Best Women's Erotica 2010

by Violet Blue

  I imagine Jeanie walking in. I pretend to be surprised or flustered by her spontaneous entrance. She’s like an Olympic swimmer, gracefully diving between my legs. Her three-inch tongue penetrates my cunt, her mouth mumbling the names of all the foods I’ve eaten today.

  Sharp pecorino cheese. Spoonful of smooth peanut butter. No, wait—extra chunky. Two mugs of Earl Grey tea with cream and one teaspoon of sugar. Handful of chocolate chips. Half an avocado. Then, the other half with a sliced tomato that wasn’t quite ripe yet. A banana.

  Lionel is ravishing himself, watching Jeanie and me. His hand travels up and down his cock, palm like a trained pole dancer. His fingers stroke his balls as though they were made from loose tassels. I can hear the echo of his moans bounce against the wall.

  Jeremy appears. He pushes my back up against the bathroom wall, skinny legs pressed against my thick ones. He grabs my neck and thrusts his hard cock inside me. I’m surprised at my ability to take him in. He sucks on my neck, making my clit jealous. He eventually works his way down.

  The soundtrack ends. Lionel must have finished himself off. I have yet to orgasm, and I realize that it’s the mystery of Lionel’s actions that allow me to come with an explosive eruption. I want to bang on the wall and scream, “More! Keep going! Don’t stop! I need this!”

  I’m still in the bathtub, skin electrified by almost an hour of experimental fucking. Glass dildo replaces steel one. Then, the vibrator—almost numbing my clit as it throbs toward a quick orgasm. I need more. I want to gush all over the tub, fill it with my juices, my flavors. I want Lionel Enthusiast III and Alice and Jeanie and Jeremy to bust through my door and fuck me so hard that my spine breaks. I want to feel them inside me for days, weeks. I want to scream three coats of paint off my walls just from the force. I want them to need scuba gear as I drown them in the thick fluids rushing out from my cunt.

  I’m never meant to meet Lionel Enthusiast III. I never find out what he looks like, or what he really does as his profession. I never learn how close I am to guessing his sexual preference for position or person. I never knock on our shared wall and ask him to finish me off.

  In four months, I move into a one-bedroom apartment with a woman who I meet at the grocery store. Her name is Joanna and she’s much taller than I. Our first conversation is about kumquats, which I confess I originally thought was a sexual position. She laughs and I notice the small dimple on her right cheek. She tells me its origin is a Chinese evergreen shrub and I only half listen, becoming fixated on her dimple and the thickness of her fingers and how incredible they would feel inside me. I wonder how strong she is and if she could lift me high enough so that my cunt would line right up against her mouth and does she even fancy the flavor of ripe pussy and—

  Our first date ends with her tongue drifting from inside my mouth to inside my cunt to beneath my armpit to below my neck. I feel the warm power of her fingers pressing into me. One, then two, then three, moving in and out until I beg for her to finish me off. Make me come. I cover her bare flesh with everything that has been brewing inside me, everything that Lionel has inspired.

  Joanna sucks on her fingers and places them inside her pussy, as I drive my face into her bush. It smells like a rain forest, a mix of fiddlehead ferns and wood shavings. We fall asleep with the scent of each other on our faces and bodies.

  After a month, she says I love you for the first time. In three, we move in together. I forget about the wall—my bathroom adventures, the soundtrack of Lionel and his low-octave pleasure moans. Everything becomes lost, until the day Joanna tells me a story about my next-door neighbor.

  WHERE THE RUBBER MEETS THE ROAD

  Aimee Pearl

  We’re walking down the street and he’s fucking me. Everything’s slippery and delicious.

  This is all true.

  We’re at the Folsom Street Fair—the annual outdoor kinkfest—and it’s a hot San Francisco September day, hot in a way that only San Francisco can be, and only in September, a wet heat. There’s a swelling between my legs. He’s going to make me gush.

  We’re walking in broad daylight. The crowd is thick around us. He rubs a wet thumb against my clit. We move side by side in stride, no pauses. I wonder…

  If anyone looked down toward my crotch, they might see his right hand sneaking around the edge of my bright cherry red latex micromini. They might realize that he’s got a finger sliding between my lower lips. What would they think? What would they say?

