The Mammoth Book of Lesbian Erotica (12 page)

They held each other, drenched and drained. Lara licked the tears from Natasha’s face and laid her gently on the coverlet, withdrawing from her vagina the immense, strapped-on Babushka. It
was thick with opalescent come and steamed slightly in the already warm air of the cabin. The coach rolled on.

Natasha kissed her strange lover, her eyes closing. The swing and sway of the coach seemed a lullaby. Her nerve endings crackled with the almighty climax she had experienced, her heartbeat
palpable in her engorged clitoris. With the room reeling about her she touched herself there, and turning circles on herself, and sleep took her to its deep violet waters.

Natasha dreamed. In her dreams a huge, life size Russian doll leered at her, its suggestive mouth half-open, its wooden surface glossy with varnish that could have been the glow of perspiring
lust. She lay back in the dream, spreading her thighs, and allowed the doll to suck her with its motionless painted mouth. The sensation was like the good itch of an approaching sneeze. The doll
reared above her. From its loins protruded an object, long and smooth, a tiny human, flesh and blood, with cat-like eyes and a sour-plum mouth. Dream Natasha, reclining on a couch of fur, raised
her legs to her breasts and allowed the doll to come between them. It entered her, the little Lara between its legs smiling as she disappeared head first into Natasha’s dripping cunt. In and
out slid the woman, smiling as if it were her birthday.

Natasha awoke to dawn’s shattered light in the coach. It was still moving. She sat in bed. Lara had gone. Natasha stepped gingerly down from the bed. Her body ached from its exertions. Her
rear passage throbbed and her vagina felt stretched and raw. A quick inspection showed that not only had Lara gone but so had Natasha’s clothes, despite the fact that they were nothing more
than rags. Her worn boots, her laddered stockings, her knickers, slip and blouse were all gone. She was alone and the only stitch in the still moving cabin was the opulent fur, its front stiff with
patches of oil, ointment and her own salty emissions. Smiling to herself, rocked by the endless motion of the carriage, she put it on.

Exotic Music

Teresa Noelle Roberts

Allison scooped up some baba ghanoush onto a piece of pita, then looked her friend Daniel in the eye. “Are you sure this is a good idea – introducing me to this
belly dancer?”

“Don’t say it in that tone, sweetie. She’s not a stripper. She’s a
dancer
, just as much as any of us.”

Danny’s boyfriend Raoul, his mouth full of stuffed grape leaf, nodded in agreement.

Allison flushed at being included in the
us.
She tried to cover her consternation by continuing the argument. “It’s not that. I know Silvia’s a good friend of yours and
I’m sure you wouldn’t introduce me to anyone trashy. It’s just that belly dancing sounds so . . .”

“Fluffy?” Danny grinned. “You won’t hang out with ballet dancers any more, except for my choreographer self, but you still think like one. You don’t have any luck
dating non-dancers. I figured this was worth a try. At worst, you’ll see something new and I think you’ll enjoy it. I know I was astonished.”

“Besides,” Raoul added, “even I think Silvia’s a babe.”

As the lights dimmed, she fingered the charm on her necklace, the charm in the shape of the satin toe shoes she could no longer wear. Even to Danny she couldn’t admit her anxiety: that
alien as non-dancers were, she was terrified that any professional dancer would be put off by her weight gain and the awkward stiffness she still suffered in damp weather. And every time she
watched someone else dance, it filled her with conflicting emotion – joy in the artistry itself, bitterness that she was barred forever from it.

The band in the corner started: a heavy, unfamiliar rhythm on the drums, an odd, nasal-sounding flute, a violin, and an electronic keyboard reproducing the sound of several instruments Allison
couldn’t identify. The effect was exotic and sensual, yet lively. Then the dancer emerged. She probably entered from some place as mundane as a back room, but she did it with a panache that
suggested she had materialized out of Aladdin’s lamp.

