Best Women's Erotica 2011 (8 page)

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 childish 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 body 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.

Ahem. Adele cleared her throat just loudly enough to draw Sissy’s attention from the male-dominated conversation. Hue, with her MBA and her crossbred Vietnamese-Manhattan accent, glanced briefly in Adele’s direction before rejoining the market talk.

She tried again. “Did nobody notice the ring Elliot bought me?”

Even the husbands ceased their self-important ramblings to
turn their attention to Adele’s diamond. Hue’s expression turned lovey-dovey as she nursed her lemon fizz. The woman was tough as nails in business but always a sucker for romance. “Was that for your anniversary?” she cooed. “How nice.” Poking her husband in the ribs, she chuckled, “This one’s always buying me cars.”

“Impressive,” Sissy agreed, with a deliberate glance in Adele’s direction. “A ring that big would look terribly gaudy on me, but I’ve always said the look suits older women rather well.” And with a saccharine smile, she set her third cosmopolitan down and folded her hands in her Chanel-clad lap.

Normally, Adele might have been peeved, but the new gift put her in a refreshingly giving mood.
Just look at the poor girl’s bare fingers!
she thought. Sissy claimed to prefer the cleaner look of her shard-studded engagement ring and plain-Jane wedding band, but even those outside their circle knew Roger’s capital was dwindling. Rumor had it Sissy’d even been spotted shopping in a discount supermarket. And Adele had a sneaking suspicion the bottle of Domaine Bouchard Père & Fils she’d brought to dinner last week was in fact a Cuvée Saint-Pierre with a false label pasted on.

How the mighty had fallen.

It was Sissy’s Roger who broke the silence. “Well, I think your ring is as lovely as you are, Adele.” Coming from anyone else, that might have been a shot, but Roger was rather too stupid to come up with clever quips. Pretty, though. One of those Harvard boys who never aged a day over twenty-one.

“Yes,” Pat chimed in. Hue’s husband was eerily intelligent, but he never said much. “Congratulations to you both.”

And then the conversation drifted back to the stock market and everything that was boring in the world of the elite. How tiresome her friends had grown—her husband along with them, if she was being honest. Had they always been so dull, or had
her perspective simply evolved over time? She was hostess. It was her duty to save the evening from the depths of dreariness. “Let’s play a game!” she called out, raising her brandy in the air as she rose from her Art Shoppe chair.