Best Women's Erotica 2014

BLAME SPARTACUS

I see them all the time now, blockbuster movies filled with preternaturally handsome twentysomethings masquerading as teenagers in some futuristic dystopia, or manly hunks in skimpy loincloths and sculpted armor hacking away in CGI-rendered stadiums on giant screens or via my deluxe cable-TV package. It’s so very chic today, to enjoy tales of epic personal battles for the pleasure of a bloodthirsty audience. This is quite an improvement from the time when the very phrase “gladiator movie” was a not-so-sly comedic reference to homoerotic diversions.

Erotic, yes. And while I appreciate the fact that my gay male friends also enjoy the scenery—and the scenario—I am not a member of that team. I’m straight, if someone as kinky as I am can be called that. And I’m definitely a woman. I can show you proof.

But only once the battle has been fought and won.

I blame Spartacus. Specifically, I blame Kirk Douglas. Not that there’s anything wrong with the current crop of Sparticanni, they are all quite handsome and well worth the subscription to premium channels. But I can remember the exact instant I became alive and aware of my fascination with men who would enter combat for my pleasure.

It was on a Saturday night when I was around fourteen or fifteen, on the threshold between going out with groups of friends and being invited on solo dates. That night, though, I had no planned adventures, and wouldn’t have wanted to go if I did. I was home aching with my period, feeling uncomfortable and bloated; tired, cranky and unloved. Flipping channels on television, I saw images stream by second by second, not even really registering anything on my way to find MTV or some other usual distraction. Then, my brain picked up on something and I clicked back and back again…and there he was. A broad-shouldered man with an enormously cleft chin, barely dressed, scuffling with another man in the dust.

I lingered, watched. Even then, there was a spark. My period aside, I was a healthy girl with a solid interest in the male form. One of my girlfriends had shared some pictures she’d found online and saved, in those days before we all had smartphones, on a disk. The two of us eyed the men’s bodies with curiosity and immature longing. Men were so much more interesting than boys our own age, we agreed. And for me, unspoken, a little additional twist. Men who would do what I liked would be the most interesting of all. What I actually liked was still academic. It was the nature of obedience that turned me on, even back then.

That night, watching the men fight on my television screen, I realized something else.

I liked to watch men grappling with each other.

I kept the television on that channel and wound up watching all of Spartacus, the 1960 film directed by Stanley Kubrick. Oh, it was filled with stars of enormous magnitude! Laurence Olivier! Peter Ustinov! Charles Laughton! Even skinny little Tony Curtis. And while the older, less shapely men draped themselves in bedsheets, the fit and muscular ones stripped down to leg-baring loincloths and leather straps across their upper arms and chests. But even better—they stripped down and picked up weapons and fought each other for the amusement of the better-clothed, aristocratic spectators who wagered on the matches.

I remember holding the remote in my hand, frozen in place, watching the screen flicker. The training regimen; the small dark cells where the gladiators lived, the casual way a woman was thrust into a cell like a hotel housekeeper delivering extra pillows. The different styles of combat—with a short sword and shield, or curved sword and greaves, or spear and net!

Oh. Oh, to be a spectator there, leaning elegantly over my seat to pluck crisp, cold grapes from a tray; to sip blood-red wine while I watched men pant and growl and circle each other like animals. To own one of those men and place a coin down while laughing, betting with my friends who would fall first. To see my man, my property win, and take my winnings and take my gladiator home, and…and…

I must have been fourteen. I don’t remember actually imagining what would happen beyond kissing him. But in my mind, he would be a much better kisser than Terrance Galbraithe, my on-again, off-again, almost boyfriend.

The gladiatorial fights end early in the movie and then it becomes a vast adventure tale that ends badly for all the slaves. But it didn’t matter; I was hooked. I no longer wanted just any good-looking man to populate my nascent fantasies; I wanted a gladiator. I wanted a man who would fight for me, because I told him to. Or because he wanted to please me and gain my favor.

I became a fan of boxing, wrestling and martial arts in general. Fencing became so much more interesting when I fantasized knights and musketeers dueling for the opportunity to woo me. As my body and tastes and experiences became more mature, my fantasies remained solidly in that realm. And the first time a boyfriend of mine actually did vow to kick the ass of any other boy who looked at me, I must admit it was thrilling for the moment.

