Best Women's Erotica 2015

by Violet Blue

  It was hard to breathe as he approached, closer and closer, so much silence between us that I imagined I could hear grass stalks bending under his black boots.

  “Open it wider,” Ron whispered. “I want to see what you look like freshly fucked.”

  I did as he ordered and couldn’t resist brushing a finger over my clit, making myself shudder. There was a click-click-click. I glanced up in surprise, and there was the camera I’d been thinking of all night, as if straight out of my imagination, and the noise of it was real, not just in my head.

  “Keep it up, baby,” Ron said. “Make that pussy quiver for me.”

  I gave a big exhale and leaned back against the cabin’s outer wall. I put two hands on my cunt, one pressing fingers inside and the other teasing my clit. Click-click-click. Click-click-click. Ron and I stared each other down, and I felt full of him, connected to him, understood by him. There was no need to speak. He could see everything I needed him to see.

  Orgasm took me, and Ron was right there with me, his focus close on my pussy, his camera saying click-click-click.

  STAR FUCKER

  Malin James

  “Star fucker.”

  I barely look up. “Star fucker” is one of Jane’s favorite insults. It’s gotten a lot of play recently—almost as much as “useless douche.” But “star fucker” is special. If “useless douche” were a pair of granny heels, “star fucker” would be stilettos. Jane’s virtuosic scorn twists and hardens the r’s so that it sounds more like “strrrr fuckrrrr” by the time it leaves her mouth.

  “Strrrrr fuckrrrr.”

  She says it again. For emphasis. Jane is good at scorn. She always has been. I think she’d shrivel up without it. She’s an agent, after all—balls and scorn have fueled her career. But then, of course, you know that. Jane is your agent. And the girl, the strrrrr fuckrrrr, who has been judged not once, but twice with enough scorn to kill a Borgia, is hanging off your arm.

  “Jesus fucking Christ,” she says, shoving her drink at me. “Viv, I’ll be right back.”

  I nod, and take a sip. I’m not really paying attention. This party isn’t how I’d have chosen to spend my last evening in town, but unless you’re into celebrities, Hollywood isn’t paradise to begin with. I’m mostly immune to celebrities. Mostly. There is one exception. But then, you know that too.

  I scan the busy bar, looking for Jane. She might be five foot one, but her presence is huge. It’s only a second before I see her, bearing down on a man whose back is to the room. Her shoulders are set like a boxer’s. Our grandma would be proud. Meanwhile, her target is disentangling himself from a slinky little blonde. The strrr fuckrrrr, I presume.

  The blonde pouts in the parody of a come-on—hips cocked, breasts pert, no underwire needed. The man regretfully shakes his head just as Jane the Mighty arrives. Apparently delighted, the man swings her up like a rag doll until she whacks him on the arm. The blonde slinks away as he laughs and puts her down. And that’s when I see his face—your face—clearly for the first time.

  Michael Spencer.

  Jesus fucking Christ.

  I nearly drop Jane’s drink. You are the exception to my celebrity thing. I am not immune to you.

  My belly contracts as I look at your face. It’s not perfect or even handsome, but it is charismatic—so goddamn charismatic that I want to fuck you right now, and I’m not usually a fuck-you-right-now kind of girl, but it’s a full-court press. My brain and my body are fully on board.

  I swallow the rest of Jane’s drink. My tongue feels lush and nimble and my lady-bits are slick. You’re still across the room and I am one hot mess.

  You bend and say something to Jane. Then, nodding, she hauls you across the room. It takes me a second to realize that she’s hauling you to me. I panic. I want to bolt, but I can’t work out an escape. My brain has checked out. Lust has made me dumb…. I feel like a useless douche.

  “Viv. There you are.”

  Wishing I’d had more booze, I plaster on a smile and turn around. And there you are, standing with Jane, looking tall and lean and so damn easy in your suit. My mouth opens and closes. Then it opens again, and I know I look like a fish.

  “Viv,” Jane says, waiting a beat. “Hello? You okay?”

  “Yeah,” I say, brightly. “Yeah. I’m great.”

  I’m just deeply, deeply in lust with the man standing next to you.

