A Sweet, Lesbian Sex Story
"The Wedding Dress," Oysters Erotica by Billierosie
(Saturation and Sensuality, by Igor Vasiliadis, prints available at ObsessionArt.com)
It was promising to be another hot day. Susan stepped out onto the balcony through the French doors that opened into her bedroom. The marble slabs were cool and the sensation was pleasurable against her bare feet. The long, white muslin curtains drifted, swayed on the cool, gentle, morning breeze. Her fingers gripped the iron railing as she leaned over to look down at the fragrant lavender below.
Her mother had planted the bushes; she would be gratified to see how they had flourished under the gardener’s watchful eye. Bees buzzed in the purple flowers, gathering pollen, which they would take back to their hives. Later, in the autumn, Susan would eat their sweet, sticky honeycomb with flaky, warm croissants at her breakfast table.
Susan sighed and wondered what it was like to be a bee. The sole purpose of your life already shaped for you. No other responsibility, other than to work for the continuation of the hive. Susan’s life weighed heavily on her.
Everyone that she had loved in these first twenty-five years of her life had died. First her mother, in a terrible car accident, then her sister, a victim of an illness that had eaten her from the inside out. Finally, her father had succumbed to a violent heart attack, two days after her farce of a wedding. The biggest non-event of Susan’s life.
With her father’s death, the old, Elizabethan mansion was hers. She didn’t want it. She didn’t know what she did want, except that she didn’t want a future with Michael. Michael, who had scorned her, and humiliated her, even though he knew how much she loved him. She had thought he loved her. But how can someone love you and destroy you at the same time? His words were harsh, echoing down the aisle of the old church. He may as well have plunged a dagger into her heart. When Susan had turned on her high-heeled shoe and walked away from the church, and away from him, well, it had been the first assertive thing she had done in her life.
She bit back her tears as she stepped into the shower. She would not weep, not again. She held up her face to the steaming spray and allowed the water to beat down on her.
The water was soothing, trickling over her tight nipples and she took pleasure in massaging them with her fingertips. She started with the right breast. Always the right first, the most sensitive, she squeezed and pulled the hard nipple, tingling shockwaves, like an electric current, shooting over her flat belly to her genitals. She squeezed her buttocks, digging her fingernails into her soft flesh, her body slippery, wet as she massaged her expensive shower gel into her arse crack. She pushed the tip of a forefinger into her anus, her womb contracted into a secret spasm and, not for the first time, she wondered what it would be like to have sex in there. There, in that dirty, dark, forbidden place.
The shameful fantasy aroused her and her juices drooled from her cunt in long, stretching strands. Her labia lips were swollen and her clitoris pulsated like a heartbeat. She slid her finger into her vagina and lapped at her juices; she was ready to be fucked, but she was alone.
In the absence of a man, she could always masturbate, but she didn’t have time – and anyway, she wouldn’t come, she never did, never had. Oh, she had her own little “happening” when she was penetrated, but she knew that it wasn’t a mind blowing, womb clenching, screaming orgasm. She was always chasing that elusive bliss. Like trying to capture a flitting butterfly. And she’d read enough books, watched enough DVDs, to know what she was aiming for. She wanted to swoon like Saint Teresa of Avila. She remembered standing in the Santa Maria della Vittoria in Rome, amidst a crowd of tourists in front of the Bernini statue, aptly titled “The Ecstasy of Saint Teresa.” She’d been just eighteen, still a virgin, yet she knew exactly what was going on by the wonderful, sublime expression on the Saint’s beautiful face, her eyes closed in heavenly bliss, as the angel’s flaming dart pierced her. “Ecstasy” fitted the evocation completely.
