The Ultimate Erotic Short Story Collection 66: 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 Doctor’s Patience by Rebecca Milton

Cat Scratch and Techno by Blanche Wheeler

Love and Murder by Holly Savage

Barbara’s Special Workout by Jean Mathis

Grieving In Their Own Way by Bonnie Robles

Kiss Me Already by Olivia Roman

Losing Sleep Over You by Vivian Hicks

Fantasy on The Fifteenth Floor by Inez Eaton

Ex Sex by Samantha Kirby

Her Lover's Punishment by Linda Wiggins

A Contest of Passion 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: 9781005945701

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 66

11 Steamingly Hot Erotica Books For Women

by AmorBooks.com

Copyright 2021 AmorBooks.com

Distributed by Smashwords

Free Gifts

As a Special Gift for acquiring this collection you are entitled to another 10 Free Bestseller Romance and Erotica Books worth $34 PLUS incredible weekly deals on new books and collections! Do as over 12,700 people before you and grab it all — FREE for a limited time only!

http://www.AmorBooks.com

or simply

AmorBooks.com

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 Doctor’s Patience

Cat Scratch and Techno

Love and Murder

Barbara’s Special Workout

Grieving In Their Own Way

Kiss Me Already

Losing Sleep Over You

Fantasy on The Fifteenth Floor

Ex Sex

Her Lover's Punishment

A Contest of Passion

A Doctor’s Patience

by

Rebecca Milton

By the summer of my seventeenth year, I knew I was different.

I want to leave it there. I want to end it right there. I want to fold this sheet of paper, slip it into an envelope, address it, and place a stamp in the upper right corner. Then put on my sandals and, my hat, walk to the mail box down the road, by the bait shop, in the small square of shops and eateries, drop it into a slot, and then turn my heels toward the beach and walk into the sea. That’s what I want to do. That’s how this letter, this moment, this...affair...memory... That’s how it should end.

I won’t, of course. You know this, I know this, Dr. Crane knows this. It won’t happen, but I certainly wish it would. Wish it could. Wish I was that...

No, I won’t finish that sentence. I know that kind of talk upsets you. I don’t want to upset you. I hate that look in your eyes. The one that flogs the wound I have inflicted. The one that opens your soul to me and screams out, "WHY?" I don’t want you to have that look. Even if I am not in the room to see it, I don’t want it to be there.

By the time I was seventeen, I knew that I was different. I knew that there was something different in me, different about me. Not different about me like stars or satellites, but about my very being, something that was not the same as the other girls in school. True, as you always said to me, we are all different, we are all unique, and we are all special. I like that idea, but it doesn’t quite define what it is I am trying to explain.

I know we don’t all like the same movies or books, the same foods, the same romantic lines… I know this. I also know that there is a universal…a collective that we experience. Girls have crushes and have heartbreaks and desires and... Well, we have the common feelings that girls of sixteen or seventeen share. But I didn’t.

I didn’t have the same crushes as the other girls. I didn’t swoon over the movie stars. I didn’t get all gooey over musicians. I tried to, believe me. I tried very hard. I wanted to be as normal. I wanted to fit in.

But to fit in. Why? What does that mean? Why do we want so much to fit in, to be a piece in someone else’s puzzle? Why do we feel that, if we have a spot, a place already marked and carved out that we can just slip into, we will be…right? Why do we want to be right? Who is it who defines this right?

I know, love, I know. I can see it in your face. I can see it in your smile. I can see your hands fluttering to stop my mouth, to quell the questions. I know, love, I know. But I cannot stop. I cannot help myself. I flood for you. I open my mouth, my eyes, my mind for you, and I flood. You will forgive me, I know you will, because...you love me?

***

My first crush was on Keats. Not just the poetry, but on the man himself. I would read his words in quiet corners, in silent moments during my day. Read between classes and working in the café. Read between homework, and between bringing salads to the table of grand-hatted women. I would feast on his words. At night, in my bed, secret and alone in my room, I would look at pictures of him. Paintings, etchings, images that I found in books on dusty shelves in the lower parts of the library. I would look at images of him I pulled from literary magazines. I would look at images of him that I had sewn with a thread of desire in my mind.

I would slip my hand inside my panties at night, alone in my bed, and conjure him to me. I would dream him into me, call him in with whispered breath to my bed, to my body. I was deeply in love with him. Deeply desirous of him. Other girls in my class were bringing themselves to pleasure with the images of rock and roll bad boys, or the guy they saw at the gym. Perhaps those were just as impossible as my desire, but at least their crush cravings were for living beings. I tried when we gathered to giggle and point, to chatter and to share, to engage in the living. But that never got me off the way Keats did.

