Best Women's Erotica 2011

by Violet Blue

  It was true I had always kept up my guard. As a girl, I’d been so quiet, giving nothing I couldn’t control. Even my secrets weren’t quite true—when you lie you’re rarely vulnerable. I was raised by my uncle, who once called me a woman of wax. There was a distance in his eyes as he said it, and we were eating rabbit stew. “But no,” he said, “wax melts.” I reminded him that he’d never once hugged me. When I said that was unnatural, he called me slut.

  The Baron paused and told me to get up.

  I found I was quivering.

  Hearing him unzip, I looked down to see his cock pale and hard in his hand—it was longer and sleeker than any I’d seen: a beautiful sex, a perfect sex, and oh, how firm. Longing to lick and pleasure him, I began to sink to my knees, but he grabbed me by the hair. “No, Anita.” Raising me by the curls, he stretched me back. I had to relent. He glanced down at my corset, streaked with the remnants of another’s pleasure, and with his lips curling back against his teeth and a wildness in the blacks of his eyes, he cupped my slippery breast.

  “You need this,” I said to him.

  His smile curled up at one corner, and I caught a drift of the scent on his neck. Suddenly, he thrust me back so I pressed against the dresser, my pot of cold cream crashing to the floor, and he was on me in a second, pushing me back against the mirror, which thumped, collapsing, so my back stuck to the glass. He thrust his hands deep between my thighs, and at my ear, hissed, “I want you, Anita.” I cried out. His sex ground mine, and he tore through the lace. He filled me from shaft to tip. I jolted on the dresser so the mirror thudded behind me and a bottle crashed and broke, sending out a rosy scent. I was so wet that his thrusts were smooth as oil, and my sex, unused to the shape of a man, tingled and stretched. Through his teeth, he said my slit was tight as a virgin’s.

  I’d never heard it called that—a slit.

  He said to call him Papa, but instead I cried, “Oh, Uncle…” and thought I could cry it forever.

  There, plowing his sex into mine, with the dressing table shunting at the wall, I glanced into the angled mirror that stood in the corner. And with my stockinged thighs wrapped around the thrusting Baron, my heeled sandals glinting and my red lips stretched apart, I, Anita, exotic dancer, released an ecstatic yell and finally learned to give way.

  For seven weeks, the Baron watched my act and came to me afterward to force my compliance. As I pleasured the men onstage, I felt I could sense his stare, and I knew, unlike the others who cried out and groaned, the Baron would be sitting still, patiently blazing. I’d always find him in my dressing room, where he’d sometimes bind my wrists and fuck me from behind or make me suck him while calling him “Uncle,” or come across my bosom so my cleavage dripped not only with his fluid but that of a stranger. But though it was savage, it was also kind. I’d walk from the theater with a lightness of step I’d never experienced before. I ate keenly; food had new flavor. Champagne bubbles now danced on my tongue. I’d grow drunk more quickly than before. When new shoes pinched me, I reveled in the pain.

  Then, one evening, he didn’t turn up.

  I’d always known he’d leave.

  I mourned on the stool by my dressing table, dabbing my streaked mascara with a cotton ball, staring emptily into the mirror that had cracked from tumbling so often. Even then, I guessed, he was forcing a different woman to relent; one who, like me, had been cut off from the world. But something about that knowledge made me reach for my clit and touch myself afresh.

  “Uncle, Uncle!” I began to cry.

  I never really stopped.

  CHLORINE

  Amelia Thornton

  I can feel you watching me, devouring me with your eyes. My body is stretched across a raft, floating lazily in the middle of the pool in our suite. My fingertips are trailing in the water, leaving little ripples as I drift past, and every so often I will dip my foot in and push myself off in a different direction. I seem oblivious to your gaze, wrapped up in my own little world, but I know you are looking at me. We have been here several days already, but my skin is still as white as always, sharply contrasting with the cherry red I have painted my toenails and the black of my hair, damp with chlorine. My swimsuit, red with tiny white polka dots, barely hides the deep, crisscrossing lines from where you caned me last night; my eyes are hidden behind red heart-shaped sunglasses. Nobody here knows you or me or what we are. Do they think I’m your daughter? Your son’s girlfriend? Your niece? Or do they know I’m your lover, just not in what way you love me?

