The Ultimate Erotic Short Story Collection 94: 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:

Blanche Wheeler - When It Happens

Bonnie Robles - Workmates, Friends, Lovers

Bonnie Robles - Workmates, Friends, Lovers 2

Emma Bishop - Words and Actions

Evelyn Hunt - From Two to Three

Grace Barron - The Sex Spot

Molly Ellis - Deadly Pursuit - A Vampire Romance

Odette Haynes - Under the Texan Sun

Pearl Whitaker - Training To Be The Perfect Wife

Rebecca Milton - Is Fine Enough

Rebecca Milton - As I Write This Letter

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: 9781005130244

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 94

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

Is Fine Enough?

When It Happens

From Two to Three

Words and Actions

Workmates, Friends, Lovers

Workmates, Friends, Lovers 2

The Sex Spot

Deadly Pursuit - A Vampire Romance

Training To Be The Perfect Wife

As I Write This Letter

Under the Texan Sun

Is Fine Enough?

by

Rebecca Milton

The rural road that connected to the interstate was long and dull. On one side, the Granville’s farm; thousand of acres of alfalfa. On the other side, woods, thick, deep, rolling roaming. She had spent many years in those woods with friends and lovers. Drinking, dancing, smoking and fucking. Now, as she stepped onto the road, looking down its barrel, the woods held no pull, no interests, no mystery. She looked back once at the house and there he stood on the porch. She wished she could paint him this way;

A beer gut, stained, white wife beater, a glass of cheap whiskey in his hand and a cigarette hanging from his chapped lip. His hair a mess of grease and dirt, his eyes red and dripping rheum. He would be in jeans, torn at the knees, torn at the ass, hanging on by the dirt that clung to them. Surely they would disintegrate if he ever got the notion to wash them. He would smile and the teeth that were left were a checkerboard of black and yellow. He would spit the brown juice of tobacco and it would drip down his chin, onto the shirt, joining the rest of the stains that were the mosaic of his life.

She wished that was the case. But, it wasn’t.

He was sandy haired with a kind smile. His clothes were neat and clean, his teeth were white. He held a cup of coffee, never smoked a cigarette a day in his life, drank only occasionally, never got drunk. He watched her, said nothing. Everything had been said the night before. The painful argument, the unanswered questions, the pleas of stay, the heartbreak of no. In the morning, he made coffee, eggs, bacon, toast and argued no more. He told her to eat, she’d need her strength.

He sat quietly at the other end of the table, eating his breakfast, drinking his coffee only looking at her when she spoke, which she didn’t do much. She had packed her duffle. She had laid out her travel clothes. She had been ready to walk away last night, but clearer heads prevailed and she slept in the guest room, deciding to start her journey in the morning. After breakfast, she showered, dressed, left the ring on the sink in the master bathroom and walked out the door. He had been in the guest bathroom when she walked out and stepped onto the porch only when she was halfway down the road. She turned back because she felt him there.

He made no move to chase her, catch her, bring her back. Part of her wished that he had. Just come get me, she thought to herself, I’m betting I would let you. He didn’t. She had asked him to let her go the night before and, he agreed. He had given his word and he was a man of that. His word was good. She knew it, everyone who had any dealings with him knew it. A handshake and his word was law, no questions asked. She had asked, he had given it and he was holding to it. But still, she thought. He had told her to take the car, the one he had bought her. She refused. She told him she took half the money in the joint account and put it in her private account.

Unbeknownst to her, he had called the bank and transferred the rest of it to her account. He was a good man. Which is what she thought as she turned one more time to look back. He stood on the porch, coffee cup chest height, looking at her leaving him. He’s a good man, she thought for the thousandth time. Then why leave?

Come get me, she whispered to the wind.

That was the question of the night. The crux of the argument. She was not unhappy, but she was not happy. She, of course, loved him, but she was no longer IN love with him. She heard herself, she heard every word and knew that, if she had been on the receiving end of it, she would have been as confused, as frustrated and devastated as he was. She stood in the middle of the road, taking one last look and leaned forward, leaned toward the house, her legs almost taking a step.

She saw him mirror her, lean towards her, his legs wanting to break and run. She steadied herself, adjusted the duffle bag over her shoulder and waved. She mouthed the words good-bye, but he wouldn’t be able to see that. He brought his hand up to return the wave and it hung in the air like a hesitant child raising his hand in a school room. The image hurt her so much. She snapped her whole body away and moved swiftly down the road. She felt that, if she turned one more time, he would still be there, on the porch, hand up, looking small, looking sad.

