Best Women's Erotica 2013

by Violet Blue

  The first time I passed the store at night I did a triple-take, turned around and walked in. He was leaning over an open textbook on the counter and didn’t look up when the doorbells jingled. I pretended to scope out the snacks as I checked him out. He was tall with high cheekbones and refreshingly unfussy hair, which happened to be perfect.

  I grabbed a package of something and headed for the wall of coolers. At first I had favored a brand of water that featured a cross section of a volcano on the label. Now I bought Doosan for the sole reason that the bottles were rectangular and easier to stack and grip. I grabbed a few and approached the counter.

  He glanced at me once and preformed the rest of the transaction without looking at me. When he told me the total I craned my neck to read the register and I felt a smirk coming off him. As we exchanged money I offered and received with my hands in the traditional gesture of politeness but he didn’t bother reciprocating or even saying good-bye. He was reading again before I was gone.

  It was everything I couldn’t resist: a touch of home, where customer service was extinct if it had ever existed, and a handsome, indifferent man.

  I started making all my purchases at night. When I got more familiar with the currency and brushed up on doing addition, our interactions were smoother. He was the least ingratiating man I’d come across in Seoul, a place where I got a more attention than I cared for.

  Once I was waiting at the bus stop in front of the store when he arrived for a shift. I was applying a ridiculously expensive shimmery gold-pink lip-gloss that had been a going-away gift. When I received it over farewell cocktails I immediately put some on. One friend nodded with approval and the other said, “That is THE label in Korea. You need to flash that logo whenever you can.”

  Mr. Stop ’N Buy watched me put on the lip-gloss and I wish I could say that he smiled at me, but he was laughing.

  I could see his point. The people all around me were perfectly groomed and tastefully dressed; I was wearing hooker boots and a frumpy parka. I never saw a woman who wasn’t perfectly made up and certainly none applying so much as lipstick in public.

  He never greeted me when I came in the store. He was usually at the counter studying, but occasionally he was on the floor doing inventory. He wore the store uniform, a sleeveless smock, as if it wasn’t there. I thought of his style of dress as spotless grunge, but he stood up too straight and moved too decisively to resemble any hipsters that I knew. It was a dead giveaway that he had already done his service in the army.

  Eventually he began to say good-bye in an offhanded manner. It was mechanical and not much fuel for my crush.

  One night I set down a miniature carton of milk and other odds and ends that would equal breakfast. He stared at the goods on the counter and gave me a calculated look of mild surprise. I felt my face flush and I hurried to get a couple of bottles of water.

  I wondered if the convenience store employees called me “Two-Waters White Girl” or maybe something less kind. I had worked in bars and restaurants for years; in my last stint I had waited on “No Seasoning,” “Aquaman” and “The Unfortunate Redhead.” But I decided to believe that the ice between us was broken, though I knew I was just completely predictable and constantly underfoot.

  When I got back to my apartment I took action, because that’s what text translation Internet sites are for. I typed into the void Come over anytime, have a beer with me. Goldenville, Apartment 607. Since I had to take the translation on faith, I fastidiously copied the Korean characters onto a piece of notepaper.

  The next night I dumped an unusually large pile of goods on his counter. When he got to the two-liter bottle of beer he seemed close to smiling, but it didn’t manifest. I was crazy to even think about propositioning someone who had never even smiled at me.

  As he rang up the total I taped the folded-up handwritten invite to the beer bottle and pushed it to the side. I paid and began my frantic routine of stowing food and water into my bag and onto my person and I ran out of the store as I said good-bye. I hurried to my apartment and even bolted the door behind me.

