Bound by Lust (6 page)

It's a beautiful…act…of…love, oh, god
.

I'd never had an orgasm quite like it. A swirling ball of heat gathered at the base of my spine, then rolled up through my pussy, my womb, my torso, exploding in a throat-tearing scream.

Josh just held me for a long time afterward.

“How was that, baby?” he asked, stroking my hair.

What else could I answer?

The first day of April started off as usual, except for a few clever April Fool's jokes sent out by the HR Department in a fake memo. After work, Josh and I planned to order takeout and watch the Giants–Dodgers game on TV. With spring training now officially over, I expected our personal sessions would taper off, but I hoped we'd still find a way to stay in shape during the regular season.

Yet when Josh got home from work, there was an unusual glow of excitement about him, as if he still had a sexy plan in store for me.

My pussy was already juicing up at the thought.

He held out a small box from my favorite chocolate store. “This is to celebrate the end of training.”

Okay, I was a greedy bitch and a total pervert, but my heart
sank. A chocolate cock filled with buttercream would have been fitting, perhaps, but after all the wild things we'd done together, a tiny box of truffles was an underwhelming finale, to say the least.

“Let's go cuddle on the sofa,” Josh said. He looked a little nervous now. Had he noticed my disappointment?

But by the time he slipped his warm arm around me and pulled me close, I was already feeling better.

“So what did you think of spring training?”

“I'm going to miss it,” I answered truthfully.

“It took all I had just to keep one step ahead of you.”

“Really? Well, I learned quite a lot, Coach.”

“I learned some things, too, and I just wanted to say…” Josh faltered.

I looked at him expectantly, but his eyes darted away.

He cleared his throat and took my hand. “Remember when I said that when we were finished, no other hands, lips, or cock would ever satisfy you again?”

“I remember.”

“Well, my ego's not really that big, although on some level I hoped it would be true.”

I patted his crotch. “I like your big ego.”

He laughed. “Be serious now. I wanted to say that I realized something myself in the past few weeks. The truth is…no other woman could ever satisfy me the way you do.”

Now I looked away. I didn't want my coach to catch me crying. Because that was, without a doubt, the sweetest thing any man had ever said to me.

“Have a chocolate,” he said, pushing the box toward me.

“Before dinner?”

He shook the box teasingly. It rattled.

Curious, I took it and pulled open the ribbon.

And what should I find inside but three chocolate truffles and a diamond ring.

I had to admit that was one hell of a season opener.

Of course I said I'd marry him then and there. With this kind of chemistry, we had a team that would win it all.

 

 

 

 

 

I
'm in a bind. Not
that
kind of bind. I should be so lucky. It's more like the bind you find yourself in when the love of your life wants you to do something she knows you don't want to do, and you know you can't say no to her because, well, you just can't say no to her. God, am I whipped. Not
that
kind of whipped. I should be…

So my partner Lisa wants me to join her women's bible study group. Now, I enjoy the company of women just as much as the next person, but sanctity just isn't my scene. Lisa's big on it, though, and if she likes it, I guess it can't be all that bad. Besides, maybe the couple that prays together stays together? I've been involved with Lisa for seven heavenly months, and if my secular days are numbered because of Lisa's affinity for divinity, then so be it.

That being said, there's no reason I can't give her a hard time about it. “What kind of right-wing wingding are you schlepping me to?” I grouse, pulling up my pantyhose.

Lisa rolls her eyes and swishes her cinnamon-flavored mouthwash between her cheeks. How does she do that? I can't even pat my head and rub my stomach in sync. “Knock it off, Nancy,” she scolds, placing the bottle back on the counter, so that hers is touching mine.

My fingers wrap around the canary-colored handle of Lisa's hairbrush. “Do you realize that it's 8:30 in the morning?” I demand, maneuvering the bristles through Lisa's wavy tresses. “And it's Saturday, for christ's sake. Who in their right mind is awake at such an ungodly hour?”

“Someone's up bright and surly,” Lisa quips. Her gaze drifts to the bed, where, only fifteen minutes earlier, we were a snarl of languid limbs and sex-scented serenity. I tuck my chin into her shoulder, settle my head against hers.

“I love you,” she says.

“You should.”

“You'll thank me later.”

“I'll spank you later.”

“Fine,” she says, and for a second, I think she sounds more cheerful than fearful. Yeah, right. Lisa, she's…well, let's just say that her idea of kinky is making love with the lights on.

On the other hand…she is suspiciously submissive. I know the bible is all in favor of discipline and obedience, but that doesn't mean… Actually, now that I think about it, I wonder if that does mean…I mean, maybe it's possible, I guess, that she…

Nah, forget it. There is no way on God's green earth that Lisa would ever go for any of that rough stuff.

 

Lisa is bound and determined to make me pay attention. I am paying attention—to her. Lisa's got a body like Jane Russell but dresses like Jane Addams. Except today. It could be my imagination, but I'm almost positive there's something different about
her appearance today. Her blouse seems less bulky and less buttoned. Her skirt seems less long and less loose.

I study the outline of her backside. It's a well-rounded rump, the kind that's just cruising for a bruising.

Lisa leans into me. “Why, may I ask, are you so fixated on my fanny?” she demands, the spicy scent of her breath complementing the playful pitch of her voice.

My gaze shifts to the bible sinking into my lap. I'm sure my eyes are as black as its leather binding. God, please let this be over soon.

As if in answer to my prayers, the group leader initiates the closing communion. I like this part. It means I get to hold Lisa's hand openly.

Afterward, Lisa makes me socialize and help eat the donuts that someone brought, none of which have sprinkles.

How much longer are we going to be here? I mean, come on—there's got to be a limit on the number of impure thoughts a person can think inside a house of worship before they get excommunicated.

