Best Women's Erotica 2009

by Violet Blue

  My forays into the red-light area weren’t all to take photos, though. I had discovered that though most of the sex shops were full of tatty novelties for the tourist trade, there were a couple of places selling quality fetishwear and interesting toys. So I invested in a few items to keep things spicy when Jamie came home: Velcro cuffs we could use to fasten each other to the bed; a string of anal beads that gave him the most incredible climax as I slowly pulled them out of his arse; a waterproof vibrator he used on me as the shower’s steamy spray beat down on us both, until my knees were sagging and I clutched at the tiled walls as I came and came again. I had more and better sex with Jamie, in those months in Amsterdam, than I’d ever had with anyone else.

  But it takes more than great sex to keep a relationship going and, as the end of Jamie’s secondment approached, it became increasingly apparent to both of us that what had begun so explosively was fizzling out just as fast. Underneath it all, we liked each other well enough, but we really didn’t have that much in common.

  When the time came for Jamie to arrange our flights to Heathrow, I told him not to bother with mine. I wouldn’t be going back to London—at least, not yet, anyway. When he didn’t even try to talk me out of staying, I knew I was making the right decision.

  The problem was that I needed to sort out somewhere to live and get myself a job. I found an apartment without too much difficulty, in a tenement building a couple of tram stops away from the city’s zoo. It was a little dingy compared to the place I’d lived in with Jamie, and up three flights of stairs, but it was cheap, and my neighbors seemed pleasant enough. An art gallery in the Jordaan had taken several of my photographs, and had even sold a couple, which covered the deposit on my apartment and the first month’s rent, but I needed to do more than sell the odd photograph if I wanted to eat on a regular basis. At home, I would have been able to walk into just about any restaurant you cared to name and land waitressing work, but here, where my grasp of the language didn’t extend much beyond “please,” “thank you,” and “beer,” it was not going to be that simple.

  So when I saw the sign being placed on the door of the bed shop, it seemed like fate. I had noticed the shop every time I traveled past it on the tram late at night, lit up when everything else was shuttered and silent. Today I had chosen to walk into the city center, past the Rembrandt Museum, and as I waited to cross the road, the middle-aged shop manager was sticking the sign in place. Helpfully, it was written in both Dutch and English: MODEL WANTED. My curiosity piqued, I darted inside the shop and found the manager behind the counter.

  “Goed dag,” I said, then switched back to English, the limit of my Dutch pleasantries already reached. “I saw the sign. You’re looking for a model. Well—here I am.”

  He looked me up and down. I might have been short by Dutch standards, though you could say that of any woman under five feet ten, and I hoped that wouldn’t count against me. It didn’t.

  “You’ve modeled before?” he asked.

  “Well, to be honest, no. But I really need a job”

  “Okay. This isn’t exactly runway work, anyway. I’m looking for someone who can make the most of this”—and he gestured to the bed in the window display which, he told me, was on special promotion. As he described the job requirements, I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. The model needed to arrive at the shop just before nine at night, change into her nightwear—in the staff toilet, not the window, he added hastily, as it wasn’t that kind of establishment—putter around for an hour and then go to bed. The idea was to convince passersby the bed was so comfortable that you could get a decent eight hours’ sleep even in such an artificial environment and thus nodding off at home would be a cinch. The money he was offering wasn’t great, but it was enough. And I didn’t need to be able to speak a single word of Dutch. It was perfect, and I told him so. I was hired. We shook hands on the agreement, and I went off to buy a new nightdress for my first public appearance.

  I settled into the routine very quickly. Wim, the shop manager, would be waiting for me every night at about ten to nine. He would let me into the shop, we would exchange a few pleasantries, and then he’d go on his way. I would change into my nightdress and get into position on the bed. I had my iPod, onto which I had downloaded a Teach Yourself Dutch course, books and magazines to read, and an eye mask to block out the glare of the shop’s fluorescent lighting.

