Best Women's Erotica of the Year, Volume 4

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  “Doll, I’m sure you’re nervous right now. This is a lot to take on for me as well. But know that if I take you on, I will take care of you.” He pulled the item out from behind his back and handed it to her. It was a plush unicorn, just like the one she’d written about on her blog that she’d lost as a child.

  “You . . . ” she began, but her words caught in her throat. “You read my blog?”

  “Every single post.”

  “Then you know how I lost my last one of these?” Slow tears ran down her cheeks.

  “Yes, girl. You were forced to burn yours as a child. Something about demons behind the eyes. But I can assure you, there are no demons behind these eyes. I want to protect you, to give you back a piece of your innocence that was so horribly taken from you in your youth.”

  “I . . . ” Heather silently met his eyes. She couldn’t say anything more. This was what she wanted. She felt it like fire in her heart, that gentle ache that came with feeling safe, protected, and in his care. Yet he wasn’t even her Daddy yet.

  “Please,” she could hardly get the words out, “be my Daddy?”

  “I will be your Daddy, baby doll.”

  Heather hugged the unicorn tightly. His gesture made her melt inside. He cared . . . paid attention.

  She focused on the softness of the plush. The smell of sweetness in the stitching. The texture of the hair mixed with the rougher glitter strands. This was exactly like the one she’d been forced to burn, the one she’d cried over—been called a demon child over.

  “Thank you, Daddy.”

  “You’re welcome, baby doll. Now, let’s lighten the conversation for a bit and order some dessert. What’s your favorite?”

  “Mango sorbet.” She giggled.

  “Mango sorbet it is then.”

  Daddy’s smile warmed her soul. This man was going to change everything.

  Months of phone calls, therapy sessions, and getting to know each other had taken place and finally, the night for play had come. Heather could hardly wait for Daddy to arrive. She’d done everything on her list: worn the same lacy stockings, put on her shortest baby-doll dress with no panties, had her hair in ringlets again, and tinted her cheeks with cherry blush. She’d even done the naughtier thing Daddy had instructed her to do, play with her girly bits until they were wet and ready for him.

  Heather paced by the front door. Despite sharing so much with him on the phone and during their shared therapy sessions, she still didn’t want him seeing her desperate, panicky side, the PTSD, her OCD, or too much of her anxiety. No matter what her therapist had tried, some things just weren’t getting any better. Just don’t screw this up, Heather!

  Daddy arrived like clockwork, which settled her pacing. His dark hair and cleanly shaven face popped up just over the window in her door. Her heart raced as she opened it to greet him.

  Heather kneeled at his feet, not caring at all if her neighbors saw her being so silly with the door wide open. “Good evening, Daddy. I’m so glad you came.”

  He chuckled. “Are you going to welcome me in?”

  “Oh! Sorry, Daddy!”

  Heather stood again and moved out of the way. Once he was inside, she shut the door once, twice, and finally a third time. Then she locked every lock and deadbolt three times before turning to face him again.

  “Don’t want me escaping, do you?”

  “I have to lock every lock so no one . . . ” She let her words fade. “Damn it! I did it again! I tried, Daddy. I did!” “Tried what, baby doll?” He caressed her cheek. “I know you have things you’re working on—things we can now work on together—so please, don’t stress this. Little girls are under the care of their Daddies. Aren’t they?” “Yes, Daddy.” Her chest felt heavy as she looked away from him.

  “You can lock all of these locks when I’m not here, but when I am, you get one door lock and one deadbolt. That’s all you need. Understand?”

  “Yes, Daddy.” She said it more like a whimper. She wanted to slink to the ground with embarrassment. Sudden anger built inside her, a rage she couldn’t suppress. She dug her fingernails deep into her adjacent hand. “I’m so stupid! Of course I’m safe with you here! Why am I so friggin’ mental?”

  “Stop!” Daddy’s voice was deep, commanding.

  His tone snapped Heather from her moment of selfharm. Her mouth fell open. Breath caught.

  “What’s rule number three?”

