The Ultimate Erotic Short Story Collection 11: 11 Erotica Books

By AmorBooks.com

This is a massive collection of 11 Erotic Books for Women, an ultimate package consisting of 11 tremendously popular Erotic Short Stories for Women, by 11 different authors.

All of the 11 chosen books are exclusive to this specific collection, so even if you've purchased other volumes of ”The Ultimate Erotic Short Story Collection” you can rest assured that you will receive no duplicates between collections.

These are the 11 included books in this collection:

Open Market Desire by Monica Austin
Swing by Nellie Cross
Friends with Benefits by Victoria Lawson
Sheer Naughtiness by Cynthia Conley
Up All Night by Julia Shaw
The Wild Countess by Lois Hodges
The Voyeur Neighbors by Evelyn Hunt
Sex in the Naked City by Lori Dixon
Hunter and Hunted by Emma Bishop
Mistress Melissa Says - Sinful Business, Wicked Sex by Nicole Bright
Forever and a Day by Gloria Hayes

Whether you prefer romantic erotica, light erotica, or really hardcore stories you will surely be satisfied as this collection is a mix of the best of the best across many different erotica genres.

Simply put: If you have even the slightest interest in reading great Erotica specifically written for women readers, you are going to LOVE this collection!

Warning: These stories are intended for adult readers 18 years of age or older. They contain explicit language and graphic sexual content.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AmorBooks.com
• Release date: Nov 18, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005609290

AmorBooks.com

AmorBooks.com publishes sizzling erotica and romance stories that pack a punch.With over 40 authors under our umbrella it doesn't matter if you prefer cosy romance stories, light erotica, or really hardcore stories - you are bound to find something you like.

Book preview

The Ultimate

Erotic Short Story Collection 11

11 Steamingly Hot Erotica Books For Women

by AmorBooks.com

Copyright 2021 AmorBooks.com

Distributed by Smashwords

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Disclaimer: The material in this book is for mature audiences only and contains graphic sexual content and is intended for those over the age of 18 only.

***

Table of Contents

Open Market Desire

Swing

Friends with Benefits

Sheer Naughtiness

Up All Night

The Wild Countess

The Voyeur Neighbors

Sex in the Naked City

Hunter and Hunted

Mistress Melissa Says - Sinful Business, Wicked Sex

Forever and a Day

Open Market Desire

by

Monica Austin

Remy was an artist who had a stall at the Salton Street market on the weekends. He painted canvases among the vegetable and book hawkers, and had a strange, European accent that made everything he said sound exotic. His voice was deep, a little breathy, hanging hard on g’s, rolling on r’s.

He was not what you would call handsome, not what Margot would call handsome, in any case. But as she shopped on Saturday mornings for melons and berries and vintage skirts, she found herself hanging at the fringes of Remy’s stall. She watched his large hands move a weathered brush over violently colored canvas, and listened to him speak to potential customers.

Generally, they were women who flirted with him shamelessly. Margot imagined him falling into bed with the women; the young girl who looked like a dancer, the graying Bohemian matriarch, the soccer mom who blushed when Remy smiled. He would not be selective. Remy would pleasure all of them. For that reason, Margot never got close to his stall.

One Saturday as Margot sat having coffee at the outdoor shop on the corner of Salton and Brisbayne, she caught Remy staring at her from the counter. He strolled over with his short paper cup of espresso. The corners of his eyes crinkled when he smiled. His shirt was open and the springy hairs on his chest showed.

You are the girl from the market, he said. The one who watches.

Margot felt the heat on her cheeks as she blushed. She looked away. I am the woman from the market, she corrected him. Who shops.

Remy’s smile got larger. I see, he said. Well. He tipped his head to her and walked away.

Margot watched him, flustered at the abruptness of his departure, and a little taken aback. She hadn’t wanted to talk to him, yet she was disappointed he’d gone away. She was also embarrassed to realize her panties were wet. She got up quickly, spilling what remained of her latte and ruining her linen skirt. She took a taxi home. She no longer wanted to be on the street.

At her apartment she stripped her clothes and damp panties. She ran the shower as hot as she could stand it and stepped into the steam. Her skin developed goose bumps at the first hot spray, but then she relaxed, allowing the water to sluice over her. She closed her eyes and there was Remy, smiling at her. Her eyes flew open, stinging in the spray. She did not want to think of him, a street artist with wild hair and rumpled clothing that would sleep with anyone.

On Tuesday Robert stopped at her desk and asked her out for a drink. This time she said yes, even though she didn’t really like him. He’d been asking for weeks.

I knew you’d come around, he said.

Margot smiled, but said nothing. She tried to think of a way out of it, but didn’t want to feel any more foolish than she already did for accepting in the first place. She hadn’t been on a date for a while. In fact, ever since she’d seen Remy for the first time at the market, but in her head one had nothing to do with the other.

Outside the bar, after two martinis, she let Robert kiss her, pressing her against the brick exterior of the building, which felt rough and cool on the back of her arms. Robert was not a very good kisser. His tongue was sloppy, like she knew it would be. She let him slide his hand up under her skirt anyway. His fingers were clumsy, but he knew the right spots to touch, so she let him pay for a room at the Marshall Hotel. She did not want to take him home, nor go to his apartment.

