Best Women's Erotica of the Year, Volume 1

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

“I’m not done with you,” he said, his voice choked with desire. “I’m gonna fuck you hard…so hard, I’m going to fuck the fear right out of you.”

  He entered me slowly, splitting me, filling me up with his hard cock. Once inside me fully, he stopped, a gentle hand on my hip, the other on my back, his thrusts tentative at first. I could feel every inch as he slid in and out, slowly, slowly, my wetness astonishing even to me.

  “Look at us,” he whispered, his body bending over mine, his ripped arms caging me on either side. I turned to face the scratchy mirror over the dresser, pressing my back into his stomach. “We were made to fuck each other.”

  We do look hot, fucking like that.

  His tanned arms and tattooed body were animal, every thrust setting off a cascade of ripples down his lean torso. My skin glowed creamily in the scratchy mirror, my hair a tangled red mess down my sides. I arched my back into him and he took his cue to fuck me harder, the way I liked it, the way I’ve always liked it, his cock so fierce, so big, I never wanted it to leave my body.

  I came again, which sent him into a tizzy of fucking, as my pussy clenched and pulsed with pleasure. Somehow I knew in the seconds before he came, when his breath quickened, his thrusts more insistent, that his man would change my appetites for good. The moment he came, his cock throbbing, his head thrown back, I knew I’d one day need this man. And I hated it. I wanted to want him, but he satisfied something in me that went beyond craving; he felt vital, like his red blood cells had mingled with mine the second he released in me, my name on his damp lips. I knew from then on, I’d feel wilted without him, which filled me with joy—and dread.

  I said nothing about this to him, not for years.

  He collapsed on the bed facing up, catching his breath, his hand resting on my ass.

  “Holy Christ, Matty. Was that…how did I do?”

  “You have to ask?”

  He rolled up, his head on his elbow, and traced a hand down my back. He was thinking. I kept my face buried in the bed. I knew what was coming. The debrief.

  “Was it better than the last go-around?” he prodded.

  This was the third time we’d run through the “hitchhiker scenario,” a sex fantasy that was high on the list of our latest candidate. My job was to prime Jesse to perform it to her exact specifications. This is what she said she wanted. He was what she would get, lucky girl.

  “I give this run-through…an ‘A.’”

  He hissed, “Yes.”

  “You were very consistent this time. A brilliantly sexy hitchhiker, edgy but not too seedy. You asked just the right amount of questions, not too many, though I’d ease up on the job stuff. Our women want to keep their anonymity. I mean, they know you are carefully vetted by S.E.C.R.E.T., but don’t get too, too familiar with them, my love.”

  “Right,” Jesse said, storing the info in his brain. “How about the whole ‘taking you from behind’ thing? How did you feel about that choice? Do you think she’d like that?”

  My body shuddered at the image of them in the mirror.

  “Maybe face her,” I said, trying to sound helpful. “I think she’ll appreciate that. It’s more romantic that way. It’s a fantasy, after all, and she’s quite beautiful.”

  His features darkened.

  “But you like it like that, don’t you.”

  I cupped his face, the last moment of intimacy I’d allow myself before we checked out, grabbed a bite and headed back to New Orleans. There was no storm. The roads were clear, the dusky sky indigo and calm. But we had already become great pretenders.

  “I like it every way with you, Jesse.”

  He sat up, his back to me.

  Here we go.

  “Then why can’t I have just you then, Matty? Why can’t we just be together? Why is this the only way you’ll be with me? Training me every once in a while for a fantasy that never comes through?”

  “Sometimes, often times, the women of S.E.C.R.E.T., they get a little skittish, Jesse, and they change their minds. It is weird that that’s happened twice with you.”

