Best Women's Erotica 2011 (11 page)

Here Miranda instinctively raised her hand to stop the troubling and oddly arousing image taking shape in her mind. “No woman would ever consent to that.”

Sam laughed. “Actually, they volunteer. I have a waiting list for months. But I’d be happy to arrange a special session for you.”

“
I
could never do such a thing,” she insisted, clutching her cold, slippery glass.

“Miranda, you’re a free woman. You can do anything you want. And I can guarantee you’ll find plenty to warm you in my humble party room.”

That’s when he took her hand. His flesh was indeed warm and faintly moist. The sensation was a bit…dirty…and yet her fingers immediately relaxed into the heat.

As if they’d finally found a place to rest.

 

That’s how she came to be here in this strange room, splayed out on his
bukkake
bed for the fourth time in a month. Sam had scheduled a series of Thursday sessions just for her. Each week the number of guests grew.

Miranda heard more male voices passing below the window—
Are you sure they have “events” here? This looks like my mother-in-law’s place….

From the chuckles, Miranda guessed it was a group of four, maybe five. Which meant they would soon be ready to begin.

She positioned her arms at her sides, suppressing a shiver. She would feel nothing for now. She was an object. A fresh canvas. Pure and clean.

And the men, her therapists—Sam was right to call this her “treatment”—they were pure, too. For when is a man ever more honestly himself than the moment when his hot seed shoots out through his cock to find its home?

The voices were inside the house now, moving closer. The guest room door opened.

She heard a soft “Whoa, nice,” and a “Pretty tonight.”

Miranda’s cunt tensed in a spasm so intense she wondered if they could see her muscles jerk through the negligee. She curled her hands around her thighs to steady herself.

The air around the bed grew thick with the rasp of breathing, the mineral scent of trousers, hints of cumin sweat, crotch musk and palpable excitement.

Under the blindfold, the room began to spin.

She sensed a familiar fragrance of woodsy soap moving toward the head of the bed. It was Sam, of course, presiding over the feast like a patriarch at Thanksgiving.

“I’ll explain the rules again for the benefit of the newcomers,” he began cordially. “No touching unless she requests it, but she likes it when you talk, so say whatever comes into your dirty minds. Don’t expect an answer though. She only speaks to command. There are some bottles of lube over there with the tissues if you want it. Oh, and last but not least, we have a big crowd tonight, so watch your aim. I’ve already gotten this carpet cleaned twice this month.”

The air above her crackled with laughter.

“How close can I get?” This voice sounded young, nervous.

“Need practice with that chip shot?”

More laughter.

“Make room for the boy,” a deeper voice called and there was shuffling around the bed, then the purr of zippers, the rustle of cloth.

In spite of herself—she was just an object after all—Miranda tilted her head back and sighed.

“She looks good tonight.”

“Yeah, nice nightgown. A shame to ruin it.”

Ruin.
The very sound of the word made her juice up down there like a drooling baby.

“Her tits look bigger today.” This voice was Brooklyn. A regular.

“You must have had too many Manhattans. Or maybe you need your reading glasses?”

“Fuck off. Tonight I’m gonna come right in that pretty pink valley.”

“But she’s already got a pearl necklace,” said another, the jocular fellow who was the first to arrive.

“Women always want more jewelry,” added a smooth voice. Miranda imagined a silk ascot, an overpriced watch.

Miranda felt the sweat rise on her skin. Blank canvas she might be, but her chest was tingling, aching for touch. She cupped her own breasts and flicked the nipples with her thumbs.

“Fuck, I love to watch them masturbate.” That was Brooklyn again, but the words had a tug-tug rhythm, as if his own hand were busy with a similar task.

“That’s not masturbation. She’s not fingering her cunt.”

“She’s turning herself on, asshole, that’s jerking off.”

“This is jerking off,” grunted an unfamiliar voice, and before she could brace herself, a burning hot volley of spunk sprayed Miranda’s chest from the left, coating her fingers in thick goo.

For a moment the room was completely still.

Miranda almost giggled. This happened every time, the breathless pause after the first man shot his load. What did they expect? Indignation? Surprise?
How ungentlemanly
of you to ejaculate on my breasts, sir?