For a few measures she stood poised, veil held like wings, the light catching the beading on her green and gold costume on fire. Allison was struck by Silvia’s regal carriage and the
energy invested into that stillness. It was the mark of a gifted performer, she knew, to say so much with so little motion – and it was much harder than a non-dancer could imagine. At the
same time, she was slightly bewildered by Silvia’s appearance. She had expected a Middle Eastern sylph, someone with an Arabic look and a long, lean body. Instead, Silvia was below average
height and fair, with a mass of strawberry blond curls. She was also very curvy, not fat, but definitely heavier than what Allison, who had been studying ballet since she was four, thought of as a
dancer’s body. Her instinct was to be put off, but almost immediately old-fashioned accolades like “voluptuous” and “a real hour-glass figure” came to her mind, and
she found herself wondering what all that lush flesh would feel like. Those breasts . . . Most of her lovers, like herself, hadn’t had much in that department, and the soft weight of
Silvia’s cleavage, enhanced by the beaded bra top, looked like it would be marvellously fun to play with. But she couldn’t help wondering how fit could Silvia really be if she had
enough body fat for such attributes.

Then Silvia started to move and as she watched, Allison’s world view shifted. This tiny, curvy lady projected a queenly strength that equalled anything she’d seen in a ballerina
– partly spiritual, partly erotic. Even though the dance style was utterly different, she was reminded of the Alvin Ailey troupe, how they could touch your emotions and make you drool at the
same time, without doing anything that would offend your grandmother. Silvia made eye contact with everyone, male and female, old and young, and to each she seemed to offer some secret. Her hips
snapped in precise time to a beat so foreign that even Allison’s trained ear found it hard to break down. The moves looked deceptively simple, but Allison could appreciate how much work lay
behind making everything look so clean and precise. As for being fit, there was definitely muscle underneath those curves. Her back was exquisitely defined, and as for her abs . . . she might have
a little pooch, but anyone who could make her belly undulate up and down
and
sideways had to have good abs.

“You know,” Danny whispered, “this is all improv. And the musicians are improvizing too. Middle Eastern music’s like jazz. Even if you know what tune they’re
starting from, there’s no guarantee it’s going to sound the same way it did last time.”

Allison’s growing respect turned into awe. This was all spontaneous? That spoke of skill – but also of a great soul. Even if you had all the skill in the world, it took something
special to improvize and make it look wonderful instead of merely acceptable.

She watched with growing fascination through several changes in music. What really captured her was the slow, languorous section. Saying that Silvia undulated, or that the effect was sensual,
was true, but inadequate. That quivering thing she did with her abs looked like a woman in the middle of a series of mind-blowing orgasms, yet her smile remained serene and innocent and her hands
caressed the air with graceful, birdlike gestures, making the effect sexy but not vulgar. She moved, Allison thought, sometimes like fire and sometimes like water, and without doing anything lewd,
she led Allison through fire and water as well, or at least left her hot and somewhat damp.

When the music ended, it was much too soon.

Eventually, Silvia joined them at the table and Danny introduced them. In a simple dress, with her curly hair pulled back and her stage make-up washed off, she looked less exotic, but no less
pretty. Allison tried not to gush at her about how impressed she’d been, realized she was gushing anyway and decided to roll with it. To her surprise, Silvia blushed. “Thanks. I was a
little nervous knowing you were out here. Danny told me you’d danced with the Boston Ballet.”

“But Danny . . .”

“Has been my friend since high school. If I were a professional golfer or an economics professor, he’d still find a way to say he loved my work. You’re an objective
audience.”

“Not any more,” she blurted out. Then it was her turn to blush.

Needless to say, Silvia ended up giving her a card, saying, “Call me if you’re interested in lessons.”

Needless to say, Allison called, and not about lessons.

On their first date, they talked until two in the morning. On their second date, they made out like teenagers in the park at the end of Long Wharf, and discovered that they both had a
fascination with light bondage.

On the third date, they bypassed the date part of the evening altogether, picked up a take-out and went to Allison’s apartment. The take-out was still on the living room coffee table,
where Allison’s cat was probably enjoying it while nesting in Silvia’s blouse. It occurred vaguely to Allison, as they fumbled towards the bedroom, that they probably would be hungry
later after a dinner of about three crab Rangoons and a lot of kisses. Oh well, the pizza place up the street was open all night.

They stumbled toward the bed in a classic late-night-cable blind clinch. In the movies, though, the couple never actually steers into the bedpost, which they managed to do. Silvia broke the
embrace to see what had whacked her on the head. “These toe shoes look practically new,” she said, touching the virginal pink satin. “I thought you’d retired.”

