Best Women's Erotica 2011

by Violet Blue

  And it was quick. Of course the main movie was “full length”; an hour, maybe even ninety minutes, and there’d be plot and dialogue around the frenzied fucking. For me, though, the real meat was the supporting program, anything up to two hours’ worth of shorts that could have been shot at any time since my granny was a girl, which made no attempt whatsoever at being anything other than pure sexuality.

  They were rarely longer than nine or ten minutes. “That’s because ten minutes is the length of the average jerk-off,” disclosed Wanda, whose knowledge of such things was rarely questioned (alone among us, she had an older brother, you see). But they didn’t need to be any longer than that, because there was more “action” crammed into one ten-minute dirty than you’d catch in a lifetime of watching Hollywood blockbusters.

  I remembered reading a review of Last Tango In Paris that said how realistic the sex scenes were meant to be, and when I saw it, I agreed. They were realistic. But realistic isn’t real, and no amount of fancy lighting will ever be a substitute for a close-up of a hard, thick dick slamming into a gaping, wet pussy. So why even bother faking it?

  The most amazing thing of all, though; the one question that has remained with me longer than almost any other puzzle from my past—how was it that four barely legal teenaged virgins, all giggles and curls and noticeable curves, could sit week-in, week-out, in a darkened room full of masturbating men and not get hit on even once?

  It’s not as though nobody knew we were there. In fact, on more than one occasion, guys actually got up and moved to another seat when they saw us trooping down the aisle. Maybe they were worried that we’d put them off their stroke? Masturbation is a solitary occupation, after all. Occasionally you’d catch a surreptitious glance out of the corner of your eye, and you’d find yourself wondering what the guy was thinking. Was he looking at your tits while he was beating his meat? But that was it.

  Except once. One afternoon, the action crept off the screen, slipped down the aisle past a dozen or so rows and began playing out so close to me that I could have reached out and touched it. And I might have, as well. Except Wendy got in before me, and she wasn’t the sort of girl who shared. I think she was an only child.

  I remember the movie like it was yesterday: The Sexorcist, a blatant attempt to cling to the coattails of the post-Exorcist boom in supernatural chillers, shot through with a series of extraordinarily explicit sexual encounters, most of them led by the delectable Lilly Lamarr.

  What ever happened to Lilly? I never once spotted her in any other movie…maybe she burned out making this one. It was pretty heavy going, after all, and her character comes to a very grisly end. But still she remains my all-time cinematic heroine, the one girl with whom, as I sat watching the movie, I would have traded places in a flash. And why? Because when she sucked dick, I saw my every dream and fantasy come true.

  The problem with Deep Throat, I always thought, was that no matter how into it Linda Lovelace seems to be, the fact is, she really doesn’t look good while she’s doing it. Her face is all screwed up; there are veins and tendons sticking out. She’s not sucking the cock in, she’s vomiting it out. It’s just not attractive, and any guy on the receiving end of that is going to be thinking, Well, it feels great, but does she have to pull those faces?

  There’s a visual aesthetic to blow jobs that goes beyond the actual act, and most guys will tell you, a girl who relaxes into the experience and looks like she’s having the time of her life, is a lot more exciting than one who’s straining and spluttering and looks like she’s coughing up a hair ball. Lamarr fulfills those criteria and then keeps on going.

  She’s an artist, an expert, the Bolshoi of blow jobs, and when her man comes, she opens her mouth just wide enough for all the juice to come dribbling out, simply so she can have the fun of sucking it all back in again. And again and again. I was watching her relish every inch of those dicks, and you can forget wet panties. I was soaking into the seat itself…and wouldn’t that be a treat for the next guy to sit there? “This movie’s so hot I can smell it!”

  Anyway, I’m sitting there, literally flooding myself, when someone sat down just two seats away from me. I didn’t pay any attention at first, but every so often, a movement would flutter in the corner of my eye. It wasn’t fast, and it certainly wasn’t furtive; at first I thought he was simply munching popcorn. But then Wendy, sitting on my other side, nudged me. “Are you watching this guy?”

