Erotic Lesbian Stories by Sage Sweetwater (Pump Handle Red and Winter Garlic)

(Pump Handle Red and Winter Garlic)...Winter garlic is planted in the late fall and harvested in the late spring of the following year. The pump had to be primed by pouring a bucket of water into the hand pump and letting the water sit in the pump and pipe for ten minutes, not stroking the pump. Today, the water refused to flow. Levi took out her channel locks and screwdriver preparing to pull the pump head apart. She confirmed the leather seals on the stroke rod were worn. She replaced the seals, always keeping spare seals within reach. The can of red spray paint sitting on the shelf was looking good, too. She replaced the seals, reinstalled the pump head and primed the pump. After ten minutes, she pumped the handle and the water flowed. She gave the handle a fresh coat of pump handle red paint and went out to the garden to harvest her winter garlic while the pump handle dried.

The garlic cloves had grown beautifully. Last fall, Levi had dug the trenches, put in a layer of fertilizer and layed each individual garlic clove in the trench with the root end pointed down. She covered it with soil and then eight inches of heavy mulch. Today, she had two bushel baskets full of garlic. She headed back to her old farmhouse thinking about how hand pumps had been around for centuries, carved from early wooden ones from tree trunks to the cast iron one that came with the farmhouse. "What!" When she looked at the freshly painted pump handle, it was smudged. She looked around and saw no one, just a dove with red talons on the tree above. Oh, that's it, the dove perched on it. She would just paint it again, but now she was off to take a basket of the garlic to the late spring farmer's garlic market after she cleaned up.

Just a little ways down the road, she drove past a woman hitchhiking. She looked back in her rearview mirror, pulled over to the side of the road and waited for the woman to get to her. "Hi, where you headed?" Levi asked.

"To find some water."

"Get in." The woman somewhere in her late twenties opened the door and climbed in. "I'll get you some water."

Levi whipped the truck around and headed back to the farmhouse. When she pulled into the driveway, the woman said, "I didn't know it was wet."

"What is wet?" Levi asked.

The woman lifted her right hand like she was swearing an oath, her palm covered in red.

"Oh, it was you?"

"I left my bike with a flat tire behind your farmhouse. I knocked. No one answered. I pumped the handle for a cool drink - I didn't know it was wet."

"I was down in the garden harvesting my winter garlic. What's your name?"

"Pearl," the pretty woman said. Her dark pin curl was drooping on her forehead from the heat.

"Hi Pearl, I'm Levi." Levi pumped the handle and filled a ladle with the refreshing well water. Levi held the ladle and tipped it for Pearl to drink.

"So good, Levi, I'd like some more. Can I pump it - suck the water up the rod?" Pearl asked. "Those were the days." Pearl's rouge-stained cheeks came to life. Her lips quivered in answer to what Levi said.

"Mineral spirits," Levi said. She took Pearl inside the farmhouse to clean her hand with mineral spirits.

"Y--yes," Pearl stammered. Gold mining had left its mark.

"Must be original pump handle red--mineral spirits won't touch it," Levi said, rubbing Pearl's palm, but the red wouldn't come off.

Pearl took Levi's hand and plunged it down Pearl's cleavage. "Feel me, Levi." Levi inhaled the strong turpentine scent of the mineral spirits, her hand rubbing Pearl's breasts inside her Victorian lace bra. She worked Pearl's shirt up untucking it from inside her jeans. "I feel you, Pearl." She pushed Pearl back against the farmhouse wallpaper and pulled Pearl's shirt over her arms and head. "Bedroom's on the other side of this wall."

"Take me there, I..."

On the bed, lying upon a 19th century lace afghan, Pearl's sensuous lips touched Levi's in a passionate kiss of winter garlic. "I didn't know it was wet," Pearl whispered.

"What is wet?" Levi whispered. She unhooked Pearl's bra and slowly rubbed her back.

Pearl's ivory skin quivered with goose bumps.

"Those were the days," Pearl said, lifting her hips up off the antique four-poster mahogony wood bed, Levi helping her pull off her pants. "The girls always said..."

"Said what, Pearl?"

"My passion seethed in pump handle red. The girls said that in good working order," Pearl said. "Pussy is wet."

"Say it again, Pearl."

"Pussy is...wet," Pearl repeated. The antiquity in those lines! Levi pulled off Pearl's panties, soaked in revelation of passion. "Yes...Levi, yes...I can barely stand this waiting...I...I need you to negotiate."

Levi rose off the bed and went to her marble top dresser for the bottle of whiskey. "Pearl, have some of this." Pearl took a hearty swallow. Her clit grew out of its hood, big as a thumbhead stood up on end, hitchhiking it's way to Levi. Levi picked it up with her tongue, licking it up and down and whipping it around in a u-turn, leaving Pearl grasping the mattress until her knuckles turned white and her pussy lips turned pump handle red. "Suck it to Myers Avenue!" Pearl gasped. Levi pulled it with her lips and sucked it, pumping Pearl's clit between her teeth, milking Pearl out of her fluids. She had Pearl's clit so hard like a pump handle pipe. Levi reached under her mattress and took from underneath a spool of Teflon thread tape. She gave it four or five tight bulging wraps around Pearl's engorged clit, holding it with her thumb and forefinger, jerking it off into her mouth until Pearl ejaculated, shooting a fine spray of pussy juice into Levi's mouth. Pearl's clit was so slippery, the Teflon tape came off at the same time Pearl came by the lure of pump handle red, leaching wares of the past.

"I didn't know you were fire," Pearl whispered. "Now I must rest."

