The Mammoth Book of Lesbian Erotica (13 page)

Taking a hard nipple in her mouth, Silvia arranged herself so one leg was between Allison’s parted thighs, their groins pressed together. She’d been waxed bare and the feel of the
bare mound, the exposed clit, was almost more than Allison could bear. Teeth scraped her nipple, just enough of a painful edge to add to the pleasure. “This is the advantage of belly dancing
we don’t talk about in the beginners’ class,” Silvia said as she began to move. “Shimmies and pelvic drops can be damn useful.” Her mouth moved up from the eager
nipples to meet equally eager lips.

Allison couldn’t have done those hip isolations if she’d been thinking about, but her body instinctively echoed Silvia’s as best she could, arching against her, grinding her
clit against her lover’s. Silvia was intent now, pressed against her, kissing her deeply. She felt so good, not just between her legs, but everywhere. Allison struggled against her bonds,
yearning to touch her, but Silvia had done a good job. The ribbon held fast, and she couldn’t even embrace her with bound arms without the risk of hitting one of them with the toe shoes.
Satin or not, they had hard toes to support a dancer’s weight, and that would be a definite mood breaker. But the bonds were not. It felt so good to fight against them as Silvia kissed her,
stroked her, vibrated against her clit. The heat was building, and when Silvia pinched her nipples and whispered, “Come now,” she writhed frantically and obeyed. Silvia raised herself
up on her arms, and when Allison came back to herself a little, she saw those beautiful green eyes watching her. “You,” Silvia gasped, “are too damn hot.” Her hips began to
buck with no art except lust. Her face contorted. She threw her head back, closed her eyes, made a noise that seemed too loud and animalistic to come from her compact form, then collapsed
bonelessly by Allison’s side.

But not for long. “You’re not done yet, are you?” Silvia murmured when she’d caught her breath. “I don’t think you’re quite ready to be free of those
ribbons.” She moved down Allison’s slender body, kissing and nibbling as she went. She kissed all the way to her feet. No one had ever kissed her feet – rubbed them as a kindness,
yes, but not kissed them. Ballerinas had ugly feet, and for the first time in six years Allison was glad she had soft-skinned feet with a pretty pedicure, not the battered, painful, raw appendages
that came from hours en pointe.

Then Silvia worked her way back up, and Allison stopped thinking about anything except the fire in her pussy as Silvia licked her. Then two fingers entered her.

She bucked so hard that she smacked herself in the head with the toe shoes, but she didn’t care. All she cared about was coming . . . coming hard and repeatedly as her lover’s
skilled tongue and hands released not only the sexual tension built up from being alone for too long, but a spiritual tension she had become so accustomed to that she only noticed it once it was
gone.

Silvia cradled her as she came down from the orgasm high, telling her how beautiful and hot she was, and how she couldn’t wait to feel Allison inside her. As she tenderly untied the satin
slippers that bound her, Allison started to cry. Silvia looked alarmed, but Allison smiled through the tears. “No, it’s good. It’s just that . . . I feel beautiful and worthwhile
for the first time in years. It’s like you brought me to life again.”

Silvia raised an eyebrow, the exaggerated expression as controlled and elegant as those she used when she was dancing. “Tell me who made you feel anything but beautiful and worthwhile and
I’ll kick them for you.”

She shook her head, wiped her eyes. “No one but me. I’d been training as a ballet dancer since I was four. I had a promising career ahead of me, and a ready-made social circle. When
you’re a ballerina, you don’t really know anyone else – there’s no time. Between one heartbeat and the next, I lost it all.”

“What happened, if I can ask?”

“Darling, right now, you can ask me anything!” Although she was smiling, her eyes were wistful. “It was stupid. I was walking across Boston Public Garden with another dancer
and she stopped to flirt with a cop on a horse. The horse stepped on my foot.”

Silvia winced in sympathy.

“It gets worse. I didn’t realize that things were broken, not bruised. You get a ridiculous pain tolerance as a ballet dancer. Something always hurts and you just deal with it. I
went to rehearsal anyway, and then walked around on it for the rest of the day. Danny finally made me see a doctor, and by that time I’d damaged it really badly. Then I pushed myself to dance
again too soon and got a stress fracture. Things had to be pinned. If I hadn’t been a ballerina they’d say I made a full recovery, but there was no way it would ever be strong enough to
go e
n pointe.”
She shrugged. “So my career was over before I turned twenty-five.”

