Best Women's Erotica 2013

by Violet Blue

  My pussy contracted. I tightened my lips and forced them over his cock, making his engorged flesh shift to either side. As I released his dick from my lips on the way back up I felt his hands lower my hips and place my pussy on his mouth. I bore down on him again with tightly pursed lips and as I squeezed over the plump head of his cock I felt his tongue enter my pussy. As I gradually took his cock into my mouth his tongue ventured deeper.

  I jerked my head up and his tongue withdrew. It could have been coincidence—one way to find out. I touched my lips to the tip of his dick and he pressed the flat of his tongue to my pussy. As I took the head of his cock into my mouth he barely entered my cunt. As I gently popped it in and out of my mouth his tongue matched my movements perfectly. He would be my mirror. I took in more of his length and his tongue shot into my cunt. It was so exciting that I nearly came immediately.

  The sweet smell of the lip-gloss mixed with the even more delicious smell of sex. I had this naughty feeling that I couldn’t explain; I was no stranger to receiving oral. As I tested his ability to mimic my attentions to his cock I understood where the hint of taboo was coming from—I had never gone down on myself before. That almost made me come right then, but I told myself to cool it and that was the last conscious thought I had.

  I swirled my tongue around the tip of his cock until I couldn’t stand the resulting sensations in my snatch. I switched to meandering figure eights that staved off another near orgasm. My pussy was on the edge of becoming too sensitive, so I thrust his cock into my mouth. I sucked him off slowly, swallowing as much of him as I could without effort.

  I was rewarded with the tongue fuck of my dreams. He kept my unhurried pace, and the way he slipped his tongue in and out was almost nonchalant. I increased the pressure on his cock and I instantly felt his tongue unfurl inside me and his thrusts became crisper and gained speed. I caught up to his rhythm and maintained it.

  He held my ass tighter and was mostly able to keep me from bucking and grinding. I didn’t mean to interfere with his work, but I couldn’t help myself. I couldn’t deny myself any longer either.

  I swallowed the entire length of his cock, straining to get it all in my mouth, confident that he would return the favor. I tasted a bit of precome as I clamped down and sucked him hard.

  He was equally merciless. He drove his tongue deep into my cunt over and over, waggling it as my tongue circled his cock. I started to come. He must have felt my initial spasms, but if he had any doubt the way that I went all out on his cock made it plain. We fucked through my orgasm and I almost lost my mind. It was within my power to make him slow down or even stop, but I was going for broke. As my orgasm wound down and the nerve endings in my legs and feet lit up, I felt his dick contract slightly. He was ready to go. He continued to mirror my every move, but I turned my full attention to his cock. I closed one hand around it, determined to make it up to the inch at the base that had been somewhat neglected. I only got a few full strokes in before he exploded in my mouth. I worked him until I felt his tongue motionless inside me. I stopped moving but held him tight.

  When he softened I rolled off of him, but I didn’t have the will or muscle coordination to go far. I woke up as he was removing my thigh from his neck. He helped me into the twin bed and I lay in his arms.

  I pretended to sleep. I was completely relaxed but I knew from the semi-daylight coming through the window that it would be time for work soon.

  We were both sticky all over from the lip-gloss and my ample fluids. I slipped out of bed and ran a wet washcloth over the worst of it in the bathroom. If anything, I figured the lip-gloss scent overpowered the smell of sex. I did have smoky eye makeup going and maybe more bed head than was appropriate for the office. I got dressed quietly, but the closing click of the wardrobe door woke him and he sat up.

  I said, “Work,” and gently pressed him back down. On an impulse I picked up the lip-gloss. It was hot from lying on the warm floor. I slapped some on, distributed it with a wink of my lips and dropped it. I gave him a deep, sloppy kiss and left.

  All day long I prayed he would be in my apartment when I got back. He wasn’t. There was no sign of the picnic, the glasses were put away clean, the bed was made and the lip-gloss was gone.

