Bossy: Five Productive Tales of Lesbian Lust Read online

  Contents

  Copyright

  Bird of the Summer by Laila Blake

  Off the Record by Harper Bliss

  Roadside Assistance by Lucy Felthouse

  As You Wish by Erzabet Bishop

  My Name Is Bond by Cheyenne Blue

  About the authors

  More from Ladylit

  BOSSY

  Five Productive Tales of Lesbian Lust

  Copyright © 2014 by Erzabet Bishop, Laila Blake, Harper Bliss, Cheyenne Blue, Lucy Felthouse

  Cover picture © Depositphotos / svedoliver

  Published by LadyLit Ltd - Hong Kong

  ISBN 978-988-12898-3-4

  All rights reserved. Unauthorised duplication is prohibited.

  The stories contained within this book are works of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Warning: This title contains graphic language and bossy f/f sex and is suitable for adults only.

  www.ladylit.com

  Bird of the Summer

  Laila Blake

  My class started to fall apart when she brushed off her shoes. The sun was filtering in through the curtains and most of the students had assumed the same position: leaning over their desks, propped up on one elbow, a hand shielding their eyes from the bright light. The vacant expression on their faces spoke of swimming pools and balcony barbecues, of icy cocktail bars and cold showers, and all the other places they would rather be.

  Not Mara, of course. She was poised straight on her seat in the front row, shoulders drawn back and her naked legs crossed under a mini-skirt. With a simple pen in her hand, she was possibly the only one still taking notes.

  Everything had gone well enough. I watched her, and I wanted her, but it was a small ache in the back of my mind. A persistent prickling between my legs, maybe. But I talked about Olympe de Gouges and the women of the French Revolution and tried my best to compete with the weather for my students’ attention.

  It was under control. And then she slipped her feet out of the red ballerina flats, and I stopped mid-sentence. They were such little things, just shoes, but without them, she looked naked. Without them, her legs went on forever, all skin and peach fluff hair. She opened her thighs, and I caught a glimpse of that white patch of skin that never saw sunlight, whisper-soft when I’d brushed my lips over its fragrant texture the week before.

  I blinked, took a deep breath against the dizzying sense of vertigo. My desk offered something to lean on; maybe I could blame it on the heat. I had all of their attention again now, the nicer ones looked worried, the rest merely interested, like carrion eaters watch the weakest animal in the herd. I forced myself to look away, far away from Mara; it left me squinting against the bright sunshine.

  I picked up my lesson somewhere—I hardly remembered where I’d left off. The students’ momentary interest would fade fast and I used it to ask some questions. But they knew I didn’t expect much in this weather, and soon they were all sitting like lopsided little rag dolls again, lulled to sleep.

  It’s easier to rile young would-be feminists when it rains.

  I could still see Mara in the corner of my eyes. I would have had to turn all the way toward the window not to. She didn’t move for a while, smiling to herself, sucking at the end of her pen. I should have guessed that it was only a short respite, that she wasn’t done with me. Mara, I should have known by then, didn’t give up, and I was long hooked and pulled in, hers, no matter how hard I still struggled in the net sometimes.

  She moved into action just when I’d found my way back into a comfortable speaking rhythm. It was easy to recognize, even I could tell, by expansive hand gestures and encouraging smiles. I’m not a bad lecturer. Most days I’m pretty good; every year students line up to take my classes, but everybody has bad days. For them, it was the sun. For me, it was Mara’s decision to torture me.

  She ran her toes up her smooth, naked leg. A shiver pushed itself down my spine like an electric shock. It was hard to breathe, but I still soldiered on. Then she stretched her legs away from her, out under her desk towards me, and she curled her toes, hard and sweet, just like she does when she comes.

  She’d beaten me. I was done. I felt a drop of sweat form on my forehead; the class was staring at me.

  “Sorry,” I managed, smiling at them dully, through the persistent pulse between my legs. “You know what? Let’s call it a day, okay? Go, have some ice-cream for me.”

