Authors: Thomas Roche and Alison Tyler

Cover image © Robbie Jenkins

About:

"Both genders will be successfully stimulated by either copulation compilation, giving you endless hours of his and hers fun." -- Playgirl, September 2003

"'Hers' is an erotic ride for all readers. Each story is short and to the point, and extremely enjoyable..." -- Aromancereview.com

These 30 provocative stories written directly to female readers push boundaries with explosive, fantasy-rich details. Featured encounters include voyeurism, spanking, hot tubbing, foot worship, menage a trois, sex on a train, party sex, and mild bondage. With a frisky foreword by Mike Ostrowski, correspondent at Playboy Magazine.

Excerpt:

Just after the soup, I realize you're not wearing much of anything under your cocktail dress. The top part, I knew about; you never wear a bra under this particular dress. It's one of the things that makes it so sexy, just a bit too low-cut to support even the slightest of bras, while being not quite thick enough to entirely hide the swell of your nipples under the thin fabric. It's decent, but just a little adventurous to wear to a dressy dinner party like this one. I know why you've worn it. I haven't been able to take my eyes off of your breasts the whole evening, of the way your nipples gently tent the fabric underneath. And that hasn't escaped your notice, which just makes them tent the fabric more.

The panties, I find out about when you reach out to hold my hand under the table. At first I think it's just a casual gesture of affection. Then I feel you tugging my hand into your lap. You snuggle forward on your chair, leaning back slightly so that your upper thighs are safely under the drapery of the tablecloth. Covering my hand with yours, you place it between your legs, against the satin stripe of your garters and the filmy lace-tops of your stockings. Then you inch it higher.

I resist at first, as my mind fights with the realization of what you're doing. Then, when you insist, I let you guide my hand up under your dress, where I feel in a rush of sensation the shaved softness of your pussy, slippery and open. You wrestle one finger apart from the rest and force it into you, laughing at a joke told far down the table—as if to cover your exhalation of breath as my finger penetrates you.

Then you pull my hand out from between your legs, your fingers entwined with mine, and casually bring it to your mouth to kiss it. As you might any other time, not caring that people are watching our casual exchange of affection.

Except this time, your tongue manages to trace a path up my middle finger and swirl around my fingertip, licking your juices. I'm quite sure that no one spots it, and if they did they probably wouldn't appreciate the lasciviousness of this gesture. But I notice it. You lean over and kiss me on the lips, quickly, your tongue tracing just the faintest path between my lips. I taste you, sharp and tangy and insistent.

When you let go of my hand and retrieve your own, it makes a quick detour into my lap, discovering that I'm as hard as you are wet.

“Excuse me,” you say. “I'll be right back.”

You disappear into the hall behind us, and one of our longtime friends, across the table, flashes an expression of concern.

“Is she all right?” he asks.

“I don't know,” I say. “I better go find out.”

Excusing myself, I turn quickly to hide my hard-on. When I hear the chorus of concerned sounds, I manage a shrug. “She hasn't been feeling well today—perhaps coming down with a little something. I'll make sure she's all right.”

I make my way up the stairs, my cock throbbing in my pants as I near you. It's like I can smell you, the scent of your feral lust mixing with the tang of your pussy on my lips. I race up to the bathroom. The door is closed.

“Honey?” I call softly, for the benefit of those downstairs. I open the door and go inside.