Lesbian Lust Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Introduction

  THE GIRL WITH THE BETTIE PAGE BANGS

  REUNION AT ST. MARY’S

  A MIDWINTER NIGHT’S DREAM

  SWOLLEN

  CAMSHAFT CUTIE

  AUGUST CRAZIES

  LOVERS’ MOON

  THE OFFICE GRIND

  NOT AFRAID TO GET HER HANDS DIRTY

  NEVER TOO OLD

  LOST AND FOUND

  CANVAS

  THE ANGEL CONNECTION

  A STORY ABOUT SARAH

  THE WEEKEND

  LOVE AND DEVOTION

  ARE YOU GONNA BE MY GIRL?

  DANGER

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  ABOUT THE EDITOR

  Copyright Page

  INTRODUCTION

  Lust: it’s the engine that drives us wild on the way to getting us off, and lesbian lust is the heart, soul and red-hot core of this anthology. Within this shared journey each of these eighteen writers takes us for a vividly different ride on the way to intense, fulfilling lesbian sex. In some of the stories, we claim our right to lightning-strike, no-strings, purely physical sex; in some, the emotional complexity and depth stir us as profoundly as the physicality; in some, erotic fantasies are played out in ways that tease the mind as well as the body and a few defy any description or classification except that of superheated originality.

  For me, the pleasure of reading and selecting these stories has been close to lust itself. Familiar, well-known voices whose very names bring on a tingle have outdone themselves, and newer writers with unexpected styles and perspectives have given me an erotic jolt of lust at first sight. There are stories here that push a wide range of buttons in just the way I like them pushed, along with innovative work that comes close to nudging even my own boundaries to the limit. Variety is also the spice of lust.

  Within all that variety, there are some groups of stories with similar themes but different presentations: sex and cars, for example. Fran Walker’s “A Midwinter Night’s Dream” is both surreal and gritty; Crystal Barela’s “Camshaft Cutie” is desert hot and humorous and C. B. Potts’s “The Angel Connection” takes age and power differentials and turns them upside down in an all-girl repair shop. Taking the car motif in another direction, Ren Peters involves two longtime lovers in a threesome with a classic Porsche Boxster under a “Lovers’ Moon.

  Established couples are also at the center of DeJay’s “Never Too Old,” blending humor with true intimacy in a Province-town sex toy store setting and Cheyenne Blue’s “A Story about Sarah,” an atmospheric, poetic account of interracial lovers in the Australian Outback. In a very different vein, the partner of Catherine Lundoff’s protagonist in “Reunion at St. Mary’s” arranges to fulfill her schoolgirl fantasy with the former members of the girls’ hockey team. Other couples who know each other well but are still working out the nature of their relationships—with the help of plenty of sex—appear in Delilah Devlin’s “The Weekend” and Jade Melisande’s “Are You Gonna Be My Girl.” In my own contribution, “Danger,” another couple’s chance encounter at a turning point in history brings back traumatic memories of their first meeting in the chaos of war.

  Youth and maturity strike sparks in Sommer Marsden’s smooth and sassy “The Girl with the Bettie Page Bangs” and Jove Belle’s “Love and Devotion,” with its Southern-noir atmosphere. The lush tropical settings of Rachel Kramer Bussel’s “Swollen” and Andrea Dale’s “Lost and Found” enhance the sensuality of their encounters, while Teresa Noelle Roberts’s “Not Afraid to Get Her hands Dirty” is no less sexy for being literally down-to-earth, and R. G. Emanuelle’s “The Office Grind” shows more action going on under the desk than above it.

  Two of the most gripping stories push the edge in very different ways. In “August Crazies,” Miel Rose shows the BDSM world of power exchange with scorching detail, while illuminating the underlying complexities and vulnerabilities with tenderness and no less heat. Kenzie Mayer’s “Canvas” paints a darker picture, where sexual drive blends with artistic obsession until they become indistinguishable.

  I’m asked sometimes to name favorite stories from the books I edit, but isn’t that like choosing between chocolate and champagne or apples and pomegranates? Lust comes in many flavors, all of them intense. In these eighteen stories you’ll find sweet sex, bittersweet sex, salty and sweaty sex, creamy-smooth sex and sex with crunch to it. Go ahead, take a bite and then another and another; I hope you’ll savor them all as much as I do.

