Best Bondage Erotica 2014 (13 page)

But there was a way that might give us the best of both worlds.

“Just a minute,” I said. I grabbed a piece of paper from the bedside table and scrawled an email address on it. “You can reach me here if you'll be in town.”

“Cowboy_roper?” He raised one eyebrow and smiled. “Thought you said you hadn't tied up a cowboy before.”

“I hadn't. But now I might make a habit of it.”

I'd set up the address after he left. Wouldn't take more than a couple of minutes on Gmail.

If he never used it, so be it. I'd have a sexy memory of one perfect night roping a cowboy.

And if he did, I'd have the red ropes ready for him.

MEETING

L. C. Spoering

“You came all this way to get fucked?”

It was not much of a question at that point. She stood stripped to the panties she'd taken more than a little care to procure—red, lace, bow, the works—and shivered a little in the artificial cool of the air conditioner on full blast. Certainly it seemed as though she'd come there to get fucked.

The hotel was one of the more anonymous places this could happen—the bed covered in a muted flower pattern, the carpet under her feet an inoffensive dusty pink—and there was a certain kind of shame in that. Even the art on the walls seemed fashioned to be as unobtrusive as possible: flowers in a pot, a table in the sun. It was intended to leave the boarders suspended in place, neither here nor there, the semiopaque curtains on the windows blocking out the view of the street, making it any room in any city, the traffic sounds seemingly miles away, muted by double-paned glass.

Still, she nodded, feeling the hard lump in her throat move up
and down as though she'd swallowed a golf ball. Goose bumps ran up each bare arm and leg, and the fine hairs at the small of her back prickled over the ill-conceived tramp stamp she'd gotten there, back in college—a rose, faded this many years later, but marking the area just above the crack of her ass like a sign, a target.

He rubbed his chin, his fingers rasping like Velcro; it must have been days since he last shaved, the dark scruff looking more like a shadow, at that phase, than unclean skin. He stepped closer. Her breath caught behind the lump and she almost gagged, but then he continued around her, like she was a chair, something to move past.

“Are those new?”

She shifted, ball-heel-change. Her hair stirred over the skin of her back and shoulders as she nodded, an additional shiver running from the top of her head to her toes, clenched now in the carpet; she was absolutely ticklish, and her hair against her neck was nearly maddening.

“The whole outfit is,” she said, after a long moment where she could only hear him breathing. Indeed, the skirt and blouse, discarded over the luggage rack, had borne tags until that morning; she'd not even run them through the wash. They were not impressive, maybe—pencil skirt in black, and a red sweater, three-quarter sleeved—but there was a thrill in picking them out, so carefully. She'd clipped the tags while standing naked in the doorway of her closet so that she felt the heat and damp between her legs without ruining the thong she'd bought in the same trip, the one she wore now, the one that was soaked and felt as flimsy as tissue paper against her pussy.

“Did you shave?”

What a question. She nodded, again, then coughed a little. “This morning. Lotion, too.” She was anticipating the next
question, eyes focused on the wall across the room from her, his presence behind her almost heavy, pressing on her back even though he didn't touch her.

“Good.” Her heart pumped, twice, sending two surges of blood: one up to her head, throwing her off her equilibrium, and the other to her clit, which throbbed and ached and made the stain of arousal larger, inching up the fabric, turning the string that ran the length of her crack nearly black.

Trained like a dog to the sound of a can opener, she heard his black belt, that click back of the buckle, the squeak of leather bending back on itself, the fabric hiss of the strap sliding through the loops of his gray slacks. She knew the colors without looking, the matching suit jacket next to her skirt and sweater, gray wool. His shirt was white with faint charcoal pinstripes. She memorized details like this so that her eyes projected them back onto the blank wall ahead of her, a composite, a trick on her vision, so that he was in two places at once.

“Hands.”

She could feel her pulse in her wrists before she moved them from her sides to behind her back, just above the curve of her ass. She'd painted the nails to match her sweater, but they smudged and chipped the way they always did; she was always too impatient to let them dry properly before digging in her purse or making the bed. Her fingers curled up in this sudden jolt of memory, toward her palms, a strangely self-conscious measure considering her state of undress.

The belt slipped under her hands, against the knobs of her wrists. She swayed, just a little, on her bare feet, the clench of her toes on the pile of the carpet doing little to support her. The leather folded over the narrow path of her arms and she listened to the faint rattle of the bar easing down the strap, forgetting to breathe while he slipped the piece through the frame, pushed the
prong through the hole drilled there, far back from the others, newer, rougher, outside manufacturer's guidelines.

He tugged on her bound hands before looping the leather between her wrists to secure the loose end. The material was warm from being worn so close to his body, and she swooned inwardly, shoulders clicking into place: straight and back, the curve of her spine steep, tits out, nipples exposed to that cold air, at absolute attention.

She was shaking by the time he stepped in front of her again. She'd forgotten all the details of his physical form, she realized: the hook of his nose, the slash of his lips, the dark shock of mussed hair the only break in his rather tidy countenance. He stood there, rolling up his sleeves, and while she tried to focus on his face, her gaze went wandering, right down to the bulge in his pants, a rather natural destination. Another dual pump of her heart and her fingers stretched to reach for it, seemingly unaware of their bound nature.

He smiled at the shift of her shoulders, the bow of her elbows as she mindlessly struggled against the simple bond. “Not so easy, is it?”

She all but choked on her whine, nodding again as she tried to bring up her voice. “Not so much.”

His sleeves were rolled to his biceps; his arms were covered in the same dark hair as his head, ending, rather abruptly, at just his wrists, leaving the backs of his hands as smooth as a woman's. A gold watch encircled his left arm, the links like teeth.

