The Ultimate Erotic Short Story Collection 81: 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:

The Roads We Travel by Rebecca Milton

The Session by Emma Bishop

The New Lover by Linda Wiggins

The Swim Meet by Colleen Poole

The Sexual Awakening by Bonnie Robles

When the Stars Align by Paula Frost

The Widowmaker by Abigail Cooper

What Develops by Diana Vega

Thrice A Virgin by Nicole Bright

The Neighbor by Inez Eaton

The Star Player 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: 9781005653354

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 81

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.

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Table of Contents

The Roads We Travel

The Session

The New Lover

The Swim Meet

The Sexual Awakening

When the Stars Align

The Widowmaker

What Develops

Thrice A Virgin

The Neighbor

The Star Player

The Roads We Travel

by

Rebecca Milton

She knows.

She pretends she doesn’t, but she is smart, wise, quick.

So, she knows.

He is shy, he is quiet, and he is in love. Deeply, in love.

She knows.

There is a coffee shop. Its door is blue. The coffee shop is called The Blue Door, which makes sense because...

There is a man who dwells in a small apartment. Small for some, but for him, for this man, it is perfect. He has few things, because he does not like things too much. He has a table on which he eats his meals, then cleans up. He places his typewriter on it and writes. He puts the typewriter on a shelf and puts brush to paper and paints. He puts his paper and paints on the shelf and makes another meal. He has a table.

He has a bed that he always makes when he rises from sleep. Sometimes he sleeps in the day, sometimes he sleeps in the night. Whenever he sleeps, when he rises, he makes his bed. The sheets and blankets are pulled tight, tucked securely. No wrinkles. A coin could be bounced on the made bed as they are taught to do in the military. Which is where the man learned to make his bed.

He has two dishes, two forks, two spoons, four knives, two sharp, two not. He has two coffee cups, two drinking glasses, two bowls. He has two because he has the idea that someone may come by, want to drink coffee, have a bowl of soup, maybe a sandwich. In all the time that he has been in this small apartment, since he left the army, since he moved about, since he came to this city, he has not had a visitor. Still, in case he does, he has two.

He takes walks. One walk takes him out his front door, down the stairs onto the sidewalk, to the left, around the corner, to the small park at the end of his street where people go with their dogs. He moves past that park, watching the dogs, which he likes a great deal, but he is unable to have one himself because his landlord, this landlord, current, doesn’t allow pets. He moves slowly past this park, watching the dogs, thinking what it would be like to have one. To call it Rascal or Pete. To call it Thurman or Modigliani. He thinks about what it would be like to walk with his dog at the end of a leash, stopping now and then for a sniff of the world under a tree or a pole or a mailbox.

He thinks what it would be like to have the dog sit by his feet in the morning while he drank his coffee or in the evening when he ate his dinner. He would sit in his chair in the evening and read with the dog on his lap. The dog, of course, would not read. At least, not to his knowledge. He moves past the park of dogs, down the street and past the fountain that has long since stopped fountaining because funds have run out, and no one bothered to get the funds back.

The fountain, once flowing, bubbling, now stands silent, its copper parts green, its metal parts rust, its basin dry and caked with leaves, trash, under which layer he is sure, there are coins propelled by wish and hope. He moves past the fountain, checking it to see if perhaps money has come and water will flow. It never does, but in case it does, he checks. He moves past the fountain and down the small street where there is a bookstore, a yarn shop, a dress shop, a small store that sells maps, flags, and magnifying glasses. He moves down this street and turns to the right. He walks one-half block and there, he comes to the coffee shop with the blue door, called The Blue Door.

He has another walk. This one takes him out his front door, down the stairs to the sidewalk, to the right and down the street. On this walk, he passes an old five and dime shop that still struggles to keep its place in the world. Things in this shop cost much more than five and ten cents but they keep the name to remind the world that, at one time, good things, useful things, important things, could be purchased for as little as five cents or ten cents. The five and dime has a lunch counter, which also serves breakfast and, on Saturdays, they serve dinner until seven in the evening.

