The Ultimate Erotic Short Story Collection 77: 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:

Thinking of This by Rebecca Milton

The Dream of Her Man by Jean Mathis

The Challenge by Emma Bishop

The Ten-Year Itch by Linda Wiggins

The Crown was Not Worth It: One by Bonnie Robles

The Crown was Not Worth It: Two by Bonnie Robles

The Doctor’s Girlfriend by Grace Barron

To See What She Could See by Diana Vega

Three is a Party by Pearl Whitaker

The Spanish Art Teacher by Inez Eaton

The Cabin 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: 9780463604151

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 77

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

Thinking of This

The Dream of Her Man

The Challenge

The Ten-Year Itch

The Crown was Not Worth It: One

The Crown was Not Worth It: Two

The Doctor’s Girlfriend

To See What She Could See

Three is a Party

The Spanish Art Teacher

The Cabin

Thinking of This

by

Rebecca Milton

In the morning, before everyone arrives, she is there. She likes ritual, paths of familiar to follow. The order of things is important to her. She moves with grace. Nothing is wasted, no task is done with manner sloppy or extraneous effort. She is succinct, punctual, metronome steady.

In the morning, before anyone is there, she shines. She opens the office, flips switches, pulls shades, pots coffee, waters plants, fills trays with paper, cups with pens, slots and shelves are organized, refilled, file cabinets unlocked, kitchen is cleaned, pastry are displayed in eye pleasing manner though she knows they will soon be handled, mauled, picked over.

For now, before everyone arrives, they are a confectionery tapestry worthy of a velvet cord and a Docent. Before everyone arrives. Then, she puts on her coat, in the winter, light sweater in the fall, nothing to add on top in the summer, leaves the office, down the stairs to the lobby, out the door, around the corner to Gremald’s and has a cup of tea. Tea takes her exactly seventeen minutes and then, she returns, up to the fifteenth floor with her co-workers via elevator, into the office, into her cubicle and into work.

No one knows, no one asks, no one thinks about it. The office, to them, is open, the pastry is there, the coffee is ready, the papers of necessity are always within finger’s grasp, the staplers are always loaded, the machines that hum and reproduce, that send images over wires to many places along the curve of the earth are always functioning, inking, printing. No one asks why or how. They assume as we all do that someone is doing it and, as long as it is done, then why bother giving it a thought?

This she likes. Don’t give it a thought. It is her mantra. It is her goal.

Her boss of six years has three names for her, Katy, Molly and Betty, none of which is her actual name. She is Elizabeth, not shortened to Beth or Lizzy, she is Elizabeth. Few know she doesn’t like her name to be truncated, domesticated, nicked off at the edges the way others like their names.

Roberts become Bobs, Richards become Ricks, Angelas become Angies and so on. She likes her name, the grace of it, the weight of it, Elizabeth. No one calls her that, however. To them she is Beth or Liz or Liza...

She doesn’t correct them, she doesn’t close the door of her boss’s office gently and say, with firm but kind voice, Mr. Kinsten, I have worked with you for six years and I would appreciate it, if it’s not too much trouble, if you would call me by my real name.

She doesn’t want them to think about it.

When there are birthdays or weddings impending, when the girl in the secretarial pool is missing because she has had a baby, there is always a card to be signed, a box in which to put a donation. When someone has passed away, the obituary is always posted, a card, condolences, information about the funeral, a sign up for carpooling. It’s there, someone does it, no one has to think about it, and she likes that.

So in shadows she lives, doing the things that she thinks of, filling in the gaps, covering the bases and never waiting around to be thanked, never standing up and saying I did that. She moves in and out of light and shadow with grace and with care. She does not seek recognition, praise, handshakes, ribbons, awards, dinners, bonuses... She simply does what she likes. What she likes is for people not to have to think about the little things.

Her father was a genius. To her and others. An inventor. A creator of machines that made life easier for others, machines that picked lint or polished wood floors. Machines that counted change and automatically wrapped it in cardboard sleeves.

He was of single focus, determined manner, distracted, compelled and moved through life with a certain detached air. It wasn’t that he didn’t care, he did, just as she did. He cared so much that he made it his life’s goal to do for others so that they need never think about the little things.

The mind, he would tell her at night, at the dinner table, his fingers twirling a pencil over a page covered with sketches and numbers, potential miracles, must be given a clear path to run on so that genius can be attained.

When her mother could no longer deal with him, his distractions, his detachment, things that she once found charming, enough to marry him, give him a daughter, keep house and live happily in comfort off the money he made from these inventions, she left him. She left them both. For, even though she was a girl and should have been closer to her mother, Elizabeth had always been fond of, drawn and fixated on her father.

