Best Women's Erotica 2012

by Violet Blue

  Victoria moaned wildly as his thick, pulsing cock entered her hot, tight pussy. Thorne had been after her for days and now he would make her his, conquering her with forceful thrusts. She rode him like a fine stallion, bucking on his huge member…

  Oh, please, Bella thought. How cheesy can you get? Pulsing cock? Huge member? But despite the language, the story was getting her seriously wet, her pussy swelling and blooming with arousal, becoming liquid. She licked her lips and read on. Soon her skin reddened and not just from the tropical sun that was a little much for her delicate complexion. She rose from her chair, feeling sweat trickle between her breasts, and headed to her room to cool off for a few minutes.

  Once there, Bella threw herself on the blinding white bed and lay under the whirring fan, listening to the ocean until she didn’t feel so light-headed. It was partly the heat and partly her suppressed appetite for sex, rising to the surface and demanding to be acknowledged now. How long had it been since she had really tasted a man—at least for more than an awkward fuck in the wee hours of the morning after the restaurant closed? How had she let the restaurant overshadow her bedroom? Bella grabbed her book with one hand and greedily caressed her clit with the other, reaching underneath her bikini bottoms and moving in slippery circles. She was just…getting…close…when there was a knock on the door. She ignored it until the mysterious guest banged again, more forcefully, and called, “Señorita? I bring to you something.”

  She adjusted her bathing suit, took off the chain and opened the door to find the young Mexican man, carrying an ice-cold fruit soda in a bottle with a straw. His white T-shirt and pants contrasted beautifully with his dark skin, his short and solid frame like a barrel. His hair was short and bristly. It made her want to rub his head.

  “I think you get too hot,” he said, offering the bottle. She clasped his wrist, meaning to unnerve him, and sucked on the straw. Both the sparkling drink and feel of his smooth skin were delicious. He surprised her with a rash move, a suave gesture, wrapping a strong arm around her waist and kicking the door shut with his foot.

  “Hey,” she said, hesitating for a second.

  Then she fell in, thinking, Oh, fuck, I don’t want to act like I don’t want it because I do, I want it, kissing him, letting him grab her ass and slip fingers into her bikini top to tweak her upturned nipples. He bent and latched on with a groan, kneading her breasts as he sucked. She pushed him away, breathless, and they stared at each other like animals facing off. He backed her toward the bed and she sat down hard, looking up at him with big coy eyes. He had tasted of limes and something honeyed. Alcohol, and before lunch.

  “What you want? Tequila?” he asked, teasing, jutting his hips forward in a nasty, cocky dance move.

  She shook her head slowly, holding his gaze.

  “Cerveza?” he asked. In response, her hand boogied up his thigh to his crotch, where a juicy-looking cock strained. She lowered her head and ran the tip of her tongue up its length, softly nipping, licking, pinching him through the material. He sighed.

  “Ai,” he said. “You need verga.” She nodded, dazed, wanting nothing more than to service, submit, be stuffed full; to wrap her lips around this strange young cock in her face. And with that, he pulled it from his pants and she plunged her mouth over it gratefully and longingly, groaning loud as if she were in intense pain. Her hand wrapped the shaft like a hug and slid up and down as she sucked the tip, then took all of him deep into her throat, then trailed down to his balls, sniffing, savoring something like cumin, like vinegar, a spicy smell that made her moan. She suckled and devoured and blissed out in a ravenous feast of cocksucking, cock against her tongue and throbbing in her hand. His hips moved against her, his rhythm growing faster as he grabbed her shoulders for balance. He wasn’t the biggest and he wasn’t the most experienced but damned if she minded. A passage from the dirty book flashed to mind:

  …Thorne fucked her glossy mouth, almost choking her with his rock-hard member…

  The man’s cock jumped, grew stiffer and he unloaded roughly into her mouth, just like she knew he would, and she came, not from touching herself, just from the intense pleasure of the man’s dick in her throat, just from his salty liquid stream. Bella drank down every drop, shuddering with her own climax, And took her time licking him clean from balls to tip, purring to herself. Then she sent him away. Adios.

  Day Two

  The floodgates were open. She was hungry for more.

