Lesbian Lust Read online

  Bridget writhed, every motion driving the stick a little farther inside her. Elena was giving her one hell of a hickey from the feel of things. She had also dropped her free hand to Bridget’s clit. The others were either watching or starting to entertain themselves; Kate’s girlfriend already had her shirt off and Kate stretched out on one of the locker room benches. Bridget found herself imagining Sister Agnes watching and surprised herself by coming with a muffled yell.

  Elena grinned and pushed her legs farther apart. Then she twisted the hockey stick a little into her. It was too big to fit much more than the end, but that wasn’t stopping her from trying. Bridget opened her eyes at the sound of a camera click. Monica was taking pictures of them. Elena leaned in close to Bridget’s face and grinned at the camera while she pinched Bridget’s nipples completely erect. Monica zoomed in on a close-up of the stick as Bridget wailed through the gag.

  The door swung open behind Monica, and Bridget gasped as a nun entered. Elena stepped away, an evil grin on her face. Bridget braced herself for outraged cries, threats to call the police, something that would bring this scene to a crashing halt. Instead the nun looked her straight in the eye and walked over, pulling a ruler out of her sleeve as she approached. Bridget gurgled behind the gag, gasping in shock at the sight of Vic in full Catholic drag, heavy rosary and all.

  She was in full character, too. She looked at Bridget sternly and asked in a voice slightly deeper than her normal one, “Have you been tempting these innocents into sin? Have you? Have you exposed yourself in order to make your schoolmates think lustful thoughts?” Vic frowned fiercely as Bridget tried to look innocent.

  Whack! The ruler landed on her bare thigh. Bridget yelled through the gag. Vic pulled the hockey stick away from her pussy. “I still can’t hear you, Miss O’Halloran. Perhaps this will help loosen your tongue.” Vic yanked off her rosary and began stuffing it up into Bridget’s soaking wet slit. When she had gotten as many beads inside her as she could fit, Vic found a stray length to stuff up her ass. Bridget could feel the crucifix dangling between her thighs, and it made her feel incredibly sacrilegious.

  It also made her come again, this time so hard she would have dropped to the floor if her bound hands hadn’t been holding her up. “Did I give you permission to indulge in that disgusting behavior?” Vic hissed the words as the ruler met the exposed flesh of Bridget’s ass. Her eyelids flew open in time to see Sharon going down on Mary Eileen while Monica slid a dildo into a harness. Vic twisted the rosary inside her and rubbed one of the dangling beads against her clit while she watched them. Whenever she felt Bridget wasn’t paying enough attention, she brought the ruler down on her ass or thighs.

  Bridget was gulping the air like it was water now, her knees trembling. The pressure on her clit was unrelenting as she watched Sharon come, face still pressed into Mary Eileen’s pussy. Bridget joined her a second later, shaking so hard that Vic had to catch her. Vic untied her then and pulled the gag off. Then she yanked the rosary out. “I believe that you need to do some penance, young lady.” She pressed down on Bridget’s shoulders, and Bridget dropped to her knees on the locker room floor.

  For a wild minute, she pretended she was going down on Sister Agnes. She closed her eyes, imagining the spanking she’d have gotten for this. A sharp slap just like the one she’d been thinking about cracked across her naked ass. Eyes wide, she tried to glance around to see who the hand belonged to, only to have Vic hold her head in place and order her to lick harder.

  Whoever was spanking her was a pro. A firm hand came down over and over until Bridget’s ass was hot and her thighs were soaked. Then she felt the pressure of a dildo against her asshole. Monica. It had to be Monica. She was going to get Vic and Monica at the same time? This was the best birthday present ever.

  She licked Vic fiercely as Monica stretched her out and shoved her way inside. Vic came then, hands buried in Bridget’s hair, legs shaking around her ears. Monica worked the dildo all the way inside and began riding her, driving Bridget’s face into Vic with each thrust. Bridget tried to make her tongue rigid, using it to fuck Vic until her girlfriend came again.

  Monica was groaning now and Bridget could feel her playing with herself. Monica came before she did, collapsing on Bridget’s back with a shuddering yell as Bridget’s legs trembled from her own orgasm. She shook under Monica’s body for another minute or two then started laughing. She grinned up at Vic from the floor and said, “Should I say ten Hail Marys as penance, Sister?”

