Best of Best Women's Erotica

by Marcy Sheiner

  She couldn’t say how or when she ended up on the bed, only felt herself falling onto the feather mattress as she had fallen into his eyes. Tara looked up at him. He stood, caressing her body with a look. She reveled in his admiration.

  “We just need one more thing,” he said, and, grabbing her old robe, he sprinted across to the kitchen. He returned with the last of the chocolate and triumphantly drizzled it across her body, murmuring that she deserved to be garnished. She squirmed and squealed with pleasure as he licked off the sticky sauce. He compared each part of her body to an exotic food and told her how he would lovingly prepare it. She was flowering, changing beneath his hands, his tongue, and his words, rising like sweet dough. Finally she could stand it no longer and brought him into her, wrapping around him, kneading him with her strong muscles. They climaxed together, fiercely. The moonlight caressed them as they lay in the dying heat.

  Tara wriggled her toes in pleasure, stretching like a contented kitten. She loved the way her orgasm passed through her body, traveling down her legs and settling in her feet. His weight descended on her slowly; she felt the slackening in his muscles, the looseness as he gently slid out. She inhaled his peppery, musky smell. The fragrance of his sex, tinged with the scents from their work in the sultry kitchen, was delicious.

  He slept, snoring lightly. But she couldn’t. She spent hours going over each step; the food birthed together under their joint parentage, the sensuous smells, the ability to anticipate the other’s movements. She hugged all these memories to her heart as she wanted to hug him. Instead, she stroked his back lightly so as not to disturb him. She wanted this moment to go on just a bit longer before she had to face the kitchen alone.

  The new day was coming on fast. Their loving had lasted most of the night. The sun’s morning rays nibbled on the edge of the horizon. The moon hadn’t yet gone down—nor had the pounding in her veins ceased. Suddenly she hated the sun, cursing it for bringing her this sweet morsel and now coming to take him away from her.

  He responded to her caress and snuggled his head down on her chest. She smiled at him. He was so small yet so perfectly formed, like a miniature god nestled in her arms. She liked the image of holding God. Overlooking the blasphemy, she thought about what a good lover he was. She yearned to have him tease her again with his tongue, taste her ears and neck, nuzzle her breasts, and feast at the sweetness between her legs. She heard again the sweet phrases he had spoken, how he planned to work his magic and skill on the banquet that was Tara. Beneath his touch and fingers, words and tongue, she felt beautiful. He appreciated her size and muscles, her meatiness and strength, her artistry both in the kitchen and in bed.

  A small tear rolled down her cheek. It had been too sweet, like the pain in your head on a blistering summer day when you sucked in that first huge mouthful of ice cream. You wanted it so badly that the shock and pleasure reverberated throughout your body and focused on one nerve in your head. The anticipation had been like that. She had known somehow that the sweetness of the night would turn into the painful cold of the morning. But she couldn’t have stopped herself. Nothing else would do but to drink in as much of him as she could. She clutched this ache to her too, allowing the tears to roll down her cheeks and neck, to wet the pendant, now cool on her chest. Silently she sobbed, not wanting to disturb him, not wanting this moment to end.

  He shifted slightly and his face moved closer to her neck and found the small pool of her tears. Instantly he was awake. He assessed her with hooded eyes. Would he get up, begin the going-away process?

  He smiled his big brash smile and propped up his head with one hand. With the other he traced the tracks of her tears. “Miss Tara, no need to be crying now. We made us the sweetest dance last night.”

  She smiled, trying to hide the fear creeping through her stomach. He moved down, closing his mouth over her tears. He kissed and licked them away. When he rose again a seriousness rested behind the light in his eyes. “Seems to me there is some bitterness in those tears. Is this going to happen every time we dance?”

  She searched his face, checking for any falseness in his words. What did he mean, “every time we dance?” She couldn’t reply—just looked at him, frozen, wondering.