  I looked. He had his cock out…and that was unusual; most of the guys we’d seen playing with themselves had their hands wedged down the front of their trousers or maybe covered their laps with a coat. But not this one. Bold as you like, it was out in the open, quivering hard and pointing bolt upright, and he was stroking it, a long, slow sweep with one hand and then, as he reached the tip, and his fingers hung there, the other hand would start at the bottom. And between each sweep, his free hand would go up to his face, and he’d sniff his own fingers and palm.

  I glanced at the screen. The movie was into one of its plot interludes. I turned back to the guy. His eyes were glued to the screen, but his hands were still working their magic, slow and patient.

  Wendy nudged me again. “How old do you reckon he is?”

  “I dunno. Midtwenties, maybe?”

  “He’s cute.”

  “He’s all right.”

  “Watch this.” Wendy rose, placed her purse on her seat and squeezed past our friends on her other side. She walked a smart circuit around the theater, and then headed back to her seat from the other end of the row…the end where the guy was sitting. She’d have to get past him to regain her own seat.

  All three of us were watching her now. Laughing, we’d often wondered what would happen if we crept up on one of the guys sitting around us and placed one hand where his was, just to see what it felt like. I never thought Wendy would be the one who actually did it, though. Looked like Lilly Lamarr was working her magic on her as well.

  She’d reached him. By the light of the movie, I could see her mouth “Excuse me,” and the guy’s look of absolute shock as he registered her standing there. He made to stand up to let her pass, while frantically trying to tuck his cock out of sight, but as Wendy passed him, her own hand gripped it.

  Have you ever startled a kitten when it’s doing something it shouldn’t be? That’s what his face looked like, frozen, wide-eyed, bewildered…and those eyes grew wider still, as Wendy settled down into the empty seat between him and me, still clutching that twitching erection. Then she leaned forward a little.

  With her nose just millimeters away from his cock, she took a deep breath, then clasped one of his wrists with her free hand, sniffed at that, too, and slowly licked her tongue up his palm.

  The guy had shifted his feet a little; he was standing in front of her now (I hoped nobody behind them was trying to watch the screen!), and I could see everything around Wendy’s fingers: the thick vein that ran up the side of the shaft, the thick mushroom head, the forest of dark hair at the base.

  There was a kind of bend in his dick. Although the guy was facing Wendy, the eyelet in his helmet was pointing straight at me. I took a breath, hoping I could catch his scent, but my own was so powerful that I’d need to get a lot closer before that happened. Close enough to smell him, close enough to taste…

  Wendy read my mind, moving forward herself. Maneuvering myself in my seat, I saw her tongue snake out at the underside of his helmet, and I heard his gasp as she made contact. She’d been eating mints all the time we’d been in the movie house; would their tingle translate itself to her tongue? Or did that even matter now? What did it feel like to have such a sensitive part of your body immersed in the warmth of someone else’s mouth, to feel the heat of their spit soaking into the nerve-ends? I glanced up at his face, which held an expression of absolute pleasure that ironed out every line in his forehead, as her mouth inched itself languorously over the bulb.

  A moment of irrational, unreasonable envy swept over me—partly beca
use of what she was doing (and the knowledge that, had I only thought of it first, that could have been me sitting where she was), but also because…she looked like she knew what she was doing. Had she done this before? Who with? When? I seethed at the sight of the experience she seemed to be exerting here, the calm and casual manner with which she held the head of that hard-on in her mouth, before slowly withdrawing…not quite all the way, he was balanced on her lips now…and then taking it in again, a little deeper, a little harder.

  Now she was sucking. I could see her cheeks working, her tongue, too. It looked incredible. I thought, with all the movies we’d watched, that I knew everything there was to know about giving good head. But watching it actually unfold in the flesh alongside me, that was a completely different experience. I could hear Wendy’s lips slurping at his hard flesh; could hear his breathing accelerate, from light gasps to groaning pants. Was he coming?

