Best of Best Women's Erotica

by Marcy Sheiner

  As a teenager the thrill of the hunt fully enraptured her. Brett the bastard, Brett the unfaithful, Brett the pubescent hero who captured her imagination and taught her what the space between her legs was really for. Hurried encounters on the cracked vinyl seats of his Chevy, the faded floral upholstery of his parents’ couch, and once, daringly, in their bed.

  “Hurry,” she would whisper in mock terror in his ear as he heaved and grunted above her. “We’ll get caught.”

  Brett the bastard, who used the constant fear of discovery as an excuse to evade her satisfaction. “It takes too long, Addy,” he would say, shaking his head in pretend sympathy when she guided his hand to her aching center. “They’ll catch us.”

  Brett the unfaithful, who had time aplenty to pleasure her best friend, with his hands and with his mouth. Those same twisted thin lips that he would never place on her, Addy, not where she wanted it most.

  She suspected him of infidelity, and in the hot haze of teenage jealousy followed him one night, in black jeans and black sweatshirt, her bright hair caught under a dark cap: the spy, the wronged one, sick and heartsore.

  She remembers well how the thump of her heart drowned out her soft footfalls on rain-soaked streets. She followed him, flitting in and out of doorways, a vampire child in black merging with the shadows, dodging the shimmering pools of streetlights. It was too easy. Brett the arrogant never looked back, just walked with purposeful stride to his assignation. The dark dead-end alley, that cliché of spy stories, the garbage bins, the metal fire escape, even, she saw, the flick of a rat’s tail.

  She waited, hidden in the shadow of a fire escape, and watched in clenching horror as her friend approached. Brett the betrayer grabbed her friend around the waist, his mouth descending to claim, his hands moving to her breasts.

  It was fast and it was urgent. It was heated. It was everything she’d never had. She watched as his mouth moved on soft, white breasts, biting and sucking with fevered urgency, his hands popping buttons, curling down into lace panties. She watched her friend rip open his fly, free his cock, wrap her small hand around the shaft, and stroke it rhythmically. She saw the thrust of that cock repeatedly into the hand, the clench of the buttocks, the guttural cries of completion, and the spill of the seed over the hand, over the cloth, and onto the ground. Brett the selfish dropped to his knees, flaccid cock drooping out of his pants, and put his mouth to her friend. She saw the blonde head roll back in ecstasy as he slurped and suckled her, howls of release echoing in the empty alley.

  Adrienne’s hand was down her own pants, snaking into her sodden panties, parting her curls with a delicate finger to probe up, into the heat and moisture of her arousal. She watched, panting, as Brett the philanderer drove his renewed hardness into her friend, thrusting and grinding, pressing her back against the wet stone of the alleyway, pumping into her with the short, hard spurts she knew so well.

  She came when he did, her flickering finger and the sight of his urgent thrusts driving her over the edge into the silent spasms of release.

  They passed her as they left, hand in hand. She turned her face from them so that its pale oval wouldn’t give her presence away. She didn’t want them to find her here, jeans undone, panties twisted and soaked with her juices.

  She followed them at other times too. Compulsively into their secret hideaways in bleachers and alleys, in drive-ins and park bushes. It was too easy. And it was better than Brett the uncaring ever was.

  She has always followed people, slipping through the shadows in their wake, pattering on soft-shod feet in and out of darkness and pools of light, daring them to turn and see her.

  Now she follows strangers. It is an altogether different proposition, fraught with risk and the dangers of discovery. She has a sixth sense that tells her when someone is just sliding off to be alone and when they are off to meet a lover or husband. She cannot define it; maybe it’s the release of musk and pheromones into the air, maybe it’s that yeasty smell of arousal; maybe she has become so attuned to the gestures of secrecy that she knows them without conscious thought. Whatever it is, she is rarely wrong.

  Adrienne waits outside the glass monolith. An office building like many others, nondescript in its conformity of sleek and soulless design. Her latest vicarious lover works here, and he will be leaving soon, leaving to meet his lover. She wonders what he tells his wife, what apologetic story of work and deadlines he will weave to cover his deception.

