Read Online Best Women's Erotica 2011 by Violet Blue - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Violet Blue
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the wall, I glanced into the angled mirror that stood in the corner. And with my stockinged thighs wrapped around the thrusting Baron, my heeled sandals glinting and my red lips stretched apart, I, Anita, exotic dancer, released an ecstatic yell and finally learned to give way.
For seven weeks, the Baron watched my act and came to me afterward to force my compliance. As I pleasured the men onstage, I felt I could sense his stare, and I knew, unlike the others who cried out and groaned, the Baron would be sitting still, patiently blazing. I’d always find him in my dressing room, where he’d sometimes bind my wrists and fuck me from behind or make me suck him while calling him “Uncle,” or come across my bosom so my cleavage dripped not only with his fluid but that of a stranger. But though it was savage, it was also kind. I’d walk from the theater with a lightness of step I’d never experienced before. I ate keenly; food had new flavor. Champagne bubbles now danced on my tongue. I’d grow drunk more quickly than before. When new shoes pinched me, I reveled in the pain.
Then, one evening, he didn’t turn up.
I’d always known he’d leave.
I mourned on the stool by my dressing table, dabbing my streaked mascara with a cotton ball, staring emptily into the mirror that had cracked from tumbling so often. Even then, I guessed, he was forcing a different woman to relent; one who,
like me, had been cut off from the world. But something about that knowledge made me reach for my clit and touch myself afresh.
“Uncle, Uncle!” I began to cry.
I never really stopped.
CHLORINE
Amelia Thornton
I can feel you watching me, devouring me with your eyes. My body is stretched across a raft, floating lazily in the middle of the pool in our suite. My fingertips are trailing in the water, leaving little ripples as I drift past, and every so often I will dip my foot in and push myself off in a different direction. I seem oblivious to your gaze, wrapped up in my own little world, but I know you are looking at me. We have been here several days already, but my skin is still as white as always, sharply contrasting with the cherry red I have painted my toenails and the black of my hair, damp with chlorine. My swimsuit, red with tiny white polka dots, barely hides the deep, crisscrossing lines from where you caned me last night; my eyes are hidden behind red heart-shaped sunglasses. Nobody here knows you or me or what we are. Do they think I’m your daughter? Your son’s girlfriend? Your niece? Or do they know I’m your lover, just not in what way you love me?
I appear to be bored now, bored with just lying here, sun
scorching my soft skin, so I plunge myself into the cool water and swim to the side. I can feel you watching me climb out, my wet hair sticking to my skin, rivulets of water running down my back, droplets clinging to the curve in the small of my back, trailing across the swell of my breasts. Languidly, I walk to my lounger, so casual, almost as if I’ve not even noticed you sitting there. But I have. The terra-cotta tiles are hot from being under the sun all day, and my steps leave little wet footprints on them, the soles of my feet burning, the heat of the air filling my lungs in the way that only ever seems to happen in exotic, far-off places. I like that feeling.
You’re pretending to read now, or maybe you really are reading. But I know you will keep stealing glances at me, as I twist my wet hair on top of my head, stretch myself backward, take a sip of my drink. You will look like you’re not looking, like your book really is that engrossing, but I know you better than that. I have ordered a milkshake from room service, a really good milkshake, with bright paper cocktail umbrellas and a twisty straw and three glacé cherries on top. Each long, slow suck of the straw between my lips, painted the same red as my nails; each time I drag the straw out, covered in whipped cream, and lick the length of
For seven weeks, the Baron watched my act and came to me afterward to force my compliance. As I pleasured the men onstage, I felt I could sense his stare, and I knew, unlike the others who cried out and groaned, the Baron would be sitting still, patiently blazing. I’d always find him in my dressing room, where he’d sometimes bind my wrists and fuck me from behind or make me suck him while calling him “Uncle,” or come across my bosom so my cleavage dripped not only with his fluid but that of a stranger. But though it was savage, it was also kind. I’d walk from the theater with a lightness of step I’d never experienced before. I ate keenly; food had new flavor. Champagne bubbles now danced on my tongue. I’d grow drunk more quickly than before. When new shoes pinched me, I reveled in the pain.
Then, one evening, he didn’t turn up.
I’d always known he’d leave.
I mourned on the stool by my dressing table, dabbing my streaked mascara with a cotton ball, staring emptily into the mirror that had cracked from tumbling so often. Even then, I guessed, he was forcing a different woman to relent; one who,
like me, had been cut off from the world. But something about that knowledge made me reach for my clit and touch myself afresh.
“Uncle, Uncle!” I began to cry.
I never really stopped.
CHLORINE
Amelia Thornton
I can feel you watching me, devouring me with your eyes. My body is stretched across a raft, floating lazily in the middle of the pool in our suite. My fingertips are trailing in the water, leaving little ripples as I drift past, and every so often I will dip my foot in and push myself off in a different direction. I seem oblivious to your gaze, wrapped up in my own little world, but I know you are looking at me. We have been here several days already, but my skin is still as white as always, sharply contrasting with the cherry red I have painted my toenails and the black of my hair, damp with chlorine. My swimsuit, red with tiny white polka dots, barely hides the deep, crisscrossing lines from where you caned me last night; my eyes are hidden behind red heart-shaped sunglasses. Nobody here knows you or me or what we are. Do they think I’m your daughter? Your son’s girlfriend? Your niece? Or do they know I’m your lover, just not in what way you love me?
I appear to be bored now, bored with just lying here, sun
scorching my soft skin, so I plunge myself into the cool water and swim to the side. I can feel you watching me climb out, my wet hair sticking to my skin, rivulets of water running down my back, droplets clinging to the curve in the small of my back, trailing across the swell of my breasts. Languidly, I walk to my lounger, so casual, almost as if I’ve not even noticed you sitting there. But I have. The terra-cotta tiles are hot from being under the sun all day, and my steps leave little wet footprints on them, the soles of my feet burning, the heat of the air filling my lungs in the way that only ever seems to happen in exotic, far-off places. I like that feeling.
You’re pretending to read now, or maybe you really are reading. But I know you will keep stealing glances at me, as I twist my wet hair on top of my head, stretch myself backward, take a sip of my drink. You will look like you’re not looking, like your book really is that engrossing, but I know you better than that. I have ordered a milkshake from room service, a really good milkshake, with bright paper cocktail umbrellas and a twisty straw and three glacé cherries on top. Each long, slow suck of the straw between my lips, painted the same red as my nails; each time I drag the straw out, covered in whipped cream, and lick the length of
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