The Mammoth Book of Lesbian Erotic Stories

by Barbara Cardy

  “OK, let’s see . . .” She reached towards me and grabbed on to each of my arms with a hand, her fingers cool but soft, and she lifted each arm until they were spread wide, straight out across the top edge of the blanket draped over the top of the couch. “Well, I think this will work. And . . . if you could just spread your legs a bit,” she continued. Slowly, she reached down towards them, then paused, looking slightly embarrassed. “I’m sorry if I’m being too forward, I usually know my subjects a little more before I have them pose for me.”

  “N-no, it’s fine,” I said, smiling up at her a little. And it really was fine. After all, this was pretty much the closest I’d ever gotten to sex, and even though it wasn’t going to lead to that, I wasn’t about to complain. “Do whatever you want with me.”

  “Really? Not a very intelligent thing to say to a smart-ass such as myself.” She smiled, bit her lip, and I found myself suddenly getting very, very wet. And goddamn it for happening, as she would see just how slick I was as soon as she spread my legs. I found, though, as she began to push them apart, that I almost didn’t care.

  It was then that she stopped making eye contact, her face softening, her eyes travelling straight to my cunt, now sopping wet. “Oh my . . . you . . . you’re so wet,” she said quietly.

  “I guess . . . yeah, well, I’ve never . . . I’ve never really been touched by such a gorgeous woman while completely naked,” I told her. “I’m sorry if I’m not supposed to be . . . aroused.”

  “Oh, no, that’s fine.” She stood up, looking slightly embarrassed, and walked back over to her easel. “Now, I want you to hold that pose as best you can, and I’m going to begin sketching you.” She picked up the pencil, and I watched as she began to draw.

  I don’t really know what, exactly, came over me, but as time slowly passed, and as I found I was getting wetter and wetter, I couldn’t help it – I knew I was supposed to stay still, but I found I was desperate to touch myself, to do something about this extreme level of arousal, to get off, or at least to try.

  And just then, as that thought crossed my mind, Lilliana stopped sketching, and she ripped off the page she’d just finished and placed it on the floor. “Why don’t we try another pose? Maybe one that’s more relaxed?”

  “I can think of one,” I said, and my boldness shocked me, as I slowly reached my hand down and placed it on my crotch. My fingers began to move, almost like I’d lost control of them, and I began to stroke the lips, gently. I stared at her, waiting for a reaction.

  She sighed, almost like a moan, and raised her pencil to the paper. “That’s . . . that’s perfect, and feel free to, um, experiment a little . . . you know, shift around or . . . or . . .” I began to slide my fingers up and down my slit then, gasping as they grazed my clit for the first time. “Or just keep doing that,” she said quickly. “God, are you ever . . . naughty.” And now she was the one who was flushed, her cheeks cherry red, her breath practically visible, as she panted a little, and I knew I was having an effect on her, a lovely effect, and so, as she sketched, I slipped a finger inside myself, then another, and began to fuck my cunt, my fingers making a soft sucking sound as they slid in and out. I watched her watch me, and I could almost sense how turned on she was, could almost smell her getting wet, and then she dropped her pencil, said, “Fuck it,” and crossed the room in mere seconds.

  She got down on her knees in front of me, and now she was the shy one, as she said, “Can I . . . can I touch you?”

  “Of course.” I lifted my fingers from my cunt, and then she took my hand, pulling it to her lips, and she parted them then, sliding my fingers inside, into the wetness of her open mouth. Her tongue slithered across them, and she moaned softly, as if I tasted as sweet as chocolate.

  I slowly took my fingers from her mouth, and then she shoved my legs apart, and placed her lips on me, and that was it – a woman was going down on me for the first time.

  Her tongue slipped up my slit, and I felt myself tighten, clench, and then her fingers gave me something to clench around, as she spread me wide and shoved two of them inside me. Oh, this felt so much, so much better than when I was alone, touching myself. I revelled at the warmth of her mouth, the thrust of her tongue, the way her fingers fucked me as she licked and sucked and got me so very close to coming.

