Read Online Best Women's Erotica 2011 by Violet Blue - Free Book Online
Authors: Violet Blue
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whipping his cock in and out with abandon and ushering us both to yet another fiery explosion.
Breathless, I relaxed my trembling frame onto Sean, my body a mound of tingling nerves and electric chills. I could feel the faint meanderings of Sean’s fingers as he ran them absently through my hair and the warm weight of Mike’s head on my thigh as he used it for a pillow. We stayed like that for some time, drifting in and out of sleep and replaying the night’s events in our thoughts and dreams. Our final good-byes during the wee hours of the morning would find us all in agreement about two things: the race for my fifty bucks had gone right out the window somewhere after my second orgasm, and we should definitely get together again if I happened to return to town. But at that moment, lying there nestled between the two of them and floating on a level of satisfaction I hadn’t imagined I would find during any massage session—I silently called it a tie.
I, ANITA
Lana Fox
The Baron first set eyes on me during my burlesque, in which I slow-danced in a corset with a garter belt and stockings. I enjoyed swinging my hips within the tight, boned basque, its sleek red silk stretched taut. Apart from my costume, I had only a wooden chair, which awaited my arrival on the limelit stage. Leaning forward, I’d raise my knee and place my heeled sandal upon the seat, smoothing a stocking along my thigh, my red lips pouting, my eyes heavily kohled. I used my body, arching my spine so my breasts pushed up against the strapless bodice, as if at any moment, in their buoyancy, they’d spring from the fabric. There, as the music played, I’d slowly gyrate, making love to the men with my stare. Not that I could see them—they were lost in the shadows—but I could feel their desire burning my flesh, could hear their throaty cries.
But this was just the prelude; I was famous for the wooden chair. A member of the audience would be led to the stage where I’d take his hand, and his dewy vulnerability never failed to
affect me. As he sat in the chair, I knelt at his feet clutching his knees, fingers covered with rings and bangles—before I unbuttoned his flies.
There with quiet moans rising from our audience, I’d take the man’s sex in my hands and with my tongue, my mouth, my slick-glossed lips, I would bestow my pleasure. Velvet Tongue, they called me, for that’s how I worked: with my breasts rising inside my corset, and the garter-straps digging into my thighs, and my dark curls tumbling, I’d lick and suck, rub and tease, my own sex growing wetter, until I’d feel him clutching at his seat with trembling, white knuckles.
I’d somehow know exactly what each man craved the most.
He’d yell out, bucking into my mouth, crying wildly as he filled my throat—thrusting over and over, he’d often fill me so fully that the fluid would seep from the corners of my mouth. At other times, when he reached the point of no return, I’d know to pull back, allowing the first flash of my oil-rubbed breasts to catch his coming. The pale stream would streak across my cleavage and down the boned bodice; the moans of approval from the audience made me long to touch myself. The man would gratefully collapse. Whoever he was, he’d ask me out on a date.
I always told them no.
Until I met the Baron.
Whenever I returned backstage, I’d lock the door to my dressing room, and there on the chair I’d brought from my act, I would slide two fingers inside my slick lace and rub myself quickly, the fluid still warm on my nipples, arching as I came. Thus, before I met the Baron, I never had to be close to a man. Sex for me was either public or terribly alone.
I didn’t know how miserable I was.
Well, you will hear dastardly things said of the Baron, and
most of them are true. How he held sleeping girls in his bed and touched himself without their knowing; how he fucked his wives then left them, robbing them of their money, counting on the
Breathless, I relaxed my trembling frame onto Sean, my body a mound of tingling nerves and electric chills. I could feel the faint meanderings of Sean’s fingers as he ran them absently through my hair and the warm weight of Mike’s head on my thigh as he used it for a pillow. We stayed like that for some time, drifting in and out of sleep and replaying the night’s events in our thoughts and dreams. Our final good-byes during the wee hours of the morning would find us all in agreement about two things: the race for my fifty bucks had gone right out the window somewhere after my second orgasm, and we should definitely get together again if I happened to return to town. But at that moment, lying there nestled between the two of them and floating on a level of satisfaction I hadn’t imagined I would find during any massage session—I silently called it a tie.
I, ANITA
Lana Fox
The Baron first set eyes on me during my burlesque, in which I slow-danced in a corset with a garter belt and stockings. I enjoyed swinging my hips within the tight, boned basque, its sleek red silk stretched taut. Apart from my costume, I had only a wooden chair, which awaited my arrival on the limelit stage. Leaning forward, I’d raise my knee and place my heeled sandal upon the seat, smoothing a stocking along my thigh, my red lips pouting, my eyes heavily kohled. I used my body, arching my spine so my breasts pushed up against the strapless bodice, as if at any moment, in their buoyancy, they’d spring from the fabric. There, as the music played, I’d slowly gyrate, making love to the men with my stare. Not that I could see them—they were lost in the shadows—but I could feel their desire burning my flesh, could hear their throaty cries.
But this was just the prelude; I was famous for the wooden chair. A member of the audience would be led to the stage where I’d take his hand, and his dewy vulnerability never failed to
affect me. As he sat in the chair, I knelt at his feet clutching his knees, fingers covered with rings and bangles—before I unbuttoned his flies.
There with quiet moans rising from our audience, I’d take the man’s sex in my hands and with my tongue, my mouth, my slick-glossed lips, I would bestow my pleasure. Velvet Tongue, they called me, for that’s how I worked: with my breasts rising inside my corset, and the garter-straps digging into my thighs, and my dark curls tumbling, I’d lick and suck, rub and tease, my own sex growing wetter, until I’d feel him clutching at his seat with trembling, white knuckles.
I’d somehow know exactly what each man craved the most.
He’d yell out, bucking into my mouth, crying wildly as he filled my throat—thrusting over and over, he’d often fill me so fully that the fluid would seep from the corners of my mouth. At other times, when he reached the point of no return, I’d know to pull back, allowing the first flash of my oil-rubbed breasts to catch his coming. The pale stream would streak across my cleavage and down the boned bodice; the moans of approval from the audience made me long to touch myself. The man would gratefully collapse. Whoever he was, he’d ask me out on a date.
I always told them no.
Until I met the Baron.
Whenever I returned backstage, I’d lock the door to my dressing room, and there on the chair I’d brought from my act, I would slide two fingers inside my slick lace and rub myself quickly, the fluid still warm on my nipples, arching as I came. Thus, before I met the Baron, I never had to be close to a man. Sex for me was either public or terribly alone.
I didn’t know how miserable I was.
Well, you will hear dastardly things said of the Baron, and
most of them are true. How he held sleeping girls in his bed and touched himself without their knowing; how he fucked his wives then left them, robbing them of their money, counting on the
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