Her shopping trips into town became even more frequent. Previously, the trips had filled long voids. They had passed the time of day. Now, there was an extra incentive. Rose still went to the same old shops, still made luxury purchases. But, she always ended in the same shop. The excitement, the anticipation of something fantastic, instantly returned.
And yet, nothing happened. Rose hardly ever saw the girl, and when she did, there was only feint recognition. She was treated like every other customer. She made some purchases – even surprised her husband with a sexy matching bra and thong – but it rarely raised an interest, let alone anything else. The visits became more regular, the stays longer. The frustration increased and the need for excitement spiralled. Rose was like an addict, desperate for her next hit.
It was clear that her hunger was not going to be satisfied sexually. Rose looked for something else – anything – to give her a high. And so, that quiet Thursday afternoon, her purse overflowing with cash and credit cards, she slipped an item of lingerie into her handbag and strode purposefully out of the shop. The risk of getting caught made her heart pump, her fingers tingle. Rose felt on top of the world.
Right until the moment she felt a strong hand on her shoulder, pulling her back into the store.
Rose was escorted – marched – upstairs, away from the public glare. Her heart pumped, now not from excitement, but blind panic. The security guard took her to a room, ordered her to take a seat. It was a small office, with no windows, and pretty much no character. There were two plastic chairs either side of a plain table. Rose sat down on the far side. She was told to wait. The guard shut the door, turned the key. Rose felt the life sucked out of her body.
She waited, just as she had been told. She wondered who would walk through the door. They were taking some time, that was for sure. Rose stared at a large round clock on the painted wall. They must have called the police, she thought. She was going to be handcuffed, dragged to the station. She would never be able to live it down.
The lock turned, the door opened. It was not the police. A woman, probably about thirty, walked in and sat down. Her brown hair was tied back. Plain, practical glasses rested on the tip of her nose. Her face was completely neutral.
Rose knew that she was in big, big trouble.
“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t call the police.”
“I-I’m sorry,” Rose stuttered. It was difficult to think of a reason, let alone a good one. “It’s the first time it has happened, and I promise you it will not happen again.”
“Too right it won’t!” the woman shouted, slamming her hand down on the table.
The door opened. Rose looked up. She was still scared that it would be the police. It wasn’t. But it was somebody she instantly recognized.
The girl took no notice of Rose. She went straight to the manager, whispered in her ear. Rose had no idea what she said, but whatever it was, the woman found it amusing. For the first time, her placid features broke into a smile. The girl sat down next to the manager.
“It seems,” the woman began, looking over the top of her glasses, “that this is not the first time that you have been bad in our shop. Is this true?” She leaned forwards, narrowed her eyes.
Rose knew exactly what she was being accused of. But it was her word against the assistant. She thought it was best that she act innocent. “As far as I am aware, this is the first time I have done anything wrong.”
The woman folded her arms. “Are you denying that you were coming like a train in one of the cubicles only a few weeks ago?”
Rose knew that there was no way back.
“We have two options,” the manager continued, a slyly smiling. “We could call the police, and you will get a criminal record, public humiliation and most likely a whole load of grief from your husband.” The woman sniggered, the assistant giggled. “Or, you do whatever we say, and if you don’t mention what happens in here, we will not say anything about the stealing.”
Oh God, thought Rose, this does not sound good. She could not think of anything worse than the police being called, however. “I will do whatever you say,” she murmured, avoiding all eye contact.
The neutral, expressionless features had been replaced by a wide grin. The manager delved inside Rose’s handbag, pulled out an item of lingerie – the one that she had tried to steal – and threw it at Rose. “Put it on,” she demanded. “Right in front of us, so that we can see you.”
Rose was naked but for a fleeting moment. She had no idea what she had tried to steal. The one-piece red baby-doll felt fantastic against her naked skin. Rose knew that the two women were watching, staring. It felt good.
“Not bad at all,” the manager said, nodding her head with appreciation. “But I want to find out for myself exactly what Rebecca here fingered to orgasm the other week. Lie down on the table so that we can properly see you.”
