Best Women's Erotica 2011 (19 page)

After a few moments, I was roughly draped across the arm of the couch nearby, as loose as a rag doll. Hands pulled my hips and pushed my legs open as I leaned over the couch’s arm. My pussy was still flinching as I breathed, an entirely different
burning covering my labia, making blood pump through my clitoris so harshly that I could have sworn I felt my heartbeat right there.

“Look at that,” the man who’d come on my face said, “How much do you think that’s worth?”

Fingers traced my sensitive labia, pushing inside of me. I felt completely malleable and soft. “A lot,” the other man uttered. The fingers left and I felt nothing but the cool air mingling with the wetness that coated my labia. “I think we should take her back to the station and see how the rest of the boys like her.”

SEALSKIN

Kirsty Logan

 

 

Another sleepless night watching the moon crawl across the sky. I turn in bed, flip the pillow to the cool side, tug some of the covers back from my husband’s sleeping grip. Nothing works. The moon slipping in around the blinds lights the room like an old black-and-white film, everything dark with silvered edges. Rory’s snores sound like a grumbling bear. Every time I start to drift off they change rhythm, snapping me awake again.

There’s a feeling deep in my belly that won’t go away, making the heat between my legs pulse regularly with the beat of my heart. I could slide myself toward Rory, climb on top of his sleeping warmth, slip him inside me and ride myself to the tipping point of pleasure before he’d even properly awoken. I think about his drowsy hands stroking my hips, his sleepy kisses. I turn the pillow over again and sigh.

There’s no use lying here with my eyes wide open.

I slip out of bed and into my dressing gown. Padding downstairs, I’m conscious of just how quiet it is here on the island.
After twenty years in the middle of London, the Isle of Skye is so quiet it deafens me. I fill the kettle with water, switch it on, switch it off again. I don’t want anything. No; I do want something, I just don’t know what it is.

From upstairs, Rory’s snores are muted but still audible. I tap my bare feet on the kitchen floor and look at all the things I do not want. If I hold my breath, I can hear the shush of the sea. I slip my feet into the Wellington boots by the back door, pull on Rory’s waterproof jacket and slip down the garden path. The sea is spread out before me, heavy as black velvet under the darkened sky. The summer air is cool enough to make me pull the jacket tight around me, and it brings up goose bumps on my legs where the breeze slips between the coat and boots. It makes my heart beat harder, as if the wind is the fingers of a dozen strangers against my skin.

I step carefully down the path to the beach. Our cottage is perched neatly on the edge of a cliff, not close enough to be at risk of high waves but close enough for walking on the beach whenever we please. I stumble on loose pebbles strewn across the path and have to jump the last few steps onto the shore. The sky, the sea, the sand under my feet: everything out here is dark and soft and quiet. I plant my boots wide apart and stare out to sea. I feel like I am the only person on the entire island. I hear the steady hush of the waves and smell the salt in the air. The moon winks at me from behind a cloud. Breathing deep, I finally feel calm.

I turn to climb back up to the cottage, back to bed and Rory’s warm body, when I see movement farther down the beach. Immediately my heart starts thumping against my lungs and my tongue feels too big for my mouth. I’m standing on a deserted beach wearing only a too-big waterproof jacket and a pair of Wellies to preserve my modesty. I turn to run back up the path, then I realize what I’m seeing and stop.

Two women with skin as gray as a raincloud are entwined in the sand. They are aware of nothing except one another; certainly not my staring eyes and pounding heart. I take a step closer. Their bodies are as slim and rounded as seals. I can hear the gentle moans from their throats, and I can feel the way their skin feels, sleek and soft against the sand. I can taste the salty heat of their bodies. I can feel every sensation that they can feel, every caress and kiss, every flicker of pleasure. The heat between my legs intensifies, sending warm shivers from my clitoris to my throat, and I close my eyes and let orgasm overtake me.

The next thing I know, I’m in my bed with the late-morning sun burning hot in my face and Rory stumbling into his trousers. I lie back against the pillows, unsure whether I got up last night, unsure how time stretched and contracted in those predawn hours. Everything feels too bright and too loud, and I long for the soft gray sand of last night, the curves and moans of the women on the beach, the throb of my orgasm….
No,
I think;
that was just a dream. It must have been.

