Best Women's Erotica 2015

by Violet Blue

  The words are lovely, but his body even more so. She can’t help staring at him, at the expanse of bare chest peeking through his robe. It’s easy to imagine running her fingers over his firm flesh. She has half a mind to seduce him here and now and let the sounds of their lovemaking echo in the empty theater. “You’re even more beautiful in person.” She squeezes his fingers, committing the sensation to memory.

  He smiles. “So are you, señora. I trust you enjoyed the performance?”

  “I love watching you.” She disentangles her hand and boldly runs it through his sweat-dampened hair. It’s thick and coarse and she’s tempted to yank his head back and lick the salt from his aquiline throat. “I don’t mean to keep you. I’m sure you must have a get-together with your dancers.”

  “Not tonight. We leave for South America early in the morning. Everyone is either packing or sleeping.”

  “Except you.”

  “Except me.” Instead of taking the other chair, he sits on the floor, stretching his legs and leaning against hers. “You should have told me earlier you were here. I would have thanked you in front of the audience.”

  She’s flattered and tells him so. “Mentioning the foundation in the program is plenty.”

  “But you deserve to have your moment onstage.” He extends his hands behind him and bends backward in a stretch. Then, to her dismay, he drags her crutches into sight. “Are you afraid to be seen because of these?”

  It’s hard to say which is more upsetting, that he knows her secret or that he’s accusing her of cowardice. “I’m not afraid. It’s simply better if I stay behind the scenes.” This is the moment she’s feared, that Rafael, so comfortable with his perfect body, would be repulsed by her scarred and broken one.

  But his voice is compassionate rather than condescending. “Better for whom?”

  Angry, she gestures for him to give her the crutches, but he holds them just out of reach.

  “Señora Lauren Talbot. Wife of the late Edward Talbot, who drowned in a boating accident almost two years ago. The boat hit a rock. You were slammed against the railing and sustained nearly two-dozen fractures and broken bones. Except for various philanthropic projects, you’ve kept out of sight. I had a suspicion as to why.”

  She keeps her head down, unwilling to see his expression, but he places a hand on her knee. The heat and energy in his touch reach straight to her core and she’s dizzy with wanting him.

  “Look, señora.”

  She does. In her lap he’s set a photograph. Shock radiates through her body. She claps a hand to her mouth. It’s the picture dear Edward took a week before he died. It’s her, brown hair loose in the ocean air. Her head is tilted to the side and she’s wearing a coy, come-hither expression as she sits on the prow of their catamaran. The media grabbed that picture and used it for their headlines. For over a year she’s hated it, seeing it as a reminder of what she’d once been and was no more, but Rafael’s hand is trembling.

  He slides the photo back into his pocket. “When my last patron died, a part of me died as well. I thought I had lost everything, but then I saw your face in the news and thought, This woman, she has lost more. I still have my body. I can dance. Her strength will carry me forward, and one day, one day I will have a chance to thank her. That was before you donated money to me.”

  Tremors rack her body. Her heart is breaking now that she knows her trials have inspired Rafael just as his did her. It would have been so much safer to keep him at a distance and let him remain in her fantasies. “I’m not afraid of being onstage.”

  “Prove it.” He holds out her crutches.

  She feels his gaze on her as she slips her arms into the cuffs and hauls herself to her feet. Glaring at him in challenge, she heads to the door. Step by awkward step she makes her way down the hallway to the elevator, which she takes to the first floor. More than once, she thinks Rafael will get bored and leave her behind, but he doesn’t. Instead, he watches her, not with the pity she’d feared, but the way a teacher judges his student.

  “This way,” he says, and leads her to the backstage door. He holds it open for her, and in an instant she enters another world. At first it’s only the overhead fluorescents providing illumination, but Rafael disappears and the side lights flare to life. A moment later, the thick red curtain lifts into the air and she’s dazzled by the spots shining on her.

  Blinded, she nearly misses Rafael running across the stage and leaping into the air. Nimbly he lands at her side, going down on one knee and spreading his hands wide to encompass the entire theater. “Welcome to my playground, señora.”

  She gazes down at him, utterly entranced by his naked upper body and his pose of pleading submission. Unable to resist, she clasps his face and bends down and kisses him on the forehead.