And then I decided he was a posturing ass. Shortly after that, I realized I would never actually experience this fantasy. I truly didn’t want a real man who would go out and hurt someone else and risk harm to himself, arrest, shame and the reputation of a macho jerk. I scolded myself for even harboring such fantasies and tried to write them off as the longings of a girl-child unaware of real-life values. They were as foolish, I decided, as lusting for vampires, or pirates.

Cody is slender and carries himself with the precise grace of a tightrope walker; his unstylishly long hair is fine and colored like honey fresh from the comb, run through with strands of corn silk. He wears it clubbed for Revolutionary War reenactments and most of his friends and coworkers think that’s why he has grown it out.

But I love trailing my fingers through it when he is on his knees in front of me or leaning against my leg while I read or watch a movie. I also enjoy watching him run across dusty fields in period uniforms, a Hessian mercenary or a Redcoat. I never lost my taste for costume dramas, and he always has a movie or a series or a book for me and can regale me with folklore and amusing tales like a modern Scheherazade.

And he looks so appealing in the wrestling singlet I ordered for him online, nothing but cobalt-blue Lycra cupping his cock and balls and his sweet, pale ass; with straps framing his body, curling over his shoulders and crossing his back. His stomach and chest are bared for me, shorn even of the light, pale hairs that barely dusted them. Low, light boots are on his feet and a soft suede collar, the same color as the singlet and lined with a layer of brushed cotton, is tight around his neck. It fastens with Velcro, because it’s just for decoration. He might earn the chain if he rises victorious.

Cody came in answer to my ad on one of the alternative sex websites. Sorting through dozens of poorly written notes, hundreds of messages from men who hadn’t bothered to read my actual ad and thousands of pictures of penises yielded me exactly one man who had lasted beyond my layers of getting-to-know-you filtering. Cody not only wrote complete sentences in English, he addressed me respectfully and included in his first note to me not a picture of his gonads taken while standing at his bathroom mirror, but the shot of him holding a trophy and wearing a gi. He had a bruise under one eye and was grinning madly.

I discovered the world of alternative sex and BDSM where everyone else has—online. Idly browsing one day, I had put “sexy gladiators” into a search engine and expected the usual array of photos from old Italian sword and sandal movies. Instead, I found a gay porn website of men wrestling and then getting it on. The clips I saw had me as frozen in place as my teenage self years ago. But this time, I had a credit card. This time, I could stop the action, and start it again and see the whole thing. Every glistening inch of manly flesh displayed for me in the privacy of my home, as they rolled and grabbed and grunted and growled…and then…

And then they fucked.

Usually the winner got his cock sucked or got to use the loser doggie style, but sometimes that seemed to shift into mutually pleasurable acts. I knew my preference at once. The winner had to get something, yes, but the loser had to suffer.

And by the way, I still needed to be in charge. How to manage this took a while to figure out. It took my discovering that I wanted more than an acquiescent lover in my bed. I wanted—I desperately wanted—two men, competing to please me: one to win, and the other to suffer.

For my pleasure. And while there is nothing aesthetically displeasing about watching two men engage in enthusiastic sex with each other, I would prefer that at least one be paying attention to me. While the other suffered.

Alvaro was a furry man, but not with the wiry, bristly, coarse fur I personally find unattractive. His was jet black and straight along his forearms and down his calves, dusted across his chest and then down the center of his hard stomach like a cross, to expand in a bush around his cock and over his balls. I had him clip that area short, but not shave it. The fur there and across his round asscheeks was just as pleasing to me as the silky hair on Cody’s head. Alvaro, older than Cody and shorter, was also more stocky and muscular, and the hair on his head was receding. This he also kept short, along with the line of hair along his jaw, a sexy strap of a beard and a mustache to match.

Alvaro did not take me to war-games or regale me with tales of Revolutionary derring-do. But he made me caldeirada, brimming with chunks of lobster and whole tiger shrimp, he found rich red wines to entice my palate and rubbed my feet and temples and back with consummate skill, humming lullabies and love songs under his breath.

