Best Women's Erotica 2014

by Violet Blue

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Introduction

  OUT IN THE OPEN

  I HATE SEX

  TOYS

  HER FOREST, HER RULES

  IN THREES

  THE CAKE

  PUNISHING DESDEMONA

  MONSOON SEASON

  MARYLOU

  REALITY TV

  GENTLEMAN’S VALET

  CHRYSALIS

  CHATTEL

  REVEALING

  NYOTAIMORI

  BLAME SPARTACUS

  CLOSE SHAVE

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  ABOUT THE EDITOR

  Copyright Page

  INTRODUCTION: NEVER TOO FAR

  The Best Women’s Erotica series began in 2000. I took over the series as editor in 2005 and found that I’d inherited guardianship of a friskily forward-thinking millennial.

  I’ve edited Best Women’s Erotica for nearly a decade. Every year, I receive as many as 300 submissions—meaning I’ve read somewhere near 3,000 hopeful erotic stories for the series alone. Best Women’s Erotica has also won its share of awards over the years under my hand, with honors ranging from gold to bronze. A few authors have managed to be published at both ends of that near-decade.

  “I can see now that I made a mistake,” her husband said. “You don’t need your freedom, do you? You need to know you’re wanted. You need to know you’re loved.”

  Sasha felt her legs go weak. She leaned on Alex, and he held her weight. There were no windows in their front hall. She opened and closed her eyes to the same solid black.

  “I’ll be clear from here on out. You’re mine. I own you. I tell you to spend time with your friends because it gives me pleasure to do so. Because I like you missing me, and I like it when you come home with new stories from your friends and your world to entertain me. I expect you to stay independent and entertaining to me. Do you understand?”

  Sasha nodded.

  “Because I have no interest in owning something weak and unchallenging, Sasha. I want you strong and I want you to have your own interests.” Alex lowered his voice even more. “But you belong to me. Do you understand?”

  Sasha nodded again.

  “I’m not sure you do. Go into the living room. I’m going to show you.”

  —Errica Liekos, “Chattel”

  Including this edition—my ninth—I’ve published 173 erotic stories written by female authors from several cities in Australia (including Victoria and Sydney), many locations in England (including London, Brighton and Surrey), Germany (Berlin), the Netherlands, many places in Canada (like Toronto and Vancouver), France (Paris), New Zealand, India (New Delhi), Vietnam, a few locations in Scotland (Glasgow and Edinburgh), Ireland, Spain, Russia, Mexico (Mexico City), and nearly half of all the United States, from Hawaii to Brooklyn, New York.

  He returns her surly stare with his own. I notice how his eyes look suddenly smoky in the intensity of the moment. Abby can make things get serious in a heartbeat. My girlfriend has that way about her that tells everyone she lives in a no bullshit zone. She’s smirking now. “See this is my problem. Marcella thinks I fuck like a girl.”

  “Abby!” I can’t believe how she blurted that out.

  Abby folds her arms. “Do you want to help her make a comparison?”

  “Oh my god!” I gasp, hiding behind my hands.

  Abby plows forward despite my mortification. “This is the last class tonight. I can lock the door.”

  Brett doesn’t look shocked. Even if he is, he’s way too cool for that. He looks amused. “You want me to do your girlfriend. Right here.”

  —Alyssa Turner, “Reality TV”

  Even though it hails from women all over the world, the series has become a lens through which to view the direction of mainstream Western female sexuality. Best Women’s Erotica has been able to stay ahead of erotic trends by being both nimble and unafraid—I’ve simply been publishing the best erotic fiction I’ve found (with the requirement that it be superbly written and include plenty of hardcore sex). It makes people ask me what I think women’s sexual fantasies are, why women sometimes want to dominate or be dominated, and what it is, exactly, that “women want.”

  “I’ll just put this down here, shall I?” he said, gesturing with his head in the direction of the antique dresser. His accent was more rainy Manchester than romantic Sorrento, but it didn’t take the level of my filthy fantasizing down even a notch.

