Best Women's Erotica of the Year, Volume 1

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  Margo embellished her cry slightly, wanting it mentally more than her body did physically, and soon Alex was pounding into her, hard enough that the bedroom filled with the sounds of his hips slapping her ass, the headboard banging against the wall, and Alex’s grunts of exertion and deep gasping breaths.

  It was almost too much. The friction, the constant push of silicone (squishy or not) back and forth over her G-spot and edging nearer and nearer to her cervix with every thrust, the barrage of sensation nearly overwhelming her already sensitive genitals. But it was good. Good like the drop down a roller coaster’s steepest hill: half a second of “No, no” followed by a lingering, fervent “Oh god, yes, again.”

  It was powerful, exhilarating. She loved it.

  “Fuck,” Alex said. “Oh fuck.” He pitched forward suddenly, letting go of Margo’s hips so he could grip the sheets on either side of her shoulders instead. His pace turned frantic, and there was a waver in his voice as though he was close to tears. “God, I can—I can almost feel you. You’re so, uh, so tight, hot—”

  He was close, then. “Please,” Margo said, more breath than voice. “Come in me. Please.”

  He did. Two more thrusts, and then he let out a loud “Ahh!” and fell forward, plastering his sweaty shoulders and damp binder to Margo’s back and panting into her nape. His arms went around her, clinging while he recovered.

  Tired and hot, brimming with a sudden surge of affection, Margo closed her eyes and relished his weight.

  After several minutes spent catching his breath, Alex groaned as though he was just waking up. “God. Why don’t we do that all the time? Food and bathroom breaks, and then just fucking you again and again the whole rest of the day.”

  But even as he said it, he was lifting off her. The tentacle toy caught briefly on the rim of Margo’s cunt, and she grunted as it slipped free with a wet plop. “All the time? God. Maybe I am a bad influence on you.”

  “Of course you are,” said Alex, flopping down beside her. His tone was lofty, teasing and fond. “The worst.”

  LIGHTING THE PYRE

  by Theda Hudson

  Each pinprick is an irritant. The hum of the machine grates on my nerves not quite like nails on a chalkboard, but close. I will keep on, though, because this is my choice. I look down again. The tattoo artist is filling in the outline of the bird’s head in brilliant red, green, blue, orange. Its outspread wings cover the three-inch scars that go across the center of my chest where my nipples would have been.

  The privacy area is screened and just a little bigger than a curtained off hospital bed. It smells of sweat, ink and disinfectant. If I look at myself with the hand mirror, I can see my chest. My skin is just starting to get that old lady look with tiny wrinkles. Not bad for a forty-five-year-old woman, Darla always says.

  The bird’s head, rising up the center between where my breasts used to be, is gorgeous. I can see in his eye that he is confident, keen, proud—everything I used to be. Darla says I will be again. I wonder. Middle age is not what it’s cracked up to be. I’m slower, stiffer and weaker than I want to be, than I should really be.

  The space heater kicks on and the warmth is comforting on my bare flesh. I sip cold orange soda, smelling the crisp juice and tasting the bubbles as they sparkle in my mouth. It reminds me that I’m hungry. That’s a good thing, a victory after a long, hard war.

  I feel alive. The very idea is foreign, like running into an old friend you haven’t seen since forever. You get a glimmer that makes you realize how beat down you’ve been, how exhausted, how depressed, how horrified.

  It’s over now. I can reclaim my life. Or, like Darla says, remake it. She’s watching me from the other side of the tattooist. She is gorgeous for a fifty-year-old broad, just a little bit of a woman with curves that always have me running my hands over them. Her thick hair is dark and curly, and she goes limp like a kitten when I grab a handful at the nape of her neck and put her mouth where I want it.

  She winks at me from behind her latest designer glasses—eyewear, she always corrects me—and sends me a smooch with full, red lips as she pinches a nipple on her plump boob through the tight V-neck tee. I wink back at her as I see that button rise up and press against the lacy low-cut bra. Yeah. So why don’t I feel hopeful and confident? Why doesn’t the heat burn between my legs, fill my chest and make my hands clench the way it used to? That’s an old friend I’d really like to meet up with again.

