Lesbian Erotica, Volume 2

  Title Page

  LESBIAN EROTICA VOLUME 2

  Explorations in Lesbian loving

  Carla Blake

  Publisher Information

  Lesbian Erotica Volume 2

  published in 2014 by Andrews UK Limited

  www.andrewsuk.com

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.

  Copyright © Carla Blake 2014

  The right of Carla Blake to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  The Break Up

  I have it all ready, the subdued lighting, the romantic music, the delicious meal wafting from the oven.

  It’s all here, just waiting for my lady to arrive.

  The gorgeous Teresa, my lady of six months and hopefully my lady for the foreseeable future because, so far, being with her has been nothing short of amazing! I have never felt so happy or content or laughed so much since we met and I find myself delighting in the most simplest of things simply because I am sharing them with her. Even painting the outside of my house was a joy and not the usual nightmare of ladders and spilt paint and bits of masonry falling in my hair and the drudgery of weeding has taken on a whole new aspect since I introduced her to the dry and dusty interior of my garden shed.

  Of course, we’ve done more exciting things than just chores. Trips to the coast, romantic weekends away, stuffing our faces with cream cakes and convincing each other we would walk the calories off wandering around the shops looking for bargains. It’s all been wonderful and that’s before taking into account our totally amazing sex life.

  Teresa is a little minx in the bedroom.

  For the hundredth time, I look around the lounge, checking that I haven’t left a stray newspaper littering the sofa or a speck of dust floating around on the mantelpiece. Teresa, I’m sure, would laugh at me if she could see me. She says I worry too much about keeping my house clean. Dust, in her view, doubles up as a perfectly good insulator and what’s wrong with a little mess? We all make it and no one ever died because the hovering didn’t get done.

  The doorbell rings and my heart leaps in my chest. Smiling to myself I take a deep breath and straighten out my dress.

  Six months on and still the anticipation of seeing her causes me to catch my breath.

  I open the door. The evening is still and dry, the hedge bordering my front garden is nothing more than a dark lump huddled against the dimming sky. I can see stars in the distance and half a moon and Teresa is standing there, not dressed as I am in a dress with heels, but in jeans and a sweater and a pair of trainers I know have suffered three Moon walks around London.

  She offers me the weakest of smiles and my heart thumps again, but this time it is accompanied by a slightly sickly undertone. Why does she look like this? Why isn’t she dressed up? She knew this was going to be a special evening, she knew how much effort I was going to put in, so why has she turned up looking like we are going for a hike through the woods?

  “Hi.” I say, swallowing down the knot of apprehension twisting beneath my little black dress. “You ok?”

  She shrugs and steps over the threshold and I let her, raising an eyebrow as she passes me. What kind of an answer is that? A shrug. It tells me nothing and leaves me fearing the worst.

  We go into the lounge, the same lounge I spent ages tidying, except now it suddenly feels cold and sterile, despite the scented candles, and I wish I’d left it messy, my own nod to her obviously indifferent attitude.

  She stops by the sofa and self consciously fiddles with the edge of a cushion. She is staring at the floor and I can see she’s gearing up to say something, but God, I don’t want to hear it. I don’t need to! Her face says it all and I know I’m headed towards disappointment on a grand scale.

  It makes my insides shrivel and after a while of patiently waiting for her to start speaking, my anxiety slowly starts to turn to anger and I struggle not to say something first, just so I can hurt her before she gets a chance to do the same to me because why didn’t she say something sooner? Why wait ‘til now, when she must have known I would have already gone out and bought bloody expensive steak and wine and splashed out on a dress I can barely afford when she knew it was all going to be for nothing! Why wait ‘till I’m standing here all dressed up like a dog’s dinner, before dropping her bombshell?

  It really is bloody unfair!

  And I’m not having it.

  “So.” I say, crossing my arms and looking her straight in the face. “This is your idea of the perfect way to end it all is it?”

  It’s a brave statement to make and I wait, hoping I’m wrong, hoping she will look up at me in horror and say No, that’s not it at all! I’m only dressed like this because I’ve locked myself out of my house and can’t change and feel a shit for turning up looking like one.

  But she doesn’t. She just looks at me, her eyes cold, the corners of her mouth turned down before shrugging again, causing my impatience to rise another notch and my nostrils to flare. If she doesn’t say something soon I’m going to hit her!

  “I’ve had enough.” She says.

  Finally. Words. Not good words though.

  “Enough of what?” I ask even though it’s perfectly obvious she is referring to our relationship. I’m not letting her off that lightly though.

  “Us, I guess.” She says, confirming my suspicion. “It was fun at first, but now.. it just feels stale. We never do anything different. Exciting. I’m fed up with shopping and going to the pictures and...”

  “And you never thought to say anything before?” I challenge her. “It’s just now that you’ve decided I’m boring is it?”

  Her bottom lip juts out. “I didn’t say that.”

