Best of Best Women's Erotica

by Marcy Sheiner

  “Jesus H. Christ!” she hissed.

  Billy was in no sort of a hurry. He calmly rolled over next to her and fell to stroking her body. Soft, easy strokes while he licked his lips. He kissed her again, and she felt as though she could never be whole again outside of that kiss. They wrapped their arms around each other like people in love, and their mouths made soft little noises.

  Billy pulled his T-shirt over his head, and his jeans came off, and there was that profound moment of skin meeting skin. Betty felt good in his arms. Too good.

  “Oh, you gotta get out of here,” Betty told him, her voice choking over. “You gotta get going now. I don’t like you.”

  “That so?” he asked, but he was kissing her throat, and she was raising her chin up so he could do it. Her skirt had bunched about her waist, and the heels of her boots were leaving cuts on the sheets. It bothered her a little. But Billy’s hand was at her entrance, making sure the door was open.

  And it was.

  His body moved over hers and she lay weighted, suspended between him and the sagging mattress. The last thing Betty saw, as Billy’s honest cock thrust home, was the image of a graceful tall ship, with four masts in full sail, leaning into the salt and spray—a tattoo where Billy’s collarbones met one another. She felt the wind and water on her cheeks, and her eyes fell closed.

  When she woke that first morning, with a slim shard of summer light invading the room, she was surprised to feel him get up and get dressed and to hear the door shut behind him. Not surprised that he had left, but surprised he had stayed as long as he had. Sad too. Sometime during that quick solstice night, as the earth’s shadow made its closest path to the sun, she had actually begun to hope.

  She had time to recall what had happened before they both fell asleep. She remembered the way Billy’s cock had felt the first time he sank it deep inside her. It was as if he had said, “Here, right here. This is where we both belong.” Billy was a wall, a wall of hard flesh, and she clung to it, hung on for all she was worth. He had used his cock to get deep inside her, to communicate to her that she had nothing to fear, nothing to run from.

  It didn’t take but a minute before the two of them were connected by a thick glossy coating of perspiration. They glided together, the hardness of their bodies dissolving. Betty’s limbs reached out, welcoming it all, every last drop of him—this man—and finally, she knew it was time to let go. She blinked back images of her daddy, images of the men she had known, all the aftershaves, all the colognes. She left the bright sky and the distant shore and dove on in.

  And it didn’t hurt a bit.

  And afterward the two of them had kissed and washed at her sink. Billy hung his head upside down under the faucet and drank great mouthfuls of her rusty tap water, like a nomad who finally finds his desert oasis. And she did the same. And for once, she actually felt at peace. Refreshed. Slaked. Reborn.

  They had taken turns washing each other until finally they were so cool and clean, there was nothing to do but get hot and dirty all over again. Billy hoisted her sweet bottom up into that sink, and the water spurted and bubbled and made funny sucking sounds and pooled on the tiles below. It sprayed up between them, soaking them both, beading on Billy’s chest hairs, on Betty’s lips and cheeks. They drank each other, drop by precious drop. And Billy’s cock had told her again: Here, right here. We belong just like this.

  But morning came all the same. The door closed behind him, and before long she was already starting in on washing her hair, getting ready to start again.

  Start again.

  The water was rushing past her ears. It dropped in warm salty freshets from the creases of her eyes. It drizzled over the narrow bridge of her nose. Her tongue caught it in the little furrow above her pretty lips, lips that were stretched tight with the excruciating attempt not to cry. She coughed. Then again, violently. Betty’s hands curled about her empty belly and her chin sank to her chest. Start again, gal. Get going now. Get shakin’.

  No.

  She felt a strong hand on her spine and froze, briefly fearful, but then not. She waited. Then there were arms around her, and a scruffy chin on her shoulder, and a towel falling to her ankles. Billy had come back (“Got us some doughnuts.”) and was helping her with her hair. Helping her wash out the suds, the cream rinse. He brought fistfuls of water down over her back, and it dripped down her sides and dropped from her breasts. And he was naked and dripping behind her, and his warm wet hands were on her thighs, pulling them open, and he was deep inside her.

