Best Women's Erotica 2011 (7 page)

“More?” he asked, with the marked weight of one simple word.

“Yes,” I uttered, breathless with want. He was unzipping his pants immediately and releasing his ready cock. I threw my legs apart. “More,” I confirmed again, propping up on my elbows
to watch as he placed his throbbing head at my entry. While he pushed into me, Mike lavished my tongue once again with his own. He filled his hands with my breasts, and Sean’s fingers wrapped around my hips, steadying them as I bucked violently against him. It was only moments before I careened into another orgasm, this one rigorous and unabashed. I screamed, loud enough to startle myself, surprised that I could come that hard. He withdrew, stroking himself to his own final release and falling over with a hard sigh next to me.

It would be an hour before we would pick up round two and I would have the pleasure of seeing Mike’s beautifully formed and remarkable-sized cock. Revitalized and ready to know what further pleasures awaited me, I pulled it from his white cotton pants and watched it spring forward, ready to show and prove its promise. Sean sat up in the bed, roused by our shifting, and leaned against the headboard. I placed myself between his legs, resting my back against his hairless chest.

Mike approached from the front, kneeling in front of me. We communicated without words—through only the intensity of our piercing stares—while Sean caressed my thighs with the cadence of a butterfly, sparking my nerve endings anew. Then with a nuzzle to my temple, he lifted my legs in his open palms to spread me wide for Mike. The look on Mike’s face signaled that I was in store for a wild ride, and I braced myself against Sean, holding on to his neck with my raised arms. Mike slid into me with total knowledge of his daunting size, allowing me to become accustomed to the feel of him filling me. I sucked in a slow, deep breath as he pressed deeper, while thoughts of Sean’s cock throbbing against my back lapped delightfully at my subconscious. Sean lifted my legs higher, rotating my hips upward while Mike grabbed my ankles and gently spread my legs even farther apart. Then he licked his luscious lips and
proceeded to withdraw from me all the way. I gasped, and he smirked knowing just what a game he was playing. He positioned himself at my portal a second time, and I arched against Sean, reaching for Mike’s missing cock with my dripping cunt. With one deep stroke he filled me again and then withdrew entirely.

Desperate for it now I yelled, “Fuck me, you tease!” And he grinned, as full of himself as ever, though rightfully so—in that moment he was holding all the cards. Sadistically, he would subject me to one more slow and agonizingly sweet introduction of his rigid penis before he finally gave me what I wanted, whipping his cock in and out with abandon and ushering us both to yet another fiery explosion.

Breathless, I relaxed my trembling frame onto Sean, my body a mound of tingling nerves and electric chills. I could feel the faint meanderings of Sean’s fingers as he ran them absently through my hair and the warm weight of Mike’s head on my thigh as he used it for a pillow. We stayed like that for some time, drifting in and out of sleep and replaying the night’s events in our thoughts and dreams. Our final good-byes during the wee hours of the morning would find us all in agreement about two things: the race for my fifty bucks had gone right out the window somewhere after my second orgasm, and we should definitely get together again if I happened to return to town. But at that moment, lying there nestled between the two of them and floating on a level of satisfaction I hadn’t imagined I would find during any massage session—I silently called it a tie.

I, ANITA

Lana Fox

 

 

The Baron first set eyes on me during my burlesque, in which I slow-danced in a corset with a garter belt and stockings. I enjoyed swinging my hips within the tight, boned basque, its sleek red silk stretched taut. Apart from my costume, I had only a wooden chair, which awaited my arrival on the limelit stage. Leaning forward, I’d raise my knee and place my heeled sandal upon the seat, smoothing a stocking along my thigh, my red lips pouting, my eyes heavily kohled. I used my body, arching my spine so my breasts pushed up against the strapless bodice, as if at any moment, in their buoyancy, they’d spring from the fabric. There, as the music played, I’d slowly gyrate, making love to the men with my stare. Not that I could see them—they were lost in the shadows—but I could feel their desire burning my flesh, could hear their throaty cries.

But this was just the prelude; I was famous for the wooden chair. A member of the audience would be led to the stage where I’d take his hand, and his dewy vulnerability never failed to
affect me. As he sat in the chair, I knelt at his feet clutching his knees, fingers covered with rings and bangles—before I unbuttoned his flies.

