Best Bondage Erotica 2013 Page 8

  Bryn’s arsenal of toys is pretty substantial, and I’d imagined any number of things waiting for me at the end of this night, but clothespins? They seem so tame. I open my mouth to say something, but Bryn places a finger over my lips and shrugs her shoulders.

  “What can I say? I’m feeling romantic,” she says, and then she’s kissing me again, and whatever I’d been about to say disappears. She seduces me, stripping me slowly between sips of champagne, her fingers and tongue exploring every inch of skin she reveals until I’m wearing only the new harness she bought me, bound firmly to the plush four-poster that dominates the room, hips moving restlessly with desire. Bryn knows how I like it, and she’s got me trussed so tightly that every movement I make sends tiny frissons of pain through me and I feel wonderfully, helplessly exposed. She takes a seat next to me, bowl of clothespins in hand, and I moan with anticipation and dread.

  “Oh, come now,” she says, “these won’t be that bad.”

  And she’s right; they’re not at first. She affixes one to the base of each nipple, and compared to some of the clamps she usually uses, these feel downright pleasant, stoking my arousal.

  “See?” she says. “I knew you’d like them.”

  The next four I like less. Bryn reaches a teasing finger between my thighs, gathering my arousal and swirling it around my aching clit. It feels shivery good, and my hips rise, seeking more, but Bryn uses the opportunity to deftly attach two clothespins to each of my labia.

  “So pretty…” she whispers, echoing my words from earlier in the day. My moan becomes a whimper; this sensitive skin isn’t used to the pinch of any kind of clamp and already it hurts more than my nipples.

  “You know,” Bryn says, setting the bowl on the nightstand and repositioning so that she’s lying between my spread thighs, “I’d planned to make neat little rows of clothespins here”—she nips the tender flesh on the inside of my thigh with her teeth—“and here.” She nips again on the other thigh. “But I think that’ll have to wait for another time.”

  She spreads my lips apart with her thumbs, careful of the clothespins, and the velvety soft tip of her tongue strokes along the length of my cunt and circles my clit with maddening slowness. Slow and teasing is the last thing I want right now and Bryn knows it, but she continues anyway, too light, too gentle, flicking my clit and retreating until I’m thrusting my hips up, pulling against my restraints until my muscles tremble with the effort, my whimpers a constant incoherent pleading. The pinch of the clothespins is intensifying, and the more they hurt the more I want to grab her head and hold her to me, have her take me hard and fast, the need to come riding me hard. I hate that I can’t, but I love it, too, and then she’s inside me, two, three fingers deep, the in-out of her movements pulling my labia even more.

  “Bryn, please!” I cry, and she withdraws and rises up, yanking all the clothespins off in rapid succession. I surge against my bonds, pain streaking through my extremities, the rush of blood flooding back to my pinched tissues far more painful than the clothespins themselves, and then she’s braced above me, covering my body with hers, fingers sliding over my wounded flesh and then deep, deep inside me. She kisses me hard, her pace accelerating with my need, pushing me to the pinnacle, and then it all stops—my heart, my breath, everything—and then it all rushes back in and I’m falling over the edge into blinding, shattering release.

  I come down slowly, aware of Bryn unfastening my restraints and tucking me possessively against her chest. She’s still completely dressed, and while I love the way she looks and the feel of the leather against my cheek, it’s not what I want anymore. I want to unbutton her shirt and let it fall open, revealing the generous swell of her breasts; I want to unzip her pants and slide them down and drink in her curves and mysteries; I want to do so much more than just look.

  I circle the top button on her shirt with my finger, looking up at Bryn with a question in my eyes.

  “Yes, baby,” she says, kissing my forehead gently, “you can most definitely touch.”

  THE MOONS OF MARS

  Valerie Alexander

  “Unlike us, Mars has two moons. Saturn has dozens and so does Jupiter. As you will see.”

  Rupert gestures to the telescopes with a smile and the observatory visitors smile with him. Astronomy might not be the sexiest subject matter, but when a silver fox like Rupert is teaching it, his long fingers gesticulating elegantly as he explains quarks and black holes, it’s impossible not to be spellbound. His sea-green eyes are luminous in his tanned face, the silver threads in his black hair gleaming like fresh snow. Blessed with a gift for making outer space sound exciting, he is the observatory’s most popular presenter. Though I know I’ll never have him, just looking at his mouth gives me a pang of longing.

