Best Women's Erotica 2011

by Violet Blue

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Introduction

  CHANGING MY TUNE

  I WISH YOU WERE BRAILLE

  PICTURES OF LILLY

  TWO FOR ONE

  I, ANITA

  CHLORINE

  RAINBOW NIGHT

  FRESH CANVAS

  TWO COCKS, ONE GIRL

  SKINHEADS

  KING SLUT

  PICTURE ME NAKED

  WANT

  TRICKS

  SEALSKIN

  OPPORTUNITY

  LAPS

  ESPIONAGE

  ABIGAIL’S ICE CREAM

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  ABOUT THE EDITOR

  Copyright Page

  INTRODUCTION: MELTED

  This 2011 edition of Best Women’s Erotica is stylish, coy, slick with gloss and stiletto sharp: desirous, dangerous; ice cream in the heat; love lost and found again; filthy with laughter. This year, something changed.

  Whether shy or brazen, we all seem to be seeking our melting point more than ever before. I’m watching it happen faster than culture can deal with it. That we still hear messages about women not liking any one kind of sex until we really examine it for ourselves, implies a world of dizzying contradictions we’d just as soon burn down as bend over for. Tell us we don’t like explicit sexual fantasy, and we’ll booby-trap your pedestal of female desire with nitroglycerin.

  Our fantasies are indeed about fucking, not shopping. No passive accessories for another person’s sex life, we’ve become erotically ambitious, down to the last woman. This globally sourced collection of stories from top female erotic writers takes this point of view for granted. As the editor, I had to bow to this iconoclastic trend. Writers are pulse points for culture; women have moved away from what we are “supposed” to get turned on by, to seek (and demonstrate) what we really want.

  What happened? We grew accustomed to erotic anthologies that almost apologized for women having the temerity to say they had fantasies that gave them hard-ons. Mainstream publishers still crank out tepid oatmeal erotica thinking that aiming for the middle—looking away from the real female gaze—is the way to stay safe. Meanwhile indies like Cleis Press, run by women, have fostered a powerfully quiet revolution, upending the marketplace by the simple act of giving women what they want.

  When did we first reject the notions that our vaginas are dirty and we should not speak out of turn? It actually happened very gradually, as one generation grew into another, and as girls realized we could be anyone we wanted to online, look at anything we wanted to. Men have a free pass to jerk off to porn outside the relationship; women suddenly wanted to know, why don’t we? We discovered that sexual fantasy wasn’t just a thing to try once or twice; it was something that was necessary. The stories I got sent every year started to change. They became more direct.

  Stories sent to me when I post a call for submissions arrive in the hundreds from all over the world, and in my ten years of editing erotica, these stories always tell me what’s going on out there in people’s heads about sex, specifically, women’s heads. Culture bleeds themes into the stories, and I’ll often get multiple takes on any given pop culture topic or timely sex act, the authors each having no idea that their stories are part of a trend. This year, for instance, it was looking at pornography. Women owning the right to look. At the same time, suddenly this year every single story is layered top to toe with explicit sex, hard and wet and mean and sweet, flowing around love, and fused with characters who finally feel like us, with no apologies.

  This collection is ice cream at its best moment: melting in the heat.

  Sure, these authors and their sexual heroines have some cool sweets. But the negligee they’re wearing for seduction is soaked in gasoline, and like a sexily perverse scene out of Mad Men, these women all want a light.

  In Louisa Harte’s “Changing My Tune” we begin with a warm breeze by the seaside, where a girl squeezed into a tight uniform has her first day on the job serving ice cream to workmen—with no small amount of irony about her presentation. That is, until she sees a way to capitalize on her situation to get off in two tense encounters that merge the thrill of getting caught with being romanced by one of the hard-bodied boys. The next show is in Chrissie Bentley’s “Pictures of Lilly,” where a group of girls finally dare to see what it’s like in the male-only arena of a triple-X movie theater. Sneaking into the dark enclave mixes the girls’ erotic fright with sexual wonder. The hard-core visuals and arousal become so acute that one of the girls steps through the looking glass in a way that surprises, but feels like it must be based on a true story.

