Best Women's Erotica 2012

by Violet Blue

  When I got home that night, there was no pretense, no teasing. I was desperate to come, turned on beyond belief by my meeting with Jonathan. I kept a couple of vibrators in my bedside drawer. One was a discreet little thing that looked more like a computer mouse than a sex toy; designed to apply gentle but insistent stimulation to the clitoris, it never let me down. The other was a beast of a vibrator, longer and thicker than any cock I’d encountered in reality. I’d bought it back in my student days when a friend and I had paid a giggly, “aren’t we daring?” visit to a sex shop, and I had to be really, really aroused to take it without discomfort. Tonight I was ready for it. I reached for the beast and a bottle of lube, getting the thing slippery wet. Gently but firmly, I eased it up inside me, feeling it stretch me to a point that was bordering on painful, but not caring. I needed to be filled. As I got more used to the feel of it, I relaxed, slowly working the dildo in and out while I pictured Jonathan Torrance fucking me, his big body on top of mine and my stocking-clad legs wrapped round his back so he could stroke them. The image was so vivid it was only moments before I was coming, one finger on my clit and the obscenely fat sex toy pushed in me as far as it would go.

  As I lay panting, shattered by the strength of my climax, I knew I had to find out whether sex with Jonathan would be as good as I imagined it. Everything was moving to the point where our relationship would become more than one revolving around talk and tease, I was sure, and I was determined to make it happen sooner rather than later.

  The following Friday, I received an email from Jonathan. “I have something very special for you,” it said, “and I need to see you as soon as possible.” I’d made plans to go out with a couple of girlfriends that night, but nothing that couldn’t easily be put off till another time. I was dying to know what Jonathan’s “something special” was, but I also knew that compared to a night of modeling stockings for him, clubbing with the girls held no appeal.

  I sensed the mood was different the moment I stepped into Jonathan’s hallway. He seemed as excited as a small boy on Christmas morning, and I quickly learned why. He mixed me a sidecar as part of his ongoing quest to educate me about classic cocktails, then reached for a packet that lay on the coffee table.

  “Aristoc Harmony Point.” His tone was hushed, reverent. “These are the Holy Grail of stockings. I’ve been waiting so long to find a pair in your size. You wouldn’t believe how many so-called burlesque dancers I had to outbid to own these.”

  I was reaching for my gloves before he’d even handed the stockings over, not needing to be told to treat these stockings with the respect Jonathan clearly believed they deserved. Having gone through the ritual of removing my everyday stockings, I gently eased the vintage beauties out of their packaging. Aware of Jonathan greedily watching my every move, I slowly rolled them up my legs and clipped them into place. The sheer, silky material, in a shade of gray the packaging described as Gentle Smoke, hugged the contours of my legs beautifully. I didn’t even have to glance up to know Jonathan approved of the sight.

  Down came my skirt, to give Jonathan an uninterrupted view of my stocking tops. He sighed. “Oh, yes. Pose for me, Charlotte. Show those wonderful stockings off.”

  I did as he asked, twisting on his sofa to display the hosiery to best effect. I was sure I wasn’t as poised or as supple as Natalia, the former ballerina, had been when she’d modeled for Jonathan, but I hoped he was enjoying my efforts.

  “I want you to do something for me,” Jonathan said. “I want you to take your knickers off.”

  I hurried to obey, wondering if he’d been saving this request until he was in possession of a pair of Harmony Point stockings. Letting my knickers drop to the floor, I went to stand close to him, so he could get a good look at my bushy pussy, framed by the thick suspender straps.

  As I’d expected, he’d opened his fly and freed his cock. Gazing at his mouthwatering erection, I couldn’t hold back any longer. We’d been playing this game for months now, and I was more than ready to take it to the next level.

  Straddling Jonathan’s lap, I caught hold of his hand, keeping his cock nice and steady so I could sink down on to it. “Charlotte, please,” he murmured. I put my finger to his lips, wriggling till he was lodged snugly inside me. He felt as though he belonged there, and I began to fuck him, shifting up and down slowly.

