Best Women's Erotica 2014

by Violet Blue

  Which of course he was—I knew that logically and I flirted with other men too, but seeing this other him rattled me. A sword of doubt cut through my illusion of possession. He wasn’t mine, not really. He belonged to me when he stepped in the house and when the door shut behind him the next day, he was on his own again. I had no idea of his inner complexities, what unpredictable paths he might choose.

  The brunette sauntered to the ladies’ room, tanned face smug. The thought of her touching him, naked in bed with him, made my stomach curdle. I turned away with self-disgust. I was the ultimate proponent of free love, I reminded myself. I didn’t get jealous. I tried to compose myself by the guest-services desk but he found me too soon.

  “Where have you been?”

  “I’m sick.” I’d never lied to him before. But certainly some baffling psychosis had possessed my mind. “I think I’m going to go home.”

  He frowned. “Do you still want me to come over?”

  “No. I’m sorry. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  I stayed up all night, old horror movies on TV as I squirted Windex on the glass tables and cleaned like a fiend. It had been years since I’d lost sleep over anyone. Who fell in love with a pet? I was shaky and dry-eyed by dawn. He was a very average boy, I reminded myself. Pretty, yes, but there were plenty of beautiful boys to be had in this world. It was ridiculous to get so hung up on what was ultimately a fling.

  I had drifted to sleep on the sofa when there was a pounding on the door. I opened it up to Colton looming in the early morning light. “You have someone in there?” he demanded.

  “Of course not.”

  He stormed in, hostile and embarrassed by his vehemence. I made artichoke frittatas. He hadn’t been able to sleep either and after doing the dishes, we pulled the drapes, stripped off our clothes and slept all day in each other’s arms.

  On my refrigerator there was a picture of our trip to Mexico. He was in aviator glasses and leaning against a wooden fence by a burro and his master, dark hair rumpled with suntan oil. His arm was around me, so lanky that he made me look short. I was in a dark-red tank top, my hair bleached a few shades blonder by the sun, and showing that hesitant face I always photographed in, while he looked oddly proud.

  The burro’s owner was looking sideways at us in a dubious assessment. He knew we were in disguise. I liked this picture because it was the one time someone saw us for the flailing drowners we were. Other strangers—an older couple at dinner, people on the beach—told us we were a beautiful couple. They thought we were lucky. And safe.

  My friends decided I had lost my religion over Colton, that dating a twenty-two-year-old parking valet was beneath me. That I was letting it go on for far too long and giving him too much attention.

  “You might like him, you know,” I said to Renee. “If you can put up with Patrick’s bragging and Odette always talking about her horse, I think you can handle a twenty-two-year-old.”

  And so it happened that one night when Renee and everyone were watching a fight at a sports bar, we stopped in and it didn’t go too badly. Everyone in my circle had heard of Colton by this point, and I suspected he lived in their minds as my illiterate sex pet. But now they saw that he was an actual adult, and Renee’s fiancé and he got absorbed in a discussion about boxing and it didn’t feel that awkward.

  “Okay, he’s not that bad,” Renee said the next night on the phone. “You guys look more—natural together than I would have expected.” She paused. “But he is young. And it’s just so weird to think of you doing all that kinky stuff.”

  “Then don’t think about it.” This was the comment from vanilla people that always irritated me. “Like how I don’t think about you having sex or your porn preferences.”

  “I know. You’re right.” She exhaled. “So are you bringing him to Odette’s party next weekend?”

  I hadn’t planned on it, but now I saw that it was becoming more unnatural to exclude him. “We’ll stop in for a while.”

  That night at the resort, Colton was nowhere to be found. He wasn’t lounging out front with the other valets and he wasn’t in the hotel lounge where he usually hung out when I was late picking him up. Annoyed, I walked out back to the employee parking lot. The monsoon’s rain still hadn’t broken but another dust storm was brewing and a nimbus of amber dimmed the parking-lot lights. The golf course looked like a sepia-tinted photograph. I could feel my long hair getting gritty with the dust and it made me want to push Colton in the dirt, rub dust all through his pretty-boy hair and into his tawny skin.

