Best of Best Women's Erotica (14 page)

That night I lay in bed and tried to sleep. Guilt crept over me: every time I closed my eyes I could see strands of her wet hair stuck to her face on the street, and that awful, horrific image triggered a sexual response in me so great that I was compelled
to put my hands between my legs and attempt to get myself off. But no matter how much I tried, I could not achieve release, and eventually I would get tired and stop. My only comforting thought was that I was not Catholic—if I was, I would surely be permanently fucked in the head and in therapy forever.

But one night when I lay in my bed after my third failed attempt at masturbation, I heard a knock at my door. I knew it was going to be him. I put on a robe and opened the door. There stood the man from across the street. His eyes were bloodshot and his hands were trembling. I stepped aside and let him in.

He stood for a second looking out my window, imagining what I must have seen, probably remembering the feel of her hair against his face, her heaving tit in his hand, her hot cunt clenching around his hard cock. His breath quickened, and he turned to face me. Silently I slipped out of my robe, letting it puddle around my feet on the floor. He took a step toward me, lifting his T-shirt off his body. His eyes traveled over me, lingering on each curve for that seductive second that makes one's blood boil.

His mouth pressed down upon mine. His lips were strong and his hand held the back of my neck. My fingers groped with the buttons of his jeans, releasing his cock so that it sprang out hard as a rod. He stepped out of his jeans and bent his neck until his mouth was on my tit, his warm tongue licking over my nipple; his fingers almost viciously grabbed a handful of flesh. He lifted me up, settling my pussy on his cock. I was tight for his entrance, his hands grabbing onto my ass as he lifted and lowered me. I wrapped my long legs around his waist and twisted my fingers through his hair. He pounded into me, thrusting and pumping, fucking me hard and fast. I tossed my
head back and pretended I was the woman. I began to moan, and he entered me harder and faster. I looked over his shoulder and out the window, half expecting to see somebody there.

“Lita,” he groaned. I pulled his face to the curve in my neck.

“Fuck me the way you were fucking her,” I whispered.

He lowered us to the floor and held my hands over my head. His cock rammed into my quivering cunt, and I felt my body on the urge of a breakthrough.

“I'm about to die,” I said.

He thrust in deeper.

“The window is going to shatter and I'm going to be lying dead on the pavement.” I couldn't help myself; I knew it was twisted, but it was turning me on. He grabbed my hair and harshly tugged.

“My hair is going to be soaking wet, plastered to my face,” I whispered in his ear, imagining the orgiastic grin it would be hiding.

Suddenly he picked up the pace and was fucking me hard and fast, as if his life depended on it. My hips lifted and my pussy began to spasm; my legs shook and tightened under him and I came. He thrust hard into me one more time, and then pulled out and shot his hot, white load all over my stomach.

He collapsed on top of me, in a crying, quivering heap.

I held him until the indigo sky began to melt into violet. He got up, dressed, and left. I put my robe back on and stared out the window, watching as the last of the season's rain washed away the remains of her ghostly chalk outline underneath my window.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

WHAT SHE REMEMBERS MOST IS THE SILKY feeling of sliding down his chocolatey body and the distinct sensation of his tightly coiled hair, wiry against her face.

“I like your pubic hair.”

“Well, that's a first.”

“The way it's so crinkly.” Like brand-new steel wool, she thinks.

“Courtesy of Africa,” Michael says.

So she's sliding down and she smells him, clean and musky and—no it's not just a cliché, the chocolate, he actually smells like chocolate, from the cocoa butter lotion he uses on his skin. And when she kisses him on the mouth, she smells the cocoa laced with the cool scent of the mints he perpetually sucks on.

“You're my long, tall chocolate mint,” she
says as she slides down again, first licking, and then slowly draping her mouth over him.

The amazing thing was, ordinarily she didn't love dicks. Not
really.

