The Mammoth Book of Lesbian Erotica (46 page)

“When I was nineteen . . .” Eyes still closed. Holy moly, are we going to have nostalgia time here?

A strange glint appears in Pat’s eye. The professor continues: “I would have killed for a powerful, confident, older woman as a lover. In fact . . . Huh?”

Said “huh?” being occasioned by the professor’s discovery that the cowl collar of her sweater has been hauled down to her waist somehow, pinning her elbows behind her, which
are even now being more tightly secured together by her own belt!

Let us just say as this swift desweatering and elbow tying is completed that Frenesi Foxx is speechless with surprise, and that that open-mouthed look is actually quite becoming to her.
Professor tugs at the belt that firmly binds her elbows behind her, hands flailing at her sides. These actions only draw attention to the tight, strapless, underwired D-cups now exposed – as
if they could have been ignored in any case.

“Wh . . . what are you doing?” asks the professor.

A swift hand (Pat’s of course) reaches for the hooks at the back of the professor’s bra and deftly undoes them. The sturdy garment springs forth and flies across the room.

“Wha . . . ?” is the professor’s eloquent comment.

She bends and writhes, tries to look back over her shoulder at the bonds that hold her. Oh she’s certainly gone red again: one can hardly blame her, what with her big boobs bouncing all
over the place. The really humiliating thing is, she can’t help struggling against her bonds, but that’s just what gives the other two such a fine show.

“Bouncy, bouncy,” sings Pat. Felicia has stopped sniffling, and there’s even a bit of a smile on her face.

The hooter show continues as the professor splutters her indignation: “This is the most unconscionable . . . unforgivable . . . what makes you think you can just . . .”

Pat calmly reaches forward, and grabs the zipper at the front of the professor’s pants. Zzzzipp! She’s flying low. She gasps, shocked at the audacity, instinctually turns her back to
them to zip up.

It’s not an easy thing to do, in those pants. And with her elbows tied behind her, it’s actually quite impossible. She futilely wiggles and twists, and a strange look comes to
Pat’s eye. Before Felicia can say, “Pat! No!” she gives the professor a resounding smack on the backside.

Open-mouthed with shock and disbelief, Frenesi Foxx turns to face her student. The apple comes in handy here – kershlorp! Pat wedges it deep in the older woman’s gaping mouth.

“Pat?” asks Felicia.

Pat undoes the button at the waist of the professor’s pants and hauls them halfway down her firm thighs.

“Glmmph?” says Professor Foxx, uncomprehending.

“Oh my God, Pat, you’ve humiliated the History department’s most prestigious scholar!”

Well, that much is certainly true. Pat steps back to admire her handiwork. The professor totters about the office, unable to free her hands, unable to pull her pants up (lovely black panties by
the way) and unable to spit the apple out. She stares at Pat, a huge question mark on her lovely face, and the question seems to be “this can’t really be happening, can it?”

“Well,” says Pat, “the packer unpacked.” Calmly, she reaches forward and slowly pulls down the professor’s panties, revealing a lovely dark bush.

“Glmmph?” responds the professor helplessly. The situation really seems to have detracted from her intelligence significantly.

Pat holds the salami before the professor’s face and she stares at it, almost cross-eyed. Clamping her thighs tightly together, she tilts her hips forward as far she can to conceal her
womanhood as much as possible. But this motion thrusts her posterior back to a ridiculously provocative extent.

Still holding the salami, Pat says, “I go thus far, and no further. I wouldn’t do that to another woman. But I will leave your salami here on the desk to give you something to think
about.” Looking down, she smiles. Frenesi Foxx has been unable to hide the fact that she is actually a little wet.

Pat and Felicia turn towards the door. But can they leave the professor this way? Er, mmm, actually, yes, they can. She’ll wiggle her way out of the belt soon anyhow.

And, not too many months later, when the professor puts on her usual Christmas party do, are Pat and Felicia invited? Oh, yes.