Levi kissed Pearl passionately as two women do. She took Pearl's wrist and turned up her red palm the mineral spirits wouldn't touch. Pearl whispered, drifting off to sleep, "Gold mining has left its mark."

Levi walked out behind the farmhouse to have a look at Pearl's bicycle. She took out a red tire pump and a tire-patching kit. There was no bicycle. There was a strong smell of mineral spirits in the air. She went back inside the farmhouse into the bedroom where she had left Pearl sleeping on the antique bed. There was no woman. There was a strong smell of mineral spirits in the air. Levi touched her lips to the whiskey bottle and took a hearty swallow. She could taste Pearl. Levi climbed in the truck and headed to the late spring farmer's garlic market. Up top of the hill to the cemetery, she saw a ghostly woman riding a red bicycle with white teflon tape streamers disappearing through the black wrought iron gates to the cemetery entrance. Madam Pearl DeVere's passion seethed in pump handle red. The girls said that in good working order, and so is Levi's pump handle red in good working order.

Copyright 1/24/2009 Ms. Sage Sweetwater, firebrand lesbian novelist, unrivaled, bringing you the upper tier in lesbian erotica


Sage Sweetwater created this original erotic lesbian story from how Sage envisions the true spirit of Madam Pearl DeVere and her true sexual preference, and why and what really caused her untimely death. If you are a fan of Sage Sweetwater, you know that Sage is quite fond of the legendary Madam of the most famous brothel "parlor house" The Old Homestead in Cripple Creek, Colorado near where Sage Sweetwater lives.

Authors Note: Colorado Firebrand Lesbian Novelist, Poet and Storyteller Sage Sweetwater visits Pearl DeVere at her grave at the Mt. Pisgah Cemetery just outside the city limits of Cripple Creek, Colorado. Every month, Sage leaves Pearl a half-full bottle of whiskey propped up against Pearl's tombstone and a live red rose. The local town wastrels usually take the whiskey, if so, Sage replaces another half-full bottle each month. Sage Sweetwater has written several poems on Authors Den based on the lovely Madam Pearl DeVere, Cripple Creek's wealthiest Madam and owner of The Old Homestead Parlor House (Brothel) which is now, in its form as a museum with all of Pearl's original furnishings in Cripple Creek.

Sage has written several poems, pertaining to the lovely Pearl DeVere, revolving around Madam Pearl DeVere's short-lived life. And most recently, Sage added a poem pertaining to Madam's girls in good working order, Azael Calhoun Tied the Reins Rains Pancake Worship. These poems can be read on Authors den at these links.

Azael Calhoun Tied the Reins Rains Pancake Worship
http://www.authorsden.com/visit/viewpoetry.asp?id=246811

Poverty Gulch
http://www.authorsden.com/visit/viewpoetry.asp?id=185405

Assaying Violet Fire
http://www.authorsden.com/visit/viewpoetry.asp?id=185801

Torchlight and Cobblestone: Mercy Street
http://www.authorsden.com/visit/viewpoetry.asp?id=185221

Gold Dust Pulpit
http://www.authorsden.com/visit/viewpoetry.asp?id=209539

Tombstone
http://www.authorsden.com/visit/viewpoetry.asp?id=212908

Judas
http://www.authorsden.com/visit/viewpoetry.asp?id=212909

Erotic Lesbian Stories by Sage Sweetwater (The Smokehouse Tales)

(The Smokehouse Tales)...life for the pioneer woman revolved around the smokehouse. Smokehouses were once necessary for the preservation of meat during the warm weather. Kinsey Abbot came from a fourth generation of smokers. The smokehouse had the original chinking and clay daubing, the infill between the logs, with hog's hair binder. The holes in the back of the wall of the smokehouse made a draft to make the fire smoke well. All throughout the valley in the mountain climate rich with fertile soil, the smokehouse permeated the air. Women took notice.

Kinsey Abbot lit the fire in the pit. Hooks with salmon, bacon, and hams hung from the smokehouse rafters. She leveled off a teaspoon of cure per five pounds. She tossed in cracked pepper to dry-cure venison hard salami. Kinsey Abbot looked up from her cutting jerkey board and saw a woman dressed in a wrap-around skirt coming up the scaffoled steps into the big log front door of the mountain smokehouse.

"The smell drove me out," the woman said. "Hickory and pecan wood makes me want to get all dressed up." She was carrying a cloth bag in the same hand as her purse.

"Do you live in the valley?" Kinsey asked.

"Yes."

"What can I do for you?" Kinsey asked.

The woman pulled a two-pound block of gouda cheese wrapped in cheesecloth from the bag. "I'd like you to smoke this," she said. "Wine sits chilling."

"Take about an hour. Cheese is cold-smoked. Temperatures range from seventy to a hundred degrees - don't want to cook it and turn it into cheese soup."

"Can I wait?" the woman asked.

"Sure. It'll be ready at closing time - about an hour." Kinsey adjusted the ambient temperature. She filled an aluminum pan with smoldering woodchips and ice and placed it on the lower rack. She filled the drip bowl with ice instead of water to help reduce the internal temperature to keep it under ninety degrees.

While Kinsey had her back turned filling the pan with ice, the woman quietly walked over and locked the big log door. She picked out the corner next to the sausage stuffer on the original chopping block and sat in the corner on the wood plank floor, on a throw pillow covered in a log cabin scene and pine trees. Kinsey had these throw pillows in every corner, stacked four high.

