Best Women's Erotica 2014

I hate sex. There, I’ve said it out loud. I know, in this world, that makes me some kind of freak but, with billions of people on the planet, there are bound to be a few of us who just don’t get it. The mess and the intimacy.

I hate sex and I work in a sex shop. I can see that puzzles you. No, it really doesn’t make sense for someone who hates sex to work in a sex shop. But the job ad simply said retail experience required, and I’ve got plenty of that. I was laid off when my last place closed down, I needed work and so I answered the ad.

Of course, I didn’t mention during my interview how much I hate sex. Or admit the fact that I hadn’t had sex in, let me see, going on five years. No, when I went to meet with Archie Bennett, the oleaginous owner of Silicone Dreams—sex emporium for the discerning—I dazzled him with my resume. Years spent in big department stores and upmarket boutiques. If anyone knows anything about selling on the shop floor, it’s me. And that’s what Archie employs me to do, not to have sex with the customers.

Naturally, you might think that working in a sex shop would gradually thaw my froidure but, no, it hasn’t. I’ve been working here for six months now and I still hate sex just as much. Possibly even more. After all, if it’s sex all day at work, so to speak, it’s the last thing you’re interested in when you get home at night. A delicious meal, a glass of wine, my feet up on the coffee table as I relax on the couch with a good book or a great movie…that’s what works for me. Not humping some sweaty idiot whose name I can’t remember.

But don’t think for one minute that my distaste for the act itself detracts from my ability to peddle sexual accoutrements. I can advise you in minute detail which strap-on would be right for you and your loved one; I can run through the relative merits and functional variants of the sixty-three vibrators we hold in stock; or if you tell me a bit about your girl, I’ll tell you which condom to pick. Just don’t expect me to measure you up for a butt plug.

So I hate sex—but I don’t hate my work. Actually, I quite enjoy working at Silicone Dreams. It’s a little less formal than Macy’s, a little less up its own ass than some of the boutiques I’ve worked in and the customers are more colorful. I have three coworkers: oily boss-man Archie and the other two salesgirls, Alexa and Honey. We get on, we have a laugh even with Archie and, though the pay’s not great, I’ve worked in far worse places.

It would be safe to say that both Honey and Alexa do enjoy sex—in a big way. They enjoy doing it, they enjoy talking about it and of course they enjoy their work. They flirt with the customers more than I do or, should I say, they enjoy it more than I do. We all do it; flirting with the customers is the best way to make sales and we’re working on commission. Honey makes the most money. Long blonde hair, serious curves and wide blue eyes that make her look like an innocent schoolgirl, even though she’s pushing twenty-five. She has her own little fan club, a bunch of men who come into the store when they know she’ll be working and buzz around her for hours. She humors them, they spend money and Archie’s happy.

Fly Guy is her biggest fan. Honey works five days a week and you can set your watch by the fact that Fly Guy will come in, just after lunch, on at least four of those days. He’s smooth, slick, in his midthirties with the looks of a male model gone to seed. Just a little softening of the jowls, a small overhang of belly nudging at the top of his Levi’s. Shirt undone one button too low. One spritz too many of a cologne he should have spent more money on. But his eyes light up when he walks into the store and sees us standing behind the counter, Honey always ready to show him the newest stock or plug the merits of an old favorite. He’s a little shy but he’s polite, which is more than can be said for some of the guys that come in here.

When he’s gone, I tease Honey.

“Fly Guy’s gonna ask you out. He’s just working up the nerve. Next time, I’d put ten on it.”

Honey laughs her throaty, sexy laugh but she’ll never take the bet. I wonder if she’ll say yes or no when it finally happens.

It’s a rule that there are always two of us girls working in the shop together in case of weirdos. Which we get plenty of. Most of them are friendly and harmless, but there have been incidents. So now we always work in pairs. Usually Archie’s up in his office above the shop, and I happen to know he’s keeps a piece in one of his desk drawers. So weirdos, beware.

