Best Bondage Erotica 2013 Page 5

  That was all before she realized there was no man on Earth who was ever going to find that spot with the virulent ease with which her husband did; the guys who had tried had proven disappointments. Clint knew how to find that spot, wake it up, bring it to the point where her mind and her body were totally incapable of functioning in any capacity that didn’t involve getting fucked very hard from behind, and maybe spanked and tied up for good measure.

  Now, his hands were quite busy—one was unzipping her very tight jeans; the other was gripping her hair to keep her head in just the right position to expose what he wanted. So it was Clint’s perfect mouth, with his full, strong lips and his wet, surging tongue, that awakened her spot—packing a year’s worth of lovemaking into a soft slow slurp across the back of her neck, his tongue caressing her flesh between gentle bites…and sometimes harder ones.

  Heather’s mind spun. Her eyes rolled back in her head. She tried not to moan. She moaned anyway.

  Heather gripped the railing as Clint pulled her tight jeans halfway down her thighs, exposing her sex.

  Her legs were not quite together, but not quite apart. With a pair of smooth hard kicks, he nudged them open wider so he could get at her more easily. Heather barely knew what was happening as he forcibly spread her legs; she was simply in heaven. He drove her crazy with his mouth—expanding the “spot” by working his lips and his tongue from the space between her shoulders to the soft spot between her spine and her jaw. She was reeling.

  Then Clint’s hand went up into her slit, and Heather’s mouth dropped open. She shuddered and gasped out a cry of desperate pleasure into the wind.

  She could feel the frigid air pouring off the ocean and hitting the back of her throat. As she rode her husband’s fingers, Heather felt pinned between her man and the ocean, his glorious right hand and his gorgeous, cruel mouth. Clint’s left hand was out of its sleeve now; only her husband’s broad shoulders and Heather’s grip on the railing kept the coat in place. He reached between them and unzipped his pants. His cock came out; Heather felt it against her bare, smooth ass, trailing smears of precum that seemed alternately sticky and slick, warm and chilled.

  Then she was lost in sensation again, as her husband’s big left hand slid easily up under Heather’s snug sweater and down into the cups of her bra. He took hold of her nipples one at a time and pinched and rolled them. Sensation flooded Heather’s body. She loved it when he did that. She loved it even more when he did that with his other hand on her clit, his mouth on the back of her neck and his hard cock rubbing up insistently between her smooth asscheeks.

  Heather surged and undulated between Clint’s hands, Clint’s mouth, Clint’s cock. She trembled and shivered and bit her lip, trying not to scream. She couldn’t stand it anymore. She needed to be fucked.

  If there was one thing she could count on her husband knowing, it was that. He knew when she needed to be fucked, sometimes when she didn’t even really totally know it herself. When he’d kissed her and held her just before they left the car, she’d felt ripples going through her—ripples Clint had felt, or detected, or something. While Heather had felt more than content to daydream about their warm hotel bed and how hungrily she was going to suck her man’s cock—in fifteen minutes, twenty, thirty, maybe an hour—Clint knew Heather would be happy if she didn’t have to wait.

  Bastard, she thought, clutching the coat and the cuffs and the railing. Smug fucking bastard.

  She wanted him in her.

  Swaying, Heather bent forward, leaning hard against the railing. Her body reacted instinctively, as if on some evolutionary level. She felt as if her craving had turned her into an animal. She knew how to mate without conscious thought. She presented her sex to her husband, wanting him more than she’d ever wanted anything. She felt the handcuffs scraping the metal railing and tugging at her wrists as she desperately clutched the ends of the coat in her fingers, afraid she would lose her grip in her pleasure and let the whole world see him take her.

  Bent over, Heather lifted her ass as high as she could. She was much shorter than him, so that just barely put her sex within reach of her husband’s glorious cock—which meant he’d fuck her at a downward angle, she knew. From her experience, that could only mean good things.

  Still, Clint was so much taller than her that he had to stoop a little to get it in her. As he did, he paused to take a brief glance over his shoulder before he took his wife up against the railing.

