Best Women's Erotica 2007

by Violet Blue

  I was right: schizoid. We pulled on our jeans and did as he ordered. My pussy was pulsing with the aphrodisiac of his demands. If I obeyed him, I was sure he’d let me suck his clit and take his fist.

  My place was one room, with a small stove and sink in one corner, a bed and a desk in the other. The bathroom so full of sink, shower, and toilet a small person couldn’t turn around in it. Bill had to pee. We could hear his elbows bump against the walls, and then a crash, which I knew was the glass of Binaca with my jewel in it hitting the tile floor.

  “Dammit!” Bill yelled.

  The bathroom door popped open to reveal Bill on his hands and knees, his head resting on the toilet, his giant fingers hovering across the floor feeling for the stud.

  “Here, let me.” I tried to pull him up, but he wouldn’t budge.

  “I’ve got it!” he said, holding up his thumb and forefinger. “Put it in.”

  First I had to clean up the glass and the spilled Binaca, and fill another glass, clean off the stud, clean off my tongue.

  “We’re waiting,” Bill called from the bed where he and Ann reclined, already nude.

  “We’ll start without you if you don’t hurry.”

  “Some things can’t be hurried,” I explained, feeling an odd throb in my clit when I slipped the gold stud into its hole before shucking my clothes.

  Ann and I laid Bill down between us and went to work. She tongued him first to get him warmed up, and then I put my hard jewel to the side of his cock, sliding it up and across the head.

  “Smooth,” he said.

  “Told you,” said Ann. “It feels real good on your clit, doesn’t it?”

  But what Bill had tonight was definitely a cock, and suddenly I wanted it pulsing inside me, and not just in my mouth. My cunt needed to be warmed up for his hand. I ran my stud down his shaft one last time, then lifted myself on top before he knew what I was up to.

  “Oh,” Ann warned me, “he doesn’t like that.”

  “Not very girl, is it?” I said as I rode him, holding him tight between my knees. He was certainly strong enough to have thrown me off if he’d wanted to, but he didn’t.

  Ann sat back to watch while he growled beneath me, a giant bear grumbling his arrival, coming, coming, and there he was, bear whiz overflowing.

  Lots of it, as if he hadn’t come in months, years, maybe never.

  “What have you done to him?” I asked Ann.

  She shrugged. “He told me he didn’t need anything more than to satisfy me,” she said.

  No wonder he was moody. “You can’t believe what men say,” I told her.

  Bill snorted, which I thought was a sign he agreed with me, but then I realized it was the beginning of a snore, huge, rumbling, eternal. Ann and I wouldn’t sleep that night, but we didn’t care as we gently played with each other.

  “He’ll wake up,” I told her, sliding my fist up her cunt. “And when he does, you’ll be ready. His cock is almost as big as my hand.” Suddenly I realized how much I wanted his giant ham of a fist up me. Bill snored soundly, hands limp at his sides. I’d cheated myself out of them.

  Ann and I must have fallen asleep, too, because when I woke up, Bill’s curly head was hovering over me, his soft lips on my mouth.

  “Hello,” he whispered, sliding a hand between my legs. Ann snored gently beside us. I turned to her, but he murmured, “Let her sleep.”

  His hand was very wet, sticky, well-lubed. His fingers crept into me, one at a time, my juices flowing down to met each one. I was having him, I was taking him in, and soon I felt his whole, hard hand in me, filling me up as I’d never been filled before.

  “I knew you could take me,” he whispered. “You’re bigger than Ann.” I pillowed my head on his soft chest hair as he twisted that hand inside me, running his fingers over my cervix until I thought I’d scream. This time I held back, this time I knew when to grab his wrist to slow his hand, when to raise my hips to take him deeper, how to pull back from the edge of coming. I lasted long enough to impress him; I lasted beyond the need to scream as I came. When he pulled out his hand, my cum was pooled in his palm, so he let it drip on my face, feeding me my own sweet fishiness.

  When I ride the bus to work, I look at hands, but never find any as good as Bill’s or even Ann’s. The women’s nails are too long, too painted, and the men’s hands are rough, the nails jagged and often dirty, the skin scaly. Even large hands seem unexciting because I can tell they’re attached to people who haven’t got a clue what to do with them.