Then a dirty little man had spoiled it for her. A skinny Spaniard pushing up behind her, pressing his hard, thick cock into her bottom. Rubbing and grinding himself against her trapped body. She was aroused from gazing at the saint, and the dark, debauched thing that he was doing to her excited her further. Her body pushed back at him, squeezing his hard cock into her pliant arse crack. Her heartbeat pounded, a sensation of wet warmth flooded her panties, but still she retched as she felt his orgasm pulse against her anus. It seemed to go on forever. His filthy, yellow spunk wetting her white, silk dress. She blushed and, not having the nerve to glare at him, or slap his face, she pushed her way through the crowd and rushed away.
She’d made plenty of men come since that day, but still, that dark, cold grave of disgust choked her whenever she conjured up that moment.
She’d diagnosed her failings long ago, taking her degree in psychology, investigating her psyche. She didn’t have to be a Freudian to figure it out, she was sure she was right. The depravity of the frotteur combined with the sweet ecstasy of the saint had set up a wall, and she had no idea how to break through it. She’d tried everything, from therapy to tantric sex.
Nothing had worked. Her orgasm fluttered, so very, very close, but always just out of reach.
She dressed in cut off jeans and a purple, cotton sleeveless top, to suit the hot weather. Never mind that she was expecting a visitor later. Let the stupid woman who was coming to purchase her stupid wedding dress see her in her gamine attire. Who needs men? Susan smiled.
…
The woman, whose name was Giuliana and who, it turned out, was definitely not stupid, twirled and admired her reflection in Susan’s long cheval mirror.
“But why are you asking so little for the wedding dress? Only £20. You should auction it on ebay, you’d be surprised at what you could get.”
Giuliana spoke with an accent that Susan couldn’t place. Not a regional British accent, she had to be from somewhere exotic. She had black, slanting eyes, and the dark iris and the pupil seemed to merge.
Susan watched her. Giuliana looked stunning in the ivory, silk confection. She’d swept her straight, chocolate-colored hair on top of her head and was holding it in place with the curve of an elegant arm. She had a long, graceful neck. Little tendrils of damp hair curled into her nape. She was lightly sweating in the heat of the day, which should have made her seem more human, but instead made her look even more like a pagan goddess. She’d kicked off her flat sandals and was standing barefoot, on tiptoe, to show the dress at its best.
Giuliana made Susan feel less than elegant, and she wished now that she’d made more of an effort with her appearance. She ran her fingers through her dark, shiny bob. She wanted to run from the room, she felt apprehensive and nervous in the presence of this exquisite woman. She felt gauche and scruffy. She hadn’t even brushed her hair, it was still tousled from the shower.
Giuliana seemed supremely confident in her nakedness. She hadn’t seemed to think twice about disrobing while Susan watched. Susan couldn’t stop her eyes from lingering over Giuliana’s heavy breasts, with their hard, dark nipples. Susan ran her tongue over her dry lips. Her cut off jeans suddenly seemed too tight. The hard seam in the crotch was pressing on her clitoris. The little organ throbbed.
Susan folded her arms defensively. “I just want to be rid of it,” she told Giuliana. “It wasn’t a lucky day for me. I don’t want to look at it any longer.”
Giuliana took a step closer to Susan. Susan inhaled the other woman’s fragrance. She smelled expensive, but Susan couldn’t identify the perfume. She was very aware that Giuliana was naked beneath the wedding dress. Warmth flooded her lower belly and a tremor passed through her. Her senses reeled with confusion, she didn’t understand why her body and mind were reacting in this erratic manner. It seemed to be connected with Giuliana’s presence, but that didn’t explain why her knees had turned to jelly. And she was ashamed that her nipples had hardened into peaks and were clearly visible through her cotton top. Her heart was pounding out of her chest and she struggled to concentrate on what Giuliana was saying.
“…But a designer dress, Valentino, isn’t it?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Susan said. “You’ll be doing me a favor. I don’t need the money, it’s just a token. Your new husband will adore you in it.”
She felt giddy and sat on the end of the bed.
Giuliana smiled at Susan’s flushed face. “Ah, there is no husband, thank God.”
Susan swallowed. “Um, so … you’re um. I mean, sorry, you’re not getting married? So why do you want the dress, is it for a party or something? A play?” She felt herself turning scarlet.