“It's not going to get easier any time soon,” he reminded her, one of those perfect soft hands coming up to touch her chin and tilt it this way and that, thumb catching on her bottom lip to drag it down, exposing the neat white line of teeth. Her stomach clenched, then she squirmed painfully as he pushed her top lip up, examining those teeth, too, pushing her mouth open
to check the sharp edges, delving behind them, pressing against the soft spot under her tongue hard enough to hurt.

She gurgled, but did her best to stay absolutely still. Her eyes rolled up in her skull and she found herself staring up at the ceiling, at the one thing in the room that forgot to be inoffensive: the light fixture looked just like a breast, veins and all, warm and pink, nipple dark in the center.

He shut her mouth, tipped her chin back down. “On your knees, then.”

Her descent to the carpet was not entirely graceless, but without her arms for balance, she faltered, stumbled a little, knees hitting the floor harder than she would have liked, sending a bolt of pain up into her thighs. She let out a grunt and looked up at him, sinking back on her feet, the heels embarrassingly rough against her ass.

He shook his head; it was clear to her he was unimpressed. She swallowed at the lump again, chin twitching against that need to frown. Her fingers touched the bottoms of her feet, sending another ticklish spasm through her, enough that everything hurt for a long moment, and she was almost taken by surprise when his cock was out of his pants, right there in front of her face, clean but with that scent of daylong captivity, warm and musky.

Her whine came out startled. He held his dick steady in front of her, hard and pointing true north, her nose in the way. Without a thought in her brain, her mouth dropped open, tongue curled to receive him, and then he took a step back.

Her jaw dropped, and, instantly, she knew she looked like a fool. She blinked rapidly against the sudden rush of tears, but, over the pounding in her ears, she heard him tut-tut, calling to her, “Isn't this what you want?”

Her nod was automatic and more than a little desperate. Her
chest filled with that need, all at once, the only thing in the world, and after only the barest hesitation, she inched forward, scooting her knees over the carpet, closing the distance between them.

“There we go.” His voice held a trace of indulgence, a cookie for her efforts, but just as she managed to bring her attention back in full to his offering, he'd stepped away again, fully this time, closer to the wall and its forgettable painting.

She huffed through her nose, drawing her mouth closed only to wet her tongue and lips, pushing up on her toes to aid her half-crawl across the floor. She was a fish flopping on dry land, a lost traveler dragging herself to an imagined oasis. By the time she finally reached his cock, his body was against the wall, and her knees were burning from the friction.

He tapped the head against her nose, gravity making it ache dully. His other hand went under her chin, thumb stroking along the line of her jaw, which relaxed under the attention. Her mouth was still gaping open like an idiot's. Her whine was thick and audible as she stared up at him, his cock hitting one cheekbone, and then the other, pushing at the thin skin under her eye, leaving a line of precome next to a stray tear that had worked its way out and onto her face.

“All that hard work.” Still no admiration in his voice, mostly condescension. Her chin twitched again, drawing her jaw up fractionally.

Suddenly that tender thumb was gripping her face, fingers on the other side, squeezing it so her jaw slid open fully, practically unhinging like a snake's, and then he sunk his cock in her mouth to the hilt.

She gagged, painfully, and her vision went blurry, hot, as her throat filled with the hard heat of his erection for a moment that went on years.

When he pulled back for her to breathe, the stinging shock of
oxygen was almost too much. His grip on her face was firm, the pads of each finger and thumb digging in hard enough to bruise. She felt suspended there, her entire weight dangling as he pushed in and out of her mouth—or rather, pushed and pulled her head up and down his shaft, as it dragged against her soft palate, against her tongue. Her breath was afforded in short spurts, through her nose, now running, eyes brimming, then spilling tears down over her cheeks.

He jerked his cock out of her mouth suddenly enough that she gasped. Her eyes were wild and open as he came on her face, the hot liquid spattering her forehead and nose and lips. She stared up at him in shock, mind wiped blank even as her tongue snuck from her mouth to catch the taste of him, salty and vital and alive.

His head sagged back against the wall, his panting directed at the ceiling. His hold on her face slackened and finally released, his fingers going to her cheek, and then hair, curling in the strands. Carefully, she leaned forward, and he eased her in kind, until her temple was resting against his thigh, which was warm and quivering under the effort to remain standing.

He petted her hair. Her tears leaked a little more, mingling with his come, but she kept her head at an angle to prevent any from sullying the fabric of his pants. She did not stir, listening to the sound of his breath slowing and evening out. She only let herself chance a look up the length of his body when he finally let out a long, low sigh.

He was smiling down at her. Her own smile was slower to come, mouth aching, feeling cracked and blistered at the corners; the pain was delicious, the turn of her lips raw and happy.

“We have time for a bath,” he told her, fingers incredibly gentle against her scalp, “before we have to get home to the kids.”

THE SNAKE

Jacqueline Brocker

Sybil only saw it when the leaves rustled, and even then, only its tail. A motley green-brown tail, disappearing under a bush. It was enough of the tail, however, for her to see the curve of its form, the slither, like the track of a winding river seen from a mountaintop.

She would rather have been dangling on the precipice of that mountaintop than standing where she was now.

Adam was ahead of her, still walking, still talking. But he soon stopped midsentence, turned back, and gazed at her, concerned.

“What's wrong?”

Sybil shook her head, but she couldn't stop the word from coming out in a hiss. “Snake.”

He came back to her, put his hands on both shoulders. Her vision was hazy, like smoke in the distant heat, until he said, “You're bigger than it, and it's more afraid of you than you of it
.”

His words were a gentle reminder, almost a mantra, for her
to repeat to herself. The world became clearer again, and her gaze found focus once more as she looked up at his face, with his high cheeks and dimpled chin.