Best Women's Erotica 2012

by Violet Blue

  The place is particularly crowded, and no one notices me squirming in the corner booth, with my imagination fanning the flames, inventing numerous scenarios to fit the covert business meeting that brings this pair to Eddie’s All-Night Diner after hours. Their briefcases are still in tow; their BlackBerries are perched on the table at the ready. But they’re sitting side by side instead of across from each other. Clearly the unprofessional invasion of personal space doesn’t concern them. But it very much concerns me. Amazing how slick Naugahyde gets beneath an excited bare cunt.

  Once the cleavage is de-meringued and the pie is eaten, Mr. and Ms. Fortune 500 don’t linger long enough to actually get me off. But I’ve seen enough to start my pussy buzzing at a low, moist thrum. I’m not exactly horned out, but I’m definitely feeling the love.

  As one might deduce from the name, Eddie’s All-Night Diner isn’t listed in the Michelin Guide. That’s fine by me. I’ll be the first to admit I’m a philistine where food is concerned. I don’t think so much about how food tastes as I do about how food is eaten and the context in which it’s enjoyed—or not.

  Eddie’s is all about context. Interesting people come to Eddie’s after everything else in the city closes up for the night, and they bring their interesting contexts along with them. Add that to the fact that people tend to be a little off their guard in the wee hours, and let the entertainment begin!

  You can learn a lot about a person by watching him eat—if you’re discreet, that is. People get uncomfortable when someone ogles them while they shovel in their eggs, or sculpt their mashed potatoes with a spoon or cut up their spaghetti Bolognese with a fork. But I have great peripheral vision, which makes me an expert at discretion.

  All the waitresses know I’m a night owl and that I tip well, so they’re happy to leave me to it when I show up with some random magazine or a novel that I know full well I’ll only pretend to read because nothing in a magazine or a novel can compare to the entertainment on Eddie’s menu.

  I always arrive a little before ten, just before the theaters and cinemas let out. The club crowd comes later, but I have no place else to be, so I can wait. Tonight’s special is ribs, but I order a toasted cheese sandwich, something I can eat with one hand, something that won’t distract me.

  I watch the wilted couples pour in off the steamy summer street. I listen as they heave collective sighs of relief at that first breath of the air conditioner against the sweaty backs of their necks. Those people who share menus, I watch with special interest. They’re more likely to wrap themselves around each other, using the experience of choosing food as an opportunity to grope. They’re more likely to feed each other ice cream and Banoffee pie and playfully snatch fries and prawns from each others’ plate. They’re also more likely to partake of dessert not offered on the menu.

  In the booth to my left I take in the peripheral show as a young redhead wraps darkly painted lips around a straw and draws up a slow, thick mouthful of vanilla shake with a prolonged slurp. Her date’s wearing an oversized Oregon State T-shirt in an effort to look bulkier, but it just makes him look sloppy. He shifts in his seat, his eyes locked on hers. But I’m betting his peripheral vision is at least as good as mine. I’m betting he’s actually admiring the way the tops of her tits peek from under her plunging neckline all ripe, round fruit-like. I’m betting he’s hoping her nipples will actually succeed in their magnificent attempt to drill through her blouse in the heavy air-conditioning. I’m betting he’s thinking how much more tasty they’d be than the cheeseburger and the fries he’s drowned under half a bottle of catsup.

  I drop my napkin on the floor and duck beneath the table for a peek. As I suspected, his hand is shifting almost imperceptibly against the swelling front of his jeans, assurance that I’m right about his peripheral vision. Above deck he’s stuffing fries and burger in his mouth in a feeding frenzy. No doubt he’ll need lots of energy if he gets what he’s hoping for. She’s nibbling her fries all dainty-like, licking the dribbles of catsup from the underside with delicate pink flicks of her tongue. I wonder if the grand finale will be at his house or hers, or maybe they live in the dorms, and their fellow students will hear them grunting and thrusting through the thin walls and maybe enjoy a bit of secondary sex while they listen.