  The coast must have been clear. With his right hand, now slippery with Heather’s cunt, Clint reached back between her legs and guided his cock to her entrance. He penetrated his wife with agonizing slowness; she wanted him in her, but he took his time. All told, it probably took half a minute…but to Heather, pinned against the rail and feeling helpless, it seemed an eternity. Clint was torturing her.

  He got what he wanted; Heather gave in. She finally shoved herself onto him, moaning into the icy wind as she did. She started fucking back onto him, and if anyone was watching, there would no longer be any doubt about what they were doing. Clint’s right hand had returned to her clit, his left to her tits, his lips to that spot on the back of her neck. He fucked her and stroked her and pinched her nipples, and sent cascading electric tingles through her body as his tongue swirled against her flesh between gentle bites—and hard ones, sometimes, as she got closer and closer.

  She’d been right; the angle was perfect.

  Heather tried to stifle her cry of pleasure, but it was hopeless. She let it all out.

  Heather howled into the wind, cumming hard on her husband’s cock. She had to stop fucking herself back onto him, and just sort of spasmed there, helpless, suspended between his cock and the railing.

  He took up the slack and drove deep inside her as he felt her sex spasm around him.

  He let himself go deep inside her.

  Heather felt the soft wet surge of her husband’s seed in warm, rolling spurts in her pussy, and if anything, she came harder as she held as still as possible so as not to lose it.

  As Clint’s cock spent itself inside her, he leaned forward and kissed Heather’s “spot” with one last tender, wet slurp of his tongue and hard bite of his teeth. It sent a sharp rush of pleasure through her body, and Heather pulled hard at the handcuffs, feeling very out of control. She felt the wind at the back of her throat again, and realized she was moaning at the top of her lungs. She didn’t even care if people could see her.

  Heather trembled all over and not from the cold. Without unlocking the handcuffs, Clint pulled up Heather’s jeans, zipped her pants and his own, buckled them both up and righted her bra cups. He pulled her sweater back down over her tits. His hand dipped into his pants and came out with his keys; they jangled against the railing as he unlocked her.

  He didn’t put his arms back in his sleeves; rather, he swept the coat off of his shoulders and wrapped it around his shivering wife. He walked her to the car with his arm around her shoulder. Her teeth were chattering, but the walk helped her focus and turned up the heat. It raised her body temperature just enough that she felt warm as Clint held her door and helped her into the car.

  That’s what she loved about her husband, Heather thought as she buried her face in his coat and took a deep draft of his scent. One of the many things. Always such a gentleman…even when he’d just handcuffed his wife over an observation deck railing and fucked her from behind.

  Always a gentleman; that was her husband.

  Clint started the car and pulled onto the onramp.

  As he merged, Heather’s thoughts returned to the warm hotel bed. She remembered what she’d been thinking of doing, when Clint had kissed her and held her and sensed her need. She’d been thinking about getting into the warm hotel bed and sliding down under the covers and sucking her husband’s perfect cock with the kind of vacation-sex gusto that comes once a year, at best.

  She was still gonna do it, she decided. Maybe she’d even filch those handcuffs and see if she could cuff him to the bed when
he wasn’t looking so he couldn’t try to sixty-nine her like he usually did when she sucked his cock. She’d make that smug bastard spread wide and take some pleasure, the way he’d just done to her. She’d rock his world, and he’d thank her for it. Isn’t that what vacations are for?

  LIGHTS OUT

  Mina Murray

  I don’t know when we started drifting apart. All I know is that after seven years together, we had little left to say to each other. Silences extended like arid stretches of desert, with no oasis on the horizon.

  Seven years. Well, eight actually. Tonight was our anniversary. Rain, hail or shine, we celebrated it. In war and peace. Not that there had been war for a long time. I couldn’t remember the last time we had fought. We used to have screaming matches, followed by mind-fuckingly good sex, the kind that turns you inside out. But that was a long time ago. We didn’t care enough anymore to fight or fuck so intensely. Polite conversation and semiregular maintenance sex were all we managed, and we kept them up for the same reason we celebrated our anniversary so religiously. Because to stop would mean something was really wrong.

