The Ultimate Erotic Short Story Collection 88: 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:

Rebecca Milton - By Train

Bonnie Robles - The King's Choice

Darla Caldwell - The Sorority Sister’s White Box

Evelyn Hunt - The Erotic Video

Heather Morin - The Great Circus Performer - The Gift of Fucking

Holly Savage - The Spaniard

Inez Eaton - The Good Doctor

Linda Wiggins - The Professor's First Time

Odette Haynes - The Big Reunion

Paula Frost - The Next Great Adventure

Sue Harrington - The Roommate - Bedding the Professional

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: 9780463063040

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 88

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

By Train

The Sorority Sister’s White Box

The Professor's First Time

The Spaniard

The Next Great Adventure

The Good Doctor

The King's Choice

The Great Circus Performer - The Gift of Fucking

The Roommate - Bedding the Professional

The Erotic Video

The Big Reunion

By Train

by

Rebecca Milton

Trains do not seem, to me, as part of this life any longer. They sound arcane in their chugging breath and steel on steel shrieking. They rattle and shake their passengers, they have the limitations of rails, unable to move freely away from their paths. They are forced into conformity, these large, iron, rust, steel masses. They are moving history. Not as sexy as a private jet. Not as admirable as an Aston Martin. They are all but forgotten, until you are trapped at a railroad crossing and have to wait for an hour while the train, with thousands of boxcars, slowly rumbles by. You wonder where it goes and what is in all those boxes. It is never the first choice for getting up, escaping, running away. We hop a plane, jump in the car. We fly away, down highways, through airstreams. Immediacy, speed, freedom, that’s what is called for when it gets to be too much, or it’s so good or we simply must be... somewhere else. Someone else. We don’t think of hopping a train anymore.

Not until you hear that mournful whistle cut through a night that is already becoming a part of an all too familiar history. When you’re sitting in the back yard, fire pit slowly dying, empty wine bottles, in unprecedented numbers, laying silent in grass that needs to be mown. Not until you hear it, cutting through the voice in your head that is asking, again, why and what happened and what did you do this time? At that moment, over the hills and far away, you hear that distant echo. That slow, low, throaty, howl, hum of a train splitting the night. The sound breaks the mantra of never again or why again or this time seemed different or drink more wine. Then, at that moment, a train seems like the only answer. Coming to you like a voice divine. Calling you to come. You absorb the call, drink off the last of the wine, stumble to the cell phone, dial some numbers, give credit card information and then, seven hours later...

You’re on a train.

There is the problem of time. On a plane, you have no real time, even if you are traversing the entire continent, you really don’t have real time. You are heading, at speeds undreamed of by the people who carried their lives across the oceans to found this country, toward whatever it is ahead. Family, friends, vacation, funeral, reality. By the time you settle in, listen to the flight attendant explain what to do when the aircraft ditches into water, after you get your complimentary beverage, your uncomplimentary beverages, a snack, a meal, a movie, it’s done. After you finally relax from the stress of security, boarding, it seems like the flight is over in a blink, and there you are, facing whatever it is you have to face. You have not had any real time to plan, strategize, brace, you have flown through the air and now, you are there.

With the train, you have time. Ample, rolling, stopping, starting, refueling, absorbing passengers, excreting passengers, coupling cars, uncoupling cars, time. A great deal of time. Time wounds all heels, I have heard. On a train, you have all the time you need. You have time to share and time to spare. You can share your time with strangers who sit across from you with puffed, red faces and screaming children. With hopeful eyes and clutching hands. With blank stares. With stories to tell.

There is so much time it tumbles into the aisles and rolls down the floors. It spills out in drips and plops into fields, side streets, stations, lakes, bridges. You sit and sip in the bar car, open your purse to extract a tip and time gushes out all over the bar, all over the stools, all over the cocktail napkins, the coasters, hands, pants, skirts and shoes of those in the bar car with you. The bartender, the two girls, just days ago making it over the high jump of legal age, now sitting in the ill-fitting guise of adults, sipping something that they heard their mothers ask a waiter for one day far back in their memories. Time drizzles out onto the man in the suit, talking to the woman in the hat, who died a week ago and is now going home to tell her ex-husband she is no longer there. Time floods over them, your time, their time, all the time contained in the rocking, coughing, cage that now speeds along rails toward whatever is ahead.