  It soon became obvious, however, that wasn’t enough. I was managing to get a surprisingly good night’s sleep, once the rumble of the trams on the road outside died down just after midnight, but the reading matter I had brought wasn’t enough to keep me stimulated. And if there was one thing I needed since I’d split up from Jamie it was stimulation—mental and physical.

  Not only that; I didn’t feel as though I was doing enough to attract the attention of passersby. Oh, they would slow down a little as they walked past, take a quick look at the strange girl sitting in a shop window reading, but they very rarely stopped, and they almost never paid attention to the sign in the window highlighting the low cost and exceptional comfort of this king-sized bed. I needed to put on a performance.

  The following night, I arrived with all the equipment needed to give myself a pedicure, and spent a long time massaging my feet with body lotion before meticulously applying a coat of red varnish to my toenails. This time, people did stop, did take notice and did, once they had tired of looking at my bare legs and the tops of my breasts where they peeped out above the lacy edging of my nightdress, look at the bed and, I guessed, wonder how it might fit in their own bedrooms. There were a couple of men who did nothing but stare at the arch of my instep and my delicate toes, but to each his own—and after all, I was the one in charge of this little display, they were the ones who stood on the outside, gazing hungrily in at their fetish made flesh.

  The realization that I could tease and tempt, safe and inviolate behind glass, awakened in me an exhibitionistic streak I had never realized I possessed. Now, instead of huddling under the covers, ignoring my potential audience as I completed a sudoku puzzle, I perched on the end of the bed, showing off. Making them come to me. Making them want me.

  I would wait till a likely-looking man approached and then I would casually, carelessly bend forward, giving him a view right down my nightdress to my breasts. Or I would cross my legs, flashing him a pair of knickers pulled up snugly against the contours of my pussy. After a couple of nights, I no longer bothered putting on the knickers. I wantonly let strangers see my pink lips, the little tuft of soft brown hair, and sent them away with a bulge in their pants that ached for relief.

  It wasn’t just the men who watched me, either. You’d be surprised how many of the women who passed seemed to be hoping for a glimpse of my tits. Perhaps it was just to compare them to their own, but I suspected that some of them looked because it turned them on.

  Enjoying myself now, I began to fetch the vibrator I had bought to share with Jamie in to work. I will never forget the expression on the face of the first man who watched me run the buzzing toy first along the length of my arm, then slowly down my neck. His eyes bugged in disbelief as I played it over my breasts, causing my nipples to pucker into hardness. He hoped, as every man who followed him did, that I would take the vibrator down between my legs and let it press against my clit. I wanted to, desperately, but something always held me back from going all the way.

  Only once I was back in my apartment did I give in to the need for release. I would lie back on my own bed, smaller and with a lumpier mattress than the one I had become used to in the shop, and masturbate, always with the same fantasy in my mind. I would imagine myself in the shop window, legs widely parted, thrusting the vibrator up into myself, and outside, some anonymous voyeur would be watching and wanking his hard cock till his spunk spattered against the glass. At that point I would always come, screaming out my pleasure in the quiet little apartment and already eager for the coming night.

  I had no idea whether Wim was aware o
f what I actually got up to when he left me in his shop for the night, but he couldn’t fail to notice the increased customers I had brought in. He told me that every day people would come and lie on the bed in the window. I imagined most of them were hoping for a sniff of my scent, trapped in the sheets, but more than a few of those who sampled the mattress went on to order a bed of their own.

  One morning, as he paid me my wages, he told me he had some important news. He needed to take a few days off to look after his sick mother, and his nephew, Jaap, would be letting me into the shop in his absence. Apparently, Wim had no sons of his own, and so was training the lad to take over the business when he retired. I merely nodded, having been worried he was about to tell me the special promotion was over and he was terminating my employment.