  Vic gave her a stern frown. “Make it twenty and I want to hear every one of them, young lady.” Bridget dropped back onto her knees and clasped her hands, beginning the litany and making sure to work in a new section thanking the Virgin for the field hockey team.

  A MIDWINTER NIGHT’S DREAM

  Fran Walker

  In between Imlay City and Marlette, there’s nothing to see on State Highway 53 but endless acres of fields punctuated by the occasional stand of trees. Though it’s past dusk, no house lights show. The snow-covered farmland appears barren and desolate. It looks the way you feel: empty, miserable, down to your last few hundred bucks and in need of a lover. Or, better yet, a good lay, without all the disasters and angsty-wangsty drama that always seem to come with a relationship.

  Money doesn’t grow on trees and good no-strings-attached sex is nearly impossible to find. You remind yourself that you’re on vacation, albeit the only kind you can afford: house-sitting for your sister while she and her husband and three kids go lie on the beach in Cancun. Of course, your sister’s Persian cats will shed all over your clothes, her Great Dane will slobber on your face, and her oldest kid’s pony will do its best to kick and bite you, but at least you’ll have a quiet week in a house where the TV and stereo work and the fridge is full of food and your boss can’t yell at you.

  Slap-clank-clunk. Your take your foot off the accelerator. You know exactly what slap-clank-clunk means. Your Toyota Corolla made the same sound yesterday when you were driving home from the mall. It took you an entire day and most of your savings to get the timing belt replaced.

  This time you’re not just half a mile from a mechanic’s shop.

  The Toyota’s engine sputters, then goes silent. You find your cell phone by feel in the dark as the car coasts down a hill. The readout shows one miserable bar. No coverage here.

  “Hell, hell, hell!” You curse your rotten luck, your falling-apart old car and that traitorous mechanic who swore the new timing belt would last at least sixty thousand miles.

  The car lurches toward the shoulder. Snow crunches under the tires. You wrench the car back onto the road in a movement that burns the muscles in your wrists and arms. Without power, the steering wheel suddenly weighs a ton. You glance around: Dark empty fields. Dark tree-shaped clumps of shadow. And a light—

  You grip the heavy steering wheel harder. It’s a round, yellow backlit sign that says HELL in red letters.

  “I knew it,” you mutter. Then, as you near the sign, you can see it more clearly and your heart thumps. The S on the sign has been smashed out. SHELL, it should read.

  Your breath whooshes out in a sigh of relief. Not hell after all, but a gas station. Divine intervention. Maybe there really is a god.

  The car coasts into the gas station so slowly you barely need to touch the brakes to park it beside the pump nearest the road. The station’s store windows are shuttered, but light pokes through the slats. And there are other cars in the parking lot—an old clunker like your Toyota by the far pump and an SUV with the gas nozzle stuck in its tank. You mutter disjointed prayers to the deity you don’t believe in as you get out of the car and pop the hood.

  The broken SHELL sign provides enough light that you can see a timing belt lying loose on top of the engine. You pick up the notched rubber belt, frowning. It’s unbroken. It doesn’t take a car expert to know that this isn’t possible. The belt could only fall off if it broke. How many timing belts could that useless overpriced mechanic have stuffed i
n there?

  You bend over and peer into the engine. There’s the camshaft. There’s the crankshaft. No timing belt. You look again at the unbroken belt in your hand. The people in the Shell station are going to think you’re crazy.

  A bell on the door tinkles as you push it open and hurry into the warmth. There’s no one in the tiny store, just a small rack of candy bars beside a counter with a cash register and a doorway to another room through which light and soft music spill.

  You walk forward carrying the timing belt, then stop in the doorway to the next room. Behind a long bar, a strikingly pretty black woman with microbraids down to her waist fills mugs from a beer tap and hands one to a denim-clad woman waiting at the bar. Two men in flannel shirts lean over the pool table near the back of the room. A jukebox plays Patsy Cline.

  Someone cries out, wailing and gasping at the same time. The black woman behind the bar smiles. The man in the red flannel shirt straightens.