  Hands matter to me because they’re the true sexual organs. You’d think we’d all be required to wear mittens or risk arrest for indecent exposure, but lucky for me, no one’s on to this, so hands are left naked for the admiration of a few connoisseurs. It’s the rare person who knows about hands, but I keep searching. Not that I’d want to replace Ann and Bill, but a woman can’t have too many available hands, which is why I’m always on the lookout for that perfect size, that long-fingered, short-nailed smooth sexual organ. If you see me, just wink so I’ll know you know what I know.

  COWBOY

  Rita Rollins

  I’m in the forest and I’m getting nailed up against a tree—no, I’m at the beach, lying down in the sand. The grains of sand are massaging my back as a man’s rough hand is touching my smooth legs, and…where did his hand go? Maybe it’s a woman. Yeah, a beautiful woman, the woman of my dreams, she is rubbing my leg. She moves her hand up my thigh—oh, no…the beach could be cold or rainy or windy, it’s…impractical. Start over. We’re in a hotel room. Okay, that’s nice. It’s a nice hotel room with clean satin sheets, and we’ve just finished off some champagne. The woman of my dreams starts to lick between my legs. A man comes up to deliver more champagne. He watches her eating me. He drops the champagne. He unzips his pants, and we both want to suck him off at the same time. But we want to tease him first. I take off his tie so I can use it to bind his hands together. I shut the door.

  I come, and I’m all alone, the fantasy left unfinished. I want to know who these dream people are, when they will come and release me. But now it’s getting late, and I have to go to work.

  I venture out onto the busy Friday-night sidewalk, past the jazz clubs and pizzerias, and I stop at the address, 1313 Rochester. It’s my home away from home. It’s where I go to help other people dream. The red and black lights inside the club create perfect, inexpensive angels. Twenty dollars is all you need to get a private dance. I slide past the dancers and into the dressing room. I drop my light suitcase on the table and prepare to primp. Who will I be tonight?

  Sometimes I am dark: dark hair, dark eyes, dark clothing. I am here to punish you. Sometimes I am light: blonde, amused, innocent. I am here to serve you. Sometimes I am here to indulge myself, and I put on fishnets with seams, and clothes that have tassels on them, and I dance to swing and pretend I am from a simpler time. You can watch if you want to, if that’s what does it for you. Sometimes I barely dance: I just roll around the stage, grind myself against the pole; fuck my image in the mirror. My small pale breasts are reflected back at me. I watch my long, toned dancer’s legs move. I see my dark-chocolate hair tangling and tumbling down my shoulders. My gray eyes are always smiling cruelly, as if I’ve got a secret. I cast a brief glance over my shoulder to look at a customer. I smirk and romance my own image again. Some men are most enticed when you ignore them. They can fill in the blanks; fantasize about me however they want to. I never involve myself too completely. That’s the first rule of stripping.

  I am surrounded by them now, as I dance and they watch. I am surrounded, but I am alone. I am a fish and they are outside the bowl.

  I try not to feel so lonely. It’s bad for business. I put on a cute smile and bat my eyelashes like a naive kitten. Here I am: I’m all yours. Dollar bills line the stage, and I think about my next shopping spree. That always cheers me up. A man at the end of the rack is watching me intently under the rim of his cowboy hat. He seems to be signaling me with his in
ky green eyes. He is as handsome as a real cowboy. I saunter over to him.

  “What’s your name?” he asks.

  “Nico,” I purr.

  “Your real name,” he says, with mock exasperation. His eyes have a friendly twinkle in them.

  I giggle. “Not believable enough?”

  He shakes his head. My eyes trace his face and land on his square jawline. His face is chiseled, and freckled with stubble along the edges.

  “It’s Rose,” I say in all honesty. I don’t know why I’ve surrendered my secret to this man with the wry smile.

  “I like it. Rose,” he says, tasting my name like candy. His lips look full and soft. They are a rosy pink and seem at odds with his masculine physique. I am seduced by the way he licks them slightly, bites them. I am all his. “Care to dance?” he asks.

  “You want a show?”

