The Ultimate Erotic Short Story Collection 89: 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:

Bonnie Robles - A Union of Two Departments

Diana Vega - Almost Swept Away

Emma Bishop - A Productive Argument over Nothing

Grace Barron - A Vacation Love Story

Inez Eaton - Airport Angst

Jean Mathis - Alice Is Intent To Win

Nicole Bright - A Virgin Date with Destiny

Nora Pruitt - Adventure of a Lifetime

Odette Haynes - A New Addition to the Family

Paula Frost - Andy Learns for Laney

Rebecca Milton - A Single Cello in a Room Unseen

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: 9781005545246

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 89

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

A Single Cello in a Room Unseen

A Productive Argument over Nothing

Alice Is Intent To Win

Andy Learns for Laney

Airport Angst

A Vacation Love Story

Almost Swept Away

Adventure of a Lifetime

A Virgin Date with Destiny

A Union of Two Departments

A New Addition to the Family

A Single Cello in a Room Unseen

by

Rebecca Milton

I say this to my husband, who, I don’t see here right now, but, I am speaking to him. He is the one who will understand. He is the one I want to know how I feel now.

I speak from a place of emotion now. That’s different. You asked what was different. You asked why try again? I am telling you. Trying to tell you. Looking to find a way back. I want to find a way back. Trouble is, I don’t know where back is. Does that make sense?

I speak from a place of emotion now. I can feel it when I speak. I can feel it in my heart, in my head. I can feel it in my toes. I know, crazy, right, which is ironic considering where I am, but it makes sense to me. I want it to make sense to you. I feel it in my hands and toes. I can feel it on my face, on my skin, when I wash in the morning, when I touch my face, I can feel it. I want you to know that. I believe it is what you were asking, what you were wondering about. I was wondering as well. I was wondering as I watched it all happen. I watched, feeling like I was seeing it all from a second floor window. Seeing it all through the lace of curtains ruffled by a summer breeze. Watching it all as if it was not me, not my body, not my choices. I was on the outside, watching someone playing me, doing things in my stead, saying things, filling in the empty silence that came when I opened my mouth. My mouth wasn’t saying those things, the person who was standing in for me was saying them. Like an understudy who suddenly decided to usurp my role and make their big break happen. I watched from the second floor, the fifteenth row. I didn’t feel. Now, I do.

Does that help? Can that be enough for a start? For a do over? Like when we were kids and playing in the back yard or the park or by the brook in the field of Gerber daisies, flooding with color. We’d play, get it wrong, make a mistake, call for a do over. Can I call a do over now? I want to take what has happened and wrap it in a clear plastic bag and then put it in a blanket and then, stuff the blanket in a trunk at the far end of the attic. Then put boxes in front of it. Boxes with Christmas decorations, summer beach toys, old shoes, ill fitting clothes. Just cover the trunk that holds the blanket, that hides the plastic wrap, that houses the regret. Can we do that? Can we have a do over?

When we moved to the house we bought together, when we left the rental house, it started. I see that now, that was the start of it all. We were leaving something impermanent and moving to something more permanent. I was there, in the rental, washing the walls and scrubbing the floors, alone, in the middle of the day. It was a Sunday and you were playing golf with Gary and Andrew. I was happy to let you go, let you play. You had been working so hard that whole month with the move and the new clients and to let you go play golf, to let you have that time away while I cleaned so we could get the security deposit back, that was joy for me.

I was happy to do that. Happy to give you that little rest. I was happy. I want you to know that, hear that, really take it in. I was happy. The smell of the world outside, all the windows open, the spring flowers, the trees. The smell of the wood polish as I wiped the stair rails down, the wood floors upstairs. The music coming from the boom box that I had set up on the floor in the empty dinning room, plugged into the wall. I was singing along with Aretha, I was dancing along the stairs, wiping them down, polishing the wood. I was running up and down the halls upstairs, holding a toilet brush like a microphone and belting out respect. I was thinking of seeing you that night. I was thinking of sitting on the floor of our new house, surround by little white take out Chinese food containers. I was thinking of drinking wine, walking through the empty rooms and planning where we would put everything. The book shelves, your desk, my desk, our bed. I was seeing it, the future, the beautiful future with you. I was... happy.