He wanted to undress her. She smiled and shook her head. She went into the bathroom to remove her own clothing. She took her time folding each piece neatly. Robert was between the sheets in seconds, and was impatient.

She was glad he didn’t want to talk. He started right away, kissing her neck, rolling her nipple between his thumb and forefinger. His penis was hard and slick against her leg as he rubbed against her. Robert didn’t notice that her nipples remained soft, that she didn’t sigh or moan.

Let me get on top, she said, and they rolled over. Margot positioned herself over the milky tip of Robert’s quivering length. She rubbed the head between the lips of her moist entrance. He did not notice she wasn’t wet enough for him. She slid down onto him, opening herself with her fingers so her clit could rub on the coarse hair at the base of his cock.

She wished he’d work her nipples, both of them at the same time, hard. She wanted this to be over quickly, and she suspected it would be, for him. She worked her hips over him, rubbing and thrusting, taking him in deep, but not thinking of him at all as he groaned, pulsing inside her. Margot reached down and worked her clitoris between her fingers until she felt her own mild rush of wetness. She left Robert lying on the bed, grinning like a fool. She got dressed quickly.

At home in her own bed that same night, Margot dreamed she was back at the Marshall Hotel. Robert was thrusting between her legs, and Remy floated over the bed like a specter, his hair billowing around his head. He was wearing paint-stained pants and was without a shirt. His hands were dirty. He watched as Robert rooted and Margot lay there not feeling a thing. Is this really what you want? he said.

***

On Saturday Margot dressed carefully, choosing a vintage cotton dress with a full skirt that accentuated her waist and revealed her slim ankles. She walked slowly up the street until she saw Remy in his usual spot. She stopped at a book vendor’s table that sat catty-corner across the street from Remy’s stall. Remy was wearing a white shirt, open at the throat, and his skin was brown from the sun. He held a brush in his hand, which rested on his paint-spattered jeans. He was contemplating his painting, a large, magenta flower that reminded Margot of Georgia O’Keefe’s vulva-esque pieces.

A red-haired woman leaned against the wall provocatively. She appeared to hang on his every word. The woman’s laugh tinkled through the crowd. It sounded false to Margot. She looked the other way and picked up a book from the vendor’s table. She pretended to be interested in it. When she looked up, Remy’s electric eyes met hers from across the crowded street. She turned quickly, clutching the book to her chest.

Four-fifty, the vendor said. He thought she wanted to buy the book.

Oh! Margot said, startled. She took money from her wallet and handed it to the vendor. She put the book in her bag without looking at it.

When she turned to cross the street, the red-haired woman was walking away from Remy’s stall, pouting. She gave Margot a dirty look. Margot looked down at the sidewalk. Her heart was beating in her chest. She felt silly, like a school girl, but when she looked up at Remy, the sunlight hit him just so, making him luminescent. She could not breathe.

Margot ducked into a little bar and made her way through the dimness to the ladies room. She locked herself in a stall and put her bags on the floor. She leaned against the cool wall. She was naked under her dress. She slid her hands up her silky thighs and cupped her mons, the springy curls soft as angel hair against her palm. She closed her eyes and sighed.

She turned to the wall, pressing her breasts against the cool tiles. Her nipples hardened, poking at the cotton fabric of her dress. She moved lightly side to side, the tips of her nipples catching on the tiles, sending shivers down her body to the spot her fingers worked under her dress. She pressed her cheek to the wall, her lips coming open with a sigh.

She ground her hips against her hand, her fingers slick with her wetness. She thought about Remy, floating above her bed as if in water, in the ocean perhaps, a Neptune with his curly-haired expanse of chest, his wavy mane, smiling down at her showing his white teeth. She imagined those white teeth biting down, teasing her nipples.

She pushed her fingers deep inside herself, the velvet tunnel soft and wet and pulsing over her fingers, like a mouth sucking. She ground her palm against her clit and felt it hard and quivering against her skin. She imagined Remy, floating, floating above her, whispering Is this really what you want?

Margot sat on the commode, shaking. She took a handkerchief out of her bag and wiped the wetness from her hand, her fingers. She stared down at the handkerchief. It was beautiful, with delicate hand embroidery.

Margot parted her legs and rubbed the soft material between the lips of her swollen pussy, soaking up the slick honey, the fabric grazing the sensitive head of her clit, making her shudder. Rather than relieve her, the orgasm had made her more aroused than ever. She stood up and tucked the handkerchief in the pocket of her dress.

Outside the stall, she adjusted her skirt and looked up into the mirror at her tousled hair and flushed cheeks. Her eyes were bright and moist. She re-applied her lipstick and walked back through the darkened bar toward the street.

Remy looked up when she came out onto the sidewalk. He paused with his brush and stared intently, cocking his head to one side. Margot strolled toward him. The orgasm had made her feel bold, reckless. As she walked by him, her hand went to her pocket, and she pulled out the handkerchief, dropping it at his feet. When she’d gotten a few stalls away, she stopped and turned. Remy was pressing the handkerchief to his face, breathing her in.