  “Touch my beautiful stockings,” I urged him, placing his hands on my thighs so he could do just that. He seemed a little reluctant at first, but as I rocked faster he started to move with me. His hands moved from my legs to my bumcheeks, pulling me down harder on to his cock. Occasionally, I felt the cold teeth of his zip against my tender flesh, but it just added to the thrill. There was something deliciously decadent about fucking a man who hadn’t even undressed, who just had his cock poking out of his trousers, and I was relishing it. The stockings were making sensual slithery noises as they rubbed against his legs, and I pressed my mouth to his in a hard, probing kiss. I was in charge here, Jonathan following my lead as we both moved to orgasm. I dropped a hand between my legs so I could stroke my clit. Fiery sparks shot through me, and I closed my eyes and surrendered to my climax. If I’d had the strength, I would have climbed off Jonathan so that when he came, I could direct his spunk over my stockings, but all I could do was cling to him as he bucked and groaned, ejaculating up into me.

  When I finally let his cock slip out of me, I made to kiss him again, but he pushed me away.

  “How could you?” he asked. “I never asked you to fuck me.”

  “But you didn’t exactly say no,” I replied. “You can’t tell me you didn’t enjoy that. I mean, didn’t you fuck Natalia, and the other girls you paid to wear stockings for you?”

  To my surprise, he shook his head. “Never. That was the arrangement we had. It was never about sex, Charlotte. It was about the stockings. They understood that. I thought you did, too.”

  So this is it, I thought, as I got dressed. This is where it ends. Confused as I was by what had just happened, I still made sure to fold his precious stockings neatly, fearful of laddering them. How ironic that when this all started, I’d never intended to have sex with him. I’d never intended to develop any kind of attachment to him; I was simply going to get the material I needed for my book, then walk away. Instead, I’d got hooked. Hooked on the game. More importantly, hooked on him. I knew now why things had always moved at his pace; because I hadn’t been the one in control, no matter what I thought. Jonathan had, and because that hadn’t been enough for me, I’d crossed the line. We couldn’t go back to the way things had been before, I was sure of that.

  As I quietly closed the front door behind me, I realized I didn’t even care about the wretched book. All I cared about was Jonathan, and now I’d lost him.

  For weeks after that, I couldn’t bear even to look at a pair of stockings. I pushed my Forties outfits and vintage underwear to the back of the wardrobe, and took to dressing in little strappy tops and jeans, the outfits I’d favored before I met Jonathan. I went on a couple of dates with one of my flatmate’s friends, but my heart wasn’t in it. I’d got off on the thrill of dressing for Jonathan, of posing for him, of being part of his all-consuming fetish, and now there was a big hole in my life I didn’t see any other man ever filling.

  Then I came home one evening to find a small, flat package in the post, addressed in handwriting I didn’t recognize. I opened it to find a pair of Harmony Point stockings in my size. There was a note. “Charlotte, I’ve been foolish. I thought I only needed the stockings, but I realize now I need what we had—what we still could have. I’ll understand if you send these back unworn, but I would very, very much prefer it if you walked through my door with them adorning your perfect pins. I’ll be waiting. Jonathan.”

  I hugged the stockings to my chest. If I hurried, I could be to Jonathan’s by eight. Thanking whichever deity decides that sometimes people deserve a second chance, I went to hunt for my suspender belt.

  A BIG DECK

/>   Rosalía Zizzo

  “POKER NIGHT!” Angela hears male shouting, beer bottles clanging and chairs skidding across the floor as the usual crew settles in one Friday night for a routine game of cards. She passes through the foyer and into the dining area where everyone is preparing to get drunk, make some money and have a great time—very much like last week’s affair. And the week before that. Inhaling deeply, Angela pulls a chair out and slides quietly into the seat, realizing she is the only female again amidst a horde of men who have been marinated in testosterone. Get ready, she thinks. You’ve always fit in. Always. Even with Scott in the room. Scott is really the reason she returns each week, with freshly shaven, moisturized legs and a churning stomach. He’s the reason for dabbing on a wee bit of rose-colored lipstick and for wearing an informal floral skirt, flared around the thighs, to an event that calls for jeans. And he’s the reason for that spritz of perfume as she’s heading out the door.

