Best Women's Erotica 2015

by Violet Blue

  God bless my Barns. I gave him a big, warm smile. “Sure,” I said, “but I’ll snag my fish soon enough.” Then I recrossed my legs beneath the table where just the thought of being groped by a stranger was making me horny again.

  After a beat, Barn’s eyebrows shot up—I’d seen that look in meetings, when a marketing idea struck him. “Hey,” he said at last, with that classic, puppy-dog smile. “Why not pay someone to grope you? It’d be their best score yet.”

  “Maybe,” I mused, but it just wasn’t the fantasy. I wanted it to be pervy, not the fulfillment of a request.

  “Okay, I get it,” he sighed. Then he leaned in closer and said, “But I see the prob. They’d grope your ass off, if they knew.” He snickered. “Maybe we’ll get you a T-shirt that says, I’m begging for a fumble.”

  “I mean, I’m practically waving my cunt in their faces!”

  “They don’t want to push,” said Barns. “And let’s face it, that’s impressive.”

  I nodded and gave a sigh. As usual, Barns was right. “I guess I’ll have to actually ask someone to do it,” I said, “but that defeats the whole fantasy….”

  “Wait a flea-picking minute!” said Barney, bobbing a finger in my direction. “I’ve got an idea….”

  It was a good idea, Barney’s idea. He had a friend who was kinky. Would I be interested in a role-play or two? But I soon managed to convince myself that it wouldn’t be the same. So I returned to my nightly attempts on the subway. Recently, I’d been keeping to rush hour, trying to take advantage of the crowds. I figured it was easier to grope a woman when you were slammed together like sardines. But what if I pushed things later? It seemed a little more dangerous to wear a short skirt on a late-night train, but a drink or two loosens folks up, and I was getting so desperate for some wandering hands that I’d been dressing up at home, putting on a silky evening glove and fondling my own damn ass.

  Actually, it had been getting me off so beautifully that I’d started taking the gloves to work. Just picture it—me, groping my ass in a ladies’ room cubicle, coming against the wall of the stall again and again and again. God knows what others thought of my staggered gasps when they entered the restroom. But I didn’t care. I was too obsessed. I’d imagine a stranger’s hands and I’d feel them on me, and my body would respond with howling joy.

  But these lunchtime escapades always left me hungrier. They made me crave the real, perverted thing.

  So a few nights later, I’d perfected an outfit: a black velvet dress with a studded collar, high-heeled boots, and stockings with garters. The dress showed enough cleavage to lead anyone on, and it was lined with silky material that felt gorgeous against my bare skin. It was as if my dress itself was the pervert, all insidious and teasing, touching my thighs and buttocks, groping my nipples when I moved. Standing on that train at night with the dress pawing at me, and the train’s vibrations purring into me, was enough to push me to the brink.

  For a while, it was the same old story—some guy would see me and feast his eyes, until I moved closer, then he’d turn away or look awkward. Then, at Central Square, a man in a suit entered the coach. I was standing by the door, holding on to the bar, and he joined me, up close, with a stalker’s stare. His eyes were a startling shade of blue—so bright, in fact, that I had to look away first. He was wearing trendy glasses. And I like men in glasses. “Hi,” he said. “Did I die and go to heaven?”

  I laughed. My heart started thumping. “Maybe,” I said, coyly. That’s when he arched in closer.

  He glanced down my front. “Oh yes,” he said, through a ready sigh. “Heaven, that’s what you are.” I could feel his breath hot on my throat. I was so horny that my mouth was watering. He said, “You’re on your way to meet a lover, of course.” He laid his fingers on my arm and I felt a volt of pleasure.

  Christ, I all but thrust my cunt into his hands.

  It happened magically, before I’d even thought to check how many people were sitting in our wake. Watching me with a steady stare, he slid his hand down my side, then over the curve of my hip, and I was a mess of wanting, all trembling and ready, as I felt his hand stroking my dress, pressing the lining onto my body. He put his lips close to my ear and I could smell his aftershave and the warmth of his body beneath it. “Turn around,” he said, softly, “so I can see the back of your dress.”