  Cancer takes away your choices. It’s selfish, thoughtless and disdainful. It cares nothing for your hopes and dreams, churning them up in its relentless efforts to come out on top.

  But I’m strong. I beat it the same way I have run over every obstacle in my life. I only had to run into it a lot to crush it, to push it down, out. Thank gawd for Darla. She was there every step of the way, cheering, soothing, caring. But I wonder if I’ve smashed myself flat, emptied myself against the constant battle to beat it.

  The ink burns, or the needle does. I’m not sure which it is. Pain shimmers over my skin. It’s vibrant, the same way the ink is. Bright and sharp. That’s something, too, and I own it, because it’s mine, because I chose it.

  “Okay,” the tattooist says, sitting back and shutting the machine off. “Same drill,” she says as she washes the bird’s head with green soap, rinses it and covers it with a large bandage. “Keep it covered for a few hours. Use the A&D ointment for a day or so, and wash it with some neutral antibiotic soap to keep it clean. If you need lotion, use some plain Lubriderm. Call me if something doesn’t feel right.”

  “Thanks, Carol. You’re a doll,” I say and give her a good smooch and a wad of cash.

  Darla stands up. “That is so beautiful, Brin.”

  “Yeah, you were right. Cancer taketh away, and art giveth back.” Ever since she found the tattoos for breast cancer survivors website, Darla pored over images, searching for the right one for me. She was with me every step of the way through the entire mess. We celebrated our third anniversary just after the surgery. When she showed me the picture of the bird in some book, the words were just sounds falling out of her mouth, the idea alien.

  I want to believe she’s right—and sometimes you have to fake it until you can make it. Now that it’s nearly finished, I can sort of see her point, like a hole in the wall of a peep show.

  “Come on,” I say, slipping on my denim shirt and buttoning it up. “I’m hungry.”

  I think I can feel the ink settling into my skin. When I had the outline done, it felt like a shadow of me coming back out of a deep, dark hole. There’s color now. I should be climbing out into the sunlight, bright and more than a shadow of my old self.

  Mostly though, I’m angry. It’s stupid because I never cared about my breasts. They were never part of my body image, more of an inconvenience. But cancer ravaged them until there were no options left but to dive in with a scalpel. I had no choice.

  Darla opens the tattoo parlor door and whisks me out into the waning light of early evening. The setting sun feels good on my face. Birds chirp as they swoop over the intersection up ahead, snapping up the bugs roiling in a cloud above the hot pavement.

  She puts her arm through mine and presses her breast against my arm. I press back against that extravagant, soft pillow. A twinge flickers between my legs, spreading faint trails up into my belly. I press harder and she giggles, running her hand over my ass. I pull her in tighter, smelling sweat and the Poison perfume she put on this morning.

  “Feel like walking over to Alfredo’s?” she asks. “We can eat and then, if you’re tired, I can walk back over and get the car.”

  “Sure. I could eat some linguini.” I hate that she has to consider that I wouldn’t have enough energy to get back to the car. But cancer does that to you. I started taking tai chi a week ago to build myself back up. It’s good for concentration, for keeping those ugly thoughts at bay. And I can get through an entire class now without breaking into a sweat or teetering off balance.

  She moves her
arm around my waist and I lift mine to encircle hers, wincing a bit at the flicker of pain on the tattoo and the recovering muscles, but it’s good, my choice, and I like it.

  My mouth waters the moment we walk into the hole-in-the-wall restaurant with the wax-caked wine bottles sitting on tiny tables covered with red-and-white checked tablecloths.

  We play footsie under the table, and she takes her shoe off and presses it between my thighs. Warmth wells up like she’s blowing on embers and I rock my hips against her, feeling her foot mold around my strap-on. The warmth is a nice reminder of who I am. Smiling at each other, we sip wine, and Darla dings me not to eat all the bread and ruin my dinner.

  Tony’s cooking tonight. He knows us well and makes me a smaller plate. I have another half glass of wine while I slurp noodles and pick mussels out of their shells, dragging a thick heel of bread through the buttery drippings in the bottom of the bowl to capture the last drops.