I met Alvaro at a fetish party; I was in a long black leather gown that laced up the front and sides. He was dressed as a luchador from Mexico, only his trunks were black latex, as was the silver-streaked face mask. I asked him if he wrestled in real life as well, and he grinned behind the mask, his teeth showing the gleaming uniformity of crowns. “I wrestle and box!” he told me making a muscle with one firm bicep. “Do you like to watch?”

“Yes,” I replied, running a finger down the center of his chest. “Yes, I do.”

Tonight I have made Alvaro wear the scarlet singlet, boots and collar. My boys had arrived nice and early. Cody cleaned a bit, moved heavy furniture, sorted out my recyclables and updated my calendar on the computer and my phone. Alvaro roasted potatoes and eggplant and medallions of veal while his wine breathed and flan set. Cody drew my bath and left me soaking to a mix he’d programmed onto my iPod; when I got out, Alvaro met me with a warm towel and soothing almond oil to rub into my skin before I dressed for dinner.

My boys have learned to share as well as compete. I brought them along slowly to understand that my desires cannot be filled by one man; I had to have at least two. Four would be better. But if they kept me diverted, then perhaps I could make do with only two.

The heady port served to me after dinner was not nearly as intoxicating as the entertainment to follow. My men, facing each other, dressed as I pleased, eyeing each other warily, ready for my word to begin. Furniture had been moved to create their battleground, leaving me to recline, Roman style, their single spectator.

“Freestyle,” I finally said. It might have been Greco-Roman, collegiate or grappling. Alvaro had started judo classes; Cody had taken up boxing. It was my plan to be able to watch them in a mixed martial arts matchup. It was my dream to offer them up as a team against some other gladiatorial-minded collector of fighting men. One day, I will find someone else, I’m sure. In the meantime—they will wrestle for me.

Freed from a formal first position, they each feinted forward immediately, then danced lightly back. Neither one was fool enough to fall for the feint; I found it delightful. I sipped my sweet port and nodded as I watched them circle each other, shoulders hunched, eyes darting, hands flexing.

Cody made the first real move, charging forward in a spear, trying for a double leg pin. But it was far too early and Alvaro turned aside easily and grabbed for Cody’s shoulder, propelling him farther and faster and straight down to the floor. Cody hit with a slight stumble and in an instant Alvaro was on top of him looking for a pin.

But Cody was wiry-strong and flexible; he twisted and squirmed and got one elbow braced and bucked back; I could see the tension all through his arms as he put all his strength into pushing Alvaro off of his back. He kicked out one leg and caught Alvaro between his, and in an instant, he rolled and knocked Alvaro off. Pulling his limbs in like a shocked tortoise, he rolled backward and leapt up in a gymnast’s move that made me applaud with glee.

Alvaro shot an arm out to try and grab Cody’s ankle, but Cody leapt out of the way and then dived down to throw his body against Alvaro’s. Alvaro was trying to rise, and Cody’s lighter form slammed against his bowed back, but Alvaro didn’t even pause. Cody scrambled to try and grab an ankle, an elbow, but his moves were in vain. Alvaro simply rose to his knees with Cody still draped around him; he reached out and back and found Cody’s slender arm and one leg and twisted and grunted and brought the younger man up and then threw him down onto his back!

Oh, bravo, I thought, my eyes wide and my thighs wet. Yes, pin him now, press him down, flatten him! Did I cry out loud? Sometimes I did. Sometimes, it all stayed in my head, along with the roars of the stadium behind me.

They squirmed and struggled together. Alvaro’s buttocks shook and clenched as he tried to pin the ever-moving sinuous body beneath him. Cody planted his boots and arched his back and then brought one knee up sharply, slamming Alvaro in the hip.

“Caralho!” Alvaro exclaimed with a tooth-baring grimace. In flinching, he lost his hold on Cody’s legs and the lithe younger man twisted like an eel and sprang back, panting.

“Yeah, fuck you too,” Cody snarled.

