Best Women's Erotica of the Year, Volume 4

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  Until today. Today is the last time I will savor her seven sweets and seven sours. I know it. Hannah does not.

  When I try to kiss her mouth, she turns her face. Her eyes close. Her head falls back, giving me access to her throat with my tongue, my teeth, my lips. Her throat works with a moan, and I back her up to the bed. She’s expecting me to push her onto it, but instead, I pluck at the hook-and-eye closures on her dress.

  “What are you doing?” Her eyes wide, Hannah puts a hand over mine to stop me. She says the words in Pennsylvania Dutch.

  I answer in English. “I want to see all of you.”

  Hannah shakes her head, and as I step back and begin to undo all the hooks of my own dress, she averts her eyes. Even when I am naked in front of her, she won’t look. I shiver with a feeling of freedom and say her name.

  “If Ephraim comes home—”

  “He never does.”

  “Someone else could come,” she says.

  Like putting the suitcase behind the chicken house, this is a risk I’m willing to take. Once again, I move to tug at the closures on her dress. This time, she lets me. She shakes when she stands naked in front of me, and of course I pull her close. Our bodies align. I’m only a little taller than she is. She can bury her face against the side of my neck. I stroke her naked back. I unpin the thick coil of her hair so that it falls to her hips.

  I lay her back on the bed, and she covers her eyes with her hands, but her thighs open for me the way they always have, since that first time so many years ago. It was rumspringa then, our time to run “wild,” and we’d been drinking from a bottle of cheap vodka someone’s older brother had bought in town. We’d stumbled home to share her sagging bed in the smallest room, covering our giggles with our hands, imagining her parents would not hear us or know what we’d been doing. They’d turn a blind eye to the alcohol. They would not have done the same to what we’d done together in that bed.

  “Look at me,” I tell her now. My voice is hard and firm and low, rough. It is not a feminine voice of soft murmurs and gentle request. My voice is a command. A man’s voice, and Hannah responds as she would to a man who’d spoken.

  She pulls her hands away. Her lips are wet from where she’s licked them. Her nipples are tight and hard, like my own, but Hannah’s breasts are full. Weighty with milk. Her soft belly, rounder than mine, is crisscrossed with stripes from childbirth. I love those marks, the way I love everything about her body.

  When I lift her foot to my lips, she gasps and tries to pull it away, but I hold her tight and press a kiss to the sole. I nibble her ankle. Her calf. By the time I make my way to her knee, she is panting softly and rolling her hips upward. I take my time to relish every single inch of her.

  “Seven sweets,” I say with a tiny, sharper bite to the softness of her inner thigh. “Seven sours. All of your flavors.”

  It’s a reference to the “tradition” of Amish dinners featuring seven sweet and seven sour dishes. It’s not a true tradition at all. It was created to promote tourism, but the tourists who flood this area in search of an authentic Amish meal have come to expect it, so it’s become common enough for us, too. And it fits here, because Hannah is an entire smorgasbord of flavors, scents, and tastes.

  The tangy musk of her center sends a rush of heat through me. I inhale her, again and again, until she wriggles and protests, but with laughter. Her giggles turn breathless when I slide my tongue along her savory folds to find the tight, sweet knot of her pleasure. I close my eyes, drinking her in. The sweets, the sours, everything about her in this moment. My own body tenses, clutching at nothing. On the bed, I grind my pelvis against the plain white sheets as I kiss between her legs, again and again.

  Hannah opens for me like a flower that follows the sun. And I’m the bee, sipping at her nectar. She floods my tongue with it. Sweet, slippery fluid drips down her thighs and covers my mouth and chin; I cannot get enough. I lap in slow, steady strokes of my tongue. That little bead of flesh swells between my lips. My tongue dips a little lower, pushing inside. Hannah shudders, but muffles her cry with a pillow over her face. I replace my tongue with three fingers, sliding deep inside her.