  Upon reading “Two for One,” by Alyssa Turner, I felt a deep envy and a burning wish that this could happen to me, too, and make those times spent traveling to conventions and hotels as filled with sexual possibility as it must be for men. In it, a businesswoman splurges on spa service in her hotel room, only to be confronted by two masseurs who compete to see which can give her the most physical pleasure to win the payment, and tip.

  “I, Anita,” by Lana Fox is striking fare—a fantasy so delicious, vivid, debauched and ripe, it could easily be adapted to film. Anita is a sleek, corseted burlesque dancer whose act includes conjuring male orgasms onstage, saving her sexual release only for herself—until she meets the Baron, and all bets are off as bodice-ripping becomes nail-raking orgasms. Amelia Thornton’s “Chlorine” echoes a similar mood of timelessness and evokes languid afternoon perversions á la Nabokov’s Lolita, when a wealthy benefactress’s mysterious young companion steps out of line at an elite hotel poolside.

  It’s possible you may have heard of “rainbow parties,” but in “Rainbow Night,” by Giselle Renarde, a group of high-class couples at a dinner party not only discuss the ritual of a man collecting as many colors of lipstick as he can on his willing member, but in a scene of high erotic tension, devise a way to try it for dessert. Speaking of leaving no one out, erotica luminary Donna George Storey cranks up the taboo and the heat when a powerful businesswoman uses social media to create a multipartner sex scene where she is the “Fresh Canvas” for men who come for her pleasure.

  No stranger to transgression is star author Cecilia Tan, whose story shows from sentence number one why she’s a luminary—while making us laugh and turning us on at the same time. In “Two Cocks, One Girl,” a woman with good-natured snark explores her boyfriend’s emerging interest in cock. This interest handily matches her own and culminates in fresh sexual encounters and a creative cure for joblessness.

  An increasingly favored author brings her talent to the collection: the imitable Jacqueline Applebee. In “Skinheads,” the gifted UK author blends life as a young black woman raised in a London ghetto with a cultivated fetish for a certain kind of boy who wears Doc Martens. It’s a gritty and unsettlingly arousing encounter that she orchestrates like a sexed-up conductor, wringing delicious domination with a strap-on. Another force to reckon with, writer Valerie Alexander takes us into “King Slut,” the imaginary porno world of a woman whose fantasies—like many of ours—play better as the porno movie in her mind than the stuff everyone around her wants to watch. Meanwhile, her crush object finally ends the guessing game of whether or not he’s interested, shockingly becoming the masked star of her pornographic dreams.

  If you’ve ever been on New York streets and felt the pull of a hot chance encounter, then Louise Lagris’s “I Wish You Were Braille” won’t leave your mind anytime soon after you’ve read it. Even if you’re not familiar with the city, when the heroine finally connects with a certain tattooed boy in a bar and then enjoys strangely powerful sex tempered by impossible longing, like me, you may find it difficult to forget. “Picture Me Naked,”
by Velvet Moore, is another outstanding piece of writing based in a bustling city, where a woman turns the humiliation of an ex-boyfriend exposing a naked picture of her to the world into her own private game; leaving a masturbatory trail of dirty self-portraits across the cityscape—with unintended results.

  Unintended results are exactly what the jealous roommate in celebrity author Alison Tyler’s “Want” has on her hands. The problem is, her annoying roommate’s boyfriend makes her an offer she can’t refuse—erotic punishment of the roommate, but only in exchange for something very filthy that she herself has never tried, but always wanted. Cascading into the edge of filthy fantasy and just beyond is “Tricks,” by Lola Olson, which offers up one of the most intense tales of the collection. In it, a woman acts out her fantasy of dressing up as a street hooker for a sexual takedown by beat cops, the twist coming (as does she) when he “calls for backup.”