  “It’s what you meant.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m sure you are, but sorry isn’t good enough. Do you know how much effort I’ve gone into getting this evening ready for you? How much money I’ve spent? Why did you have to wait ‘till now to tell me?”

  I sound hard, angry but inside I’m dying. I don’t want to lose her. I love her, or if not love, something close enough to it to cause my heart to be slowly crumbling and tears threaten to spill. How can she do this to me?

  “I said I’m sorry.” She tries again, her hands moving from the cushion to wrap themselves around her body. She’s tied her hair back too, I notice, and she knows I prefer it when she leaves it long. I want to hate her, to say something so cutting I make her cry, but I can’t. Despite my anger, I want to make things better and somehow stop all this from happening, but I don’t know how. I just know that in a few minutes she will walk out my door and I will lose sight of her forever.

  “Why?” It’s the only thing I can think of to say.

  She takes a deep breath and her eyes take on a shiny veneer of frustration. “I’ve already told you.” She sighs.

  “Boredom?” I say. “Is that it?”

  “Isn’t that enough!” She practically screams at me. “God, this is so like you, you just have to analysis everything don’t you? I’m bored, ok? Totally and utterly fed up to the back teeth with you! Of us! I want s
omething else, something different! I don’t want to play happy families and pretend we have the world’s greatest fucking romance and everything is fucking hunky dory because it isn’t! It’s boring! You are boring!”

  I feel as though I’ve been slapped. How can she say these things? I’m not boring! Christ, I’ve gone out of my way to keep us both amused, organizing this, that and the other, and yet she stands here accusing me.

  “I’m leaving.” She says and turns to go.

  And I know I should just let her because that is the grown up thing to do, the dignified thing, but I’m beyond dignity now and I want to know the real reason why she’s jumping ship and leaving me standing here like a prize idiot, and grabbing her arm, I spin her around to face me. “You bitch!” I spit into her face. “You’re not going anywhere!”

  But there is no come back, no abusive name calling in reply. Instead she merely glares at me and planting her hand firmly on my chest shoves me hard enough to unbalance me and cause me to stagger backwards on my heels until I land, sprawling, on the sofa. Now I really feel an idiot and I stare up at her, waiting for her to storm out of my lounge and leave me lying there in a heap, but she doesn’t.

  She comes to stand in front of me, her face hard. “You think you’re so bloody perfect, don’t you?” She says through gritted teeth. “Look at you, lying there in your brand new frock and your heels. Did you really think I would stay with you just because you were cooking a meal and lighting a few poxy candles? God, you’re pathetic!”

  “Not as pathetic as you.” I bite back. “At least I would have had the courage to say something sooner, not wait until I knew my girlfriend was planning a special evening.”

  “Fuck your special evening!”

  “Fuck you!” I say, standing up and smoothing down my dress before slapping a calm smile on my face and raising my hand to strike her swiftly across the cheek.

  The blow shocks her and leaves a vivid, pink mark, but I don’t care. She bloody deserved it.

  “Still think I’m boring?” I smile. “Didn’t see that coming, did you?”

  “Bitch!” She cries and shoves me again and I’m back on the sofa, but this time I have no time to get up. This time, Teresa follows me and swiftly pins me down, bracing her knees on either side of my waist before reaching for the neck of my dress and ripping it straight across! It rips with surprising ease, considering the cost, and I just know I won’t be able to repair it. I tell her she is a fucking cow!

  “Shut up!” She yells back at me and kisses me. It is the last thing I am expecting and our lips mash together awkwardly, our front teeth clashing as she kisses me hard and then pushes her tongue into my mouth.

  It crosses my mind that I should bite the bloody thing off but who wants a mouth full of blood? Instead, I grab her hair and pull her off my face, anger rising in me like a poisonous bubble as I wrench her head back and demand to know what the hell she thinks she’s doing?

  “Fucking was the only thing you were ever any good at!” She says, pulling free her hair and wincing when strands of it remain tangled in my fingers.

  “And that gives you the right to rape me, does it?”

  But Teresa isn’t listening and with her knees pressing painfully into my sides, she tugs again at the ruin of my dress, exposing the lace of my black bra before ripping the dress all the way down until it is bunched in a dark puddle at my waist.

  I want to scream and rail at her for ruining a dress that cost me a fortune, money I don’t really have, but I’m too bloody cross. Instead, I pound at her with my fists, driving them into her sides and shoving at her chest, hoping I can dislodge her enough to get out from under her and forcibly remove her from my house.

  But she’s clearly wearing the sweater for a reason, because my fists merely sink into the thick fabric and I do little more than gently rock her from side to side. I resort to screaming.

  “Get off! Get off! Get off!” Over and over, a pitiful litany that is falling on deaf ears as she hooks her fingers under the straps at my shoulders and pulls my bra down to expose my bare tits.

  I slap her again, a good hard one this time and her head snaps to the side. Crying out, she blinks away startled tears but she doesn’t get off. She slaps me right back.

