Best Women's Erotica 2011 (4 page)

I was the more clothed one for once. So many times the guy still has on his clothes, maybe his jeans or pants, maybe all of his clothes, while I lie back naked and cold, waiting for them to lie on me and warm me up. Instead, he was skinny and naked, stippled with ink on his back and arms and even, I saw, his thighs. Skinny like a boy you want to feed, skinny like my first boyfriend in seventh grade.

He stuck his hand down my jeans and inhaled quickly when he felt how wet I was, how soaked. He brought his fingers to his mouth and licked them; he kissed me and his mouth tasted like my cunt, and he stuck his index finger in my mouth and that tasted like my cunt too. I bit his finger and took his hand and put it down my jeans again.

“Two, three, four,” I told him. More fingers. More. He bundled them up and worked them inside me like a small dick. I curved up into his hand, rocking and flexing, until I came with a flood and a rush and he licked his fingers again.

He scooched down the bed until his nose was level to the button on my jeans. He licked my belly button. He gently bit the curve of belly beneath. He licked just beyond the waist of my jeans, where it was dark and hot, and I was still radiating heat from his finger fuck.

He bit at the brass button closing my jeans. I giggled, my stomach rippling above him. I wished I loved him, I wished I knew who he was, but mostly I just wished he’d take off my jeans and lick my pussy and quit fucking around with the button.

Which he did.

He bit and worried and licked the flesh around my hips, on the inside of my thighs, where my torso met my legs. He breathed on my cunt but refused to get nearer, ducking away when I strained toward him. He was rubbing his cock on the bed, on the mounds of sheets, he was gasping his hot breath right on me but still not touching. Oh, he knew what he was doing. He didn’t read this in some lad mag. Someone taught him; he learned from practice and from the love of it. A woman can tell when someone doesn’t want to go down on her, but he was already there. He put his whole mouth on my clothed vulva; the shock of warmth made me hiss unintelligible pleas. I could feel him smile. Then I felt the impossibly soft, wet touch of his tongue nudging my panties aside—first on the left, then on the right, licking me up and down, nipping each lip, slipping his tongue under the cloth still covering my slit. I wanted to throw something at him; I wished he had long hair so I could grab it and pull him in. He slipped his fingers in and pulled them away from me, nosed in and licked. Choking sounds came from me, from beyond me; I floated above us and watched him tease me, wished I was corporeal so I could smack him on the back of his head. Finally he pulled my underwear down and threw it on the floor. He fucked me with his tongue and lips and fingers until I gushed again and again and again, all over him and his bed and his sheets.

I had to fuck this man, whose last name I didn’t know, whose past I didn’t care about or his future or his dreams, his childhood pets or religious beliefs; I had to have him in me and it had to be now.

He knelt above me, stroking his cock and staring at me as I shivered. I held my arms out to him; my hair was all over the pillows; I probably looked like a drowning maiden in the sea of his sheets.

“Condom?” I whispered.

He nodded, smiled small, and reached over to his nightstand to rummage around for a silver square.

He rolled it onto his cock looking at me with one eyebrow raised, while I lay back on the pillows and idly fingered myself. He kissed me, pinched my nipples hard, went down for a few good licks before coming back up to my face and kissing me, his mouth smelling like my come, rubbing his cock against my clit. I bit his lower lip, not softly, and he finally relented and slipped inside of me inch by inch.

We both inhaled shakily, like car accident victims walking with canes on ice.

His penis felt like a true extension of himself; not just something he was wildly thrusting, hoping to hit something good, but a deliberate appendage he controlled as easily and naturally as his hand. He pushed inside of me, gently and persistently, knocking my cervix as surely as he’d ring a doorbell, and I gasped. It felt good but hurt, and I couldn’t decide if I wanted to push back or whimper.

“Am I hurting you?”

“Yeah, but…don’t worry about it. Just keep going.”

“Why shouldn’t I worry about hurting you?”

I didn’t have an answer for that.

