Best Women's Erotica 2013

by Violet Blue

  The affair, Susanna’s first taste of love, stretched out through glorious months into ecstatic years. In this time there was only his body. She knew a little of his working life and shared a proud joy in the academic achievements of his son. But their evenings every second week were reserved almost exclusively for pleasure. It came as some surprise, therefore, when he turned up at her door on an off-week. She glimpsed the sweet purity of his son’s profile in the front seat of the parked car.

  What I have with her, he signed, his mouth moving to form words he could not speak, is a real relationship. Susanna watched his lips and remembered what they had done to her body. The silent words mouthed into her most intimate places, the way her body would answer, silently, but completely. Lifting and opening to him, readying itself for the conversation with the glistening moisture of anticipation.

  What I have with you is sex. The most amazing sex, the most wonderful physical expression one body can give to another. But ultimately I suppose I need more than just sex.

  Susanna stood in the entryway to the apartment block. It was a wintry evening and she hadn’t brought a coat down. She still held her mobile phone with the words lit up on the screen: I need to speak with you. I am outside your building. Can you come down?

  She remembered the first night with him, the great unveiling. He had spread her legs and knelt at the side of the bed. She should have felt shy, had been expecting to, but somehow his silence and his gentle pressure, parting her thighs, calmed her and filled her with a rush of desire for him. He was watching her closely and suddenly she felt like that other Susanna, Gentileschi’s Susanna, revealing more of her body to his gaze than she concealed.

  He placed his finger at the edge of her hymen and with his touch she felt the wetness flooding past its shut-tight gate. That single finger felt like his whole body pushing into her. The tip of the lips, the teeth, the tongue and she was slippery as a fish and just as agitated, wriggling her hips to take more of him inside her. Just one finger at first but when it was completely inside she felt stretched to breaking and yet desperate for more.

  He seemed amazed by her, amazed by her virginity and her body’s impatience to be rid of it. His face so close to the part of her that no one else had ever seen, watching her. He made the sign for slow down, both hands held out as if to measure the surface of something reclining, the right hand tilting up as if to halt her progress. Slow down, slow down, but even the act of signing was too much of a pause for her. Susanna lifted her hips, taking the stop sign of his hand and pressing it into herself. So much slipperiness. So much sensation, the joy and pain of it fused, too much to bear, her blood slick on his fingers, his body quickly pressing forward into the path that they had newly discovered. He shifted; the gorgeous pressure of his pubic bone pressing where only moments before his tongue had been. Blood on her chest where he took her breast in his fist, blood on her face where she kissed him. She opened herself to him in a pact of spilled blood and when he came there was a second tearing, the condom destroyed, the pact sealed with the jet of his seed finding its way into her, a glorious tragedy, and they remained fused like this, slippery with sweat and blood and ejaculate and every movement of his hips fed her hunger again.

  She remembered this as she watched him walk back to his car. Their similar faces turning toward her, the innocence of father and son staring at her for a final time. A twin good-bye. And then they were gone.

  Her job as a sound assistant suited her well enough. It was because of the silence. Sometimes her only task in a day would be to drive from place to place collecting silences in her microphone. Ambient sound. She wore soft padded headphones that completely obliterated the world and with a flick of the switch she captured the sounds of empty places. It was not silence, because in this world there is never a total absence of sound. Instead she heard the location speak to her. Houses laid out their quietly settling floorboards, the tick of sunlight on roofs, the low growl of traffic held off by walls and glass and distance. Outdoor places spoke to her with leaf-rustling and grass-twitching, birds swooped in to add their comment to the sense of space, insects chirruped and clicked. Water dripped after rain; gurgled, almost mechanical, through a creek bed.

  The empty spaces she recorded provided a leveling effect for films. The steady hum of life formed a meditative background against which the action could take place. Sometimes Susanna had to sit through a performance itself, checking the levels on the little VU dial as the actors ran through their scene time after time. It was a job that could be performed just as easily, she thought, by her ex-lover, a job for the eyes. And because of this she would put her big soft headphones on but not plug them into the equipment. She watched the rise and fall of the needles, adjusted the switches accordingly.

  “Did you like that last take?” The actor who approached her was tall and too well muscled. She blinked at him through a fog of silence, reading his lips rather than listening to his words. She nodded, although she had no opinion either way. The needle twitched in the right manner three quarters of the way up the gauge, just as it had twitched on every other take; therefore all of the performances were similarly acceptable. When the actor tried again to make conversation, Susanna felt cornered. What did he want? She had never learned the truth about her beauty, the thick dark hair, the eyes so pale that they were almost unnerving, the body, rounded in the places where it mattered. She had never had the interest to notice the way men tracked her with their gaze as she walked home, head down, full of purpose.

  “People always say I could do radio. As a soundo, what do you reckon?” the actor said to her then, and she was forced to slip the headphones off. The sound of the world assaulted her, the actor’s rich over-trained voice.

  “I need to record the atmos now,” she told him, and overhearing her, the first assistant director began to hush the milling crowd, giving Susanna the noise-filled silence that she needed to complete her task.

