Last night I dreamt …

This anthology is the last Black Lace book I’ll ever be in – unless the imprint rises from the ashes. It’s also the first time a story of mine has kicked off a BL anthology so publicising this new release is somewhat bittersweet.

Best Women’s Erotica is a cracking collection featuring new and established authors including Charlotte Stein, Rachel Kramer Bussel, Justine Elyot, Portia Da Costa, EllaRegina, Janine Ashbless, Madelynne Ellis and Kristina Wright. It still pains me to see how Black Lace were starting to publish well-respected US authors, a development likely to have helped them make a significant dent in the US erotica market. Damn fool, Random House.

My story, Rebecca, is a dirty version of the Daphne du Maurier classic (one of my favourite books). It was inspired by a dream – well, not so much the dream, more one of those bleary-eyed morning-afters when you roll over to him, throw your arm across his chest and mumble, I had this dream … this dream where …

Rebecca

Last night I dreamt he came on my face again. Men stood around me, menacing and lustful, and I was naked and scared, kneeling on the floor. Smudges of neon edged into the dusk, blooms of pink, violet and electric blue. My arms were trapped behind my back, fingers gripping my flesh. All I could see was a confusion of legs and leering faces, their eyes fixed on me while I watched the swift shuffle of his hand.

The moment was held. I waited for him, my arched back making my breasts jut and my belly curve. In the gloom, I was pale, smooth and slender but then I’m often at my best in my dreams. It looked as if I were offering myself to the men. No, it looked as if I were being offered with no say in the matter whatsoever. And that’s how it felt. No choice, no control. Occasionally, I wriggled in protest but that appeared only to amuse and encourage them. I had a sense they were calling me names like ‘slut’ and ‘whore’ but, as is the way with dreams, the words went unheard. All that remained was a deep sense of shame and a sombre, sulky pleasure unfurling inside me. I hated it and I loved it. I wanted it and I didn’t. And strange though it may seem, the urge to flee fuelled the longing to stay.

Max tapped my face, landing a couple of mild slaps on my cheek. The message was I should open my mouth. So I did. I no longer saw myself and instead I, the dreamer, slipped behind my eyes. I was surrounded by engorged cocks, white knuckles, crisp thickets of pubes and hairy thighs. Hands pumped, eyes gleamed, muscles tightened and mouths laughed. But the only thing that mattered, the only thing I truly saw was Max’s cock. In the half-light, it was a ruby flare shuddering as he worked his shaft, his thumb and forefinger dancing a frenzy below his glans.

I noted his wrist, strong and thick, blurred by dark hair. Even in my dream I was aware of how his wrist’s vulnerable underside, with its blue veins, pale skin and delicate tendons, contrasted so beautifully with his jerking forearm’s easy masculinity. His fist speeded up, he edged closer, and then he peaked, the liquid pearl of his come shimmering in arcs and spurts before splashing onto my shame.

I woke, sticky-eyed, but it wasn’t the sticky I wanted. Drowsily, I rolled over in search of him, humiliation and need muddling my brain. Next to me, the pillow was empty, just a dent where his head had been and a single dark hair, curled like a question mark. I knew at once he was with her. Oh, sure, I realise that to most people it would simply look as if he were making toast in the kitchen. But I am not most people, and nor was Rebecca.

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Best Women’s Erotica from Black Lace: currently just £4.79 @ Amazon UK

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