The Ultimate Erotic Short Story Collection 55: 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:

A Table and The Contents of a Summer by Rebecca Milton

Intimacy Without Privacy by Jean Mathis

Mine, All Mine by Vivian Hicks

Deadline Insanity by Janet Bryant

Orgy with the Jocks by Colleen Poole

Heart Wrench by Blanche Wheeler

Canvas of Joy by Heather Morin

From Innocence to Chains by Bonnie Robles

Boarding House Tease by Evelyn Hunt

Snap Decision by Diana Vega

Looking Across the Pond by Odette Haynes

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: Jan 5, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005403003

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.

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The Ultimate

Erotic Short Story Collection 55

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

A Table and The Contents of a Summer

Intimacy Without Privacy

Mine, All Mine

Deadline Insanity

Orgy with the Jocks

Heart Wrench

Canvas of Joy

From Innocence to Chains

Boarding House Tease

Snap Decision

Looking Across the Pond

A Table and The Contents of a Summer

by

Rebecca Milton

There was a table. That’s all. A heavy, hardwood, six foot by four foot table.

Too big for me to move, Mrs. Greyson, landlady, widow, flesh mountain, told me, so, I leave it here for whoever rents the place.

I stood looking at the table and it didn’t bother me. It was old but very sturdy, very solid. Its legs were thick and square. Nothing fancy about this table, it was pure utility. I could imagine years of meals on this table. Years of hands touching it, moving it. How many gifts had been wrapped on it. How many cups of coffee had been sipped while sitting at it. How many memories made, stories told, sadness shared, laughs born. This table had a life, a history and I was more than happy to have it.

So, I said, this is all the furnishings then? I asked Mrs. Greyson, Because the ad says furnished apartment. She dropped her eyes to the floor, coughed a little and deflected the question by continuing the tour.

Large windows, lots of light all day long, she said, moving with heavy step through the place, kitchen in here, small but, you don’t need much. Gas stove, refrigerator, that’s new, had that put in... oh... let’s see, no less than eight years ago. Still hums along like a dream. She patted the relic of a refrigerator with a meaty hand like it was a pet and smiled at me.

Yes, the kitchen seems fine for my needs, I said, but the advertisement says furnished apartment. I held the newspaper out to her but she smiled past it.

Bedroom in there, good sized, one huge closet, I followed her down the short hall to the bedroom still holding the newspaper out to her, the ad, which I had circled with a red crayon, was on top. She opened the door to the closet and it was, indeed, large and deep. But still... and down here is the loo.

She continued walking away from me, ignoring my insistence that the apartment wasn't furnished. She opened the door to the bathroom and I gasped, it was enormous. Large windows, bright sunlight coming in. A beautiful vanity with a sink, cabinets, shelves and the tub. Oh the glorious bathtub. Over six feet long, deeper than a wading pool. Lovely, ornate claw foot tub. I stood looking at it in awe.

Yes, Mrs. Greyson whispered, she’s a beauty, usually what gets them in the end.

I was lost in the dream of long, luxurious baths, with candles and, if I was feeling rather decadent, a glass of wine. The tub was glorious. However, I snapped back to reality and turned to the woman.

Mrs. Greyson, the tub is lovely and the closets and the kitchen, but, I held out the paper again,your ad specifically says furnished apartment.

She could avoid it no longer. She took the paper from my hands. Her glasses rested on her bosom and hung from a chain that ran around her thick neck. She lifted the glasses to her eyes and read the ad.

Well, I said.

This is a mistake, she said, dropping her glasses and handing the paper back to me, the ad should say semi-furnished apartment. I am going to go down to that newspaper office this afternoon and give them a piece of my mind. She lurched out of the bathroom, I followed her.

Semi-furnished, I said to her hulking back, how is this semi-furnished?

Well, she said, there’s a table. She said this without irony. So that was the semi furnished apartment... A table.

If you don’t like it, then don’t take it, she said, a little edge to her voice now. That made sense, the problem was, I really wanted to live alone...

I had graduated college two weeks before and had come up on a train the day after school ended to interview for a job as a teacher of English literature here in Stockton. St. Claire's was a small liberal arts college, in a small town. The interview had gone well, I had been offered the position and I had planned to move in as soon as possible. Because it was my first teaching job, I wanted to spend my summer preparing for the coming year and getting myself settled. I dearly wanted my own place.

