Best Bondage Erotica 2013 (16 page)

He shook his head.

“Please,” she said in a voice that shook with need.

He lifted her, unlooped the ribbons, slipped off the sash and tutu. His hands were gentle as he guided her to the bed, his leg not strong enough to support him if he picked her up. His tenderness brought tears to her eyes, but they were also tears of frustration.

He stripped then, except for the bandages he still wore around his leg. She knew he didn't need them anymore, had
seen the puckered scars when he showered and didn't know she watched. She also knew he needed to feel whole, needed to be whole for her, no matter how she insisted that no, he was just as strong and brave as he'd always been.

Come back to me,
she wanted to say, but the words always died on her selfish lips.

She rolled on her front, rose up, presenting herself for a spanking, but instead he planted a line of kisses along her spine, over her curves. His tongue flicked against her, into her, tasting her. Where once he had devoured her, now he seemed more intent on her pleasure.

Another woman might have been grateful.

But when she wanted hard, he gave her soft; where she wanted rough, he gave her affection. She wanted passion, but instead he gave her restraint—although not the restraints she asked for…

Her limbs trembled. Want, need, desire.
Please.
Arousal built, but needed pain to peak, to give her the release she craved.

When he guided her down atop him, she pinched her own nipples as viciously as she could, and it helped, but not enough.

His hands pinning her wrists, an order from his lips (whether to come or to hold off), the touch of a needle or candle wax or the wicked wheel: any of these things would have broken the spell, woken her half-slumbering desire into crisis and climax.

Instead, she curled around him, silent in the night, stifling tears. She felt as thin as paper, as if a strong gust of wind would snatch her heart up and blow it away, tumbling forever out of reach.

 

As tightly bound as his emotions were—locked away in that desert as untouchable as if they were in the Ice Queen's palace or the Troll King's crypt—he was not unkind and not unaware that
she was in distress. So she tried again to tell him what she desired most: that he punish her, and through punishment, reward her.

His jaw clenched tight, as tight as the iron grip of control he maintained on himself. That was what he feared losing, she knew.

She trusted, as she always had and ever would, that he wouldn't.

Now her desire, fragrant and moist, pooled between her legs, legs that felt weak with lust. After so long, after so much arousal and denial, she would finally get what she needed.

She stood before him, eyes downcast even though this time he hadn't ordered it, wrists crossed behind her back. Nipples hard, breath short, stomach fluttering. Clit aching.

He ran the length of the whip through his hands, and she didn't dare raise her gaze to his face even for an instant. Not allowed, for one thing. For another, she wanted to see the lust in his eyes and feared she wouldn't.

She turned away, gripped the post of the bed, waited.

The crack of the whip, like the shot of a gun. For an instant out of time, they both froze. Then the strike reached her, and she shrieked and shuddered in equal measure, pain and pleasure, but there was still silence from him. She chanced a glance over her shoulder. He stood straight and unbending like a tin soldier, his expression faraway and blank.

She whispered his name. And again, a tiny bit louder.

His eyes flickered.

It was okay, she told him. It was what she wanted. “And we both,” she assured him, “have the control we need.”

But he couldn't. He shook his head, put down the whip.

She bit her lip to force the tears back, to stave off the disappointment.

Still, one thing prevailed, and that was her love for him. And
in that instant she thought, instead of herself, of him and the perilous journey he had taken.

She remembered what it had been like when the tendons in her knee snapped, and she questioned herself and who she was now that she could no longer dance. That was when they had met, and he had brought her back to herself with the snick of cuffs, the smack of a paddle, the denial and the sweet, sweet release.

Perhaps his voyage had been no different, once the goblin bullet came. The sensation of falling, of being swept away on a current in a paper boat disintegrating beneath you, of falling into cold black water and being eaten alive by something you couldn't even see or feel.

And then, the prison walls splitting open, and sharp sudden bright light spilling through the crack. Into the wound. Healing.

She didn't know how to be in control from the top, didn't know how to take charge except from the bottom. The tables were turned, topsy-turvy; it was like tumbling out of a window.

But she would be steadfast. For him.

Not the whip, though. It took more mastery than she had, and she feared truly hurting him. Instead she reached for the paddle. He shook his head again, and she guessed that he expected her to hand it to him, a plea in her eyes. A request he again could not, would not, grant.

His eyes widened, startled, when she snapped his name, putting every bit of strength she had into the command that he prepare himself.

He froze at attention. Had he not acquiesced, she would never have continued. So she calmed her shaking hands, raised the paddle and crashed it down on his firm ass once, twice, thrice. Three was a number that held power; surely it would break the spell?

But still he stood, ramrod stiff (his cock was also ramrod
stiff, she saw; at least that was a good sign), unable to bow or bend, as if he were afraid that if he did, he'd break.

Or as if he feared that if he opened himself to the heat of her, the heat of them, he would melt away to nothing.

The bloom of red on his cheeks and the purpling of his prick were the first colors she'd seen in him since he'd returned. Could this cut through the gray grief and sallow sorrow?

Seven was a number that held even more potency. She raised the magic as she raised the paddle, cast the spell as she struck him.

Now she was trembling, not from fear or insecurity, but from desire and dreams. She was wet, hungry, desperate for him and terrified he would turn away from her again.

But she had resolved to be steadfast, and so she showed not a tremor, betrayed herself with nary a quiver.

“At ease, soldier,” she told him. “At ease with me.”

For the first time since coming home, he looked at her, truly looked at her, his eyes (once shadowed, now the blue of her spangled sash) searching her face.

“Always,” he said.

She herself almost broke then, but she held fast to her resolve. The walls may have split, the light might be spilling through, but healing…healing took more effort.

He needed more.

