I can even smell myself now. It is a wonderful fragrance of lust and slight shame. Perhaps I should save myself for George coming home, but I know, as my pussy starts clutching and pouting, that there is no chance of that. I drop the note and reach down. There’s something so deliciously naughty about knickers being pulled to the side, don’t you think?
My clit is yearning for attention, but I tease it. I use two fingers in a scissor action to separate my labia. Oh, it feels good to look at my cunt, so open, so wanton. I rub my fingertips at the entrance, drawing out some of the juices, which are now beginning to trickle. It doesn’t take long to coat my fingers and lips. I push two digits inside. The thrill is immense, and I twitch and spasm at this first invasion, wishing it was George’s beautiful cock. I’m glistening with my own arousal, and my mouth is watering. I feel sexy-dirty, and I bring my hand up and spit on my fingers, thrusting them roughly back down and into myself.
Oh yeah, oh yeah, I finally give in to my clit and rub hard, alternating holding my pussy lips closed tight around it and stroking it directly. My other hand is getting crampy holding my knickers to the side so I quickly just pull them off, amazed at how raw and exposed I look without the scrap of material to hide my modesty.
I look bare. Naked. Wanton. I spread my legs vulgarly and lie back a little, sliding my now-free hand under my ass. I can still just see the action—and it is quite rude to watch my fingers reaching under and up to my pussy from behind while the other hand is busily working my clit.
My lower fingers curl into my hole, and the tensing and clutching of my pussy walls begin again. My hips are bucking, and I imagine George licking me out and thrusting his solid digits up inside me. “Oh yeah, yeah. That’s it, that’s it,” I’d say as I peaked and fell over the edge and into the oblivion of release.
I’m breathing so hard now. My tit is still exposed, bobbing about to the rhythm of my ministrations. My nipples need attention too; I can’t quite get to the brink. I can’t rub hard enough. Frustration grows, and fury comes too. My lower hand is fucking me from behind hard, but not hard enough. I give up with looking in the mirror and roll onto my front, humping my bedding in furious silence. My breath is hot in the sheets and my hair is sticking to my face, obscuring my vision, so I take the chance to close my eyes and descend into complete isolation. I’m still thrusting my pelvis, and my fingers are still crammed into my pussy from behind. But it’s so black and quiet. Am I floating? I resist the temptation to open my eyes and try to embrace this new world I inhabit. My pussy is oblivious to my mind’s distraction, juices pouring out onto the duvet. My fingers are slippery and slide around over my clit as I press down hard, clenching my ass cheeks and trying to get as much pressure as possible.
I feel like I’m grunting; I don’t know if I’m hearing it or feeling it, but it’s there. I open my mouth and let the sensation of noise flood out as my cunt clenches and unclenches around my fingers.
Suddenly I am alert and back in the room. Someone is here. A hand presses in between my shoulder blades and I tense, jerking my body to throw off the intruder. I can feel the thud of my heart in my throat as well as the raspy grating of a scream.
My head is violently pulled back and a hand covers my mouth. I’m breathing chaotically through my nose, snot and tears sniveling all over the place. I am utterly terrified. My hands are scratching and gripping at my captor, but it only succeeds in my being clamped tighter in his arms. I’m writhing and jerking trying to get free, but the silence is so thick and deep I feel like I’m wading through sand. The grip releases. I fly off the bed like a wild animal and grab a hand mirror, holding it out and backing away from my attacker. I take a proper look at him.
There, on our bed, looking just as panic stricken as I feel, is George.
“Fuck, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I see him mouth. It doesn’t matter that I can’t really lip read; his eyes say it all. They are red and teary.
He must see how serious it is now.
I crumple onto the bed beside him, reaching out to his hands, which intertwine with mine.
His mouth is moving but it’s too fast for me to make sense of. I just shrug and shake my head.
He pulls out his notebook and writes.
I came home early. I couldn’t stop thinking about you.
“Me too,” I mouth back, patting my upper chest. My heart rate has slowed and I’m beginning to calm when I realize what he must have witnessed.
His shoulders have relaxed too.
I grab the pencil and notebook.