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  He knew by now it was futile. There was a brief moment in time, two years earlier, after we’d first met at that bar in Austin, that I allowed myself to imagine us together for real. I had come from a wedding; a former S.E.C.R.E.T. candidate had married one of her fantasy men. It was sweet, but it left me feeling wistful. And there he was, sitting next to me with that grin. I extended my stay. One week, I said. I would be Jesse’s lover, but after that, it would have to end. I would not risk the ridicule. An eighteen-year age difference is too much. I didn’t work this hard at my independence, I told him, to throw it away on a young man, a mere crush, a fling. I told myself he was feckless, foolish, too young to know what he wanted, aware the whole time that this wasn’t true of Jesse. He was none of those things. He loved me. He moved back to New Orleans just to be near me. But I had my work to do and it would always interfere. Also, he let it slip that he wanted children.

  We checked out of that hotel and drove back to New Orleans in silence. A week later that fantasy, too, would be cancelled. Last minute cold feet, I told him. She didn’t want to go through with it.

  He sighed. I knew what was coming.

  “I don’t want to do this anymore. You pull me in, mess with my head, fuck me over, then give me away.”

  He was right. This was cruel. We parted ways, and for years I was in the clear. My heart was bruised but safe. I heard he met a girl at the pastry shop where he worked and married her. I was relieved. They had a baby, a boy named Finn, and I was genuinely happy for him. Once, I spotted them on Freret Street, a sweet trio, him pushing the stroller. I ducked into a coffee shop to avoid them. Then I heard she wasn’t so nice after all, absconding with the guy who owned the shop. Next time I ran into him, he was holding Finn’s four-year-old hand. I stopped to talk. The child was adorable. Irresistible even. And so it began: the dance, the pretending, the coming together, the pushing away.

  I was older. But then, so was he.

  He joined S.E.C.R.E.T. again, he said, only to be near me. But those next fantasies I trained him for actually happened. In fact, he did come close to liberating me again when I thought he’d fallen in love with one of our recruits, a woman I adored too, named Cassie. I supported it, encouraged it even. They made a nice couple. But, in the end, she, too, was in love with someone else. And, it turned out, so was he. I gave up the fight.

  Today we walk the streets of New Orleans like any old couple. Sometimes I wear a floppy hat and dark glasses, which he teases me about, but he doesn’t have translucent skin that the sun loves to burn. And I still fret a bit. But if people stare and wonder at us, well, so do I. Finn comes up to my shoulders and when I’m alone with him, some people mistake me for his grandmother and I’m okay with that. But when the two of us are together, watching Finn’s soccer game in Audubon Park, Jesse’s arm slung around my shoulders, or strolling the waterfront with ice cream, the setting sun at our backs, you wouldn’t think we were anything but a regular old couple, one with a few more secrets, perhaps.

  SCENTS & SEXUALITY

  by Doriana Chase

  People coming into the bar where I work consider me an expert on a lot of topics, due to my attendance at the local community college. I went there, first of all, because I aspired to get a GED, but certain people, observing my potential, convinced me to enroll.

  I’m the first one in my family to a), get a high-school diploma, and b), go to college. I’m a late bloomer to the realization of what higher education can do for a person’s future, so I’m at least a good fifteen years older than the average college student. Not that you can tell by looking at me, or so I’m told. And I don’t mean just by the guys having a few beers in the dim lights at the bar.

  I wouldn’t call myself an eavesdropper, but working behind a bar, I can’t help but overhear conversations, such as this lady, name of Lucy, bragging about her new house and her gigantic yard, and how she’s
always been wanting some fancy garden, but I can tell she’s clueless about garden design.

  This is where I can come in handy, I tell her. It just so happens I’m studying Medieval history and I can plan an authentic Medieval garden. She thinks this sounds really classy, which I knew she would, because I know the type, seeking self-affirmation through the perceived envy of others. She hires me to work as a consultant and invites me to her house the next day.

  I didn’t intend to divulge this reality to Lucy, but the true purpose of those gardens was to provide the means to cover up all the smells of daily Medieval life. Throughout historical times, people believed that taking a bath was unhealthy, and a garden would be convenient. A person could pick some herbs and flowers and stick their nose in them when someone who had their last bath a year ago came close.

  And besides, their food was half rotten. Imagine this huntsman. He kills a deer, then drags the carcass back to his house under the hot sun. My Lady, he’d say when he finally gets home days later, let’s put a ton of those herbs and spices from our authentic Medieval garden on this before we eat it to help us forget about the funny smell.

