The Mammoth Book of Lesbian Erotica (25 page)

The following day they sat in the staff room drinking coffee and eating biscuits. Mandie brushed some crumbs from her hated uniform, as Harry reached into her bag and produced a small packet of
newly developed photographs.

They decided that today would be the perfect day to do some more work in the storeroom . . .

Another Fleeting Night

R. Greco

Erin’s pretended schoolgirl-like innocence was wearing thin . . . just as it always did. Although I had often seen my friend wear this outfit – clunky heels; too
short black and white dress; thong underneath – right then the ensemble was only adding to her petulance . . . and my desire to swat her ass.

“Over the edge of the bed,” I demanded.

“Claire, I . . .” she tried, while turning to the soft bedspread. “I . . .”

“Yes, you have been bad,” I said to her unspoken protest. “Now get.”

Balancing her taut legs on those four-inch heels, Erin bent her upper half across the high solid bed frame. Her short skirt just covered her ass as she spread her legs slightly, bent at the
knees and looked to her side at me. I paid her no mind (or pretended not to at least) stepping to the chair behind me to lift the leather crop that lay across its cloth seat. Turning, I spied a
slight smile playing across my friend’s angular features as she pushed her cheek into her bedspread and regarded me through her fallen hair.

“You know . . .” I began slicing the air between us.

Each “fick-swip” caused Erin’s shoulders to twitch. She peered up at me, her long straight hair falling across her left shoulder, covering one eye. Once more she shifted her
hips, spreading her thin legs even wider.

“. . . we go through this every time,” I continued. “If you just learned.”

But I knew she wouldn’t . . . and didn’t want to. Erin’s late-night carousing, teasing and dancing were tempered well by what we did here. And even though I had joined her on
occasion – I wasn’t a nun after all and I liked to dance – Erin surpassed me in frequency of her outings and phone numbers acquired . . . numbers from men, even! She was a
lesbian, as was I, but one who liked to tease whomever happened to be looking, so we often frequented dance clubs where she knew she could attract every eye in the place.

This all-out need for unlimited attention only fuelled the fire in me to beat her ass harder . . . and of course made me wetter at the same time!

“That dress is just too short,” I said, closing the carpeted distance between us by taking another step.

“Well, I . . .” she attempted.

“No excuses,” I said. Reaching down and across her, I fingered the hem of her dress and lifted it to the small of her bent back.

Erin’s tight round ass was halved by a black thong. Although Erin and I were gay we had never been intimate, but God knew I dug her ass! I wasn’t really sure if these spankings added
to my longing for her, or quenched a thirst we could have built on; all I knew was that she looked and smelled hot as hell bending there! Would a time come when we’d finally risk the
friendship and jump one another?

After she was sufficiently whipped, though, of course!

“I look good, don’t I?” my friend snickered.

Christ she was cocky . . . but she did look good! Erin often took to spinning as she danced and I knew in this outfit everyone in the club had caught quite an eyeful. Regrets, my friend would
never own, not now . . . not ever. So I reached back, flicked the long crop through the tight air of her bedroom and connected to Erin’s bared cheeks.

As always, that first strike caused her to jump as she rode through the sting.

“Ah ha,” she said. “I don’t need it that hard!”

We both knew this wasn’t true.

Erin had made me promise, some six months ago, that I would never, ever relent because of her protests. She trusted me to know what she needed and how hard; she might complain, cry out, growl
and beg me to stop, but always afterward my dark-haired best friend smiled and thanked me for the beating.

Somehow, much to my own protests when first approached, I had learned to give Erin exactly what she needed. Hell, I loved looking at her ass anyway, that I loved making it red did come as a
surprise to me at first, but . . .

“I need to stop this shit,” Erin was confessing that late night as we sat huddled in the corner of the diner.

I had been only half listening as Erin bragged of her aching for some “new attention”: wanting to rip up phone numbers in expectant faces; dance close with every girl her age in
Des Moines!
I smiled as I always did these Thursday night tirades; my friend was just feeling good about her lithe figure, a little buzzed and blowing off steam. But that particular evening,
as we drove from club to club, finally settling at the diner at two, I did notice a tone of desperation in Erin’s usually liquid voice. As we sat over ice-teas and fries with extra gravy I
slowly began to listen as Erin confessed the plan she had been gestating for quite a long time, a plan she needed me to help her carry out!