  I took a long shower, knowing that he was on the clock and there was plenty of time. I also knew that he wasn’t coming, which was beside the point. My pussy had been wet since I’d stared the caper, so I decided to cash in. I imagined that he was standing behind me and soaping me up. He spoke softly as his hands slid over my body. I had no idea what he was saying but I could hear amazement in his voice as my breasts filled his hands. One hand stayed with my tits as the other headed south. I could feel him looking over my shoulder at his wandering hands, and his erection pressed into the middle of my back. I closed my eyes and managed to keep up the fantasy that he had pushed his fingers through my neatly trimmed bush and was lightly tracing my pussy from stern to stern. When my fingers found the wetness inside, Mr. Stop ’N Buy became a bystander who was welcome to observe. I thought about his cool manner and imagined him watching me polish my clit to the high burn that I had going. I was sure he would be fascinated, and I slipped a few fingers into my pussy as I came.

  Relaxed and clean, I toweled off and continued to prepare for my guest.

  I felt virtuous if I wore underwear at all; forget about matching a bra to my panties. Thankfully, a friend of mine had forced a simple black lace set on me, “for emergencies.” This clearly qualified, and I slipped them on. It also rated eyeliner and mascara, but I stopped short of full makeup. I would be sleeping in it, which was silly, but I told myself that it would save me five minutes before work. Finally I quit my primping and lay down. I hadn’t sleeplessly awaited anyone with that much anticipation since I stopped believing in Santa Claus.

  My doorbell rang; it was an endless synthetic chime that could be heard several floors away. I sat straight up in bed and noticed that I was in a T-shirt and sweatpants. Guess I got cold. Guess I fell asleep. I ran to the mirror to check my face. It was passable, and I opened the door.

  He stood two feet from the doorway and had to fully extend his arm to present me the bottle of beer I’d left behind. He held his other hand to his mid-torso in the manner in which a Korean man offers things politely.

  “Ahn Kyungbin,” he said, as he made a self-referential gesture with his hand.

  I introduced myself and held the door open wide as I held my breath and waited to see if he would come in. He hesitantly stepped into the tiny entrance area and I tried to entice him farther by offering him a pair of slippers. He shook his head at the slippers but stepped out of his shoes onto the floor. He had removed an article of clothing and my stomach flipped, though I knew that it signified nothing about my chances of getting the rest of his clothes off.

  The apartment was one room with a wall of closets and kitchen appliances, a double bed in the opposite corner and a very modest expanse of hardwood floor. The heating unit was inside the floor, which made it inviting and a dust magnet. I was glad I had wiped it down that day because it was the only place to entertain.

  He seated himself on the floor and set the canvas bag he was carrying beside him. I placed myself opposite him.

  First he brought out the bottle of beer that I had used as bait. Next was a bottle of soju and two paper cups. He opened the soju and served me with lowered eyes, one hand held gracefully to his chest. I took the bottle from his hand when my cup was full and filled his glass, minus the grace. I looked into his eyes and let the sounds from the cup tell me when to stop.

  We toasted each other. Geonbae was one of the seven Korean phrases that I knew.

  Then he brought out a package of the sweet corn snacks that I was addicted to. He had been paying attention.

  I started to get a dish, but his fingertips touched my forearm and I froze. He proceeded to skillfully open the bag, pulling each seam apart until it was a rectangle of Mylar with a pile of snacks in the middle.

  I said the Korean word for good or cold—they both sounded the same to me.

  The picnic started in earnest. He laid out shrimp puffs, dried squ
id, chocolate-dipped pretzels, chocolates with liqueur centers and an assortment of neatly packaged cakes that I had never ventured to try. He rounded it out with a couple of onigiri, triangular-shaped portions of rice wrapped in sheets of seaweed, which he must have known that I practically lived on. When I reached for an unopened treat he looked at me and shook his head slightly. He had everything opened as neatly as the first bag in a few minutes. When he began to drink his soju, I helped myself to the squid.

  There weren’t any words to take the edge off the tension or to gauge my chances. Not knowing what would happen next, much less anything about him, kept me in the moment. I felt his every move and could smell a scent on him that I didn’t recognize. It was a cross between wood shavings and clover and something I couldn’t place.

  I wondered if I had the ability to seduce a man without speaking to him. I wasn’t bad looking and my body was slamming, but I thought that I had always talked myself into the best lays. The Korean phrase book that I carried around actually had the translation for, I think I am ready to be intimate with you. Would I have to place my finger under that phrase and smile winningly to get fucked?

