Best Women's Erotica 2015

by Violet Blue

  “Exploring?”

  He leaned against the doorway in a charcoal-gray suit. No square glasses today. His green eyes were merciless.

  “Just looking around. It’s spooky up here. Why don’t you have a secretary?”

  “I do,” he said. “She’s on another floor. I like my privacy.”

  “Doesn’t she mind?”

  “She does what I tell her. Most people do.”

  He walked up to me and began unbuttoning my shirt. Please touch me, please touch me, I chanted silently.

  But he didn’t, not even when I stood naked in front of him. Instead he put a black leather collar around my throat and attached a leash to it. “Get on all fours.”

  He walked me like a dog down the long carpeted corridor to the conference room. Then he made me climb onto the table, still on all fours, and fastened my leash to a heavy ceiling-mounted projector.

  If I’d felt on display other days, this was worse. I was an unwilling centerpiece, unable to move more than a few inches in any direction. And I was facing away from him, so that he got to look at my ass and cunt while I looked at a blank projection screen.

  He took a seat behind me, switched on the recorder and began to talk. This time he relayed the story of a brilliant young man who worked for him and saved the day during some crisis, but Giles felt it better to withhold the credit. Instead he barely praised him, holding him at arm’s length.

  “You have to make people want to belong to you,” he said. “Subordinates don’t respect bosses who are too—enamored of them.” He paused. “But I made a mistake in this case and I lost him.”

  He’d never talked about his mistakes before. I wondered if it was easier for him to admit his errors without facing me.

  His fingers moved across my pussy. With leisurely patience, he slid them inside me as he began describing a former rival. “The art of managing enemies is critical. This woman was a tiger in the equity capital markets area. I had to pretend to befriend her so I could study her. Find your enemies’ power source and you’ve also found their Achilles’ heel to take them down.”

  His fingers moved in and out of me.

  “You took her down?” I managed to say.

  “Discreetly. You never want credit for ruining someone— that’s for amateurs. Do it right and everyone suspects enough to respect you, but the enemy doesn’t know for sure if he should take revenge.” His thumb moved over my clit.

  I couldn’t stand it. “Please,” I begged. “Just fuck me. I can’t concentrate.”

  His fingers withdrew. “Oh,” he said. “You still think you have some control. I’ve failed in training you.”

  “No! You haven’t failed! I’m sorry. I’ll just—”

  Giles undid his tie and came around the table, gagging me with it swiftly.

  “Now,” he said, settling back into his chair. His fingers pushed inside me again, agile and skilled. “Let’s resume.”

  He didn’t fuck me that day or the next and the following Monday he told me he was thinking of using another writer. “I just don’t know that you’re psychologically where I need you to be for this.”

  “I am,” I said. “I swear.”

  He pulled me onto his lap and slipped his hand up my skirt. “I saw a rare insight in your column,” he said. “An indication that you could appreciate a dark and complex education. That you could put everything I learned into words. But you haven’t even learned basics like the importance of hiding your agenda.”

  In other words, by begging for his cock, I was handing him a tool to manipulate me. I said with all the dignity I could muster, “In the past, as a sub or a domme, I’ve never had to beg anyone to fuck me.”

  “Another lesson you haven’t learned. Know who you’re dealing with. Don’t presume past strategies will work on present situations.”

  Giles pushed me off his lap and went to the window. “Your agenda should be satisfying me: writing the book I’m paying you to write,” he said. “I’m going to Brazil this weekend. I’d like to pour out the bulk of this now and have you shape it into something while I’m gone.”

  “Okay,” I said, though I didn’t know what kind of turn-around time we were talking about.

  “I want you to stay here in the office until then. Starting tomorrow, you’ll sleep here and be at my beck and call, with no contact with the outside world.”

  Submitting to 24/7 play was not something I’d done before. But I wasn’t going to refuse after he’d just told me how green I was.

  The next day I returned with a packed bag that he immediately confiscated. I thought I would get it back when it came time to sleep, but I was wrong. Instead he made me crawl into one of the floor’s lesser offices. A pillow from his office sofa adorned the floor; he chained my ankle to the credenza, with just enough leeway to reach the private office bathroom and the several bottles of water on the desk. A desk phone assured me help was only a call away, but I also understood that to call for help in anything less than an emergency would end our arrangement immediately.

  Then Giles pulled out a chastity belt. A very sophisticated one, designed for long-term use.

  “No,” I said immediately. My hands and vibrators were the only relief I’d had these last few weeks from the throbbing, soaking fever he worked me into every day. There was no way I could go the rest of the week without being able to touch myself.

  “No?” His brows lifted.

  After a moment I forced out, “Yes.” And I hated him a little as he locked my pussy under his control.

  My first night alone was spooky. His stories echoed in my mind, the mentors and celebrities he’d seduced, the rivals who’d knelt before him, his longstanding love for a colleague who had whipped him until he wept. The thought of him in tears or sternly wielding a crop or coming on his boss’s face made me groan. I imagined the day he might be chained and naked before me, my slave to fuck and devour as long as I wanted. And all the while my cunt throbbed hopelessly in the chastity belt.