  When I saw Jaap, a small part of me hoped that Wim’s mother’s illness would be of the lingering variety. The man was gorgeous; in his early twenties, with a long, lean body; short, spiky blond hair and an open smile. I caught him giving me an appreciative glance or two as he let me into the shop, but I told myself not to make anything of it. It was just my hormones responding to the first man in a long time who’d admired my body without there being a pane of glass between us. Still, that night, as I knelt up on the bed and caressed my body, I imagined it was Jaap who was staring at me through the shop window, Jaap who was silently encouraging me to spread my legs and touch myself for him….

  And as I sat on the end of the bed, looking out into the rainy Amsterdam night, I heard a noise behind me, and turned. Someone was in the shop! The figure stepped out from the shadows of the curtaining display, and I realized it was Jaap. But surely he’d locked up and left hours ago? I shook my head, trying to dismiss him as a figment of my overheated imagination, but as he walked over to the bed, I knew he was real.

  “I know what you do,” he said, coming to stand beside me.

  “My friend, Peter, saw you a couple of nights ago. He said you gave him a flash of that cute little pussy of yours. And I wanted to see for myself. That’s why I volunteered to look after the shop for my uncle. That’s why I came back tonight.”

  “But if you wanted to watch me through the window…” I began.

  He shook his head. “No, I wanted the real thing. I want to touch it. Taste it.”

  His words set a pulse beating fiercely between my legs. I watched as he stripped out of his jeans and T-shirt and came to sit beside me on the bed, wearing only a pair of black briefs that held his cock coiled within them. He looked huge, and though I knew we shouldn’t be doing this, I couldn’t stop myself.

  I flopped back, pushed my nightdress up around my hips, and slowly, deliberately opened my legs. His gaze was drawn like a magnet to the folds of my sex, already wet from all the teasing and stroking I’d given myself earlier. I couldn’t see if there were any passersby staring through the window, but if there were, I knew their view would have been obscured by the bulk of Jaap’s body. They could only imagine what might be happening, and envy the fact that what I had shown them only in glimpses, he was seeing in all its blossoming glory.

  “Beautiful,” he murmured, and traced a big finger along my lips. Desire had made me submissive, and I lay there, letting him explore everywhere from the tip of my clit to the pucker of my arsehole. I barely knew the man, and yet already I was letting him touch all my most intimate places. And when he replaced his finger with the firm point of his tongue, I almost squealed in delight.

  I forgot I was in such a public place, forgot all about our potential audience as Jaap proceeded to lick me deliciously and thoroughly. Much as I had enjoyed fucking Jamie, he had always felt that oral sex was just a minor detour on the way to the final destination. For Jaap, however, this was clearly a most important part of the journey. My hips arched up toward his face, and my hands grabbed fistfuls of the bedsheets as his tongue probed and dallied, taking me all the way to the summit of my orgasm.

  But just before he got there, he pulled his mouth away. I wanted to grab him by the hair and force him back into place, but he shook his head. He pressed his lips to mine, letting me taste myself. “Patience,” he said. “It’ll be all the sweeter when it happens.”

  As I waited, wondering where he had learned his incredible technique, he fished a condom from his jeans pocket. He casually discarded his briefs, and his cock emerged, big and beautifully in proportion to his six-foot frame. I definitely needed to be wet to take that, I thought, as he slid the condom down over its substantial length—but I was ready for him.

  It was his turn to lie down now, as he urged me to get on top of him. I thought for a moment I saw a curious, mustachioed face peering in, but the rain was falling harder than ever, and it was hard to imagine that anyone might stand for long in that weather, even with a live sex show unveiling before their eyes.

  A wicked thought struck me and I grabbed my eye mask, slipping it down over Jaap’s head to blindfold him. He smiled, clearly turned on by such a simple but kinky trick, and let me take charge. I began to feed his cock into me, gradually lowering myself down. I felt myself stretching wide, and the sensation was glorious. I rose and fell on him, controlling the pace, controlling the pleasure. The springs creaked gently beneath us as a bed that had only ever been intended for display purposes was finally christened in the most erotic fashion.

