Can't Get Enough: Erotica for Women Page 12

  I felt feverish, searching for a cool spot on my hot pillow. My head was burning up, and buzzing like a beehive. I bucked up against Nesta’s side of the bed, smelling her hair, her perfume, her body. It was all there in the sheets.

  Where the hell was she? Fuck, it was…9:45? How was it only 9:45? Felt like three in the morning. I covered my eyes and rolled onto my stomach, growling. My breath saturated the pillow, and I rolled again—onto Nesta’s side of the bed this time. I wasn’t going to preserve it anymore. When she got home, she was just going to have to deal with messy covers.

  “Do you know what time it is?” I asked, in my mind. But that was a stupid question, because it wasn’t really late. “I’ve been worried sick.” Or maybe, “Who was she?” Or, “How was she?”

  No, I couldn’t ask that question. It was in the rule book. We weren’t supposed to ask about sexual performance. I rolled back onto my side of the bed. More and more, I was starting to think it took a special type of person to survive an open relationship, and maybe I wasn’t that special. Did everybody feel this jealous?

  When I finally heard Nesta’s key in the door, it came as a surprise. Maybe I’d given up hope or something, because I sat straight up in bed, on high alert, as if I thought the figure coming through the front door might not be Nesta at all.

  She unzipped her boots, kicked them off in the hall. I couldn’t see her until she tiptoed past the bedroom door, and even then she was only a shadow. The shower would come next….

  No. Something inside of me was adamant about this. I whipped off the covers and stomped across the room in basketball shorts and a T-shirt. Nesta shrieked when I grabbed her wrist and pulled her out of the bathroom. She shrieked like she didn’t know it was me, like I was some faceless attacker in the night.

  I pulled her tight to my body and held her there, like we were dancing. Her breath hit my chin in hot little bursts as I pinned her against the bed.

  “I haven’t showered yet,” she said in a whisper.

  That day, for the first time, I didn’t care. My lust for Nesta superseded any jealousy. I was so hot for her I didn’t even know where to start.

  Pressing her body tight to mine, I kissed her hard. She was too shocked to react, and I had to pry her teeth apart with my tongue, dig inside her perfect mouth.

  Her perfect mouth tasted like pussy.

  The sweet tang, the aftertaste that stuck at the back of my throat—it was pussy, unmistakable. And I shouldn’t have been surprised, because I knew what she’d been up to, but knowing and tasting are different things entirely. That girl, that other girl, whoever she was, had found her way inside my mouth. She was a stranger to me, but her pussy was on my tongue. I could taste it.

  “She fucked your face,” I said, holding Nesta’s head in my hands. My palms looked huge against the fine line of her jaw. “You ate her. You ate her good. Her pussy’s all over your skin.”

  “Is it?” Nesta asked, like she wasn’t sure if I was angry or what.

  “Shh, shh, shh!” I didn’t want her being scared. “Baby, it’s all good. It’s all good.”

  I licked her cheek and she shuddered. “Oh god.”

  “I can taste her pussy,” I said, and kissed Nesta’s chin with an open mouth. “I can taste her cunt. It’s everywhere. That chick must have been riding your face hard.”

  “Yeah,” Nesta admitted. “She was.”

  “Tell me what she looked like, girl.”

  Nesta inhaled sharply as I tore open her top. “Are you sure you want to know?” she asked. “I thought we said…”

  “Forget the rule book.” I leaned her down on the bed and kissed a sharp path from her neck to her nipples. They stood up hard against the cool night air, and I asked, “Did she do this, too?”

  Petting my hair, Nesta said, “Yeah, babe. She did, but not like this. We were standing by the window, all the lights on. She stripped me bare so everyone could see, down on the street.”

  My pussy clamped tight when I pictured my Nesta naked, all eyes on her, getting her tits licked by some girl I didn’t know.

  “Was she wearing lip gloss?” I asked, because Nesta’s nips had a tacky texture that didn’t come from me. And they tasted like strawberries.

  “Yeah,” Nesta said. “Gloss over dark lipstick. Fake lashes. Golden eye shadow and thick black liner.”

  “A real femme, huh?”

