The Mammoth Book of Lesbian Erotica (52 page)

I am happy only in my house, perched as it is on a cliff at the edge of the sea, the sea in which my parents perished. I am the master of my universe right here and if I want, Countess, Duchess,
Empress, Queen. Small and insignificant in the world, I loom large in my own house. I venture no further than my own garden.

There’s nothing I want that I don’t have here: from the wall of glass in my living room I can check the ocean’s many moods. Everyday is different and, though I have been here
most of my life, I have never seen two days exactly alike. I do not want for company. The local bookseller stops by with some frequency, pleased to provide me with current titles so that together
we might discuss them. The local grocer makes deliveries, bringing me the choicest of his produce. A neighbouring fisherman brings me the best of his catch, straight from the sea to my kitchen
table.

My father, an artist of enduring reputation, built this house. It has become an icon of modernism, with its sleek lines and glass walls. My father’s paintings of this house hang in museums
around the world. It was at his knee that I learned to paint, but eventually I rejected slimy oils for hard enamels. I like the way the molten glass clings to the metal, forever bonded. In my
studio I have a small kiln, and it’s there I fire the miniatures that now command enormous sums. My dealer comes to me three or four times a year and eagerly scopes up each finished piece,
each one a tiny cosmos no bigger than your palm, placed in gilded frames I’ve learned to build. Celebrities and CEOs collect them. My dealer brings with her all the juicy art world gossip I
care to hear, and she would gladly sell the number of works I give her ten times over had I been able to create them more quickly. Each piece is slow, intensive work, demanding patience and a
steady hand. Since demand exceeds supply, collectors vie for these pieces. They sometimes contact me asking to buy one, offering tremendous sums. I leave these matters to my dealer. Sometimes such
collectors show up at my door, their expensive cars parked outside. I always let them in, glad to have their company for a while. I show them around my studio. I serve them champagne. They admire
my home, the outstanding view of the sea, the paintings my father left behind. They flatter me, in their skilled way. But still, I sell them nothing. I’m an artist, not a businesswoman. I
advise them to call my dealer.

It was a hot summer day when the first woman came to me. I don’t know why this one came – she was not an art lover, or a collector. I first spotted her as she climbed the stairs
leading up the cliff from the beach to my garden. The binoculars I keep at the window have superior optics and I watched as this woman climbed with ease. She was an athletic woman of no more than
30 – about my age at the time. But still, the climb is steep and strenuous and with the powerful magnification, I could see the beads of sweat collecting on her body as she climbed. She
stopped once to wipe her brow but she continued on at once, at a brisk pace.

She was wearing a bikini.

People say I get my height and beauty from my mother and my fortune and talent from my father. This woman seemed to be about my height but the distribution of her taut flesh was different.
Encased in her bikini top, shaped like twin clamshells, were large breasts.

My own breasts are quite small and I watched hers with interest as she climbed. They quivered slightly, and I felt an odd stirring as I watched them at a huge magnification. I’d felt this
kind of stirring once before, when I was a teenager, for one of my father’s young models. We furtively and passionately kissed in the bathroom one day, and I managed to slip my hand inside
her panties. I had just wiggled a finger inside her when there was a knock on the door and she quickly pulled away.

There’s a switchback at the top of the stairs leading from the beach, and I knew my view of this woman would cease until she emerged in the garden outside my studio window. I put the
binoculars down and quickly went to my studio, stopping for a moment to look at myself in the mirror. I ran my fingers through my dark hair, cut short as a boy’s.

The flower garden outside my studio was in full bloom. I’d had a hedge of sunflowers planted there that summer, a mammoth hybrid variety that grew to nearly seven feet tall. When I looked
out, this woman was reaching up to one of these gigantic blooms perched on its curved stem. She was long-legged and trim. I didn’t want to startle her as I quietly slid open the French doors
that led out to the garden.

She must have heard the sound and turned to meet it.

“Is this your garden?”

I assured her that it was. I expected her to apologize for the invasion, but she didn’t. She seemed a woman used to being welcome. Her gaze met mine and we looked at each other for a
moment. She smiled.

