Best Women's Erotica 2009

by Violet Blue

  “Umm, okay, I guess,” I said unconvincingly. It was a little unorthodox, even for a sex shop, but I made Buki promise not to do it too hard.

  The crop made a swish sound as it sailed through the air, followed by a crack as it landed on my ambivalent behind. “Ahhh!” I cried out, and involuntarily stood up straight to get my arse out of harm’s way. “That hurt, Buki!”

  “Sorry,” she said, deadly serious. “I’ll do the next one softer.” I still wondered whether this was absolutely necessary. I also wondered what my partner would make of it when I told him. We’d agreed that when we weren’t out together, flirting with other people was okay, even good for the soul, but the conversation had never stretched to, “So what about if someone offers to spank me?”

  Nonetheless, I bent over again for Buki. I’m not sure why. I could have told her I’d just try it out on my arm or something—it wasn’t as if the shop was an abusive environment by any stretch of the imagination.

  The crop was quieter this time, and I didn’t have the sound to anticipate when it would land. I jumped as it made contact. Even through my jeans it still stung for a second. But it wasn’t so bad. Buki did it a couple more times and asked me how it felt. I told her it hurt a bit still and I didn’t like that, but maybe she could just do it a couple more times, a little softer? A couple of customers had noticed by now and glanced over. I smiled at them. “Quality control,” I said, by way of explanation.

  “Quality control and staff training,” said Buki.

  At that I stood up. “All right, enough of that. You’re so toppy, Buki.”

  “Oooh, you’re up with the terminology!” she said. “Thinking of exploring S/M?”

  “No, I just take my job seriously, so I’ve been doing some reading.”

  A customer approached and asked for advice on a vibrator, so Buki went over with her, while I picked a crop from the pile in the box and felt the wide leather loop at its end. The leather was firm yet supple and didn’t seem as intimidating as when Buki had wielded it. The loop was held in place with an expertly knotted thread that wound up along the length of the crop with perfection, not a single thread overlapping. The woven leather handle was comfortable in my hand, almost molding to the shape of my closed palm. I flicked the crop about and heard the swish as it sliced through the air. It had give, though—its length bending then springing back as I flicked it.

  That night I told Ben about it. He was interested, as he is about most things—and he didn’t seem too put out about the spanking from Buki. “Do you want to get one of these riding crops, then?” he asked. “I’m happy to redden your arse if it turns you on.”

  “Oh, no, I don’t think so,” I said. “It’s not really my thing. It hurt too much anyway.”

  “Okay, well, you can always change your mind. Remember, I’m more than happy to give it a try.”

  “Thanks, honey, that’s really sweet.” I kissed him on the lips. They tasted like the espresso he had been drinking. I kissed them some more. We fell back on the sofa, our mouths mingling, our hands in each other’s hair. That’s how it was with Ben—like a faucet that just needed the tiniest turn to come on full force. We fucked right there on the sofa.

  As I sat on the train the following morning, I found my thoughts returning to the Hamlet’s riding crops. When I got in to work I made a point of lingering with them, adjusting and readjusting the equestrian-themed display, setting the varnished papiermâché horse’s head just so on the shelf, changing the orientations of the soft grooming brushes that we’d also just gotten in. Lastly, I fanned the crops again to spread them evenly in the canister. The display looked perfect. I stared at it for a while, then retrieved a shiny all-black crop from the canister, just to hold it. It truly was beautiful workmanship. I finally replaced it and went to the counter when I saw there were customers. I thought about that crop all week. Sex with Ben was sweet but it certainly wasn’t lacking. It was just…well, maybe he was right: I was changing my mind about that crop.

  Finally, on my last shift before the weekend, I bought it. I’d watched over it all week to make sure we didn’t sell it. How I could tell my favorite one apart from the other black ones, I’ll never know. But I could tell it apart. Perhaps it was the particular winding of glossy thread around the shaft. Perhaps the particular feel of the leather on the handle. Perhaps the shiny perfect hide of the loop. I bought it when I was working with another woman, Anne. Anne was as discreet as Buki was inyer-face; I knew she would respect my privacy. Anne wrapped it in gold tissue paper because it stuck out the top of the bag and I didn’t want any funny looks on the train.