“You know,” she told him once, as they were driving down the coast, “it's not like I
love
dicks. That's why it's so special that I love
your
dick—yours—it's personal. I don't
need
a dick to come—I like tongues and fingers better.”

“I know,” he said, raising his eyebrows, with that slow, quiet grin.

But in truth, she thinks to herself, watching him drive, his long fingers resting lightly on the wheel—she
likes
dicks. She likes them inside her, pumping away hard and deep like there's no tomorrow, or pressing against her thigh, or outlined under the fabric of blue jeans, or sliding into her delicately like a hot whisper. She just doesn't feel…worshipful—something like that. Should she? Are there women out there in the real world who say, “Please, baby, let me suck you”? Who don't get sore jaws and lips, or don't even notice, because they're so turned on? Does she in fact have a double standard, wanting a man who worships at the altar of the divine yoni, yet not worshipping his (what was it called?) lingam. She looked over at him driving, at his profile, and then down at his crotch. He caught her looking and they laughed.

So anyway, there she is, sucking away on him, and she looks up for a moment, and—this is it, this is what she remembers most about him—she sees him watching her, his eyes dark and hot and liquid, and this turns her on more than anything, him looking at her sucking and her looking at him looking at her, it goes direct to her clit and then up to her nipples and back down again. After the first time this happened, every time she sucked
him she would always look at him to watch him watching her, even though it strained her neck, and she would watch for a time until she went back to her handiwork. And as she teased her tongue down the shaft and then slowly back up to the head, he would moan, and then she would put her whole mouth on him, making sure not to bite him, sucking on him just like Amy.

It was her ex-husband who told her about Amy, the toothless old Vietnamese woman who gave the best head in Da Nang. Amy was renowned among American soldiers, who came to her for, well, succor. When he first told her about Amy, she was pissed. Were our tax dollars paying for this? Sexual and racial imperialism, colonial exploitation of women, and so forth. But Amy intrigued her. Who was this woman—a victim of political exploitation, or an accomplished businesswoman? Did Amy turn the loss of her teeth into a boon, taking the secret pain and polishing it, using it, until it became something beautiful, the basis for her famous craft and art? So her ex-husband taught her how to do him just like Amy, as if she were toothless, unarmed, a gummy mistress who gives the ultimate, bite-free blow job. She learned to pull her upper lip over her top teeth and her lower lip over the bottom ones, so that as she sucked, she felt like a toothless wonder, and her lip muscles grew strong and resilient.

So she's giving Michael the Amy Special, and he's happily moaning, and then he inevitably says, “I want to eat you.”

So what does she do? She doesn't argue with him, she slides up and kisses him on the mouth and falls off to the side, languorously, because languor suits her. And he starts kissing her thighs but she moves him up to her nipples and says, “Start high,” and he practices his magic on her nipples with his tongue, pulling and rolling and sucking and flicking. Then he
gradually moves south, stopping for nips here and there, down to her belly and her panties. He slides his tongue under the elastic and all around the edges, moving down to the apex and
flick-flick,
he teases her at the edges of the crotch of her panties. She is fairly soaked now, waiting, impatient, but enjoying the torture. She doesn't want to beg, but she wants him to get on with the show. She starts to moan, and then—this is what she remembers most about him—he traces his fingers along the edges of her panties as if he's finger-painting in slow motion, and hooks his fingers under the elastic right next to her pussy and slowly pulls them down. At this point she stops breathing. She knows breathing is a good thing but she stops anyway while she waits. Then he picks up the nipple action again, but now with his fingers, twisting and pulling and pinching, and her breath comes out in pants and plaintive sounds, mewling sounds that she would stop if she could but she can't so she waits while he licks around the edges of her hair and labia until he gets closer and closer and laps one side of her pussy, and then the other. She lets out a sigh of relief from deep in her throat, which is short-lived because then she is on the next rise of terror and pleasure, as he starts in with the slow circles. The circles trace around her clit but don't quite reach it, which is torture and of course she could take his head and move it but at this point she has given up control, hoping that he will really take her there, won't he?, that she won't be abandoned at the crest or just before it, that it really will happen and just as she is fighting this last shred of control, he moves his tongue over to her clit and she lets out a guttural sound of affirmation, and then they are on the homestretch, and he goes slower and slower, which gets her closer and closer until she is so close that if he would only go a little faster she would go over the edge but
he knows and she knows that if he goes too fast she will never come at all so he keeps going slower until she wants to pound him, but she waits because she knows that he knows what he is doing and finally it does hover and break, and she is screaming even though she has promised herself to try not to make so much noise, it could wake the neighbors, it's too much, she's too much, she's embarrassed even, but then it doesn't matter after all, it just comes out of her like a righteous wail, and she comes like a long fountain, one of those luxurious comes that starts locally and spreads to her womb and toes and mind and she confirms this with a soft sigh of relief.

