Best of Best Women's Erotica

by Marcy Sheiner

  “Where we going, Den?”

  “Someplace quiet.”

  “Library?” Tracy had seen Den read a book once. She couldn’t remember what it was about, but the cover had been a pretty shade of green.

  Den continued down the corridor and turned the corner to the laundry room.

  Tracy’s feet stopped moving when she realized where they were going.

  Den turned and took her hand. “Do you wanna go with me?”

  “For real?” Tracy couldn’t believe her wish was about to come true.

  “Only if you want to.” Den seemed almost shy, asking like that. Tracy stood up on her toes and kissed Den on the mouth.

  Den had traded another inmate her next two days off to sneak them into the linen room for two hours. It was common practice, and most of the guards were usually willing to look the other way. The way they figured, if their charges were busy fucking, they wouldn’t be fighting. And that suited them just fine.

  As soon as the door closed behind them, Den set some sheets out on the linoleum floor. The only problem was the heat. The long, narrow room had no ventilation and the steam from the laundry slid in under the door. In the dim glow of a night-light you could almost see the droplets of water in the air.

  Den sat down on the damp sheets and motioned for Tracy to join her. They had barely started to kiss when it became apparent they weren’t alone. Whispers drifted over from the far corner, then silence; then a low moan. In the shadows, they could make out two bodies moving together. Tracy and Den smiled at one another and shrugged. Who ever heard of a private room in a prison anyway?

  Tracy ran her hands up and down Den’s arms, drawing her partner’s attention back to their own corner.

  “I’ve wanted to be with you for a long time, Denny.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “I just didn’t know if you wanted me, too.”

  “Sure I do.”

  Den began unbuttoning Tracy’s shirt.

  “Let me show you how much I want you. Sit back and watch me.”

  Den watched as Tracy stood and began to slowly strip away her uniform, swaying her hips real sexy-like, running her hands over her breasts the way she’d wanted Denny to do for months.

  Maybe it was the close quarters or the heat, but Den started feeling kind of woozy. She was getting slick between her legs just watching Tracy’s show and could hardly wait to get her hands on the girl. This was definitely something she needed. She was glad she’d had that crazy dream after all.

  Just then she sensed a sudden movement from across the room. The shadow women were sitting up, watching Tracy’s striptease with great interest. The taller one caught Den’s eye and raised a finger to her lips as if to say, “Shhh. Don’t do nothing to ruin the spell now.”

  Den, mesmerized by the dance and the steam and the want growing inside her, found herself even more turned on by the thought of an audience. She rose to her knees and pulled Tracy’s naked form to her, running her lips across the girl’s stomach, till she felt Tracy’s legs start to tremble. She stood then, scooped the girl up in her powerful arms and lowered her to the floor. Den kissed Tracy’s mouth, their tongues tangling together like slippery snakes. She blazed a trail of kisses down Tracy’s neck, across her shoulders, and took each nipple into her mouth, first one, then the other.

  Tracy responded with soft sighs and shivers, reaching up to pull at Denny’s shirt.

  Den sat back and tugged it off over her head. As she did, she got a clear look at her spectators. The shorter one she’d seen around, but didn’t know her name. The tall one, though, was Cole. As soon as she realized who it was, Den felt her passion flare as if someone had poured gasoline on a barbecue. She stared into Cole’s eyes and saw a sly smile creep across her face.

  Cole motioned to Den with her hand, “Bring it on,” like some kind of a challenge. Then she lay back against the wall, spread her legs wide, and pulled her partner’s head toward her crotch. She stared right at Den and mouthed the words, “Fuck me.”

  Den lowered her body on top of Tracy’s, their breasts rubbing together as they kissed. Her muscles rippled as she raised herself up and began grinding her thigh into Tracy’s cunt, her eyes locked on Cole’s.

  “Oh, Denny,” Tracy moaned, pulling Den’s attention away from Cole, making her feel a slight pang of guilt.

  “Yeah, baby. Feels good?” She gazed down at Tracy.

  “Yessss.”