  My head doesn’t go anywhere, lodged as it is against the back of the sofa but my ears ring and for a moment I feel dazed and amazed that she has hit me so hard! I swear one of my eyes has come loose.

  “Hit me again and I’ll fucking kill you!” I shout, bucking with everything I have to try and get the bitch off me. But it’s no good, her weight is too much for me and she has the advantage. I’m stuck.

  “No, you won’t.” Teresa says, pinning my shoulders with her hands. “What you will do is sit there like a good, little girl and let me do this.” And bending over, she takes a nipple in her mouth.

  Instantly I melt and I hate myself for it, but I can do nothing to stop her. Well, actually I could. I could grab her hair again and yank the slut free of my breast but I don’t want to. Her mouth is warm and soft, the feel of her tongue winding its way around my nipple enough to make it instantly harden and bolts of desire to ripple through my pussy.

  And her hands are suddenly everywhere! At my face, my throat, pressed against my chest and then down, fondling my tits and squeezing the nipple of the one she isn’t sucking between thumb and forefinger until the pleasure is almost off the scale. And then down again, reaching for the fabric of my dress and pulling it over my thighs and me, shamefully lifting my backside to make it easier for her.

  I am wearing hold ups, mainly because they make me feel sexier, but they clearly do it for Teresa too, for as soon as her fingers stop gliding over stocking and find their way to bare skin, she groans around my nipple and gives my thigh an appreciative squeeze.

  My panties are no obstacle either, and she has them down around my knees in an instant, even though she is has to reach around herself to do it. It can’t be comfortable and clearly Teresa agrees because she suddenly climbs off me and tells me to get on the floor.

  “You are kidding!” I say, pulling bits of my dress higher to cover myself. “Why the fuck would I want to do that?”

  “Do I look like I’m kidding?” She replies. “And yes, you want to because you are as turned on as me. Now, get on the floor.”

  It seems I have no choice and whilst I reluctantly sit up, pull the ruin of my dress around me and allow my panties to slide down my legs to the floor, she waits, watching me, her eyes never leaving my bare breasts.

  “I like your tits.” She says. “Always have. Now kneel. And get rid of that fucking dress.”

  I let it fall and I kneel, certain I am being played for a fool here, but desperately wanting a last fuck. Sex with Teresa has always been good and why shouldn’t I have a last fuck with her. I bloody deserve it if only in payment for the dress she’s ruined.

  She makes me face the sofa and then kneels behind me, pushing me forward until my breasts are squashed against the cushions. I can feel the fabric of her sweater against my backside and then her hands as they glide over my legs, my thighs and against the bare skin of my bottom. She spreads my legs, exposing my vagina and I feel the tips of her fingers probe for the wetness she knows must be there.

  She’s right of course. My pussy lips are already swollen from the licking she gave my nipples earlier and as she brushes against my labia I softly moan, unable to hold back the flood of desire that has already given me away. I want her to fuck me. I want to feel her fingers buried deep inside me, quelling the throbbing of my sopping cunt and giving me the blessed release I so long for.

  Instead she pulls her hand away and runs both of them up the sides of my body and over my belly. It makes me tremble and shudder, even more so when her fingers reach my fluff and she allows the tip of one to apply the smallest of pressures to the beginning of my slit.
It is like a bolt of electricity to my groin and I groan, unable to stop myself pushing my backside into her in the hope she might do more than just toy with me.

  “Lift.” She says and I raise my body, allowing both breasts to fall into her waiting palms. She caresses me and plays with my nipples, rubbing her thumbs over them until they are painfully hard. It is horrible and wonderful all at the same time and whilst one half of me screams at myself to stop her cruelty and push her hands away, the other half is desperate to be fucked.

  She licks my back, her tongue tracing wet, intricate designs across my shivering flesh whilst her hands continue to mould my breasts and arouse my nipples until I am almost insensible with lust and despite myself, I spread my legs still further, willing her hands to leave my breasts and find other parts of my body to play with.

  It is like I have spoken out loud, for suddenly, her hands depart and I am left, barely breathing, my eyes closed, my whole body tensed for where she might touch me next. But nothing happens and when I finally open my eyes and dare to look behind me, Teresa is away from me and on her feet, her expression dangerously close to gloating.

  “You always were too easy.” She smiles when she sees me frown. “I could have had you then and you would have done nothing to stop me.”

  What can I say? There is nothing because she is right, I would have let her do anything and everything to my body without a word of protest, but I’m damned if this is how she is going to leave me, with nothing but a torn dress and a pussy that is dying for a good seeing to. She is going to finish what she started whether she likes it or not.

  I stand, pushing myself up on shaky hands and kick off my shoes. I feel better flat footed, more secure, better able and crossing to the table I snatch up one of the steak knives that would have carved our dinner and recklessly brandish it before her face.

  “You will finish what you started.” I say, moving closer until I can catch the blade in the thread of her sweater. “Do you hear me?”