  As I got in the door, I slowed my pace to a saunter and wiggled into the living room. Ben was on the sofa watching telly. He turned to greet me. “Hello!”

  “Hello,” I purred.

  “What’s in that bag you’ve got there?” he asked, a smile creeping across his face.

  “I decided I’d like to try out that riding crop after all,” I said as I pulled it out of the bag and tore the tissue paper off.

  “Oh, what a beauty,” said Ben as he got up and came over to take a look. “It looks like it’s very good quality,” he said as he ran his finger over the ridges of thread along the shaft.

  “Ah, do you think you might be into this sort of thing?”

  “Well, I don’t know. But you have to appreciate the craftsmanship,” he said, fingering the leather loop.

  “Oh, I already have,” I said, placing the crop fully in his hands, almost ceremonially, as an acolyte would a samurai sword.

  He bowed slightly. “Madam, shall we retire upstairs?” I loved it when he got all upper-class on me. I immediately dropped my backpack on the floor and followed him up the stairs.

  “Hmm, I think I’d like you to stand with your hands on the wall and your legs spread, like how a cop makes a suspect stand to get searched on one of those U.S. cop shows,” Ben told me. I did as he suggested, his instructions sending a little thrill down my spine. The A-line skirt I was wearing allowed me to spread my legs without resistance. As I placed my palms to the wall, my head naturally fell forward a little and I stared at the ground. Ben asked me to lift my head. I heard him open a drawer, then I felt fabric fall against my face as he pulled a scarf tight across my eyes and knotted the silk at the back of my head. This was new for us—I’d never been blindfolded before, but I trusted Ben—and the gathering pool of wetness between my legs. At first he flicked the crop in the air—I could hear him behind me, assessing its structure. Then I heard a thwack that made me jump, as he gave a lash to what sounded like his palm. Then silence. I waited, the anticipation building.

  Suddenly, I felt it. He dragged the crop over my arse from one side to the other, then finally stopped and lifted it away with a flick. I still feared pain so I was glad for the protection of my skirt. Next I felt the crop sliding up my inner thigh, dragging my skirt up with it. When it reached my pussy, Ben began to slowly seesaw the crop back and forth along the crotch of my underwear. With every forward stroke he curved it up a little so it hit the underside of my clit through the fabric, which was already damp with my excitement. Each time, my whole body juddered. He returned to dragging the crop across my arse, back and forth, with a flick away at each end. Then finally the crop came down. It didn’t hurt. And my fear of pain was now transforming into an urgent need to feel it on my bare cheeks. Where Buki had struck too hard, Ben was proving his skill, and his restraint. I sensed that Ben was enjoying his role as much as I was mine. Oh, god, I wanted my undies down but I daren’t break the spell by moving my palms from the wall. For the same reason, oddly, I also didn’t speak. There was something otherworldly about this experience, and I couldn’t risk shattering the strange mix of heightening desire and calm that was mingling inside me. I decided to sway my hips a little, egging him on without taunting.

  “Stand still,” he said, matter-of-factly. I froze, wanting him to command me again. I was surprised that I was thrilled by this as our relationship was based
on equality—in and out of the bedroom. But I was beginning to perceive that we could play with one aspect without compromising the other. I hoped that Ben sensed this too and felt safe to command me again. I stayed precisely still, concentrating, barely breathing.

  “Take your hands from the wall and pull down your skirt and knickers.” Oh, he was getting the idea all right. I did what he told me to, glad to unzip the skirt and get rid of it along with my underwear.

  “Good. Now, replace your palms on the wall.” I placed them back carefully and braced myself against the wall. He didn’t make me wait long. I heard the rush of wind as the crop sliced through the air. It landed hard on my bare arse, an assault on my senses. But rather than crying out in pain, I felt a breathy sigh escape my lips. I was braced now for pain, ready for it even. But instead, the crop now snaked up my inner thigh and brushed my pussy lips ever so lightly. I shuddered deeply; a mix of pleasure and the heightened awareness brought by the anticipation of pain. Next the crop fluttered across my bare arsecheeks. I clenched over and over again for the strike but the fluttering continued until I began to relax.