They played the game again the following weekend, Margot wending her way through the market in her little black dress, a Dolce & Gabbana find she’d gotten from a thrift shop. She’d thrown a blue jean jacket over it to make it more appropriate for the market, though the jacket did little to hide the way the dress cupped her breasts and hugged her waist and hips. She stopped at nearly every stall. Some of the vendors flirted with her. They could sense her heightened state of arousal in her moist eyes, pink cheeks, and the way she tossed her dark, shining hair over her shoulder. Every time she looked up, Remy would catch her eye, smiling appreciatively.

When she passed his stall, he unobtrusively pushed an envelope into her hand. She could smell the cedar scent of his skin as she passed by. She pushed the envelope into her bag and smiled down at him. He inclined his head, his fingers grazing her wrist, and reminding her somehow of the handkerchief brushing across the head of her little bud, making her shiver.

She made herself walk slowly, controlling her desire to tear the envelope open on the spot. She stopped at the little coffee shop on the corner, and ordered an espresso. She’d never been terribly fond of espresso, but she wanted the sensation of the strong brew inside her mouth. To feel the sensation of the hot bitterness on her tongue as Remy must.

Margot sat at a shaded table with the tiny cup. She made herself take a drink of the scalding coffee before opening her bag. It was black and strong. She liked the way it felt going down her throat, like drinking whiskey. The envelope was small and the color of a robin’s egg. The paper inside was of good quality. It was as if Remy knew Margot would appreciate such things.

Margot unfolded the paper. Inside was a quote by Vincent Van Gogh; "The fishermen know that the sea is dangerous and the storm terrible, but they have never found these dangers sufficient reason for remaining ashore." Underneath Remy had written, You smell like the sea.

Margot sat very still, staring at the words. You smell like the sea. Her panties were immediately flooded with her wetness, and she ached, deep in her core for the man who’d written the words. She closed her eyes, rooted to the spot, the parade of women flashing in her mind; the red-haired beauty, the dancer, the mother, the bohemian. She imagined Remy, slipping notes into all their pockets, slipping his hard cock deep inside them. She wanted to be special. Her assumptions stifled her.

A hand touched her arm, and Margot’s eyes flew open as she startled. Remy took the seat beside her, his hand sliding down her arm and settling on her wrist. It was warm and soft and big. It was comforting.

I have upset you, Remy said in his rumbling, breathy voice.

Margot’s eyelashes fluttered, and when she looked down, rested like black wings on her creamy cheek. No, she said. You haven’t. She looked up into his eyes, which were icy blue and contrasted sharply with his dark skin.

Remy ran a finger down her wrist, into her palm and traced a circle there. Margot opened her hand and allowed him to massage her palm with his thumb.

I must return to my stall, Remy said then. But will you come back to the market at four-thirty and walk with me to my apartment? I will make you something to eat.

Oh, said Margot. She was still unsure. She looked into his eyes, like water, like the sea. You smell like the sea, he’d written it.

Yes, she said. Yes. Four-thirty.

Wear comfortable shoes, he said. He leaned down and kissed her on the cheek before he walked away toward the market.

***

Margot was a little late. She’d taken too long deciding what to wear, and when she got to Remy’s stall her cheeks were flushed. He’d finished packing his easel and paints into a canvas bag that was slung over his shoulder. There was a long, brown paper bag tucked under his arm.

Wine, he said. I hope you will like it. I took a chance on red.

I like red wine, Margot replied, even though she preferred white. She fell into step beside Remy.

They walked for several blocks without talking. Margot didn’t feel pressured to make conversation as she usually did when on a date. Was this a date, she wondered. What was this?

Remy walked easily, carrying his load. He was wearing moccasins, and Margot could see the tops of his brown feet as he walked. She had a sudden urge to touch his feet, to slide her hands over the knobby bones of his ankles, and up his hairy calves.

Are you French? She asked. She wanted to stop thinking about Remy’s brown, hairy legs.

Yes, he said. And Russian.

Ah, said Margot. Now I understand the accent.

Remy smiled. They walked another block then he turned right toward the warehouse district.

Margot wondered what she was walking into, and had a sudden urge for her tidy little brownstone, with its sunny south windows and plants and antique rugs. Before she could say she wanted to go back, Remy stopped.

Here we are, Remy said. They were in front of a brick building that was covered with colorful graffiti. He pushed the red metal door open and led her inside. They began to climb the concrete stairs.

Remy’s apartment was on the third floor. Margot stepped uncertainly through the door.

Welcome, Remy said as he set his bag down near the door. He turned to Margot. What do you think?

Margot took in the brick walls, plank floors that were sanded and left untreated, the large windows. The apartment was one, large open room, the windowed corner appointed as studio space with a large easel, glass work table and supplies. One wall was set up as a kitchen, with an antique bar to eat at, while the corner facing the alley housed a thick, wool carpet and large bed with a hand-carved headboard.

It’s unbelievable, Margot said.

That is bad or good? A smile twitched at the corners of Remy’s lips.

Margot turned to him. Good, she said. Very good. She turned toward the studio area where a large, unfinished painting stood fastened to the easel. It was another floral vulva-like image,