Best Women's Erotica 2012

by Violet Blue

  She reaches another patch of trees and picks her way along the knotted roots and cool shadows. He continues to flit across her mind. The belt. Silk and cotton. Mouth, hands. Miles and miles.

  The trees end, and for a dizzying second, she can see nothing but sky.

  The whole valley comes into focus. The cities glimmer slightly, insignificant, but the distant hills glow gold in the light of the sinking sun. The ridges are purple and hazy with distance, puckered and raised like a spine. She lifts her hand and imagines her fingers running over the range, dipping into the pockets of the canyons and lowlands, rising up with the swell of the knolls. Mountains. Are they mountains? She’s lost all sense of perception. The sea and the bay and the rush of the city are at her back, the open expanse of Californian wilderness lies before her. Fuck. It isn’t quite a thought and it isn’t quite a sound. The word comes out as a breath, as awe.

  She breathes deeply and lies down on the grass.

  The blades prick through the thin fabric of her shirt. The breeze whispers to her, across her. She slides her skirt up her legs and settles it around her hips. The wind teases her, gently. Her left hand drifts across her breasts, slowly stroking her erect nipple.

  She has never been so awake or alive; her nerves are naked wires, her skin the wet pavement during a lightning storm. Her mind frees itself, expands. She feels as if a fault line along her breastbone has come apart, and now she is open to the air, her lungs expanding like slick balloons into the dusty ozone, her heart throbbing.

  She watches him, soaking wet but not finished. He rolls the condom on and squares himself between her thighs. The sensation of this is almost too much, and she gasps as he moves into her. He moans and loses control of his words, which flow out of him like warm, uncorked champagne. “Fuck—god, you feel—fuck, you’re so—god, god—fuck—” She reaches up, tangles her fingers in his hair and pulls him down to her neck. He speaks the words into her skin.

  The valley is ablaze with color, with light. She hears nothing but her own ragged breathing. She closes her eyes. She touches herself—dripping, swollen. She lets out a slow, throaty moan, her fingers stroking her clit over and over again.

  Him, asleep beneath the sheets. Him, wrist deep inside her, bent over her body and slick with sweat. His teeth on her throat, her nails in his back. His weight pinning her down to the mattress. Him biting his lip in pleasure. The want surges through her, mingling with the yes and now and carrying light to the very tips of her fingers and soles of her feet. Sweat glistens on her arms, pooling behind her knees, in the crooks of her elbows.

  Her back begins to arch. Her hand leaves her breast and digs into the ground, pulling chunks of dirt as easily as she grabs handfuls of soft cotton sheets. The earth is breathing, writhing beneath its skin. Her right hand draws hard circles over, and over, and over, and she feels the climax surging toward her, tumbling into her gravity.

  The orgasm fills her, powerful and steady. She knows she cannot drown. Instead, she overflows.

  The sky is darkening—purple and navy and preparing for bed. Insects thrum their legs together from the trees.

  He always collapses on her, breathing heavily. She holds him and whispers in his ear, “Come down, come down, come back to me.” They stay there for a long time, tangled, wet and quiet.

  She lies in the grass and laughs. She laughs and laughs, and her face is wet with tears. She doesn’t remember crying.

  Sleep comes swiftly.

  She will only wake up to the tap tap tap of a gentle, predawn rain on her cheeks, spotting her shirt and running into her mouth in gentle rivulets. She will climb down the mountain. Eventually.

  And she will return home, where he waits for her on the damp porch.

  TWEETUP

  Louise Lush

  I sipped my wine and surveyed the swish hotel bar with growing apprehension. Should have stayed at home, I thought. This was a stupid idea.

  I didn’t recognize a single face amid the small throng of people, although they all seemed to know each other. I knew them too, of course, but only online and only via their various anonymous handles and avatars.

  The concept of a Twitter meetup had seemed appealing when it was first suggested by a friend with a large following. It was an opportunity to put names to faces, to have a few drinks and to discuss issues in more than just 140 characters. In the face of my increasingly closeted online life, it seemed like a good chance to get out of the house and socialize, in the old-fashioned way.

