The Mammoth Book of Lesbian Erotica (26 page)

“Oh God, I . . . I have been a bad girl! Oh God, Claire! I’ve been a bad girl!”

“ZIP”, “ZIP”, “ZIP”, “ZIP”, I swatted my best friend, Frankie sighed and I grew so wet it was all I could do to keep standing!

Ten minutes later Erin and I stood at her lime green kitchen counter sharing a beer, while Frankie sat in her living room watching the last two innings of the game.

“That was really evil,” my friend reminded me for the fourth time.

“A last resort,” I said, passing across the cold bottle. “You left me no choice.”

“I, ah . . .” she tried, but stopped to lift a long gulp from the frosty amber-colored glass. She had kept the dress on and I could see Erin’s pinpoint nipples peeking through
the thin material; there’d never be a question for me if she enjoyed these spankings!

“You want the punishment to count,” I explained. “I have to bring in my own little ideas from time to time.”

“To keep me honest, right?”

“Yes, to keep you honest,” I agreed and as Erin walked from my side I halted her with my hand to her elbow. I smiled and turned her as to face me.

“Claire!” my best friend exclaimed as I reached under her dress.

I felt up between her thighs for the quaffed landing-strip between her legs. Erin had kept her thong off, as I had hoped she would when Frankie and I had left her to make her way off her bed and
into the living room to meet us. I was being bolder then I had ever been with her, taking a liberty I never had – but wished I had – before.

“This night’s full of new developments,” I explained as Erin swooned there with her ass in my face as I sat under her and explored.

“Claire,” Erin repeated, shuttering my name through her thin lips.

I opened her with my fingers, spreading her heavy wet lips, tickling her thick clit with my index finger. Laying herself almost back fully on my hand, Erin’s dress swayed ever so slightly
as I fingered her. She was so wet, so responsive, it was all I could do not to prolong my fingering, but the poor girl had suffered enough. As I heard cheers from the living room television I began
to circle my finger quicker across Erin’s thick clit.

“Claire,” she sang and placed a hand back on my shoulder as I continued to look up at her and circle my finger.

“Cla . . . Cla,” Erin said and I watched as her thighs began to quiver the slightest bit.

“Come for me,” I simply said and Erin gulped and her whole body shook as my hand glopped with her wetness and she stood there.

During a few whippings Erin had got close to an orgasm, there had even been a time or two I allowed her a few seconds to circle her pelvis across her bedspread, but as far as I knew she had
never come when I was with her. Maybe she released when she went into the bathroom to clean up afterwards (God knew when I usually got home I couldn’t keep my hand from my pussy) but there in
her kitchen we were being quite “obvious”.

“Come, my naughty girl,” I whispered and Erin looked down at me over her shoulder and then squatted hard on my hand. Arching her back she let loose right there in her kitchen!

“Shit . . .” she growled. I wasn’t sure if Frankie had heard her, but then again I didn’t much care!

Another hurtle jumped, I thought as I tickled Erin’s silky lips and she moaned in submissive satisfaction. Could I fucking wait another month for another fleeting night?

Love is Blind

Alex Woolgrave and Jules Jones

There are disadvantages to living with a writer. You get woken up at four o’clock in the morning as they hunt down That Brilliant Idea That Won’t Go Away.

You peer over their shoulder, and see the unexpected line: “Lilian’s bosom was barely covered by the thin shift that was all he allowed her . . .”

You try to reason with them gently. “Now, Edith, there are times to write erotica, and then there’s four o’clock in the morning, a time which exists
solely
to remind us
of our own mortality.”

Edith blinked at me slowly, eyes unfocused and hair sticking up all spiky from the pillow. “Not solely.” And managed an unexpectedly coordinated grope.

“I s’pose one of the advantages of being a lesbian is that the other party can find the clitoris when she hasn’t got her glasses on and isn’t really awake,” I
said.

She grabbed the notepad and wrote that down.

“. . . and one of the disadvantages is that a lesbian
writer
will probably reach for the notebook in mid-grope.”

She put
that
down, too, then grinned and put her thumbs up. Judging by
where,
I wasn’t going to complain, at least not more than by adding, “If I was shacked up with a
bloke, at least I could rely on the cock overriding the brain.”

“We multitask,” she said.