  Sacchi Green

  Amherst, Massachusetts

  THE GIRL WITH THE BETTIE PAGE BANGS

  Sommer Marsden

  I’m not really a dirty old broad. Truly. If it hadn’t been for my brand-spanking-new, thousand-dollar rock, I never would have met Callie. Ever. But I had bought a very expensive new computer that kept fucking everything up. And by everything, I mean everything: PDFs, spreadsheets, hell, even the Internet. And every time it did so, I had to grab my flash drive and run to the library. When you work for yourself you have to make do.

  So here I am, sweating my ass off in my car because the air is broken. I pull up to the library (I had been there the day before) and there she sits, outside on her break, smoking a cigarette and picking lazily at a string on her skinny black jeans.

  I am not a dirty old broad, I swear.

  But damn: she’s long and lean, hair as dark as a crow’s wings, with a painted doll face and red, red lips. She sports a small black cardigan and what gets me—Bettie Page bangs.

  I avert my eyes and grab my bag and go right by her. She’s maybe nineteen or twenty to my thirty-seven. No way, José. It’s a momentary flash of attraction and extreme insanity. It will pass. But I can’t keep my eyes from darting for a fast peripheral check: small, teacup-sized breasts; tiny waist; long, coltish legs; big blue eyes and lashes that make me want to beg or swear, maybe both.

  “Hiya,” she says and smiles. I fear my knees may buckle.

  I nod. “Nice day.” I push my feet forward toward the side entrance and then she stuns me.

  “You’re back.”

  Fuck.

  “Yes. Yes, I am. I bought a very expensive paperweight, it seems.” My face colors and my hand touches the door handle, but I don’t want to go in. The girl with the Bettie Page bangs is talking to me. Me!

  “I’m sorry. The regulars usually have a reason. Research paper, book; mental disability, so they come to watch Superman videos over and over and over again. ’Cause you know he’s going to save the world, Supe is.” She winks when she says it, but there is no cruelty in her voice, only good humor and a touch of sadness. Oddly enough, I know exactly which person she is referring to.

  “Mine is, I work from home and I bought a brand-new computer that won’t let me do certain things.”

  Somehow, the girl with the Bettie Page bangs and I are now climbing the stairs to the computer center together. How did that happen? I usually do not go gaga and soft headed over women, no matter how pretty.

  “Like what?” She twirls a poker-straight length of hair around her finger and pops her gum, something that would be a major offense coming from anyone else in the world but somehow when she does it, it’s sexy.

  “Cut and paste.”

  She blinks at me, shocked. “No shit?” Her eyes dart around. She’s at work, probably the wrong word choice. But I laugh out loud and nod.

  “No shit.”

  “I’ll put you on number thirteen,” she says and smiles. “I’m Callie, B-T-W.”

  “B-T-W?”

  “By the way.”

  I feel the blush rise. “Right. Sorry. I’m Janie. D-A-B.”

  “D-A-B?”

  “Dumb-ass blonde.”

  Her sm
ile is wider than ever and perfect. “Thirteen for you, D-A-B.”

  “Oh, great. More bad luck,” I tease.

  “Actually, thirteen is my lucky number.”

  “Because that’s how old you are?” I laugh and so does she. I’m fishing and we both know it.

  “Actually, I’m twenty-two, thank you very much.” She bats those long black lashes at me and my insides turn hot and liquid. I want her. Bad.

  “I just meant—”

  “Oh, don’t worry. I know I look young. I figure it’s a perk. When I’m fifty, I’ll look like a smoking forty-year-old cougar, yeah?” She touches my hand when she says that, and my pussy responds as if she’s licked me. I’m in deep, deep shit, my friend.

  “Yeah, I’m sure you’re gonna look smoking hot whatever the age.” But I feel pretty good. My thirty-seven isn’t so bad compared to twenty-two. I was thinking maybe nineteen and then I’d have to kill myself for being a dirty, dirty perv.

