Best Women's Erotica of the Year, Volume 2

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  I grazed his balls with my fingers and watched them clench slightly. “Do you feel it when you fuck?”

  He made a sound to answer me but was distracted by my touch.

  “Some guys like to have their balls sucked or tugged on… squeezing them. I just like to have them held underneath”— he placed my hand back on his balls—“like that. I like that warmth.”

  I kept my hold on him while he ran his palms lightly up the length of his dick against his stomach in an endless loop. Despite his self-stimulation, his balls relaxed in my palm, his left sitting slightly higher.

  Our eyes shared our enjoyment of that silent, tender moment.

  “It’s about that intimacy, being exposed for someone, the touch.” He let me take his dick in my hand. My light stroke was enough to lift the weight of his horseshoe barbell piercing. He placed my fingers on the soft skin on the underside of his dick. He knew what he liked, where he liked it and how he liked it.

  “Are you shaved or natural?” He directed the conversation at me with a passionate focus.

  “I’m trimmed.”

  “Do you have an innie or an outie?” I silently considered his request for a game of You Show Me Yours. He sat facing me, his dick hanging heavy and curved. I quieted the what the fuck are you doing? self talk. Games like this were things I hoped to never outgrow.

  As he had done, I took off my sneakers before taking down my jeans. I allowed him to take in the view of me in my turquoise lace panties against my orange-undertoned brown skin. I lowered my panties, revealing my trimmed triangle. “See, I have an innie.”

  He scooted off the leather couch, a signal for me to take his place. I sat and took my jeans and panties off.

  “Come forward.” He hooked his elbows under each hip and pulled me toward him as he sat on the floor in front of me. “Yeah…right there…” He gazed at my body, lightly brushing my inner thigh.

  Gaining access to those “private parts” we’re taught are off-limits was thrilling, even at our age. Add to it that we know the joy of bringing our parts together.

  He picked his phone off the cocktail table. My stomach to my toes tensed up thinking he was going to take a photo. But he turned on the phone’s flashlight. His “wow” was almost inaudible when he looked at my pussy, now illuminated.

  I was sure the handful of gray hairs scattered strategically among my dark curlies on my mound and lips appeared stark white. His expression didn’t reveal whether he’d seen a pussy of my wisdom before, only that he admired what he was seeing. I jutted my chin toward the ceiling to get the flashlight out of my eye and saw the ring of infrared LEDs on the surveillance camera.

  “You are beautiful.” He pushed my lips apart a bit more. “I mean really beautiful…you have a beautiful pussy.” Instead of losing its meaning, each time he said the word it felt more earnest. His mouth relaxed open. He ran his fingers down both sides of my clit to my opening. Again and again. So slowly. “You definitely have an innie”—he stopped his torturous stroking and lightly pressed my lips together—”and you have a nice size clit too.” He pulled back my hood and moaned softly. “I love it…”

  As he stroked the length of my labia, I responded with a long, calming breath.

  “You okay?”

  “Just trying to relax. I can feel it getting kinda slick down there.”

  He finally looked away from my pussy. “It’s been slick.” He emphasized his comment with a raised eyebrow. My pussy betrays me constantly. “What’s the most sensitive spot on your clit?”

  “Uh-uh, I’m not telling you that.” I bit back a smile because he was very close to the spot on the left side. He let out a solitary chuckle and didn’t push the issue. He investigated the trails between my lips and around my clit, but his touch lost its clinical edge. He was gentle in his pleasurable exploration. I grew more excited at the low-frequency, guttural purrs he made when my clit trembled and swelled under his touch.

  “You’re so soft.” He explored my insides with the straight line of his finger. “Like velvet.” His brow furrowed, confused as to why it felt so good. I controlled my volume as best I could while he said come here to my spot. My eyes shot open when he took his finger out of me. I could tell by the motion of his arm that he was playing with himself, using my wetness as lube.

