Blushed and Flushed: 12 erotic short stories for women

by Maria Diamante

  She imagined a powerful hand that covered over her entire pussy and pressed down lightly, the palm putting pressure against her clit. Her pussy lips were parted to allow her clit to be fully exposed.

  The hot sun on her clit adding to her arousal, Brenda envisioned her breasts being pulled out of her bikini top and her nipples pinched softly. A gust of wind along with this contact hardened them immediately. A finger circled her nipple, then squeezed it with just the right amount of pressure. Becoming rock-hard, it was then pinched and twisted lightly. Brenda moaned.

  She felt these powerful hands pry her thighs wide open. One thick finger entered her wet slit, barely dipping into her now dripping wet opening.

  Occasionally, the finger was removed and her wetness was rubbed over her pussy. She could hear how wet she was. Her lips were spread even wider. She felt breath across her pubic hair.

  She bit her lip and inhaled deeply. A finger hungrily dove into her, her clit being pressed by a thumb. Thrusting began, with fingers darting in and out her.

  “This is crazy,” thought Brenda. She shouldn’t be doing this. She shouldn’t be thinking this. She’s out in the wide open.

  But somehow, by keeping her eyes closed, she was safe. Keeping her eyes closed filled her with a wild abandonment. She didn’t care about anything and carried on.

  She pushed her hips and pelvic higher, wanting more of the finger inside her. Another finger entered and Brenda felt the tightness of her walls and spread her legs even wider.

  A steady rhythm, she was being finger-fucked deliciously and deeply, the fingers curling inside her to message her G-spot.

  Brenda was about to sit up on her elbows, when a third finger entered her, slowly and carefully. She fell back on the towel in the hot sand and lifted her knees to her chest, totally exposing herself, letting her legs fall back like a porn star.

  She exhaled, realizing she had been holding her breath. Her orgasm was building and she clenched her teeth and began moaning loudly, enveloped by the feeling she was experiencing.

  The thumb quickened its pace on her clit, brushing up against it firmly, then shallowly, teasing her and bringing her to the edge.

  Suddenly, Brenda felt a warm soft tongue on her pussy. The tongue ran up and down and across her clit so quickly, she was overwhelmed with pleasure. She threw her head back and clutched handfuls of sand. She screamed and came hard, but never opened her eyes.

  She collapsed on her towel and shuddered with the aftershocks from her orgasm. There was no embarrassment. No awkwardness. No shame. She fell into a deep restful sleep.

  Brenda bolted upright, startled by a thunderous crashing wave. She had no idea what time it was, though the sun had almost set. For a second, she was totally disoriented.

  Getting to her feet quickly, she checked to make sure she was covered. She was. Her suit was done up.

  Brenda shook the sand out of the towel and folded it. But before she placed it in her bag, she wanted to find her keys.

  But as she reached in her bag, she noticed a smooth area of sand had been cleared, in front of where she lay, close to the water’s edge. Within it was a message carved into the sand with a stick.

  “Tonight, open your eyes.”

  Stunned, she looked around, but didn’t see a soul.

  As she tried to come to terms with the message and more importantly, the actions of its author, she reached in and pulled out James’ silver watch. Attached to the band was a room key.

  Brenda had a strong feeling her eyes would be fully opened that night.

  The Living

  Paul stood at his late wife’s grave, his collar turned up at the fierce wind, his hair whipping across his face. He felt the foul weather was appropriate for this visit. Even though it was two years since she passed away, he came to visit her grave once a week and mentally talked to her.

  He told her about what was happening in his life and some of his frustrations and fears since she died at such an early age of cervical cancer. He endured a year of uncontrollable anger and rage, wondering how this could happen in this day of medical science, and how she left him alone, and how he convinced her to postpone having a baby until his career was more established.

  They had only been married three years before she became ill, so they never started a family. And now, he had nothing left of her except photos, a few voice recordings and some clothes. He also had his memories, which he cherished and swore would never fade.

  As he stood there, silently telling her about the rotten week he had as an estate lawyer, he became aware of the sound of sobbing, which wasn’t all that uncommon given where he was standing.

  But this was coming from a young, female voice, just a few headstones away from him. He turned slightly to see a young woman, roughly the age of his late wife, sobbing with a Kleenex held up to her face. He couldn’t see who she was crying for, but her sobs and red face told him it must be fresh grief.

  He respectfully turned away when her eyes met his with a look of surprise and she stopped sobbing and briefly stared at him. She was tall and dark-haired, a lot plumper than his wife had been, and he couldn’t tell anything about her eyes as they were so red and swollen. But he associated a rounder, softer woman with a gentle, loving character and felt badly that she was suffering.

  She turned away from him and kneeled down with a hand on the headstone and bowed her head. Paul peeked at her from his periphery and saw that her shoulders shook from her crying and that she clutched the headstone until her knuckles turned white. His heart went out to her. He too had once clutched his wife’s headstone in the same way.

