Best Women's Erotica 2011 (15 page)

“So what’s the rest of the costume?” he asks. “Like a breast-plate or something?”

“There isn’t one. Just the mask.”

Without smiling, he says, “Well, then, I guess I’ll have to be naked.”

He pulls off his T-shirt. His nipples are hard and dark rose, his stomach tight. She can barely breathe as he unzips his jeans and slides them off along with his underwear. And then he’s finally naked, his cock already hard and flushed dark with blood.

His lips jerk in the imitation of a smile. But his thighs are shaking and she can tell he’s as nervous as she is.

She stands up. “You are perfect,” she tells him and leads him to her bedroom. Smoothing his black hair behind his ears, she puts the mask over his head.

It’s really happening. The sex god of her fantasies is going to be possessed and fucked and known totally. He acquiesces silently as she handcuffs him to her bed frame, then plays with his cock until he groans. She squeezes his ass, bites his nipples, a little delirious with the smell and taste of him. Cupping his balls, she tests the weight of them, then runs one fingertip around his
asshole. He seems to understand that she doesn’t want him to speak. Instead he arches his back against the bed frame and opens his legs, wordlessly beseeching her to tend to his cock.

Cecilia wants to climb on top of him. Instead she slips off the bed and gets her camera. “Keep your legs open,” she orders. She starts taking pictures of him, as if to retain proof of this chimera made flesh. “Scoot toward me, until you’re really pulling against the cuffs. Good..”

Just looking at him makes her pussy ache. King Slut is hand-cuffed naked to her bed, yet it’s Adam too, and the reality that she’s going to fuck them both at the same time makes her dizzy. With shaking hands, she puts down the camera and takes off her clothes. Then she finds a condom and wraps up his cock.

He’s breathing fast behind the mask. Slowly, bracing herself on his hard thighs, she lowers herself onto his shaft. His cock feels almost too big at first as her pussy stretches around him. Already something wet and portentous is building inside her, like a water balloon about to break. Then they start thrusting together and she stares at the mask and Adam’s eyes stare back and for a few hallucinogenic moments, she feels like she’s tele-ported into her own
King Slut
porn movie. She’s fucking the god of her pornographic dreams, at last. Various scenes she’s directed flash through her mind as she plays with her clit and then her orgasm breaks between her legs, hot and wet. Adam follows with a long groan.

Her limbs feel like jelly but she lifts off the mask and uncuffs him before collapsing on the sheets. Adam falls next to her, a mess of damp black hair and flushed skin. “I thought you wanted the mask on.”

“Right now I want you.”

The room is hot, almost stifling, but he holds her close. Both of them are wet and trembling and a little weak. As he begins
touching her, a new current forms in the dark between them, running from her fingertips to Adam’s skin and back again. It’s the new voltage of her pornographic sphere, a nexus of flesh and bone and her own real porn god beside her.

PICTURE ME NAKED

Velvet Moore

 

 

I slide my leg across a worn patch and circle a finger around a cigarette burn etched into the faded magenta leather, toying a bit with the piece of foam poking out. It’s now that I wish I had a picture of myself. I’d fold it neatly and slip it between the seat cushions with enough of a corner peeking through to get noticed. I’d hope the next stop after me would be at a hotel where a businessman in a wrinkled gray suit would be catching a ride to the airport for a red-eye flight back to parenting and paperwork. He’d find the picture and toy with it like the seat foam, running fingertips along the image. He’d store it in his carry-on bag and pray he wouldn’t be asked to pull it out at the security screening. He would be embarrassed to have to publicly reveal a photo of my slick, spreading thighs and have to explain it to authorities. I’d pray that he does.

These thoughts excite me from my brain stem to my bottom, and I consider moving the toying fingers from the seat to work their way down my pants and rub one out right here in the back
of this cab. Weeks ago, I wouldn’t have been so brave.

Weeks ago, I picked up a bag of items I had left at my ex’s after moving out. Having been a jerk, he had left my stuff on his front porch in a plastic grocery bag with my name scribbled in with permanent marker. I shifted through its contents at the coffee shop a few blocks from his house: my phone charger, cracked turquoise earrings, clothes and a coffee cup with the corner of something poking out of the rim. I tugged the corner and it popped out like a rattlesnake snapping from behind a rock. And there I was, nude, sprawled on his bed, pink nipple in hand, begging him forward. A moment captured in privacy, unexpectedly revealed in public.

