Best Women's Erotica 2007

by Violet Blue

  His eyes nearly rolled up into his head. He was being fucked in two places at once and he couldn’t believe how good it felt. His ass was being violated with nonstop pulsing and his cock was being fucked by the woman he had fantasized about for a over a year. He made an attempt at thrusting and found he could tilt his pelvis forward and back slightly, giving himself a fucking sensation in his ass. It was glorious, and he matched her rhythm. His eyes met hers as he paid close attention to the timing of her orgasm. He knew that if he came and went soft before her cum serenade, she would not be pleased.

  She was bucking more wildly over his groin, and she suspected he was ready to come as well. The thought of him with the toy inside, fucking her while he was being penetrated, pushed her over the edge and she came again with renewed force, squeezing every last sensation out of her orgasm. She looked down at him and he begged her with his eyes to come. She softened in her affection for him and began again to ride his very nice cock. He pushed up into her until he experienced the most satisfying release of mind, body, and fluid that he had ever felt.

  Elle told him not to call, and he didn’t. She didn’t do any of the things she thought she might while in the city. Instead, she took a few tube rides and then switched to the Docklands Light Railway. She got off at Greenwich Cutty Sark and wandered around the dock for a while. This was one of the few places where there was a bit of shore and not just a steep wall that disappeared into the river. She headed for the park and climbed to the top of the hill, turning when she reached it, to take in the view. She was lucky—visibility was pretty good. The solid old observatory stood on the side of the cleared area. She continued her walk back to the deer park and couldn’t resist bending down to pet a little dog that seemed to veer off toward her at exactly the same moment. The man on the other end of the lead giggled at his pet’s synchronicity with a stranger. As quickly as she bent down, she stood and started walking again, never even seeing the man. She wandered around the gardens for a while and began to notice it was getting dark. She glanced at her watch, but it was still ten to two. The second hand was not moving. How odd, she thought, that her watch should stop where time begins.

  The next evening was Serge’s big book signing. She was completely unprepared for how big it actually turned out to be. When she arrived, there was a long line of people waiting for Serge’s signature. Anything to do with sex was usually a big hit in London, whereas the Museum of Sex in New York City had to struggle by without even an answering machine.

  Elle ducked out of the bookshop and found a quiet restaurant nearby. She sat next to the window in an overstuffed chair and sipped her drink, knowing what was coming, but not knowing exactly how she would respond. There was nothing tying her to the States. She was free to go where she liked. After being with Serge, she was more attracted to him than ever. She felt they had many adventures ahead of them, but she wasn’t yet interested in a commitment.

  After two drinks and watching several people walk by with Serge’s book in their hands, she decided to go back to the store and queue up. She had timed it just right. There were only a few people ahead of her. He noticed Elle just as he was personalizing an elderly woman’s copy in front of her. The lady scooped up the book and held it to her chest with both hands. She turned around and said to Elle, “I posed for one of these.”

  Elle smiled back and thought, Wow, ancient.

  Serge took her book, and his eyes were beaming. He opened it to the dedication page and signed, For Elle—friend, lover and partner.

  She spun the book around and said, “That’s pretty intense. Did you write that on everyone’s book?”

  “Yes,” he said. She noticed then that it was exactly how the printed dedication read.

  “I know you don’t like surprises, but I was thinking maybe you’d like to stay here with me. I’ll marry you if it’ll keep you in the country.”

  “I’d rather enter as a highly skilled immigrant, if you don’t mind,” she said.

  “Wonderful,” he said, smiling. Then a puzzled look came over his face. “What is it you do, anyway?”

  “I thought you knew,” she said. “I’m an exotic animal trainer.”

  INKED

  Jordana Winters

  “Sweet Jesus.”

  She set the remote down on the coffee table. She’d been aimlessly flipping through the channels. She’d stopped on TLC—some documentary about people heavily into tattoos, piercing, and body modification.

  She squeezed her thighs together at the sight of a nicely built, fully tattooed bald guy on the TV.