  I did what he asked in a heartbeat, the lining stroking my nipples as I moved, and immediately, I felt him reach around me and cup my breast. I moaned out loud, desperate for more, pressing right into his touch. He groaned too and that’s when I felt his fingers glossing my buttocks through the velvet dress. Before I knew it, he was telling me to lean forward. There I was, with my hands against the train doors, my ass sticking out as he reached inside my skirt and stroked my cheeks and the tops of my thighs.

  I gave a little cry when I felt his cock against me. It was the hardest cock I’d ever felt.

  “Fuck, yes,” I said. “Do it!” Then I felt his fingers glossing my shaved pussy before pushing right into my cunt. I cried out with pleasure, forgetting where I was, forgetting anyone who might be nearby, because I was just a body, a body in perfect pleasure, a body crying out to be exactly who she was. My lover shuddered, grinding his cock against me, his breathing hard and fast, the tips of his fingers fucking me more quickly— and it took just a few moments of this heavenly torture before he moved away and I heard him unzip. I heard the sounds of a condom being unwrapped, so I stuck my ass out farther, waving it at him, pleading with him—because Jesus, this was as hot as it got and my pussy was all but screaming for more. And when I felt his whole cock filling me, I came straight away, crying out. But that wasn’t all. The more he fucked me, the more I came, over and over in quick succession, and when he pushed a hand inside the front of my dress, grasping my breast and saying, “Fuck, I’m gonna come,” he hammered that cock into me so damn deep that I wailed out the biggest climax yet—the kind of coming that makes you scared because you’ve never known power like that.

  Just as I was coming down from the high, and I could feel him behind me, sorting himself out, there was an announcement—we were arriving at Porter Square. Suddenly I felt desperately embarrassed. (What had I just done, in front of a whole damn crowd?) Red faced, I pulled down my dress and neatened myself a little, as the train pulled into the station. Suddenly, I felt him grasp my wrist.

  I whirled around to face him. “What are you doing?”

  “You’re coming with me,” he said, with a sideways smile. “I’m going to fuck you to the other side of heaven.”

  I laughed. “You just did.” Then I added, “But I have places to be.”

  “No,” he said, his eyes hard on mine. “You’re coming with me.”

  “I’m not,” I said, pulling from his grip. “We’re done. It was great, but we’re done here.”

  I glanced down the coach, looking for a witness, but holy crap, there was no one there.

  “What are you?” he said, as the train rolled into the station. “A tease?”

  “Sure,” I said, angry now. “A tease with rights.”

  “You need me,” he said. The train was stopping now, and I couldn’t see anyone standing on the platform. “I’ve never felt a woman come so hard,” he said, grasping my arm again. “You want to be dommed and dirtied up. You need me. Let’s go.”

  “I said no!” The force of my voice surprised me. So I shouted it again: “No, no, no! I am not going with you—and you can’t make me.”

  The train doors slid open. He tried to grab me again, but I moved away, pulse beating in my ears. He looked like he was going to grasp me again, and that’s when I kicked him right in the shin. He jumped at that. “Get off the train!” I shouted. “Or I’ll yell and I won’t stop.”

  He paused for a moment, his eyes bright with madness, a sneer of contempt on his face. He looked like he wanted to shove my head down a toilet. But I held his stare, and I stood my ground. Finally, as the doors beeped—a sign that they wer
e closing—he turned and stepped from the coach, without saying another word.

  It’s strange when the hottest thing that has happened to you suddenly turns gross. And when Barney and I met at the pub that week and I spilled the whole story, I admit my eyes got a little damp. Was my fantasy something I couldn’t play out safely? But once I’d let him wipe my eyes with a tissue and had taken a few slugs of beer, I started to feel better. “Tell me straight,” I said, (which made us both giggle, because if there’s anything Barney is not, it’s straight). “Was that my fault?” I asked. “I mean, if I’m going to have sex in public, is that what I should expect?”

  He squeezed my hand and said, “Don’t think it, even for a second. When someone is abusive, it’s their fault. Not yours.”

  I lowered my eyes and thought about what he’d said. “If I did do it again,” I said, “I’d try to be more subtle….”

  “Flower, listen to me! It wasn’t your fault. That asshole attacked you! We seriously need to report him.”