  If I hadn’t seen it before, I would have thought those words possessed magic. They had the power to pull students out of complete lethargy into immediate movement. The room erupted in the noise of sighs and book-bags, paper and scraping materials.

  “Read chapter eight, please. Until next week,” I said loudly over the tumult, and then sank onto the chair behind the desk. I sorted through papers so I wouldn’t have to look at Mara, but my hand was shaking and I didn’t take anything in. A mass of disheveled students filed past me to the door. They smelled of sun and sweat and soap.

  Mara wasn’t among them, I knew that without looking. She had other plans. I could feel her in the room, unmoving as she waited for the audience to leave, and when the door fell closed behind the last one, I heard her, too: heard breathing, heard the soft sigh of wood under pressure.

  She was leaning against the desk in the front row when I looked up. She had her arms crossed over her chest, and wore a dangerous smile like others wear jewellery.

  “Mara,” I said, cursing the tremor in my voice, “not here. Come on.”

  She didn’t move. The left corner of her mouth tugged at her smile and made it wider, and crooked. Then she nodded at the ring of keys next to me on my desk.

  “Lock the door.”

  * * *

  I did not seduce Mara. She was twenty-five, a post-grad student, and I hired her as my research assistant because she was the most promising applicant. She seemed enthusiastic and I knew her as a dedicated student, and if I’d noticed her beauty, then only in the same distant and abstract way we teach ourselves to see the student body. Besides, I’d never have guessed she liked women.

  The first time she stayed late in my office, organizing my summer lecture tour, she’d come up behind me as I sat at my desk. Her thumb had brushed over my little finger and I’d felt her breasts against my back.

  “Every day, I think about kissing you,” she’d whispered, and I—I had been too weak to throw her out. There is little I can say in my defense: it was late, I was tired; I was lonely and hadn’t kissed a woman in almost a year. And, of course, I’d always been an easy catch to brazen confidence. It makes me feel small; it makes me obey.

  “You know I can’t do anything for you academically, don’t you?” I’d asked her afterwards, when we’d lain next to each other, disheveled on my carpeted office floor, panting and glowing. She had her feet propped up against my desk and was lighting a cigarette—a small rule to break after the cardinal one that lay shattered under our naked bodies.

  She looked at me, at the fear and the longing in my eyes and then she’d laughed, an honest, bright laugh, and had nudged her elbow into my soft side.

  “I get straight A’s, I don’t give a fuck what you can do for me academically.”

  * * *

  “The do—”

  “Lock. The. Door,” Mara cut me off, smiling her ever sweet smile. There was elfin mischief in her dimples. “You don’t want me to repeat myself a third time.”

  She was right. I did not. A shudder went down my
spine as I raised myself to my feet with all the dignity I could manage. I held my chin high and reached for the keys. They jangled in my hands and Mara watched. Mara liked watching. I could feel her eyes on the back of my neck, along my spine, like a hand on my ass while I turned the lock. Twice.

  I could still hear students out in the hall. Despite the heat, the hair on my arms rose with a shiver of fear. The soft tap-tap of her naked feet was behind me; I closed my eyes, fought her in the small way that I could, fought myself and the pulsing in my clit.

  “We can’t do this here, Mara. This can’t interfere with class, it’s...”

  She clicked her tongue and I fell silent. My weakness made me cringe.

  “It was a great topic. Nobody was paying attention. This way you get a second chance next week.” I could practically hear the confident shrug in her voice, then her hands encircled my waist. A sigh escaped my throat. Her hands were small and soft and precise, and I clenched mine so hard around my keys, the metal cut into my flesh.

  She stepped closer; her body heat radiated against my back, and then her chin rested against the top of my spine. I couldn’t move; locked immobile by the force of her will, her confidence. She slipped her hand past the waistband of my trousers. I wore loose linen in the heat, and she found her way into my panties easily. I groaned when her fingers slipped between my labia; then I bit my tongue. My hand found purchase against the door, lest I swayed and buckled under the onslaught of desire.