You will stay here with him, her mother said as they stood in the driveway. She brushed the strand of hair from Elizabeth’s face that always fell and hung over her right eye. I can’t any longer. I just... he will need you.

Then, her mother, tall, lovely, quiet, a woman Elizabeth assumed she would always see across the breakfast table, dinner table, in the wingback chair by the fireplace during holidays, birthdays, simple days, got in her car and drove away never to be seen again.

Mother is gone, she said to her father after she had descended the stairs, down to the basement and into the shop where her father created, she just drove away. He looked up at her and smiled.

Is she shopping, he asked, I wonder if she got my note that we needed... He stopped, seeing the expression on his daughter’s face. Seeing the loss, seeing the confusion. Oh, he said, you mean, she’s gone, gone?

Elizabeth nodded, and they both stood silent, one on either side of the large oak table. A table that was perpetually covered with wires and springs, blueprints and metal shavings.

What will we do, Father? she asked. As any child would if they had just watched their mother drive away, knowing in their hearts they would never see her again. What will we do? He sighed and removed his glasses. He pinched the spot between his eyes, at the top of his long, thin nose. He replaced his glasses, gave her a quick smile and said, We will move on. He returned to the work he was pondering, tinkering, don’t even think about it.

So, she didn’t.

That became her watch cry though life. In high school, in college she would say to others, Don’t even think about it, while she thought about it.

The details, the things that would normally fall between the cracks, she thought about so that no one else had to. Just as she had taken up where her mother left off, making dinners, cleaning house, pressing shirts, reminding, organizing, stabilizing so that her father could go on his way, create his gifts for the world, she did the same in the rest of her life.

This way of life was pleasant for her. She did for those and felt an agreeable calm in herself when she did. She started with the simple raising of a hand. When someone was needed to bake a cake, man a booth, decorate a room for a dance, she would raise her hand and accept the task.

Don’t even think about it, she would assure others, I can do it.

The hand raise became implied in college when she worked with clubs or groups. A fundraiser needed to be organized, a dignitary needed to be fetched from the airport and coddled on the long weekend. Others were busy with dates and exams. She had exams but never dates, so she didn’t want them to think about it. She would handle the tasks, pick up the slack, make it all happen with no fuss, no worry. Don’t even think about it. Eventually, none of them did.

Somewhere along the road of this life, don’t even think about it became don’t even think about me. Eventually... none of them did.

***

Betty, Mr. Kinsten said to her, standing outside her cubicle one morning, where is the girl?

The girl, sir, she said standing, smoothing her skirt, not wanting him to think about her appearance, which girl are you speaking of? He scrunched his face.

The girl, she used to... he struggled to find her name, We have a new...oh this is Ben Adler, the new accounts man. Ben, this is Betty... um... Betty. The man leaned in, offered his hand, and Elizabeth took it.

Benjamin, he said to her, a pleasure to meet you, Betty.

She felt a slight rush of heat move through her body, like a wave of sun revealed by parting clouds on a day sitting on the very edge of spring and summer. She smiled.

Anyway, Mr. Kinsten went on, papers need to be signed, parking pass, tax forms, that sort of thing. There was a girl...

Dora, Elizabeth said, pulling her eyes off of the face of Benjamin with much effort, her name is Dora and she is on maternity leave right now. She has been for three months, sir. Mr. Kinsten harumphed, and his body bounced when he did so. Don’t even think about it, sir, she said and he gave her a distracted smile, patted Benjamin on the back and then shook his hand.

Well, there you go, Ben, he said, welcome to the company, I am sure you’ll be happy with us. Katy here will set you up with... things and... Off you go.

He nodded to her, turned and vanished into his office, the door closing with a gentle, muted thud. She stood silent for a moment, Benjamin looking at her with a quizzical expression.

So, he said at last, who’s Katy?

I am, she said.

You’re not Betty? he said slightly surprised.

No.

So, you’re Katy, he said, trying to figure out this first-day puzzle.

No, she said again, feeling the confusing rising in him, suddenly feeling embarrassed, I’m not Katy.

OK, he said, stepping back as if from a dangerous person on a street corner, so, who’s Betty and who’s Katy?

I am, she said, but, I’m really not.

I see, he said, shaking a playful finger at her, smiling and nodding, first day, new guy prank, a little hazing, that’s fine, I can handle that.

