Best of Best Women's Erotica (19 page)

And then she'd do this little strip, with you all comfortable on the pillow, and she and you would laugh together as she opened up her denim vest with the fringe hanging off it. Her bra would open in the front, and she'd wrestle that deal open in the blink of an eye—and that's exactly what you wouldn't want to do, blink. You don't want to miss a single slice of what she's serving.

Then you look at her, she's tickling you and arching her back, squeezing her arms, pushing those titties out where you can see them, and your hound dog is howling at the moon. And by the time she's got her sweet little pussy open for you—just you—all you want to do is give her every cent you got, and your coat and shoes too. “Oh my goodness!” she cries while she rides
you. “Oh my! My, oh my!” Damn, Sam, take a moment and just picture that.

Yeah, who doesn't love Betty?

The men all had their stories: the first girl they ever made it with, that one touchdown, that one job offer, the day their first little one was born. They would tell her all their heartaches too, about how life had mistreated them and left them high and dry. She began to amalgamate all the stories and images until finally she saw all men as one. Every man was the same. Same age, same hopes and dreams, same fears. And when they gushed inside her, with that pinched expression that made them seem like they were in harm's way, they even looked the same, every last one of them.

She had no choice but to fall in love with them all. Every man was her lover, her husband. And she was as faithful as any wife could be, and then some. When that door closed in the wee hours of the night and she listened to some man's boots going on down the stairs, the footsteps speeding up as they got farther away, she told herself he would be back tomorrow evening. He would always come back to her, and he would call her by her first name, like any husband would.
Betty,
he would say,
how are you, old gal? Been treating yourself right? How I love to see that smile on you, Betty. Betty, you know you're my girl.
The nights were cooler, and after he left, she could finally get her rest.

But then the day would come around, and with the unkind sun, the hard dawning that she was every bit as alone as they were.

Let me tell you, Betty was the finest thing around. But once in a while the heat would get to her, you know? And she would stay home, stay in bed with cucumbers on her eyes and lemons
on her elbows. If you walked by her door, you might hear the quiet wail of an old record player:

And you could imagine Betty in bed smoking maybe, not a thought showing on her face. If there were a tear in her eye, it was probably just from lying on her side too long. Betty never cries. Try knocking, though, and just see if that clunky old tap doesn't start running.
Sorry, didn't hear you sugar, must have been washing my hair when you stopped by.
The sound of water covers up a lot, if you think about it. It shuts out the world and keeps the world from finding out you don't always have the inclination to smile.

It was the daytime that hurt her the most—the heat, the light. When everybody else seemed to have some place to go. The big-bright-big-bright bouncing in off the street like someone shouting out the hour. Made her thirsty, made her feel dry and used up. Made her feel old.

But on good days the men would say,
That's it, Betty,
as she drew her pretty lips over their sturdy pricks.
Mmm,
as if she hadn't had a man in years and years.
That's it girl. Good girl. Oh, you come on up here now, come see Daddy, girl.
And she would be happy again, and climb on up, and squeeze her nice titties right up against their hairy chests where they liked it, and imagine herself falling in love all over again.

And then came Billy.

He was a sailor, so he was used to salt and swells and sea breezes and stars that twinkled clearly overhead. When he laid eyes on Betty for the first time, he knew right away not to let her out of his sight again, that he and she had something in common.

It was the night of the summer solstice, the longest day of the year. Summer was just getting stoked, and already the grass was burning. Betty was not having the best of days. She was out of cash, hadn't eaten since the day before, and just managed to hop herself up on a stool and ask for a glass of water.

“Lady needs something a little stronger than that,” came a Gary Cooper voice from a dark corner.

Betty wheeled herself around and crossed her legs just so out of habit, wicked patent leather boots sticking together where they met. But her energy was sapped. “Water'll keep me fine 'til it rains,” she told the darkness.

“Shot of rye for the lady,” said the voice.

She acquiesced. “Much obliged.” She took her two glasses and set them and herself down at the stranger's booth. The stranger watched her drink the water first. She guzzled it so fast she didn't even breathe.

They sat quietly for a few minutes, ignoring each other, gazing out at the empty bar. Betty fingered the little shot she still had before her. Then the stranger threw back his own glass, and so Betty did the same, without so much as a flinch. He seemed to smile at her. Betty seemed to smile back. And with a gentle cock of his head, the two of them were on their way.

He followed her home, yet lingered in her doorway, resting his hands on either side of the frame, letting his own interesting kind of heat seep into her room. Betty figured it was his cologne.
She waited just inside the threshold, in front of his big open arms that seemed to bar her exit.

“You holding up the building?” she asked.

“You fixing to invite me in?” he asked.

For the first time, Betty was self-conscious. She smiled then, her pretty smile, the one that made most men melt into their boots, and gave him a little wink.

Billy was in her place, in her apartment. After all the others that had followed her inside, he was the first that made the place seem small. He's a big man, if you ever met him. But it's not like he takes up room, he just seems to fill a place. His steps were careful, but strong. Each move suited his purpose. When at last he had followed her around enough that she finally just quit moving away, they were standing beside her bed. Billy put his hands on her waist, and her stomach growled.

“Should I go get us something?” he asked, but she shook her head. “You got good hips on you, woman,” he told her.

“Betty,” she replied.

He bent his head down to her, so that his cheek touched hers. Betty felt overcome with him just being there, so close but not kissing her or anything. He just was. And bit by bit, she was too. They just were.

“Betty's not my real name,” she said, for the first time ever.

He moved his head so that his scratchy cheek grazed down around her chin and then came to rest upon her other cheek. His breath reached her ear, and Betty realized that he wore no cologne, but he still smelled good. “Hm,” he murmured. “So what is?”