  I just nodded, barely noticing that Mitchell had returned to the room and was already fumbling in his wallet for a no doubt hefty tip. Not that he needed to buy this man’s silence. The expression on the waiter’s face told me that not only did he like what he saw very much indeed, but also that this wasn’t the first time he’d interrupted some explicit scene or other. After all, the Charmont prided itself on its discretion as a venue, and you didn’t hang on to that kind of reputation for long if you employed staff who didn’t know when to keep their mouths shut.

  He left the room with slow, backward steps, taking one last good look at my naked curves and the submissive posture in which they were displayed. Even before the door shut behind him, Mitchell was unbuckling his belt and pulling it free of his trouser loops.

  —Elizabeth Coldwell, “In Threes”

  Explicit erotica authored by and for women, as it turns out, refuses to be pinned down into neat categories—and nothing has infuriated writers for women’s magazines more when they’ve asked me what the series means for “what women really want [in bed].” What it means, I tell them, is that what women want is high-quality porn woven into their high-quality fiction, and every year we break new taboos in our shared quest for thrills and satisfaction. And if the stories in this collection are indeed a barometer for the range of lovemaking, masturbation and fucking that women fantasize about, in a dizzying and sometimes shocking range of fantasies and combinations, then this quest is deliciously never-ending.

  Don’t let this lead you to believe the negative stereotype that we women can’t make up our minds when it comes to sex. The women who write these stories know exactly what they want. Our readers do, too. I know this because they tell me, more women than I can count; in every way they can communicate to me, the readers let me know what they think, all the time, consistently and without fail. I listen, and engage readers at every chance they give me. The women who read these steamy stories and use them to the fullest also use the literate porn they find between these pages (and pixels) as yes-no-maybe laundry lists of sexual fantasies.

  I found myself an isolated corner and began to read a historical romance novel. The prose was clean and virginal, so I filled in the dirty parts in my head. After a few wild fantasies, I became completely aroused, and decided to head home to the privacy of my dorm for a bit of self-love. A sudden rainstorm prevented me from taking the long walk home, so I scanned the library.

  I found the perfect spot: it was secluded, yet still in the open. Anyone could have stumbled upon me, skirt yanked up, fingers inside my panties as I brought myself to a toe-curling orgasm. It was a life changing-experience, so thrilling and naughty. I was hooked from that moment.

  —Oleander Plume, “Out in the Open”

  Yet as much as this series is clearly, er, useful for so many women, the thing I’ve not yet felt the pundits and magazines are willing to admit is something that has become very obvious for me and the authors I’ve published over the decade here. It’s that once women uncork the possibilities of what they like in sexual fantasy and fetish erotica, they don’t stop at the first story that works for them. We keep going, and no, it doesn’t get old because we keep looking for more to turn us on and get us off—which is exactly what this series sets out to do.
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  The table beneath me is warm, but the food presented on my naked skin is not. A rainbow of sashimi is fanned across my belly: salmon, tuna, mackerel and yellowtail. Across my ribs is an array of sushi. Between my breasts are cuts of eel, drizzled with rich teriyaki sauce. And carefully arranged around my nipples are clutches of salmon roe, the eggs vibrant and bursting. Soft purple orchids frame my sex, and in the diamond formed by my spread and angled legs is a painted flask of warm sake.

  I breathe slowly, shallowly, so as not to disturb the presentation of food. The smell is intoxicating and I long for a bite of fish, the tingle of ginger and wasabi on my tongue. But for now I am merely a decoration, an attractive display for the artfully arranged delicacies. In other rooms, other girls are bound as I am, their bodies serving the same erotic aesthetic. From somewhere I can hear the melancholy notes of a shamisen being played by one of the hostesses.

  —Rose de Fer, “Nyotaimori”

  This edition of Best Women’s Erotica is a luscious example of what it looks—and feels—like when we demand more, more, more and richer, more sublime than the last. When going too far is just enough to tip us over the edge into taboo orgasmica. And what it’s like when we try on the nastiest, filthiest sexual fantasies only to change into a romantic romp later, knowing we always wind up safe at home after our trip to the dirty movies in our minds.

