Can't Get Enough: Erotica for Women Read online

  My clit is hard and slippery; I can’t get enough friction going, but I keep stroking. I want to make this look as good as possible. I arch my back, stick my tits out. I unbutton my blouse, showing off some cleavage. I throw my head back and start moaning while I stroke myself faster, making sticky noises I doubt she can hear over the muffler.

  My eyes are closed, but I can feel her gaze like it’s a tangible thing. Then I feel her fingers brushing my thigh. She has to stretch a little to reach me.

  “Get over here,” she says, her voice sounding strained.

  “No,” I say, continuing to rub my pussy, rocking myself into my fingers.

  “I said get the fuck over here,” she says, her need making her voice, making everything about her hard. “Little girl, get your ass over here right now, or I’m going to beat the skin off of it the next possible moment I get!”

  There are two things about this that we both know. One is that she is the only one who can call me little girl. Two is that I love it when she beats my ass.

  So it’s not because of her threat that I unbuckle my seat belt and scoot my naked butt over to her. She takes one hand off the wheel and wraps a thick arm around me. I’ve got my left leg scrunched against her side and my right thrown over her lap and hanging between the seat and the door. I start sucking on her neck, whimpering in her ear as I hump my pussy against her thigh. Her hand kneads my ass and then slips down my crack and underneath.

  Her fingers slip into me, and I gasp as she starts to fuck me in this crazy position. My hand slides around her gut, squeezing her flesh, then goes to her crotch, rubbing her through her jeans. She groans and pushes down on the gas pedal, jerking us forward. She is trying her best to look forward and drive straight. Suddenly she grabs my hand and puts it on the wheel. “You steer,” she says, as she buries her face in my cleavage, taking a chunk of flesh between her teeth.

  “You are fucking crazy!” I scream. Truth be told, I don’t know how to drive so well. Steering is only one small part of driving, you might say, and doesn’t seem like it would be so hard, but maybe you’ve never tried it with fingers up your pussy and a large piece of your tit between someone’s teeth.

  It all happens so fast. I swerve, she slams on the brakes and we’re in a ditch. It’s actually a lot better than it might have been. There’s no one else on the road, no cops behind us, no tree for us to crash into. The ditch isn’t deep and we haven’t flipped over. We’re both kind of shook up though. We just sit there for a minute, panting, not looking at each other. Then Row growls deep in her throat and pushes me back onto the seat. Her fingers find my pussy again and thrust home. She throws my leg over her shoulder and fucks me hard and fast, just the way I like it, looking into my eyes, like we’re making babies or some shit.

  CRAVING THE BEST MAN

  JoAnne Kenrick

  I’m wet just thinking about him, can’t concentrate on anything other than trying to remember the sensation of his lips pressed against my sex and his sharp whiskers pricking my sensitive skin.

  I lose my grip on a half-empty wine goblet. It slips to the floor and shatters, the sounds of breaking glass piercing through me. Damn it. Everyone looks up. My OCD mother in her pristine white skirt-suit rushes to clean up the red liquid soaking into the lush cream carpet, and party guests pile around me, trying to engage me in their conversation about the secrets to a good marriage. Perfect! Now I’ll never get away.

  Throwing my arms in the air, I give up. I despise how my cravings have taken over everything, leaving me constantly focused on my wants instead of my needs. Want. Yes, I want him right now, even as my mother mops around my feet.

  This is stupid. I’d taken hours to tease my hair into soft, spiraling curls. Pinned it up with cute diamond pins. I wore a new dress and shoes. I looked nice. So why would I want to ditch my sister’s engagement party for him? That would be such a waste of a pretty frock. And it would infuriate the bride-to-be, not to mention my mother. Then I remember the pretty peach lace corset squeezing in my waist and giving the girls a boost and I feel a grin spread. Shouldn’t put that to waste, either. Wiggling my butt, I relish in the tight pull of the G-string between my cheeks. He could be yanking that cord, pulling my knickers down to take me from behind.

  I give in, can’t stand here any longer pretending I’m all sweet as pie when all I want to do is fuck the best man…again and again. I decide it’s time for a fix and swiftly exit the parlor of my mother’s Victorian semi to go look for him.

