Best Women's Erotica 2015

by Violet Blue

  He’d lit a couple of torches and the flames flickered in the breeze, throwing eerie shadows around us. It created a starkly pagan atmosphere, as if my mundane, civilized world had ceased to exist when I stepped out of my car. My pussy clenched as I stood there in the steamy night.

  I reached out and wrapped my hand around the bottle of tequila. As intently as a predator, he watched as I raised it to my mouth and took a deep swallow. I could taste him on the bottle, the sharp tang of sweat and tobacco from his lips more intoxicating than the booze. I took a second slug and handed him back the bottle.

  He stroked his cock lazily through his jeans and his gaze never wavered. I felt dizzy and breathless.

  “Sit.” He slid over on the cot, leaving just enough space for me to squeeze next to him. I was acting crazy, but common sense had abandoned me. I was overwhelmed by the unquenchable desire to have him on top of me, have him inside of me. To feel him ramming his cock into me without mercy until I screamed.

  I lowered myself next to him on the worn mattress, itchy with need. I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding when he slid the large hand off his erection and onto my thigh.

  “Pretty.” Fingers plucked at the soft, pale-pink fabric of my summery dress. It looked innocent and virginal beneath his dark, rough hand. I stared at a brutal puckered scar that stretched all the way up his forearm and wondered what violence he’d suffered. He slowly slid the fabric up my thighs, calloused finger- tips skimming over my bare knees. As he stroked my skin, his touch grew rough and possessive and his fingers inched toward the juncture of my thighs where moisture pooled. I shivered in expectation.

  This would be no genteel interlude. He was no staid busi- nessman seducing me after dinner and cocktails. There’d be no bed covered in pristine sheets in a climate-controlled environ- ment. I would not be having a sedate orgasm before getting a sterile good-night kiss. The anticipation of the unknown made it all the more arousing. I’d abandoned my poised indifference along with my silk and pearls. I was lying there wet and quiv- ering with lust, waiting impatiently to be screwed senseless by this dark, linguistically challenged stranger.

  His fingers moved by infinitesimal degrees. Insidious sensa- tions crept through me until every cell of my being was bursting with want. I watched his hand as it moved, as he pushed my dress up to my hips, across my lap, exposing me.

  “That is one sweet little snatch.” He slid one fingertip between my dripping labia and rubbed it back and forth through the slickness, before putting his finger to his lips and sucking. His eyes closed and he groaned.

  “Man, I missed that.” He slid off the cot onto his knees, grabbed my thighs and thrust them apart. His eyes glittered hungrily as he stared at my pussy, spread wide open for him.

  “Now you just lie still while I eat you up.” He bent between my legs and his hot lips latched on to my clit and started sucking. I let go of the last whisper of sanity and gave myself over to the explosive feelings. His tongue was forceful, his lips and teeth brutal as he bit and sucked and licked. He pushed his tongue deep into my cunt, lapping at me like a hungry dog. Slurping sounds broke the silence as he fucked me with his mouth and I whim- pered ecstatically every time he bit down on my turgid clit.

  His hands tightened on my thighs and he held me down as he suckled my flesh. It was a pleasure so immense it was painful. I clenched my hands on the metal frame of the cot, my entire world centered between my thighs as my orgasm began to build. It grew until it crested like a sleek wave, and I gasped when it streamed over me with a heated sizzle in the summer night.

  He sat back on his haunches and licked his lips like a glutton finishing a delicious meal. I stared at him beneath half-closed eyes as he crawled back on the cot until he was looming over me. He pulled off his T-shirt, revealing a tattooed chest so tight and muscular I could have bounced a quarter off it.

  “Off.” He yanked at my dress and tossed it impatiently aside, then roughly grabbed hold of my tits with greedy hands, twisting and pulling harshly. Grinning darkly, he pinched my nipples until they were standing up, stiff little peaks of desire. He lazily slapped one breast, then the other, leaving sharp red marks, and I felt a brutal responding tug of hunger in my cunt.

  He mesmerized me. What should have disgusted me aroused me. What should have been frightening was alluring. In the distance a brilliant arc of lightning coursed through the night sky as if to punctuate the need pulsing through my body.

