Voracious: Erotica for Women

by Violet Blue

  I stunned myself by saying, “I hope not!”

  “Besides, I like this room—all the mirrors. Have you ever watched yourself make love?”

  Not likely. It had never come up until now, and if it had, I’d have found some lame excuse, or laughed nervously and changed the subject, or, most likely, fled in a panic. When you’re at war with your body, the idea of watching yourself sounds more scary than sexy. My body and I were on much better terms now, but I was still not sure I was ready for that.

  I must have looked anxious, because he shook his head slightly and pressed a finger to my lips. “No saying bad things about yourself, Kayla. You saw how beautiful you look when you dance. This will be even better.”

  I pondered this as best I could with a brain still melting from that spectacular kiss.

  I trusted Sandor in this. Oh, he was pushing the sweet talk, as people do when they’re hovering on the brink of tearing each other’s clothes off. But when he’d shown me myself moved by dance and music, he’d shown me something of myself I didn’t know. Maybe there was something to what he was saying. For that reason (and because I wanted him naked and touching me and didn’t want to have to wait until we got to my place to do it), I said, “Sure. Why not?”

  Sandor put his drum away while I locked the studio door. There were no other classes tonight, but it was possible that someone might have designs on practice space, as we’d had.

  Another kiss, sweet and hot.

  Sandor stroked the bare skin at my waist, bringing the skin to tingling life, then his hands glided around and across my belly. I felt that skin, too, catch fire—possibly the first time since I was a toddler that I’d taken pleasure in that part of my body. One finger circled my navel. I jumped at the sensation.

  “Ticklish?”

  “No, just surprised. It feels really good.”

  He did it again as if to make sure. It still felt good; shivery, but good. It seemed to connect to something deep inside my belly, to some of those underlying muscles I’d been learning to use in dance—ones that tightened up a bit as Sandor continued his explorations, reminding me that pelvic and abdominal muscles were useful for things besides dancing.

  One hand continued to stroke my belly. The other snaked around, slipped inside the elastic waistband of my baggy, low-slung pants to cup my ass. He leaned in, kissed me again. I reached for him, grabbing at his buns, pulling him against me so I could feel his hard cock pressing against my belly.

  The undressing started with my pants, before I was really expecting it. One second Sandor was playing around and through the acres of soft green gauze. The next, he’d pulled them down. I don’t know if he meant to get the underpants or if they just went along for the ride, but once they were part of the fabric puddle at my ankles, the rest of our clothes were doomed.

  Naked, Sandor was a caramel-colored treat, with just enough dark hair on his chest to give me something to pet. Muscular legs matched the well-muscled arms I’d long since noted. There was a little softness at his waist, a homey touch that made the beautiful arms and legs and the sculpted shoulders more comfortable for a mere mortal like myself.

  His cock was dark, purplish-brown, and jutted out at attention from a nest of black curls. “Nice,” I breathed, and I weighed it in my hand. It felt dense, as if it was made of something heavier than human flesh. Putting two fingers on one side of it and my thumb on the other, I stroked up, circled the head with my palm, worked my way down again.

  After a couple of months of being single (and a few before that when I might as well have been), I was a little surprised that my first burning interest was touching Sandor, rather than vice versa. But it made sense. I could keep myself supplied in orgasms, but I’d really missed another person, missed the fun of having a male body to explore and enjoy. I intended to have a lot of fun exploring Sandor’s body—all of it—but I just couldn’t resist starting with the cock.

  Sandor caught my wrist after a few passes, just as a pearly drop of fluid peeked out from the head and I was considering whether to taste it yet.

  “But I want—”

  “And I want you to. But it’s my turn first,” he said, his voice soft but intense. “Turn around.”

  Maybe by going for his cock so directly, I’d been trying to avoid this moment of truth. I’d spent a lot of time in my life not taking good hard looks at my naked body in a mirror—at least not in any kind of friendly manner.

  But Sandor’s dusky coloring set off my ivory skin tone nicely, I had to admit, and the expression on my face, dreamy and sensual but tinged with heat, made up for any shortcomings I could find in my body. Like the dancer face, the foreplay face looked a lot better than my mental image of myself. Maybe I needed to update that mental image.

