Best Bondage Erotica 2013 (13 page)

“I asked you a question, Mary Grace. It's hot, yeah?”

I sigh. I am being a brat, and in the back of my mind, I'm telling myself to knock it the fuck off and I'll get some relief, and yet, the heat has made me petulant and arrogant and downright fucking stupid, I guess.

“Yeah, it's hot. I mean…” I shake my head and my shoulders sing with pain. My eyes dart to the window unit, sitting there unused. We had it on this morning, but Jonas has turned it off and let the apartment—really the bottom floor of a row home—heat up to unbearable levels. To play with me. Now we are playing.

Despite my anger and frustration, the pulse of blood and arousal in my pussy is undeniable. I fear that if we both stopped talking and listened hard, we'd hear that pulse.

“You mean what, Mary Grace?” He slides a beer-bottle-cooled finger between my legs and tickles at my clit. The sensation is enough to make me jump and the chain that's holding my arms above my head rattle. I'm tethered to an old anchor for a punching bag drilled into the ceiling. Oh, and I'm naked. I'm sweating and now his fingers are in me and, god help me, despite the pain in my shoulder sockets, I sag a bit, let my legs fall open, welcome his penetration.

“I mean…” I break off as he curls his fingers to my G-spot and a warm flexing pleasure swirls in my pelvis.

“You mean what?” he asks again, withdrawing his fingers.

Those fingers won't be going back in me; there will be no more pleasure, until I answer. I twist in the wind and arch my hips. I'm restless and on the verge of either screaming or laughing. My eyes dart back to the AC unit and then to the other window. The blinds are up and the window that faces ours across a small gap is lit up like a jack-o'-lantern.

“I mean, duh…Jonas. It's hot.” And then I roll my eyes.

Just as I roll my eyes, I see it. And Jonas sees it, too. The flicker-dip-sway of shadows at that window. He chuckles and that chuckle runs up my spine like a spur being run up my flesh. “Ah, we have visitors.”

My neck is tight with pain but down below, my nether lips grow plumper, my pussy slicker; my heart beats faster. They're there. Our watchers. And now, Jonas will shine.

“Duh?” he says, getting back to our conversation.

I stand on tiptoe to relieve some of the pressure on my shoulders. I toss my head and feel my long hair sticking to my back and then swaying lightly as I force it to break free. I rock my hips back and forth both to let the blood flow and to entice him—and our viewers—with the flex and curve and motion of my body. I want him to fuck me. I want him to take me. And I want them to watch. I need to feel their eyes on me as Jonas does what he does best, while the temperature is high and sweat rolls down into my eyes and my whole body seems to thump and bang with the heat, humidity and lust.

He starts singing. Under his breath at first. But I hear it and I feel my nipples spike up tight as if he's some sort of magician whispering mystical words to make them behave. I moan as his finger slides easily down my asscrack, aided by the fine sheen of sweat that shimmers on my skin. I'd give him anything he wants—a blow job, a million dollars, the perfect cheese omelet—if he'd just turn on a goddamned fan.

I can hear it in my head as he circles me. He draws close—he backs up. He reaches out to touch me—but then he doesn't. I know his MO and yet it never fails to froth me up. It never fails to make me crazy when he fucks with me and toys with me and taunts me.

I feel the wetness that is not sweat at the tops of my thighs. A great and desperate clench in my pussy tells me that the next time he enters me—whether it's with fingers or cock—I'll come. Hard. I'm that worked up. I chew my lips to keep from begging, but he catches me. His big blue eyes dart momentarily to the window. The square of glass that looks out at the square of glass behind which people are sitting and watching this bizarre summer mating dance we practice when the heat waves hit.

“Did you have something to say, Mary Grace?”

I shake my head, but he reaches out to touch me and without thinking I shoot my hips forward, offering him my plump and soaking wet sex to touch. He touches nothing.

“Say what you have to say,” he says. I shake my head again and he shrugs. “Okay. Fine.”

He leaves me. The apartment is small and oddly built. He steps out of the bedroom and back into the kitchen. I can see him until he goes a bit too far beyond my field of vision. I hear his precious fridge door again and hear another beer being opened. When he returns, he's ditched the jeans and is utterly naked, cock standing out hard and flushed. Ready.

