Best Women's Erotica 2014

by Violet Blue

  He pulled her pajama bottoms down to the ankles and groped until he found the parting underneath her buttocks. His smell came over her shoulder; seawater and an aquatic aftershave. She let him separate the folds of her labia, hold them open with two of his big muscled fingers and slide a third inside her hard enough that she could just feel a strain, a sting and an ache. A second finger joined it. His thumb grazed her clitoris. Pleasure spread down all the way to her toes. He was comfortable playing with a woman.

  She forgot the Romanian as he caressed her, one hand in the hair on the back of her head, two of his fingers inside her, rutting back and forth in her slippery juice. Aware of the urgency of time he brought his penis close and took her without ceremony against the wall of the cabin. His forearms braced the wall in front of them and she took great pleasure in digging her nails into the tattoos on them, and thought about all the different women he had brought to orgasm in all the different ports, and it began to excite her, the thought of a promiscuous lover, the cursory animal need of both of them to rub each other to pleasure, no matter whether she liked him or not. His climax was great and hulking, as rough as the stubble on his face. She felt her cheeks grow very hot and came in rocking waves while he was still inside her.

  After that, the arrangement had to be maintained. She let him take her whenever he could; on the floor of the shower room, in the cupboard where the engineers’ boiler suits were hanging, on quiet corners of the deck at night. She played with herself less and less but sometimes she would catch sight of the Romanian boy—his shoulders bent over his breakfast, his hands tightening a knot—and when she fucked Rafe later that day she would imagine Rafe’s huge scarred arms were the Romanian’s soft milky ones, his drooping eyelids the Romanian’s liquid brown irises.

  They were anchored off an island near Fiji when the captain called a day’s shore leave. The sun was hot as a griddle, and they paddled ashore in tenders. Marylou’s boat was the last and as she approached she could already see that the men had all taken their shirts off and were spread out on the sand like crabs drying for market. Some of them were burnt already.

  She found some shade under a tree and looked out at the water, foamy peaks fizzing into hot brown sand leaving tangles of seaweed and crumbs of shell in their wake. From her pocket she took a penknife, found a piece of wood and began to carve idly.

  After she had sat for a while, a deep New York accent made her jump. “Now Max, what’s a guy like you doing on a day like this with his shirt on. Sun’s hot as a pancake, don’t you want to get some color?” She looked up to see one of the deckhands, a huge handsome blond man with cruel green eyes, standing above her.

  Marylou kept carving away at the little stick of wood. “Don’t like the heat.”

  “You’re in the wrong job then ain’t you?” He dropped to his haunches. She smelled beer and manly sweet pomade on him. He wiped his sweaty brow with a palm and looked at it.

  “You try working the stoke room. Get enough heat in a day. Besides I’m fair, I burn.”

  “Come on,” he had a look in his eye. “What are you hiding under there?”

  She could feel the blood creeping up to her face, the neckline of her T-shirt gathering moisture.

  “All I’m sayin.” He stood up and moved off back down to the shore, shooting her a look over his shoulder.

  Marylou looked farther up the beach and saw that three of the bosun’s men were kneeling down. The bosun flung a pebble to the ground and the men dropped to their flanks, wrestled their cocks out of their shorts and pushed them into holes dug where the sand met the waterline. They fucked furiously, cursing and swearing at the friction, the grit. The bosun on the starting post laughed hysterically. Marylou watched as each sailor grew red, then beet, then panted wildly. The man in the middle came in a raw, fierce voice, raised both his stocky arms in triumph and collapsed onto the sand. The other men fell headfirst too and they all laughed and wiped the grit out of their eyes.

  The sun moved higher in the sky before it began its blinding descent. Some of the sailors looked painfully burnt and took to the sea to cool themselves. Marylou watched the Romanian stand up and walk down to the waterline, and wished she had some salve or ointment she could rub on her palms and smooth across his back. He took off his shorts and tossed them back up where he had left his duffel bag and for the first time Marylou saw his dimpled buttocks, the swing of his slender cock hanging perfectly between his hip bones. It was pink compared to the rest of him, striking against the shiny black curls of hair that ran down all the way from the base of his belly. She felt her blood drop, her nether lips wake up, just looking at him. He turned, and she colored and then looked quickly back down at the carving in her hand, a piece of nothing she was whittling down to the green wood.