  But it wasn’t to be, because . . . I just couldn’t. It didn’t mean I wasn’t enjoying myself, and after I told her, “I’m sorry, I just can’t come,” I told her how wonderful it felt, because I wanted her to know she wasn’t doing anything wrong.

  She grinned up at me, her lips moist, her chin wet. “How about I introduce you to my Hitachi? She’s never failed me yet.”

  Lilliana led me into her bedroom, and I lay down on her bed. She reached down to the floor to its right, and out came the vibrator.

  And no, it didn’t fail her, and I came gloriously hard mere moments later, with her lips on mine, and the vibrator pushed tight against my clit.

  She never finished that second sketch, but I went to her opening two weeks later, and there was that first sketch of me, selling for almost two hundred dollars. At the end of the night, there was a red sticker next to its title, and I couldn’t help wondering who had bought it.

  The next day, a knock came on my dorm-room door, and I got up to open it. No one was there, but there was a large, flat rigid package wrapped in brown paper, and so I took it into my room and opened it. There was the sketch, and I looked glorious in it, full of heat, full of promises for sex, and there, taped on the back, was her phone number and a suggestion that I come over for dinner sometime soon. I tried to be cool, to hold off on calling her for at least a few days, but the phone was in my hand twenty minutes later.

  We had dinner together that night, spanakopita and Greek salad, and we talked late into the night. She invited me to stay, going off about how late it was, and we crawled into bed together around two, and fell asleep around four. It’s obvious what we did up until then, but a few details stood out, certainly:

  Her face, when I got her off that first time – which was my first time ever getting a woman off. It was a thing of beauty, something that will probably remain forever etched in my mind. As she came, her brow wrinkled, and her lips shook – each was subtle, almost unnoticeable, but I did notice them, and I found myself thinking, So that’s what a woman looks like when she comes. A silly thought, perhaps, but the look on her face was anything but silly, and the sounds she made as she came were even further away from that. Yes, they were beautiful, just as much so as her body beneath me, just as much so as the skin – still taut and firm despite the years she had beyond mine – pressed tight against my own. I was just as naked as I’d been before, posing for her as she drew me, but she was revealed now too, a certain level of equality brought into the room by the fact that we were both now completely unclothed. A certain level of equality was also there because now I’d seen the faces she made, too, the twist of her lips, the squeezing tight of her eyes, the flush of her cheeks and the furrows of her forehead, all there as she came gloriously hard, and, even more gloriously, loud as could be. The sound was so full, so intense, and so full of, well, pleasure, that it was unbelievable. So this was what I’d been missing out on all of these years; this was what making a beautiful woman come was like. Was this how I looked? I wondered, as my turn came, as she got me off. Did I look even close to that beautiful, that sexy, that full of pleasure and lust and oh-so-many-things-more? Were my sounds as lovely as hers, sending shivers of intense power down her flesh like her sounds sent down mine? And then I forgot to wonder all of this, forgot to question anything, as I came, hard, gloriously hard, my lips wide and leaking sound after sound as I felt my cunt clench tight, and then I felt it pulse, over and over, until I finally grew still once more . . . but only after what seemed to me like a very, very long time.

  I fell asleep with a smile on my face, hearing her last words to me over and over – “Thank you for bringing back my muse . . . and my sex life.” It m
ay have been the very beginning of mine, but I could already tell that I, just like her art, was headed for even greater things.

  That night, after all, we didn’t need the Hitachi, not for me – and not for her, either.

  READING BETWEEN THE THIGHS

  Chris Westlake

  It was seven thirty, just an ordinary Wednesday night. Silence filled the fifth floor of the library. Studious faces were buried deep inside textbooks. The librarian sat behind her large wooden desk, prim and proper in a white blouse, brown hair tied in a perfect bun. A student casually viewed her over the top of his book, observed her updating records on the computer screen. He had no reason to suspect that, hidden away beneath the big wooden desk, her skirt was hitched high over her pink thighs. Or that she leaned forward in her chair, not to closely scrutinize the data on the screen, but to caress her exposed sex against the smoothness of the desk. Or that tonight was far from the first time she had masturbated herself to an orgasm, the rest of the students innocently oblivious.