  He surges to his feet and they’re close, so close. She leans against the warm firmness of his body and lets out a long, shuddering sigh. He embraces her and lets out a ragged breath of his own. “Tell me how I can repay you for your kindness.” He places her hand against his chest.

  It’s all the invitation she needs. Her belly, so used to pain instead of pleasure, throbs with the ache of desire. “Dance with me, Rafael.”

  “We need some music.” He winks at her. “I told the security man I had a rehearsal. A private one.”

  She likes the sound of that. Once more he disappears, leaving her alone and sorely missing his touch. The she hears the faint strains of violin and piano, joined by contrabass, guitar and finally bandoneon. It’s Astor Piazzolla’s music, which means Rafael has one particular dance in mind.

  Her suspicion is confirmed when he slides a chaise longue onto the stage. It’s covered in cushioned red velvet and perfect for reclining and sleeping.

  In a courtly gesture, he holds out his hand. “You know this piece, I believe?”

  She clasps his fingers and nods, having watched The Sleeping Prince hundreds of times but never once believing she’d play the princess.

  “You won’t need these.” He disentangles her hands from the crutches and slides them beside the chaise longue, out of the way. Then he stretches out on the chaise longue and tugs her down beside him.

  It’s just as she’d dreamed. She can’t perform the fancy movements Rafael’s usual partner does, but it doesn’t matter. For this time and space, he’s her prince, and she can play with him how she likes. The music, appropriately titled “Resurrección del Ángel,” is calm and thoughtful as she runs her hands along his skin. A tingle of anticipation gathers low in her belly. His nipples are a dark nut brown. She fingers them then traces an invisible line to his belly button.

  The rule is that he won’t wake until she kisses him, so she takes her time. She already knows every inch of his body, having studied it from every angle, but touching it is like magic. She pries his thighs apart and cups his cock through the thin black leggings. It’s hot and already hard. A shiver rolls through his body at her touch.

  The music picks up. Her dress is suddenly stifling and too tight so she reaches behind for the zipper and shrugs it off until she’s wearing only her slip, panties and bra. Her legs, thin, twisted and no longer made for dancing, are still covered.

  Timing it perfectly with the music, she leaves a trail of kisses up his neck and, as the piece reaches its climax, presses her lips to his. His eyes open slowly, taking in her partially clad form, and from his deep groan she knows he’s not acting.

  The music changes to “Escualo,” one of Piazzolla’s upbeat fugues. Like the shark it’s named for, she increases her intensity. Falling easily into the role of the dragon-raised princess, she leans over him, licking and kissing and devouring. It’s a mischievous piece and she enjoys teasing him, rubbing her fingers between his legs and lightly biting his nipples. He moans softly.

  His hands rove along her spine and legs, pausing at the scars, knots and osteopathic deformities. Of course, he’s an expert on the way bodies move, and she can see his mind working out ways to compensate. He sits up,
crushing their bodies together, careful not to press too hard. “No more hiding,” he whispers, and tugs off her slip.

  Even on a cleared stage in front of empty chairs, there is a quiver of fear at losing this last piece of protection. She’s no longer the woman who ran her own portion of the company, led meetings and presided over parties and benefit concerts. That part of her is still there, but it’s long since been buried. For so long she believed herself lucky. Her face was unscathed. She could walk, after a fashion.

  But the way Rafael traces the scars from both the surgeries and the accident tear open all the old hurt. She clings to him, breathing in the scent of his sweat, losing herself in the fact that he finds her strong and beautiful no matter her condition.

  In The Sleeping Prince, the man deftly submits while at the same time taming the wild princess, showing her how to take pleasure in being the human woman she is. Rafael does the same. He gently gathers her into his arms, stands and twirls her around. The room spins faster and faster. She laughs in utter, childish delight, a sound she hasn’t heard in far too long.

  “Milongueta,” the next tune, is a piece that varies from pensive to passionate, much like a conversation. He is the guitar and she the piano, taking turns touching and admiring each other. He sets her down and sways his body, extending his limbs so she can see the length of him and admire his control. Every move he makes is practiced, and, she’s sure, meant to heighten and arouse. He’s a performer in every sense of the word, yet she senses a deeper part of him, the portion of his soul dedicated to serving others. Children. The impoverished.