  He cupped a breast with each hand, rolling my nipples between strong fingers, sending waves of sensation from my nipple to my sex.

  “Look at yourself,” Sandor whispered, nuzzling my ear.

  “You’re flushed, starting to breathe harder. Your nipples are such a pretty color, such a lovely shade of pink, even pinker than your cheeks when you dance. See how they’re crinkling up as I touch them.”

  Fascinated, I obeyed.

  “I love your breasts. They’re so lush and full and soft.”

  I’d have given him full before this moment, but my own impressions of them usually included complaints about their critical lack of perkiness. The way he held them, they looked much better: round, soft, voluptuous mounds like something out of a Victorian naughty picture. Maybe they looked more proportional in his long-fingered hands than in my own much smaller ones, or maybe it was the influence of the clever and delightful things he was doing to my nipples.

  The stale-sweat smell of the studio seemed to fade and the flickering overhead lights weren’t nearly as intense, so I was willing to believe that lust was having some kind of hallucinogenic effect, making everything prettier.

  Then Sandor did something especially interesting—a little pinchy and twisty, but not painful, just intense—and I decided to shelve the whole thinking thing until much, much later. It seemed far more important to push back against him, feel his hard cock nestling into the crack of my ass.

  Sandor worked on my nipples, occasionally whispering words of encouragement, until I was cooing with pleasure and my pussy felt as if it was swimming in warm oil. Then he rested one hand on my belly, fingers pointing down. His thumb teased at the lower edge of my navel. The other fingers stroked at my mound, touching sensitive areas but not the most sensitive ones.

  “Please—” I hadn’t meant to beg, but he was so close to where I really wanted him that the word just slipped out.

  “Not yet. I want you to feel where my hand is. This curve here, this little curve—it’s beautiful when you dance, and it feels almost as good to my hand as your breasts do. It’s womanly, and that makes it erotic.” As he spoke, he was slowly stroking at my belly, while continuing to play with my nipple with his other hand.

  I was on fire, twitching and bucking, making little pleading noises. I closed my eyes, but Sandor caught me in the mirror. “Look at yourself getting excited. It’s so beautiful.”

  I opened my eyes, and what I saw was fascinating. My face was red and a little contorted. I wouldn’t have called it beautiful at this point, but it was damn sexy, leaving no question what lustful thoughts I was contemplating. And my belly—my belly looked pretty good too, the way it was quivering under his touch. Even my hips, my dreaded wide load, looked more proportional to the rest of me than I remembered.

  “You’re right,” I managed to say.

  Then, and only then, did he reach down and drum gently on my clit until I came.

  Somehow, I kept my eyes open for that, too. I saw it all—the crazy face, the blotchy flush on my throat and chest, the demented bucking. And that was beautiful, too, in its way.

  Almost as beautiful as it was when we misappropriated a couple of yoga mats from the corner to lie on. Sandor put me on top so I coul
d get a good view, and I had to admit that we looked pretty damn hot together. Watching my ass move as I rode him gave me a new affection for that much-maligned part of my body. But after the first couple of minutes, I forgot to watch, too wrapped up in the beauty all around me.

  The beauty was in his dark face and the way it showed the power I had over him in that moment, the way my body was affecting his.

  The beauty was in how we moved together, and how I learned that the hip rolls and pelvic tilts I’d been practicing for dance class had very interesting effects on both of us when I did them with Sandor deep inside me.

  The beauty was in how I felt as I shuddered around him, coming again with a violence that pitched me forward, too boneless to support myself anymore.

  And in how Sandor rolled us both over, not with perfect grace, but with surprisingly little effort.

  And in how he looked, lying over me, the muscles in his arms in tense relief as he pumped.

  And in his expression just before he exploded in me. He came in Arabic, letting out a series of words that could have been endearments or curses or, for all I knew, the name of his last girlfriend. But it sounded to me like music, like the lyrics to one of the songs I was learning to dance to.