  Charlie sits in the dealer seat as always, Larry next to him, then silent Jackson, and then the man of her fantasies, Scott—the ringleader of Friday’s three-ring circus—who sits smiling up at her, revealing clean, white teeth. She glances at those soft hands she imagines cupping her upturned face to lift her lips to his. She takes a deep breath and looks under her lashes at him, the hunky alpha male with green eyes and sandy-blond hair, and tries hard not to picture him without clothes.

  “Hey, Mr. Modesty. How’s the big deck?” Angela says and meets Scott’s eyes, gazing directly into them with a closed-mouth smile. She’s pointing out his unintended reference to his large stack of cards last week, and she chuckles quietly—ignoring her skipping heartbeat while slyly smirking at the intended pun and at Scott’s shocked expression. His growing pink flush belies his traditionally cocky attitude she sees every Friday at poker night. In the past, just like today, she feels that twang zap her gut every time she looks in his direction and sees his strong jaw and smooth, rounded muscles. Charlie continues dealing over the snorts and snickers and arms reaching for handfuls of pretzels and chips. The guys appreciate that Angela behaves like one of them, and although she remains unaware of his interest, Scott enjoys the fact that Angela’s long, dark hair and dark eyes, not to mention her smooth, tan legs, add an air of mystery to their otherwise masculine evening.

  “Ohhh,” the guys shout in unison. After fidgeting and attempting composure, Scott fans out his cards in front of his face like a shield. He doesn’t normally let anything get to him, especially a woman, so he quickly puffs himself up with that illusory, macho strength by lifting his chin and squaring his shoulders. He takes a brusque swig of beer and lowers the bottle, pounding it onto the table. Angela is prepared to see him thump on his chest with his fists like an ape.

  Uncrossing her legs and holding her beer bottle like a cock, Angela swallows a gulp of her drink while lifting the cards Charlie has dealt her. Scanning each card as she puts it into her hand, she runs her tongue over the lips of a crooked smile, looking very much like an Italian painting. She exhales for a full three seconds before straightening her back and lifting her shoulders higher, which makes her feel stronger with each passing minute. Lifting her eyes over her cards, she then asks, “Have you played with your big deck lately?” The crowd pauses only briefly, then hoots again while considering its cards. Looking at Scott’s surprised reaction to her newly found, audacious humor, she reaches across the table quickly to pet his hand that has loosened and threatens to drop the cards onto the smudged wood. If she felt bold enough, she’d even pull him to her mouth so she could taste the drink from his lips. Oh, gawd.

  Crossing her legs again, she grabs a couple of pretzels and brings them to her grinning mouth, poking her tongue out to taste the salt crystals that cover every curlicue. She pops one in her mouth and crunches, still grinning like a cat. After nudging Scott’s arm with her elbow, she tilts her head back and tosses her hair while sweeping a few tendrils away from her face.

  “Well…uh…” Scott stammers.

  “Are we playing with it tonight, Scotty?” shouts someone in a Scottish accent. Everybody laughs. It’s the joke that keeps on giving, like the Energizer Bunny that keeps on clanging, even after a week has gone by. The guys slug each other in the shoulder and grab their own crotches, begging Scott to whip it out.

  He mumbles something about Angela while glancing at her, confused. “What’s gotten into you?” He sees her looking coyly at him from the corner of her eye, tucking her chin into her shoulder and hiding so that an explosive laugh doesn’t escape her throat. Tiny beads of sweat appear at his temples. “Deck. I said, ‘DECK’ and I meant to say, ‘deck.’” He can’t keep the unusual whine out of his voice, which makes Charlie slam his beer down on the table before letting loose a loud guffaw that sends the rest of the gang into fits of laughter.

  “So we’re not playing with your big deck tonight?” Charlie glances above his own fanned cards, causing Angela to clap her hand over her mouth to prevent a burst of beer from spewing out.

  “Aw, Scott. I’m sure you’ve got a handle on the situation, man. A FIRM grip.” More laughter.

  “Yeah. I know it must be HARD, but I think you have a HANDle on the situation.”

  “A FIRM hand.”

  “With a STROKE of luck, you could be an up and COMing senator,” chimes in Larry.

  “The tension is GROWING THICKer as we speak.”

  “You guys all have dirty minds.”