But Honey’s blue eyes and winsome smile have made her a little spoilt. She’s used to getting what she wants, and she can be a bitch if she doesn’t. So every now and then, when she’s in the hot throes of a new passion, she sneaks off, mid-shift, for a little afternoon delight in the back of her boyfriend’s car on some parking lot around the corner. She’s never gone long; it doesn’t take Honey more than fifteen or twenty minutes to get her guy’s rocks off and her own. Then she’s back, breathless and smiling, full of charm for the rest of the afternoon.

Tuesday afternoons are always quiet and, on this particular Tuesday, Honey was out on one of her little field trips. I was alone in the store and there hadn’t been any customers for some time. It probably wouldn’t pick up again until the after-work rush. I was propping up the counter, processing customer orders; you’d be surprised at some of our best-selling items.

The bell jangled and I heard the door swing open. I looked up to see Fly Guy coming in. He walked straight up to the counter.

“Honey’s not here,” I said.

“I know. I saw her leaving a few minutes ago.”

“She’ll be back in twenty minutes,” I said, wondering why he had come into the shop if he knew Honey wasn’t here.

“I know,” he said.

He was leaning slightly forward with his palms flat on the counter. His eyes held mine without blinking.

“How do you know?” This was weird.

“I saw her hooking up with a guy on the corner. And twenty minutes, that’s how long it probably takes.”

His cologne was invading my nostrils, and I took a deep breath of it.

“Your name’s Melba, isn’t it?”

I nodded. I knew his name was Charlie but he’d been Fly Guy for so long that Charlie didn’t seem right.

“How can I help you?” I said, and I really was wondering what he wanted.

“Honey said you’d be getting a new range of fingertip vibes in this week,” he said. “Have they arrived yet?”

The shelf where we display the vibrating toys is right at the back of the store and can’t be seen from the door. He followed me around a display unit of peekaboo bras and crotchless panties and down the aisle to where the new range had just been put out on display.

“They’re here,” I said, indicating them with my hand.

He barely glanced at them. Instead his eyes were riveted on mine and in the narrow confines of the aisle I could feel heat radiating from his body. I wanted to go back to the counter where the glass top could act as a barrier between us, but I felt paralyzed by his scrutiny.

“If you want to wait for Honey…”

“No.” He cleared his throat. “I came here to see you, Melba.”

I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t move away but I didn’t move any closer to him. Deep inside me there was the pang of an echo going off; like the sonar bleep in a submarine; something long remembered, half forgotten, was registering its presence low in my abdomen. I didn’t want to feel this way. Fly Guy, Charlie, whoever he was—I hardly knew him. I hadn’t thought of him like this. Shit! I hadn’t thought of anyone like this for an age.

He wasn’t in any hurry. He stood in front of the rack of electronic sex toys, waiting for me to be ready. He didn’t say a word, he hardly blinked and his breathing remained calm and even. I felt the opposite. My heart was racing, and I was astonished by the way my body was reacting to him. Despite the air-conditioning, between the tall shelving units and the back of the store the air was hot and dry. Oxygen depleted. I breathed deeper but I felt light-headed. A prickling sensation crept across my belly and up my back. I think the hairs on my arm were standing up.

As I became overwhelmed by the unfamiliar play of desire through my body, he stood stock still, waiting for me.

I didn’t know what to do. I tore my eyes from his to look down at his groin. My hand twitched, a treacherous betrayal. I bit my lip and looked away, suffused with the feeling that I was about to cry. He said nothing, did nothing, and I was losing control. Admitting to myself that I wanted him so goddamned badly was tearing me apart. I don’t like sex, I don’t want sex, I don’t do sex. That was my mantra. Then Fly Guy walks in, puts me in a confined space and there’s only one thing I can think of.

A sigh, almost a whimper, escaped my lips.

“You’re ready.”

Finally he made a move. He reached over to the shelf opposite and helped himself to a pair of red leather cuffs.

“Your hands,” he said.

I held up my hands to him, wrists uppermost, the gesture of the supplicant. He knew what I needed, and my heart thundered in my chest as I realized he was going to give it to me. He attached the cuffs and spun me around so that I was facing the shelving unit. Within moments my hands were secured above my head. I couldn’t see what he was doing, only hear him taking items from the shelves around us.