I wore my irritation for him like a weight belt the rest of the day. Why did he leave my stuff on the porch in a bag that could have easily passed as garbage? Anyone could have grabbed that bag. I slowly rotated my head, letting the hot beads of water from the showerhead roll down my shoulders. The thoughts consumed me as I soaped. Not even the liquid heat was helping to reduce my tension. What if someone had picked that up off of his porch? Why didn’t he warn me so I wouldn’t open it in a public place? What if someone had seen it over my shoulder? Would it have been a happy surprise with their grande latte? Would they think my milky cream skin was a lovely complement to coffee?

My soapy hands rounded along my full breasts making quick swipes then slowing, molding me like his had done when he put the camera down. I slid one hand down and squeezed my inner thigh and dragged two fingers along my lips as my other hand worked its way back to my chest. He always had the most talented hands. I looked down, seeing my nipples perky despite the shower’s heat. I rolled them each between my fingers. This is what he saw. My nipples like life rafts floating in a sea of flesh,
surrounded and begging to be tugged. This is what the trash man would have seen. This is what the coffee drinker would have seen. I twisted my tight little nipples until the pressure tingled its way down to my center.

After my shower, I found myself one part irritated, two parts intrigued. I couldn’t clear my mind of the thought that someone could have seen that photo of me, and what that person might have felt after finding it. The more I thought about it, the more I liked the fact that I might have interjected the idea of sex into his or her day. I slipped out of bed and grabbed my digital camera from my purse. Climbing back under the covers, I clicked on the camera and switched off the light. I shimmied out of my panties and threw off my gown. Then I lifted the sheet and snapped a shot of the length of my nude body, stretched out and bright white from the flash.

In the morning, I printed the picture from my home computer, folded it twice and traveled with it back to the coffee shop near my ex’s house. The barista handed me a tall hot chocolate and a muffin and when he wasn’t looking, I dropped the picture into his tip jar.

That night, the camera got a little closer, with my knees bent, tenting the bedsheet and the lens pointing directly between my thighs. That one I posted on the coffee shop bulletin board, hidden partially behind a flier offering dog-walking services. A shot of me on my hands and knees would have been more suitable, I mused.

Imagination is the ability to form mental images, sensations and concepts in a moment when your senses fail you for information. You can close your eyes and imagine how a woman might appear embarrassed to find a photo of your naked breasts when she opens her dinner menu. Can you see the confusion creep across her face, then the blush trickle to her chest, flushing bright
against the plunging neckline of her black dress? Then see her forehead crease as disgust sets in. Picture the way her husband pretends to agree with her dismay as she shoves it his way, him trying not to look too closely at this seemingly disgusting image. See him pressing his wide palm against his awakened crotch as his wife yells for the waiter’s assistance.

I thought of that palm all night as I sprawled naked between the cool, thin cotton sheets, pressing my fingers against slick folds as I imagine he might have desired. I can’t be sure who got the menu I laced that night; yet, whether or not they planned to order accordingly, it seems they got the special.

Menus are easy to access, I discovered. Whether it’s a coffee shop or a fancy restaurant, there is plenty opportunity to insert yourself into people’s lives. That’s why they became the scene of my first few experiments. You see, what my ex had unwittingly taught me by leaving that photo in public is that there is a fine line between embarrassment and eroticism. The body language of surprise is similar to the body language of sex: widened eyes, gasping, trembling, mouth dropping open, the sharp jolt of tension that passes through your chest. If approached correctly, what may have originally surprised then embarrassed you can be redirected to surprise and excite you.

The last of the restaurant rotation I left inside the seat of the piano bench at a seafood place that featured live music on Saturday nights. On top of the sheet music was a distant shot of my ass, glowing with handprints. The camera’s timer had come in handy and with every second countdown, I slapped my skin a little harder, priming myself for the perfect shot. Maybe the piano man would find it after a long night of playing, hide it from his bandmates and stop in the restroom before his drive home. Leaning against the chilly marble countertop, he would sweep his hand along his cock like playing a slide trombone,
picturing his pelvis bumping against my strawberry cheeks and making my sweet cunt sing.