  He laughed, yawned, stretched his arms over his head and rolled away from her. “You aren’t much of a talker, Miss Tara,” he said. Stretching some more, he rolled back to her. His fingers traced a pattern on her stomach. “But I like that. You’re like a wonderful stew—pretending to be simple, just hearty and filling, yet really subtle and deep. Well, it’s okay, Miss Tara, I’ll talk enough for the both of us.” He blew all over her body, chasing away the sweat. “Making a good stew takes time, you know. You’ve got to tend it well, stir it up. Add a little spice now and then. And you want to make sure never to burn it.” He stopped and looked deeply into her eyes. “I never ruined a stew in my life, Miss Tara. And I won’t leave this one unattended. I already told Mr. Beaumont that we would need to come to an understanding about my staying on here.” He hesitated. “Of course, that is if you’ll have me. What do you say, can I add a new ingredient to your stew?”

  She let out her breath and smiled up at him contentedly. He grinned at the change in her. He cocked his head to one side for a moment then reached down to kiss her, a slow velvety kiss that tasted of salt and sweat and chocolate and lovemaking. Tears welled up again in her eyes and he kissed those too.

  “I can see I won’t have to worry about this ever being bland,” he laughed. “Plenty of spice here.” His lips found hers again, his tongue probing deeply inside, lingering as he mixed their juices together. He finally pulled away and they both gulped for breath.

  A ray of sunshine broke through the window and splashed across them. It lit him up from behind like the god she had imagined him to be. She caressed his cheek, the moon’s promise beating securely in her heart and in the gem on her breast. Finally she spoke.

  “What would you like for breakfast, Mr. Charles?”

  THOUGHT SO

  Cecilia Tan

  I HAVE NEWS FOR YOU, BOYS: THERE ARE HORNY women out there. There are women walking the streets and bookstore aisles, or riding trains, who are practically crying inside because they want it so bad. Either that, or I’m the only one. But I would put money on the fact that I am not the only one. Especially given what Jason has told me.

  It’s because of Jason that I don’t have to prowl those aisles, those trains, anymore.

  I first noticed him in Walpenny’s, in the cookbook section. I was thumbing through a spiral-bound volume on Thai cookery when I caught him looking at me. Or maybe it was he who caught me. By that point, I was frustrated. It was a summer evening, cool and breezy, and though I wore a brief, swishy dress, and had arranged my hair suggestively, I had not had good luck. The only mild interest I’d gotten was from people I had no interest in. And while I was starting to think I’d hump an aardvark if I had to, I knew better.

  I was biting my lip and trying to decide if I should give up and go home, the book open in my hands but my eyes unfocused, when Jason stepped out from behind a tall bookcase. My eyes flickered up and then back down to the book. He was tall, a little underfed, with blue eyes and light brown hair…and was he looking at me?

  He was. I gave him a longer look, and a smile. He returned the smile in a knowing way. Thank goodness. The hook was baited. I put the book down on the table, and let my head fall back, some of my curls brushing my bare shoulders. I saw him gulp—hook swallowed. He came toward me and said, “Hi.”

  “Hi,” I said, lowering my eyes with a shyness that wasn’t entirely unreal. I was accustomed to being the cute one, the desirable one—but Jason would have turned my head even if I hadn’t been having one of my horniest nights. Suddenly I wasn’t sure what to say to him.

  He saved me by speaking first. “I’ve been following you for a while.”

  “How long is a while?”

  He blushed. “Since Alton Station.” He reached his hand toward min
e, and brushed his fingertips against my arm. I had to stifle an audible intake of breath. “Would you like to go somewhere?” he asked.

  I nodded. “My place, if that would be all right with you.”

  There was that smile again. “Lead the way.” He orbited me with a crooked arm as I turned toward the door, but he did not touch me until we were sitting on a bench at the station. I was almost shivering by then, fantasizing about his arm around me, waiting for it to happen—and then he slid close, his blue-jeaned leg touching mine, and his arm slid across my shoulders. His breath was warm in my hair, against my ear, in the air-conditioned coolness of the station. If I had an engine, it would have revved.

