Best of Best Women's Erotica (7 page)

I was biting my lip and trying to decide if I should give up and go home, the book open in my hands but my eyes unfocused, when Jason stepped out from behind a tall bookcase. My eyes flickered up and then back down to the book. He was tall, a little underfed, with blue eyes and light brown hair…and was he looking at me?

He was. I gave him a longer look, and a smile. He returned the smile in a knowing way.
Thank goodness.
The hook was baited. I put the book down on the table, and let my head fall back, some of my curls brushing my bare shoulders. I saw him gulp—hook swallowed. He came toward me and said, “Hi.”

“Hi,” I said, lowering my eyes with a shyness that wasn't entirely unreal. I was accustomed to being the cute one, the desirable one—but Jason would have turned my head even if I hadn't been having one of my horniest nights. Suddenly I wasn't sure what to say to him.

He saved me by speaking first. “I've been following you for a while.”

“How long is a while?”

He blushed. “Since Alton Station.” He reached his hand toward mine, and brushed his fingertips against my arm. I had to stifle an audible intake of breath. “Would you like to go somewhere?” he asked.

I nodded. “My place, if that would be all right with you.”

There was that smile again. “Lead the way.” He orbited me with a crooked arm as I turned toward the door, but he did not touch me until we were sitting on a bench at the station. I
was almost shivering by then, fantasizing about his arm around me, waiting for it to happen—and then he slid close, his blue-jeaned leg touching mine, and his arm slid across my shoulders. His breath was warm in my hair, against my ear, in the air-conditioned coolness of the station. If I had an engine, it would have revved.

I didn't want to wait until we got home. It would be twenty minutes on the train, and then a five-minute walk, and I was so hot and ready that I was afraid I'd slip off the peak and lose my edge. The frustration and need of the long evening made my jaw stiffen, the ache in my belly only intensified by the proximity of our bodies.

His lips nibbled at my ear and tears almost sprang to my eyes. He smoothed my dress down over my legs. I wished I could just lie down on the concrete bench, put up my legs and let him root around to his heart's content (and mine). Another pass with his hand.

I hadn't felt so hungrily frustrated since junior high, when I used to sit backstage during drama club rehearsal, on Daniel Pera's lap. We were too young for sex and knew it, I guess, because we never took any of our clothes off. But he used to trace every line or design on the fabric of my shirt with his fingertip, roaming featherlight over my chest and up and down my neck. Sometimes he would trace the seams of my jeans. We'd sit like that for hours, while rehearsals were going on, in the darkness of the wings, until we were needed onstage. Sometimes I went on flushed and dizzy, unsure of where my feet were, unsure even of who I was, which character I was to play, or the words I was supposed to say. I went home every night dying to masturbate the minute I got to my room.

Now Jason's fingertip began to trace the flowery vines on my
dress. I shuddered a breath, in and out. I wanted to murmur sweet nothings in his ear, to give him a taste of the painful anticipation I was riding—but I could not speak. His finger slid along the center seam of my dress and came to rest at the crook of my hip. Then he turned my chin toward him, and before I could say anything, he smothered my unspoken words with a kiss.

His fingers were drumming now, like a piano arpeggio, closer and closer to where my clit throbbed under layers of clothing. Yes, I wore panties, even when out on the prowl. His gentle tapping intensified my longing. I didn't dare open my eyes, afraid that people were staring at us. He kept his rhythm even, his touch light, as if there were no urgency in him at all. The urgency was all inside me, making my shoulders tighten under his arm, my breath grow shallow, my jaw clench.

And then came the train. He held my hand and pulled me into the car. There were only four or five people within earshot, none of whom paid us any attention. Jason pulled me down into a seat and right onto his lap.

That finger of his was busy again, this time underneath my dress, pushing aside my cotton panties, then nosing back and forth through my wetness. More liquid was forthcoming, and I licked my mouth as if to match it.