  The first time we did this, I could only slip a single finger inside her, but time has passed. I don’t think about the reasons why her body can accommodate me better, now. To think of that in this moment would make this wrong, and I won’t believe it is. No matter what anyone might say, no matter if getting caught means we will be shamed and shunned. What Hannah and I do now is not wrong. It is the best and most pure expression of love I have ever known.

  Against the bed, I grind, grind, grind. It’s different than how I do it at home when I’m alone. There, I use my fingers to slide between my thighs and find my own pleasure spot. Here, with Hannah, my body wants to move and thrust in time with what I’m doing to her with my mouth and fingers. In my mind, with her, I am complete down there instead of feeling as though this emptiness inside me is echoed by my real and literal opening. With Hannah, I feel more like the person I know I am than any other time, and so I groan into her sweet, hot flesh as I push myself against the bed and imagine what it would be like to push inside her. Not with my fingers, but the way a man would.

  The rush of desire takes my breath away. I can’t think beyond it. Everything inside me focuses on this, the rising wave of pleasure that builds like a storm. The thunder will crash, the lightning will strike. But first, I want to make Hannah shake and cry out. I want to feel her body clutching the invasion of my fingers. I want that sweet little knot to pulse beneath my tongue. I want her to break apart underneath me. I want us both to shatter, together.

  I slide my fingers faster. Twisting. I ease off the pressure of my tongue and lips so I can sip at her honey. Tasting Hannah truly is all the sweets, all the sours. She is tangy and musky and different than the way I taste and smell the times I have lifted my fingertips to my nose after touching myself. I would know her by this scent. By the flavor. In a dark room, with a hundred strangers, I would know Hannah by the in-out hush of her breath.

  Her body tenses. Her hips rock. She’s begun to make those tiny mewling and desperate sounds in the back of her throat, muffled by the pillow on her face, but I can still hear them. The sharp intake of her breath. The low moan. The sound of her ecstasy pushes me to grind harder against the mattress. I am almost there. So close my body trembles. My rear cheeks clench. My toes are curling. I can’t focus on her, not this close to going over the edge myself, so I slow my urgent thrusting.

  I want to be able to remember every twitch and clutch of muscles. Every sound she makes. Every second of this has to stay with me forever, because I know this is going to be the last time.

  A harsher, guttural groan slips out of her. Hannah claps a hand to the back of my head, holding my mouth against her as she writhes. Her sweet and sticky slipperiness floods my tongue. I can’t breathe; I can only breathe. She has never moved this fiercely beneath me before. I almost can’t hold on to her. I definitely can no longer hold back myself. As Hannah gives one last, hard thrust upward against my mouth, her body tightens around my fingers. Everything inside her bears down. Clench, release, rapid squeezes. I thrust against the mattress. I shake. I cry out into her fragrant deliciousness and spill over into my own final, writhing desire.

  In the aftermath, I want to fall onto the bed next to her and sleep, but we don’t have that luxury. The baby is already stirring. We’ve nearly woken him. Hannah leans over the cradle to check, but so far he’s settled back into dreams. She looks at me over her shoulder.

  “I need to get dressed. You, too. Hurry.”

  I don’t move, not at first. Then I sit to pull my knees to the side so I can lean close to her. I put a hand on her shoulder. “Not yet.”

  “Mary, I have to,” Hannah mutters. She’s back to not looking at me.

  I flinch at the sound of that name. When I am away from here, when I’ve cut my hair and started dressing in men’s clothes, I’m going to choose a
brand new name. I don’t know what it will be, yet. But it will be new the way I will be new.

  “Another moment, bitte,” I say. Please.

  She doesn’t protest when I slide up to her back and press my chin into the curve of her shoulder. My arms go around her to cup her breasts. She sighs and twists to face me as we lie back on the bed. When she pulls my head down to her nipple, I close my eyes and take it in my mouth. After a moment, there is a new flavor. Hot and sweet. If I could lie here forever, both of us naked, if I could live with Hannah this way always, she could nourish me. I would take care of her better than her husband does. He provides for her and for their son, but I would love her better. I already do.

  “You can come with me, Hannah.”

