The Ultimate Erotic Short Story Collection 67: 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:

Murphy’s Splendid Bar by Rebecca Milton

Sugar Canes and Lust by Blanche Wheeler

Secrets and Discoveries by Emma Bishop

Poolside Playtime by Inez Eaton

Love At the End of Her Sights by Jean Mathis

Office Tryst by Linda Wiggins

Marital Affairs by Heather Morin

Snow Blind by Elaine Wilder

Tactical Romance by Kathleen Tate

Rid Yourself of the Tension by Bonnie Robles

Masked Romance 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: 9781005911485

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 67

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

Murphy’s Splendid Bar

Sugar Canes and Lust

Secrets and Discoveries

Poolside Playtime

Love At the End of Her Sights

Office Tryst

Marital Affairs

Snow Blind

Tactical Romance

Rid Yourself of the Tension

Masked Romance

Murphy’s Splendid Bar

by

Rebecca Milton

She stepped forward; she put a pint of hard cider with a shot of good whiskey in it in front of him. He looked up at her, taking her in, a newcomer, a fresh face and yet, not so fresh. She wasn’t like the rest of the students. The ones with the pleading eyes, the wanting to impress voices. She was older, she had the grace of experience and the ease of a few years under her belt.

He had looked at her for a while before he looked at the proffered drink. She didn’t wither, blink or blush under his gaze. She smiled, stood her ground without defiance, because she had no need to offer resistance, she knew better. She had learned this already. The rest, the younger ones, they still needed to learn this. They needed to learn that being defiant was a waste of energy and didn’t impress. Also, they needed to learn that there was no real need to impress. Not here. Not with him. That was something they had imposed, assumed. He didn’t correct them, just allowed them to think what they needed to.

He picked up the pint, took a sip and smiled. He raised the glass to her in thanks and took a long drink from it, smacked his lips and set it back down on the table. Everyone around the table looked at her, wondered who she was. He sat back, folded his hands across his chest and waited. She smiled. He looked at one of the young men who was sitting at the table and growled. The young man leapt up and offered his chair to her. She thanked him, sat down, placed her drink on the table, the same drink she had brought him, and smiled at those around the table. Everyone looked at her for a moment and then turned their attention back to him.

What have you got, he said after a moment.

Public solitude, she said. He heard it, thought for a moment, leaned forward both elbows on the table, his right hand moving forward, the fingers resting on the pint glass.

Public solitude, he muttered, swirling the words around in his mouth like wine. She nodded. He spread his hands out, a gesture of, the table is yours. She accepted the table, took a drink and sat back.

Public solitude, she said again and spoke of the moment when the bride and groom are dancing together. When they are married, they are now a couple. There are all kinds of commotion around them, she went on, but, there they are, on the dance floor, arms around each other, dancing slow, dancing close. She explained that kind of intimacy is not a show. It is the purest of intimacy because it blocks out the rest of the world. The fretting mother of the bride, the fat judgmental aunts, the displeased father who wonders if the boy can support his little girl.

No matter what is going on around them, she pressed on, "they are interested in only each other. They are shielded, wrapped in love and unified, it’s a very public moment and yet, they have a solitude that no one, or no thing, can penetrate."

She rested her case, sipped her drink and sat back. He kept his eyes on her and, he too, took a drink. He placed his glass back on the wet ring that it had made on the wood table. He took great effort to get the glass back exactly where it had been before. The others at the table watched him, waiting for him to respond. All were silent.

That’s a fairy tale, a young girl with dyed black hair, black-rimmed glasses and pale skin barked, breaking the silence and causing a few to jump.

Ms. Jennings seems to be calling you out, he said, still placing his glass on its precise position. The table burst out in laughter. She wasn’t sure if they were laughing at his observation or her idea of public solitude. She wasn’t upset or embarrassed. She had nothing to prove and didn’t think she was coming here to defend or fight, simply an exchange of ideas. But, the laughter made her curious. After a moment, he looked up and scanned the gathered crowd. They were still chuckling.

When his eyes fell on them, they sat forward, wanting to show him they were amused. Wanting him to know they were smart and savvy and didn’t fall for the fairy tale, as Ms. Jennings had put it. They all wanted his approval at that moment. Some laughed louder than others, making sure theirs was the laughter heard above the rest of the masses. He smiled, nodded, returned his attention to his glass, and once it was placed perfectly, he raised it to his lips again.

