Best Bondage Erotica 2 (3 page)

I hear the zipper of his jeans come down. In a heartbeat, his warm balls are pressed against my lips.

“Christ, your face is cold,” he says.

I don’t answer. I kiss his balls. I lick them. When I feel his hands grab on to my hair and push my face closer, I lick his balls more ravenously, isolating one of them and sucking it into my mouth.

“
Ow
,” he says. “Easy.”

I go easy on it, but I feel like devouring him. His scent arouses me. The touch of his hands on my head, that element of being under his control, makes me feel insatiable for him.

He guides my mouth away from his balls and soon his cock is at my lips, the head pushing in, my lips parting, my mouth accepting the full length of him. All the way in and then all the way out, sliding slowly at first, rhythmically, until it begins to resemble fucking. His cock going in and out of my mouth, picking up speed. His cock filling up my dark world, becoming all that’s in it. I’m moaning on that hard cock. I love the power of it filling my mouth. It’s thrusting more urgently now. In and out. I keep moaning, it’s uncontrollable, my delight. The spit collects at the corners of my mouth, drooling down now, onto my chin. I can’t help it—my hands aren’t free to wipe it away. His cock is a slippery mess of my spit as he fucks it in and out. I can feel his cock getting incredibly hard.

“I’m going to come,” he says haltingly. “Let’s stop for a minute.”

He helps me to turn over, to find my bearings dead center on the bed. He helps me to lean forward, to go all the way down into the darkness, my weight resting on my shoulders, my knees spread and my ass in the air. The blanket is scratchy against my face, but it smells faintly of bleach. I’m relieved by that smell. I feel him slipping off my high heels. I am instantly more comfortable.

Nothing happens for a while; how long, I’m not sure. He’s doing something but god only knows what.

I feel so fucking aroused in this position. Oblivious to everything in the sighted world. My hands tied tight enough to make me feel helpless, to feel at his mercy, to have to rely on my sense of trust. I’m hoping that whatever he has in mind for me won’t be more than I can handle. I know him. Something will be going in my ass. It’s just a question of what and when.

He’s moving stuff around on the bed. Suddenly there’s a sharp
thwack
sound in the air, simultaneous with a stinging smack on my ass.

“
Shit
,” I screech. It was too unexpected and it really hurts.

“Clean your hairbrush already,” he says. “It’s disgusting.”

I make a mental note to clean the “icky brush” or maybe to just buy a brand-new one. I’m waiting with a keen sense of anticipation, but there are no more smacks across my ass. The sting of that sole stroke of the brush is radiating across my cheek. If he wanted to hit me some more, I would be okay with it. If he wanted to spank me with that brush repeatedly, until my flesh was burning, until I was bawling like a little kid, I would be all right with that, too. I don’t tell him that, I don’t say anything at all, but in my secret heart I know it’s true. He could push me much harder than he usually does and I would follow his lead without complaining. I might cry or whimper. I might beg him to show a little mercy, but I wouldn’t complain. I would writhe in absolute ecstasy instead, I’m sure of it.

“Shit!” I cry out again, only this time it’s because the lube he just squirted up my ass is icy cold. “Oh god,” I’m moaning as I succumb to the anticipation of it, to the head of the silicone dildo that’s suddenly sliding into my ass. “Yes,” I stutter. Christ, it feels good. And now
this
is my whole world, the focus of all my lust: the insertion of the slick dick into my ass, pushing me open easily, finding its way up my depths and filling me with cold and that insane pressure of fullness.

Usually he slides the dick in up to its fake balls and just lets it sit there in my ass, taking his time with me, going about his business. But now we are paying by the hour and I’m a long way from home. Today, we’re pressed for time. He uses that silicone dick for what it was made to do. He fucks my ass with it. But the motion is too sudden. He’s a little too thorough with that fake dick, a little too rough. I cry out, but it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t stop.

I won’t admit it to him, or to anyone else on earth, but I love this very thing, when I can’t differentiate between pleasurable ass-fucking and ass-fucking that is way too rough. I’m crying now, I’m begging for him to stop, but my ass is arching up higher, helping the dildo get in deep.

I’m crying but the words that are coming out of my mouth are, “Fuck me, Enrique, fuck me.”