  Susanna spoke when spoken to, a necessary exchange of meaningless words. Even the deaf are required to do this much to move around in the world. At home she sometimes played soft melancholy music whilst preparing careful dinners for one in her tiny kitchen, but mostly she preferred the quiet.

  Her talent for words came to Susanna as a surprise, discovered quite by accident at the same time as she discovered the men. She had been thinking of David. She often thought about him. Since his departure she took her pleasure in a precise, solitary manner. She imagined herself back to her initial unraveling, the moment of pure discovery, her body opening to someone else, the rush as he came, a surprise full of excitement and terror. But on this occasion it occurred to her that she had no photographs of him. It was a simple thing to type his name into her computer; she wondered why she had not thought of it before. A picture of his face would be enough, she expected, to transport her. Of course it would be impossible to find him. His name was a common one and her browser filtered through every option, hooking on a million events and people that might or might not have had some relationship to the David who was the object of her desire. She chose one at random, a school journal, someone too young and too fresh faced. Another, the sale of a motorbike to someone with the same name but not the same temperament as the one she loved.

  The third option was the turning point, as they would have said at work. The moment when the dark heart of the story was revealed, the actors turning on their better natures, chasing some false goal and tripping down the path of adventure or folly, racing toward their ultimate demise.

  This third click of her finger brought the world to her in vivid color. This other David materialized in her room. It was the same name, but certainly not the same man. This David’s body was turning toward fat, and his skin, darker than the love of her life’s, came from a warmer climate, some place equatorial. Perhaps it was still there, for it was peppered with a glisten of sweat. A fine dusting of dark hair damp against almost-black nipples. And this man’s penis bore no similarity to the only member she had al
ready met. This one was thick and meaty, the slightly flaccid flesh sponging out from short thick fingers, a blanket of skin surrounding it, a fat protective sock that lent the little protrusion inside all the tenderness of a startled animal.

  But as she watched, the animal grew bold, thrusting its head out of its hiding place, abandoning its blanket. She stared, transfixed, uncertain if this man with the same name as the gentle lover of her memory was an actor or a phantom of some previous moment, endlessly replayed on the merry-go-round of the World Wide Web. His greeting startled her. He leaned forward with his free hand, his left hand, and the misspelled words appeared at the bottom of the screen.

  Why dont u take yor shirt off sexxy.

  Susanna recoiled from the computer as if stung, remembering the webcam. The little dot in the top center of the laptop. A device she had never used, assuming that she would have to do something, maybe go into settings, even to turn the thing on. She reached behind her and grabbed the first thing that came to hand, the scarf she had been wearing when she arrived home. She flung it over the computer, capturing the webcam in its folds as she might capture a Christmas beetle to stop it tangling in her hair. Behind the drape of the red scarf she could see the man working on his fully erect penis. She put her hand to her chest, noticed the wild beat of her heart and tried to calm it with deep regular breaths.

  There were new words on the bottom of the screen. She could see a few of them and it was the words that lured her to lift the edge of the scarf. If she left it draped over the top part of the computer she would be free to watch and not be seen. There was some comfort in this. She adjusted the fabric and concentrated on the words.

  Have you gone drling Come back you were soooo hot

  She thought about it. She reached out for the keyboard, shy Susanna who could never be drawn into a conversation. She found her fingers trembling a little on the keys.

  I am still here. I am watching.

  your camera drpped out. His one-handed jumbled conversation. turn yr camera back on u so hot

  And Susanna, calmer now: I will watch but you can’t see me.

  ok. do u like what you c

  I can’t see the bottom of your hand, I can’t see all of you

  Tell me wht u can c hottie. say those drty words

  I can see your cock. A little blush, a little wave of adrenaline racing along her veins. I can see the head of your cock and the shaft and some of your hand. I can see your nipples, you have dark nipples. I can see your hairy chest but the camera stops short of your neck. I can’t see your balls.

  u want to c my balls?

  I am curious. I have only seen one man’s balls

  tell me what his balls r like

  She typed quickly and with a growing confidence. She felt the rise of her own pleasure. It was like that first time, the quick insistence of her lust rearing suddenly, obliterating her shyness as it warmed her loins.

  Smooth. Almost hairless, tight, and with a little dark line running down the length of them. When he came they tightened in my mouth. I liked that. That physical expression of his love. The way his balls tightened and his hand on his cock quickened and then the sight of it, the thick semen spraying up onto his stomach.

  She was certain she had conjured it. His orgasm coincided perfectly with her words. She watched as the precome leaked down over his fingers and suddenly it was more than that, ejaculate spurting higher than she expected, splattering up onto his chest, spraying pearly drops onto his tight black nipples. The little aftershocks, the dying spurts leaking down the length of his still-hard shaft. She watched, shifting in her chair, uncomfortable in her state of arousal. The screen dipped to black, the connection gone. Her love’s namesake disappeared forever. Then, before she had time to reach out and close the computer the words, those fateful words flaring up onto the screen.

  Another partner is waiting for you. Would you like to play? Her clitoris hummed, her own juices had begun to leak out from between the lips that were already swollen with excitement. The words flashed in a rhythm that she could easily settle into.