  She watches him leave, striding into the windblown street, head lowered, dark trousers flapping around his legs. The colors of fall surround him: russet leaves, pumpkin-orange candy wrappers—and Adrienne’s fox-red head as she slipstreams in his wake.

  He enters a church. It is unlocked at this hour, although later it will be barred against the homeless who sleep under its lintels. She slips in behind him, creeping into a pew in the middle, falling to her knees on the hassock and peering through laced fingers at her prey as he hesitates, looking around before he slips into the vestibule at one side of the altar.

  Apart from herself, Adrienne the irreverent, the church is now empty. She waits, head bowed in mock penitence until she hears the swift tapping of purposeful heels hurrying down the aisle. It’s Wednesday. It’s five o’clock, time for an illicit quickie. Hail Mary, mother of grace.

  The heels fade into silence, entering the vestibule. Adrienne imagines the soft kiss of greeting, the rustle of hands moving over crisp business linens, the sigh against the exposed neck. She waits, counting her heartbeats. Too soon and she risks discovery. Too late and she misses the heated foreplay, the bites and the panting.

  On silent feet she approaches the wooden door. Her gut clenches as she slowly pushes the door open. She offers a prayer of gratitude to whoever has kept the door so silent on its oiled hinges. A dart, a duck, a flurry of skirts, and she’s in, holed up like a ferret, tucked behind the stacked music stands and trestle tables. One hand burrows under her skirt and into her panties in hot anticipation of what is to come.

  She spreads her legs, and dips between them. Through the stalks of table legs and dusty surfaces she can see them. His mouth is already moving on bared breasts, the dark business suit hanging open as the infidel gropes with pale hands. A pinch of the rosy nipple, puckered and erect, quivering in anticipation. The open mouth on her breast.

  “No marks,” whispers the woman, then stifles a scream as he bites. A rosy bloom on the soft skin. The hot, sweet smell of arousal coils lazily into the room.

  Adrienne’s fingers circle her own sex, around and around, slowly, touching the tender lips with careful fingers. She mustn’t come too soon. She watches through drooping lids as the man lifts the dark skirt, bunching it in his large hand. Slender legs come into view. Higher, he drags the skirt higher, sliding it over quivering thighs, the rasp of linen on nylon sending sparks of static leaping into the charged air. Adrienne fancies that they could ignite in the heated tension of the room.

  The skirt is around the woman’s waist now as she leans back, arched over the stacked chairs. Her lover drops to his knees and pulls stockings and panties down and off in one swift movement. His mouth drops and latches on to her, sucking on her open flushed sex. Adrienne sees the golden hands spreading the creamy thighs, sees the shining moisture as he plants his face deep into the pungent crevice, slurping loudly, swallowing, and sucking.

  Her own finger dips deep into the cream of her sex, and she brings it to her mouth, tasting the salt and sour. She fixes her eyes on the man, and mimics his pistoning tongue with her finger.

  The woman’s orgasm is sudden. Her upper body jolts, jolts again. The little death. Her mouth forms an O, rosebud pale, funeral rose pink.

  The man rises, undoes his trousers, freeing his shaft, shiny and taut with tension. Adrienne can almost feel the silky smoothness of it. She can imagine the slippery moisture oozing from the slotted tip. She is circling with two fingers now, slipping easily in and out of her own sodden sex, wet to the wrist, the tops of her thighs
sticky and sweat-filmed.

  He positions himself and plunges in, a smooth, sliding thrust, all the way to the hilt. The woman’s hands delve down the back of his trousers, grasping his undulating buttocks, dragging him deeper and closer. She wraps a slender leg possessively around the back of his thighs, rubbing catlike over the expensive suit.

  Adrienne plunges in and out with matching rhythm. Her breathing seems loud and erratic in the sepulchral room, but she knows from experience that they will not hear her. Their inner worlds are building, tension deep in the pits of their bellies consumes them, the heavy breathing of the watcher in the shadows will go unnoticed in the sweet release of climax.

  Adrienne comes, shuddering through her orgasm, mouth trembling open, eyes wide, struggling to control the timbre of her breathing, struggling to fill her lungs quietly enough to avoid discovery. She spirals down from her peak, still fingering the damp curls, touching her swollen lips with a gentle finger. She likes it when she comes first, so that she can watch their conclusion unhampered.