  Far from the gritty city is a tale so iconic and compelling that it blurs the line of contemporary explicit erotica and mythology: “Sealskin,” by Kirsty Logan, unfolds on a quiet Isle of Skye nighttime beach. Sirens? Quite possibly, of the female lesbian kind for sure, though this story ultimately feels like an arousing fever dream. Also dreamlike but packed with erotic thrill, Cynthia Hamilton’s “Opportunity” depicts a lesbian protagonist who is presented with a blindfolded surprise for her birthday: her girlfriend gifting her sex with a man—for her very first time.

  This collection is not short on famous names in the erotica genre, and Sommer Marsden shines in a slightly dark female sexual fantasy, “Laps.” In this story a female athlete has more than a sexual relationship with her trainer, finding absolution in moments when she will literally do anything to please him, including sex in public.

  Not only famous in erotic writing, Rachel Kramer Bussel is an online media sensation. In one of the most powerful stories I’ve ever read, “Espionage” seems to pull from a very deep place to create a story I’ve returned to more than once. Here, we are the girl at the party who’s been having a torrid affair with the man of the house, seeing his wife for the first time as guests float in and out and finally mustering up the force to do something that dares him to be ours, even if just for that one intense moment that rips our fishnets.

  Closing the curtain is a legendary name I swooned over in my first forays into erotica: Janine Ashbless showed me that erotica can be literature, and in “Abigail’s Ice Cream” we get another helping of the sublime, slippery dessert we started out with. As you sink into the world of a gourmet ice-cream maker, you’ll also get a taste of the endless possibilities presented to a single woman running her own business—dishing up treats at a festival alongside hunky paramedics who tease and play with both sweets and the sweet life. A sweet life that happens to include delicious multipartner (multiflavor?) trysts, that is.

  Now, find something that melts, and turn up the heat.

  Violet Blue

  San Francisco, California

  CHANGING MY TUNE

  Louisa Harte

  “Two large cones, please, love.”

  I glance over the counter at the sweaty builder. He points up at the menu on the side of the van, but his eyes are fixed on my tits, barely concealed within my ridiculously tight uniform.

  “Sure, coming right up,” I say sweetly, giving him my best professional smile. It’d be funny if I hadn’t already heard that joke about ten times today. Still, I’m easy pickings—whoever designed these uniforms must be having a laugh. With their tight zipper-front top and barely there skirt, they wouldn’t look out of place in a kinky costume shop. But it’s not my place to argue. I pick up the scoop and start preparing the ice creams.

  This job sure isn’t what it’s cracked up to be. When I signed up, I thought I’d be cruising about in a flash ice-cream van serving up goodies and treats to crowds of eager customers. Instead, while others in the fleet get to go to big gigs and fancy festivals, I end up here, on a beach in the middle of nowhere, next to a building site.

  Typical.

  “There you go.” I hand over the ice creams. The builder drops the change into my hand before giving me a leery wink and swaggering back off to his mates.

  I sigh. If the obscenely tight uniform and crappy pink van weren’t bad enough, the trashy jingle I’ve got playing is enough to set my teeth on edge. I lean over and switch it off—that’s enough of “Greensleeves” for now. Still, this job is only for the summer and it does have its pluses. I gaze down at the colorful assortment of ice creams and my mouth starts to water.

  “Hello, love.” A voice calls my attention. I look up. It’s another builder, only this one is different—he’s gorgeous. Like a hot builder from an advert on TV, he has these sexy gray eyes, gorgeous red lips and a rocking body that looks great packed into his T-shirt and shorts. I can almost smell the pheromones coming off him.

  “Oh, hi,” I say. Am I blushing? “What can I get you?”

  The guy rests his arm on the counter and gazes up at the menu. “What do you recommend?”

  I stifle a smile. Is he serious? This is an ice-cream van, not the Ritz. Still, it gives me a chance to have a bit of fun. “I hear the raspberry ripple’s rather nice…” I hold my breath. It’s a challenge—offering a big tough builder a rather girly sounding ice cream.

  He takes it. “Right, the ripple it is.”

  I try to hide my delight as I scoop his ice cream. I like a man who’s up for a laugh. Especially one this hot.

  “What’s your name?” he asks, watching me as I prepare his ice cream.

  “Cassie,” I say, a little surprised. Punters aren’t usually interested in details like that.