  I shift in my seat and feel the grab of vinyl against bare skin. I always wear a short flip skirt and no panties when I visit Eddie’s. That’s my uniform. I pride myself on being an expert at stealth orgasms. My technique is more efficient without panties. I don’t usually wear a bra either. My tits aren’t big, but they’re not small, and they’re quite heavy. When I’m braless, I notice just how heavy they are, how they tug and pull at my chest like they’re demanding my full attention, like they won’t give up until they get it. But I always wear something loose. After all, I don’t go to Eddie’s to draw attention to myself.

  I’ve long since finished my toasted cheese. On an impulse, I order the raspberry crème brûlée from the waitress and turn my attention back to the redhead and her burgeoning boyfriend.

  He looks like he’s about to burst. His hand is now press-press-pressing against his bulge. I don’t have to look under the table again to know. I can see the subtle but rhythmic tensing of the muscles of his forearms and the way he holds his back stiff, letting his fingers do the walking. Oh, he’s found the sweet spot, all right. My pussy quivers. Maybe he can’t wait. Maybe he’ll shove that sassy little miniskirt up over Red’s pert round bottom right here in the alley behind Eddie’s. Maybe he’ll twiddle the fat lips of her pussy until she’s open and wet and begging for it. Maybe with her braced against the wall, he’ll shove right in, give her a good, hard jack hammering and take a load off.

  “May I share your table?”

  I jump at the unexpected intrusion and jerk my guilty peripherals away from the couple.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you, are you all right?” The voice is a resonant baritone that I could easily curl up and purr in.

  “Fine,” I say, and I find myself looking up, and up, and up at a mountain of a man. Not fat, mind you—far from it. He’s well proportioned and displayed in a muscle shirt stretched over—well—big muscles, tight muscles, muscles that set everything beneath my skirt aquiver. He carries a rolled-up newspaper tucked under his arm. He wears loose-fitting summer shorts that come just to his knees and a pair of Birkenstocks the size of small cruise ships. I have never seen feet so big. I know it’s cliché, but I can’t help wondering just how well proportioned he really is. I nod to the other side of my booth and offer a polite smile. There are other tables available. But it doesn’t matter. I’m intrigued by the size of his Birkenstocks.

  His long legs jostle mine as he sits down, offering an embarrassed apology. My stomach does a pirouette. The brush of flesh against flesh is something I’m quite familiar with here at Eddie’s, but I’ve never actually felt it myself. I pretend to find my place in the copy of Anna Karenina I’ve been bringing with me for the past month, then I pretend to lose myself in the story. He opens the menu flat on the table and leans over it, one thick finger following down the list of entrées. He’s leaned over the table so far that he’s practically engulfing it. Just a little sniff and I catch the scent of high summer and man-heat in his hair, and I feel ripples low in my belly.

  “What’ll you have?”

  I start at the sound of the waitress’s bored voice.

  “I’ll have the ribs,” he says.

  The combined stares of my table companion and the waitress are my clue that the little whimper I thought was only mental has actually made its way past my lips and out into the public domain.

  “Sorry,” I say nodding down to the open pages of my novel. “Very moving.”

  He gives me a look that might be sympathetic. The waitress only shoves her pad in her apron and strides back to the counter with the man’s order—the order for ribs.

  Nothing is more revealing about a person than the way he eats ribs. I would never touch
them. I’d just feel too vulnerable. The man with the huge Birkenstocks is going to sit right here in front of the queen of food intuition and expose himself.

  I can’t believe my luck.

  But then it hits me. I’m not watching him safely from a corner somewhere. How stealthy can I be when the man is practically sitting on my lap?

  He pushes aside the menu, opens his paper flat on the table and starts to read like it’s no big deal.

  There are tables full of people all around us. They’re all eating and drinking and exposing themselves to me, but suddenly all I notice is the man sitting across from me, occasionally brushing my knee with his.

  My crème brûlée arrives and I stare down at it, suddenly too timid to crack the burnt sugar shell and wriggle my spoon down through the smooth creaminess to the tart, plump raspberries at the bottom.

  “Looks good,” he says, smiling up at me.

  Just then his ribs arrive—a mountain of ribs, slathered in rich, savory barbeque sauce, steam rising in little swirls like a bevy of miniature dancing girls wafting their way upward. The waitress slaps down a couple of extra napkins and a plate for the bones and leaves us to it.