  I threw a glance at the screen. Lilly was at it as well, sucking on the devil’s dick, drawing him deep into her mouth. “Bite it, hurt it, bite it,” he was muttering, and the camera closed in as her teeth sank hard into his helmet. Christ, I wanted some of that. I could see the actress’s saliva flowing, thick and clear, flooding to celebrate the taste of a man. Her teeth looked sharp; that must have hurt. But was it a bad pain or a good one? It had to be good—how could anything that looks that wonderful feel like anything else?

  I turned back to Wendy, hoping she’d tire, or lose interest or something, anything, so that I could pounce and suck and bite and taste. But no, she was moving faster now, graceful swoops down his slick prick; I could see her lips straining to enfold more of his length in her mouth—he must have been halfway in, how much more could she take? And, more importantly, how much more could he take?

  He was loud now, his groans competing with the on-screen demon’s, and when the actor came, with a cry of exquisite release, so did the guy. I saw Wendy’s head jerk back with shock, as his come shot out, showering her shoulder, spattering her face. If I’d been quicker, I could have thrown myself into the line of fire, felt it slap against my skin and then licked it away again. Instead, I felt like grabbing Wendy and shaking her. You wasted it! I wanted to say. Has Lilly taught you nothing?

  But I was fascinated as well, watching as the cock began almost instantly to subside, the last thick drops of white collecting at the tip to drip reluctantly to the floor. Their owner, too, was limp, leaning back on the seats behind him, collecting his breath, gathering his wits and gazing at Wendy with such undying devotion that, as she stood up and squeezed past me, wordlessly returning to her own seat, I thought he was going to cry.

  Instead he just stood there for a few moments more, slowly comprehending the fact that it was over, that Wendy wasn’t even going to look at him again, let alone speak. Then he buttoned himself up and walked away.

  We sat in silence for a moment. Then Wanda spoke.

  “So what was that all about?”

  Wendy didn’t answer immediately. “I felt like it. We’ve done so much talking, I just wanted to see what it was really like.”

  So it was her first time. I felt a pang of relief.

  Wanda again. “What does it taste like?”

  Again, Wendy was silent, weighing her words before she committed to them. “Salty. Like a pretzel. A glazed pretzel. It was okay.”

  “Just okay?” That was Lisa.

  “It was fun. It would’ve been better if I’d been more comfortable, and my jaw did start to hurt after a bit. And he kept trying to push too far. But yeah, it’s okay.”

  “What about at the end?” I asked. “How did you know it was…he was…coming?”

  “I didn’t, he just jerked away and it startled me. But I’m glad he did, I think. I caught a bit in my mouth, and…” She made a face. “Salty old socks. You probably need to get used to it.”

  I looked up at the screen. Lilly didn’t seem to mind it so much, and just watching the expression on her face, as her umpteenth mouthful dribbled down a dick, I knew that, when my time finally came, I was going to love it as well, no matter how much getting used to it took. And, unlike a lot of the resolutions I’ve made over the years (to quit smoking, get plenty of exercise, never pet strange dogs…), I’m proud to say that’s the one I’ve stuck to.

  The Sexorcist was one of the last movies we ever saw at that shabby old movie house with the mysteriously unlocked door; one of the last truly great ones, anyway. Other people learned the secret, including some who might otherwise have paid for their membership; and others, who didn’t believe that such establishments had any right to exist in the first place. One balmy Thursday the following spring, we arrived at the back door at the same time as always to find two uniformed policemen standing in the shadows within.

  We ran; they stayed, and the next time we passed by, the building was empty, the doors were chained, the marquee had been stripped bare. Only the cartoon blonde remained, and even she’d had a billposter slapped over her mouth. Even at our age, that seemed strangely symbolic.

  TWO FOR ONE

  Alyssa Turner

  I rarely have the time to treat myself to anything. Call me a workaholic, but starting a PR firm from the ground up has left my days jam-packed with serving the requirements of others. Demanding as they are, I have to be grateful that my list of clients is rapidly growing, and it’s looking like my business will actually turn a profit some day. Still, to keep my sanity I say my daily affirmation: it will all be worth it when I can hire someone else to put up with all the bullshit, and then I get my ass on another plane to work my magic on some new product launch or fundraising breakfast. All that back and forth can be murder on your body; not enough sleep, too much time in coach…not enough sex. By the time I’m ready to return, I’m guaranteed to be stressed out, mentally spent and in desperate need of a massage. After one particularly long and aggravating day on the road, I decided that some relaxation at the hands of another was just what I deserved.