What’s so funny, he asked and looked at them over the rim of his glass as he tipped some of its contents into his mouth. Hmmm, he pressed them, looking a few of them in the eyes. The laughter subsided. The smiles faded. You’re laughing, he said to them, are you laughing at the concept, the harsh condemnation by Ms. Jennings or my oh-so-witty observation? He sipped again, then set the glass back on the table, this time, not caring if it lined up with its previous resting place. He placed his hands flat on the table and tapped out a few paradiddles. No one spoke. He smiled and chuckled.

They all want approval, he said, looking at her, giving her his full attention, they still haven’t learned that I just don’t give a shit. The gathered students mumbled, dropped their heads, some got very interested in their drinks, some headed to the bar for more, asking those near them if they wanted anything.

A general change in atmosphere took place, and she sat back, observing it all.

Don’t people behave the same way when they’re speaking on their cell phones on buses or train platforms? In the middle of crowds? They yell at people on the other end, use some terrible language, have fights, have affairs. They believe that, because they have this plastic device to their ear that they are, in essence, alone. Is that not a... what did you call it?

Public solitude, she said, leaning forward, liking him in this setting more than she thought she would, I believe it is a term that actors use.

Well, actors... he said and shrugged. Again, a few people at the table laughed. This time, she took them to task a bit.

You don’t like actors, she said to one young man who had scoffed loudly after he had heard the—very open-ended she observed—remark, what’s wrong with actors? He looked around the table for help, but no one came to his rescue. Again, the other members of the group got interested in their drinks or someone who had just walked into the bar. She looked back at him, saw he was again playing with his glass but chuckling to himself.

Not my usual group, he said to her looking up, bringing the glass to his lips again, you’ll have to forgive them.

Nothing to forgive, she said and noticed that his glass was empty. She tipped the last of her drink into her mouth and stood, May I get you another one, professor? He nodded his acceptance, handed her his empty glass, and she walked to the bar. She asked the bartender for two more and leaned against the bar, looking back at the table. She looked back at him, and the students gathered, filling in the space, the vacuum that she left while she waited.

***

Cullen held court every Friday evening, beginning at 5:30, at a back table, under a green-shaded, overhead light, in Murphy’s splendid bar. He had been doing this for over seven years and the number of people who had come to listen, argue, laugh and, of course, drink had grown over the years. Cullen was a professor of philosophy at the university. He was a man well respected in his career, which meant nothing to him. His colleagues tried desperately to get him to speak at symposiums, conventions, private gatherings, but he always refused.

Why speak to the washed masses, he would say. The unwashed are the ones who need to hear and, they, at least, fucking listen, was his general philosophy of life. And they tend to think too, something the washed masses have forgotten how to do.

So, Fridays, when his classes were done, his office hours completed, Cullen walks the twelve blocks to Murphy’s splendid bar. He taps the bar, nods to the bartender, whichever one is back there, all of whom he knows better than his family, then heads to his table. He sits, his back to the wall, his eyes to the door, opens his newspaper, and waits.

His first round is always a shot of Tullamore Dew and a pint of Harp. From there, he drinks whatever someone brings him and places on the table in front of him. Well, almost anything. He refuses light beer and any kind of shot that has more than one ingredient. Those unfamiliar with the symposium, newcomers who want to make a grand entrance but don’t know the rules, learn quickly if they offer one of the unacceptable gifts.

What is this ungodly concoction, Cullen once barked at the young man who placed a cloudy shot with a red swirl in it in front of him, what have you given me?

Dude, the young man said, not starting well, that’s a Brain Hemorrhage. He smiled with pride at the rest of the group, thinking himself as a kind of mixologist genius. Cullen looked to the shot then looked to the man, sighed and slid the shot to his right, in front of a young woman who had been silent for most of the evening.

Drink that, dear, he said to her, it may bring you from your shell. She did as she was told, but remained silent, if not a little fuzzy for the rest of the night. Cullen then looked at the young man with an obvious distaste. First off, he said, pulling an offered pint to its place in front of himself, "I am Doctor Cullen, Professor Cullen, Cullen, Cull, or Sir. I am not now, nor will I ever be, referred to, called, or hailed as dude." The man tried to back out of the circle, but the veterans behind him stopped his escape and held him in place.

Second, a brain hemorrhage may be the explanation you give the people you encounter in the world for your state of mindlessness. However, it is certainly not a beverage that any respectable, drinking, adult would consume. A beverage that I have no knowledge of and no desire to have any. So, you may now speak and prove to me that you’re not equal to the contents of the shot glass this poor girl just consumed. Or, you may smile, nod, excuse yourself, explain that you’re in the wrong place and leave now, semi-gracefully.

