At a summit of a 2 story building, a fair looking lesbos (‘Bess’) ungarbed and inspected herself in the mirror. How to tell people, her friends, even her lesbian friends the truth? She wasn’t really a lesbian. She just really liked lesbian company.
In Les Spirites, CA, well known for its tolerant cultures, Bess flew in from Idaho. After a break-up with a male friend, she found refuge in a dorm of lesbians.
In terms of finding people as non-judgmental as humanly possible, CA was a destination spot for liberal minds: but lesbians topped them off for tolerance and acceptance.
Bess doused her vagina with honey and let a lesbian clean it up: lesbian lips consumed sweetness and licked the softness of her lower region.
After some searching and soul-searching, she ended up in a dorm with lesbian partners: her one class a semester allowed her to score light, easy credits and a fairly cheap quarters for living. By night: lesbians rolled over her with lips, allowing her to escape the ever-awakening pangs of break-ups that threatened to surface in her memories. But pleasure lolled over her and sleep claimed her consciousness.
She awoke anew: unawares of painful yesterdays.
In the middle of her room: a little device sat (black and alone), like a shallow dish. Some time ago: a lesbian – a real lesbian – lived in her room. A tech whiz to some: she lined dorm rooms with sensors and wireless thingies in a network similar to a spider’s web, each sensor like a strand that pulse with vibrations.
Each sensors pulsed signals to her device (her ‘sex toy’). She laid her vaginal region on it: it was covered with little motors (like coins but thicker). At each signal, the device pulsed: she pressed harder into little flat motors (covered in velvet cloth, so harmless) and each tiny buzzing motor was buried by her exposed vagina, vibrating strongly. Her mouth parted, with pleasure.
It was perverse, yet, Bess found it less invasive than a woman digging into her vagina with lips, tongues, and fingers. In a way: it was private, and in a way, cleaner. She could feel a burning in her loins without a pair of eyes penetrating and piercing her space with a hungry intensity. She never quite felt judged (before), but she felt a little exposed later on: even if she had allowed herself to be.
So she retreated into her sun-lit room: rays of light warming each corner. By night: aches in her neck turns to aches in her loins. She closed her blinds: little feelings of apprehension and slight guilt went away as she closed curtains. Shadows filled the room: all her misgivings flew from the room. Was this wrong? No. Maybe. Didn’t know. But now: such feelings went away. Her skin was electrified: her vagina suddenly an open sore that somewhat found completion in this sensation: call it pleasure, or intensity, or emotions on the physical level. It didn’t seem right, then it somehow seem the thing she needed right in the moments she was feeling throbs of blood and invisible forces flowing through her vaginal zone. Pleasure grew: it owned her. She owned every limb in her for 9 hours in the day, then in a twist of fate, her vaginal region somehow beyond wit and understanding, became the thing that owned her. Rightness was a powerful thing in her mind, yet, it blurred with pleasure, it existed, then seemed not to exist, and pleasure arrested and controlled her every impulse. Then her conscience seemed the wall that blocked pleasure, oppressed the instincts for it, the urges to find it, use it, and be used by it.
Her partners showed her pleasure she only dreamed of. But at times: their eyes and intelligence threw her off.
As she laid on her sex devices: her link to pleasure was without a single soul in sight to make her feel or seem slightly or remotely guilty, and she opened and closed her mouth, twisted her lips, softly bit the lower lip: letting pleasure swell in her loin, growing, becoming, like her own recipe, for something close to ecstasy.
Sensors were little things: tucked away in corridors and rooms. Her lesbian roommates were tech whizes: some were. Others were merely curious in technology: wasn’t technology taking over everything these days? (Even pleasuring?). So they stashed them (sensors and wireless thingies) everywhere: in sight, out of sight. Some even linked to their own projects.
So long as lesbians moved about: sensors lit up. Signals flew invisibly to Bess’s sex toy. Around 11 AM, the motors faded and quieted: people were going to sleep.
Bess sighed: slightly fatigued. She looked around: breathed slightly in relief. No one saw: her room her own version of Vegas. Whatever happened in her room: stay there, right? She said this to herself again and again as if to convince herself: it partly worked, it completely worked as she slept. She glanced this way and that: then settled into bed, the aches in her legs and back replaced by love hormones that seemed to massaged her limbs with youthfulness.
She slept, fading into bliss.
—
Penned and submitted by Grace McClaren, Kelly LeBrock, Erin Gray, Grace Kelly, and Rebecca McHarty.
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Stories are penned and submitted to public domain and creative of commons for lesbian literature.
Account holder(s) share stories from a variety of authories and LBGT creative writing groups.
Ideas and views expressed in this story do not necessarily reflect (if at all) the views of this account and account holder.
Views of account holder align with the general pan-West Coast culture: inclusivity, diversity, tolerance, and general, friendly western values.
All story submissions are completely fictional and no lesbians were harmed in the creation of these story submissions.