The Ultimate Erotic Short Story Collection 85: 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 Ritual Born by Rebecca Milton

The View From Here by Linda Wiggins

The True Meaning of Work Force by Janet Bryant

The Seeker by Blanche Wheeler

The Rancher’s Daughter by Evelyn Hunt

The Royal Arrangement by Bonnie Robles

Following in Mommy’s Footsteps by Pearl Whitaker

The Stripper by Carla Burke

Motivational Grace by Heather Morin

The Submissive CEO by Inez Eaton

The Road to Fame 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: 9781005413705

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 85

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 Ritual Born

The View From Here

The True Meaning of Work Force

The Seeker

The Rancher’s Daughter

The Royal Arrangement

Following in Mommy’s Footsteps

The Stripper

Motivational Grace

The Submissive CEO

The Road to Fame

A Ritual Born

by

Rebecca Milton

Blood and bone, Martha, blood and bone, he would say to her when she opened the bar at ten every day. Her name was not Martha, and she had no idea what the hell blood and bone meant, but that was his current greeting.

Good morning to you, Harry, was her response even though his name wasn’t Harry.

So it went. So it goes, in corners and side alleys all over the world. A drunk stands at the entrance to a bar, waiting for it to open, and waiting for the liquid that has come to mean life to be spilled into the body. The bar opens, and the day wends and so it goes.

Martha, whose real name was Daisy, named by her father after the character Daisy Buchanan from F. Scott Fitzgerald’s classic The Great Gatsby. Her father, Arty to his friends and family, had been a fan of F. Scott, which is what he called the writer. Ole F. Scott. Like he was a friend or a drinking buddy. Which, in some sense, he was. Daisy’s father, Arty, would love to spend his weekends drinking bottles of scotch or sitting at bars drinking gallons of beer, with friends or alone, but always, a bent copy of Gatsby or This Side of Paradise or the Beautiful and the Damned, even the posthumously published The Love of the Last Tycoon, jammed in his back pocket or sitting by his right hand on top of the bar.

Drinking with Ole F. Scott, he would say when he left the house at noon on a Saturday to return, maybe Saturday night, maybe Sunday afternoon. Always in time to sleep, rise, shower, shave and go off to work. Her father made a good living, was a good lawyer and never missed a day in court. Never got a DUI, never caused a problem. He drank only on weekends and so, her mother tolerated it. They had an agreement. They had found detente in a situation that could have been fraught with anger, hate, and heartlessness. Not in their house. They loved each other. He was damaged, she was seeking to save and they fit, like characters from a Fitzgerald book, so it worked. It was a ritual. So it was.

When the court case was settled. When Tim Barrows, Arty’s long-time law partner, nailed the case shut and she was awarded a huge settlement from the wrongful death suit that had put both her parents in boxes six feet under far too early, she bought the bar. She finished college first, got her American Literature degree, took some of the money, with enough left over that she could fail at this, start again, fail, start, fail, start repeat and fade until she died, moved to the sunny beachside town of Breakwater and opened Fitzgerald’s.

The first year was rough. A bar on the walk, the street that ran parallel to the beach, that wasn’t about loud music and girls showing their tits. A bar that had walls covered with books, a lending library, a decent menu and plaster busts of great writers in the bathrooms was an anomaly. After her first seasons, when the tourists had left, and the locals weren’t looking for a seasonal lay or a cheap oyster shooter, her bar became the place to go to. Once the locals discovered it, once they saw how comfortable, how classy it was, things turned around and had been just great ever since. She had survived the first year and now, six years later, she was still running smooth.

Harry, whose name wasn’t that, had appeared three years ago on a sunny, October, morning. A Saturday, as it happened to be. He was standing by the door when Daisy pulled up on her bicycle and unlocked the front door. She pulled the shutters and opened the front window to get the sea air in the main room and there he stood. He watched her. He took note of her, she felt. When she had done her bar check, when the cook was in the kitchen prepping for the day, when the taps were clear and open, when all was ready to go, she stepped outside and looked at him.

You coming in, she asked.

You open, he replied.

Every day at ten, she told him and his eyes sparkled. She would never forget that look, that relief, that sucking in of salvation that Harry, whose name wasn’t that, had shown that morning three years ago. In he came, sat at the far end of the bar and ordered a bourbon and beer. He was quiet, polite, neatly put together even though his clothes were a bit old, a bit worn, his beard was large and unkempt. He carried himself with a certain dignity. He was a morning ‘til crowds type of drinker. He would sit and drink all day, speak to the few morning drinkers, the few tourists, but when the evening crowds would start to appear he would pay his bill, tap the bar and wander away into the night, into his life. Always to return the next morning.

