Best Women's Erotica 2011 (3 page)

Luke’s thrusts increase. I tighten my legs around his muscled back and slam back against him—I’m getting closer and closer to the brink.
Oh, hell, this is it.
My pussy contracts. I groan, my body convulsing in a huge juicy climax. One more thrust, and Luke cries out too. He turns his head to the side and buries his face against my breasts as he spurts himself into my pussy.

I lie back against the freezers, Luke still nestled between my thighs. I lift my head to look at him. “That was amazing.” I stroke my hands through his hair, a dazed expression on my face.

Luke lifts his head. “Yeah, it was.” He strokes his hands over my tits and looks thoughtful. “Only, I don’t know about you, but I’m still hungry….”

I smile. “Yeah, me too.” I pull him in for a kiss, feeling his hot lips burn me up all over again.

Suddenly, there’s a knock on the van window.

Oh hell—a customer.

I wiggle my hips trying to slide out from underneath Luke. “I have to go.”

Luke clasps my waist. “Can’t they wait?”

I falter at the pleading look in his eyes. “Yeah, okay, why not.” I grab his head and pull his lips back down onto mine.

“Cassie!”

I feel the color drain from my cheeks.

“What’s the matter?” Luke says.

My voice comes out in a whisper. “It sounds like Max—my boss.”

The next few minutes are a blur as we scramble around the van trying to put our clothes back on. I’ve only just straightened my hat when the voice calls out again—“Cassie, are you in there? What’s going on?”

“I’ll be right there.” I usher Luke to the back of the van and then sprint to the window to open it.

“Max…what a nice surprise,” I say, gazing down at the agitated face of my boss.

“I just stopped by to see how things were going and I find you’re all shut up. And it’s peak time too. What’s the problem?” he says.

“Um…” I flex my fingers trying to come up with a good excuse.

“Actually, it’s my fault.”

My heart almost stops beating as I turn to see Luke standing beside me.

“Your wonderful operative here has been kind enough to give me a personal tour of the van,” Luke continues, sounding very self-assured.

Max’s eyes narrow. “Oh, yes—and you are?”

“Luke Forewright of Forewright Construction Company.”

I gape. I don’t know who looks more surprised—me or Max.

Max’s expression softens, but he still looks suspicious. “Now then, Cassie, you know you aren’t supposed to let people into the van.”

“Yeah, I know, but…” I gaze down at the counter as if I’ll find the answer there.

Thankfully, Luke steps in to rescue me. “I’m considering making a business proposition, and I wanted to see firsthand the variety of refreshments on offer.”

I raise my brows at that one.

Max looks intrigued. “And?”

Luke slides his hand under my skirt and gives my ass a squeeze. “Very tasty.”

I shiver. The cheeky…

Luke continues. “So tasty in fact that I’d like to ask if you’d consider posting this van here for the rest of the summer….”

Max’s eyes flash. I can see the dollar signs there.

“My men certainly work up an appetite,” Luke continues, circling my buttocks.

“Well, that does sound promising.” Max turns his attention to me. “What do you think, Cassie?”

I slide my hand over Luke’s crotch and do a little squeezing of my own. “Yeah, I guess it could work out.”

“Well, then, that’s settled,” Max says.

Luke steps down off the van and gives Max a polite handshake. “Right, I’ll be off then,” he says, turning to me. “See you tomorrow, Cassie.”

I catch the glint in his eye. “You bet.” I watch him stroll back to the building site, a fuzzy glow in my chest.

Max puts his arm around my shoulder. “I must say, Cassie, I never knew you had such good business acumen.”

I smile back at him sweetly. Neither did I.

 

A few minutes later and I’m heading out of the parking lot in my little pink van, a huge smile on my face. If I’m not careful I’ll even be humming “Greensleeves.”

I WISH YOU WERE BRAILLE

Louise Lagris

 

 

This city is never small enough when you want it to be, but sometimes you circle the same people for years until your Venn diagrams bump into each other by accident. Later we tried to pinpoint how we’d managed to accidentally avoid each other so neatly but could never decide, chalking it up instead to a trickster god who gets his jollies from fucking with the good people of New York City.