I remember, love, that night, in summertime, in a cottage on the beach. The evening had grown slow and quiet. I was sick. I had a fever, and my body sweat had caused my clothes to cling to me. My blouse was soaked, and it clung to my body. I kept kicking the covers off, saying, I’m too hot. At one point, during that night, with the moonlight splashing off the far wall, illuminating you, sitting there in the wicker chair, keeping watch, nursing me to health, I saw you staring at me. Your eyes, so caring and gentle, had a tinge of...lust in them.

I remember becoming lucid for a moment, being clear, being present, and I asked you, what are you thinking. Do you recall that night? Do you remember telling me that I was lovely in my vulnerability? Do you remember pulling your chair close, touching my face, touching my moist skin? Do you remember how my breath caught when your fingers alighted? Do you remember looking at me in the blue moonlight, sick, feverish, sweating, moaning, and pleasuring yourself for me, with me? Do you remember that? I do.

I had thought of it this morning, before Dr. Crane came to see me, before the medications that make me…level…were served in cups on trays with water. I thought of you that night, of your eyes, your breath, your sounds, your pleasure, and I was pleased too. Very pleased.

***

What kind of person? Dr. Crane asked from his chair, precisely three feet and seven inches away from her on the couch, her knees to her chest, her face resting on top of them. Her eyes are foggy, distant. What kind of person do you wish you were, or could be?

A good person, she said, her voice small and distant. Not as far away as her gaze, not as lost as her thoughts, but on the edge of being gone forever. I want to be a good person. She sighed again.

Does a good person... the doctor picked up a sheet of paper from the table beside him and read from it, ... walk into the sea? She didn’t register that he was speaking words that she had written. She thought about the question as if it were a new idea. "What does that mean, Naria? ‘Walk into the sea.’ What does that mean?" She thought for a moment about the question.

It means... she started, and then stopped. Was this one of the doctor’s trick questions? Was this one like those he asked in an attempt to trip her up? She had to be careful. Tripping up meant needles, white rooms, silence. It means…someone wants to go for a swim in the ocean, she said, trying her best not to make it sound like a question. He sat back, placed the sheet of paper back on the table, and stared at her.

"Do you want to walk into the sea?" She perked up. Was he saying he would take her to the sea? Was he asking her if she wanted to go out, to walk the beach, to smell the air, to chase the birds?

Yes, she chirped, becoming present, becoming excited about the idea of the sea, the beach, the sounds. "Oh, yes, Dr. Crane, I want to walk into the sea." He nodded.

"Do you want to walk out again?" he asked, and she laughed.

Only when my fingers are prunes, wrinkled like an old man’s, withered and white, she said and bounced slightly on the couch. Only when my body itself feels like water, and the earth keeps moving and swaying when I sit on the hot sand. She laughed, and the doctor relaxed slightly. He looked at the paper again and then back at Naria.

So, you want to be the kind of person who spends long days in the sea? She nodded, and he did as well.

***

I almost tripped yesterday. I almost fell and ended up in the white room, ended up with needle pricks and silent nights. I didn’t, but I almost did. The good doctor. And, believe me, I say that in all earnestness, I believe he is a good doctor. I believe all the doctors and the nurses here are good, I truly do. This good doctor, he was trying to get me to admit something, to say something, but I’m not sure what. We were talking about the sea, about walking into the sea. He asked me if I wanted to walk into the sea. I do. I truly do. Some days I want to fill my pockets with stones and walk right into the sea. I want to sink to the bottom and walk on the sand, among the fish and the coral. I want to sink deep and be there, under the waves, looking up, tickling the underbellies of porpoises, whales, skates. I want to walk into the sea.

I also want to die in the sea. I’m sorry love. I know that upsets you. I know that hurts your heart and makes you put your face in your hands and cry, but it’s me. It’s part of me. Part of what and who I am, and I know, I truly know, you want to know each and every part of me because...you love me.

***

When I was nineteen, I went to the park early one morning and stepped into the huge fountain on the North side of the park. The water came to the middle of my thighs, and I stood for a long time, letting the wetness creep up my skirt. Then, I lay down in the fountain. Flat on my back. my eyes open, my mouth shut tight, I lay there, holding my breath, waiting for something. I have no idea what. I was just waiting.