  We had eaten almost everything and killed the bottle of soju. I got some glasses and the bottle of beer that I’d put in my tiny, empty fridge. We served each other with less decorum than before, but courtesy was the only language we had in common.

  As soon as I set my glass down after our second toast he touched the hem of my T-shirt. He rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger and looked at me. I gave him an unambiguous smile and he helped me out of it.

  I felt more at ease in just the bra; the oversized T-shirt was all wrong. Since I was up against a language barrier signals were everything. I unbuttoned his shirt and drew the sleeves from his arms. His chest was developed and defined without being bulky, just as I’d imagined earlier in the shower. He stood and pulled me up by my hands. I got busy unbuttoning his pants. It struck me that I hadn’t undressed a man in years; if my partner wasn’t already naked, I would ask him to strip. As soon as I got his jeans over his hips he yanked my sweatpants to my ankles in one motion and got rid of his jeans as efficiently.

  He knelt on the floor and slid the remains of the picnic to one side with his forearm. He pulled me down to my knees and we kissed.

  It’s one thing to discover how someone kisses; it’s another thing to learn almost everything you know about somebody through kissing. So far I had deduced that he was extremely confident but I couldn’t have predicted the sensuality that went along with his self-assurance.

  Apparently the banquet was just beginning.

  His hands and mouth were busy and leisurely at the same time. Wherever they went they lingered in small, subtle activities. I felt his hand move under my bra and free one of my breasts. He tucked the length of his thumb into the fold beneath my breast and I felt the weight of my tit pressing on it as the rest of his fingers cupped the flesh passively. He tugged the bra back into place and ran a finger along the edge where the lace gave way to skin.

  At the same time he was taking the measure of my lips, rolling my bottom lip between his and sucking it into his mouth before his tongue sidled up to mine.

  As he reached the other side of my décolleté he rolled the fabric down over the nipple, leaving it exposed. It was hard and erect and the other seemed close to pushing a hole into the flimsy lace. He was polydexterous; as he toyed with my bare nipple his tongue roamed my mouth. It felt so good that I caught myself wondering why it hadn’t been in there before. He pushed my hair away from my face. As we kissed he continued to stroke my hair until he gently pushed me on my back, his hand cradling my head as it met the floor.

  He stacked his body on top of mine. I could feel each of my bones being pressed against the wood floor. Sandwiched between the warmth of his body and the heat of the floor I felt completely consumed. His tongue filled my mouth and I ran my hands over his backside. His flexed triceps told me that I wasn’t bearing the full brunt of his weight. His powerful shoulders led to back muscles I wasn’t even aware existed. As my hands skimmed his back I brought them to each side of his waist. The feel of his taut skin over layers of muscle was intoxicating. His body was perfect, not least his ass. What started as gentle stroking turned into a pry-it-from-my-cold-dead-hands grip, and I fought against the temptation to have a go at his asshole.

  He pressed up on his arms, and I instantly dropped my hands to the floor.

  He made a gesture like he was putting on ChapStick. I was puzzled until he pointed to my purse and I remembered the lip-gloss encounter.

  I fished it out of my bag and handed it to him. He withdrew the brush from the tube and sniffed it. To me it smelled of cotton candy, apricots and lilac. I don’t know what it smelled like to him, but he seemed pleased.

  He knelt next to me and leaned in. He brought the brush to my mouth and carefully outlined my bottom lip. It wasn’t necessary, but he refilled the brush and painted in the rest of it with short, precise strokes that evenly spread the juicy slick.

  He paused. Just in time I stopped myself from automatically doubling my lips.

  He closed the lip-gloss and admired his work. He slipped off his briefs and sat back. He was fully erect and I was completely turned on.

  He leaned forward and kissed me, carefully avoiding my sticky lip. As he pressed his mouth to my cheek he slipped his arms around me and undid my bra. He took it with him as he sat back on his haunches.

