BEST
WOMEN’S EROTICA
OF THE YEAR
VOLUME TWO
BEST
WOMEN’S EROTICA
OF THE YEAR
VOLUME TWO
Edited by
RACHEL KRAMER BUSSEL
Copyright © 2016 by Rachel Kramer Bussel.
All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted in newspaper, magazine, radio, television or online reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the Publisher.
Published in the United States by Cleis Press, an imprint of Start Midnight LLC, 101 Hudson Street, 37th Floor, Suite 3705, Jersey City, New Jersey 07302.
Printed in the United States.
Cover design: Scott Idleman/Blink
Cover photograph: iStock
Text design: Frank Wiedemann
First Edition.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Trade paper ISBN: 978-1-62778-192-3
E-book ISBN: 978-1-62778-193-0
CONTENTS
Introduction: Getting Naked
Performance
Taste
Wordless Surrender
A Hint of Lime
On His Knees
At the End of the World
The House on Orchard
Teacher Appreciation
On the Calendar
Another Way to Start a Fire
Mind Control
Brick Dust
Beautiful Broken Things
Like Lights in the Northern Sky
Serious Faces
Her Best
On Some Maps, but Not on Others
Star Bright
Cigarro Tarde
Phone Call, Three A.M.
Volcano Nights
About the Authors
About the Editor
INTRODUCTION:
GETTING NAKED
“What do you want from me?” Sarah asks Ollie in the opening line of Corrine A. Silver’s beautiful and hot rope bondage story “Her Best.” In a way, it’s a question that’s asked implicitly by all the protagonists in Best Women’s Erotica of the Year, Volume 2—when they’re not asking themselves what they want, and going after it. That’s something that may sound easy—figuring out your desires and staking a claim to them—but in the real world, it’s not always so simple. There are so many ways we women hold ourselves back, allow ourselves to believe that what we might want is “too much,” and that by extension, so are we.
But the women you’ll meet in these twenty-one stories are curious and tenacious, allowing themselves to wander to distant lands, to explore new types of sex, with new lovers, even when they aren’t totally sure where these missions will lead them. They take chances, get vulnerable, risk saying yes when it would be safer to say no, all because they sense that something greater will be in store for them if they dare.
I didn’t set a formal theme for this anthology, because I like to give my authors as much leeway as possible to explore whatever corners of their minds their fiction takes them to. I did notice that travel and adventure predominated among the submissions writers sent me this time. You’ll find many of those travelers within these pages, whether it’s Jocelyn Bringas’s heroine in “Taste” going about her daily commute only to be stopped by a particularly irresistible stranger who she wants to ignore, but simply can’t; Lucie in “A Hint of Lime,” by Vierra Lai, who breaks off from her friends to let her new man visit a part of her body that’s never been traversed before; or Valentina in Dorianne’s “Like Lights in the Northern Sky,” where the aurora borealis illuminates a new relationship path along with the landscape. “At the End of the World,” by Winter Blair, finds Jasmine extremely lucky to be alive—and luckier to find two sex-starved male survivors in this postapocalyptic tale. In “On Some Maps, but Not on Others,” by Annabeth Leong, gender is the course a creative body cartographer must explore.
I’m fully aware that no single book of erotic stories can cover the wide range of possibilities women erotica authors can cook up or all the infinite ways women get off—after all, there are countless ways we can connect with another human being. What I can offer you here are twenty-two tales that showcase heroines who are indeed heroic, whether they’re in an opera house basement obeying orders from their kinky lover or offering the comfort of their body at the most challenging of moments, as in “Phone Call, Three A.M.” by T. C. Mill. They’re heroic because they are up for the challenge, even when they may risk getting caught, having their heart broken or being rejected. They’re heroic because they allow themselves to grapple with uncertainty, jealousy, fear and nerves as those mix and mingle with their arousal, sometimes so closely it’s hard to know where one starts and the other ends. I’d argue that each of these heroines is gutsy in her own way, and maybe, in or out of the bedroom, some of them will inspire you to be gutsy too.
What else is in store for you as you read on? In this book, you’ll salivate right alongside Abby over the ultimate juicy girl talk in “Star Bright,” by Cela Winter, find out what “Teacher Appreciation” is all about once the students have graduated, according to Stella Watts Kelley, and visit the after-hours life of a start-up employee in “Serious Faces,” by Ella Dawson. You’ll meet a domme who exerts her power over her very willing sub via sign language in “Wordless Surrender,” by Janelle Reston. In that story, Allie asks Marbeth, “ Are you mine?” It’s another question that’s a through line of these stories, although whether the lovers in these tales belong to each other in the formal sense gets a different answer depending on who’s asking the question. Whether that sense of “belonging” is formalized within BDSM, expressed through tenderness or teasing, or is simply ephemeral, lasting as long as the lovers need and no more, in each of these stories, through exploring what they want out of sex, these women discover what it means to belong—to themselves, to another person (or people), and to their bodies and desires.
