Best Women's Erotica 2015

by Violet Blue

  Why couldn’t I wield such power?

  Halted beneath the glow of a red light against the impending dusk, I can feel him studying me. I turn to look at him, forcing myself to maintain eye contact. We stare at each other: him, growing increasingly unsettled and me, slowly becoming aware of my own authority.

  A loud honk from the car behind us forces Mr. Thompson to turn his attention to the fresh green light. I take a deep breath before responding, just as we are about to turn onto my street.

  “I notice you changed your shirt after taking that phone call.” I watch him bristle at this observation. “Tell me, do come stains wash out easily or will you have to toss the shirt?”

  His eyes open wider than I’ve ever seen them as his lips purse into a thin line. He is speechless.

  “Oh, this one is me,” I gesture to the house we just passed.

  Mr. Thompson brakes and we lurch forward. Still dumb-struck, he turns toward me, a look of mortification coloring his gorgeous features.

  “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone,” I say, unbuckling my seat belt.

  With my eyes firmly fixed on his and my legs slightly spread, I slowly raise the hem of my skirt above my cunt. His gaze lowers and he watches me, unmoving, swallowing hard. I take hold of the waistband of my knickers and, raising my ass off the seat a bit, slide them down my thighs, over my stockings, and off my feet.

  Mr. Thompson’s eyes are trained on my cunt, still moist and glistening. I lift my underwear up off the floor with one finger, dangling them at eye-level for a few seconds before dropping them into his lap, which, if I’m not mistaken, is now sporting a hint of that familiar bulge. He glances down at the bundle of cloth, drenched in all the right places, and then back at me, conflicted.

  “See you in class, Mr. Thompson.”

  His mouth parts as if he is about to respond but emits no sound. I drape my skirt back over my thighs and exit the vehicle, leaving him stupefied and visibly aroused.

  As I round the car and begin backtracking down the street toward my house, the light wind lifting my skirt to kiss my exposed cunt, I can’t help but notice small, subtle hints of newfound confidence. My stride is longer, my hips more prone to swaying, my shoulders naturally held back and my posture straight and extended. Is this a taste of what it feels like to be a full-fledged, sexually assertive woman? If so, I can only imagine the transformation that awaits once I actually have sex.

  Perhaps I can ask Mr. Thompson for a private tutoring session.

  GWENDOLYN AND MARIO

  GO TO PHILADELPHIA

  Gwendolyn Kansen

  We congregated in Peter Salisbury’s room one Friday night in early October, right before it got cold. Teresa was pressed up next to him as usual, telling us about the newest slash she was writing.

  “Okay, so Brock is second in line for the state wrestling championships, and Steven tells him that there’s only one way he can beat the contender.” As always, Peter was tremendously patient with her so he could go on being adored. She was what he needed. I was sitting on the floor pressing a cheese-flavored Bugle onto each of my fingers wondering who had worse Asperger’s, me or him.

  I went out to the bathrooms and heard clambering up the stairs in the hall. A drunk, grinning Mario Vincento skipped up to me and grabbed my shoulders.

  “How’s Cody?” I said dryly.

  “He’s great! He gave me some Goldschläger.”

  “Nice.”

  One of the basketball players walked by in his towel and winked at me. A door slammed down the hall. I could hear Peter in his room. He was now continuing his anti–Hillary Clinton vendetta. This time he was ranting about how Bill Clinton had voted to take money away from the Navy.

  “I’m so happy to see you, Gwendolyn!” drunk Mario continued. “I want to go somewhere with you. Just you and me.”

  Peter’s voice bounced from down the hall: “He must have been too busy having sexual relations with that woman to think about how the average sergeant makes less than most strippers!”

  “It has to be somewhere neither of us has ever been to before,” I said, thinking that if I christened a new city with Mario he’d see how captivating I was. “Pittsburgh and Philadelphia are pretty close.”

  “I’ve always wanted to see Philadelphia!” Mario exclaimed. He jumped up and ran into Peter’s room and yelled “Who wants to come with us to Philadelphia?”