  I appear to be bored now, bored with just lying here, sun scorching my soft skin, so I plunge myself into the cool water and swim to the side. I can feel you watching me climb out, my wet hair sticking to my skin, rivulets of water running down my back, droplets clinging to the curve in the small of my back, trailing across the swell of my breasts. Languidly, I walk to my lounger, so casual, almost as if I’ve not even noticed you sitting there. But I have. The terra-cotta tiles are hot from being under the sun all day, and my steps leave little wet footprints on them, the soles of my feet burning, the heat of the air filling my lungs in the way that only ever seems to happen in exotic, far-off places. I like that feeling.

  You’re pretending to read now, or maybe you really are reading. But I know you will keep stealing glances at me, as I twist my wet hair on top of my head, stretch myself backward, take a sip of my drink. You will look like you’re not looking, like your book really is that engrossing, but I know you better than that. I have ordered a milkshake from room service, a really good milkshake, with bright paper cocktail umbrellas and a twisty straw and three glacé cherries on top. Each long, slow suck of the straw between my lips, painted the same red as my nails; each time I drag the straw out, covered in whipped cream, and lick the length of it; each time, I’m thinking of you watching me, thinking of what I want you to do to me. I pick out a cherry with my fingers and tilt my head back, gripping the fruit between my teeth as I pull the stalk off, twist my tongue around it, feel the chill of frothy milk and sickly sweet syrup slipping down my throat. Every taste bud seems amplified, each sensation unbearably sensual, performing for you yet lost in myself.

  I’m so engrossed in my little flirtation show, I almost don’t notice as you slam your book shut, put it down and firmly, decisively, begin to walk toward me. Suddenly I’m a little scared, my heart beating that little bit quicker, wondering what it is you’re going to do to me, wondering if I’ve gone too far again. You stop, standing above me so powerful, so authoritative, your shadow falling across me, making me look up from my milkshake to meet your gaze.

  “Kirsten?”

  “Y-yes, ma’am?”

  “Are you not forgetting something?”

  My mind is racing, mentally cycling through every possible thing you could have asked me to do this afternoon. It couldn’t have been to make your coffee, just the way you like it, seeing as we have room service. It couldn’t have been to polish your shoes, or iron your best silk blouse, or ensure your favorite lavender scent was spritzed on every last item of your undergarments, as I did all of that last night. Surely I could not have been so foolish as to neglect my duties, while lucky enough to be here in this paradise with you? So I just stay silent, hoping you will enlighten me. You don’t.

  “Well, since you clearly have not paid any attention to a word I’ve been saying the whole time we’ve been here, perhaps you need a little reminder. What do you think?”

  Your voice is so calm, the way it always is when you are about to punish me, the way that always sends shivers down my spine, even when I know it means you are going to hurt me. I cannot possibly imagine what it is I’ve forgotten, but that seems irrelevant now, as you wait for me to move into position, wait for me to give myself to you to discipline. Awkwardly, I get to my feet, allow you to sit yourself more comfortably on the lounger, squirm with discomfort as you gently pat your lap to motion me across it. There is something about over-the-knee spankings that simultaneously horrifies and excites me—the childi
sh humiliation, the ungainly positioning, the exposure of my bottom making it so easy for you to smack. No matter how naughty I have been or how cross you are with me, it always manages to make me wet.

  I reluctantly bend myself across your knee, wriggling just slightly in the way I know looks enticing, a tiny spark of excitement coursing through me as I think of how much enjoyment you gain from humiliating me. Even when you’re disciplining me for bad behavior, it always turns me on to think of you gaining pleasure from punishing me—and I know, no matter what you say, or how angry you look, you’re always just as wet as me.