He walks this walk to peek in the front window and see who is at the lunch counter. If there are old men there, men he knows by sight and name, but only from listening in, he will stop in and sit at the counter. If it is morning, he will have two eggs, sausage, white toast with strawberry jam, and two cups of coffee, one during his meal and one after. If he walks by the five and dime in the afternoon and sees the old men, he will sit at the counter and have a tuna melt, French fries and two cups of coffee, one during his meal and one after. He likes to sit and listen to the old men talk. They are living films of history, and he enjoys history.

If the old men are not there, he simply walks on. He walks past the five and dime, past the corner grocery where he shops once a week. Past the electric company, past the newsstand. Past the building that used to be something but is now empty and boarded up. He has never found out what the building used to be. As he passes it, he thinks about its uses, bank, stock exchange, television repair and sales, a place to buy gas grills for the backyard summer parties. The options, he thinks, are endless. He walks past. He comes to the end of the street, he turns left, he walks past the factory that makes bottles, down to the end of the block, another left, two blocks and he comes to the coffee shop with the blue door, called The Blue Door.

All roads lead to you, he said to her one morning, when he had first started walking to the Blue Door, when he stepped up to the counter, when he was next, when he was the patron of the moment. She titled her head to the right, gave him a curious smile and her yes lit up. She noticed that his eyes lit as well, his face opened in a smile and then, right there, at that moment, she knew. He knew as well, but he didn’t know that she knew. He thought that he was hiding it well. Keeping it all in check. Making sure his emotions, like his bed, were tight and neat and you could bounce a coin off them. All his emotions were hidden. Nothing peeked out, nothing slipped by. So, he was confident in his anonymity when he stepped to the counter and made his comment about all roads. He was pleased by his cleverness.

I don’t understand, she said, her voice, to his ears, like an angel’s whisper. This threw him for a moment. He gathered himself quickly and pointed to her name tag, which was partially covered by her long, auburn hair. She looked at her nametag and looked back at him, still unsure.

Your name, he said, quietly, he hadn’t planned to say more than the all roads sentence. A sentence he thought about while he stood on line and caught a glimpse of that nametag. Roma, he had thought to himself, what a unique and lovely name. That was when the idea of all roads leading to her came into his head. It was perfect, he thought, because his walks, either one, lead him to the coffee shop with the blue door, called, The Blue Door.

All roads lead to Rome, he attempted to explain, your name is Roma, so... At that point she swept her hair over her shoulder and revealed the entire name tag, which wasn’t a name tag at all, but a small advertisement for something the shop was selling called a cafe Roma. All roads lead to... he stopped, seeing the nametag that was not and suddenly, he had no idea what to do next.

She knew.

I get it, she said in her angelic voice, that’s very funny. She saved him. She had reached across the void, grabbed onto him and pulled him back into the living world. She saved him. She knew. He did too. He didn’t know, however that she knew. He takes his coffee, black and walks out the door. It doesn’t matter which route he travels, they all lead back to his apartment. As he walks, he thinks about the girl in the coffee shop with the blue door called The Blue Door.

***

There is a girl who lives in a small apartment, small for some, but perfect for her. She doesn’t have many things, because things hold you to the earth and the point of it all, she thinks, is to be free, light and ready to fly when the mood, the need, the want, slips into your dreams and you wake with your bags packed and your feet moving out and away. She has yet to do this. She has yet to rise, grab and go. She has yet to let her feet leave the earth, run to places far and fanciful. She still has few things in her small, perfect for her though, sized apartment. She has cases of books. She has a table, a bed. She has pens and blank books and words flow and weave, carve and create. She has cups and plates, bowls and spoons and the like. Two of each, like Noah was once instructed. Much more than this, she doesn’t have nor does she need.

She has walks that she walks. One walk takes her out her front door, down the stairs of the building, onto the sidewalk and to the left. She passes by a small fenced in parcel of land that has been taken over by several neighbors and turned into a co-op garden. Behind the low, slat wood fence, there are rows of vegetables, plants, herbs and colorful flowers. The garden is well cared for, and she usually sees one or two people in the area, weeding, clipping back branches and harvesting fruits and vegetables. She slows when she walks by, smells the fragrant flowers, looks at the yellows, reds, and greens. She waves to the people who work in the garden. Now and then, she accepts a proffered apple, tomato or cucumber.