Please hear that. Please take an extra minute and hear that sentence again. I was happy. I felt happy. I felt. I...

That night, I remember it. It rolls by my eyes like slow motion film. Fuzzy at the edges but the middle, the center of the frame is sharp and clear. The colors are even more rich. I see it. I remember it in my mind. I play the film and I can feel it in my body still. I can feel it. I can feel. I can.

It’s this; me walking in the front door, believing you would still be with the boys, having a few post golf drinks, having guy time. Having time away, time to be one of the boys for a few more seconds and being surprised to see you there. Standing there, in the front room, that’s now the living room, the floor covered with rose petals and candles and you standing there with that smile. I remember falling in love with you all over again at that moment. We had been married for two years and I didn’t think I could feel love new and fresh and... Perfect, the way it felt when I first met you, when I first kissed you. I did. It was right then, right there. You, barefoot, standing in the middle of all those candles, all those rose petals, your golf clubs in the corner. You said to me, I can hear it still, right now, even as I say this, I can hear you say it; Welcome home, my love.

Home and love melding into one thought, one concept. You were love, you were home, you were both and I was in both at once. I remember that.

Do you believe me?

I believe me. I do. I believe me. I believe I feel it. I believe I know it. I believe it.

We made love. On the floor. Against the walls. We made love and then, we ordered the food. We drank wine and walked around the house, each of us playing tour guide. You setting up your office for me. Me setting up the bathroom for you. Both of us riffing like vaudeville comedians on the kitchen layout. Laughing. Laughing lunatic joy. You pushed me up on the marble top counter in the kitchen. I was wearing one of your dress shirts and the red bra and panties that you loved so much. You spread my legs and ran your hands slowly up my thighs. We had just made love not an hour ago, but I wanted more. I needed more. I remember you pulling me close to you, tipping my ass up, pushing my legs wide. I remember being wet. I remember tearing your T-shirt off and throwing it into the sink. I remember you saying that will cause a clog and laughing. I remember unzipping your pants and taking you in my hand and making you sigh. Then, I remember the doorbell ringing, the food arriving and you said we had to fire the delivery man because his timing was so bad. I remember standing by the door, just out of sight of the delivery guy and undressing down to bra and panties while you tried to concentrate on the order, pay the bill. You took that huge bag of food, closed the door and grabbed me.

I think I gave him a three hundred percent tip, you said as you took me to the floor, ripped off my panties and plunged into me, making me scream, the scream echoing through all the empty rooms and coming back.

I remember being so hungry. For food, for you, for future, for more of everything. So deeply hungry. I ate kung pao off your fingers, you ate sesame chicken off my tummy. I put sweet and sour on your cock and sucked it off. I wanted so much. I wanted it to never end. I see that film running late at night. When I walk alone through the halls and the nurses, the orderlies come in white coats, grey pants, sour looks, sleepless eyes and they gather me up, drag me back, buckle me in. I see that film. I taste the food, feel the floor, smell the air, taste your cum. I am there, in it, under it, around it. I feel.

I tell the doctor in the morning what I feel. I feel, I tell him and he nods.

Progress, he says and checks a box, on a chart, in folder, on his lap.

I speak from a place of emotion now. I am awake again. I am not blank, the way you hated, any longer. I don’t stare at spots in the unexplained distance any longer. I focus. I blink. I hear. I feel. I am speaking from that place now. I think that, if you’re ready, if you’re willing, I am as well. I think we can start again. I am not saying we can put it all away. I know there is so very much to deal with, handle, hurdle. I know that. I just think we can start now. I am ready to start now. I am not... How did you put it... dead inside, any longer. I know the difference now. I know how to keep those separate now. I am not dead inside any longer.

