Best Women's Erotica 2010

by Violet Blue

  Still, when Caleb reached for my hand, we drew our own share of immediate gawkers. Heads turned. Jaws dropped.

  I suppose that’s why the street preacher chose us to holler at from his pulpit on Sunset Boulevard. “Sinners!” he shouted. “You’re going to hell!”

  Now, I wouldn’t shout anything at Caleb. I mean, the man could bench-press four of me. But this Bible-thumper had his book in hand, and he began to target us specifically. Caleb started laughing. He made me wait with him, while the geeky religious zealot quoted inane Biblical passages at us, until finally, I tugged at Cal’s wrist, demanding we move on. Yet my mind stayed back in that makeshift pulpit. I couldn’t understand.

  “You’re going to hell!” the man shrieked in our wake.

  Were we going there because we were friends? Or because Caleb was black and I was white? Or because the preacher, like everyone else, imagined what we might look like in bed, Caleb bending me over the mattress and fucking the living shit out of me. How could I take all of him? If he were hung to match his size, his cock would be as long as my forearm.

  “Why do you think we’re going to hell?” I asked innocently as we walked away.

  “It might have something to do with your shirt,” Caleb said, kindly.

  I looked down. I was wearing one of my favorite tees. I’d forgotten completely. The tight-fitting baby-doll white one with SINNER in bold red across my small breasts.

  “But you’re not wearing a SINNER shirt,” I pointed out.

  Caleb grinned at me. “Wouldn’t fit.”

  “What fellowship hath light with darkness?” the preacher’s voice sailed after us.

  “I was wondering when he’d get there,” Caleb sighed. I looked up at him, as I always was doing. Up and up and up. “You know, 2 Corinthians has got fuck all to do with interracial relationships. It’s about believers and nonbelievers.”

  My eyes widened. “Which are you?” Religion had never come up with us before. We’d talked politics. We’d talked favorite TV shows from the ’80s. And which band was better, Parliament or Three Dog Night. But religion? Not on our agenda, until he said the words:

  “A believer.”

  I swallowed hard, but then Caleb turned me around so that I could see our reflection in the window of Vagrants.

  “You can’t be a lapsed Catholic without first being a practicing Catholic. I know my Scripture.”

  “But you said—”

  “Now, I’m a believer in what you and I could do together.”

  “Do?” my heart hammered in my chest.

  “You know…” he said, his big hands tracing my shoulders, then down to my arms, so that his flesh touched mine. “What fellowship hath light with darkness?” he murmured in my ear. We looked good together. No doubt about it. And I was wet, at his touch and at his words.

  Once again, I thought I understood. Not why we were going to hell, but why we were getting those looks. Because it was difficult to look at us and not imagine how we might fuck, how Caleb might toss me up in the air, or pin me against the wall, like a butterfly for his collection. From the expression on Caleb’s face, he seemed to be thinking the exact same thing.

  “We could make it work,” he said, and his huge hands wandered over my chest, thumb tracing the letters. Slow on the S-I-N, making my nipples harden instantly.

  “I’ve always been with tall guys,” I told him, with as much cold seriousness as if that were a confession I should make on my knees, perhaps as a way to let him know I agreed. We could make it work. Still I’d never been with anyone as big as Caleb.

  “When you’re lying down, height doesn’t matter,” he teased.

  But we weren’t going to be lying down, were we? That wouldn’t be any fun at all. Caleb was going to hold me up and fuck me. He was going to turn me upside down and drive his cock into my mouth. I weighed nothing compared to what he was accustomed to hefting.

  We barely made it home, back to my apartment by the beach, where he stripped off my SINENR shirt to have at my naked breasts; his mouth, warm on my nipples, first the left then the right; his huge hands on my red-and-white floral skirt, yanking the fabric down my thighs, waiting for me to kick the bit of summery fluff aside. Not quite so patient now, was Cal. Not quite so easygoing. He was on a mission—different from the one of the street preacher. He was on a mission to get into me, deep, his tongue on my pussy, hands parting my ass while he sucked my clit.

