Best Women's Erotica 2013

by Violet Blue

  I lie half sprawled across the tailgate for an eternity it seems. My legs won’t hold me up. My ass is on fire and my pussy is numb. My come and theirs intermingle and run down my thighs, and I feel Angel’s come drying down the side of my face. My panties are ground into the dirt. Angel has zipped up his pants and gotten back into their truck, and tall guy asks if I need help getting back to my truck.

  “I’m Ray, by the way.”

  Ray, Ray of the Horse Cock. He holds my elbow as I try to stand upright. I’m shaking, a mix of exhaustion and elation.

  I stumble back to my truck unassisted. I can’t believe cops haven’t shown up. What would that arrest be for? Public fuckery? Sodomy? Hell, I don’t know. Ray watches me until I start the truck, then gets into his own. They pull away, and I wonder if there are any words spoken between them as they drive home.

  My pussy is destroyed and my throat is bruised. As I glance in the rearview, I see the smudged mascara makes me look like I’ve got twin black eyes. My ass is fucking violated, and one nipple feels like it got caught in a vise.

  And I’d do it all over again.

  BLUSH

  Mary Borsellino

  The long black waves of her hair fall over one eye as she ducks her head, looking nervous and almost ashamed. The effect is like a classic movie siren standing before me, with her full, red lips and soft, smooth white skin.

  “My dick doesn’t really get hard all the way,” she explains, apologetic. Her voice is smoky, a little rough, the legacy of too many cigarettes. “Hormones, you know.”

  We’re in her room, a third-floor walkup with the neon and noise of the city on a Friday night just outside the window. She has a poster for the movie Cabaret on her wall. She told me at the club that her name is Sally; I have no idea if this is true.

  It was a tiny, dirty club, four hours ago. Sally’s a singer in a band, the kind of band that wasn’t very good but will be one day. Very, very good. She’s got the charisma of a future star.

  I step forward and kiss her again, to wipe the apology and trepidation from her beautiful face. Her mouth tastes like vodka and Red Bull.

  “Lena,” she murmurs against my mouth, my vanilla gloss and her berry-tinted makeup a smeared recipe on our lips, “if you aren’t okay with this…”

  I imagine other lovers from the past, flirtations begun that never got this far: men and women unprepared for this beautiful girl who’s more than she appears, homophobes and separatists whose hatred of anything that transgresses their comfort zone is so well known that it gets murder convictions overturned.

  No wonder she’s hesitant. No wonder she trembles.

  I’m the small-boned, feisty sort, the dark little pixie who emerges bruised and elated from every dancing pit. Torn clothes and a brilliant smile. That’s how I looked when I approached her at the edge of the stage as she coiled the cord from her microphone around her hand, packing up to go home. I grinned at her; she grinned back.

  As far as I was concerned, that was that. Stars, trumpets, the fall at first sight.

  I was one smitten kitten from that moment on, but it’s clear that Sally needs a little more convincing before she trusts me with the lush and fragile chambers of her heart.

  I kiss her again and again and again, a trail of soft presses of my lips over the curve of her jaw, the excited pulse-flutter of her throat. She hums in appreciation when I cup one of her small, perfect breasts through her dress with my hand. The pleased, lazy sound turns to a hiss when I pinch the nipple between my thumb and forefinger.

  I maneuver her backward until her shins hit the edge of her mattress, then push her down until she’s sitting. Her black-lashed, hazel eyes are dark, her mouth bitten and swollen, her pale cheeks hectic with a flush. She raises her arms obediently so I can lift her dress up over her head, leaving her in the simple bra and panties set she has on underneath.

  “I had no idea you could get even more beautiful,” I tell her, and sink to my knees.

  I’ve got stuff in one of the spacious pockets of my pants, because I’m a cocky little fucker (no pun intended; I’ve got a vagina and love it dearly) and I set out with an intention to score tonight. I had no idea I’d end up with a catch as impressive as Sally, but it’s always nice to exceed one’s own expectations.