The cold of the table contrasted with the heat between her thighs. The silk baby-doll barely covered her buttocks, and Rose was fully aware that she was showing everything.
“See, I told you she loved it,” the assistant excitedly said. “Look how wet she is already.”
It was as if the manager sought reassurance. She jumped to her feet and slipped two fingers easily inside the open thighs. The fingers stabbed back and forth, penetrated deep and hard. “You are right,” Rose heard, loud and clear, as an extra finger inserted inside her. “She does love it.”
The words were demeaning, but oh-so wonderfully arousing. Rose struggled to grip the sides of the table with her hands. “I’m going to come!” Rose panted. Her fingernails clawed and scratched at the surface of the table. The parted thighs tightened and tensed. Her eyes watered. Her mouth opened wide. She released a long, loud sigh as the first orgasm overcame her trembling body. Rose could sense movements around her, but it was all very unclear; the room was spinning, everything seemed to be unsteady, a blur.
“I think that she is having it too easy,” she heard, but she had no idea whether the assistant or the manager was talking. “I think that she needs to work much, much harder to be let off!”
There were more muffled movements. She heard unzipping, the dropping of clothes. The table moved. Her eyes were closed, and when they opened, she was met by the most incredible, mesmerizing sight. The girl had crouched down, lowered herself over Rose’s face. Her pink, open cunt was just inches from her lips. “Lick me out!” she demanded.
Rose did not need to be asked twice. This was not hard work at all. She had always fantasized how pussy would feel, what it would taste like. She had spent many a lazy afternoon masturbating, thinking about it in the solitude of her bedroom. Never, not in her wildest dreams, did she ever imagine that it would be quite so spectacular. The girl was so wet, so hot, tasted so sweet. Her cunt pressed down hard against her face. The flowing juices covered her chin. She felt almost suffocated, swamped, but Rose absolutely could not get enough.
But it was not the only pleasure she was experiencing. Rose quickly became aware of fantastic sensations between her own legs. The heat was rising; the passion was exploding. “Oh my fucking God,” she murmured, as the realization hit her. Not only was she licking out, she was getting licked out.
The girl had arched her buttocks back, leaned forwards, begun squeezing and groping her full round breasts underneath the fabric of the baby-doll. The tongue between her legs felt so expert. It licked, flicked and circled, all in wicked, teasing motions. Rose straddled her feet around the neck of the woman, and then tightened the grip. She could hear the girl breathlessly cursing, “She is such a horny little bitch,” over and over again, and then, “Fucking bitch!” as she reached a thunderous climax. This brought Rose over the edge. Her head shook from side to side, her legs shook uncontrollably, hot sticky juices flowed down her buttocks.
The smell of sex filled the room. Rose had never before been so satisfied, so fulfilled. It was not enough.
“She still hasn’t done enough work!” the manager exclai
med. “I think she needs to do something to make it up to me personally. And I know what that can be.”
Rose was zoned out, lying flat on the table with her eyes closed. She felt firm, determined hands adjusting something around her hips. Rose did not know, did not care, what was going on. She was only brought out of her glorious stupor by harsh, hard words. “Now, fuck me!” the woman demanded.
The woman was completely naked. Her hands pressed against the wall. Her buttocks were raised. Rose looked down and gasped. The manager had strapped a dick to her groin. She wanted to be fucked by a woman with a dick.
Rose was out of her comfort zone, and yet at the same time, completely in her element. She just did what felt natural. The large cock easily slipped inside the open, gaping hole. She knew that she was doing it right by the loud, gasping moans as she thrust in and out. “You fucking bitch!” the woman screamed. “First you steal from my shop, and then you fuck my brains out! You, fucking, fucking bitch!”
It was an extraordinary afternoon. Rose needed to be let out of the back door. The three women had been at it for so long, the shop had shut hours ago. Rose promised that she would return to the shop a happy, happy customer.
“I think that you’ve located your perfect purchase,” the manager giggled, handing her the strap-on dildo. “Accept it as a loyalty freebie!”