  I hope you find this year’s collection as much of a wild ride—and sometimes, an erotic homecoming—as we have on this side of the manuscript.

  Warm wishes,

  Violet Blue

  San Francisco

  OUT IN THE OPEN

  Oleander Plume

  It’s only 7:00 a.m., and my panties are already damp.

  I lock myself into the tiny unisex bathroom and slip them off over my sandals, then wad them into a ball and stuff them into the bottom of my backpack. My long skirt flows around my bare skin as I step back out into the public eye. The coffee shop is almost deserted today. Kind of disappointing, really. Less people around not only lowers the risk, but gives me less fodder for my fantasies. Then I realize it’s still early; the morning rush hasn’t begun. So, I stay.

  “One large café mocha, please.”

  The girl behind the counter has large, vacuous eyes and blood-red nail polish on her long fingernails. She looks bored. As I look at her, I wonder about her sexual appetites. Does she prefer to be on top, in control and dominant? Is she capable of multiple orgasms? Then, the question that always follows these random musings. Does she masturbate? I picture her leaning against the counter, pulling up her short denim skirt, and fingering her swollen clit. Her red nails shimmer under the fluorescent lights as she wriggles in bliss.

  “Anything else?” Her soft voice snaps me back to earth.

  “No thanks.”

  As she prepares my order, my eyes bounce around the room. I see a man in a perfectly tailored business suit, sipping a cup of black coffee as he reads the newspaper. My pondering begins again. Is he married? Does he have a satisfying sex life? He doesn’t look like the type who would masturbate, but I’m sure he does. I imagine him behind a large, expensive desk, fly undone, stroking his thick cock with quick jerks while he watches porn on the Internet. My mouth waters, and my hunger grows. I imagine the look on his face as he reaches orgasm, eyes shut tight, wet lips open. Afterward, he cleans up with a pristine, white handkerchief as he hums a country song.

  “Here’s your mocha.” I shiver when her hand lightly brushes mine as she hands me my order.

  “Thanks.”

  I sit at a table in a far corner, facing the door. Two more people enter the shop: an older man, and a middle-aged woman wearing a business suit with sneakers. Commuters, only here for a fleeting moment before they head off to toil the day away, fueled by caffeine. Neither of them notices me. It’s not that I’m forgettable; it’s just that I have learned the fine art of blending in. I can become part of the landscape, so entwined with it that I’m almost like a piece of furniture. Hiding in plain sight is not only a survival mechanism; it’s also a very helpful aspect to my hobby.

  The shop has free wi-fi, so I pull out my laptop and get it set up. I enter the password for my blog and feel myself starting to drip. The excitement is almost too much to bear sometimes. My blog is the newest aspect of my naughty little pastime but has quickly become part of my daily routine. Being a part-time college student far from home, I have many free hours to fill. I sip my café mocha as I wait for the page to load. The businessman I had been watching earlier folds his newspaper neatly, then leaves the shop. The sneaker-footed woman claims his vacant chair. She looks so stressed, her lips pursed as she furiously sends a text. My mind puts together a complicated scenario for her as I begin to type.

  There is a woman sitting across from me. Buttoned up, all business. What is she like when she lets her hair down? I’ll bet she likes it in the ass. I can almost see her, bent over, plump round butt in the air, shivering with lust as she waits to be taken. She might even like a little spanking first. After he makes her ass nice and pink, her lover pours massage oil between her spread cheeks and then rubs it into her hungry hole as she mewls like a cat in heat. She longs to be stuffed with cock, and her lover obliges. While he fucks her back door, she sucks his fingers.

  Seeing the words in my head come to life on the screen is almost surreal. I hit the enter key, publishing my dirty thoughts for the world to see. Anonymously, of course.

