Best Women's Erotica 2015

by Violet Blue

  And she wanted something else. As she leaned against the porch rail, keeping neatly back out of the January snow, she let the desire build. For the last couple of years she’d dreamed of darkness.

  Cecily shuddered in the dark. Even the cold couldn’t stop her restless thoughts. In the dark, she imagined hands, touching her, hands that could touch any part of her. That could violate. Hands that could shame. Hands that would punish and spank and leave her naked and vulnerable. She imagined being tied, her hands pulled far from her breasts, her legs pulled far from each other. Powerless, she lay while faceless people stalked around her, touching, looking, laughing, filming. They held implements—dildos, vibrators, anal plugs, wooden spoons, hairbrushes, riding crops—and nothing she said could keep them from her. She had no will.

  She’d given up her will. She’d consented.

  The notion of consenting—to anything, to everything, to pain and pleasure, humiliation and punishment—left her weak. Breathless.

  “Cecily?”

  “Be right in, Dad.”

  But she wandered to the edge of the porch and stood a moment longer, staring into the darkness of the winter’s night.

  From the night around her came a voice. “Cecily.”

  She started. “Daddy?”

  But she knew better.

  “Cecily.”

  “Who are you?” Her heart pounded against her ribs, her breath came short, but she wasn’t afraid. She was…curious. Certainly not hopeful. Of course her fantasies were only fantasies.

  He stepped out of the pools of darkness that lay between the streetlights. He was tall, her father’s age, his face lined with experience. Broad shoulders and somehow cunning hands. He moved those hands, and stardust fell from his fingers.

  Cecily watched and saw a story begin to form.

  “Once, you would not have been alone on this night. Our families were joined in friendship and tonight you would have been joined by boyfriend, friend, mentor, confidant, playmate, tormentor and lover.”

  She should be afraid, she thought. But standing in the dark, talking to a man she thought might be her father’s long-lost best friend, she was only curious.

  “I don’t understand. I thought you only had a daughter?” Her father’s best friend’s daughter still lived next door with her father’s best friend’s ex-wife. She wasn’t very nice, and Cecily had little to do with her.

  “Now,” he said. “Now I only have a daughter. But once I had more children.” His voice held sorrow, and something else—a thrill of anger.

  Cecily stepped forward instead of back, and put one hand on his arm. “Tell me,” she said, and that is how Cecily learned that her father had cursed his best friend’s family, turning young male restlessness into black winged ravens. Seven ravens, and seven keys which her father’s best friend offered to Cecily on the flat of his hand. Seven keys that could break the curse.

  One key opened a mountain of glass.

  One key created a map.

  One key led to heaven.

  One key led to hell.

  One key unlocked pleasure.

  One key unlocked pain.

  One key spoke the spell that would transform ravens back into humans, seven who might be Cecily’s boyfriend, friend, mentor, confidant, playmate, tormentor and lover.

  Each key came with a price.

  She took the keys without question. She left the porch without thought. She went into the city in search of ravens.

  The city was deserted. Another January snowstorm had caused a power failure and at midnight the streets were empty and impassable. Snow transformed the asphalt and concrete, the cars and buildings soft-edged and unreal. The snow muffled sound. No planes flew that night. No cars ran. No subways chugged. The streets were empty. Cecily’s boots left tracks in the otherwise virgin snow.

  She walked down the street, looking up at the snow that fell from the dull gray post-midnight sky. She carried the seven keys in her hands, wondering at the size and shape of them and what she was to do. Find a mountain made of glass, find a map, unlock heaven, unlock hell, learn pleasure and pain. Speak the spell that would release the ravens.

  Snowflakes fell on her eyelashes and cheeks. She looked up toward the swirling sky and saw the mountain made of glass. The tallest building in the city, easily fifty stories tall, it glowed despite the power failure, all steel and glass, a seat of financial power.

