The Mammoth Book of Lesbian Erotica (60 page)

I laughed when she made a fuss over it because I am not as diligent as her when it comes to such things. In fact, I knew it was a nettle but I didn’t know what the plant that sheltered it
was called, but it was one she liked. A shame that I should know so little of the natural world around us – but then I like to think I know the natural world within us. My friend even looked
embarrassed about something that would sting amongst things that looked so pretty, as if that mattered.

Of course, it mattered to her. I could tell. But then I had known Kerry for ages – since before our kids were born – so I knew her better than most people did. That was why I said
she should leave it. Let it be.

Oh she said, looking even more flustered, I couldn’t do that. It had to come out, she said. That was when I said to Kerry she should grasp the nettle. No garden fork or trowel or even
gardening gloves. Do it then and there and pull it out.

The look on her face was priceless. My good friend Kerry – Kez, she called herself – staring at me as if I as mad. But I wasn’t: I simply knew it was time for her to do what I
said.

Kerry is the kind of woman you would pass in the supermarket and not notice. She’s about average height, average build, average colour. Pretty when she wants to be, and she had made an
effort today. Perhaps that’s why I thought it was time for me to establish what I wanted, what I knew she needed.

I do know she hadn’t noticed the many times when we had been together before that, when she had done what I’d said. Small things admittedly, but she had followed my suggestions. Or
my orders, depending on how you see it. After all, when do hints become imperatives? In my mind, they had stopped being things in which she had a choice quite some time ago.

She was looking at me now as if slightly bewildered but that was because of what was going on in her. She was becoming aware of exactly how it was between us. Who gave the orders.

A brightly marked butterfly flew before us, landing on the nettle for a moment. Unsure if this was the right place for it, the creature’s wings barely stilled before it flew on in the warm
sunshine, fluttering in its zig-zag way. I was aware of Kerry watching it and then her gaze going back to the weed.

It was quite a moment when she did what I told her in the garden that afternoon. I even told Kerry to use her right hand to grasp the nettle. I have to confess here that I thought, should she
masturbate later with that hand, the sting would remind her of my control.

I can recall her hesitating as she crouched by the nettle, taking a deep breath, steeling herself for the pain of grabbing the nettle. Oh, I know, people say by grasping it you don’t get
stung. Well, maybe they are right. But the purpose of my friend doing what I said wasn’t to avoid pain.

So she was cautious and hesitant and she got stung. I think there must have been a goal in the match on TV because we heard the men shout just as she closed her hand on the nettle. A suitably
dramatic moment, I suppose. Those lovely long fingers of hers enveloping something unpleasant. No, not unpleasant: something unexpected and sharp.

Then my friend stood up, looking utterly distressed, biting her lip and grimacing slightly. Oh, poor Kerry! She had tears glistening in her eyes as she stood there with that weed in her right
hand. You see, even then she knew instinctively she hadn’t been given permission to let go. Only when I said for Kerry to open her hand did she do so and there was the plant, rich green with
spiked-edge leaves, slowly unfurling in her palm. A rash of little red and white blotches all over the woman’s open hand. Perfect.

Kerry said that it hurt and I said yes, it would. That was when she looked at me and could have said something, that this was silly or childish or even crazy. Yet she didn’t. She could
have thrown the plant down, even got angry with me.

Again, she didn’t. My friend stood waiting for my next instruction, blinking a little to get rid of the tears in her eyes. Her cheeks were flushed but I didn’t know then if it was
annoyance or arousal. But I did know she had obeyed me.

I was in no hurry: I wanted to savour the moment. I had just ordered my best friend to hurt herself, and she had done exactly as I wanted. Kerry said something about finding a dock leaf, because
that was what she had used on nettle stings when a child. That made me smile. Would we really find another weed in her perfect garden? Anyway, we weren’t going to look for one. I had no wish
for her to stop suffering then and deep down I think she knew that.