That morning, three years ago, Harry, whose name wasn’t that, established his routine. Enter when she opened. Sit at the far end of the bar so he could see everyone who came and went. Order a bourbon and beer. Drink the bourbon, sip the beer. Halfway through the beer he would ask, always, every day, for two eggs.

Any chance a man could get two hard boiled eggs, he would ask Daisy, maybe some hot sauce? Every single day. He never presumed. He never expected Daisy to know, to supply. He always asked. He was always polite about it. It was his routine and, Daisy knew that Harry, whose name wasn’t that, liked his routines. So he would ask, and she would answer, the same, every day;

See what I can do, she would say as she walked to the kitchen in the back, no promises though, the hens may not be awake. Half an hour later, she knew to wait til he had finished his first beer and ordered his second with a shot of bourbon, she would put a small bowl with two hard boiled eggs, still in the shells, in front of him. Although they did this every single day, she stuck to the rules. He would remove each egg, crack it and peel it on a napkin he had spread out, ball the napkin with the shells up, place the eggs back into the bowl and then, he would ask for hot sauce. She knew he would want the hot sauce, but she also knew he liked the ritual of asking.

Martha, he would say which wasn’t her name of course, is there a chance that a man could get some hot sauce? Always polite.

A man may, she would answer and place the bottle of Tabasco on the bar in front of him. He would thank her and then, he would take one egg, salt it lightly, put two drops of hot sauce on it, bite and repeat until the egg was gone. The second egg would sit and wait. Sit and wait for the second beer and bourbon to be finished. Then, he would order another bourbon, another beer, drink the bourbon, sip the beer then repeat the ritual with the second egg. That was Harry, whose name wasn’t that. That was his ritual, and that was something that Daisy liked about her life. Liked about her bar. Liked.

***

After a year of mornings, Harry, whose name wasn’t that, had changed his morning greeting from; are you open to blood and bone, Martha, blood and bone. She, in turn, had changed her greeting from; we are indeed, sir to good morning to you, Harry and that was how it went for the next two years. Neither one questioning the other. Neither asking the other’s name, asking after the other’s health or well-being. The ritual was and would not be broken. Daisy knew that, and she sensed, somehow, that Harry, whose name wasn’t that, knew this as well. The ritual was the life, and the life was not to be disturbed.

Until, of course, it was.

After his greeting that morning, his entrance into the bar, his settling on his usual stool, ordering of his bourbon and beer, things went off the beaten path. At the door to the bar appeared a young man in a three-piece suit and a bow tie. He peered inside, trying to let his eyes adjust from the sunshine to the dim interior of the bar. Daisy saw him first; she looked toward the door when she heard his voice.

Hello, the suited man said, is there... are people in here? Daisy, behind the bar tending to Harry, whose name wasn’t that, and his daily ritual, walked down to the end of the bar by the door.

Hello, she said, people are indeed in here. The man startled at her voice, his eyes still not adjusted. He stepped into the bar and moved toward her voice. He stumbled against a bar stool, placed his briefcase on it and blinked at Daisy.

Oh, hello, he said, his eyes now adjusted and liking what they saw. I’m looking for... He didn’t finish his sentence. He was stopped by the growling warning shot from the back of the bar by Harry, whose name wasn’t that.

Not here you bastard, came the warning, I told you not here, never here. The suited man stumbled backward as if the warning had physically contacted him and shoved him back. He regained himself, straightened his tie, which was already ruler straight, cleared his throat and summoned his strength.

Sir, the suited man began and was instantly stopped.

Hear me, Dexter, Harry, whose name wasn’t that, bellowed from his bar stool, his daily ritual shattered, his eggs unordered, his first bourbon sitting untouched on the bar in front of him, I said not here. I said never here. I said these things in a language I am sure you understand since we have been bandying about in this language for several months now. So, I was clear, I spoke a language you comprehend and now, I say it again; not here, never here.

I understand, sir, suited man again tried to speak a full sentence and again, he was prevented.

You do like hell, Harry, whose name wasn’t that, shouted, you have no understanding at all you simpering fuck. If you did understand, you wouldn’t be here. You wouldn’t be speaking. You wouldn’t be a shadow on the floor of this room. Your very actions prove that you do not understand at all, Dexter.

