Best Women's Erotica 2011 Read Online Free PDF Page A

sixth grade, waiting for the tiniest peek of fine hair to escape from their shirtsleeves. This part of the men I’ve been with never seems to age past then, or else just seeing it still awes me, reminds me I’m a grown-up and I can see the secret, finely haired places of men any time I want. I gently stuck a finger beneath the waist of his jeans, and he sucked in his stomach to invite me in.
    This is when things always speed up. Should I savor this half-naked exploration, make it last, the revelations of skin inch by inch? His erection was distorting his jeans; when I put my hand on it, he gasped and rubbed against me. I fell on him, and together we ground our pelvises together, knocking bone and bone, jeans and jeans, pinching nipples and biting lips and ears and necks. He
scratched my back with invisible nails. Finally I began fumbling with his belt buckle, and he sat back and whipped it off, threw it on the floor, unbuttoned the first button of his jeans and there was his cock, hot and dark pink and gaspingly escaped from the waist of his boxers, lying against the trail of fine hairs running down from his shallow navel. He paused—what was he thinking? Trying to decide if he wanted to continue, or was he embarrassed, or was it something else altogether? But he continued; he raised himself to his knees and unzipped his jeans, wiggled them down and lay down next to me to take them off.
    I was the more clothed one for once. So many times the guy still has on his clothes, maybe his jeans or pants, maybe all of his clothes, while I lie back naked and cold, waiting for them to lie on me and warm me up. Instead, he was skinny and naked, stippled with ink on his back and arms and even, I saw, his thighs. Skinny like a boy you want to feed, skinny like my first boyfriend in seventh grade.
    He stuck his hand down my jeans and inhaled quickly when he felt how wet I was, how soaked. He brought his fingers to his mouth and licked them; he kissed me and his mouth tasted like my cunt, and he stuck his index finger in my mouth and that tasted like my cunt too. I bit his finger and took his hand and put it down my jeans again.
    “Two, three, four,” I told him. More fingers. More. He bundled them up and worked them inside me like a small dick. I curved up into his hand, rocking and flexing, until I came with a flood and a rush and he licked his fingers again.
    He scooched down the bed until his nose was level to the button on my jeans. He licked my belly button. He gently bit the curve of belly beneath. He licked just beyond the waist of my jeans, where it was dark and hot, and I was still radiating heat from his finger fuck.

    He bit at the brass button closing my jeans. I giggled, my stomach rippling above him. I wished I loved him, I wished I knew who he was, but mostly I just wished he’d take off my jeans and lick my pussy and quit fucking around with the button.
    Which he did.
    He bit and worried and licked the flesh around my hips, on the inside of my thighs, where my torso met my legs. He breathed on my cunt but refused to get nearer, ducking away when I strained toward him. He was rubbing his cock on the bed, on the mounds of sheets, he was gasping his hot breath right on me but still not touching. Oh, he knew what he was doing. He didn’t read this in some lad mag. Someone taught him; he learned from practice and from the love of it. A woman can tell when someone doesn’t want to go down on her, but he was already there. He put his whole mouth on my clothed vulva; the shock of warmth made me hiss unintelligible pleas. I could feel him smile. Then I felt the impossibly soft, wet touch of his tongue nudging my panties aside—first on the left, then on the right, licking me up and down, nipping each lip, slipping his tongue under the cloth still covering my slit. I wanted to throw something at him; I wished he had long hair so I could grab it and pull him in. He slipped his fingers in and pulled them away from me, nosed in