  They swam and swam while the sun tilted sideways and made crystal the tips on the waves. She saw Rafe looking at her from where he was drinking beer on the sand, and looked around for a patch of trees or shrubbery where they could go.

  “Say Max you don’t swim?” The blond New Yorker had appeared again.

  “Nope.”

  “Come on, perfect way to cool off.”

  Marylou flashed a look at Rafe. His lips spread into a great lupine smile, and he rubbed the beer foam off his mouth.

  “Say Max,” said the New Yorker, “we all think you got something to hide. Bosun’s boy says it’s a third nipple.” He had a raucous look in his eyes that made her uncomfortable. “What about it? Want to play tattoo snap? You’ve been to Henry’s on Oahu haven’t you?”

  “Got none.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  Marylou scratched the back of her neck. “True.”

  “You need one then. Dimitri,” he waved his arm at a big Russian man playing cards near the shore. “He can give ’em. Gives the best. Come on boys, hold him down, let’s give him a tattoo.” A few of the men began to stir. Marylou shifted. She held tighter onto the knife and spear of carved wood in her hand.

  “Just take your shirt off man, you’re the only one on the beach who hasn’t.”

  A shadow cut the sun off her legs and she looked up to see Rafe standing over her, rolling a cigarette, a damp swelling pressing against the inside of his cotton shorts. She noticed that two of the bosun’s men who had been competing in the sand had drawn closer too, and now their shadows loomed long in front of her, darkening the piece of wood in her hands.

  She looked at the four faces, all copper-skinned; all sweating like the men in her father’s tattoo parlor. The heat had made them mad, and she suddenly realized exactly why a boy like her would be prime flesh on a day like today.

  Marylou felt then not a sense of threat but a sharp feeling of anticipation. That something was going to happen now that she had spent long teenage summer nights wishing and willing for, but which she never really believed could come true, so hadn’t bothered to think much about whether she wanted it to or not. She placed her knife and her sharpened stick carefully down on the earth beside her, remembering the day she had first set foot on the ship and how pleased with her reflection in the mirror she had been, starched and proud in her man’s uniform.

  She sat up and took her burly arms across her chest, and while the four men looked on, peeled her damp white T-shirt off over her head. A big laugh lit up the New Yorker’s mouth as he saw the bandages. “What’s up with that? Got a tattoo after all Max?”

  Marylou breathed in and her torso swelled until it was plain to see the shape of her breasts, even with the hard supporting muscle giving definition to her abdomen below; the gentler curve on top was unmistakably sensuous, unmistakably feminine.

  The bosun’s men fell silent. The New Yorker took a couple of sarcastic breaths, barely concealing his shock as Marylou felt the perception of her slowly alter. The New Yorker, who was an able-bodied seaman and accustomed to hoicking barrels and ropes and anchors, dropped his neck delicately, as if he was nervous or embarrassed.

  Almost shaking, barely controlling h
er own nerves and excitement, she reached her hand behind her back and began to unfurl her bandages. She unwound herself until her breasts were hanging full and fine, the nipples visibly relaxing and swelling beneath the pattern the cloth had left on them.

  For a moment, it didn’t seem real. She felt as if she was watching it happen to someone else. Then one of the New Yorker’s hands reached tentatively for her breast; the heat and the damp of it radiating toward her skin. It hovered for a measure of time, then cupped her, tracing the mound with a flat palm, catching her nipple between two fingers, triggering its sensitive release, and an involuntary soft moan from her.

  His coarse dirty fingers roamed her flesh, prised apart the skin that stretched across her cleavage. Carefully, he tossed the rest of her bandages into the sand. The power of four sets of eyes watching her was fierce. Marylou felt it even when she closed her eyes. She kept very still while the New Yorker knelt beside her, then ran his hand down her hard flat belly and pushed the waistband of her loose trousers lower and lower, until one finger slipped into the curls of her mound and she heard him gasp, almost a sob, so excited, so pleased he was with what he found.