  “Fuck. I’d let him bend me over any day of the week,” Carly muttered to herself.

  Carly had fucked tattoo boys before, although in her estimation not nearly enough. On her list of boys to fuck, a guy with full sleeves and nearly covered with ink was up there as a priority. Make no mistake—at some point in her life she was going to find him.

  Carly traced her fingertips over her stomach, outlining her own artwork. A black dragon decorated her belly: Celtic artwork wrapped around her hips and ended at her lower back. A pinup girl decorated each shoulder, with another Celtic piece adorning the area between her shoulder blades. It wasn’t going to stop there. She had the rest of her body mapped out for more ornamentation.

  Her fetish for tattooed boys started years ago and showed no signs of stopping. Unfortunately, they wore the bad-boy stereotype too well. If she could find herself one who didn’t have aspirations of being a rock star and little else, who wasn’t always “in between jobs,” and who had more than two cents to rub together, she figured she’d be doing okay. In the meantime, she figured she could at least fuck them when the opportunity presented itself.

  Carly grabbed the phone and dialed her lover’s number. Their relationship had been on-again, off-again since they’d started dating. They were together but they weren’t, but whatever—it suited her. She neither wanted nor needed his love. She was more than capable of keeping things simple.

  Bailey picked up on the third ring. He was at work and due to get off within the half hour.

  “Hey,” she purred.

  “Hey. What’s up?”

  “What are you doing after work?” she asked.

  “Nothing planned.”

  “You want to come over?”

  “Sure. I’ll be there in a bit. I gotta jet. I’m doing the books,” he explained.

  “Okay. See ya in a bit,” she said, and hung up.

  She supposed their relationship wasn’t all about sex. They did enjoy each other’s company. Together they watched movies, went to concerts, and went out drinking. Nine times out of ten, they’d end up in the sack, probably because she was sexually attracted to him to the point of ridiculousness. There was a level of emotional detachment on both their sides, but she’d long ago decided that as long as she was getting something out of the relationship, it suited her.

  An hour later he was at her place, sitting on her couch, and recounting stories about his day.

  “I’m beat,” he said, and reached for the TV remote.

  “Not too tired, I hope,” she purred, sliding her foot to his crotch, which she rubbed through his jeans.

  “You know I’m never too tired for that.”

  For the first time in her life she’d met a man whose sexual appetite matched her own. She’d never known a man who could get a hard-on as fast as he could, and be ready to fuck at the drop of a hat.

  She moved to sit on top of him, her legs straddling him. Her fingers traced the lines of his sideburns down his neck to the tattoo that peeked out from under his shirt.

  “You’re horny,” he stated.

  “Is it that obvious?”

  “It is. I can see it in your eyes. Why so horny?”

  “Not sure,” she lied, thinking of the tattooed boys on the TV earlier.

  She grabbed hold of the thick necklace of chain he had around his neck and pulled him to her. She kissed him forcefully, pushing him into the couch as she ran her fingers throug
h the back of his hair, something that was always guaranteed to emit a groan of pleasure from him.

  His hands moved to her breasts, which he squeezed roughly through her thin shirt. They sank sideways on the couch until he was lying on top of her. She wrapped her legs around his waist and ground her sex against his crotch.

  They peeled each other’s clothes off, slowly at first, then growing more frenzied. He teased her sex through her panties, rubbing at her gently, knowing just the right amount of pressure to make her squirm. He slid her panties slowly down her thighs. Then he slid his fingers into her wetness. He rubbed her clit with his thumb and finger-fucked her until she was ready to come. Then he stopped, as he often did, just to tease.

  She rolled on top of him and rained kisses down his chest, stopping to bite and pinch his nipples. She bit at the skin of his belly, something she’d learned long ago that he enjoyed. She lapped at his balls and cockhead but didn’t take him in her mouth.

  He grabbed her by the back of her hair and pulled her head roughly to the side.

  “Stop,” he grunted and flipped her over so she was lying on her side.