Jesus.

Jonas swigs the beer, making sure I can see the cool condensation glistening on the brown glass. Ass. I toss a little against my chains and he smiles.

“I wonder what they're doing? Do you think they're jacking off? Fucking? Is he fucking her or is she on top?”

I shake my head. My brain is shutting down and all I want is to be cool and be fucked.

Jonas takes another swig of beer, frowns. Then he reaches to me, slipping the cool bottle between my legs and running the slick smooth rim along my clit. I sigh.

“Flavoring,” he says, bringing the beer bottle to his mouth.
He licks the rim slowly, watching me, before drinking.

My cunt is thrumming and I feel another rush of fluid come out of me. I'm so wet, so unbearably wet and the air feels hotter than my body. Like being wrapped in wet cotton and gauze.

“Please,” I say before I can stop myself.

He perks up, eyebrows going up, smile stretching his handsome face, blue eyes shining with amusement. “What was that, baby?”

I shake my head.

“They're watching, they might get bored,” he goads.

They've been watching us for two summers now. Danny and Suzie. Supposed to be just roommates, but since we've caught them watching, we wonder about that. Are they fuckbuddies, too? It really doesn't matter, to be honest. It's knowing they're watching and what they
could
be doing that does me in.

“Please,” I say. I barely hear myself. I spit the word out with a great amount of belligerence and yet, when he takes a step toward me, my body strains, clanking my chains, to get closer to him.

“Such a good, good girl. My little Mary, full of Grace.” He chuckles at his own joke. The obvious sinful way you can play with my name never fails to amuse Jonas.

“Jonas. They might get bored,” I remind him.

He nods, but his mouth has gone tight. So when he turns on his heels and goes back into the kitchen, his footfalls a bit heavy and his stance a bit stiff, I wonder what the fuck I'm in for. He's pissed. I put him in his place, even chained up, and that is a no-no. A big fat negatory, good buddy.

When I see what's in his hand my mouth goes dry. I twist, this time with anxiety, and tug at the chains that are now chewing gleefully into my wrists. “I didn't mean—Jonas, I—” I'm babbling until he swats my flank just hard enough to make
that sharp report in the silent hot room. Just enough to make a red handprint rise up along my skin like magic. When I look down, I can't see it from my angle but I can sure as hell feel it. Heel. Palm. Fingers. Thumb. Burning like fire on my flesh.

“I know they might get bored,” he says, dragging his thumbnail from breastbone to pubic bone. I shiver, dance in place, pant like a dog. In my mind, I can hear them next door, breathing heavy, maybe fucking. They are watching and Jonas is a bit pissed off, a lot turned on, and toying with me.

Me…I just want to get laid.

And yet, here I am. Twisting in the opposite of wind. Stagnant soupy air—a heated brew of city smog and stifle.

“I know,” he says again, carefully pinching my erect nipple in the hot pink jaws of the tiny snack clip. He releases it slowly, letting me really feel the gradual pressure as it bites down. When he lets go completely, the clamp shuts down on my skin with enough force to make me blow out a shivery moaning breath.

Between my thighs, though, I am hotter than the tropical air of our apartment.

“I told
you
that already
,
didn't I?”

I nod.

He swats me again and a small quiver sounds in my cunt. The tiny precursor to an orgasm. The feeling that whispers,
Oh the pleasures you might have soon…if you behave, if you are good…

Being good is usually hard for me. It often requires chains.

He's circling me—a shark, a predator, a savior come to bring me orgasms. “I'm sorry,” I blurt. And after I say it I do feel a weight lift off of me. And then a rush of joy when he drops to his knees and gives me one good solid lick between my legs, his
tongue dragging, lazy and bold, over my thumping clit.

I hear a sound from across the small gap between our window and theirs. This is a row home, after all; I swear sometimes I can hear them brushing their teeth or peeing. It's a pleasant cry. It's a sound that comes with the sentiment:
That feels good
.

“I'm sorry,” I babble on. “You're right. You did say it already. You told me they'd get bored. I was just…being…”

He sucks all of my pussy into his mouth, his lips sealed around me and his mouth drawing on me and his tongue probing at me. When I pause, so does he. So I rush on. “A brat. I was being…” This one is hard. “Disrespectful.”