  Darla orders a piece of cake for dessert, but I only have a bite or two before I am completely full. My eyelids are heavy and I loll back in the chair, watching the moon rise through the big windows at the front. When the check comes, I pull my wallet out and Darla and I haggle, finally going dutch for the bill.

  “You sit here and enjoy yourself,” she says. “I’ll get the car.”

  I’m so comfortable I don’t even argue. But still, I feel like an old woman nodding over the dinner table. I want my life back. I want to move past this. I want the slumbering coals to wake up, and I want an evening with Darla that stokes them, if not to a roaring blaze, then a comfortable heat that will consume any lingering doubts and fears I have.

  I see the lights of her Juke shine through the windows and I wave at Tony as I head for the door. My belly is full, the sting in my chest has subsided to a dull ache, and a beautiful woman is waiting for me to climb in the car with her.

  As soon as I slam the door, her hand is on my crotch and her eyes are shiny in the twilight. I turn up the stereo and Euro industrial tech music blares out, the bass beating insistently against my body. I rock my hips forward and she runs a long, red nail up the front of my pants.

  Reaching out, I tweak her nipple, laughing as she jerks. “Ow. That hurt.”

  “But look how hard it gets. And I know the pain shoots right down to your pussy.” I move my hand down, turning it so I can clasp her crotch in my hand. Her pants are damp, hot like a jungle, and I lift my fingers to my nose, smelling her desire, then licking every finger. She is watching me intently, her mouth open, a bit of tooth showing in a way that I always find super hot.

  “Hey, the road,” I say, and she jerks her attention back to driving.

  We are coming up on a turnoff that leads to a park. We’ve spent lots of time there, hiking, biking, lolling on the grass. “Turn in,” I command. She looks at me for a long moment, then nods through a shit-eating grin.

  The road is deserted, the parking lot nearly so. The moon is up and bright, silvering the trees that surround the lot on three sides. The trailhead is marked by a wooden fence and a red metal farm gate, which is still open. The wind soughs through leaves, and I hear an owl hoot somewhere off in the woods.

  “You have the blanket in the back still?”

  “I do. Do you have the energy?”

  I lay a finger over her mouth, then trace her lips and push into her mouth. It’s warm and wet, and she sucks and tongues it. The embers feel like someone blew over them, and I shiver suddenly as desire runs from the center of my chest where that proud bird’s head sits, down into my crotch, pooling there.

  “Forget the blanket. Let’s walk,” I tell her. We get out and she takes my hand as we head up the path. I can hear an owl hoot again and some rustling in the brush off the path. We walk up past the first curve that overlooks the city, speckled with lights like sequins on a quilt.

  Darla pauses as we reach a large oak tree. “Yes,” I say when she looks enquiringly at me. She makes her way under the branches, through a tangle of brush and around an elm tree. Then we’re in the middle of a small copse of trees, a shaft of moonlight shining down like a spotlight, turning everything silver. I can smell leaves, rot and Darla as I stand, taking a deep breath, my hands on my hips.

  I am alive. I am here in this moment with a beautiful woman who loves me, wants me.

  Taking two strides, I push her against a tree and kiss her hard. She gives it back, pressing her tongue into my mouth and moaning against my teeth. She tastes of chocolate cake and wine, and the coals between my legs heat up, sending flickers of heat throughout my belly. I feel loose and liquid and welcome them like old friends to a party.

  She tries to press her breasts against me, but I lean back. No pressure on the new ink. Instead, I pull her shirt up and the cups of her bra down. She loves the naughty wantonness of being exposed like this. It’s not as exciting as doing it during the day where we might be seen by some random hiker, but still, it’s outside.

  My hands fit around her waist perfectly and she sighs in pleasure. A breeze makes her nipples harden, and I suck one, then the other, giving her a little tooth. Then I lick the mounds and bury my face between them, surrounded by her sweat and faint perfume.

  “Ah,” I growl, trying to urge the old friends to rev up and spread out, sending tingles of desire throughout my body.