“Yes, you multitask. I bet you’ll be mentally taking notes even as you . . .”

“No, I’d rather try something out to see if it’s actually feasible. I wouldn’t have woken you up to try, but seeing as you’re awake . . .”

I sighed and settled back. “Obviously I’m not going to be allowed to go back to sleep until you’ve worked out whatever it is.” Especially not if she was doing that trick
with the knuckle of her thumb pressing against my clit. That would keep me awake for some minutes.

She withdrew her fingers, and there was a lot of fiddling and rustling. /
ought to begetting suspicious right about now,
I thought, as something soft came round my wrists and was tucked
carefully in, before my hands were pulled above my head.

“Er . . . Edith. We don’t normally do this sort of thing, do we?” I mean, not that I was disgusted, or even averse; I’d just never thought about it. Going straight from
not-even-talking-about-bondage to I-have-something-round-my-wrists was a little unsettling.

Especially as my little fluffy Edith, the mystery writer, was usually a little careful to keep a separation between life and art, and – hang on – wasn’t known for her steamy
erotic scenes. I said so.

“No, I haven’t so far. But I have got this scene where the heroine is handcuffed to the bed – no, nothing kinky at all, the villain is trying to threaten her. I was going to
say it wasn’t erotica.”

I opened my eyes. That must be why there was a set of handcuffs on the bedside table. Not fake leopardskin cuffs (not real leopardskin either), not leather or rubber (did people use rubber
cuffs, if they had a . . . rubber kink?) – standard police-issue handcuffs.

The handcuffs she’d got for “Writing Purposes” on Thursday, when she’d realized the most straightforward way to acquire handcuffs was from a sex-shop, and she’d
frogmarched me right down there because she was too shy to go in on her own. “Now, Sally, you go in and get me a set of handcuffs. Nothing kinky, mind.”

It had flown right out of my mind because I’d picked up a couple of optional extras that we
did
like, but the handcuffs had come home to roost. On
my
wrists.

“You don’t mind being a model?” she said anxiously. “I have padded your wrists so it shouldn’t hurt.”

“What happens to your heroine, in the end?”

“Alive, and happily married. I’ve got to pretend it’s a bloke to sell the book, and he’s got a touch of the Mr Darcy about him -which I have to keep playing up to boost
the conflict – but the
nice
side of him is pretty much you with a moustache. Well, more of a moustache.”

I was sensitive about the facial hair, which had
certainly not
reached the moustache stage. I pretended to scratch an itch on my cheek, and she tutted mildly, and pulled my hand back into
place. “Even if I minded, Sally,” she said, “it’ll go away as soon as you’re off that drug.”

And that was why I’d lie here and let her handcuff me, if she so wished. She didn’t care what I looked like, as long as I was me. She had no tact whatsoever, but she was
warm-hearted, funny, and intelligent, and her bluntness was never malicious. And she’d just said I was her Mr Darcy only less of an arsehole.

I stopped trying to look daggers at her, and realized it had been wasted effort without her glasses.

She picked up the handcuffs and handcuffed me to the brass bed frame. We’d had this bed for years. “Edith, why did you get this bed six years ago?”

“Because we needed a bed after you broke the last one. Oh, I see – no, I certainly didn’t get this bed because I wanted to put it in this mystery, I was doing a historical at
the time, and I wanted to be convincing about sex in an old-fashioned bed.”

I tried to work out whether that reassured me.

Edith managed to put the handcuffs on me without putting her glasses on first, which was a bit surprising. The way she was kneeling by the bed in an adorable state of rumpled myopia as she
concentrated on it suggested it was a bit of an effort.

“Edith, is your villain short-sighted?” I asked, as she finished securing the handcuffs so that my hands were through the bars of the bedframe, with the handcuffs on one side of the
bars and the rest of me on the other.

“Yes, about as much as I am. The heroine’s managed to kick his glasses off—”

“While he was wearing them?”

“—oh, all right,
knock
his glasses off during the fight. That’s one of the things I’m testing. Is he actually able to function as a villain in a state of extreme
short-sightedness?”

“So that’s why you wanted to test handcuffs in the middle of the night without wearing your glasses. Does it have to be four o’clock in the morning for plot reasons?”