  “Pretty,” he said. I guess he’d been saving that one up and the surprise and the approval were thrilling.

  He reached for the lip-gloss again and I held very still, after I had pushed my tits out slightly. Carefully he painted my top lip as thickly as he had the bottom. He grasped the waistband of my panties on either side of my hips. I lay back and lifted my ass and he pulled them off.

  He hiked my knees up and spread my legs and took a good look. I propped myself up on my forearms and watched him, and I saw his hand groping for the lip-gloss.

  You’ve got to be kidding, I thought. I knew where he was headed. That and his soft exhales on my pussy were killing me. He began painting my labia with small, delicate strokes and frequent dipping. The two flaps of skin clung together but he attended to them separately, gradually coating them in a clockwise direction. He hadn’t gotten far when I felt my pussy open. He took his time and eventually the rim surrounding my cunt was as shellacked as my lips.

  I know that my nipples and my clit are hardwired—if one was getting attention I felt it in the other—but this was a new one. I was licking and rolling my lips long before he laid a tongue on my pussy.

  He sat back again and looked at the big picture. I could feel my own juices oozing over the lip-gloss, and I wondered if he could see anything for the glare. I lay back and imagined his view and anticipated his mouth on me.

  He leaned back in and tortured me with more forceful breathing on my swollen pussy. Then I felt the tip of his tongue dip into the stickiness for a moment and withdraw. I knew that he was tasting the slickness and I wondered if he could distinguish my taste from the lip-gloss’s. His tongue took another swipe at the sparkling ring of honey, and I imagined it dissolving in his mouth as he savored it. At last he began to lavish my pussy with little licks. At first I was overwhelmed by the sensation. When I pulled myself together I could feel that he was methodically distributing the lip-gloss with small flicks of his tongue, first outward and then inward, barely sinking his tongue into my cunt.

  The gloss was evenly spread and it had begun to set up—my entire pussy was coated in a hard candy shell that was dripping with my own juice.

  His lightened the pressure of his tongue and just slipped it around in the nectar. He completely ignored my clit and slowly circled the mouth of my pussy in one direction. My own tongue mirrored his movements on my lips. Both openings were unbelievably sensitive. He had made the connection, but I knew what it called for.

  Sixty-nine is fun, but I’ve never thought of it as a m
ain course. Someone was usually being neglected and I took giving and receiving head too seriously to do it half assed. But clearly the only thing that would satisfy me was my over-lubed lips on his cock as he sucked at my gloss-stiff pussy.

  I sat up, and he watched to see what came next. His thick lips were a solid shimmer of golden-pink. He was a pretty boy and he would make a fiercely beautiful woman. I pointed to my lips and then to his and laughed. I finally got a little smile out of him. I gently pushed him on his back and climbed on top. As I looked into his eyes and idly wondered what was going on behind them I softly placed my lips on his. They stuck together on contact. I pulled back just a fraction and the bond was tested but held. I lifted my head, and the seal broke with a quiet smack. I turned away, scissoring my arms and legs until we were tops and tails and I was staring at his cock.

  His dick was perfect for my purposes, beautifully shaped and totally rigid. It was just a bit too large for me to swallow completely, but I knew I could suck him properly without using my hands. I felt his breath on my pussy again and I guessed that he was waiting for me to make the first move. I was glad because I was going to take pleasure in giving him the blow job of my life, and hoped that he would enjoy it too.

  I lightly pressed my mouth to the tip of his cock. I had barely parted my lips and I suddenly found my mouth full; the lip-gloss had removed all friction. It was an oddly familiar sensation that I didn’t connect with giving head. I gently held him in my mouth for a moment. When I tightened my mouth around his dick I realized that this was what it felt like to be fucked—except I was in complete control.

  I was dying to feel the effortless glide of my lips over his cock again. I released suction and raced up and down his shaft. I had never enjoyed taking a cock in my mouth so much or thought about the pleasure of the man on the other end of it so little. His hands were moving over my hips and ass but I was more aware of my cunt empathizing with the comings and goings in my mouth.