  You grab at the wall to steady yourself.

  There’s a half-naked woman lying on the pool table. She’s still crying out in that wailing gasp. Blue flannel shirt has his bearded cheek leaning on her thigh, his hands between her legs. Red flannel shirt caresses the woman’s breasts.

  The woman sits up, sighs and begins buttoning her blouse. Blue flannel helps her off the pool table. Red flannel bends to help her tug her skirt into place. The woman, a little tottery on her high heels, walks across the room and past you as if you’re not even there. The shop door makes its tinkling sound as the woman exits. Outside, a car engine starts. Both flannel men wash their hands at a small sink in the corner of the room.

  The denim-clad woman walks over to the pool table and peels off her jeans. “The gray Subaru,” she says. “Fill it up with regular unleaded.”

  Red flannel takes the woman’s beer glass and sets it on a nearby table. Blue flannel lifts her onto the pool table, then leans over and strokes her throat. You notice that red flannel is, in fact, not a man. She’s got ultrashort hair and a stocky build, but she’s also clearly got breasts under that red flannel shirt.

  Your knees feel wobbly. You sink into a chair at a nearby table, feebly clutching at the timing belt that should not have fallen off, and wonder if the whole world has gone crazy.

  The bartender comes over and silently hands you a glass of red wine.

  “My car,” you say, holding up the timing belt. “I had this put on new just yester—”

  The bartender nods and returns to her beer taps. All you can do is watch as she polishes the long wooden bar, as blue flannel runs his tongue across the denim-woman’s breasts, as red flannel swirls her fingertip around the woman’s clitoris.

  You watch.

  Denim-woman begins to pant. So do you.

  Red flannel’s fingers move faster. The woman on the pool table rocks back and forth soundlessly. The pool table creaks. “Fuck me,” she says.

  The bartender walks over to the pool table. She unzips her black leather pants and releases a long black dildo. Your hand clenches around the timing belt. Red flannel pauses, straightens, and gestures to direct denim-woman’s gaze to the bartender.

  The woman glances at the dildo, then turns her head away. The bartender steps back. She starts zipping up her pants again. When she glances over and catches you staring at her cock, you gasp and look away and pretend to be drinking your wine. She smiles, unzips her leather pants again and leans back against the wall, leaving her cock jutting out at you.

  Red flannel slides her fingers into the woman, who pushes down as if to take the whole hand inside herself. You squirm in your seat. Again you can’t help peeking at the bartender. The rich dark skin, the long swinging braids, the leather pants and the dildo—that long, smooth, black cock.

  The woman on the pool table thrashes her head back and forth. Her fingers grip the edges of the table. She looks up at blue flannel. “Touch me,” she says. “Fuck me.”

  Red flannel, her hand between the woman’s thighs, thrusts her fingers in and out. Blue flannel pulls something out of his pocket and touches it. You hear it start buzzing. He holds the little vibrator against denim-woman’s clit. She thrusts her pelvis up, pushing against the vibrator while red flannel hand-fucks her.

  You wriggle in your wooden chair. The seam of your pants is a welcome pressure against your own clit, which is swollen and throbbing. If denim-woman comes, you will too. You take a quick gulp of wine from your glass.

  Out of the corner of your eye, you see the bartender stroking her cock. Her hand, heavy with gold rings, slides up and down the length of the shaft. You lick a drop of wine off your lips and wish you were licking the bartender’s fingers instead.

  She lifts her hand away from the dildo and sucks on her forefinger.

  Your mouth grows dry.

  She drops her hand again and cups it around the base of the dildo. You look at the sculpted tip of the dildo, willing her to touch it.

  The bartender’s hand slides forward. She fondles the tip of her cock, squeezing it between her forefinger and thumb.

  You wonder if she’s able to read your mind. You wonder what would happen if you let yourself think about a blindfold.

  Sudden sound and movement drag your attention away from the bartender’s dildo. Denim-woman climbs off the pool table. She must have come while you were staring at the bartender. The woman pulls on her jeans, murmurs something to the flannel shirts, and leaves.

  The flannel shirts wash their hands. The bartender zips up her pants.