She told herself not to look back, there was no need to. She knew what she was leaving, she needed to look ahead, she had no idea what was going on in that direction. Leaving, never to return again, she had told him the night before. That was the blow that connected. She watched it hit his face, travel down his neck and embed itself in his heart. Never to return. Effectively clearing away all hope in one sentence.

She had seen dead bodies in her life, it just happens, but she had never seen another human completely emptied of hope before. Certainly she had never seen it happen right before her eyes. She had gone to bed that night praying that she never had to witness that again. She asked the lord above to help her never to do that to another person again in her life. In the morning, when she stepped into the kitchen, sat at the table, picked up her coffee cup, she saw that he was less. He was somehow, slightly, empty looking. His movements had no grace. He sat heavily. He seemed off balance like a bounce ball that had gotten a little water inside that made it jerk and shudder when it was supposed to rest still. She had done that. She had slashed him side and allowed hope to flood out, spill away. It was terrible, she knew. Worst of all thought, was the fact that she had no idea why she was doing it.

Don’t look back, she said out loud to herself.

She took her own advice for three miles, for forty-five minutes. She kept her eyes forward until she heard the sound of a vehicle on the road behind her. Only then did she turn. Only then did she look back, stand, legs slightly spread, right arm out, thumb pointing towards where she was going, even though she had no idea where that was. A rusted red ford pick up puttered along the road, getting closer. She dropped her arm and tucked her thumb into her fist, turned on her heels and started walking again. The pick up passed her, slowed and pulled onto the shoulder a few yards ahead of her. She kept walking.

A tall guy with a long mustache stepped out of the truck and walked around it. He leaned against it, folded his arms and waited for her to get close enough to speak to her. He started to talk, but she kept her eyes on the future and walked on by. He watched her walk by, watched her walk away. He shouted to her, but she ignored it and kept on her path.

Well, shit, she heard him say. Then she heard the door open, close, the engine start and the truck come up behind her. Again it passed her. Again it stopped on the shoulder. Again the mustached man got out. This time though, he didn’t lean on the truck, he started walking towards her. Again, she kept on walking by.

This time, he reached out a long arm, grabbed the duffle bag on her back and pulled her to a stop. She tried to keep moving, her eyes forward, like a trapped animal. Though he was thin, he was strong and he was not letting her go. He pulled her backwards and she fell to the dirt. He stood over her and reached down a hand to help her.

Sorry ‘bout that, he said and she slapped at his hand. She got up on her own, dusted herself off and adjusted the duffle on her back. you need to turn ‘round and walk right back, Rebecca, he said to her, hands on hips. this is crazy, got everybody talkin’, you need to stop this now, it ain’t natural. He squinted at her in the morning light, the dust floating between them like a thin curtain. She looked back and then looked at him again.

I’m tellin’ you, this isn’t any way for a wife to treat her husband. You go back. She shook her head and started to walk. He grabbed her again and tugged her back. This time, she turned with the pull, spun and brought her right leg up swift and hard. She connected, right between his legs and he dropped to his knees, howling like a lamb being castrated.

Sorry ‘bout that, she said and walked on down the road, leaving him laying in the dust, clutching his crotch and whimpering.

***

She stepped onto the highway, looked north, turned south, dropped her duffle bag, cocked her hip and stuck out her thumb. It was morning. A Sunday morning and there wasn’t much traffic. After a few minutes of seeing no cars at all going her way, she dropped her thumb and decided to conserve her energy. She sat down on her bag and waited. The sun, coming slowly up, warmed her and gave her that false, fleeting feeling of being blessed in her journey.

She took a stick of gum from her bag, unwrapped it, folded into her mouth and set to work slowly making a tiny, silver peace crane out of the inner wrapper. She worked her nimble fingers, folding, creasing, folding, creasing. After about fifteen minutes, the crane was done. She sat it in the palm of her hand and examined it.

Her grandmother had taught her the ancient art of origami. She, her grandmother, could make anything with a few sheets of paper and time on her hands. She made cranes, lions, giraffes, boxes. She had taught Rebecca and she had picked it up quickly. They both had the nimble, slim, dexterous family fingers. Grandmother had kept her’s nimble by sewing lace for wedding gowns and theatrical costumes. Rebecca’s mother had meat hook hands, the grace and nimbleness skipping a generation. She looked at her crane, thinking of her grandmother who always named every piece she folded.