  Then I heard young male voices, one telling a self-important story, the others laughing in contempt. I slid between two SUVs to spy on them: Colton and his friends, all in valet uniforms, drawing leisurely on their cigarettes. The urge to punish him and dominate him and fuck him immediately rolled through me.

  I texted him. I’ve been out front for twenty minutes.

  He straightened. “Oh fuck…I gotta go.” He said his goodbyes and hastened toward the hotel. When he got past my SUVs, I slid out and grabbed him by the back of the neck.

  He instinctively twisted around to see me; I held him firm and spanked his ass as a rebuke. He winced but he didn’t make a sound, as I knew he wouldn’t. His valet pals were just fifteen yards away, and I knew exactly how to exploit the situation.

  Without a word, I slid my hands down the front of his jeans. The hairy line of his abs, the hardness of his cock thrumming in my hands; I wanted to bite the back of his neck but he was too tall, even in the sandals I was wearing. Instead I marched him through the trees bordering the golf course. The dust-storm air was grittier here from the sand traps. I forced him along the tree line until we were as close as possible to his friends without them seeing us. Two female voices broke the night; other staff had joined them. Colton started to tremble.

  I took his pants off first, his hard cock trumping the quiver of his lower lip. His valet shirt came off next. I knew this was his most feverish nightmare and his greatest dream, naked and submissive just a few feet from his coworkers. I scratched his thighs and the soft parts of his stomach, playing with his balls and rubbing his cock until he was visibly choking from the effort to stay silent.

  I pushed him to his knees and tied his wrists behind his back with his shirt. He looked up at me and the utter devotion in his eyes stopped me for a moment. He looked exactly like my bound and beautiful young prisoner, and my mouth went dry with a consuming, knee-rattling love for every molecule of his body.

  I paused. Then I shook myself out of it, pulled off my shorts and T-shirt and black-lace bra and got on all fours. Reaching through my legs, I spread my pussy open and began fingering myself. I knew this was his favorite view, the one that made him come the fastest, but I also knew Colton couldn’t come silently; he always groaned or cried out or made some kind of noise. I looked over my shoulder to see how he was handling this dilemma. He looked tortured and blissful and almost lost, his sweat-damp torso streaked with dust.

  We locked eyes and then I backed into him, guiding his cock into my pussy until I felt that delirious flutter of being impaled. A soft grunt escaped Colton. I rocked back and forth on him, my pussy so wet and so swollen I knew I could ejaculate at any second all over him, which would also set him off. He stayed silent but I kept fucking him, subjugating him, driving him deeper into the submissive bliss of being my toy. But it was me who couldn’t hold out; a fierce and sudden orgasm bucked through me, so forceful I buried my head in my elbows and bit my arm. I had just become aware of tears on my cheeks when I felt Colton coming inside me with a raw and broken cry that pierced the night.

  We collapsed onto the grass. The night was silent. I didn’t know when his friends disappeared, or if they’d heard or seen us. All I could think was that at some point this summer, I had lost control.

  How far would it go? We kept pushing, limits disintegrating night after night. I knew I didn’t want anyone else. He knew I was his dream come true. The monsoon broke that Friday afternoon,
a yellow-purple sky broadcasting thunder and finally, sheets of rain. From my courtyard we watched it drive into the street, oleander petals floating down to the gutter. He was shirtless and handcuffed on my lap as I liberated his cock from his jeans and played with it slowly, keeping him erect without letting him come. A rivulet of rain streaked down between his shoulder blades, over faint welts from my fingernails.

  I pushed him into the mud of my courtyard garden, desecrating his torso with flowers and dirt. Anyone walking up to the house would have seen him, naked and groaning as I pulled off his jeans, and I knew the possible exposure was making him throb as he twitched in the dirt. The rain drove into his skin, cleaning him, and I smeared more dirt over his hair, his thighs.

  Who do you belong to?

  You. Only you.