In a mere moment, the dildo is out and he’s between my legs on the bed, mounting me, my ass in his steady grip as he aims his cock at my slicked-up hole and pushes it in.

But now this is really too much. I can’t handle this. His cock feels huge and my hole isn’t ready for this size of intrusion. “Ricky, no,” I’m begging. “No, it hurts.”

But his slick cock is taking over my hole, forcing it to fit his generous proportions. I know I can take it, I can open for him. I can take him balls deep. “Shit,” I’m crying. “Shit, it hurts.”

And then just as suddenly as it was intrusive, his furious, relentless cock-rhythm has opened me completely. It becomes a smooth ride, a heavenly connection of slick force and speed. I wish there were more of him to fill me. I want to take him in me as deep as anything can get.

“How you doing, Mami?” he calls down from the darkness.

“Good,” I cry distractedly into the blanket. “I’m good.”

“You ready for
Papi
to come?”

“Yeah,” I say, “I’m ready for Papi to come.”

“Where do you want it? Where should Papi come?”

“Up my ass, you can come up my ass.” But I can’t tell if he’s wearing a rubber or not. This could be the real deal; if he’s riding me bareback and he comes up my ass—how well do I really know him? How well do we really know anyone, I wonder? Fleeting visions of my husband surface in my head. He’s supposedly hard at work in some lush office on Wall Street—who’s
he
fucking now and is
he
wearing a rubber?

“You want me to come in your ass, Mami?”

“Yes, yes, I want you to. No, no, wait,” I say, changing my mind.

He pulls his cock out of me abruptly. He pushes me down and then turns me over on the bed. Now all my weight is on my tied hands and he’s on top of me.

“You rich white ladies always want to flirt with fire. Why is that, Mami?”

His cock is still rock hard and it’s planted between our bellies, slippery and thick. He kisses my mouth. “You’re not answering me,” he says. “Can I come in your mouth?”

My world is still a dark, sightless place, but it’s filled with such exquisite sensations. “Yes,” I say, out of breath. “Come in my mouth.”

I feel him shift his weight over me. I feel the head of his cock at my parted lips. The terrible taste of latex smothered in lube is instantly overpowering and he laughs. He’s wearing a rubber. “Surprise,” he says. “Yummy, isn’t it?”

And then he’s off me. For a moment, I’m lying there, panting, listening. What is he doing now? It sounds like he’s slicking his dick with more lube.

Then he’s back between my legs, his hands gripping my ankles, lifting them up, pushing them higher, lifting my ass off the bed. The pressure of my own weight is finally off my tied hands, but my knees are practically to my shoulders now. It’s not very comfortable.

With little effort, he works his cock back in my ass and with ease my hole opens to take it balls deep again. God it feels good to get filled up with him. He fucks me for all he’s worth now. As much as I liked the fantasy of feeling his spunk seep out of my hole later tonight at that dinner party, I know this is the better way. I don’t know him at all, really. I don’t know who he’s been in his life, or who he’s been with. But I want to know his secrets, I really do.

“Enrique,” I cry quietly. My face is buried in his muscular chest as he fucks me.

“Yes, Mami?”

I want to say: I love you, tell me who you are. I want to know who you are. But instead, I say, “Fuck me, fuck my ass, Papi.”

“Don’t you worry, Boo, that’s just what I’m doing.”

Then just when it feels like my hole is stretched raw and can’t take another minute more of his relentless pumping, his entire body goes rigid. His heavy weight is smothering me. I feel crushed, but I know he’s coming. My ears are filled with the sounds of his consuming lust. The whole dark room takes on the sound of his urgency. His hips jerk against my hole in quick, hard thrusts. And then he becomes dead weight, falling on me.

“Jesus,” he says, catching his breath.

I’m buried, motionless, impaled underneath his two-hundred-pound frame.

When he pulls his dick out of me, he says, “Was that good for you, Mami?”

I say yes.

“I think I know what Mami needs now.” He helps me to sit up on the bed and then the wine bottle is at my lips. I take a couple swallows. “Let’s clean you up,” he says. “Our hour is almost up.”

I can feel him sliding my high heels back on my feet. With his body off me now the room is once again freezing. I’m getting my bearings but the world is still dark.