I will call you, Rebecca thought for a moment, possible, she said at last. At that moment a car sped by and came to a screeching stop, sliding off the road and onto the shoulder. She looked up and the air from the passing, breaking car, sent possible flying up into the air where it caught a draft and flew higher, higher and almost out of sight. She watched it on its journey. The car suddenly backed up and came to a stop in front of her. The car’s parking brake was engaged, the driver opened the door and peeked up over the roof.

Whatcha lookin’ at, said a man in a blue shirt and a neck tie. He looked up and tried to spot what it was she was looking at. She didn’t look at him, she was watching the flight of the crane.

Possible, she said.

What is, he asked still looking around trying to see what was holding her attention. She looked at him, stood up, dusted off her pants and grabbed her duffle bag. He looked at her and nodded. She opened the back door of his car, an old, but well cared for, Dodge Dart, tossed her bag in the back, closed the door and then hopped in the front seat. He stayed outside the car for another moment, looking in the sky, trying to figure out what had held her so rapt.

After a second, he gave up, got in and closed his door. He checked his rearview, dropped the parking break and moved cautiously onto the highway. When they had gone a few miles in silence, him looking at her now and then, she finally said hello, told him her name and, he welcomed her to the journey. The journey being life. The man, she learned in the next 45 minutes or so, was Thaddeus Ray Tamminger.

Mr. Tamminger was a scout for a professional baseball team. He told her the name of the team, expecting her to be impressed, and she immediately forgot it, having no interest at all in baseball. He told her of his love of the road. He could easily fly, hop a plane, fly off to this college or that college, check on this minor league prospect or that one, but he sure loved a road trip. He pocketed the money that the team would have spent on his airfare and used it to go to top notch hotel rooms, eat fine meals, and now and then, spend a rain day sitting in a movie theater.

Maybe watch three, four movies in a row, he told her, making it sound like he was being bad, like he played hooky from school and watched porn in a sleazy hotel room.

If you time it right, you can leave one theater, swing by concessions, refill that large pop corn and then, he shot his hand out in front of himself like a jet flying, zip right on into the next theater and never even miss the previews.

He nodded, he was obviously proud of himself. He told her there was nothing quite as wonderful as a big box of pop corn, an ice cold coca cola, he used the full name, and an all day movithon. That’s what he called it, he told her, a movithon. She wondered if the ball players ever beat him up. She said it sounded like a little slice of heaven and he missed her sarcasm like a little leaguer missing a curve ball. He talked on, blissfully unaware that Rebecca was listening to perhaps every forty-seventh word. Just enough to nod, make a listening noise and not be too rude. He did, after all, let her get into his car. She asked him if he had ever played ball himself and he laughed and told a long, self effacing story about his attempts in college.

But, he told her, serious, proud, I have an eye for talent. Particularly pitchers. He winked and she had no idea why. He went on to tell her what one needs to look for in a pitcher. He was detailed, precise, making sure she understood, as if he was grooming her to take over his job when he retired. After he had given her the full skinny on pitchers he got strangely quiet. The silence lasted a few miles before he broke it again.

Not too interesting, he said and suddenly she thought he was talking about her. She realized that she had said perhaps twelve words since she got in the car. She started to talk but he stopped her, No, no, he said, it’s… I understand. My wife tells me all the time. Thaddeus she says, always using my full name when I am getting a good scolding, no one really wants to know how to pick a pitcher and, if they do listen, they’re just being polite.

He laughed and looked down the road, further down than the road actually went. He stayed in that distance for some time and finally he came back. He looked at her, gave her a shy smile and shrugged.

I do appreciate you listening, I’m just... I’m kinda crazy about baseball.

It’s good to be passionate about something, shows you’re really alive.

He nodded a thank you and chewed on that idea for several miles. The remained quiet and Rebecca watched the world go by her window. She looked over at him and noticed he had slipped back into the thousand mile stare. She asked him where his wife was. He told her she didn’t like baseball all that much. She didn’t like traveling by car all that much. She didn’t like his classic, well maintained Dodge Dart all that much. She preferred to stay home when he went on his scouting trips.

What does she do while you’re away, Rebecca asked, feeling a little more friendly. He told her that she liked to read, garden, watch chick flicks, not watch or listen to baseball on the television or the radio.

She also seems to like to suck Gil Davies’ cock quite a bit, he said and then went silent again.

She didn’t know what to do. She looked out the window, tried to become interested in something, anything, that was out there. He continued again, after a brief silence, talking about it with a certain distance, a disconnect, like someone giving a lecture on meal worms or tire rotation. The information seemed to be important, but he didn’t appear to be emotionally connected to it, certainly not the way he was connected to baseball. He continued speaking in a bored tour guide fashion, explaining to her that he had come home early one time and saw his