Best Bondage Erotica 2014 (17 page)

“Indeed, I did,” he said.

He smiled, walked across the room to where he had set down our overnight bag and returned with a medium-sized box. The box was plain brown cardboard, tied with deep-red organza ribbon. He handed it to me.

“Happy anniversary.”

I opened the box carefully, pushing my fingers through layers of red and gold tissue paper to find the treasure. It was a new collar: simple black leather of the finest quality, exquisitely handmade.

He placed the collar around my neck, licked the tears from my cheeks and kissed my eyes. He took my hand and guided me toward the nearest standing rack. I offered my hands, palms up, and he placed leather cuffs around my wrists. Then, on bended knee, he cuffed my ankles. He tied me to the rack, arms and legs outstretched, a position that always reminded me of da Vinci's
Vitruvian Man
. I savored the feeling of my bondage, stretching so I could feel the firmness of my restraints. He licked my lips
and kissed me on the mouth, then stepped away.

“I just want to look at you,” he said, removing his belt, then his pants, then his shirt. He moved slowly, never taking his eyes off me.

I caught my reflection in his eyes, and saw myself as he saw me: my body extended and pulled taut, lit by the golden glow of the fireplace. My hair fell down my back and across my shoulders in thick waves. My lips glistened seductively, wet from the touch of his tongue, and my eyes were glazed with longing.

He held his cock in his hand, pulling it in long strokes, holding it out for me to see. He was rock hard. I felt my cunt ache with not just want, but need. I needed to feel him inside me. I stared at him with lust, unable to move, completely bound, tied deliciously tight to the rack.

“You want this, don't you?” he said, teasing me.

He moved closer to me, keeping his body a breath away from my own. I moaned as he brushed the tip of his dick lightly across my clit, releasing a sob of absolute craving. I bit my lip.

“Yes, Master,” I said. “Please.”

“You have been a very patient slave, and I promise you will be pleased by your master. I am going to punish the fuck out of you.”

I couldn't control the guttural sound that came from inside me, a low growl, a primal, almost inhuman sound. I was so turned on, so hot for him. I caught myself by surprise and giggled. He smiled.

“God, you're beautiful.”

He walked toward the wall, where the assortment of whips, paddles, crops, belts, canes, feathers, straps and other devices hung, an exquisite feast of excruciating pleasure. He chose several different instruments and stood in front of me, as I hung firmly bound and helpless on the rack.

My body was stretched tight and tingled with anticipation. He began to whip me, and I closed my eyes as sparks of pain lit upon my skin, flooding me with pleasure. I breathed deeply, allowing my voice to cry out, as he expertly swung leather straps across my skin, the lashes drawing raised red marks that swelled and burned, enveloping me in sensory delight, making me hot with his fiery touch.

I opened my eyes, watching him as he whipped me; his were twin fires, black coal burning and smoldering at the sight of me. I loved to watch him torture me, to see the absolute focus of desire cross his face as he attended to me. I loved his stance, how he moved as elegantly as a giant cat circling his prey, ready to pounce and devour me. His body was mature, completely masculine, and I loved the hair on his chest and legs and face. He was such a virile and beautiful man, my master, exuding power and confidence and control.

He touched my hands, feeling the temperature of my skin. Sometimes, I fell so deeply into subspace I didn't realize if my hands were going numb. He touched my breasts, grabbing them with forceful desire, pinching my nipples between his thumb and forefinger. He attached a clamp to each nipple and pulled. He kissed and sucked my skin with his hot, wet mouth. He fell lower, to the smooth velvety pout of my pussy, and began to taste me, the brush of his tongue painting my sweet, hot cunt, licking me in long, luxurious strokes.

“Come for me,” he said.

So completely did he own me, my body could not resist even the touch of his language upon my ears. I began to orgasm, riding him as he fucked me with his mouth, shaking and bucking against the rack, pulling with my outstretched hands and legs to feel the full and delicious weight of my bondage. My body was ablaze, consumed with feverish worship, and I cried out in ecstasy.