  So good. Who would’ve guessed life could be so profound, so charmed? Not Betty. And now there she was, and there they were. Coupled, encased, absorbed into one another. She felt strong legs behind hers, and arms around her, and she felt Billy’s strength mix with hers, and the thirst for whatever it was she had longed for all her life finally was appeased. She sobbed. She moaned. She wept hard. He was the gentle draft, the welcome sip. It’s like when you’re as thirsty as you can possibly be, and then someone hands you a frosty pitcher, and you can have absolutely all you want. You drink and drink, you guzzle it right down. You don’t care who’s looking, and you don’t take time to breathe.

  With his mouth full of doughnuts, Billy read to her from the morning paper, and she combed his hair for him, and they were kind of happy, like when there’s a national holiday, and so you sleep in and take a day off for a change. Then Betty put her hair up in rollers and stepped out onto the fire escape.

  Betty saw the city looming large through the grill beneath her feet, saw the ripples in the fabric of her life, distortions caused by the heat, and she felt real fear for the second time that morning. Made her think life was nothing but a mirage. But then Billy put his big hands around her waist and his rough cheek down close to her and said, “That stuff you put in your hair smells like bug spray,” and she was compelled to twist in his arms and wrap her legs about him and let him carry her back inside, hips, hair, rollers, and all.

  Billy didn’t seem to ever want to go away, and that was a quality she liked in him. For a while some of her neighbors still complained about the water running a little longer than it should. But that was the sound of Billy treating her just right. It wasn’t long anyway before the water stopped churning altogether, and the pipes in Betty’s small apartment lay quiet for a good long time.

  CAL’S PARTY

  Lisa Prosimo

  FOUNDATION. EYELINER. MASCARA.

  I didn’t want to go to the party.

  Blush. Lipstick.

  The towel I was wearing fell to the floor. I bent to pick it up, and my right temple throbbed.

  “Shit.”

  “You almost ready, Abby? It’s getting late.”

  Steve stood in the doorway. His eyes swept across my naked body. He smiled. “Wear that black dress. The one that stretches and stops here.” He tapped his leg, midthigh. “And your ‘fuck me’ shoes. The ones with the strap at the ankle.”

  “Steve…I have a headache. I really don’t feel like—”

  He walked into the room, stood behind me, and wrapped his arms across my waist. His breath tickled my ear. “Hey, no problem,” he whispered. “I’ve got just the right medicine for that. One hit and your headache’s gone.” He stuck his tongue in my ear and licked lightly.

  I pulled away and turned to face him. His face was flushed, his eyes bright. “I don’t want any ‘medicine,’ Steve. Though I see you’ve taken some.”

  “One line. A skinny, tiny little line. Cal gave me some.”

  “What a pal.”

  Steve walked to the closet and pulled the black dress off its hanger. He brought it to me. “Come on, Abby. I don’t want to make the grand entrance.” I took the dress, slipped it over my head, and pulled it down. The fabric settled over the contours of my body. “Oh, yeah. Fabulous.”

  I couldn’t wait to swallow a Motrin.

  The house was crowded, as usual. As usual, the music was too loud, the lights too bright, the food table too perfect. Plump, pink s
hrimp covered two large cones in a flawless symmetrical pattern, flowers of puff pastry adorned the face of each round of Brie. Waiters in tight black T-shirts and snug white shorts carried trays of champagne. Tonight’s theme: muscled blonds with chiseled features, none under six feet tall. Each wore a small diamond on his left earlobe—a gift from the host, no doubt. Cal was always generous with his waiters.

  “Abby! Steve!” Cal moved toward us, his arms flung wide, his heavy rump bouncing with each step. He was blond, too. Last time I’d seen him, he had red hair. He’d called it his “Irish Queen” look. The stud in his left ear was bigger than the waiters’. “Oh, my god, don’t you look gorgeous, Abby! It’s been ages. I’ve really missed you, girl! Kiss, kiss.”

  “Kiss, kiss back at you,” I said.