  NORMAL

  Charlotte Stein

  I guess we look like any normal couple. More normal than any normal couple, in fact. He wears plaid shirts and khakis, and I wear twinsets, and we go to town meetings. While at the town meetings, we eat the normal amount of free cookies and sandwiches and sometimes we have punch. Everybody shakes our hands and no one averts his gaze, so I know we at least seem ordinary.

  But I know they’d think something different if they were with me in the entryway to our little normal house with its painted shutters and the welcome mat at the door. Normal couples don’t do what we’re doing, with the autumn air still rushing in from outside and his hand just reaching to put the keys on their hook.

  That’s right. We have a key hook and winter jackets and a doorbell that chimes the theme from “The Simpsons.” We also have a game where I put two fingers to the back of his neck and say, “If you move a muscle, I’ll blow your fucking head off.”

  He doesn’t move a muscle. We’ve played this game often enough for him to know not to. His hand hovers near the hook, as still as if some gunman had really come up behind him and pressed the barrel to his skin, but more impressive than that is his other arm, the one that’s slightly curled because he was also going to take off his jacket and now he’s caught. It must be uncomfortable, being frozen in that half-caught-in-a-sleeve position, but he manages it. He always manages it.

  One time I snuck up on him as he was bending over to run a bath, and he stayed like that, too. Hunched, barely balanced on anything stable, one hand reaching, just like now. And he’d remained that way for as long as I required him to—though when you think about it, what sort of person would refuse to with a gun pushed into the small of his back?

  It’s these little things that make me certain he believes the act, utterly. He believes it in a weird way, as though some part of his brain is always just waiting for this and inside that part, he’s sure: I would freeze in position until my muscles burned and my head swam, if this really happened.

  Though the word this has a little leeway in it, because I know what he does if he’s actually threatened. One time some guy tried to grab my purse and he yanked him back by his jacket and punched him in the face. Really quick, too, as though he didn’t have to think about it and the guy should just get punched. He’s a big man, so it’s not as though he has anything to be afraid of.

  But he’s afraid of this, because this isn’t some guy mugging us in a parking lot. This is something else altogether, something weird that started for reasons undisclosed. I want to say it started because we were messing around with water pistols and somehow I pinned him down, though that word somehow has a lot of leeway in it, too. It bends as far as he kind of let me and I kind of liked it, and then I said, “I’ll smack you with the butt of this thing if you don’t stop your fucking squirming,” and he looked…I don’t know. The way he sometimes looks when I go down on him.

  It’s very easy to tell, on him. It’s how we ended up going out in the first place. I was shy and he was too cute, and I didn’t realize he wanted me until I gave him a friendly hug and saw his flushed face afterward. I rarely know when a man is progressing toward turned on, but it had been pretty obvious, then. He gets all hot eyed and fidgety, and the things he says aren’t as smooth as the things he was saying before.

  He can be smooth when he wants to be. Charming, even. Lots of girls liked him, before I got him. But lots of girls probably wouldn’t understand him saying—smoothly, of course—“Would it be such a bad idea if we played that game again? You know. The one with the water pistols.”

  Though of course we don’t need water pistols, now. My fingers are enough, like little kids playing cops and robbers, only he’s the cop and I’m the robber and I
always somehow get one up on him. Even when it’s just my fingers. Even though he’s a foot taller than me and built so big it sometimes makes me shiver just looking at him.

  I’m wet already, and I don’t know if it’s because of him and the way he smells tonight—like that good aftershave he bought—or because of the game. The game. The one that’s probably taking over our lives.

  I mean, we play it at least once a month, now. That’s bad, right? Or is it just bad that we play it at all? Normal couples play games, I know it. But they don’t sound like our games—or maybe they do.

  Just the other way around.

  “Please don’t hurt me,” he says, and I wonder who he imagines I am. Is that what this fantasy’s about? Him imagining me as someone else, someone rougher—maybe even a man? Just because he reacted differently when it really was a man—that doesn’t mean anything. That was reality. This is fantasy. It’s different, when you can control all the parameters. It’s different when you know someone might really hurt you or hurt your wife.