I... the young man said and then he backed out of the circle, the bodies parting for him and then closing around the space he once occupied.

Another time, a young woman, also new to the circle, placed a pint of light beer in front of Cullen. When he asked what it was he was drinking, after his first sip and subsequent cough, she was obviously unaware of the rules when she answered.

Just a pint of light beer, she had chirped, happy to be in the crowd. He leaned across the table and glared at her.

What’s your name?

Allyson, but most people call me Ally. She smiled and looked around the room, pleased that he wanted to know her name, feeling like she was part of the group.

Well, Ally, do you think I’m fat? Do you? Do you think I am fat and spilling over the bonds of my clothes, my chair, this table? Cullen was, in fact, quite trim and athletic. Although he eschewed the gym, he did attend a regular, biweekly fencing class, and he walked everywhere, not even owning a car. Alley, do I look, plump, chubby, chunky, fleshy to you?

No, she said, unsure now what was going on, but knowing she had done something wrong and suddenly wishing he didn’t know her name.

Ally, do you worry about my health? Cullen went on. Do you sit up nights and think Cullen needs to eat more vegetables, less starch, more whole grains, less fat and processed foods? She shook her head. Ally, do you spend time thinking about my cholesterol, my blood pressure, my general well-being? Do you have charts and sheets, x-rays and reports from doctors and nurses about me? Do you think I am speeding headlong, out of control toward my demise?

No, she said, I... I don’t even know you. He clapped his hands together loudly and sat back.

Then why, Ally, would you bring me a light beer? he asked and she looked around at the faces, sure that this couldn’t be the thesis of his questioning.

Well, she began timidly, I like it so... She stopped. He looked at her, his seeming anger abating slightly. He nodded and accepted the answer.

Very well, I will drink your light beer, because you like it and you. He handed some money to a girl to his right, and get me a tumbler of the dew, please, dear, he told her, and she ran off to the bar. She returned moments later with a glass, three-quarters full of whiskey. She placed it on the table in front of Cullen; he thanked her and slid the glass across the table to Ally. You, in turn, will drink off this glass of whiskey, because I like it.

I don’t drink whiskey, she said, pushing the glass away, I get very drunk, very easily and then, you know, I do... stupid things. Cullen laughed; the whole group laughed. Ally blushed but didn’t laugh.

I’m drinking your light beer, Ally, Cullen said, straight forward, even toned, no nonsense, so you will drink the whiskey because I like it. He nodded, lifted the pint and drank it down. He set the empty glass on the table and smiled at her. He folded his hands on his chest and waited. She looked around the table, picked up the glass and, in four struggling gulps, drank down the contents. She put the glass on the table, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, gasped, coughed and braced herself against the table.

Oh God, she said, that was awful, I never want to drink that again.

I feel the same way, Cullen said, so do we understand each other now, Ally? She nodded. She didn’t last much further into the night. She was soon in the back corner, her head down on the table. Unbeknownst to anyone, Cullen paid for a car service and a driver he knew well, to get her home that night. She returned to the table the following Friday with an offer of a pint of stout.

***

She collected the two pints and moved back to the table. She wasn’t sure whether it was out of respect or some unseen cue given by Cullen, but when she returned, a chair was immediately vacated for her. She placed the pint in front of him and sat. He raised his glass to her, took a long draw from it and set it down.

That, he said, is an excellent drink, miss... He left it there and waited for her to respond. She smiled.

Are you asking my name, she said, sipping her pint. He laughed. Truly he would have to deal with her differently than he did with the others, the younger ones, gathered.

Yes, he said, apologies, may I ask your name.

Amelia Dane, she said and extended her hand across the table to him. The others watched this in awe; none of them had shaken his hand, none of them had been politely asked their names. He had learned the names, through osmosis, it seemed, by sitting among them, listening to others use their names. This was new, asking someone’s name and not using it immediately to berate them.

May I call you Amelia, he asked and she nodded her consent. All right, Amelia has put forth public solitude as proof of romance.

Not definitive, she said, just one of my favorite examples of it. He nodded, and the others looked on. Suddenly the singular symposium stage seemed to be shared between these two. Those gathered—the regulars at the Friday lecture, symposium, throw down, whatever they liked to call it—were suddenly a little disturbed by this newcomer. Who was she who could glide in, take a chair, take his attention.