When Kinsey turned around, her disbelief and total shock to what she saw raised the smokehouse temperature! The woman had removed her wrap-around skirt. She was sitting on the the throw pillow with her legs spread wide open, wearing a pair of boxer shorts with the fly open and protruding out of the fly was a big latex cock! She was packing! She was packing! Yes! She was packing!

"Oh my God! What are you doing!" Kinsey shrieked, watching the woman stroking the cock with her right hand, with a hard look of lust. This rare kind of thing puts a mountain woman right in her place! Free and in nature's way to do the only thing a woman can do! Fuck the smokehouse fire out of her and ice down her clit!

The woman looked up at the sausage stuffer and the non-verbal innuendo answered by her eyes sent Kinsey to lock the big log door, seeing it had already been done. Everything was coming up big logs! She thought, Fuck me, your cheese will be ready in - we have 50 minutes - Oh my God! OH! Apple, cherry, maple, pecan, hickory, cheddar, mozarella, swiss, gouda, fontina, provolone, parmesan, pepper jack off!

The woman removed the boxer shorts.

"You're just full of surprises," Kinsey said, now as naked as a smokehouse Abbot. "Aren't you?"

"And aren't you glad it's not a roll-up awning you roll up and stow away at the end of the seasoning?" the woman said, seducing Kinsey to take her sausage stuffer inside of her wet pussy. The smoke billowed from out back of the smokehouse, seen all throughout the valley. The women took notice. And so did Kinsey Abbot. The woman now showed her feminine side. She was wearing a pretty corsette harness in patent leather. This lovely little harness doubled as a piece of lingerie because of its unique, lace-up back piece. It was made of the same swirly velvet material as the front panel, the corset-like back laced up in the middle and was shaped so it pointed down. It sit right above the woman's ass, turning her ass into a sexy little heart shape. The extra material was lightly padded and provided added stability to keep the whole harness and cock firmly in place when fucking. There were little loops sewn on the inside of the front straps and the back piece to hold garter straps, to make out for one sexy contraption!

Kinsey reached up to the sausage stuffer table and pulled off one hog casing for sausage stuffing, and fitted it over the latex cock. "Get down on all fours and let me fuck you that way," the woman said. "First..." and before she could finish, Kinsey kissed her, pushing her tongue in the woman's mouth in the most erotic kiss in the most erotic smokehouse fire situation she'd ever been in. Kinsey put her knees on the pillows, and the woman fucked her pussy from the backside and fire poured from inside Kinsey's pussy in an old day setting of sausage making. The hog casing lubricated with Kinsey's pussy juice, the smokehouse condom adding that much more sexual excitement to the affair. "Deeper!" Kinsey cried, rubbing her clit with ice. "Root it deeper!"

For forty five minutes, the woman fucked Kinsey, on her knees and begging for more. At fifty minutes, Kinsey rose from her knees, washed her hands, and pulled the two pound block of cheese from the rack and wrapped it back in cheese cloth, while the woman dressed. She handed it to the woman. "No charge."

"Wine sits chilling...thank you," the woman said, unlocking the big log door.

"Salmon jerky is smoked longer and hotter than normal and gives the jerky more body and strength. It can be eaten as finger food with mustard or cocktail sauce," Kinsey said.

****

The Abbot girls keep the smokehouse fired. All throughout the valley in the mountain climate rich with fertile soil, the smokehouse permeated the air. Women took notice. The other Abbot girl, Lindsey Abbot lit the fire in the pit. Hooks with salmon, bacon, and hams hung from the smokehouse rafters. She smoked Atlantic salmon and configured jerky size pieces, coating them with a special seasoning and citrus tang rub. Lindsey Abbot looked up from her cutting jerkey board and saw a woman dressed in a wrap-around skirt coming up the scaffoled steps into the big log front door of the mountain smokehouse...

Copyright 1/18/2009 Ms. Sage Sweetwater, firebrand lesbian novelist, unrivaled, bringing you the upper tier in lesbian erotica

http://www.authorsden.com/sagesweetwater

Erotic Lesbian Stories by Sage Sweetwater (Stooking Maris Widgeon)

MARIS WIDGEON - Long stemmed hollow robust winter wheat grown extensively for thatching.

(Stooking Maris Widgeon)...

Maris parked her two-team horse wagon at the edge of her 200 acres, planted one-half in Maris Widgeon and one-fourth rye grass and clover, and one-fourth turnips. She took the farming papers, experimented with what was printed in them.

Maris cut the wheat with her sickle, very labor intensive. She kept a sharpening stone handy, as the wheat stalks blunted the scythe, so she stopped occasionally to sharpen her sickle.

She stooked the first row of wheat, eight sheaves to each stook, binding and tying them with baling twine, She propped the stooks up so they would get plenty of wind and sun to dry out. She made sure the stooks pointed north and south so the sun could get both sides of the stook. When setting the stooks up, Maris insisted on putting the two flat sides together, and giving the sheaves a flop down and let the pair of sheaves stand up by themselves so the sun and wind could get into the middle. She stopped to sharpen her sickle, hearing a woman's voice close by from the dirt road. "Hea, let me do rosemaling on your wagon?"

Maris looked around and saw a gorgeous woman to be about in her thirties, dressed in white painter's bib overalls. She had long, dark hair and she was wearing a black cowgirl hat. "Your sheaves need to dry out, it'd give me time for rosemaling your wagon," the woman said.

"What is rosemaling? I'm stooking Maris Widgeon, what I know about," Maris said.

"Is that sexual?" the woman asked, "new term for it?"