  Whenever my history professor showed us slides in class, I’d interject because I’m outspoken. We’d be looking at art depicting daily historical life and I’d say, out loud, imagine how that smells.

  Personally, I am partial to the natural scent of a man. It’s sexy. But even I will admit that the Medievals took it to extremes with the never bathing and all.

  The next afternoon, Lucy and I were strolling around her yard, searching for the perfect spot for her future garden, when her brother Jax, the actual digger of said garden, showed up. Jax was wearing beat-up jeans that hugged his firm rear end just right, and big, construction-worker come-fuck-me boots. He was a couple days past a close shave, and his hair was in that specific state where I couldn’t decide if I wanted to reach up and gently smooth it down, or allow my fingers to idle away through it to muss it up some more.

  I could feel words coming out of my mouth in a nervous tension kind of way, and I didn’t know if I was making any sense. Jax had me transfixed with those molten chocolate eyes of his. I was thinking is it hot out here or is it me?, but it wasn’t just me. Just as I was appreciating the perfect, snug fit of his T-shirt, he peeled it off and casually tossed it onto the picnic bench in the backyard. He was hair-free, tanned and toned. I got a wicked provocation to press my cheek against his damp chest, to run my tongue down his warm torso, to undo those jeans.

  I was besieged with a sudden involuntary craving for all things Jax.

  Eventually, I agreed to make some sketches and a plant list for the garden and send copies to them, then I said ciao, like the Italians do to say goodbye. When I thought no one was looking, I plucked Jax’s T-shirt off the bench and stuffed it into my bag.

  As soon as I got into my car, I couldn’t help myself—I yanked the shirt out of my bag, buried my face in it, and inhaled. It had a divine, earthy scent that evoked sunshine and walks through the deep woods—and me being roughly fucked against a tree by Jax.

  Suddenly, real life gave me a bit of a jolt when Jax, looking inquisitive, tapped on my car window. I wasn’t sure if it was because he had a garden question, or if he’d witnessed me molesting his T-shirt. I rolled down the car window and told him that I intended on taking his T-shirt home with me, but that it would be nice if he were in it at the time.

  Like I said, I’m outspoken.

  He blinked a couple of times like he was comprehending, and a few minutes later we were inside my apartment. We didn’t even make it to the bedroom. In no time at all I had him with his sweet, bare ass against the door, his jeans pulled down to those big old boots. I hadn’t bothered to take off any of my own clothes, which ironically made our whole tableau feel more indecent than if we were both completely naked in bed.

  I had complete access to that gloriously lovely cock of his, and cradled it in my hands in a worshipful manner. Jax arched his back as much as he could without losing his balance, and pressed his cock to my lips. He made a series of grateful little gasps as I flicked my tongue against the rim, then kissed the head sweetly. I knew he wanted more, but I was going to take my time and make him beg for it. This is another topic in which I pride myself on being an expert.

  I flattened my tongue and gave the satiny smooth shaft a long, hard lick from root to tip, and was rewarded with a shudder and a soft moan from Jax. I slid my mouth over the crown and swirled my tongue around it as I slipped my hand between his legs and gently cupped his tender balls. I teased him a bit with my soft ministrations, then without warning, took all of him at once. He grunted and bucked, but I pushed on, burying my nose in the crinkly hairs of his groin. I savored his musky scent and his briny taste. I couldn’t get enough of him.

  The muscles in his hips dimpled as he gently rocked into me. I sucked on him, wetting him with my tongue and gliding my hand up and down the slippery shaft.

  He rested his hand on my head, not pushing, but guiding me in rhythm with him. My head bobbed in unison with him in our agitated choreography. I kept on him, faster and harder. I felt his sensitive sac draw up into his body, building and building. Then came the hot pulses of his simmering release, accentuated with his cry of something like surprise. I took it all, lapping up the last frothy emissions, and then leaned into him while I just held him in my mouth as he got limp all over.

  We both giggled a little as I helped to release him from his prison of jeans and boots. We finally got completely naked, made it to the bed and curled up together, convalescing. A couple of minutes later he was all over me, returning the favor. I let him move in that day.