Funny How Things Turn Out

Mandy Scott

It was one of those relationships that was doomed from the start, but Paul and I had remained firm friends. To put it bluntly, in the bedroom department, it just didn’t
happen. We got on so well that we saw each other regularly for meals, or a take-away, and we chatted about current relationships, or problems at work. Quite often I would sleep over at his house
after a couple of bottles of Merlot, and just drive home the next morning. We were mates, and on the odd occasions when he did get a bit frisky and try it on with the help of beer goggles, we
reminded ourselves that we didn’t really physically fancy each other, so what was the point? Nevertheless, he was tactile, and we still enjoyed a snuggle up on the couch, enjoying each
other’s company. It was a strange relationship, and neither of us had formed any lasting friendship with a member of the opposite sex since our own relationship had failed.

I had a busy work life, which left little time for a steady boyfriend, and it had been two years since there had been any “I think I’m in love” moments. Quite content with my
life, I wasn’t really looking; I had many good friends and an excellent social life, so I didn’t feel desperate enough to settle for something that wasn’t all that. There had
definitely been that little something missing in all my relationships, and I could never put my finger on what it was.

On a cold Tuesday morning in March, my mobile phone bleeped, indicating that I had a text message. It was from Paul, inviting me over that night, and he said he had someone he wanted me to meet.
Assuming it was another new girlfriend, I accepted the invitation and, since it was a more formal invitation than usual, requested a time for arrival. His second text said simply “8, B a
B” which in our text-speak meant eight o’clock, and bring a bottle.

The taxi was late as usual, but I always booked early, so by the time I arrived at Paul’s five-bedroomed townhouse, it was bang on eight. After greeting his nosey neighbour outside, I
kicked off my shoes at the door and announced my arrival with a loud “yoo-hoo”. Instantly, I detected the aroma of “Irresistible” perfume. She has better taste than the last
one, I sniggered to myself as I made my way upstairs. The house had a strange layout; the kitchen was on the ground floor, the lounge on the first floor, and the bedrooms scattered all over. I
didn’t like it, but it was trendy and affordable, and overlooked a nice park. Paul kept it spotlessly clean, a trait I thought unusual for most blokes, but he was fussy about a lot of little
things. Paul was thirty-six, tall, slim, smart, witty and fun to be around. He had introduced me to a string of prospective girlfriends of his lately, but I had never been overly impressed. Maybe
it was because I cared about this man like a sister would for a brother, we chatted like best friends, and his slightly feminine attitude to life never failed to amuse me.

Sat in the lounge chair was my mate, and opposite him on the couch was the most beautiful creature I had ever seen. I remember thinking, how the hell has that ugly twat pulled her? We were
formally introduced: “Abbie, this is Emily.” I wasn’t sure if I should shake Emily’s hand, so I just smiled and we exchanged an acknowledging nod to each other. She was
smart, and wore a fairly short skirt, which showed off her tanned legs. Not too skinny; I estimated a size fourteen, with an expensive taste in clothes, and nice bobbed hairstyle, which had
obviously been well cut.

She looked sexy without looking like a tart, I thought, but she was definitely not Paul’s type. Her cerise pink satin blouse was just a little tight, but it showed off her curves nicely.
As the wine flowed, so did the conversation. It emerged that Paul had met Emily at the headquarters of the IT company he worked for. They had both been involved in developing some software for a
Japanese car manufacturer. Boring, I thought, just get to the juicy stuff, how long have you been seeing each other, what’s going on and why am I sitting here like a gooseberry?

After a couple of bottles of red and one pink champagne, we all sat on the floor for a game of “I Have Never . . .”. A bottle of vodka was positioned in the tray on the big fluffy
mat, and three shot glasses sat before it. Paul began the game by saying “I have never been shagged over the bonnet of a Ford Fiesta by Alan Fremlin in Morrisons’ car park”. I
objected that the statement was far too precise, but my protest fell on deaf ears, and I was forced to take a shot of vodka. I hated vodka. Needless to say I got him back. It was Emily’s turn
and she suggested that she had never had a threesome. Both Paul and I grabbed our glasses and burst into fits of laughter; of course we hadn’t. As the vodka bottle drained, the suggestions
got more explicit, and my last statement was “I have never had sex with a woman”, knowing that Paul would have to take a shot, but never thinking that Emily would. My eyes must have
bulged out of my head as Paul looked at me, smiled, and raised one eyebrow. She downed her drink, and Paul declared her the champion; then, realizing he had burnt the supper, jumped up and ran
downstairs to rescue the pizza.