“Would you like to come in? To see the house?”

My house, as I’ve said, is a visual icon. It appears on picture postcards sold in tourist shops on our island, on travel brochures and advertisements. My father’s paintings have
assured the immortality of this image. Yet this woman seemed to have no interest in the house whatsoever. One of my father’s paintings of the house adorns a wall of my studio, a large work,
still as he hung it some years ago. It’s one of his best works and has never been seen outside of this room. Visiting collectors have offered millions for it. It drew no comment and barely a
glance from this woman. She had no interest in my kiln, or the unusual magnification glass, framed with brass fittings, that I use to help me position the tracings of granulated glass that create
my pictures.

I let her precede me as I showed her around. I wanted to see her from behind, the cheeks of her ass firm and muscular in their little crocheted bottom.

In the living room, she stood for a moment, admiring the sea from the wall of glass, then turned to face me.

“Where’s your bedroom?” she asked me and when I didn’t immediately respond she added, “Where you sleep,” as if I did not comprehend the meaning of the
word.

In my bedroom I’ve created my own cosmos. The room is small, barely larger than my king-sized bed. The walls are lacquered a deep plum, nearly brown. Blackout shades ensure round-the-clock
darkness and the a/c is always on. I like to sleep cold and quiet. The ceiling of my room is thick with fairy lights, a private Aurora Borealis. They’re on a dimmer to create a variety of
moods. As we entered, I put them on just high enough to see the tanned glow of her skin.

“Nice,” she said, climbing onto my bed, and sitting with her legs spread wide so that I could see a little curl of pubic hair escaping from her bikini.

I imagined deep holes, moist hidden passages.

Who made the first move? It’s hard to say. She patted the bed next to her, inviting me to sit. Instead, I climbed on top of her, straddling her, my own legs spread. I pinned her beneath me
and she did not protest as I pressed my cunt hard against hers, my linen clothes rough against her nearly naked flesh. I breathed in her salty smell, kissing her soft neck, thrusting my tongue into
her eager mouth. I pulled at her silky hair and she groaned.

As I undid the buttons on my shirt, she watched me, stroking her own crotch. As I’ve said, my own breasts are small but they are shapely, my shoulders and arms strong and sinewy. She
reached for me as I removed my clothes but I pushed her hands off and once again pinned her body under mine, spreading her legs with my knees, forcing them apart. I pressed my own small breasts
against her firm substantial ones.

I removed the clamshell top and her breasts fell free for me. I felt their weight, before resting my face against them. I wanted my face all over them. She moaned as I opened my mouth wide and
put one tit in, licking and sucking while the other nipple nuzzled the palm of my hand. I reached down and put my hand inside her bikini bottom. Her pubic hair was soft, her cunt already moist as
my fingers stroked her lightly. She had invaded my garden, my house, my bed. I would invade her.

She moaned.

“Fuck me.”

I knew just what to do. I’d lain in bed for so many nights, pleasuring myself and imagining this very scene. Slipping down the bed, I put my face to her cunt. With my artist’s eye I
took in the many colors of her labia, moist and shining, the sweet curls of her pubic hair trimmed short. With my face to her cunt, I spread her lips as I pressed my tongue against her clit. It was
hard against my tongue as I licked and teased it gently, feeling my own rising excitement while tasting hers.

I am a steady and patient craftswoman. I took my time as I licked her pussy. I licked her slow and gently, slurping up her cunt juice like life’s blood. I licked her hard and fast, pacing
myself against her breathing.

My stroking tongue was encouraged by her hands gently pulling at my hair, her moans of pleasure, the steady flow of moisture, mixed with my saliva, wetting my face, my sheets. I was excited to
feel the perfect fit as my tongue pushed against the inside of her pussy. Her moaning was getting louder. There was no one to hear us, and outside the sea raged. She was close to bucking up against
my mouth, but I didn’t want her to come, at least not yet, not that way. I would make her wait.

I pulled my slobbering mouth away.

I spread her legs and was face to face with the entrance to her perfect cave.

