Best of Best Women's Erotica (22 page)

I looked back to see Darla and Tom on the floor, her mouth closed over him, drawing at him heartily. He grabbed her head and pulled until all I could see were his balls touching her chin. “Darla!” At the harsh tone of my voice, she drew her mouth away. Darla looked up at Tom. “Fuck him,” she said. He didn't answer. “Go on…fuck him in his gorgeous virgin ass, Tom. His tight, beautiful ass.”

Tom licked his lips, pulled himself off the floor, and walked over to the bed. He lifted his penis, slick with Darla's saliva, and motioned for me to move out of the way. I slipped off the bed and Tom took my place.

Steve lay very still—in terror or anticipation, I couldn't tell. Tom rubbed himself along the crack of Steve's ass, and I yanked the panties out of his mouth. “Don't do this, Abby,” he said. His eyes pleaded with me, the fear in them unmistakable. Still, his ass quivered each time Tom rimmed his opening. Yes, I thought, it's funny how the body takes over. His own balls and cock were full. I knew what it was he feared.

“Ram it into him!”

Tom burrowed into Steve's body with several powerful thrusts. He gritted his teeth and cried out as he worked himself deeper and deeper inside Steve's ass. “Ah…so sweet, so sweet,” he mumbled, lost in the sensation of this brand of fucking.

“God! He's something, isn't he? I love when he gets going like this!” said Darla.

Steve howled, bucked backward into Tom, his cries a mixture
of pain and pleasure. I spread my legs and slipped my fingers over my swollen clit.

Tom pulled back, slid his penis nearly all the way out, and then rammed into Steve with such force that his eyes rolled back in his head. He grasped Steve's hips and fucked him with increasing fervor.

The man who had earlier said he loved me, told me how great he thought I was, screamed my name, flung filthy epithets at me as the evidence of his gratification splattered against the sheet. At the same time, the confirmation of mine gushed against my fingers. When it was over, Tom slipped to the floor and lay panting on the rug. Steve pressed his face into the mattress. His shoulders shook as he wept.

Soft breath against my ear broke my concentration. Darla held me around the waist and fondled my breasts. I pulled my gaze off Steve and pushed her away.

“Hey—”

“Get out,” I screamed. “Both of you. Get the hell out!”

“Fucking maniac,” Darla said, but she scurried around gathering their fallen garments. I kicked Tom in his side, told him to get up and get out. He rolled over and pulled himself up. He didn't say a word.

Kneeling at the head of the bed, I ran my fingers through Steve's hair, massaged the muscles in his neck, and crooned soothing words to him. Inside the bathroom, Tom and Darla hurried into their clothes. I stopped paying attention and didn't hear them leave.

Steve continued to whimper, and I cried, too, my face pressed up against his, our tears mingling together. I kept smoothing his hair, murmuring softly into his ear until his body relaxed and he fell asleep. He lay like a rock, snoring soundly, oblivious as
I removed the straps and rubbed his ankles and wrists. Light filtered around the edges of the heavy drapes at the windows, announcing a new day.

Later, I stood at the foot of the bed, watching Steve sleep. In another part of the house, Cal and his boys would be waking up, waiting to be served breakfast. I wondered who would be doing the cooking. I'd ask Cal if he'd let me crack the eggs, and then I'd ask him if he really, really missed me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“HEY, JO! JOSIE BENOIT!” A VOICE FROM MY past, fitting all too well with the setting: the Springfield train station, visible through foggy windows and blowing snow. I'd gone to college not far from here, and so had that voice's owner.

“If it isn't Miss Theresa,” I grunted, and kept on tugging at the sheepskin jacket caught behind a suitcase on the overhead rack.

“I never forget an ass,” Terry said pointedly, casing mine as I reached upward.

“Sure as hell wouldn't have known yours.” My jacket finally yielded. I tossed it over the voluptuous décolletage of my seated companion. A few minutes earlier Yasmin had been whining about being cold. Now, of course, for a new audience, she shrugged off the covering
with an enthusiasm that threatened to shrug off her low-cut silk blouse as well. Not that it had been doing much to veil her pouting nipples.