  Den couldn’t keep her focus, though, and as soon as Tracy’s eyes closed again, she found herself studying Cole; waiting for signs, as if Cole was the one she was doing. She kept up a steady pace, driving Tracy wild, determined to get to Cole through her. Sweat coated their bodies as Den brought Tracy closer and closer to the edge.

  Tracy cried out and clawed at Den’s back just as Cole’s hips started to buck. The two women came together, filling the room with the sounds and smells of sex.

  Den held Tracy close and rocked her back to earth, at the same time keeping one eye on Cole. She knew they weren’t through yet. She knew what Cole wanted from her now.

  Cole licked her lips and repositioned her partner, blocking herself from Den’s view for a few moments while she did so.

  Den let Tracy slip her shorts down; felt the cool of the sheets against her skin, which was just about on fire. She leaned back against the wall so she would have a clear view across the room. She felt Tracy’s lips on her breasts, then Tracy’s fingers teasing her clit, sliding deliciously up and down and around. She still couldn’t see what Cole was up to, though, and it made her wary.

  “You’re so wet.” Tracy’s voice drew Den’s attention.

  “Feels real good, baby, don’t stop.” Den held Tracy’s head to her chest, urging her forward.

  Cole had one of the only dildos in the whole lockup, which made her quite a popular girl. When she rose to her knees, Den could see the strap around her waist, and the heavy latex cock hanging down between her legs. She watched Cole stroke the length of it before sinking it into her girlfriend’s pussy from behind with one hard shove. Cole grinned at Den as she slammed into her partner’s cunt, each thrust a little deeper than the one before.

  Den knew it was meant for her. Cole was fucking her, like she would have in the dream if Den hadn’t woken up.

  She whispered to Tracy, “Do me harder, baby—like that, yeah.”

  Tracy took the direction and her hand fucked Den harder, unconsciously matching Cole’s strokes.

  Den felt her cunt trying to swallow Tracy’s hand; heard the slurp slurp slurp of her own juices. She fought the urge to close her eyes and give in to the feeling, concentrating instead on Cole’s hips; imagining Cole pounding into her, tearing her apart, forcing her to face a desire so overwhelming she had no control over it. She knew she shouldn’t want Cole to fuck her; she knew it was wrong, even as she lay there. Yet even if she’d wanted to stop, she couldn’t. She was like a deep well with a bucket on a too-short string. She couldn’t get enough. Sweat ran freely from every pore. She felt the climax coming, and for a minute she couldn’t breathe. When she came, she let go with a groan that grew from the back of her throat like a growl. Her body spasmed as she watched a satisfied smile split Cole’s face in two.

  Tracy looked up at Den, damn proud of herself—until she saw the truth in Denny’s eyes. Busted. Then she just got real quiet, put her clothes on without a word, and went back to her cell.

  That night, Den lay in her bed, reliving it all. Like a scene from a movie she didn’t understand, she played it over and over in her mind, trying to figure out where she’d lost the thread. She didn’t want Cole, did she? She’d wanted to be with Tracy. So why had she been so turned on by Cole’s game? Why hadn’t she been able to stop it, to get up and leave? It was as if she was chained and shackled by the lust Cole had drawn to the surface. Had it always been there? Den closed her eyes and drifted off to a troubled sleep, doubting everything she’d ever known.

  It doesn’t matter what you’re in for. It
doesn’t matter how guilty or innocent you think you are. There’re prisons on either side of the wall.

  RATATOUILLE

  Susannah Indigo

  “MILES, DID YOU KNOW THAT ZUCCHINIS make the best cocks?” Isabelle asked me on our first date. She twirled her angel-hair pasta and looked fondly at the veggie stabbed on the end of her fork.

  She had my attention. I tried to guess at a good response. Isabelle had long, wavy red hair and dancer’s legs, and there wasn’t much I wouldn’t consider for her.

  “Better than cucumbers?” I asked rather dumbly but with great gusto, as though we were discussing favorite recipes over the back fence.

  She laughed. “Hell, yes. Better than men, sometimes. Better than vibrators, always. No batteries, and much more organic.”