The maintenance man, with a red beard and half-glasses, reached in and yanked me out. He grabbed the front of my shirt and pulled me, hard and quick, to the surface of the water. He was standing in the fountain as well. He was yelling at me, his face flushed and his eyes so angry. He dragged me to the edge of the fountain, sat me down hard, and shouted for a police officer. The police questioned me, was I hurt, was I upset, was I lost, was I sick, did I want to die.

Keats doesn’t love me, I remember telling them. Keats and I had ended things. I ended things because, the day before, the afternoon before. I was sitting at a table, on the street, at a coffee shop, drinking an Americano and eating a scone. I looked up from Keats, and I saw you, love. I saw you. That night, in my bed, my fingers finding my sweetness, I saw you again, and I knew. I knew I was done with Keats. He didn’t love me any longer and I… Well, I loved only you.

I was so hot, I remember saying to the officer next, thinking of you. Seeing you in my mind, over and over. I got so hot that I needed to be under water to survive. Now, I think only being under the sea will help me survive you.

This is perfect, you told me once. Your hand, your right hand, was moving over my body. Your right hand was moving from the small of my back, over my hip to the curve of my ass, and you whispered, this is perfect. I asked if you meant the moment, the fact that we were together, and you said. "All of that but mostly, this spot, this area, this section of your body, this is perfect."

When you left me that night, when you had kissed my cheek and left me, I looked at that spot in the mirror. I ran my hands over it and whispered perfect again and again. You made me perfect, love.

***

What does perfect mean to you, Naria? Dr. Crane asked her. She was on her back, lying flat on the couch, looking at the ceiling. Tracing the cracks with her eyes.

It means, she said, flawless. She smiled and looked at the good doctor. Flawless. No flaws.

Do you want to be perfect?

Parts of me, yes, she said and went back to tracing the ceiling cracks. He watched her, saying nothing.

Which parts of you? he asked finally, and she stopped her tracing. She sat up and looked at him. He said nothing more. Was this another trick, she wondered. Was she supposed to say her heart, her soul, her mind? What was the right answer? What was the answer that would allow her to go back to her room? Back to her desk? Back to her pen and paper, her window? Naria, he asked, prompting her. She stood up and faced him.

My heart, my mind and my soul, she said, almost in a chant. I want them to be perfect. To be free of flaws.

How do you achieve that? he asked her.

By talking to you.

***

Perfect. I can still hear you say it. I can still feel the way my skin tingled when you whispered that to me. Your voice, warm and soft, combined with your touch, it was almost too much. And yet, it was never, ever enough.

After I had seen you that day, after that night when I ended things with Keats, I tried to forget you. Did I ever tell you that? Did I ever tell you that I tried to forget you? After I had gone back to the café, and sat at the table for seven straight days in hopes of seeing you, I tried to forget you. I did.

I started an affair with Melville, but he was dull. I think I was working out some father issues with him. Something about his beard, his sorrowful eyes. Something about his career, so stilted, so forgotten. I had to admit to him, very early on in the affair that I was bored to tears by Moby Dick, and after that he was distant. I read his short works. I loved Billy Budd. I did my best to focus on that, to conjure that image at night, alone. Tried very hard to be as devoted to him as I was to Keats, but it didn’t work. You were always in my mind.

I moved quickly through some minor writers, through some of the beat poets. I even tried a few playwrights. Chekhov, O’Neil, but none of them held me, none of them dispelled the image of you that day. Nothing compared to you.

I did try, love, I did try to forget you. How does that make you feel? I wonder. Does it hurt you? I hope not. I did it only because I believed I would never see you again. I believed that you had been swallowed up by the city and that I would never, ever have you. I had to forget you or go mad.

I guess I failed.

***

What have you failed at, Naria? Dr. Crane asked. What makes you feel that you have failed? She stared at him, her hands clasped, resting in her lap. She thought hard. Again, wondering if this was a trick. If this was meant to trip her up and send her back to the white room without curtains, without pen or paper, without understanding.

Forgetting, she whispered, tentative, not sure she had the right answer. Not sure there was a right answer. Not sure there was any answer at all.

You’ve failed at forgetting, Crane repeated, leaning forward, looking directly at her. She fought not to turn away. She knew he didn’t like when she did.

Yes, she said, making it sound like a question. He immediately jumped on that.

You sound like you do not believe what you’re saying Naria, he shot back at her. She flinched. She didn’t like him when he was angry like this. She didn’t like him when he