I suddenly panicked and struggled against the cuffs. But I wasn’t really afraid of him; I was fighting against my own feelings of shame. Part of me wanted what was going to happen next. Part of me didn’t. And the wanting part shocked me.

Fly Guy stroked my back to calm me in the same way a groom would handle a skittish horse.

“We don’t have long,” he whispered in my ear.

But he took care to be gentle as he pushed my skirt up over my hips. I was wet already but when he skimmed a finger along the side of my damp panties, I felt a buildup of heat and pressure deep inside my pussy. And as his finger pushed its way between my lips, a gush, a flood, years of pent-up frustration broke free. I moaned. I wanted this so badly and at the same time I didn’t want it at all. I didn’t know what I wanted.

But my hips knew. They writhed under his touch. And my legs knew. When he pulled my panties down to my ankles, my legs stepped out of them and spread themselves wide. My breasts knew, pebbling up and pushing against the constraint of my bra. My skin knew, every inch of it straining for the stroke of his hand. I cried when he touched my ass, it felt so good. So wholly unexpected and unfamiliar. A firm, warm hand on a place that had forgotten the feeling of human skin sliding across human skin.

I heard the rasp of his zipper and the ripping of condom foil. Then came the delicious rubbery smell and the rustle of the condom being unfurled, but I could hardly stand the wait. It was the thing I thought I wanted least in the world and now all of a sudden I wanted more than anything. The tip of his cock nudged against my dripping labia, while one of his fingers opened up a path for it. I pushed my hips back to meet it, and it slid inside more easily than I had a right to expect. But its arrival reinstated a surge of sensations through my body that I’d long ago banished from my mind and fought hard to forget: pulsing, throbbing, rippling. I caught my breath and bit my tongue, adding a salty metallic tang to a mouth that was already watering.

Charlie brought his hands around to the front of me and pushed my bra up until my breasts flopped free. He pinched my nipples as he pumped into me from behind, dissolving me. My mouth was dry and if I hadn’t been able to grasp the shelf my wrists were strapped to, my legs certainly wouldn’t have been able to carry my weight. He pushed in and out of me fast and hard, making no sound apart from the rasping of his breath at my shoulder.

I felt my climax riding in from a long way off, appearing on the horizon and looming larger as it came closer. My back arched against his chest and he dropped one of his hands down to work my clit, that poor, lonely nub that had been so neglected for so long. And, oh, this man knew what he was doing; he knew how to push the button. He was never going to need a fingertip vibe. An orgasm, my first in ages, exploded inside me, ripping through me, bursting over me…piercing and sudden. I gasped but it came out louder than a gasp. I didn’t care; I’d forgotten where I was, even who I was with. I was simply riding out the pleasure as my body took what I’d been denying it for so long, every nerve and muscle fiber telling me I’d been wrong about how much I hated it.

Charlie grasped me tight against him as he pushed deeper still. A small grunt and his rigid hips told me he was coming too. As he pulled out of me, I heard a footfall on the staircase above.

“Everything okay down there, girls?”

It was Archie. He must have heard something. Not something. Me.

“We’re all good,” I called out, as Fly Guy quickly undid the cuffs on my wrists and released me from the shelving unit.

I adjusted my bra and tucked my blouse into my skirt. Then I looked around the floor for my panties. But Fly Guy beat me to it. He picked up the scrap of pink silk and, looking me straight in the eye, slipped them into his pocket.

“Will you come back?” I said.

“No,” he said with a shrug. “There are too many girls like you in this city who need my help. But you’ll find someone else who can do it to you just as good.”

Fly Guy and his ego. Healer of the frigid, smelter of the ice queens.

As he left the store at the front, Honey came in through the back looking as pink and flushed as I probably was.

“Was that Fly Guy I just missed?” she said.

“He’ll be back,” she said, checking her hair in the mirror behind the counter.

I said nothing.

I should start this story over.

I love sex. I work in a sex shop and I love sex….