  Cal turned and enveloped Steve in a crushing bear hug. “And you, you gorgeous thing.” He let go of Steve and pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket, mopped his brow, and caught the drip from his nose. He sniffed. “So, how are you two lovebirds?”

  “We’re great,” Steve said. “Wonderful, in fact.” He smiled at me. I smiled back.

  “Good, good. Well…enjoy!” He bounced away, his arms outstretched to the newest arrivals.

  “I’m starved,” Steve said. “Let’s get something to eat.”

  “I’m not all that hungry.”

  Steve shrugged. “Okay. I’ll get something, and you can mingle.”

  One of the blond boys carrying a full tray stopped in front of me. I took two flutes of champagne from him and walked into the great room. In one corner, a quartet banged out an A.M. hit. My temple banged along. I settled onto one of the overstuffed sofas and downed the first glass of champagne, and then sipped the second. People I’d met before nodded and smiled, but there were a lot of people I’d never seen. Still, it was Cal’s typical crowd, made up of stylish men and women, all possessing a type of eclectic beauty. These parties always gave me the feeling that I was trapped on some opulent soundstage with a bunch of extras from Central Casting. Five years ago, when I’d first met Cal, I found that aspect attractive. I was a girl from Idaho who had come to Hollywood, sure my talents and good looks would land me a plum role in a blockbuster movie. After all, in Boise I had been a star. I even had a college degree. Who could resist?

  Lots of people resisted.

  A waiter offered me another glass of champagne. I took it.

  “Abby.”

  I looked up. Lloyd Thomas smiled down at me.

  “It’s been a long time, Abby. You look wonderful.”

  Lloyd looked wonderful, too, but I didn’t say so. He sat down, took my hand, turned it over, and kissed my palm.

  “How’s…Steve, is it?”

  “Yes. Fine, thank you.”

  “He’s the fellow who builds things, right?”

  “Yes. He and his brother have a construction company. And you?”

  He smiled. “Still selling junk bonds.”

  “Ah…I see. Better be careful.”

  “I’m always careful, Abby.” He smiled.

  A tall blonde walked over. “Lloyd? Did you want to get something to eat?” she asked.

  Lloyd introduced us. Her name was Jenny. Jenny was happy to make my acquaintance, she said. After a few moments of meaningless chatter, Lloyd and Jenny headed for the food table in the other room.

  Lloyd Thomas had been my first man, so to speak. He took me to my premier party at Cal’s. I met him while working as a temp at his brokerage firm. At first, Cal’s parties were fun. Sometimes they lasted a weekend, sometimes longer. One room at the back of an old house in Boyle Heights wasn’t exactly my idea of home, so I often stayed at Cal’s, breaking several dozen eggs to feed Cal and his boys breakfast. While I cooked, I answered an endless stream of calls that came in from his friends and various boy lovers. I could stay as long as I wanted if I promised not to get in his way, and I made sure I didn’t. Why wouldn’t I want to stay? There was always plenty of food and drink, plus an abundant supply of nose candy. I remember once, in a mild rush of drugs, roving hands, and tongues, being struck by the notion that I had to be one of the luckiest girls alive. That enlightenment came at the same moment I did.

  The throbbing in my temple increased, helped along by the champagne. I walked out to the patio and sat in one of the chairs and watched several men and women play in the hot tub. One of the men was sitting outside the tub, his feet in the water. A head belonging to a brunette bobbed up and down between his legs. She held his penis inside her lips and slid them down over his shaft slowly, until it disappeared. She did it without the use of her hands, and I had to admire her expertise. I couldn’t do it that way. She’d obviously trained the muscles in her face and neck to do all the work. The man moaned. I yawned.

  When Steve had come home the night before and told me Cal had invited him to a party, I had been shocked. “So?” I had said. He had shrugged, said he thought we ought to go. I’d asked him why. No reason, he’d said. Just for the fun of it.