  She didn’t question how she knew. She didn’t know that she was right. She just walked, heading for the building, the shiniest of the keys outstretched in her hand. Above her, seven ravens whirled in flight, following her down through the double glass doors into the marble lobby and into the shining steel elevator. She took the car up to the penthouse, stepped out into silence and glass and the city, dead and white below her. The room was full of white furniture and black birds.

  “I’m here,” Cecily said into the silence and from the darkness came a dark-haired man, hair black as coal, eyes dark as night. Six crows surrounded him, fluttering their midnight feathers, heads cocked to watch her with their oil-drop eyes.

  He held his hand out to her with a low bow. “I am the son of your father’s best friend. I would have been your boyfriend.”

  Cecily regarded him. “Do I know you?” She took his hand, let him draw her closer.

  “You should.”

  His lips on hers were warm and soft. He smelled like feathers, warm and spicy. His hands went to her hair, cupped her face, slid down her back, then moved to her ass and pulled her tight against him. She felt his cock, hard against her, straining against the black slacks he wore, and her heart pounded faster.

  Her clothes melted away as they might in a dream. The empty office was cold, and she shivered against him as he removed his clothes, letting them fall behind him. He pulled her to one of the white couches, guided her down beneath him. He caressed her breasts, letting his fingers trail out to her nipples, tweaking and pinching, laughing as she pulled away. He bit her neck and she breathed into him, aching for his touch, aching for something else.

  His hands slipped down the slope of her hip bones, angled inward. One finger sank farther, touched her clit, slid between her lips. His breathing was rough and fast.

  Cecily pressed against him, felt his cock against her naked belly, felt his fingers sinking into her cunt, probing, sliding, fucking her until her head fell back and her breathing all but stopped.

  He pushed himself up on rigid arms, stared into her face, and he was familiar and a stranger, all at once.

  “Spread your legs.”

  She blushed and moved them apart. He angled himself and sank deep inside her, his back arching as he pumped into her, hard, with very little rhythm, just need, as if he had missed her for so very many years.

  Heat built in Cecily, warming her core, spreading from cunt and clit, spiraling up until she thought she’d burst with tension, with anticipation, and then she came for the first time with someone else there. Her head tipped back against the arm of the couch, and she screamed as waves of pleasure battered her.

  “I would have been your boyfriend,” he whispered in her ear and then he was gone, the ravens were gone, the room was empty and Cecily stood alone in the penthouse of the mountain of glass.

  She pocketed the key and took the elevator back down to the marble lobby.

  On the street again, she went looking for the map that would lead her to the son of her father’s best friend, the one who would have been her friend.

  Outside the glass and steel skyscraper she found the city map, a laminated and under-Plexiglas thing, battered despite protection, and seeming to indicate a city Cecily doubted resembled the one she was in.

  The skeleton key in her hand fit the map stand, and when she opened it another map appeared, bright and primal and promising heaven.

  He came up behind her, dark as his brother had been, and took her elbow.

  “You shouldn’t be out on the street at night,” he said, guiding her toward a garden s
et between two of the steep buildings. There was little snow there, and the summerhouse was wound with morning glory vines. Six ravens followed them, swooping down to land noisily on the summerhouse roof, feathers twitching, beady eyes watching. Cecily felt warmer out of the never-ending snow.

  “Do I know you?” He looked so like the man she had met before, the boyfriend, but of course they had to be brothers.

  “I would have been your friend.” His dark eyes were warm. He watched her, ready to laugh or cry at her desire.

  “What’s the price for knowing you now?”

  “A kiss,” he said, a Peter Pan request, and the ravens around them laughed rustily.

  Cecily leaned up on her toes and kissed him on the cheek. The next instant he was gone.

  She entered the summerhouse, her boots leaving snow on the steps to melt as spring triumphed over the January night. Inside, a black-haired, dark-eyed man stood watching her. His mouth quirked in a smile. He held one hand out to her, and Cecily took it, letting him lead her to a chaise swathed with silks. From somewhere she heard strains of music. She was warm and happy and unafraid.