It was the beginning, rather than the end. Rose never did return to the shop. She knew that nothing could ever compete with that incredible afternoon. But things did improve dramatically between the bed sheets with her husband.
Not only did Rose love her freebie, but it turned out that the manageress of the shop was not the only one who liked to be taken hard from behind.
MUSE
Maggie Morton
In the fall of my first year of college, I volunteered for a group trying to get signatures for a proposition to give insurance rights to the GLBT crew – my crew, as I’d come to realize that very year. I hadn’t ever kissed a woman, but I knew, in my soul, as well as my pants, that men just didn’t do it for me. Random skirmishes with pimpled, sloppy high school boys had done more than enough to convince me of this and, although I’d gotten asked out by a few men at the college, I only had eyes for the women. The glorious, curvaceous, full-lipped femmes, and the short-haired, boyish, sports-playing butches. They were my people, they were the ones I lusted after and, sadly, they were the ones I’d probably never work up the nerve to touch, to kiss, to even start a conversation with. Such is the luck of a shy, late-blooming girl who didn’t know the first thing about women.
So I bought books from the local gay-friendly bookstore, I went to feminist rallies and saw Ani DiFranco play, and I dearly hoped to learn, somewhere, among all of this, how on earth to get some lovely woman’s attention. I didn’t just join the group gunning for the proposition in hopes of meeting that special someone, though. Of course I cared about my community – cared deep and true about the rights I’d need someday if I were ever to couple up with a woman somewhere down the line. So I joined the women and men, walking down suburban streets, begging for signatures, for equal rights, for just a crumb of support. But for now, I didn’t have a lady and, for now, I still had . . . urges. So for now, my mind and my right hand took care of my sexual needs. At least I had a mind stuffed full of lush, hot fantasies.
In my favourite one, I would be masturbating furiously. Suddenly, my door would burst open. Before I could cover myself, or even move my hand away from my clit, the gorgeous woman in the doorway would see me there, naked, wet and incredibly embarrassed. But she wouldn’t apologize and quickly leave the room. No, she’d approach the bed and stand over me, leering, and she’d order me to continue what I’d been doing before she came into the room. She’d talk dirty to me, telling me how to touch myself, and then she’d peel off her skintight pants, revealing a full bush and a dripping wet cunt. Her next words were always the same – “Taste me.” Something about those words really turned me on. Perhaps it was the fact that they were both an order and a request, something that levelled the playing field.
I never could picture myself being on equal footing with a woman in reality, but in my fantasies, every once in a while it was I who said those two words, and then came the next part; the best part; the part where I could finally come in reality. Because that first brush of lips brought a heat to me that was impossible to deny. And so I would come, my head buried against my pillow, and then, panting, I’d lie back and try to sleep. I would try not to think about the fact that I’d never done these things with a woman in reality. I hadn’t even kissed one.
A few days later, my usual partner – a gorgeous man who I would have lusted after had he been straight (and had I been even slightly less than a hundred per cent queer) – came down with a cold, and so I was left by myself to walk down the streets and knock on doors, begging for equality. After three extremely rude people in a row, I was about ready to call it a day, and then I came across a cute pale-blue house, with a car parked outside it – a car with a rainbow on the back of it. Well, things might actually be shaping up, I thought to myself. Maybe I’d get another signature from whoever lived there. I walked up the steps to the front door, pausing to admire the beautiful snow-white lilies potted and scattered across the deck. I knocked three times, and heard a yelled, “Just a minute!” A few moments later, a woman came to the door. Her hair was tied back with a black bandana, and she wore paint-spattered overalls and a black tank top. Oh, and there’s one thing I forgot to mention – she was absolutely the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. Emerald-green eyes, gently uptilted in each far corner, plush, kissable lips, slightly parted, and her hair was a rich midnight-black with ruby-coloured highlights.
“Yes?”
I stood there, dumbfounded, for what was certainly far too long, and then, upon her clearing her throat, I snapped back to reality, away from thoughts of how she might look with those overalls on the floor and me on top of her. “Um, I’m going from door to door, trying to get signatures to get a proposition on the ballot.”
