Best Bondage Erotica 2013 (10 page)

“You make me forget the world…” she says, before adding, “Come on—I've got an idea.”

She leads me to the center of the dance floor and unhooks my bound wrists from the body harness. She raises them up, then steps into the circle of my arms, letting my wrists come to rest behind her neck.

“Much better,” she says, pulling me closer so that our bodies are flush from chest to thigh.

All around us, the sea of bodies crowding the dance floor continues to move, straining toward one another, driven on by the pounding bass and the sexual energy vibrating unmistakably through the air. But Bryn moves to a music all her own, slow and sensual, her hands tracing the pattern of the harness on my back, fingertips dipping between the diamonds of leather to tease my sensitive skin. Her tongue finds the hollow just above my clavicle and my head falls back of its own accord in invitation. Bryn obliges me, sinking her teeth deep into the juncture between my shoulder and neck. It's a straight shot of nirvana that makes my breath catch in my chest and my cunt clench wildly.

“Please…” I moan, though I'm not really sure what I'm asking for.

Bryn eases up, swirling her tongue into the deep indentations left by her teeth while her hands slide lower, cupping my ass as she presses a hard thigh between mine. She rocks me forward, stimulating my clit, and her mouth moves higher, teasing bites along the column of my neck until she claims my mouth with a kiss that robs me of reason. It goes on and on, and my hips pick up the restless rhythm she's leading, the smooth slide of leather against leather as I ride her thigh.

“Lean back,” she whispers against my mouth, her hands moving upward to support my weight.

I do as she asks, arching back, offering up my breasts to her seeking mouth. She takes the right first, suckling it deep the way I like, hard enough to bring blood to the surface of my skin and make me grind my clit harder against her. She can almost make me come like that, and I close my eyes, shuddering as I feel the sensation building in my belly, but she lets go and moves to the left, grabbing my piercing between her teeth and pulling hard. The cry she wrenches from me takes me by surprise and my eyes fly open, quickly scanning the crowd, but nobody gives us a second glance.

“You make me so hard, I want to tear into you right here.” Bryn's voice is a rough-edged rasp of desire, and I can feel the tension vibrating through her body.

“Come with me,” she says, stepping out of the circle of my arms and leading me off the floor by my wrists.

We're gone in hardly any time at all, with only the briefest of stops to collect our things. Bryn unhooks the leash and removes the sailor clip attaching my wrists together, but leaves the cuffs and collar in place.

“Here, put this on,” she says, tossing me her jacket, and when
I'm buttoned in she grabs my hand and leads me out the door.

I snuggle as close to her as I can in the confines of the car, rubbing her crotch through the front of her leathers as she expertly navigates the late-night city streets. I press tiny kisses along her jaw, feeling small and feminine and incredibly turned on, wrapped up in her jacket, surrounded by the scent of her cologne and the more subtle scent that is hers alone.

“I can't wait to get home,” I whisper in her ear, which elicits an unexpected chuckle from Bryn.

“Well then, you're going to be disappointed,” she says, as the car comes to a stop. I haven't been paying attention to the drive, but we're definitely not in our garage.

“What…?” I begin with a quizzical frown, but in the next second her door swings open and a black-suited valet offers a cordial greeting while waiting for Bryn to exit.

“Come on,” she says, planting a quick kiss on my lips before stepping out and handing the valet her keys, then circling around to open my door.

She takes my hand and draws me out, and I realize we're at one of the most expensive hotels in town.

“Bryn—I can't go in there. Look at how I'm dressed!” I whisper urgently in her ear. The valet's gaze is discreetly averted as he waits to take the car, but I'm exceedingly conscious of my head-to-toe leather ensemble, complete with collar and wrist restraints, and a blush floods my cheeks.

“Sure you can,” she says, patting me on the cheek. She leads the way, pulling me unresistingly behind her, pausing to tip the valet before heading inside, responding to the doorman's greeting with a casual, “Good evening,” and a nod of her head. She skips the check-in counter and heads straight for the elevators.

“Bryn, what's going on?” I whisper. “What are we doing here?”

She stops then, in the middle of the lobby, whispering in my ear while curious onlookers survey the two of us.

“I promised I'd reward you if you were good at the ball, didn't I?”

“Yes, but—”

“Oh, come on,” she says, trailing a finger down the front of my skirt, which I bat nervously away, eyeing the growing number of spectators we're attracting. “You think I don't know how much this turns you on? I bet you're soaking wet right now, aren't you?”

I close my eyes, feeling the heat in my cheeks climb impossibly higher. She's right—even though I'm fully dressed, I feel like I'm naked in the eyes of all these strangers. I feel like they can see through to my most secret desires, and it turns me on; I can't deny it. Bryn chuckles at my silent admission.

“I thought so.” She tucks my hand in the crook of her elbow, escorting me leisurely across the lobby to the elevators like a proper gentleman, seemingly unconcerned by the attention we're receiving.

We ride the elevator with a half-dozen other guests in perfect silence, my scarlet flush now accompanied by a slight tremor in my thighs, and I unconsciously hold my breath, exhaling only when we've exited and the doors have shut behind us.

She steals my breath with an unexpected kiss then guides me to our room. It's clear that she's been here already; either that or this hotel has the kinkiest turndown service I've ever seen. The covers are drawn back on luxurious-looking white sheets, and a length of black nylon rope is attached to each of the four bedposts, the two at the foot of the bed complete with ankle restraints. There's also a huge bouquet of red roses, a bottle of champagne and a bowl of…clothespins?

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
.”

 

 

 

 

 

“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.