  Now, however, I regretted my bold foray into the meatworld. Here I had to worry about how I looked and what I said. And I had to remember the social graces, which included the imponderable problem of what to do when everyone else is engaged in conversation and you’re standing there, unknown and ignored.

  I took a swig of my wine and tried to think of a way to introduce myself. Hi, I’m QueenAngie. I’m the one who always tweets about my pet frogs and the porn I’ve been watching.

  Somehow, it just didn’t seem right.

  I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to face a tall, intelligent-looking man with a square jaw and small, round-rimmed glasses. He was in his midthirties, dressed casually in jeans and a T-shirt that said TWITTER=OBSESSION. He was smiling at me kindly and holding out his hand.

  “Hi, nice to meet you. I only just got here; thought I’d introduce myself. I’m Scott, although on Twitter I’m Geekguy77.”

  My startled, slightly panicked expression changed to a smile of recognition as I returned his handshake. “Oh, you. The IT guy with the Apple jokes. You should write for the newspapers!”

  He grinned at my compliment. “And you are?”

  My smile slipped a little and I felt my stomach turn over. Did I really want to reveal my dirty, true online self to real-world people like this?

  But it was too late. I was here, I’d committed to this. And these were my Internet friends, after all. They were different.

  “I’m…er…I’m Angie. QueenAngie.”

  He raised his eyebrows just a little, his smile becoming lopsided. “Ahhh. You.” I felt myself blushing. “Yes, I follow you. How are the frogs?”

  I laughed, perhaps a little too loudly. “They’re fine. Although I can’t get Arthur out of his castle at the moment.”

  “Sounds like a case of Frog Depression to me. Hey, can I get you another wine?”

  I considered my near-empty glass and nodded. “What the hell, a bit more social lubricant never hurt anyone. Thanks.” He smiled and headed toward the bar. I watched him as he went, finding myself admiring his physique. This guy might be in IT, but he obviously takes care of himself, I thought. Look at that butt.

  My gaze wandered. The crowd hadn’t grown in the last few moments but it did feel a lot less threatening. Amazing what one friendly face can do.

  Scott returned holding a beer and a glass of wine. I could see him studying me as he approached. I wondered if my appearance matched his idea of my online persona. I suspected it didn’t. In real life I’m fairly average looking, although I do think I have agreeable brown eyes and I try to stay fit.

  “I should have recognized you,” Scott said as he handed me my glass.

  “How?”

  “Your hoop earrings. You wrote you always wore them. A few weeks ago?

  I thought for a moment. “That’s right, I did. Gee, you pay attention.”

  He smiled. “I like your tweets.”

  I laughed. “Now there’s a twenty-first-century compliment.”

  We fell into a very easy conversation, comparing thoughts on politics, computers and whether Stephen Fry was worth following anymore. Scott seemed to hang on every word I said, eager to hear my opinion, his eyes always on me, seemingly oblivious to the rest of the room. I felt flattered by his attention and found myself responding in kind, drawn to his presence, keen to hear what he had to say. The wine had started to kick in and I felt warm and happy in his company. I also felt more than a little flirtatious.

  “Are you married, Ge
ekguy?” I asked.

  “Uh, no, not yet,” he said. “IT guy, remember? That means lots of lonely nights at home eating two-minute noodles and playing World of Warcraft.”

  I nodded, laughing at the stereotype. “Yeah, me too. Just me and the frogs.”

  “And the porn.”

  I shrugged, blushing. “Uh, yeah, the porn.”

  “I like how you tweet about porn.”

  “Really?” I gave him a shy smile. “It’s just for fun.”

  “I like the jokes, but you do make a lot of perceptive points.” I realized he was regarding me intently.

  “I probably shouldn’t be so open about watching porn. I figured it would put people off here.”

  He shook his head. “No, not at all. Not me, anyway. It means you’re interesting, not inhibited.” He gave me a long look. “It’s sexy.”

  I blushed again. “Thank you.” I didn’t know what else to say.

