Best Women's Erotica 2011

by Violet Blue

  Pat’s cock didn’t have the length for her usual trick of wrapping her fist around the shaft as she sucked the tip. Anyway, it felt good to swallow a cock whole. So, she did what Sissy had done before her and wrapped her arms around his middle. When her clothed tits touched his thighs, she pressed her body hard against his. Pat didn’t move. As in conversation, he didn’t say much. He simply sat there and took it all in. That’s the one thing Adele didn’t care for—his lack of enthusiasm. Now he was a challenge. She had to make him come.

  When Elliot’s familiar pre-ejaculatory noises met Adele’s ears, she wanted to look up at him. She wanted to see what little Sissy was doing to her husband that made him moan and squeal. Even his hips writhed beneath the girl—Adele could feel him moving beside her. But she didn’t look up. Her husband’s joy only urged her to bring Pat to orgasm as quickly as she could.

  Holding Pat’s cockhead between her lips, Adele snuck her index and middle fingers on either side of his shaft. She held that fat dick between her fingers like a firm, fleshy cigarette. Keeping tight suction on his tip, she ran her fingers up and down the saliva and lipstick path from the root of his cock up to her lips and back down again. She stroked him fast. It was all she could think to do, and it worked. Pat sighed. His hips urged his fat cock farther into her mouth, and she took it. She took it all in again, and this time he seemed to appreciate it all the more. He thrust his hips. She sucked his cock. She sucked the whole damn thing. She sucked it until Pat shrieked and hissed and thrust his hips beneath her.

  He came in her mouth, and she swallowed his hot cream as fast as she could. It tasted salty and almost tangy. Even with all of her culinary expertise, it was hard to describe the taste of come.

  When she rose from the floor, she didn’t look Pat in the eye. Nerves made her chuckle, but her chest felt tight until Elliot grabbed her by the wrist. He’d already folded his cock neatly into his pants and zipped up his fly. Sissy had taken a seat on the arm of Hue’s chair. In that moment, despite the two other cock-suckers in the room, despite the two other men with lipsticks on their dipsticks, Adele felt perfectly alone with her husband.

  Elliot pulled Adele into his lap and kissed her lips. With a laugh, he said, “You taste like come.” As the others chuckled along, Elliot whispered, “Some way to spend a wedding anniversary.”

  Adele nestled her head against his shoulder and smiled.

  FRESH CANVAS

  Donna George Storey

  Miranda reached toward the buzzer on the imposing oak door, imagining for a moment that her hand belonged to a stranger. The flesh looked so pale and clean, the nails impeccably manicured. Such a dainty hand should never be defiled by the unspeakable things she was about to do.

  She paused, her arm poised in midair like a dancing nymph in a Renaissance painting. Suddenly her fingers seemed to swell and blush, glistening with a dewy sheen.

  Greedy slut!

  Miranda inhaled and stabbed the doorbell with her index finger.

  Sam opened the door with a smile. He always seemed to dress so nicely for these occasions—pressed khakis and a forest green shirt that looked expensive, touchable.

  “Good evening, Miranda. May I take your wrap?”

  She nodded and eased her coat into his waiting arms.

  His old-fashioned courtesy made her want to laugh. Then again he’d always been the perfect gentleman-pervert. Back in college, he’d squired her to the town’s best restaurants for weeks, apparently desiring nothing more than a good night kiss. When he finally invited her back to his dorm room, the first thing he did was tie her hands to his bunk bed with her own panty hose. Then he fucked her with the lights on and made her gaze into his eyes when she came.

  For the six months they were together, he could get her sopping wet just by giving her that same penetrating stare.

  Tonight Sam’s expression was impassive as he took in her tailored gray business suit and crisp white blouse. When his eyes settled on the large bag she carried, he smiled again.

  “We have eight tonight,” he said. “You’re getting quite the reputation, Miranda.”

  “Thanks to you.”

  “On the contrary. I’m merely the discreet host.”