  She swallowed hard. “No self-harm, Daddy.” Guilt filled her chest. Shame too, as she couldn’t even make it one in-person day with Daddy before breaking his rules—his healthy for her rules. She burst into tears. “I’m sorry, Daddy!”

  “Do you remember our conversations about this?”

  She nodded, then looked to the floor.

  “What’s going to happen now?”

  “I’m going to be punished, Daddy.” Her words left her mouth in a humble manner of sweet surrender.

  Daddy stood taller, his chest puffed out as he surveyed her. She could see him from her peripheral vision. He wasn’t smiling, but he wasn’t frowning either. She couldn’t read him at all.

  “This is our first session together. I’m willing to let this one go this time, but not again. Do you prefer not to be punished today, doll?”

  His question caught her by surprise. She reluctantly met his eyes again.

  “It’s your rule, Daddy.” Her brows furrowed. Forehead creased. “Why would you ask that?”

  “Talking is different than doing, baby doll. Being punished isn’t for everyone.” Despite the fact that she had broken a rule already and that they were talking about a heavy topic, Daddy’s tone was still calm, reassuring.

  She surveyed him now. Was he serious about being her Daddy? Why would he not punish her instantly? She’d broken his rule already.

  The more she thought about it, however, the more she realized how much she wanted to be punished. She wanted those boundaries enforced and the safety that went with that.

  Heather sucked in a deep breath and let herself open to him. “Please, punish me, Daddy.”

  “For what, baby doll?”

  “Hurting myself. Being unkind to myself. For breaking one of your rules.”

  Daddy took hold of her wrist and looked around, then led her past the little wooden table by the door, past the egg-white desk with her laptop and straight to the plush, pin-striped couch under the largest window in the house.

  He let go of her hand while he closed the giant curtains, then—like a flash of lightning—sat on the couch and pulled her over his knees. She hadn’t been in that position before, though she’d craved it every night since embracing her adolescent side.

  Her breathing shifted to deep, long breaths as he slowly pulled her dress up and over her lower back, her bare ass exposed to him. He placed his right hand over her back as everything inside her screamed out at once.

  “Please spank me, Daddy!”

  “You will count down from ten as I go. Though next time, the number will go up.”

  His words felt like steel, but safe steel. They sank into her flesh like hooks, embedding themselves deeply in her heart.

  Smack. His left hand came down so hard on her bottom that she cried out, “Ten.”

  Smack.

  “Nine.”

  “Eight.”

  “Seven.”

  With each number down, a strange relief filled her, starting in her ass—so full of Daddy’s lovely pain—and extending into her arms, legs, fingers, and toes. Everything felt light, loving, safe, tingly . . . numb. The burn of Daddy’s slaps was washing away her shame, guilt, selfloathing, and self-hatred. With each slap, her pussy grew wetter.

  Heather ached for him more with each strike. The sound of his hand on her fleshy ass only made her desire for him to fuck her that much stronger.

  “Six.”

  “Five . . . ”

  “Four!”

  Daddy slipped out from under her, moved her to the back of the couch, then leaned her over it. Once
again, he flipped her baby doll dress up and over her lower back. This time, his hand didn’t come down as a strike. Instead, he spread her legs.

  Cool air rushed her moist cunt. Heather gasped. Moaned.

  “Is there something you want, baby doll?” His words were calm, smooth. Then she heard his zipper moving.

  Heather couldn’t hold on any longer. She’d wanted to be a good girl and take her punishment, but she craved him so much she could hardly stand it.

  “Please fuck me, Daddy?” Her question was more like a desperate plea, her desire strong as all of the darkness in her seemed to be fading.

  “You have three more spankings to go, little girl.”

  “Please, Daddy? Please spank me—fuck me—please?”

  “That’s not a very good punishment now, is it?” he said, though his words held a lighter tone.

  Heather was about to plead again when she felt his bare flesh up against her, his hard cock rubbing on the outer layers of her ready cunt. Her hips moved side to side as the ache consumed her.

  “Please, Daddy!” Her tone so conveyed how desperate she was to feel him inside her that it alarmed even her.

