed at first, so Michele was able to pick it up
and wrap it round Maxine’s wrists. There was no fight, no resistance, just a slight giggle when Maxine realized the tables had been turned. Michele’s knot was better. This would not fall off.
Impatiently she tugged down the tiny white thong so both were naked.
“Tell me about the man,” Michele said as she stood and pulled her lover to the settee.
“I don’t want to talk about him. He was a pig.”
“Tell me,” she urged. “I want to know.”
“Same old story. What I need is his cock to cure me. Apparently.”
“I’ll cure you,” Michele said with a grin.
“I’m not ill,” Maxine protested.
“I can cure you of men,” Michele insisted.
“I don’t need curing of them.” Maxine laughed. “But it’s a good idea. Carry on.”
Michele sat astride Maxine’s legs, leaning forward so they could kiss each other and using her hands to fondle the other’s breasts and keep the nipples pert.
“Why do they always assume we need a cock inside us? They’re transfixed by the idea that we need penetration.”
“He probably didn’t have enough to fill a thimble anyway,” Michele suggested. “But maybe we do need some penetration . . .”
The way she said it made Maxine shiver. “What could you mean?” she asked.
But Michele was already slipping to the floor. “Open your legs,” she said.
Amused, Maxine did just that. Michele dipped her head forward, putting out her tongue and pressing it between Maxine’s labia before moving up until she had lashed it over her clitoris. It was a firm and smooth movement, one with feeling and determination, making Maxine anticipate its progress and destination and hold her breath as it traveled.
“Oh God!” was her only comment.
“Penetration, we said . . .” Maxine smiled up at her.
Already her fingers had replaced her tongue, gently separating the labia and slipping first one, then two, inside. No checks on lubrication were asked for or needed. Their mutuality supplied lubrication aplenty. Nevertheless Michele rose, telling Maxine to stay exactly where she was, returning minutes later with a lubricant dispenser they kept in the bedroom, used as much to massage as to lubricate. She took her place on the floor between Maxine’s legs again, pressing the button on the dispenser to issue a spurt of the gel over her pubis.
Maxine swore and laughed at the cold.
Michele smoothed the gel all around. And inside. Maxine felt as fluid as the gel, her skin tingling from the liquid and Michele’s massaging hands. Michele dipped forward again, pressing her face into Maxine’s vagina, grateful they’d bought an edible lubricant. The two women slithered together, Maxine pushing her hips up now, sliding against Michele’s face.
But Michele had more in store.
After applying more gel to Maxine, she pressed out a great dollop onto her own right hand, spreading it around with her left until her whole hand shone. Suddenly Maxine realized her plan.
“Michele, you can’t,” she protested. “I can’t.”
“Shhh,” Michele soothed. “I’ll stop if you say. I promise. Trust me.”
Maxine always trusted her. She looked down, all too aware of her hands tied behind her, and waited. Michele smiled up at her as she put the two fingers back to her entrance and slipped easily inside. The women usually satisfied each other by clitoral stimulation and occasionally G-spots, but this would be so much more. If it proved possible at all.
Michele pulled out slightly and added a third finger to the bunch, pushing them together so as to make them as narrow as possible. It was still easy; the oily consistency of the gel made it so.
Time for a fourth. That proved easy too, but the next would be the difficult bit. It was simple enough for Michele to wrap her thumb into the hollow made by her fingers, and the result was no wider, but now they had her knuckles to worry about. Michele spurted more gel over her fingers and smoothed it in with her other hand. Gently she pushed. Maxine tensed.
“Relax,” Michele urged. “It’ll be easy if you relax.” To distract Maxine she renewed the oral contact, flicking her tongue rapidly over the other woman’s clitoris until she was jerking and gasping. She pressed forward gently.
“I’ll stop if you want me to,” she said, but they both knew neither wanted to stop.
It had become a challenge now. Failure meant mutual disappointment. Success meant unknown bliss.
“Don’t you dare stop,” Maxine gasped, trying hard not to tense her muscles. “Untie me, please.”
Michele didn’t want to back off at all, not now she was so close, but she used her left hand and, with Maxine’s help leaning over, the belt was gone.
Maxine settled back in the seat, her hands moving to Michele’s wrist that almost protruded from within her. Using her hands, she could stop this if she needed to.
Or she could help.
Holding Michele’s wrist tight, Maxine slid further forward in the seat, opening her legs and pulsing her pelvic floor muscles to urge the intruder further in. They were at the edge now, the thickest part of Michele’s hand butting against the tightness of Maxine’s vagina. They held their breath as Maxine bore down on the hand. Time seemed to stop as the edge was there and – miraculously – passed. Once the knuckle was breached, Maxine’s vagina seemed to suck the rest of Michele’s hand inside. It was almost a relief now. Her wrist was much narrower than her knuckle and the interior of Maxine’s vagina much more flexible than its opening.
