Best Women's Erotica 2007

by Violet Blue

  “Release yourself, slave.” His voice was ragged as he began his own release into the back of my throat.

  My excitement peaked the moment I felt his heated seed shooting down my throat, the moment my muscles could finally let go of the weight of the water pressing against my insides. The water gushed from me. I had never felt greater humiliation. It was far worse than when he pushed the water into me. I closed my eyes behind the blindfold.

  Shame and euphoria battled in my mind. I knew I had done my job, I knew I had pleased him. But even in that moment of joy was the shame of what was expelling from my body, the relief from the pressure, the embarrassment of what was happening to me physically, my complete loss of physical control, the new sensation of the water flushing out my most private place. Was I happy? Was I embarrassed? I couldn’t name what I was feeling.

  He continued to hold my hair tightly, pulling my face into his pubic hair, making my breathing near-impossible, and the water continued to flow from my ass. The intense confusion, the sexual tension, the knowledge that I pleased him finally took over my body. I was surprised by my own orgasm. I moaned. My arms wrapped around his hips. I couldn’t control the flow of water, I couldn’t control the spasms of pleasure, I couldn’t control my need for air. For a brief moment, my body was completely out of my conscious control—all it could do was react to sensation and emotion.

  He let go of my hair, and his hands slid to my face, gently pulling my head away. I was gasping for air, my body was shaking, and I was still blindfolded. He guided me to my feet and held me close, kissing me deeply, this time without biting my tongue, but prodding it to taste his own essence. I felt him take a towel to my bottom and he softly patted the wetness from my ass cheeks. One last act of power for him and humiliation for me.

  Without a word, Jeff led me out of the bathroom and into my bedroom. He took me to the bed, laid me down, and wrapped me in my big feather quilt. He climbed in beside me and finally removed my blindfold. He’d kept the lights very dim, and when the blindfold came off I was looking into his deep, chocolate-brown eyes. He smiled at me and kissed my forehead.

  “You were a very good girl today, my pet. Rest, now.”

  He held me in his arms and I closed my eyes again, this time to sleep.

  BECKY

  Kay Jaybee

  Regardless of my warnings, she had applied for the administrative assistant vacancy at the office where I work. Perhaps I was wrong to be wary. Becky had always listened eagerly to the tales I told before dismissively saying, “Don’t be ridiculous, that sort of thing doesn’t really happen,” quickly followed by, “so what happened next?” Maybe I shouldn’t have told her anything. It’s too late now.

  Becky’s face looked as if it would remain in a state of shock forever. Her gray skirt was hunched around her slim waist and her thong lay in tatters after its surgical removal with the boss’s scissors. She stood stock still as the correction stool was placed reverently in its familiar position in the very center of the office.

  She kept repeating over and over again, “It was an accident, an accident. I never meant to spill the coffee. An accident.” I felt for her, she blinking in disbelief as her fellow workers followed their boss’s instructions and came to stand around her and the stool.

  “Bend.” It wasn’t a request. Our aging but terrifyingly fit boss was ordering her without even raising his voice. I willed her to do as she was told, for her own sake.

  “Bend now.” Becky could feel the danger of refusal in the air; we all could. It was almost tangible. Our colleagues were barely breathing as they focused on the stool. Most were thankful that it wasn’t them; some had been so broken by submission that they wished it were.

  Unsure of exactly how to position herself, Becky clumsily lowered her waist over the wide wooden seat, holding herself steady by grabbing the legs with her outstretched arms. With his usual economy of movement the boss shifted her further onto the stool so that her ass was deliciously exposed, while her legs balanced precariously on her high heels. Then he fastened her taut limbs in place with thick black bootlaces, carefully designed to cut into the sinner’s skin should she wriggle too much.

  Then he paused, turning his back on the young woman, who was still battling to comprehend how accidentally slopping a mug of coffee could result in such chastisement. The boss went to the closet in the corner of the room. When he returned, he was holding a long, thin, white cane.