  There are condoms, and dental dams, both in a variety of synthetic fruit flavors that are only marginally less ridiculous than a mouthful of the basic latex taste. Why they can’t make safer sex taste like sex is a constant mystery to me. I love every part of being with another person, the scents of her skin and her sweat, the bitter organic shock of precome or the lush slick palate of a flushed and wanting vulva. If I wanted a mouthful of banana flavor, I’d deep-throat a goddamn banana.

  Along with the condoms and the dams, I’ve got latex gloves and water-based lube. I dump all of it on the soft carpet beside me, and turn my attention to the task of taking Sally’s underwear off with my teeth.

  The swell of her arousal against the peach-colored cotton makes my mouth water, but I ignore it for the time being and grasp the elastic lace of the waistband between my lips and ease it down, careful and slow.

  Like she said it would be, her dick’s hard but not iron-firm, the skin still soft and pliable to the touch when I give in to some of my baser instincts and reach one hand up to stroke lightly along the length as I continue my underwear-removing plan with my mouth. It makes her erection seem more vulnerable than others I’ve seen. It feels as soft as fine velvet against my palm.

  “Oh, fuck,” Sally chokes, gripping the edge of the mattress with both hands and clearly making a very strong effort not to buck up into the touch. Good thing, too, as her knee would end up in my windpipe if she moved like that right now. I rock back onto my heels and peel her panties down the rest of the way with my hands.

  “Do you want me to put on the gloves? I can stimulate your prostate at the same time, if you have trouble with penile orgasms,” I offer. Sally’s look is adorably bewildered, like she doesn’t understand why I’d be making clinical conversation when we could be fornicating instead.

  “Uh,” she manages, snow-white face furrowed in thought for a moment. “No, that’s okay. Next time, maybe. I can mostly come okay without, but there’s sometimes not much to show for it when I do.”

  I nod, smiling happily at her as I tear open the packet on a relatively inoffensive strawberry-flavored condom. “You want a next time?”

  She blushes, pressing her lips together. I’m kneeling between her spread legs, her panties around one of her ankles, and I’m about to suck her dick, and she’s blushing at being caught out as wanting a second date. She’s so perfect I think I’m probably going to end up falling in love with her.

  “Yes?” Sally answers. My grin widens, and I kneel up closer to roll down the condom.

  “Me, too,” I tell her, and then I go down until I’m deep-throating her. The fact that she isn’t hard all the way helps, a little, but I don’t take that as any excuse to do a halfhearted job at it. I wrap my mouth as hot and tight around her as I can, flexing my throat in small fluttering swallows around the head.

  Her pubic hair is coarse and crinkly against my nose and I can stare up just enough to watch the excited, overwhelmed rise and fall of her soft belly as she breathes as best she can. I can’t really reach up from this angle to touch her breasts very effectively, but Sally seems to have thought of that already and is rubbing them in slow, dreamlike motions as she watches my mouth work the length of her dick.

  I press my tongue up against the thick vein on the underside, liking the way that the latex and the skin between me and Sally’s pulse shift together at the movement. I inhale deeply through my nose, chasing the smells of her body and the smells of how turned on she is by my mouth on her, how I’m pushing her closer and closer to the edge of climax with nothing but this simple act. There’s no rush of power quite like it in the world, that knowledge that you can make another person come, can release her desire and expose her most s
ecret and vulnerable parts. That’s my favorite part of sex.

  My jaw’s begun to ache, in that good bone-deep way that I know I’ll feel tomorrow morning while I brush my teeth and yawn on the subway on my ride in to work. I’ll move my mouth just that certain way and feel that soreness, and my body will be flooded with the sense memory of being here, kneeling before her, at this moment.

  I’m so turned on that I think I might come without even being touched. My own underwear is damp between my legs and my clit is throbbing, so much so that I have to slip one of my hands down and rub hard against the seam of my pants or I’m going to end up losing my mind from being so horny. My nipples are hard against the inside of my shirt and every suck, every lick I make against Sally’s cock, just heightens my own arousal. I’m drooling down my chin, spit-slick against the latex, and can’t stop moaning. Her thighs are shaking and her head’s thrown back, ruby-red mouth open as she screams my name and comes with one of her hands still digging into the mattress, the other resting on the back of my head.