  The heat surrounded us: Santa Monica in the summertime, melting popsicles and no lights on; that electric smell of hot asphalt and salt breezes. And Cal’s mouth working me, tongue ringing my clit, those warm strong hands opening me up now, drumming, strumming in a heady rhythm along the crack of my ass.

  “You said you were a believer,” I remembered suddenly, gazing down into his coffee-brown eyes, seeing the humor that I always saw when he looked at me—realizing in a flash it was because this was the first time I’d ever looked down at him, first time I was ever above.

  But then he hoisted me up, lifting me in his arms so I had to put my hands on his shoulders to steady myself, feeling his muscles through his sweat-dampened T-shirt. I could have put my palms up flat on the ceiling if I’d wanted to. Instead, I gripped into his arms, knowing he was going to rip my panties aside any moment. Knowing that we were going to—what was it?

  “Fellowship of light with darkness,” Cal murmured, letting me feel the head of his cock at the split of my lips. Letting me steel myself now for the first taste of him.

  “Does fellowship mean fuck?” I asked innocently.

  “Only someone who wears the word sinner on her chest would ask a question like that,” Cal teased. And then he got quiet, because he’d felt me squeeze him. Tight. Once and then release. He responded by plunging forward, driving firmly inside of me. And sweet Jesus, right then I started to think I might become a believer for real.

  A believer in me and Caleb.

  Forget Cain. We were able. Able to fuck like a dream. His hands moving, holding, lifting me so that I felt weightless, as if we were fucking in water, fucking in heat that’s both breathable and surrounding. Flames licking our skin. The sound of fire crackling.

  Caleb’s strong, hard body pinned me to the wall, held me firmly then brought me down over and over on the length of his shaft. The pleasure floored me. Or lifted me up. I couldn’t comprehend the sweetness, sparked with pain from his size, from the way that he stretched me. I’d heard of being fucked hard, fucked until you could feel that cock hammering against the back of your throat. But I never had that feeling until Caleb brought me to the bed, set me down and got behind me.

  Here we were, bringing that picture to life, becoming the image that all of those dirty-minded people pictured when they saw us walking, when they saw two friends together. This was the culmination of all of those stares. And they were right, those filthy-thinking people. Being fucked by Caleb was transcendent, shattering in that way that makes you flutter inside, every nerve ending alive—every fiber on fire.

  Caleb gripped my hair in one fist and pulled as he fucked me, as he sealed himself into me, whispering sweet words the whole time. Not Scripture, but promises, or rather confessions: How he’d wanted to do this from the start. How he was one of those dirty-minded people who imagined what I’d look like naked whenever he saw me.

  “Like a sinner?” I whispered.

  “We’re all sinners,” he sighed, as he came.

  I slid one hand on top of his, pumping against my clit, showing him the way to take me there, letting his finger do the trick, so that I climaxed right after him, melting with him into the heat.

  But he recovered quicker than I did, gripping me into his arms, holding me against him as the breeze barely stirred my lacy curtains.

  “You know,” I told him, turning to look into his eyes, “we’re going to hell.”

  He laughed, that rumbling baritone laugh that I’ve always loved. “At least, chicklet, we’ll be there together.”

  THIN WALLS

/>   Aimee Herman

  I can hear the sounds of him fucking himself from the shared wall between my bathroom and his. I have no idea what he looks like. I imagine a big, burly man with chest hair, back hair, and a thick mass of dark curls across his head. His grunts are muffled, but I can still sense the depth of his voice.

  The bathroom isn’t very big—not much space to walk around, though I can’t imagine he needs to walk around during this self-service moment. No, he’s probably in front of the toilet, lid up, so he can easily shoot his wad into the pond of recycled water for easier cleanup. Or he could be in the bathtub, finishing up his shower by finishing up himself.

  He lives in the apartment right next door. In the eight months that I’ve lived here, we’ve never seen each other’s face. The sound of him masturbating has become regular, almost like clockwork. He’s a man of endurance, fucking himself at least six times a week. I assume it’s solo, as I’ve never heard another voice accompanying his.