I toured an open house in a nearby neighborhood, posing as an interested homebuyer. Inside one of the kitchen drawers I left a new photo of me. The realtor revealed that the house was move-in ready since the previous owners had already moved into their new home. So move in I did…on a dark-haired couple who was also touring. “This may sound strange,” I said to them when they stopped to examine the kitchen sink fixtures. “But you two look great in this house. Something about it just suits you.” Later I pictured them as happy new homeowners, him wearing a paint-stained alma mater T-shirt and her in short shorts, surrounded by boxes and trying to settle into this new house. She would be putting away knives and spoons and discover a folded picture of legs in fishnets straddling a kitchen chair. “Honey, come and see this,” she would say. He would enter, stand behind her and wrap one arm around her small waist, using the other to hold out the photo for examination. “Hmm,” he would mutter as they stood in contemplation for a moment longer, until she started slowly grinding her rear into him and he pulled firmly against her waist, pressing himself harder into her. Quickly her short shorts would be down and his T-shirt would be flung and they would fuck on the kitchen counter, her hands reaching above her head to grab the shiny sink fixtures for leverage.

Sitting naked on my bedroom floor, I lathered my feet up to my calves in baby oil, leaving them slick and shining. Then I sat cross-legged, being careful not to block too much of my naked center from the camera lens. I carefully threaded a pearl necklace between my toes, beads becoming slick as they passed through. I shaped the trailing end of the necklace into a heart.
Click.

I walked onto the first floor of a nearby hotel and dropped the photo, sealed in a manila envelope, at the doorstep of room
169. It seems the lucky resident got a side order of my glossy toes and plump clit with his room service. In the hotel locker room adjacent to the pool I slipped the string of pearls between my legs and rubbed along folds slicker than baby oil.

Then I needed to see my viewers: once, with the photo taped to the front of a TV on display as I watched for reactions from the next aisle over; once with it shoved under the windshield wipers of a four-door sedan with me watching from my rearview mirror; once, gripping my breast in hand while my newspaper blocked my unbuttoned blouse. I had to see who would be so lucky as to pick up the newspaper in which I had hidden my photo.

Tonight there is no newspaper kiosk. No locker room. No open house. Tonight I can only wish for a businessman in a wrinkled gray suit and the picture he might hide away. I’m meeting my brother downtown for dinner and I intend to play it straight. No camera. No pictures. No photo of my ass in a thong slipped at someone’s feet under a bathroom stall door. No shot of an ice cube clutched and melting between my knees. No hiding it under a neighboring plate.

The cab slows as it approaches the restaurant and I slide forward on the magenta leather seat, leaning in to see the tally I owe. The tires stop and I’m pulling out money, but the driver clears the meter to zero. I’m confused. “What do I owe you,” I’m asking, while catching his eyes in the rearview mirror. “Not money,” he says, and his hand is traveling from the meter to his upper thigh, gripping muscle and jeans as one big handful.

I’m still confused as I look again at the meter then at something poking out of the dashboard. And now I see it. The picture I thought was still with my phone charger and cracked turquoise earrings. The picture I had opened by surprise in a coffee cup from an ex-lover. The picture of me tweaking perky, pink nipples.
The picture that must have slipped from a plastic grocery bag during my ride home weeks ago. The picture I didn’t intentionally leave behind. The sun-faded picture now stuck in a crack in the dirty dashboard of this cab. This stranger, who has me behind locked doors, is picturing me naked. On his dashboard and in his backseat, I am wide-eyed and breathless.

WANT

Alison Tyler

 

 

“Just leave my stuff alone.”

“I didn’t touch your stupid stuff.”

“Liar.”

“Bitch.”

We used to be friends, Lia and me. We were tight. We could hang out all day long and still have things to talk about in the evening over a beer, or a margarita, or a cosmopolitan. But when we moved in together, everything changed. Her personality—always larger than life—seemed to spill into every corner of the apartment. I felt as if I couldn’t exist in any room except my own. And even there, she’d track me down, stomping into my private haven, spreading her Opium scent everywhere.