  “Good. Then I can introduce you. Michael Spencer, this is my sister, Vivian Martel. Viv, this is Spence.”

  Jane looks at me expectantly, like I’m supposed to shake your hand, which is an act of science fiction in the genre of my life. I do, however, manage an eloquent nod. Then, like a normal, functioning person, you smile and extend your hand. My heart thumps. I feel besieged.

  “Nice to meet you, Viv. Can I call you Viv? It’s how Jane refers to you, so that’s what I call you in my head.”

  You call me in your head….

  I start to say, “of course,” but it turns into “uh.” I try something simpler instead.

  “Yes.”

  I nod to drive my point home.

  “Then you can call me Spence.”

  You’re smiling. It’s my turn to talk now, but your hand is still on mine. I want to bring it to my lips. I want to taste and suck and lick, and I’m frozen because I know this would be in extremely poor taste. I feel Jane shift, impatiently. My weirdness is weirding her out. Pull it together, Viv….

  “You’re, uh…much taller than I thought.”

  Jane gives me a what-the-fuck look. You respond with an easy grin.

  “Yeah, I get that a lot.”

  Slight pressure on my hand. I am utterly charmed. Jane snorts.

  “Spence, let go of her hand.”

  Sheepishly, you do. My fingers are warm and tingly and I feel, quite literally, weak in the knees. This is getting out of hand. Tired of being ridiculous, I look straight into your eyes, which, I can tell you, is not easy to do. They are dark blue and lovely, and they crinkle at the edges, as if you smile with them a lot. You’re smiling with them now.

  To my relief, I don’t point this out.

  “So,” Jane says, dousing the situation with a bucket of common sense. “Do you remember how I mentioned that one of my clients loved your book? Well, that was Spence. He wants to talk to you about optioning it. He’s been hounding me for months.”

  To my shock, you blush bright red. My brain comes back from vacation and I kick it into gear.

  “Thanks, Jane. You couldn’t have told me before?”

  Jane looks at me, unimpressed. “I’m telling you now, Viv.” Then she takes the empty glass from my hand and rattles the lonely cubes. “Lush.” She shakes her head. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get a drink. You two have fun.”

  “But…”

  Jane cuts me off with a fantastically obvious wink.

  “Chat. I’ll be back in a bit.”

  Then she barrels away like a juggernaut aimed at the bar. The crowd parts as if God had decreed it.

  “So,” you say, watching her go. “Has she always been like that?”

  “You mean bossy, pushy and blunt? Yeah, pretty much.”

  I smile. My hand is still warm from your touch.

  That wink was Jane’s blessing. I can go after you if I want to. Unquestionably, I do. But now that we’re alone I don’t know where to start. Do you even want to be pursued? I look up at your face, which is, adorably, still a bit red. Possibly you do…. You scan my face as your hips turn, very slightly, toward mine. Then your eyes drop to my lips. My breath catches. Yes. I think you do…

  You’re perfect, I want to tell you. You can take the rights. I based the lead on you. On you, on you, on you…

  “I’m so glad we—”

  “It’s so good to—”

  We stop, laughing predictably. We’re a cliché, and I don’t even mind.

  “Sorry,” you say. “After you.”

  Your voice is rich, with a soft, rounded clip. I wa
nt to strip off my clothes and feel that richness drifting over my skin. Of course, I don’t tell you this.

  “It’s lovely to meet you,” I murmur instead. Now, it’s my turn to blush. “I’m… I’m a great fan of your work.”

  My blush gets worse because it’s true. If it weren’t, I wouldn’t be panting like a fangirl. I’d have thought that this would be safe to assume, but you honestly look a bit thrown.

  “I could say the same of you.”

  You reach out and brush my arm. The contact is strictly platonic, but I have never, ever, in my entire life been so painfully turned on.

  “The thing is that I—”

  “Hi again, Spence!”

  It’s the slinky, star-fucker blonde. Your mouth hardens—a subtle change but it speaks volumes. Suddenly, I feel like Jane.

  “Hello…” you say, trailing off. You’re polite, but you make it clear that you don’t remember her name.