“Oh, I’m getting married, just not to a man,” Giuliana laughed.
“Then, then who?”
Susan was feeling stupid. The woman had virtually told her, without putting it into words, that she was marrying a woman. It was just that Giuliana wasn’t Susan’s idea of a lesbian. Then she saw that Giuliana was laughing, and she laughed too.
“We’re not all fat and manly,” she said, gesturing to her slender figure.
If it was possible to feel anymore embarrassed, Susan felt it then. Was the woman a mind reader? Fat and manly had been exactly what she’d been thinking. Did that make her prejudiced? Probably, she thought ruefully.
“It doesn’t make you prejudiced,” said Giuliana “You’re just not very experienced, are you?”
Susan swallowed miserably. “Oh God,” she said. “I feel terrible. You’re a guest in my home, and I’ve insulted you.”
“No, no, you haven’t. But tell me the story about the wedding dress. That must be why you look so unhappy.”
Sitting on the low bed, Susan’s face was level with Giuliana’s crotch. Suddenly, Susan’s mind was filled with the image of crawling beneath the silken, ivory folds of the dress and nibbling at Giuliana’s soft inner thighs. She would go higher, pointing her tongue and piercing the woman’s dark, wet labia, sucking and biting at her clitoris. In her mind’s eye, Susan saw the shape of her head making a white mound beneath the dress. It was the most erotic thing she had ever imagined.
They took coffee out on Susan’s balcony. Steaming, dark espresso, sweetened with rough chunks of sugar.
The afternoon had moved the sun from the balcony and it was cooler there now. “You have a very beautiful home,” said Giuliana. “It reminds me a little of my villa in Tuscany. The architecture is completely different of course, perhaps it is the sense of age, of times long ago.”
So Giuliana was Italian. She had the beautiful national characteristics of her country. An olive complexion and a wonderfully carved face, worthy of a Michelangelo sculpture. Susan felt more composed now that the small, marble table separated them. She could look at Giuliana and not feel overwhelmed. The woman’s voice was hypnotic, with a lyrical, musical accent; Susan could have listened to her all day. Her English was perfect, and the accent was fascinating. But when Susan thought of Italy, she thought of her depravity in the presence of something holy. The sacred and the profane. Susan had been back to Italy several times since the incident with the frotteur, she’d even visited Bernini’s Saint Teresa again. Always she felt arousal and always it would be combined with the shame of the debauchery.
Sometimes, when she was on the edge of sleep, she would feel the probing weight of the stiff, thick cock stretching her arsehole. She wanted the weight of something inside her, piercing her rectum. Her ultimate fantasy was to take a cock in her cunt and a cock in her anus. She would be completely stuffed. Once she had picked a large, green courgette from the garden. She’d taken it to her room and contemplated stuffing it in her dirt hole. She had only stopped because she imagined it getting stuck inside her, and oh, the embarrassment of having to go to the hospital to have it removed.
But her fantasy always returned and as in her waking hours, she would float on the edge of orgasm. In her dream, the angel with the flaming dart would turn from Saint Teresa to her, but there would be laughter on his cruel little, perfectly carved lips. Susan would wake with a sinking heart; she was not worthy.
“So, you were going to tell me the tale of the wedding dress,” said Giuliana. She pulled the ivory silk up and over her knees, crossing her slim, elegant ankles. Her toenails were painted a pearly pink.
Susan had been hoping that Giuliana had forgotten all about it; she was afraid she would start to cry again.
She didn’t want to appear weak in front of this strong, sophisticated woman. But she swallowed and began.
“It’s not a long tale,” she said. “I was on my father’s arm as he walked me down the church aisle. Michael was waiting for me at the alter. I tripped and fell to my knees. Michael stormed down the aisle, cursing and swearing at me. He said I was a stupid, clumsy bitch. He stood above me. I put my arms around his knees and begged him not to be cruel. He kicked me away from him as if I were dirt.”