“No, that’s just when it occurred to me – could he get the handcuffs on her if he can’t see what he’s doing?”

“Yes. If he doesn’t mind looking like a prat.”

She sighed. “You’re not taking this
seriously,
are you?”

“Sorry.” She really did look adorable when she went into Authorial Fluster mode.

“You know,” she said, “this villain has a beautiful woman at his mercy and he hasn’t even twirled his moustaches at her yet. Do you think he’d get . . .
interested?”

“She’s knocked his glasses off. He can’t see she’s beautiful.”

“He can remember what she looked like when he came in, can’t he? And he can
feel
her.” She smirked devilishly and began to fondle her helpless victim.

I wriggled uncomfortably. Of course, this was just a bit of fun with a woman I actually loved, it was just strange. We hadn’t done much role-playing before, and I’d always thought
Edith was naturally shy.

She didn’t feel shy now. Maybe the role-playing made it easier for her to dress up in ideas she wouldn’t normally try out, and Having A Good Reason always helped. Not that she was
dressed up in anything at all, at present. “So he’s grappling with her,” she said, grappling. She tweaked a nipple, and said, “Aha, my pretty!”

“What’s wrong with the other one, then?” I said.

“Nothing,” she said, caressing it. “You’re gorgeous in stereo.”

“I don’t believe any villain in the history of villainy since Bad King John lost his clothes in the wash has
ever
said ’you’re gorgeous in stereo’ to any
heroine, however lovely.”

“No, that was me. Can’t you tell the difference between fiction and reality?”

“And was that you?” I asked, as she rubbed her fingertips round and round my nipples.

“Yes. But this is both of us,” she said, as she bent down and licked at the left one.

Fine. So I was tied to the bed, while my girlfriend and the villain of her latest novel were molesting me at something-past-four in the morning.

“What’s his name?”

“Kevin.”

“Kevin?”

“Yes. He’s had a lifelong complex because of his name and finally went to the bad.” One hand traced down across my stomach. “I can’t really be a Kevin if I can
molest pretty girls like this,” she (he) said.

Good thing I don’t mind the occasional bloke, even if I really prefer girls,
I thought, as she pressed her erection against me.

“Hey, that’s
my
one,” I complained, as she hit the ON switch.

“No, you can’t emasculate me now,” said Kevin.

I decided not to remind her that we’d actually bought a harness for a strap-on along with the handcuffs. Intrigued as I was by the sudden appearance of Kevin from whichever dark corner of
her subconscious he inhabited, I decided I’d rather wait until a more sensible hour to be fucked by him.

Besides, the heroine
never
gets raped on the first date.

“Can’t we just get on with it and go back to sleep? You can introduce me properly to Kevin in the morning.”

“I told you not to emasculate me,” she said, “but I’ll settle for a quickie. I can’t go back to sleep like this.”

Come to think of it, neither could I. I could see she was excited; there was that pink flush rising up on my little fluffy fair blonde. As for me, ’Kevin’s’ erection was doing
very nicely for me, even loosely pressed where it was as if she’d forgotten it. Edith knew exactly what speed setting kept me ticking over without quite getting me there.

“Ravish me now, sweetie,” I said.

“That’s supposed to happen later in the book – actually, that wasn’t supposed to happen at all, but you’ve given me ideas. How am I
ever
going to sell this
book if she runs off with the villain?”

“Kevin’s a comic-Byronic anti-hero,” I said.

“Nothing comic about me,” Kevin said, pouncing on me.

I had to admit Kevin was a damn good kisser. He knew his way around a woman.

“You must have ravished
ever
such a lot of girls,” I said, innocently.

“Lots and lots and lots – well, probably half a dozen before you.”

“I know that’s you, Edith. A bloke would never admit to being that inexperienced.”

“But I do know what a woman likes.” Grope, grope. She certainly did. I shouldn’t be this hot this quickly – and certainly not at this time in the morning. Maybe there was
something to this bondage lark after all. I didn’t quite feel
helpless,
but I felt surprisingly vulnerable, and I couldn’t quite tell whether it was the role-playing or just that
we were doing something different.

Also, nobody had ever told me that you could have this much of a laugh in a bondage session. If they had, I wouldn’t have believed them. I’d read a few rude books, and most of them
had been distinctly po-faced about the whole thing.