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The Best of 2014
by Amanda Earl
By Amanda Earl
By Daina Blue
Because I Could
Fetish is a Six-Letter..
By felicia Mansur
By G. Russell
By Heln E. H. Madden
A Man in a Kilt
Girls Gone Wild
By J.Z. Sharpe
Girl on a Swing
By Mike Kimera
A Walk in the Park
Inside Mr. K
Other Bonds Than...
Back When We ...
My Brother's Wife
By Nikki Isaak
By Remittance Girl
The Dinner Party
By Robert Buckley
By William S. Dean
There once was a man who wrote stories. Some readers were shocked and angered by his stories and called for their censorship and ban, while quite a few were confused and dismissed the works without giving them a second thought. Still others were disturbed by them. The stories caused these readers to stay awake all night, tossing and turning long after they'd closed the book. Some readers loved the stories so much they became avid fans, buying up his books the moment they were published and begging the publisher to set up readings so they could meet their idol.
Our storywriter, alas, was a recluse. He wrote but didn't see anyone. In fact, so touchy was he on the subject, (and we all know how sensitive writers can be), that the publisher couldn't even mention promotional tours, interviews or readings. So the writer was left to write and his readership was left to wonder.
Whenever the storywriter came out with a new book, quiet descended on the cities and towns where his fans lived. If you passed the windows of a house, and listened very carefully, you could hear the sound of pages turning. If you sniffed the air coming through that open window, you might perhaps savour the subtle yet wild scent of a woman in heat.
For the stories were erotic stories.
The public's appetite for information about the storywriter, even the slightest bit of gossip was endless. He was rumoured to live in the Himalayas, had met with the Dali Lama, who was a reader of his tales. They say he had a harem of women to serve him his favourite Lapsang Souchong tea. Some said that he could write such stories only by ingesting a rare hallucinogenic mushroom that also cured cancer. Some said he had discovered the secret to eternal life. Others thought he was a con man, perhaps even multiple authors. Some thought he was Stephen King.
Not being able to question the writer himself, reporters turned to his fans. What was it about his stories they found so mesmerizing? Why were they so loyal to his work? It was rumoured that on the eve a new book was to be released, book buyers would line up all night to wait. They would dress in costumes from his stories. It was like a Star Trek convention, but instead of Klingons, there were sluts.
Women painted their puffy, pouting lips, dressed in low cut slinky blouses, tight mini skirts, sheer black stockings, and even though they had to stand in line for hours, they perched on their highest black stilettos with the narrowest heels. In fact stores always ordered the most daring and risqué clothing and shoes for the occasion.
Beneath their clothes, each woman would be wearing a tightly laced corset and crotchless panties.
Of course the part of the bookbuyers' costumes that stood out the most was their black leather collars complete with d-ring.
For the erotic stories contained themes of dominance and submission.
Those who had read only one or two stories were easily differentiated by those who were longterm fans of the writing. The newbies knew about the collar and wore it, but they didn't wear the bracelets, or the silver bells around their right ankles. And of course, only the fans who were most attentive and devoted wore a wooden ring on the little finger of their right hands.
The stories were in code, and only those who read them in sequence from the beginning could decipher the code and knew about the rules it was essential they follow. The consequences of not following the rules were very severe…very…severe.
* * *
Another woman with a wooden ring approached Serene, who glanced sternly at her. The woman spoke, but Serene just shook her head. It was against the rules to speak to a fellow fan, particularly someone who wore the wooden ring. Like her, the woman carried a small overnight bag. Inside the bag would be a coil of red hemp rope, a leather gag, a flogger with suede tails, a candle, sandalwood scented oil, a small rolled up bamboo mat, a CD of Tibetan chants and a short pink robe made of the finest silk.
Throughout the night the women waited. Some succumbed to sleep. These were taken out of line by security guards and sent home. Serene remained alert and let her thoughts wander to a scene from the very first book, the first rendezvous of the shy woman with her future master, a man old enough to be her father. Serene remembered how the description of the woman's blush matched her own as she read of the way the man pulled the woman forward and undid the buttons of her high collared blouse to reveal her cleavage for all to see.