  A hand wrapped tightly around her throat as his fingers slid into her sex and opened her for his cock to follow. She meowed out a “fuck” as his grip tightened harder still around her throat and his cock entered her fully in one slow thrust.

  She turned her head, laying her cheek against the soft material of the couch, and glanced up at him. She thought he was the sexiest motherfucker alive when he was fucking her. Both his arms were partially covered in tattoos, and some of his chest and neck as well. The sight of his tats and his pierced nipple, septum, and ears was hot enough without the sex.

  She reached around behind him and grabbed hold of his ass cheek, pulling him closer to her, coaxing him to fuck her harder.

  His grip tightened around her throat until she was having a hard time catching her breath. His thrusts grew harder, almost hurting her, but he was unrelenting, knowing he wasn’t quite at the point where she considered it too rough.

  He released her throat and gripped the skin of her ass, while his other hand lubed the rim of her asshole with her wetness. Then, a thumb or finger, she neither knew nor cared, slipped into her ass, invading her pleasantly with its thickness.

  “You like that?” he growled from behind her, pinching the skin of her ass harder.

  To be nothing other than difficult, she didn’t answer.

  “Do you like that?” he asked again, forcefully.

  His hand snaked around to her sex as he slowed his thrusting to a deliberate tease. His fingers easily traced and teased over her clit, his fingers wet from her juices. Pulses of heat radiated through her sex.

  “You fuckin’ like it.”

  Her ass cheeks shook against his skin. His fingertip stroked her clit harder. With her help, he’d been a quick study in learning how to get her to come.

  She cried out as her sex pulsed in intense radiating waves.

  His finger stopped its invasion of her ass and instead gently caressed her asshole. Then he was thrusting into her again, hard and fast. He was going to come.

  His fingers bit into the skin of her shoulder as he shuddered above her. He buried his cock in her, and she felt his balls pulse as he came.

  “Fuck,” he muttered through what sounded like clenched teeth.

  She loved when he came. His coming was easily predictable and very vocal. She could never get bored of it. He didn’t hold anything back. It was hot to feel and hear him come so hard.

  “Ugggghh,” he groaned as he fell off her, moving her away from the couch.

  His cum leaked out from between her thighs. Not wanting to stain the couch, she stood up and walked to her bedroom, with him at her heels. Together, they collapsed on the bed and lay on their backs. He reached out and grabbed for her hand, which took his and held it tightly. She smiled at his small act of sweetness.

  “You hungry?” she asked him, after several quiet minutes. She released his hand and stood up.

  “You’ve got to stop feeding me. You spoil me.”

  “I know I do.”

  And she did, but she didn’t really mind it.

  “Hang on. Come here,” he said, holding up his hand.

  She grabbed it and fell on top of him. He kissed her while reaching around and grabbing a handful of her ass.

  “You still have any of those chicken balls?”

  “I do. They’ll be done in twenty,” she said, kissed him again, and stood up.

  She stopped at the door and turned to look at him. Fuck. Yes. Those goddamn tattoos.

  “Carly. That was hot, but—it always is,” he said and smiled at her.

  “I know.”

  CHILL

  Kathleen Bradean

  I could have gone home, but they had my six hundred dollars.

  Even though I could have told them that I changed my mind, I could imagine the lifted eyebrow, and the apologetic, “Very well, Madame, perhaps we can accommodate you another time,” but it was the last time I would visit the spa to indulge my fetish. There was no sense in canceling what had already begun, though. I would use it up. Then there would be no more. I wouldn’t give myself any more.

  Outside the room, three stories down, I heard cars drive through slush. I pushed aside the heavy drapes to look at the busy street below. Windshields on the cars were fogged as heaters ran full blast. People fled home, to bars, to fireplaces and central heat, to life, to warmth.

  The discreet townhouse masquerading as a spa for wealthy women was old. Cold air seeped past the windowpanes. I pressed my hands to the flawed glass that made the brake lights look like smeared lipstick.