He leads me across the room. I follow in halting steps. My legs are aching. The room feels even colder than it did before. My high heels hit porcelain tiles. We’re in the bathroom. He’s switched on the light. I can tell this because there’s a sudden slight buzzing overhead from some kind of an electric fixture. The sink water is running.

“Sit down, Mami,” he says, guiding me onto the toilet. It’s ice cold.

“Jesus!” I cry out.

He chooses that moment to slip the blindfold off me. Immediately my eyes fill with the sight of his handsome Latino face, so full of warmth, of secrets, of hesitant compassion. I see now that the bathroom is tiny, garishly lit by one faintly flickering fluorescent tube. The walls are covered with graffiti. The shower curtain is torn and hanging uselessly on the shower rod from a half-dozen rusty rings.

He reaches behind me to untie my hands. It feels funny to be free. To suddenly have full use of my arms, my hands.

The towels the motel provides are barely large enough to dry a person’s face. But that’s okay, it’s too damn freezing to risk taking an actual shower.

“Here,” he says, handing me a soaking washrag. “Use this.”

Thank god it’s hot. I clean myself off with it.

“You’re going to walk me to the train, right?”

“I’ll ride all the way home with you,” he says.

I’m relieved to hear it. We’re in the middle of a concrete jungle of nowhere and frankly I’m not all that sure about how to get home from here. But more than that, I’m happy to have some additional stolen moments with him, even though we’ll be out in broad daylight, on a public subway train. I’ll have to be careful about being seen. “But that’s so far out of your way,” I protest, if only to be polite.

“That’s okay,” he insists. “I don’t have to be anywhere. There’s nobody waiting to take me to some cracker dinner party.”

There’s a tone in his voice that’s accusing. I take it for the little slap of reality that it’s meant to be. I’m going to a fancy dinner party. He lives in a rundown rooming house.

“Thank you, Enrique,” I say, hoping that at least the
expression on my face can tell him I love him, that he isn’t just an afternoon fuck, but that I still need time to figure it all out. After all, I’d be giving up everything, not just dinner parties….

“It’s okay, Mami,” he says. “You don’t need to thank me. The pleasure is always mine.”

But that is so far from the truth. The pleasure is mine, too. One of these days, I’ll tell him that—as soon as I know it for sure.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“You fucked up,” I hissed to her as I pulled off my cleats and stuck them in my bag.

“Whatever,” Erin said dismissively, bending to pull on her engineer boots. “We won. Let it go, Darcy. Everyone else has.”

“Are you kidding? I was wide open! You saw me on the wing; I was totally clear!” Frustration bubbled up, robbing me of self-possession. “You could have made a perfect pass to me, but you want the whole pitch to yourself, don’t you? You want to make the goal and be the hero. I’m on your team, but you don’t want to share the game with me.”

“Whoa, girl. Chill,” said Erin. She passed her fingers through her flattop and rubbed the short hairs on the back of her head meditatively. “There’s enough play to go around. The girls look at you too, you know. They should; you kinda look like me.”

As I sat, mouth open in outrage, she tossed the last of her gear in her bag, picked it up, and walked off with an easy, long-legged stride. Even the fit of her biker’s leather jacket
across her strong shoulders looked insolent.

God, she pissed me off.

At home after dinner that day, I refused to think about Erin. I was busy getting ready for tonight’s playdate with Miss Sheila Crof—the femme top so hot that me and every other butch bottom in town would walk a mile barefoot through snow to stand in her garbage. I checked on the final spit-shine of my boots. Sheila had promised me “something special” tonight. I wasn’t going to fuck that up for anything.

Despite oodles of emailed negotiations over the last month, I’d only had one date with her—a briskly impersonal and devastatingly effective flogging at a public play party. Sheila’s feline smile and the swish of her long red hair were the things I remembered most, other than the high that lasted—I swear—a week.

Sheila’s smile, though cocky, was not infuriating the way Erin’s was. Damn Erin! What the hell was the matter with her!

 

So that’s how I find myself here, ringing Sheila’s doorbell. She takes so long to answer the door that I need to dry my sweaty palms on my jeans twice, and then I hear a tick-tick of high heels on tiles from inside, and the door swings open wide.