"In olden times, four seeds were planted in one hole. Goes somehow like this. One for the rock and one for the crow, one to rot and one to grow," Maris said. She kept on stooking the sheaves, letting her eyes wander on the woman's crotch.

"Name's Steinn, as in rock, runic form. I travel the countryside doing rosemaling, the Norwegian art of roses painted on churches, wagons, and tins. I say again, your sheaves need to dry out, give me time for rosemaling the sides of your wagon. What do I call you?"

"Maris, stooking Maris Widgeon," Maris replied. "Well then let's drive this wagon over to the barn, Steinn. Climb on."

"Drive on over to my truck and I'll grab my trunk, paint and brushes, Maris, stooking Maris Widgeon."

They pulled up into the barn, eight bays, ten yards long, and five yards wide, and a good height for stooking Maris Widgeon. "Whoa!" Maris stopped her team. "Let me unhitch my team and you can get started. What's this going to cost me?" Maris asked, raising her eyebrows.

"We'll see, Maris, stooking Maris Widgeon," Steinn traveled from county to county for merely room and board in exchange for rosemaling. She carried all of her belongings with her in a rosemaled trunk. She was ready today to try another form of commission for her folk art. Steinn looked around the barn for personal inspiration to apply the rosemaling to Maris's wagon. "What are these lovely wheat figures?" Steinn asked. These wheat ornaments were lying all around in baskets, some even hanging from ceiling sacks.

"They are thatched roof ornaments I make to put on the roof, hayricks and strawstacks. Cockerels, birds, foxes, pheasants, lambs, crosses, mells, churns, you name it, I've made it. The farmers buy them to attach to the ash pole at the gable of their corn rick. They call them straw dollies. Shows who owns the stack."

"Yea, I've seen them around - weather vanes spinning in the breeze," Steinn said. She pulled out a bottle of whiskey. "I just saw one of these dollies at the cider stand down the road, you make it?" she asked, handing Maris the whiskey.

"Yea, the fox thatch ornament keeps away the birds who pick at the apples in the orchard," Maris said. She took a nip. "Good cider!"

"Which one keeps away the birds who pick at your patch?" Steinn winked. She was using C and S strokes in her rosemaling design on the wagon, featuring scrolls and flowing lines with floral designs in a deep red color.

"Oh Steinn, there is no finer sight than to see a newly thatched rosemaler!" Maris took the brush from Steinn's hand, pushed her back against the wagon and kissed her hard, tongue's touching. "It's what you want for commission, isn't it?" She pushed her tongue to the back of Steinn's throat. Hearing Steinn moan was worth every salivating inch of it!

Steinn pulled Maris down in the straw in the first bay. She undid Maris's silver wheat sheaf belt bucket and slipped her hand inside Maris's jeans. She felt a wetness she had never felt before as she stooked Maris Widgeon. She finger fucked Maris with two fingers inside her. "One for the rock, one for the crow," Steinn whispered, going down. She licked Maris Widgeon in the ‘milky’ stage. She ate Maris's pussy, opening her sheave, leaving her hard stook standing, encouraging the growth of her clit to become even harder. Steinn saw that Maris's clit tapered, at the head (tip) end and larger at the node (butt) end. She sucked Maris's clit, requiring a long soaking time. Maris sprouted and began to smell! "Cash crop!" Maris cried.

Because working the straw for the wheat dolly had to be soaked sufficiently to render it pliable, Maris bent the cockerel in Steinn's buttend, puckered, roughly planting and sowing Steinn's orgasm. As reaper and binder in action, she fucked Steinn's ass with the cockerel thatched ornament, while eating her pussy, witnessing a return to the use of planting locally produced wheat.

"Stooking Maris Widgeon!" Steinn screamed. "Fuck my ass! Cock dolly!"

Maris took Steinn inside her home. Sheaves need to dry out. She stood Steinn upright for a couple of minutes and wrapped her up in the Amish quilt. And then into the night, they stooked Maris Widgeon in the scissor position, both of their clits touching one another, their legs entwined, rubbing clit to clit, "Crying the Neck." Harvest hymn sung out in orgasm, lustily, "Plough the Fields and Scatter".

It is unusual to see many old wheat dollies because it is common practice to break up the one from the previous year and sow the grains in the spring with the new planting.

They hitched up the team and drove the wagon with fresh rosemaling out to the field three weeks later to collect the dried out sheaves. Stooking Maris Widgeon, folk arts into the art of lesbian fucking, thatching and rosemaling...

Copyright 1/13/2009 Ms. Sage Sweetwater, firebrand lesbian novelist, unrivaled, bringing you the upper tier in lesbian erotica
http://www.authorsden.com/sagesweetwater

Erotic Lesbian Stories by Sage Sweetwater (Thimbles and the Shelf Life of a Quilt)

(Thimbles and The Shelf Life of a Quilt)...Quilting is a historical part of women's history. A quilt bonds a woman to her inner artist and delivers warmth, often maintaining connections with a woman's homeland and family.

When Kate was a young girl, she went with her grandmother to her old-fashioned quilting bee every week. Her grandmother died and Kate, now in her forties, wanted to maintain a modern day connection to quilting. She had been saving up patchwork scraps for years, the squares that would eventually create the design on the top of her quilt.

Off to the Teton Quilters Retreat in eastern Idaho's Teton Valley, Kate flew into Jackson Hole's Airport with its 6300 feet runway, just north of Jackson, Wyoming with a glorious view of both Grand Teton and Yellowstone National Parks. She rented a car and drove to the Teton Quilters Retreat.