  “Yeah, babe.” Nesta pushed down on her pants, and I helped her. God knows what happened to her panties. I’d never seen her go commando before. She must have lost them at this femme’s place. Her pussy was bare where it mattered, with just a landing strip.

  “You’re still wet,” I said, tracing my fingers over the slick line of her pussy lips. She was drenched with juice, just dripping with it. “Did this girl eat your pussy before you ate hers?”

  Nesta nodded. “How’d you know she went first?”

  I didn’t know. I wasn’t even thinking anymore. My body was taking her because that’s what my body wanted. There were days when I wished to hell I could grow a cock and fuck her with it, fuck her hard. My system was in overload mode. Too much heat.

  “Get me off,” I said, begging for it. I didn’t even know what I wanted her to do, exactly. “Get up on the bed. Spread your legs.”

  My cunt was throbbing for real, actually pounding like my clit had its own heartbeat. I pulled off my clothes as Nesta climbed fully onto the bed. Her top was open, hanging off her shoulders. Her bra was pulled down under her tits, but her bottom was bare. Even in the dark I could see her pink glistening. How much of that was pussy juice and how much was a stranger’s saliva?

  I’d never wanted to know before. I’d never wanted to think about who Nesta fucked outside our bedroom. But that’s because I was scared. Scared these women were bigger than me, stronger than me, butcher than me, better.

  That was it. That’s what I’d been afraid of—that Nesta was looking to replace me, when all that time she’d been looking in the other direction.

  I don’t do feline and feminine. I like the look, but it isn’t me. The girl who’d planted her face between my Nesta’s legs had all that going for her. I could practically see her pouty purple lips parting to lap my Nesta’s nectar. Pretty girls playing in front of open windows, for all the world to see.

  My pussy pounced. Turning Nesta on her side, I spread her legs so I was straddling one, with the other launched over my shoulder. Yeah, I split her right in half and pushed my cunt right up close to hers. She shrieked and grabbed her tits, like that would protect her from me.

  “You’re crazy,” she said, and I wasn’t totally sure whether she was amused or afraid. “What’s going on here?”

  “I’m getting off on you,” I said, pressing my fuzzy cunt right up against her. “Fuck, your pussy’s wet, girl. You’re all slippery wet.”

  I licked her smooth calf, and she moaned, thumbing both nipples. “God…”

  She looked good like that, damn good, and I asked her, “Is that what you were doing while that other girl sucked your fat little clit? You twisted your tits just like that while she ate you?”

  Nesta’s eyes were closed, but she nodded. “Mmm-hmm.”

  “You keep tugging on those tits, baby.” I rammed my cunt right up against hers, banging our bones together, searching for the sweet spot. It wasn’t easy to find. Usually I’d have the patience for all sorts of bumping and grinding, writhing and adjusting, but not this time. “Squeeze your tits, girl, just like that.”

  Nesta pushed her big breasts together as I pulled her ass off the bedspread, holding her up until my muscles trembled. She wasn’t heavy, but the effort got to me. I needed to come, and fast. I had to find that perfect place where I could rub my fat clit against her pink. I wasn’t getting there fast enough, and it made me want to scream.

  I pictured this girl, this stranger, between Nesta’s thighs, lapping at her soft flesh. Would I be beat by some chick I didn’t even know? Never. Never. I traced my clit up and across the plum
p folds of Nesta’s pussy until I found what I’d been looking for.

  An imagined tongue licked our clits as we grinded together—hot, wet, slick and powerful. Every woman had a tongue, but not every woman knew how to use it. Whoever Nesta spent the evening with knew just what to do. I could feel it like an echo in Nesta’s pulsing body. I could feel it in the way she bucked against my pussy while we tribbed. There was something between us, something we could both feel even though it wasn’t physically there.

  “What’s her name?” I grunted. I could barely speak.

  “We said we wouldn’t tell.” Nesta pinched her tits and squealed. “It’s in the rules.”

  “Fuck the rules.” I pounded her pussy with my clit, making it a cock, fucking her like she wanted. “Tell me her name.”

  “Won’t you be mad?”