  “Geneva,” she supplies, smiling, as her hand flutters to her chest. “You know, like the country—remember?”

  “Actually,” I say, aiming for conversational and coming up short. “I think Geneva might be a city. They had a convention there once.”

  You look at me, eyes crinkling. Geneva is not impressed.

  “Oh?” she says, cocking a hip. “How interesting. And who are you?”

  “This is Vivian Martel,” you say, smoothly cutting in.

  Geneva inspects me, visibly noting the way your hand is hovering over my hip. She pastes on a sticky smile, in deference, I’m sure, to you.

  “So, what do you do?”

  “I’m a writer,” I say, suppressing a grin. I love answering that question in L.A. Geneva perks right up.

  “Really? Film or TV?”

  “Books,” I reply. “Books?”

  “Books.”

  “Oh. Well. I guess that’s cool.”

  Skeptically, she turns back to you. “So, my friend and I are leaving, and we were wondering…”

  She leans forward, dishing out the goods.

  Strrrr fuckrrrr.

  “If you might want to come with us.”

  You smile, looking almost regretful, as you skillfully dodge her breasts. “Thanks so much but no.”

  “Oh…” Geneva pouts. “Well, maybe some other time.”

  Biting her lip like a tart, she snags a napkin from a waiter and, using your chest as a writing surface, jots down her number before tucking it into the breast pocket of your shirt. Then she winks and walks away.

  Awkwardly, we watch her go. I’m amused, but your absolute lack of expression drains the smile from my face. Suddenly, almost violently, my attraction to you shifts, and I no longer want a film star. Suddenly, I just want you.

  “Listen,” you say, turning to me. “That isn’t… Look, do you want to leave?”

  You’re blushing a little again.

  “Yes. I really do.”

  We sneak out of the party like a couple of kids cutting class. Then we head down the hall to the elevators. We still haven’t kissed, but we’re going to. That much is pretty clear.

  You hit the down button, and stand close as we wait, so close that your knuckles brush the back of my hand. Our fingers lace lightly, back to back, as we stare straight ahead, right into our reflection in the soft, polished brass. We look old-fashioned and lovely. You’re lovely, I think. By the time the doors open, my thighs are slick and I can barely breathe.

  “After you.”

  Your voice is husky as our fingers drift apart. I step into the little brass box, unable to respond.

  25…24…23…

  The floors tick by as our bodies angle and sway, silently negotiating the terms of our attraction. We’re playing with the tension, pulling it, teasing, seeing how thin it will go.

  22…21…

  Your hand drifts down to the base of my spine before cupping the small of my back. Desire seeps through me, coating my skin, as I arch into the flat of your hand.

  20…19…18…

  Your mouth is close. We are so close. My bones go soft as your fingers drift lower and stop just short of my rump.

  17…16…

  Our hips meet and the bulge of your erection brushes up against my mound. And that’s it. I’m done. I’m not going to wait. I smack the emergency button and find your hungry mouth.

  The elevator jolts to a stop as I breathe you in. You taste as good as you smell—clean and crisp, like expensive champagne. It’s the last thing I think before I start to undo your belt.

  You groan, kissing me back with your famous mouth as you press me hard against the wall. Then you shrug off your jacket and slip your hand up my skirt before pulling my panties down. I gasp, as my belly contracts. I’m already soaking wet. You make a noise deep in your chest. Then your fingers find my pussy and begin to stroke. My breasts ache, everything aches. I’m starving for your cock. Desperate and shaky, I quickly unzip your pants.

  “Jesus,” I breathe, as I draw down your briefs. Your cock is gorgeous—full and thick and impossibly hard, with a glistening, swollen head. I stroke it—I can’t help it—and you wince as your hips thrust into my hand. I am full of the impulse to suck. You must read it in me because you quickly bear my weight.

  “Later,” you whisper. Your voice is raw. “We have to hurry, Viv.”

  I know, I know, I know.

  Every inch of me wants you—breasts, pussy, skin, lungs. Still standing, I spread my legs for you as you slide your cock between my thighs and rub your shaft against my cunt.

  “Hurry, Spence. Please.”