  When she’s gone I force a smile. “Those look good too.” My voice sounds breathless and thin, like it’s gone off to chase after the rib-scented dancing girls.

  “I love ribs,” he says. “I love food I can eat with my fingers, food it’s all right to be messy with.”

  I barely manage to suppress another whimper, and my pussy suddenly feels as sticky as the ribs.

  “Bon appétit,” he says, nodding to my crème brûlée.

  “Bon appétit,” I manage to rasp.

  He lifts the biggest, thickest, most succulent rib to his lips, one sopping with barbeque sauce and dripping with juice. Then he bites into the steamy meaty side of it, his gaze never leaving mine. I give the burnt sugar shell of my crème brûlée a sharp rap with my spoon, unable to take my eyes of the catlike way his tongue snakes up the bone, the way his teeth peel back the meat, the way the juice drips down his fingers and his chin, all so unselfconsciously done, all so deliciously carnivorous. A meat-eater through and through, a primal force to be reckoned with: my god, he’s magnificent!

  As he tosses the spent bone onto the extra plate and lifts a second rib to his lips, I mirror his actions with my first spoonful of crème brûlée, rich and velvety with just the tip of a single raspberry peaking out from under the crème like a tart, pink nipple. He laps the droplets of meat juice and sauce from the end of the rib just before it can drip onto the table, catching the dribble that slides down his chin on the end of his finger, which he shoves into his mouth, licking and sucking all the way to his knuckle.

  I gasp, and he raises a questioning eyebrow.

  “Good. It’s good,” I force my breathless voice around a creamy mouthful.

  He nods his agreement with a juicy smile and a flutter of dark lashes.

  I eat my dessert in big, lusty bites, swallowing down the texture of cream and the tang of raspberry overlaid by the bite of burnt sugar. He’s like a lion at the kill. I half expect him to snarl as he rips the meat from the bone. Just when I’m beginning to suspect that for him, the pleasure of meat is a total body experience, I realize he’s watching me watch him eat. He’s watching me rock and shift against the Naugahyde seat with the ecstatic pleasure of the overall experience.

  I freeze. A flash of heat rises to my face like the air conditioner is suddenly blowing hot air. Carefully, I lay down my spoon and wipe the corners of my mouth demurely.

  He offers a lazy smile, tosses aside another bone and wipes his mouth, before lowering the napkin back into his lap. “You enjoy food, don’t you?”

  I blush harder. “I might say the same about you.”

  His smile expands to a soft chuckle. “You can learn so much about people by watching them eat. Don’t you agree?”

  My stomach somersaults. Has he read my mind? I’ve always thought watching people eat was almost like reading their minds, but I thought that was my little secret. And granted the choice of the crème brûlée was a bit flashy on my part, but I never imagined someone would actually watch me eat.

  His knee, which has been resting lightly against the outside of mine, shifts and maneuvers until it’s positioned between my legs, and I catch my breath with the delicious impropriety of it. But he just continues eating like it’s no big deal. He’s gnawing and slurping and licking and all the while his knee is gently rubbing against the inside of mine.

  I’m in the middle of a luscious creamy mouthful when I feel his leg withdraw. Then he shifts slightly in the booth without missing a beat in his efficient devouring of ribs, and before I know it, his knee has been replaced by his warm, bare foot. It snakes its way up the inside of my thigh, pushing and scrunching my skirt ahead of it as it goes. He seems to be completely focused on his ribs, nipping and ripping and making yummy little animal sounds, almost as though he’s completely unaware of what his very naughty foot is doing under the table.

  I’m a captive audience. And after all this time, all my observations and fantasies at Eddie’s All-Night Diner come home to roost, right between my legs. Under the table I rearrange my skirt and shift my bottom, opening my legs a little wider until I’m sure the approach is clear, all the while eating crème brûlée like nobody’s business.