  Immediately, a male chimes in. “Of course we do, but I don’t think you realized Angela had one, too.” The more he fights it, the harder they rib him.

  Watching such a gorgeous man squirm fills Angela with a deep sense of satisfaction. She feels the corners of her mouth turn upward as she swings her gaze in his direction. Maybe it is because he always looks so perfect, acts so superior and makes her feel so pitiful in his mighty presence whenever she is around him. Maybe the camaraderie of the group gives her the necessary strength. And maybe she just wants to see him prove to the crowd he has an item worthy of unquestionable praise.

  Fantasies about feeling that velvety soft skin on her tongue swirl in her mind. She wants to lick the tip, tease the opening and taste the salt oozing from the hole. She even feels the heat rush through her stomach, move north to her cheeks and south to her pussy so that it opens and drips moisture into her panties.

  She wiggles in her seat to stop the arousal, but it only increases her desire. She wants to hold the base of his cock and aim it toward her mouth so badly she feels butterflies gathering in her stomach as she swallows a mouthful of beer. I want it now.

  “Okay. Okay. Let’s get the game started. Let’s play cards,” she demands.

  And then…he shakes his head and arms as if preparing for a wrestling match or a battle. Dropping his head right to his shoulder with a crack, then left, and popping his knuckles one by one, he manually shivers up his body. His eyes darken and his face converts back into the confident man they all know and Angela is used to. You can see the transformation take place like in a sci-fi movie when a beast converts back to its original human form…or the reverse.

  “Let’s play,” he growls.

  After an hour of turning over her meager fortune to the tribe of hooting cave dwellers, Angela throws in the towel, exhaling loudly.

  “Looks like you lack the funds for witnessing my enormous manhood.” He exaggerates a pout, giving her a look of superiority. “Too bad. So sad.” Turning his laughing face to the ceiling, Scott tiptoes his fingers down Angela’s forearm, grabs her hand and places it on his thigh, close to his rigid crotch.

  “Oh, go fuck yourself,” Angela says, as if offended, quickly yanking her hand away.

  “I think I’d rather fuck YOU.” He gives her a devilish look.

  Oh no. He’s doing it again. Her gut ties in knots. “I think I’m worthy of a little clemency,” she states defiantly. “I’m the queen of this group, after all.” Her strength amazes her.

  “Yes, your hotness; I mean, highness.” Scot
t displays his upturned palm and bows to a smirking Angela. “Shall I provide a throne?” He laughs. His upturned palm sweeps across the air. “It’s in the bathroom.”

  Angela rolls her eyes.

  “Show ’em,” orders Charlie to a flurry of hands dropping their cards for all to see. “A pair of kings.”

  “Squat.”

  “Ace high.”

  “Three-of-a-kind.”

  “Uh, well, that’s it for me,” groans Angela. She flops her cards on the table. “I’ve got absolutely nothing. And I’m out of money. My wallet is a pocketful of lint. Anyone care to front me some cash?” She looks hopefully around the table, batting her lashes and pulling down a bit of shirt to expose her bare shoulder. Silence. Just as she sighs and gives up, reaching to the ground beside her chair to whisk her purse out the door, Scott catches her wrist.

  “Is it time to make it more interesting?” He looks from man to man. “Angela’s out of cash. Whatever shall we do?” He drips sarcasm from his mouth while clapping his palms on his cheeks, leaving a slapping noise and forming an O with his lips. All the men turn to him.

  “Interesting how?” Charlie edges closer to Scott, elbows on the table. Scott displays a gleaming set of teeth that sparkle on a face that doesn’t try to hide his mischief.

  “Well…” He rubs his palms together. His eyes glimmer.

  “Oh, never mind. I’m outta here.” Angela turns to go, but Scott catches her arm again.

  “Don’t be scared. If we play an alternative to strip poker, you can make all your money back.” He notices her shaking head. “No no no. Stop acting innocent already,” he commands with a voice that could bring even the queen to her knees. “I know you’re both a voyeur and an exhibitionist.” Angela starts to deny it, but Scott cuts her off. “You’ve been looking at my crotch all evening, joking about it, and you relentlessly flirt and show your skin, so what’ll it be?”