  Cal’s parties stopped being fun for me long before I stopped going. I don’t know what happened, but over time, I found myself needing more and more stimulation just to be able to get into them. More booze, more coke, more bodies. It just got to be too much. One night, I extricated my limbs from a tangle of flesh and pulled myself off the king-sized playbed, much to the chagrin of the man who was doing me. “Hey,” he yelled. “Where the hell are you going?” I didn’t look back, not even sure the clothes I’d picked up off the floor were mine.

  After I dressed and went into the living room I realized I didn’t have any place to go. Unless it was back to that room in Boyle Heights. Just the thought made me shudder.

  That’s the night I met Steve. I saw him first through the French doors, hunched over, throwing up all over Cal’s prizewinning roses. When he came into the room, he was shaky and sweaty and had to be helped to a chair. I went into the bathroom, got a glass of water, made him drink the whole thing, and then wiped his face and neck with a towel. He thanked me over and over and called me Florence Nightingale. I laughed. He said this was his first party. I wasn’t sure just how much “partying” he had done before he got sick, and I didn’t ask. He didn’t ask me any questions, either.

  That was the start of us. I went home with Steve and hadn’t been back to the room in Boyle Heights, or to another party.

  It felt strange to be back. I’d changed in the last six months; I was falling in love with a guy who built room additions, and it felt good. Lately, I found myself lingering in grocery stores, pondering the superiority of Huggies over Luvs disposable diapers.

  When I told Steve I didn’t want to go to Cal’s party, didn’t want to be with those people, he got upset. “Why not?” he said. “Those people were your friends. What’s the big deal if we spend a few hours with them?”

  “Why do we need to?”

  “Damn it, Abby. I work twelve hours a day to keep this business going. Is it a crime to want to relax?”

  One of the men in the hot tub pulled himself out of the water and walked over to me. His naked body glistened in the moonlight. “I’ve been watching you watching them,” he said. “Why don’t you join us in the tub, gorgeous?”

  “Thanks anyway, but I’ve given up meat for Lent.”

  He laughed. “Suit yourself. But, if you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

  The great room was less crowded when I went back inside, which meant that assignations had been made and people had retired to the various rooms to play out their intentions. Cal had a rule about keeping the sexual activity confined to the bedrooms and the pool area.

  Steve wasn’t in the bar or around the food table. I went into the library, but he wasn’t there, either. The basement had been converted into a movie theater, and many of Cal’s guests liked to go down to watch the latest films. Cal had them before they hit the theaters.

  Steve was climbing up the stairs from the theater just as I was about to go down.

  “Abby, b
aby! I was coming to find you.” His skin was flushed and his eyes held that wild look I’d so often seen in my own. He had done a lot of coke. I smelled liquor on his breath. The couple behind him was still climbing when he stopped to talk to me, and the girl slammed into his back. Steve turned around and they both giggled. I moved out of the way, and they followed me into the hall. “Baby, I want you to meet my friends. This is…” He giggled again.

  “Darla,” said the girl.

  “Yeah, Darla. And this is…Tom?”

  “That’s right,” Tom said. “Nice to meet you, Abby. Steve’s been telling us all about you.”

  Tom didn’t look coked out like his girlfriend, or Steve, did. I nodded my greeting.

  “Sweetheart,” said Steve, “did I tell you how much I love you and how great I think you are?” He grabbed me around the waist and pulled me to him. His sloppy kiss landed on my chin. I pulled away.

  “I think we’d better go home, Steve. You need to come down, sleep it off.”

  “Bullshit. I feel great, baby. Lots of energy.”

  Behind him, Darla stifled a giggle. I dropped my voice. “Please, Steve.”

  His eyes grew dark and his jaw tightened. He wrapped his fingers around my upper arm and pulled me further down the hall, away from his newfound friends.

  “Listen, Abby. I’m having a good time. I want to continue having a good time. With them.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Goddammit, Abby!” His fingers tightened on my arm. “This is fun, that’s all. Just a good time.”

  He was angry, his voice harsh, but there was also a begging quality to it. He sounded like a little kid trying to convince a parent to let him have his way. We’d never discussed Cal’s house or his parties after that night we first met. I didn’t know if Steve had ever done this kind of scene. I did know he wasn’t used to snorting this much coke.