  He is leaning against the brocade wallpaper decorating the hallway. He smiles at me from behind his long, dark bangs, twirling his bike keys over his decorated ring finger.

  I swear, he looks all the more attractive wearing that ring.

  Fixing tendrils of hair away from my face, I stand tall and slink toward him. I feel silly; never was one to get that accentuated sexy walk right. With my curves, I probably look more like a wobbling jelly than a sexy vixen. But my pussy leads the way; I am a slave to my cravings and don’t care how I look. He winks, turning me into a quivering pool of mush with the sex drive of a spring bunny.

  “Hi, not enjoying the party?” he says, his voice all velvet and smooth.

  I want him to grab me and kiss me hard. I want him to drag me into my father’s office behind him so he can fuck me. I want…

  “No.” My pulse races. What might he do to me?

  “Wanna get out of here, Amelia?”

  “Yes, badly.” I step forward to pass him. He grabs my wrist and shakes his head, a smile so wide, teeth so perfect—the benefits of being a dentist, I guess. I’m thinking I’d like to reach up and lick his pearly whites, and my cheeks heat. “But I can’t.”

  His grip tightens, hurts a little. I can’t decide if I like the pain. “My motor is outside, we could go anywhere you like.”

  “I should probably go back to the party.” I wiggle and pull my arm, hoping to break free from his grasp. I don’t try that hard, as I’m not too sure I want him to release me.

  “I can’t stop thinking about you,” he croons, dark brown eyes glaring at me, skimming my body and stalling at my chest. “Been wondering what’s under that dress all evening.”

  “My sister will notice we’re missing.” I’m a little worried, but mostly I’m silently begging for this hunk to throw me over his shoulder, to claim me.

  He grabs my other wrist, spins me around and pins my arms above my head. I’m against the wall, and he’s leaning into me. His hard flesh is pushing at my delicate region, telling me his intentions are not honorable.

  “Your sister won’t notice anything other than being the center of attention.” He puts his lips on mine and forces my mouth open with his tongue. I struggle to breathe, to keep my senses. His kisses deepen, and unbidden need throbs between my legs. A soft moan escapes me. I feel his mouth curl to a smile, and I wonder what wickedness he is imagining.

  “I want you, right now.” He pushes harder into me, slides his rough hand under my skirt and up my thigh.

  “No, really, I can’t do this. Everyone is watching.” For the life of me, I can’t think. Don’t want to think. My sex is throbbing, distracting me, driving me to the brink of insanity and dampening my knickers.

  He manhandles me into the office. It’s dark. I can’t see a thing except for a line of light beneath the door. Metallic clinks echo, and I assume it’s him locking the door.

  “No, seriously, we shouldn’t do it in here,” I say. I wait in the darkened room. He hasn’t made a move in what feels like five minutes. Shivering, not from cold but from nerves, I anticipate his touch. Crave his touch.

  He turns the desk lamp on, his face illuminated in a soft orange glow from the bulb.

  “Better in here than out there with what I’ve got planned.” He takes the neckline of my dress in his big hands and tugs until the material weakens and rips. My new dress, ruined. I want to cry, I should cry. Be angry or something, anything other than be a horny slut. An impossibility right now with his gorgeous brown
s glaring me over. “Take your shirt off,” he demands.

  “It’s like that?”

  “Uh-huh…now do as your master tells you and strip.”

  “Yes, Sir.” I slip out of my dress, my skin prickling as the cold air skims me.

  He looks me over. “I like how the corset stops short of your nipples.” Thumbing something on my father’s desk, he hums a happy tune. Paperclips? A wicked grin spreads over his face. Uh-oh. He’s thought of some amazing way to get my rocks off. Not good; I usually scream when he gets creative with pain delivery.

  He bends the flimsy metal and wraps two clips around each of my nipples. My nubs harden at his touch, and tingle and tighten. Then a sharp pinch shoots from my breasts down to my crotch. Ouch. He’s clamped my nipples. He licks the tips of my nubs peeking through the metal, and he moans all gruff-like. Grr.

  “Want me to bend over?” I ask, impatient to relieve the throbbing ache in my pussy and desperate to finish fucking before anyone realizes I’m missing.