And then it is quiet. Almost. Because now he is putting on a condom and sliding himself in, wasting no time, and he is making those extended animal sounds and saying things like, “I'm going to pump you so good, do you want me to?” and she is whispering “yes, yes, yes” like Molly Bloom, and he is filling her up, it feels like coming home, they are both coming home, and this brings on a different kind of come now, a ripping, longing love sort of come, a don't-ever-leave-me kind of come, a you-belong-to-me-don't-ever-fuck-anyone-else kind of come. And she's looking into his beautiful dark eyes and she says, “I feel it—I feel it in my heart.” She doesn't know why she's saying this, but it's as if her cunt and womb had moved up into her heart, no longer relegated to their functional geography, and he says, “I want you to—I want you to feel it in your heart.” And then she's having another one of those bonus orgasms riding the tail end of the last one, a ripple effect, and then he comes too, thrashing and moaning, and then they are lying there, sweaty and proud of themselves, and breathing hard into the silence, and that familiar feeling comes creeping over her, she can't help it, the habit of it, and she thinks,
What will I remember most about him?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THESE DAYS THERE'S A LOT OF MONEY TO BE made if you're in the right place at the right time, if you keep your shoulder to the wheel. That's how Mike and Katherine got their nice house, their cars (hers with that new-car smell still in it), an art collection, and a healthy nest egg. The house is close to San Francisco. Her car is a Mercedes. The art is mostly modern, up-and-coming painters you'll read about in
ArtWeek
any day now.

They're young enough that they don't have to worry about kids yet, so they don't—if you asked them, both would say, “Oh, kids are definitely on the agenda,” though they'd sound a little vague. They're old enough that the honeymoon's over, neither of them quite remembering when it ended.

Seven years is a long time to be married. Still, aside from that, things are sweet. The rhythm of their weekdays, long-familiar now, has them clacking along toward the weekend like they're on a polished set of tracks. They fill weekends with rituals of their own.

It dawns on Katherine very, very gradually that she can't remember the last time they made love. She knows they did when they spent that weekend in Monterey—Mike's last birthday. In that romantic B&B, how could they resist the impulse to fall into each other's arms? And it's always a little exciting to be away from home. But they had to break it off in time to get in a day at the aquarium—the whole reason they went—so Mike could see the shimmery glow-in-the-dark jellyfish, delicate neon tendrils floating in the black water. He had seen a special about them on the Discovery Channel, had to see for himself. She lost her heart to them too: she and Mike stayed in the darkened room for almost an hour, silent, side by side with their hands clasped together so lightly that for minutes at a time she lost track of the sensation of his skin against her palm.

That's what she likes about being with him. It's so easy. They can drive together silently, not feeling as if a conversational black hole has swallowed them; they can spend Sunday mornings reading the paper and trading sections with a touch on the arm; they fill each other's coffee mugs without being asked and hand back the steaming, fragrant cups accompanied by a little kiss. After that they work in the garden, sometimes side by side, sometimes like her grandparents used to: Granddad in the vegetables, Gram in the flowers. She can imagine the next fifty years passing this way.