Best Women's Erotica 2010

by Violet Blue

  I couldn’t see back there but judging by Marty’s reaction under us, I could only draw one conclusion: Mr. Burgen had taken possession of Marty’s cock in the only way he could.

  He lifted me then. I felt the muscles in his chest and arms bunch and I rose up until just the head of his cock was inside me. Then, as I started my descent, he rose to meet me and his cock slammed home in my cunt. I looked over my shoulder then as his cock withdrew, and heard his sharp intake of breath as he lowered himself all the way down onto Marty’s cock. It was too much. I almost came just thinking about it, that he was man enough to just take what he wanted instead of waiting around for someone to give it to him. He fucked us both then, just like that. He fucked us the same way he did everything: with a strong, smooth, inescapable power.

  I went to work on my clit. My other hand sandwiched one of Mr. Burgen’s sandpaper palms against my boob and urged it to be rougher. He ran with the idea and sank his teeth into my shoulder. Then with one final, savage thrust he ordered me to come and, ever the obedient student, I did. I ground down onto his thick cock as the contraction ripped up through my guts and found its way out my throat as a breathy groan. He held me there, spread painfully around his cock, and I thought for a second he had turned to stone. Everything about him went rock hard and tight and I felt sure one of us was going to tear something. Marty moaned and bucked underneath us and then with a grunt and a shudder, Mr. Burgen breathed again and I felt the weight of him sag against my back.

  I leaned back against his chest until the last ripples subsided and my head lolled back against his shoulder. I could have stayed there for eternity, if it weren’t for arthritis and shrapnel.

  “Let me up, Cat. Bloody knees are killing me.”

  Well, a statement like that would never have made the cut in the fantasy screening, but the rest was saved in rich, vibrant detail and filed away for future reference. I still don’t know if the psycho-soldier attack was real or just a scarily authentic fabrication designed solely to get into my pants. It doesn’t matter either way.

  It worked.

  TIMBRE

  Angela Caperton

  Work. Thank all the gods and devils. The sound of someone else’s problems would drown mine to silence.

  I’d stopped by the post office that evening to get my mail: bank and credit card statements, worthless sales ads from stores I would never shop in, a sickly amusing promotion to reduce my mortgage payments, and two padded envelopes. Those were pay dirt.

  I squinted to read the return address by the dull glow of the fairy lights strung up along the cockpit railing of the boat—which also served as my home. The first envelope came from M.V.—Chesapeake Bay. Max. Another surveillance tape, hopefully minus the loud cracking and popping from inside a nervous man’s jacket pocket. My ears rang for two days after finishing Max’s last transcription job. I shrugged and set it aside. Long or short, Max paid fast and well. If I finished the transcription by Thursday, I’d have money in the bank before the marina demanded my slip rental.

  I lifted the other envelope and looked at the neat block printing of the return address. R.K., and a post office box.

  Port Orange, just twenty miles south.

  Most of my in-state work came from Jacksonville or Tampa, the post office boxes not so discrete in hiding their federal court-house connections, and my fees deposited into my online account without a quibble confirmed my suspicions.

  Port Orange. Local flavor. Maybe it would help snap me out of my funk.

  A month earlier, the best relationship I ever had ended with a handshake, if you can believe it. I had stood in the cockpit of Aunt-Sea and watched Leonard walk up the dock to where his truck waited. My heart had ached when I looked at the little rental trailer hitched to the back of his F150. In spite of the friendly farewell, my heart sagged with guilt and loss. Why not? Leonard was a good man, strong and hardworking, with goals and ambitions that paved the path before him with perfect square bricks.

  Maybe that was part of my problem with him—those square bricks. I liked sharp, unpredictable edges, different shapes, sizes, color. I wanted variety, to look beyond the blueprints and see possibilities, to glue chips of light and shadow fearlessly into a mosaic uniquely my own.

  Leonard wanted a wife and home, maybe even children, although at my age conception and pregnancy would be an adventure of an entirely different sort. His fading patience at my lack of enthusiasm for even the most minor domestic trapping manifested itself in uncommon brooding and increased focus on his work.