  He slid his jeans off and freed his cock. It was long, thick and angry. He jerked at it with one hand while he continued to torment my tits with the other. He bent over and sucked a nipple into his mouth and drew hard on it. The bristle of his days’ old beard rasped over my flesh like sandpaper, sensitizing it, height- ening all the sensations that his lips and teeth and tongue and hands were eliciting. He was voracious. He left hickeys and teeth marks all over one breast, then the other, biting at my nipples until it was glorious and nearly unbearable.

  I writhed and begged. “Please please please fuck me fuck me.” The lusty litany spilling from my lips stopped only when he rammed his cock balls deep inside me.

  “God, oh god.” I clutched my ankles around his ass as he fucked me, grunting and pounding into me like a raging animal. He impaled me again and again as I lay beneath him, reveling in the erotic, liquid slap of our bodies. When he reared up and shot his come deep inside of me I shuddered uncontrollably and this time I came screaming.

  Just as suddenly as he’d rammed into me, he pulled out. He stood up in front of me, grabbed me by the hair and pulled me up until I was sitting on the edge of the cot. His organ quivered in front of me, wet with our juices, and he grabbed my jaw and squeezed.

  “I’ve waited a long time for this.” His voice was husky and rough, like the sex. He didn’t wait for permission. He shoved his cock into my mouth and growled, “Suck me.” I tasted myself on him as he rammed his length down my throat. My jaw ached with the strain of being forced open wide as he fucked my face and I gagged around him but he never slowed. He continued to slam his cock into my mouth until his balls slapped against my chin. Drool ran out of my mouth as he held my head immobile, while I desperately sucked and swallowed, trying to take him deeper.

  It was the most nasty, decadent, mind-blowing experience of my life. Coherent thought fled. The tangy smell of sweat and come and sex permeated the sultry air around me as his hips churned. Salty drops filled my mouth and I lapped them eagerly, using my tongue to stroke his shaft as he pistoned in and out. He didn’t ask if I wanted to swallow. He just tightened his painful grip on my hair, shoved his cock deep and shot into my mouth. Come poured down my throat, overflowed past my lips and dribbled down my chin. I sucked and swallowed as fast as I could, drinking in his pungent, briny semen. Nothing existed for me but the sound of his coarse words and the feel of him as he jerked and came.

  “Yeah, fuck, oh yeah.”

  He yanked out of my mouth and shot the last creamy streams across my breasts, the jism dripping off my tingling nipples and onto my thighs as he held my head with one hand and watched himself shoot all over me. He smiled at the come on my lips and chin, his look one of absolute possession.

  That look made me crazy. I wanted to wallow in every kinky, raunchy act past lovers had been too squeamish for. I wanted to be thrown down and fucked in every hole until I couldn’t move.

  The hot wind whipped up abruptly, and the heavens opened in a downpour. He pulled me up and we stood panting beneath the deluge for a moment. Water sluiced off our bodies. I half- expected it to turn to steam as it hit our skin. Instead it mingled with the fluids of sex and ran down our naked flesh. By the time our breathing slowed, we were drenched. When a bolt of lightning struck nearby, he cupped his hand around my neck, grabbed the bottle of tequila and pushed me in front of him, naked, back to my room.

  The storm surrounded us and the scent of ozone filled the air. The base, elemental feel of the night was like being in some dark, wicked dream where we reveled in our m
ost animalistic cravings. My body screamed with an atavistic, feral want. I didn’t care how he used me, I wanted every moment of pleasure and pain.

  He stood in my room, illuminated only by flashes of light- ning, swallowing down a third of the remaining tequila. When he shoved the bottle to my lips and held it up, pouring it down my throat, I swallowed until I coughed. He put the bottle on the nightstand.

  “On the bed.” His command was accompanied by a shove, and I stumbled, fell, crawled eagerly onto the bed on my hands and knees like a bitch in heat.

  I could hear him rummaging through my luggage. I had no idea what he was looking for but I panted as I waited impa- tiently to feel him fill me up again.