  I was speechless. I had watched Isabelle pass by my office for weeks on the way to the dance studio before I found the nerve to ask her out. I was developing a serious navy-blue leg-warmer fetish by the time I just stepped into the hall and blurted out my name and invited her to dinner.

  “Sure, Miles,” she had said, quite casually. “But it has to be vegetarian for me, okay?”

  She had looked pure and angelic with that pale white skin and the sprinkling of freckles across her nose. I researched every health food restaurant in town.

  “Organic is good,” I finally answered her at dinner, feeling like a sixteen-year-old kid on his first date instead of the lawyer that I was. “Do you peel the zucchini?” I had to know.

  “Sometimes, Miles,” she answered. “But sometimes rougher is better, you know?”

  I thought then that maybe it was possible to fall in love with a girl who said “you know?” all the time and who wore heavy silver rings and bracelets that weighed her down, bracelets that looked like handcuffs on her delicate wrists.

  I took her home to her tiny walk-up apartment at the top of an old building not far from Coors Field. “This neighborhood is not safe,” I told her.

  She just laughed at me. “Life is not safe, darling.”

  She was right, of course. There’s hardly any safety in hating what you do every day for a living. When I chose law school over art so long ago, I didn’t know the difference between financial security and being safe.

  She invited me in and lit six black candles all around the room. “Six,” she informed me, “is the sacred number of Aphrodite, the goddess of love.” She served me hot tea on an elegant silver tray and then looked straight into my eyes and told me how it was going to be.

  “A girl has to have rules, you know,” she said. “I never have full sex with a man until the third date.” She smiled. “By then I can always tell if they’re fuckable or not.”

  I was thirty-seven years old and a man of the world when she said this, and I swear I couldn’t remember ever having sex before in my life, or if I even knew how.

  “That sounds fair,” I mumbled, smoothing my hair.

  She excused herself and went to the bathroom. I confess I sneaked a look in her fridge while she was gone. Never before had a crisper looked so sexy. I counted the zucchinis—there were six. All in a row.

  She came back, and her hair was tied up and she pressed one of her strong legs next to mine on the futon. Without a word she picked up a jar of honey from the tea tray, stuck her finger into it, and smeared honey all over her lips. Honey over lipstick, honey around her mouth, honey on her tongue, never taking her eyes off mine.

  She stopped. “Kiss me, Miles. Kiss me until all my honey is gone.”

  Dear god. I started with a lick and then I was devouring her, and nothing else existed but Isabelle and her mouth. Long, soulful kisses that went on forever, or maybe it was just one kiss that kept inventing itself over and over and over until I thought her rules were only a tease and my hand was high on her thigh and my cock was raving wild. She paused and whispered, “You kiss like a man who is hungry. This is a good thing.” And then she kicked me out the door.

  I bought her things. I showed up for the second date with flowers and candy and a gift of tiny, delicate crystal ballet slippers that reminded me of her. She laughed and thanked me, but later she told me that the things she wanted in life couldn’t be bought.

  She was wearing a shiny white leotard, the kind with long sleeves that looked as if it would fall off her shoulders any minute, the kind you can see nipples through in the right light, and a long, swirling, deep-blue skirt that made me want to lift it and bend her over and fuck her hard and fast. But it was only the second date, and rules are rules.

  “Are you a natural redhead?” I asked, admiring her hair.

  “You’ll never know, darling. Don’t you know that dancers wax everywhere but their heads?” She laughed and lifted her skirt, slid the leotard aside, and twirled and flashed me the loveliest bare pussy I will ever see in my life.

  And then she led me out the door to the theater.

  We saw Cats. She made me. She kept my hand high on her thigh under her skirt the whole time. I was wrong: Cats is a wonderful show.

  Back at her place, she asked if I was hungry. I believe the exact words were “What are you hungry for?”

  The possibilities raced through my head. “Oh, something vegetarian,” I said casually, still trying to impress.

  Her eyes lit up. “I have lots of fresh veggies in my crisper. Let’s marinate some of them before we cook.”

