Lesbian Erotica Read online

  Title Page

  LESBIAN EROTICA

  Explorations in Lesbian Loving

  A collection of six erotic stories

  by Carla Blake

  Publisher Information

  Lesbian Erotica published in 2010 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

  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 Harbour

  Maggie Trevigue stood at the window of her small cottage and stared out into the darkness. Her eyes saw nothing and sighing, she pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders. Shivering at the foul weather the night had seen fit to bring in.

  The wind, she decided, was by far the worst of it. Howling round the eaves and threatening to lift the slates off the roof, Maggie was in no doubt, that come morning, there would be a fine mess to clear up. The tiny harbour where they lived littered with the storm’s debris and rubbish from the bins, forcing her out there for hours, where she would sweep and tidy up and making ready for the next batch of foul weather to come and undo all her hard work.

  It wasn’t much to look forward to, she thought, and watching it happen wouldn’t help either, not when she still had a batch of sewing to do on her husband’s shirts.

  Lord knows what he did with them, but Matthew’s shirt cuffs were always frayed somewhere and he would have nothing to put on tomorrow if she didn’t put a stop to her gawping and get back to her needle.

  But it was so hard. So hard not to peer out into the filthy night and make sure the fair lass was alright. ‘ Cos who else did she have to look out for her an’ see she were still breathing?

  “ Maggie.” Matthew’s voice called from his seat by the fire. “ Come away from the window, woman. You’ll catch yer death if you stand in that draught much longer. Come sit by the fire and warm yourself. There ain’t nowt you can do anyway.”

  Maggie knew he was right. There was nothing she could do, but it still didn’t stop her taking one, final look.

  She couldn’t see a thing.

  The rain, coming in off the sea, streamed down the glass like someone was pouring a bucket of water from the roof and the wind, howling and screaming, whipped everything into such a frenzy she couldn’t see further than a few feet. She could still hear the tide in the harbour though; crashing against the slip way, and what a fearsome, lonely sound that was. And how contrary the sea could be. Hours she spent sometimes with her children, William and Beth, wandering along the shore, collecting shells and picking up driftwood to burn on the fire. And the paddling! Oh, they loved that they did. Splashing about in the shallows till the hem of Beth’s dress grew damp and William had water stains up to his armpits, but when the sea was like this, all fury and spite and filled with uncontrollable rage, it frightened her.

  Because she knew what it could do. And how quickly it could change. One minute all calm and gentle like, with hardly a ripple to stir the surface, and the next, well, the next it was like a bear with toothache, growling around the harbour and menacing all in its path, and on certain nights, when the boats were out and the men folk away, all the lights in their little community would come on and she and the other wives would wait anxiously behind their doors. Praying the boats would make it safe back to harbour with a hull full of fish and praying, that this time, there would be no reason to dig out their long, black skirts.

  “ Maggie!” Matthew called again, impatience edging into his voice. “ Will you please sit down. You standing there ain’t going to help matters is it? Nor is catching a raging cold. Now sit down and let me put the kettle on. Make us a brew to thaw out those old bones of yours.”

  Maggie smiled. “ Less of the old.” She said, finally dragging herself away from the window to take her seat next to her husbands. “ And don’t use all the hot water on tea. You know I like to have a bit of a wash before I go to bed.”

  Matthew rolled his eyes. “ Yes love.” He smiled. “ I promise I won’t use it all. Now. How were the children today, pet? Behave themselves did they?”

  Picking up her sewing, Maggie nodded. The children, William nine and Beth six, had been fine. They’d been out at school for most of the day, returning at two to help her round up the chickens and force them into the hen coop before the storm hit the shore. After that, they’d disappeared off with their friends, only showing up again as she was about to dish up their tea.

  “ Beth got another gold star at school today.” She said now, watching as Matthew spooned tea into the pot and then added another for luck. “ That’s the fourth one she’s got this month.”

  “ That’s my girl.” Matthew said. “ Got a sharp head on her shoulders that one. And William? How’s he doing?”

  “ Not so good. I’m afraid he’s got his heart set on being a fisherman, like his father. Says he can’t see the point of all those sums when all he wants to do is catch fish.”

  “ That’s as maybe.” Matthew replied. “ But he still needs to get an education. The fishing ain’t what it used to be. We have to go further and further now just to catch a decent haul and I’m not so sure there’ll still be fish to catch when William gets of an age.”

  “ Then talk to him Matthew. I try, but he doesn’t listen to me and why should he? I’m just the woman who cooks and sews and cleans up after everybody.”

  Matthew grinned. “ Aye, and you love every minute of it. And if those spoilt children ain’t grateful for it, then know that I am. Now then, tea’s ready. How about we take it upstairs?”

  Maggie smiled back. “ Alright.” She said. “ Just as soon as I’ve washed.”

  Lying in bed with the sleeping form of her husband snoring softly beside her, Maggie stared into the darkness and listened to the storm. It hadn’t eased, not one, little bit, even though more than half the night was over, and snuggled up in bed, warm and cosy and safe from the ravages of the terrible weather, she counted her blessings that the boats had returned early today and that no one was left wondering if their loved one was coming home.