  Holding her hips aloft, I traced my clit over hers, feeling her shudder. I trembled so hard I couldn’t speak. I didn’t care about that girl’s name anymore. I didn’t care about anything. My orgasm was coming on strong, riding up my thighs and swelling in my belly before shooting straight to my clit.

  It was fireworks, the way we exploded together. Her hips rattled in my hands. My cunt blazed against the soft, wet pink of her pussy. There was another element in the mix, too—a lingering scent, or feeling, or taste. Something foreign, not of us. Nothing else had ever felt this good, and I knew it was the unnamed femme, the ghost of a threesome. The tang of her pussy clung to my throat as I grunted Nesta’s name. Her tongue was there on my woman’s clit, lapping up hard while we climaxed together. The unnamed girl was there the whole time. No use denying it.

  My arms lost their strength. I dropped Nesta’s hips to the bed and our hot pussies tore apart, making a wet kissing sound. Falling in beside her, I spread my legs. My cunt felt so fat I couldn’t close them without sending aftershocks through my whole body.

  Nesta was panting wildly when I found her hand with mine. For a long time, we didn’t say a word. We had way too much to talk about—a whole rule book to reevaluate. Hard to know where to start.

  “I didn’t take my shower,” Nesta said, after a while.

  “Yeah.” I slid my arm under her shoulder and rolled in to sniff her neck. The whole room smelled like pussy, but I could still distinguish the one that wasn’t ours. “You want to shower now?”

  Nesta hesitated before saying, “Maybe in the morning. I’m too tired to stand.”

  We pulled up the covers and buried ourselves underneath. Change was coming, but the conversation could wait. We could sleep together in the scent of that nameless femme who’d taken Nesta up against a window, for all the world to see.

  SPINNING

  Kyoko Church

  Don’t move.”

  I don’t. I try not to breathe. I hold stock-still. I worry that even my beating heart threatens him.

  We lie there, a frozen tableau, like two people bracing for bad news, instead of like lovers.

  I will it not to happen, not again.

  “God, no, I’m sorry,” Brian blurts out as he begins to thrust frantically.

  Afterward I say all the things I’m supposed to say. All the platitudes. I don’t know why I bother. He’s not listening.

  What I really want is to hold him. To continue touching. To kiss. Maybe even…to do something else? Satisfaction can be had through other means, after all. But he is closed up tight, like a clamshell. And right now, I’m staring at the white plain of his back.

  The next day is when it all begins with WM.

  I swear I wasn’t looking for it. Not exactly. It starts innocently enough. I just sort of bump into him, you know how that can happen, and things just go from there. It’s the old story. He’s been in my life a long time, probably fifteen years. I just never looked at him that way before. When it starts becoming something more than it has been, when it progresses to something physical I am surprised. Tentative. What will people think? We don’t belong together. Well, not this way. It’s so wrong. But as these things go, that is part of what makes it so right.

  Maybe if things weren’t the way they are with Brian it wouldn’t have started. Maybe. But I feel such longing. Like a wilting flower desperate for water. Like bread going stale. So I do, I let myself. I let myself be with him. From the first touch, oh god, he feels so good. The thing is he starts off so slow. Gentle movements. Slow rocking. Lazy circles. He builds me up, over and over. Yes, he stops and starts, like with Brian. But all with intention. He takes me with such mastery. There is never any hesitation. He has a plan. From the beginning he knows how he will play me. He goes through each cycle of stoking my desire and he never wavers.

  I can’t believe how long he goes on. After all his gentle moves at the beginning at last he really gets going. He’s rough with me. God, how I’ve wanted it rough! How I’ve wanted to be slowly stoked and toyed with and then taken hard! So hard. He shakes me to my core. “Oh my god, I’m coming!” I cry out in delirious bliss. I am, good god, I am. Not a whispering, simpering little come, trying to hold back, to bite my tongue, to still my quivering insides. No. This is a shrieking, gushing, pulsing avalanche of an orgasm. I can barely hold on to him he’s bucking so hard and so am I and I love it, all of it.

  And still he doesn’t stop! No, he slows down momentarily but then appears to switch gears and gets going again. “Oh, you’re amazing,” I cry, as a second orgasm is wrenched from my body.