  “Oh, you know it’s naughty to tell me what to do.” He glances around, searching for his next makeshift torture device. Something catches his eye; a glint of mischief flickers across his irises. “Lie on the desk,” he whispers, unzipping his pants.

  I don’t want to do as I’m told just yet. I’d rather wait to see his cock jut out. I’ve missed that hard, long shaft, and want it buried deep inside me.

  Already, a pearl of precum is glistening on the tip of his shaft. I want to lick it off, to tease his head with my tongue, make him as desperate for release as I am. I slink toward him, but he shakes his head. I ignore his warning. In one swift movement, I’ve got his end in my mouth and I’m licking up the salty goodness.

  He groans and hardens inside me. “On the desk, now,” he orders.

  This time, I do as I’m told and lie on my back, heels of my shoes digging into the wood. Crap, I’m sure Dad will notice those dents in the morning.

  He nudges my legs open and traces the insides of my thighs with one of my father’s bendy rulers. Each time, he draws closer to my moist slit.

  He lifts it slightly, then brings it down my swollen mound with a playful spank. I yelp. He repeats the motion, harder. I yelp again. He teases me with the ruler, moving it in circles between my sensitive lips. And he spanks my pussy again.

  “You like being naughty, don’t you?” he croons.

  “No, Sir,” I cry, so desperate for him to be inside me.

  “You do, you’re soaking wet. Just look at the mess you’ve left on your father’s ruler.” He licks the length of it. “Hmm, so sweet. You should taste yourself.”

  I shake my head. “I’d rather taste you, Sir.”

  Climbing onto the desk and between my legs, he then forces himself inside me. I relish in how my entrance stretches to accommodate him. He’s no small boy; he makes me feel full. Now deep inside, he rotates his hips and pulls out. Before I can react, he’s placed his cock at my mouth. “Taste us both, go on. And suck it hard, baby. I want you to beg my seed to come out. Do it.”

  I don’t really want to taste myself, but I can’t resist his hard-on. I want to please him, want to draw him to ecstasy. So I wrap my mouth around him again and slide down his length. He’s wet, and my juices are smothered all over him. The mix of my sweetness and his saltiness actually tastes pleasant and I lick him from his head down to his balls, cleaning my own juices off him. Then I suck on him. Using my hands and mouth in unison, I work him hard toward spurting his cum. He tweaks at the clips over my nipples, the pain shooting straight to my pussy. I scream out with the pleasure/pain tingles gathering in my tummy. He tweaks them again and the pain explodes, permeating my whole being.

  “Hm, you give quite the blow job, honey. Now get up and bend over, fast. I’m ready to come,” he orders.

  I scramble to my feet, only too happy to oblige, knowing his always vocal orgasm will bring forth my own.

  He spanks me with the ruler, then rams deep into me with his cock, momentum and grunting growing harder, faster.

  His groaning and moaning makes me close to orgasm, too.

  And then he squirts his thick, plentiful seed into me, warming me.

  “Tighten those clips,” he demands. I do as I’m told and cause pain to once again shoot to my pussy and make me come over his length. My muscles contract and milk him for all he has to offer. I scream out, enjoying the postorgasmic nirvana and already thinking of the next time I can steal away a few moments to fuck him.

  Someone bursts in.

  It’s my newly engaged sister and she’s gawking. “Can’t you leave him alone for a minute? Christ almighty, Amelia, anyone would think you guys are newlyweds!” Her fiancé pops his head around the door and cops an eyeful of me naked and bent over with cum dripping down my legs. He smirks.

  My sister tsks, pushes him out and leaves us to it, shutting the door behind her. His voice is muffled, but we can still hear him. “I can only hope we’re as happy after five years of marriage.”

  “Ha, he should be so lucky. Hm, I needed that…nothing like fucking my wife in her father’s office to make me come like a…” My husband pulls up his pants and spanks me. “I fucking love you, Amelia.”

  “And I you.”

  UNDER HIS WATCH

  Rachel Kramer Bussel

  I’d say I’m lucky—if I believed in luck. What I believe in is making your own luck, seeking out not a soul mate who will fulfill your every whim, but someone who will make you not only a better person, but a more fully realized version of yourself. In short, someone who will make you feel lucky every time you look at him, hear his name, think about him, touch him, someone who will make you dizzy with desire and thanking God whether you believe in a deity or not that you found him and he found you.