  Well, almost everyone.

  Because she would be out there.

  She always was.

  Elizabeth Hayle.

  The poor unfortunate whose whole life now revolved around waiting for a boat that was never coming home.

  It was heartbreaking just to think about it.

  And she’d thought about it plenty, thanks to Mrs.Trune.

  Mrs.Trune, or Old Mother, as she was more commonly known, ran the provisions store at the other end of the harbour. Selling commodities the rest of the community either couldn’t grew, make or steal, she also did a fine line in sewing materials, which Maggie herself was grateful for, and an even finer line in gossip. Priding herself in knowing everything that was going on within the harbour community or in the neighbouring villages, Old Mother never hung onto any precious snippet of gossip for long, and if it was happening ‘beyond’ as she liked to call it, then her husband Tom, who made his living traveling the length and breadth of North Cornwall ‘fixing things’, invariable knew about it instead. That way, between the two of them
, they were a veritable wealth of knowledge and there was nothing better Old Mother liked doing than sharing what she’d learnt.

  The story of Elizabeth Hayle had therefore come to Maggie’s ears straight from Old Mother herself, when on a Thursday, and suddenly finding herself short of flour, she’d wandered down to the village shop to replenish her stocks and found herself walking straight into the latest piece of scandal.

  She’d known the moment she’d opened the shop door that something was going on, the small knot of women gathering expectantly around the wooden counter, proof positive of that, and deliberately taking up position behind them, just as though she was intending to do nothing more than queue and wait her turn, Maggie had shifted the wicker basket on her arm, settled her weight and given Old Mother her full attention.

  Old Mother was dressed the same as usual in a faded, grey dress overlaid with a drab, knitted shawl slung carelessly around her shoulders. Colour was just not part of her wardrobe at all and it was said that Old Mother shied away from anything remotely bright like other folk avoided the plague. It certainly showed in her grey face, dulled from years of smoking, and squinting at the world through small, grey eyes, she repeatedly tutted at the strands of grey hair that escaped her hairpins whilst sucking loudly on a small, clay pipe stuck in the corner of her mouth.

  “ Devon.” Old Mother was saying now, pausing to suck on the small, clay pipe to produce a plume of toxic smoke. “ That be where she from. Came down ‘ere last winter she did, with ‘er husband an moved into the old Harrow house. Were happy for a bit too, or so the vicar says. Nice couple he called ‘em. Young. Any road, she.” Old Mother said, pointing a finger towards the door and towards the harbour. “ Thought ‘er husband were all set to be a farmer. Had visions of chickens and sheep I suppose and milk straight from the cow. But he had other ideas. Wanted to be a fisherman. Wanted to be out on the sea, catching his living with the best of ‘em and boasting about the ‘one that got away.’ Well, according to my Tom, that went down like a rock in a bucket with her and there were a great deal of shouting and smashing of plates by all accounts, but he were the one who won out in the end.”

  “ And how does your Tom know all this?” Mrs. Figg asked. Mrs.Figg was a short, thin woman who ran a dairy farm with her husband and treated their small dog, Terence, like he was royalty. Maggie often suspected the animal ate better than the husband.

  “ Because.” Old Mother replied, crossing her arms. “ He were repairing the wall outside the kitchen. Heard it all he did and more besides. The lass were crying by the end of it. Begging him not to go on the boats and to keep his feet on the ground an’ stay with her. But he were havin’ none of it, the daft beggar.”

  “ And we all know the rest.” This came from Mrs.Chase. Her husband was the local Blacksmith and worth, as Old Mother liked to say, ‘ a small fortune an’ loose change.’ She certainly dressed smartly and clad in colours that probably would have brought Old Mother out in spots, she often frequented Old Mother’s shop, buying half a pound of cheese for appearances sake, whilst really calling in for the gossip. She certainly knew all about Elizabeth Hayle and her poor, unfortunate husband, Daniel.

  Maggie knew the rest of it too, or at least, she had done by the time she’d left the store, and the story had played on her mind all day.

  Daniel, despite his wife’s heart felt pleas, had been as good as his word and managing to secure a position on a fishing boat, had set out the next day. It was, as Old Mother had declared, a disaster waiting for someone to pick on and Daniel had more than fitted the bill. With no experience and no sea legs, his first trip had nearly been his last when tripping on a rope, he’d nearly ended up in the drink. His second attempt hadn’t been much better and he’d vomited all the way, returning to land paler in the face than the fish he’d caught.

  But it was his third outing that really put an end to his dream.

  All day the storm had threatened and with dark clouds gathering along the horizon like fearsome warriors lining up to do battle with the shore, most of the other fishermen had taken one look at it, shaken their heads and resigned themselves to a day in the pub, mourning the loss of a good catch.