Upon arriving, she was greeted by the hostess and introduced to seven other women quilters. The sewing room had eight quilting stations distinctively designed with the quilter in mind. Each station had its own swivel chair and an OTT light to provide true-color illumination.

There were two spacious cutting tables complete with large cutting mats and rulers. The two ironing stations had their irons ready to go. The sleeping quarters assigned to her was a room for two quilters, the log cabin room with two double beds made of logs.

The rest of the retreat was furnished with every amenity you could imagine to provide a memorable quilting experience.

Kate took her place in the quilter's circle, next to a woman maybe in her thirties, hair pinned up and donned in black-framed glasses with a quartz-bead chain dangling from them. She looked like the librarian type, prim and proper with a shyness about her. "Hi, I'm Kate," she introduced herself to the women.

"Hi Kate, welcome," the ladies greeted her back. The women made small talk and chatted about their hometowns and what brought them here to the Teton Quilters Retreat, except for the woman sitting next to Kate who was very quiet. Kate loved the way the woman smelled. She was wearing a beautiful fragrance that wafted in the air. The woman dropped her thimble. She cleared her throat. "Excuse me." Then the woman went down under the table to retrieve it. She put her head between Kate's thighs and sniffed hard.

Kate could feel the woman's breath on her jeans and movement of the woman's head in her pussy. Kate, shocked, adjusted her seat when the woman sat back down in her chair. She made eye contact with the woman. "I'm Ally," the woman said.

"Hi Ally, nice to meet you, If you'll excuse me, ladies, I think I'll go unpack." Kate excused herself and went to her assigned sleeping quarters. When she opened the door, she noticed someone was already assigned to this room. She felt her pussy lips swollen and the wetness between her thighs saturated her jeans. She pulled the curtains and darkened the room when Ally came in.

"Room mates?" Kate asked.

"Hmm...lovely," Ally said, locking the door. With her thimble still on her middle finger, she motioned Kate to the bed next to the wall. Ally unpinned her hair and unbuttoned her white cotton blouse, standing there in her bra. She removed her glasses and then her skirt. It was now that Kate knew Ally dropped the thimble on purpose. Kate, speechless, stared at the beautiful woman standing before her, thinking about the berries she ordered from tonight's dinner menu which would be served promptly at seven. Her clit pounded and she lost all self-control when Ally spoke. "Take your clothes off, Kate."

"What's the shelf life of a quilt, Ally?" Kate said, hoping she could stall Ally. Nervously she stared at a completely naked Ally now. Ally's nipples were hard leather nose companions to her breasts, rounded as the globes in a library. Her sparse pussy hair decorated her clit perfectly.

"Do I look like a librarian?" Ally asked Kate.

"Yes," Kate whispered.

"Pull your panties off, Kate." Ally instructed.

The sexuality flavored from scenes from How to Make an American Quilt. Kate took off her panties and Ally motioned to her to lie down on the bed. Ally rubbed Kate's clit with the thimble on her middle finger. She thimble-finger fucked Kate slow and deliberate. Kate tossed her head wildly from right to left on the pillow. Ally went down on Kate, licking her pussy rapidly and then slow and then stopping to rub Kate's clit with the thimble, and then eating her again, repeating it over and over. "I'm coming...ahh...filled out my dinner menu!" Kate screamed.

"You've got to put together all of the pieces," Ally said. "The art of quilting." Ally reached into her luggage and took out a leather harness studded with strips of leather and dangling thimbles. Unattached into the harness was a five-inch dildo. She laid it on the spare bed and pointed. "Put it on, Kate."

"What!"

"I want you to attach the dick and strap it on and give it to me," Ally said, uncapping a bottle of lube.

Kate sat naked on the other bed and observed the pieces, and began putting the pieces together. "Most of the quilting material from my grandmother's generation was from flour sacks and left over remnants."

"Kate, quick!" Ally gasped.

Kate walked over to Ally and knelt between Ally's legs on the bed. Ally poured lube on the dick as Kate rocked back and forth, stroking, gradually coming closer to Ally's pussy.

"Fuck me, Kate," Ally begged. All Kate could think of was the berries on the dinner menu. She dropped down with her head between Ally's legs and ate her pussy. She licked her from the bottom of her pee hole to top of her clit until she had Ally coming.

"Now I'll give you the main course," Kate told Ally, positioning herself once again between Ally's sticky thighs. Kate lubed and inserted the dildo and began fucking Ally in increments to add up to the length of the Jackson Hole runway! The thimbles bobbed wildly, dangling all around the harness, each time she stroked it in Ally's pussy, the thimble in back, touched its metal in Kate's asshole, sending her into orgasm, a most memorable quilting experience...

Copyright 1/7/09 Ms. Sage Sweetwater, firebrand lesbian novelist,
unrivaled, bringing you the upper tier in lesbian erotica
http://www.authorsden.com/sagesweetwater

Erotic Lesbian Stories by Sage Sweetwater (Roping in the Jaguar)

The need for writing and codifying has emerged with the dawn of history. The picture writing stage phonetically used pictures of things composed of the first alphabet of a picture's first indication and letter. Jada creates Arabic calligraphy she converts to lesbian decoration. She's a favored Arabic lesbian artist who's gained wide reputation and vast fame. Having mastered making ink of natural substances, Jada uses seeds of yam and glue. The black color she prefers, but there are other colors: red, blue, green, brown, purple and ruby. She adds fragrances to give ink good smell.

Jada placed a tealight candle in the bottom of the bowl of the oil warmer filled with patchouli oil as a ploy to lure the woman inside with an erotic scent through the open door.