My name is not Dexter, the suited man said, exasperated, defeated, I’ve told you this before. Silence took over. Daisy looked back and forth between the two men. Harry, whose name wasn’t that, glared at Dexter, whose name wasn’t that either and then, he drank off his first bourbon. He slammed the glass down on the bar and sipped from his beer. Silence once again reigned. He was agitated. Harry, whose name wasn’t that, was very upset, Daisy could tell. She had never seen him this way. Never seen him anything but even. Calm. Soft spoken. Now, he had yelled. He had slammed a glass. Daisy was slightly shaken.

Any chance a man can get two hard boiled eggs, Harry, whose name wasn’t that asked, possibly some hot sauce.

See what I can do, no promises though, the hens may not be awake, Daisy said as she moved toward the kitchen, looking back at the suited man. Harry, whose name wasn’t that, looked at her and smiled.

Thank you, Daisy, he said and she almost tripped. She almost fell on her face. She didn’t. She kept moving, kept it together and did not acknowledge that Harry, whose name wasn’t that, had called her Daisy, which her name was. After all the years of being called Martha, he finally spoke her true name. She had no idea he even knew. She went into the kitchen and took a deep breath. Suddenly for her, the world felt a little off kilter.

Carlos, she said to the chef, who was standing in the back doorway, smoking his morning cigarette the eggs, do them up right today, OK? He looked at her, tossed the end of his cigarette into the parking lot and stepped back into the kitchen.

Do them up right, he said, what the fuck does that mean? Two fucking hard boiled eggs, like I have been doing for the past three years. Now, suddenly, you have complaints about them? Now, suddenly, you want me to do them up right? What the fuck does it mean? I only know one fucking way to hard the boiled eggs, you want me to do something different?

She was flustered, Of course, he was right. Carlos was a good cook and for the past three years, he had been the one cooking Harry’s, whose name it wasn’t, the two hard boiled eggs, without complaint. She nodded. He already had the eggs cooking because that was what he did in the morning, every morning for the past three years. Unlike Daisy and Harry, whose name it wasn’t, he had no ritual to follow. He knew that, every morning, the guy with the out of control beard, the sharp, blues eyes, who sat at the bar and drank all day got two hard boiled eggs. He started the water, the eggs as soon as he came in every morning, and they were always ready, always there. He didn’t really need Daisy to come and tell him to make the eggs, he just did. Every morning. For the past three years.

Sorry, Carlos, she said and retreated from the kitchen, back into the bar.

Carlos has no sense of ritual, Harry, whose name wasn’t that, said when she stepped back into the bar, you can’t blame him, he sees life as a series of facts, not as a handful of what ifs. Daisy stopped and looked at him for a long moment.

What’s your name, she asked and he grimaced.

Really, he said, do you really want to know that? She thought about it, looked at his face, thought about ritual and life as a handful of what ifs.

No, she said, and he sighed relief, who’s the suit, she asked he perked up.

Can you throw him out, he asked, his eyes eager, more than she’d ever seen. It was a day for firsts she thought.

Sure, she said and walked to the far end of the bar where the suit was standing, clutching his briefcase. You have to go now, she said to the man in the suit and he didn’t move. Did you hear me, she asked and he looked around like she couldn’t possibly be talking to him. Yes, you, bow tie, suit guy, you have to leave.

Says who, he asked, and she almost burst out laughing at his silly attempt to be tough. He sounded like a kid in the schoolyard with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, crusts cut off by his mom and a load about to drop into his pants.

Says me, Daisy said and leaned on the bar, casual, calm. This unnerved him, she could tell.

And whom might you be, he asked, again, his voice shaking.

I might be your prom date, she said and Harry, whose name wasn’t that, laughed. The man in the suit looked down the bar and made a short step toward him. Daisy stopped him with a yell, and he staggered backward. I happen to be the owner of this place, and I have the right to refuse service to anyone, says so on the sign by the door. He looked toward the door and saw the sign. He adjusted his bow tie which was already ruler straight, squared his shoulders and jutted out his chin.

Fine, he said, putting all his strength into his voice, I am Aaron Pellman, attorney, please, talk some sense into him and then, he took a card from the inside pocket of his jacket and placed it on the bar in front of Daisy, please call me. Thank you. He turned to Harry, whose name wasn’t and started to speak.

Leave, you cartoon, Harry, who’s