  It could be that he secretly wishes I was big and strong and masculine.

  Though when I really think about it…the things he’s actually asked for…the ones he’s dared to voice despite the fact that neither of us really discuss this…they were all very one way. You don’t ask someone to push her breasts into your back when you want to pretend it’s a man attacking you. And somehow I doubt you’d need someone’s pussy all over your face, if you were desperately craving dick.

  But even so these little doubts linger in my mind, until I’m not really sure what I’m thinking anymore. I just do it, instead, and that’s much better. I tell him to move forward into our house and not to make any sudden moves, and he obeys me exactly in these little, tentative, shuffling steps.

  Just like the real thing. Though I’m not sure how I know what the real thing is like. Or why I enjoy this, if I let myself think of things like that—how scared and full of hesitation someone would be, with a real gun to the back of his head. How his mind would race with everything some pervert could do.

  Only I’m the pervert. Once we’re safe inside, I tell him to start taking off his clothes, and there’s really nothing more you can say about that. It’s weird and wrong and my body hums with it until I think I might pass out. My clit is a swollen heartbeat between my legs and my nipples are diamond hard, and when I hear the jangle of his belt and the rasp of his zipper, everything gets worse. Or better, depending on your point of view.

  I wonder if it’s the wrongness that makes it sweeter. That vague idea that this is his weird fantasy, but I’m the one getting some illicit, bizarre sort of pleasure out of it. Does he know I do? I can’t see how he could fail to. Whenever we get to the good part I’m always as wet as rain, and I come hard. I come with barely a hand or a mouth on me—I can just slide down his cock and that’s it, right there.

  I suppose it’s the power dynamic. The shift. Something like that. But when he’s stripped from the waist down and I can see the strong shape of his good thighs and the almost-tender curve of his ass, I’m not so certain anymore.

  I want to bite that ass. I want to scratch it. I want to leave perfect red streaks all over his pale, unblemished skin, so that he’s just a mixture of white and red and black. And that seems even more wrong than the thrill I get, the pleasure of putting two fingers to the back of his neck. I mean, I love my husband. I love him truly, madly, deeply. There’s no urge in me to hurt him, not really. We’ve never so much as exchanged brutal words, the way some couples do. Just the thought of seeing his face fall as I say something rotten makes me curdle inside.

  The rotten things don’t ever even occur to me, because he’s a wonderful man. He doesn’t leave his socks out; he’s never late. He supports me in everything I do and it feels like something natural to lean into him when I’m in need or feeling blue.

  And yet here we are.

  “Is that enough?” he asks, but he already knows the answer. No, the pants are not enough.

  “All off, bitch,” I say, and though the word feels kind of silly in my mouth he shivers on hearing it. Shivers, and obeys. I step back and he pulls his shirt over his head, then the T-shirt underneath.

  It feels kind of weird to keep the pretense of a gun up, clasping one hand over the other and poking one little finger out, but I do it anyway. Because that’s as much a part of the game as his acquiescence. The feel of that fakery against my palm makes me strong and like a different person, until I can feel my shaking legs growing stiff and firm and my aching body aches harder, hotter.

  “What are you going to do to me?” he asks, which only makes me think of the things I’ve done before. All of them make my face heat. Once, I made him masturbate while I took pictures—I have no idea why. These things just come to me like the next bead on a rosary I’m fumbling through, and I never quite know what it’s going to look like until it’s there in front of me.

  “I haven’t decided yet,” I say, and he moans. It excites me, that moan—because I recognize it so intimately. It’s the same one he lets out when I’m pushing up against him or maybe rubbing him through his pants, and he knows, he just knows that soon we’ll be making love.

  But then he says, “Please don’t hurt me,” as a little chaser to the too-excited sound, and then I’m all mixed up and inside out again. A little kick of heat goes through me and I tell him to shut his fucking mouth. I tell him I’ll hurt him if I want to, and nothing he does will stop me.