A conductor calls out names of stops, towns and burghs that you’ve never heard of. You can only imagine what life is like there, as the train grinds to a halt, long enough to set feet on the platform, luggage to piles. You look at a picture frame sized section of it from your seat. You imagine the day to day in the town of Micklestop or Muttonburge or Appleton. Imagine a life that moves in slow motion, simple, quiet. Breakfast at a table covered with checkered cloth, white pitchers of orange juice and milk. Daddy kisses mommy as she lays down a white plate covered with eggs, bacon, toast, and love. Kids with scrubbed faces, fussing about school, moving with jittering youth that slams to a stop when papa reaches out his hands, palms up, head down. They all combine into one and say grace, thank the Lord above for the food, for the day, for each other. Father smiles at Mother, the kids don’t see this, but Mother does. She sees and feels that smile from her man, who loves and provides for her.

Then, after a good breakfast, most important meal of the day, ya know, Father is up, hat on, briefcase in hand, kiss at the door, tells the kids to be good, study hard, make him proud. They chirp their promises, Mother beams, Father nods, steals one more quick kiss then off he goes. He walks with a brisk step to the train station, to catch the eight-oh-seven to the city, to the elevator, to the office, to the desk, to the work. Back home, Mother sends the kids to the bus stop with a brown bag of lunch, a kiss, a hug, a declaration of love, a request to be good, study hard. She stands at the end of the driveway and watches as the bus slowly drives out of sight. She looks down the road in both directions, no cars, no people, just sky and sun and clouds. She goes back inside, does the dishes, straightens the kitchen, checks her watch...

There the story ends, and it is sweet, lovely, admirable, hopeful. Yet, you have time, while passengers disembark, greet loved ones, shake hands, hug into the arms of the ones they have returned to. You have time while the business men, the day trippers, pile onto the train, find seats, relax, adjust. You have time to form what you believe is the picture of life in Gardendale or Maplebox or Kettlefish Glenn. Time to think of that happy image that cannot possibly be true because, like trains, happy couples, in Normal Rockwell landscapes, are history. So, Mother checks her watch, showers and dresses slowly, pulling from the depth of her secret drawer, the black lace panties and matching bra that Daddy never sees because Daddy likes to get on top, pound away for a few minutes, roll off and read the sports section. Daddy doesn’t take his time, doesn’t appreciate the way Dylan does. Dylan, who delivers for the hardware store, who carries books in the cab of his truck, books he’s read, books he talks to her about. Dylan who compares her beauty to the moon, to the stars, to the sound of brooks babbling. Dylan, who undresses her slowly, who kisses her, not just her mouth, the way Daddy does, but he kisses her shoulders, her back, her neck. Dylan, who puts his mouth, gentle like a flower petal, on her sex, on her center. Dylan, who makes her scream into her pillow. Dylan, who is years younger but doesn’t seem to mind. Dylan, who touches her naked breasts with wonder and joy. She dresses for Dylan, and he undresses her. When he has had enough, when he has had his fill of her lips and tongue, her hips, and her ass, he dresses and walks slowly to his truck with that conquest swagger that makes her want him back, that instant, inside her again. She lays in the bed, then rises, showers, strips the sheets, washes them with a load of colors, does her shopping, bakes a cake, meets the kids at the bus stop, walks to the train station and meets Daddy when he bounds off the train and into her arms. The family united and happy again.

How long does that last, you wonder, as the train finally strains, gasps and pulls itself out of Clambroth Meadows or Barrelass or Mushroom Hollow. How long does Daddy play out that scene before he notices the changes? The little things. The way Mother is not so interested in the Wednesday night sex, regular as pork chops and apple sauce that they have had it since they were married. How she seems distracted, how she is reading books he’s never heard of, how she talks about taking a trip, alone, without him, without the kids. How long does he roll with this before he kisses her at the door, misses his train, sits in Driscole’s Diner, drinks coffee and plots. How long does he put up with her changes, her moods, before he creeps back that morning and hides under the bedroom window and listens to some man fuck his wife, make her scream, moan. How long does he put up with her headaches, children’s sickness, bake sale excuses before he stabs the gas tank of Dylan’s truck with a Phillips head screwdriver and then hides in the bed.