  “See how wet you are?” she whispered. I could feel her warm breath against the back of my ear. My hair stirred. I felt it everywhere. “You like being bad just as much as I do.”

  I shuddered, some tiny incoherent sound escaped my throat. She stirred her fingers against my clit.

  “Say it,” she whispered. “Say it so the whole class can hear.”

  “Yes!” The sound rung through the empty room in ominous echoes. I winced, but I knew she was smiling.

  “That’s it,” she whispered. “You do. And still you make me work for it. And then I have to punish you, and you could have had it so easily.”

  “Yes,” I whispered again. She messed with my head, every time, and so I felt contrite and afraid, and in love and lust. I wanted to turn around and kiss her, hard; and I wanted to stay motionless until she ordered me on the floor. Mara. My Mara.

  Her fingers left my trousers as quickly as she’d snuck them in; the heat of her body vanished and I heard the tap-tap of her feet again. They smacked suggestively against the linoleum floor.

  “Go to your desk,” I heard her say from somewhere in the room. I hesitated, but then turned around. I had a long look at the windows but I doubted anyone could see us. The sun was still throwing its light into the room and I assumed it would reflect on the glass to anyone outside or in neighboring buildings. Besides, we were two floors up.

  I walked to the desk and took a deep breath. Mara was sitting on a desk in the center of the room, so far away she looked small. I almost smiled: I’d never seen Mara sit anywhere but the first or second row. She raised her hand coquettishly, but didn’t wait for me to call on her.

  “I would love to see you strip, Ma’am. Would you give me a demonstration?”

  It sounded like a question, but we both knew it wasn’t. The pedant in me wanted to call her on that, but I licked my lip instead, locked on her eyes across the room.

  “Will you be able to see, all the way back there?” I asked, hands on the lapels of my linen blazer. She narrowed her eyes, just once, then she laughed and the chair squeaked under her movement.

  “No, Ma’am,” she agreed. There was that dangerous smile I loved so much. She was right, Mara: I loved being bad just as much as she did. She was just better at it than I.

  I waited until she sat back down at the center desk in the front row. That was where she belonged, with her ponytail and her preppy blouse, her legs crossed so that her bare foot dangled seductively.

  I was hers.

  “Slowly,” she reminded me, but before I could start, she heaved her bag onto the desk. After some rummaging, she produced a long, purple dildo, smiled and set it neatly on the desk in front of her. I swallowed hard; it stood to attention there in front of her, glittering perversely in the sun.

  Dully, the sound of more students out in the hall penetrated the haze. I opened my mouth to say something, but her eyes made me close it again. My clit thrummed, and my body felt stiff and helpless when I opened the buttons of my blazer.

  Mara sucked her bottom lip into her mouth and tilted her head. In her hand, she held a pencil, just as though she was about to start taking notes.

  I slipped the blazer off my shoulders and hung it neatly onto my chair. Then I kicked off my sandals and opened the button of my trousers. She’d been right: I was terribly wet. I could smell myself when my trousers were off.

  “Go on,” she whispered. It, too, seemed to echo across the room. My eyes rested on the dick she’d brought along. It felt jarring in the familiar, sterile room. It made my cunt ache with longing.

  A smile slid across her face when I pulled off my shirt and reached back to open my bra. I forced myself not to look at the door, not to double check that I’d locked it. Then I god rid of my panties, too. And I stood in my class room, rows and rows of empty tables and one vixen with her toy.

  I shivered in spite of the heat, but I managed not to move and cover myself. Not for Mara, not when she smiled so beautifully. She nodded, let her eyes roam.

  “I told you I had to punish you first,” she said then, quietly, distracted herself, I think, and wishing she’d not threatened it, now. “So pick up a piece of chalk and write.”

