The Mammoth Book of Lesbian Erotica (49 page)

“The other problem, of course,” said Paige, “is how long the operator can keep going before her fingers tire. I can do this speed indefinitely, but it’s much more fun if
I go faster. Q once kept me on edge for almost an hour before I came. I’m going to see if I can beat that.”

I love my job. I’ve been working there for just over a year, as one of the “guards”. We’re all women, and effectively we’re bouncers, though you wouldn’t
know it to look at us. Modesty aside, we’re all pretty attractive (I’ve been told I resemble Liz Hurley), with good figures and above-average IQs. Despite the fact that we all sound
very British, each of us speaks at least one other European language flawlessly. We know how to handle ourselves, though. All of us know at least two martial arts, and a regular part of our day is
spent working out in a lavishly equipped gymnasium. It keeps us pretty well toned but not overtly muscle-bound.

She kept up a steady flow of words, typing faster only when she sensed that Sarah was on the verge of coming. The sudden stab of pain as she briefly increased the speed was enough to bring the
blonde back down, just. After three such interludes, Sarah was soaked with sweat, her whole body gleaming under the harsh lights. Her hair was plastered to her scalp, and a pool of her juices had
collected on the mattress between her legs. She was moaning constantly through the gag.

After an eternity Paige settled into a rhythm slightly faster than previously.

I tried to brace myself for what was about to happen, but still I shrieked when the first stroke landed across my buttocks. It hurt like blazes, but I remained bent over the desk, breasts
squashed against its surface. I knew better than to try and escape. Before the sound had even died in my throat she lashed me again, harder than before. I began to cry. My knuckles turned white as
I gripped the far edge of the desk tightly. After seven more carefully placed strokes my entire bum felt like it was on fire and I was wailing continuously, pleading with her to stop.

Sarah panted heavily, her breasts rising and falling almost in time with Paige’s fingers. She closed her eyes and threw back her head. As her orgasm reached its crescendo, Paige cruelly
accelerated her typing.

Q came and stood right in front of me. We’re about the same height, and she looked straight into my eyes. I studied hers, which are dark brown, with little golden flecks in them. I find
them fascinating. Without looking down, she untied the belt of my robe. She slowly slid the robe from my shoulders and down my back, caressing my skin as she did so. It dropped to the floor and I
was as naked as she was. She rested her hands on either side of my waist and pulled my hips against hers. I went willingly. When our breasts touched it was like a little shock running through my
body. My nipples were so hard. Her belly rubbed against mine. She tilted her head to one side and placed her mouth against mine, moving her lips delicately.

Sarah gave an ear-splitting shriek. Her back arched and her body was racked with spasms. She lost control of her bladder even as she came, a gush of hot liquid flooding out to pool on the
mattress underneath her. Her pelvis pumped at the air as the orgasm shook her and the last vibrations died away inside her pussy. She gave a few small cries before collapsing back onto the bed like
a punctured balloon.

When she came to moments later, Paige was standing over her. She looked as though she’d just stepped off a catwalk rather than having spent the last hour or so torturing Sarah. With a
smile she reached down and removed the clip from Sarah’s tongue and the gag from her mouth. Sarah worked her jaw in some relief, running her tongue around the inside of her dry mouth.

“Here, this should help,” said Paige. She fed a straw into her mouth. Sarah sucked greedily at the chilled water. When she’d finished, Paige removed the clips from her nipples
and clit. She sobbed as the blood returned painfully to their extremities.

“This had better come out too.” Paige pulled the vibrator from Sarah’s pussy. It made a sucking noise as it slipped free, and Sarah’s hole gaped open. Paige batted her
eyelashes at Sarah and licked the glistening device.

“You taste nice. Now, do you understand what you did wrong?”

Sarah nodded. “Yes, I do.”

“And have you learned your lesson,” asked Paige, “or will I have to carry on later?”

“No,” whispered Sarah, “I promise I won’t do it again.”

“Good. And now, it’s nearly closing time. We’d better get you into the reception area.” Paige flicked a switch on the intercom. “Angela, Jody, will you both join me
in here, please.”