  One key unlocked heaven.

  “Do I know you?” she asked. He looked like the boyfriend, and the friend. How many sons had her father’s best friend had? No one had spoken of it in her house. No one had spoken of it in her father’s best friend’s ex-house.

  “I would have been your mentor.” He urged her down onto the chaise, and when she struggled to stand again, he pressed her shoulders down, keeping her there.

  “You have got to learn your place. You have got to learn.”

  Her cheeks burned as the stranger undressed himself, revealing alabaster skin, a lean chest, long arms, hard abs and finally a jutting cock, long and thick and hard for her. When she tried to turn her head away, tried to stand, he caught her face between his palms. Standing above her, he pressed his cock against her lips, pushing, guiding, forcing her mouth open.

  Cecily’s gaze rose to meet his. She opened her mouth and let him slide his length inside her. He tasted salty and musty, like deep-red wine, heated, with spices. He was already slick with precome, and when he pressed forward the head of his cock bumped the back of her throat.

  “Open your throat. Let me in. Let me fuck you.” He held the back of her head and rocked his hips into her. Cecily groaned, then let herself relax, opening to him, wrapping her tongue around his cock, sucking, hollowing her cheeks, letting him fill her as the fire between her legs grew again, not satiated. She wanted him; she wanted his hands, his cock, his tongue.

  She wanted everything she’d had tonight, the sex, the friendship, the control.

  The ravens watched from corners of the room, shifting noisily.

  Cecily moved forward and back, sucking hard, feeling the man above her tense as he started to come. He pulled back suddenly, pulling himself free of her mouth. His come splattered across her face, into her hair.

  “You’re learning,” he said, when she didn’t reach up to wipe her mouth. “Go clean up.” He pointed to a door in the back of the summerhouse. It hadn’t been there when they’d entered. He followed her, at least as far as the door, which was locked. She fumbled with the seven keys in her hand, pulling one out that was a curious dull red, scorched by fire, perhaps.

  One key leads to heaven. One would lead to hell.

  The red key opened the door in the back of the summerhouse. The seven ravens swept through it with her, ruffling her hair, disturbing the air in the hot room. The door slammed shut behind her and Cecily knew without checking the door would be locked.

  He stood in front of her, tall, strong, muscled, dark. He didn’t smile, but held out his hand. The room around him was a stage set for play, the kind of thing she only let herself dream of in her most private moments.

  Cecily’s cheeks heated with shame. She wanted what was there.

  One key would lead to hell.

  “Do I know you?” she asked the muscular man. He had rolled up his sleeves over corded forearms and stood waiting for her. He looked so familiar, like a dream she might have had, or like the boyfriend, friend and mentor she had met.

  “I would have been your confidant. Tell me your deepest fears. Your secrets.” He whispered: “Your wants.”

  Her eyes swept the room. She wanted it all, the dungeon look, the exhibition, the pain, the punishment, the release. She wanted the crops and belts and canes and cats. She wanted him.

  “I’m afraid.”

  “That’s a good start.”

  He didn’t offer her his hand again. Instead, he took hers roughly, yanked her to him, pulled her jeans down in a practiced motion and felt between her legs. “You’re soaking wet. Smell yourself. Lick my fingers clean.”

  She tasted of onions, she thought, distracted, and came back to herself when he ordered her to strip. Around her the six ravens muttered and paced.

  Her jeans, her panties, her T-shirt, her bra. Defenseless, she faced him, afraid, but wanting.

  “Tell me what you fear the most.”

  She wouldn’t, she thought, but her eyes betrayed her, darting fast across the room to fasten on the canes that hung from a peg.

  In one fast motion he toppled her across a desk and Cecily thought now it looked like a schoolroom they were in; she wouldn’t have been surprised to have a class sitting there watching, to find herself in tartan plaid, but it was just Cecily, naked, vulnerable, watched by the ravens.