They were able to relax and celebrate their achievement. Maxine looked down and saw that now Michele’s wrist was buried right up inside her. Michele marveled at how her hand had disappeared.
But they both felt it: the fullness of the wrist inside Maxine; the tightness of the muscles gripping Michele. Harmony.
Michele tried flexing her fingers. Maxine exploded. Michele, sensing her climax, dipped her head and reinforced it with her tongue. It was over in moments yet still lurked. The fingers again, feeling like they were trapped by some warm, living, surrounding membrane. Every twitch was shared. Michele had the power now. Maxine still held her wrist tight, but she wasn’t trying to pull it out. Michele, meanwhile, knew she could tease like the worst kind of tickling. The slightest movement had her lover convulsing.
“Now I know how a glove puppet feels,” Maxine laughed, her laughter immediately silenced by a flick of Michele’s index finger. “Oh God!” Maxine repeated.
“Now, are we sure we don’t need penetration?” Michele teased.
“Smartarse bitch!” Maxine laughed.
“I’m a what?” Michele grinned back, making the smallest of movements with her fingers.
“You’re a smart . . . Aagh!” Maxine uttered, cut short by a twisted thumb. “And I love you.”
“Power.” Michele smiled. “Absolute power.”
“Be careful, darling. It will be your turn next,” Maxine countered.
“Says who?”
“Says both of us. Now you’ve done it to me, we both know we’re going to do it to you, don’t we?”
Michele opened her hand slightly again, making Maxine convulse once more. “I’ll consider it. Meanwhile . . .”
Michele pushed her face back down again, holding her hand rigid inside Maxine and moving it slowly backward and forward, as she licked at her lover incessantly, both of them knowing it was time for Maxine to come. Maxine screamed and spluttered, tensed and jerked, until she reached her peak, seconds after Michele had started her oral work. Her first climax seemed to roll straight into another as, involuntarily, she clamped her thighs together and rolled to the side of the settee. Michele, completely locked inside now, had no choice but to roll with her, trying as hard as she could to avoid a sprained wrist and to keep the oral contact going.
Gradually the couple subsided. Every movement where they were joined was a blissful agony for both. Maxine lay back, the arm still protruding from her, and started to laugh. Not because anything was funny, just because life was g
ood.
Breaking apart was not so easy. But they managed it, together. A little give here, a little take there. The first thing both women noticed was the coolness, both from the remnants of the gel and Maxine’s own fluids but also from the absence of what had filled one and surrounded the other.
“Did you enjoy it?” Michele asked, as she rested her cheek on Maxine’s belly as they tried to recover.
“What do you think?” Maxine laughed. “You were right; you are an antidote to men.”
“Glad to be able to help,” Michele replied. “Bedtime now?”
“If I can find the strength to walk upstairs.”
“Then crawl, bitch!” Michele joked. “Bitch” was a term they only ever used in private fun.
“Be nice to me.” Maxine pouted at her.
“I’ve already been nice to you,” came the reply. “Isn’t that enough?”
“We’ll see,” Maxine told her, reaching very obviously for the bottle of gel. “Now get up those stairs . . . Now!”
INSTRUCTION
Courtney James
Natalie took the job at Holwood Hall because it offered a challenge, the pay was better than she received in her dead-end job with the local leisure centre and it would get her away, she hoped, from men. Or, rather, one man in particular. She’d finally decided Phil was no good for her. Though he was charming, drop-dead gorgeous and incredibly sexy, Natalie wasn’t the only woman who thought so – and he was currently dating at least two of those who shared her opinion, to her knowledge. So when the chance came to teach aerobics to the guests of South Yorkshire’s premier health hydro, she jumped at it.
Phil, as she’d expected, was not unduly heartbroken she was leaving him, though he was somewhat taken aback that Natalie refused his offer of a farewell fuck for old time’s sake. Tempted as she was, Natalie knew if she let him in between her legs again, she’d find it almost impossible to make the break her self-esteem and sanity needed so badly.
Holwood Hall stood in splendid isolation on the edge of the Pennines, surrounded by the almost indecent beauty of the moorland landscape. Until the early seventies, it had belonged to a wealthy family who’d made their money from the Sheffield steel trade but, as that trade had declined, so had their own fortunes failed. Eventually the house had been sold to an astute American property developer who’d been in on the start of the fitness craze in the States and realized money was to be made from people who were looking for somewhere to tone their bodies and relax their minds. The hydro had gained a reputation for high standards at reasonable prices, but what attracted Natalie to the job most of all was the fact the guests were 90 per cent female. The fewer masculine temptations she came across, the better – and short of joining a nunnery, she reckoned this was her best bet.
The Mammoth Book of Lesbian Erotic Stories Page 3