“Oh, and what would that proposition involve? More money for the big boys ruining my rights? A government-funded church?”
“I . . . noticed the rainbow on your car, so I think that maybe this issue might actually apply to you. It’s to get more health-care rights for LGBT partners.”
“Oh!” She looked genuinely embarrassed. She furrowed her brow and then smiled shyly, opening the door wider. “Come in. Maybe I can serve you some tea or something? I already have a pot on the stove, it should be hot enough any minute now.”
Well, how could I say no? The most gorgeous woman I’d ever seen was inviting me in for tea – there was no way I could turn down an offer that good. I nodded in answer, then said, “Sure,” to make perfectly clear that in no way was I going to turn her down, and then I stepped over the threshold and entered her home.
In what seemed to be her living room, there was a white futon against the wall on the left, and about three million paintings were scattered all across the floor. Next to a desk, an easel sat in the far corner, with what looked to be a half-finished painting, a nude woman reclining on a golden throne, her legs spread wide. “I, um, like your painting,” I told the woman.
“Thanks, but it’s not my best work. It’s for a show coming up, and I’ve really been shooting blanks when it comes to what to draw and paint for it. Everything’s been total crap so far, to tell the truth.” She turned towards the painting, one hand on her hip, and gestured towards it with the other. “This one, for example, is probably never going to be finished. I’m stuck! My muse has gone and deserted me for someone else.”
“It looks great to me, but I’m an English major, or at least I plan to be one. I still love art, though, of the visual sort.”
She turned and looked at me, a shrewd expression passing over her beautiful face. “You know . . . would you . . . would you be willing to pose for me? I mean, do you have enough free time this afternoon for me to do a sketch?”
>
How could I say no to that? Get to spend at least an hour in this woman’s company? “Sure. I have plenty of time – no classes today, just canvassing the neighbourhood, and I could certainly use a break.” Then I realized something, and I just had to ask. “Would I be . . . would I be posing nude?”
“Well, sweetie, I pretty much only do nudes. If you’d be uncomfortable with that, I’d understand, and—”
“No, not at all,” I interrupted. I would be uncomfortable, but she didn’t need to know that she’d be the first woman to see me naked besides my ob-gyn. I drew upon every last reserve of confidence I contained, and, surprisingly, found myself begin to smile. “When should we begin?”
“Oh, instantly, if at all possible. The muse is back, I can tell!” She walked over to the windows and quickly closed the drapes, then turned on the overhead light with a quick flick of a switch by the door. “Now, if you would just get undressed, I’ll get out my sketch pad.” She turned from me and walked over to her easel, plopping the half-finished painting on the ground and spinning the easel around, and then she bent over and picked up a large pad of paper from the desk to her right. She took a thick, black pencil from a half-open drawer in the desk, and squinted at me, then gestured towards the futon. “If you’ll disrobe, we can get started. Oh, and my name is Lilliana. Yours?”
I began taking off my clothes, slipping my dress over my head, and said, as I placed it neatly on the ground, “Ona. I know, it’s kind of a silly name. I’ve never liked it.”
“Oh, but I do . . . Ona. It’s pretty. Just like you.” Then she grinned, and I realized she found blushing cute, perhaps, because she grinned wider as I felt the heat rising to my cheeks.
I slipped off my sneakers and socks, and then came the big reveal. Off came my sports bra and panties, and then there I was, for her to look at, every inch of skin, and I hoped, desperately, that she would approve.
“Mmm,” was all she said. Then she gestured towards the futon and said, “If you could sit there, maybe with your arms draped over the back, or . . . well, we’ll figure it out.” She put down the pencil, and walked over to me, taking my hand in hers. “Here, go ahead and sit down,” she said and she led me over to the futon. I slowly sat down, worried that she could somehow sense the heat coming from my crotch, the heat that her touch was bringing to my whole body.
The Mammoth Book of Lesbian Erotic Stories Page 21