Voracious: Erotica for Women

by Violet Blue

  I had to laugh again. While he’d certainly picked up on my intention to make him jealous with the public masturbation scene, he was apparently slow to grasp my broader message of female autonomy.

  Still, I had to admit the word instructions made me tingle a little down there. I even took a little vacation from tickling the clam as the weekend drew near.

  Of course, I got up extra early to check my e-mail Saturday morning. As promised, my instructions were waiting:I’ll call you at noon on Saturday, your time. Exactly ten minutes beforehand, I want you to do the following:

  1. Take off all your clothes and put on the Hello Kitty thong I brought from Japan last month. If you’re cold, you may cover yourself with your bathrobe, but nothing else.

  2. Place your hairbrush and hand mirror in the middle of the bed.

  3. Lie down beside them and wait, hands at your side, until the phone rings. Then you may answer it.

  That was it. A bossy to-do list. No loving endearments. No “can’t wait to hear your sexy voice.” None of the things a truly caring lover should say to his long-suffering and very horny girlfriend.

  So why was my heart going pitter-patter in my chest?

  Of course, I told myself, no man gave me “instructions.” I’d play along because I had nothing better to do—for the moment. At the appointed time, I stripped and put on the thong, a black silk triangle on a string with a silly, beribboned kitty face on the front. I’d gotten a giggle out of it when he gave it to me after his last trip, but I hadn’t worn it yet. It was a wise choice for overseas foreplay—definitely snug in all the right places.

  But the mirror and the brush stumped me. Was he planning some kind of weird naked makeover session? I suddenly remembered some amateur porn pictures I’d seen on the Internet of a woman stroking her pubic hair with her hairbrush. She had this dreamy expression as if it were the most fascinating activity on earth, although at the time I suspected she was faking it for the photographer boyfriend.

  Curious, I picked up the brush—screw the “wait with hands at your side” order—pushed down the thong, and ran it gently through my bush. No, I didn’t blast off into orgasmic orbit at the first touch, but the sensation was interesting. Soft but rough at the same time, like the strokes of a cat’s tongue.

  The phone rang.

  I jumped and tossed away the brush, as if he could somehow see me breaking the rules. It probably didn’t help that I gulped, guiltily, in the middle of my “hello.”

  “Hey there, hot stuff, did you do everything on the list?” His voice was deeper than I remembered. And cocky. Too cocky.

  “And what if I didn’t?”

  He laughed, warm and slow. “Then I guess I’ll have to make you do as you’re told.”

  “Sweetie, in case you didn’t notice, you’re thousands of miles away. How will you make me do anything? Not with words.”

  He paused. “We’ll see about that.”

  In spite of myself, my cunt muscles fluttered, as if a secret butterfly was tickling me inside with its soft wings. But I didn’t have to admit that to him.

  “So, Part-time Lover, what am I supposed to do with the grooming implements?” I asked in my brattiest tone.

  He laughed again, but this time he seemed embarrassed, as if he’d been the one caught with his hands down his pants.

  “Well, I got inspired after I read that first e-mail. But I don’t want to give away the surprise yet.”

  “Isn’t it just like you to keep me waiting a long time for the good stuff?”

  “Enough about me and my shortcomings, okay? I’d rather talk about you. Are you wearing the thong?”

  “Uh-huh,” I said, but with a healthy dash of defiance.

  “Is it pulled up high so it presses between your pussy lips?”

  That shouldn’t have taken me by surprise, but it did, as a little zing of lust darted between my legs. “Somewhat.”

  “Pull it up a little higher. So that you can’t think of anything else but that pressure against your clit.”

  I was about to refuse, on principle, but my hands seemed to reach down of their own accord and tug the sides another inch farther over my hips. An involuntary sigh of pleasure escaped my lips.

  “See, that feels nice, doesn’t it? Can you feel it rubbing against your sensitive pink asshole, too?”

  His voice was so sweet it slipped into my ear like hot fudge sauce gliding over ice cream. Already my face was hot, partly because those dirty words were making me blush, partly because they were really turning me on.