Terry, brushing snow off her shoulders and shaking it from her hair, rightly accepted my remark as a compliment. Fourteen years ago she'd been on the lumpy side; now she was buff, and all style. Sandy hair lightened, cropped, waxed just right; multiple piercings on the left ear and eyebrow, giving her face a rakish slant; studded black leather cut to make the best of the work she'd done on her body. I'd have felt mundane, with my straight black hair twisted up into a utilitarian knot and my brown uniform, not ironed all that well since Katzi had taken off—if I ever gave a damn about appearances. Which might have had something to do with why Katzi took off. Which had a whole lot to do with why I hadn't gotten laid in two months and wasn't finding it easy to resist Yasmin's efforts.

“You just get on?” Terry asked. “Didn't see you in the station. No way I could have overlooked your little friend.” Her eyes raked Yasmin, who practically squirmed with delight.

“Been on since White River Junction,” I said shortly. It was more than clear that Terry expected an introduction. “Yasmin, Terry O'Brian. We were in college together. Terry, Princess Yasmin, fourth wife of the Sultan of Isbani.” It was some satisfaction to see Terry's jaw drop for an instant before her suave butch facade resurfaced.

“Ooh, Terry!” Yasmin warbled, jiggling provocatively. “I didn't know Sergeant Jo had such nice friends!”

“The princess somehow…missed…leaving New Hampshire with her husband's entourage,” I said. “They'd been visiting her stepson at Dartmouth. I'm escorting her to D.C. to meet them.” As far as I could tell, it had been a combination of
Yasmin's laziness and the head wife's hatred that had culminated in her missing the limo caravan, and her absence going unnoticed until too late. I was developing a good deal of sympathy for the head wife.

“The weather's too risky for flying or driving,” I added, “but the train should make it through. Not supposed to be much snow south of Connecticut.”

“Well, now,” Terry said, sliding into the seat facing Yasmin. “I'll be happy to share security duty as far as New York.”

“Don't get too happy.” I sat down beside my charge. There were suddenly more limbs between the seats than would comfortably fit; I tried to let my long legs stretch into the aisle, but that tilted my ass too close to Yasmin, who wriggled appreciatively against my holster. I straightened up. “This is official business. The last thing I need is an international incident.”

I wondered why the hell I hadn't told Terry to fuck off in the first place. Did I hope she'd distract Yasmin enough to take off some of the pressure? The tension had been building all morning. Even the rhythm of the train had been driving me toward the edge, with its subtle, insistent vibration. Or maybe it was just that the little bitch was too damned good at the game and too clearly driven by spite. I don't have to like a tease to call her on it; if I hadn't been on the job I'd have given Yasmin more than she knew she was asking for, and if it left my conscience a bit scuffed, what the hell—other parts of me would have earned a fine, lingering glow.

But I was on duty, and she was doubly untouchable, and knew it. Seven more hours of this was going to be a particularly interesting version of Hell.

“Keep it professional, Jo,” Lieutenant Willey had said. “This one's a real handful.”

“I noticed,” I'd told her. Several handfuls, in fact, in all the right places, with all the right moves. “Don't worry. I know better than to fuck the sheep I'm herding.” She should have slapped me down for that, but instead she rolled her eyes toward the door, and I saw, too late, that the troublesome sheep had just come in. No chance she hadn't heard me. Anger sparked with interest sharpened her kittenish face, segueing into challenge as she looked me up and down.

“You're off to a great start,” the lieutenant said dryly. “Just bear in mind that the Sultan wants her back ‘untouched,' and I'd just as soon not have to argue the semantics of that with the State Department.” Something in her usually impassive expression made me wonder whether our charge had come on to her. If so, I was sure sorry I'd missed it.

By the time the train crossed from Vermont into Massachusetts, I realized Yasmin would come on to any available pair of trousers, with no discrimination as to what filled them. Even the professionally affable conductor got flustered when she rubbed up against him in passing, and she had a threesome of college boys so interested that I'd made the mistake of putting a proprietary arm around her shoulders and shooting them my best dyke-cop look as I yanked her back to our seats. The look worked fine, but it encouraged Yasmin to renew her attack on me.