  My mother and friends thought I was on a business trip somewhere without cell phone coverage. Without Internet access, television or my phone, I felt bereft. But each morning I woke to the glorious sound of the elevator opening down the hall—and there was my Master, his wry smile the most beautiful sight of my life.

  “Come on,” he said that Friday, snapping on my leash and walking me down the carpeted hallway to his office.

  I’d been naked for enough days that clothes seemed like a distant memory. He unlocked my chastity belt and handed me breakfast from the company cafeteria, to eat with my fingers. Then it was time to shower in front of him. I had no privacy, no chance to make myself come, but I had no chance of seducing him either. As I soaped myself up in his office bathroom shower as sexily as I could, he only looked bored.

  “I’ll decide when I’m going to fuck you and all the sex tricks in the world won’t sway me until then.”

  I scowled and he pulled me abruptly out of the shower, still wet and sudsy, to sprawl over his lap. I gasped, more from shock, as his hand came down hard on my ass.

  “That expression of yours is incredibly ungrateful, considering the opportunity I’m giving you,” he said, spanking me again and again. This wasn’t the measured punishment he normally dealt out. This was passionate, severe, spontaneous. “Do you know how many people would like to be here, learning from me? How many emails I get every day from politicians, leaders at the top of their field, who beg for just fifteen minutes of my time?”

  I opened my legs as wide as I could. He yanked me backward and began slapping my pussy, the first contact with my clit in days. I moaned and pushed myself against his hand, my wet skin swollen and sensitive. His fingers drove inside me, two or three of them, fucking me roughly while the slaps continued to rain down on my clit.

  And then he stopped. He pushed me onto the floor.

  “See, this is how I know you’re not ready. Because a good sub would put my needs over her own.”

  He was flustered. He
had lost control, finally, and given in to what I knew now was a genuine hunger to punish and fuck me.

  “I do put your needs first. I am going to write you the best book ever—”

  “You can’t write the book I want you to write until you understand leadership and submission. How I got where I am. How I inspired some of the most powerful people in the world to obey me.”

  “I’m sorry—”

  “You’re still not getting it.”

  He leashed me and walked me down to the conference room, ordering me to sit on the floor while he dictated. His voice was curt and I knew he was truly distracted when our Thai lunch arrived and he allowed me to eat it with the plastic fork provided.

  In late afternoon he positioned me before the windows with my hands cuffed overhead and my feet locked into a spreader bar.

  “I have a meeting,” he said. “I’ll be back.”

  I watched night rise in the city, the lonely brilliance of Christmas in New York.

  What he wanted from me was so difficult. He didn’t want a younger woman on her knees—he could have had that the first week. And he didn’t just want me to write the elegant business prose I’d delivered for so many of his kind. He wanted my transformation. He wanted to blow my sexual and professional limitations open and push me through an accelerated gauntlet of the mind-fucking he’d mastered over three decades in business.

  All writers know that feedback from the right person is a gift. Criticism can be a road map to brilliance when a brilliant person is delivering it. His investment in my development could be the ultimate compliment, if I truly was his protégé. But more likely I was just another underling being seduced into doing his bidding. He was giving me the psychological keys to the castle only so I could reproduce that castle in print. At least that had been my thinking until today.

  I heard the distant hum of the elevator doors opening on the floor. My stomach lurched.

  The conference room door opened. I went stiff as I heard two people enter. Unsuccessfully I tried to look over my shoulder but I was bound too tightly.

  Footsteps of a third person, followed by the snapping on of lights.

  “There she is,” Giles said. “If she’s not to your taste, there’s a house two blocks away that has some quality girls.”

  So I was to be fucked at last, but by two strangers—not by his unattainable cock. I swallowed nervously as a man approached the window to look at my face. He was in his late thirties and in a crisp blue button-down shirt.

  “I heard you’re desperate for cock,” he said in a British accent. “I heard you’ve been pestering Giles for weeks, and he’s had about enough of it.”

  This was a new level of humiliation. I stared out the window, refusing to react.

  The Brit spanked me, hard. Then he slid two fingers inside me and did it again, so hard it pushed my body forward and his fingers farther up my pussy. It felt enough like getting fucked that I couldn’t help whimpering. He laughed and began spanking me again and again until his fingers were thrusting in and out of me.

  “Enough,” said a strange male voice behind me. “Get her on the table.”

  The spanking stopped. With a jingle of keys, the Brit unlocked my ankles and wrists and I fell onto the conference-room carpet, my limbs shaking after so many hours in bondage.

  I looked around for Giles but the other man picked me up immediately and arranged me on the table. He was in his forties, with a lean, stern face that barely changed as he pushed inside me without a word. He rode me with an impersonal rhythmic pumping that said I could be any girl at all, his tie dangling in my face. But he did something unexpected; he pulled out, came in his cupped hand and then smeared his come all over my face. “There,” he said. “Now you look like the whore you are.”

  I stared at him in shock and wonder, but the Brit was already pushing me over one of the swivel chairs. My stomach came up against the cool leather, my ass in the air, and I knew what was going to happen even before he wet his fingers inside me and wiped them around my anus.