  My screen name is Mischievous Mindy, and my blog is called The Wet Panty Chronicles. I have over a thousand followers, all filthy minded individuals who are captivated by my silly little hobby. My fingers fly over the keyboard.

  She’s wearing bright-red lipstick. I wonder if it ends up on her boss’s dick. At the end of the day, his cock probably looks like a throbbing, dripping candy cane. Do you think she swallows? I do. Underneath that Talbot’s suit, she’s all slut, just waiting for her next taste of cock. I’ll bet she likes her hair firmly tugged as she slurps down a mouthful of hot semen. Afterward, she licks her fingers and smiles.

  By now I’m completely worked up, but I make myself wait. The time isn’t right, since the morning crowd has gotten thicker. My last entry has already received a thumbs up from one of my readers. It turns me on that someone is out there, pouring over my words and possibly masturbating while they do so. I turn my attention to a young man that is waiting for a large order. He looks twitchy and nervous. I imagine he is the new office boy for a team of horny executives.

  Anxious coffee boy shifts from foot to foot as he waits in line. I wonder why he is so uptight. Is he afraid of getting the order wrong? What will happen back at the office if he does? Will he have to suck his boss’s dick?

  “I said low fat, bitch!” the lawyer growls, as he pushes his cock against the boy’s soft lips.

  “Sorry, sir,” the boy will mumble as he fights back a smile. Two more partners walk in and he is stripped naked, then fondled by all the men, much to his great delight.

  I have to stop and take a large gulp of my mocha before I can continue. In the meantime, sneaker woman leaves, and another takes her place. This one is younger and wears high-heeled pumps. Her legs are shapely.

  A new woman is in my line of sight. Young, in professional attire. Her size-eight feet are stuffed into size-seven red heels. She smells like cheap body spray, and her eyes dart around nervously. Maybe she’s meeting someone here, an older man perhaps?

  As my words fill the blank space on the screen, the shop door opens and a man in a black suit enters. His eyes light up when he joins her at the table. Wedding band, slightly gray at the temples. My mind speeds up as I think of their story.

  Bingo! He just showed up, married, guilty eyes, dirty mind. She is rubbing her knee against his under the table, trying hard to be coquettish, but she comes across as cheap and desperate. I’ll bet when they’re fucking, she calls him Daddy.

  “Fuck me harder, Daddy!” she’ll moan as he bends her over the bed in their cheap motel r
oom. Maybe he tells her she’s a naughty girl, then smacks her ass while he drills her wet slit. She looks like the type who would like that. Former cheerleader, she probably had a crush on the football coach, which started her obsession with older men.

  They don’t notice me watching, of course. No one ever does. I picture her with pink furry handcuffs holding her hands taut against the small of her back as she kneels in front of his hard cock. He pinches her nipples and then allows her to lick the slick, flared tip. The visions in my head leave me wet and throbbing.

  I hope I don’t leave a damp spot on the back of my skirt. It won’t be long, and I will have to take care of myself. Once the crowd thins out a little, that is.

  A young couple takes the table to my left. Thrift-store hipsters, they kiss in between sips of their organic soy latte. Holding hands so tightly, as if each is afraid the other will dart off. Both of them are attractive, although slightly cliché and boring, but in my fantasy, they are quite the opposite.

  Young college couple, sucking face. He secretly wants to add another boy to the mix; she dreams of tying him up and shoving an organic carrot up his tender, virgin ass. What kind of sex do vegans have? I always imagine it has vegetables involved somehow. No offense to you veggie lovers out there. Or perhaps I’ve just given you ideas. I fucked myself with a cucumber once, right in the stockroom of the grocery store. Then I put it back in the bin and laughed as I walked away.

  I snicker to myself. The vegan couple rub noses. Gag. I am not as turned on as I was a few minutes ago, and instead turn my attention back to the May/December romance at the center table. He is looking at her with a mixture of disdain and lust. With his right hand, he twists his wedding band as they talk softly. She puts her hand on top of his, but he jerks away from her touch and shakes his head slightly. She bites her lip. I want to stand over her and slap her face.