  He’s panting now. Harsh and rattling, like he’s trying to get it under control.

  “You feel so safe in your neat little world, don’t you,” I say. I’m not asking.

  “I…” he starts, but doesn’t finish.

  “Until right now, I bet,” I tell him, then press my two fingers to the naked small of his back. When that doesn’t provoke a strong enough response, I run them down his spine, over and over. I wait, until he tries to squirm away from me.

  And then I get a fistful of his hair and yank his head back.

  He makes a little sound low down in his throat, which lets me know the move has shocked him. And my teeth suddenly in the soft flesh close to his shoulder, the tauter flesh over the round bone—that shocks him, too.

  But I can tell he likes it at the same time. I know for a fact that he loves having his hair pulled and he always goes limp when I bite him, though it’s neither of those things that confirms how arousing he finds it. It’s the shock and his reaction to it. His sudden wateriness, like his knees have turned to jelly.

  He likes it best when I’m unexpected. As though this could be real, it could all be real, and there are no limits to my brutality.

  I think it’s this idea that pushes me farther. Like he’s goading me into more, and I give it. I grasp his fat, stiff cock just as he’s getting his bearings from the bite and the hair pull, and I squeeze hard.

  Though it isn’t the feel of me that makes him moan and gasp, I know. It’s what I say; it’s the words that force their way out of me—they’re the ones to blame.

  “Oh, I see,” I tell him, and I barely have to say anything more. My tone is so cruel, so cruel—god, I never imagined I could be capable of this much cruelty. I sound like the curving, sharp edge of something nastily mocking, and his moan melts down into embarrassment. Mortification, in fact.

  “One of those, huh?” I ask, and he tries to curl away from the press of my palm. The squeeze and release I get up to, with my teasing, torturing hand. It always amazes me, at this point, how I manage to manipulate a body so much bigger than mine—how I can twist him back against me and get my hand around him and whisper in his ear. Though secretly I suppose I know he’s helping me. I can feel him putting his weight on the balls of his feet. Holding himself, for me.

  Is it weird, if that turns me on more than any pretense at reality?

  “No, I’m not, I’m not,” he says, which only makes me wonder what he thinks I mean. What those am I talking about? What kind of weirdo does he think my mind
is conjuring up?

  “Your body doesn’t lie,” I say, and I feel so sick, so wrong, I’m such a bad person.

  Until he moans and pushes into my hand, and then I don’t know what I am.

  “Get down on there, you little slut,” I say, then watch as he does. He even does it in just the way I’d imagined—crouched on his knees on the couch, elbows on the arm so he’s kind of on all fours.

  Though I don’t know why I imagined that. I’ve gone past the fumbling and into some kind of insane autopilot, and it’s like someone else is telling him to reach into the drawer next to him and get out the baby oil that I don’t want to think about why we keep there.

  We keep it there in case our elbows get dry, right? A dry elbow emergency in the middle of watching “The Wire.” Right?

  Somehow, I don’t think dry elbows make a person breathe as hard as he’s doing. Or shake as much as he’s doing. And from here I can see the slant of his gorgeous face, and it’s flushed and weird and any second he’s probably going to come all over the couch.

  I think I want him to. No, I definitely want him to.

  “Now make yourself nice and wet for me,” I say, though my insides balk at the words and I’m halfway certain he won’t understand what I mean. It’s too filthy. He’ll never get it.

  But then he says “Okay, okay, just don’t hurt me,” far too quickly. And he doesn’t beg, even though most of the time he at least puts up a little resistance. This time, he slicks up his fingers—just two of them, as though he’s done it many, many times before—and slides them between the cheeks of his perfect ass.

  As though he’s done that before, too.

  Though he struggles, when it comes to the thing I didn’t even know I wanted. Or he wanted. And I can see he’s never really done this before, at least—penetrated himself with two fumbling fingers. His body’s long and it’s a hard reach, and when he turns a little I can see the mixture of emotions on his face. How they’ve fought until they’ve made his expression slack. He can’t hold them all together.