Best Bondage Erotica 2013 (11 page)

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 safety.”

“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 his 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.

He leans over and bites my neck. “I know you're dying for me to fuck you,” he says in my ear, his hot breath sending butterflies through me, “but you're going to have to beg for it like the little slut you are.”

Oh, god. Thunderbolts of the most delicious degradation roll through me. I writhe helplessly on the footstool, unable to even grind my poor ignored pussy against the leather now. Crimson hasn't gotten hard again like I hoped; instead he's already dressed. One of those guys who come and can't leave fast enough, embarrassed by the crudity of what they've just done. But tonight of all nights I need to get fucked again; there are two of them for god's sake, so how is it I'm twitching in frustration? Reading my desperation, Mohawk leans back and tickles my clit, laughing as I cry out. Jesus, he's a sadist. He
really is going to make me beg, which is itself humiliating—it's not enough to tart myself up in sexy underwear and offer myself bound and available, I actually have to beg to be fucked. I bite my lip, hoping he'll at least slide his fingers inside me, where I am now so wet that only serious heat and friction and thickness will do. But he just stirs his fingertips inside the entrance to my cunt, smirking with victory as I moan.

Perhaps Rupert will speak up.
Put her out of her misery, for god's sake.
But he never does. Besides, he's doubtless enjoying the show of this rough, handsome, hard-armed guy keeping his big cock on display. I look over at him. To my astonishment, he is on the edge of his chair, leaning forward and jerking his cock faster than I've ever seen. He's really into this particular scene.

And thank god, Mohawk slides down between my legs. I close my eyes, waiting for that telltale rip of the condom foil. Instead I feel something hot and soft on my clit: his tongue.

Holy crap. He is going to town on me with his mouth, not even caring like most guys would that his friend's cock was just there. He's good, teasing me just enough to make me jerk and gasp, but never licking me steadily enough to let me come. What a bastard. What a god. I'm squirming all over the ottoman now, twisting against my cuffs and the spreader bar. That double-sided frenzy of urgency and powerlessness, where my body is pleading for satisfaction but is controlled by a man's whim, spreads through me like wildfire. As his tongue plunges deep inside me, that delirious tension in me rises up until I'm just about to come—and he pulls away.

He bounces to his feet with a grin. “Hey there,” he says, and taking my leash in hand, forces me to my feet. I'm so dizzy and disoriented that I stagger in the spreader bar. But he has a firm grip on me, keeping me upright as his fingers work my clit.