  Amanda Morgan had worked in the library for nine years. She was a fresh-faced twenty-two-year-old when she had faced the scrutiny of the interview panel: three men close to retirement wearing musky old suits. Amanda did her best to look and act the part. She wore a conservative black skirt with a plain white blouse. It was not that difficult; she hardly ever wore anything extravagant.

  “Could you please tell us why you want this job, Ms Morgan?” one of the men asked.

  She gave a carefully rehearsed response. “I have always been a lover of knowledge. And this great institution will give me an opportunity to enlighten others . . .” She continued – and continued – until she suspected that one of the interviewers had closed his eyes, possibly dozed off.

  Amanda did love learning. She loved everything about books, from their own individual scents, to the hidden adventures that lay within the covers. But she was not naïve enough to pretend that these were the reasons for her fascination with libraries.

  It began when she was eighteen. Amanda was studying for her A-levels. It had been a Wednesday night. She hid herself away on the fifth floor of the library. It was the top floor – always the quietest one – and after seven thirty it became virtually deserted. Amanda focused on her studies. She was aware that somebody was sat opposite: she had heard muffled movements when they had arrived an hour or so earlier. And she knew that the person was female: she had glimpsed (with some envy) a turquoise sterling silver ring when she sat down. But that was all she knew – their sections were separated by a tall wooden divider. This suited Amanda. She was free to concentrate on her studies in her own little world.

  Her attention was only disturbed when something brushed against her underneath the table. She took little notice. It was just an accidental clash of feet. The Renaissance of the fifteenth century demanded all of her concentration. But there it was again. This girl really was a bit careless, Amanda gently chided. She went to pull her chair back. Instead, she froze. The touches had moved from her shoe to her ankle. Only, it was apparent that the unknown girl had removed her own footwear. Amanda was wearing a pleated skirt, and she had no tights on underneath; it was now naked flesh brushing against naked flesh.

  Amanda dared not move. She stared at the words on the page; tightly gripped the corners of the book. Her cheeks were burning. Amanda quickly considered her options. She could move away. She could stand up and protest. Or she could sit and do nothing.

  She sat and did nothing.

  The caresses continued along her calf. It was such a delicate, sensual touch. The soles of her feet were silky smooth, so soft and feminine. Amanda noticed her knuckles whiten as the grip on her book tightened. She cursed herself for how she felt. Goddamn it, she was enjoying it. Amanda had never been with a girl before, although privately she had thought about it often enough. Now she longed to reach down and take the foot in her hands, rub each toe individually with her fingers, direct them to where she craved to be touched the most. She knew though that her palms were dampening at probably the same rate as her sex. So, instead, she gripped her book as if her life depended on it; tried desperately to stop her body from trembling.

  Just as Amanda was ready to part her legs, invite the touches to continue all the way to the top of her thighs, the caresses stopped, just as quickly as they had started. Amanda heard a book closing, then the zipping of a bag. The unknown lady stood up and quickly turned. Amanda discreetly eyed her departing figure from the edge of her pod. She was only able to make out a mane of brown hair, and long shapely calves in a knee-length skirt.

  Amanda was in a spin. She had no idea what had just happened. She did know that her body had been teased and cajoled into a state of frenzy. She anxiously looked left, then right. The few remaining students were still absorbed in their work. Amanda adjusted her seat so that her legs were hidden underneath the table. She hitched her skirt up to her hips; slipped a finger inside her panties. A bead of sweat trickled down her hot cheek. Her sex felt engorged and plump, excited and wet. She massaged her clit in a controlled steady rhythm. Amanda needed to bite into her skin with her spare hand as she reached an almost instantaneous orgasm.