  As the climax shudders through her she pulls my hair, and the sharp shock of pain in my scalp is enough to trip me over into my own jolt of orgasm. Stars flash black and white behind my eyelids and vertigo sends me reeling for endless seconds of blind pleasure.

  When I come back to myself, I’m resting my cheek against Sally’s thigh and panting raggedly. I slip the condom off her and tie it, tossing it aside for the time being so that I can crawl up her body, pushing her back until her shoulder blades hit the mattress and we’re lying face-to-face.

  “That was nice,” I tell her, my throat sounding completely fucked-out and wrecked. The sound of it makes her blush again, which makes me laugh and lean in to kiss her. I think I could really fall in love with a girl like this.

  THE SPANKING SALON

  Elizabeth Coldwell

  Everyone on campus knew about the Salon. It was a story that did the rounds in freshers’ week, like the one about the history student who had some kind of breakdown during his final exams, and turned in a paper consisting of the word Aardvark, repeated over and over on twelve sides of foolscap. But the Salon wasn’t an urban legend, it was real—a secret, men-only club where you could watch and participate in the punishment of willing young women. Hence its more commonly used name, the Spanking Salon.

  Becoming a member appealed to me on a level I couldn’t explain. The thought of a woman having her bottom bared for an intense hand warming, or an extended paddling, turned me on like nothing else. But my chances of stepping through the Salon’s door—hell, of even being told the location of those doors—were zero. No one knew quite how the club recruited its prospective members. Some said you had to be spotted browsing the collection of Victorian erotica buried deep in the library stacks. Others that it was a matter of family connections: only if your father had been a member of the Salon would you be admitted. Whatever the criteria for selection were, I knew I’d fail to meet them. That was confirmed the morning invitations to their initiation ceremony were stuffed into the pigeonholes of the lucky few.

  Freddie Burleigh, who had the room next to mine and was the closest friend I’d made in my first few weeks at university, was checking his post at the same time as me. The bundle he pulled out included a thick, cream-covered envelope bearing nothing more than his name in neat copperplate handwriting.

  “What’ve you got there?” I asked, watching him browse its contents with growing comprehension.

  “You’re not going to believe it, Ash. I’ve been invited to join the Spanking Salon.” He thrust his invitation under my nose. Quickly, I scanned the handwritten note, envy gnawing at my gut. The pleasure of his attendance was requested on Friday night, at an address in town I didn’t recognize.

  “Well done, mate.” I fought to keep the jealousy I felt out of my voice. It was no surprise Freddie had been recruited. He was prime Salon material: public school educated; father something in the diplomatic service; handsome in a sturdy, well-bred kind of way. More importantly, I’d seen the paperbacks he kept hidden behind his History of Art course books: lurid pulp novels with pictures of naked, blushing asscheeks on their covers, penned by authors with names like Ophelia Birch and Rosie Bottoms.

  Glancing at the mail rack, I saw only one other similar envelope waiting to be collected. Hardly any of the pigeonholes had been emptied, it being Saturday and the lure of a lie-in after last night’s excesses appealing more than the indifferent breakfast served up in the refectory. If the number of invitations issued was similar across the university’s other five halls of residence, only a dozen or so initiates would be attending the Salon’s next meeting. I longed to know who they were, what made them special. And what perverse delights awaited them on Friday night.

  Of course, I had no expectation of ever finding out. Freddie might regale me with a watered-down version of events if I pressed him, but I was sure he’d be sworn to keep the real meat a secret. I’d simply have to stew in my frustration, lying on my bed, wanking and thinking of what I was missing.

  Until a flu bug swept the hall. Half the people on our floor succumbed, including big, healthy Freddie. When he didn’t make it down to breakfast on Friday morning, I popped my head round his door to find him pale-faced and shivering, too weak to make it any farther than the bathroom at the end of the corridor. One look at him and I knew he wouldn’t be keeping his appointment at the Salon tonight.