  “You have the paperwork for the new ones?”

  “You can always trust me to have everything in proper order.”

  Miranda pursed her lips. The words men and trust weren’t exactly a happy couple in her mind these days. She had to admit, however, that Sam had managed everything flawlessly from the very beginning. She inclined her head, ever so slightly, and said, “I’ll go get ready now.”

  “Do you need any help?” His eyes glittered.

  “I’ll call you when it’s time to put on the blindfold,” she said over her shoulder.

  The guest room was much the same as she’d left it the week before. A single bed occupied the center of the room like a raft floating on a lake. Today it was fitted out in deep red satin. The sheet was clean but the glossy shine was already fading. She wondered, with a flicker of a smile, how many times it had been washed in the last month.

  Miranda undressed, hanging her suit carefully in the closet and arranging her underwear over hangers as well. Next she emptied the bag on the bed: a peach satin Christian Dior negligee, a box of dental dams, a pearl necklace, the scarf she’d use as her blindfold.

  She could feel her breath coming faster.

  Trying her best to keep her hands steady, she draped the pearls around her neck and fastened the clasp. They were a wedding gift from Tom’s mother. As she shimmied into the floor-length negligee, slit to the thighs on each side, she remembered the leer on Tom’s face when he gave it to her. She forgot exactly when, probably some Valentine’s Day back when he made more money than she did. Both items were expensive. At one time she’d even treasured them.

  They’d be all too easy to let go of now.

  Miranda glanced at herself in the full-length mirror. Again she felt as if she were observing a stranger’s body. The woman standing before her was thin, a melancholy Modigliani rather than a winsome Botticelli. Yet her breasts were still perky and her skin had a rosy glow in the golden lamplight. All in all, she wasn’t too bad for thirty-eight. It helped, no doubt, that she worked out regularly and had never had kids.

  Sometimes disappointments work out for the best in the end.

  Miranda pushed open the guest room door. “Sam?”

  “Be right there,” he called from the kitchen. She thought she caught the clink of ice in a tumbler. She suspected they all enjoyed a cocktail or two to loosen up beforehand. She, on the other hand, liked to stay sharp so she could drink in every last sensation.

  She sat on the bed, the scarf in her lap. Sam walked in purposefully and sat down next to her. Sliding the silk from her hands, he tied it around her eyes with expert skill.

  Everything was blank now. The way she liked it.

  Sam lingered at her side. She could smell the whisky on his breath.

  “Any special requests tonight?” he asked.

  “I’m quite satisfied with the usual.”

  “I noticed.” He leaned in closer. “You know, Miranda, you’ve always been lovely, but since you started coming here for your…treatments…you’ve positively blossomed.”

  Miranda stiffened. It wasn’t that she didn’t love hearing men’s compliments, their intimate confessions of desire. It was one of the reasons she was here tonight. But this was too early, too sweet.

  “I’ve learned a few things since college,” he continued, resting a warm hand on her shoulder. “Can you stay tonight?”

  She swallowed, fighting the urge to shrug him away. Yet deep in her belly, her secret muscles contracted almost painfully, hungry for a taste of him and his new tricks.

  She hadn’t expected the evening to get so sticky this soon.

  At that moment the doorbell rang. They both jumped guiltily, which amused Miranda, because Sam’s proposition was doubtless the most respectable interaction she’d have
with a man tonight.

  “I guess they couldn’t wait to see you.” Sam pulled his hand away. But he seemed to be waiting for her reply.

  “Don’t be rude to our guests,” she murmured.

  The bed creaked in disappointment as he rose. “It’s a standing offer,” he added and pulled the door closed behind him.

  She was alone again, relieved but oddly restless. Yet before long she’d have plenty of company.

  Miranda stretched out on the bed, wriggling to get in a comfortable position. The scritch-scratch of the plastic sheet beneath the satin made her own skin prickle.

  Already the room was palpably warmer.