  Daddy plunged his cock into her hard, filling every bit of her insides. But he didn’t move. Just stood there, in complete control as his hard cock took up the bulk of her insides.

  Smack.

  “Three!” she shouted.

  Heat filled every inch of her, along with lust, passion, desire. She felt his desire for her as his cock pulsed inside her.

  Daddy grabbed her hair and pulled her head back with his right hand, then slapped again, so hard this time that the echo moved through her house.

  “Two!” she screamed.

  Smack.

  “One!” Her voice cracked as she cried out again, a raspy tone full of pain, as this was his hardest smack.

  He pulled out and thrust hard into her, grabbing her hips as he did so.

  Tears rolled from her eyes like she’d never cried before, but these weren’t sad tears. They were joyful, pleasurable tears. Tears of love and relief.

  He kept pounding into her, filling her with all the goodness that came with being his baby doll, being submissive, being put in her place. Each forceful thrust gave her peace—a quiet calm in a sea of storms—and her eyes began to close. Tears stopped falling. Blood rushed between her legs. The tingles grew as he dug his nails into her flesh. The feeling of him made her burn with a fire she didn’t know she possessed. “Please, Daddy . . . ”—her words barely left her lips—“please, may I come for you?”

  “Not yet, baby doll,” he said as he kept pounding into her. “Remember rule one?”

  “Yes.” She breathed her words. “No coming without permission, Daddy.”

  “You are still being punished, girl. You will wait.”

  The heat between her legs continued to grow, the tingles building to a point of pain as she tried to fight her building orgasm. Sensation filled her entire body, her head light as blood rushed between her legs.

  “Daddy, please!” she screamed, voice full of desperation as she wasn’t sure how much longer she could hold out. “Please let me come for you, Daddy! Please!”

  Daddy pulled her hair with one hand now and pinched a nipple with his other. His dominance, the pain in her nipple, the pleasure in her cunt; it all meshed into a delicious mix of intensity. She cried out one last plea for him to allow her release.

  “Come!” Daddy yelled, his words filling her entire body as she responded instantly.

  Heather cried out as her orgasm raged through her. Fire, orgasm fire, consumed her entire body as Daddy kept pounding into her. He cried out himself, letting out a roar of a sound that only made her come harder. He released into her, his cock pulsating as her inner muscles strangled him.

  Daddy pulled out slowly and zipped his pants, then helped her to a standing position. He took her by the hand and led her through the house, peering into each room as he passed. She didn’t know what he was doing at first because she was so full of euphoria, but he eventually found what he was looking for—her room.

  He laid her down on her left side, then grabbed the fleece blanket at the foot of the bed, placing it over her body. He retrieved her stuffed unicorn from the shelf and tucked it into her arms before climbing into the bed behind her.

  Daddy scooted close to her and wrapped a leg and arm around her. He leaned in close to her ear.

  “You are safe. You are a good girl for taking your punishment so well. You are my baby doll. I will continue to take care of you.” He squeezed her tighter. “But you will grow, heal, and be my good girl, won’t you?”

  Heather felt his words all the way to her core. Her eyes closed, demeanor softened. “Yes, Daddy. This is exactly what I’ve been wanting, needing, for a very long time. Thank you, Daddy.”

  “For what, baby doll?” He let go of her side and moved the strands of hair sticking to her cheek out of the way.

  “For correcting me. For fucking me. For giving me accountability along with compassion. I’ve needed you for a long time, Daddy. This feels surreal.”

  Daddy kissed her cheek gently. “It may feel surreal, but I’m here. I’m here for as long as you want me, baby doll. Be a good girl and rest now. I have more fun planned for us tonight.”

  “What are we doing later, Daddy?” she asked, though her eyes were already heavy with need for a nap.

  “It’s a surprise, baby doll. But I assure you you’re going to love it. Now, let’s rest. I’ll need my energy for later too. Sleep well, baby doll.”

  As she lay there, snuggled and safe in Daddy’s arms, a new need filled her. She sat up. “I’ll be right back, Daddy.”

