I have often included lesbian sexuality as part of my basically heterosexual novels. It's been a great way (and most often the only way) for me to enjoy my bisexuality...even though real time is always much better than fantasy! When I first began writing erotica, I was still timid about much of my awakening sexuality, in particular my attraction to women, which I had avidly shunned. When, as an eighteen year old (in the latter part of the 60s), I fell in love with a woman just after I graduated from high school I was stunned and afraid. Despite a major cultural shift on sexuality during the 1960s, the effect of that had not 'trickled down' to my real world. Homosexuality was still a dirty little secret no one shared. That sweet affair of the heart during freshman year was strictly non-sexual, in great part because I wouldn't allow myself the freedom to be in bed with another woman. My inability to accept the eroticism that grew naturally from our love, eventually drove her away, and me into avoiding that part of myself until the late 80s when I finally forced myself to confront the entirety of my sexual nature.
During the early 90s I wrote two strictly lesbian novels, both of which I still enjoy reading from time to time. Here's a clip from the opening chapter of Pagan Dreams, the firsts of these novels. In my Friday blog post there will be a much kinkier lesbian scene excerpted from Demise of the Diva.
And a big thanks to my long time internet friend from Australia, photo artist Tony Ryan for allowing me to use his sexy-beautiful image for the cover of this novel. I wish I could lead you to his remarkable website, but as of this writing, he has seemed to disappear from Internet-land, which makes me a little sad.
Excerpt from Pagan Dreams, Copyright (c) 1999, Lizbeth Dusseau, all rights reserved.
I see her standing by the stacks in the old library. I’m surprised to see that she actually showed up. I usually don’t arrange dates this way. But I was obsessed. I watched her every day for two weeks. She was doing research, and so was I; though after two weeks I confess I was doing more research on her than on my American Poets thesis.
My obsessions drive me to such things. In a mad impulse I finally peeked in the front of her opened notebook when she was off to the bathroom. I was looking for a name, maybe a phone number. That was three days ago, and that night, I called her.
“Yeah sure, I remember you,” she said, when I described myself. “You’re the one with the gigantic blue eyes and the soft blonde hair. You were sitting at my table.”
I’m excited that she remembered me at all. I feel so stupid, flustered like some school kid. I’ve never felt quite this way about a woman. I knew I liked women, but never like this, never with an obsession that made me follow her around, steal her name from her notebook, and find out where she lives and with whom (no one, I was glad to discover). Would she still be meeting me if she knew to what lengths I’d gone to feel close to her? My God, I was certain that if I didn’t have some consummation to this heated insanity, I’d soon be stalking her nightly, peeking in her window, stealing flowers from her flower bedecked porch.
Seeing her now in front of the stacks, perusing some enormous art book that looks too big for her, I’m tingling all over, especially between my legs. That place gives me away; it leads me running around after phantom lovers like a child with a first crush. But Peach is no phantom.
I call her Peach when I see her dressed in this peach colored tee-shirt dress. It’s nearly ankle length, but she might as well be wearing nothing the way her body seems to climb out on top of it. Her ass, which is turned toward me, is one of the pert round kinds. I see the hint of her cleft as an indentation in the material. I know when she turns around, that her pendulous breasts will be pressed against the fabric erotically, her tiny nipples poking through the cloth. I know this because other tee shirts I’ve seen on her do exactly that.
“Good evening,” I say, trying not to scare her. Approaching people from behind can be risky, so I take it slowly.
She doesn’t miss a beat, turning around as if she senses that I am there. And exactly what I want – there’s a smile is beaming on her face, her bright cheeks glowing. And yes, there are her breasts with the conforming fabric of her dress showing off the subtle curves and her nipples indenting the fabric.
“Cassidy,” she says, in a voice that floats to my ears like Mozart. She gives off warmth like perfume. I can smell her scent, a fresh scrubbed soapy scent, kissed with the trace of some sweet hand cream. It’s been hot, so there’s a musky sweaty fragrance too, on her skin and mine.
“Hey Peach, I’m glad you came,” I reply.
She doesn’t balk, not even when I call her Peach. Her name is Samantha Clarisse Sykes. It’s much too much a name for her; she’s much simpler than that.
“I liked your invitation,” she says.
“Not too bold?”
“Honest,” she replies, “telling me you’ve been having erotic thoughts of me, I know that’s a bold thing for you to say. You’re really very shy, aren’t you?”
I giggle a little.
She takes my hand and pulls me deeper into the stacks. We wind our way into the maze of tall metal shelves into the bowels of this ancient place, searching for some privacy.
She touches my breasts first. Her hand is like a feather. I’m shivering. I can feel her touch in the top of my head underneath my hair, and at my shoulders, they’re trembling, and of course, between my legs. But it’s not enough that it’s there, it’s everywhere that shivers.
I lean forward, instinct leading me, and touch her offered lips with mine.
“Ooooo, I am in love,” she says.