  She took me into the kitchen. We peeled. Two zucchinis, three carrots, a handful of mushrooms, and a large purple onion. “The living room is better for this,” she whispered when we were finished with our plate.

  Lavender-scented candles, incense, the aroma of fresh zucchini—these smells will stay with me all of my life. She turned on the music, stretched out on the tiny rug on the hardwood floor, took off her leotard, and lifted that blue skirt around her waist and asked me if I wanted to watch or to help. I could barely move; I said I would love to watch her. I touched the pale skin high between her thighs and petted her gently as if she were a kitten; she closed her eyes and threw her head back and showed me possibilities I didn’t know existed. She loved that vegetable as if it were a cock, stroking herself with it, rubbing it slowly around her clit, entering her pussy slowly, so slowly, in and out, teasing me, teasing herself, and then finally fucking herself hard—my cock beat right to her rhythm. I came when she came; I came in my pants as if I was fifteen again. She was lying back on the floor and I kissed her pussy, I kissed that cock, and I kissed her legs from thigh to ankle over and over again.

  And then we cooked.

  Stir-fry veggies over tomato-basil pasta; peppermint tea; fortune cookies. It was an extraordinary meal—I suspect it was the special sauce. “You will attend a royal banquet and meet your first lover,” my fortune cookie said, and I knew I just had.

  She changed into a little-girl flannel nightgown and took me into her bed. We slept. No sex. The trust implicit in this act was overwhelming. I never touched her except to hold her tight.

  In the morning we laughed together. “Carrots just don’t quite work, you know?” she said. “Too thin. But they have some uses. Eggplants and tomatoes and onions and peppers all have uses sometimes too.” She told me that her practice was as old as the Kama Sutra: “How else do you think all those women in the harems got satisfied? Hell, that book even goes into using the root of the sweet potato! Sometimes,” she confessed, almost blushing, “I go out with something inside me, when I’m going someplace quiet like the museum. It makes you think about sex all day. Melon balls are my favorite—kind of an organic set of ben wa balls.”

  If this was foreplay, I wasn’t sure I was ready for full sex. I went to see her dance on the third date. She was beautiful. We went back to her place, and I lit the candles and the incense. “I’m yours tonight,” she whispered. “You’ve passed. What would you like?”

  I was ready. What else could a man want? “I want you to love me, to worship me just like you did that zucchini.”

  She undressed me while I stood there, and
then she knelt in front of me and began. It all came back to me in that moment, why sex is the most important damned thing in the world. She kissed my feet and then she worked her way up, taking forever, kissing and licking my balls and holding them gently in her mouth. Talking to me, saying things, telling me how good I tasted; telling me how much she wanted me inside her, how much she needed to ride me hard. She took my cock deep into her throat all at once, and then there were no rules or they were only my rules and she was mine and I was lying back and holding her small hips and lifting her up onto my cock and driving up into her hard and fast. The world stopped; that was all I knew—that she could make the outside world stop and take me back to where I belonged. She came for me over and over, before I stopped and took her long hair in my fist and held her still for a minute.

  “Do you want to please me?” I whispered, knowing that she did, knowing that this girl lived for sex and that I could give her what she needed.

  “God, yes,” she whispered, nodding.

  “Turn over.”

  I owned her. I fucked every part of her body, and she begged for more. I couldn’t quite imagine matching her sexual imagination, but I discovered I could more than match her energy and desire. When my cock was finally deep in her ass and my own vision of heaven was high on the horizon, I suddenly knew: I knew this was it and this girl was going to change my life. I didn’t tell her this; I thought there would be time later.

  I don’t believe we slept that night. But I do know that I never let her near the kitchen.

  I started drawing again. I sketched her constantly. I still have some of the drawings—Isabelle in Iceberg is my favorite one, framed on my wall. Even though she swore the lettuce just didn’t do a thing for her.

  I stopped eating meat. Isabelle—her name in my mouth was better than any sirloin in town.

  I went dancing with her. I don’t dance. Little clubs that nobody my age has ever heard of; dark entrances, pounding music, Isabelle twirling and twirling and always coming back to my arms.