  “It’s possible one day we’ll even have an elevator to our moon. Bizarre as that sounds.”

  Someone asks about colonizing Mars. Rupert is attentive to all of the visitors but me, since I’m not really an observatory visitor but his young partner in crime. I study each face, trying to guess who he’s picked out for me tonight. A man, of course, and probably young, given Rupert’s preferences. But not always; he’d surprised me two months ago with a fortyish economics professor I’d seen around campus, hulkingly handsome with his floppy dark hair and horn-rimmed glasses. Someone I’d never have guessed could be so dirty, pushing his cock into a bound and anonymous girl’s mouth.

  But usually Rupert picks the young men. It’s a turn-on for both of us: the lust and reverence in their eyes as they approach my chained or roped or cuffed body. Their shaky thighs and rapid breaths as they touch my nipples, tentatively at first before they grow bold enough to grope me openly. I love to be the prize waiting there in the dark, their fantasy made flesh. Their hunger has to be strong, of course, to overcome any objections to Rupert watching from the armchair in the corner, subtly freeing his cock from his pants and stroking it as the boys use my mouth, my pussy. He loves these boys. I love him. The boys love me. We all want what we can’t have. But sometimes we find an alternate path to getting it.

  A year ago I never thought I would have what I wanted. My dreams of being tied up and taken anonymously seemed consigned to the realm of imagination. Hot, yes, to fantasize about anonymous bondage, no names or words exchanged with the men using and discarding me, but risky in reality. I knew all that; at twenty-six, absorbed in my doctorate in Victorian lit, I wasn’t going to do anything stupid. And then I joined the astronomy club and met Rupert and learned that in pining for something I couldn’t have—in this case a refined fortysomething gay scientist—there sometimes was a side door.

  Almost everyone who passes through Rupert’s classes or the astronomy club becomes at least a little smitten with him. During that first meteor shower we viewed up in the mountains—the Perseids streaking through the night—I noticed him watching as one of his students flirted with me. Later that night, over coffee at an all-night diner, I made my move. Why not? I wasn’t in his department. He gently declined with a smile and an explanation that he was quite gay, but that he admired my courage in pursuing what I wanted. We ordered more coffee and by daybreak, all of my confessions were pouring out: that as much as I loved sex with my boyfriends, nothing made me come as hard as imagining myself bound and used by strangers. That I longed to be tied up and taken roughly, fucked efficiently and tossed aside. To be not the scholar but the slut.

  I didn’t think he would understand, but he told me he felt the same pressure to safeguard his reputation as a respectable scientist with a tasteful lifestyle. He and his cardiologist boyfriend had an open relationship, but he was cautiously discreet about his love for young straight men. “You’re very lucky,” he told me. “I saw how Ben was talking to you tonight. A young woman like you has her pick of beautiful boys.”

  I shrugged. I didn’t necessarily want a line of adoring young men. “I think you’re lucky. The parks, the leather bars, all that anonymous sex—I could never do that without fearing for my s
afety.”

  “It’s not always safe for us, either. But I see your point. It is different for women.”

  The idea didn’t grow right away. We became friends first, introspective and confessional, finding in each other a safe audience for our dirtiest longings. Rupert didn’t hide his envy of my ability to attract the young men who pursued me and while I never came on to him again, my desire wasn’t a secret. It was something I learned to live with, an abiding ache as I watched him frown over lab notes or adjust telescopes. We were sharing antipasto at an Italian restaurant one night when a busboy, just twenty or so, refilled my water glass far too often with shy, hopeful glances. Finally he referred to Rupert as my father and we burst out laughing. “We should have said I was your husband and we were swingers,” Rupert said on the drive home, “and I wanted to watch him have sex with you.”

  And so the idea was born. We went back to the restaurant but we never did find that busboy again. I still think of him sometimes—his dark eyes and tousled hair, his skin so creamy it looked like wax. How it would feel to be naked and helpless between cold chains and his hot skin as he fucked me into delirium.