I can’t believe that she’s saying this to me. How can she love me when we’ve just met? Then, how can I love her when I don’t even know her? Has she been feeling anything that I’ve felt, could I be that lucky?
She kisses back, and then there are a dozen more little kisses while she leans into my body, pressing herself against me and fondling me more.
I think I’m going to swoon until she laughs that lilting, approving laugh. She seems to know my trepidation and my joy, and tries to put me at ease with her hands. They are all over me. One hand breaches the bottom of my shirt, lifting it so she can fondle skin to skin.
“I don’t understand this, Peach, why I love you like this,” I tell her. I figure I need some kind of explanation.
“Shush,” she puts a finger to my mouth and smiles. We kiss again. And I take liberties with her body. My hands were poised for minutes, then finally after she shushes me I have the courage to touch her, really touch her.
We’re leaning against the stacks of books: the tall, fat, musty medical library where no one ever goes. I’m glad we have this privacy because she feels free to raise my shirt enough to view my breasts with her eyes, not just her hands.
“You have such creamy white skin,” she admires me with a hint of adoration I would have expected on a first date. I want to tell her that I find her dark tanned skin perfection – my pale skin always seems uneven and flawed.
She presses her mouth into my breasts and kisses them all over. She sucks the soft flesh. Sucks hard, so I know that there will be a hickey there when she’s done. I couldn’t ask for more.
My hands reach around her so I can find her ass, that perky round one, with the melon globes of tight flesh that lightly bounce against the dress. When I squeeze the cheeks, I can feel her thighs tense, her breath becoming short and excited. I pull the dress higher, aiming for the soft skin underneath. We’re wrapped together, pressed tightly. Her hands rove at will. Mine do the same. We’re both wet rivers between our legs. Our hands travel into those moist valleys where undiscovered clits are laid bare, and once virgin pussies become places to violate again.
“Cassidy, right there,” she instructs me, as my hands find her special spot. I drop to my knees, I want to see it, tongue it, watch it burst. Her cunt is dark, a silky bush of hair covers plump brown labia and I spread her wide to find the hard bud of her clitoris. It’s become a hard throbbing finger.
It only takes a few gentle sweeps of my tongue to discover what she likes best, what makes her throw her head back in a passionate stupor. She grabs my hair to keep her balance. She could easily tumble to the floor, but I keep her balanced. I want her to remember only that this was the most exquisite orgasm she’s ever had.
Her cries are nearly inaudible, but to me they are like an ocean roaring with waves of fervent bliss that crash at my ears.
She claws my hair.
Her body tenses.
I eagerly work her clit with my tongue while my fingers move into her moist cunt, seeking out her g-spot. As I listen to her gasp with pleasure, her tight channel grabs for my fingers and squeezes down against them. Sharp spasms follow, ones that ripple through her in a seemingly unending stream. My hands and face are covered with the sweet, salty taste of her juices while my nostrils fill with the fragrant musky scent of her.
When her climax finally passes, Peach slips down against the bookshelf until she’s on the floor beside me. Her legs are open, her cunt exposed. She almost looks as if she’s airing out. The sweet contentment written on her face is still filled with lusty, although I know she is at peace. If this is all she ever gives me, this will be enough. I couldn’t want anything more than to see the love obsession of my life this happily satisfied.
She opens her eyes. There’s a cute smile on her face.
“You don’t think you’re getting away from me, you slut,” she says. No one has ever called me slut. I like the name.
She reaches in and begins to paw my thighs, though they’re covered by my jeans; I admit I wasn’t as well prepared as she. Nonetheless, she’s not stopping.
“Here? A little risky, isn’t it?” I say.
“Hey, you little tramp, I took the risk and so shall you, even if you do get caught with your pants down.” She’s adamant, unbuttoning the waist, undoing the zipper, and then pulling firmly on my jeans until they’re at my ankles. She leans over, lays me down and begins to plant her mouth on my needy clit. She knows exactly what to do to have my hips writhing against her face.
She licks me with a gentle but experienced tongue.
It won’t take long, and it doesn’t.
With her hands climbing all over my thighs and reaching inside my shirt to my tits, she brings me off, raises me up, tears me in two. My entire body is gasping, letting go, struggling to let free all three weeks’ worth of piled up lust.
I’m afraid I’m too loud, but for at least twenty seconds, I couldn’t give a damn who hears.
When the orgasm finally passes we both collapse in an abbreviated hug. Then she rests her head against my belly until I become too scared of being so exposed in a public building.
“You don’t mind my calling you Peach?” I ask.
“No, I like it. Almost as much as I like you,” she says. “This was a good idea you had.”
This is where I’m most afraid. What if it’s only been a lark for her and nothing more? God please, I promise to be good, if that is not the case, I silently pray.
“I want to see you again,” I tell her.
“God, I hope so,” she replies, “but can we do it someplace besides this library, my God this floor is too hard!”
We pick each other up laughing, and walk out arm in arm.
That is, after I’m zipped and buttoned again.