  “What? You’re not going anywhere! You’re too drunk!” Peter boomed.

  “Maybe you could come with us and drive,” I offered, hoping he’d say no.

  “I’m not going to Philadelphia! And you’re going to bed!”

  “How about we go in the morning?” I suggested.

  “You suck, Peter,” Mario whined as he poured himself another cup of Goldschläger.

  He staggered back into his room, and I went back to Potter Hall. I crawled under my comforter and fell asleep with what must have been a totem pole–sized grin, thinking about how many cool points I had now that I was doing something completely spontaneous and 100 percent orchestrated by me.

  * * *

  The next morning at nine, I put on my red leather skirt and red sandals, and my red, white and blue rugby-style shirt from H&M. For the club I brought my pink-and-green silk chiffon dress from Chaiken that I’d found for six dollars in the sale bin at Annie Creamcheese in Georgetown. Mario was wearing sunglasses, his trademark Aeropostale polo shirt and his favorite black jeans when he picked me up. I marched into the dining hall and stuffed some fruit into the Styrofoam container. Then we were on our way.

  All of Mecklenville looked better that morning as we left it. I watched happy people walking in and out of the shops buying five-toed shoes and beads and essential oils. The snapped wooden rafters on the abandoned farmhouse right outside town looked like they were glistening, and I smiled out the window at the crows poking around looking for corn. As we hit the highway, Mario turned on the radio and we danced in our seats to the music. “You’re so funny I love you!” he yelled over Timbaland’s “The Way I Are.” Two hours went by and we stopped at Havre de Grace’s Maryland House, where I bought each of us a flashing key chain.

  The first thing I noticed about Philadelphia is that it’s just the right size. It isn’t oppressively huge and there weren’t an unmanageable number of people on the sidewalks. The architecture is beautiful and there are a lot of parks. Each neighborhood is separate and distinct.

  There was a gay pride parade in Center City that day. I hadn’t seen too many drag queens at that point so they were amazing to me. I bought a shirt with a picture of Joan Crawford on it that said WWJD: What Would Joan Do? I filmed us telling Peter what he was missing. Mario scolded me for capturing both of us in the most unflattering angles possible. (In retrospect his enormous nose looks like my mother’s. But to me that made him more, not less, gorgeous.)

  I have pictures of us at the fountain in Center City next to huge red letters that say LOVE. I have pictures of us outside a bar called Moriarty’s and next to a statue. I took pictures of myself in the dressing room at Macy’s where Mario went to get himself a tight T-shirt for the club. I asked him why he didn’t just wear his tank top, and he said he didn’t want to look slutty. When dusk set in, a pink-and-blue sunset reflecting against the marble sculptures that sit at the top of the old bank in Center City, we went back to the parking garage and climbed into Mario’s blue Hyundai to change our clothes for the club.

  I got out my camera and took a picture of Mario as he smiled at me from the driver’s seat in the dim yellow light of the car. In the backseat, I stripped off my shirt and red leather skirt and handed him my camera. A car drove by, and I grabbed a knit blanket to cover myself. He took a picture of me as I lifted the corner to peek out at him.

  “Should we plan on sleeping here?” I asked.

  “I’ll find somewhere for both of us,” Mario assured me. “I promise.” He held my shoulders and looked into my eyes, and I gazed back into his. He took my hand as we lef
t the parking garage.

  “Come on, I’ll show you the club I found.” We walked over the cobblestones together, and I watched the people start to come out of their houses. Few of them, I thought, looked as pretty as us.

  Mario picked up speed, and we started running through the streets of Philadelphia. He led me through the parks and alleyways of Old City, the layers of my Chaiken chiffon dress flapping behind me. It occurred to me that Mario would make a great reality-TV star. His enthusiasm is contagious, and his sharp beauty easy to understand. He giggled as he took a swig of the sticky cherry bourbon he was keeping in a Coke bottle. He handed it to me.

  “I don’t know if I can hack this, beautiful,” I said gently.

  Mario grinned, his green eyes crinkling. “The lesbians will buy you all the drinks you want.”