  Bella woke with a grin. After sleeping in and enjoying a leisurely brunch and cinnamon coffee on her porch, scribbling menu ideas in her notebook, she wanted to see what the town had to offer. Her guidebook promised old-world charm and modern shops.

  She strolled next to the ocean, toes in the sand, a long green dress floating about her ankles like mermaid sea foam. Everywhere she saw tourists and locals walking, sunbathing, or enjoying conversation with drinks. She grinned at a warm memory of the glance she’d caught in the mirror of herself attached to the young man’s crotch, his hand tangled in her hair as he pushed her onto his erection. Yes. The boy was a nice appetizer. Somewhat rustic, like a robust slice of brown bread and village cheese. Filling yet incomplete, leaving the patron eager for more complex flavors. For the meat.

  Idly she wandered, distracted by her blow job dreams, not noticing the men noticing her flow by in her green dress. Not noticing the intense lust her hips sparked as they swayed down the street like mariachi music.

  The unassuming gallery captured her, wooed her with color, the white walls teeming with paintings of vines and flowers and animals. It looked like Bella felt: alive and wet with life. She should have come to Mexico long ago! She stretched her arms overhead and stopped in an open courtyard, admiring a massive canvas that depicted hot-pink bougainvillea draping over a wall and cracked stones, each flower shining with detail, each leaf perfectly outlined. She could almost smell the sweetness of the blooms.

  “Wonderful, isn’t it?” A slim man with a cultured accent approached.

  Bella agreed. “Love it. It’s just pulsing with energy.” She faced the man and saw he was fortyish, with a teeny bit of gray in his lush black hair. His body looked taut, feline, and his stance said he was certain of himself. He wore a yellow shirt tucked into jeans with a belt. The way he leaned toward Bella said he was attracted.

  He extended a hand. “Juan Vargas. This is my gallery.”

  “Bella.”

  He held and kissed her hand, his eager warm lips pressing her skin way longer than socially appropriate. He was sizing her up like a fruit at the market. Bella plucked at her dress strap, sensing her nipples growing firm. “Sorry for the cliché, but I couldn’t help it,” he said, his eyes oozing into her cleavage. She wore no underwear and no bra and it felt wonderfully free, free as the breeze. She wondered if he could tell. She wondered if he knew his naughty lips had woken her pussy, which now felt slick under the slip of a dress. Bella shifted her hip and thought about a hard hot fuck.

  “You don’t sound Mexican,” she said. “I detect a hint of…”

  “French. My mother is French and my father is Mexicano. I went to university in Paris but the primal beauty of my father’s country seduced me back.”

  Birds called from somewhere outside.

  “Show me what else you have in the back room,” she said.

  His ass looked fine leading the way down the hall, and she admired it like a lion regards the juicy haunch of a gazelle before the kill.

  As soon as the door shut, he was on her like green on guacamole, aggressively taking her breath away with his skilled tongue—hint of chili!—and hands, tugging her dress up to tap the sweet spot. Before he could reach her sodden pussy though, she sank to her knees on the wooden floor, taking him down with her. She was the queen. She called the shots.

  Juan hummed joyfully as she tortured him with each slow click of the zipper, springing his wide cock from the jeans. He leaned back on his elbows on a stack of books and she lapped, sucked, fucked him with her lip
s, tongue and throat. She couldn’t get enough cock in her mouth, pressing her face against his thighs to take every inch. How could anyone ever get enough of the power, the fabulous rush? Of giving a man pleasure this way? Of the visceral force of having your throat filled like the round notes of a song? Juan’s face beamed ecstatic, much like someone eating one of her creations, caught in delicious ecstasy. She opened wider to fit all of him in, released him out, took him in, tugged on his balls, worked his length with the flat of her tongue. On all fours in the dust, surrounded by beautiful works of art and rolled canvases, Bella was in heaven, moaning and rubbing her rosy pussy with her hand while blowing a stranger.