  “Number thirteen, then. I’ll make sure you get a few extra minutes. You know. To cut and paste.”

  I sit and realize my hands are shaking, hard. I try to focus on the report I had been doing at home. No go. All I can think of is the way her fingers felt running up my arm, her fingers still warm from the sun, my arm suddenly cooler from the air-conditioning. It’s easy to picture her on her knees, pushing those perfect crisp bangs from her forehead; that pale pink tongue darting out to taste me. It would be so easy to cup the back of her head and guide her, show her exactly how I like it, how fast, how wet, how hard. I’d make her see just how I like to come and…

  “Okay?” she says. Shit. She’s right at my shoulder. When did she move? How quietly she must have moved. Have I really just made that squealy yelp I am so famous for in front of the other six people at the bank of computers?

  Someone laughs.

  I have.

  “Fine. Fine, it’s going just fine,” I stammer.

  She stares at my blank screen and flashing cursor and grins a knowing grin that makes my stomach flutter like soft wings on a hard breeze. “I can see that.”

  When she leaves, I suck in a deep rush of cool filtered air and let my heart stop flopping around like a fish. A small box pops up on the computer.

  LIBRARY CONTENT: WANNA GO TO LUNCH?

  For just a second, I have no fucking clue what that is. I think I have been hacked or there’s a virus or possibly, I have started to hallucinate from all the stress. I shove my hands into my honey-dark hair that is desperately in need of a good cut from chin length to cheek length and then my eyes find her. She’s at the desk, twirling that hair again, popping her gum, watching me, smiling at me. Her lips are candy-apple red and my cunt grips up around nothing at all.

  God, yes, I want to go to lunch, if lunch is her in my bed naked and fucking me. I shake my head and realize I have just said no. I look up and smile, nod. She grins back.

  My small house is five minutes away. Five minutes that somehow, today, with Callie in the front seat next to me, feel like five or six hours, roughly. I push my foot to the floor and my ancient Jeep lurches forward. She puts her hand on my thigh. “Don’t get us arrested. I get an hour break.”

  “Right. Sorry. What do you want to eat?”

  She grins and my heart lurches along with the Jeep. “You, of course. I thought you understood that. I’m not seducing you, am I?”

  “Yes.”

  She blinks those impossibly blue eyes, and I can smell the mint from her gum. Will it make my pussy tingle and cool me or will it burn? I am dying to know. “But I like it. Please don’t stop.”

  She keeps her hand on my thigh and pushes it higher. “Don’t worry. I never stop once I want something.”

  “Good to know.” I practically take out my garbage can when I park out front. My nerves are high but the urge to get her naked and see her bare is worse. I grab her hand and pull her to my front door. My door is red. Whenever I see it I think of magic and happy endings. I hope this is one.

  “I’m not going to run away. You don’t have to drag me,” she says, and her little finger does a soft sweep of my palm. My nipples go taut and my belly, too. My ears start to ring. I turn my key, push the door open, get her inside. I push her to the wall and kiss her because I think I might actually die if I don’t get my lips on her somewhere.

  I push her to the cream-colored wall and her little black sweater whispers. The pearl buttons put up a fight but I win, getting them undone one by slippery one. Her bra is black—big shock. Her breasts are pink, her nipples mauve. Her skin smells like gardenias and sunshine. She dips her head and a curtain of shiny dark hair falls over her nipple. She kisses me before I can kiss her breast.

  Her fingers lace into my hair and she tugs hard enough for me to make a sound in my throat, hard enough for me to feel the tightening of my insides and the sharp beat of arousal in my pelvis. She tugs again and bites my lip. “I’d love to do it in the living room, but I want to see your bed. Where is your bed?”

  I tug her some more and she’s up the steps with me, but her sweater’s still down on my hardwood floor.

  We make a sharp left turn and tumble. We’re going down and not that way yet, but it’s fine because my bedroom is so small that three medium steps will connect you with the mattress and faded blue satin bedding. We hit, we bounce, we laugh. Her lips on me are like soft little petals. She sucks my nipples through my Oyster Bay T-shirt, leaving wet spots on the pale green fabric. My hands can’t decide whether to tug at my jeans or her much darker, much skinnier jeans. Callie solves that. She yanks my buttons and pulls at hers and somehow in this tangle of clothes and her long hair, we’re bare from the waist down. “I hope you don’t think I’m a slut,” she says and I freeze.