  He makes circular motions high on the inside of my thigh with long, expressive toes. I’m glad the noisy clatter of dishes and the babble of a full house cover my involuntary gasps and sighs. Here I am acting like one of them, one of those people I quietly and smugly observe night in, night out. But I forget all about that when the ball of his foot presses against my mons, caressing my tightly trimmed curls, gently tap-tap-tapping against my pubic bone. And all the while he’s chomping and gnawing like king carnivore himself come to feast.

  I run my tongue over the bottom of the spoon, slurping back a mouthful of brûlée goodness, and I imagine doing the same to his cock. I wonder just how much of it I could fit into my mouth. Surely he must be hard and uncomfortable. Surely he must be aching for some relief. He shifts against the booth and grunts softly, almost as though he’s read my thoughts again. Then his big toe dips to circle my clit, and I practically bounce off the seat, barely managing to collect myself as the waitress comes by to refill our water glasses. A little more maneuvering and he’s tweaking me between his big toe and the second toe. It’s almost like he’s got a third set of fingers under the table fiddling between my legs like they know their way around the place.

  I can’t reach his cock. My legs aren’t long enough. I’ll have to rely on visual stimulation. With the hand not shoveling dessert into my mouth, I reach up under my blouse and play with my tits. They feel so stretched and heavy, like they’re trying to get to him. I pinch my nipples until they’re as big as the raspberries in my crème brûlée, and he watches like he has X-ray vision. The toe dance intensifies and his Schwarzenegger pecs rise and fall as though eating ribs has suddenly become hard labor.

  I shamelessly undo the front of my blouse, watching his eyes get bigger and bigger with each button. And when the waitress’s back is turned and I’m pretty sure no one’s looking, I let the blouse gape open. I knead and cup and pinch until I can see his pulse hammering against his temples, and his chest is heaving so hard I fear he’ll rip the seams out of the muscle shirt like he’s the Incredible Hulk.

  He shifts and maneuvers, and with a tight, sharp thrust, suddenly his big toe pushes into my grudging pussy, and goddamned if it isn’t almost as big as the average cock! Or at least that’s how if feels all thrust up inside me.

  “Messy business, ribs,” I rasp. My pussy clenches tight around his toe and I wince as he slips in a second. “So juicy.” I force the words between gritted teeth.

  “I told you, I like messy food.” He finds his rhythm. It’s a subtle rhythm, a rhythm no one else notices, though I’d like to think I would have noticed if it had been happening to someone else.
The tight rocking and straining of his hips convinces me that I may not be the only one skilled in the art of stealth orgasms. With amazing finesse, he eases yet another toe into my dilating pout, and I’m suddenly so full, I feel like I’ll split in two. But I just keep pressing harder and harder onto him because I can’t help myself, because I’ve never been foot-fucked before and because he’s just so damned, deliciously huge! I can feel the connection between our bodies, I can feel the shifting of his weight from one buttock to the other and I can almost hear the slurping of my wet cunt grasping at his toes, hungrily sucking in every bit of him until there’s absolutely no room for more.

  He stops eating ribs. I stop eating crème brulee. His face is red, and I’m sure mine is too. I’m grinding against him like I’m riding a big horse and his muscles go so tight I fear he’ll strain something, and god what I wouldn’t give for a peek under the table.

  The tightly swallowed yelp is mine as my pussy convulses and I feel the orgasm exploding all the way up through the crown of my head. The groan wrapped in baritone silk is his. His face scrunches briefly, and he inhales sharply like he’s in pain, then I feel something warm and sticky against my knee and the top of my bare thigh.

  We both sit stunned as the waitress approaches to refill our coffee cups. “I think I’ll need a few more napkins,” he says sweetly to the woman. He doesn’t sound at all like someone who’s just shot his load under the table on the bare thigh of a stranger in an all-night diner.

  From her apron pocket, the waitress hurriedly slaps down enough napkins to paper the walls of the ladies room and trots off to wait on a party of eight two tables down.

  When he’s sure she’s gone, he takes several napkins from the stack and proceeds to wipe his cock like it’s no big deal. The man is actually wiping his cock under the table with half his foot still buried in my cunt. The very thought makes my pussy grasp and twitch again. Considerately he waits until I stop spasming before slowly, one at a time, he slips his toes out from between my pussy lips and offers a little nod of his head to the stack of napkins.