  I shouldn’t have said it, but I couldn’t stay silent. Hannah twists away from me. Her nipples are dripping, and she stops the flow with a practiced pinch of her thumb and forefinger. She sighs. Her head hangs. Her shoulders slump.

  “You want me to leave everything I’ve ever known. My son?”

  “Bring him,” I say, although the truth is, I know she never will. What could the two of us do out there in the world with an infant? In all my fantasies over the years, it’s always been me and Hannah. I should have asked her before she agreed to become Ephraim Zook’s wife.

  I should have been brave.

  “I love you,” I tell her in Pennsylvania Dutch.

  Hannah does not say it back. She never has, but I’ve seen the truth in her eyes and her smile. I’ve tasted it on her kisses. She hasn’t allowed me to kiss her on the mouth since she got married, but I still remember how it felt.

  “I love you,” I repeat, this time in English. “Come away with me. I’ll find work. I’ll take care of you.”

  “You want to be my husband?”

  “Yes,” I say.

  She shakes her head. Her laugh is not cruel, and there is no humor in it. “I thought all of this would go away.”

  “It won’t. I have to leave.”

  “Why can’t you just stay? Take a husband. Obed Yoder’s been sweet on you for years.”

  The thought of it is enough to push me from the bed. I begin to put on my dress. My fingers move without my mind having to think. They fumbled when I tried to put on my brother’s trousers, but once they were on, I felt at home. Not as though I’ve been wearing a costume, the way I’ve felt for as long as I can remember.

  “Mary,” Hannah says, stopping me. Her baby wails, and she lifts him to her shoulder.

  Her eyes meet mine, and this time, she does not look away. She stands fully naked in front of me, no longer in a rush to cover herself. My hands are shaking, so I close them into fists.

  “Stay,” Hannah whispers.

  “Come with me,” comes my reply.

  When she does not answer me, I smile because I cannot bear to let her see my pain. I knew she couldn’t go with me. She knows I cannot stay. We are both caught.

  I don’t kiss her one last time. I give her a single nod and leave her in the bedroom. Behind me, the wail of the baby rises up and up, quickly hushed. The last thing I hear before I leave the house through the kitchen door is the sound of Hannah singing to him.

  And then, I am free.

  BABY DOLL

  Sienna Saint-Cyr

  Heather thumbed through her messages as she waited at the designated table. The message from Charlie was at the top of her texts. He’d told her to wear her favorite baby-doll clothing, which she’d happily agreed to. She twirled the ribbon on the corner of her soft pink dress as she read the text repeatedly. The silky fabric of her attire lent comfort as she waited with a stomach full of butterflies. She let her hand rise to the tops of her stockings, and she squirmed as she felt the lacy trim. She pictured Charlie playing with her stockings. Her anticipation grew as the minutes ticked by. The longer she waited, the more her stomach turned to knots.

  All she could think about was how she’d shared too much . . . told him too much about her PTSD, her anxiety and depression, about her deep need to be Daddy’s little baby doll, but she hadn’t known what else to do. Too many relationships had already failed because she hadn’t communicated her mental state or her need to be cared for early enough on. This time, she’d been determined to change that. But now, these things tore through her head like razors. She’d fucked it up, been too bold. He wasn’t going to show.

  Heather’s stomach pinched harder, and she quickly dug through her purse before another pang of pain hit her. She plopped a Xanax into her mouth, letting the pill scratch on the way down. The irritation served as a slight distraction from her anxiety. But the thought, He’s not coming, refused to leave her mind. The realization made her chest heavy. She picked up her phone again for distraction.

  No, she told herself, you’re not going to fuck this up. He’s coming. He is.

  Heather opened her camera app and turned it to selfie mode. She was going to get a pic of herself in her beautiful pink dress. Even if he didn’t show, she felt good in it. Right.

  She snapped a couple of pics and pulled one up to look at it. Low-hanging lights had cast a halo over the crown of her head, causing her brown ringlets to fill with warmth. Her cheeks looked rosy, her eyes a little less swollen, lips full. She looked almost like a porcelain doll. If only the rest of the world had dim lighting.