  “Can I taste it?” I let out another long exhale, readying myself for what I could only imagine his lips and tongue would do to me. He tongued and sucked and blew kisses on me. He responded to my moans with moans of his own as he worshipped me with his mouth. He painted the sensitive left side of my clit with licks, and I scratched his scalp in reflex, grasping at his imaginary hair. I trembled and he slid his fingers inside my pussy again. I finally looked at him, cradling his head in my hand while his mouth brought me closer to orgasm. He was in heaven with his face between my thighs.

  His goatee and cheeks were a glorious mess. It’d been a long time since I’d seen a man’s face wet from my release. It was a jarring vision.

  His dick was warm as he rubbed the head against me. Up and down against my clit. Then the scorching heat as he inched closer to release.

  “Can I come in your mouth?” He rubbed against me and stroked himself steadily. I obliged. He growled my name and mounted my face as the first eruption hit my tongue. His breath escaped in ragged spurts while he fucked my face. I swallowed every thick drop and sucked the glaze from my pussy off his dick.

  He collapsed next to me on the couch as I scooted myself into an upright position. He draped his left leg across me, resting his Achilles on the armrest. I aimlessly caressed his thigh and knee.

  “That was beautiful.” He exhaled that word again.

  It struck a soft spot inside me that he felt that way about what happened between us. He played with a few of my waist-long Marley twists. He relaxed his fingers and watched my hair fall against my breast. I was stunned I didn’t check him for touching my hair.

  “Unexpected…” was my futile showing of agreement with him. But it was the only way I could describe what had happened. Unexpected and freeing.

  “The best things are the ones that you don’t expect.”

  The old-fashioned leather and wood of the cigar lounge had a new secret.

  “Wait…” he paused. “The music is on. It’s just really low. You hear that?”

  I did eventually pick up the buzzing from the bass of the unknown song as I scanned the wall and ceiling looking for a speaker.

  The dotted ring of LED lights on the surveillance camera weren’t shining red anymore. I eyed his afterglowing face and tried to think of the best way to ask for a copy of the video. Thanks to my smoking lesson, I’d be able to enjoy a fine cigar while I watched the playback of our afternoon meeting.

  PHONE CALL, THREE A.M.

  T. C. Mill

  I’m awake when you hang up the phone, and I lie in bed with your last words ringing in my ears.

  “Thank you.” Such an abrupt thing to hear in the middle of the night. The way you said it sounded hollow.

  But good manners. I know you believe in manners. Even now, you didn’t seem insincere. Just tired, incredibly tired in a way that has nothing to do with the time of night—according to the clock now closer to morning.

  At the whisper of footsteps, I turn to see you standing in the doorway. The lamp glows behind you; either I slept through most of a long call or it was news you needed light to receive. Maybe you turned it on in the middle, playing with objects on the table, fidgeting, as you do sometimes when you just have to move.

  I know, of course, that it isn’t good news. Not at this hour.

  I’m aware of this fact at the same time I’m aware of how your body stands silhouetted against the light. The long shirt you love sleeping in clings to your shoulders and chest, then flows down. The cotton is so old it’s almost transparent, and I make out the shadow of your waist, watching it thicken as you take a deep breath and slowly exhale.

  I like the shape of your body, and I like the way y
ou carry it—something I’ve never said aloud, unsure how the compliment would feel to you. It’s not about your leg, although it’s not despite it either. You habitually lean to the left, and your mouth curves up on the same side as if ready to smile, almost always, though it isn’t now. And then there’s the way your shoulders relax and flow with your breathing, and a subtle tilt of your hips. You take on a posture sometimes that I can only think of as ripe. An erotic thought. I’m thinking it now, thinking you look ripe, even as I watch you shake your hair from your shoulders and sigh.

  You return to bed, your left leg sweeping slightly and your steps small, slow. I rise on one elbow.

  “Should we get dressed?” Too late, I wonder if “we” is appropriate. But you might not be in any state to drive—your hesitant movements suggest so—and I’d be happy to be of use.

  You shake your head. “It can wait until morning.”

  Meaning, as bad as it is, it won’t get worse.