  We reached a grim-looking alley. Groups of gay guys were standing outside the door, including a chubby guy with curly hair whose shirt said Hi. You’ll Do. There were a few groups of straight girls, and some lesbians.

  “Our stop,” he said as he brought me to the door. The bouncer put Xs on our hands and we entered the club.

  It was only 10:00, so there weren’t that many people. It was a small club, with mirrors on all of the walls and flashing lights. The drinks weren’t expensive. I started to lead Mario to the dance floor, but surprisingly he doesn’t like to dance unless he’s drunk. He moved to the bar and perched on the side in the most unassuming fashion he could muster, his trim figure highlighted with each green, blue or red flash of the lights. I moved over to the mirrors and as the music picked up I circled the floor, matching the rhythm, dancing with myself. My dancing is more earnest than sexy, I’ve learned, and a group of boyish-looking lesbians were watching me.

  “You’re so cute!” one of them said. She was a tall, handsome (that’s the right word) black woman with an Afro who looked about twenty-eight. “Can I dance with you?”

  I tried to follow her moves, but I’m better when I’m dancing fast and alone. She led me to the pool table and bought a game. She was chatty and fun. Her short white girlfriend with long beaded dreadlocks came back with a pitcher of beer. They shared it with me as the black girl beat me in pool. She pinched my cheek and said, “Later baby,” as she and her partner walked off.

  Mario stumbled to the pool table and breathed a vodka-laden greeting at me. I handed him my camera and tumbled onto the pool table as he took a blurry pink-and-green picture.

  “You’re beautiful, Mario,” I said.

  “You’re beautiful too,” he slurred. “I’m going outside for a bit. I’ll be back.”

  I danced some more, but the club was filling up with people. I wanted to talk to the guy with long blond hair and a sparkling red thong, but the club was getting smaller and louder and there were too many bright colors and people sounded like they were cackling and it gave me a headache. They turned on the smoke and all I could see was dozens of vague figures writhing about in front of all the mirrors. I pushed past their sweaty bodies to the door. I thought I’d get used to sensory overload the more I went to clubs, but I didn’t. As I walked out for a breather a skinny girl handed me a cigarette. She cupped her hand around it to help me light up. The awful smell and the steps I had to take to smoke it correctly brought me back to focus.

  I trudged along the sidewalk looking for Mario. “Nice dress, bitch!” yelled a guy sitting on the curb. I realized that he thought I was a lesbian, and that “bitch” was a compliment. I smiled back at him, stepping prettily. “Thanks.”

  Mario was walking with a handsome guy who looked like he was in his midthirties. He had an attractive slouch and moved with a bit of a swagger. He wasn’t an especially big guy, but he had a very deep voice. Mario skipped over and introduced us.

  “Gwendolyn, this is Leon,” he said, slurring a bit, his manners impeccable even if his diction wasn’t. He dragged me over to the stairs to chat.

  “I told you I’d find somewhere for us to go.”

  “Us?”

  “Hey.” Mario put his hand on my shoulder. “If you’re nervous, we can just find a motel. I came here with you and I want you to be happy. You’re one of my best friends, Gwendolyn.” His green eyes were wide and he was the most guileless person I’d ever seen.

  “I trust you,” I told him. “I’d like to hang out with Leon.”

  “You can sleep in the room with us. I won’t let him kick you out.”

  I sadly ran my hand along his back. “I know.”

  Leon loaded us up in his car. We were headed to a motel in Cherry Hill, New Jersey. As hurt as I was that Mario had sullied our time together by soliciting a proposition, my role was to be up for anything.

  “That club’s a little skeezy,” Leon said protectively. “I’m glad we got out of there before it closed.”

  I looked out the window at the Denny’s, Roy Rogers and Exxon signs along the highway to the motel. I took a picture of the road outside the windshield, getting Leon’s profile from the back and his short hair. He was an Army lieutenant, and he had lovers in several cities. Mario was awed by his globe-trotting. He struck me as a kind man. He didn’t think it was at all strange that Mario brought me with them.