  I didn’t want to wait until we got home. It would be twenty minutes on the train, and then a five-minute walk, and I was so hot and ready that I was afraid I’d slip off the peak and lose my edge. The frustration and need of the long evening made my jaw stiffen, the ache in my belly only intensified by the proximity of our bodies.

  His lips nibbled at my ear and tears almost sprang to my eyes. He smoothed my dress down over my legs. I wished I could just lie down on the concrete bench, put up my legs and let him root around to his heart’s content (and mine). Another pass with his hand.

  I hadn’t felt so hungrily frustrated since junior high, when I used to sit backstage during drama club rehearsal, on Daniel Pera’s lap. We were too young for sex and knew it, I guess, because we never took any of our clothes off. But he used to trace every line or design on the fabric of my shirt with his fingertip, roaming featherlight over my chest and up and down my neck. Sometimes he would trace the seams of my jeans. We’d sit like that for hours, while rehearsals were going on, in the darkness of the wings, until we were needed onstage. Sometimes I went on flushed and dizzy, unsure of where my feet were, unsure even of who I was, which character I was to play, or the words I was supposed to say. I went home every night dying to masturbate the minute I got to my room.

  Now Jason’s fingertip began to trace the flowery vines on my dress. I shuddered a breath, in and out. I wanted to murmur sweet nothings in his ear, to give him a taste of the painful anticipation I was riding—but I could not speak. His finger slid along the center seam of my dress and came to rest at the crook of my hip. Then he turned my chin toward him, and before I could say anything, he smothered my unspoken words with a kiss.

  His fingers were drumming now, like a piano arpeggio, closer and closer to where my clit throbbed under layers of clothing. Yes, I wore panties, even when out on the prowl. His gentle tapping intensified my longing. I didn’t dare open my eyes, afraid that people were staring at us. He kept his rhythm even, his touch light, as if there were no urgency in him at all. The urgency was all inside me, making my shoulders tighten under his arm, my breath grow shallow, my jaw clench.

  And then came the train. He held my hand and pulled me into the car. There were only four or five people within earshot, none of whom paid us any attention. Jason pulled me down into a seat and right onto his lap.

  That finger of his was busy again, this time underneath my dress, pushing aside my cotton panties, then nosing back and forth through my wetness. More liquid was forthcoming, and I licked my mouth as if to match it.

  When his finger slid into me, I started to cry. You ninny, I was thinking, you’re going to ruin it, he’s going to freak and run away on you. But I couldn’t help it. His slow, gentle touch was going somewhere deep inside of me, somewhere I needed to be touched so much that the relief triggered tears. I clung to his neck and sobbed softly, my face hidden by drifts of my own hair, while his finger went in and out, soon joined by a second one. He could barely move his hand, jammed between my legs like that, but it was enough, just rocking. Then his thumb perked up and rubbed against my lubricated clit, and I sobbed harder.

  “It’s okay,” he said into my ear. “I know.”

  Feeling as I had during those confused moments of stumbling from the curtains in the wings, unsure where to stand or where to go, I now found myself being carried from the train. He had me in his arms and whispered in my ear and nibbled my neck, and the next thing I knew we were at my door and he was asking for my keys. He set me down on my feet and I opened the apartment door and we climbed the dark stairs.

  At the time I didn’t think it odd that he knew where to go; I was too grateful to be there, mere steps from the bedroom, where we soon were, me kneeling on the bed, him standing while I unbuttoned his white cotton shirt, unbuttoned his jeans, and revealed him. His silky red erection came free and I sighed. I cupped his balls with my hand and let my lips fall around him. Ahh. Mmm.

  He sensed that I didn’t want to waste time, and let me swallow him deep a few times before he pushed forward onto the bed, flattening me in the process. We shed the rest of our clothes and I pulled a condom out of the side table drawer. I kicked off my socks while he put it on. I wrapped my legs around his back and pulled him into me.