  It’s your turn.

  You hold up the timing belt. “My car broke down,” you say.

  Blue flannel comes over and takes the belt.

  “Can you put it back on?” you ask.

  He nods. Your shoulders sag in relief. He looks like the kind of man who can put a timing belt on a car’s crankshaft and not have it inexplicably fall off a day later. Blue flannel leaves, carrying the belt.

  You could walk away. You could wait outside while blue flannel fixes your car. Or maybe the denim-lady with the Subaru could give you a ride to the next town.

  You walk over to the pool table.

  Your hands tremble as you unbutton your pants. You’re still wet and throbbing from what you’ve been watching. You can smell your own desire as your pants slide down to your ankles.

  Red flannel boosts you up. You sit on the pool table, the rounded wooden edge cool against your bare ass. The bartender walks around the table and stands in front of you. Slowly she unzips her leather pants. The black dildo springs out. You’re barely breathing. You want to touch her cock and suck on it. You want to grab it and shove it into yourself. You’re aching, throbbing, empty.

  Red flannel pulls a bandana from her pocket and holds it out to you. Her hands are sturdy, like her body, blunt and thick. Her eyes, pale blue in a tanned, handsome face, ask a mute question.

  You nod and close your eyes. Her strong, blunt fingers brush your face as she ties the bandana over your eyes. Those hands then close over your shoulders and slowly, gently, red flannel pulls you down until you’re lying on the table. The green baize feels warm and fuzzy against your back. The strong hands lift your legs, bending them at the knees, until your heels rest on the edge of the pool table on either side of your hips. Your pants are still around your ankles, preventing you from spreading your legs any wider. Cool air flows over your exposed, pulsating cunt.

  Hands slide up and down your thighs. There are rings on the fingers of those hands: It’s the bartender. Your breath catches. Something prods your thigh. You can picture that dildo, long and black. It brushes your cunt, then moves up to your clit, pressing and poking, sliding through your slipperiness.

  You want to clasp your legs around the bartender’s waist and pull her closer. You want to reach between your legs and touch the dildo and pull it into yourself. Your ankles are shackled by your pants, but your hands are free. You reach down. You want someone to stop you. You’re so wet, so ready, that you know you’ll come the moment you tou
ch the dildo.

  Red flannel’s hands capture your wrists and pull your arms up over your head. You tug against her. Her strong fingers tighten their grip. You can’t move your arms. You scoot your ass forward, tipping your pelvis up a bit, guiding the bartender’s cock into yourself.

  Red flannel yanks you back. The cock slides out of you. You moan in frustration. The tip of the dildo slides back up to your clit. The bartender must be holding her cock, moving it, for it dances rapidly against your clit, jiggling the sensitive flesh, while red flannel holds you firmly in place.

  Someone is crying out, “Oh, oh, oh!” You realize it’s your own voice, aching, desperate, craving. Behind you, red flannel’s breathing becomes fast and harsh. She clamps one large hand around both your wrists. Her other hand curves down and squeezes your nipple. In a swift, sudden move, the bartender drives her cock into you.

  The long black dildo slides in with ease, while red flannel rubs and pinches your nipples. The bartender pushes deeper until the zipper on her leather pants presses firmly against your clit. She thrusts in and out. You shove yourself against her, wanting more.

  Red flannel squeezes your breasts with her strong hands. The bartender plunges into you, faster and faster, while the excruciating pleasure builds and swells. With her cock in your cunt, her zipper teasing your clit and her hands clasping your thighs, you come in a pulsating explosion that seems to last forever.

  Your legs tremble as you lie on the pool table, panting. Eventually red flannel helps you sit up. You pull the blindfold down, sliding it over your nose, then your chin, until it is draped around your neck. In front of you, the bartender is smiling, looking nearly as sated as you feel. Red flannel smiles, too, as she helps you climb off the table and pull your pants up.

  A warm glow suffuses your entire body as you walk out of the bar. There’s no sign of blue flannel in the parking lot. You climb into your Toyota. The car starts easily when you turn the key in the ignition. It’s pitch-dark now. You pull out of the parking lot and back onto Highway 53. Dampness seeps through the crotch of your pants.