  By the time it did come I didn’t expect it, but Ben’s surprisingly expert hand had brought it down just right on my hypersensitive skin, causing an intense sensation somewhere in between pleasure and pain. But I wanted it now, wanted more. I could feel my arse swaying and arching of its own accord, goading Ben to strike me harder. My pussy was hot and wet and throbbing. I could feel it responding more and more, like an interpreter, translating the crop ministrations into a series of pleasures that seared through my core. Ben sensed it too and stepped up his efforts, landing the crop hard again and again, though never in the same spot, until I felt sure that my cheeks must be on fire.

  “Oh,” I cried out. “Fuck me. Please, Ben, fuck me! Get your cock in me now, please.” I was desperate for him, driven mad with desire.

  “You asked for it,” he breathed as I heard his zipper go down and his jeans fall to the floor. I kept my palms against the wall but swayed my body in sheer need until I felt him grab my arse with both hands, his own palms cool against my stinging flesh. I felt his hard cock nudging between my arsecheeks. He had lubed up and his cock slipped against my perineum as it slid into my pussy. It felt like heaven. Every stroke sent waves of intense pleasure through me. And still I kept my palms on the wall. He fucked me slowly and rhythmically until I began to moan and pant.

  “Mmm,” he whispered in between sighs. “How about a little something gentle in your arse?”

  At that suggestion, I felt my arsehole twitch in response. “Oh, yes, oh, god yes!” We hadn’t had a lot of anal sex, but when we did Ben always worked me up very hot beforehand and so it always felt good. I had a feeling this was going to be the best yet. I felt him slip out of my pussy and reposition his cock, rubbing it back and forth against my already slippery perineum and arsehole. I could feel it puckering up to invite him in because I was so ready for it. He pushed the head of his cock in ever so slowly, and I gasped as I felt it slide past the first ring of muscle. He waited, then eased the length of his cock in. We both paused then as my arsehole adjusted to accommodate him. He reached his hand around and stroked my clit, and I felt myself open up even more for him. Finally, he began to slowly thrust, his cock sliding deeply inside my tight little arsehole. I cried out with the intense pleasure. I was so aroused that I could feel every tiny motion, every twitch of his cock. I even thought that I could feel his precome welling inside my arse, lubing it all the more, adding to the slipping and sliding within the delicious snugness of our fucking. Every thrust brought us both closer and closer until finally he said, “I’m going to come soon, baby. Where are you?”

  “I’m almost there,” I cried, my breathing ragged. “I just need…” I didn’t finish the sentence. I wrenched one hand from the wall and put my fingers to work on my clit, stroking it hard and rhythmically while Ben’s dick thrust in and out of my arsehole. My hips began to buck, pulling forward then slamming back onto Ben’s cock until I heard, “Uh, I’m coming, I’m coming.” As I felt him spasm against me, my own orgasm burst through me, from deep in my core to the top of my head and tips of my toes. We rocked together and sighed until our bodies slowed.

  A couple of weeks later, we whiled away a Saturday wandering around the street markets of London’s Brick Lane. In addition to registered stalls, sellers lined the streets, their wares on blankets laid out on the pavement. It was a great place to find bargains and curiosities. As we neared an antique stall down a particularly narrow street, I spotted something on a table, alongside a pile of beaten bowler hats and old suitcases. Ben followed quizzically until he saw what I had found. Amongst them sat an old leather riding saddle; a heavy, quality horse’s saddle with tool work along its edges. Ben and I looked at each other and smiles crept across our faces.

  “Ah, how much for the saddle?” I called out to the stall-holder. A portly middle-aged East End geezer, he surveyed us before answering. “Seventy-five quid,” he said. He looked over at his mate and laughed as though he was wondering what a couple of city people were going to do with a saddle. His friend called out, “We’ll bring you the horse next week!” They chuckled to each other, pleased with their joke.