  Heather sipped her water, focusing on the wonderful aroma of Thai food around her. She teased out the scent of peanut sauce and something a bit spicier—maybe a red curry—coming from behind her. Her stomach rumbled in a different way now.

  She let the noises emanating from the kitchen consume her. She pictured herself back there rather than alone at the table. She wanted to bury her face in her arms and be done. Before she could, the hostess approached.

  “Excuse me,” she began, then handed Heather a folded piece of paper. “That man at the table in the corner asked me to deliver this to you.”

  Heather took the paper. “Thanks.”

  The woman nodded and left.

  Before looking at the paper, Heather looked at the corner of the restaurant. There—at a table on the raised portion of the floor—was a tall man with a black blazer and a cowboy hat. He sat with his chest forward, as though filled with confidence. She couldn’t make out the details of his face, but she saw that he was smiling.

  She looked back to her paper and unfolded it. The paper looked special, expensive maybe, with a slight scent of vanilla to it. Written words filled the note, fancy words. Like calligraphy.

  Baby Doll,

  You look so adorable over there, watching for me. Waiting so patiently. At first, I thought you’d changed your mind. I’ve been waiting for over twenty minutes. But then I saw that you too were sitting by a silly cat painting and I realized I had not been stood up.

  Please, adorable girl, won’t you join me?

  Charlie

  Heather’s heart raced. Was this for real? Had she lost it?

  She looked up and saw him waiting, still smiling, patting the seat to his left. Heather squirmed again as heat warmed her inner thighs. The lacy underside of her dress brushed against her bare flesh, causing a rush of desire—submission—to move through her body like a wave of gentle release.

  After gathering her things, Heather joined the stranger at the table on the platform. She scooted in slowly, as she didn’t want her bare thighs to make noise on the seat. She wasn’t successful. Her thighs made an annoyingly loud squeak as she scooted in. Heather’s cheeks flushed with heat.

  “I’m sorry,” she mumbled, unable to look at him.

  Charlie laughed from deep in his chest. It was a kind laugh. One that suggested he might have enjoyed her noisy thighs and that he wasn’t laughing at her.

  “Don’t be silly, doll,” he began. “I love your cheeks pink.”

  Heather’s smile betrayed her, revealing her enjoyment of a little humiliation.

  “Have you already decided what you want? I saw you eyeing the Pad Thai as the server walked by you earlier
.” He smiled.

  “Pad Thai would be great . . . ” She hesitated as she thought about what to call him. “Sir.”

  “Pad Thai it is then.”

  Charlie ordered for both of them, making her breathe a sigh of relief. So far, so good, she thought. He was behaving in a manner that lent comfort.

  Their food arrived faster than she’d expected, so the two talked through dinner. They spoke so long that her food began to get cold; she was talking far more than eating. They negotiated what they wanted out of a Daddy/ baby doll relationship, discussed her mental health and medications, explained their desires with kink, and set limits on what they’d take part in. Everything aligned like the perfect starry night. Then, they moved into an area that made Heather tense.

  “You understand, of course, that if I am to be your Daddy, no more of this . . . ” Charlie lifted her arm and ran his fingers across her cutting scars. “Daddies help their baby dolls grow and heal. Self-harm is against my rules. I will punish you if I catch you doing this again. Do you understand?”

  His tone was firm. It filled Heather’s cheeks with a different kind of heat. One that she wasn’t sure she liked, yet her cunt filled with moisture at the same moment. Clearly, her body desired what her pride wanted to reject.

  “And,” he continued, “I want to be in touch with your therapist. You have a lot going on. I won’t risk your mental well-being if they feel something isn’t safe for you. If you want me to be your Daddy, we’re going to do this right. No secrets, no deceptions. We’ll do this safely.”

  Heather both wanted to hug him and run away at that moment. This was what she’d wanted, what she’d asked for, so why was she feeling hesitant? She shuffled in her seat, staring at her half-empty plate.

  Charlie reached into a bag to his right. He pulled something plush out, though she couldn’t see what it was. He held it behind his back.