I knew my fist would fit entirely inside her. I had imagined such a portal for many years as I lay alone in bed. All I needed was a strategy for entrance. I pushed in one finger, then two, then
three. She groaned as my fingers vibrated inside her. I pulled them out and shifted my angle slightly. I plunged back into her, pushing with quick thrusts. She squirmed, her cunt hungry to meet my
fingers, to take them in. Her juices ran freely over my sopping hand. I stopped for a moment, this time to tease. She grunted, low and deep, “ Please . . . fuck me, fuck me hard . . .”
I pushed my fingers in again, harder this time, getting further in. She wrapped herself tight around my fingers as she adjusted to their presence.

When finally I plunged my entire fist up her cunt she gasped, and because she seemed to shudder with the intensity, I went slower and more gently as I pushed in further, feeling her pulsing
energy as my fist spread her apart. I plunged in deeper and deeper, as far as I could go. When my fist was perfectly contained and the boundary between her and me unclear, I let go, pounding and
grinding inside of her, my fist pulsating to her rhythm, to my rhythm, a wild sound emanating from us both. She rocked and bucked against my fist, as I pounded her wet cunt over and over again, her
nails digging into me as she throbbed and screamed and climaxed. Oh Jesus, Oh Jesus, Oh Mary, she sang as we both collapsed, her body shuddering with wave upon wave of orgasm.

We lay there silently as our breathing steadied. The cool air was drying my dampened face. The sweet smell of pussy was everywhere. Reluctantly, I removed my hand and I shimmied up to place my
cheek upon hers.

I knew I would soon fall asleep, but before I did I found, in the tumult of the bed sheets, her bikini top. Gently, I placed each breast back into its clamshell cup, but not before placing a
tender kiss on each nipple. I felt a remarkable sense of well-being, knowing that her breasts were so encased, order returned to the universe.

Then I fell asleep. She was gone when I woke up. I went to the window of my studio to check the garden but it was empty. The sun was low in the sky but I could see that the high stems of two of
my sunflowers drooped headless, their flowers gone.

Refreshed in every way, my senses sharpened, I worked all night, creating an erotic piece, the first I’d ever done. It was a close-up of two glistening cunts, painted in every shade of
pinks and reds you might imagine. It became the first in an erotic series. My dealer did not wish to show this series, but when a young curator from a museum of contemporary art saw them, she paid
a substantial sum for the entire series. They created a sensation. Now they are on permanent display, and scholars of queer theory have written dissertations about them. It is my hope they’ve
inspired more than scholarship.

The flower thief must have told her friends about me. Soon a fairly steady stream of women began appearing in my garden. I watch from my window, as they make the strenuous climb from the beach.
It’s hard work, and they deserve the reward I always give them. And so do I.

The House of the Rising Sun

Alice Blue

Sunset: hot day melting into warm night. Amina stood, watching the shadows lengthen, feeling a heavy breeze pass her by – the hard iron balcony rail a stiff weight across
her belly.

For a while she just looked at the people walking along the street below, calmly following their progress as they went wherever they were going. Not for the first time since Stanley had left
her, she wanted to be one of them – any of them. A pair of Greek sailors; a young black man in threadbare jeans and a stained T-shirt, pedaling a wobbling, squeaking bicycle; a tourist couple
in their pressed whites, standing out in their catalog-bought profiles; a fat man who didn’t walk as much as slowly swim through the heavy sunset atmosphere, his legs seemingly linked by some
internal arrangement to his fat arms swinging rhythmically by his side.

Many went by till the sun had dropped behind the filigreed rooftops, and the street lamps started to, at first, glow then burn brightly, but she sadly remained herself.

Finally the night touched, hinted at, becoming cool, so she turned away from the iron curlicues of the balcony and walked across the small boarding-house room to robotically turn the antique
light switch by the door. Yellow light snapped down through a dirty, cracked ceiling fixture, bathing the room in harsh realism: sink stained with a rusty high-water mark, mirror above cracked with
an angry bolt, wooden floorboards that had been worn not into a smooth sheen but rather a broken and splintered forest. Wallpaper covered the walls, a tawny rainbow of mildew, and where it
didn’t it curled away from the soft plaster in stiff tubes and torn twists.