But sometimes the planets configure themselves into origami shapes that bring me to my knees with joy at this city, and tonight was one of them. Because I dragged myself out to a bar to meet friends who brought friends, and somehow there was that fellow with the ink-picked heart on the side of his throat I’d been passing on the street for as long as I’d lived here. I never had a reason to say hi, no eye contact, just me looking at him with knives in my eyes, hoping he’d look back. But introductions were made and somehow my karma clicked into place for once, and Joe and I spent the evening slipping quarters into
the jukebox, play-arguing over who has better taste in music, playing Echo and the Bunnymen, Buzzcocks, Joy Division, the bands on all the old T-shirts we had in our ancient collections.

Things were nice, warm, fuzzy. I felt like I was in a warm bath or soft pajamas, not a bar drowned in red lights with a movie screen playing
Barbarella
at our backs. We didn’t talk of anything important—our families, where we went to high school or college, what our ideal jobs were—we just played around and laughed and I really wanted to go home with him.

So tipsily, gigglingly, giddily, that’s what I did.

“I have to walk my dog,” he said. “Do you want to meet her? She’s sort of my litmus test, you see.”

“What will she do if she doesn’t approve?”

“Nothing, just ignore you. But being ignored by Miss Sugarpig is like being ignored by the Pope. It cuts deep.”

“I think I can handle it,” I said and finished my drink.

We weren’t drunk per se, but loosey-goosey as you are when you’ve drunk just enough to be silly, because you drink faster when you’re nervous than when you’re not. I tripped over invisible cracks in the sidewalk and girlishly clutched his arm. I could feel the wiry muscles underneath his leather coat and long-sleeve shirt, which only allowed the smallest peeks of his tattoos, which made them all the more titillating, like the glimpse of a Victorian ankle or petticoat. We sang Richard Hell songs as we walked through Tompkins Square Park, where homeless punks slept next to the cement chess stands and squirrels stared ludicrously from ancient tree branches that survived the squatter riots.

Joe lived on the fourth floor of a five-floor walkup on Avenue C. The stairs were narrow, and I got a splinter from the railing. He walked behind me, and I blushed with the feeling of his eyes on my ass but wiggled a little extra at the same time, flushed all over. I was already wet.

I flattened myself against the wall so he could unlock the door. We were both panting a little from the walk, but also from nervousness; at least I was. My teeth chattered and a few tremors went down my back as he opened the door and we went in.

Sugarpig was waiting at the door; she nosed his knee and, I swear, motioned her head toward the door like, “Come on, come on, get the leash and let’s go.” He nudged her back, gently, with his knee.

“Sorry, Shug, go lie down.”

“But, ah, I thought we were going to walk her?”

“Ah, well, see…that was kind of not true. I walked her before I left.” He was looking at the dog, who had settled herself on her dog bed in the corner. She huffed. She was shining white in the light from the windows, her pink nose moist and candylike, her eyes sizing me up. She was indeed a formidable presence, one that I would have to win over should this one night turn into more.

“You’re not mad, are you?”

“No, of course I’m not.”

“Echo, my cat, is hiding. She gets jealous.”

“Sorry, Echo-echo-echo…” His mouth stopped me from this goofiness. I laughed into it and felt his wide lips smile on mine. His mouth was a little chapped but gentle; when I responded to his kisses with a tiny, tiny bite on his lower lip, it unlocked something in him that he’d been holding back and he bit me back harder. His tongue went in my mouth deeper, and I turned my head so he could lick my neck and ear. He pulled on my earrings, and I giggled. He stuck his nose in my ear, and I pulled away, and he pulled me back. Tug of war, the kind you have on playgrounds.

He was taller than he looked; I had to stand on the balls of my feet and crane my head to kiss him and totally failed when I
tried to nip at his neck. He put his hands on my shoulders and, still kissing me, led me over to the couch and gently pushed me over. Very gently, as if I was a vase he wanted to tip over, but he was scared he would get in trouble for breaking it. I let myself fall, and when he climbed on top of me I threw my legs around him and nearly kicked over the end table with my boots. His hips were narrow between my thighs; his belt buckle dug into my stomach. I think we kissed and wriggled and play-humped for an hour, like teenagers. His hands were delicious, long fingered with rounded fingernails, and his body was boyish above me.

Suddenly Joe stood up and held out his hand.

“Shall we?” he asked, like we were elegantly dressed ball-room dancers in a ’50s movie.

“Yes. Yes, we shall.” I took his hand.

 

A streetlight glowed from behind the gauzy curtains. The bed was rumpled and slept-in; a tiny calico cat was snuggled up in one of the mounds of sheets. She saw us, yawned and ran into the closet.