  I thought about all this. Just for a while. The night on the train had been amazingly hot. And it was strange to admit that I’d found myself in those moments. Now that I’d played out my fantasy, I knew I wasn’t done with it.

  “So here’s an idea,” said Barney. “What if you could do it again with more control? Remember that guy I mentioned? Luke?”

  I gazed at him, puzzled for a moment. Then I remembered what he’d suggested the other night—being groped and screwed in public, but by one of his kinky friends. “I suppose it’s worth a shot,” I said.

  Barney’s eyes sparkled so much that I smiled. Matchmaking makes him look like a benevolent leprechaun. “You won’t be disappointed,” he said. “Luke’s wild in the sack! He’s got a great imagination. You’ll love him.”

  I spoke to Barney’s friend Luke on the phone before I met him. It was odd telling a stranger my fantasies about getting off in public, but I admit, it really turned me on. What’s more, he was kind and understanding—and he had one helluva sultry voice. “Your fantasy’s gorgeous,” he told me. “It’s something I’ve always wanted to try, but none of my lovers have ever wanted to go through with it.” He told me I was deliciously kinky, and I thanked him, because it sounded like a compliment. Then we set up a liaison that I’d never forget.

  We worked it out in a fail-safe way because Luke knew that subway. He knew that if I got on at Central Square from a certain point on the platform, we’d find each other easily. Sure enough, when I got on dressed in a scarlet skirt, carrying an umbrella on a summer’s night, I immediately saw a man that matched his description. He was wearing tinted glasses and a Nirvana T-shirt, just as he’d promised, and was reading a copy of Rolling Stone—just as we’d planned.

  He was just as gorgeous as Barns had promised—floppy brown hair that tumbled over his soft blue eyes, not to mention a well-built body beneath that tight tee. I sat down next to him, all tense and aroused, and read from my own book, again just as we’d planned. I was ridiculously horny with those stockings casing my legs and a pair of satin panties clutching my ready pussy. Touch me, I told him in my head. Touch me. Please? But I’d promised we wouldn’t talk. He liked the idea of silence.

  A couple of minutes in, I wondered if I’d been mistaken because he hadn’t so much as looked at me. He was casually turning the pages of his magazine, driving me mad with the smell of his skin and the way he bit his lip as he read. His hair was short at the back and he had a tanned neck that I wanted to bite and kiss. His arms were gorgeous too—toned, but not too muscly.

  I pulled my skirt up a little to reveal the lace tops of my stockings and rubbed my aching thighs. It felt so good to be exposing myself like this, with the train’s vibrations caressing my pussy, and the tight strappy top clasping my breasts and nipples. I parted my knees, showing him my garters.

  But still, he didn’t look.

  My heart was pumping. I knew what I wanted to do, but what if I was wrong, and this wasn’t actually Luke? No! He was simply playing a game, because it had to be him—he was simply playing the game and driving me crazy. And dear god, did I love him for it. So I smiled, wrenched my skirt right up my thighs and touched my pussy through the silky panties.

  It felt so good that I gasped, falling back in my seat. That’s when I felt his leg pressing against my own. He’d dropped his mag to the floor and stared down at my dirty, groping fingers.

  “Fuck,” he whispered, “you’re perfect.”

  As our eyes met, I thought I might die with need. Then I felt his fingers replacing my own, felt his fingertips against my sex, felt my clit begging for more. “Oh god,” I sighed, “don’t stop.”

  He brought his lips right close to my ear, so I was bathed in his aftershave. “Baby,” he whispered, “I’ll keep on going as long as you want, as deep as you can take it.” With that, he pushed his fingers inside my panties and stroked my wet clit, with a perfect sultry motion, whispering about all kinds of things that he wanted to do—to fuck me against a wall, to lick me under a restaurant table, to tease my nipples with the tip of his tongue as we stood in a room full of artsy sculptures. “I’ll touch you everywhere,” he told me, “wherever you want. And I’ll love >every moment of your perfect cunt.” With that, I came, sailing into oblivion, taken by a pleasure that pulsed ever deeper. And even though we’d hardly said a word to each other, a part of me knew, even then, we were a match made in heaven.