No, Benjamin, she said, liking the weight of his name as it rounded from her mouth, no hazing or prank. Mr. Kinsten calls me Betty, Katy and sometimes Molly. He isn’t quite sure what my name is. This piece of news seemed to trouble Benjamin, his brows crushed together.

Are you new here, he asked, is he still learning...

No, she said, dropping her eyes, feeling bad that he was thinking too much about it, I have been here for six years now.

Six years, he said with an acceptable level of shock, he doesn’t know your name still? She shrugged. Well, I would truly like to know your real name.

I’m Elizabeth. It’s OK, don’t even think about it.

She smiled and took him to the elevator, down one floor to HR, into the office and handed him off to Marnie. She will get you set up, come back to me when you’re done here, she told him. I will take you down to security, get your parking pass, door key card and have you fingerprinted and photographed.

Really, fingerprinted?

She’s yanking your chain, honey, Marnie said in a voice supported by sixty years and thirty-five thousand cigarettes, relax.

***

When her father had passed away, leaving her the house and the ownership of all his patents, leaving her wealthy and carefree, she got the job. In the empty house, with no one to do for, no one to tell not to think about it, she felt the world crushing down on her. She found it hard to breath. She had a degree, she was good with numbers, so she went searching for work.

One day, while sipping tea in Gremald’s, assuring the new waitress that the milk spilled on her lap was not a problem, encouraging her to not even think about it, she saw the ad for Camden, Fitz and Kinsten. A junior accountant was needed.

This, she thought, would be perfect for me. She applied, interviewed, accepted and started working in the office a week later. Seven weeks to the day she started, Adam Singer, a lanky, red-haired man who was office manager, stood in the middle of the room and screamed at all of them.

You’re all pigs, you’re all infants, he shouted, flailing, throwing reams of paper into the air so that they floated down like engorged snowflakes, chucking pens at random people, I do and I do and none of you, not one of you even knows what I do.

Who is that guy, Clark Bryson whispered to David Komes over their cubical walls.

No idea, Komes replied, but he’s sure pissed about something.

Well, good fucking luck, Adam wailed on, good fucking luck not running this floundering ship of fools into a reef, because I am gone. He disappeared into the kitchen and came out with the entire tray of pastry, walked to the door, turned, flipped them all off and vanished.

Did he just take all the pastry, Komes asked out loud, I didn’t get any today.

Elizabeth rose from her desk, left the office, rode the elevator down to the lobby and walked out onto the street. She opened her phone, spoke the word bakery into it, hailed a cab and off she went. Forty-three minutes later she was back at her desk.

Mr. Komes, she said as David Komes wandered by her cubical, I believe there is pastry in the kitchen.

Really, he said, his eyes sparkling with joy, thanks... you. Off he ran to the kitchen.

At that moment, Elizabeth felt at home. Don’t even think about it, she said in her head. The next morning, she arrived early and thus began her ritual. From that day forward she ordered, stalked, shelved and made sure that the floundering ship was righted and sailing smoothly.

***

I’m back, Benjamin said, standing in the doorway to her cubicle, shall I go get printed and photographed? She smiled, and he laughed.

Sure, she said, let’s go down to security now. She led the way out of the office and into the elevator again. She was quiet, feeling nervous, feeling something she hadn’t really felt before. You like Benjamin, don’t you, she said, not Ben or Benny.

Right, he said, I know some people think it’s too formal, but it’s my name. If my parents had wanted to name me Ben, they would have. I like the full name. Not a nickname kind of a guy. She nodded. Does that make sense?

Of course, it did, she thought to herself. I don’t know why more people don't feel that way. I don’t know why people need to cut corners, clip names, chop letters off. One’s name is just about all one has.

Make sense to me, she said out loud, I prefer Elizabeth, that’s my name, Elizabeth.

I know, we’ve met, remember. She chuckled, blushed and handed him over to security. They will give you your parking pass, ID card, and key card, then... Well, you’re on your own. Good luck Benjamin, she said and shook his hand again. Again that flush, that rush of warm sunshine spilling over her body, pushing away clouds, parting the fog and tingling her skin all the way down to her bones.

Thank you, Elizabeth, he said, you have been a great help.

Don’t even think about it, she said and headed back to her cubical.

She didn’t see Benjamin after that day. His office was two floors above hers because he was in accounts. He had a real office, not a cubical like Elizabeth. She never wanted an office. She was happy with her three and a half walls, her computer, her coffee cup and a picture of her father that was taken one day when the family had been at the beach. He was working, as always, on a lap desk he carried everywhere.

Elizabeth had called his name, and