When his finger slid into me, I started to cry.
You ninny,
I was thinking,
you're going to ruin it, he's going to freak and run away on you.
But I couldn't help it. His slow, gentle touch was going somewhere deep inside of me, somewhere I needed to be touched so much that the relief triggered tears. I clung to his neck and sobbed softly, my face hidden by drifts of my own hair, while his finger went in and out, soon joined by a second one. He could barely move his hand, jammed between my legs like that, but it was enough, just rocking. Then his
thumb perked up and rubbed against my lubricated clit, and I sobbed harder.

“It's okay,” he said into my ear. “I know.”

Feeling as I had during those confused moments of stumbling from the curtains in the wings, unsure where to stand or where to go, I now found myself being carried from the train. He had me in his arms and whispered in my ear and nibbled my neck, and the next thing I knew we were at my door and he was asking for my keys. He set me down on my feet and I opened the apartment door and we climbed the dark stairs.

At the time I didn't think it odd that he knew where to go; I was too grateful to be there, mere steps from the bedroom, where we soon were, me kneeling on the bed, him standing while I unbuttoned his white cotton shirt, unbuttoned his jeans, and revealed him. His silky red erection came free and I sighed. I cupped his balls with my hand and let my lips fall around him.
Ahh. Mmm.

He sensed that I didn't want to waste time, and let me swallow him deep a few times before he pushed forward onto the bed, flattening me in the process. We shed the rest of our clothes and I pulled a condom out of the side table drawer. I kicked off my socks while he put it on. I wrapped my legs around his back and pulled him into me.

With every thrust I felt like sparks flew down to my toes and shot out the tips of my fingers. I thought again of junior high, of a trip to the beach—baking in the sun for an hour and then running headlong down the sand and plunging into the cool water. An intensely pleasurable shock. A shockingly intense pleasure. Jason gave me that again and again.

I thrust my hips up to meet him, trying to match rhythms so as to achieve an almost violent crash of bodies. It's hard to
admit this, but I wanted him to fuck me hard enough to hurt. It was one of the reasons I liked picking up strangers—they were unlikely to worry much about whether I was in pain or not. People in anonymous encounters tend to fuck with abandon. Of course, that sometimes meant that
I
would end up abandoned, if he came before me, or if he couldn't keep it up. But Jason was hanging in there, giving it to me and giving it to me.

When I'm that wet and I've wanted it for that long, I can fuck for a long, long time. I started to worry that he wouldn't last, but I didn't say anything. Just when my worrying began to distract from the pleasure, he whispered, “It's okay. I can do it.” And he began to fuck even harder, and I lost myself.

The orgasm was coming—but if I followed my usual pattern, I would need a tad more clitoral stimulation. I tried to slide my hand along my stomach, but bumped into his hand, as he beat me to it. He had turned his long arm partway over and slid his thumb down over the very slippery, sensitive bump at just the right moment. Instantly, I felt the ripples build and break loose. My legs shook and my heels drummed on his back as I quaked with the power of coming. I wondered if this would make him go off, too, but when I settled back into the bed, he was still lodged deep inside me, fucking me slowly and contentedly.

Wash, rinse, repeat. After a while, he sped up, my muscles started to contract, he rubbed my clit, and—insert sound effects like Fourth of July fireworks. And again. And maybe again…I can't do math when I'm like that. I kept thinking,
Oh, this time he'll go off, too.
But he didn't. And then I started to feel like I'd had enough and I feared that he hadn't, and I was going to end up having to go through the ordeal of letting him fuck me when I didn't want to anymore. It would not be fair, after all, to get what I wanted and leave him unsatisfied.

Suddenly he pulled out, lay back next to me, and smiled.

“You didn't come,” I said.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“Yes.” I put my hand on his chest and felt his heart beating hard. “I'm sure of it.”

“You're right.”

“Do you want me to go down on you?” I could not move at that point, as I lay there, thoroughly screwed, but I figured I'd be able to sit up in a few minutes.