Alvaro darted forward to grab one of Cody’s legs, but he was off balance and breathing hard. Cody hip-checked him and tried a toss, but Alvaro’s weight and strength didn’t allow for an easy lift. Cody gasped as his lift failed and Alvaro laughed and shoved his back against Cody’s chest, crowding him toward the center of the room. Cody took the shove and was already slightly off balance when Alvaro elbowed his way inside his defenses and slammed him down hard onto his back, Alvaro splayed over him.

Alvaro didn’t stay there, though; he hammered that elbow back one more time, forcing the breath from Cody’s mouth, and then turned and grabbed him and lifted one leg while pressing his shoulder down.

“One,” I said idly, running a finger down the front of my blouse. My nipples were hard enough to ache. “Two…”

Cody tried kicking, he tried squirming and he slapped his free arm against the floor in frustration. Baring his teeth again, he growled and fought, but Alvaro stubbornly set his muscles and weight against him and would not be moved.

“Done!” I pronounced.

Alvaro immediately let him go and Cody cursed, his fists tight, face flushed with the shame of being beaten, the frustration of loss. Now my own hunger grew like a wild thing; caged for the civilized courses, let free in the darkness of my fantasies. Were those tears, or beads of sweat on Cody’s pink face? Either would please me, but both made my body ache with need.

“Again,” I said. Waiting would make my play sweeter. “Greco-Roman. Begin.”

Quickly, they shuffled, took the first neutral position and moved in on each other looking for an arm drag. Now there could be no leg grabs, nothing below the waist. This left their clenched asses flexing under the iridescent stretching material of the singlet, their unfettered cocks and balls bundled loosely and exposed as clearly to me as though they were out and dangling. I had seen versions of the singlet with a hole for a man’s package to poke through, and had occasionally considered buying some. But there was a visual pleasure in watching their flesh so barely contained by that sheer fabric, noticing the appearance of a hard-on or the absence of one. Alvaro, I noticed, had a few drops of moisture making a darker spot on his gladiatorial uniform.

That was because he had won. I watched them slip in and out of grips on their upper arms and shoulders, like some strange, angry dance, and selected a thin chocolate from the plate next to me. In the split second of my attention being drawn away, Cody darted in, grabbed Alvaro’s left wrist and pulled, hard, and turned in a neat, economical circle. Alvaro seemed to be able to follow through toward recovery, but then he stumbled, and Cody immediately pushed that same arm and leapt forward, adding extra force and momentum to the move. Alvaro went down so quickly all I saw was a flash of his boots, and then Cody was on top of him, spreading his arms and keeping his legs away from any pinning position.

Such a good boy!

“Bravo!” I finally said aloud. “Cody, take the bottom position.”

His grin of victory quickly vanished; Alvaro was better on the bottom, having more strength. But Cody needed the practice. He got onto his hands and knees, shaking his head and blinking; Alvaro quickly got into the reverse lock position, tucked alongside Cody’s body, facing his ass. Taking a deep breath, he leaned over the younger man and locked his hands around Cody’s waist. I took a slow, deep breath. My personal porno channel was right here.

Cody immediately seemed to go limp as he tried to pull his whole body flat to the carpeted floor. This might have lost an opponent the ability to do a simple and clean lift, but Alvaro was ready. With every muscle on his beautiful back he strained and pulled and plucked Cody up off the floor and into the air. Cody tried not to engage his legs in fighting back—if he kicked Alvaro, he’d lose right there—and in his panicked distraction could do nothing but grimace as Alvaro rotated his powerful shoulders and slammed him back onto the floor. It was a beautiful move: perfectly executed, skilled and savage.

Did I have it in me to wait for one more pin? My nipples said no. The way the wine had gone to my head and the chocolate melting on my fingers—had I forgotten to eat it?—told me no.

And I didn’t have to wait. They were my gladiators.

I extended my chocolate-smeared fingers and beckoned to Alvaro. “Look what you’ve done,” I said. “Had me so mesmerized I wasted my chocolate. Clean that.” He eagerly took my fingers into his mouth and suckled and licked, panting around them as he tried to control his breathing. I withdrew them, and wiped them idly on the strap of his singlet. “Bring me three things,” I said, leaning back on one elbow. “For Cody.”