  In my head, I have already named him: Lionel Enthusiast III. I imagine he works by day as a short-order cook at the nearby pancake house. I envision him having to excuse himself every few hours to tug himself toward ejaculation. Maybe he has an accomplice, a young waitress with a blue apron tied tightly around her thin waist and an itchy, blue visor that hides a small star tattoo on her right temple.

  I name her Alice. She’s nineteen and extremely dirty, a runaway since age fifteen. She places small asterisks on the ticket order when she wants to signal Lionel to meet her in the back room in eight minutes. The scent of cleaning supplies and dirty water wafts in the air as Lionel lifts her skirt and sticks his oily fingers inside her.

  Her moans grow into something that mirrors the sound of a cat whose paw has gotten stuck inside a screen door: a piercing screech that causes Lionel to place his hand firmly against her mouth. Though young, Alice is extremely talented at taking all of Lionel in, squeezing her vaginal muscles like a tight fist, hiding a secret letter that no one but she can read. He feels completely swallowed as the tightness of her pussy fluctuates around him. She orgasms three times before he even has the chance to come inside her. She begs for his come because it makes her feel full and complete.

  Alice is the type of girl who pleads for more, even when sore and dry. She flirts with customers and often encourages them to join her and Lionel in a little bit of fun. She prefers women, and after several weeks of fucking in the back room, or outside behind the Dumpster, Alice introduces a rotating array of breasts and pussies into the mix.

  Lionel loves Alice and often thinks about her when masturbating at home. The other women are good, and watching her fuck them turns him on, but no one compares to her.

  I imagine that for his birthday, she presents him with a key and a note. The instructions lead him to room eighteen at the Motel 8, where Alice waits with a regular customer from the restaurant named Jeanie. Jeanie is thirty-three, with two kids and occasional child support checks. This is her first time getting eaten out by a girl, but not her first time being watched during sex.

  As the door opens, Lionel is greeted by a view of Alice’s perfectly round and creamy ass rising into the air. A thick set of thighs squirms beneath her and Lionel listens to the sounds of Alice licking and eating away at another woman’s cunt. There’s no pause or interruption of any kind as Lionel enters the room, throws his jacket and keys on a chair, and removes all of his clothes.

  He’s hard and ready, and he jerks off to the vision of Alice and this woman entwined like flesh-covered pretzels. Alice flips around and Jeanie dives between her thighs, sticking her tongue and fingers into Alice’s sopping cunt. Lionel doesn’t know this, but it’s at this moment that Jeanie decides she loves the taste of pussy. She loves it so much, in fact, that she is going to become obsessed with it. Jeanie will spend the next few months fucking as many women as possible, savoring the alternating flavors of women she has picked up at gay bars, grocery stores, and once, a bank.

  Jeanie will become a cunt connoisseur, sharpening her palette for pussy. She’ll know exactly what each woman eats each day just from her flavor. She will become infamous within the lesbian community and she’ll eventually fall in love with a bulldyke named Chrys, who will completely change her vegan diet just for Jeanie, so that her come tastes better.

  But no one knows this yet, especially Jeanie. At this very moment in room eighteen, all Lionel, Alice and Jeanie know is this: the scent of sweat and come wafting through the air, Lionel on all fours jerking himself off to the moans of Alice and Jeanie eating each other out simultaneously.

  This is Lionel’s best birthday ever.

  After the time in the motel room, Alice and Lionel continue to fuck in as many places and positions as possible. Sometimes at the restaurant all they have time for is a quick blowjob. If it’s slow and Lionel has backup in the kitchen, he’ll force her down on all fours, sliding beneath her as if she’s a Buick in need of an oil change. He’ll slurp and lick and nibble on her clit until it grows in size. Her slippery lips will flap against his open mouth as she curves her hand behind her and sticks three to four fingers into his anus, his new favorite way to come. This preference formed after the time Alice fucked Lionel from behind using a strap-on named Harvey. It was red-and-black striped, and wide enough to cause Lionel to add a limp and swagger to his step for almost two weeks.