I'm the loudmouth of the relationship, the one who carries on and bitches, and I often direct it at him. When he has me this way, I can see that. And I can see who he is and what he is and it becomes obvious how much I respect him, so I own up to it.

As soon as I say that word, he sucks again and nudges that tiny knot of my clit with the tip of his tongue. Knowing me as he does, he delivers another painful swat to my flank, crisscrossing the skin he already abused, making my pulse jump in the meat of my leg.

I come. Just like that. A gunshot, an explosion, a flash fire. I go off like a rocket and my shoulders are now screaming as I twist against my bonds.

Across the way another sound is heard. A muffled, whispering, sighing sound. He looks up at me. “They're fucking. I swear, I can smell it.”

I laugh a little, tears wending down my cheeks creating ribbons of salt water in the mist of sweat that now feels a permanent part of my skin.

“Please, please, Jonas…”

He licks slowly, eyes on me, tongue on me. “Say it,” he says, reaching around to cup my ass in his hands.

“Fuck me,” I whisper. “Please,” I add. Hey, it can't hurt.

He's in motion. Long legs and muscle and swinging cock. Dark hair falling in his eyes, and those blue eyes are hooded with need. He moves behind me and I feel him move away and come back. I'm still hearing furtive sounds from the window and I twist a bit so they can see me better. Them watching us was an added perk. Now it's a pleasant spice to a meal we don't have often but savor well.

“Foot up,” he says in my ear, and I dutifully lift my left foot.

We repeat this on the other side. And then there I am standing on sturdy purple yoga blocks and he's angling my hips. Jonah takes his time sliding the tip of himself along my slit. He plays his glans through my moisture, up over my clit, back to my ass, before going all the way back up until little puffs and sobs are bursting out of me.

When I actually start to cry, he drives into me and a groan slides free of me. I move back to take him, welcoming the friction, the invasion, the feel of his fingers clamped down possessively on my skin.

I have to fight not to arch up on my toes. It's a balancing act to keep myself stable and yet, it has let up some of the pressure on my shoulders. But he's holding me steady and strong, and he's fucking me just the way I need. Hard and fast, the clamps singing on my nipples distracting me just enough from the goodness that I don't come too fast.

I can't touch my clit. I can't take off the clips. All I can do is be at his mercy as he drives into me, always
almost
throwing me off balance but not quite.

Jonas says, “You're so pretty when you beg.” His laugh is dark and amused and I almost sob with relief when he reaches around and removes one clip. The blood flowing back into my
challenged flesh is bittersweet. It feels so unbelievably good and yet it hurts like a motherfucker.

“Yeah,” I whisper.

“Yeah?” Jonahs reaches around the other way to touch my clit, his big finger surprisingly deft at finding me and making me feel good. My body can't decide if it wants to surge forward or drive back. I'm stuck in some bizarre limbo of pleasure.

He gives me just enough to have me on the edge. And I can feel that's where he is, too. He's barely hanging on to his control. His hips are thrusting hard as he fills me and fucks me. His breath is an urgent rush of air in my ear. He grunts once and releases my other nipple, pulling the small clip back and off. It scrapes as it comes off and it's a bright white flash of pain.

“Come with me,” he grunts and we both hear, perfectly timed, the groan that sounds suspiciously like an orgasm from our peeping roommates.

He laughs, but it's short and brutal like a bark, because three more thrusts and he's coming, teeth pressed to the back of my neck, and I'm coming with him. Feeling him lose his tiny bit of remaining control has shoved me right past my point.

I hang there.

He goes about disassembling it all. Cigarette smoke drifts from their window into ours. “Someone had a good time,” I laugh.

Before he undoes the padlock that holds my chains entwined, he bends to lick each nipple, giving them a gentle suck one at a time. Then a kiss on each collarbone. Up my neck, each eyelid and each cheek receives attention. And then, as always with our ritual—“Since you're standing still,” he says, cupping my face in his hands—he kisses me gently, working his tongue against mine so I go soft and boneless in my restraints.