  Paul lowered his head and thought of his wife and the hard road he had taken since her passing. He often woke up feverish, having dreamed of being entwined with her, her legs wrapped high up around his waist, and the feeling of her warmth enveloping his flesh.

  He would sometimes cry, holding her pillow tightly. After she died, her scent clung to the bedclothes. He would lie prostrate on the bed, gulping down her scent until one day he couldn’t smell her anymore and frantically stirred up the covers. He resisted accepting how dirty the sheets were from not changing them in the months since he last held her.

  There were days he could barely leave their bed. Hours would pass watching day-time talk shows. He shouted at the people on the screen, hating them for their petty problems. Here were people supposedly hurting because their boyfriend was cheating, or their spouse dressed too sexy. None of them knew was real pain felt like, he thought.

  One day, he dreamed his wife was taunting him with her body, standing just outside of his reach. When he rolled over to finally lay his hands on her, she stood and gave him a sad look as she faded into nothingness.

  He was no psychology major, but this was a pretty loud subconscious message. He got up that day, took the sheets off the bed, replaced them with clean, fresh sheets and took a shower.

  He kept the shampoos and conditioners that had belonged to his wife. For months, they rested on the ledge of the tub. He wasn’t ready to get rid of them altogether, but he couldn’t bear to look at them anymore so he put them away in the vanity cupboard.

  Before he closed the cupboard door, he opened a bottle and sniffed it, smelling the clean smell of his wife’s hair. The scent would sustain him through long, lonely nights, he thought.

  The dreams became less and less frequent and her scent faded more and more from their small house. One day soon, he would call his realtor and sell the house, breaking the tie with the past and move into the future. But not yet.

  The idea of being in a house where she had not been a presence made him physically ill, and he had to take in big gulps of air to stop himself from having anxiety attacks. Someday, he would move on. But not yet.

  Paul was jolted out of his thoughts when the young woman walked away, passing behind him on her way to a black car. She looked back at him and he felt awkward watching her walk away. He didn’t mean to focus on her backside, even though it swayed enticingly as she wa
lked.

  She quickly faced front again and Paul watched her stumble briefly, which people tend to do when they know someone is watching. He felt guilty for a moment. His wife was lean and trim, and when she lay in his arms, he felt her bones and angles.

  He quietly often wished she was rounder and softer but she used to say she would rather die than be fat. Sadly, she got her wish and wasted away to a bag of bones by the time she drew her last breath.

  His wife never found peace before dying. She lashed out at him as her health failed, screaming and shrieking as long as she had strength in her body. She often turned her rage on him, using obscenities that left him shaken and upset as he tried to calm her.

  He often had to leave her side just to get away from the horrid blackness of her anger which ripped him apart, leaving him helpless and struggling. He understood her pain, but he didn’t want to hear such hurtful things. He wanted her to snuggle against his chest, whispering how much he loved her, as she cried softly. But this was not to be.

  As he watched the young woman walk down the path, he was struck by what he was thinking. He couldn’t help but wonder what she looked like under those heavy clothes.

  At first he tried to stop such thoughts, but then allowed them to emerge. He pictured her creamy skin, dark hair and rounded curves. She would be fleshy and voluptuous and he imagined her shamelessly spread out on a bed, daring him to look at her large ripe breasts, or her dimpled backside, or the softness of her stomach. She would have a look on her face that said, “I may not be perfect, but I am what you crave…”

  Paul looked away as she got into the car. The wind hit him in the face, causing his eyes to tear up when a grain of sand got under his lid. He rubbed his eye, trying to dislodge it and gave up when his tears fell.

  Suzy stood at the grave, wondering what to do with her life when the tall young man returned to stand in his usual place. She often noticed him and when he wasn’t around, she read the inscription on the stone, noting the young age of the woman. It was probably his wife, and she guessed there weren’t any children.

  She came and visited her late ex-boyfriend’s grave every week or two and talked over her feelings with him mentally, reflected on her life and even meditated a bit. Though the visits were always painful, she still loved the cemetery with its wise old trees and meandering paths. Once the tears stopped, she found it peaceful and calming.

  She walked through it reading the worn inscriptions, feeling sad for the babies and young children who lived but a few years. She was also touched by the loving couples who died within months of each other, not able or willing to go on without the presence of the other.

  She smiled at the man briefly and he hesitated, then returned her smile. It was a chilly spring day and the sun was trying to penetrate the clouds with its thin rays. It reflected a reddish tint in the man’s brown hair.

  He had a gorgeous smile with big white even teeth framed by a neat goatee, and his eyes crinkled when he smiled. He lowered his head after smiling at Suzy and she turned back to the grave, knowing that she shouldn’t be flirting with a strange man, as she came to pay her respects to the man she once loved.