How long were you there?
A huge blush rises up my chest, throat and cheeks, and he catches my chin, lifting my gaze to meet his.
“Long enough…”
I wonder if he bothers to actually speak anymore or just makes the movements of his lips like I do.
“Are you okay?” he asks, looking so concerned, and I nod, taking the notebook again.
Apart from being caught with my fingers up my pussy.
He smiles broadly and I imagine his laugh. I wish I’d paid more attention to the sound of that laugh. I can hear it but not hear it. It’s there, just out of reach.
That was fucking horny, he writes.
I look down, shirt still hanging open with my tits out. In the mirror I see my hair is plastered over my sweaty, guilty-looking face, and I’m bright red.
The bed dips and he’s getting off, standing in front of me. He undoes his jeans slowly; his cock is rigid. The adrenaline-ridden air subsides and begins to charge with sexual energy as his clothes drop to the floor, leaving me with no doubt just how horny walking in on me feverishly masturbating has made him.
I lean over and inhale his musk. His heady animal scent has me salivating and hungry for release again. His skin is warm as I flick my tongue over the gloriously strained skin of his cockhead. The tiny droplet at the tip is like nectar to my taste buds. Like it’s the only thing I’ve wanted for years. I open my mouth and gobble him up hungrily as he twists his fingers in my hair and pulls me on to him harder. I grip his hips, allowing my nails to press into his flesh as my mouth suckles and feasts at his cock. He is leaning over now, trying to catch a touch of my pussy. I shuffle properly onto all fours and arrange myself to the side so he has access from behind.
I suddenly feel detached and isolated again. Severed from reality. I need to see his face, witness this connection. It has been so long.
I pull back from his cock, and he untangles his other hand from my hair.
He seems to understand and looks right into me, smiling. He cups my face and bends to kiss me deeply and fully, while cradling me backwards onto the bed until his knees are up in between my legs. The yearning in my cunt is back, and my clit is peaking and straining for attention. I spread my legs as wide as I can and buck my hips upward in anticipation of his touch. He releases my lips and says something before disappearing down to nibble at my breasts. I writhe as my nipple tingles and rolls between his lips and teeth. He is a master of the nipple tease. But my sex is burning, craving, building. I push him downward and he obliges, looking up to give me a quick smile before diving to my desperate cunt.
He presses his palms to my inner thighs, pushing them farther apart so it is almost sore. Then he drags my pussy lips open just the way I like him to. Now he takes me. Now he falls onto me, guzzling at my swollen clit.
Finger me. Fuck me with your fingers, I silently beg, and he does. He rams me with two, or is it three, pummeling, plowing, thrusting until I’m clenching. But I need more.
I need his dick.
I need to be fucked.
I wriggle and curl up, reaching his head, and pull him away from my pussy.
“Fuck me,” I mouth and plead.
He crawls up between my legs, hooking his shoulders behind my knees so I’m bent double. I brace myself. This position needs a little preparation. He hovers for a moment, his gaze meeting mine, the tip of his cock pressing at my entrance. I tense, and his intense expression gives way to the flicke
r of a smile before he spears me hard and deep, right to the hilt of his cock.
Sublime agony fills me as I stretch to accommodate him. It’s the first time he’s been inside since the crash, and I’m suddenly emotional. He stills and holds me there, staring at me, begging me with his eyes to allow this connection. I let out the breath I didn’t know I was holding and rock my hips. He pulls out slowly and gently and my pussy walls clamp down, trying to keep him in.
Just as I think he’s going to completely leave me, he plunges back in, filling and ravishing my needy pussy. Again and again he thrusts, fucking away all the distance and trauma of the past two months. It is glorious to feel so full of him, and my cunt is building and rising from deep within, as his cock pounds my G-spot. A deep internal orgasm doesn’t happen often, but when it starts, I know nothing will stop the wave. My clit is welling and peaking, too, with the friction, and I let my neck relax and drop my head into the pillow, watching George’s face as he fucks me, giving myself over to the sweet relief that is building.
