Coming Together: Girl on Girl

By Leigh Ellwood

Coming Together: Girl on Girl is a collection of lesbian erotica and erotic romance edited by award-winning author Leigh Ellwood. All proceeds from the sales of this anthology, and any individual titles released in eBook or audiobook, will benefit the National Center for Lesbian Rights.

CONTENTS: The Princess' Princess (Salome Wilde); Sundae, Bloody Sunday (Lisabet Sarai); Angel (Ms. Peach); Hot Air (Slave Nano); A Taste of Vanilla (Leigh Ellwood); The Trade In (Stephani Maari Booker); New Girl (Harper Bliss); Same But Different (Kate Atwood); Fair As the Moon (Laurel Waterford); On Display (Sophie Mouette); Tough Enough to Wear a Dress (Teresa Noelle Roberts); Snow Blind (Jean Roberta); All Keyed Up (Scarlet Chastain); Ghost Lights (Erzabet Bishop); Winner Take (Andrea Dale); Worth the Wait (Beth Wylde)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Coming Together
• Release date: Aug 5, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301242726

Leigh Ellwood

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Coming Together: Girl on Girl

© 2013 by Leigh Ellwood, editor

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover art © 2012 by Alessia Brio

All digital rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

A Coming Together Publication

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License Notes

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Coming Together is intended for adult readers only.

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Table of Contents

Introduction

Editor's Note

Angel © Ms. Peach

The Princess' Princess © Salome Wilde

Sundae, Bloody Sundae © Lisabet Sarai

Hot Air © Slave Nano

The Trade-In © Stephani Maari Booker

New Girl © Harper Bliss

Same But Different © Kate Atwood

Fair as the Moon, Clear as the Sun © Laurel Waterford

On Display © Sophie Mouette

Tough Enough to Wear a Dress © Teresa Noelle Roberts

Snow Blind © Jean Roberta

All Keyed Up © Scarlet Chastain

Ghost Lights © Erzabet Bishop

Winner Take All © Andrea Dale

Worth the Wait © Beth Wylde

A Taste of Vanilla © Leigh Ellwood

About the Authors

About the Editor

About Coming Together

Introduction

I must confess: For as long as I've been aware of it, I've had a tenuous and at times contentious relationship with the term girl-on-girl. I can't remember when I first heard it—Was it in 1990s when online pornography emerged and then became ubiquitous? Or maybe earlier? Just what did we call it when my college boyfriend and I absconded with his dad's porn magazines—publications with covers that routinely featured two women clutching one another in abundant promise?

What I do remember is clear enough. Those portrayals never met my expectations. The women in girlie mags never truly caressed one another, never truly explored in one another's bodies. Fingertips might graze a breast. Tongues might meet lightly with lips parted. A mouth might approach a nipple. But those women never indulged in anything that even approached explicit passion.

Same with the women in the porn films decades later. Oh, they did a better job, going down on one another and sex toying it up, but where print porn's portrayals seemed tentative, film porn struck me as exhibitionistic sport fucking. It lacked intimacy and depth, and none of it ever resonated with me.

Of course, it couldn't. Girl-on-girl as I had encountered it wasn't meant for me. It wasn't designed for my consumption. It catered exclusively to the male libido, the male ego, and the male gaze. Women were poised to suggest contact and impending escapades, but a breast was never obscured by a woman's grasp, a nipple never disappeared between sucking lips, a hand never blocked the all-important beaver shot. No, the male eye had to see all.

Film pornography wasn't an improvement. There, the women went through explicit movements, but their interactions seemed chaotic and frantic—as if they couldn't wait to get it over with. And again it dawned on me: their encounters were staged; the women, performing. The heat between them was manufactured, and not on my behalf. I wouldn't connect with women on screen until I saw the 1999 movie Better than Chocolate. Which was, honestly, better than chocolate. I still grow breathless, thinking about that movie.