  He shoved himself in my ass as thoughtlessly as the other one had taken me. It was degradation heaven, a stranger pounding my bottom while another stranger who’d just called me a whore looked on with boredom and contempt. I closed my eyes and wished desperately Giles would step up next, would take off his suit with that measured, graceful menace and grip my neck and fuck me deeper and harder than any man had before. Just thinking of it made my body go wet and hot like my nerves were being electrified and I screamed as an orgasm shook my entire body. The man responded by grabbing my hair and pulling me backward.

  “You filthy slut,” he said and slapped my breasts, making my orgasm go on and on like a thunderous bell that wouldn’t stop ringing. I didn’t even realize he had come until he dropped me on the carpet.

  “Well,” said Giles. “Shall we? We were expected for drinks an hour ago.”

  I looked up plaintively from the floor. Giles wouldn’t look at me; I knew then I really had gotten under his skin. The other men took me to my office, locking me to the desk with a bag full of takeout Italian next to me.

  If I hadn’t been so exhausted and hungry, I would have wept. Instead I wolfed down the linguine and soup and fell asleep.

  I awoke at the usual hour, grayish light creeping around the office venetian blinds. Only something was different: I was curled up in a ball. At some point in the night I had been unlocked. And there was a pile on the desk—my bag of clothes and my purse.

  I grabbed my phone. There were texts from friends and my mom saying they hoped my business trip was going well. But it was the text from Giles I read first.

  On my way to São Paulo. I’ll be back after the holidays. Be prepared to show me what you’ve done.

  I cried once I got back to my apartment, tears of release and a strange joy I didn’t quite understand. I wasn’t the person who’d written my old columns on BDSM. I was becoming someone else. That weekend I wrote for hours, pouring out notes, ideas and outlines. I knew this was how Giles operated, manipulating everyone into serving his interests, making me so desperate for his approval that I would sacrifice anything to write a beautiful book with his name on it. But I couldn’t resent his mastery because one day it would be my mastery too.

  Twelve days later, a text arrived, instructing me to watch the news. And there was his headshot as the anchor reported another company merger and more shockingly, his retirement. A tell-all biography could be expected next year, a memoir that reportedly already had many in the business world nervous.

  My phone rang. “It’s real now. I hope you’re ready for what’s ahead,” Giles said.

  “I’m ready for anything.”

  He laughed. “That only proves you have no idea what I’m capable of.”

  I bit back the temptation to beg for details or try to beguile him or ask when he was returning. Instead I said, “The book is coming along well.”

  I could hear his smile over the phone. “I knew I could expect great things from you.”

  ROXANNE

  Tamsin Flowers

  The Geeks Shall Inherit the Earth. That’s what they say. It’s everybody’s favorite T-shirt slogan. Hell, I even have that shirt myself somewhere at the back of my closet. My mom gave it to me as a gesture of affection but believe me, I’ve never worn it. I’ve already got the geek thing going—glasses, flat chest, high scores in science classes—without having to advertise the fact. Oh, and did I mention my nose? The nose I was born with that precedes me wherever I go by several seconds? That little kids shelter under to get out of the rain? No, that shirt is redundant as far as I’m concerned.

  I’m a geek girl. I accept who I am. I hang out with other geek girls and I never talk to boys. And, on the whole, I’m happy with my life. Or I was.

  Until I got sat next to Roxanne in Physics 360.

  Roxanne is a goddess. Tall, slim, athletic, beautiful, with long blonde hair—you know, all the attributes that go with the word. And whip smart too, always
top of the class. So if you thought this was going to be one of those stories in which the geek earns the undying gratitude of the beauty by helping her with her senior term paper, then, no, you got it wrong. She made better grades than I did. And I was desperately in love with her.

  “Syra, isn’t it?” she said, as she brought her books over to my bench.

  I nodded, dumbfounded by the twist of fate that had launched her in my direction. She’d never spoken to me before. She sat down next to me and spread out her stuff, shaking her head.

  “It’s so good to sit next to you,” she said. My heart fluttered a little. “At least you won’t be hitting on me for my homework or trying to copy stuff over my shoulder.”

  Of course. I’d forgotten for a moment that I was the geek. But she hadn’t.

  I spluttered and went bright red, like I always do at the worst times. Then class started and we got down to business. Sitting next to each other made us lab partners and we settled quickly into a routine—conducting the experiments, writing our reports, hitting straight A’s. Occasionally Roxanne would try to engage me in conversation and I slowly started to come out of my shell. As long as we were talking about science. Of course, outside class she still had to ignore me. She had her own credibility to worry about and she wouldn’t maintain queen-bee status if she was seen talking to me. I didn’t mind.

  What I did mind, though, was when she started going on about Christian Neville. He was new—transferred from some college out East. He was on the football team. His dad had been a pro footballer. He was astoundingly good-looking, according to Roxanne. His body…I forget the rest. I sort of tuned out when she started talking about him. She had it bad.

  “I think I’m in love,” she announced one Tuesday morning as we were investigating stellar time scales. My heart fluttered a little at her words. But then: “I’m in love with Christian.”