  We were halfway to the restaurant when the power in the neighborhood went out. Traffic lights, streetlamps and the phosphorescent blue glow from a thousand TV screens faded into darkness. Marc pulled over into the emergency shoulder and we sat for a moment, trying to decide whether to press onward.

  “I’ll call Racine’s,” Marc said. “Maybe it’s just our grid that’s out.”

  It wasn’t. It was the whole city. And with no word of when power would be restored, there was nothing for us to do but turn around and go home.

  I was not particularly gracious about the change of plans. We’d had to book months in advance to get into Racine’s, and I had bought an expensive dress especially for the occasion. I was looking forward to being admired. Maybe not by Marc, who seemed to look through me or past me most of the time, but by other men. I had been fantasizing lately about random strangers, men who passed me in the street, stood in front of me in line at the supermarket or browsed alongside me in bookstores. I had been dreaming about them, about their anonymous cocks and what they would do to me with them, and more than once I had woken up with my hand between my legs and my sex sticky-sweet, like honey. Just thinking about it was making me wet. I wasn’t wearing any panties, and when I shifted in my seat, the fabric of my dress rubbed silkily over my bare sex. I let out a shaky little sigh that Marc, intent on the road, didn’t seem to notice.

  The cul-de-sac where we lived was eerily quiet. Our doorway was so dark that it took Marc an age to fit the key to the lock and let us into the house. He stumbled against me in the hallway and when he reached out to me for balance, his grip was so tight that I wondered if there’d be a bruise. A twinge went through me at the thought. Hmm. That was new.

  Marc set out some candles in the living room and then followed me into the kitchen to light the big brass hurricane lamp on the counter. He watched silently as I poured us some champagne, angling the flutes to control the fizzing of the bubbles. Though he hadn’t said much on the drive home, he didn’t seem too put out about the blackout.

  I, on the other hand, was mightily annoyed. But I’d be lying if I said it was just about the interruption to our anniversary. I’d been vaguely discontented for months and it was starting to spill out of me, pore by pore. This just accelerated it. I forced a smile anyway.

  “To us,” I toasted.

  “To us,” Marc echoed.

  We clinked glasses and I took a small sip.

  “What a wreck of a night, huh?”

  “Oh, it’s not all bad,” Marc said. “At least the candles are romantic.”

  “True.”

  “And we have a fridge full of food.” He opened the door and pulled out a strawberry. “You be Kim, and I’ll be Mickey.”

  “Oh, Marc,” I laughed. “Reenacting 9½ Weeks? You’re such a cliché.”

  I was mostly joking, but Marc recoiled as if I’d struck him. His face took on a hard look I’d never seen before.

  “Really, Max, we’re going to do this tonight, are we?”

  “I don’t know what you mean…I was just making a joke.”

  “No, you weren’t. At least have the courage to own up to it. This has been brewing for months and I’m sick of dancing around it. Nothing’s ever good enough for you, is it, Max? I’m not good enough for you.”

  I started to reach for the customary excuses, but then thought better of it. There was no point lying; it felt good to finally get things out in the open.

  “It’s true. Things haven’t been right for a while. You know it as well as I do.”

  “When were you going to tell me, Max? When you left me for someone else?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Don’t play dumb; I’ve seen the way you look at other men,” he hissed. “The signals you’re sending can be seen from fucking space. I’m not blind.”

  “You could have fooled me,” I was shouting now. “When was the last time you even looked at me, really looked at me?”

  “I don’t know, Maxine, dahling,” he mocked. “I sure looked at you tonight, poured into that tight dress, ready to parade around for total strangers. Are you even wearing panties, you little tramp?”

  “Hey, fuck you, Marc!”

  The blood was racing through my veins. It felt good to feel something again, even if it was anger.