Jody and Angela brought sponges and soft, white towels with them, and used them to mop Sarah clean. Once she was dry, they gave her body a light coating of oil and wheeled the bed into the main
entrance lobby of the club. Once in position, they locked the wheels in place, leaving Sarah on display for the gratification of the club’s members. As they turned to leave, Sarah called
out.

“Paige?”

Paige stopped. She dismissed the other two and swivelled round to look at Sarah, a half-questioning, half-smiling expression on her face.

“Yes, Sarah?”

“Thank you.”

Paige leaned forward and kissed Sarah tenderly on the lips.

“You’re welcome,” she whispered. Straightening up, she walked across the lobby to where Q waited in the shadows.

“Very good, Paige. You beat my record, easily.”

“So I win the bet?”

“You do indeed. Would you like to claim your reward now?”

“Of course,” replied Paige. They linked arms and walked down the short hallway to Q’s office. Inside, Q locked the door and removed her figure-hugging bodysuit. As usual she
was wearing nothing underneath. Paige remained dressed, arms folded and an expectant smile on her face. The hostess leaned forward across her desk, reaching forward to hold the far edge.

“Did Sarah understand?” she asked.

“Oh yes,” said Paige, picking up a supple cane and flexing it. “She won’t borrow my Porsche again without asking. Now, the bet was twelve strokes, wasn’t it? Are
you ready?”

Q tightened her grip on the desk. “Yes.”

Paige drew back her arm.

Gone Fishin”

Chrissie Bentley

“Okay, before we go any further, go back to my profile and have a look at my photograph. Do I look like the kind of girl who enjoys going fishing?”

There was a pause, then the beep of an incoming IM. I’ve cleaned up the spelling mistakes and abbreviations. “That photograph makes you look like you enjoy a lot of things. I was
just hoping that fishing might be one of them.”

I smiled and typed “goodnight”; hit Send, then fired off a line of kisses. Sheelagh was one of the first girls to e-mail me after I started posting erotic stories on a certain
website and though her first letters were simply invitations to repeat the action at her place, they were written with a humor that made me curious to learn more about her . . . more, that is, than
the admittedly impressive heights of horniness that she painted in another note. And over time, I did. She was an art dealer, she was single, and she travelled extensively – five foreign
countries and 23 states in the last six months. I wondered whether mine was one of them?

Soon I was signing on at all hours of the day, just to see if she’d emailed me back, and she rarely disappointed. And one day, as she outlined her next scheduled trip, she asked where I
lived. I told her the state; she mentioned a city. I sat and stared at the screen for a few moments. She was coming here? Careful not to give anything away, I typed, “When will you be there
next?”

“This weekend. You?”

“I could probably make it. What are you doing there?”

“Fishing with some clients. And a reception Saturday night – a dozen or so people, out-of-towners like me, and some dear friends of mine, Debbie and Mandy, who just happen to own
half the city. You should join us.”

“I’ll think about it.”

I have one rule about online dating . . . don’t do it. Hell, I won’t even cyber with girls that I’ve slept with, let alone complete strangers. But did this really count as
online dating? Okay, so we met online, but what if she’d written me via a magazine or a publisher? Then we’d be pen pals, and how harmless would that be? Plus, I’d have my own
car, I’d let some friends know where I was going; and I did want to get to know her better. I hit the reply button. “Okay.”

We made arrangements. Sheelagh would be flying in Friday, and driving out to the ocean the following afternoon. She mentioned the hotel where she was staying – of course I knew it . . . it
was only 15 minutes from my apartment. But I was still impressed when she told me that she’d have her secretary book me a room, and charge it to expenses. “How about if we meet up in
the dining room for lunch on Saturday?”

“Great. See you there.” I signed off, and tried to decide what clothing would be the most appropriate for fishing in, but found myself spending more time in my underwear drawer
instead. After all, if things did go well . . . surely I had at least one bra that screamed, “fuck me” from every fiber?

Yes, I did, but I don’t think Sheelagh even noticed it, not when I walked into the dining room; not when we sat chatting at the bar; not when she waved a few friends off and told them
she’d catch up with them later . . . not even when we went up to her room, stripped down in seconds, and fell onto the bed.