How long does he accept that, just because she doesn’t feel like sex, doesn’t mean there is something wrong with her, that she is acting strange, that she no longer loves him, before he lays seething, boiling with rage and confusion in that truck bed then hops out when Dylan stops on a lonely dirt road to deliver picture frame hangers to Mrs. Tarkington. How long does Daddy believe that the sexy underwear he has found in his wife’s chest of drawers is not for anyone in particular, that a woman just likes to feel sexy sometimes, before he grabs the back of Dylan's head, with his long hair and slams it, repeatedly, against the still hot hood of the truck. How long, before Daddy drags Dylan’s limp, bloody body out of the passenger side of the truck and drops him into the moss cover darkness of the bottomless pool at the end of the dirt road that leads to the old mill. How long before Daddy steals the can of gas from farmer Gleason’s shed, drives that truck to the middle of a field at the edge of town, douses it with gas, sets a match to it, picks up his briefcase, slings his coat over his shoulder and walks home to confront his wife, rape her, beat her to death with his bare hands and then, lay in wait for the children to come home, the children that he no longer believes are the fruit of his loins and so, they too must be punished for Mother’s transgressions. How long, you wonder, as your window moves slowly down the view of platform and you see a pretty young woman, holding the hand of an angelic child, while a tall, handsome man in a nice suit bends to kiss her, wrap his arm around her waist and pull her tight against him. While he expresses, on the slowly vanishing platform, in front of God and everyone, how much he loves and has missed this woman.

On a train, you have time.

On a train, you have the choice, the chance, to get off, mid-journey and avoid what is at the other end. Not possible on a plane.

On a train, you can find yourself stepping out of the car, onto a platform, in a town called Delancey, sixty-three minutes outside of the nearest city, bag in hand and wandering up main street to a bar that is open at eleven on a Friday. You can find yourself standing outside this bar watching the train pull away, move off toward where you were going. Watch the train vanish behind the trees, leaving you stranded there for at least as long as it takes for the next train to come.

That’s what I did.

***

When does the next train come, I ask a man who was sitting in rocking chair outside of the bar. I ask him, because, apart from being the only person in sight, he looked as if he had been sitting in that chair, in that spot, in front of that bar, in those clothes, for the better part of the time it has taken the earth to be born and reach its current age.

You in a hurry to get away, he asks me and waits for an answer.

I just got here, I said.

I know, he says, adjusts himself in the chair and smiles, surprisingly, he has all his teeth and they are white and perfect, I saw you step off. Didn’t think you were coming here.

Why’s that?

Because, he tells me, no one comes here, they just leave.

No, hurry, I tell him, not wanting to insult his town, I just want to be ready.

Three days, he says and chuckles, you got three days to be ready. Train comes back this time, he looked at his watch, eleven o’clock, three days from now.

How is that possible, I ask, shocked, deflated.

It just is, he says, which, if I was in a better mood, a better person, not on the journey I was currently on, may have sounded very Zen and peaceful but it just pissed me off. I slammed my way into the bar, my eyes not adjusting to the change from sunlight to darkness and I tripped over a chair, tumbled forward, caught my balance and sat on a stool. Looking around the room for eyes that have seen me, keeping the cool facade, like a cat who just fell off a window sill and tries to act like it meant to do that. I didn’t see anyone, but my eyes still hadn’t fully adjusted so there could have been creatures, denizens of the dark corners that had caught my entrance. I dropped my bag to the floor, adjusted myself on the stool and waited for... something.

Something did not happen.

Then it did.

She’s in the back, a voice from the corner of the dark came, she’s doing something with someone or something else.

Delightfully vague, I said to the darkness and the darkness responded with a chuckle. The darkness gave up its mystery resident, and he came into the light. He was older, in his mid-fifties, disheveled, wearing a linen sports coat, black T-shirt, and rumpled linen trousers. His hair was wispy and thin, he wore round glasses, five days worth of growth on his face and he walked with a slight limp on his left leg. He came and stood beside me, looking me over like someone who was going to buy an animal or a rondelet of cheese. Who is she? I asked.

Annabelle, he said, gesturing with his head toward the back room where said woman was currently hiding herself. she’s the day time... person, he said, pausing for a second before saying person, searching for the right word.

I see, I said and set about deciding whether I would stay and wait or move to another bar.

No other bar, he said, reading my cluttered and troubled mind, I can help you. He moved down the bar and then behind it. Walked back down to my end, placed his hands on the bar and smiled. His fingers were stained with ink and yellowed from nicotine, his teeth were white and perfect.

You people in this town have nice teeth,