  Everyone is looking through the telescopes. I take my turn, viewing the cold and perfect rings of Saturn, then the stately Jupiter. Moving aside, I glance back at the crowd, unable to stop speculating on which man will be using me tonight. I’ve no idea how Rupert set this up or if the guy is even in the tour group.

  The men are always somewhat good-looking. In my fantasies, they aren’t—I’m used by brusque businessmen, cruel professors, the rudest of construction workers. I don’t know if that would work for me in real life or fall flat, but it’s irrelevant because Rupert does the picking. These are, after all, the men he wants to see naked and so they cater to his taste. I kind of like the randomness of it, the choicelessness that demands I service whatever stranger unzips his pants before me. We have rules, of course. No one in my pussy or ass without a condom. All of them have to come where Rupert can see it, stroking off their final joy onto my face, tits, back or bottom. And of course, the very important final rule: no names exchanged or conversation.

  The tour is over. Rupert leads the visitor group out and I go into the office, where I’ve stashed my bag. We’ve done this eight times so far but always in Rupert’s library, before his stately stone fireplace. It’s long been my fantasy to do it in the observatory, to feel my skin flush and burn in such a cold, barren room of science. Tonight he’s agreed to indulge me.

  Out come the nylon panties and matching bra, white with tiny red flowers. They’re cheap and expendable—even if I could afford La Perla on my grad-school stipend, I wouldn’t risk it getting ripped and stained on these nights. I could just go naked, but the men seem excited by stripping me. I do my makeup: lots of mascara and eyeliner, porn-star lip gloss. Finally I loosen my shoulder-length blonde hair from its ponytail.

  The girl in the mirror is not a graduate student. She’s a submissive slut, a toy, a pet. A soft throb passes through my pussy. Because now it’s time for Rupert to touch me.

  I emerge to find him leaning by the map of the Milky Way, looking suave and refined in his black shirt. “Lovely.”

  I hold out my wrists. “Do with me as you will.”

  He slides soft black cuffs around my wrists, the leather supple. He tightens them just enough to make me feel captive but comfortable, and brings my wrists behind my back. The click of the lock sends another throb through me. I love these moments when I’m the object that he stages. Next comes the collar, also black leather with a simple D-ring that he attaches to a leash. And with that, I’m his.

  “This way,” he says, as he leads me across the observatory, my bare feet padding over the carpet. In the middle of the room sits the huge leather ottoman from the office. How perfect. My knees go a little weak as I think of the times I’ve sat on it at astronomy club parties, a glass of wine in my hand, making small talk. Now I’m going to be bound and debased on it.

  “Spread.”

  The word sends a jolt through my blood. I open my legs wide, and the cold iron circles of a spreader bar lock around my ankles, first the left, then the right. And just like that I’m a helpless slave, my pussy open and available.

  He adjusts the lingerie next. I never know if he does this from a sadistic enjoyment in frustrating me, or simply from perfectionism. He pulls the bra down a bit, frowning as he fits my tits into the lace cups. His fingertips on my nipples make me shiver but he’s already moved on to the skimpy scrap of fabric between my legs, checking the rear view, then running his fingers under the crotch and making sure nothing’s twisted or pulled aside. My blood fills with fire. But he smiles and backs off, reviewing the picture I make.

  “Perfect. Kneel on the footstool.”

  This takes some coordination but I’m used to maneuvering in a variety of binds by now and manage to get on my knees on the dark leather.

  He turns down the lights and leaves me alone in the darkness with my aching cunt. The telescopes are just an outline in the spill of lunar light from the window, the gibbous moon filling the branches of an elm tree outside. The door opens and shuts again and Rupert walks past me to his seat about fifteen feet away.

  Boot steps approach. A man walks around me in a half circle. Black combat boots, black jeans. I’m guessing about my age, give or take a few years. I keep my eyes submissively on the floor, heart pounding. Then more footsteps enter the room and battered old-school Doc Martens fill my vision.

  Oh, my god. There are two men tonight. My pussy clenches with excitement.

  The second one lifts my chin and inspects my face. “She’s cute,” he says in a surprised voice. Clearly he suspected they would find a troll upon arrival. That there was no such thing as a free lunch, sexually speaking.

  “And she’s all yours,” Rupert says. “Just remember the rules.”