  It could be anything. A fall down the stairs or a fire, a heart attack or a car accident. Your credit card swiped in the wrong state. It might be that minor, something a few migraines’ worth of paperwork will sort out. Or it could be the worst-case scenario. After all, the dead are in stable condition.

  You’ve left the light on in the other room. I consider getting up to turn it off, but you’re sliding under the sheets beside me and I don’t want to disturb you. Unsettled tension rumbles like thunder as you fold a billow of quilt over your shoulders. The stormy cloud covers you to your ears, but your eyes shine above.

  Maybe it’s a squabble. A sibling has absconded with a drug habit and the family fortune (I don’t know if you even have one; it’s never come up). My own parents declared their intention to divorce late one night. People are selfish in how they make those announcements. They don’t choose their words well, they talk too much and expect too much in reply, they fail to account for time zones.

  Watching me, you breathe out another sigh. My hand settles on the puff of fabric, presses down to meet your skin and finds the taut line of your shoulder. You’re trembling, not visibly but inside.

  I remember the weightless feeling after my parents announced their divorce, bafflement and chaos and relief. Something I’d had nightmares about my entire childhood had finally happened. How free I felt, having survived that.

  I’ve suspected instinctively that you are a survivor—prob-ably more so than I am. Again, I’ve never said anything, never asked; some stories should only be volunteered, not dug up. And although I’m not incurious about you, I don’t need to know everything at once.

  I don’t know enough; I’m not yet intimate enough with you to know if you were expecting bad news tonight. At dinner you were your usual self, devouring what was on your plate and devouring the view from the table, tossing the occasional dry remark my way and snapping my replies from the air as eagerly as you took everything else. Your eyes and mouth moved rapidly but not cruelly, hungry but not predatory. When you put down your knife, my hand reached for yours and our fingers played over each other’s in silence.

  My touch moves down now, pulling the blanket away so I can stroke your shoulder and side. You rock a little, toward me, not to shake me off. Our eyes meet and you seem hungry. Running back up, I sweep over your breasts through the cotton shirt and my palm makes circles over your collarbone. Slow and, I hope, soothing. Your pulse hammers so hard it seems to punch into my hand.

  Your skin feels cool. At the base of your neck there is a sheen of sweat. I slide a little closer, and you come the rest of the way, your arm rising around my waist. We lie chest to chest, hip to hip, your head tucked beneath my chin, my neck bent slightly back to allow it. My own pulse beats beneath your lips.

  Shock can blend into grief, and grief can feel like fear. And fear, enlivening every sense and nerve, enormous and desperate, can feel surprisingly like desire. I don’t think you’re surprised as I shift against you and whisper, “Take me, if you want.”

  Neither of us is very good with words. But we’re unusually good without them. The quiet between us has never been awkward. I’m with you now because of that, because I can be silent with you.

  Growing so close in silence.

  As your body rises over mine, I remember the first time, the afternoon we walked in the garden behind your friend’s house. It was a deep yard, forested in the back, and we plunged into the green shadows until the party sounds faded behind us. The silence was interrupted only by the occasional sweep of a car on the road beyond the trees. Sunlight fell in spots along the gravel path and flowers grew half in the shade, vibrant nonetheless. Of course I thought of you, and of course I didn’t make the comparison aloud. Even for talkative people that would be sappy.

  But maybe you thought of me, too, as we passed the blossoms that had opened to show the color deep in their throats. As seed heads bobbed around us with almost erotic rhythm. You picked them, rolled them between your hands until the seeds flew free. You plucked petals and rubbed them into sharp-scented pills in your fingers.

  I watched and you knew I was watching and we both knew something would happen. Eventually we came by a wrought-iron bench. You sat, legs a little spread, and began to pull up your hem, inch by inch. Your eyes were on me and I felt pulled by them but not compelled, not trapped. If I turned away, you would have shaken down your skirt, risen and continued walking. Without insult. Without a word.

