The Ultimate Erotic Short Story Collection 56: 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:

Everything Must Go by Rebecca Milton

In Between Jobs and Other Things by Bonnie Robles

Her Best Friend’s Brother by Janet Bryant

Cecilia’s Sweet Tooth by Jean Mathis

Getting Into Character by Emma Bishop

Fixing an Arranged Marriage by Pearl Whitaker

Just Warming Up by Inez Eaton

Designer Shell by Blanche Wheeler

Keys to the Heart by Rose Boyd

Beachside Love by Evelyn Hunt

A Butterfly in Monte Carlo 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: 9781005406868

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 56

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

Everything Must Go

In Between Jobs and Other Things

Her Best Friend’s Brother

Cecilia’s Sweet Tooth

Getting Into Character

Fixing an Arranged Marriage

Just Warming Up

Designer Shell

Keys to the Heart

Beachside Love

A Butterfly in Monte Carlo

Everything Must Go

by

Rebecca Milton

Yard Sale.

There it was, in the classified section of the Newtown Gazette.

Yard sale, Saturday, 253 Sycamore Ave, eight in the morning until six in the evening.

Everything must go.

Everything. Must. Go.

I wondered, as I looked at the ad, if people who read it would see the desperation which I had loaded into that sentence. Everything must go. Would they look at the ad, see that line and wonder why? Why does everything have to go? Is there something wrong with the things that have to go? Is there something wrong with the person at this address? Why must everything go?

Because it has to, is what I would tell them, if they asked. If they pulled up in their sedans and mini vans, on their bikes or in Mini Coopers. I would tell them, if they asked, while they walked among the things I had spread out on tables and blankets in the front yard. If they picked up the lamp or perhaps the lazy Susan. The one that used to sit in the middle of our kitchen table, covered with all manner of spices in jars, small red and white tins, bottles, little bags. The surface so crammed with spices that, if you spun it too fast, they would fly off and end up on the floor or in your soup. If someone picked that up, held it out to me, asked me how much and then, followed that with why must everything go, I would say, Because it has to.

I stared at the ad that Friday morning and knew, there was no turning back. It was in print. The wheels were in motion. The following morning, at eight o’clock, people would arrive to gaze, wander and pick. I had to be ready or they would ring my bell, demand answers, wonder why the ad had been printed if the yard sale wasn’t happening. So, bagging it was not an option. I wanted this. I knew this was the answer. Now, I had taken steps to make it happen. Now, I had to follow through.

Here we go, I said to no one, finished off my cup of coffee, put on my gloves and headed to the garage to sort, pile, price... cleanse. To take the past, all of it, lay it out on my front lawn and sell it to anyone who wanted it. Sell it all. Everything.

Everything. Must. Go.

***

253 Sycamore Ave, Andy said to me, holding my hand, the two of us standing in the front yard, the for sale sign laying on the ground, resting now after having stood sentinel for over three months. We live at 253 Sycamore Ave. He jingled the keys and I almost wept. It was a beautiful house, it was the house of our dreams. I was thrilled and yet, part of me couldn’t believe it. Dreams seemed to be coming true left and right lately. I dreamed of meeting a great guy who swept me off my feet and along came Andy. I dreamed of a simple June wedding and along came June, a group of close friends, a cake and... Andy. I dreamed of getting out of the cramped, very college-esque, two bedroom apartment, with a roommate, in the city and into a lovely house in the burbs and there we were, standing on the front lawn of that dream.

I don’t know, I said and looked at Andy, I don’t know if this is real. He pulled me by my hand up the front walk, to the front door, into the house. Sunlight poured in through the huge front windows and highlighted the deep reds in the hardwood floors. He closed the door, leaned against it and watched me. I smiled at him and then... I ran. I ran through every room on the ground floor; the living room, the den, the room that would have to be named later, the half bath, the kitchen and then I ran back to the front door and laughed. Andy stayed where he was, leaning against the door, watching me. Then, I ran up the stairs and through the full bath. The three bedrooms and the room at the end of the hall that would also have to be named later. Then, I walked slowly back into what would be the master bedroom and stripped down to my underwear. I took a deep breath and yelled as loud as I could, thinking the house was so huge, I had to send my voice across miles of ground.

OH MY GOD, WHAT THE HELL IS THIS? I yelled and immediately heard Andy’s feet pounding up the stairs.

What, he yelled, fear, the need to protect, in his voice, what is it Kay?! He pushed the door open and saw me there.