The clamps they owned were better suited for a woman, but she managed to affix them to his nipples anyway. When he gasped and shuddered, she squirmed at the slippery throb between her thighs.

A pink ribbon as an improvised cock ring, wrapped around three times and tied with a bow. A butt plug—and although she suspected he wanted to protest, his body revealed his true desires. An order to lick her until she writhed in ecstasy over
him, even if the sensation wasn't the full release she needed.

She straddled him once again, sank down onto him, drenching the ribbons tied at the base of him with her juices. They kept him from his own release, and his face showed a mixture of anguish and pleasure.

His face showed emotion. Her heart leapt and her clit shivered. Could she bring her soldier all the way home?

She pinned his wrists with her small hands, whispered to him about how he felt inside her and how she was in control. She plucked the clamps from his nipples, and he closed his eyes against the pain.

When he opened them again, she saw the light seeping, spilling through the prison walls. Breaking free of her grasp, he found one of the clamps she'd discarded and, his gaze never leaving hers, affixed it to her own breast.

A lightning flash of delicious pain as he tugged on her clamp, the hint of a wicked grin on his face. One she hadn't seen since it had been lost in the desert sands. She fluttered. So close…

With trembling fingers, she untied the bow, unwound the ribbon. She barked his name—and he cried out hers, half impassioned, half commanding.

That was when the fire rose up and consumed them, but because it was a conflagration of their own making, together they could survive it. From the flames they emerged unscathed and yet changed.

The footlocker, unburied, lay a smoking lump of metal in the shape of a heart, melding with the spangle-brightness of her own heart; their emotions entwined as did their bodies.

For the first time since he'd come home, she didn't want anything.

For the first time since he'd come home, they both felt whole.

 

 

 

 

 

Riley had moved to Toronto from Vancouver, home of the crunchy granola eaters. He had no proper transportation, only a bicycle, and he rode it to work all year long, even when it was snowing outside. One time he asked Navina if she knew any good trails around the city, and she'd stared at him blankly. Riley was really into all that nature stuff. Navina, not so much.

He didn't dress like he had money, but he must if he worked as a lawyer. Riley wore T-shirts most days, and long cargo shorts with big pockets at the sides. On his first day, Navina had mistaken him for a courier and asked him where the hell he thought he was going with that bike of his.

“To meet with the partners, and then to my office,” he'd said, extending a hand that had some kind of cyclist's half-glove on it. “Edward Riley. You must be Navina—we've spoken on the phone.”

At first she'd been skeptical, wondering if this guy was some sort of con artist stealing the identity of the firm's newest hotshot lawyer. When the disbelief fizzled away, she felt herself blushing
a tad, surprised he'd remembered the name of an inconsequential receptionist. Usually it was only dirty old men who noticed her, and it wasn't
their
attention she was after.

She didn't realize how handsome Riley was until the first time she saw him in a suit. It was dark blue with a pressed white shirt and bold red tie. He looked like a million bucks, like a real lawyer, and that was the first time Navina consciously considered having sex with him. She'd had flashes before, images like still photographs of them naked together, fucking on a bearskin rug.

But no way Riley would ever do that in real life, because he was adamantly anti-fur. Navina found that out the day she wore her bomber jacket with rabbit trim. He'd lectured her about it, and as much as she didn't want to listen, she couldn't help feeling swayed by the pictures he planted in her mind of poor slaughtered bunny rabbits. Navina liked animals. She had two little dogs at home—she still lived with her parents—a pug and a tiny terrier. If only the partners would allow it, she'd bring them both to work every day.

“Don't you ever take the dogs out for a real walk?” Riley asked her when the spring thaw hit. “Like a nice long hike in the woods?”

Navina had laughed at the idea. “They have itty bitty legs. I don't think they'd get very far.”

“What about you?” Riley pressed. “You've got nice long legs.”

Her breath hitched when she caught the veiled lust in his eyes. “Thanks.”

Glancing down past her coffee cup, past her slim waistline, past her almost knee-length skirt, Navina gazed at her bare legs. She was supposed to wear nylons, but she never did and none of the partners ever said anything. If they did, she would just say it was too hard to find ones that matched her honey skin tone. They'd buy that excuse.

“I heard about some good ravine trails just east of the city,” Riley went on. “Lots of deer sightings. You like deer?”

Navina perked at the idea of those big pleading eyes. “Yeah, I do. I've never seen a real one, close up.”

Riley was a lot like a deer, but she didn't say so. It sounded too much like an insult, in her mind, like calling him “Bambi” or something. Deer weren't the most masculine animals on the planet.

“So, you want to take a hike?” Riley asked, then laughed. “I mean, hike a trail…together?”

Not really, but there was something about that dimple, those smiling pink lips, those long black eyelashes subtly shading big Bambi eyes, that she couldn't resist.

“Okay,” she said. “Yeah, sure, I'll hike with you. Sounds like fun.”

She bought new yoga pants for their date, and spent $119 on a T-shirt, which even she thought was a bit excessive, but it was organic cotton, certified fair trade and sweatshop-free. And it said TREE HUGGER across the front. Riley would surely approve.

Navina also bought a new pair of running shoes for the hike. That proved to be a very, very bad move.

“It's bleeding,” she whined, limping after him. “My blister—look at it! Oh, god, there's blood in my shoe.”

Riley had been walking ahead of her, softly, and carrying a big stick. He turned now, his expression a mixture of…what? Annoyance and pity? It was hard to read that look in his eyes.

“I have bandages in my pack,” Riley said, pulling the big bag off his back and letting it tumble to the forest floor. “And antiseptic, too. You never know what you might run across out here. Best to be prepared.”

There was a fallen tree just off the beaten path, and Navina
sat down, pulling off her shoe and sock. The sight was far from appealing. “Maybe you should just carry me the rest of the way.”