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

was with, though.
    He kissed me, sloppy and wet and panting, moaning into my
mouth, still staring at me and into me and past me, still scaring me. He thrust a few last times and I felt his cock thrum with orgasm. He fell onto my chest and kissed my shoulder, and I felt something wet drip down from my shoulder to my chest and lie between my breasts.
    I couldn’t tell if it was sweat or tears.

PICTURES OF LILLY
    Chrissie Bentley
     
     
    It is said that a stereotype is only truly offensive (and stereo-typical) if it is true. In that case, my memories of a certain Adults Only theater, in a medium-sized East Coast city in the mid-1970s are very offensive indeed.
    Even from the outside, the building stood out like a dirty nail on a manicured hand, an off-white pile that was erected in the ’30s as the latest in contemporary architecture, and had neither been painted nor refurbished since then. Once it had indeed been a proud and beautiful theater, but the mainstream movies had long stopped playing there.
    Instead, a proprietor who looked as seedy as his establishment specialized in what the low-key marquee insisted were Continental and Scandinavian features, all of which apparently starred the same blowsily made-up cartoon blonde, scantily clad and long since defaced beneath precisely the kind of graffiti you’d expect to find in such a place—ink-scrawled cocks and balls that assailed her from every direction, ribald commentaries that blossomed
in speech bubbles, and enough jets of Magic Markered semen to float a battleship.
    The place never closed. Early morning, on the way to class; late into the evening, on the way home from a friend’s house and at any hour in between, one of two or three bored-looking youths would be seated in the ticket booth; and, occasionally, you’d see an actual customer shuffling in or out of the main door, and he’d be as clichéd as the establishment itself. He really would look furtive, he really would be wearing a raincoat, and nine times out of ten, he really would be wearing a flat cap, which he’d pull down over his eyes the moment he saw someone else on the street outside.
    But there was one aspect of the experience that was not a stereotype; that was, in fact, so bizarre that even those of us who were aware of it were scarcely able to voice it out loud, for fear that the very act of open discussion might end the magic there and then. Every Thursday afternoon (but only Thursday afternoons), sometime before we turned out of class, the emergency exit at the back of the building would be mysteriously unbolted and would remain that way all evening.
    The first few weeks after we discovered this presumably magical portal, the four of us simply stood by the opening, squinting into the darkness on the other side, listening to the soundtrack that crackled off the screen: groans, gasps, cries and crescendos, all set to a kind of pulsing neo-rock music, played exclusively, it seemed through a wah-wah pedal.
    Occasionally a snatch of dialogue would emerge amid the grunting; occasionally, the actual meaning of the words might be comprehended by one or other of us, but even if they weren’t, the sentence itself would soak into our collective psyche, to become a sort of in-joke secret weapon, to be deployed whenever the adult world grew too demanding.

    “Did you finish your history assignment?” “Go lick it off your tits.” And I often wonder whether I was the only one of us who experienced a secret frisson of excitement at the very thought of doing just that…of raising one breast and lowering my head and then running my tongue through the thick pool of come that a lover had just deposited there. I don’t know, maybe I was. But when one of our number—I think it was Wanda—suggested that we actually pass through the door and watch instead of merely listening to the movies, I was the first to agree.
    We were no strangers to “bunking” into the movies for free. Every movie-house in town