“Ow!” she yelped when I tightened my grip on a hand that kept going where it had no business. “Why you are so mean to Yasmin?” Her coquettish pout left me cold, but a definite heat was building where her hand had trailed over my ass and nudged between my thighs. She knew I wasn't impervious.

“Let's just stick to the business of getting you back to your husband,” I said neutrally, aware of the continuing interest of
the college kids three seats back. The less drama here the better.

“Why do you worry? He can't order them to cut off your balls, the way they did to Haroun just for looking.”

“Right, and you can't yank me around by them, either,” I muttered. The glitter of pleasurable recollection in her eyes was nauseating. What little I'd read about female genital mutilation flashed through my mind, and for a few minutes I really
was
impervious to her charms.

Terry's company, whatever the complications, might be better than being alone with Yasmin—unless my competitive instincts reared up and made it all exponentially worse.

Terry could have been reading my mind. “Gee, Jo,” she said, “remember the last time you introduced me to one of your little friends?” Her grin was demonic.

“How could I forget? You healed up pretty well, though.” I stared pointedly at the scar running under her pierced eyebrow.

“Nothing like a dueling scar to intrigue the ladies,” Terry said cheerfully. “You seem to have found a good dentist.”

“You bet.” I flashed what Katzi used to call my alpha bitch grin.

Yasmin was practically frothing with excitement, jiggling her assets and leaning toward Terry to offer an in-depth view of her cleavage and a whiff of her sensuous perfume. When she balanced herself with a far-from-accidental hand high on my thigh, I realized that all I'd done was set her up to play us off against each other.

“So, Terry,” I said, firmly removing the fingers trying to make their way toward my treacherously responsive crotch, “What are you up to these days? Still living in the area?”

“I'm a paralegal in Northampton,” she said. “Going to
law school nights.” Her gaze lingered on my badge, and for a rare instant I was hyperconscious of the breast underneath it. “Funny how we both got onto the straight side of the law.”

“No kidding,” I said. “I heard that anything goes in Hamp these days, but can you go to court rigged out like that?”

“I could, but I don't.” I was pleasantly surprised to see a bit of a flush rise from her neck to her jawline. “I'm on my way to New York to do a reading at a bookstore in the East Village.”

“You're a writer?” My surprise was hardly flattering, and her jaw tightened, as the flush extended all the way to her hairline.

“On the side, yeah,” she said brusquely. “Doesn't pay much, but the fringe benefits can be outstanding.”

“Hey, I'll just bet they are, if the stories match the getup! Erotica groupies, huh?”

Terry caught the new respect in my voice and relaxed. She let her legs splay apart. I'd already noticed she was packing; now Yasmin stared at the huge bulge stretching the black leather pants along the right thigh, and her kewpie-doll mouth formed an awe-struck
O.

“Loaded for bear, aren't we,” I said. “Ah, the literary life. I'll have to check out some of your stuff—maybe get you to autograph a book.” I was more than half serious. She started to grin, and then an odd, startled look swept over her face. I glanced down and saw Yasmin's stockinged foot nudging against the straining black leather.

It wasn't a big enough deal to account for my first raging impulse to break Yasmin's leg. I managed to suppress it, but by then everything seemed to be happening in slow motion. Terry's presence was definitely making things worse. Much worse.

Yasmin pulled her silk skirt up so that we could get the
full benefit of the shapely leg extended between the seats and the toes caressing the leather-sheathed cock. Then she applied enough force so that Terry caught her breath and automatically shifted her hips to get the most benefit; I felt the pressure as if she were prodding my own clit. But all I was packing was a gun, and that was on my hip.

I know from experience that you don't get the optimum angle the way Yasmin was working. But you can get damned close. Katzi used to tease me like that in restaurants, her leg up under the table, her foot in my lap, her eyes gleaming wickedly as she watched me struggle not to make the kind of sounds you can't make in public. She knew I wouldn't let myself come, because I just can't manage it without making a lot of noise.