“And you finished college and started a new one?”

“And gained weight and had no time to date and no idea how to meet anyone when I wasn’t surrounded by lots of attractive women whom I got to see naked in the dressing room on a
regular basis. Okay, so maybe I was spoiled, but I was pretty miserable when I lost that world. It all disappeared: my friends, my job, even the pleasure of moving my body to music, which was what
I loved best in the world ever since I was a little girl.”

“You know,” Silvia said gently, “I know it wouldn’t be the same, but you could still do Middle Eastern dance. You’d have to start from square one – it’s
very different from ballet and a lot of the things you’ve spent years learning, like turn-out, you’d have to unlearn. But you only go up on the balls of your feet for emphasis. You can
do everything else flat-footed, so it wouldn’t put stress on the bad foot.”

Allison started to protest that nothing else would be the same, but then she actually made herself think. No, it wouldn’t be the same. It would be an utterly different art form – not
like taking up jazz dance or modern, which derived so much from ballet that it would be tantalizingly close without being the dance she had loved for most of her life. And while she’d
probably never belly-dance professionally, at least she’d be dancing. “I might just do that,” she said. “Thank you.”

Then she found another way to thank her.

Lovely as Silvia’s undulations were while she was dancing, they didn’t hold a candle to her helpless rolls and contractions as she came. She liked to be filled, it turned out,
probably could have taken Allison’s whole slender hand if they’d had some lube, but settled blissfully for four fingers fucking her hard. Her pussy muscles seemed stronger than other
women Allison had been with, her spasms harder. For the first time in her life Allison found herself wishing she had a cock – not for Silvia’s sake, but her own, because if it made her
fingers feel that good she could only dream how it would feel on a cock. But Silvia didn’t want a man inside her, she wanted Allison, as much of Allison as she could cram in, and her body and
her incoherent noises made that abundantly clear. Then Allison had a wicked inspiration. She grabbed one of the toe shoes and gently rubbed the satin of it across Silvia’s clit.

She’d heard about female ejaculation. This was the first time she’d ever encountered it.

Exhausted, sweat-drenched and slick with each other’s juices, they finally dozed off. When the cat, having finished the Chinese take-out, came in for attention and woke them, they found
that the ribbons of the toe shoes were clinging to both of them.

“These are going to have some pretty funky stains,” Silvia said, holding up a distressed-looking slipper gingerly. “I don’t think you’ll want to display them any
more.”

“Maybe not – but they’ll find a happy home in the toy box. Come on, let’s get some dinner and come back for round two.”

A few days later, Allison went out to buy another pair of satin dance shoes: soft practice shoes to protect her feet in her first belly-dance class.

The Lay of the Grecian Urn

Roxy Katt

It was damned exasperating, really. Here Amanda had worked as assistant editor at a fashion magazine all these years without getting too hot and bothered by all the female
supermodels that came by – most of them struck her as quite insipid, actually – and then the boss had to go and hire his niece and Amanda had been all hot and bothered since.

Tory was her name, short for Victoria. Businesslike, professional, industrious, earnest, she was very fashionable in a drastic sort of way without a trace of showiness or gaucherie. She brazened
forth what Amanda inwardly called the “sophisto-punk” look: much more of an edge than some mere compromizing punk wannabe, and enough class to know exactly what she was doing. No simple
profusion of multiple hair dyes and facial hardware would do for this young lady.

And it was about time, in Amanda’s opinion, that there was someone a little more radical, more challenging than the countless blonde Britney Spears clones that had passed through the
office one after another. In fact, there was something of the aggressively virginal air about Tory, a slight downward cast of her large dark eye on occasion which bespoke not the ’please
don’t touch me, I’m too precious’ wimpiness Amanda so deplored whenever she saw it, but more the ’I’m a bit busy for that sort of thing, don’t you think?’
that inspired in Amanda not only a respect for the younger woman’s professionalism but more than one evening in bed accompanied only by a trusty vibrator.