  Inside and into a warm shower we went, kissing each other against the tiles. I wanted to do this forever, desecrating him and cleaning him, ruining him and salvaging him, pulling out every tender secret of his heart.

  The neighbors threw a party that night, music thumping across the yards, reminding us of Odette’s party that we were supposed to attend. He sat on the floor, leaning against the wall and smoking the cigarette I lit for him. Cuffed hands like the prisoner I made him be. The lamp that we’d knocked off the nightstand was still burning and throwing half the bedroom into shadow. We couldn’t look at each other.

  The windows were open to the wet night, now that the howling had stopped, now that we were silent with the realization that the body made its own decisions and we were both in service to a force we hadn’t intended to find, pulling us toward a vortex of unknown conclusion.

  MARYLOU

  Lucy Debussy

  There were eight sailors who worked in the stokehold. Four ordinary stokers, one chief stoker, one checkman and a petty stokers officer. Marylou was one of the stokers but she called herself Max when she was onboard. She strapped her breasts down with cotton bandages and worked her biceps every evening to keep them hard. She wore short-sleeved shirts to bulk out her form and sometimes she stuffed a single folded sock down the front of her panties. She had dodged her way through the sign-up by pretending she had a testosterone deficiency that had kept her voice high.

  When it came time to go to the bathroom, she would make sure the coast was clear and use the cubicle. Sometimes she had to be patient, and if they were drinking beer in the crew mess her discomfort could last for hours. She regretted slightly that she could not stand next to her coworkers at the urinals because she had great curiosity about their penises. Marylou had always had great curiosity about sailors’ bodies. Her father had owned a small, shabby tattoo parlor in a small, shabby port town in the west of Oahu, and she had grown up watching men with chests far too bronzed and big and hard for their faces, clenching their jaws while the needle buzzed over their perspiring skin.

  Sometimes when she was folding her uniform at the foot of her bunk, she would catch a glimpse of one of them; a thigh covered in wiry hair, a belly button, a brown flank, a smooth lazy cock. If they were in warmer waters, the men would sleep topless and Marylou would get to see the different bronzes and peaches and browns of their skin on their shoulders and chests.

  There was one in particular she liked to look at. He was Romanian and had hair the color of treacle and skin so white it shone like a pebble even in the dark. He spoke perfect English with a perfect English accent. Not like the Dutch sailors who had learned to talk American, or the Indians who spoke with their own inflections. He had impeccable manners. He tipped his hat to ladies in port. He always made sure he was immaculately turned out. She loved, when she had the chance, to watch the attention and care he took when grooming himself, combing his part or cleaning his teeth. His clothes were always folded and pressed as if he had ironed them onto the contours of his body. Marylou imagined that his skin underneath the thick blue twill would be just as immaculate, just as smooth and creamy. She thought up close his body must smell of the same warm cotton soap as his fresh clothing.

  The sailors all had a favorite. Marylou would watch in the bar each night as pairs formed off, two by two, as they sipped beer and cracked the shells off monkey nuts. When they got into port they would go in twos and threes to the brothels.

  She often wondered what it must be like to be one of the dockside prostitutes, to take so many men at once, men who had so much excitement in them. It would be impossible, she thought, not to be aroused by that quantity of excitement, not to feel it slipping through the red-raw flesh and into the blood, a nourishing pain that had so much promise in it.

  They lived in cabins with bunks of four. Marylou slept on the bottom. When it came time to disrobe for bed she usually waited until the men were all asleep or distracted and in she went to the little bathroom. There she would unthread the straps on her breasts, ease them from their bandages, rub the soreness out of them and dress herself in a loose pajama top. Sometimes she found her nipples extra-sensitive from the pressure of being bound down all day, and the light feel of the loose cotton brushing them would be almost unbearable in its delicacy.

  The men were all on varying contracts, which meant that the bunk formation was liable to change without notice. Marylou came back from the bathroom one day to find the Romanian boy sitting up in bed, his back to her. She knew it was him because she had looked so many times at the back of his neck. She knew intimately the line where his shoulders centered, where his hair faded into his skin. His back was the color of fresh cream, the disk on the top of a bottle of milk.