His full weight is on me now, pressing me down, my knees almost by my ears as he plows me. My peripheral vision dims as my orgasm comes into view, rising and gushing as I slick his dick further with my fluids. His face is twisted and he’s saying things now, things I wish I’d memorized better. I can feel the twitch in his cock that signifies he’s about to come too.
Yes, yes. Come.
We need to come together.
I can feel the full length of him ramming in and out, and it pushes me higher to the brink.
One almighty thrust and we’re here. At the edge. I hang in the still silence for what could be an eternity, or a flash, when suddenly I hear.
Sound, the sound of him coming fills my brain.
“Fuck yeah, baby, you’re so fucking wet. I’m coming, I’m coming inside your sweet, tight cunt.” The words flood my senses and I come and come, over, out and through them. Him.
“Yes, that’s it, that’s it. Come for me. Fucking come…” His voice is raspy and ragged as he fills me with his orgasm, and I wrap tightly around him, spasming and coming over and over again while his voice circles around in my mind.
He did it. He entered me. He entered my body and soul.
He unlocked the memory of his voice. The beautiful memory of his sound.
It comes flooding back, his laughter, his sigh, his sexy words. He always chose the perfect words to get me off. I can hear them now, in my mind. The way he wrapped his tongue around words like cunt and cock. I hear every nuance, every inflection, and sear them into my mind.
We lie together, and I cuddle into his arms and just listen. Yes, the silence is still here, but I can listen too. I filter out the nothing and concentrate on the memory of his heartbeat as I lay my head on his chest.
It could almost be real.
I close my eyes and I’m not alone.
THE WOLF AT HIS DOOR
by Deborah Castellano
I had things I could wear for the night, of course. The Barbie-pink PVC pencil skirt I got from ASOS. The leather leggings I bought on a whim from Top Shop at Nordstrom. The gold, jingly, fuck-me Manolo Blahniks that I snaked out from under another chick during a particularly intense Neiman Marcus semi-annual. Would he even notice the amount of care I put into what I wore, anyway? Even now, he played his cards so close to his chest that unless he was being intentionally overt, I never could catch him noticing me, even though we had known each other for almost half our lives.
We had seen all of the very best and the very worst that we had to offer each other since our freshman year. We kissed each other drunk during college, we had brunches of disco fries and Taylor ham sandwiches at diners after clubbing in our twenties, we consoled each other through our divorces in our thirties, we told each other everything. And even now, late at night at a party, he would twirl me around my kitchen, and I would pretend we were in an old movie and put my head on his chest, both of us laughing. But we never fell into bed with each other, somehow.
Oh, he always flirted with me as he flirted with all of our oldest and closest friends. I teased him that he was Laurie from Little Women and always a little in love with all of the March sisters, which he never denied. We always tried to impress each other with stories of our debauched adventures, though they became more carefully selected as we got older. It was only a few months ago that I was regaling him with stories of a particularly ridiculous fetish event I had gone to. I was intent on checking off as many buckets on my bucket list as I could in one night since I went to events less frequently now and there were still a whole host of things I had never tried before that evening.
I’m impressed, he texted.
I know, right? I texted back. I paused a second. We were always honest with each other. I don’t know though. It was fun. It was crazy, but it wasn’t meaningful.
What do you mean?
I mean, if there’s no significant energy exchange, if there’s no chance to get into the other person’s head in a noteworthy sort of way, it’s just an experience for me.
I know what you mean. I’ve been feeling that way lately too.
Really?
Yeah. I mean, it’s fun. It’s always fun but lately it hasn’t been a very deep connection. So it can feel kind of empty at the end of the night.
Yes, exactly! I thought for a moment and then typed: Sometimes I wonder if I will ever really be someone’s dominant again. Should I have said that? Why did I even say it? None of his interests were in that arena anyway. I had begun to think none of my interests were even in that area, not that I had been given much of an opportunity in my travels to explore that side of the whip. Why did I suddenly care what he would think about any of that anyway?
There was a long pause.
Sometimes I wonder if I will ever get the opportunity to be someone’s submissive.