  “Oh, it’s okay,” smiled Ben. “I’ve already got a pony.”

  LUCKY

  Xan West

  I need to be forced to name my desires. I need to look them in the eye and accept them for mine. I need to travel that long journey through shame into pride. I am lucky to have someone willing to give that to me, who can go to those scary places with me. I am lucky to have Sir.

  Sir knows me. Knows what I want. Knows where the edges are, and how to take me there. We go for intensity, and it is glorious, and scary, and cathartic. It would not work between strangers. It would not work if Sir didn’t communicate my worth (and her love for me) in small daily ways.

  At the leather conference, Sir dressed me in the morning. I knelt and she wrapped my wrists in cuffs. She had me wiggle into a garter belt and then sit on the bed, as she slowly rolled fishnet stockings up my legs and attached the garters, her fingers teasing my thighs. She pulled me to my feet, produced a skirt, and slid it up my legs, smiling with satisfaction when it barely covered my ass, leaving just enough bare thigh to show off the garters.

  She removed the A-line shirt she had worn the day before and through the night, and slipped it over my head, tugging it down my large frame. It smelled like her, of sweat and cologne and that musky scent that is Sir. She pulled out a deep red lipstick, painted my lips with it carefully, then smiled wickedly and wrote something in lipstick on the shirt. She handed me my Frye boots and ordered me to polish them and put them on. She was in and out of the shower before I was done, and pulling on her socks just as I finished. Her boots were gleaming, polished first thing that morning, and I helped her into them, my eyes lingering on the sight.

  She unzipped her fly and pulled out her cock, saying huskily “C’mere, slut,” as she grabbed me by the hair and thrust my mouth onto her cock. I shuddered, feeling her deep in my throat, her hands fisted in my hair, fucking my mouth. She reached into me and named that core truth I rail against. I am a slut. I was helpless to ignore it with her dick in my mouth, and that was the point. I spend so much time resisting my own desire; these moments are when I can surrender to it, because she loves it, because it is safe, because I ache to so badly.

  “That’s my slut. I know how much you love getting your mouth fucked by me. This is who you are, slut. A hole aching to be fucked.”

  She thrust into my mouth quickly, grunting her pleasure, and then yanked me off her dick by the hair.

  “Plant yourself on my boot, slut. Get it nice and wet.”

  My eyes lifted and begged her not to make me do this.

  “Get to it, slut,” she said gruffly, no mercy in her eyes.

  I spread my legs and wrapped them around her boot, my cunt spasming as it contacted the leather. I was so ashamed that this turned
me on. And so grateful that she made me face it.

  “Ride that boot for me.”

  I thrust onto her boot, tears forming, pleading whimpers sliding out of my mouth.

  “That’s my good slut. That’s it, ride out your pleasure on my boot. Don’t stop riding it, baby. Open your eyes, let me see. You love this, don’t you? I can see it in your eyes. You love being my good little boot slut. You can’t stop until you come for me. I want your come on my boot all day, just waiting for your tongue to lick it up tonight.”

  Incoherent begging sounds emerged from my throat as I rode her boot. I knew the rules but I couldn’t form the words. I couldn’t stop fighting this. I battle in my head, every time. That’s the point.

  “That’s my good slut. You love fucking yourself on my boot, don’t you? I can smell you, slut. All day I’m going to smell you on my boot, and know you are mine.”

  My clit jolted, my cunt ached to be filled. Tears rolled down my face. I was ashamed and aroused and so fucking helpless. There was only one way to end this.

  “Please, Sir. Please may I come for you, Sir?”

  “I need you to say it, slut. Tell me you are my slut, and you may come.”

  I could feel my eyes get huge. There was a lump in my throat. She gripped me by the hair tightly and her voice was ferocious as she said over my whimpers, “Tell me. Tell me who you are.”

  “I am your slut,” I whispered, and her hands released me as I came for her, writhing on her boot, tears rolling down my face, my cunt throbbing. There is no release like tears and orgasm combined, and she doesn’t forget that. She lifted me to my knees and gently licked the tears from my cheeks.