  “W... write?”

  “You’ve heard of it, I’m sure. Turn around, pick up some chalk and write: Please, Mistress, please fuck me with your purple, plastic cock. Write it until the board is full, and I’m done looking at your beautiful ass.”

  I stared; color rose to my cheeks. Again my mouth opened, and again her eyes quieted me down long before I could have found the words to protest. I was dizzy, wanted her, hated her, loved her.

  The chalk was dry in my fingers; my hand shook as I raised it to the top of the blackboard. She didn’t have to repeat herself. I wrote. The phrase filled a line and a half, then a second and a third as I repeated it over and over until my fingers ached.

  Please, Mistress, please fuck me with your purple, plastic cock. Please, Mistress, please fuck me with your purple, plastic cock. Please, Mistress, please fuck me with your purple, plastic cock.

  The writing blurred in front of my eyes and my handwriting grew nearly illegible as I had to stoop in the last two lines. I could feel her eyes on me, then, on my exposed cunt. I finished on the word fuck. Then I turned around.

  A fire was burning in her eyes, hot and dangerous. She was beautiful. She was also on her feet almost immediately. She kissed me so hard against the board that my skin smudged the chalk. Her tongue was bruising, blistering, beautiful and I cupped her cheeks and held her close.

  When she stepped back, panting, she pushed a few loose strands of hair behind her ears with shaking hands and nodded to my desk.

  “Bend over,” she breathed, still with the darker hue of lost control in her voice. I loved that sound. It made me smirk as I walked around the desk, spread my legs, and placed my palms on the light wood. My beautiful, preppy girl was still breathing hard behind me. I’d hardly assumed the position when she rested the dildo against my entrance.

  “Look at the blackboard,” she breathed and I stared at the smudged letters, the repeated phrase. Please, Mistress, please fuck me with your purple, plastic cock. Then she pushed, and I clawed at the table for support. It was larger than the sleek thing she liked to use in her strap on, and it made my eyes bulge as I tried to hold in my moan. It stretched, and pushed and the plastic veins rubbed hard against all my soft places. I stared at the writing, clenched my teeth, and she grunted behind me as she increased force. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t open my mouth le
st I scream, and then her fingers found my clit and I was lost. My moans echoed through the empty room, and so did her name when I came mere moments later. Too fast, way too fast.

  She let me pulse around that plastic thing, watching—always watching as she held me open. I collapsed onto the desk, resting my head on my arms, almost like my students had done an eternity ago. Mara stood behind me; she caressed my ass and my thighs.

  “I love it when you come,” she whispered. I felt her nails digging into my flesh. “I love it so much.”

  I cradled her against my chest, let her cheek rest against my breasts. Her hands were still shaking; they smelled of me. I kissed her hair, and her little furnace face.

  “Come on,” I whispered, nudging my nose against her forehead. “I’ll give you a ride home and you can do it again.”

  And there it was again, that smile, the one she wore like birds wear elegant plumage.

  Off the Record

  Harper Bliss

  I opened the door myself, not something I usually do, but I wanted to start off on the right foot with Penny Fox, star reporter for The Hollywood Herald. I could see why she would dazzle men and women alike, with her porcelain skin, piercing blue eyes and impeccable Ralph Lauren suit. It satisfied me that she had dressed to impress. I wouldn’t be spilling my PR-approved, innermost secrets to someone clad in jeans and t-shirt.

  “Such a pleasure, Miss Arragon.” Penny extended her hand as I opened the door wide. I had not expected the British accent. Her hand felt cool in mine, not a hint of sweat.

  “Please, call me Jill.” I shot her a quick smile. Inviting someone into my home to write a profile on me was not an every day activity, but at least it beat morosely answering the same old questions from the same old film reporters.

  “The photographer will join us later.” Her crisp voice cut through the sound of our heels on the tiled hallway floor. “I thought it better to get acquainted in private first.”