Free Best Women's Erotica 2011 by Violet Blue

it; each time, I’m thinking of you watching me, thinking of what I want you to do to me. I pick out a cherry with my fingers and tilt my head back, gripping the fruit between my teeth as I pull the stalk off, twist my tongue around it, feel the chill of frothy milk and sickly sweet syrup slipping down my throat. Every taste bud seems amplified, each sensation unbearably sensual, performing for you yet lost in myself.
    I’m so engrossed in my little flirtation show, I almost don’t notice as you slam your book shut, put it down and firmly, decisively, begin to walk toward me. Suddenly I’m a little scared, my heart beating that little bit quicker, wondering what it is
you’re going to do to me, wondering if I’ve gone too far again. You stop, standing above me so powerful, so authoritative, your shadow falling across me, making me look up from my milkshake to meet your gaze.
    “Kirsten?”
    “Y-yes, ma’am?”
    “Are you not forgetting something?”
    My mind is racing, mentally cycling through every possible thing you could have asked me to do this afternoon. It couldn’t have been to make your coffee, just the way you like it, seeing as we have room service. It couldn’t have been to polish your shoes, or iron your best silk blouse, or ensure your favorite lavender scent was spritzed on every last item of your undergarments, as I did all of that last night. Surely I could not have been so foolish as to neglect my duties, while lucky enough to be here in this paradise with you? So I just stay silent, hoping you will enlighten me. You don’t.
    “Well, since you clearly have not paid any attention to a word I’ve been saying the whole time we’ve been here, perhaps you need a little reminder. What do you think?”
    Your voice is so calm, the way it always is when you are about to punish me, the way that always sends shivers down my spine, even when I know it means you are going to hurt me. I cannot possibly imagine what it is I’ve forgotten, but that seems irrelevant now, as you wait for me to move into position, wait for me to give myself to you to discipline. Awkwardly, I get to my feet, allow you to sit yourself more comfortably on the lounger, squirm with discomfort as you gently pat your lap to motion me across it. There is something about over-the-knee spankings that simultaneously horrifies and excites me—the childish humiliation, the ungainly positioning, the exposure of my bottom making it so easy for you to smack. No matter how
naughty I have been or how cross you are with me, it always manages to make me wet.
    I reluctantly bend myself across your knee, wriggling just slightly in the way I know looks enticing, a tiny spark of excitement coursing through me as I think of how much enjoyment you gain from humiliating me. Even when you’re disciplining me for bad behavior, it always turns me on to think of you gaining pleasure from punishing me—and I know, no matter what you say, or how angry you look, you’re always just as wet as me.
    The first smack still makes me jump, even though I’m expecting it. The moment your hand meets my waiting flesh, the sound as surfaces collide, is always the best part for me, the promise of what is to come contained in that one strike. Slowly you continue, sharp swats of your hand meticulously applied across my cheerful polka dots, not even hurting yet but hard enough to let me know it will. You pause, your hand resting softly on the damp fabric, as if thinking.
    “Take them off.”
    “Are you kidding me? Oh, please don’t! We’re outside! Somebody might see!” I whine, the thought of my bare bottom exposed to any pool boy that happens to come strolling by just too unbearable to even think of.
    “Do you not think it will be embarrassing enough for them to see you bent over my knee like a naughty girl?” you respond dryly, clearly not caring a jot whether anyone sees me exposed or not. “I doubt they’ll be noticing whether you have your swimsuit on or