There with quiet moans rising from our audience, I’d take the man’s sex in my hands and with my tongue, my mouth, my slick-glossed lips, I would bestow my pleasure. Velvet Tongue, they called me, for that’s how I worked: with my breasts rising inside my corset, and the garter-straps digging into my thighs, and my dark curls tumbling, I’d lick and suck, rub and tease, my own sex growing wetter, until I’d feel him clutching at his seat with trembling, white knuckles.

I’d somehow know exactly what each man craved the most.

He’d yell out, bucking into my mouth, crying wildly as he filled my throat—thrusting over and over, he’d often fill me so fully that the fluid would seep from the corners of my mouth. At other times, when he reached the point of no return, I’d know to pull back, allowing the first flash of my oil-rubbed breasts to catch his coming. The pale stream would streak across my cleavage and down the boned bodice; the moans of approval from the audience made me long to touch myself. The man would gratefully collapse. Whoever he was, he’d ask me out on a date.

I always told them no.

Until I met the Baron.

Whenever I returned backstage, I’d lock the door to my dressing room, and there on the chair I’d brought from my act, I would slide two fingers inside my slick lace and rub myself quickly, the fluid still warm on my nipples, arching as I came. Thus, before I met the Baron, I never had to be close to a man. Sex for me was either public or terribly alone.

I didn’t know how miserable I was.

Well, you will hear dastardly things said of the Baron, and
most of them are true. How he held sleeping girls in his bed and touched himself without their knowing; how he fucked his wives then left them, robbing them of their money, counting on the fact that they’d be too high from his loving to report his hasty crimes. Though the rank of baron is the lowest of the nobles, he still had money and the manners of a lord—could hide his true nature beneath a decorous mask. But as with all rogues, he was also a liberator.

I, you see, was a little like the Baron.

The night he arrived, it was raining outside. I’d just returned from the stage, the chair in my arms, and I entered my dressing room to find him standing at the window smoking a clove cigarette, elegantly slouched to one side. He was wearing a red velvet jacket, which matched my corset, and his black hair glinted in the light from old-style lamp I’d set on my dressing table. He turned, his face lascivious, as if he knew all my ills, and I noticed his tiny moustache like that of a classic villain.

I asked what he was doing there.

He told me to put down the chair.

I challenged him: “Why?”

He said, “I’ll take you over my knee.”

I threw back my head and laughed, but no sooner had I done so than he was grabbing the chair and throwing it down on the boards. He kicked the door shut behind us, clasped me by the arm, sat in the chair and pulled me across his lap. I gasped out, astonished, before I felt him spanking me, each strike making a slapping noise against my lace-clasped buttocks. I could smell his cologne rising from his flesh. Aroused as I was from the man I’d just pleasured onstage, each spank made me more wanting and hot. I parted my thighs a little, hoping he’d touch my sex, but he kept to my buttocks, talking as he struck: “You are talented, Anita. But you must learn to relent. You won’t achieve
true heights unless you accept your nature.” His spanking grew fiercer, tugging at the lace of my knickers—the rough material plucked at the lips of my pussy and I begged him for more.

It was true I had always kept up my guard. As a girl, I’d been so quiet, giving nothing I couldn’t control. Even my secrets weren’t quite true—when you lie you’re rarely vulnerable. I was raised by my uncle, who once called me a woman of wax. There was a distance in his eyes as he said it, and we were eating rabbit stew. “But no,” he said, “wax melts.” I reminded him that he’d never once hugged me. When I said that was unnatural, he called me slut.

The Baron paused and told me to get up.

I found I was quivering.

Hearing him unzip, I looked down to see his cock pale and hard in his hand—it was longer and sleeker than any I’d seen: a beautiful sex, a perfect sex, and oh, how firm. Longing to lick and pleasure him, I began to sink to my knees, but he grabbed me by the hair. “No, Anita.” Raising me by the curls, he stretched me back. I had to relent. He glanced down at my corset, streaked with the remnants of another’s pleasure, and with his lips curling back against his teeth and a wildness in the blacks of his eyes, he cupped my slippery breast.

“You need this,” I said to him.