  I raise my eyes. The room is dark but enough diffuse parking lot light comes in for me to see they’re in their late twenties, with tattooed forearms and cynical, horny faces. The taller one has black hair in a Mohawk and the other has floppy hair streaked black and crimson. Both of them smell like leather and night. Oh, dear god. Rupert has outdone himself this time.

  Mohawk gets started, pulling my bra down and pinching my nipples. A soft moan escapes me and a twisted smile spreads over his face. He’s going to exploit this to the fullest. Crimson seems shy, perhaps because of Rupert, perhaps because of his friend. Mohawk slides my panties down and feels around my pussy, fingering me just enough to make me bite my lip. Neither of them has removed so much as a jacket, though, and I can practically feel Rupert’s impatience to see their cocks when Mohawk looks at him and says, “So will she blow me?”

  “Yes,” Rupert says so dryly I almost laugh.

  With that, Mohawk steps back and shrugs off his jacket. It hits the floor with a thud and he pulls off the rest of his clothes with a bravado that says he knows exactly what a hard and beautiful body he has—long limbed, with hard-muscled thighs and a chiseled torso adorned with ink. He strokes his cock with a smile, making sure I can see how long and stiff it is.

  Crimson begins to disrobe as well, though without such grandeur. This is new to him and he’s not quite able to enter into the theater of it. But sometimes that awkwardness is what Rupert likes best. I glance at him. He’s slumped back in the chair, shirt unbuttoned and a dreamy look on his face as he pulls at his cock.

  Both men are naked now. Mohawk takes my chin in his hand. “Open wide,” he says, and I get a mouthful of cock, his enormous head pushing all the way to my throat. It’s all I can do not to choke. He laughs and pulls out enough so I can suck his crown. And I do my best, like he knew I would, because this is a stranger for whom I want to be the very best toy ever.

  “Good,” he grunts and withdraws a minute later with obvious reluctance. He hands my leash to Crimson and says, “Try her.”

  Crimson seems less than enthusiastic, but once his dick slides into my mouth, I can hear h
is tense breathing. I suck him more slowly, in a long, lingering rhythm. When I wiggle my tongue over his slit, he inhales rapidly and pulls out of my mouth.

  “You take her pussy,” Mohawk says to him. And very efficiently, like they’re lifting furniture, they move me onto my stomach until I’m splayed across the ottoman, cuffed wrists resting against my back. Mohawk kneels in front of me and Crimson takes position between my open thighs.

  Mohawk pushes his dick back inside my mouth. He is one magnificent spectacle on his knees, his quadriceps flexed and stomach hard as he thrusts slowly in and out of my lips with a smug grin. Behind me, Crimson has rolled on a condom and now he pushes inside me all the way in one stroke. I gasp and Mohawk laughs and lightly slaps my cheek.

  “Now, now. Keep your mind on your work.”

  Crimson launches into a steady rhythm, not too fast, not too hard. I look over at Rupert. He’s jerking off with unabashed speed, eyes in that glazed trance. Then Crimson utters, “Oh, god, oh, god” and pulls out. Warm come rains over my upturned ass moments later.

  Goddammit. This usually isn’t an issue because I’m a fast comer when tied up—a laughing man calling me a slut while slowly rubbing my clit can do it. But now my cunt feels empty and instead of taking over between my legs, Mohawk just fucks my mouth faster. He’s slapping my tits and grunting with pleasure, holding my jaw fast.

  I rub my clit against the leather ottoman, desperate for stimulation. If only I could touch myself. But Mohawk pulls out of my mouth and rolls me onto my back. This goes a bit clumsily given my shackled legs. He straddles my chest with that same dominant grin and plays with my tits like they’re his favorite toys, pushing them into a tight tunnel for his cock. It hurts a little, the weight of him pressing my cuffed wrists into the footstool beneath me, but I revel in the captivity of it, the powerlessness. He sees the dreamy bliss in my eyes and laughs to himself. I can tell there are many things he’d do and say if Rupert wasn’t here—that this would get a lot dirtier and more dominant, that this is a man who’d make me crawl around with my leash in my mouth and force me to say the most humiliating things. My pussy floods with heat. My physical control may have been lost in the cuffs and spreader bar but my emotional control has now been surrendered as well and he is driving me with masterful instincts.