  I can barely see straight. I can barely breathe. You get a condom out from I don’t-know-where and then you take your cock, still slick with my juice, and slide the condom on. I’m swollen and gaping as you pick me up and grip my ass with your hands. You’re shaking. I’m shaking. My legs wrap around your waist. Then you kiss me as you thrust.

  We’re mad. We fuck madly. I have never felt so greedy. You batter me, devoid of your famous finesse as I arch and writhe and claw torturously toward my peak.

  Then the elevator shudders. With a jerk, we start to move.

  15…14…

  “Spence,” I cry. My voice breaks and you grunt. You know, but we’re not going to stop.

  13…12…11…

  The elevator slows and drifts to a natural halt.

  “Son of a bitch,” you breathe. Then you bury yourself in me, right to the hilt and slam the button that keeps the doors closed. They struggle, attempting to open, but you jam the button hard, while my pussy flutters and pulses around your static cock.

  I’ll admit that I’m impressed by your presence of mind, but most of me just wants to come, so I take up the rhythm and circle my hips as the elevator stops struggling and finally moves on.

  10…9…

  The orgasm starts to skitter along the edge of my nerves, firing through my limbs.

  8…7…6…

  I’m grinding against you, and I’m painfully close. You instinctively change the angle of your thrust, grazing my G-spot with your head as you circle my clit with your thumb. I shriek, and the orgasm that was just a shimmer before explodes through me like a bomb.

  5…

  I arch against you, gripping, clutching, mewling like a cat. It would be humiliating and unthinkable if you weren’t moaning and panting too. But, oh my god, you are. So the orgasm washes over me in wave after wave, as your thrusts come fast and desperate. Your breath catches and your eyes glaze over. Loose-hipped and receptive, my legs tighten around your waist. Then you come, groaning as you kiss me hard enough to bruise.

  4…

  Gently, you lower me down to my feet, as my orgasm pulses and ebbs. My body craves more. It’s desperate for more.

  3…

  But we are officially out of time. I straighten my dress and snatch up your jacket as you buckle up your belt.

  2…1…

  The doors begin to open. On cue, my panties fall out from a fold in your jacket. You catch them midair a
nd grin.

  Two women are waiting to get on. It’s Geneva and her friend. We smile as they take us both in. My lipstick is all over your mouth. You look adorable. We’re rumpled and flushed and the elevator smells, undeniably, of sex.

  They ignore you and look at me.

  “Star fucker,” they murmur, scornfully.

  I smile.

  Oh, yes, my girl. I am.

  THE ART TEACHER

  Rachel Woe

  Every art classroom I’ve ever been in smells the same: the pungent, intoxicating aroma of tempera and acrylic paints; the dry, woody perfume of construction paper; the acrid bite of paint thinner combined with old-building staples like dust and black mold. Mr. Thompson’s room is no different, though I can just barely detect the lingering scent of coffee wafting out from his cluttered office where he sits, reclining in a creaky, ragged desk chair, scribbling grades into a tattered binder. I long to be back there with him. I can imagine myself sauntering in, closing the door behind me, peeling off my clothes and begging him to do whatever he wants with me.

  I want him to be my first. Yes, he’s fourteen years my senior and if anyone found out he’d most certainly be fired and maybe even serve prison time, but my adolescent heart wants what it wants. It wants him. It wants his wide palms and long fingers moving over my skin, his mouth upon mine, his groin pressed against my backside, his cock—well, this is where it gets a >bit hazy. I’ve seen porn and R-rated movies and I know what happens when people have sex, but since I’ve only ever gone as far as French kissing, I have nothing tangible to relate to, nothing to flesh out that void in my fantasies.

  Today I have chosen to remain after school to work on my final project for the big senior art show next Friday that the department puts on every year. I’m in the process of painting a life-sized portrait of a woman, naked against a stark, black background. She is beautiful and imperfect and stylized to the point of surreality, but still identifiable as a woman.

  Mr. Thompson says I am very talented and that he would be happy to write a recommendation for me to any art school of my choosing, should I wish to pursue this work professionally. I told him I would think about it. As far as I’m concerned, anything that allows me more time alone with him is worth pursuing.