Fortunately, authentic pictorial portrayals of women savoring of sex with women wasn't completely out of reach. Issues of the lesbian magazine On Our Backs reached me (belatedly, but better late than never) as well as the Boston BDSM zine Bad Attitude. Here, I saw women engaged in mutual desire. Women shared real lust and, just as crucial, mutual satisfaction. The camera served as a means of expression, the print venue as an avenue of sharing. These publications gave me access to elements commercial pornography did not: authenticity and identity.

It didn't matter that I identified as bisexual, or what orientation women in those films and magazines claimed for themselves. What mattered was genuine sexual expression in women's pornography, its voice and how it spoke to me—and how it moved move the ground beneath me.

This anthology, Coming Together: Girl-on-Girl, is every bit as fundamental today as those pivotal publications were a couple of decades ago. The stories in this collection run the gamut of womanly lust, from the enthusiastic first-time hook-ups of young women to the falling away of worldly cynicism between older, well-seasoned women. From liquor-loosened surrender between the curious co-eds to the pent-up, ready-to-burst desire of between two women who waited far too long to get it on. It's all here—and in more ways than you might imagine.

Editor Leigh Ellwood has pulled together what many editors might see as too disparate a group of stories to share in one anthology and she has turned them into a thrill ride for our enjoyment. She starts us up that slow, agonizing climb up of a first hill, then plunges us forward in a teeth-clenching drop of inevitability. The track racing, each story becomes a twist, a turn, pitching us left, then right, then back again. Some stories whip us about; others force us over hills and valleys too fast to process. And they leave us exuberant, giddy, and aroused, right up to that final hard break at ride's end that tells us the fun time's over. Just like great sex.

Here, you won't find the girl-on-girl that irked me so much in decades past. The stories here are told through women's voices, seen through women's eyes, and resonate through women's sexual souls. They urge us to claim girl-on-girl as our own, to define it for ourselves and defend it as our own. And I, for one, welcome what it says to me.

Debra Hyde

Connecticut, July 2013

Debra Hyde is the Lambda Award-winning author of The Story of L.

Editor's Note

Hello, readers! I hope you enjoy this latest volume of Coming Together, the first to focus entirely on lesbian erotica and erotic romance. You may recognize many of the authors featured in this volume as seasoned writers of the genre, while others make their Coming Together debut in this book. Having edited a few anthologies over the last decade, I have to say the submissions received for Girl on Girl greatly impressed me—this was definitely one of the best calls I have conducted, and I had a difficult time setting a cutoff mark.

The inspiration for this volume came from the charity this book will benefit, the National Center for Lesbian Rights. The NCLR works for equality the entire LGBT community, helping same-sex couples and individuals with legal issues. It's appalling to read stories of how people are denied visitation rights to hospitalized loved ones or unable to adopt or marry, simply because they identify as LGBT. I am touched, too, that the contributors to this work were willing to give their time and talent to create something that will benefit this worthy organization. I also thank Alessia Brio for giving us the green light.

Everybody involved in Coming Together: Girl on Girl did so without monetary compensation—all the money will go to NCLR. Therefore, if you have found this book on a digital pirate site, or know of somebody distributing this work without paying for it, please let us know.

One other note: I am pleased to host a number of Canadian and UK-based authors in this book. The UK spellings in their stories remain intact.

May your purchase of this and other Coming Together works bring you good karma and pleasant thoughts!

Leigh Ellwood

July, 2013

Angel

© Ms. Peach

I still have the exquisite redness, almost in the exact shape of her hand, on my ass. I gaze at it in the mirror as I survey my naked self. It wasn't supposed to happen at all. But it did. It happened by mistake but feels so right, right now.

My friend Angel called me last night in a funk. Her boyfriend of six months had broken up with her the day before, and she was having it rough. She asked if I could come over and bring a bottle of white. I told her I should take a shower and such first, since I had been sitting around in my sweats for most of the day reading. Angel said, No. Don't bother. I need you now.

I obliged, weaving through the evening crowd that meandered down Broadway, which was entirely too leisurely for my liking. I passed the pizza joint and salivated, a sensation immediately ruined by the stench of trash bags awaiting the morning pick-up. As usual, I made note of the useful things, like chairs and end-tables that people were discarding. I reminded myself that I lived in what amounted to a Hobbit hole and had made a vow not to take home stray furniture.