  Would you like to play? Would you like to play?

  Susanna checked that her scarf was still securely fixed over her webcam. She reached out to the keyboard and tapped lightly with her index finger. Yes. Yes. She did want to play.

  MEET ME AT THE SPANISH STEPS

  Lucy Felthouse

  Meet me at the Spanish Steps, the text said. It also specified a day and time. The following day, at 1:00 p.m.

  A few seconds later, my phone bleeped again.

  I’ll text you in the morning and let you know what I’m wearing. Will you do the same?

  I replied in the affirmative. Although I knew what he looked like, our knowing what the other was wearing would help us to find each other in the no doubt huge crowds surrounding the famous tourist attraction. I was glad, because there was no way I wanted to miss out on meeting up with him. My sanity—and libido—were riding on it.

  Since I’d been working on the campsite on the outskirts of Rome, I’d been doing my best to learn Italian, and I was improving rapidly. But it would be some time before I progressed to learning the words and phrases necessary for getting what I wanted in the bedroom. As a result, my kinky cravings went unfulfilled, and although I was having the odd fuck here and there with other staff on the site and the occasional Italian, I was desperate to have sex the way I really wanted it. Needed it. I couldn’t ask the English-speaking staff that I went to bed with, because I still had to face them day after day. And with six months left on my contract, the last thing I needed were rumors going around about my unusual sexual appetite.

  Which is why I’d turned to the Internet. I found William through a website for Brits living abroad, and from the very beginning I’d been clear that I was looking for sex, rather than love, and that I had particular tastes that I wanted him to cater to. He was more than willing to scratch those specific itches and we went from exchanging emails to text messages, to eventually arranging to meet.

  The following morning, I dressed with care, and paid special attention to my hair and makeup. The funny part was, I was paying attention to make sure my clothes were easy to remove, my hair was easily tidied if it got messed up, and my makeup wouldn’t smudge. After ensuring my bag contained the all-important condoms, tissues and pepper spray—a girl can never be too careful—I hit the road.

  By the time I emerged from Spagna Metro station, I was ready and raring to go. I was a little nervous, but that was more down to the risk that despite all his assurances, William wouldn’t be able to give me what I so desperately needed. I really didn’t want to be left high and dry. I buried my misgivings deep inside my subconscious and mentally kept my fingers crossed that they wouldn’t come to fruition. Then, after taking a quick peek in the pocket-sized mirror I always carried, I walked along the narrow alley leading from the Metro station out to the piazza at the bottom of the Spanish Steps.

  I was quickly enveloped by the crowds, and I started to worry that in spite of William and I sharing details of our attire, we wouldn’t find each other. A little while later, I realized my worries had been unfounded. I spotted him leaning against the wall of Babington’s Tea Room, wearing exactly what he’d said he would, and a huge smile besides. Grinning back, I shoved my way past meandering tourists and finally reached him.

  “Hi, Darby,” he said, stepping forward to shake my hand—very British—then releasing it after the prerequisite amount of time.

  “Hi,” I responded, trying to subtly check him out. We’d exchanged photos, but they never really did a person justice, nor did they really give a clue as to whether you’d fancy someone or not. And, desperate as I was to drag a fellow English speaker to bed and make my erotic demands, there was no way that was going to happen if I wasn’t actually attracted to him. I wasn’t that desperate.

  He held out his arm, and I took it, as he told me, “I thought we’d go into Babington’s, if that’s all right with you. Do you know the h
istory of the place?”

  I nodded. I was somewhat of a history buff; therefore I was well aware of the fact that the tea rooms had been founded by two British ladies, one of whom was from my home county, Derbyshire. I appreciated his attention to detail, though, and considered this a point in his favor.

  A little while later, we were enjoying a delicious cream tea and the conversation was coming along well. William was witty and intelligent as well as attractive, and it was soon obvious to me that there was a spark between us. Once I realized it, I was suddenly desperate to get out of there and go somewhere more private.

  “Well,” I said, draining my dainty teacup and putting it carefully back on its saucer, “that was delicious. It’s been wonderful to have a taste of English after a few months out here.”

  William raised an eyebrow. I met his gaze boldly, and moved my arms so they squeezed my ample breasts together, creating a very impressive cleavage in my low-cut top.

  He coughed. “Well, Darby, I have to say I’m inclined to agree.” Looking around us, evidently to see if anyone was in earshot, he leaned toward me and continued, “But I’d really like to have a real taste of English, if you’re so inclined.”

  His gaze lingered on my tits then slowly raked back up to my face. His eyes were full of mischief and intent. A rush of lust zipped to my pussy. I broke eye contact, only to hurriedly scramble inside my bag for my purse so I could pay the bill and get the hell out of there.

  That was obviously all the answer William needed. He grasped my wrist, slightly harder than necessary—clearly hinting that he was capable of catering to my needs—and murmured, “Don’t worry about that. Go and wait outside while I pay. You’re looking a little hot.”

  I gave him a mock scowl—he knew damn well why I was feeling hot—but did as he said. I had just a couple of minutes to people watch before he was at my side once more.