Joe took off my glasses and carefully put them on the end table. I lay back on the bed, and he took one of my boots in his hands, gently unlacing it and pulling it off and dropping it on the floor, then running his hand up my leg. He kissed the inside of my knee, and I felt it all the way up. Then he did the same for my other boot. I shivered.

I sat up and kissed him hard; part of my brain wanted to take a chunk out, consume him, chew him up and swallow. We knelt on the bed facing each other. Finally I could reach his ears, his neck; I ran my tongue in the hollows of his collarbone and followed the thumping vein in his neck up to the back of his ear. His hands were all over me, under my clothes, on top of them, like they were another layer of skin that felt just as good to
touch as my bareness underneath. I licked and kissed his neck.

“Did it hurt?” I whispered.

“It hummed and throbbed,” he whispered back. “Like singing or an operation. An intubation. I don’t know. Maybe like this?”

He took the front of my throat in his mouth, worrying it with his teeth, thrumming his tongue right on my voice box. I laughed.

“That’s it,” he whispered. “That’s just how it was. But not nearly as nice. Wish you had been the one tattooing me.”

“I can’t draw.”

“You can draw on me.”

“When?”

“Now.”

“No, right now, I want to see what else you have drawn on you.” I unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off, and he sat there half in shadows, the illustrated man, one I could touch, and I did. I started with the heart on his throat and traced the line down to his chest; he was nearly hairless except for a few hairs curling around his nipples. The caps of his shoulders were covered with dotted Tibetan clouds and wind; I walked on my knees around him to inspect his back, which took my breath away. It was a giant scene of clouds and flowers, spirals and vines of dots, thousands and thousands of dots. The flowers were the only parts with color, pale pinks that shimmered like watercolors I could barely see in the semidark. I expected to feel the dots raised under my fingers like Braille and was disappointed to feel it was mostly like skin; I wanted to read him, I wanted to feel the needle marks like signs from God.

I massaged the tops of his shoulders, his solid deltoids, the muscles in his back that flexed beneath my fingers, beneath their illustrations. I kissed each flower and spiral, each cloud and vine.

I walked back around to his front and smiled.

“There’s nowhere else to draw on you,” I whispered.

“What about you?”

“My skin is plain. There are plenty of places to draw on.”

“You are anything but plain,” he said, his hands at the hem of my shirt, his fingers playing with and touching my belly. His hands hesitated, so I kissed him and he continued raising my shirt, and I held my arms up so he could pull it over my head. I sat back, my knees beginning to go numb, and he looked at me fully. He ran his hands up and down my arms, my belly, my sides, trickled his fingers down my breasts. I reached behind me and undid my bra, dropped it to the floor, resisted the temptation to cross my arms in front of me. We kissed, naked chest to naked chest, our hands touching each other’s backs and sides. I pushed him down this time, gently, a tiny, half-naked lumber-jack whispering
timber.
I lay on top of him, told him to stay still and kissed his chest up and down, his nipples and navel, the born-again soft skin just below his armpits. I touched the hair there wonderingly, thinking about how I used to stare at the boys when they raised their hands in sixth grade, waiting for the tiniest peek of fine hair to escape from their shirtsleeves. This part of the men I’ve been with never seems to age past then, or else just seeing it still awes me, reminds me I’m a grown-up and I can see the secret, finely haired places of men any time I want. I gently stuck a finger beneath the waist of his jeans, and he sucked in his stomach to invite me in.

This is when things always speed up. Should I savor this half-naked exploration, make it last, the revelations of skin inch by inch? His erection was distorting his jeans; when I put my hand on it, he gasped and rubbed against me. I fell on him, and together we ground our pelvises together, knocking bone and bone, jeans and jeans, pinching nipples and biting lips and ears and necks. He
scratched my back with invisible nails. Finally I began fumbling with his belt buckle, and he sat back and whipped it off, threw it on the floor, unbuttoned the first button of his jeans and there was his cock, hot and dark pink and gaspingly escaped from the waist of his boxers, lying against the trail of fine hairs running down from his shallow navel. He paused—what was he thinking? Trying to decide if he wanted to continue, or was he embarrassed, or was it something else altogether? But he continued; he raised himself to his knees and unzipped his jeans, wiggled them down and lay down next to me to take them off.