The beautiful woman wore dark sunglasses, bright red lipstick, leopard print skirt and a black leather jacket. She walked past the shop everyday and peered in the window. "Why won't you come in?" Jada mouthed, making eye contact with the dark-haired woman through the window glass.

Jada uses the art of calligraphy as conveying lesbian eroticism. She desperately wanted to unleash her creativity on this mysterious woman, through hot lesbian sex. She wanted to create this woman spreadeagle on light and dark papyrus. She lusted for another medium other than stone, pottery, or leather to transcribe upon.

Today, the woman circled the shop twice, looking in the window both times. She was driving Jada wild with all of her seductive looks, this time flashing Jada a half-moon breast. Jada's pussy seethed like Cyprus papyrus reed that grows in freshwater marshes along the river Nile.

Jada began playing her Arabic tambourine of a fixed skin with 10 pairs of jingles from Beit Sherif in Zamalek, seducing the woman, hoping she would circle the shop again and the music would bring her inside. If erotic scent and music couldn't bring her in, nothing could...or could it?

Meanwhile...back in the alley...the woman's black jaguar car was parked in back of Jada's shop in the loading zone. She took a sturdy hemp rope fitted with a climbing hook on the end from her trunk. She uncoiled the rope and gave it a few swings and then threw the hook end up on the roof. It caught, and the woman pulled the rope between her thighs, readying herself to climb up the building walls and onto the roof. She teased her pussy with the rope, nearly giving herself an orgasm. She pulled herself up onto the roof and unhooked the claw hook and coiled up the rope. She walked over to the open skylight and removed the screen, and then set the claw hook into the roof and proceeded to climb down into Jada's shop. She was wild with desire at the smell of the patchouli and the exotic sounds of the tambourine jingles.

The woman, now inside the storeroom, had a plan to lure Jada in the back without scaring her so Jada wouldn't think she was a burglar. She called Jada's shop number on her cell.

"Hello, Pharonic Lesbian Coloring Books," Jada answered.

"Hello...can you come to the back in your storeroom...I have been walking by your shop for days and I think I have something you may want..."

"Are you my jaguar woman?"

"Come and see your desire." ... end call.

Jada locked the front door, put the closed sign in the window and turned out the lights. Her hard clit pounded and her pussy was on fire. Here was a lesbian pharonic coloring book artist who was about to unleash her animalistic desires through fucking a woman stranger as mysterious as the oldest calligraphies on Earth, the hieroglyphics and the jaguar.

What she encountered once she walked through the door of her storeroom was scented candles lit and the woman naked, her leather and jaguar thrown on the easels and the climbing rope dangling from the skylight. She was lying on the mattress made of papyrus. "Take off your clothes and move my clit ring with your tongue...I have wanted you for days...my name is Saja and I want you."

"You're a climber?" Jada asked, pointing at the rope. She undressed slowly, letting Saja take it all in. When Jada removed her panties, the gold ring piercing her clit glowed in the candlelight..."First, you move MY clit ring with your tongue. Saja." They both had clit piercings.

"Not a social climber, your climber. Would you settle for a 69?" Saja asked, not giving enough time for Jada to answer. Saja positioned herself over Jada's face setting her pussy down upon it, scenting her with the wildness of pussy. The video camera activated from the very first when Saja climbed down the rope.

Very vocally, the lapping and sucking sounds turned into wild cries of passion when each of them tugged on each other's clit rings simultaneously. Like harvesting papyrus, they ate each other out like the outer fibers of papyrus when they are peeled away and the core of the stalks are stripped, where comes the best quality from the center. Jada tongued Saja's clit in the bareness of her shaved pussy where the jaguar tattoo's tail touched her clit. Saja screamed like a wildcat caught in the Cyprus papyrus. They both coaxed each other "Lick it harder...lick it!" Jada licked the spotted tail, flicking Saja's clit ring with her tongue until she brought Saja to orgasm and simultaneously Saja made Jada come. Saja spread Jada's cunt lips and spit through her clit hoop, the warm spit landing on Jada's big clit, one when peeled back from the hood and pumped with the clit pump penetrated Saja's pussy in the missionary position with Jada on top, fucking her big erect clit into Saja's pussy, penetrating the wet, pink walls of her inner jaguar, tongue kissing passionately. The camcorder captured pharonic coloring book of lesbians in erotic poses which Jada would illustrate into erotic lesbian picture hieroglyphics.

"Who are you?" Jada asked. Her tongue tingled with pussy jungle juice and her sensitive purple clit throbbed from coming so powerfully.

"The woman who is your supplier of papyrus. You order from me online every month. I give you a discount. Now you know why. What would you like me to do with the rope?"

"Climb back up and out and then come in the front door and ask me out for dinner," Jada replied. "You know what I eat." Jada wiped her lips with Saja's leopard thong and polished both of their clit rings with Saja's thong...an artist who had unleashed her artistic desire and creativity through different means...the history and origin of the jaguar and hieroglyphics.

Copyright 1/4/2009 Ms. Sage Sweetwater, firebrand lesbian novelist,
unrivaled, bringing you the upper tier in lesbian erotica
http://www.authorsden.com/sagesweetwater

Erotic Lesbian Stories by Sage Sweetwater (Message in a Bottle)

The ocean was the method of disposal and also that of boomerang serendipity. Clarice St. Martene threw the reisling bottle as far as she could. It caught air and drifted on the intoxicating wine fumes left inside. Her and Cassie sailed their relationship on kite strings, flying high on insomniac sex, only sleeping in between orgasms. The tip of Cassie's pink peninsula eroded into white sand in Clarice's mouth where they were both anchored off the clitoral swell. Clarice being a yacht agent knew about the message in a bottle..."I hope this reaches a woman who I know had been roughed up by the pirates. Her name is Cassie Reinhold. If this message in a bottle reaches you and you were able to retrieve it, please call me..." and then the phone number.

