Best Women's Erotica of the Year Volume 1

By: Rachel Kramer Bussel

His hot mouth is on my cunt a moment later, greedy and demanding, licking me so skillfully that I don’t know if it’s his tongue or his fingers turning my swollen flesh into melting bliss. An incoherent whimper escapes me. His talented fingers push inside me, moving in circles until they press in just the right spot. I sit up straight as sheer euphoric electricity jolts me. It sweeps through me again and again in fiery waves of glory.

He sits back on his heels, his hair rumpled. “Turn over.”

“What?” I’m still dazed.

He positions me, my hands and one knee on the seat, the other foot balanced on the hansom floor. Then he throws my dress and petticoats up over my waist, and pushes his cock inside me in one slow, relentless thrust. I feel ready to split open from the massive shaft inside me. He withdraws, plunges in again. I am so wet that vulgar noises fill the carriage. But he’s breathing fast, and he begins to fuck me in a savage rhythm, driving in and out until we’re both panting and wet, the carriage windows steamed. My long black hair has tumbled out of its twist and my nipples are still exposed and hard as he drives me forward with every thrust. He grips my hips with a growl, spearing in and out of me so hard that I feel as if my entire body is a burning, hungry ember.

“Please,” I say because I don’t know how to say anything else. I’m gasping and clutching at the cushion.

“Please what.” He’s going to come soon, I can tell by his thick voice.

“I want to—I want to see you…” Despite being naked and fucked and utterly at his mercy, I can’t say it. But Theo understands. He withdraws and flips me onto my back, dress still around my waist, and rams me again and again while I gaze up at him in his disheveled, panting glory. And then it’s happening again. My skin fills with glorious white-hot light, and I scream as I begin coming in violent waves with his cock still fucking me.

Only as those waves lessen does he let go with a long groan and reach his end inside me. He falls on top of me immediately after.

“There’s no hurry,” he murmurs, snuggling into me. Both of us are damp and hot. “Let him keep driving.”

Soon I’ll adjust my corset, secure my hair. I’ll bid Theo goodnight as if he’s any gentleman escorting me home from the ballet, and I’ll go into my quiet home and up to bed. He will—if not tomorrow, soon—move on from New York with Madame Morgana and their séance theatre. But I won’t return to life as usual. A new century is dawning, and I’m going to rise like the sun.


by Jade A. Waters

Hamlet had the most beautiful eyes I’d ever seen.

It was almost as if our casting director had chosen him for those eyes alone. Brooding, dark and mesmerizing, they were half the magic of his performance. Night after night he stunned full houses with that penetrating gaze, capturing the essence of his character until his terrible, tragic end.

His performance itself was magical, too, but I was so far past this after years of watching Philip act. Instead, I was lost in his tormented expression as he lamented and soliloquized to the darkened house, the tiniest beads of sweat forming along his temples under the burning stage lights. He practiced with me backstage, but often I hovered in the wings, silently admiring his movements. I’d memorized his lines, and I mouthed them as he spoke them. I knew everything he did by heart, really—the way he extended his right arm here, held his left fist aloft for emphasis there and stomped his foot to draw a gasp from the audience in the middle of his first monologue. It was like he’d lived his whole life to play this role. Despite the stark contrast in their personalities, Philip was Hamlet, and it was those eyes of his that linked them, not as windows to his soul, but to the character he’d captured straight from the tattered pages of his script.

But this is how I felt about Ophelia and me—she was sweet and tender, a lost girl who died without love at every performance. Each night as I caressed the curtains, watching Philip’s glorious movements across the stage, I knew this in my heart.

Ophelia, deep down, was me.

Still, the reality was that Ophelia never got to have her love. She yearned, she obsessed, she went mad.

And then she fell out of a damn tree and died.

This is what preoccupied me as Philip opened the passenger-side door for me. He ran his fingers through his rich, wavy hair, and then reached out for my hand.

“Well? You coming?”

I tried to calm the thump in my chest, just like I always did when we got together outside of Esquire. I’d had a crush on him since I joined the community theater, but he’d been dating Tammy. Ever since, everything there seemed to be about Tammy. Tammy the star. Tammy the diva.

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