Best Women's Erotica(12)
He was loud now, his groans competing with the on-screen demon’s, and when the actor came, with a cry of exquisite release, so did the guy. I saw Wendy’s head jerk back with shock, as his come shot out, showering her shoulder, spattering her face. If I’d been quicker, I could have thrown myself into the line of fire, felt it slap against my skin and then licked it away again. Instead, I felt like grabbing Wendy and shaking her. You wasted it! I wanted to say. Has Lilly taught you nothing?
But I was fascinated as well, watching as the cock began almost instantly to subside, the last thick drops of white collecting at the tip to drip reluctantly to the floor. Their owner, too, was limp, leaning back on the seats behind him, collecting his breath, gathering his wits and gazing at Wendy with such undying devotion that, as she stood up and squeezed past me, wordlessly returning to her own seat, I thought he was going to cry.
Instead he just stood there for a few moments more, slowly comprehending the fact that it was over, that Wendy wasn’t even going to look at him again, let alone speak. Then he buttoned himself up and walked away.
We sat in silence for a moment. Then Wanda spoke.
“So what was that all about?”
Wendy didn’t answer immediately. “I felt like it. We’ve done so much talking, I just wanted to see what it was really like.”
So it was her first time. I felt a pang of relief.
Wanda again. “What does it taste like?”
Again, Wendy was silent, weighing her words before she committed to them. “Salty. Like a pretzel. A glazed pretzel. It was okay.”
“Just okay?” That was Lisa.
“It was fun. It would’ve been better if I’d been more comfortable, and my jaw did start to hurt after a bit. And he kept trying to push too far. But yeah, it’s okay.”
“What about at the end?” I asked. “How did you know it was…he was…coming?”
“I didn’t, he just jerked away and it startled me. But I’m glad he did, I think. I caught a bit in my mouth, and…” She made a face. “Salty old socks. You probably need to get used to it.”
I looked up at the screen. Lilly didn’t seem to mind it so much, and just watching the expression on her face, as her umpteenth mouthful dribbled down a dick, I knew that, when my time finally came, I was going to love it as well, no matter how much getting used to it took. And, unlike a lot of the resolutions I’ve made over the years (to quit smoking, get plenty of exercise, never pet strange dogs…), I’m proud to say that’s the one I’ve stuck to.
The Sexorcist was one of the last movies we ever saw at that shabby old movie house with the mysteriously unlocked door; one of the last truly great ones, anyway. Other people learned the secret, including some who might otherwise have paid for their membership; and others, who didn’t believe that such establishments had any right to exist in the first place. One balmy Thursday the following spring, we arrived at the back door at the same time as always to find two uniformed policemen standing in the shadows within.
We ran; they stayed, and the next time we passed by, the building was empty, the doors were chained, the marquee had been stripped bare. Only the cartoon blonde remained, and even she’d had a billposter slapped over her mouth. Even at our age, that seemed strangely symbolic.
TWO FOR ONE
Alyssa Turner
I rarely have the time to treat myself to anything. Call me a workaholic, but starting a PR firm from the ground up has left my days jam-packed with serving the requirements of others. Demanding as they are, I have to be grateful that my list of clients is rapidly growing, and it’s looking like my business will actually turn a profit some day. Still, to keep my sanity I say my daily affirmation: it will all be worth it when I can hire someone else to put up with all the bullshit, and then I get my ass on another plane to work my magic on some new product launch or fundraising breakfast. All that back and forth can be murder on your body; not enough sleep, too much time in coach…not enough sex. By the time I’m ready to return, I’m guaranteed to be stressed out, mentally spent and in desperate need of a massage. After one particularly long and aggravating day on the road, I decided that some relaxation at the hands of another was just what I deserved.
I stopped at the concierge desk. “Your website mentioned that you have a spa,” I inquired of a vapid-looking young woman, interrupting her not-so-discreet conversation with one of the porters about her last booty call. She glanced my way, clearly inconvenienced by my pesky desire to be helped. “I’d like a massage. Can I make an appointment here?” I asked her directly.