The sails were woven colorfully with threads of contradiction. It's a land of priests and pagans, pirates, and saints. The Mafia Godfather said there may be some bizarre connection to the kidnapping. "Get your feet a great massage, St. Martene...my Marina was absent for three months...and then...one day, she appeared out of nowhere with a cask of a rare aged wine...and we drank....and we fucked like we never fucked before...so you see, you miss the woman, then she appears and you fuck like you never fucked before..."

International bluewater, the question to reef or not to reef. Whether 'tis easier in the end to weather the gusts and torrents of outrageous squalls, or to take arms against a sea of troubles. It gave Clarice St. Martene time to furl Triangle's Island. She'd been pulling sails up all of her life, like a Venetian blind and she was tired of it. Six hundred miles from the Galapagos Islands, Main and job flogged cannon shots in the pelting wind, driving the gunwale under. This can't be happening, Clarice thought, in drop-jaw astonishment. The illusion sluiced up to her pussy. She put her hand down under panty line and fingered her pussy anticipating a reciprocal course, navigating foreplay.

Her affair at sea had been with the very lucid copper-skinned Cassie Reinhold. The cell phone rang. "Hello."

"Hello, is this Clarice St. Martene?"

"Yes, speaking."

"Ms. St. Martene. I have found your message in a bottle."

Clarice listened to the voice. It was right behind her, trailing with a yard of candle and a message in a bottle. "Cassie! Cassie!"

Cast as the "Mafia Godfather," the yacht pilot came up from the pilot house and served wine. Clarice St. Martene loved to play out the kidnapped fantasy with Cassie.

Cassie had chartered the yacht for a two-month instructional cruise. She prided herself on learning the ropes of big boat sailing. Mentally conditioning herself to be sea worthy threw her into the arms of well-endowed Clarice St. Martene, a gorgeous lesbian whose tongue swam in Cassie's salt-lick anus. Her face could have launched a thousand ships. "Pure ambrosia, darling." Those words slipped off Clarice's tongue as smooth as they were buried in Cassie's salty asshole or her pussy, either orifice.

They took turns snorkling the abyss of each other's spindrift cunts. They sucked on each other's cinnamon-oiled clits as the warm chinook breeze puffed out the sails, propelling them deeper into erotic paradise. Lapsus Linguae! (Slip of the tongue).

"Clarice, Clarice..."

"What is it, Cassie?"

"Tie my hands with the ropes. You're going to lose me overboard if you don't. Please. I need you to live up to your billing as we come to know each other more deeply."

They were fucking on the raised sette on starboard that converted into a queen-size sea berth. The personal dignity of Cassie's request required that conversion immediately. Tie you, yes...and resuscitate you with the cold vodka. They kissed freely, and then the request was honored. "If you don't come, I quit my job," Clarice said. "I want you to come to where the coral heads lie in wait."

A beautiful yacht agent fulfilling a primitive passion bound in hemp, Cassie Reinhold's hands tied to the bed, there are simply no words to describe the immediacy of this moment. Cassie tossed her head wildly from side to side when Clarice ate her pussy. "I have you in full hoist submerged in such passion, Cassie. I'm interpreting every move you make. I want your anus." Clarice rimmed Cassie's asshole with such passion not unheard of for a woman to do. Clarice's anal tongue flare showed up in the brilliance of the candlelight reflecting in the mirror. Cassie watched it all, as she was looming close to orgasm, Clarice put a piece of frayed, rough cord in her mouth and touched that end to Cassie's anus. Cassie came with such force, she turned a deep scarlet. The feeling of the frayed cord touching her anus running with pussy juice and Clarice's hot breath blowing on her there Lapsus Linguae! (Slip of the tongue) sent her into waves of climax with an open-faced honesty about itself. Clarice touched the coral head to Cassie's clit, buzzing rumors of a "pirate attack." Clarice St. Martene threw the reisling bottle as far as she could into the ocean.

Copyright 12/30/08 Ms. Sage Sweetwater, firebrand lesbian novelist
unrivaled, bringing you the upper tier in lesbian erotica
http://www.authorsden.com/sagesweetwater

Erotic Lesbian Stories by Sage Sweetwater (Working in Harness)

Some Virginia planters had as many as six horses. Charley June's clients are typically rich and want the best. She supplies the equestrian set with saddle and harness. In her barn are rolled-up hides, partially finished leather products, and scrap baskets filled with bits of leather. Nothing is wasted. Nothing has changed in the trade during the past two centuries for the saddle makers who deal with the 'carriage trade.' Saddles still are made by hand today. The tools are the same. Saddles and harnesses do not lend themselves to industrial mass production..

Victoria Dupardeau went bounding on horseback through the fields and forest wanting a"good seat." She wanted to fuck Charley June covered in cheesecloth to prevent spitting, what the English saddle-frame makers used over beech wood, the makers of the tree of the saddle, the skeleton in other words. Victoria had only an apprentice understanding of leather and lesbianism. You could say she was a 'good hand' not so much as learned as absorbed.