  …there on the floor with her mouth full of cock Victoria realized she was a whore, a dirty, filthy, wanton little whore who loved to fuck and be fucked…

  “You’re not getting off that easy,” he rasped. If he only knew! “Now I take you.” She squeaked as he shook her off and moved behind her, holding her round hips tightly as his dick danced into her waiting cunt. Her edges were so fat and puffy that they enveloped the rigid shaft. He screwed her hard, fast, expertly, like a man who knew women, who knew how to use a cock, slapping her ass with the palm of his hand and making her cry out, her pussy grabbing and the climax rippling out like a seismic wave. Bella felt tears in her eyes and realized he was climbing, ramming with abandon, words in French and Spanish spilling out.

  “En mi boca! En mi boca!” she cried. In my mouth. She didn’t mean to let him take control but he did and she’d let him. His cock slid between her lips—she had so missed it being there—and she tasted their juices together, sour lemon and savory oregano. Her hand flew and her tongue tickled the ridge behind the head of his cock and sent him hurling over the edge. A river of come washed into her mouth and she moaned around him, clawing his ass with her hands to hold her mouth against the deluge.

  She had the bougainvillea painting shipped straight to her bistro.

  Day Three

  Eat, lounge, swim, nap.

  Controlled New York Bella had given way to open, Tropical Bella, the dial on her finer senses cranked to the hilt in the moist, fragrant air. Her thighs were sore from dancing, her mouth from sucking. She stepped onto the balcony as the sun went down, naked and dewy from a shower, feeling potent, surveying the blue and pink of the sky. She’d broken out, somehow, with all the sexual release she’d allowed herself. She felt complete. Satiated. She’d taken her sexy back! Now she wanted to take her badass self out to celebrate and indulge her palate instead of her libido.

  The concierge made a reservation for her at a restaurant where the chef was known for his exquisite creations. Rocking to banda music on the radio, Bella pulled on a tight, pink sundress that celebrated each and every curve, applied a hint of mascara and lip gloss and admired the goddess in the mirror.

  …she had opened her most secret flower and was glowing from inside out…

  At the restaurant:

  “A little regalo from the chef, Señorita,” her waiter said, passing her a tiny bite in a silver spoon: the amuse bouche to whet her appetite. Mouthwatering, perfect ceviche puckered her lips with its sour snap. She followed it with a sip of a fabulous, nuanced wine that smacked of apricot and grapefruit. The restaurant was a mix of metro and Mexican, like something that belonged in a bigger city. Each course was better than the last and Bella was surprised with the chef’s panache and inventiveness. She savored every single bite, taking her time. As she enjoyed her dessert wine, she felt the loose satisfaction of a stunning meal, wriggling her hips under the table and thinking about the other kind of satisfaction she’d experienced on this trip.

  A beautiful wild man interrupted her reverie and she lost her composure, spilling a bit of her wine on the table. Embarrassing. He was standing in her personal space, reddish curls springing from his head, jeans, beard, broad shoulders, flip-flops. “Gomez,” he said. “I hope I was able to impress you tonight.” He smirked at the effect he’d had on her.

  This was the great Mexican chef? No way.

  “Bella,” she said. “From New York.” She waited for the usual reaction but he made no sign he recognized her. “The sea bass and ceviche were superb, ah, and I was blown away by the way you used cilantro and anise. And the raspberries with the caramel…”

  “You must be a chef!” he exclaimed, laughing loudly. “Riqu-isimo . Come, come see my kitchen!” Excited, he took her by the hand and led her into a bustling hive of jumping fire and bubbling pots, his staff in smart uniforms while he looked like a hippy off the street. She was thrilled. She felt at home.

  Gomez dipped a ladle into a great soup pot and brought it to her lips.

  She swallowed. He watched.

  “Marvelous. I’m not sure about the saffron, though,” she said.

  “Of course this sauce must have saffron,” he said, waving his hands and scowling.

  Bella put her hands on her ample hips. “Saffron overpowers the other ingredients, in my opinion.” She smiled: just trying to help.

  Gomez became quite still and smiled back. He said, “Please, let’s discuss this further in my office.” They wound through the kitchen into a small, cool space, shutting the door behind them. Bella looked forward to some hearty chef-to-chef conversation. Instead, he exploded.

  “Who are YOU to come and tell Gomez that his SAFFRON doesn’t FIT?”

  “Don’t you KNOW who I am?” she said. “Bella. You know, Bella?”