  “Don’t raise your voice at me, princess; it’s not my fault you’re such a cosmic slut.”

  His face was inches away from mine now, and it was barely any effort at all to reach out and slap him, hard. Arousal bloomed between my legs at the same rate as the handprint bloomed on his cheek. Fast as anything, he grabbed my wrist, his big hand circling it like an iron band.

  “You are never going to do that again.”

  “Or what?” I taunted. “You’ll break my wrist?”

  He pulled me against his chest, and my pulse quickened to match the pace of his heartbeat thundering through the thin silk of my dress. I could feel the beginning of his erection branding my belly.

  “No, you beautiful idiot.” He thrust against me and groaned. “You want to fight? Then here’s the deal. You and I are going to go into that living room, and we’re going to wrestle for three rounds. If you can pin me down for five straight seconds, then you can do whatever you want to me, for fifteen minutes. But you have to earn it. If I can pin you down for a minute, then I can do whatever I want to you.”

  “I know what you want to do to me,” I smirked. “Blow job, hand job, fuck.” Marc was strictly vanilla, or so I thought.

  “What makes you so sure, Max? You have no idea what I want—and you haven’t for a long while.”

  There was a bitterness in his voice I was unprepared for, and I realized that he was right. We were familiar strangers. I wondered how it was that in a marriage you could know everything and at the same time, nothing, about each other.

  Round One—Marc

  Max lost the first round, as I knew she would. She was too curious to see what would happen if she lost. That I was dissatisfied, too, that both of us were desperately unhappy with the state of our relationship and our sex life, had never occurred to her before tonight. We circled each other for a while, assessing the other’s readiness, before beginning in earnest. Max, ever light on her feet, feinted a few times to try and draw me out. I let her think she had won, pretending to overbalance, but then I changed my angle at the last minute and took her down with me.

  I think she had forgotten how strong I am, and though she squirmed and kicked and scratched—and even bit me once, the witch—I didn’t budge. When the second hand on the mantelpiece clock completed a revolution, I released her. I found her sulking charming. She always did pout beautifully. Max generally hated losing, but I knew she was enjoying this game as much as I was. Her nipples were distended, pressing through her dress, and she had licked her lips twice, unconsciously, since I had helped her up. I’d been hard
since the very start of our fight, but that feral, challenging glint in her eyes awakened a part of me I thought would sleep forever. I knew then what I was going to do.

  “Well, Max, to the victor go the spoils.” My cheery tone was pissing her off. She bristled visibly, but that was my intention. It would make it so much sweeter when she gave in.

  “Now, now,” I chided, sitting on the couch, “you signed up for this. It’s not my fault you didn’t want it enough to win.”

  Oh, she was furious now, absolutely furious. She knew it was only going to get worse for her before it got better.

  “Come over here, now.”

  She did as she was told, blessedly. We weren’t quite at the stage where she would thank me for hauling her tits-over-ass onto my lap—because that’s how I wanted her.

  I patted my lap and she was about to sit on it when I corrected her.

  “No, facedown.”

  It took her a moment to understand what I meant. With supreme effort, she mastered her rebellion and took her place. Gods, she was gorgeous. She was right; I hadn’t been paying her enough attention. My hand smoothed over her lovely long hair, down her spine and over her ass. I could feel her muscles quivering in response under the silk.

  “Curl your hands under my leg, Max, and don’t move them until I say so. I’m going to spank you, but it won’t be too bad, unless you move. See, I’m not even going to lift your dress up.”

  “Safeword?” she mumbled.

  “Persimmon.”

  I landed the first blow on her without warning and boy, did she jump.

  “That was for the French intern in my office, at Christmas. I don’t care if mistletoe is a tradition in this country.”

  When I was sure the blood had rushed to the surface of her skin, I slapped her again.

  “That was for ogling Claire’s husband in his swimsuit. She noticed, you know.”

  Another slap—“This is for letting the waiter at Enrico’s look down your blouse at lunch last month.”