Normally I would have taken the subway, but I was enjoying the night air and the city-hum, so I stood at the bus stop and stared at the poster plastered on the side of the bus stop window. It was a vague, hipster-esque ad for underwear. In minutes, I stood on the cross-town bus and arrived at her apartment—a third floor studio—in record time of just over thirty minutes. At the door, I hugged her and kissed her cheek, presenting her with the wine, saying, Okay, let's get drunk. Fuck Adam.

Yeah, fuck Adam, she said, half teary-eyed and red-faced from crying all afternoon. She told me what had happened. Adam, an aging construction worker with—in my opinion—a total inferiority complex, had told her that he didn't want to deal with the drama she brought to the relationship. (Angel was always dramatic; it was part of who she was.) Apparently, he felt that she was more serious than he could afford to be at his age. I'm getting older, Angel. I have to sow my oats while I can. You don't want an open relationship. I do. I think it's time for us to move on, he'd told her.

Angel had seen herself enjoying life with him. She adored his muscled body and gray around the temples. He was more than ten years older than she, but that didn't faze her. To her, Adam was sexy. Granted, she had complained on several occasions about his selfishness and lack of prowess in bed, but she was willing to accept that. Angel was in love with him. She was devastated that he apparently did not feel the same way about her.

Let's get this bottle open, she said, producing the corkscrew while I got the glasses. We flopped down onto the couch. I let her vent and cry a little, though she seemed to have cried herself out mostly by the time I had arrived.

It's not like I wanted to get married or have kids. I just thought he felt the same way about me as I do about him. I want him to be happy, but it's hard to feel that way really when I feel so shitty.

I know, I said. It sucks. Out of the blue like that. What caused that, I wonder?

I think I know. There's a new girl at the coffee shop where he goes on his breaks from the job he's working now. She's really cute. He told me about her… blonde, petite, everything I'm not… Angel was a tall, leggy brunette and not remotely coy or timid. She had always been self-conscious about her height, but with Adam it hadn't mattered. His six-foot, four-inch frame accented her five-eight perfectly. She loved that she even had to rise up on tiptoe a little to kiss him. She loved his musky scent after work. She wondered if Teeny Blonde, as Angel referred to her, would like that as well. "She'll probably have to stand on a fucking chair to kiss him, she hissed. Pour me another."

We downed the bottle of wine in no time. She told me she'd be right back; she was going to the liquor store across the street to get more. Stay here. I won't be long. I nodded, flung open the creaky old window, and leaned out, breathing in that city smell of exhaust, piss, and the Italian restaurant on the north corner of the block. The wind rushed its way up the thin corridor between the buildings that blotted out the sky. It hurried walkers—even those who may not have wished to hurry—toward the intersection ahead. I saw Angel emerge from her building. I shouted, "Woohoo! Fuck Adam!" She looked up at me and raised a righteous, though half-assed, fist in the air. I watched her cross over and noted that, even in a funk, she exuded grace.

While she was out, I looked around her apartment. Angel was a writer for a magazine and her place was littered with pages of notes and half-written articles. Her wall near her computer desk was practically covered in sticky notes to herself. My favorite was, Yo Bitch. Don't take yourself so seriously. It was stuck in the midst of the notes about articles and leads and was barely noticeable unless you were really looking. It cracked me up. It sounded just like her when she gave me pep talks.

In minutes, she was back with another bottle. "Different brand, just to make sure we mix it up a bit. It's all about change, I tell ya, change." I laughed.

I pointed to the sticky note. Let's remember this tonight. She smiled, her eyes getting a little watery again. Come on, I said, Wine time.

She whined, Okay, and giggled. It was like a music box playing and it made me grin. For a moment, I felt like kissing her, an entirely foreign feeling for me. I put it out of my head. We'd been friends for a couple of years, but I didn't know whether she went that way. I wasn't about to push it. I had always thought Angel was gorgeous, especially her legs. And her hands. She had the most elegant fingers.