  My skirt is so short that it doesn’t cover the full curve of my ass. You can see my cheeks peeking out from the bottom of the shiny rubber coating. I can’t wear panties in this, and I can’t sit. Can only stand. Can only keep on walking. While he fucks me.

  He’s devilishly handsome, this one. His skin is the color of a toasted hazelnut, and twice as tasty. We’ve fucked many times before, but never like this. Never outdoors, in the middle of the street, digits stretching wet rubber wide.

  The red of my skirt is polished to a gleam, and I love the way the color looks metallic against my velvet-soft brown skin. This was the first piece of latex I ever bought, the first one I ever tried on. Its tightness around my narrow waist, rounded hips, and plump ass makes me look and feel space-alien-exotic, and draws attention to the fullest part of my body. Yes, my butt has stopped traffic. Who doesn’t like to look at a black diva in red rubber?

  For now, though, we’re blending in, seeping into the throng around us. He’s giving me a teasing fuck and my cunt is starting to ache with desire. Pretty soon, I’ll want more fingers, I’ll want to swallow his fist whole. We’ve got to find a doorway to lean into. I can’t come while walking. I’m perched on spiked heels and might fall over.

  The orgasms he gives me have been known to cause great commotion.

  We find an alley and he pounds me quick and hard, leaves me wet and feeling dirty. This boy has a way with those hands of his. He once made me come while I prepared a cup of tea, holding the kettle, boiling hot and full, precariously. He came behind me at the stove and rammed four fingers into me. Undid me. Unraveled me. I don’t know how I managed to pour steady after that.

  But I did.

  We’re discovered in our crevice by onlookers, dykes from around town, smiling at the queer couple that is us. I wish he was packing, so that we could give ’em a real show. Unfortunately, he left his dick at home today. Who needs it, I guess, when you’ve got hands like his?

  Still, I do crave his cock sometimes. For a moment, as he fucks me roughly one more time for our audience, I imagine him, silicone in hand, rubbing his rubber-covered rubber dick against my rubber-covered rear. Rolling up latex for greater access. Sliding toy into tightness. A fetishistic ass-fuck on a city street, sweaty.

  I do it again. Come.

  Later, we leave our alley love nest and slide back into the crowded thoroughfare. He runs into a friend, a gorgeous high femme white girl with a buzz cut. Six two in heels, she works as a pro-domme at a local dungeon. Today is her day off, and she and her girlfriend/submissive are strolling through the fair. She’s wearing an ankle-length latex dress, and she’s drenched in sweat. She squats down and lifts her skirt to circulate air around her sweet blonde pussy. I want to swoon, but not from the heat. She complains about the weather, and about the clients who keep spotting her in the crowd and begging to be dominated.

  Beside me, he chats casually with her and smiles. He knows I’m a sucker for a pissed-off femme domme, not to mention one wearing more even latex than I am. From my angle above her, I can see down into her cleavage and admire the beads of wetness on her full breasts. I’m starting to feel wet again myself. He knows. He knows it’s time to fuck me again. He knows it’s time to go for a walk.

  On our next date, we meet at midnight, this time in another alley, in a different part of town. He’s hanging out in a club up the street; I’ve been instructed to drive into the alley and wait for him in the backseat. I send him a text to let him know I’ve arrived, and arrange myself to be ready for him
. He leaves the club and approaches my car.

  I’m wearing a cream-colored knee-length A-line leather skirt. The material is so soft and buttery that most admirers don’t even recognize that it’s made out of leather—at first glance anyway. This skirt always gets a second glance. It’s not short, it’s not tight, and it’s not an eye-catching color. But it manages to exude a subtle sexiness. It’s a great skirt for a dominant woman to wear, because of its strict lines. But I’m a submissive, and I like to wear it to feel encased in it, bound by the leather, however loosely, as it falls around my thighs.

  There’s a rap at the window, and I reach over to unlock the door and let him in. Let him get in. Let him come in and fuck me.