  I’ve read trashy romance novels where the heroine comes so many times she loses count. I hate trashy romance novels. I hate those silly heroines, ever beautiful yet feisty and plucky. I hate the stupid muscled Fabios on the covers, hate their long hair and hard pecs. But mostly I hate the writers for being so cavalier with their orgasms. Who has so many orgasms they lose count? I’d never heard anything so ridiculous! Repeated, countless orgasms only existed in the pages of those preposterous books. For me. Until WM.

  I might reread some of those novels. Maybe they’re not so bad.

  Because I really do lose count. Five? Seven? All I know is I have never reached heights of ecstasy like this. I barely know what to do with myself. I can only hold on for dear life and pray that I will always, always have him to turn to.

  “I’ve got a surprise for you.”

  A surprise? I don’t want a surprise from Brian, considering the “surprise” I could reveal to him.

  “Oh?” I say.

  “You’ve seemed a little distant recently. A little…preoccupied.”

  I flush furiously thinking maybe he’s seen something, sensed what’s going on. But no, he continues, seemingly without pretense.

  “Look, hon,” he says, grabbing my wrists and pulling me to him. “I know things can be…a bit lacking at times. And that maybe I’m not”—he looks momentarily stricken and my heart suddenly goes out to him—“not the best provider.” A strange way to put it, I think. “I want you to know, I can give you more. I can be the man you need me to be.”

  Guilt rises and swells and pushes tears to brim in my eyes. Oh, how could I have turned to WM? How humiliating. For him. For me. “It’s okay, baby. It’s okay.” I put my arms around him, kiss him. He is the man I love, after all. For all his…short-comings. As it were. I love him.

  I press my body to his, embrace him expectantly. But he only gives me a little smile and a quick peck on the cheek.

  “You’ll see after tomorrow. I can’t wait to give you your surprise.”

  After Brian has that talk with me I promise myself I’m going to quit this thing with WM. Just pretend it never happened. But now that I know what he can do, it’s hard to control myself. Whenever I glance his way it’s all I can do to stop from jumping him. I think Brian has to have noticed. The sidelong glances. The impassioned stares. Sometimes I feel bad for carrying on this way, right under his nose. But Brian would never suspect it. Not of us.

  My pulse racing, my pussy throbbing, I wait till Brian leaves for work and then I go to WM. I have to. I am driven by an aching need that leaves me cle
nching and wet.

  The words are always mine. He’s the strong, silent type. But who needs words with his stamina? He can last an hour, sometimes longer, depending. Sometimes I want gentle. Delicate. He lets me dictate. I know how to push his buttons. He lets me tell him what I need. And then he delivers. He can always deliver.

  I mount him. I’m on top, as usual. That’s the way it works with us, but I don’t mind. It’s our thing. “Easy, baby, easy,” I murmur as he pulses and thrusts between my legs. “Oh god, you’re always so hard,” I sigh.

  After he’s flung me around and my body is elastic with sated bliss, I go and collapse onto the bed, a worn-out smile on my face. Sleep envelops me. I don’t even wake up when Brian brings the deliverymen in the house.

  “Hello, sleepyhead,” Brian says, a huge smile stretched across his face. “Have a good nap?”

  “Very good,” I blink back at him. “Wow, I was right out of it. When did you get home?”

  “A while ago,” he replies. “Your surprise has arrived.”

  “Oh?” I yawn, stretch.

  “Come here and see it,” he says, pulling my hand.

  It takes me a second to realize what room he’s pulling me into. When I see where we’re headed my heart starts beating in my throat, a panic rises in my belly. He opens the door.

  Horror.

  A brand-new washing machine.

  Brian beams at me. “I’ve seen how you’ve been staring at that old, beat-up one. I know, it was all off balance and shook all over the place. It was obvious what you thought of it. I could see you wished we could get a new one.”

  My mouth is dry. My stomach has bottomed out. I can’t talk. All I can do is stare and stare at sleek white lines and shiny chrome.

  “I got a raise, babe. No more making do for my girl. Only the very best. This baby is top of the line. Solid as a rock. I got the quietest, most stable machine on the market. You can hear a kitten purr over this thing. You could set your finest china on its lid during the height of the spin cycle and not worry a second.”