We talked a bit more, getting drunker and quite silly. I went to the stereo and selected some Janis Joplin. Nothing like wailing to Janis to get your anger out. So we hollered at the top of our lungs, TAKE IT! Take another little piece of my heart now, baby! We grabbed anything that looked vaguely like a microphone and jumped onto the couch with it. Me and Bobby McGee, yeah!

Every now and again, we'd stop to laugh and sip more wine. I couldn't say anything, but I thought she looked amazing, her long brown hair flying around her perfectly heart-shaped face, her long legs hugged by yoga pants, her fingers wrapped around her hairbrush as she sang out. Something about her… she always looked beautiful when she was trying the least to look beautiful. I'm sure that was mainly the wine talking. At least, I'd like to think it was. Truth be told, I had sort of had a crush on her for a while and, when she complained about Adam's lack of bedroom skills, well, I couldn't help but think that I could show him up. But that's not something you really tell your best pal. That could make things terribly awkward.

Now that we were having fun, we put on some crazy dance music and boogied hard. We flung our hair and shimmied to the trance-like songs. It felt really good. I hadn't realized how tightly wound I had been myself. But now we were letting loose. It was great.

Next, it was time for some Motown. I know you want to leave me, but I refuse to let you go! She quickly changed the song. Next came Sexual Healing by Marvin Gaye. She had her wineglass in one hand and was moving fluidly about the room. Suddenly, Angel put her arm around my waist and started dancing seductively. She was practically grinding. I moved with her.

Right then, we stopped laughing and got serious. She put her wine glass down and put both of her arms around my neck. She looked right into my eyes, singing along with the song. I admit, I was thrilled and turned on. Slowly, she moved her hand up to the back of my head, running her beautiful fingers through my hair. She pulled me close. And kissed me. I moved my head back to look at her, somewhat astonished.

I hope you don't mind, she purred. I could only shake my head no. I certainly didn't mind. She leaned in and kissed me more passionately, running her fingers through my hair with one hand and caressing my ass with her other. We swayed to the song and made out for what seemed like a slow motion hour. I was so aroused by that point. I grabbed her ass with both hands.

The song ended. I don't even recall what played next. Probably some Supremes or something. I was dizzy with wine and excitement. Angel pushed me onto the couch, accidentally spilling the wine glass on the coffee table. Fuck it, she whispered. Her hands roamed my body sweetly. Mine grabbed her messy hair as we kissed fiercely, frantically. She knelt up between my thighs and pulled off my ratty tank top.

Mmm, she said as she kneaded my breasts. Beautiful. I always thought they were.

I nearly ripped off her shirt. We explored each other's bodies. My tongue circled her nipple as she pushed herself against my mouth. There was no turning back and I could hardly believe it was happening after all this time, all my fantasies. I ran my fingers up and down her leg and finally between them. She arched her back and seized my hand, pushing it harder against her pussy. I could feel that she was getting pretty wet.

I slid down her body until my mouth met her wetness through her yoga pants. I nibbled. She moaned. I undressed her with a nearly athletic swiftness. My tongue met her clit. She gasped and took hold of the back of my head. She grasped my hair and tugged a little writhing beneath my mouth. "Mmmm," I groaned into her.

Angel reached down and slid my sweats down. Smack! She slapped my ass. I was exhilarated. I had never had anyone do that to me before. It felt good. I quickened my pace with my tongue, sliding a finger into her waiting hole. Again she arched and pulled my hair. Smack! I loved the sting. I looked up at her. That feels good, I told her.

Good, she said, because you deserve a spanking. Deftly, she yanked me up and over her knee. I was beside myself with excitement. I was more than a little wet. She grabbed my tit and squeezed. Then, without warning, she whacked my ass, hard. I sucked in a breath. Sensing that I was enjoying myself, she whacked again, squeezing my breast harder. I cried out. I so wanted to be able to reach under to slide my fingers into her again. Instead, between smacks, she slid hers into me. Two at first,