  Then she tosses her head back and laughs so long and so loud that I can only laugh too. “No, I never thought—”

  “I’m kidding. Mostly. And it’s not like it would stop me anyhow,” she says, kissing a wet trail over my shoulder. My whole body shivers even though my bedroom is a bit too warm and stagnant.

  “I think you’re stunning,” I say a little too baldly for my taste. I don’t like to tell the unadulterated truth too much when it comes to these things. It’s usually sort of like baring my throat to a blade. But for some reason I tell her exactly how I feel.

  “And I think you are the sexiest woman I have seen in…” She shuts her eyes like she’s thinking. “Well, ever.”

  That makes me snort because it can’t possibly be true. My brain forgets to tell her this because she’s pushing long, slim pale fingers into my pussy and they’re sinking in one at a time, effortlessly, like she’s playing an instrument. Me.

  I roll to top her, pushing her silken hair out of her face so I can see her beautiful eyes. She’s so pretty she almost appears not real but some flesh-and-blood doll come to life to torture me with dirty thoughts.

  “Kiss me. Don’t just stare.”

  I kiss her and taste the strong mint and soda and cigarettes on her tongue. My hands wander the smooth, buttery valleys of her skin, find the small perfect swells of her tits, and my hips rise and fall with the tide of my want. I want her, more than I can ever recall wanting anyone in my life. I keep waiting to take a breath and find her gone.

  Her fingers are in me to the top knuckle, kneading and exploring all the softest, warmest parts of me. I start to crest—closer and closer to my orgasm, and I might object except it will free me up to focus on her, and that is the best premise of all. She wiggles out of my embrace, bends like some rubber plaything, and in a heartbeat her mouth is on me and my pelvis is surging up to meet her tongue, my clit bathed in the perfect hot moisture of her mouth.

  “Jesus. You should have—” I gasp. “I want to—”

  “You’ll get what you want. But first me. What I want.” Her mouth works in tandem with her fingers. She’s a sorceress, a magician. She makes me come in four swift licks and a thrust. I let it go; the warm purple wave of orgasm takes me under, and I let it. Because no
w I can have my way and she can’t say boo.

  She’s long and lean but I work out a few hours a day most days and flipping her over and around and up is as easy as making the bed. So I do. I push her back and slide my hands under her soft, small ass, and I pinch just enough that her eyes slam shut and her mouth forms a red little O. She sighs, and I know she likes the tiny sparkly bites of pain with her fucking. So there you go; I learned something new.

  I put my mouth on her, push the ridge of my teeth to the pale skin of her mound and test. She arches up into the sharpness and I lick, pushing my teeth harder into her skin. She’ll have a soldier line of purple marks there tomorrow on her waxed mound, above her pussy, above her clit, above the entrance to her body, where I’ve been. I like the thought of that mark on her.

  Her little fists clutch at my faded bedsheets; her knees climb up and down to nowhere under my belly as I fuck her with my tongue. I keep her right on edge, the pretty girl with the Bettie Page bangs, Callie. I keep her right on edge until she is quite literally crying. I slip my fingers into her and she is so goddamn wet. I’d give a million dollars to make a visit to my closet for some toys, but the clock is a traitor and says we have twenty minutes. I make do, fucking her with my fingers and licking her right up to the sharp paper-cut edge of coming and then backing off.

  When she starts sobbing, shuddering under me, her lips moving but making no sound, I let her go. I thrust hard, arch my fingers against the warm spongy parts of her. I suck her clit like a hard candy and my mouth fills with her sweetness and light.

  We lie there, her heartbeat visible inside her thigh, mine thundering in my ears.

  “Gosh. That was…”

  “Amazing.”

  “Awesome.”

  “Perfect,” I say, laughing.

  “Just one thing.” She’s toeing my pussy and her knee is right in my face. I bite her lightly and she jumps, her big toe brushing my clit.

  God, I want her, all over again. “Yeah?”