  He waved a hand dismissively. “Woman. A little woman who thinks SHE can tell ME how to cook!” He shoved all the papers off his desk in a rage, muttering angrily in Spanish, pacing around with his hands gripped behind his back.

  She took a sharp breath as the papers fluttered to the floor around them. It was indeed his kitchen. His territory. But now he’d pissed her off. “And your sea bass could have been cooked thirty seconds longer,” she spat, tossing fuel on the fire.

  “Whore!” he cried.

  “Pendejo!” she countered.

  He slapped her face.

  She slapped him back.

  He shoved her over the desk, snatched her dress up and pressed an amazing erection against her bare ass so suddenly her breath caught. He pinned her against the wood of the desk and growled, grinding his hips like a madman. She felt intense fear, then shock, then the overwhelming urge to have Gomez inside her.

  “Take me, bastard,” she moaned. “Just fucking fuck me.”

  “Oh, I will fuck you,” he snarled, undoing his jeans and slamming into her wet cunt with a cock as wild and gorgeous and uncontrollable as he was. “Bossing me around. Whore. Slut. Pendeja.” With each word he thrust deeper, harder. The sounds of their angry jungle fucking were raucous. She thought the entire restaurant might be listening. She didn’t care. Each time his cock pumped into her she cried out.

  “Like it?” he said, swiveling his hips, making her feel even more delicious. If that were possible. Bella was dizzy with pleasure. She only managed to moan Mmmmmm.

  He pulled out. “On your knees, mujer,” he said, lowering himself into a big leather chair. “I’m going to fuck your lovely mouth.” His cock was magnificent and thick, roped with veins. It looked proud and strong and like the starring dick of her fantasies. She took his balls into her mouth, tasting his funky sweat, nuzzling her nose into the moist curls that matched the reddish ones on his head. “Suck,” he commanded, murmuring approval as Bella’s lips engulfed him totally, worshipping his masculinity through the root. They both whimpered.

  He was hard, as hard as she’d ever felt a man. He tasted of chocolate, the brine of the ocean and the freedom she’d been searching for all her life but never found. Not until she entered his kitchen. His cock begged for her touch and she swirled her hand on his shaft, watching his green eyes watch her. The fat, spongy head felt especially good penetrating her mouth, stretching her, traveling the full length of her throat over and over.

  The only sensation was cock. Cock and the desire to please and be pleased by this man.
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  …as he took her, she experienced absolute ecstasy and finally unleashed the wild woman from her cage…

  She moaned in protest as he moved away, holding her hand out for his cock. Their eyes locked and wordlessly he bundled her into his lap, now as gentle as he was rough before. Her cunt sheathed his cock and their tongues met for the first time. This wasn’t what she was expecting. Slowly they intertwined, kissing insatiably, his hand directing her ass up and down his shaft. She ran both hands into his red curls and held his head as her mouth traveled his lips, cheek, forehead. As she kissed him, he grasped the neck of her dress and ripped it open, taking her breasts in his mouth like a starving man, licking from one to the other, one to the other, wetting her entire chest. Tasting her. Fucking her.

  No: making love to her.

  He made her come.

  And then held on tight as she came again, riding his cock and calling to God.

  Gomez came in a hot burst, pulling out and splattering her thighs. They held each other, panting. He grinned and ran a finger through the white sauce spilling down her leg and pushed it into her mouth, following the finger with his big, soft lips.

  Bella dissolved into a puddle of bliss.

  He kept his hand on her cheek, narrowing his eyes. “And how do we taste?”

  “Perfect,” she said. “I wouldn’t change a thing.”

  THE MAGICIANS

  Valerie Alexander

  It’s a night of symphonies and snow. You and I are at a holiday party and we’re avoiding each other. This old brick house used to be the grandest in town and you and I once knew it as well as we knew the bounce of a soccer ball, the boredom of study hall; back in those high school days when we knew each other. Now the host hobbles from room to room on artificial hips and the wine cellar has long gone empty and the library books go unread. It’s a different kind of haunted house. I’m studying the worn oriental carpets and dark red wallpaper, the grandfather clock. There’s a ghost in this house and I’m here to invoke it.