“You are my best friend,” she said and I nodded after another sip of my tea. “You know me better then anybody. We share so much.”

This was true. It was so much easier avoiding people than making friends, especially when your lifestyle, as was mine and Erin’s, didn’t fit in to what was considered
“normal” in our suburban town. We had found each other, realized we’d be better friends then lovers (after really only one night of some regulation heavy-petting) and then grew
into being the best buds.

“I’m really out of control. I really need your help. I can’t keep going partying like this,” she continued, as always a bit over-dramatic.

“Just stop going out so much,” I offered her slightly downcast gaze. “I mean it’s no big deal. Just rest your ass for a couple weeks.”

“But I don’t want to,” she said, smiling up at me then. “I really don’t want to . . . but I know it’s wrong,” she continued, still smiling.
“I’m staying out way too late. I’ve got a Lit. test tomorrow . . . later today, and I know I’m going to barely be able to drag myself to class.”

“What do you want me to do?” I asked. “You know you shouldn’t be goi—”

“—I know, I know,” she interrupted, then looked long and hard across the table at me.

Damn, I knew that look well! When Erin levelled me with that stare I knew something heavy was coming!

“I’m going to ask you something, and no matter what, you’ve got to promise not to laugh . . .” she said “. . . or think I’m weird.”

“I already think you’re weird.”

“No, really, Claire,” she pleaded and as I nodded, Erin explained her plan.

It was simple and perverse, much like Erin herself. In the five years of our friendship I knew my friend had indulged her sexual appetites plenty. Don’t get me wrong, Erin was more tease
and flirt than slut, but she had had her moments.

This was one of those moments!

Erin wanted to be whipped once a month! A quick, possibly week-night early evening that would probably only take an hour at most (or so she claimed). She said it would be penance for what she
knew she couldn’t stop; she had to pay for her carousing and a good beating across her bare ass would help her balance the wild abandon she felt when she did go out. At first I strained to
understand; she wanted to be whipped? Beaten? But as Erin explained and I ordered another ice tea, the logic of her plan became clear. And what’s more, I started to realize that I very much
wanted to see her suffer in this way.

True, I loved my friend. True, I would do anything for her, but true I was jealous of her ease with other women and her flirtations. So when Erin asked and then explained that she had the crop,
that she would have us meet in her apartment, that she would design the moment, that all I would have to do was show up and show her no mercy, I figured . . . what the hell? I guess we all have a
bit of a sadistic streak in us if we can see the purpose it will serve.

I saw the purpose, and what’s more, I was intrigued . . . and I must admit, even excited by the idea of whipping my friend’s tight little behind for one evening each month. How Erin
thought up this particular penance I had no idea, but I realized then, and came to learn later, that submitting to an ass-whipping had been a fantasy of hers for a very long time. With me spanking
her for punishment Erin would “kill two birds with one stone”; fulfilled desire masked as constructive behaviour adjustment. And if anything this little “scenario” of
Erin’s would just deepen that ache we had for one another, an ache we never had acted on. An ache I wondered if we’d address, let alone do anything about.

What I couldn’t have imagined was how the beatings would progress to the point where I would come to like them so much . . .

“I’m sorry, honey, but you need this,” I said then, landing a third tight cut across Erin’s cheeks. Again she easily inhaled through the connection, her
little bottom circling slightly as she rode the sting.

“I . . .” Erin tried and I simply reached back and swat forward again. She yelped and arched her back on the connection.

“Now, tell me you’re a bad girl,” I coaxed.

“Nah, na,” Erin resisted, pressing her chest further into the bedspread as if in defiance.

This was our usual ritual and would continue until my friend confessed her sins. I knew Erin had an iron will and could withstand quite the ass-whipping; we’d stay here all night if that
was what it took to get her to finally confess.