  As requested, I’m not wearing any panties, although this time it’s not because of the length of my skirt, of course, but because of other constraints of the scene. Namely, he wants quick and easy access to my cunt; he wants to fuck me quickly and then leave me to go back to his friends at the club. It’s all been prearranged. We move like we’re dancing. Only there’s no music, just the sound of leather rubbing against vinyl, and breathing. His breath and mine—mostly mine as he’s fucking me hard and I’m struggling to endure it, to take it all in. He’s packing this time, all right, using one of his biggest cocks.

  The day was hot but the night is cold. The windows steam over, and, as I’m parked illegally in a one-way dimly lit alley, I’m beginning to worry if we’ll attract any unwanted attention. He doesn’t seem to be concerned. He was cavalier from the moment he entered the car. He hasn’t said a word to me, in fact. Just leapt in, closed and locked the door behind him, shoved me down onto my stomach, and used one hand to pull his cock out while the other pushed my skirt up.

  He’s gripping my skirt, the thin leather bunched into his fist. One of my arms is pinned under me, but with my other I start to reach out and run my hand along his pant leg. I discover he’s wearing leather chaps over his jeans, and that they fit nice and snug. I try to reach far enough to get to the edge of the leather, so I can stroke his crotch. But he’s not having any of this, doesn’t want me to move. He rams his cock into me to the hilt and uses both his arms to hold me down, immobilizing me. My face is buried in the vinyl of the seat, my legs spread wide with one on the seat and the other leaning over the side toward the floor, and all else is sound and heat and motion and fullness. His chaps are rubbing the vinyl, my skirt is rubbing the vinyl, and there’s no room to breathe. I’m gasping for air, wondering which one of us will come first, when suddenly, without warning, he pulls out.

  He pulls out, and pulls back, and I can finally catch my breath. But I’m confused. I shift around to see what’s going on, and witness him pulling two things out of his pockets. My eyes go wide as I see that one is a rubber ball gag, and the other is a small packet of my favorite anal-sex lube. He lays the lube packet on my bare ass and speaks for the first time all night.

  “Open up.”

  I open my mouth to receive the gag, and then he secures the straps in place at the back of my head. Now he twists the tab off the lubricant and dribbles it onto his dick. His second sentence comes at me:

  “Get ready.”

  The head of his cock is already pressing against my asshole. When we talked about meeting in the alley, he said he wanted things to go quickly. But if he’s seriously thinking of fucking my ass with that big toy, this is going to take a while.

  Or so I think.

  He works it in with surprising speed. Behind the gag, I’m grunting and half screaming, but he knows I can take it, and I know he’s going to make me. The perverse thrill of submitting to this sadistic “forced” ass-fuck actually causes me to open a little more, which eases his way inside. He’s one step ahead of me, and pushes as I acquiesce.

  When his cock is completely in my ass, he pauses for a moment, to give me a chance to feel the extent to which he’s stretched me out, to confirm my own surrender. One moment, and then it’s over. That’s all I get. After that, it’s his turn.

  He pounds me hard, fucking me for all he’s worth. He’s determined to come and he knows how to use my ass for his own pleasure. My job is to endure. Gagged, held down, plowed, I am a thing to him. An object. A leather-clad fuck-hole. He slams into my ass, over and over, until he shoots his orgasm into me. It’s not liquid, of course; it’s an energy, and thus, twice as potent. I take every drop, deep into my ass, for him.

  And when he’s done, he pulls out gently, undoes my gag gently, slides me over onto my back gently, smoothes down my skirt gently, and gently, very gently, reaches under my skirt and flicks one slick finger against my clit.

  I explode.

  I come against his hand with a roar, violent waves of pleasure crashing onto me. He holds me as I come, body to body, gripping me tightly until my moans subside.

  Then, just as quickly as he entered, he puts his dick back in his pants, zips up, and leaves.

  ON MY KNEES IN BARCELONA

  Kristina Lloyd

  This happened before the ’92 Summer Olympics in Barcelona, when the nights were so hot the city couldn’t sleep and everyone grew angry and crazy. Zero tolerance was just a rumor, so whores, thieves and smackheads skulked in narrow streets and everyone avoided the docks. I only went to Bar Anise in the hope they’d give me some ice. Had I known what kind of bar it was, I might have stayed away.