The garden is sandwiched between two abandoned, desperate brick buildings. The empty space was once covered with garbage and broken appliances. A few neighbors gathered before she moved to the apartment, petitioned the city and were allowed to start their garden. It is respected in the neighborhood. Everyone, even the hoodlums that the older folk often talk about, warn her about, leave the garden alone. None of the kids on their BMX bikes ever dare to jump the low fence and tear through the neat rows of vegetation. No one steals the harvest. No one harms the fence.

She likes the garden because it seems almost impossible and yet, it is. She passes the garden and moves on down the block. She passes taco carts and flower shops. She passes old men and women sitting in chairs on the sidewalk. She gets to the end of her street, takes a right and moves down past the bank, the insurance salesman’s building, past the ice cream shop that has the old fashioned sign spelling shop, shoppe, which she always calls a shop-ee because it makes her laugh. She gets to the end of that street, turns left, walks half a block and comes to a coffee shop with a blue door called The Blue door.

She has another walk that takes her by the cemetery. The one that is always dark, shaded by trees during the day, only the fiercest shards of sunlight able to slice through the heavy canopy of trees and dapple the headstones with light. The stones here are old. Some have been vandalized with spray paint or knocked over. They are so old that no one who cares about the occupants of the graves are left to roam the earth, care for the graves, place flowers or stones on them.

So, they go into the future painted, marred, tipped. The fence around the cemetery is wrought iron, annually slathered with a coat of black paint by the DPW. She never goes into the cemetery, as she is a woman, attractive and alone. She has been warned. She has read the news reports. She walks by, looks in, peers into the daytime shady dark and wonders about the people who dwell there, dwell among the dead. When she reaches the end of the cemetery, she turns to the right, heads past the factory that makes furniture. The tall smokestacks puffing out clouds of white smoke like an enormous, old, pipe smoker. Past the factory, down the road, past the mechanic’s shop that has been there since the invention of the car, it seems to her. A quick jog to the left and she is at the coffee shop with the blue door, called The Blue Door.

Good morning, Emerald, her boss says when she comes in the blue door, each morning at five, ‘thanks for coming in today." He always says that too. She likes this; it makes her feel like she has a choice to be there. It makes her feel like she is there not just because she needs the job to pay the rent and feed herself, pay her bills and live her life. She feels welcome, important and needed when her boss thanks her for coming in. When she first started working at the Blue Door, five years ago, and her boss said good morning and thanked her for coming in, she was confused.

Was I not scheduled to work today? she had asked and her boss had laughed. The others who worked there, who had come to understand and appreciate the greeting, filled her in.

Just because you’re scheduled to come in doesn’t mean you have to or will, Camay had explained to her, Eric understands that we are people and we are changeable and we are special. So, when we come to work, he likes that. He thanks us.

But, he pays me to come to work, Emerald had argued in her confusion. Camay had laughed and said nothing else. As the years went by, Emerald had begun to understand how that simple greeting, that thank you, made working at the Blue Door very special and she never once thought of calling in sick or not going to work.

Good morning, Eric, she responds, thanks for having me, the greeting she developed with him. Each one of Eric’s employees had, over time, developed their own response, their own way of greeting and thanking Eric. She hung up her jacket in her locker, slipped on a blue apron and started her morning routine. She baked. She was a baker. She stepped into the kitchen that was always clean and organized by Manuel. He worked in the evening, cleaning up the kitchen and making it ready for Emerald the following day.

He kept the stores of food stocked, washed the dishes, cleaned the counters, sharpened knives, he did everything to make sure that when Emerald stepped in the following morning, all she had to do was bake. Bake she did. Fresh muffins, breads and sweet pastry. Since she had come to the Blue Door, her baked goods had gained quite a reputation, and the clientele had increased. Eric knew this, liked this and did his best to keep Emerald happy, in his kitchen and working in his shop. When the morning baking was done, when the doors opened at seven and people poured in, the place smelled sweet and comforting. The aroma’s of coffee, fresh baked goods, melding together to