I said we should go to the little summer house she had erected at the far corner of the garden. Kez’s retreat, she called it, from when the family were making demands. It wasn’t much
more than a large shed, but she kept it tidy with a large but comfortable garden seat on a small verandah. Hidden from the house by evergreen bushes. I went first and she followed, still with the
nettle in her open hand. I hadn’t even said anything being careful not to drop it but she was careful. Respectful, I suppose, as it had hurt her.

In the summer house I sat on the chair and she stood with the source of her pain, motionless in front of me. I took my time, letting her watch me, as I brushed an imaginary insect or small leaf
off my skirt. I even pretended I had found a seed of something on me and examined this mystery between fingertip and thumb. Then when I was ready I told her then what I had been wanting to tell her
for ages, that as far as I was concerned this was how it should be between us. That I would have to see her hurt more, because I loved her.

Poor Kerry. She looked just as startled as when she grasped the nettle. But to her credit she didn’t move, or object, though I recall her saying something about not being like that.

Like what? She didn’t know.

I said we were like us, two ordinary women – wives, mothers, workers – who had feelings for each other. Strong, unspoken feelings that had drained through the soil of our cultivated
lives, down into a deep underground pool. But we had never explored these feelings, never tried to unearth the dark waters of the real us.

Perhaps we had never wanted to upset the status quo, or possibly we were frightened of our inner lives being changed. I told her that now this doubt was over. We were us from now on because we
were right for each other, her and me.

One on top, the other on the bottom. Me and her.

She looked a little confused as if women shouldn’t express such thoughts between them, have such a relationship. She started to open her mouth to offer an argument but maybe I frowned, or
maybe Kerry thought better of it as a bottom should do, and she bit her lip instead. I asked if she understood, and the woman nodded.

I was silent as I knew she needed to let all this sink in, but then I wanted to know if she was ready for her next pain.

I will never forget how she took a deep breath, flushed pink with anxiety and arousal, and nodded.

Good, I said as I stood, took a tissue from my skirt pocket and carefully grasped the end of the nettle in her hand. I grinned: after all, I didn’t want to be stung, did I? She seemed to
understand the hurting was for her, not me. I took the nettle and held it up in front of Kerry. As I looked into her hazel eyes she nodded because she knew I was in charge. My friend knew I held
the source of her pain, and her final freedom.

She asked me if she could ask a question. I said yes, but be quick. She asked me if I would kiss her.

I said we could kiss only when I had hurt her a little more and she seemed relieved. I suspect Kerry thought I wouldn’t give her any solace, I might cruelly deny her any comfort. Perhaps
she feared there would be no reward for being so willing. But I told her that while the flowers among the thorns were important to me too, the honey could only be discovered between the stings.

She did what I told her to do, rolling up her pale lilac top to show me her breasts. She has a bigger bust than me and her boobs were cradled perfectly in her plunge bra. It made me smile a
little as her chest came into full view, thinking that perhaps she had selected this daring bra that morning, knowing I was coming to her house, knowing something would happen between us.
Finally.

Without a word she put her hands behind her, pushing her chest forward invitingly and slowly I drew the stinging nettle over her vulnerable breasts. The rash on those pale orbs was instant and
her stifled cry little more than a gasp of exhaled air.

I drew the nettle across twice, once each way, and then down between her breasts bringing a renewed gasp from my friend – my pain lover – each time.

I asked if she wanted more, and she nodded, trying not to cry. Striving to be quiet, hands clamped behind her, knuckles white as she fought the new agony consuming her senses.

Kerry followed her next instructions perfectly, undoing her jeans and letting them fall, easing her plain white cotton pants to halfway down her thighs with legs slightly apart. I placed the
nettle, not so dangerous now but still with a bite, on the crotch fabric of her pants. Damp, I noticed, as they should be. I could see her trimmed pubic hair with a little moisture glistening on
it. Tiny dew drops, you could say. Dear Kerry, who moaned slightly as I put my face close to her sex as I breathed in the muskiness of her arousal. I knew what she wanted and she knew it too.

She also knew what was to come. How much it would hurt, and she was patient because she loved me. I motioned she should pull her cotton pants up, crushing the last of the nettle’s venom
against her pussy. At last as the nettle made contact with her puffy nether lips, brushed up against her engorged clit, she gave a small scream. It hurt and her hands clenched, knuckles whiter than
before. Above me, I could hear her sobbing, aware her body was shaking.