  She returned to the library for the next two nights and over the weekend, and always sat in the same seat. Her attention was distracted. Her sexual appetite had been well and truly whetted. Amanda kept nervously looking up and checking – hoping – that she would be joined in the seat opposite. She never was. By Sunday evening, she accepted that it had been a one-off and she was able to concentrate fully on her studies. It was all for the best, Amanda convinced herself. Every evening, however, when the clock turned seven thirty, Amanda adjusted her chair, hitched up her skirt, and remembered the events of Wednesday evening.

  Then, a week to the day since the incident, Amanda sat at her usual seat, studying her usual course books, when she heard movements from the other side of the divider. Amanda casually raised her eyes. She had been disappointed too many times. She was not going to raise her hopes now. Amanda only glimpsed the top of the head as she sat down. It was faintly familiar. And a left hand momentarily rested on the divider as the girl sat down.

  It was the same turquoise silver ring.

  Amanda could not even begin to concentrate now. The words on her page became a tangled blur. Her breathing was fast and unsteady. She longed for the girl to kick off her shoes, stretch out her long legs, caress her under the table. Amanda even encouraged advances by extending her own legs. She waited. And waited. But nothing happened. The girl seemed completely oblivious to her presence.

  Frustrated, Amanda left her desk to hunt down a book. She needed it for part of her assignment. She knew that it would be hidden away somewhere in the history section, which was right at the back of the hall. The books did not appear to be correctly ordered. Where’s the damn book? Amanda cursed inwardly. She was just about to give up, return to her desk, when hands slipped around her slender waist. Amanda jumped. She had not even sensed anyone within the vicinity, let alone somebody standing right behind her. Amanda looked down and instantly spotted the ring.

  “Just don’t turn around,” the girl whispered in her ear.

  Amanda was too scared to even think about moving. Her whole body was a trembling mess. She looked straight ahead, her eyes staring intensely at the books. She was completely at the mercy of this girl; a girl that she had never seen, never spoken to. Amanda had no idea what she was going to do, what moves she was or was not going to make. And for a few agonizing moments, the girl did nothing. Amanda could feel her body pressed against her own, her soft breathing on her neck, but there were no other movements. And then, her hands slowly moved from her waist.

  Amanda was dressed casually. She wore a cream T-shirt, which hung loose over a black flannel skirt. It provided easy access. The hands slipped underneath the T-shirt, then quickly slid inside her bra. Amanda had full upturned breasts, sensitive to the touch. She emitted a low, muffled moan as the lady massaged the soft mounds of flesh, groping
and pushing the succulent cleavage together. Amanda dared not turn around, as per the strict instructions. She did manage to glance around to make sure that nobody was looking. She could not see anyone. The lady pinched and pulled on her pink, erect nipples. Amanda leaned forward, held on to the bookshelf for support. The room was beginning to spin.

  The wonderful hands moved away from her breasts, pulled out of her T-shirt. Put them back, Amanda silently pleaded. She sighed – partly with relief, partly with anticipation – when the hands slipped underneath her skirt from behind. They groped and cupped her pert little buttocks, then eased underneath and brushed against the fabric of her panties. Amanda knew that the folds of her sex were wet and raw with want. She craved for the hands to delve inside her pants, discover just how lusty and needy she was. Amanda needed to wait. The girl teased and toyed with her. Finally, when her fingers did make their way to Amanda’s throbbing clit, she was so overcome with desire that she reached an orgasm almost immediately. The girl needed to push her finger into Amanda’s mouth to stop her from screaming out and attracting the attention of the other (well-behaved) students.

  Amanda was trying to regain her senses when she felt a warm kiss on her neck. She quickly turned, but it was too late. The girl had already gone, her shapely calves striding gracefully into the study area.

  She took a moment; composed her frantic breathing. Amanda knew that she needed to go straight to the toilet, change her sodden panties. She turned to leave, but stopped in her tracks. There were hurried, frantic movements in the next aisle. Somebody was moving, and fast. There was just a slight gap in the expanse of books, and she glimpsed a gray flannel dress. Amanda eagerly glanced around the corner. She had already gone. Amanda put her hand to her mouth, horrified.