His smile curled up at one corner, and I caught a drift of the scent on his neck. Suddenly, he thrust me back so I pressed against the dresser, my pot of cold cream crashing to the floor, and he was on me in a second, pushing me back against the mirror, which thumped, collapsing, so my back stuck to the glass. He thrust his hands deep between my thighs, and at my ear, hissed, “I want you, Anita.” I cried out. His sex ground mine, and he tore through the lace. He filled me from shaft to tip. I jolted on the dresser so the mirror thudded behind me and
a bottle crashed and broke, sending out a rosy scent. I was so wet that his thrusts were smooth as oil, and my sex, unused to the shape of a man, tingled and stretched. Through his teeth, he said my slit was tight as a virgin’s.

I’d never heard it called that—a
slit.

He said to call him Papa, but instead I cried, “Oh, Uncle…” and thought I could cry it forever.

There, plowing his sex into mine, with the dressing table shunting at the wall, I glanced into the angled mirror that stood in the corner. And with my stockinged thighs wrapped around the thrusting Baron, my heeled sandals glinting and my red lips stretched apart, I, Anita, exotic dancer, released an ecstatic yell and finally learned to give way.

For seven weeks, the Baron watched my act and came to me afterward to force my compliance. As I pleasured the men onstage, I felt I could sense his stare, and I knew, unlike the others who cried out and groaned, the Baron would be sitting still, patiently blazing. I’d always find him in my dressing room, where he’d sometimes bind my wrists and fuck me from behind or make me suck him while calling him “Uncle,” or come across my bosom so my cleavage dripped not only with his fluid but that of a stranger. But though it was savage, it was also kind. I’d walk from the theater with a lightness of step I’d never experienced before. I ate keenly; food had new flavor. Champagne bubbles now danced on my tongue. I’d grow drunk more quickly than before. When new shoes pinched me, I reveled in the pain.

Then, one evening, he didn’t turn up.

I’d always known he’d leave.

I mourned on the stool by my dressing table, dabbing my streaked mascara with a cotton ball, staring emptily into the mirror that had cracked from tumbling so often. Even then, I guessed, he was forcing a different woman to relent; one who,
like me, had been cut off from the world. But something about that knowledge made me reach for my clit and touch myself afresh.

“Uncle, Uncle!” I began to cry.

I never really stopped.

CHLORINE

Amelia Thornton

 

 

I can feel you watching me, devouring me with your eyes. My body is stretched across a raft, floating lazily in the middle of the pool in our suite. My fingertips are trailing in the water, leaving little ripples as I drift past, and every so often I will dip my foot in and push myself off in a different direction. I seem oblivious to your gaze, wrapped up in my own little world, but I know you are looking at me. We have been here several days already, but my skin is still as white as always, sharply contrasting with the cherry red I have painted my toenails and the black of my hair, damp with chlorine. My swimsuit, red with tiny white polka dots, barely hides the deep, crisscrossing lines from where you caned me last night; my eyes are hidden behind red heart-shaped sunglasses. Nobody here knows you or me or what we are. Do they think I’m your daughter? Your son’s girlfriend? Your niece? Or do they know I’m your lover, just not in what way you love me?

I appear to be bored now, bored with just lying here, sun
scorching my soft skin, so I plunge myself into the cool water and swim to the side. I can feel you watching me climb out, my wet hair sticking to my skin, rivulets of water running down my back, droplets clinging to the curve in the small of my back, trailing across the swell of my breasts. Languidly, I walk to my lounger, so casual, almost as if I’ve not even noticed you sitting there. But I have. The terra-cotta tiles are hot from being under the sun all day, and my steps leave little wet footprints on them, the soles of my feet burning, the heat of the air filling my lungs in the way that only ever seems to happen in exotic, far-off places. I like that feeling.

You’re pretending to read now, or maybe you really are reading. But I know you will keep stealing glances at me, as I twist my wet hair on top of my head, stretch myself backward, take a sip of my drink. You will look like you’re not looking, like your book really is that engrossing, but I know you better than that. I have ordered a milkshake from room service, a really good milkshake, with bright paper cocktail umbrellas and a twisty straw and three glacé cherries on top. Each long, slow suck of the straw between my lips, painted the same red as my nails; each time I drag the straw out, covered in whipped cream, and lick the length of it; each time, I’m thinking of you watching me, thinking of what I want you to do to me. I pick out a cherry with my fingers and tilt my head back, gripping the fruit between my teeth as I pull the stalk off, twist my tongue around it, feel the chill of frothy milk and sickly sweet syrup slipping down my throat. Every taste bud seems amplified, each sensation unbearably sensual, performing for you yet lost in myself.