Serene put her hand on her collarbone and felt the warmth rising from her skin. The cool night breeze sent a chill through her and caused her nipples to harden beneath the sheer blouse. Nearby security guards leered at her. Until she read the storywriter's books, she would have covered herself and been ashamed, but now she stood proudly, lifting her breasts so that the nipples were even more prominent.
At about six am, the city began to come alive. Cars drove past on the busy roads near the store, cafes turned on their lights. The smell of coffee, muffins and smog permeated the air. More book buyers stepped out of line to get breakfast. The guards wouldn't let them back in.
At ten am, the usual opening time, the store still hadn't opened. The remaining book buyers were tired and hungry; many had left, not having the patience to await the store's opening. For some this was merely a fun adventure. When their feet became tired from the high heels, and their bodies balked at the tension of the tightly laced corsets, they gave up and left. Time moved on.
Soon the only remaining book buyers were the women wearing wooden rings. Serene noticed that the woman who had tried to talk to her was fidgeting with her clothes, pulling down the short skirt to warm her uncovered thighs. Serene unzipped the suitcase just to touch the hemp rope in the bag. She thought of how it would feel to have the rope tied around her waist, a thick knot resting against her clit and her hands emprisoned behind her back. She returned to her upright pose, imagining the hard knot rubbing against her and the strong ropes holding her still.
By noon Serene's stomach was growling and she felt weak. She thought back to the book where the slave ate from a dog bowl on the floor, her neck encircled with a dog collar and leash fastened to a kitchen table. The newspapers in the corner. Serene wished she could use the bathroom. She'd avoided drinking too much so that she could withstand the wait, but the thought of that slave, crawling over to the newspapers, spreading her legs and awaiting the master's command, then letting go, was almost too much for her. She spread her legs, imagined the storywriter's voice. She'd never heard it, but thought it would be low, with a quiet authority. She imagined him commanding her to control her need to go to the bathroom. Taking a deep breath, she held herself in.
The woman beside her grumbled about having to wait as the clock struck two pm and the doors still weren't open. "This is insane, crazy," the woman yelled out to bystanders and the other women in line. "What kind of book store turns away business?"
She stalked away. Soon there were only two women left, Serene and a tall woman with black hair. The doors opened.
The two women entered and the doors shut behind them. No one greeted them and the room was in complete darkness. Both women fell to their knees and waited. Serene could hear the other woman's heavy breathing, the scent of sweat, fear and arousal mingled with her own scents. Both women leaned forward and pressed their foreheads against the cold concrete floor, their behinds raised up high and their hands behind their backs to reflect position zero, a stance well described in the storywriters' books.
In the background was the sound of a match striking a hard surface and then the brief bright light as it ignited. Serene concentrated on regulating her breathing, inhaling through her nose, filling her lungs and then slowly, slowly exhaling. Cigar smoke hung in the air and wafted over to the two kneeling women. Footsteps approached.
Serene's mind raced back to a description of the slave licking the master's boots, her tongue growing dry as she worshipped the pointed black leather toes with her tongue. The scent of Serene's arousal mixed with the odour of smoke and a new scent, a spicy aftershave.
The woman beside her groaned. They'd both been holding position zero for a long time, and this after not having eaten, slept or used the bathroom all night long. Serene heard the sound of a distant clock ticking. She thought of a scene from one of the books, the candle wax dripping on the slave's bare back, sizzling against her buttocks. She remained still, but her heart raced.
The woman next to her moved her body. Serena gasped. She knew it was essential to remain absolutely still. The woman cried out. She tried to get back in position.
A voice, a low, quiet voice nearby told her to get up and walk out the door. Serene heard her sobs as she obeyed. The door opened and then shut. Serene was alone…
"Crawl," the voice commanded. And Serene crawled toward it, her breasts and belly sliding along the cold floor. After a few minutes, she bumped up against a pair of hard pointed boots. She pressed her mouth on them and licked.
The storywriter opened the newest book, hot off the presses, and began to read.
Copyright 1996 and on, Erotica Readers Association, Inc.
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