“Tell me,” I demanded and managed a look at the mirror to the side of Erin’s bed. As usual at these times my blue eyes were alight with a flame I never really knew existed and
my large chest was rising and falling as that little ass just lay in wait under me. God, she looked good, it was all I could do to keep from kneeling right there behind Erin and licking up her
quivering thighs. I knew her pussy was as hot as mine; I’d be able to taste it even through her thong. With her tight, olive-coloured ass just beginning to show some deep square marks I was
split, as usual, between continuing to beat Erin and kneeling to eat her from behind! This was the awful wonderful tease we both worked through these nights of Erin’s whippings. And the more
turned on I became and knew I wouldn’t act on it, the more severe her beating. Had Erin planned it this way? God I hoped so?

“Swip-Pat. Swip-Pat.” the crop said to her cheeks as I connected dead centre and Erin moaned aloud again.

“Tell me you are a bad girl,” I demanded and again I brought the crop back, then forward to her waiting ass. This time I flicked the second hit upward; just the slightest bit and I
heard the cut as it caused Erin to rise up on her hands.

“Well?” I prodded.

My friend looked over her shoulder; dammit, she was still smiling!

Had we come to that delicate point? Could Erin now endure every bit of pain I could muster? Had my effectiveness as her punisher been exhausted? This was exactly why I had brought with me the
secret weapon I had for tonight’s session.

“Have you been a bad girl?” I asked aloud, loud enough to be heard if one had been standing on the other side of the thin apartment door listening. And as Erin bent her head forward,
preparing to lay her chest and face down once again, her apartment door swung open!

She felt the rush of cold air before Frankie came in. But before she could readjust, pull her skirt down; assimilate what in the hell was actually happening, Erin’s neighbor was down
Erin’s hallway, in her bedroom, smiling down at us.

“Wow, you weren’t kidding!” the lanky Asian man exclaimed, stroking his goatee.

“Cla . . .” Erin tried, nearly standing up off the bed. I leaned forward and sliced her ass my hardest yet to keep her bent in place.

“Frankie, Erin’s been a bad girl,” I chuckled, tapping the switch on my friend’s bare ass. For her part Erin stayed bent, moaning, as she tried her damnedest not too look
over her shoulder at smiling Frankie.

“She gets these once a month, but tonight she won’t admit she’s been a bad girl.”

“Oh, I think she has been,” Frankie added and we both chuckled.

I could see this attention, this matter-of-fact way we were talking over her was killing Erin. Frankie had been Erin’s neighbour and a good friend for some three years. He was the type of
guy a girl could come to when she had a problem, or just wanted to talk, with no fear of him misconstruing a quiet evening as anything more then just that. Frankie knew Erin was gay, as he knew I
was, but he had the type of well-balanced ego that would never allow him to assume he and a gay woman would be anything more then friends; the very reason Erin had grown as close to him as she had,
and why I had invited him over this night.

For her part, my friend was moaning ever so slightly. Shifting her hips, shucking back and forth, Erin afforded the attentive Frankie quite a view of her ass. I knew she so wanted to stand up,
end this torture, but at the same time I knew if Erin was half as wet as I was she’d really want this to continue; her embarrassment all the more sweeter with Frankie ogling her and me
readying the crop for what she knew would be her worst smacks yet. I knew when I asked her again Erin would admit to being bad. But she wouldn’t get the chance without paying for it.

“Well,” I said, still tapping her tight cheeks. “Have you been a naughty girl?”

“Yes,” Erin whispered.

“Well, take down the thong, honey,” I said.

I sensed Frankie halt in muted delight as Erin reached under herself, pulled the cotton thong out from between her cheeks and hammocked it mid-thigh. This last bit of humiliation was normal for
us; I always liked to give Erin her last few with her ass completely bare, but with Frankie standing there I knew this moment held a new dread to it.

He and I both could see that thin glisten at the centre of Erin’s winking chestnut.

“Tell Frankie and I that you have been a bad girl,” I said, reaching the crop back as the tall man next to me offered a sharp inhale. “Say, ’I have been a bad
girl’,” I said and to both Frankie’s delight and mine (and I’m sure a little bit of Erin’s as well) Erin managed: