Best of Best Women's Erotica

by Marcy Sheiner

  After dinner, Sylvia drove them to her house in Suttontown, Alex talking about the ocean dumping case that had landed on his desk that day, a case he thought he had a chance of winning. She seemed interested in what he had to say, but no more than usual. Did she sense the new intensity he felt? In the twilight they swam in the pool, laughing and slipping in and out of each other’s grip like sea lions playing. He was no longer able to free climb, but he felt almost as free in the water. Later, in Sylvia’s living room, he sat naked on her enormous Turkish rug, wishing he could feel its softness on the backs of his thighs. A single lamp pooled bronze light on the rug’s jewel tones, showing her pale skin, his darker skin, and Sylvia’s damp auburn curls. She knelt in front of him and began to dry his hair with short, luxurious strokes, complaining of how thick it was. “No Rogaine in your future, Sasha,” she said.

  Alex needed to touch her. He needed all of her, but he sat still, waiting, knowing she liked to lead their encounters.

  Sylvia tenderly combed her fingers through his hair. His scalp prickled, and warmth cascaded down his spine. She trapped him with her gray gaze, her eyes seeming to say, You are mine. She rubbed his ears gently between her fingers, just on the edge of roughness: first the tops, then the lobes, then up the outer rim, then her cool fingers slipped inside his ear canal, and out again, and up to the tops, and down, and…

  “You’re drowning me,” he said dizzily.

  “You don’t want me to stop.”

  “No,” he said. “Yes.” The heat in his belly wasn’t enough. He couldn’t sense what she felt. He had to touch her or die. He swayed forward. She pulled back.

  “Tell me what you want,” Sylvia said, so close to his mouth he could feel her rapid breaths. “I want to hear you say it. Then I’ll let you touch me.”

  “Kiss me,” he said. “Now.”

  They toppled and rolled, her body pressing softly to the length of his, her warmth almost agony. Each heartbeat thrust him more tightly against her. He stroked her with hot hands and flushed face, and sucked her tongue into his mouth, hearing throaty sounds of pleasure. His.

  She pulled away and grinned; her hand cupped his scrotum and his muscles clenched. He wouldn’t come. He wouldn’t. He hadn’t figured this out yet, how she felt. His unbearable tension faded over the next few seconds, and he loosened his fingers from her waist, one at a time. The velvet of her cheek stroked near his mouth; one hand smoothed absentmindedly over his ribs; her free hand caressed his balls, feather-like, each touch distinct.

  Sylvia murmured, “Let me—let me do it all.” She trailed her silky-smooth knuckles along his cock, an easier sensation to tolerate than her evanescent brushes against his balls, until she swirled a finger under the edge of his foreskin, rubbing it gently between finger and thumb, sliding the skin forward and back, ignoring the dripping head. A soft groan escaped his teeth and he reached for her; Sylvia pushed his hands away, pressing them to the carpet. He contracted his belly so hard that it hurt.

  Sylvia squeezed his balls lightly and Alex sucked in a breath. “You look intense,” she said. “I love it that I can do this to you.” She disentangled from him and sat up, not letting go, her thumb and forefinger teasing his cock deliberately, with more pressure now. His entire life spiraled down to those two fingers. “Like this…you’re beautiful.”

  Did she really think that? His twisted legs bore no resemblance to her flawless curves. If only she knew how radiant she looked when he buried himself deep within her body. That was love, wasn’t it, when the other person was the most beautiful you’d ever seen? Sylvia, nude, was that person. He trembled at the mere thought of it. He arched his neck as his muscles spasmed, but he didn’t ask her to stop and wait for him. He was afraid to try to speak in this half-world between desire and culmination.

  “Close your eyes,” Sylvia said.

  Compelled to obey, Alex closed them. Sylvia released his cock and he relaxed fractionally, as her soft hands passed over his hair, his face, down his chest. “How do you want to finish this?” she whispered into his ear.

  It seemed years since he’d made a decision. He opened his eyes to see Sylvia’s face above him. “Us,” he said. “Together.”

  Sylvia bent closer. “Me on top?”

  He was too far gone to laugh. “My turn.”

  “Beg me,” she said.

  He didn’t want to play this time, but he would do anything. “Sylvia, please.”

  Sylvia stretched out with him, and he sighed and shivered as her skin contacted his. “If I don’t, right now…” With this disjointed sentence nagging at him, he twisted atop and slickly into her in one motion, attempting to merge with her whole being, not just her body. He tried to catch his breath, but her inner muscles contracted and in one ignominious instant it was too late for control.

  No matter what people said, coming was nothing like falling.

  A few minutes later, still shaking with reaction, he laughed a little and said, “You did that on purpose.”

  Sylvia rolled sideways, bringing him with her, and stroked up and down his back. His muscles fell limp under her hands, even as his throat tightened with exhaustion or emotion, he couldn’t tell which. He’d wanted it to last longer. He cupped her ass and pressed her against him to savor the erratic pulse of her cunt as their bodies relaxed. The rug exuded their musk, like incense.

  “Tell me you liked it,” she said. Her leg hooked around his; he felt it at his hip.

  Alex met her eyes, a foggy gray universe in the blur of her face. “Yes,” he said. He kissed her, slowly, the barest touch of his tongue to the damp gloss inside her lower lip. Truthfully, he was relieved his stamina hadn’t been tested, after having been on the verge of explosion ever since that moment at Hong’s.

  “Ex-cellent,” she purred in a fake villain accent, trailing a finger down his chest, lighthearted as always, a surface Alex longed to penetrate. Tonight, he’d bitten away only her pale lipstick.

  “And you?” he asked.

  “None of your business,” she said, grinning.

  Alex pulled her against him, suddenly exalted like dawn in the Grand Tetons, rapturous from love and from fear. Sylvia curled against him and they lay, quietly, while outside, rain spattered against the patio.

  LITA

  Cara Bruce

  IT WAS RAINING AGAIN. I SAT IN MY THIRD-STORY room and stared out the window. If this didn’t stop soon I was going to lose my mind, I was sure of it. It had been almost two months since my last lover had moved out, and it had been raining ever since.

  I sighed and walked to the window to close the shades. Just as I began to draw the heavy linen curtain, I noticed my neighbors across the street. The woman was topless, with her face and chest pressed against the glass, and the man was behind her, his large hands reaching around and caressing her breast, his mouth planting kisses on the slender curve of her neck. The rain was beating in slanted sheets upon the window, almost creating a screen for the lovers. I moved the curtain so that only one eye was peeking out.

  I could almost feel when the man entered her. The woman’s entire body was heaved upward, hard against the glass. I could now see that she was completely naked, her legs spread. One of the man’s hands was wrapped tightly around her waist, the other moving up and over her clit. Her head lolled from side to side in orgiastic pleasure. I could almost imagine the moans that were escaping her lips, and my body quivered. I slipped my hand down the front of my silk pajama bottoms, feeling the cool fabric on one side and the hot breath of my cunt on the other. My fingers grazed over my patch of curly hairs and gently parted the swelling lips of my labia. The lovers across the street were still going at it, and I let the curtain fall away, sure they wouldn’t notice me in the midst of their revelry.

  I drew a finger across my nipple, making it harden. Lightly I pinched it, gently pulling it outward. My pussy was beginning to drip. I stroked my clit, letting that grow as well. My legs felt weak. I rubbed myself and watched as the man thrust into the woman a
cross the street. He lifted his hand and dragged a finger across her mouth. Her tiny hands were balled into fists that beat against the window and I could practically hear her screaming with pleasure.

  Quickly I slipped off my pajamas, the cool air hardening my nipples until I thought they would pop off. I stood there completely naked, my legs spread like the woman’s across the street, except that instead of him behind me I had my own hand working its magic. At this point I wanted them to see me; I was sure they wouldn’t care, and I almost needed them to know how much I was enjoying their spectacle.

  The rain picked up, so hard that it almost provided complete coverage. I matched my frenzied flicking with the sound of the battering drops against the glass. My legs were tightening and I was about to get myself off when the sound of breaking glass and a piercing scream shot through the air.

  I squinted my eyes and the rain seemed to break for a second. The window across the street was shattered into a million pieces and the man was standing there, naked, still half-hard, his arms empty and his mouth frozen open. He looked up at me. Our eyes locked for one second before he turned and ran out of the room.

  I looked down to the street at the woman. Her long hair was soaked, one arm twisted upward and the other one stuck to her side. Her neck was turned so that the right side of her face was plastered to the pavement.

  Hurriedly I put on my pajamas. I glanced down once more, in time to see the man running down the street. I sprinted down the stairs of my apartment and out to her. I no longer felt myself breathing; I felt as if I had stepped out of my body.

  The woman’s face was frozen in orgiastic rapture. Its twisted comicalness sent shivers up my spine. Other neighbors were coming out of their houses, and in the distance of the morning I could hear the faint whir of sirens. I knelt down in the wet and blood-stained street. All I could think about was how sorry I was that everyone had to see her like this, soaking wet and broken. How incredibly beautiful she had looked just moments before, making love against the window.

  I slipped back inside my building and up to my apartment. I sat in the window and watched them cover her body and take it away, the white sheet clinging to her beautiful figure in the rain. The police were in her apartment, placing shards of glass into tiny plastic bags. I just sat there until one of them looked up, right into my eyes, as I knew he would. A few minutes later he was knocking at my door.

  The officer was young and good-looking. He asked the basic questions, and I told him what I had seen. I told him about the sex, the way the newly deceased woman had been pressed up against the window, how her chest had heaved, how her hair had gotten caught in her mouth, how the rain had been falling. My officer was becoming a little flustered, his face growing red and his pants beginning to bulge. Even with the thought of her on the pavement, I was getting slightly aroused myself.

  “Are those all the questions?” I asked him.

  “Yes, for now.” He handed me his card, “If you think of anything, call me.” I took the card and smiled, glad he didn’t wink.

  Two days passed, and I heard nothing. I spent most of those days staring out the window and watching people going through her apartment, watching the street cleaners brush up the million pieces of sparkling glass, watching the white chalk drawing slowly fade into the pavement. I even walked across the street and looked at her mailbox to try and learn her name. It said L. Morano, written in an almost childish scrawl. I wondered how old she was. The end of the second day, someone—it must have been her mother—came and gathered up clothing, books, and knickknacks. I sat on my couch and watched her, shoulders slumped, burdened by her grief. There was a part of me that wished to call out to her, to take her in my arms and comfort her. By this point, I was more than intrigued, I was obsessed. And through it all no one thought to close the shades. I began to suspect the dead woman had had none.

  That night I lay in bed and tried to sleep. Guilt crept over me: every time I closed my eyes I could see strands of her wet hair stuck to her face on the street, and that awful, horrific image triggered a sexual response in me so great that I was compelled to put my hands between my legs and attempt to get myself off. But no matter how much I tried, I could not achieve release, and eventually I would get tired and stop. My only comforting thought was that I was not Catholic—if I was, I would surely be permanently fucked in the head and in therapy forever.

  But one night when I lay in my bed after my third failed attempt at masturbation, I heard a knock at my door. I knew it was going to be him. I put on a robe and opened the door. There stood the man from across the street. His eyes were bloodshot and his hands were trembling. I stepped aside and let him in.

  He stood for a second looking out my window, imagining what I must have seen, probably remembering the feel of her hair against his face, her heaving tit in his hand, her hot cunt clenching around his hard cock. His breath quickened, and he turned to face me. Silently I slipped out of my robe, letting it puddle around my feet on the floor. He took a step toward me, lifting his T-shirt off his body. His eyes traveled over me, lingering on each curve for that seductive second that makes one’s blood boil.