There are moments of rip-your-clothes-off passion as well as tenderness and connection, of sex as both a scorching physical encounter and a healing emotional balm, often within the very same story. There’s humor (the corny pickup lines in “Taste” are wonderfully absurd) mixed with heartache, life’s highs and lows explored as these women get completely naked, body and soul. I hope you’ll share with me your favorite stories—and what you’d like to see in future volumes—at [email protected] and visit bweoftheyear.com to find out more about the series and where it’s going next.
Rachel Kramer Bussel
Atlantic City, New Jersey
PERFORMANCE
Jordan Monroe
He had purchased the ticket for me, knowing that I’d have a free night to enjoy “high culture,” as he had put it. An Uber Black car had picked me up from my small apartment in Arlington and driven me to the front of the Kennedy Center, arriving about an hour before the show was to begin. When I got out of the car, as if he could see me, he sent me a text: Go to the café on the terrace. Ask for Marge. She’ll have a libation for you. I took a crowded elevator to the third level, passing many sensibly dressed elderly people, and entered the café.
The café was packed and brightly lit with fluorescent lights, illuminating items for grab-and-go purchase. Beer, split bottles of wine, soda and fruits were on display for anyone desperate enough to want a nine-dollar Yuengling. I scanned the cashiers, trying to find someone who looked like they’d be named Marge: older, possibly dowdy, perhaps retired from a career and doing this part time to get out of the house. When I sp
otted the smiling older woman in a forest-green polo shirt, I walked over to her, my high heels clicking on the linoleum. I made sure to check her name tag first before speaking.
“Marge?”
“Yes?”
I lowered my voice a little, embarrassed by my request. “I was told to talk to you about a request that a Mr. Max Richardson made?”
She smiled at me. “Certainly. May I see some ID?” I showed it to her. “Wonderful. Please follow me.” She left the register and walked out toward the service elevator.
We got in the cloth-covered elevator together. She swiped her badge across a receiver and pressed FOUR. The elevator jolted to life and before I knew it, the doors had opened and Marge had exited the elevator. “Dear, your drink is on this terrace.” I thanked her and walked out of the elevator, making my way to the exit. I opened the heavy door, necessarily so in order to block out the sound of airplanes from Reagan National, and was met with a glorious pink and orange sunset over the Potomac River. I noticed a small circular table to the right of the elevator exit. On it, there was a glass of sparkling rosé wine, a red rose hairclip and a note. The note read: Put this in your hair. See you when the not-so-fat lady sings, mon amour.—MR
I smiled, put the hairclip at the base of my curls and sipped the wine, the tartness of strawberries and the burn of alcohol dancing across my palate. With each swallow, I closed my eyes and imagined his hands on me, his warm breath on my neck, his teeth nibbling my earlobe, his body pressed against mine, his hard length digging into my ass despite layers of fabric. My breath became shallow, and before I knew it, my glass was empty. I looked around, making sure that I was, in fact, alone. Not seeing anyone else, I placed the empty glass on the table, lifted my dress and positioned myself so that the scarlet V of my thong was behind the clear glass. Whipping out my phone, I took a selfie, typed Thanks for the tasty drink, and sent it to him. With that, I got into the elevator and made my way to the opera house entrance.
For this evening, my lover had insisted that I wear a black strapless gown with my hair loosely curled to one side. The dress was tight across my chest. I opened my clutch to peek at what I’d brought with me: cell phone, ticket that read Bizet’s Carmen at the Kennedy Center, ID, credit card and a purple bullet vibrator. A small pearl of moisture formed in my underwear. I reached for my ticket, presented it to the uniformed ticket taker and made my way upstairs to the second level.
The hall was filled with people. Many of them were elderly: the women wore dark clothing and were adorned with garish costume jewelry while the men accompanying them were stuffed into suits. I searched for my seat. Upon locating it, I noticed that I was seated between two couples. This was disappointing. He hadn’t mentioned that he wouldn’t be joining me. I knew that there was nothing wrong with going to a show alone, but I wanted him next to me. I knew nothing about opera, and though I’d only been involved with him for about a month, this seemed to be more his thing. After all, he was the one who’d bought the ticket for me.
We’d met at a mixer for kinky people. The event was pretty straightforward: meet people who live in and around Arlington who happen to take things up a notch in their bedrooms. I was shocked yet delighted to discover that this suburb of the nation’s capital boasted a large number of people who weren’t nearly as straitlaced as many Traditional American Values lobbyists would like to believe. Before I could order myself a drink, Max walked right up to me. Normally, older men didn’t do it for me, but his cool efficiency of waving down the bartender and ordering a glass of the Eighteen-Year-Old Macallan for me gave me pause. It was so unlike the parade of recent college grads in my neighborhood, thinking that rail shots would still impress me. I’d fixated on his musician’s hands. They were clean but not obviously pampered, the nails trimmed but not manicured, and large but not comically so. I’d instantly wanted them on me, exploring every dip and curve of my body. He’d made me his instrument that night, and most afternoons since then. I thrived on pleasing him.
As soon as I got comfortable in my chair, the lights dimmed. I leaned forward, and then I noticed why my lover had instructed me to come here, yet I sat alone.
Max was playing in the orchestra.