  I heard the snick of a bottle top, and smelled the incongru- ously soft aroma of baby oil before he pushed my face down onto the bed. Rough hands slid between the cheeks of my ass, slick oil running over my flesh as his fingers probed.

  “So tight. So hot.” Thick fingers breached my anus, invading, burning. “I’m going to fuck you up the ass.”

  “Yes! Yes! Fuck me—fuck my ass!” I begged breathlessly and waited for his penetration. When it came, when he was thrusting deep into my ass, all that was familiar of my life shattered and fell away. As he took me with a ravening brutality I screamed with joy and completion. I screamed over and over again as lightning flashed and my world lit up with a surreal glow.

  * * *

  I woke up alone the next morning. It was late and the heat of day had already begun to build. It pulsed in the silent stillness of my dingy room. Along with my lover and the magic of the storm, the miasma of lust from the previous night was gone. My body was uncomfortably sore, and I was damp with sweat and sticky body fluids.

  Through my tequila-hangover haze I heard the blare of a car horn. I stumbled out of bed taking a second to swish some mouthwash, then grabbed my crumpled suit and pulled it on, ignoring the unmistakable odor of sex and alcohol that wafted off me.

  Outside the rental agency driver waited with a new car. He was young, clean-cut and eager. His name was Buddy and he informed me that power had been restored after the storm and they’d received my distress call and located me via GPS. He helped me transfer my luggage and laptop and politely refrained from mentioning my grungy appearance.

  Before leaving, I stuck my head into the manager’s office. I didn’t know what I’d say, but it was empty. There was no sign anyone had been there at all, except for the empty tequila bottles in the trash. The red truck was gone. Only a splotch of oil in the dirt marked where it had been.

  I climbed into the car with Buddy while trying to focus on something other than my sore pussy, aching thighs and throbbing breasts. I forced my mind away from the memory of debauched sex acts and tried to think of familiar and unthreatening things. A nice hotel room, a cool shower and clean clothes.

  “It’s too bad your car didn’t make it another twenty miles. There’s a decent Motel 6 just down the highway.”

  “I was lucky to find this place. Better than being stranded on the side of the road.”

  “Must have been a bit scary though, staying here all by your lonesome during such a big storm, no?”

  “Alone? I wasn’t alone—the motel manager was there. He gave me a room.” And fucked my brains out.

  “Manager? Hell, sorry, excuse my French, ma’am, there’s no manager here. This motel’s been closed since last year. The owner and his wife couldn’t make a go of it and moved to Houston.”

  “But there was a man…”

  The driver missed my puzzled response as he twisted the wheel and we bumped sharply onto the highway and pulled away from the motel. I turned in my seat to glance back, and winced as a burning twinge reminded me my ass had been well and thoroughly plundered. Despite the lingering discomfort, the bright light of day made the events of the night before seem distant and unreal. Yet the smell of him remained on my skin, taunting me.

  As we drove I spotted a folded newspaper sitting on the dash- board. I could see part of a photograph, a dark-haired man in orange prison garb. I grabbed it and flipped the paper open. The headline read, Still at Large above Heathcliff’s grinning face. The black eyes in the photo were the same riveting ones that had stared into my own as he fucked me.

  “Scary dude, huh? He escaped from the Federal Pen three days ago. Feds and the cops haven’t found squat. He done, er, did five years of a twenty-year stretch for armed robbery. You’re lucky you didn’t run into this guy.”

  I folded the paper and laid it down on the seat. I shut my eyes against the sun blazing through the windshield and asked the driver to turn up the air-conditioning.

  As we drove back toward civilization, unsettling thoughts began to infiltrate my mind. Thoughts of quitting my dead-end job and running away. I had no ties. I suddenly ached with a desperate need to escape everything in my life that was unsatis- fying, tame and stale. Why not?

  The car hummed along and I began to doze and my thoughts grew darker.

  Instead of sane and sensible things, I thought of empty motel rooms that smelled of sex. Of blistering heat and summer storms, of wild lightning and unbearable hungers. I thought of a grinning, black-eyed stranger wet and naked in the rain. And I thought of rough, hot hands, a hard cock and screaming out my ecstasy in the freedom of the dark.