  With every thrust I felt like sparks flew down to my toes and shot out the tips of my fingers. I thought again of junior high, of a trip to the beach—baking in the sun for an hour and then running headlong down the sand and plunging into the cool water. An intensely pleasurable shock. A shockingly intense pleasure. Jason gave me that again and again.

  I thrust my hips up to meet him, trying to match rhythms so as to achieve an almost violent crash of bodies. It’s hard to admit this, but I wanted him to fuck me hard enough to hurt. It was one of the reasons I liked picking up strangers—they were unlikely to worry much about whether I was in pain or not. People in anonymous encounters tend to fuck with abandon. Of course, that sometimes meant that I would end up abandoned, if he came before me, or if he couldn’t keep it up. But Jason was hanging in there, giving it to me and giving it to me.

  When I’m that wet and I’ve wanted it for that long, I can fuck for a long, long time. I started to worry that he wouldn’t last, but I didn’t say anything. Just when my worrying began to distract from the pleasure, he whispered, “It’s okay. I can do it.” And he began to fuck even harder, and I lost myself.

  The orgasm was coming—but if I followed my usual pattern, I would need a tad more clitoral stimulation. I tried to slide my hand along my stomach, but bumped into his hand, as he beat me to it. He had turned his long arm partway over and slid his thumb down over the very slippery, sensitive bump at just the right moment. Instantly, I felt the ripples build and break loose. My legs shook and my heels drummed on his back as I quaked with the power of coming. I wondered if this would make him go off, too, but when I settled back into the bed, he was still lodged deep inside me, fucking me slowly and contentedly.

  Wash, rinse, repeat. After a while, he sped up, my muscles started to contract, he rubbed my clit, and—insert sound effects like Fourth of July fireworks. And again. And maybe again…I can’t do math when I’m like that. I kept thinking, Oh, this time he’ll go off, too. But he didn’t. And then I started to feel like I’d had enough and I feared that he hadn’t, and I was going to end up having to go through the ordeal of letting him fuck me when I didn’t want to anymore. It would not be fair, after all, to get what I wanted and leave him unsatisfied.

  Suddenly he pulled out, lay back next to me, and smiled.

  “You didn’t come,” I said.

  “Are you sure?” he asked.

  “Yes.” I put my hand on his chest and felt his heart beating hard. “I’m sure of it.”

  “You’re right.”

  “Do you want me to go down on you?” I could not move at that point, as I lay there, thoroughly screwed, but I figured I’d be able to sit up in a few minutes.

  “No, that’s okay,” he said, sounding sleepy, or maybe I was projecting. “You just rest.”

  We lay there in the semidarkness of the streetlight, and after a short nap, my brain began to perk up. That’s when I realized that I had never told him where I lived, nor how to get there. He had been following me all evening, by his own admission. I didn’t think I would feel so comfor
table snuggling up to a psycho. Did I have a stalker?

  “No,” he said, stroking my hair. “I can read your mind.”

  “What do you mean, you can read my mind?” I guess I thought it was some mushy romantic thing he was trying to say. But I was wrong. He meant it in the most literal sense.

  “In the bookstore, you picked up that cookbook because you thought the cover image looked phallic.”

  “Spring rolls and bananas.”

  “Then you watched that clerk, the one with the nose ring, walk by, and decided you really didn’t like the way he smelled.” His voice was soothing. “That’s the smell of patchouli, by the way.”

  “And what was I thinking about when we were in the train station?”

  “The Man Who Came To Dinner.”

  “Holy shit.” That was the play we’d done in drama club. He really could read my mind. “So you were following me around all night, and knew how horny I was the whole time?”

  “Yes.”

  I propped myself up on an elbow and slapped him on the shoulder. “That’s for making me wait so long.” Then I kissed him, long and deep, until we were both breathless.

  He started to get up and I thought, Aha, now he’ll want to come. But he made a quick trip to the bathroom, and when he returned, began to get dressed.

  I asked him if he wanted to come and he smiled that sweet smile at me. “Yes, very much. But I’m going to wait.”