  Blindness sharpened her other senses, too. She heard Sam greet the new visitors. One voice was familiar, a cheery, joking baritone. The other offered a rumbling introduction and his name, a fake one perhaps? Miranda herself had no name now. In this room, she was only “she” or “her.” She had no idea what they called her out there, to each other, or in their minds as they blocked out a few hours on Thursday evening for a happy hour “client meeting.”

  There’d be five more, if they all came.

  They always did.

  Miranda had Facebook to thank for her new secret life. Searching for the names of old friends and lovers was the perfect way to spend a sleepless night. Eventually she worked back through the years to Sam, who wore his age well in his profile picture, his “single” status as alluring as the fact he lived in the same city. Miranda sent off a mildly provocative message. He responded. Two weeks later—and eighteen years after the last time he trussed her up to his bunk bed—they were chatting over cocktails at the Bourbon & Branch.

  Coincidentally, Sam was going through a divorce, too. They’d both suffered the same indignity: spouses running off with colleagues at the office. But Sam at least had the comfort of a cliché, Miranda had complained to him as the second brandied apple took effect. His wife had gone off with her rich boss. Her rival was older and positively dowdy. Tom said she had a “warm heart,” but that was clearly code for big tits that had lost the battle with gravity. And he was taking on two young stepkids in the bargain, which was no kind of trade-up at all.

  “He doesn’t deserve you,” Sam declared, a twinkle in his eye.

  “Obviously not. But I’m the one left alone in that cold, empty house. I don’t want love now. Maybe never again. But I want—I crave—warmth.”

  She felt her tipsy glow deepen into a blush. How could she be so naked with a virtual stranger?

  “We all want warmth, Mandy,” Sam soothed. “You just have to figure out how to get what you need.”

  “Have you figured that out?”

  “As a matter of fact I have.” His smile took on a wolfish air. “But I’m not sure a card-carrying feminist like you wants to hear the details.”

  “I can take anything you dish out. Don’t you remember?”

  Sam’s grin widened and his fingers brushed hers casually, sending a jolt of lust straight to her pussy.

  “All right, then, I’ll be blunt. I’m not interested in a traditional relationship right now myself, but I always enjoy the company of lovely ladies. So I host sex parties at my house a few times a week. Not on weekends when I have the kids, of course, but my friends are flexible. Sometimes it turns into what you might call an orgy. Tuesdays are lady’s night. That’s the singular. One lady, several men.”

  “A gang bang?” Miranda leaned back in her chair and tried to look cool, belying the hot, fluttery feeling between her legs.

  Sam wrinkled his nose. “Nothing so vulgar. It’s called a bukkake party. The custom’s imported from Japan, although in our version, the lady always calls the shots, so to speak. It’s much more interesting that way.”

  “What’s ‘boo-kah-kay’?” Miranda’s numb lips struggled to pronounce the strange word.

  With a mischievous glint in his eye, Sam proceeded to explain exactly what transpired at his house on Tuesday nights. Apparently, there was a bed with a plastic sheet and something softer to cover it, and the woman knelt or lay down on it. Usually she was naked, but she didn’t have to be, and the men lined up around the bed and…

  Here Miranda instinctively raised her hand to stop the troubling and oddly arousing image taking shape in her mind. “No woman would ever consent to that.”

  Sam laughed. “Actually, they volunteer. I have a waiting list for months. But I’d be happy to arrange a special session for you.”

  “I could never do such a thing,” she insisted, clutching her cold, slippery glass.

  “Miranda, you’re a free woman. You can do anything you want. And I can guarantee you’ll find plenty to warm you in my humble party room.”

  That’s when he took her hand. His flesh was indeed warm and faintly moist. The sensation was a bit…dirty…and yet her fingers immediately relaxed into the heat.

  As if they’d finally found a place to rest.

  That’s how she came to be here in this strange room, splayed out on his bukkake bed for the fourth time in a month. Sam had scheduled a series of Thursday sessions just for her. Each week the number of guests grew.