  “No,” he says, stubbing out his Marlboro in an ashtray. “I want to dance with you.”

  “I can’t,” I explain. “It’s against policy.”

  “I see.” He looks around at the bodyguards and security cameras. “Well, how about a show, then?”

  I lead him to the VIP area and show him to his seat. This room is even darker than the main room. Only our eyes are bright white. “Tell me a story,” he suggests as I stand before him, lifting my skirt.

  “I can’t,” I begin.

  “Is that against policy, too?” he asks.

  “No, it’s just…I’m not very creative,” I say, fingering one of my nipples softly through my shirt.

  “Tell me what you would do to me, if, you know, it was allowed,” he instructs.

  “Well…I could try, but I’m going to have to charge you extra for that,” I say nicely.

  Without another word, he whips a hundred-dollar bill out of his pocket.

  “Are you sure? That’s an awful lot of money to pay for something that isn’t even the real thing,” I warn him.

  He stares into my eyes, and says, “I just have this feeling about you. I know what I want.”

  Now I feel slightly under pressure, but I stumble into it anyway. “I would start by taking off your shirt, licking your chest.”

  “That’s good,” he whispers.

  “I would lick all the way down to your waist, and would kiss every inch of skin above your pants.” I pull down my top and rub my breasts as I continue. “Your hands would desperately try to push my head down, yet you would try to be as gentle as possible, and I would fight you. I would continue to tease you.”

  “You are a bad girl, aren’t you?” he says with a chuckle.

  “Yes, I am.” I move a few inches closer to him, but I can hardly dance now. I am too excited, too caught up in the story. “Finally I would unzip your pants. I would take your cock out and rub it all over my skin. I would blow on it and lick it softly. I would make you want a blow job more than you have ever wanted one in your whole life.”

  He moaned softly, and I was amazed at my ability to draw him in. He was being a perfect gentleman otherwise. His hands were at his sides, and his cock was in his pants. It was only my voice and my story that brought him his pleasure.

  “I would take you into my mouth suddenly, and completely. I’d take you in so deep that I could feel you in the back of my throat. I would slide my lips up and down your shaft, slowly but firmly. Just before you’re about to come, I would pull away and stare up at you. Then I would stand up and push you over onto the bed. I would lift my body slightly over yours, and put my pussy on your lips. I would tell you to lick me, and you would lick my clit hungrily.”

  He smiles, and lets out a deep sigh, and it’s enough to drive me crazy.

  “I would try to restrain myself, but I would eventually just begin grinding my cunt into your face. You’d slap my ass for being so bad. I would continue to be bad anyway. You would go on spanking me. Finally, I would come all over your mouth.

  “For the finale, I would sit down on your lap and slowly begin to fuck you. I would stay still for a moment, once you were inside me, so we could linger in that first moment where our bodies feel that ultimate pleasure. Then I’d move swiftly up and down your shaft, fucking you hard without warning.”

  I drop my skirt and continue.

  “You would tire of my games and pick me up, push me over the bed and start fucking me from behind. I would feel you so much better that way. I would lose control and you would fuck me hard, holding my hair with your hand, pulling it a little bit. You would let me come, and then pull out just in time to spill yours all over my back.”

  Beads of sweat are on both our faces. We stare at each other for a moment, not wanting to break the spell. Finally he stands up and hands me the bills he owes me. “Thank you, Rose,” he says kindly. “You made my night.” He tips his hat at me warmly and smiles as he heads for the door.

  I smile back and then close my eyes. I try to burn his smile and his cowboy hat into my memory. I try to hold on to his sea-green eyes and muscular body. I tuck his money into one of my stockings and gather up the rest of my clothes, very pleased with tonight. It’s not just the money. I have a new story, to be used whenever I see fit. And now the blurry man in my fantasies will have defined features and character. And a cowboy hat.

  RHYTHM LIKE A HEARTBEAT

  Sophie Mouette

  “Jason,” Dee said, “is an ass. Good riddance to him.”

  We were walking down State Street. The cherry trees were blooming, filling the air with the scent of spring. Dee had already stopped wearing her winter coat and heavy sweaters, but I wasn’t quite ready to reveal my body to the hated, coming summer. The body that Jason had quite clearly, quite cruelly, called fat when he left me.