She was everything she’d described in her e-mails . . . mid-40s, good-looking, well-rounded, tall. Her voice was soft, as though every word was a precious commodity to be drawn out of her
with the most exquisite tenderness . . . and that is how she fucked me (yes,
that
was everything she said it was, as well); calmly and deliberately, her face and her fingertips flowing
across my body, everywhere at once and one place in particular, testing and teasing my flesh before settling down to one spot for a moment and then, tantalizingly, flying away to caress some place
else.

Now I was crouching over her, my breasts just inches from her mouth. Sheelagh reached up, squeezed and then pinched each nipple, not hard, but just enough. Her tongue darted out and brushed
them. I know what I was thinking, but I think I murmured it too, because she was sucking at it now, my nipple and a sizeable portion of my tit sinking into her mouth.

I held her to me, willing her to draw even more of me in, feeling her hands shift to my back and then down to my ass, stroking and squeezing my cheeks as a finger traced lightly between them. I
felt the first stirrings of a distant orgasm, as she released my nipple from between her lips and we hung unmoving for a moment, as I wondered what next.

Sheelagh decided, grasping my hips and hauling me up, my pussy firm to her face. But I wasn’t going to let her have all the fun. Deftly I flipped, parted her legs and gazed down at her
slit. She’d shaved and I wished I had – although she didn’t seem to care, as gentle fingers parted my lips and a tongue traced slowly up and down before nudging my clitoris for
the first time, an electric shock that shook my entire frame.

I tried to concentrate on what lay before me, the sweet pink slit, the swollen clit that peeked out at me. But it was impossible. Her tongue was dancing between my legs and my body was
completely out of my control. Her breathing was hard, her movements insistent and her rhythm was unchanging, even as I bucked my own hips, urging her to pick up the pace, bring me to the orgasm
that was shuddering just on the other side of bunker-busting.

“Faster,” I hissed, and she raised her head.

“Not yet. You’ve teased me with your stories for months. Now it’s my turn.” And she shortened her strokes, her hands pushing down on my hips until I could barely move
them, but increasing the warm pressure of her tongue, so that every breath I took had a sharp, audible edge of pleasure; an edge that only heightened her determination to keep me dangling –
which she did. I had never known anybody to be so painstaking, so patient, so totally in control of her own body that, even with a hellcat screaming seven shades of lust beneath her, she simply
stretched the ecstasy out even further.

Finally I came . . . there wasn’t a power on earth that could have stopped me; and as I writhed in the uncontrollable spasms of my own joy, I felt Sheelagh, too, pause . . . plunge . . .
and then cry out as her lust blew up inside her.

We lay silent, shattered, sticky with sweat, and I think we must have slept. It looked darker when I opened my eyes, and Sheelagh now lay dead weight across me. I squirmed out from beneath her
and crept to the bathroom. She hadn’t moved when I returned and for a moment, I stood there, wondering what to do . . . which of the two or three thoughts that were now racing through my mind
I should act on first? But before I could move, she opened her eyes and smiled. “We really need to make a move. I have that reception this evening, remember? You will come along, won’t
you?”

“Why not?” I threw on the clothes I’d arrived in, then headed back to my own room to shower and change. Half an hour later, she was guiding her hired car around the snaking
bends that led towards the ocean, and the row of exclusive waterfront homes that were dotted along the coastline. “Dinner,” she promised me, “alcohol, some tremendous people
– you’ll love Debbie and Mandy . . . and then, your choice. I can call you a cab back to the hotel . . . or else, we fish.” I laughed. “I’ll let you know.”

The house . . . the mansion . . . was beautiful, more rooms than you could count; more
bathrooms
than you could count. I must have visited at least four different ones in the course of
the evening, as the festivities shifted from wing to wing, while our hostess . . . Mandy, a startlingly pretty, middle-aged blonde, whose greying partner, Debbie, was a big wheel in computer
programming . . . could not have been sweeter, even coming to my rescue when I took a wrong turn, and wound up in a room lined with wall-to-wall vintage erotica. Serious, no-holds-barred, vintage
erotica. Some of those pictures must have been taken in the 1920s. Maybe even earlier.