  If I listened, I could hear the elevated trains one block away. And if I peered just right through the narrow slit between the buildings across the street, I could see the darkness of Lake Michigan, inviting me under.

  In the room assigned to me, the bed frame was wrought iron. A crimson coverlet hinted at lurid delights, but it wasn’t my fantasy to be fucked in velvet splendor. The Victorian trappings seemed pathetic, even cheap, although the wallpaper was probably authentic and the antique chairs were worth more than my car.

  I’d searched the drawers of the Chippendale dresser earlier. Masks, handcuffs, paddles—the props of theatrical fantasies. I was disappointed that given a chance to explore the unthinkable at the spa, most women opted instead for a hack rehash. Or maybe I was jealous of how harmless it all seemed. How comfortable. After a third martini, confessing to a spanking and a ride on one of the legendary cocks of the spa was probably de rigueur for the ladies who lunched.

  “Antonio? Dear, you absolutely must try him. His dick curves a little, but it hits exactly the right spot when you’re bent over the bed, taking it from behind. Trust me.”

  “If you pay extra, George won’t bathe for three days. Get your nose up against those balls and take a whiff. I swear you can smell his boyfriend’s ass.”

  I’ll teach myself to crave such tame moments. I’ll learn to clutch raw silk between my fingers and marvel at the texture. I’ll develop a taste for opulence.

  I used silver tongs to pick five ice cubes from the bucket. They clinked into the highball glass, each one making the crystal sing a slightly different note.

  It was a matter of degree, really. Kink was candy coating that made sex tastier. Fetish was bittersweet, dark chocolate, straight up, the kind that made your teeth shrink against the intensity of undiluted flavor.

  Fetish was sex deconstructed. Removed from my body to my mind. The rites of worship worshipped. The fetish was for the details. Someone once said that God was in the details, but others said that it was the devil. A devil I knew intimately.

  I went into the bathroom and turned on the cold tap. The edge of the claw-foot tub made an uncomfortable seat. I set the highball glass in the soap dish and dropped the thick terry robe to the white tiled floor.

  While the bath filled, I pulled back my hair in a severe ponytail high on my
head, revealing every line on my face to the unflattering light at the makeup table in the boudoir.

  First, I did my nails, hands, and feet. Light purple traced a thin line near my cuticles. Pale blue made a half-moon at the base of each nail. Blue-tinged varnish sealed it. For the last time, every single thing had to be just perfect. That way, if I felt myself sliding back, wanting it, I’d be able to remind myself that for once everything was right and exactly the way it should have been, and I could never hope to duplicate such perfection again.

  No one I knew would recognize the brand of makeup in my bag. I used a thick, oily base, a shade paler than my natural coloring, and spread it thickly so that it left an obvious line under my chin and by my temples. Every wrinkle around my mouth and eyes showed like sidewalk crack. Blue lipstick made my mouth looked bruised. I drew another set of lips, slightly smaller, in dark pink on top of that, so that the edges of blue showed. Cherry rouge started as circles on my cheeks and then faded in a slight upstroke.

  The first step into the tub was always hardest, like swimming in a mountain lake at camp. My foot ached and I wanted to pull it out, but I stepped in with the other foot, gritted my teeth, and sank into the deep, frigid water.

  My skin pulled tight on my arms. Gooseflesh made every hair stand on end. I bent my knees. Gasping, I got my shoulders under the surface. My poor nipples hardened and ached. Fighting the shock, my heart pumped hot blood under my skin. My teeth chattered, uncontrollable. I reached for my highball glass.

  My cunt tightened, refusing to take the ice cubes, but I pushed four in anyway. I felt my heat flee to my core. My toes and fingers throbbed and then burned.

  “I hate this.” My voice echoed off the bathroom tiles. I hate this, and I’m never going to do it again. If I’m tempted, this will be the part I’ll make myself remember. The part I hate.

  Cold. I was so fucking cold. My pussy longed to push out the cubes tucked into it, but every time one floated to the surface of the water, I pushed it back in, deep, until my knuckles pressed against my clit.