  Desire shivered like a fish down her body. She felt it low in her belly, the nerves waking up below.

  From then on she slept in the bunk underneath him. Every night she would lie, looking up, imagining the shape of his body imprinting on the mattress, trying to see where his weight was falling and the lines of his arms, his back, his thighs, his head. She would close her eyes and picture the way he was reclining with his hand under his cheek, sleep floating the tension away from his body; his muscles, still hurting from lifting and hauling, relaxing slowly.

  She would feel a telltale wetness begin to moisten the very soft tops of her inner thighs. And she would squeeze her legs together, squeezing as much pleasure as she could out of the moment. Then he would turn or shift in his sleep or clear his throat and it would trigger a whole new wave of pleasure in her, like he was moving for her, to make her more comfortable. The other sailors snored on during these silent encounters. She didn’t mind their noises, she found them comforting, and she would know then that the way was clear for her to slide her hand down to where the wetness was slowly growing, and gently stroke its barrier along the sensitive lips of her sex. Underneath the seal of liquid they would feel plump and inviting—the warmth of him pressing down from above, the sound of his breathing. She would dip her finger in the wetness like it was an inkwell and gently coax out her bud between two fingers, rubbing it and teasing it and pressing it.

  These episodes could last for hours. If she had caught sight of him fresh from the shower that day she would have fuel for her imagination, until in silent, tight, closed ecstasy she would finally come, squeezing her eyes shut, holding on to the rush of breath lest it wake up one of the sleeping men and give her away.

  And so Marylou settled into this new rhythm, accepting what she could not have and making the most of what she could.

  She was pleasuring herself one night, when she heard a sound, a drawing of breath. She opened her eyes.

  From the parallel bunk, a big bronze-armed man called Rafe was staring at her. Rafe was an Englishman, rough-tongued with a brittle London accent, and a gold earring in his ear. He had cropped blond hair and skin so much darker than its natural color from the deck sun that the contrast where the shirtsleeves and the collar ended made him look dipped.

  His grizzled chin was propped up on a hand; his eyes were open but languorously relaxed. He had green irises and pig-pink lids; he closed one of them in a slow wink. She looked down, and saw that the covers w
ere off; her trimmed mound was on display, her belly curving down to it, her hand still glistening.

  That look haunted her all day in the stokehold. She worked extra hard to tire herself. She shoveled coal that wasn’t from her pile and when her oven was full she helped the boy next to her. She ran round the deck six times after her shift, and felt as if the sting in her lungs was punishment for her carelessness. Later on in the crew mess, when all hands were occupied with their bowls of corned beef hash, Marylou looked up, and there it came again, Rafe’s languorous wink, promising something, conspiring over some shared secret.

  She was careful that night to make sure the cabin was empty before she went into the little bathroom to change for bed. She took her bandages off and slipped on her loose pajama bottoms. When she came out into the cabin Rafe was couched on her bunk, his shoulders hunched into the low space. He too had changed into his sleepwear, drawstring cotton trousers. His chest was bare and Marylou could see the white where the sun hadn’t hit, his bulky pectorals, the huge tattoo of the Virgin Mary across his sternum, the dragon on his bicep. He had taken his penis out from his pajama bottoms and was squeezing it at the base. It was huge, shockingly huge, ripe and smooth and crimson at the head, plump as a damson, a pearl shining on its tip. He glanced at Marylou. She stood frozen. Then he dropped it so it bounced a couple of times before hanging firm.

  Eight weeks of hunger rushed to her sex, and Marylou suddenly found herself wanting him more than she had wanted anything before or ever would again.

  He climbed out from the bunk, his flushed cock still twanging in front of him, and reached behind her back. He pushed his hand down her pajamas, carelessly gripping the flesh of her buttocks. The startle of his touch, his undisguised bestiality, stirred her. She caught her breath as he turned her round by the hips.