  Becky’s eyes never left the cane. Her face had taken on the pallor of a ghost as the final shred of hope that this was all some sick initiation ceremony dissolved. What the hell would have happened if she’d spilled the whole cup of coffee?

  The sound of the first crack across her tight pale buttocks was drowned out by her shocked scream. Yes, it really is happening. I warned you.

  The second, then the third, left smart red lines as the cane connected with her prone ass. Becky’s screams were reaching epic proportions and the boss was obviously getting bored of the noise. Stopping to undo his tie, he wrapped it into a make-shift gag and swiftly tied it around Becky’s flushed face.

  The forth lash, the fifth. Becky was biting for all she was worth into the thin strip of material. The humiliation of her situation would surely be going around and around her confused mind, as the silent workforce watched her enforced submission. By the sixth stroke she was hardly making a sound, her concentration on simply surviving the ordeal. On the eighth stroke it happened. We all heard it.

  She whimpered. Her reaction was changing; she was reaching the crossover point between unwanted pain and desired pain. Perhaps I’d been wrong about Becky. Perhaps this wasn’t her first submission. How well did I know her after all? No one here had ever responded that way the first time before. She had seemed genuinely shocked and frightened by the situation, but suddenly I began to suspect she had her own motives for being here.

  Her buttocks, now scarlet, bruised, and striped, gave off a throbbing heat as the boss hesitated. He’d heard the subtle alteration in her voice; he waited just long enough for a tiny sigh to escape her moist lips before bringing the cane down with precision onto the exact spot where the previous stroke had hit.

  Then it stopped. She was left there shaking and unfulfilled, as the whip was lovingly returned to its home. All the workers returned to their desks, once again mindful of the consequences of making a mistake.

  This was the worst stage. During my first humiliation, I had been sure the lashing itself would be the worst thing that could happen. I hadn’t counted on the shame factor. Surely Becky would be feeling it now as the air-conditioning wafted across her stinging flesh. Would she be grappling with her thoughts? “How had this happened?” “Why don’t they let me go now?” “How will I ever look anyone in the eye again?” Maybe she hadn’t yet noticed that the people here do not look each other in the eye. In this office the safest option is definitely the meek one.

  The blood would have rushed to her head by now. She’d be wondering if there was more to come. I had warned her, and she hadn’t believed me. Or had she? I looked furtively across my desk as she remained motionless, either too scared or too sensible to speak. Even if she was stupid enough to ask how long she would remain there, we couldn’t have told her. It depended on how long the boss and his assistant took in their separate office.

  I saw them once. The boss had rightly sensed I was beginning to enjoy my punishments, and had decided a further level of correction was required. My ass burning from a thorough paddling, I had to watch, helpless, bound to the desk, as the boss received relief from the arousal my disciplining had obviously caused him.

  I have never heard his assistant speak. She is simply referred to as Miss Harriet, but I have no idea if Harriet is her first or last name. I do know that she loves her work, and I suspect she fears that he will grow weary of her one day. Perhaps that’s why she never speaks—to keep an air of mystery. All this went through my head as I lay there naked, my weighty tits crushed against the writing surface
, my aching legs dangling over the edge, not quite reaching the floor, and my ass smarting as I was kept somewhere between agony and ecstasy.

  He hadn’t said anything to Miss Harriet. Just a look at his face seemed to tell her exactly what to do. First she stepped neatly out of her immaculate A-line skirt, then she slipped off her crisp white blouse. I tried to resist drawing breath as her beautiful bodice and stockings revealed her pantiless, heart-shaped pussy. Not that this was on view for long, as she bent, without prompting, across the arm of the large black leather armchair in the corner of the room and waited.

  I couldn’t take my eyes off her. She had placed herself in a position of humiliation with every shred of dignity intact. Her buttocks, however, told their own story. The dark-pink welts that neatly crisscrossed her regularly bronzed flesh looked angry. They obviously rarely had time to heal between assaults.