  They are nearly there. She watches as the thrusts get shorter, shuddering, straddle-legged thrusts, and then the fractured moment of climax as his thrusts become short, deep spurts. His head falls onto the woman’s neck and he lies there panting for a moment.

  They never indulge in the tender afterplay of lovers who truly care. The man raises his head, kisses his partner once on the lips. Then he lifts himself off, his penis damp and flaccid, and tucks it away in his pants. His partner stems the gush of semen down her thighs with her fingers, catching the viscous fluid and bringing it to her mouth.

  Adrienne closes her eyes momentarily, vicariously enjoying the grassy, sour taste of freshly spilled seed. She wonders if they shower before returning to their homes, or do they tell their partners they’re sweaty from the gym or the office? She wonders if they will make love to their own partners this evening after their irreverent encounter. There is nothing sacred about this sex.

  He kisses the woman again briefly, then dresses and strides away without a backward glance. From her hiding place, Adrienne the shadow child holds her breath as he passes, then resumes watching the woman, who gazes after her lover, momentarily wistful. Then she wipes herself with her nylons and pulls on her panties. She takes a new pair of nylons from her bag and smoothes the creases out of the once crisp executive suit. A slash of funeral rose to the kiss-crushed lips, then she leaves, striding past the stalker in the shadows.

  She has always followed people, slipping through the shadows in their wake, pattering on soft-shod feet in and out of darkness and pools of light, daring them to turn and see her.

  CONTENTED CLIENTS

  Kate Dominic

  ANDRE WAS MORE THAN A LITTLE MIFFED. I’D been quite specific in letting him know that the matronly outfit he’d designed for me was about as sexy as a burlap sack.

  “I want to show boobs, dear,” I snapped, dumping the custom-made ’50s-style housedress on the neck of the naked, headless mannequin. “Mother’s naughty ‘little boys and girls’ need to be squirming in anticipation of a nice, comforting nipple to suck on, even before I turn them over across my knees.”

  “As Madame wishes,” Andre sniffed, his beautiful green eyes flashing with righteous indignation as he tossed his short blond curls. In a flash of dramatic pique that only a former runway model could master, he turned and swept up the yards of atrocious yellow floral print. He froze in mid-pirouette when my hand snaked out and gripped his slender, denim-covered buttcheek. Hard. I wasn’t sure what Andre’s problem was today. His costumes were usually exquisite. But I was in no mood for an artistic temper tantrum when I had clients scheduled for that scene in less than a week.

  “Madame damn well wishes,” I said quietly. “And if Andre has a problem with that, perhaps Madame should call Andre’s sweet, smiling lover over to give dear little Andre an attitude adjustment.”

  Andre looked nervously over his shoulder, his eyes locking on the large bearded man hunched intently over the computer screen on the other side of the room. The only time I’d ever seen Bedford’s lips so much as curve upward was when he was paddling the bejeezus out of Andre’s ass.

  Andre shivered as Bedford clicked onto a new screen, leaned back, and carefully stroked his chin. The latest design appeared on the web page he was updating, and Bedford nodded once, so slowly that the long brown hair tied back at his neck barely moved over the flannel shirt covering his thickly muscled shoulders.

  “That won’t be necessary,” Andre said primly, almost hiding his shiver as he carefully set the discarded material onto a side table. He glanced once more in the direction of his bearish lover. “Shall Madame and I sit down at the other workstation and discuss alternative design options?”

  “The operative word being sit,” I snapped, releasing his ass-cheek. I managed to control my smile as Andre politely escorted me over to the computer, offering me a chair before he called up my profile with even more efficiency than usual. From the way his ass was twitching, I gathered that sweet, pouty little Andre’s entire snit had been staged purely to let Bedford know that he was hungry for a good, old-fashioned ass-warming. Despite Bedford’s apparent lack of attention, I had no doubt that he’d heard every word—and that a very sore and well-fucked Andre would be working standing up for the next couple of days.