Cody had already brought himself to his knees, his face a mask of disappointment and shame. I breathed in the scent of his body and shook my head. “You must learn to win from the bottom,” I said, pleased that he’d lost. Last time, he’d taken Alvaro down in two out of three matches before my lust declared him the winner and interrupted the match. He’d chosen a butt plug, a cock cage and a whip. Silly boy. Alvaro had liked all three.

And he had his revenge at last. For he returned with a slightly larger toy meant for insertion—one of those vibrators that shimmied and wiggled. I had found it too distracting to use for my own pleasure and had thrown it into my toy box without remembering it for some time now. Also in his hand was a pair of clamps with weights and a blindfold.

Oh, clever Alvaro. Now Cody wouldn’t even be able to watch.

I beckoned to Cody and handed him the garishly colored vibrator. “I suggest you put a condom on this and lubricate it before you present your ass to me.” He nodded and whispered, “Yes, Ma’am,” before he took it and scampered off.

“And what shall we do with you tonight?” I said aloud, rising to allow Alvaro to undress me. “What has tonight’s champion earned?”

“A kiss?” he teased, confident and proud. His cock jutted out like a horn, stretching the thin Lycra so much I could see the wrinkles made by his foreskin. I ran a finger neatly along each strap of the singlet and they fell down his arms and the garment bunched around the bottom of his ass. He drew my blouse off gently and unzipped my skirt.

Cody sucked in a breath as he came back into the room on his hands and knees. The controller box for the vibrator was tucked behind one of the straps of his singlet. So, he was being a clever boy as well!

Right then, I could have fucked them both. But rules were rules, especially when they were my rules. Cody lost. And now, he would suffer.

So he only saw my nakedness for a few seconds before I strapped the blindfold on. Then I put him on his knees with a pillow up between his legs to help keep that vibrator where it was so snugly fitted. I put a clamp on each nipple and then clipped a weight, letting them bounce lightly in my fingers before releasing them. Then, my own touch, I used the thin cord I kept around just for occasions such as these and put a slipknot around the head of his cock. Disgraced or not, it was semi-hard, full of blood and stiffening at my slightest touch. Pulling it free of the singlet, I pressed the pale, curved column against his stomach and placed the end of my little cock leash in his teeth.

“Don’t lose that,” I whispered to him, as I found the controller box for the vibrator. I switched it on and heard the tiny little engine inside start to buzz. Cody jerked as it moved inside him and moaned around the cord in his teeth.

“Next time, you will fight harder,” I said, not sure whether it was a command, a threat or an observation. Then I turned back to Alvaro.

“So, gladiator, have you earned the right to pleasure me?” I asked. I stood over him like the conqueror I was—owner of male flesh and bone, director of my own games. He looked up at me from his knees, his eyes bright and cock rampant.

“Keep that nice and hard,” I cautioned him, as I slipped back onto my couch, one knee up, one leg down. I spread myself wide for him, a reward and a command and a threat and a promise. “Kiss me now, champion. Kiss me until I am ready to use that weapon you’ve got there and maybe I’ll allow you a victory orgasm yourself tonight.”

He crawled forward, even though he could have risen; he bowed his head to me one more time before his lips and tongue approached my pussy. He kept his hands away, one no doubt on that rampant cock, but touched me only to give pleasure, as I had taught him. I threw my head back and turned to see poor Cody, shivering and straining, his cock harder now, his hips moving and shaking the weights on his nipples, a circle of sensation and discomfort and shame.

I looked back and forth between the two, fortunate and tormented, rewarded and punished and both mine, all mine. My impatience rose again and I laughed in the shuddering aftershocks of my first orgasm. Reaching for a condom, I tossed it onto the floor next to the couch, then grabbed Alvaro’s hair and kept his mouth pressed against me. “Again,” I purred, in between gasps. “Again, one more time, maybe two and then my champion, maybe I’ll use that cock…”

But there was no maybe about it. My men. My gladiators. My pleasure. I was the ultimate winner of every match, the way I always dreamed it might be.

Now, if I could only find out where one learned to fight with a trident and a net….