  And you know, I wasn’t wrong. Because, to this day, we are.

  POSTCARDS FROM PARIS

  Giselle Renarde

  Emily’s heart raced. From the moment Yannik walked in, she couldn’t sit still.

  “Go ahead,” Hunter said with a smirk. “Give the guy a hug.”

  Emily raced across the restaurant and wrapped her arms around Yannik’s neck. “You’re here!” She knocked off his top hat when she reached up to kiss his cheek. “Oops, sorry.”

  “You look lovely,” Yannik said, as Emily picked up his hat. “That velvet’s a great color.”

  “Got it at the consignment shop.” She handed Yannik his hat and then gave a twirl. “How about you? You look very dapper in your tails.”

  “Why thank you,” he said, with a debonair bow.

  Emily couldn’t get over how good it was to have Yannik back in town. She and Hunter had missed him so much while he was in France. The house wasn’t the same with just the two of them.

  “Would you lovebirds get over here?” Hunter called from the table. “Come keep me company. I’m getting lonely all by myself.”

  Emily led Yannik to the table by the window. Before taking his seat, he kissed Hunter firmly on the mouth. Other patrons took notice, and that used to make Emily uncomfortable. Now it made her unabashedly proud.

  “How did it go at the airport?” Hunter asked.

  “Same old, same old.” Yannik set his hat on the extra chair and picked up a menu. “They took me into one of those little rooms to question me about the packer.”

  “Did they make you take your pants off?” Emily asked.

  “No, thank god. The gal who came to interview me was really apologetic that I got targeted. She said they’ve all been trained in screening transpeople, and some of her colleagues are just assholes.”

  Emily laughed. “She actually said that?”

  Yannik nodded.

  “Fuck, it’s just a fake cock,” Hunter said. “I don’t know why they get so worked up.”

  The waiter cleared his throat. “Are we were ready to order?”

  Emily bit her lip and tried not to grin as the boys ordered dinner. She knew how funny the three of them looked—the men divinely overdressed in vintage tuxedos, she wearing a gown from the twenties and a peacock feather in her hair.

  “So, what did you bring us?” Emily asked when the waiter was gone. “I’ve been looking forward to some fancy French souvenirs.”

  “Yes, yes,” Hunter chimed in. “Perhaps some fine lingerie for the lady?”

  Smirking, Yannik rea
ched into his breast pocket. “Postcards from Paris!”

  “Postcards?” Emily said. “That’s it?”

  “These ones are special.” Yannik spread them across the table. “They’re roughly turn-of-the-century.”

  Emily glanced around the dining room to make sure nobody else could see. The postcards were very naughty: saucy ladies, naked or half-dressed, lesbian spankings and threesomes…

  “Would you look at this one!” Hunter pointed to a nude with a particularly full bush. “You don’t see that anymore.”

  “No indeed,” Yannik agreed. “They’re all like that, to some degree. A nice natural bush on a nude marked the photograph as erotic.”

  “Really?” Emily picked up the card Hunter had been drawn to. How could anyone be so hairy?

  “Well, think about Old Master paintings,” Yannik said. “You don’t see pubic hair in classical art pieces. Pussies are kind of…whitewashed, I guess. The big, full bushes set these postcards apart from high art. A hairy pussy was meant to titillate.”

  Emily cringed at the thought of having that much hair inside her panties. “I don’t know about that. I like a shaved pussy.”

  “Yes, we’ve noticed,” Yannik said, looking at Hunter as though they were conspiring in some way. “I think we’d both like to see you…au naturel.”

  The waiter came by to fill their water glasses and Emily blushed like he could see through her clothes. The boys didn’t seem ashamed in the least. They didn’t even pack up the postcards.

  When the waiter went away, Emily asked, “You’re going to take away my razor, aren’t you?”

  “The moment we get home,” Hunter said as Yannik kissed her cheek.

  * * *

  It was unbearably itchy, growing in. Emily squirmed all day for the first few weeks. Every time she showered, she plotted to steal Hunter’s razor out of the medicine cabinet. This wasn’t fair. She was uncomfortable all day, and why? Because the boys decreed it.