“I can't recall.” And then she laughed, despite herself. Billy smiled.

“Well Betty, ain't you a tall drink of water on a hot day.”
And that was the moment he chose to kiss her.

The kiss frightened her. It made her think of scenes in movies, where even though you know it's coming, it still knocks the wind out of you and your eyes go soft and your body goes limp. It looks just great on a big screen, but when it's happening to you, in your own room, and you feel like all your bones have turned to syrup, and you still feel the imprints of leather-fine lips and the scrub of stubble against your cheeks and chin long after the kiss has reached its graceful conclusion—you have every reason to fear for your life. Because movies are just movies. This was real.

The only thing she had ever wanted was something real.

“You know this is going to cost you,” she tried reminding him.

“Damn right, sugar.”

He looked like he wanted to kiss her again, but instead he just kept his eyes on her while he put his two heavy fingers in the center of her chest. He opened up her little denim vest, then her bra, and let her stand like that in front of him. Billy sat down on her bed then, and just gazed up at her. Something about the light in that room—it was the lamp behind his head—it gave him a funny glow, like he was blessed or something. He just looked at her, and she wondered how she could be warm and cool at the same time.

He took hold of her hips again, and kissed her belly, a gentle, humble kind of kiss. Betty heard the patent leather of her boots crinkle. His hands went under her skirt, seeking her out. He asked her, “What's this right here, you got a soft spot for me, Betty? This a secret you're keeping? Lord, you are something, ain't you.”

His two fingers were deep inside her, deep inside her barren
womb, making it feel very much alive. “How's that? You like that, Betty?” he asked.

And she did.

They stayed like that for quite a while, making what might have sounded like polite conversation were it not for the occasional syllable that didn't quite fit in a dictionary. Billy's thumb also knew what to do.

But soon he lay back across her bed, dragging her with him, tugging at her clothes. Her feet got tangled up in her panties, and Billy kicked them away. He pulled her up and she thought he wanted her to wrestle open the big silver buckle on his belt, but he kept pulling on her and said, “Come on way up here, Betty, put your knees right here, lemme get a good look at you.”

This was unusual; this was uncharted territory. He was teasing her, taking his own sweet time, taking control yet letting her know this was still her place, that she could kick him out any time she chose. Betty wasn't sure what to make of it, but then she was thinking about windmills and sawmills and oil wells and other things that are relentless and hypnotic and make you dizzy and make you want to lie down and weep. Billy's mouth could make a person melt dead away.

Those patent leather boots were making quite a scene on their own. Billy was holding on to them, passing his hands along them, keeping her where she needed to be. Finally, Betty felt like she was ready to drop right through that wall of water that led to the Other Side. But she fought it back and rolled off him, found a pillow and her breath.

“Jesus H. Christ!” she hissed.

Billy was in no sort of a hurry. He calmly rolled over next to her and fell to stroking her body. Soft, easy strokes while he licked his lips. He kissed her again, and she felt as though she
could never be whole again outside of that kiss. They wrapped their arms around each other like people in love, and their mouths made soft little noises.

Billy pulled his T-shirt over his head, and his jeans came off, and there was that profound moment of skin meeting skin. Betty felt good in his arms. Too good.

“Oh, you gotta get out of here,” Betty told him, her voice choking over. “You gotta get going now. I don't like you.”

“That so?” he asked, but he was kissing her throat, and she was raising her chin up so he could do it. Her skirt had bunched about her waist, and the heels of her boots were leaving cuts on the sheets. It bothered her a little. But Billy's hand was at her entrance, making sure the door was open.

And it was.

His body moved over hers and she lay weighted, suspended between him and the sagging mattress. The last thing Betty saw, as Billy's honest cock thrust home, was the image of a graceful tall ship, with four masts in full sail, leaning into the salt and spray—a tattoo where Billy's collarbones met one another. She felt the wind and water on her cheeks, and her eyes fell closed.

 

When she woke that first morning, with a slim shard of summer light invading the room, she was surprised to feel him get up and get dressed and to hear the door shut behind him. Not surprised that he had left, but surprised he had stayed as long as he had. Sad too. Sometime during that quick solstice night, as the earth's shadow made its closest path to the sun, she had actually begun to hope.

She had time to recall what had happened before they both fell asleep. She remembered the way Billy's cock had felt the first time he sank it deep inside her. It was as if he had said,
“Here, right here. This is where we both belong.” Billy was a wall, a wall of hard flesh, and she clung to it, hung on for all she was worth. He had used his cock to get deep inside her, to communicate to her that she had nothing to fear, nothing to run from.

It didn't take but a minute before the two of them were connected by a thick glossy coating of perspiration. They glided together, the hardness of their bodies dissolving. Betty's limbs reached out, welcoming it all, every last drop of him—this man—and finally, she knew it was time to let go. She blinked back images of her daddy, images of the men she had known, all the aftershaves, all the colognes. She left the bright sky and the distant shore and dove on in.

And it didn't hurt a bit.

And afterward the two of them had kissed and washed at her sink. Billy hung his head upside down under the faucet and drank great mouthfuls of her rusty tap water, like a nomad who finally finds his desert oasis. And she did the same. And for once, she actually felt at peace. Refreshed. Slaked. Reborn.

They had taken turns washing each other until finally they were so cool and clean, there was nothing to do but get hot and dirty all over again. Billy hoisted her sweet bottom up into that sink, and the water spurted and bubbled and made funny sucking sounds and pooled on the tiles below. It sprayed up between them, soaking them both, beading on Billy's chest hairs, on Betty's lips and cheeks. They drank each other, drop by precious drop. And Billy's cock had told her again:
Here, right here. We belong just like this.