  TRIPLET TROUBLE

  JT Louder

  Four years ago, I would have told you that Stephen wasn’t my type. I typically like my guys dark—Italian dark, South American dark—but he had light-brown hair, big blue eyes, and rosy red cheeks. Stephen looked like a Murphy, so his last name was apt.

  There were two other ways he was not my type: he was an engineering major (and had the cell phone belt clip to prove it), and he had absolutely no athletic ability whatsoever. The one and only time we went running together, he somehow managed to bump into me several times, nearly knocking us both off our feet right on the school track.

  But even though he wasn’t my ideal, in his pursuit of me, he was persistent and kind. He had a great sense of humor, and he sent me texts every day telling me how much he loved me. (He still does.)

  And letting him in was a superb idea, especially for my sex life. I spent a good majority of my senior year fucking big, thick-necked jocks in the boys’ bathroom or in friends’ parents’ beds. They would squeeze my breasts tight like sponges while they rammed their tiny, angry, red-tipped cocks into me, their eyes squeezed shut, teeth clenched into a grimace. It was like, instead of fucking, they were lifting weights after practice.

  None of these guys ever made a noise. I had sex in silence for the first two years I was sexually active. They would only grunt when they came—a big, ugly, “Unh!” like they were trying to throw a two-hundred-pound weight across the football field when, actually, they had just shot their load all over my pubic hair and thighs.

  I was known as the quiet chick with the nice, tight cunt and a mouth that could make a cock hard as a rock in no time flat. Rumor was that I’d have been a knockout if I was a “screamer.” But why fake such extreme pleasure when, first of all, the sex was seldom screaming material, and second, none of those guys urged me on with dirty talk or sexy noises of their own?

  Stephen couldn’t have been any more different. The first time I sucked his cock, he closed his eyes, tipped his head back, put his hands gently in my hair and moaned so loudly, I thought the girls in the dorm room next to us would know exactly what I was doing, with my roommate having gone home for the long weekend. But I didn’t care. I loved how vocal he was, how he’d bite his beautiful, plump lower lip and moan and moan, how he’d thrust his hips gently while I sucked him, letting out a breathy “Yes, yes, yes,” how he’d yell, “Oh god, baby! You’re fucking making me come!” when he’d shoot off in my mouth.

  The first month we were together, we kind of got a reputation on my dorm floor. But I loved that Stephen did what guys expect girls to do—loudly proclaim our ecstasy courtesy of the pump and grind of the Almighty Cock, roll our heads fro
m side to side like we could barely take another inch of it and pant and whine like oversexed sex kittens. And I loved that he didn’t expect a thing in return, although I gave it to him. How could I not moan wildly when my guy was crying my name, his nipples hard and eyes closed like a sleeping angel’s, his short, thick cock widening my pussy with every pump of his slender hips?

  But here was the best part: Stephen was a triplet.

  Yes, I was the one who brought it up. Yes, he was shocked at first, but when I wrapped my arms around him as we snuggled in my twin bed, his come drying in some bunched-up tissues to my right, he slowly warmed to the idea.

  “You’d want all three of us?” he asked, soft and curious, like a young boy.

  I said, “You’re all identical, right?”

  He contemplated this for a while, finally giving a tiny shrug. “Yeah, pretty much.”

  I pressed my lips into the soft brown hair near his temple. “How could I not want to play with two other versions of you?”

  He let out a gentle laugh and gave my nipple a quick tweak, rolling me over onto my back. I felt his cock begin to harden against my leg as he lowered his forehead to touch mine. He said, “Let me make a few phone calls then.”

  Before Thanksgiving break, he asked me to marry him. I said yes—how could I not say yes to a lifetime of “Oh, oh, I fucking love your pussy! I fucking love your pussy!” I told him that it would be a long engagement—after we graduated in the spring, I was committed to studying architecture in Paris. I wanted to start my life before I committed to a husband.

  I went home with Stephen for the first two weeks of our semester break to spend Christmas with his family, to meet his mom and dad, and those two identical brothers. Stephen drove his truck slowly over snow-packed roads, the storm having tapered off then, as he put his hand on my knee and said, “This weekend, I will give you the best gift of your life.”