  “You didn’t answer me,” he scolded.

  “Yeah.”

  “Yeah, what?”

  “Yeah, it’s rubbing up against my asshole,” I murmured.

  “Good. Now, I want you to open your robe and hold the mirror in front of your gorgeous breasts.”

  As I reached for the mirror, I noticed my hand was trembling. What would he tell me to do next? And would I continue to obey this easily, like a pliant little sex slave with no will of her own?

  “Tell me, is your chest flushed and red, like it gets when you’re all turned on?”

  My “yes” slipped out before I could manage a lie.

  “And your nipples? Are they hard yet?”

  “Not really. The room’s pretty warm.”

  “We’ll have to do something about that. I want you to try a new trick. I want you to rub the mirror against your nipple very gently.”

  An unusual idea, but I figured it was worth a try.

  I gasped as the cold, smooth surface brushed my areola.

  “Does it feel good?” His voice had a hopeful lilt.

  “Great,” I sighed as I moved the mirror in slow circles over one nipple, then the other. “It’s cold at first, but then it feels hot. And then it feels like your fingers are touching me there.” Not to mention that the sensation of fire and ice was shooting straight to my pussy and making my hips do a twitching dance against the mattress.

  Through the receiver I heard a little “hmph” of victory. “I’m glad it’s working out so well. But I want you to stop now.”

  He couldn’t mean it. This mirror trick definitely called for further exploration. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “I’m afraid not. But remember, all good things come to her who waits. I want you to move the mirror lower. To the kitty picture on your underwear.”

  I considered mutiny, but I had to admit that following orders thus far was bringing unexpected benefits.

  “Okay, for this next part we have to get you wet. Very wet. But that shouldn’t be a problem. I know how much you like to touch yourself.”

  “Yeah, and how about you?” I fired back.

  “Guilty as charged, though I don’t have nearly as many opportunities as you do, especially on the job. But right now I’m feeling fine—lying on my bed with my cock in my hand, a little lotion for lube, and a hot babe on the phone who sounds like she’s getting hotter by the minute.”

  I frowned. For the first time he’d struck the wrong note. I couldn’t help but picture him stretched out on a hotel bed, a blandly tasteful picture hanging on the wall beside him, pay-per-view porn on the TV. And the woman of his dreams on the other end of the phone was so far away, so insubstantial, she could be anyone willing to read the lines.

  “Wait a minute, lover boy, before we proceed, what’s your credit card number? Phone sex services always make you traveling businessmen pay up front to play out your fantasies, don’t they?”

  He was silent for a moment. “You are making me pay, babe, don’t doubt it for a minute.” The satiny seducer was gone. He was himself again. Lonely and a little sad.

  “Hey, I’m sorry. I know I’m being a bitch, but it’s tough for me.”

  “Yeah, I know. It’s not easy for me either. Listen, I want to make you happy. Can you let me try? I know it’s just words.”

  I felt another twinge, but higher this time, near my heart. He was trying, I could tell. In bed, in the flesh, he was more a man of act
ion than words, but his new tongue technique was surprisingly effective. “It is making me happy. Really. Now where were we? I believe you were about to order me to masturbate.”

  His laugh was mixed with a sigh of relief. “That’s exactly what I was about to do.”

  “I need very specific instructions, though. I promise to be a good girl and do everything you say.”

  “Hey, if that’s what the lady wants. So, why don’t you spread your legs for me? But just a little. Now I want you to touch yourself through the thong. Rub your clit until you make a nice wet spot on the kitty.”

  The hot-fudge voice was back, pouring down my spine, pooling warm between my thighs. My finger pushed the silky cloth of the thong back and forth over my sweet spot so deliciously I moaned into the telephone.

  “Are you watching yourself in the mirror?”

  I gazed down at the reflection of my finger wiggling away. Through my lust-fogged eyes, it looked like a stranger’s hand, as if another woman were making love to me. The thought made my breath come faster. “Yes, I am watching.”