This, I said and pushed him against a wall and kissed him.

You scared the crap out of me, he said between kisses.

I know, I said, I’m terrible, you really should punish me. I pushed him harder against the wall and ground my body into his.

Oh, I should, should I, he said, his cock getting hard, his eyes widening, his hands doing that incredible magic thing they did.

Yes, I breathed into his ear and his hands moved down to my ass and he picked me up, gently took me to the floor and started kissing down my body. Soon, he was naked. Soon I was naked. Soon he was inside me, on top of me, my legs wrapped around his back, my arms around his neck and he drove into me, deep, hard. I looked up at his face, his eyes glowed love. I looked around the room and the future came to me. The images of us, in that house, together for the rest of our lives. I saw it so clearly, so beautifully and as he thrust into me one last time, releasing into me, I started to cum and the images of us, the house, the future, the life we were embarking on exploded all around me and I laughed. I started laughing and shuddering. The joy of the orgasm, the perfection of the moment, the love I felt for Andy, it all culminated at that moment. That perfect moment.

Andy punished me in the other two bedrooms and we tried to in the half bath downstairs but were both spent and we collapsed on the floor and just held each other. That too, was perfect.

We have nothing, I said to him after a long moment of deep silence that neither of us were in a rush to break.

We have each other, he said, pulling himself to his feet, trying to dress and making a complete mess of it, stepping into the wrong leg of his pants, Dear God, woman, you’ve fucked the life out of me, he said and I laughed and loved him so much.

I am glad we have each other, I said to him, helping him put his pants on, but, unless we want to spend our lives with rug burns on our bums and eating take out, we’ll need a bed, furniture and that sort of thing.

It was true, we had nothing. We had left the apartment to go on our honeymoon and returned to find that our roommate, Donald, had burned the place down. Perhaps not on purpose, but he didn’t seem too sad about it and, since we got a juicy insurance check, we didn’t complain. Andy had lived with Donald for over five years, I had moved in only two months prior to the wedding. I got the sense that Donald was none to happy about us getting married. He was fine with me, he loved Andy. The two of us together, that he wasn’t so keen on, so, the fire was always a little suspicious to me. I didn’t have much to begin with and now, with the fire, I had nothing. We had nothing. I liked that I was now a we.

We have money, Andy said, so, let’s make this a place that is full of our things, our stuff, our life, intertwined. When you’re as deeply in love as we were, even the menu of a diner can sound like poetry. Andy saying ‘our things’ and ‘our stuff’ was magic to me. Intertwined, I thought that was just about the most perfect way to spend the rest of my life, intertwined, with this man.

So we started furnishing our house together. We went to retail stores and flea markets, yard sales, garage sales. We didn’t want the place to look like college kids lived there, we both had good jobs, but we did want it to feel like us. So, shopping catalogues or online was out. We went and met our furniture in person. We sat on chairs and lounged across sofas. We sat at tables and pretended to have full meals. We sat in easy chairs, pretended to read books, one of us asking the other for a cup of coffee or something from the kitchen. We laughed our way through furniture stores, nervous looking clerks trying to give us manufacturer information, trying to highlight style and grace, meanwhile, Andy and I were rushing about, pretending the in-laws were coming and wondering if they would be comfy on this chair or that couch. We knelt on rugs, turned taps, stood under shower heads and washed each other’s hair. Nothing came into our house, unless we both decided on it, visited it.

***

Three streets over, yard sale, Andy said to me one night when he came home from work, I saw this lamp, let’s go. So we walked to the yard sale and looked at the lamp. We stood in front of it and looked at it for twenty minutes, discussing what room it would go in, what it would be used for; was it a mood setter or was it a practical, reading in the chair by this lamp, lamp. In the end, the lamp did not make the cut. We held hands, walked home, talked about how the lamp was almost right, almost perfect but, not so much. Nothing came into the house without both of us agreeing. Agreeing fully. If there was a struggle, doubt, it didn’t make it into the house. There would be nothing in the house that either of us secretly disliked. Nothing that I was going to relegate to the basement because I was ashamed to have guests see it. Nothing that Andy felt uncomfortable with. It was our house, our lives, our things, intertwined. We would decide together.

What is that? Andy and I said it at the exact same time. We stood in the middle of a garage sale and off, beside some old records and a fondue pot was an artist’s model. One of those articulated figures with no features, the ovals suggesting hands, round balls at the shoulder, elbow and hip joints. It stood about three feet tall and it was old. The wood was dark, rich, worn. There were small spots and splashes of paint all over it. It was easy to miss, but we could not take our eyes off of it. We approached it slowly, with reverence. The woman who was running the sale came to us.