So I did both. I flexed around him, and he gasped back. We had found our back-and-forth rhythm and were gaining speed when he stopped suddenly and pulled me up with him so we were sitting face-to-face. He hadn’t even withdrawn from me; he raised me as easily as a rag doll and I let him. I wanted him to
flop me around like an ancient Raggedy Ann doll.

I kissed him long and deep, fucking his mouth with my tongue, trying to get it as deep inside him as he was inside of me. His cock jumped inside me.

“I’m not moving until you come again,” he said.

“Is this a challenge or a threat? A bet or a promise?”

“All of it, all of it,” he said and kissed me with those wide, rough lips. I ran my nails up his sides, circled his nipples, lingeringly pinched one and then the other. He bit his lip.

“You are making this very, very difficult.”

“What are we betting, exactly?”

“It’s a bet we both win,” he said and began slowly rubbing my clit, up and down, a deliberate stroke that I could feel lift my clit so it hovered, tip in the air, until he released it and started again. Up and down, with him jumping deep inside me, so deep I imagined him nudging my ovaries and rearranging my guts. I flexed around his cock, hard, dancingly, over and over and over again until I came so hard I couldn’t see for a few seconds. His beautiful dotted shoulders had red fingernail-shaped crescents beginning to swell among those clouds, tiny suns to remember me by.

He put his arms behind me and gently laid me back down on the bed. There was no longer a need for speed or gentleness, no doorbell ringing or questionable knocking; just sheer, brutal fucking. His clouds and flowers would be destroyed, but that’s why artists do touch-ups, right? Sweat dripped down his cheeks and neck and onto my chest; I licked his chin. His eyes were open; he stared into me and past me, and it scared me a little, how almost angry and sad he seemed. Sometimes people cry when they come; it’s happened to me. Never to a guy I was with, though.

He kissed me, sloppy and wet and panting, moaning into my
mouth, still staring at me and into me and past me, still scaring me. He thrust a few last times and I felt his cock thrum with orgasm. He fell onto my chest and kissed my shoulder, and I felt something wet drip down from my shoulder to my chest and lie between my breasts.

I couldn’t tell if it was sweat or tears.

PICTURES OF LILLY

Chrissie Bentley

 

 

It is said that a stereotype is only truly offensive (and stereo-typical) if it is true. In that case, my memories of a certain Adults Only theater, in a medium-sized East Coast city in the mid-1970s are very offensive indeed.

Even from the outside, the building stood out like a dirty nail on a manicured hand, an off-white pile that was erected in the ’30s as the latest in contemporary architecture, and had neither been painted nor refurbished since then. Once it had indeed been a proud and beautiful theater, but the mainstream movies had long stopped playing there.

Instead, a proprietor who looked as seedy as his establishment specialized in what the low-key marquee insisted were Continental and Scandinavian features, all of which apparently starred the same blowsily made-up cartoon blonde, scantily clad and long since defaced beneath precisely the kind of graffiti you’d expect to find in such a place—ink-scrawled cocks and balls that assailed her from every direction, ribald commentaries that blossomed
in speech bubbles, and enough jets of Magic Markered semen to float a battleship.

The place never closed. Early morning, on the way to class; late into the evening, on the way home from a friend’s house and at any hour in between, one of two or three bored-looking youths would be seated in the ticket booth; and, occasionally, you’d see an actual customer shuffling in or out of the main door, and he’d be as clichéd as the establishment itself. He really would look furtive, he really would be wearing a raincoat, and nine times out of ten, he really would be wearing a flat cap, which he’d pull down over his eyes the moment he saw someone else on the street outside.

But there was one aspect of the experience that was not a stereotype; that was, in fact, so bizarre that even those of us who were aware of it were scarcely able to voice it out loud, for fear that the very act of open discussion might end the magic there and then. Every Thursday afternoon (but only Thursday afternoons), sometime before we turned out of class, the emergency exit at the back of the building would be mysteriously unbolted and would remain that way all evening.

The first few weeks after we discovered this presumably magical portal, the four of us simply stood by the opening, squinting into the darkness on the other side, listening to the soundtrack that crackled off the screen: groans, gasps, cries and crescendos, all set to a kind of pulsing neo-rock music, played exclusively, it seemed through a wah-wah pedal.

