Best of Best Women's Erotica (10 page)

“That's so fucked up.”

“I know. Three years and a lot of melodrama over a small thing.”

“No, what he did. That's mean. That's strategically cruel.”

“Millions of women have had much worse. I shouldn't have let it get to me.”

“Your father humiliated you at the first sign of sexuality. It's terrible.”

“Yes,” I admitted. This was my father we were talking about, the man I called every week not out of duty but because I liked talking to him. Except for recently, as I was in such a rage that the sound of his voice made me ill.

“Yes. And it's more than that, Trevor,” I said to the rug again. “So often he treated me like his property to be admired, like my coming-of-age was happening for his entertainment. Or was an aberration. When he hugged me or kissed me goodnight, he always made a little groan.”

“Come here.” Trevor waved me over, and I sat down. Taking my hand, he said, “You're stronger than you think,” and, “I'm sorry that happened to you,” and, “I usually mean this as an insult, but you're totally normal.”

I lay down next to him, cuddled up against his legs while preparing to let him go.

“Thank you,” I said, as much to the world as to him, because my search for Mr. Right had for now brought me three-week Trevor, who showed me that a great fling is as precious as a great love.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE FIRST TIME I HID RICHIE'S HALPERIDOL he went apeshit on me right there in the kitchen.

“Where are they?—Bitch cunt! Cunt face!—Where?”

Naked, I sidled up to him, caressed his chest, and ground my groin against him. An instant erection rose in his pajama pants. Richie was right about one thing: I was a bitch cunt. Especially when I wanted it.

“Come on, Richie,” I urged, “I'll give it back. Just make love to me first.”

He glanced up to the ceiling, rolled his eyes upwards, then back and forth four times. As he lowered his head to meet my gaze, Richie nodded violently four times. He was working in fours today.

“Come on,” I continued, “you know I like it.”

Richie sighed. “And you know I hate my verbal tics. They ruin things for me.”

“Not all things,” I countered. I took his hands and placed them on my tits. “I like having sex with you and your tics. I'm the freak here, not you.”

His hands, callused and rough, covered my little breasts, and my soft flesh encouraged him to squeeze. Four times, of course. His fingers found my nipples. He toyed with them, pinching them lightly, alternating from left to right, one, two, three, four.

Richie ate eggs the same way, in fours.

“Tit shit, tit shit,” he muttered. Already he was aroused enough that he spoke instead of barked. Focus does that; it dulls his tics. I reached into his pajamas and brought out his thick meat. I slipped to my knees and took it into my mouth. I sucked and tongued him and broke his focus.

“Dick licks! Oh God! Dick licks!” He groaned, then sputtered four more “dick licks.” I tasted precum.

“Yeah, baby, I'm licking your dick. Like it?”

“Bitch mouth!”

He liked it.

I kept at it, sucking and nibbling and tonguing him until “dick licks” degraded first into rhythmic grunts, then into normal moaning. By the time he reached that point I was wet and ready. I pulled away from his dick and looked up at him. Richie looked down at me, plaintively, and asked, “Why?”

“Because I like how you talk dirty to me.”

“You are sick,” he decided.

“Yeah but the sex is great, isn't it?” To prove my point, I lay down on the kitchen floor and spread my legs. “Come fuck
me,” I invited. Richie stood there, wondering whether to scowl and stamp out of the room or fall to his knees and take me. So I helped him decide. “Right here, on the floor, Richie. Everybody does it on the kitchen floor at least once.”

Everybody does it.
That did it. That normalized my request and normal appealed to Richie. He lowered himself to his knees and then onto me.

“Fuck floor.” Jesus! “Fuck floor!”

I took him by the dick and guided him to me. I parted the lips between my legs as I brought my other lips to his cheek. I kissed him lightly as the tip of his cock nudged at my threshold.

Richie pushed into me hard, but it would take three pushes for him to access me. Three, not four. Richie compensated with four massive, full-body jerks, which righted things enough for him to start fucking me.