Downstairs I sip coffee and look out at the sea, making a mental checklist of things to do. Put the washing on, do the dishes, buy groceries, job hunt. It’s been three months since we arrived on Skye, and “job hunt” has been on my To Do list every day since then. Rory was fine; mechanics are needed everywhere and he got a job in days.

But there’s not much call for events organizers on an island with only a few thousand people. I’ve been turned down for work as a waitress in a seafood restaurant, secretary at a golf range, and ticket-seller for boat tours. I’d thought my long red hair and blue eyes would go down well in public service here, but apparently my London accent doesn’t sound very pretty to the residents of Skye.

“Any plans for today, love?” asks Rory as he fills his flask with coffee.

“Just the usual.”

“I know it’s a bit shit just now, but you’ll find something. There’s not a lot out there. It’s only a small island.”

“It’s been months. I’m getting bored of waiting around.”

Rory kisses me on the top of my head. “I know, love. I’ll bring you some paperwork home, that’ll cheer you up.”

I swipe a play-kick at his retreating rear end. He chuckles and pulls me in for a hug; I smell clean skin and a hint of oil from his work clothes.

I finish my coffee, kiss Rory good-bye, walk him to his car for another kiss then come back inside and decide which chore to do first. The ticking of the clock is irritating me and making me feel restless. The housework is waiting, but it will still be there after I spend a few hours having a nice long bath. And if I feel like a little self-love while I’m there, all the better for my motivation. I get my favorite bath oils, turn on the hot water and think about the girls on the sand.

By the time Rory gets home from work, all I’ve managed to do is masturbate twice, wash a few plates and confirm that there are no new job postings since yesterday.

“Pasta and cheese for dinner?” I ask as he hangs up his jacket.

“I know you so well.” He pulls a plastic-wrapped block of cheddar out of his jacket pocket, puts it in my hand and kisses me.

Two hours later, we’re cuddled on the couch, full of cheese and wine.

On the television, a man is investigating some sort of crime with the aid of several outlandish forensic techniques. I snuggle in under the weight of Rory’s arm, putting my feet up next to his on the footstool.

The girls from the beach flicker through my brain: slick pale skin and whispers floating across the sand.

“Hey, Rory.” I tilt my head up and press my lips in a kiss on the underneath of his chin.

“Mmm,” he says.

“Do you think you might feel like…” (I recall the girls’ soft skin, the throb of my orgasm, my heels pressing into the sand, and oh, how I want him inside me), “…uh…like some ice cream? I’ve got a craving.”

“Sure. I’ll get it.” Rory ambles off to the kitchen, and I lean my head back against the couch. I appear to have forgotten how to seduce my own husband. We’ve only had sex twice in the three months since we moved here, and I’m not even sure why. I’ve desired Rory since the moment I pushed in front of him at a crowded bar: his broad shoulders, his dark blond hair, the way there’s always a smile caught in the corners of his mouth. I took him home that night, and we’ve barely spent a dawn apart since. I don’t even know how many hours I’ve spent pressing my skin against his, sliding up his body to dab kisses along his jaw, pressing my breasts against his chest and feeling his hardness against my lower belly. We could spend the whole night like that, enjoying each other’s bodies, climbing slowly to orgasm after orgasm.

Lately, though, it just hasn’t been happening. There’s something about this island; I feel foreign here, uncomfortable, like I don’t know how to find my way home. I want to love Rory again, but I’ve forgotten how.

Another night of watching the moon, turning over in my restless bed, and glancing jealously at Rory’s sleeping shape. Every one of my breaths comes out as a sigh. My clitoris feels swollen and my heart is thumping too fast. I throw the covers off and pad downstairs, pulling on Rory’s waterproof jacket and Wellington boots. The night sounds of distant birds and the whispering sea press tight around me. I can smell salt on the cool air.

Before I realize where I’m going, I’m on the path down to the sand. It must still be hours before dawn, and I am the only person on the vast silver shard of the beach. Lit up by the moon, everything looks two-dimensional, like paper cutouts. A thought slips across my mind: perhaps I fell asleep in bed after all. Perhaps none of this is real.