Occasionally a snatch of dialogue would emerge amid the grunting; occasionally, the actual meaning of the words might be comprehended by one or other of us, but even if they weren’t, the sentence itself would soak into our collective psyche, to become a sort of in-joke secret weapon, to be deployed whenever the adult world grew too demanding.

“Did you finish your history assignment?” “Go lick it off your tits.” And I often wonder whether I was the only one of us who experienced a secret frisson of excitement at the very thought of doing just that…of raising one breast and lowering my head and then running my tongue through the thick pool of come that a lover had just deposited there. I don’t know, maybe I was. But when one of our number—I think it was Wanda—suggested that we actually pass through the door and watch instead of merely listening to the movies, I was the first to agree.

We were no strangers to “bunking” into the movies for free. Every movie-house in town had its weak point, be it a back door, a bathroom window or simply a turn-a-blind-eye manager, through which a stealthy form could slip and thrill to those quaintly X-rated flicks that no one at that time would ever have dreamed an impressionable teen should witness:
Straw Dogs, Soldier Blue, The Night Porter, The Exorcist.
If the marquee mandated twenty-one-and over, we were in there, and it was astonishing just how discriminating we became, able within ten minutes or so of knowing whether the movie was worth watching (bush, blood, tits and terror), or if we should up and march out and do something interesting instead.

This experience was different, though. You went in through the out door, down a smokily unlit passageway and into an auditorium that was scarcely the size of a classroom, with a screen no bigger than a bedsheet. The room seemed darker than the usual theater and the audience more restless. There were rustling sounds, mostly, interspersed with heavy breathing. “Someone,” Lisa whispered in my ear, “is having a quiet jerk-off.”

Only it wasn’t so quiet. And it wasn’t just someone. Judging from the rustling sounds, half the men in the room were at it.

A movie was already playing, a scratchy-looking black-and-white opus, whose plot—so far as we could distinguish one—
was, how far could a cock slide up a fat woman’s asshole before it bumped tips with the other one, which was sliding down her throat? And that, we quickly learned, was one of the more erudite efforts. But to four girls who had only ever seen sex in a Hollywood production, where it’s camera work and angles that give the scene its sensation, even the crudest coupling was fascinating stuff.

By the time they hit their late teens, most girls are at least theoretically aware of the mechanics of sex. They know where “it” is meant to go, they’ve heard of the other places it can go, and they’ve already thought of one or two more where they’d like to think it could go. Even in an age in which Internet Porn, Prime Time Smut, and Cable Specials weren’t simply unheard of, they weren’t even dreamed up, popular culture had already built sufficient hints and clues into its makeup to enable a well-developed imagination to join up most of the dots. And if there’s one thing about a teenaged girl that is well developed, it’s her imagination.

What was taking place on that screen, however, went beyond anything we had ever thought up. The titles of the movies themselves are long forgotten; so, in terms of actual happenstance, are most of the “plots.” But the impression they left, the wonder they aroused, the excitement they provoked and the sheer sense of injustice that they left behind—why doesn’t that ever happen to me?—would remain long after we left the building that evening, through the never-ending week that followed and probably well into adulthood as well.

Had I ever seen a hard cock before? Never. Had I ever watched a guy come? Never. Staring at the screen that first afternoon, I realized that everything…every single thing that I had ever read, heard, seen or been told about sex wasn’t simply wrong, it was ridiculous.

There was no “romance” here, no hand-holding, no eyes meeting across a darkened room while electricity flashed between their souls. It was hunger, it was greed, it was naked animal passion. It was cocks and cunts and juices and jizz. Love didn’t even enter into it.

And it was quick. Of course the main movie was “full length”; an hour, maybe even ninety minutes, and there’d be plot and dialogue around the frenzied fucking. For me, though, the real meat was the supporting program, anything up to two hours’ worth of shorts that could have been shot at any time since my granny was a girl, which made no attempt whatsoever at being anything other than pure sexuality.