HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY!
So what have your fantasies come up with on this delicious day? Mine have the tethers and spreader bar pulled out from under my bed and a beautiful man trapped on display with them while I read erotica seated in a nearby chair just to see if a dirty story in my voice can make his cock stand at attention.
Where was I? Oh yeah, book review time. Way back in the day, the early part of the 21st century, I was introduced to Cleis Press when I came across a copy of the first Best Women’s Erotica on a Barnes and Noble shelf. Before then, all my naked literature fixes were fulfilled with various girly magazines like Penthouse Variations and Letters. Cool, but nothing compared to the delicious heat I found in those first BWE pages. They spoke my language, and I’ve read every edition since. This year has a couple of well-knowns like Rachel Kramer Bussel and Alison Tyler — and some names I’ve never heard before but will definitely be on the lookout for. The 2015 edition offers a different kind of spice, not as tame as that first one in 2000, but growing with the boldness of our favorite fantasies. You will find whatever it takes to get you off in these pages.
There was one story I really liked above all others because it reminded me of my very first fantasies/sexual experiences. I was always the youngest kid in class all through high school, fated so by how my birthday fell, and I heard about and saw my friends experiencing their sexual firsts before I ever even dared. I was a voyeur, or whatever the aural version of voyeur is, and got off on listening to what was happening on the other side of that wall, imagining what it would be like if those sounds were being inspired to come from me. Even to this day, the sounds of sex arouse me like nothing else and I’ll find orgasm faster with moans and groans than the actual sights and touching.
The following excerpt reminded me of those early days as the story’s young virgin fantasizes about her teacher. (Teachers are another big arousal point for me, but that’s another tale. This blog isn’t big enough to list all the things teachers do to my sapiosexual blonde brain.)
THE ART TEACHER
by Rachel Woe
I’ve hiked the skirt up a bit so that when I bend over, one can just barely see a hint of my purple knickers. I’ve always loved that word; it’s naughtier than underwear and less trite than panties. The fact that I’m not British is of little concern to me.
The faucet squeaks and then there is silence. I assume he’s still at the counter but don’t dare turn to look. I pray to every god and goddess that has ever existed that he is noticing me: the hint of purple fabric, how the lace trim on my stockings clings to the flesh of my upper thighs. Of course, there’s always the possibility that he’s eyeing me with disdain, thinking my efforts silly or too transparent. I would die if he asked me to cover up. Then again, I would die if he asked me to take it off. Please, just fucking kill me already.
Mr. Thompson’s footsteps break the silence, growing louder as he meanders over to the table. My heart threatens to choke me, but I remain composed. He is standing beside me, surveying my work. I happen to be shading the woman’s left breast, relying on neon yellows and navy blues to give it a more three-dimensional appearance.
“This is coming along beautifully, Mireille. I really like how you’ve decided to go with unconventional colors. They stand out nicely against the black background.” He gestures to the work I’ve already completely around her face, those lean, beautiful hands moving in ways that both thrill and transfix. I can’t help but relish the way my name expertly rolls off his tongue; he obviously speaks French.
“Thanks.” I am nervous and can’t seem to raise my voice above a loud whisper but the emptiness of the room negates the need to project myself.
“Do you think you’ll have it ready by next Friday?” His gray-blue eyes follow the brush as it strokes the underside of the painted woman’s breast.
Mr. Thompson does not look at me, which I find to be both a blessing and a tragedy. I watch him longer than I should, marveling at the sharpness of his cheekbones and the angle of his jaw, all painfully untouchable.
“I think so. The outline is finished. All I have left to do is the shading.”
He glances at me and my groin tightens. I bite the interior of my cheek to distract myself and avert my eyes back down toward the painting; the woman’s stare mocks me.
My thoughts race as I think of all the things I’d like him to help me with. For starters, he might help me out of my skirt and stockings. After which he could help himself to my virgin cunt — damn, I love that word. My mother absolutely cannot abide hearing it but I use it every chance I get.
Cunt. My tight, virgin cunt. My hungry cunt.
I really must stop before I lose my composure, as I’ve already begun squeezing my thighs together and rocking back and forth reflexively. The fact that I have to urinate only draws more attention to that sadly neglected area. It’s not that I do not masturbate, because I do — often — but I’ve never had another person besides my family doctor touch me there. It’s one thing to do it yourself, to have complete control over which areas get stimulated and in what way, but I can only imagine how exciting and scary it would be to have someone else’s hands, fingers, and — oh, fuck — mouth down there, manipulating me in ways I can’t even conceptualize.
The shriek of a telephone in Mr. Thompson’s office jolts me out of my reverie and I realize that I’ve just accidentally over-shaded the painted woman’s right breast.
“Shit,” I hiss, dipping my brush into a bit of yellow in the hopes of compensating for the damage.
Mr. Thompson answers the phone at a normal volume but then begins to speak in hushed whispers. I hear footsteps and then the sound of a heavy door creaking and latching. I turn and see that he has closed the door to his office. At the same time, I notice a quarter-sized hole beneath the knob. The door must have featured a lock at one point but, for whatever reason, it was removed. I debate the ethics of grasping this opportunity to spy on him and my curiosity is far more powerful than any sense of morality. Before long, I’m removing my gray flats and slinking toward the door.
I crouch, hovering just above the door with my eye to the peephole. I can barely make out his side of the conversation and am both affronted and intrigued by what I hear.
“Of course I’ve thought about you since August. How could I not? That was some of the best damn head I’ve ever gotten.”
He is talking to a woman. I know this because the tinny, unintelligible voice coming out of the other end of the phone sounds high pitched, feminine. His own voice is low and guttural, deeper than I’m used to hearing in class. I’m both insanely jealous and eager to hear more.
Mr. Thompson is reclining in his desk chair with his legs spread wide and his other hand stuffed inside the pocket of his paint-stained jeans. There is some squeaky dialogue from the other end of the line. I wish I could hear what she’s saying, as he’s obviously enjoying the conversation. The thought of myself ever being the catalyst for that broad, lascivious smile on his face makes my cunt throb.