  His mouth pressed down upon mine. His lips were strong and his hand held the back of my neck. My fingers groped with the buttons of his jeans, releasing his cock so that it sprang out hard as a rod. He stepped out of his jeans and bent his neck until his mouth was on my tit, his warm tongue licking over my nipple; his fingers almost viciously grabbed a handful of flesh. He lifted me up, settling my pussy on his cock. I was tight for his entrance, his hands grabbing onto my ass as he lifted and lowered me. I wrapped my long legs around his waist and twisted my fingers through his hair. He pounded into me, thrusting and pumping, fucking me hard and fast. I tossed my head back and pretended I was the woman. I began to moan, and he entered me harder and faster. I looked over his shoulder and out the window, half expecting to see somebody there.

  “Lita,” he groaned. I pulled his face to the curve in my neck.

  “Fuck me the way you were fucking her,” I whispered.

  He lowered us to the floor and held my hands over my head. His cock rammed into my quivering cunt, and I felt my body on the urge of a breakthrough.

  “I’m about to die,” I said.

  He thrust in deeper.

  “The window is going to shatter and I’m going to be lying dead on the pavement.” I couldn’t help myself; I knew it was twisted, but it was turning me on. He grabbed my hair and harshly tugged.

  “My hair is going to be soaking wet, plastered to my face,” I whispered in his ear, imagining the orgiastic grin it would be hiding.

  Suddenly he picked up the pace and was fucking me hard and fast, as if his life depended on it. My hips lifted and my pussy began to spasm; my legs shook and tightened under him and I came. He thrust hard into me one more time, and then pulled out and shot his hot, white load all over my stomach.

  He collapsed on top of me, in a crying, quivering heap.

  I held him until the indigo sky began to melt into violet. He got up, dressed, and left. I put my robe back on and stared out the window, watching as the last of the season’s rain washed away the remains of her ghostly chalk outline underneath my window.

  THE AMY SPECIAL

  Susie Hara

  WHAT SHE REMEMBERS MOST IS THE SILKY feeling of sliding down his chocolatey body and the distinct sensation of his tightly coiled hair, wiry against her face.

  “I like your pubic hair.”

  “Well, that’s a first.”

  “The way it’s so crinkly.” Like brand-new steel wool, she thinks.

  “Courtesy of Africa,” Michael says.

  So she’s sliding down and she smells him, clean and musky and—no it’s not just a cliché, the chocolate, he actually smells like chocolate, from the cocoa butter lotion he uses on his skin. And when she kisses him on the mouth, she smells the cocoa laced with the cool scent of the mints he perpetually sucks on.

  “You’re my long, tall choco
late mint,” she says as she slides down again, first licking, and then slowly draping her mouth over him.

  The amazing thing was, ordinarily she didn’t love dicks. Not really.

  “You know,” she told him once, as they were driving down the coast, “it’s not like I love dicks. That’s why it’s so special that I love your dick—yours—it’s personal. I don’t need a dick to come—I like tongues and fingers better.”

  “I know,” he said, raising his eyebrows, with that slow, quiet grin.

  But in truth, she thinks to herself, watching him drive, his long fingers resting lightly on the wheel—she likes dicks. She likes them inside her, pumping away hard and deep like there’s no tomorrow, or pressing against her thigh, or outlined under the fabric of blue jeans, or sliding into her delicately like a hot whisper. She just doesn’t feel…worshipful—something like that. Should she? Are there women out there in the real world who say, “Please, baby, let me suck you”? Who don’t get sore jaws and lips, or don’t even notice, because they’re so turned on? Does she in fact have a double standard, wanting a man who worships at the altar of the divine yoni, yet not worshipping his (what was it called?) lingam. She looked over at him driving, at his profile, and then down at his crotch. He caught her looking and they laughed.

  So anyway, there she is, sucking away on him, and she looks up for a moment, and—this is it, this is what she remembers most about him—she sees him watching her, his eyes dark and hot and liquid, and this turns her on more than anything, him looking at her sucking and her looking at him looking at her, it goes direct to her clit and then up to her nipples and back down again. After the first time this happened, every time she sucked him she would always look at him to watch him watching her, even though it strained her neck, and she would watch for a time until she went back to her handiwork. And as she teased her tongue down the shaft and then slowly back up to the head, he would moan, and then she would put her whole mouth on him, making sure not to bite him, sucking on him just like Amy.