  “Anything I can get you on the way back from lectures?” I asked him, my concern genuine. We might have been chalk and cheese, but I really liked the guy.

  “Paracetamol and orange juice should do the trick,” he croaked in reply. “Thanks, Ashley, you’re a true pal.”

  Instead of the paracetamol, I bought him an over-the-counter flu remedy, designed to soothe his aches, lower his fever and help him sleep. When I checked in on him again at seven, he was dosed up and dead to the world.

  I know I shouldn’t have taken advantage of him, but I simply couldn’t help myself. That morning, I’d seen the tuxedo hanging on his wardrobe door, the outfit he’d planned to wear to the Salon. Along with it was a black domino mask. That gave me the idea. Freddie and I were roughly the same height, even if he was broader in build than me, and we both had short, fair hair. With the mask, in a darkened room, alongside a group of people who didn’t know Freddie too well—and, in any case, would be more concerned about their own satisfaction—I reckoned I just might be able to pass for him.

  Even so, my hand was shaking as I handed over the invitation, sure my deception would be picked up. The address on the card led me to a building just off one of the town’s main shopping streets, with the kind of plain, black-painted door you could walk past a hundred times without ever noticing. I slipped my mask into position, knocked and waited.

  The door was opened moments later by a tall, dark-haired man in evening dress, who looked me up and down.

  “Yes?” he asked.

  “The meeting tonight.” I did my best approximation of Freddie’s Sloaney drawl. “I have an invitation.”

  He studied it, then looked back to me. Could he tell I’d altered the fit of Freddie’s jacket with strategically placed safety pins, worn an extra pair of socks so his shiny black shoes weren’t too big for me and gelled my hair so it fell over as much of my face as possible in an attempt to conceal my real identity?

  “Please come in.”

  Almost punching the air with delight, I followed him inside, through to a room with black walls and bare wooden floorboards, lit only by the light of flickering candles in wrought-iron holders. Masked men in formal wear stood round in twos and threes, chatting and sipping champagne. It struck me this place resembled nothing so much as a miniature version of the gentleman’s clubs where discreet networking took place and business deals were struck. A haven where no women intruded and who you knew was more important than what you knew.

  Looking at my fellow initiates, I realized any one of them could be someone I saw every day: a student on my
course; someone who worked out in the union gym alongside me; one of the volunteers who served behind the Junior Common Room bar. Disguised as they were, I had no way of knowing. But, I reasoned, if I couldn’t recognize them, by the same token they couldn’t recognize me.

  The man who’d let me inside took me over to what I assumed must be the president of this society, judging by the ornate gold mask he wore.

  “Freddie Burleigh, Sir.”

  My hand was grasped in a bone-crushing shake. Slate-gray eyes regarded me from behind the mask. “Freddie, welcome to the Salon. I’m Martyn Salisbury.”

  The name didn’t mean anything to me. I wondered whether Freddie knew him, and settled for a neutral, “It’s good to be here,” by way of reply.

  “You’re the last to arrive,” he told me. “We were beginning to give up on you, to tell you the truth. You wouldn’t have been the first potential initiate to get cold feet at the last minute. But now that you’re here the real fun of the evening can begin.” Martyn tapped his glass, attracting everyone’s attention. Heads swiveled to look at him. “Gentlemen, tonight is a very special night for all of us. Every year, we select the cream of the new university intake to join the ranks of our little society. Tonight, those of you who have only ever dreamed of witnessing a bare-bottomed spanking in the flesh will discover what it really feels like to watch as a girl’s ass turns crimson under the loving attentions of a firm hand—and experience the thrill of punishing her yourself.”

  An excited murmur ran round the room. Everything we’d heard about the Salon was true. This was a haven for spankos, carrying on its business under the noses of our lecturers and professors. Unless, of course, some of them were here tonight, hidden behind masks…