  For years we had been practically inseparable, our hands clasped, our lips locked, each body responding to little more than a look from the other. Just a week before the good-bye, we drank wine in the cockpit at sunset, staring at the brilliant oranges and reds of twilight reflecting off the bay, silent.

  He’d asked me to go with him, to leave Aunt-Sea and move to New Orleans with him. They needed good carpenters with experience in restoring historical buildings and antiques. He’d talked about going there practically before the water had receded post-Katrina. He’d made the commitment, sold his home, packed up his possessions to start a new life—with or without me.

  “Petra, come with me. You can do your work anywhere. Your brother’s in Rotterdam, and your niece is a fucking junior at NYU. There’s nothing here for you.” This had gushed out of him after he told me he was leaving for New Orleans in less than a month. He didn’t need to say more. I knew him well enough to know what had remained unspoken. He wanted me to marry him, fit those last bricks into the frame of his path.

  And that part of me that loved him yearned to give in, and that part of me that had once given beyond reason stabbed me in the lungs and threatened my life if I did.

  Survival instinct won.

  So cradling Port Orange in my lap, I got comfortable in the cockpit of the fifty-two-foot ketch I’d bought after my father’s death, and stared blindly at the deep reds and purples of sunset, drinking a bottle of cabernet I’d opened before the phone call. It had been a month since Leonard’s departure. He called twice, once to tell me he’d arrived in N.O. in working order, and then two hours ago, his voice slightly stilted from alcohol—bourbon, I’d bet—the pauses between tight sentences painfully long. I knew my good-bye was the last I’d have to give.

  I drained the last of the wine in a final numb gulp and tried to focus on the work the day’s mail had brought me. My name, Petra Arin—Pete to my friends and regular customers—had become synonymous with fast, accurate transcription and confidentiality. What passed by my ears only went one place—the transcription file. It didn’t hurt that I was also willing to work insane hours to get a job done fast. I didn’t need to advertise. The Maxes of the world passed my name and website address around. I was known as a commodity who would transcribe wax discs if that’s what had been the chosen recording media—and I didn’t fuss as to the content. I could speak and write three foreign languages and could translate “fuck off” in six more. I’ve heard recorded conversations between criminal bosses and hired heat, and I have listened to the most intimate moments of more affairs than I can count. Authors and wannabes send me tapes and CDs of their masterpieces to turn their streams of consciousness into consumable structure.

  I tore open the padded envelope and removed the CD and the folded stationery. Wine and curiosity had me wobbly-kneed on the stairs that lead from the cockpit into the main cabin of Aunt-Sea. In the galley I flipped on the light and unfolded the note.

  Find enclosed a recording I would like transcribed. Please note all sounds heard, all conversation.

  The rest of the letter contained the usual phrases and statements concerning payment, but I grinned when I saw R.K.’s assertion that he—the writing looked masculine—would pay me a 50 percent bonus when I finished.

  The comforting creak of the boat wrapped around me as I weaved into the main salon that had become my office. Next to my laptop I snagged my portable CD player and headset and made my way back into the nigh
t-shrouded cockpit.

  I settled on the thick cushions, put the CD into the player, the headset over my ears, and leaned back.

  The electronic hiss of the recording device became the canvas. I heard a door open, footsteps, probably on stairs, one timid, halting, the other strong and confident. I closed my eyes, pushed away the slapping of the water against hulls and the familiar clank of rigging. The digital steps grew steadily louder and then, quiet as a whisper of summer breeze, a distant voice, the timbre deep, a depthless river of sound speaking two words that quivered in my belly and bolted fire to my center.

  Follow me.

  It was a command.

  Every muscle in my body constricted as I listened. I turned up the volume and kept my eyes closed, trying to visualize what I heard. No mistaking the stairs, wooden ones, the tentative shuffle, the heavy fall. No sound but the footsteps filled my ears for what seemed an eternity. The man didn’t speak again. Soon the sound of the stairs ended and more footfalls rang on tile or stone. Was it dark? It sounded dark, closed. I could hear the faint waves echo off walls.