“No, that's okay,” he said, sounding sleepy, or maybe I was projecting. “You just rest.”

We lay there in the semidarkness of the streetlight, and after a short nap, my brain began to perk up. That's when I realized that I had never told him where I lived, nor how to get there. He had been following me all evening, by his own admission. I didn't think I would feel so comfortable snuggling up to a psycho. Did I have a stalker?

“No,” he said, stroking my hair. “I can read your mind.”

“What do you mean, you can read my mind?” I guess I thought it was some mushy romantic thing he was trying to say. But I was wrong. He meant it in the most literal sense.

“In the bookstore, you picked up that cookbook because you thought the cover image looked phallic.”

“Spring rolls and bananas.”

“Then you watched that clerk, the one with the nose ring, walk by, and decided you really didn't like the way he smelled.” His voice was soothing. “That's the smell of patchouli, by the way.”

“And what was I thinking about when we were in the train station?”

“Holy shit.” That was the play we'd done in drama club. He really could read my mind. “So you were following me around all night, and knew how horny I was the whole time?”

“Yes.”

I propped myself up on an elbow and slapped him on the shoulder. “That's for making me wait so long.” Then I kissed him, long and deep, until we were both breathless.

He started to get up and I thought,
Aha, now he'll want to come.
But he made a quick trip to the bathroom, and when he returned, began to get dressed.

I asked him if he wanted to come and he smiled that sweet smile at me. “Yes, very much. But I'm going to wait.”

I wasn't sure what to think about that. “Why?”

“You wanted me to experience the exquisite pain you had gone through. I figured I'd try it.” He leaned over and kissed me on the lips, then again on the forehead. It struck me then that I couldn't just let him walk away, like any other anonymous encounter. “Will you come back tomorrow?”

“If you want me to.”

“You have to.” I told him I wouldn't feel complete until he came, too.

And he said: “I know.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

YOU GET TOO MUCH FROM SEX FOR IT TO BE truly casual: Beauty. Self-esteem. Pain. Great email material. But I think Marvin Gaye got closest to it.

I was standing at the window of my Victorian room in Cole Valley. Outside, the neighbors were at it with their little shovels and knee pads, weeding between cactus and bright clusters of medicinal plants. Usually it cheered me to look down at the crush of flowers, but not today. Behind me, Trevor lay on the bed. He'd just ended it—giving me an earful about his “need for independence,” his “need for focus.” He had a new job and debts to clear, and he was, at thirty-three, having the revelation that he couldn't work and make love to a woman at the same time. “I won't have time to go to the
movies for six months,” he declared. “I have to clear myself, you know?”

But whatever—it was a fling; I just thought it'd be nice to stretch it out another week.

He lounged naked on my bed after what is cynically dubbed “breakup sex,” as if you can taxonomize these things. Bass-player arms, junkie-lean chest, unshaven around the mouth and jaw, darkening the pale. God, he was fine—sort of anonymously fine, like a snapshot of someone's lowrider dad found lying on the sidewalk. Meanwhile, I was in a state, so pent up with words that when I opened my mouth to speak I wound up sucking air.

“You can't freak me out,” Trev said. His voice drifted around my back like a shawl. “And I won't bolt. I don't know why you feel the need to tell
me,
but I'll listen.”

What a voice he had. Like paper—scratchy, strong, a tear in it. Higher than most men's, and with more noise to it than melody, like wind stirring up alley trash, or the slap of an oar on water. I'd stop myself from coming just to hear him talk more, hear him beg me on.

It was over lunch a few hours earlier that he'd ended it, and we kissed in parting intimacy, but soon we were kissing for real, and then feeding each other leftover chicken koorma and orange slices by hand, our fingers rammed in each other's mouths.

“Are you sure?” he asked with chutney on his breath, “because I really mean this,” and I said I
was
sure, and let him take me down, my skirt inching up, just my delicate nothing shoving up against his moist jeans, and then my red T-shirt off.

“Ow!”