I step into the water, feeling the heat from my body emanate out into the night air, letting the water lap over my booted feet. Every wave sends tiny shudders up my legs and into my cunt. I feel like a kettle about to boil over. I walk down the beach, sloshing my feet in the shallow waves. I’m not looking for anything or anyone, I tell myself; there would be no one for me to see anyway. Images flicker behind my eyes of seal-smooth girl-flesh, of slippery salt-slick curves. Without thinking, I realize I’m searching for them. Ridiculous, I know; I probably dreamed them in the first place. Or maybe I’m dreaming now. But there! A movement on the sand. A twisting, fluid motion like bodies moving through water. I continue walking but keep my steps slow so that the waves do not splash too loudly.

It’s the seal-women. Everything is the same as last night, except it’s all about to change because now they see me. They beckon to me, their fingers impossibly long and slim, the moon reflecting off their skin.

I step closer. I feel like I’m not in control of my body; the heat from my clitoris seems to have boiled right up to the base of my throat. I’m dizzy and breathless and don’t even know what the hell I’m doing here. But the girls are so close to me that I can see the dark lines of their eyelashes. They pull me to my knees on the sand and mirror my stance, stretching their bodies out so that their breasts rise high on their chests. I’m sure I was wearing clothes, sure I remember pulling on Rory’s jacket and boots, but now all I feel is the warm grit of sand under my
knees and the cool night air pulling at my nipples.

A cloud has passed over the moon and it’s hard to see, but it looks like their skin is the soft gray color of the sky before rain.

Impossible, I know, but then it’s impossible for me to be laid out on the sand with two strangers who are pressing their palms along my body, sliding their fingers across my nipples, slipping dual tongues toward the heat between my legs. My back arches with pleasure, and I dig my heels into the sand. I can feel every molecule of my body overflowing with joy, the boundaries of my body breaking like a dam.

This is my body, but I feel their bodies, too: I feel the touch of their hands at the same time as I know how they feel touching me. They are a part of me, and I am a part of them, and their loving me is me loving myself. Their tongues press up inside me together, and I shout the strength of my orgasm out across the beach.

Every moment of pressure and worry seeps out of my mind and scatters away among the sand. The waves tiptoe in and sweep it all away. I lie back on the sand and watch the women. They are walking away, hands held at hip-level, hair tangling in the breeze. I notice two piles of gray fabric on the nearby rocks, and the women pick up the fabric and slip it onto their bodies like they’re diving into a pool. I must be confused because the fabric fits them like a second skin, but suddenly they’re changing, their bodies filling out, transforming into rounded shapes with short arms and soft middles, and as the sea closes over them all I see is the retreating tails of two seals.

In our bedroom, Rory is sprawled across the bed like a starfish. His face is softened by sleep, and his mouth is slightly open so I can see the white edges of his bottom teeth. I slip under the covers and press my body full-length against his. He’s not fully awake but already I feel him responding, his cock
hardening against me. My body feels alive, every inch of my skin responding to his touch.

He starts to shift under me, spreading his hands over my hips and nuzzling into my neck. I scatter kisses along his hairline; he smells of warm skin and cut grass and shampoo.

“Hey, you okay?” he mumbles, finally coming awake.

“Yes,” I say. “Yes. Everything is okay.”

“What do you need?”

“Just this,” I say. “Just you.”

I slide down his body, swirling my tongue over his nipples and pressing my breasts against him. His gasp makes me smile. If my advances surprise him, he seems to be dealing with it very well. He’s tangling his fingers in my hair and tugging gently on my earlobes, and I know what that means. I keep moving down his body until my mouth is right over his cock. In the darkness of the room I can see that the tip is gleaming, and it feels solid as a tree root in my hand. Slowly, slowly, I slide him into the O of my mouth. He makes a sound low in his throat and presses his body back against the bed. The hardness of him in my mouth is making my cunt throb harder, and all I can think about is the feeling when he comes inside me.

I spin my body around so that I’m positioned over his face, and then I lower myself. He presses his mouth against my cunt, his tongue flickering over my clit, and I can’t help but let out a deep moan. I pull back a little: I feel so close to the edge that I’ll orgasm within minutes, and I want us to come together.