  Clicking. Some scuffs. Heels. The woman—wait, the second person—wore heels.

  Do you trust me? A warm shiver slid down my back. How low could that voice go? It was like listening to expensive cognac, rich, hot, something to be sipped and savored, and that made my blood flow toward something I knew I wanted. I hit the rewind button and listened again. His voice wasn’t free; it wasn’t spoken into the air. He’d said those words with his lips pressed against flesh.

  The pause gestated a moment then barely whispered, the shaking vibration of a woman’s alto. Yes.

  “Damn straight,” I said aloud as I pulled my knees up to my chest, the crotch seam of my capris rubbing promisingly against my clit. I took one of the lounge pillows I kept in the cockpit into my lap and hugged it tight against my breasts, as if it could shield me from the arousal building inside me.

  More sounds, like the friction of fabric, the rattle of what sounded like buckles, the uneven breathing of the woman, her deep inhalations accented occasionally by a sharp intake that oozed excitement.

  I knew the sounds of sex. I’d listened to tapes of adulterous husbands and wives dozens of times, and transcribed three weeks’ audio surveillance of a South Beach modeling agent who liked her girls tall, thin, and sexually open to her advances. My job allows me to be the ultimate audio voyeur, and while most times listening to sex can be tedious and exacting—I can only roll my eyes now when I hear a man yell “Oh, baby!” as he comes—once in a while, the tapes provide a few moments of aural foreplay and justification for me to unbury my vibrator and enjoy the ride.

  How’s that? Another shot of heat to my pussy.

  The creamy purr from the woman had me biting my lower lip. I turned up the volume, as if more electronic hissing could open up the scene that I could almost see. I heard kisses—lip kisses with hard breathing between the soft smacks, and…

  It was almost like the slow trickle of water, almost a dull tinkle, barely audible over the near panting of the kissing. I rewound the recording and listened carefully.

  Wet. Wet manipulations. Was he fucking her? Was that his cock sliding into her pussy? No. No rhythm, no sounds from him except his lips on hers.

  She groaned, a short strain of throat to reveal her rising pleasure.

  The sliding and slicking of flesh continued. Was he fingering her? Was he playing with her clit, teasing her pussy with long thick fingers, coating them in her succulence? I heard how wet she was, the sound unmistakable.

  Her breathing became more ragged, more uneven. He was getting her off, and I’d squirmed my way into my little corner of the cockpit, my nipples sharp as barnacles. My own juices soaked my panties.

  She’s climbing, she’s going to come.

  Not yet.

  My face turned hot as I echoed the woman’s groan of frustration. The wet sounds ended, but I heard him touching her, the chime of his lips on her skin, but not her lips. Dear god, is he going to go down on her? I licked my dry lips in anticipation, straining to hear.

  My finger rolled over the volume dial, turning up the sound again, eager to hear every gourmet sound.

  WHAP!

  The sound exploded in my ears as the feminine alto yelped in sharp response to the strike. I dropped the CD player in surprise at both the turn of the recording and the loudness created by my cranking the volume. My headphones followed the player to the floor of the cockpit.

  Holy shit, what had I gotten into?

  I picked up the equipment and stared at the player in my hands as if it were a sign of extraterrestrial life. I put the headphones back on and hit PLAY again, relieved when the CD cranked right up, starting with the entrance on the stairs.

  I turned the volume back down and forwarded the recording.

  Not yet.

  WHAP!

  The strike didn’t sound like flesh on flesh. I’ve heard spanking before, and that isn’t what it sounded like. I inched the volume up a little more, rewound and listened again.

  WHAP!

  It reminded me of something, the sudden dull edge to the contact with flesh.

  Rewind.

  WHAP!

  Leather. Damn! He’d hit her with leather of some kind.

  I pulled my legs tighter against my chest, my heart thundering.

  More?

  Yes, the woman gurgled, breathless.