“Nancy and I will clean up today,” Lisa volunteers. Jesus christ, what the hell is she doing?

The fellowship hall clears out, until we're left in the company of bibles and burgundy chairs and acorn-colored tables.

“Did you enjoy that?” Lisa inquires, closing the door. A quiet
click
follows close behind.

“Yes, particularly the story of Sodom and Gomorrah. Who knew it had nothing to do with homosexuality?”

“Yearning
and
learning? My goodness. And you thought you were lousy at multi-tasking.”

We lock lips, bump hips.

“Aren't you going to thank me properly?” she pouts.

“I just did.”

“I'll rephrase,” she says, daintily pinching her skirt between her thumb and index finger. “Aren't you going to spank me properly?”

Lisa flips a chair around, presses it up against a table. She climbs onto the cushion, her knees carving divots into the seat.

My lips leap into a smile. I pitch her skirt up, shove the hem inside the waistband. Her panties are plain, simple, virgin-white. “Is God going to smite you?”

“No,” Lisa assures me. “You are.”

“So, essentially, I'll be doing God's work?”

Lisa nods, propelling her bottom into my palm as she submits to me, bound by lust and trust. That's all the encouragement I need. I rub her rump, massaging the flesh, tracing halos on her skin with my fingertips.

I study the cheeky curves of her backside. “I have a feeling this is going to hurt me more than it's going to hurt you,” I murmur, just before my hand
whomps
her posterior.

Lisa giggles. She steeples her fingers, presses her palms together.

“Lord, have mercy?” I venture, wondering how long it will take to get that Dixie Cups ditty, “Chapel of Love,” out of my head.

“No, it's so I don't…you know. So I won't be tempted to touch…myself.”

It's then that I notice the aroma. The spanking has barely started, and already I can smell her arousal. It's a succulent scent—cranberries mingled with mandarin oranges.

My palm strikes again. Lisa bounces up and down on her chair. “Easy there, Tigger. I can't hit a moving target.”

She stills.

My hand
thumps
her rump.

“My knees hurt,” she says.

The poor, sore thing. I just assumed she would suffer in silence. “That's what happens when you pray and play in the same position.” I swoop down like a bird of prey. “You get a—”

“Holy fuck!”

Did Lisa just curse? Funny, I figured the only way she would ever swear is in a court of law.

Countless swats, strikes, and smacks later, Lisa is sufficiently smote. I peer inside her undies and study her battered, Barbie-pink backside. My palm is identical in shade. Who knew pleasure could be such a pain?

Speaking of pain… “I'm pretty sure the bible mentions something about doing to others what you would have them do to you.”

Lisa climbs carefully off the chair. She yanks her skirt out of the waistband, lets it drop down to her calves. “The bible also says to be patient in affliction.”

“Fine,” I say, and for a second, I think I sound more fearful than cheerful. Yeah, right.

Lisa licks her lips, rubbing her hands together like Snidely Whiplash.

Yeah. Right.

“Have a seat,” she says solicitously, gesturing to the chair.

My legs shudder. Lisa always did make me weak in the knees. I clamber onto the cushion.

“Nancy, dear?” She smiles at me, like an angel of mercy. “You haven't got a prayer.”

 

 

 

 

 

O
n the surface, my husband Skip and I might seem unconventional. In a sense, we are, because we don't work corporate jobs; I'm an artist, the kind who works with paint and performance, and he's a chef, one I consider to be a food artist. Yet if one of us is more by the books, it's Skip. Whereas I consider art my chance to jump into the heart of chaos, to surrender to the part of me that is wild and wanton and doesn't play by the rules, he thinks of cooking as something more akin to a science, perhaps a form of math, full of rules and precision that, he says, lead to masterpieces.

Most of the time, I agree to disagree, because when we come together, I win. What I mean by that is chaos wins; he surrenders his analytical self, unwrapping the layers of overthinking to unlock the perfect masochist. In our years together, I've beaten him, whipped him, gagged him, bound him, pierced him, and even branded him, once, at his behest. I consider kink to be a form of chaos too, a place where we go forward
without knowing the next step, where there is no right answer, only multiple paths each leading to its own kind of bliss, like an erotic Choose Your Own Adventure where every ending is a happy one.

I like that we don't necessarily think the same way when we approach our work; otherwise, life would be boring. When I step into my studio, I have only the vaguest idea about what I plan to create, whereas Skip has recipes, road maps, a mental, if not a physical, image of what he wants to concoct for his customers. Recently, though, our worlds collided, and he had to step into mine, to surrender to the chaos, give up any pretense of rationality.

“My show, my show…” was all I could mutter as I sank to the floor of my studio, ready to cry. The canvases themselves were hung, the gallery ready, the poster in the window touting the performance I'd been practicing with my model, Claude, for weeks. It was a tricky, complicated work that involved covering him in Cling Wrap, including his face, with only a mouth hole so he could breathe, then using him as my canvas, layering candle wax everywhere. In the end, I'd rip it off, and he'd put out a flame with his tongue. It this case, my chaos was carefully choreographed; I couldn't just wing something like that, and I wanted people to make the connection among the struggle Claude had to endure, the sense of immobility and surrender, and the art on the walls. Sometimes I felt just as immobile as if I were bound tight all over, not in a sexual sense, but in every other way. Claude got that…but he'd also gotten a very high fever, and there was no way I would've let him go through with it, even if his doctor had okayed it. That left only one choice: Skip.

“Honey, what's wrong? What can I do?” he asked as I rocked myself back and forth on the floor, a plan forming.

“I need you,” I said, staring right into his startlingly clear blue eyes, ones that look like that ripest of blueberries. “Claude had to cancel for tonight. He's sick. I need you to take his place.”