  The first smack still makes me jump, even though I’m expecting it. The moment your hand meets my waiting flesh, the sound as surfaces collide, is always the best part for me, the promise of what is to come contained in that one strike. Slowly you continue, sharp swats of your hand meticulously applied across my cheerful polka dots, not even hurting yet but hard enough to let me know it will. You pause, your hand resting softly on the damp fabric, as if thinking.

  “Take them off.”

  “Are you kidding me? Oh, please don’t! We’re outside! Somebody might see!” I whine, the thought of my bare bottom exposed to any pool boy that happens to come strolling by just too unbearable to even think of.

  “Do you not think it will be embarrassing enough for them to see you bent over my knee like a naughty girl?” you respond dryly, clearly not caring a jot whether anyone sees me exposed or not. “I doubt they’ll be noticing whether you have your swimsuit on or not! Now don’t make me tell you again, otherwise a spanking will be the least of your worries.”

  Resentfully, I get to my feet and clumsily push the bikini bottom to my midthigh before positioning myself back across your lap, my skin prickling as it is exposed to the warm afternoon air. You’re right, I suppose, that just being caught being spanked would be embarrassing enough, never mind it being on my bare bottom. You’re always right, much to my misfortune at times. Satisfied with my reluctantly presented backside, you continue with an air of determination, each strike becoming decidedly more ferocious until I find myself gasping, just a little, at the strength of it, my toes twisting together as I try to distract myself, my eyes squeezed tight shut until—

  “Please!”

  You pause, your hand midair, poised to launch.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Please, ma’am, you’re hurting me!”

  You laugh, that laugh of utter ridicule I have come to expect when I say something as ludicrously obvious as that. I still always find myself saying it though, like a ritual, a well-played game, where we know our lines and our cues but still are surprised when the plot twists come in.

  “I know,” you sigh, and I know you will be smiling. “I know I’m hurting you, Kirsten, but sometimes I just need to do what’s necessary to remind you. You don’t want to be a bad girl for me, do you?”

  “No, ma’am, not at all!”

  “So perhaps you should quiet down and stop making such a fuss; otherwise I may have to go indoors and fetch that nice wooden paddle you like so much, and you don’t want that, I’m sure.”

  “No, ma’am, no, I don’t! I’ll try harder, I promise.”

  “Good.”

  I bite my lip to crush my squeals as you smack me harder, your girl who tries to be good but still needs taking in hand sometimes, who needs a sound spanking to set her back on the right path once more. But I know I could never live without it, without this, without you. That feeling of complete calm that comes over me when I surrender to you, when you take from me what is yours, is incomparable to anything I’ve felt in any other relationship, to anything I’ve felt in life, I guess. It just makes everything seem so simple; all of the worries of mundane, everyday existence fading away to be replaced with such clear, definable goals of completing the tasks you set me and submitting to your wishes with complete devotion. You are the yin to my yang, the other half of all the sides of me. How I love you, my wicked queen.

  But before I even know it, you have stopped and are quietly ordering me to my feet. Awkwardly, I stand before you, feeling your gaze upon me, my face flushed with embarrassment, my eyes unsure where to look. Do you even know what it is you do to me? Do you even know that every time you look at me, I still get that feeling in my head like I’ve just reached the top of the roller coaster, and I know the drop is right there waiting? I think you do know. I think that’s why you choose to push me off, every time.

  You take my hand and bring me to kneel before you, my skin hot against burnt terra-cotta, my face almost next to yours now, taking in the scent of coconut shampoo and sticky sunblock, chlorine and wet hair. The sun has brought out the freckles on the bridge of my nose, making the seductive red lipstick look somehow ridiculous in comparison, but you cannot seem to stop looking at me, your eyes drinking in every feature of my face, as if preserving this one little moment in time forever, this one little mental image. My heart is pounding, feeling your closeness, your intensity. I want to kiss you right now more than I have ever wanted anything in my life.