  His hands were on my breasts, pressing them together, and he was muttering something I didn’t understand, though the meaning was clear enough. He was loving this moment, and so was I. I rode him harder, gripping his thick thighs with my knees, and when I reached a finger down to play with my own clit, my pleasure peaked unstoppably. I was still feeling the spasms gripping me when Jaap groaned and let out what I assumed to be some choice Dutch swear words as he came.

  We slumped together for a moment, and when we pulled apart I almost expected to see someone standing on the pavement outside, applauding. But the street was empty, and if we’d had an audience, it had already disappeared.

  That was my last night in the window. Crossing the line is fun, but you can only do it once. I asked Jaap to tell his uncle when he returned that I had been offered a job elsewhere. It was a lie, obviously, but a week later an opportunity arose to become a tour guide for English-speaking parties in one of the museums, and I took it. I went past the bed shop on my way back from work—or Jaap’s apartment, because even if we couldn’t have sex in public, that didn’t mean we couldn’t keep doing it in private—but I never saw another girl doing Wim’s special promotion work. And I always wondered whether anyone bought the display bed, and whether they ever had as much fun on it as I did.

  WHAT IF?

  Cheyenne Blue

  “What if I wanted to visit Paris?” Peta began. “Would you come with me?”

  Our favorite game. I rolled over and rested my head on my folded arms. Peta was also on her stomach, chewing on a grass stalk, the sunlight gilding her hair to a soft gold.

  “Depends,” I said. “Would we fly or sail?”

  “Sail,” she replied without hesitation. “On an oceangoing yacht, just you and me, and a discreet crew to actually make the thing go. Champagne and sunsets at sea—”

  “Motion sickness and stinky pump toilets—”

  “Waves lapping on the hull, dolphins leaping at the prow.”

  “I don’t think there are dolphins in the Atlantic,” I said, “but okay so far. Where would we stay when we got to Paris?”

  “In a garret in the artists’ quarter. Up seven flights of creaky wooden stairs. We’d have baguettes with unsalted butter and cherry jam for breakfast, and strong, thick coffee, and we’d wander the boulevards hand in hand buying cheese.”

  “Would this garret have hot water?”

  “Sometimes. Other times it would be clanking pipes and a tepid dribble.”

  “Not so keen on that,” I said. “So who would do the cooking?”

  “Moi!” Peta showed one of her few French words.

  I rolled onto my side and let my hand trace
her sinewy arm. She looked damn hot in the white singlet, her tanned biceps displayed to perfection, and a hint of brown nipple showing through the clinging white top. “You win,” I said. “I’ll come with you.”

  She grinned and rolled onto her back, her arm over her eyes to keep out the sun. “So I get another go?”

  “Yup. That’s the game.”

  “What if…” And she hesitated.

  “Can’t think of anything?” I teased.

  “What if I wanted to sleep with Suzie? Would you let me?”

  My fingers stilled on her biceps. The muscle was taut—too tight—underneath my hand. The moment was frozen in time. Distantly, I registered traffic noise out on I-25, the way the sun skidded off the peaks of the Rockies turning the white snow-caps to amber, the bug that marched purposefully over Peta’s hip. The tickle of the short grass of Washington Park, already turning brown even though it was only May.

  She was watching me, her eyes intent on my face, the time measured in the slow deep breaths that separated one plane of my life from the next.

  Normal. Act normal.

  “Just one time, or for a long time?”

  “Just one time. Suzie’s straight. Once would be enough.”

  Self-proclaimed straight, but 100 percent bi-curious. She came into the Pink Light on Colfax most weekends, sitting up at the bar all quivering eagerness, shooting pool haphazardly, flirting with the butches, but always pulling away at the last moment, when it was time to leave, time to go home, time to go fuck.