That was my grandfathers, she told us, he wasn’t a very good painter. No one could tell him that, he kept trying, but he was really wasn’t very good. We stared at it, both of us knowing it had made the cut.

We’ll take it, Andy said and the woman seemed shocked.

Really, she said and chuckled, that’s so strange, I wasn’t even going to put it out. I was actually going to throw it away...

We want it, I said, what are you asking? She still couldn’t believe we wanted it. She couldn’t believe we were so drawn to it.

Are you artists, she asked and we said no. She was getting more confused. It didn’t matter, we had both locked on it, loved it, we wanted it. All right, how about five dollars? She barely had the word dollars out of her mouth before Andy had pulled a five from his wallet and held it out to her. She laughed, still confused, shrugged, took the bill and wished us luck.

The den, I said.

Small, round, table by the front window, he said and then, he picked it up and we walked back to the car, marveling at our find.

That was how we furnished the house. Together. Finding treasures. Meeting our practical needs. Together.

***

We changed the body position of the artist’s model all the time. He would sneak in at night and pose it and I would laugh when I saw it in the morning. We dressed it for holidays. We gave it cake on our birthdays. We took pictures of it. It was just something we did, Andy and I, our lives intertwined, in our house, with our things, with our love, in our bliss. Andy and I.

***

A phone call from a voice that relayed news and apologized for my loss.

Friends and family coming, staying, grieving, comforting. Life stopping for long moments when I turned a corner and saw a face or heard a voice that I swear was his. How my body would just collapse, starting inside and then moving outside. The breath of hope, pulled in hard, held, held, held, given up on a sigh of grief that was so deep, tears could not fathom it any longer. Days in the company of friends who cared, truly, but when grief sits at the table with you, asking you to pass the salt, ordering drinks, there is nothing that can be said. Nothing to be done. You move forward. You go to work. You live.

When the dust had cleared, when the last of the phone calls and cards had come, when the accepted grieving period had been reached, I walked into the house one evening and realized that every item, every room, every piece of furniture was Andy. Friends told me it would take a little time before I was used to it. They told me to take a trip, clear my head, come back fresh. They all had good advice, good intentions. None of it worked. I would lay in bed at night, our bed, in our room and look at our furniture, our paintings on our walls and I could not get out from under the grief. I could not move forward.

Sell it, a grief counselor told me.

I don’t want to, I said, I really do love the house.

Not the house, she said, sell the contents. Get rid of everything. It all has too much memory. Get rid of it. I told her I would think about it. I did. For over six months I thought about it. I thought how I couldn’t do it. I thought how I had to do it. I thought how bad that would look. I thought how I didn’t care how it looked, I needed to be able to breath, to live again. I thought and thought. And then...

Yard sale, Saturday, 253 Sycamore Ave.

Eight in the morning until six in the evening.

Everything must go.

If someone asks, I told myself, I simply say; Because it has to.

So I spent the week going through the garage, the things we got and then, over the seven years we lived intertwined, had decided we didn’t care for much any longer. Things that we replaced with other things, garage sale paintings and knick-knacks. I pulled those boxes out, cleaned the contents, put a piece of tape with a price on it on the bottom. Every day when I got home from work, I would begin the cleanse. I worked for hours and hours. Digging, cleaning, pricing. Most nights, I would work through tears and snot pouring out of my face. Soon, it became mechanical. Open box, look inside, organize, clean, price. Was I getting used to it or just becoming numb?

***

Saturday morning, at seven, coffee in hand, I started the set up in the front yard, blankets, tables and then... our things. By quarter to eight it was all set and ready to be picked over, stared at, pawed and haggled over. I didn’t anticipate much haggling, I wasn’t doing this to make enough money to go to Europe or go to school again, I was doing because it had to be done.

At eight sharp a car pulled up and two elderly women got out. The walked onto the front lawn and started to inspect. Picking things up, showing each other, chatting between themselves, evaluating our things. My heart cracked a little when they began. I wanted to grab everything, take it all inside, hide, tell them it was a mistake. I breathed, held onto the side of the house and waited.

How much for these, dear, one of the women was asking me holding out a pair of book ends. They were the busts of Homer and Aeschylus. I remembered the day, the shop, the lunch we had, the pub we found, the beer, the kissing in the back booth, the laughter, the fact that I knew I would never not be in love