  Exhausted, tangled together, I could feel the beating of our hearts, like the frantic drumbeats accompanying a whirling-dervish finale of dancing.

  Ironically, I was on State Street again when it happened.

  I saw Jason well before he saw me. Instinctively, despite everything I’d learned about myself, I braced myself for his eyes to skim over me dismissively.

  Well, fuck him, and the horse he rode in on. I added a little more sway to my step, realizing as I did so that I had already been walking that way, my hips moving sensuously. My head was thrown back, my spine straight. Somewhere along the line I’d stopped hunching over, trying to be invisible.

  It was the height of summer, a season I’d formerly dreaded. Now, I wore a swirly patterned skirt that hit me just above the knees and a figure-hugging, ribbed red tank top. The sweltering heat had caused a shimmer of sweat between my breasts, and that was okay.

  Still, what happened came as a surprise. Jason glanced at me—and didn’t glance away. Instead, I saw him do to me what I’d watched him do to countless other women: His eyes fixated on my chest, took a long, slow vacation to my hips and down my legs, and then ambled back north again. A tiny smile quirked the left side of his mouth, and he stood up a little straighter as we neared each other.

  Imagine that, Jason puffing himself up for me.

  With what seemed like effort, he dragged his gaze from my chest to meet my eyes. A flirtatious grin started.

  Then froze.

  We both slowed. I could see the confusion in his eyes, then the sudden dawning.

  “Kay—Kayla?”

  “Hello, Jason,” I said.

  “I didn’t recognize you,” he said, sounding confused. “Have you changed your hair?”

  “Something like that,” I said, tilting my head in that flirtatious Egyptian cabaret move.

  “Well, you…you look good. Really good.”

  “Thank you.” I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. He scanned my body again, a small crease between his eyebrows as he tried to understand.

  I had toned up, yes, but I was still a big girl. I’m sure he couldn’t figure that out, what had changed, why I was suddenly attractive to him. Jason just wasn’t the type to understand that attitude and confidence mean a lot more than zero percent body fat.

  “Um,” he said. “It’s been a while. Would you like to grab a beer, catch up?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, giving him my most dazzling smile. “I’m on my way to meet someone.” It was Sandor’s turn to have the apartment to himself.

  As I sashayed away, I could see in the reflection of a shop window that he was still standing there, staring at my ass.

  I couldn’t wait to tell Dee.

  PIVOT

  Jane Black

  I held my hair up off my neck as Keith buckled my collar—a little too tight for comfort, as always. He turned me around to face him. I was naked except for the collar, and he stroked my nipples lightly. They liked that. I leaned forward to kiss him but he stepped back and said, “Later. There’s something else I want you to put on.” He handed me a purple rubber butterfly attached to a G-string. The butterfly was a remote-controlled vibrator; he’d showed it to me last week but I hadn’t tried it on yet.

  I pulled the G-string over my thighs and adjusted the butterfly to lie over my clit. I wondered whether it would actually feel like a butterfly, or more like a jackhammer. Though we had lots of adult toys, perhaps surprisingly, I didn’t have any experience with vibrators. I tensed up, waiting for him to turn it on, but he didn’t. He pocketed the remote and told me to get dressed.

  I pulled on a black turtleneck sweater over the collar. Since both of our kids and the babysitter were in the house, discretion seemed prudent. Next came the skirt, hose, and fuck-me shoes. Keith had chosen what I’d wear, as he often does.

  We said good-bye to the kids (who were slack-jawed, watching Finding Nemo for the buzillionth time) and got into the car to drive to the bar. While I was buckling my seatbelt, and before I even started the car, Keith switched on the vibrator. I jerked and said, “Shit!” and he laughed. I gave him a grumpy look, and struggled to get my seatbelt on. I felt as if I was going to jump out of my skin.

  Initially the butterfly just annoyed me, buzzing against my shaved cunt and making me fidget. I knew Keith wanted me excited, but getting horny in public isn’t easy for me. I get too distracted. And coming in public? I’d never tried it before, and it seemed unlikely—but I’d give it a shot. I wanted to please him.