  “Don’t move.”

  She heard him cross the room. Her breath caught. She held it. This was what she’d waited for.

  This was what she’d feared.

  It took forever for him to cross the small space, to bring back one of the thin, whippy canes and one of the thick, formidable ones.

  She wanted him to make her count. In her darkest moments, she thought the humiliation of keeping her own count would be—sublime? Hellish? Hers.

  He was to have been her confidant. Of course he knew.

  “Count,” he ordered, and then he started. The thick cane cracked down across her ass, hitting the sweet spot. Cecily shouted in surprise and pain, bucked up and felt him shove her back down hard. The sting blossomed and an instant later became searing, red-hot pain.

  “Count!” he shouted.

  “One!”

  “Sir.”

  “One, Sir!”

  The thick cane again, leaving a trail of red; she could feel welts starting and welts over welts. She cried, she kicked; six times the cane descended and then he stopped.

  She felt him walk close behind her. His hands came down, mauling her ass, pinching handfuls of reddened, angry flesh. One hand reached down between her legs.

  “You’re even wetter.” She moaned.

  “Six more.” And the cane snapped across her skin, leaving marks, leaving trails. She hurt. She screamed. She struggled even as the ravens laughed. Under it all, the need crested, the pleasure built, the pain exploded until Cecily exploded, clit throbbing, cunt pulsing, mouth open as she panted through the orgasm.

  He hit her one more time as it faded. She grunted, let her head drop to the desk.

  The snow woke her instants later. Snow blowing into the room, chasing away the warmth of heaven, the heat of hell. She wasn’t surprised to find herself dressed again. She ached, warmth spreading from her ass to her cunt and clit. She wanted more.

  The seven ravens watched her. Another key would lead her to pleasure. Out, then, from the hellish room. There was only one door, and it wasn’t the one she’d come in through. She crossed to it, finding a slim silver key that fit the lock. The ravens brushed through ahead of her. Cecily followed and stood in a huge room full of people milling about. Instantly she glanced down at herself, but her clothes were still there, jeans and a T-shirt, boots and keys. She searched then, until she found him.

  He was grinning, mischievous and cute, with sharper features than the others, but just as dark of hair, pale of skin, just as tall and strong and just as much in control of Cecily. />
  She wanted to say she’d already figured it out this time but her mouth shaped the words. “Do I know you?”

  “I would have been your playmate.”

  She thought initially that would have meant something else. Now she just took his hand and allowed him to lead her up onto a stage at the end of the room. Now the guests in the room turned and looked at the ravens fluttering above them, then up to the stage where Cecily’s playmate removed her clothes.

  “Show them,” he said.

  She stared at him, her hands protectively over breasts, legs twisting together.

  He laughed at her. “Oh, no. No.” He took her hands away from herself and walked her into the lights at the edge of the stage. Standing behind her he offered up her breasts to the crowd, pushed her hips forward and separated her lips, turned her and bent her and spread her legs and all the while the guests assembled sipped their drinks and petted each other and laughed and commented and asked if they could touch.

  “No,” her playmate said. “She’s all mine.”

  His touch tickled. He stroked and nipped, he kissed and licked, he squeezed her aching ass and slid a finger into her asshole and wouldn’t let her go when she tried to squirm away. He tickled her and stoked her and bit her and told her she was beautiful and the fire inside her climbed again. Cecily fed off the crowd, ashamed and frightened and excited and abandoned. She reached down for his cock, hard inside his black slacks, rubbed him hard and laughed when he pushed her away, went right back to it until he turned her, tucked her butt into his crotch, bent her and reached his arms around to play with her clit.

  “Come. Come for the nice people. Let them see your face when I make you come.”

  Cecily screamed, head dropping, her entire body convulsing. She heard the guests laugh, some of them applaud; she heard groans and sighs as the assembled personages lost their clothes and their minds and pleasure rippled through the room.