  Her master had already taken off his clothes, revealing a well-toned figure for a man of his years, his hard dick showing just how much he had enjoyed my correction. The new paddle he selected for his work had four hard rubber studs encased in a smooth black cover. I was just imagining the agony it might inflict when I saw for myself. Although my view was partially obstructed by the boss, I strained against my bonds so I could see this fascinating creature take punishment simply because she was there and his hard-on had to be dealt with. My boss’s skill with the chosen weapon was evident. One, two, three, the paddle came down with speed. I could see indents appear in her flesh as the nodules cut in. Yet, despite her already damaged skin, she shed not a drop of blood.

  All that time, Miss Harriet had made no sound. Her concentration must have been incredible as the vicious strokes lashed her rose buttocks. I counted each stroke as I felt my own helpless, wasted, liquid ooze down my thighs onto the desk’s conveniently placed blotting paper. The assistant’s steady breathing had become shallow and urgent by the tenth lash, and the boss’s own had turned into an animal grunt as suddenly, on the twelfth, he dropped his weapon, grabbed her hips, and pulled her toward him, thrusting his painfully hard cock into her waiting ass. Her cry was more one of relief than of pain as he hammered into her.

  I lay there, desperate for attention, imagining what it would be like to hold the whip hand for a change; to be able to counteract my corrective measures by touching her soft skin, licking her engorged nipples, kissing her panting lips.

  Then it was over. He growled his release as she rubbed herself against the chair to bring herself off. Miss Harriet, silent once more, turned and passed him a handkerchief to clean himself up before dismissing herself with an incline of her delicate head. I was left there for another hour. No one touched me. It was a worse agony than the lashes.

  Becky stayed. I wasn’t sure she would turn up the following day; many before her hadn’t. However, as she sat at her desk her eyes weren’t cast down like her peers’; they had a defiant glint to them that I feared could be dangerous. It wasn’t that much of a surprise to me when, two days later, Becky dropped a pile of recently sorted filing on the floor directly in front of the boss’s door. “Nerves,” one of my colleagues whispered. I wasn’t so sure. I couldn’t help wondering if she had done it deliberately, to see what might happen next.

  Just as before, the stool was positioned in the center of the circle. This time, however, Becky positioned herself, with no word of prompting, on the hard surface. She revealed her own, still slightly bruised, rump and offered up her wrists to be bound.

  The boss watched her with interest and shook his head. You never got what you wanted here. Becky was left, standing there, ass exposed, as he put the stool away again. Waiting. No one got the upper hand in this office.

  He opened the closet and, without a word, beckoned her to approach. I held my breath, already turned on by the prospect of what was to come. To my eternal shame, it is why I stay here. This place had changed my tastes. There was no going back. I watched.

  It was an unusual closet. From floor to ceiling in height, it had an increased depth hidden behind its gray metal doors. The shelves along the walls were set well back, so that at least two people could occupy the remaining space with the doors closed. On every shelf there was a collection of instruments: canes, whips, paddles, nipple clamps. There was all the necessary material to keep a correction freak going for years: ribbons, ropes, cuffs, chains, gags. The more you looked, the more your heart froze and your eyes widened. Becky looked. Her face revealed nothing.

  Miss Harriet had silently come out of her office. Without a word she stood behind Becky and helped her off with her remaining clothes. Becky was so beautiful. I realized I hadn’t really looked at her properly before. I already wanted to touch; I began to imagine her beating my breasts with a short stick and then soothing them with her tongue.

  I came back to reality. Such feelings must not be displayed here. Becky was now just inside the closet doors, facing her audience. She seemed to shine. How had she got to this point so quickly? It had taken me many beatings before I had learned to enjoy it, and even after nearly eighteen months I could never be so open about it. I still have the shame. Maybe I need it.