  It was not so much that she knew her fate was sealed as that the infectiousness of their starvation moved her, aroused in her something between maternity—poor bestial slaves to their urges—and vanity. She saw herself reflected in the shine of their eyes, changed at that moment from Max, the runt of the litter, to Marylou, a moon around which planets orbited, fed from her light. Her spine burned. Her flesh shivered under their touches, the hesitant rub of their sandy fingers, as now all four men knelt down to explore each of her limbs, stroking her breasts, tangling her hair, touching her face, her toes, as if they had never seen a woman before; now took a digit into their mouths, now took a lobe of ear or mouthful of neck or inhaled her like she was newfound flowers or clean salt air.

  She felt the heat of the whole day seeping out of them. She smelled rum, brandy, beer, soap, linen and seaweed.

  She closed her eyes and stopped thinking of them stoking, showering, shoveling fish and potatoes into their mouths, and instead stretched in the hot sand, felt the coolness of the palm shade above her and the drift of seashore wind, felt now a thick finger stirring her juice, whose she didn’t care, and now another, pushing her wider. And now her trousers and shorts had been slipped down her legs and off by two or more hands, and soon her own hands were reaching out, finding coarse resistance in patches of curled hair, soft wet skin, scents from different parts of them, sweet shampoo, cool soap, warm breath, cigarettes. She felt fingers massage the sand from between her toes, hot tongues clean her stomach and shoulders. She reached out and probed a navel, kissed a sweet stubbly moving mouth. She reveled in being the well from which thirsty sailors drank like madmen, stroking her, pushing her, stretching her, causing her to ache.

  She opened her eyes to see the New Yorker had slipped between her legs. His hot brown nipples were grazing her breasts; his cock drove hard inside her wetness. Above, she felt the contrasting softness of Rafe’s hands in her hair. From down the beach other sailors had drifted closer, curious, and now the orgy was spreading, trousers were being lowered, penises dug out and fondled and shared, open mouths touching. She saw from under the hoods of her lids two of the other stokers grab each other with such fervor it sent a fresh shock of pleasure down her. She arched her back, prising her limbs into the ground like a sea creature, opening her lips, her mouth, her sex, making herself available, pushing her left nipple closer to a man’s tongue, hearing the scale of pleasure trickle up his voice as she took his balls between her fingers, poked asscheeks open with her toes, rocked in the rhythm with which the blond New Yorker fucked her.

  She heard Scandinavian accents, French accents, Russian curses, American shouts. Her eyes closed, her mind traveled their faces, journeyed their excitement, their fevered desires. She thought of their fetishes, the places they had sailed to, their first kisses, tender and tentative, repressed under years of thickened personality and sea work.

  Marylou thought that now she must know what it felt like to be one of the dockside whores confronted with such depraved lust, such swollen, bursting mouths that could bruise with their impatience. She opened her eyes.

  Her beautiful Romanian was lifting one of her feet, kissing the ball of her ankle. His brown eyes were closed, his lashes long and black, his hands as reverent as they were when he prepared a knot, or carried letters he had written home to the purser’s office, or ran along the surface of the mouth organ he sometimes played. His cock was darker now, long and engorged and pointing skyward.

  Now, she thought, watching him, now as they take their pleasure, I will take mine.

  REALITY TV

  Alyssa Turner

  “Are you spending another evening in that window, Marcella?” Abby only sounds annoyed as she asks me the same rhetorical question I’ve heard every night this week. Her keys clank on the table next to the door, and I glance in her direction.

  “Okay, so I’m nosy. Beats watching TV since they cut off the cable.”

  “Maybe if you’d paid the bill instead of getting a new set of headshots…” she says, taking off her sneakers.

  I pout. “You don’t mean that.”

  And she relents. “No, chica. I don’t. You know I don’t.” Abby kisses me on the cheek. “So what’s playing tonight on NYC live, Amsterdam and One Hundred and Twenty-Third Street edition?”

  “Checked out a girl doing Pilates over the bodega.”

  “Big deal, I can see that working at the gym any time of the day.”