Emily and I sat back on the couch, complaining about our numb bums, and she turned to me and smiled. What a nice girl she was – attractive, intelligent, funny, just right for Paul. Like a
mother hen, I quizzed her about her intentions toward my friend, and she stopped me in my tracks, insisting he was definitely not her type. I felt naive, but the penny suddenly dropped – she
batted for the other team. Not all lesbians were butch, I knew this, but she was gorgeous. The saying “don’t knock it till you’ve tried it” came up in conversation, as Paul
announced from the bottom of the stairs that he was nipping out to the shop for more supplies. I had been set up, that git had set me up with a fucking lesbian, for god’s sake. No wonder he
had nipped out for more bloody wine.

Emily’s arm had been draped over the back of the couch, and as she began to tell me how beautiful and intelligent she thought I was, she touched my hair. It was strange but nice, and I
felt a stirring between my legs. I had never experienced anything like this before but I felt sexy, and she was arousing me in a way that no man could ever do. Her gentle words and soft hands made
me feel at ease; she was an extremely attractive girl. I could feel the wide smile starting to spread across my face as she touched my knee with her other hand. She drew my head towards hers and
kissed me gently on the forehead.

Apparently Paul had told her so much about me, and had indicated that it was time I “woke up and smelt the coffee”. I never was quick on the uptake, but as I tutted and shook my head
in disbelief she turned her head to the side and kissed my lips. Part of me wanted to pull away and yell abuse at her for assuming that I would be susceptible to her charms, but the other part
wanted to interrogate her, ask her what it was like to be a lesbian: what do you do in bed, how can you feel satisfied without a big hard cock inside you? I was curious and intrigued by this
fascinating young woman, so I kissed her back, and the feeling between my legs got stronger and stronger.

Neither of us heard Paul come back in until he was halfway up the stairs. He must have known by the grin on my face that we were getting along just fine. He had been to the pizza shop around the
corner and presented a chicken kiev pizza, his favourite – he never ever ordered anything else; he was a creature of habit. I sat on the floor with Paul, with my back to the chair. Emily
remained on the couch as we tucked into our supper. Oblivious to the events only minutes before, Paul didn’t notice Emily’s legs open slightly; but then it was for my benefit, so why
should he?

As she ate her slice of pizza, she licked her lips and at one stage slid her finger in her mouth, pursed her lips and indicated how very hungry she was, suggesting to Paul that the food was
delicious, but insinuating something totally different to me. As her long pink tongue swept over her plump top lip, her lips pursed and she winked at me. My God, she was flirting with me.

What a strange situation it was. I had been transported to another plane, the night’s events were unexpected and, as I prodded at my lukewarm pizza, my mind wandered off. I looked across
the room at a grinning Emily, who commented on my lack of appetite. As she bent forward for another slice, I noticed the top button of her blouse was undone. It gaped open and her plump breasts
were pushed together like two massive melon mountains. Paul tucked into his pizza and commented that we should definitely do this more often. Both Emily and I agreed with way too much enthusiasm.
Emily suggested the following night, but Paul was due in London for a meeting, so Emily and I exchanged phone numbers and agreed that we would meet up the following night. It was obvious that Paul
liked the idea of us both getting along so well. He yawned and declared it was past his bedtime, and my taxi was due any minute, so I bade my farewells to my friends and made my way downstairs.
Emily followed me out to check the status of her taxi and, as we stood in the porch waiting, she pushed me up against the wall.

Astonished as I was to be kissed passionately by another woman, I felt elated, excited, and boy oh boy was I turned on. In situations like that, it’s always best to go with the flow, and
my juices were certainly beginning to do just that. Her hand was on the back of my neck as she grabbed a fistful of hair and drew me closer. The other hand moved to my crotch and she rubbed the
side of her forefinger up and down the crease between my legs. Through my linen trousers I could feel the warmth of her hand. She commented on how wet I was and she grabbed my hand and thrust it
between her thighs. She was wet too; it was seeping through her silky pants, and it only made me want her more. This was amazing. I had never felt so turned on in all my life. Was it the alcohol? I
wondered, or was this the feeling I had been missing out on all my life? Sex wasn’t so overrated after all. God, this was amazing, I thought as she buried her head in my breasts.