  It wasn’t the first time I’d been an unwitting prop in one of my friends’ private little scenes. I doubted it would be the last. I shook my head and bit back a grin as my voluptuous cyber-model filled the screen and a nervous, eager-to-please Andre and I got back to designing the perfect costume for my stable of submissive little boys and girls. Overall, I’d been quite pleased with Personal Fetish Attire, Inc. PFA had provided me with my first dominatrix outfits with almost off-the-rack speed—no mean feat, given my well-endowed size-2X proportions. As my clientele grew, Andre and I worked together to design some very chic leather teddies and harnesses that emphasized my Rubenesque curves for my hard-core “mistress” clients, as well as the flowing drapes of satin and lace that highlighted the ample padding so comforting to my naughty adult children. When I’d branched out into less traditional fetishes, PFA had quietly made some introductions to other clients, for whom they then also supplied costumes. Several of my fantasy scenes had even been Bedford’s idea.

  “We’ve got this guy who’s really into horror flicks,” Bedford had said one fall afternoon. He was lacing me into my new black corset as Andre put the finishing touches on my Halloween vampire costume. “Cleavage” didn’t begin to describe the size of the valley developing between my boobs as Bedford cinched me into place. Andre had somehow managed to build in a truly comfortable support bra without losing the sleek lines of the corset. “This dude would think he’d died and gone to heaven if you had your way with him in this costume, Ms. Amanda, especially if you bit his neck a couple of times. Hell, if you let him nurse on these mamas, he’d pay whatever you wanted. And honey,” Bedford winked at me as he tucked the lacing ends under the intricately tied knots, “he can afford to pay whatever you want.”

  In short order, I’d found out that Timmy could indeed afford my services. Frequently. From there, it was a short step to a half-dozen men who wanted to be spanked and diapered and fed a cup of warm milk, then held on Mama’s large, comforting lap to nurse contentedly on her huge ol’ boobs while they went to sleep. That costume was easy, too. I set the scene to be one of “baby” waking up at night, so the seductive peignoirs that, along with leatherwear, were the mainstay of PFA needed only a complementary pair of feathered satin mules to have baby’s hard, horny dick drooling into the neatly pinned cloth-cotton diapers Andre had custom-made for them. At the end of the scene, I’d sit in the oversized rocker Bedford had built and unhook my specially made “nursing bra,” one cup at a time, and let baby suckle my huge, dark red nipples until the heavenly stimulation—and the ben wa balls in my pussy—made me explode in orgasm. The sucking, along with my usual expert wrist action, usually had baby cr
eaming into his diaper as soon as he’d sucked me through my climax.

  My submissive and infantilist clients were an excellent match for me, as my breasts were about the most sensitive part of my body. After a good session of nipple stimulation and roasting naked backsides, all it took was a few quick flicks to my clit or a well-placed toy to make my cunt gush.

  Although my clients paid well enough that I needed to have only a few regulars, I was interested in branching out again. For the first time, I also had a couple of women clients. One of the girls, Cherise, was into enemas. Because of her prior problems with bulimia, I’d had a long talk with her doctor before I accepted her as a client. With his permission, I’d written her a “prescription” for one enema each month, of no more than one quart, administered by the stern, uniform-clad Nurse Harriet, so long as Cherise kept her weight up and stayed completely away from laxatives in the interim.

  Cherise had been following her program like a champ since we started, cuddling contentedly into my lap to nuzzle after a long medical session with prim, no-nonsense Nurse Harriet. Andre’s costume had combined an extremely short, starched, white hospital skirt with a matching low-cut top that unbuttoned to show a soft, white-lace bustier. Cherise had been so tired after her session and her overwhelming climax that she’d spent the last half hour of our time together dozing in my lap, my nipple resting on her thin red lips as I stroked her hair.

  Cherise was not into infantilism, though. Spanking, yes. But at twenty-six, she saw herself more as a naughty high-schooler who needed someone to take her firmly in hand and to teach her to be good and do right—and to help her gain a healthy dose of the self-esteem she was fighting so hard to achieve. After her last visit, I’d told her that next week her mother wanted to discuss her report card with her—most specifically, her citizenship grades. And to be sure to wear her best school clothes and saddle shoes. Cherise had shivered, her face positively glowing as she kissed my hand and whispered, “Yes, Ma’am. I’ll be here right after school.” Which meant 6:30 P.M. sharp, after she’d finished work and eaten exactly as the doctor’s regimen directed.