  It was nearly 2:00 a.m. and I was standing on my dinky balcony, feeling pretty zonked. The fuse had gone in my fan and the air in my apartment felt thick enough to slice. In the street below, a globe lamp hung like a moon on a bracket, adding a sheen of pearl to the facade of Bar Anise. I held a damp cloth to the back of my neck, arms resting on metal too hot to touch during the day. Earlier, the cloth had contained fast-melting ice and my mind returned to the cold rivulets trickling over my shoulders, collarbone and breasts. Like a tongue, I’d thought, the tongue of a lover making whoopee with my skin. How long had it been now? Oh, too many months to count.

  Six floors below, footsteps echoed in the dark street. I watched a guy in a white T-shirt stride along with a sense of purpose unsuited to the hour. When he suddenly looked up I was unnerved, feeling a rupture of that odd balance where my balcony is at once part of the street and part of my home. It was as if he’d barged in on my privacy.

  I turned away, embarrassed to have been caught watching, then glanced back to see him enter Bar Anise. A relic from another age, the bar’s exterior glowed with low-watt tones of honey and oak, its door closed, its windows pasted with faded posters, that globe lamp fuzzed with a halo of white light. As the guy pushed the door, I half expected the structure to wobble like a stage set.

  How come I’d never been in before? Generally speaking, I socialized in Barcelona’s hipper bars along Las Ramblas, in Plaça Reial or Barri Gòtic, and I only ventured into local bars to buy late-night beers or water. They were down-at-heel joints with Formica tabletops, fruit machines and a TV tuned permanently to the lotto draw. I fancied Bar Anise was different but I’d never set foot inside. Oh, sure, I was curious but the place seemed to exist in a world of its own. It may as well have had No ENTRY on its door.

  At 2:00 a.m., however, it was the only bar open.

  I wiped the damp cloth over my face, reminding myself I was lucky to be single and sleeping alone. Along my street, shabby ironwork balconies were cluttered with blushing geraniums, cramped little washing lines, green roller blinds and even a bird in a cage three buildings to my right. In these Spanish homes, behind the old lace at the windows, the occupants probably slept two to a bed, sticky bodies wrestling with hot, tangled sheets. Yes, in this heat, I was lucky to be single. Some ice to see me through the night would be welcome though. Unfortunately, my ice compartment was empty so I had to ask myself: how badly did I want it?

  My sandals were noisy in the deserted street, ringing off walls and metal shutters. I hesitated before the door of Bar Anise, disconcerted by the sense of stillness beyond. A sign in Catalan proclaimed the bar open but was it really? An
d if so, was it open to the likes of me? In those months, I was working as a sub-editor on a weekly expat newspaper called Gander. Prior to that, I’d spent three years teaching English in Seville until I’d tired of both the work and a boyfriend who’d kept the fingernails long on his right hand so he could simultaneously learn Spanish guitar and repulse me. Sometimes, I felt at home in that foreign land but when I stood on the threshold of Bar Anise, I felt I’d just arrived from Mars.

  I considered quitting, then recalled those tongues of molten ice trailing across my skin. Taking a deep breath, I entered. Cigarette smoke hung in the yellowing light and a ceiling fan turned sluggishly as if enervated by the heat. Half a dozen men sat alone at separate tables, smoking, reading or staring into space. No one paid me any notice and I was grateful. I took it to be one of those places where everyone is a stranger, even people who’ve been drinking side by side for years.

  When I approached the counter with my empty jug, a customer seated there cast me a look of lazy appraisal. He wore a white T-shirt and I took him to be the guy I’d seen from my balcony. Big nosed with dark hair feathering across his forehead, his wrinkles added interest to a strong, angular face. But irrespective of rugged charm, middle-aged men who believe they’re entitled to leer unsettle my confidence. I was self-conscious in asking for ice and when my request was met with a frown, I stumbled in repeating myself. The bartender wiped the counter with a cloth, apparently loath to serve me. Behind him, among shelves gleaming with bottles and glasses, a mirrored Coca-Cola clock said quarter past two. The clock’s red logo gave me that old jolt of jarring familiarity, making me feel I was on territory at once homely and strange.