  Her. By celebrating her femininity rather than her disability, Rafael calms the soul that had grown feral from being alone for far too long.

  When the music intensifies, she draws him close. His ass is taut and firm and she wastes no time in yanking his leggings down over his hips. Freed, his uncut cock juts forward and she takes in its thickness. Steadying her with one hand, he jerks his tights off and tosses them to the side of the stage. She grabs his balls, rolling them in her hands, relishing his expression as his mouth goes wide and his jaw trembles. He is hers completely.

  They hold each other and he’s careful not to move too fast or jerk her around. Instead he stretches her carefully, first in one direction and then another, limbering muscles wasted from forced bed rest. She aches, but it’s bearable and far better than any physical therapy session. The pounding of her heart matches the music as it transforms into the driving rhythm of a more straightforward tango.

  Like a child, she puts her feet on his and they move in unison, bending and swaying, his cock nudging enticingly between her legs. He turns her around so her back is to his chest. With nimble fingers he unclasps her bra and throws it aside just as the violin rises in a flourish.

  In the dance, the performers only hint at sex, but she and Rafael have moved beyond that. He slides a hand down her belly, beneath her panties, and rubs her slick pussy until she’s gasping and trembling against him. The music becomes a part of her, the ebb and flow of instruments guiding her body in reacting to his. She’s aware only of him, his finger finding her entrance and plunging inside, his cock snug against her ass. She digs her fingernails into his arms, needing him now.

  She shoves him down onto the chaise longue. He snatches off her panties then lifts her onto his lap. His cock is thick and hard in her hand, and she rubs him, enjoying the way he shudders and groans.

  It isn’t enough. She pushes him onto his back and tries to climb atop him, but her legs are stiff and weak and don’t move where she wants them to. Rafael has more patience as well as stronger arms and gets her situated so she’s straddling him. With his help she sinks down and he fills her.

  At last she’s on top, right where she wants to be, with the best view of his body and face. His hands are on her hips, guiding and supporting when she can’t do it herself. The music continues to rise and fall, the instruments joined together just as their bodies are.

  She loves him. Rafael. Her dancer.

  And it’s a joy to watch the way he pants as she takes him deep within her. He’s wearing that look of fierce concentration, but he’s stiff and quivering, panting hard in a way he never does while performing. She’s pleased to be able to wring something new and previously unknown from his body. She wants to give him everything, so to the pounding of piano and bass she rides him hard, eliciting soft, sweet noises from his throat.

  At last he grits his teeth and groans. His cock spasms, but that isn’t what sends her over the edge into her own orgasm as the music hits its final crescendo. It’s his expression, full of wonder, passion, pride…and love.

  In late morning she wakes in her own room. Rafael has carried her there, put her to bed and vanished. The pain, too, has left. For the first time in a long while she can lie quietly and savor how good her body feels.

  Besides, Rafael hasn’t really left. He surrounds her, his love emanating from a hundred pictures. A new head shot sits atop the vacant pillow next to a copy of his itinerary. He’s going home to Argentina and then he’ll be back, and they will spend the night dancing.

  MORE LIGHT

  Laila Blake

  Broken glass crunches under my feet, however carefully I try to move. I remembered to wear heavy boots; I’m not worried about getting hurt, but disturbing the silence in this place seems like a crime in itself. Like shouting in a church or jumping on a tomb. I almost want to hold my breath—first impressions are important. I look around, follow gilded stucco pillars up to a high, decorated ceiling. It might have borne a mural once, but all it has to show now is the natural water-painting of mold and stains, of moisture leaking through the visible cracks. It is eerily beautiful, and instinctively, I raise my camera but the lens is wrong. I need something far more light sensitive. Instead, I imagine the fabulous parties thrown here once upon a time; I see flapper dresses and thighs, energetic dancing, twinkling lights, and a small brass orchestra. In one of the dark corners, a couple could have stood, catching their breath, hands gliding under fabric. A shiver runs down my spine, and I am back to seeing dust and ruins.