  “Cassie. Hmm. I like that,” he says, with no trace of irony. “Nice to meet you, Cassie. I’m Luke.”

  Polite, too. I’m impressed.

  “There you go, Luke.” I hand over his ice cream. “Hope you enjoy it.”

  Luke drops the coins into my palm. “I’m sure I will.” He gives me a knowing smile before ambling off to a nearby bench to sit and eat.

  I watch him, intrigued. There’s something unusual about him. He doesn’t just wolf his ice cream down like the others—he takes his time; savors it, eats it slowly like it’s a treat to be relished.

  And, oh, how he eats it.

  I lean against the counter, my jaw going slack at the spectacle on display. First he rolls his tongue around the outside of the ice cream, coating his tongue in the creamy mixture. Then he draws it into his mouth with long luscious laps that look really suggestive. At least they do to my dirty mind. I lean forward to get a better look.

  Next he starts nibbling and licking—deft precise movements that have me quaking at the knees. He’s seducing that dessert like it’s a succulent pussy. I can’t help but react. My nipples harden against the front of my top, and I feel my own creamy moisture start to seep into my panties. Is he doing this for me? Though the thought seems ridiculous, it gets me excited, and I watch him even closer, drawn in by his erotic food play. I’m glad there’s no queue. At last someone up there loves me.

  Luke turns his attention to the crisp little cone. He holds it gently and starts to nibble it with precise little nips that look calculated to please. And they do. I press my thighs together, my pussy getting wetter at the sight.

  After a few more bites, he finishes the ice cream. But the show isn’t over. I watch, engrossed as Luke licks his fingers, one by one, draining every last trace of ice cream from them.

  I let out a sigh. Wow, that was hot.

  Suddenly, Luke gets up and starts ambling back toward the van. I snatch up a scoop, pretending to be busy.

  Luke rests his arm on the counter. “Hey, thanks for that, Cassie, I really enjoyed it.”

  “Yeah, so did I.” Oh, hell, did I say that out loud?

  Luke tips his head, a smile on his face. “Right, well. Maybe see you later?” Before I can reply, he strolls away, back to the building site.

  I take a few deep breaths. My palms are sweaty, my k
nickers are soaking. I feel like I’ve been watching a filthy movie, the way my body’s reacting. I gaze over at the ice creams and realize I’m in no fit state to serve anyone—except myself.

  A sly smile crosses my lips. That’s it. There’s nothing else for it. I’ll close the van, give myself a quick seeing to and get this thing out of my system. I grasp the serving window to slide it closed, but then an elderly guy wanders over. “Hold on love, I need some relief out here, I’m melting,” he says.

  I grimace, pressing my thighs together beneath my tight skirt. Yeah? You and me both. Still, I put on my professional smile and get to work. Perhaps keeping busy will take my mind off my arousal. But as I scoop the ice cream, my mind fills with images of Luke, nibbling that cone like it was my pussy. My hands start to shake. I deserve an award just for keeping a straight face with all the kinky images passing through my mind. But somehow I manage to keep my cool and serve up the ice cream.

  “Thanks, love.” The guy saunters off down the beach to enjoy his treat.

  Right. Time for mine.

  I can’t get the window closed fast enough. Clearing a space on the floor in the back of the van, I lie down next to freezers of prepackaged Popsicles and ruck up my skirt. Sliding my hand into my knickers I run my fingers over my slit, swirling them in my juices. I moan and tip my head back against the floor. Damn, I feel horny. Hand in my knickers, I pant and groan as I rub myself up.

  My moans echo off the walls—I sound far too conspicuous. I’ve always been a noisy lover and I need something to cover my reactions. I scramble up and flick the switch on the music. As the tinny sound of “Greensleeves” cranks up, I scrabble back down onto the floor and get back to the job. I never thought I’d be wanking to “Greensleeves,” but I guess, right now, the jingle does have its uses.

  I tease and rub my clit between my fingers, picturing Luke’s head between my thighs, lapping and sucking. I roll my head from side to side and murmur, the tremors inside me increasing. Just a few more strokes and I’ll be there…