  “To be honest, I’ve often wondered about you,” he said.

  “You have?”

  He took a sip of his drink. “Yes. I wondered what you were like in real life. If you were anything like the woman I imagined QueenAngie to be.”

  My heart began to beat a little faster and I felt a little flustered, knowing we were getting into dangerous territory. Still, the wine egged me on. “And what is it you imagine?”

  “Well, some days I wonder if you’re sitting there tweeting wearing suspenders and a lacy bra.”

  “Ha!” I chuckled. “Track pants more like.”

  He smiled and nodded. “Other days I think you might be like one of those pulp fiction librarians, all prim and proper on the outside but really dirty once you get past the façade.”

  “Well, I just have an office job. Kinda boring, I’m afraid.”

  He smiled again, but then he leaned his face in closer to me and lowered his voice. “And some days I think of you as the perfect partner. Uninhibited and eager. A woman who loves sex, who knows what she wants in bed and knows how to get it.”

  My throat had gone dry. “That… I could be like that, I guess.”

  He moved in even closer and whispered in my ear. “I think you are like that. Because some days I think of you as my lover. Some days I imagine you fucking me.”

  He drew back and looked at me, his eyes full of desire. I couldn’t breathe and I could barely think. My heart thudded with amazement at what he’d just said.

  And meanwhile, my cunt clenched in response.

  Eventually he said, “I’m staying at this hotel.”

  I held his gaze for a few more moments, blushing. And then I gave him the smallest nod. I don’t know why I did it, but at that moment, it felt right.

  We didn’t look at each other as we walked out of the bar and toward the elevators. There was something absurd about the whole situation but at that moment I didn’t care. All I could think about was the sensation of absolute desire that had overwhelmed me, the instinctual emotional and physical need that emanated from my heart and from my cunt.

  This man, this stranger, wanted to fuck me and I couldn’t wait to return the favor.

  The doors opened on an empty elevator and we casually walked in. Scott pressed the button for floor twelve. It seemed to take forever for the doors to glide shut but the moment they closed he was kissing me, his hands cupping my cheeks, his lips surprisingly soft. He tasted of beer and lust and I felt his cock pressing against me through his jeans, eager and urgent.

  The elevator dinged and the doors opened on floor eight. We quickly pulled apart as another hotel guest entered. I was flushed and felt embarrassed but Scott kept hold of my hand as the doors closed. We rode the rest of the way in silence and then he led me out of the elevator and down the hall, stopping at the door of his room.

  He studied me briefly. “Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked, concern mingling with the heat in his eyes. I only nodded, my heart pounding with excitement.

  The second the door closed we were kissing again, harder and stronger this time. His hands were in my hair and I could smell his masculine scent, a mix of aftershave and lusty sweat. He greedily unbuttoned my shirt and pushed down my bra, his tongue laving across my now-erect nipple. It gave me goose bumps and further awakened the hungry beast of desire that was uncoiling inside me.

  He pushed me back on the soft hotel bed, unzipped and pulled down my jeans and panties, spreading my legs open before dipping his head between my thighs. He licked me with a determined desperation and I responded in kind, moaning and pushing his head into my crotch, skewing his glasses sideways across his face.

  He had imagined me as a wanton, uninhibited sexual goddess. I decided to live up to his fantasy.

  Not that I had to try hard. Every nerve in my body thrummed with desire. My pussy was hot and wet and open for him, throbbing with blood and attuned to every nuance of pleasure. I felt like I could come then and there, without even trying.

  Indeed, I almost did, except that Scott paused and stripped off his own clothing. I lay back, panting, and admired his well-proportioned body with its nicely defined muscles and hairy chest. His cock jutted in front of him like a salute as he rolled on a condom. It curved slightly upward and was delightfully thick. The last thing he removed was his glasses.

  “Come on then,” I said with smoldering eyes. “Fuck me like you imagined fucking me.”