  “It’s the best sight in the world, isn’t it? A horny girl touching her pussy. But you have to take your hand away now.”

  I wailed in frustration. “Not again. Come on, I was just getting into it.”

  “Trust me,” he cooed. “You’re going to like this next part. I want you to give your clit a spanking. Not too hard. Just a few slaps to teach it a lesson for being so ravenous.”

  With a soft cry of shame, I covered my face with my hand. I suddenly felt so exposed, as if he’d reached through the phone and pulled me open to discover something darker and more secret than naked flesh. As if he heard that little voice deep inside me whispering, Yes, you do deserve a spanking for being so hungry for sex. You love it when he makes you do bad things, so you can do just what the teacher wants and be good and bad at the same time.

  “It sounds like you’re ready to begin. Shall we?”

  Panting, I brought my flattened fingers down against my mons, once, twice, three times, groaning as the sharp jolt on my clit rolled through my whole body in waves.

  “Again,” he commanded.

  I slapped myself once more, whimpering until the hot prickling pleasure faded.

  “Very good. Now, we’ve got one more thing to try. I want you to pick up the brush, push the thong to the side, and press the end of the handle gently against your vagina.”

  I caught my breath.

  “Um, I’m not so sure I can do that.” My voice squeaked out, small and scared.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked, confused. “Don’t you ever put hard things inside when you play with yourself?”

  Should I tell him the truth? That, sure, I could talk like a crazed nympho, but when it came to push and shove, I was a pedestrian masturbator. Too chicken even to put my own fingers inside. “Actually, I don’t.”

  “Hmm, I wouldn’t have guessed that. Could you be a brave girl and try? For me?”

  It really was magic the way he made his voice so warm and soft it sank under my skin to melt every muscle in my body. Including my tongue, which babbled out the answer I wasn’t sure I wanted to give: “Yeah, sure. You know I’ll do anything for you.”

  With a shaking hand and the help of the mirror, I guided the handle of the brush to my pussy lips. It probably helped that my only companions were his words, whispering inside me like the echo of my own lust. I don’t think I could have done it if he’d really been watching.

  I pushed the end of the brush slowly inside. My swollen lips parted with a faint, welcoming smack. He had made me wet with his talk. Very wet. I pushed deeper. The handle slipped all the way up to the point where the brush flared into bristles. It looked silly, but it felt nice. And very naughty.

  “It’s in.”

  “Good girl. You don’t know how jealous I am of that lucky brush. But now we get to put everything together for the grand finale. Do you think you can come around the brush if I let you play with your clit and rub the mirror on your nipples?”

  A rhetorical question if there ever was one. I was certainly willing to try. I had to clench my legs together to keep the brush in place, but the rest was easy. He was right, too, it was magic how it all came together. The mirror was his one hand, twisting and tugging my nipples. The thong was his other, teasing the groove of my ass. The brush was his cock, so hard, so there.

  And all around were sounds, moans and rhythmic grunts racing at the speed of light under the Atlantic, the squish of a lubed-up palm on his cock, the click of my finger finally snaking under the thong to bare, slick flesh.

  “Tell me when you’re going to come. I want you to come now,” he barked.

  “Yes, now,” I called out, just as his guttural cries shot back through the phone.

  I could hear it was as good for him as it was for me.

  Afterward, he told me how much he missed me and asked, uncertainly, if I missed him, too.

  I touched my fingers to my belly. I was a little sore down there, deliciously tender and used. As if he had just been inside me, as if he still was there, filling me with his voice, his cock, his love. I wanted to tell him I didn’t miss him at all, because he was with me.

  All it took was words.

  GALATEA BREACHED

  Thea Hutcheson

  I want to tell you about Frances Butler. She’s just like Jean, my stepmom of high school and early college years, all carved and polished. I had been obsessed with her at one time. I never understood how such an elegant and idealized version of a woman in those tailored and fitted wardrobes moving with such studied and calculated grace could be, well, a woman, in the shitting and pissing and fucking way of women.