“Squish, squish,” he muttered as he screwed me.

“Yeah, I'm wet for you,” I agreed.

Richie quieted then. The rhythm and focus of fucking made the tics recede.

But I didn't care by that point. Richie's verbal dirt had worked its magic on me, and I grunted and went at it like the sex pig that I am. I clutched Richie's ass and pulled him into me, encouraging him to pump me hard and fast. I bucked, giving better than I got. Richie grabbed my breast and pinched the nipple hard enough to make me thrash and squeal and come. That was all he needed. Richie slammed into me and came, snorting like a wild animal.

Soon after, his cock limp enough to slip from me, me wet enough with juice and jism to slick the floor, we rested in a tight embrace. The stillness of lying close made Richie's tics reemerge and he shuddered and jerked several times in my arms. As he
yelled “Cunt fuck!” explosively, I realized that the tics were mimicking his orgasm.

Yeah, cunt fuck for sure.

Cunt fuck, cunt fuck, cunt fuck, cunt fuck!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I WAS WALKING ACROSS CAMPUS WHEN I HEARD my roommate, Janine, yoo-hoo me. Mortified to hear her rebel yell attached to my name, I turned just in time to see her pulling into the parking lot in front of the women's dorm in a ratty old used-to-be-blue Trans-Am.

Janine's boyfriend slithered out of the car through the window; I suppose he fancied himself a race car driver. I could just picture him working languidly on the wreck he drove, wearing an old R.E.M concert T-shirt, sucking down beer, pissing away a hellish eternity of duplicate days in a town so shell-shocked by time that it didn't realize it was already dead. I immediately christened him Grit.

I admit I saw the attraction. Long and lean, Grit had a beautifully sculpted face, Michael
Stipe lips, and thick eyelashes that shyly hid cornflower blue eyes. Fringes of dark hair lay just beneath his nipples. A stripe of hair below his belly button disappeared into the waistband of his tight jeans. My imagination followed that line down to a delicious end.

He leaned back through the window of the Trans-Am to grab his Marlboros, giving me a chance to stare at the way his denim second skin defined his ass. That body promised sex. Not lie-in-the-bed-for-hours-exploring-your-lover's-body sex, oh no. Just straight out animal fucking: hard and fast, dirty and low.

I wanted a piece of that.

Heat welled up and slid down between my legs until I tingled. He turned and fixed a look on me as if he could smell my musk over the sooty oil the Trans-Am's engine was pissing on the asphalt. Keeping his eyes locked on mine, he jostled a cigarette out of the pack, insinuated his lips around it, and yanked it out. His long fingers slid into the front pocket of his pants. A lighter followed his hand out, pressed between two fingers; he cupped his hand protectively over the tip of the cigarette, touched flame to tobacco, pulled in a full drag, looked me up and down, exhaled, and grunted something like a greeting. We walked into the dorm together and left Janine to manage suitcases on her own.

First thing Grit did when he got inside my room was roll and light a fat doobie. Janine staggered in, dropped the bags, pulled a chair up next to him, and started cooing. Here was irony I understood but didn't appreciate. I had specifically chosen this college for the wealth and connections of the other students. Yet here I was, stuck with a roommate from the same social class (low) that I was determined to escape. College was supposed to have been a clean break for me, a chance to reinvent myself.

Now I leaned against the wall, arms folded. I radiated disapproval. The dorm probably reeked of pot, and I could picture our resident narc down the hall, dialing campus security as fast as her little fingers could tap out the number. I didn't need that kind of trouble. I had a scholarship to protect.

Janine finished off the joint. She handed the last of the paper, impaled on an opened safety pin, back to Grit. He took a final toke, then rubbed the last bit between his fingers until it fell molecule by molecule onto the floor. At least he knew how to hide the evidence.

Normally Janine suffered under the delusion that we had some sort of friendship, and she took great pains to keep me around. This time she dropped hints that I should leave. I ignored her, pretty much the way I always did.