Having lived with girls all through college, I believed that, once I graduated, the mark of a true adult woman in the 1940s was to have a place of her own and be self sufficient. Of the six places I had seen, three were in such vile shape, I couldn’t possible live there. One had a lecherous man as a landlord who assured me several times that he lived just under me and was happy to pop in any time I needed anything.

The other two were shared apartments. The girls who lived there seemed quite nice and I am sure I would have gotten along, but, after four years of sharing everything, I mean every thing, I wanted very much to be on my own. My parents, thought not rich, had put together a little sum for me to get me started and this place, if it was furnished, fell exactly into my budget. But only if it was furnished. I knew I should have walked away, but everything else about the place was so right, so charming and the tub, I didn’t know what to do.

Well, I said at last, mustering my courage, if you agree to drop thirty-five dollars off the rent, I’ll take the place.

Thirty-five dollars, Mrs. Greyson gasped, that’s quite a lot, my dear. It was, I knew it, but I was determined to hold my ground.

I agree, it does seem like a lot, I said, trying to remain calm, but, your ad does say furnished apartment, and I do not believe the printers made the mistake. Now, we can argue this, or I can go down to the newspaper office myself and ask them what they think. She looked at me with a bit of disdain, but I could see she wasn’t up for a fight.

Thirty, she said with a harsh nod.

Done, I said and extended my hand. She looked at it for a moment and then gave it a weak shake. Shall we sign the contract? She huffed and I followed her to her house which was just across the street. We sat at her kitchen table and I signed the agreement, made sure she crossed out the original rent price and wrote in the new price. As we chatted Mrs. Greyson seemed to soften a little.

You know, she said, there may be some things down in the basement, nothing too fancy, but maybe some old chairs and such. You can help yourself to whatever you find down there.

That would be wonderful, I said, just as long as you don’t decide to tack on that thirty dollars later and tell me that you furnished the place. It was a risk, but, I said it as sweetly as I could and she cackled with joy.

Honey, she said, patting my hand, you have a future as a land lord with that kind of thinking. But, no, you just go down there and take what you need. Be between us.

When everything was settled I took the keys, walked back to the place and sat on the large table looking over my first apartment. I was nervous, but also a little giddy about being on my own.

I walked to town, Stockton was a marvelously small town, the central village had a grocery, a general store, a few shops, a restaurant and a bar. I went to the general store and had the telephone turned on and the bill put in my name. I cannot imagine anyone so pleased to have a bill in their name as I was that day. I bought a mop, a bucket, some sponges and cleaning fluid. I went to the grocery and got some bread and cheese. I had no pots or pans, so I couldn’t cook anything yet. I didn’t mind. I knew it would all work itself out. I returned to my apartment and cleaned it top to bottom.

The sun was sinking low by the time I was done. I sat on the floor with my dinner and a glass of water, the last tenant had graciously left me two glasses and a chipped plate. I called my parents and spoke to my father. I told him about the place and how I had the landlord take thirty dollars off rent. I could feel his pride bursting through the phone. My mother worried that I had nothing, but I told her all would be well. When I hung up the phone, I said that to myself, All will be well, I whispered to the room, to the table, to the walls, all will be well.

College seemed like four years of preparing for life, putting things off for the future. Now, here I was, alone, ready and looking forward to the adventure starting. All will be well, I said again, and I knew it would be true.

***

Three days later, as I scrubbed clean two fine, straight back chairs I had found among the cobwebs and mice in the basement I heard a truck come to a stop outside and heard a knock on my door. I opened it to find a delivery man with a large box on a dolly.

Morning, Miss, he said, handing me a clipboard to sign, this here is heavy box, best let me bring it in for you, he said and I showed him into the main room. He put the box in the middle of the room, remarked on the table, tipped his hat and off he went. I opened the box and found a letter from my parents. They were proud of me, happy for me and wished me the best of luck.

In the box was two different sized iron skillets, two pots, dishes, silverware, cups and glasses, a coffee pot and one of my old teddy bears. Also was a small envelope. Inside was a clipping from the Sears & Roebuck catalogue. The clipping was a beautiful little bed. A small note attached said; Should be arriving in three days, love, Dad. I sat on the floor and wept. They were so good to me and I was determined to make them proud.