  Or maybe Alice doesn’t exist. Maybe there’s no waitress who teaches Lionel the pleasures of anal sex. Maybe there’s no motel room. No Jeanie. Maybe there are no women at all. Maybe Alice is really Jeremy, a new waiter working part-time to help pay for school. I imagine Jeremy to be in his first year of community college, eighteen, and extremely lanky. His voice sounds unformed and he has oily and spotted skin. Lionel isn’t drawn to Jeremy because of looks or personality. The attraction is simply based upon the impressive bulge bending into Jeremy’s zipper, and Lionel wants more of what he can’t see.

  In the third month of Jeremy’s employment, Lionel stays later than usual and insists on helping the wait staff close up. He times his entrance into the back room just perfectly, walking in as Jeremy is wringing out the mop and pouring dirty water down the drain.

  The scene will go something like this:

  Lionel walks up behind Jeremy, pants already unzipped—cock pulled out and standing at attention after a few tugs—musing on the wonder and mystery of the possibility of Jeremy’s oversized dick pushing and rubbing against his black pants. Jeremy feels Lionel before he actually sees him. He doesn’t turn around. There may have been a slight gasp or an inaudible mumble that isn’t acknowledged.

  “We’re the only ones in here and that may not be for very long. Go behind the bulk sugar and flour shelves and take off your pants,” Lionel instructs him.

  Jeremy doesn’t attempt a refusal. His long legs take just a few small steps before reaching the desired spot. He unbuckles his brown leather belt, pants falling to the floor, takes off his blue-checkered boxers and stands there in front of Lionel’s hard-on, wearing only a shirt, socks and black converse sneakers. Lionel’s thick cock climbs its way into him.

  In the back room, Lionel fucks him in a way that makes Jeremy forget all about his girlfriend who never made him feel quite this good.

  Jeremy turns around, feeling the warmth of Lionel’s precome dripping down his thighs. He stares at the length and width of what was just inside him. He wants to taste it. He wants to know what he tastes like on Lionel.

  Down on his knees, Jeremy takes Lionel’s dick in his mouth, hands gripping his balls. He alternates licking and sucking and rubbing. Jeremy almost gags as Lionel thrusts his cock farther into Jeremy’s mouth, enjoying the heat and rough surface of Jeremy’s tongue around him. Lionel squeezes his thighs into Jeremy’s neck just as he’s about to come. The semen travels into Jeremy’s mouth, down his throat, and it fertilizes Jeremy’s insides. It tastes like sour milk and sea salt and sweat.

  I’m in my bathroom sitting on the toilet, and the tiles are cold against my
bare feet. I rest them beside the bathtub, which provides a perfect angle for my fingers to rise inside me. The lights are off and I see the tiny room only by the soft flicker of light from the small, unscented candles. The music? The soundtrack for this moment? It’s Lionel Enthusiast III grunting like a sweaty boar covered in mud or come, depending upon circomestance.

  I’ve closed the bathroom door. I live alone, so there’s no fear of being interrupted, but I want to feel contained. I want to feel as though the small square of this room is a body embracing me as I hold myself.

  My accessories are inside the dry bathtub: purple vibrator with a three-speed setting and four dildos, all varying in size, width, and curvature. I hop off the toilet and slowly step into the porcelain tub. Its cold skin shocks my own and I shiver. I decide that my clit is cold, so I pick up dildo number two, seven inches of steel, lime green, and prewarmed. It’s the one that always makes me come in record time.

  I tease my clit by rubbing the dildo against it—softly at first, then pressing harder. I pretend my clitoris is a dick that expands when hard. It wants a blowjob. A hand job. It wants to penetrate as many holes as it can. It wants to get a girl pregnant. It wants to shoot a giant wad of come inside someone’s mouth, cunt and anus.

  I’m warm now and Lionel Enthusiast III is just on the other side of this wall. I touch the divider between us, press my face against the tile, pretending it’s him. His skin. His cock. His belly. His chest. I moan.

  The rhythmic grunting suddenly ceases. Has he heard me? I moan louder. He responds, or so it seems, with an ecstatic growl.

  Maybe he hears me and thinks of Alice. Or maybe I want him to be Alice: nineteen-year-old flesh, crisp nipples that rise when licked or pinched. I pull on her hair so hard that several strands come off in my fingers. Alice tastes like a ripe Bartlett pear. She’s bruised, but oozing flavor.