Grit grabbed her hand and mashed it into his crotch. Janine protested, trying to pull away. He smiled his devil's grin at me and held on to her. Janine caught the direction of his smile and looked at me, her eyes full of venom. She flicked her lit cigarette into my closet with her free hand.

I ground the cigarette under my heel. Grit unzipped his pants and pushed Janine facedown into his lap. She was flinging her arms around and screaming at me, as if it was my fault. I winked at him, grabbed my laundry basket and my calculus book and headed out the door, leaving the two lovebirds alone.

Three loads of laundry and a chapter review later, I parked my hamper with a study partner and we went dancing. Well,
she
went dancing. I went hunting. During my first semester, I'd kept my head down in the books, focused like a laser beam burning a hole through a block of solid steel. I didn't even allow myself to
think
about committing the sweetest sin. But that night, four
months of denied need came crashing through my loins. Naked desire radiated from my body. Stupid college boys drew near, lured by the siren song of my pheromones, and got sucked into the jet engine of my hunger, to mix a metaphor or two. I left a chewed-up bunch of mama's boys in my wake. My skin crawled for something beyond their bland flavors—something with a bit more
grit.

By the time the bars closed I was vibrating with frustration. There was nowhere to go but home.

The lights were off in my room. Carefully I picked my way across the floor. Some little sound or false motion betrayed them; suddenly I realized that Janine and Grit were still awake. They were on the top bunk, tense and still, pretending to be asleep.

I made a big production of undressing. In the utter silence that descended, I was sure they could hear the progression of the zipper on my tight little skirt. I turned my back so they could follow the movement of my pale hand, glowing in the moonlight streaming through the window, as I teased the zipper past the small of my back, up the rise of my buttocks, down and around my curves.

They were still holding their breath when I turned toward the bunk and moved my hands from button to button on my blouse. I flexed my shoulders, revealed my bra, and wriggled the skirt down to the floor. Still in high heels, I moved across the room, walking the slow rolling walk of the very drunk. (I was, of course, stone cold sober.) I imagined their greedy eyes glinting when my bra came off. One of them sighed when I removed my panties. Nude, I strolled boldly across the room.

I lay down on the bottom bunk, turned on my side, and propped myself up on an elbow. The mirror over our small sink
gave me a full view of the upper bunk and there, in the mirror, Grit's eyes met mine. He wanted me to watch.

I pulled back into the shadows just in case Janine turned her head in the same direction. Then I made sounds like I was falling asleep. Controlled deep breathing was difficult. My heart pounded, and amped-up adrenaline surged to every muscle in my body.

Janine protested when Grit rolled on top of her, but he put his mouth over hers in a consuming kiss and insinuated himself between her legs. His hand slipped below the covers. Before long she was moaning, and the smell of her sex wafted through the room.

He pushed the covers down. She clung. He tore. She frantically whispered. He pushed her knees to her chest and mounted her. She turned her face to the wall.

I watched.

He searched for me in the mirror. I emerged from shadow for a moment, then receded back into darkness. Only then, after seeing me, did he pump. The movement of the sculpted muscles on his thighs and buttocks was a fascinating, beautiful dance of balance and counterbalance. Every plunge required the work of his long, lean thighs and hips. His pelvis tilted up with each delicious thrust. I wanted to place my hands on him and feel the muscles moving under his skin as he took her. I wanted to press his back to my naked breasts, tease his nipples between my fingers, nibble the nape of his neck, and cushion his thrust with my mound.

But all I did was wrap the bottom of the bed sheet around my ankle. Gathering and pulling tight, I brought the wad of cloth between my needy thighs and rubbed my clit into the starched linens.

His eyes demanded mine, so I moved closer to the edge of the bed. My hands slid over my engorged labia. He wanted to see; slowly I shook my head. He pouted and turned back to Janine.

Oh, to bite Grit's bottom lip, to hold it in between my front teeth and draw it to my tongue! I wondered why Janine didn't press her lips to his. I would've sucked his soul right out through his mouth.