  I stopped at the concierge desk. “Your website mentioned that you have a spa,” I inquired of a vapid-looking young woman, interrupting her not-so-discreet conversation with one of the porters about her last booty call. She glanced my way, clearly inconvenienced by my pesky desire to be helped. “I’d like a massage. Can I make an appointment here?” I asked her directly.

  She sighed and told the guy she would give him the rest of the details later. I wondered if that tactic would be successful for her; dangling the fruit on the tree to show off how ripe it is. From the look on his face, I’d have said that it was working. “Do you want a male or female therapist?” she asked finally, staring at the computer screen.

  “I’ll take whoever is available first. I know it’s short notice, but I was hoping to get a back rub in about an hour.” I tried to make a joke: “You know, it’s like an emergency.” It went completely over her head, and she tapped at the keyboard, sucking her teeth in annoyance. “If it’s not too much trouble,” I added sarcastically, becoming annoyed a bit myself—confounded that a four-star hotel could have such a two-star employee working for them.

  “It’s not a problem—it’s just this dumb computer. It froze on me again. I’ll have to reboot it.” She tapped impatiently on the enter key a few more times in exasperation. “Just tell me what room you’re in; I’ll send someone up.”

  “Up?” I asked, with confusion.

  “Yes, up to your room. The spa closes at six during the week.” She finally gave me some eye contact. “It will cost you thirty-five dollars more an hour for in-room service; you okay with that?”

  She was really pissing me off with her fucked-up attitude, but not having to leave my room again for the night sounded great. Hell, yes, I wanted to pay the extra thirty-five dollars. “What time can I expect someone?” I asked simply.

  “Soon,” she answered, with no promises for specifics.

  Luckily, room service was more responsive, and in a half hour I was sequestered in my temporary hideout with a grilled-chick
en salad and a glass of wine, eager for my pamper session to begin.

  Around eight there was a knock on my door. Already showered and nude under my fluffy white hotel robe, I checked to confirm that my masseur had arrived. When I opened the door, I suddenly realized that I certainly did care whether I had a male or female therapist. In fact, I couldn’t have asked for someone more perfect for my needs that evening. He was delicious looking with longish sand-colored hair and a cleft in his chin that was only a bit deeper than the dimples advertised in his warm, pleasant smile. Suspended effortlessly in one hand was a folded massage table; in the other, a large bag with towels spilling over the top. I stood there a moment, drinking him in. That idiot at the concierge desk actually got something right, I thought and returned the friendly smile with a raised eyebrow.

  “I’m Sean,” he said. “Have a seat; it will just take me a moment to set up.” I sat in the middle of the bed watching him keenly, examining his fluid motions as he went about unpacking his equipment. He seemed to notice that he had my undivided attention and made sure to meet my eyes with a wink. “You look like you could use a little TLC,” he said securing the legs of his table. “Long day?”

  “Long enough,” I replied coolly, pondering whether this was something he said to break the ice with all of his clients. He tilted his head and let his gaze travel into the shadows of my open collar. If he weren’t so beautiful, I’d have instinctively pulled it tighter around my neck. Instead I found myself biting my lip in consideration of his angled jaw and amber-colored eyes and stretching backward onto my elbows, certain that my robe would fall slightly off my shoulder. Just as he was finishing setting up there was another knock on the door. Assuming that room service was retrieving my tray, I answered with it already in hand.

  The rather muscular guy standing in my doorway was just as hot as the one already in my room, but a bit darker—both in hue and in spirit. He stood there with his cherry red lips offsetting his white teeth, grinning ruefully. “Hi there, are you ready for your massage?” he asked in a smoky tone. As I took note of his identical spa-issued white shirt and pants, he spotted his colleague prepped to begin an overhaul of my tired body. Entering my room, he said with a frown, “What are you doing here, Sean? This is my call.”