“Had to retire,” she corrected. “They were the last pair I bought before . . .” she took a deep breath. “Before the accident.”

“And you’ve left them hanging here where you see them first thing in the morning and last thing before you close your eyes for how long?”

Allison buried her face in her new girlfriend’s magnificent cleavage, hoping to distract her. Silvia moaned as Allison teased and suckled, but she wriggled away before she lost her head.
“How long has it been?”

“Six years.”

“For God’s sake, why? That’s got to be painful.”

Allison thought about it. She’d felt the need to have them there, but Silvia was right. She winced every time she saw them. “I guess,” she said slowly, “it’s
because I needed a reminder that I wasn’t always a has-been.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

For about two seconds, Allison thought about it, but the curvy, half-clothed body pressed against hers felt too good to stop for a heart-to-heart. “Later.” She began nibbling on
Silvia’s ear.

Silvia caressed the long, soft ribbons attached to the toe shoes. “I can think of something more entertaining to do with these than staring at them and thinking about the past. Do you
trust me?”

Silvia and Danny had been friends for years, and she trusted Danny implicitly, which was the rational reason for saying yes. Allison knew it had more to do with grey-green eyes and soft, creamy
skin that looked even fairer against her own olive complexion, and an intense sexual curiosity that grew the more Silvia fondled those ribbons. “Yes,” she repeated, and kissed her
deeply.

“Then finish getting undressed and lie down on the bed.”

She could feel Silvia’s eyes on her as she stripped. In her last couple of abortive relationships, she had been inclined to hide under the sheets and keep the lights dim, ashamed she no
longer had the body of a ballerina. It was ridiculous to feel that way in front of a woman whose very roundness was part of her beauty, but she couldn’t help flinching a little as the last
clothing dropped.

Silvia reached out and stroked the despised curve of Allison’s belly. “Lovely,” Silvia purred. “Such a pretty tummy.” Then dropping to her knees – and it was
a controlled drop, an obvious dance move that made Allison’s knees ache in sympathy for the bruises she must have acquired learning it – she began kissing and caressing the little soft
curve of olive flesh.

Her mouth was tender, persistent, ingratiating, and her hands stroked Allison’s hips and thighs (other areas she was none too fond of since they’d lost the catlike leanness of a few
years back) without straying between her legs. At first Allison’s brain couldn’t get past the oddness of it. Lovers had admired her long legs before, or her breasts, which were tiny,
but exquisitely sensitive, with large, dark nipples. But her pot-belly? That was just . . .

Just sweet, her lizard-brain decided. All that tender, sensitive skin, generally ignored, was catching fire under Silvia’s skilled touch. Her navel, in particular, seemed to respond to
licking and kissing. Little tendrils of fire coiled through her, heating her muscles, melting her centre, spreading to her groin. If Silvia would just move her mouth lower . . .

She didn’t, though, despite Allison’s increasingly pathetic pleas. Finally, when Allison was trembling and moisture was starting to coat her upper thighs, Silvia rocked back on her
heels and gently pushed her onto the bed. “Put your hands above your head,” she said, and Allison, in a fog of sex, complied. She gasped and writhed as Silvia slowly and deliberately
criss-crossed the ribbons of the toe shoes around her wrists, binding them together. A shoe ended up on each side, immobilizing her further.

“If you’re going to be all tangled up in the ribbons of your toe shoes, this has to be a better way.” She smiled lasciviously and took off her bra. A soft sway to those
marvellous breasts – they were obviously a product of nature, not science – and small, erect, rosy nipples that Allison longed to taste. When she tried to sit up, Silvia pushed her back
down, then undulated to some inner music as she removed her skirt. Clad only in a thong, the movements of the dance weren’t innocent at all, and when Silvia rolled her belly, Allison felt her
own muscles clench and quiver in response. “Pleasepleaseplease . . .” Silvia grinned, slipped up out of her panties, then ran them over Allison’s nose and mouth. They were slick,
slick as Allison’s had been when she finally shed them, and she was frantic to lick the source of that moisture, to penetrate it with her fingers and feel Silvia clasp around her. Almost
beyond speech, she licked at the panties to show what she wanted, but Silvia shook her head and tossed them aside, then lay down on top of her.