  That’s what I have in my Leonard. Leonard is nothing like the dashing playboy types I’d been with before I met him. Leonard was fifty-one, a self-made millionaire content to let the younger men and women he’d hired run his software company while he worked on his house, played elaborate games online, studied art and traveled on occasion. I was a stay-up-all-night, thirty-four-year-old bartender, more concerned with where I was going to party that night than my investment portfolio or settling down. We were opposites on paper, but the minute we met, I felt something in me shift, from my head to my toes, down deep in my soul, my marrow, and I knew we were destined to be together.

  I didn’t care about the age difference, or the fact that, at six feet tall, I tower over him by four inches, without heels. I cared that when he looked at me in that way he did when he approached me shyly at a friend’s cocktail party, I felt his gaze heat up my entire body. He was sweet and polite, no games, no lines, just appreciative as he poured me a flute of champagne. I felt that heat even as I knocked back my drink, leaned down and whispered in his ear that if he was up for it, I knew a cozy little closet were I’d fuck his brains out. He wasn’t drinking, but he sputtered in shock, not used to women like me. For the record, he didn’t take me up on it just then—by now, we’ve fucked in plenty of closets, but that night he simply let me do my thing, mingle and flirt and flit around the crowd, until it was time for him to help me with my coat, share a cab and a sensuous, deep kiss in the backseat and get my phone number.

  What I said before is a lie, actually—I didn’t know for sure that he was the man I’d wind up marrying immediately, not even when, three weeks later (his choice), he finally bent me over in his bedroom so my long brown hair brushed the floor, arranging us so our bodies aligned as his cock speared me over and over. He was worth waiting for. I still didn’t know it when he touched my clit and made me see stars behind my closed eyes, but I was getting the picture. I was still aglow, barely able to make small talk. I recovered as I sipped coffee naked in his bed and we stayed up all night talking. When I climbed on top of him as the sun rose, I knew for sure this wasn’t just a one-night stand.

  And it hasn’t been. We got married two months later, me in a red-lace dress with red-an
d-gold fishnets, towering above Leonard in red-and-black heels, him in a traditional tux. On our Honolulu honeymoon, he got his first taste of what our married life would be like—men and women flirting shamelessly with me, whether he was by my side or not. It had happened before, but something about us knowing we wanted to be together forever made me feel safer in flirting right back, especially the more I realized that Leonard, rather than feeling jealous, got off on it in a big way. Leonard doesn’t wear his kinks on his sleeve—in fact, I’d never have known just how naughty he was if we hadn’t connected at that party—but he is as passionately perverted as I am in his own way.

  We’re a pair—though sometimes, we’re more than a pair. The dirty little secret to how we make our three-year marriage work is that when I’m in the mood, I go on the prowl, while he keeps a watchful eye. One night in bed on our honeymoon, he whispered in my ear, “I saw that model and his girlfriend hanging on your every word; it made me hard to think about him bending you over a bed and taking you from behind with your head buried between her legs. Or just him and you…”

  I pulled back to stare intently at my new husband. “Are you saying you wanted the cute little redhead?”

  “No, honey, I’m saying I want you. But I also know that lots of other people do, and if you’re into it, I don’t want to deprive you. And, well, I’d like to watch you let out your inhibitions, go totally wild, with whoever you like, as long as I get to watch.”

  We implemented that rule on our honeymoon, and have been playing with others ever since. It’s not an everyday thing, or even an every month thing; it’s a whenever someone strikes my fancy thing. I’m a bit flamboyant, and he likes to blend into the crowd, which works perfectly. I never look like I have my husband spying on my flirtations; I can ease whoever I’m chatting up into the idea of joining me in bed, and once they’re following every seductive smile I beam their way, I drop the bomb. Most men don’t care who’s watching as long as I’m giving them my full attention; some even get off on it as much as I do. I don’t know if I’d feel as comfortable seeking out strangers to sleep with if it weren’t under the guidance of my doting husband. Not only does he make me feel safe, he encourages me to be my most outrageous, wild self. We play off each other, the way a couple should.