Despite the stuffiness of the attire, Max was handsome in his tuxedo. His beautiful, angular face was illuminated by his music-stand light. He must have used a little hair gel to keep his thick, wavy salt-but-mostly-pepper hair out of his face. The timpani drums hid his long legs, tonight in black tuxedo pants as opposed to dark jeans; I immediately imagined them stretched tightly across his groin. He looked up from his music stand, staring straight at me with his intensely dark eyes. At least I thought he was staring at me. I couldn’t be sure, but I was transfixed. My mouth went dry. He smiled, a devilish grin betraying his generally stoic demeanor. He broke our visual hold as the concertmaster took his place at the head of the pit. Max lifted his mallets over one of the larger drums and waited for the cue. The baton went up and when it came down, the hall erupted with the main theme. I wasn’t paying attention to the music. My eyes were squarely on Max, whose eyes were squarely on his music stand.
He hadn’t started sweating, but by the show’s end I expected he would be rather damp, much like my lace thong. I’d bought it for this evening: black lace with red satin barely covering my waxed vulva. He stopped the timpani gently, his fingers dancing across the taut calfskins. He was able to tease out all manner of dynamics from the drums, then quickly silence them; the very same hands could, and did, ensure that I cried out, then hushed, with ecstasy and restraint.
About twenty minutes later, the music softened. As the cellos began their new eighth-note figure, the audience in the cavernous opera hall stilled. The men sat up a little straighter in their plush seats, their eyes fixed on the curvy, wild-haired woman slowly making her way to center stage. The company, dressed in either World War I-inspired uniforms or tattered bohemian dresses, parted the way for her. She inhaled, her bust heaving, and then the hall was filled with her vibrato: “L’amour est un oiseau rebelle…” Perhaps love is indeed a rebellious bird.
He picked up the tambourine. He slid his thumb over the little metal jingles, the lightest touch forcing a gentle sound that could be heard throughout the concert hall. My nipples began to harden, as if he were sliding his thumb over each puckered bud. As the aria progressed, I watched him intently. His forehead was knotted with concentration, ensuring that his fingers touched the instrument at the precise moment. He didn’t dare make a mistake. Knowing he put as much focus in his work as he did when making me scream his name was almost unbearable.
There might have been an hour left until intermission, but I was poised to be ravaged.
When Act I had finished, my phone started buzzing with a text. Come down to the basement. I quickly gathered my things and entered another elevator packed with people. It descended slowly and emptied on the first floor. I was the lone traveler headed for the basement. The bell dinged, the doors opened and Max was standing before me, looking very sharp in his tuxedo. My breath hitched in my chest.
“Follow me. I’ll take you to, shall we say, my office.” He extended his large, clean, calloused hand. I took it. His hand was very warm, indicative of his hard work. We were alone in this part of the building. He led me down a brightly lit, sparse corridor.
“So this is what you do late at night?” I asked.
“Most nights, yes. Other nights I’m practicing.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you were in the Washington National Opera?”
We kept walking, but he was quiet for a moment, thinking it over. “Honestly, I wanted to surprise you. You strike me as the kind of woman who’d appreciate this kind of thing.”
I smiled widely. “It’s definitely a new experience. I’m really enjoying it. How can I thank you?”
We had approached a small, white room. Looking into my eyes, he said, “I can think of a couple of ways you can thank me.”
He gently pushed the center of my back, urgin
g me inside. There was an off-white spongy substance on the walls, and at the far end of the room there was an old piano and bench. I made sure to place my clutch on the bench, leaving it open. Max closed the door behind him and took off his jacket. He turned to look at me.
“Turn, please.” I twirled to show him how I had cleaned up for the evening. I heard him take a deep breath. He must have liked what he saw. I blushed, vulnerable under his piercing gaze. “Are you enjoying the show?” he asked.
“I honestly haven’t been paying that much attention. Gypsy chick tears through Spain, bewitching soldiers, they’re singing in French which is weird because everything’s happening in Spain…got it?”
“For the most part.”
“What’s this spongy stuff on the wall?”
He reached next to him, patting it. “I’ve never learned the name of it, but it’s to muffle the sounds coming from the practice rooms. Any sounds, I might add.”
“Oh really?” I lowered my eyes, daring him.
“Really really,” he said, and lunged for me.
The blood rushed to my core as his tongue violated my mouth. He grasped my neck with both hands, making sure he didn’t mess up my hair or makeup. I instantly pressed myself against him, feeling the heat from his broad chest. I tilted my pelvis forward, grinding against his stiff penis. He pulled at the fabric of my dress by my hips and whispered, “Intermission lasts for twenty minutes.”
“Perfect.”
He quickly turned me around, bending me over the piano bench. I placed my hands in front to steady myself. My arms were locked, my feet spread wide, my ass lifted for him. Only for him. He lifted my dress and quickly pulled my thong down around my ankles. As I grabbed the vibrator from my purse, I heard the fabric of his pants shuffle and hit the floor. He paused, and when I looked over my shoulder, I could see him admiring my ass and opening. He reached down, inserted two fingers, stirred my juices, then pulled them out and licked them, reveling in my taste. Noticing my gaze, he pushed into me, my pussy soaked from the first act. “Oh my god!” I cried out and screwed up my face; I was still getting used to him.
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