  He didn’t say anything as she wriggled from him and made her way to the front door. She stood there before the piece of wood that had caused her so much trouble, struggling to reach out to the locks. But she wanted this. She wanted healing. She wanted normalcy. She wanted . . . freedom. So Heather reached up and unlocked every lock but one deadbolt.

  She smiled with her entire body.

  Heather crawled back in bed with Daddy, snuggling into him again. Just as she was about to fall asleep, he whispered in her ear, “Good girl, baby doll. Daddy is proud of you.”

  BEAUTIFUL DIRTY WONDERFUL

  R. M. Wood

  The club is in a part of the city crowded with low cement and brick buildings near the harbor. It’s called Casablanca, and I can’t decide if it’s fitting or ironic considering what goes on inside. The old converted warehouse is right on the water, and when my husband and I step into the lobby on the main floor, I can see the glowing lights of the condos across the bay through the paned windows.

  There’s a doorman at a large desk, and as he says hello, my heart begins to pulse in time with the insistent beat that forces its way through the ceiling.

  “Hi. Um . . . I’m Julie and this is Simon. We’re here to . . . to see Danny,” I say, my voice shaking. I wouldn’t be doing this normally. Taking the lead. Usually it’s Simon asking for a table or ordering drinks, but I’m the reason we’re here, and I promised myself I wouldn’t make him do more than was necessary. I’m still a little surprised he’s agreed for this to happen, let alone come along to help.

  The doorman checks our names off a printed list in front of him and then waves us toward a curtained doorway that leads to the stairs.

  “Everyone is waiting in room three.”

  The bass grows louder as we make our way to the second floor. When Simon and I met Danny here a month ago to arrange tonight, I was surprised to find Casablanca looked like any other dance club. There’s a bar across from us, and a dance floor and DJ booth in front of thick, shimmering silver curtains that block the view. Taking up a good third of the space are tables and plush chairs. The only things that set it apart are three mattresses on the floor near the back.

  There’s already a few dozen people here, most of them talking or dancing. But a middle-aged man is thrusting doggie-style into a woman a
gainst a table, and immediately to our right a blonde head bobs in the lap of a man sitting in one of the oversized chairs. I try not to stare. To shove away the unconscious reaction that such things are indecent and not to be shared.

  These people clearly don’t believe that. I shouldn’t either—I don’t really, but sometimes my brain needs a reminder. Any thoughts of shame are laughable considering what I’ll be doing soon enough.

  In room three Danny is waiting with a group of guys preparing to fuck me.

  It all started six months ago—or maybe it began when I first had such fantasies in my twenties, I don’t know. But three months ago was when I decided I needed to put that fantasy into words, to try to make it happen for real.

  Simon and I have been together for twenty years, and sex was like pizza night: come home on Friday, pull it out of the freezer, and toss it in the oven for ten minutes. Sure, it kept us fed, but it was as boring as plain cheese.

  It was Simon who first said he wanted to experiment. So we started with the normal things: massage oil, handcuffs, sex toys. It was fun. Wednesdays joined Fridays, and in addition to pizza, we had sushi and chicken carbonara. But the more we did, the more I thought about asking for the one thing I always wanted—the one thought that would send me over the edge when I was struggling to come.

  The night I asked Simon, we were in bed. The lights were off, but I could still see his shape from the streetlight shining through the cracks in the blinds. It was a muggy summer night, and the air from a fan licked our toes, its constant hum drowning out any noises from outside.

  I stared at the face I’d loved for more than two decades, now with laugh lines near his eyes and gray at his temples, and thought about the worst possibilities: that he’d take it personally, and believe I wasn’t satisfied with him; that he would laugh, thinking it was a joke. That he would decide he didn’t know who he was married to anymore, and leave. That he’d agree, but it would change everything, and slowly we’d grow to hate each other.

  “Simon,” I whispered, half hoping he was asleep so I could delay the conversation for longer—maybe even change my mind. But one eye pried itself open, meeting mine across the dim space between us.