Surely the veterans knew what came next. That instead of protesting she would lift her dripping hand to her nose and inhale deeply of the very mystery that brought her here—the intoxicating elixir of summer sunshine and new-mown hay. Miranda drew another deep breath, resisting the urge to taste it. With her clean hand, she grabbed the dental dam at her side and waved it in the general direction of the man who’d baptized her.

“You, Mr. Early Bird,” she said, assuming the confident V.P.of-marketing tone that served her so well at the office. “Eat my pussy.”

To facilitate her command, she hiked the negligee up over her thighs and spread her legs wide.

Someone whistled.

“Aw, man, I love wet pussy,” sighed another.

“Yeah, nice pink twat. You’re a lucky man, even if you have to wear a raincoat.”

“I thought the winner was the one who held out.” That was the youngster.

“We all win,” Sam assured him. “You’ll see.”

Mr. Early Bird was now scooting up between her legs. He had a broad frame and Miranda had to stretch her legs wider to accommodate him. The high slits of the negligee tore farther up toward her waist. She moaned, exhilarated by the sound of heedless destruction, the proof of her descent into pure wantonness.

The man grabbed her heels and placed them on his shoulders. The heat of his body oozed through the soles of her feet, melting her calf and thigh muscles. He began to lick. The latex grew warm. Miranda had come to enjoy this slightly muffled sensation, as if he were pleasuring her through thick cotton panties.

She whimpered and clutched at the sheet.

“What does she want the rest of us to do?” the young man fretted.

“Figuring that out is part of the fun.” Sam laughed.

“She wants us to get her very, very messy,” explained the jocular guy.

“I’ve never seen a real woman who enjoys a money shot like she does,” agreed the smooth voice.

“Yeah, this one’s really into it,” said Brooklyn. “Sometimes she shoots her own puddle on the bed as if she’s taking notes from us.”

Miranda let out a soft “Oh,” half in shame—the man was right that she left quite a mess herself—and half in delirium from the overwhelming bounty of attention. So many men were gazing at her, wanting her. Even through the blindfold, she could feel their glowing eyes stroke her skin. Their rude, nasty comments aroused her like perfectly calibrated spankings on her most secret flesh. Nor could she find fault with the agile tongue working her clit through the latex. If she let herself go, she could easily come soon, but she was still too blank, too clean.

“Hey, Early Bird. Stop.” The warmth between her thighs receded with a disappointed smack of lips. “Now, whoever jerks off on me before I count to ten takes his place.”

Someone snorted a protest, but soon enough the air was alive with new sounds: determined panting, soft moans and the clicking cricketlike song of hands yanking swollen dicks.

Miranda counted out the numbers, her voice unsteady.
One…Two….

At eight, her left hip was pelted with hot rain. This was immediately followed by a copious eruption that sprayed across the hollow of her rib cage and another shower on her arm and shoulder.

Her body jerked, as if enduring a series of rapid blows.

Fingers plucked another dental dam from her side. “My turn, sweetheart.”

“Can I come on her again?” asked the young man.

“Oh, to be twenty-one again,” Brooklyn teased.

“Go ahead,” Sam said. “She likes it. The more jizz, the better.”

The second man was crawling up on the bed now. He tilted her thighs up so that her feet dangled in the air. Stretching the dam tight over her vulva, he went right to work, nipping her clit gently through the thin barrier.

Her belly began to throb, a pulsing nova in her groin. She couldn’t hold back much longer. This next part was tricky, but they hadn’t let her down yet.

“Come on me,” she barked, “Shoot your wad in the next two minutes or you have to take your aching balls back home with you.”

“Bossy bitch, isn’t she?”

“Better get to work,” Sam said cheerfully. “I’ve got my stop-watch on.”

A new voice to Miranda’s right gave a grunt, as if he’d been punched. With a growling “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he glazed her right side with spurts of hot cream.

“Watch out, you got me.”

“Sorry, man, sorry.”

Brooklyn, at her left shoulder, let out a high-pitched yelp and ejaculated over her chest, knocking against the bed rhythmically with each spasm.