  Becky stared through us as she looked straight ahead. Miss Harriet had taken one of her slim wrists and was tying it to a conveniently placed hook on one of the shelves with a silk cord. Then she secured the other wrist, then the ankles, and finally she snapped a thin silver collar securely around Becky’s neck, its long leather cord dangling provocatively between her breasts.

  Miss Harriet stepped out of the closet and looked to her boss for approval. He nodded. I could clearly see, when I dared to glance, that his dick was straining against his suit trousers. They shut the doors of the closet, and we all heard Becky gasp. She had expected pain, arousal. They had given her nothing.

  No one could concentrate. Returning to our work was impossibly hard.

  An hour after the doors had been closed, our boss came out of his office, his slightly creased clothes revealing that Miss Harriet’s services had been called upon once again. As he walked between our desks, the tension was intense. He wanted to punish someone. Any excuse would do.

  He signaled to Miss Harriet, who brought the stool forward. “Congratulations,” he said. “Despite events,” (he gestured to the closet) “you have all managed some work. Not much. But something.” He paced around the stool, like a panther waiting to pounce. “Like me, I suspect you have all been rather turned on by recent events. Some of you” (he looked straight at me) “will be literally wetting your underpants with anticipation. Just waiting for the crop to strike. Others are still torn between running and staying.” He paused and surveyed his workforce. “But you will all stay. Every day I wonder who will fail to turn up for work, but each day you all come.”

  No one dared to speak. I could feel my breath scratching my throat as he continued. “It is not in my nature to give rewards, but in this case I think it would provide an apt lesson for our newest recruit.” He again gestured to the closet. “Becky cannot hear us through those doors, although she can see around her. The light inside is sufficient for her to be able to examine at close quarters all the instruments that she so unwisely volunteered herself to experience.”

  “For one hour only she will be your slave. I will open the doors and she will be yours to do with as you like. Do not waste this experience. It is very unlikely to ever happen again.”

  My eyes must have lit up, because he bestowed upon me one of his rare and rather unnerving smiles. “Yes, I thought you’d like that. But I am also sure that you would benefit from your own ass being warmed. I know I would enjoy performing the task for you.”

  I glanced at the stool. Was I that obvious? I wasn’t like Becky. I could never have engineered a situation like this, but he was right, and I could feel my nipples harden at the thought of the tingling pain that would spread across my buttocks to my already damp pussy.

  “Strip.” He ordered, and I obeyed. My hands shook slightly as I fumbled with my blouse buttons, and the
slightly bent clasp of my bra. Finally naked, I cast my eyes down. Yes, I needed the shame. The wood felt cold beneath my skin as I offered up my ass, hands unbound, holding on to the stool’s sturdy legs. I could see the closet doors, now open, as I watched between my legs, my head hanging down. Becky’s legs were still bound, quivering slightly. Being shut in the closet for so long had obviously taken away some of her bravado. Doubt had had time to creep in, just as our boss had intended it to.

  He was in the closet. Was he selecting a weapon for me or for her? Would I be gagged this time? It appeared that I was to be trusted to be still, and would not be bound.

  “Becky.” The boss was clearly speaking to her, but addressing the whole office at the same time. “As you can see, you are not the only one who has chosen to feel the sting today.” He was standing behind me. There was something in his hand, but I couldn’t see what it was. How much pain? Was it a cane or a whip? My question was answered by the crack of a leather strap as it made contact with my tensed skin. Despite my determination not to, I automatically flinched and a shocked cry came from my lips, instantly resulting in a harder slap, then another, faster and faster.

  I couldn’t keep still. Without the usual bonds, the desire to wriggle after each lash was incredibly strong, and by the fifth hit I could feel two pairs of cold masculine hands on my inflamed flesh, holding me firmly in place. The result of their touch was almost enough to tip me over the edge.

  Becky was beginning to whine. I opened my eyes and saw that she was receiving some attention of her own. I could just hear a faint smack over the crack of my own punishment. My head was full of pictures of Becky’s torment, which must have been doubled by the act of watching mine. I wanted her very badly.