  It was my choice to get to my knees before you. But there was still an air of inevitability around it. The only choice I would make. I knelt with a feeling of shock—not a bad shock but the kind where you feel time passing with particularity, and with particular slowness. When you know a moment has come that will define “before” and “after.”

  Gravel dug into my knees. On either side of them, you planted your shoes. Your ankles turned as you sprawled back in the chair, wedge heels digging in, the right one thicker. Later I would unlace those shoes while you watched me with your mouth’s left corner quirked. But that day we didn’t bother. We only hiked your skirt higher—I pushed, you pulled, feeling the warmth of each other’s hands through the fabric. I bent my head close. Your scent, rich and earthy, like a garden without the greenness. Your taste, slick salt.

  I pushed between your labia with my tongue, found your clit and circled it. Your fingers suddenly caged my skull, and I could smell the poignant perfume of crushed flowers on them.

  I’d never done anything like it before. Sex in the outdoors. Sex almost in public. Sex in wordless silence. It made me feel connected to you. Not that you’re the one, but you are a one, someone who has opened my mind to new possibilities.

  For which of course I’m grateful. Of course, I’ve never thanked you aloud.

  And here, now, when I do pick words, they’re odd and old-fashioned and I mean them completely. You can take me, if you want. If it would help.

  I’m in shadow, your body blocking the light from the other room, your figure in cotton-shrouded silhouette. Your cool fingertips tracing my face as if to make sure it hasn’t changed shape while you weren’t looking.

  “Go ahead,” I whisper.

  My hand rests on your shoulder; I slide down, following its curve—not slumped, but inclined toward me. Your pulse batters my fingers. Your hard nipples bite at them through the shirt. Your breathing deepens as I pull the low neckline aside and make circles on your skin. You’re trembling, and aside from those delicious, involuntary shudders, you don’t move.

  Then all your strain melts into energy. You snap me up, your mouth catching, crushing. Hands fly, undressing us—you rub me as you pull down my shorts; I stroke your hips while peeling away your panties. Your calves settle on each side of my thighs and your weight falls on me. Each uneven inhalation pushes at my chest; every time you exhale you caress my face. So I can feel all of you. Aching and churning and beneath it all a pulsing thrum of desire.

  Between your legs, the rich curls are wet. So wet that I know you’ve been flowing from the moment you st
ood in the doorway, looking at me.

  I bring my hand back up and trace the set of your mouth. I can’t tell if it’s a smile or a frown or even a sneer before your lips part. You pull me in, sucking your taste from me, nipping my fingertips.

  And I feel tender for you, ripe for you. Wanting you even more than when I saw you in the doorway.

  Grief and fear are rare aphrodisiacs. Deep mourning isn’t, and depression certainly isn’t. Anxiety makes you clammy and numb inside or makes you let loose recklessly. In my experience merely anxious sex has always felt somehow cheap. But grief unlocks something. Maybe it strikes so deep that it gives us permission to feel. It excuses us. Or makes us so desperate that we’ll have anything in place of the loss.

  I think you’re beginning to grieve now. I know I’m afraid.

  Without fully understanding the link between fear and arousal, I just know it. Right now I know it like the inside of my own skin. It could be fear for you or of you. I can’t explain what I’m afraid of, and I wouldn’t tell you, anyway. Not aloud, in so many words.

  My hand hurts before you release it. Nibbled on and sucked until the nails feel loose. You could take me apart. Right now you seem too distracted to notice if you did. But as soon as I can, I touch you again.

  Sliding two fingers past your lower lips, I feel the swell of your clit between them. I stroke, letting it all rub together until you squirm. We could be swimming in your wetness, rich and silken. I wish I could drink you in through my fingertips.

  Your mouth is close to mine, your warm gasps falling like kisses. Panting, you take hold of me again. Your hand starts to dig into my shoulder. Pain feeds fear feeds desire feeds pleasure and I don’t want to stop, until suddenly I have to. Poised to slip inside you, I stop with a wince.

  At once your touch is gone. A sound comes from the darkness over me, from you, surprised and apologetic.