I remember taking the train home. I remember walking up the front walkway, seeing your car in the driveway, knowing we had the weekend to ourselves. No one who we owed time to. No one who we had promised to dine with, sit with, go to something with. Just you and I, in our house, alone, free. Walking in the back door, smelling something you were cooking in the kitchen. Seeing you already in your weekend clothes, barefoot, apron on, shorts, T-shirt, spoon in a pot, stirring something, tasting something, perfecting something. Beer bottle on the counter by your hand, music playing, you singing, loud, off key, shameless. I remember the look on your face, like you had never seen me before, like you were blown away that I was there. Like it was a gift. Like it was Christmas, birthday, wonder and hope all blended together.

Taste this, you would say and when I stepped in to sample the delight held in the spoon you offered, you’d take the spoon away and replace it with your mouth. I would taste the food, the creation on your lips and it tasted... your lips tasted... you tasted like home, like perfection, like desire, like life itself and I could feast on you for hours and hours. That kiss would pull me into you, put me solid, flat, square in the middle of the moment and work and people and worries and everything else would just drop away. Then, we would be us. We would tell of our day. We would laugh. We would dance. We would laugh and laugh and laugh and laugh and laugh and laugh and laugh and laugh and laugh... Because you made me laugh. Like nothing else in the world you made me laugh. You did it with a word, a sentence, a bit of physical business. You made me laugh. I remember that. Sometimes, now, even now, while I say this, I am thinking of the kitchen on the weekend and I am laughing. Alone, in this room, I am laughing. People would think I was crazy, which would be redundant being where I am.

Something changed.

I told Doctor Morgan this two days ago; The sound of a cello. A single cello. A person playing it slowly. Playing it with an inner passion that resonated through each note. Each time the bow was drawn across the strings, the sound produced was full of every single emotion under the sun. It all rushed at me. It filled my ears. At first, it was kind of glorious. The music tickled my nose. The feeling riffled through my body and expanded me. At first, I liked it. I welcomed it. Slowly though, it was getting me too full. I was bursting with the emotion. I had to release it. I released it on you. I waited for the nights when we could be alone and I would open the valves and let that emotion flood out on him, into him through my body. We would make love... Hours. Hours on end. Hard, fast, slow, deep. All the music, all the emotion from that cello, I would release on him. I would pour out every drop until there was nothing left in me. Until I was empty. Empty felt so good. Being empty, being flooded free felt so good.

I told you about the cello. Do you remember? I told you one night when you had come back from that trip to San Diego. You stepped into the house and I was on you. I told you how much I missed you, needed you. I wanted you and you were tired. You wanted to drink a beer, sit on the couch, talk to me, relax and I wanted you. I told you that the cello had been playing for three solid days and that I was full, breaking and needed to be empty. I told you that, I remember. I remember because your face got that look. That was the first time I saw it. That look of... being lost. Like you were watching a foreign movie without subtitles and you had no idea what was going on. That look shocked me and made me feel... ashamed. I backed off. I sat with you on the couch, curled up on your lap, let you play with my hair while we watched a baseball game and you told me about the trip, but I was bursting. I was in such need. I was so full of the music, of the emotion. I needed release. I remember that.

That single cello playing in a room at the back of the house that I just couldn’t find. I looked. I thought... a door has to be here somewhere. I thought, a room used for storage. A room for wine. A room for a child. A room for a person to sit in alone and play the cello. I wanted to find the room. Open the door, ask the cellist to take a break. Not go away, no not go away, I loved the music, but I needed a break. An hour to breath. A day to not be so full. I wanted to find that room. The music, beautiful mournful, rich with passion, started when you left in the morning and played until I walked out the door to catch my train to go to work. The music started again as soon as I walked into the house if you weren’t home yet. When you were home, when you got home before I did, the music didn’t play. I was not bursting. I was able to be calm. I was able to let you have space and not attack you with that... desire. Those days when I got home late and you asked why, I said work, office, project, coworker, but the reality was I walked the block until I saw your car pull in, then I came home.

I wasn’t having an affair. I was waiting for you to be at home so I could come home and not be filled to the breaking point with the music.

How could I tell you? I knew you didn’t hear the cello and I couldn’t tell you I heard it, you’d think I was insane and you’d leave me. You’d