  So I do. I lean in, my mouth so close to yours I can inhale your breath, my fingertips against your cheekbone, my lips brushing yours almost shyly as I wait for you to respond. No matter how many times I kiss you, it always makes my stomach drop when you abandon your cool restraint and just pull me into you, when your tongue pushes between my teeth, your fingers twisting in my hair, for once losing a fraction of your control. The intimacy suffocates me as you drown me in your kisses, hungry for me, as if tearing me apart with your lips and tongue and teeth, flooding me with all the desire you keep trapped inside you in your everyday life, your life so hardened by so many years of self-composure.

  “Get inside.”

  Wordlessly I scurry after you, following your purposeful steps through the wide French doors to our suite, admiring the way your hair falls over your shoulders, the lines of your body beneath your thin cotton sundress. I could spend all day just running my hands across your skin, feeling the softness of your hair between my fingers, kissing your earlobes and eyelids and every single part of you…. The crisp white sheets of our bed are still tangled from this morning’s tryst, pillows haphazardly tossed to the floor in the heat of lust, somehow making your regal beauty stand out even more as you lay yourself back amongst piles of immaculate white cotton. Like a cat I crawl up next to you, pressing my lips against your hot skin, my hands tugging at the fabric of your dress, pulling it away from your body, smiling as you childishly wriggle out of it. My mouth is on yours again instantly, my tongue running along the inside of your teeth, almost wanting to climb inside your mouth and completely lose myself in there. I trail tiny kisses across your cheek, feeling your breathing grow heavy and needy as my lips close around the soft lobe of your ear, sucking it gently, my fingers twisting in your hair, until at last you hoarsely whisper the words you know I love to hear.

  “Fuck me.”

  I smile at your need, your desire for me, for my hands, for my mouth. The thought of that tiny glimmer of control over you makes my head spin, you who control me so absolutely with just a single word. At times like this, I want to make you wait, like you make me, but I never can. My fingers are inside you before I can even consider anything else, your wetness sucking me in and surrounding me with heat, a low moan escaping your lips as I fill you with feeling. Your eyes close as I rhythmically curl my fingers deeper into you, your hands gripping tightly to the bedsheets as you push yourself up farther and allow me to enter you harder and faster, pounding almost, the way I know you need but you never know how to ask for. I gaze at your delicate features, the sheen of sweat glistening on the stretched tendons of your neck, wishing I could touch you everywhere at once but knowing I can’t. Instinctively my mouth draws toward your clit, enveloping it in my lips, sucking it and kissing it and tracing my tongue in tiny circles around it, feeling your thighs tighten around my upper body, pinning me inescapably into you. But I would never want to escape.

  I can feel your b
ody growing rigid and tense, building toward your release, and I cannot help but inwardly smile to myself at how beautiful you are when you surrender like this. With renewed passion I push deeper into you, my tongue dancing on your clit, almost physically experiencing the intensity inside you as you climb higher and higher. Like an animal, you tear my hair with your hands as you fall off the edge, a strangled cry escaping your throat, just for those few, brief seconds completely outside yourself yet completely within yourself at the same time. Tenderly I disentangle my limbs from yours, delicately kissing your agonizingly sensitive clit as I crawl up to lie in your arms, your breathing still pounding in your chest as I lay my head upon you. We stay like that for what seems like forever, wordlessly close, until finally I speak.

  “Please, ma’am…what was it I forgot to do for you? I tried so hard to remember everything….”

  You laugh softly, almost as if you’d forgotten the entire episode yourself.

  “Oh, you didn’t forget anything. I just wanted to see you in trouble, that’s all. You’re always so adorable when you think you’ve been naughty.”

  Gently, you kiss the top of my head and squeeze your arms tighter around me. I want to be your captive forever.

  RAINBOW NIGHT

  Giselle Renarde

  Adele spun her ring around her finger until the heavy princess-cut diamond faced the room. It was so new she hadn’t taken it to be resized yet. How predictable of Elliot not to know her ring size, even after so many years and so much jewelry. But how could she complain? At least he had the foresight to have his assistant remind him when their anniversary rolled around and in time to have their jeweler set aside something rare and exclusive. No, her sole complaint this evening was that neither Sissy nor Hue had taken notice of her new treasure.