  Matthew, much to Maggie’s relief, had been one of them. “ Bugger that.” He’d said, pulling a face at the threatening skies. “ I’d rather eat bread an’ drippin’ for a week than risk that weather. Boy’s a fool.”

  The boy in question had, of course, been Daniel, who lured onto the boat by a foolhardy skipper who promised him a great haul and no other fishing boats to share it with, had pushed his fear aside and climbed aboard. Waving from the deck, whilst Elizabeth, wretched and sobbing, had stood on the harbour, begging him not to go and burying her face in her handkerchief.

  And that’s where she had stood ever since.

  Because the boat had never come home.

  The next morning Maggie woke early. The storm had passed and after seeing the children off to school, she ventured outside to sweep up the detritus the wind had chosen to deposit at her front door and to gaze up the harbour.

  Elizabeth Hayle, she noticed, was still there. Still looking out to sea. Still waiting for a husband who was never going to return.

  When was the poor scrap ever going to learn?

  Sighing, she swept up a pile of leaves and pushed them into the corner. Tutting when the salty breeze lifted a few from the top and sent them scuttling back over her feet.

  “ Bugger.” She swore and then jumped when Matthew suddenly came up behind her and put his arm around her shoulders.

  Shaken, she spun round and looked at him furiously.

  Matthew smiled sheepishly. “ Sorry.” He said, giving her a peck on the cheek. “ I thought you heard me. Your turn today is it?” He asked, indicating up the cliff with a nod of his head. “ Got all you need? Want an extra egg?”

  Maggie shook her head. “ No, I have all I want, thank you.” She said, leaning into her husband’s strong chest. “ Poor lass. Look at her up there. Think she’ll ever give up?”

  She felt Matthew shrug. “ I doubt it.” He asked. “ Would you?”

  “ No.”

  “ That’s what I thought you’d say, so promise me one thing, don’t you ever do that. Don’t you wait. If ever I.. don’t come home, you just take the little ‘uns and go. Somewhere else. Somewhere away from the sea and the harbour. Don’t waste your life Maggie. Not on me. You go.”

  “ Oh, I will.” Maggie said, forcing herself to sound a good deal more cheerful than she actually felt and dismayed to find such thoughts had ever crossed her husband’s mind. Lord, she’d always believed it was her that did all the worrying and fretting and wondering what life would be like without the other, not her darling Matthew. But now he had voiced his own feelings, it made her want to weep.

  Not that she was going to cry in front of him. “ I’d be off like a shot.” She said, poking his chest with the end of her broom and shoving a smile on her face. “ And then I’d find me some nice, rich gentleman who lived in a big house with servants and posh food and..”

  “ A bad wind problem?” Matthew nodded sagely. “ Lord, what a life that would be! You’d never have to dust again!”

  “ Oh, you!” Maggie laughed. “ You’re a disgrace! Go make yourself useful and fetch my basket, then I can get along up there. You can sweep the road whilst I’m gone.”

  The climb to where Elizabeth Hayle stood staring out to sea was not an easy one. The harbour lay in the sheltered valley of two steep cliffs and it was on top of the highest side that Elizabeth had chosen to perch herself.

  Maggie had trodden it often. Touched by the tragedy, she, along with most of the other women in the village had, at first, taken it in turns to feed, water and clothe the heartbroken Elizabeth, perfectly understanding how heartbroken she must feel and more than willing to let her have her period of mourning before she gathered up her skirts and got on with li
fe.

  Except Elizabeth Hayle had never shown any inkling of doing anything of the sort and as the days had stretched into weeks and the weeks into months, the steady stream of volunteers willing to trudge up and down the cliff each day had dwindled until there was only the three of them left. Mary Chambers, Violet Forthwith and Maggie Trevigue. And today was Maggie’s day.

  She puffed as she neared the top. The path was wet and muddy after the previous night’s storm and on her right, the grass covered bank that sloped downwards towards the sea glistened brightly with wild flowers.

  “ Getting old.” She muttered to herself, swapping the basket over to the other arm and peering up into a watery, blue sky. “ If that lass don’t come down soon, I’ll have to send Matthew up instead.”

  It was a tempting thought but she couldn’t see it happening. Matthew was sympathetic towards Elizabeth’s feelings up to a point, but when it came to pandering to Elizabeth’s whims, he, like most of the other fisherman, failed to understand what had been so special about her Daniel that she felt compelled to stand alone on a cliff top in all weathers, waiting for his return whilst their wives trudged up and down each day to feed her.

  Maggie understood though. Women loved. With all their heart and soul. They fell in love and they fell properly. Not like men who only thought they were in love until the next pretty face came along. Proper love, she genuinely believed, was lost on them and wives were seen as more of a commodity, useful only for cooking, cleaning and keeping them warm in bed. Not someone to be mourned and wept over when it all came to an end.

  Feeling slightly warm, Maggie rounded the corner. Here, at last, was the top of the cliff and a welcome bit of flat and pausing for breath, she examined the outcropping of stones Elizabeth occasionally used for shelter, and looked around in an effort to try and spot the grieving widow.