  Miranda heard more male voices passing below the window—Are you sure they have “events” here? This looks like my mother-in-law’s place….

  From the chuckles, Miranda guessed it was a group of four, maybe five. Which meant they would soon be ready to begin.

  She positioned her arms at her sides, suppressing a shiver. She would feel nothing for now. She was an object. A fresh canvas. Pure and clean.

  And the men, her therapists—Sam was right to call this her “treatment”—they were pure, too. For when is a man ever more honestly himself than the moment when his hot seed shoots out through his cock to find its home?

  The voices were inside the house now, moving closer. The guest room door opened.

  She heard a soft “Whoa, nice,” and a “Pretty tonight.”

  Miranda’s cunt tensed in a spasm so intense she wondered if they could see her muscles jerk through the negligee. She curled her hands around her thighs to steady herself.

  The air around the bed grew thick with the rasp of breathing, the mineral scent of trousers, hints of cumin sweat, crotch musk and palpable excitement.

  Under the blindfold, the room began to spin.

  She sensed a familiar fragrance of woodsy soap moving toward the head of the bed. It was Sam, of course, presiding over the feast like a patriarch at Thanksgiving.

  “I’ll explain the rules again for the benefit of the newcomers,” he began cordially. “No touching unless she requests it, but she likes it when you talk, so say whatever comes into your dirty minds. Don’t expect an answer though. She only speaks to command. There are some bottles of lube over there with the tissues if you want it. Oh, and last but not least, we have a big crowd tonight, so watch your aim. I’ve already gotten this carpet cleaned twice this month.”

  The air above her crackled with laughter.

  “How close can I get?” This voice sounded young, nervous.

  “Need practice with that chip shot?”

  More laughter.

  “Make room for the boy,” a deeper voice called and there was shuffling around the bed, then the purr of zippers, the rustle of cloth.

  In spite of herself—she was just an object after all—Miranda tilted her head back and sighed.

  “She looks good tonight.”

  “Yeah, nice nightgown. A shame to ruin it.”

  Ruin. The very sound of the word made her juice up down there like a drooling baby.

  “Her tits look bigger today.” This voice was Brooklyn. A regular.

  “You must have had too many Manhattans. Or maybe you need your reading glasses?”

  “Fuck off. Tonight I’m gonna come right in that pretty pink valley.”

  “But she’s already got a pearl necklace,” said another, the jocular fellow who was the first to arrive.

  “Women always want more jewelry,” added a smooth voice. Miranda imagi
ned a silk ascot, an overpriced watch.

  That’s right. Talk. Talk dirty to me.

  Miranda felt the sweat rise on her skin. Blank canvas she might be, but her chest was tingling, aching for touch. She cupped her own breasts and flicked the nipples with her thumbs.

  “Fuck, I love to watch them masturbate.” That was Brooklyn again, but the words had a tug-tug rhythm, as if his own hand were busy with a similar task.

  “That’s not masturbation. She’s not fingering her cunt.”

  “She’s turning herself on, asshole, that’s jerking off.”

  “This is jerking off,” grunted an unfamiliar voice, and before she could brace herself, a burning hot volley of spunk sprayed Miranda’s chest from the left, coating her fingers in thick goo.

  For a moment the room was completely still.

  Miranda almost giggled. This happened every time, the breathless pause after the first man shot his load. What did they expect? Indignation? Surprise? How ungentlemanly of you to ejaculate on my breasts, sir?

  Surely the veterans knew what came next. That instead of protesting she would lift her dripping hand to her nose and inhale deeply of the very mystery that brought her here—the intoxicating elixir of summer sunshine and new-mown hay. Miranda drew another deep breath, resisting the urge to taste it. With her clean hand, she grabbed the dental dam at her side and waved it in the general direction of the man who’d baptized her.

  “You, Mr. Early Bird,” she said, assuming the confident V.P.of-marketing tone that served her so well at the office. “Eat my pussy.”