Tory was about average height, thin, and had a wide, gorgeous smile – which betrayed just enough insecurity to make her boldness more of a triumph – and the most marvellous big
eyebrows. One side of her head was shaved completely bald. The rest of it was covered in long, witchy jet black hair, heavily moussed, with burgundy highlights. Dark make-up, but not overdone, and
no piercings save at the ears, each of which had a large, gold hoop.

Amanda, on the other hand, was old enough to be Tory’s mother, but looked good enough to pass for her older sister. She was much shorter than Tory, and had short dark hair. Amanda
generally kept up a traditionally professional look: snug Chanel suits and such, stylishly cut but in conservative colours, such as the one she was wearing today, light grey.

The two were getting along just fine, but the bitch of it was this boss’s niece could easily have got just as good a job without the nepotism, and saved Amanda the distraction. But no, she
had to work here, where her presence constantly obtruded upon Amanda’s concentration, distracting her from her work, making her snap at people on the phone, dulling her professional edge,
causing her to stop off after work at the newsagents for vibrator batteries . . .

And Amanda knew that Tory had never really noticed how much Amanda liked her – and in what ways. Amanda had sometimes dared to hint to Tory that she found her attractive, but though Amanda
was not usually the retiring kind, here she was stymied. Yes, everyone at the office knew Amanda was a lesbian, and that Tory on the other hand apparently had a boyfriend; but that had not
precluded, from the mind of hopeful Amanda at least, that the younger woman might have other interests as well. Amanda’s gay radar was not flawless and, though the readings here were not
promising, they were not hopeless either. Amanda would sometimes try to tease out of Tory some hint that she just might be interested some time, but of course you had to do this sort of thing in a
way that didn’t make you fall flat on your face. “Hi, so, Tory, do you ever have any, you know, lesbian inclinations from time to time?” would have been hopelessly gauche, and of
course, would have elicited an emphatic “No”, no matter what the truth was. No, ordinarily straightforward with attractive women she knew were lesbian, Amanda had to fish carefully
here, drop hints, look for signs, flirt in a comical way that could be seen simply as straight “girl stuff” on the one hand, or seen with more seriously erotic overtones in case the
unforthcoming Tory did have lesbian inclinations after all.

So it was that today, as Tory walked into the photographic studio with her clipboard hugged to her chest, that Amanda greeted her with a comically conspiratorial wink and a, “Hi gorgeous,
what’s up?”

Though businesslike as usual, Tory had come to work looking sexier than ever, as far as Amanda was concerned. Tory was very good at this: she could dress so exquisitely and then just simply
forget how chic she was as she sat at her desk and worked out schedules for photo shoots or talked on the phone to this or that potential advertiser. She dressed with care and flair, and then just
lost herself in her work.

Tory sauntered over to where Amanda was at a desk taking some notes, and looked about her at the ersatz Greek ruins and props that had just been used in one shoot, and were to be used again
later that afternoon.

Amanda, really, was undone.

For Tory was hot. She was ever so tightly sheathed in a pair of thick, black leather trousers – a soft leather that seemed to wrap around her legs like jealous rubber. The sturdy trousers
were back-zipped and had, intriguingly enough, a kind of small version of a sailor flap, tightly fastened over her front with four sturdy snaps. Her blocky, high-heeled platform boots, lacing
three-quarters of the way to the knee, were the perfect match for these trousers. It was just like Tory, furthermore, to soften the outfit with a large, baggy rust-coloured peasant shirt of thick
cotton, tightly belted at the waist.

Only yesterday Amanda had made her most artful – but as usual unsuccessful – pass at the younger woman. It couldn’t be that she was now teasing Amanda, for Tory had apparently
been completely oblivious yesterday to the fact that Amanda had come on to her at all. And even before Amanda had made her pass, Tory had already mentioned that the next day she would likely be
wearing her new leather boots and trousers. No, Amanda knew “her” woman better than that: teasing was the furthest thing from the mind of someone like Tory – at least
consciously.

“Hi, Amanda,” said Tory cheerfully, holding her clipboard to her chest, as if nothing had happened the previous day, and, from her point of view, it clearly hadn’t.