  I am alive. Tested, wounded, ravaged, but still kicking. I want to do this. But wanting isn’t enough.

  Biting her, I nibble my way around her breasts, leaving marks, as she squeals and squirms. Tomorrow she will spend time in front of the mirror admiring and showing them to me all day, smiling at me.

  A breeze blows again, and she giggles as goose bumps rise up on her skin. When I kiss her, she groans and presses against my crotch, rolling her hips to some beat. She begins to hum and I know the song. My heart leaps as I remember the words.

  You are my life, I give myself to you, take me, have me, hold me, make me into what you want.

  Opening her pants, I pull them down. Darla loves this; it’s naughty, which makes her embarrassed, which turns her on. Her quim is hot, moist, and her musky desire floats up between us. She rocks her hips, groaning when I slip my finger between them and skate over her clit. My own hips rock in time, and I can feel the heat rise like someone put a bellows to it.

  Suddenly, I turn her to face the tree and push her against it. Pulling her pants down, I smile as she shimmies her ass at me, and I playfully smack her smooth, white skin. Taking out my wallet, I retrieve a condom, tear it open with my teeth and shove the empty packet in my pocket. My pants are open in a flash and I slip it on. She moans as I grasp a knot of hair at the base of her neck and she goes completely pliable as she lifts her hips to meet mine.

  The breeze caresses my ass and I feel a need to bare myself further. When I unbutton my shirt I pull off the bandage, shoving it in my pocket and exposing my chest to the world. The cool air is harsh on my tender flesh, and I wonder what the phoenix feels as it rises up off the ashes of its funeral pyre.

  Is it angry that it had to start over, regretful about lost opportunities, depressed about the end of its former life?

  I realize it doesn’t matter. It’s new, it’s fresh, cleansed by the purifying flame. The phoenix chose to build its pyre, chose to climb on, chose to light it and be reborn.

  Just like I chose to fight, chose to try every treatment, and finally, chose to go under the knife. I’ve come through the trial cured. I’m alive and a beautiful woman is waiting for me to have her, claim her, bring her—and me—to a glorious incandescence of our own.

  Darla lifts her hips and arches her back as I drive into her. The heat from her pussy on my hips radiates like burning embers as I thrust into her. Her musk fills my nose. An answering wave of heat in my own sex burns with pleasure. Every scorching stroke reminds me that I survived, that I won no matter the cost, and together Darla and I work to create a blaze that explodes nearly simultaneously for us.

  My orgasm pushes a cry from me that I imagine echo
es the phoenix’s on my chest, shrieking as it lifts off from its funeral pyre, brilliant wings beating against the last embers of the fire that birthed it.

  Darla moans, a deep cry wrung from her soul, and lets her head fall, exhausted.

  I rest my arms on her shoulders as we heave deep breaths in the wake of the inferno we created. After long moments, I pull out, and when Darla stands, I take her in my arms.

  It seems I have found my own pyre.

  “Now that is one way to light a fire,” I say.

  “I’ll say,” she whispers, her breath hot against my neck.

  Now all that remains is for me to take flight with my new life.

  That’s my choice.

  RESTITUTION

  by Ria Restrepo

  I knew they were watching me. In the corner of the interrogation room, a camera was mounted near the drop ceiling. As the red light blinked, I wondered how many were monitoring the live feed. Then there was the two-way mirror right across from me. Was the observation room behind it filled to capacity?

  My senses were hyperaware; everything was sharp and bright. The silence rang in my ears, and beyond my own light perfume, a mustiness lingered from the sweat of all the people who’d been where I was at that moment. My nerves were alive with fear—and, if I was honest, more than a little excitement too. It was similar to the feeling I got right before a show.

  The headlines and sound bites flashed in my head: Ella Lopez Arrested for Shoplifting! Good Girl Goes Bad! Pop Star in the Slammer! Klepto Cubana Cutie! Little Havana Hottie in Handcuffs!

  My first album launched me into stardom, but my second was a major disappointment by comparison. There was a lot of talk about me being a one-hit wonder. My third album would drop soon, and I needed another hit at the top of the charts or my short career would be over. How I handled this situation could make all the difference.