  She was wrestling with guilt lately, as she found herself beginning to look forward to visit to the cemetery, acknowledging it had more to do with seeing the handsome man beside her than grieving over her lost partner.

  Paul also began looking forward to visiting the cemetery. He even found himself getting a little dressed up and made sure his goatee was trimmed.

  One Sunday afternoon, he looked away from his wife’s grave and took a deep breath.

  “It’s almost a nice day, isn’t it?” said Paul to Suzy, the sound of his voice startling her.

  She looked up at him and smiled. “The sun is trying hard and warm weather shouldn’t be too far off now.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss…but it gets easier in time…you’ll see,” said Paul.

  He stared at her chest for a moment too long and Suzy blushed, but found herself wanting to thrust it out, and wanting to have him come over to her, and touch her body everywhere.

  It was an overwhelming sensation, one that she had never had over any man before, and she felt ashamed. The way this man stared at her, the way his eyes darkened as he swept his gaze over her lush body, made her want to proudly show him her charms, rather than hide them under baggy clothes as she normally did.

  They engaged in small talk, learning about the other’s partner and loss, and learning about the person in front of them.

  But while listening, Suzy imagined him undressing her slowly, staring for a few moments at each newly revealed part of her body. She pictured his intake of breath as he uncovered her heavy breasts and cupped them in his hands. She could feel her nipples tighten into hard points as she imagined him tonguing them for a long time, sucking her nipples as she writhed under his touch.

  Suzy blushed deeply and looked down. She wished he would say something or ask her to go someplace else…anywhere. But more likely, he was still mourning the woman in the ground whom Suzy irrationally hated. He had loved her enough to come and stand over her grave on a regular basis and Suzy wondered if anyone would ever love her that much.

  Paul noticed the woman’s face had deepened in color and he figured she didn't want to chat anymore, so he wished her a good day and then turned back to his wife’s grave.

  But something very strange was happening to him, and he was very aware of her closeness and presence. He wanted to hold her in his arms and lay his head against her full chest.

  He imagined her naked on a bed, one hip thrust upwards as she lay on her side, her breasts spilling over her body, her nipples rosy and hard, her legs open just enough to reveal soft, pink wet flesh that called to him to come and touch.

  He knew she would be a good lover and wondered how he knew that, but he would bet the world that she would be generous, giving and loving, but wild and untamed when aroused.

  Paul realized that he missed the feel and smell of a woman. Suddenly, he had an incredible urge to bend her over a tombstone, push all that clothing she wore aside, and ravish her body. He wanted to replace all the pain and misery with pure pleasure. He wanted to push out all the death and restore life and living.

  The intensity of his need scared him and he looked away from the woman, afraid she would see this need and that she would be disgusted by it.

  He briefly remembered criticizing his late wife for being selfish in bed, often turning him away. A sharp pang of guilt struck him, but it was the truth and he needed to remember it, just as he needed to remember her good traits and the wonderful memories he had of her.

  He knew that as time passed, he would remember less and less of the bad memories, and focus on the fact that he had loved her with all his heart and that she had, for a time in his life, made him very happy.

  Another deep breath was followed by turning to her again.

  “What’s your name? I’m Paul,” he said.

  “I’m Suzy,” she replied, as she flicked her long hair from her face, thrilled that he started the conversation again.

  Paul saw that she had sexy dark eyes and white teeth and beautiful lips. He imagined she would taste sweet when he kissed her and would make him groan when he watched her lips run over his body. He would clutch her hair in his hands and feel her soft body on his, and he would know peace.

  “I know this isn’t exactly appropriate, but…did you maybe want to join me for a coffee?” asked Paul nervously, unsure of her reaction.

  “Yes, I would love that,” she said, in a clear, sweet voice.

  Paul pushed the image of his wife back and walked over to her and stood close enough that he could smell a scent of fresh flowers adorning her ex’s headstone.

  Suzy stuck out her hand and he took it, shaking it and holding it for a moment longer than necessary. Suzy blushed and released his hand, smiling shyly at the ground, then raised her head to look into his eyes, confident, happy and hopeful. Paul put his hand gen
tly on the small of her back as they walked away.

  Over coffee they listened to each other and exchanged suggestions on how to deal with the grief, and though each felt a little badly meeting under such circumstances, they both agreed that while they loved their partners, each of them would have wanted them to move on and be happy.

  As they talked, Paul reached out and held Suzy’s hand. She responded by putting her other hand on top of his.

  Coffee turned into dinner. Dinner turned into drinks. Hours passed. The conversation was free and easy, and each of them couldn’t remember the last time they felt so comfortable.

  And the sexual tension was growing between them, especially when each learned the other had not been with anyone since their partner’s passing. Their touching became more intense – a stroke of the hand, a rub of the arm, running fingers gently up and down forearms.