  We got to the bar and were seated at a table in a corner. Midway through our first martini, as Keith was saying something about fixing the roof of our house, I shifted in my chair and the thing buried itself deeper between my labia, pressing hard up against my clit. At that moment I lost track of what he was saying and my vision clouded. He noticed, smiled slightly, and watched me. A waitress showed up and said, “Two more drinks?” Keith nodded. I said nothing.

  The restaurant was dimly lit and noisy. I stared off into the room, inwardly focusing my attention on my clit. Neither of us spoke. We must have looked as if we were on an awkward first date, making little eye contact and no conversation. The waitress brought us our drinks. Keith leaned forward in his chair, staring at my face, as he sipped his. I didn’t touch mine.

  We just sat there. As the minutes passed, I felt myself becoming slippery and throbbing. “Julia,” Keith said softly, but I didn’t respond. I willed him to stop talking to me. I wanted to come. For him. I spread my legs under the table, letting the vibrator in closer, letting it hum against me.

  Time passed—five minutes? Ten?—and I began to feel the familiar sensation of being close to coming, like a ball in the final stages of circling down a funnel, making smaller and smaller concentric circles, speeding toward the center. I had begun breathing through my mouth and had my eyes half-closed and was about five seconds away from coming when Keith reached into his pocket and turned off the vibrator.

  I startled. The room came into focus, hard. “Shit!” I said again, more loudly than I intended. The couple at the booth next to us looked over at me. Keith reached across the table and cupped my chin in his hand. “Just a reminder,” he said softly, “that you’re mine.”

  Damn it. As if I needed a reminder. As if I wasn’t aware, every single day, of the immutable fact that I belonged to him. He could see it oozing from my pores, if he looked. I’d worked so damn hard to get horny, I’d almost come, and then he’d shut the wretched thing off just to make a point. I stared at him as he paid the check and stood up. I wasn’t sure what was bothering me more, the intense sexual frustration or the feeling of being set up. As we left the bar, I felt a small, hard kernel of anger inside me. It was scraping—ever so lightly—against my love for h
im.

  When we got home he paid the babysitter, walked her to the door, then tied me to our bed and fucked me at length—but no matter. I was too irritable and out of sorts to come. I couldn’t sleep afterward, and I lay in bed watching him for a long time.

  A week later, the babysitter was back, and the kids were in jammies watching Ice Age. Keith and I were headed out the door to dinner. I wasn’t wearing my collar.

  “My car or yours?” Keith asked.

  “Let’s take the minivan,” I said, for a very good reason. The minivan’s deep, recessed floor bins are designed to hold the rear seats when they’re folded down, but they’re also useful for storing other things. Soccer balls, for example. Grocery bags. Sex toys.

  Though minivans don’t typically rate high in sex appeal, the fact is that it’s far easier to fuck someone in a minivan than in, say, a Corvette. Corvettes may make you feel sexy, but if you want to do anything about it, you’ll have to go elsewhere. Minivans, on the other hand, are total fuckmobiles.

  “I’ll drive,” I said. Keith frowned, but tossed me the keys.

  I drove to the neighborhood where the restaurant was, but instead of parking in front, I headed down a dark, residential side street and parked several blocks away. I turned off the engine and sat there in the dark. Keith looked at me quizzically, his face half-shadowed in the moonlight.

  I closed my eyes and summoned the residual kernel of anger. I stroked it, focused on it. I meant to put it to good use.

  “Get in the back,” I said flatly. Keith started to say something but changed his mind. He moved into the back of the van, where the back row bench was folded flat into the floor. One of the two middle chairs was folded in half, making a low table; the other was upright.

  I was right behind him. I stopped in the middle of the van, and knelt by one of the floor bins. I took off the cover and pulled out a leather blindfold. I handed it to Keith, who was sitting cross-legged on the floor in the back, watching me. “Put it on,” I hissed. He looked surprised, but took the blindfold. We’d occasionally switched roles before, but it had always been a game—even when I pretended to be in charge, we both knew otherwise. This time was different. I knew it. He knew it.