  Watching Jean proved to be impossible. She had a sixth sense or some kind of radar that made her either see me or shut the curtains just in time to thwart me. For three entire days while I was a freshman in high school, after a long end-of-summer bout of B movies including The Stepford Wives, I’d thought that she was a robot. Jean was so not sexual for me. A lady, not a woman. I never got to ask my father before he died what he got when he married her, what that side of her was like. One of life’s unsolved mysteries, I figured.

  Then our real estate agent met Frances, who is an interior designer, on a job. She introduced Frances to our leads group last year. They’ve given each other a lot of referrals since then. I’ve used Frances to decorate the show models in the upscale housing I develop. She’s got a good sense of design, which makes my work look better.

  I noticed right away how much she resembled Jean and I wistfully figured this was another mystery I would never plumb. Frances is from the same mold, the same cut, the same jig as Jean. Yes, there’s individual variation, but Frances is the same silver, tall, thin, austere, and graceful, still well-built woman in her late forties, an elegant and tasteful block of something, something impenetrable, impermeable. Or she was. Something happened over the holidays. It had been building since Thanksgiving and I had watched it with fascination.

  She had left for the holidays and come back tan, sporting a kicky haircut, a less sculptured wardrobe, and missing her wedding ring. She laughed more and blushed often. She smelled of newly ripened sex under the White Musk she’d adopted. Pygmalion’s Galatea had cracked, and the woman underneath the facade was steaming with sudden life.

  What Pygmalion had broken her out of that hard shell, and to what goddess had he prayed for the favor, I wondered. What was such a favor worth? I know what I would pay to see her break. I also knew that the first blush of warmth had not been followed up. The predatory way she appraised the male market at the monthly socials our leads club hosts was a neon sign flashing and I wasn’t sure if the men were blind or afraid.

  It was kind of sad, in a way, because of her breeding. I wondered how she would manage to get a guy for more of what she’d been given in the hot nights wherever she’d gone for the holidays. So, she’d been stewing in her own juices all this time.

  This early-summer d
ay was beautiful and my office was only a few blocks from the restaurant, so I walked to this month’s social. I was heading up Cartwright Street when I saw Frances on the opposite side of the street. She was looking at the early-nineteenth-century houses on her left.

  I thought I would be sociable and cut across to walk the rest of the way with her. She stopped suddenly and I slowed, staying behind her without hailing. When I got up behind her I saw what had transfixed her. A man was leaning against the side of a turret on one corner of the house as a woman sucked his dick.

  Frances was enthralled. This is why I like to watch. There was an entire subtext in her posture, her aura, which told me that what had happened to her had been an awakening by someone else rather than a waking on her own. Yes, I gloated, no tenderness; her ex-husband’s sweetness had won her originally; I’d heard her say so. No, the touch on her had been that of a wild and passionate artist.

  I watched Frances take in this guy now. He was well built, his muscular arms bent, his hands fully spread, threaded through the woman’s thick hair. His head was thrown back and his mouth was open, loose, angelic, but I saw the wrinkles deepen around his eyes and his head tilted just so. The play of tension in his forehead told me every stroke of the woman’s tongue across his flesh.

  I was getting a hard-on when I looked back to Frances and noticed the fine beading of sweat on her graceful forehead. The sunshine reflected off it, giving her a sheen. She took in the sight of the man receiving pleasure and she was that woman giving the pleasure. I could see her place herself there, telling herself, “This is what I looked like doing it to my lover.” She lifted one hand toward her breasts—a dove sliding home. It hesitated, not landing, and I was drawn to the soft cleavage where the silk dipped down into a V.

  Galatea was breached and yearning, I thought, alive with golden warmth. I wish I knew who’d opened her, the Pygmalion responsible for this bit of magic. The man was coming now, grunting deeper with each stroke. The woman was taking it in marvelous form. As he wound down, I took a last look at Frances. She looked hungry and confused.