  The room was standard-issue Motel 6. I got a few chips from the machine. When I came back, Mario was in the shower. I crawled under the heavy sheets on the king-size bed. But when I turned around, Leon was next to me. I was stunned as he crawled on top of me.

  “Wouldn’t it be funny,” he murmured, “if Mario came back out of the shower and thought we were having sex?”

  “Yeah, but you’re gay…”

  “I’ve had sex with girls before.”

  He was still for a moment, and I ran my hand lightly across his weathered shoulder. He was tending toward premature gray, and I wanted to ask him if he’d been to Afghanistan and what he did there. He kissed the skin below my neck, and moved my mouth up to his. He tasted like Listerine and cigarettes. He felt me furrow my eyebrows and he chuckled softly. “It’s all right.”

  When Mario came out of the shower he saw Leon kissing me, my legs wrapped around his hips. He sat gingerly on the side of the bed. Leon moved up to kiss Mario.

  “Are you okay?” he asked. Mario nodded.

  “Gwendolyn?” Leon asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “You guys ever done this before?”

  Mario and I said no in unison. Leon arranged the three of us so we were sitting in a triangle.

  “Have you ever made out?” he asked.

  “Once,” I said.

  Leon watched us kiss. Mario isn’t a leader, but kissing him under Leon’s authority set the dynamic. But as I ran my hands over my beloved he was more responsive than usual. He cupped my breast and Leon rubbed his shoulders. He moved down Mario’s body and unzipped his black jeans. I stared at the base of Mario’s penis as Leon sucked him. I ran a finger along Mario’s chest as he writhed, proud that I could watch him feel that good. He squeezed his eyes tight and he shook a little bit as he came.

  I lay on my back and waited for them to address me. Leon crawled to my side, and he didn’t come up. I felt the air moving before he got up to the tops of my thighs and moved in. He was dexterous, his tongue sliding across my clit with command as he drew the tension forward. He knew to lick faster as my thighs and my chest tightened up and he knew to hold my hips down as he brought me to release.

  Mario was sitting up with a bemused look on his face. He looked a little bit silly but I pulled him to me. We’d been pleasured together in camaraderie. He let me kiss him again. He let me run my hands and my mouth down his abs, and I licked the remnants of the hickey I’d left there the other time he’d let me make out with him. He let me climb onto him and sheath his long cock with the condom Leon handed to me. I fastened Mario’s hips between my legs and lowered onto him, trying to push away all the implications as I rode astride the boy I fruitlessly loved.

  He pushed into me from beneath me, but he wasn’t an active lover. I ran my hand along
the base of his cock to feel my wetness on his skin. It was taking him a while to get into it, but when he saw Leon looking at us with an amused grin on his face he started moving his hands tentatively over my body.

  I was determined to wring out every inch of Mario’s pleasure. I started moving faster and he started matching my strides, the pressure building as I angled the head of his cock against my front wall. I arched my back and my chest all the way through so my A-spot felt thicker.

  Then Leon came up behind me and slipped a wet finger in my ass just a little bit. He put on a condom and pushed me onto Mario’s beautiful body, sliding into me from the back. I tightened up and both of them pulled me down against them and pumped me hard. The urgent tightness in the back and the fullness in the front squeezed everything together in three inches of a thousand pounds of pleasure. Both of them slammed like tanks into that tiny space and I screamed as I came from my front and back wall in a much wider orgasm than I’d known I could have before.

  I caught my breath as I pulsed afterward. I held Mario as he came, then Leon ran his hands over Mario’s shoulders and my sides as he finished. They pulled out. Leon chuckled and Mario squinted at me. My part was over.

  When I woke up the bed was moving. I rolled over and saw Mario’s legs slung over Leon’s shoulders. Leon was pumping into him, and I wasn’t as turned off as I thought I’d be by watching the man I wanted being spread wide open like that for another man. It looked like the natural order of things. But I noticed that Mario wasn’t a particularly active lover for Leon either. He didn’t move much as Leon pumped, and he just lay there dopily as Leon pulled out, not wearing a condom, and came all over his chest. Leon jumped up and went to the shower without looking at me.