  I heard tapping, light at first, rhythmic, and the woman’s whimper of desire. The tapping grew louder, the strikes a dull staccato, hide against hide. The sounds seemed to ebb and flow, the man’s heavy footsteps moving back and forth, her sighs and groans stationary.

  Was she on a bed? I didn’t hear springs or even sheets rustling, but I did hear the ticks of straining material and occasionally, the high jingle of what sounded like buckles.

  The tapping grew louder and stationary. He wasn’t striking different places, but what seemed to be the same place.

  The woman released a grinding moan and the tapping stopped.

  WHAP!

  Not yet.

  The tapping strikes became less frequent, but more forceful, the woman’s throaty cries riveting me, the man’s deep, commanding voice bolting erotic lances through my cunt every time he spoke, every time he denied her. My fingernails cut into the material of the pillow. I was wickedly hot, the humid sea air beading on my upper lip, trickling down from under my breasts.

  Then the strikes stopped and only the harsh breathing of the woman filled my ears.

  I waited, holding my breath, stiff as stone and dazed. It sounded like cloth pulled over freshly sanded wood, smooth and warm. He was touching her once more. His kisses seemed tender as the woman’s breathing turned into gulps of air. The wet manipulations began again.

  I sensed straining again, and then the return of building cries. I could hear the fever in her tone, the unbearable pitch of her excitement, and I embraced the unseen woman’s experience.

  Open, he commanded, and the woman chuckled between the distinct sounds of licking. Footsteps away and he repeated the command to her, that single word drawing a pulse to my soggy slit. Open.

  No sweet murmurs, no pillow talk, the man meant business and the woman liked it.

  And I found, so did I.

  Good. Where?

  My ass, the woman begged.

  I leaned forward in anticipation, hardly breathing as the woman groaned and laughed out a cry. What was up her ass? His cock, a dildo, a fucking banana?

  The pulsing in my pussy increased, my sphincter clutched. I hadn’t been this horny since before my marriage a million years ago.

  Baritone: Come when I say.

  The sound of flesh on flesh, the rhythm of fucking filled my ears, but the man with his gorgeous timbre didn’t encourage, didn’t howl or cheer on the conquest. Only his loud, ragged breathing gave any indication of his own exertion and excitement.

  The woman began to keen, her pleas running over each other, begging, rat
tling the buckles.

  Come.

  The cry was shattering, a baying of release that vibrated through me to center in my cunt. Prolonged, the shout became a strangled gurgling, then a wheeze as she came down off Everest.

  Him. What about him?

  My hands trembled as I rewound the recording and listened again, desperate to filter out the woman’s orgasmic flight, to hear him.

  Just the slide and slap of flesh, the short bursts of breathing. No cry, no chortle or grunt.

  The woman was reduced to whimpers.

  Good girl.

  The sound of light kisses, then buckles and the slip of material against material. His steps circled around the quietly panting woman.

  THWACK!

  Flesh on flesh, a hand on what was either a hip or an asscheek if I had to guess. The woman yelped, then gave a shaky purr.

  Follow me, he ordered, his voice creamy and thick.

  And the recording turned to static, finished.

  Eight weeks later, I received another little package. R.K. PO Box, Port Orange. The pull tab on the soft-sided envelope never stood a chance.

  I never expected to hear from R.K. again, thinking the recording was a playful gift between a couple, or possibly a blackmail scheme. Sealing up his recording and the transcription file in a padded envelope and dropping it in the mail was the hardest thing I’d done in many, many years. I don’t keep copies of recordings, and I don’t keep a copy of the transcripts on my local drive. Once I’m done I send a copy of the transcript to a data management service for back up, then put a copy on a CD or flash drive for the client. Then, the original transcript is wiped off my drive.

  My gut ached for three days after mailing that envelope.

  Now, my hands shook and the rip of arousal in my crotch had my pussy on overdrive.

  For two hours I listened again to the sounds of dominance, arousal, submission and apparently mind-blowing sex, but noticed immediately the woman was not the same sultry alto from the first transcription.