  When I didn’t respond, Dee stopped and took my arm, not unkindly, but firmly, in that way that made it hard to argue with her.

  “You know you’re better off without him, right, Kayla? Because you’re not fat.” Before I could snort and point to my flab, she cut me off. “You’re gorgeous and curvy. You’ll never be heroin-chic thin, and I can’t imagine that you’d want to. What I wouldn’t give for lush hips like yours! They’d make dance class so much easier than it is with my little-boy body.”

  She started walking again, and I had no choice but to follow, puffing a little to keep up.

  “Which reminds me,” she said. “I’m taking you to dance class tomorrow.”

  “Not on your life!” I protested. But, dammit, she still had her hand on my arm. That’s what you get for knowing someone more than half your life. You end up having to listen to them.

  “You need the girl time,” Dee said. “And it’s fun.”

  “It’s exercise,” I corrected. “I’m allergic to exercise.”

  “It’s fun,” Dee repeated. “It doesn’t feel like exercise. Remember when we used to go clubbing in college? It feels like that—just moving with the music.”

  I grunted to indicate my lack of belief. Clubbing didn’t involve learning steps, or facing large mirrors. Besides, it was easier to flail around to a pounding beat after a couple of Cosmopolitans.

  But it was Dee, and I would humor her. Come to a class or two, then fade back from them. I wouldn’t lie (I couldn’t lie to Dee), but I could work late a few times, get behind on the classes, that sort of thing.

  I went to the first class expecting it to be hard. For the first twenty minutes or so, my brain felt overwhelmed by all the new terminology—shimmy, hip drop, isolation, camel—and my body felt overwhelmed trying to follow all the new movements. But soon I forgot about being overwhelmed. I was concentrating, yes, but I wasn’t concentrating on how bad I looked. I was concentrating on getting this movement right, on that turning when the music called for it.

  The teacher, Ginny, was good—I’ll gladly give her the credit. Experienced as she was, she knew how to patiently lead a bunch of wobbly, uncoordinated newbies. And not one of us did anything perfectly the first time, so I didn’t feel like a complete lout. She also had a knack for spotting the one thing each of
us did really well and making sure we heard her compliment it.

  “Kayla, you’ve really got that hip pop down!” she said. “You’ve got the perfect figure for that movement. It took me months to look that good.”

  Hey, maybe my big hips were good for something besides bumping doors open.

  Ginny wasn’t utterly skinny, either, which made me less self-conscious. Oh, she had toned arms and grace to die for, but she had a poochy little tummy that she didn’t bother to hide. Instead, she wore a tight-cropped top and a flowing skirt that tucked under the soft flesh, exposing it.

  Yet, when she did one of those amazing ab rolls, I could see the muscles moving beneath the softness that nothing short of liposuction could have done away with, and it was all incredibly sensual.

  “I’ve seen rail-thin women do this well,” Dee confided to me. “But if anything, they have to work harder.”

  As if to prove this, the skinniest woman in the class, a young thing with the blonde, tanned look of a surfer and a pierced navel that called attention to her ripped abs, was the first one to quit.

  Dee was both right and wrong about it not being exercise. The dance studio would get hot and sticky, and “sweating like a pig” was, I felt, an apt description for the way I felt after class. And oh, the day after the first class, I thought I’d never be able to get out of bed—my legs and arms and tummy and everywhere else felt as if I was being tortured with hot pokers when I so much as breathed.

  At the same time, though, it was fun. Like aerobics, but with a greater purpose. The first time I went through a series of steps without actually thinking about them, I felt giddy from the rush of success. Muscle memory, whatever, I didn’t care; it just made me happy.

  In truth, whether or not Cosmopolitans were actually involved, I’d always liked to dance. My parents have a hideously embarrassing home movie of me at age eight, my hair fluffed out like Madonna in her fluffiest phase and god-awful turquoise leg warmers around my ankles, twirling around the living room to Debbie Gibson. Jennifer Beals I wasn’t (and never would be), but I liked the way music encouraged my body to move, even if I had to threaten my parents upon pain of death never to show those movies.