A tear fell past me.

Kerry was crying and moaning now and I stood, told her I loved her and for the first time kissed Kez like a lover, not a friend. Between the sobs she accepted my deep and searching kiss, my
tongue in her mouth. I broke the kiss, put my left hand over her mouth and with my right hand I slowly pressed the crotch of her pants up, crushing the nettle’s leaves even more into the
folds of Kerry’s inflamed sex.

I told her I loved her deeply as I worked my fingers against Kerry’s swollen, wet pussy, the venom of the crushed leaves burning into her. Just as I wanted my love to burn into her.

That was when the woman came. The first time at my hands. When she had stopped trying to scream, I took my hands away and kissed her deeply again. A reward she had longed for.

It would be perfect to say that at that moment, a butterfly – a delicate and pretty creature she had always wanted more of in her beautiful garden – had alighted on my friend. A
symbol of our new found love. But nature isn’t quite like that.

The insect that landed on her was a wasp, and she flinched as it crawled over her naked, quivering breast. Kerry, hands behind back still, didn’t move but she was terrified. My friend, my
lover, looked at me imploringly. She didn’t utter the words but I could tell what she was thinking, what she wanted to say: please, not this.

I said, my darling, we have to have pain and pleasure, don’t we? Sharp edges in the softness, cruelty in the midst of joy. Crush the wasp to your breast, I told her, and we will make each
other come with our tongues.

And we did in the peace and quiet of Kez’s retreat, hidden from the world, when she had stopped crying.

Tess of the Suburb’s Bills

H. L. Berry

“You missed a fantastic Sociology lecture today,” said Helen.

“Really?” Abigail Vailing looked up from her work at the kitchen table.

“Yes, really. Lady Chatterbox was on top form.”

“Was she talking about the impact of prostitution on the postwar British middle classes?”

“Abby, as I’ve told you on numerous occasions, Lady Chatterbox is not running a brothel.”

“Well no, of course she’s not now, because I shut her down.”

“She was helping students with their coursework.”

Abigail laughed. “Is that what they call it these days? Well, all I can say is that it’s a pretty lame metamorphism.”

“I think you mean metaphor. And . . . oh, never mind. She was asking after you.”

“She wanted to know whether I’m still keeping an eye on her, no doubt.” Abigail folded her arms and smirked.

“No, actually, she was asking when you might be likely to hand in your assignment.”

“Pah! Lecturers ask that all the time.”

“They only ever ask that about you, Abby, because you never hand in your bloody assignments. If you’re not careful, you’re going to fail the course.”

“I don’t care about that. I’m following a higher calling now.”

“Oh, Abby.” Helen put her hands on her friend’s shoulders. “Even if you don’t grow out of this silly Nightgirl thing, how will you fund her without a
job?”

“It’s not silly, Helen.” Abigail tilted her head to one side. “But I do see your point. Perhaps I’ll get Brendan to hack into the university computer and adjust my
grades.”

“Abby! You can’t do that!”

“No, you’re right,” said Abby. “His kid sister Georgina would be even better. She managed to get into the Government gateway site.”

“That’s a public site. Anyone can get into it.”

“Sure they can.” Abigail winked.

Helen changed the subject. “I was chatting with Tess over lunch.”

“Tess?”

“Tess Carlin. You remember? She used to live on the floor above, but moved to that house in the suburbs with a bunch of other students.”

“Oh, yes. Blonde hair, green eyes, a bit dim.”

“Pot,” muttered Helen. “Yes, that’s her.”

“How’s she doing?”

“Fine, except she’s finding the bills a lot to cope with.”

“I thought she lived with Anna, John, Simon and Dave. When did the Bills move in?”

“No, you muppet. The phone bill. The electricity bill. Food bills. She’s struggling to make ends meet.”

“But she’s studying accountancy, Helen. I remember she produced a sixteen-page spreadsheet before she moved, setting out her budget for the next three years.”