Charley June enjoyed a strapping reputation as a "harness lover." She was telling the woman customer, "with traditional tools, techniques, and materials, my harnesses should be in a museum." With a wink, Charley June ran a piece of thread made from hemp coated with beeswax under her tongue, (with eat me like pig skin erotic insinuation) and attached a flexible boar's bristle to the end of each thread to stitch through the fire bucket.

Victoria Dupardeau had a fire in her eighteenth-century pussy and she was fighting to stay in the saddle. The system of straps connecting a woman to an animal was a product of intense freedom and as sexually classy as a woman's sidesaddle that few women, and only those of the highest class rode in colonial America during the late 1700s. And there were postilions used by carriage drivers, portmanteaus for luggage, and racing saddles to add weights to handicap jockeys. Making and repairing saddles kept a good saddlemaker in business. Victoria Dupardeau's pussy lips were swollen in her jeans, and her uncontrollable desire to rip her zipper downward and show Charley June the juicy detailed execution that comes from hands-on experience was nearing the front of the barn door, where it would soon burst open with an introduction and a proposition that would keep Charley June in production for the first quarter, and we're not talking leather parts for bellows!

The insides of Victoria Dupardeau's jeans were soaked, and Charley June had been "lovin" that womanly scent since the age of thirteen. A barn, two thirteen year old girls, and a bed of straw turns a girl into a woman who is accustomed to it from early learning. Charley June and the girl watched out the barn window, and they knew in quickness to pull up panties, zip jeans and wipe lips, gargling with a stashed bottle of cinnamon mouthwash. because you know, pussy breath is so wonderfully overpowering and unmistakably revealing of the act.
"What can I do for you?" Charley June asked.

"My name is Victoria Dupardeau. I want something for this...can you accomodate me?" Victoria Dupardeau held up a "pistol bucket" or saddle holster. Charley June smiled and took the leather in her hands and sniffed. "Is your horse outside?" Charley June asked.

"How did you know?"

"I smell fresh horse lather on the leather. It's purely intoxicating, like that other smell. Hi, I'm Charley June." She extended her hand out to Victoria Dupardeau.

"Look inside," Victoria Dupardeau said.

Charley June peered down inside the pistol bucket. Smiling, Charley June nodded. "Be right back. I have what you need up in the loft."

Victoria Dupardeau had a look around at the leather collars for dogs, bear, and deer. As a leather and lesbian apprentice, she came to appreciate each piece she touched. She picked up a pigskin handle of a long driver's whip and fell to her knees in the straw, swearing that she would get a good grip on Charley June. Hogskin had the texture to be soft and daring and teeth-baring. Victoria Dupardeau was not vocally shy and not yet knowing it, neither was Charley June. Voice was particularly versatile in passion, cries and screams, and vocal appreciation for orgasm.

"Can you come up to the loft, Victoria?"

"Should I bring anything up?"

"Cheesecloth and pigskin," Charley June answered.

How did she know? Victoria whispered under her breath. A woman can tell. A woman knows when she wants the hide, its strength and its grain housing an object of supreme pleasure and sensual rapture.

Victoria Dupardeau climbed up to the loft and fell to her knees when she saw Charley June lying naked in the straw, working in harness. She had a thigh harness strapped on, with O-rings and adjustable D-rings for a fine-tune fit for any size dildo in Victoria Dupardeau's pistol bucket. The lube represented vocal independence and its insertion into the fire of eighteenth century pussy. "Fuck me into colonial Williamsburg!" Victoria Dupardeau undressed, her femininity unbound for apprenticeship, not in the traditional strap-on waist harness. She squatted down over Charley June's strapped thigh and impaled herself on the lubricated cock free of the saddle holster she went bounding on horseback through the fields and forest wanting a "good seat." She took the cock deep on the downstroke as Charley June pumped her thigh to meet in supreme pleasure and sensual rapture with Victoria Dupardeau's cries and screams, and vocal appreciation for orgasm. Charley June rose up from the bed of straw and covered herself in the cheesecloth, making a hole for the cock strapped to her thigh. Victoria Dupardeau kneeled and sucked Charley June's cock and fucked Charley June's pussy with the pigskin handle of a long driver's whip. Hogskin had the texture to be soft and daring and teeth-baring.

Victoria Dupardeau's breasts made a request to be cradled between Charley June's thigh harness. The lube represented vocal independence and its insertion into the fire of eighteenth century cleavage. Charley June stroked eight inches from cleavage to Victoria Dupardeau's mouth, back and forth in lubricated bliss. Victoria Dupardeau's nipples demanded to be sucked passionately into entry of Charley June's ledger and order book."Suck me hard, and then go down with your mouth," Victoria whispered.

A modern day lesbian maker of saddles and harness feels the same way as her lesbian predecessors, because little has changed in the trade during the past two centuries. and nothing has changed about eating pussy. Charley June's tongue flicked apart Victoria Dupardeau's pussy lips and she licked her like a "clam," a clamp that held leather, but left hands free to stitch. When it came to stitching leather, Charley June worked to produce an effect known in the trade as "finish." Finish reflected pride of craft, skill, and a thorough knowledge of the material. Virginia is a great place to practice the craft. "Look outside," Victoria Dupardeau said, pointing out the loft window. Charley June saw a carriage rolling toward the barn. They gargled with a stashed bottle of cinnamon mouthwash, because you know, pussy breath is so wonderfully overpowering and unmistakably revealing of the act.

Copyright 12/29/08 Ms. Sage Sweetwater, firebrand lesbian novelist, unrivaled, bringing you the upper tier in lesbian erotica
http://www.authorsden.com/sagesweetwater