***

Within two weeks I had my house set up. Dishes in cupboards, the bed arrived and fit beautifully in the bedroom. I scavenged chairs and an old dresser from the basement. The table I used for dining, writing reading and anything else I needed. I was very happy in my little home. I had shipped my books from college and they we scattered all over the apartment in little piles and stacks.

I liked the feeling of moving among them and started to talk them at night, thinking of them as little friends. The summer was lovely in Stockton and I was preparing my lessons for the coming school year, determined to make an impression, leave my mark on the minds of the students who would grace my room.

There were four apartments in the house, two were empty for the summer and one was occupied by an A. Tensdale. I never saw Mr. Or Ms. Tensdale. I didn’t know which it was. Whomever they were, they were quiet and the gave me no worries. One day, Mrs. Greyson came by to ask if all was well, see how I was doing. I invited her in for tea. She was in awe of what I had done to the place.

Certainly going to ask for that extra thirty, she said when she sat down, and probably more when I rent this place again. I smiled, proud of what I had done. But, you’re not planning on leaving soon, are you dear? I assured her I was happy there and didn’t expect to leave any time soon. We chatted about the town, about my job, college and what not. She was not a happy woman.

Be happy now, she told me, life is a tragedy coiled in the cocoon, waiting to blossom into a full blown living hell.

She had been married but her husband left her, a drunk, a gambler. She had raised two sons alone, one of them had recently died in the war and the other had gone off to California and she hadn’t heard from him in over six years. The things that make you happy now, hold on to them, keep them simple, keep them close. The rest... it’s just heartbreak.

She looked into her tea cup and was silent for some time. I felt sorry for her, but I didn’t believe it was true. My parents were happy, they worked hard and had love to give. I refused to believe that life was heartache waiting to burst out on me. I told her so and she smiled soft and distant.

Of course, she said, patting my hand as she did, you’re young, what else would you think? We chatted a while longer and then she had to go, had to get some work down. I walked her to the door and then asked her; A. Tensdale, I said, who is she, I never see her.

He, Mrs. Greyson said, Mr. Tensdale. He’s a very nice man, little older than you, he’s been there for about two years now. Hardly see him much. Keeps to himself. Shouldn’t give you any trouble. She left and I closed the door.

Andrew Tensdale, I said to myself, what an evocative name.

***

The mysterious Mr. Tensdale stayed on my mind for a few days and then, with the reading, writing, making perfect my house, he drifted away and I forgot about him all together. Until ...

Good afternoon, his voice was warm and easy. He was sitting on the corner of the porch in a chair, his feet up on the railing. I was coming home from town center with some groceries and a few books I had ordered and picked up at the general store. He had sandy hair, longer than the current fashion but not unkempt. He needed a shave, but that added to his obvious charm. His eyes were a clear blue that sparkled even in the sunlight.

Good afternoon, I said, not stopping as my bags were heavy and I wanted to get some things inside and into the fridge.

He didn’t rise to greet me or help me and, despite his striking good looks, I found that to be rather rude. I pushed into my apartment and put my things away. I was curious about the man on the porch and gave in to curiosity. I stepped out on the porch and he was still there. I smiled and nodded to him. Tensdale, he said, still not rising. I crossed to him and extended my hand, no need for us both to be rude.

Emily Hazel, I said and gave his hand a good solid shake. He smiled.

Did your father teach you to shake like that, he asked, it’s a good firm handshake.

My father taught me to stand up for myself, I said, my mother taught me never to be rude. He chuckled and I felt as if he was making fun of me.

Am I being rude, Ms. Hazel, he asked and slowly rose to his feet, my apologies. He gave a small bow and took my hand, Alexander Tensdale, he said, at your service day or night. He then kissed my hand and I felt flush. He smiled and, despite my body’s reaction, my mind told me he was still mocking me in some fashion. I chose to ignore it.

"It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Tensdale,’ I said and gave him a slight curtsey. This made him laugh out loud.

Please, he said, Alex, call me Alex. I nodded, told him it was a pleasure but had work to do and left him. Inside I sat at my table and worked on a lesson plan, but Mr. Alex Tensdale and the kiss on my hand stayed in my mind.

***

On Saturday morning there was a knock on my door. I opened it to find Mr. Tensdale.

Good morning, he said, I hope I’m not intruding, but I fear I was not at my best when we first met. He seemed different, more shy, less confident than when I had met him on the porch.

You were just fine, I assured him, his new behavior making