I snapped myself back to the moment and tried to focus on getting dressed. Everything felt like a costume, like I would be spending the evening playing at being Pussy Cat Meow Meow, pro dominatrix extraordinaire. Finally I settled on a little black dress, back-seamed stockings held up with a blush-pink, embroidered-silk garter belt, a sheer black bra and gossamer black panties. I put on my black ballet shoes, feeling the elastic snap resolutely over the silk of my stockings. My hands started to tremble as I thought about the boundaries we could cross tonight, if we both could be brave. I took a deep breath and put my hands on my vanity and closed my eyes. After a moment, I resolutely put on my scarlet Nars lipstick. Cruella. Could I be? How would I even start this? I thought about my conversation with my friend Julie earlier to steady my nerves.
“I don’t understand how you get so worked up sometimes, Lucy. I know, the anxiety. But you have this beast of a man who would literally let you walk all over him in heels if you batted your eyelashes up at him.”
“I know. I know! I really trust him to try this with me, too. I just can’t seem to get it together.”
“I don’t entirely understand what you’re doing and it’s not my thing. But you deserve a chance to see if it’s your thing. Give yourself a chance to be centered in your power. Be present in it, okay? You’ve got this.”
You’ve got this, I mouthed to myself in the mirror, willing it to become true as I heard his knock at my door.
We hugged hello as we always did and sat down on my sofa together as we had a hundred times before. He opened a bottle of rosé and carefully poured it into the two glasses I had put out. We clinked and sat quietly as I nervously sipped my wine while he patiently sat next to me, waiting to see what I would do.
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” I whispered finally.
He squeezed my knee and waited until I looked into his cerulean eyes. I had never noticed before how much they reminded me of the sea. “Whatever you do, I will not judge you. No matter what. Okay?”
I nodded. I put my hand on top of his, admiring how small it looked by comparison. Delicate was not a word that was ever used to describe me, eithe
r in personality or appearance. I hissed out a half laugh. “Well, what do you do? You’ve done this as the dominant like a million times.”
“I wouldn’t say a million, maybe only half a million,” he said, smiling. “Sometimes, this. We look at our hands until I feel sure enough to decide what to do. Sometimes everything is as carefully choreographed as an opera at the Met. It depends on the people, it depends on the energy.”
“Yes, but. What do I do?” I said in exasperation.
He looked at me thoughtfully. “I don’t know, Lucy. What will you do?”
I drained the rest of my glass of wine with determination. I will be fearless. I will cross this edge. I will be the wolf at his door that he is not strong enough to resist, tearing open his heart with my bare teeth and drinking his heart’s blood until it fuels mine. Until his heart is mine.
I pulled his hand into mine, letting my fingernails leave tiny crescent moons on his palm, but not deep enough to draw blood. Just enough to draw a small sigh from his lips as he obeyed my silent command to follow me into my bedroom, closing the door softly behind him.
He stood quietly as I twined one of my hands into his flaxen hair, admiring how soft it was. I wound my hand tighter and tighter until my hand reached the nape of his neck, and I sharply drew his hair in my fist as his breath caught. I put my hand to his chest and delicately pressed against his chest, where I could feel his heart drumming as fiercely as a fawn’s heart. Feeling him react so strongly to me sent an immediate rush of power to my brain and wetness to my pussy.
He sat down on my goose-down duvet, his hands balled to his sides. His eyes were closed and his lips were slightly parted, allowing me to stare at him freely. How had I never noticed the graceful planes of his face, the curve of his neck, in over twenty years? The newness of noticing with the familiarity of his frame caught me in the stomach, making my pulse quicken.
I straddled him, the feeling of his hardness against my pillowy thighs making me gasp. Tipping his face up with his leashed hair, his eyes were unfocused as he looked up at me. Softly, I ran my fingertips against the spiral of his ear. His breathing became more jagged as I bit the soft flesh of his ear and trailed down his neck, pulling his hair back in my fist so his neck would be more exposed to me. I inhaled against his skin, smelling the familiar, clean scent of his soap. My blood was rushing so loudly in my ears, I couldn’t think clearly enough to consider anything but the feel of his hair wound around my hand and how delicious he smelled.
Best Women's Erotica of the Year, Volume 1 Page 13