  He practically threw himself on me, his mouth covering mine, his cock sliding easily into my moist cunt. I wrapped my legs around him as he plunged into me, a long groan of pent-up satisfaction escaping him. I wanted to hold him close, to feel his flesh against mine as he fucked me, to connect with him completely.

  Yet after a minute he sat back, pulling out of me. “No,” he said. “I want you on top.”

  I obliged, straddling him and impaling myself on that lovely thick cock. He kept his eyes on me the whole time, watching my body and my face as the sensations flowed through me.

  “How’s this?” I asked. “Is this what you wanted?”

  He nodded and licked his lips. I kissed him then, slowly and passionately, enjoying the feel of his mouth against mine, softness against softness. Part of me felt amazed that he even wanted me, plain old Angie who worked in an office. And yet at that moment I felt exalted by his desire for me.

  And then I began to fuck him hard and fast, reaching down to rub my clit as I moved. His hands moved to my breasts, caressing my nipples as I rode him with my head tossed back. I was QueenAngie, the sex queen, the slut and the goddess in one, the ultimate woman and the perfect partner. I imagined myself as her and, as the pleasure mounted, I became her. Nothing else mattered but this moment and this man, my body a conduit for glory.

  I was already so close, my orgasm didn’t take long to arrive. As if hit by a shower of stars, I was blinded by pure ecstasy, moaning and shuddering with joy, gushing onto his cock.

  “God, you’re beautiful,” he said.

  It was almost too much and I collapsed forward onto him in the aftermath, gasping.

  He continued to fuck me as I nestled against him. Within moments, he came, groaning into my ear. I quickly rose and looked at his face, suffused with so much pleasure. He was utterly vulnerable at that moment, like a lost soul, his handsome face devoid of anything except intense physical delight.

  I realized I wanted to see that again.

  I stayed astride him as the spasms subsided, watching him. Eventually he opened his eyes.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  I smiled and stroked his cheek. “I don’t often come that easily. I should be thanking you.”

  “You were exactly how I imagined.”

  I grinned sardonically. “Well, I have a reputation to live up to. QueenAngie, the Twitter Sex Goddess.” I rolled off and snuggled up to him. “Now, if only I had a phone.”

  “Why?”

  “Gotta tweet my latest review.”

  He looked startled. “You wouldn’t—?”

  I let it hang for a moment, then laughed
. “No. Of course I wouldn’t. Why would I want to share this with anyone else? It’s too perfect. Besides, you can’t put a fuck that good into one hundred and forty characters.”

  He grinned and pulled me closer. “Maybe I should tell the world about you. ‘Geekguy finds woman of his dreams at Tweetup.’”

  I raised my eyebrows. “But we’ve only just met.”

  He shook his head. “No, we haven’t. I know you. I’ve known you for months online. You’re there, being you in everything you write. You’re smart, you’re funny, you’re kind…I’ve admired you for so long. We just have to get to know each other in a physical sense.”

  “Well, we’ve already made a helluva good start.”

  He laughed and rolled out of bed. “Come on. I’m taking you out to dinner. That’s what normal people do, you know. And maybe tomorrow you can introduce me to the frogs.”

  I laughed and got dressed. And then we went on our first date.

  After dinner, I couldn’t help myself. I picked up the phone and added a new update to my Twitter profile.

  Met @geekguy77 at the Tweetup. Nice guy. Says he can cure frog depression. We’ll see.

  EDDIE’S ALL-NIGHT DINER

  K. D. Grace

  I watch a man in a pin-striped suit feed his dressed-for-success colleague lemon meringue pie. What starts as the old I’ll-let-you-taste-mine-if-you-let-me-taste-yours ploy rapidly evolves into oral sex on a fork, tongues darting, lips smacking and teeth just barely grazing the flash of stainless steel as they devour sweet tart creaminess. A generous dollop of meringue topples slo-mo off his fork down into his colleague’s generous cleavage. They both laugh nervously, and she doesn’t decline his help with extricating the offending egg whites. She opens the top button of her blouse and thrusts push-up bra tits against his proffered napkin. It’s clear to me they’d both much prefer he use his tongue.