Giuliana had been holding her breath. She let out a long exhalation.
“Then what did you do?” she asked.
“I got to my feet, and I walked away. Out of his life. I haven’t seen him since. My so-called wedding was in all the society magazines. On television too. I’m surprised you haven’t heard about it.”
“I have been in Italy,” said Giuliana. She cast her gaze over the gardens. Then she cursed vehemently.
“What an idiot! What a nasty piece of work! So you hide away here, nursing your grief?”
“I keep busy,” said Susan. She felt suddenly defensive about her life. She may have taken a massive blow, but she was coping. But was that enough?
“Men really are so stupid,” said Giuliana. “Do you know they can’t go for five seconds without thinking about sex?”
Susan giggled. “Who needs them?”
“Men, sono dei maiali. Sono degli imbecilli.”
Susan hadn’t a clue what Giuliana was saying, but she guessed it wasn’t complimentary.
“So what was the sex like with Michael? How many times did he make you come?”
“Never,” said Susan. “He never made me come. And now I’m glad. He thought our sex life was fantastic. He didn’t know that my orgasms were all pretence. He thinks that he’s a fantastic lover.”
Giuliana laughed. “What a pity it’s too late to tell him you faked all of your orgasms.”
Giuliana’s eyes lingered on Susan’s face. “So what are your orgasms like? Do you come with a man, or do you have to be alone?”
Susan swallowed. “I never come. I never have.”
Giuliana was silent for a moment. Then, “I could make you come. I’ve been wanting to since I laid eyes on you. You want me too, don’t you?”
Tears started to Susan’s eyes. “Yes,” she breathed. “Oh yes.”
Giuliana leaned across the table and took Susan’s hand. Her palm was cool as she wrapped her long fingers around Susan’s wrist.
Their bare toes touched beneath the table. Susan moaned. Her nipples tingled, longing to be touched. Her breasts were full and aching. She closed her eyes, she was a mess of sensations. She saw rainbows of color and there were strange sounds, a rushing noise in her head. Her juices flowed, soaking into the fabric of the cut off jeans. She could smell her own arousal. At some point, Giuliana let go of her hands. She opened her eyes and Giuliana was standing next to her. Susan let out a little sob as the woman pulled her to her feet. She wrapped her arms around Susan and kissed her. Susan was wrapped in a cocoon of hot flesh and ivory silk. Giuliana’s cool, moist tongue danced against Susan’s. Susan plunged her tongue as far into Giuliana’s mouth as she could. Nibbling, sucking, biting on each other’s lips, Susan’s womb muscles ached and contracted, and more juices gushed. She could hardly stand without Giuliana’s arms around her.
Giuliana pushed Susan backwards, onto the table. She pulled down Susan’s cut offs and peeled away the top. Susan was naked. She sprawled across the small table. The edge of the table dug into her back. She was more uncomfortable than she’d ever been in her life and she didn’t care.
Giuliana knelt between Susan’s opened thighs, spreading them wider apart with her hands. Susan’s labia were fat and swollen. Giuliana placed her hands on the sensitised flesh of Susan’s inner thighs. She parted Susan’s labia with her thumbs, as if she were splitting open an exotic, ripe fruit. Susan could feel Giuliana’s warm breath on her throbbing clitoris, and then Giuliana’s pointed tongue touched Susan’s clitoris. Susan screamed her ecstasy. Her pelvis jerked. She roared guttural sounds, like a rutting animal. She felt elemental as Giuliana’s tongue tormented her with exquisite licks and laps. Her orgasm was building, this time, yes, this time. A rush of inevitability washed over her. Her anus tingled as the rush flooded up her spine and over her breasts. She was golden, everything was golden. An electric shock jerked down the backs of her thighs. Her feet spasmed, turning her toes into claws.
In that glorious moment, she was Saint Teresa of Avila – and her angel was a beautiful woman in ivory silk.
Originally published June 2011