“Excuse me, if I may, I’ve got a present for the lady.” The smooth, moneyed voice spoke with uncharacteristic urgency. Within moments new arcs of jism joined the growing deposit on her chest.

“That’s seven,” Miranda said. “Who’s left?”

“I am.”

She should have known it would be Sam. Naturally a good host would make sure his guests’ needs were satisfied before he claimed his own.

“Come on the pearls. Shoot all over them,” she ordered.

The bed lurched. Sam was kneeling over her, his knees pressed against her side. She smelled cock, a hint of soap, the vaguely medicinal scent of lube. Her eyes began to tear with something close to gratitude. The sound of fist pumping cock filled her ears, and she felt her own heartbeat quicken to keep pace with his quick jerks.

Just then Sam cupped her cheek, tenderly, as if he were about to make love to her. “Take this, you greedy, come-covered slut.”

His voice was so perversely gentle that what came next actually took her by surprise: one, two, three, four pulsing jets of ejaculate oozing over her collarbone and neck, coating the white beads with warm, sticky glaze.

“Rub it on me, all of you,” Miranda cried. She grabbed the sperm-soaked lace and ripped the negligee open over her breasts. “Paint it the fuck all over me.”

Dozens of fingers obediently scooped up the viscous cream and began to massage her, anointing her nipples with it, icing her belly. Wherever they rubbed, her nerves sprang to life. One hand soothed the spunk from her neck over her shoulders, which were suddenly as exquisitely sensitive as a clit. Others spread gobs of it over her breasts, massaging her, healing her with the smooth, silky ointment.

“God, oh, god, yes,” she cooed, wanting them all to see how much she loved this. So many men were disgusted by their own come, but for her, at this moment, it was an intimate gift, the most honest exchange possible between a man and a woman. It
wasn’t pretty, but she was done with pretty—pearls and satin, vows of eternal love and all those other lies that only made her feel dirtier in the end.

Desperately, she pressed her cunt up against the tireless tongue still brushing and stroking her swollen clit. It was her turn to give them a gift, to let them see a come-covered slut abandon herself to the ultimate animal release. Her mouth twisted into a grimace.

Damn if she wasn’t doing it, too, coming, thrashing, screaming, gushing all over the sheet as eight faceless men urged her on with their slippery caresses.

She collapsed back onto the bed, limp, drenched, released.

“Nice show.”

“Yeah, that was wild.”

“Thanks, sweetheart. I’ll be sure to come again next week.”

Only then did she grace them with a smile.

“Well, it’s time to retire for our port and cigars, gentlemen,” Sam announced.

“The bathroom’s the second door on the left if you’d like to wash up.”

Miranda lay still until the men filed out and the door closed firmly behind them. Then she sat up and pulled off the blindfold to survey the damage. The negligee was a mess—stained, torn, stinking of locker room and spunk. Grinning, she peeled it from her body and stuffed it in the plastic-lined trash can beside the bed. Next she unclasped the goo-covered pearls and dropped them onto the crumpled gown.

“Goodbye, Tom,” she whispered.

Stepping into the guest bathroom, she washed her hands under hot water and dried them with one of the soft towels stacked neatly on the counter. Her chest still tingled, and she
touched it with her heat-flushed fingertips. The skin was tender yet stronger, like a scar. Spunk really did seem to nourish her. She would sleep well tonight.

As for Sam’s standing invitation, Miranda felt no desire for him now. She would slip out the back, as usual, and be on her way. One day, when the lingerie drawer was empty and her jewelry box bare, she might stay. Until then she was far too greedy for one man to satisfy.

Before her shower, she paused for one last look at herself. The woman in the mirror over the sink made quite a painting, the dried semen decorating her chest and neck like fine lace. But this was no hesitant nymph, no wistful modernist muse. She was a Titian duchess, patron of the arts, a woman who could commission her own portrait that glowed with radiance beyond any commonplace beauty or understanding.

Miranda straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin high. After these Thursday night treatments, this formidable lady with her sly, satisfied expression was no stranger.