  Some shafts of sunlight manage to fall through the shattered windows; where the glass remains, though, the milky-gray grime of too many years shields against them all too effectively. I snap a picture of the infinitesimal dust particles glinting there, smile and follow the shaft of light through the viewfinder.

  “You need these?” George calls from behind me. I jump at the volume and turn around. He was being manly, herding me away from the trunk so that he could carry in the equipment. Now, he is struggling to balance two lighting tripods.

  “Definitely later,” I say, nodding with a vague motion at the dim interior. “And the softbox and the reflectors,” I add with a sheepish grin. I take the tripods off him and store them in a less photogenic corner, then I reach for the light meter in my bag and start to walk around the room again. His shouting seems to have shattered something and the atmosphere feels less sacred, less stifling. There is dust and crumbled debris everywhere.

  George is the more finicky of the two of us—although, by long tradition, he would say that I am just messy. When he comes back, he carries a foldout table for the equipment, gives me a look and picks my bag up from the floor. He dusts it off and puts it on the table. I poke my tongue out at him and push middle and ring finger under my thumb in the universal rock-and-roll sign. He sighs, shakes his head and leaves for more stuff.

  We were in college together. Back then, we just happened to hang with the same group of people—photography is impossible to do on your own. He was the handsome, jock type although he never played sports; he just looked like that with his tall physique and his naturally broad shoulders, the wavy dirty-blond hair. He still does. I was the chubby, nerdy one with the glasses and the shy, quiet voice, which I tried to make authoritatively deep. We weren’t close but somehow we both ended up in Boston after college. His studio is just ten minutes away from mine and it’s good to have friends who get it,
friends who actually enjoy spending an hour driving around Connecticut to sneak into a long-abandoned building. Neither of us can afford an assistant.

  I can hear him pottering around with the equipment behind me, but I’m still walking around, looking at the walls in the different rooms. From time to time, a little bit of dust falls from the ceiling and my heart beats a little faster. I try to be more graceful.

  “First impression?” George asks coming up behind me. Less body conscious, he touches everything, hangs against the moldy doorjamb in a way I would never dare.

  “There’s something here,” I say slowly and shrug. We both know that we’ve been to more impressively abandoned places, but this one has a solemn quality all its own that will be difficult to catch on camera. George hums in assent and we start to walk around, to try and find these special spots in which the natural light provides enough eerie illumination. Too much artificial light would ruin it, I think. I stroll back to the table and exchange my lens for a more light-sensitive one. It lies heavy in my hand and I almost drop it when I hear a loud crunching, dragging sound from somewhere in the bowels of the building. Just for a moment, I am sure this is when the zombies finally attack, but then I come back to reality, screw the lens on my camera and go to investigate.

  George is dragging something over the floor, with a sound like a hundred tiny bells, and when he emerges from the shadow I see his broad grin and the ancient chandelier he’s dug up from somewhere. It is dusty and broken in many places but it’s still gorgeous, some herald of older times.

  “Wow,” I say—if just because it makes him grin with self-satisfaction as he gently drapes it into a shaft of sunlight.

  We start shooting, find the best angle, the one that contrasts glittering light against squalor. My heart is beating faster; finally something is coming together.

  If I wasn’t used to George, he would be distracting to the point of annoyance. As it is, I smile and let him get on with his athleticism. I have long found that George just enjoys using his body—it makes him feel better about his photos. He crouches on the floor, then lies down completely, moving over the debris like a war-zone journalist through the sand. I am more stationary; I squat in place, fumble with the controls, find the perfect aperture settings. I am more given to placing the camera on the floor and snapping away with a remote than performing acrobatics. But I find myself momentarily entranced. From my vantage point, he is half hidden by the sparkling bits of polished glass and he stares at them with such a concentrated intensity, I just have to take a picture. He doesn’t resist. Years of training and spending time with other photographers have ground photo shyness out of both of us. I find a different angle and click again, check the image on the screen. It is a beautiful portrait. I feel that rarely reoccurring flash of affection, the memory of a long-abandoned crush. When I let the camera sink, he smiles at me and returns the gesture, click, my thoughtful, aching face. I have that sudden childish urge to throw my hands in front of my face and launch myself in his direction to grab the camera and delete all evidence, but I stay there, squatting, hugging my knees for balance.