  “Oh, but she was only wearing her panties.” I turn to her and smile.

  Abby isn’t convinced. “Give me those,” she says with a devilish grin and snatches the binoculars out of my hands before I can protest. “Now let’s see here. It was the third window from the left, wasn’t it?”

  “Wasn’t what?” I act clueless, but I won’t win any Academy Awards with my performance.

  “Uh-huh, just like I thought.” She peers down at me from over the Nikons I scored for a bargain at a pawnshop in Times Square. “Same dude we caught stroking his dick in front of the TV three nights ago.”

  I’m red, I know it. “Really, I didn’t see him.”

  “Guilty little Marcella, can’t tell a lie for shit.” She’s laughing at me.

  “Stop it.” I can’t help it. I’m giggling with her.

  She takes another look at the nameless guy sitting naked on his couch with just one light on in the kitchen and the blue flickering glow of the television washing his taut body. “You’ve been watching him every night, haven’t you?”

  “Maybe I have.” I shrug my shoulders.

  Abby cocks her head to the side with an eyebrow raised and returns the binoculars to her eyes. “Where’s the zoom on these things?” I start to show her, but she waves me away. “Never mind, I got it.”

  “Trying to get a closer look?”

  “Not at his cock, Marcella. You know I only like pussy, baby.” She winks at me. “I only like your pussy, to be exact.” Then, looking again, she continues, “No, I think this guy looks familiar.”

  “Get out of here.”

  “No really, I think this dude takes my climbing class.”

  “Let me see,” I say, and she hands the binoculars back to me. “I don’t recognize him.”

  “He comes to my last class on Fridays. You’re busy exploiting thirsty stockbrokers for tips by then.”

  I turn to her with a frown, but Abby has a look in her eye that makes my blood pump straight to my pussy.

  She puts down the Nikons and slides her hand flat against the front of my tank top and slips her fingers into my yoga pants. “Maybe you should try to make it tomorrow evening. Anything that gets you this wet is something I want to be a part of.”

  “You’re not jealous?”

  Abby brushes her lips against mine as her fingers weave their way into my slickened folds. “Baby, don’t I always get you whateve
r you want?”

  “Yes.”

  “You want chocolate cake, I go to the bakery. You want a bubble bath, I run the water.” She rolls her tongue against mine in a single slow wave. “You have a taste for some cock?” Her voice is throaty. “I’ll see what we can do about that, too.”

  “I love you.” All I want to do is show her how much. But Abby is scooting off to our bedroom.

  “Stay there. I’ll be right back.” I hear her rustling in the night table. “Don’t you move.”

  Sliding down my pants, I’m ready and waiting for her when she returns. Abby saunters back in peeling off her T-shirt and dropping it to the floor. In her other hand, a strap-on harness dangles between three fingers. “Hurry up and bend over before he finishes,” she says, and I do as I’m told. Looking through the binoculars, I’m pleased to see we’re not too late. “You keep watching him stroke his cock. and I’ll help you imagine what he feels like.”

  “But you fuck like a girl.” I tease her with a wide grin and my eager booty wiggling in anticipation, waiting while she fastens my favorite dildo snug against her boy shorts.

  “Oh, is that right?” Abby squares herself behind me and wraps her tawny fingers onto my hips. She takes a nice firm hold of my sandy brown ponytail and makes sure I know that she intends for me to eat my words. “Well, let’s see if you scream like one.”

  She pops her hips forward and the slickened silicone passes into me with ease as I pick up my view of our neighbor quietly loving himself across the avenue. Neither of us have a doubt in the world how this will turn out. Me, calling her name and clawing at the curtains while she whips that silicone dick and strums my clit like an acoustic guitar.

  Abby fucks like a girl all right—one that knows exactly where to find my sweet spot. She holds me tight, keeping me steady on my elbows as the pretty picture of his cock sliding in and out of his fist bounces in my hands. And then he’s coming, his shoulders hunching forward with a stutter. Too far for me to see him overflow, but my mouth hangs open just wishing for a taste. Abby whispers in my ear, “Tomorrow, baby. He’s gonna love you.”