  The summation of that semester was this: days going to school, nights working at the bar, and in between, fucking around with Jax—which didn’t leave me much time to sleep or study. Sleep I had no problem doing without, but I really needed to study.

  Jax brainstormed an ingenious idea. His solution involved multitasking. He ripped up one of his T-shirts and used the torn strips to blindfold me and tether me to the bed, spread-eagled, naked and squirming. He took the index cards I used for studying and asked me questions based on my notes. If I got the answer right, he’d insert my vibrator into me and give it a little jiggle as a reward. If I got the answer wrong—or even if I hesitated a tiny bit—he’d jerk it out no matter how much I implored otherwise. It was very motivational.

  I’d keep one of those ties wrapped around my wrist while I took my test. Inhaling the same sexy scent that I had been familiar with while deep in study helped me to remember the answers at the time of the exam. This is an excellent example of context-dependent memory. There was an unforeseen side effect to this, though. You don’t need to take a psych course to understand the principles of Pavlov. Jax rewarding me with the vibrator equals conditioning, equals me getting very horny in school, equals me going through an awful lot of batteries during exam time. Et cetera.

  Near the end of the semester, while studying for finals, I started noticing a transition in my feelings for Jax. It wasn’t anything he did on purpose, but there was a distinct metamorphosis in how he smelled. His scent became domesticated, like bread baking. Which is a nice cozy aroma, but definitely an anti-aphrodisiac. I wanted him to fuck me, not make sandwiches.

  It was about that time that my trig study group consisted of just me and two guys who happened to be twins. We were studying at my apartment, and it wasn’t long before I began to speculate—out loud—about the human scent, and whether a bloodhound, or even a person with a very discerning sense, could tell the difference between identical twins such as themselves.

  One thing led to another blindfold. This time a fresh, unscented one, because of the importance of variables and controls in experiments. The blindfold may have been unnecessary due to the fact that the twins were identical, but I digress.

  I intended to be thorough in my research, so I French kissed one twin, and then the other. They began to urge me on by guiding me back
and forth between them, along with paying a lot of attention to some of my erogenous zones.

  Our experiment was unexpectedly interrupted by the precipitous entrance of none other than Jax. I tried to explain how we were studying trig, of which triangles were a very important component, leading to the inevitable circumstance of our threesome. Jax was not in the mood for irony, and he moved out that day.

  I maintained a perfect 4.0, which I hope will help with scholarships to a four-year university, but I am already looking past that. I visualize myself receiving a doctorate degree in the study of scent and desire, and how they are mixed up in the limbic system of the brain.

  After all, as everyone knows, the mind is the most erotic part of the body.

  ALVIN’S NIGHT

  by Elizabeth Coldwell

  Until I walk out of the office and see the Bentley parked on the curb, I’d forgotten tonight was Alvin’s night. It’s hardly surprising that he might have slipped down my list of priorities. For the best part of the day I’ve been in a board meeting, making a presentation I hope will stave off the staff cuts threatening to impact my department. All I want to do now is go home, where I can curl up on the couch with a glass of wine and forget about everything. But Alvin and I have an arrangement: sacrosanct, unbreakable.

  He gets out of the car as I approach, coming round to the passenger side to open the door for me. From the first time we met, I’ve been struck by his sense of old-fashioned courtesy. Nothing is too much trouble for him. If there’d been a puddle on the pavement, I wouldn’t have been at all surprised to see him lay his coat down over it so my shoes don’t get wet.

  “Have you been waiting long?” I ask.

  He shakes his graying head. “Only just got here. I thought I was going to be late, to be honest. The traffic’s backed up as far as the Embankment. Luckily, I know a shortcut.”

  Alvin used to drive for a living. It’s one of the few things I know about him. In his dark suit and black tie, he still resembles the chauffeur he used to be. But since he took early retirement, he’s been able to forget about work and indulge his pleasures—one of which is me. We keep discussions of our backgrounds, our personal lives, to a minimum. That would make what we have seem too much like a real relationship.