He released me, shaking, and held me in his arms. His cock pressed against me, so hard he was to the point of bursting. I knelt before him and took him into my mouth. He sighed deeply, arching his back as I licked him, lapping at his balls hungrily, feeling the surface of his penis with my lips and tongue and teeth, exploring each ridge and crevice along the shaft, from the tip of his swollen head to his smooth, tight balls. He held my hair and rocked hard inside my soft, inviting mouth while I worshipped his cock like an eager whore, burning with the sensation of his rigid masculinity, honored that he would allow me to give him such pleasure.

He pulled away, striking me across the mouth with his dick, which made me even more delirious with desire. My body was blistering with intense want, my cunt scorching, burning with the need to be filled by his hot cock, to be joined body to body, that close.

“Please, Master,” I panted. “I want you.”

“You have me,” he said, smiling.

Heat rushed across my skin, and I blushed furiously. I smiled as his gaze fell upon me, warming me, holding me in a ring of fire. Our bodies bound together shone with a ferocious light, beaded with sweat and singed skin, as we burned, lighting the dark night with a touch of the glorious sun.

BELTED IN

Roxanna Cross

The leather of my chastity belt bites into my tender flesh. I squeeze my thighs together at the flood of need that moves through me. My eyes remain glued to the cargo cart rolling out onto the tarmac. They lovingly caress the bright yellow straps and knots holding the luggage in place.

Subconsciously, I tug on my sleeves until they cover my thumbs. I can't help but wonder if the other travelers see through my power suit. If they notice the puckered, criss-crossed diamond shapes marring my aboriginal golden skin. Would they be appalled by the red welts circling my wrists and ankles?

Strong hands unhinge the yellow mesh and my mouth waters. I squeeze my thighs together. Once again I feel the bite of leather. I know I need to get myself under control before the plane takes off. I close my eyes and go through my breathing exercise.

“Tatem.”

The one whispered word coming at me from the general
direction of my shoulders wraps around me like molten steel. I know better than to twist and turn toward the husky goodness. As if he understands my need to pinpoint his exact location, I hear the shutter of a camera go off a few feet away from my left ear. The light of the flash leaks through my blindfold and a deep-rooted sense of serenity washes over me.
I am safe
. The words he desperately wants to hear spill out of me in earnest. “I'll miss you, Van. You know I always do.”

The shutter goes off again, this time closer. I feel the heat of the flash on my cheek.

“I really like these turquoise jute ropes. They bring out the natural glow of your lovely skin. I can't wait to show you these.” And the shutter goes off again and again. “You look peaceful, comfortable.”

I feel the intricate
kinbaku
knots running the length of my vertebrae, each of them supporting me like tiny cushions. The long, thin ropes wrapped around my breasts, strategically placed to enhance nipple cresting, binding my torso to my spinal support are tight, but I can still breathe in and out comfortably. My legs are bent at the knees. I feel my heels dig into my hips while the slim steel bar rests comfortably in the folds of my butt and thigh joint. Another set of ropes and meticulous knots bind my wrists and ankles to the bar, spreading me open for my lover as I dangle six and a half feet in the air. Cool tendrils of air come from the ceiling vent, tickling my nipples and labia. The sensation is delicious and erotic. “I am, because of you, the care you took to place me here.”

“Inhale.” The command is soft, but I don't hesitate to comply and take a deep breath. My nostrils are filled with the aroma of crushed sage and lavender. My own concoction—a candle which, when its wax melts, turns into a hot massage oil. The sound of a long wooden match being run the length of a grainy patch is
music to my ears. The acrid smell of smoke as it catches and the more poignant one as it's extinguished makes my nostrils twitch. “I'll just leave this here for a bit,” he says before depositing the heavy burden on my navel. “Don't move.” I breathe slowly, trying to expand my diaphragm muscles as little as possible in order to keep the burning candle in balance on my body. “Good girl.”

I feel something cold against my lips. “Suck.” My lips part and take a long pull. Another one of my creations, a raspberry-lime cocksicle—yes, that's a Popsicle made in a cock mold. Not just any cock. His cock. Van's cock has the most amazing shape. It's long, nearly ten inches, and thick, four and half inches of circumference goodness and it curves at just the right angle, the one that hits that spongy spot deep inside of me in one stroke. I love sucking on it. My greedy mouth moves down and down until it reaches the plastic base. “Release.” On a whimper, I let go of the delicious treat.

The trail of cold sticky wetness that the cocksicle leaves behind as Van slides it along the length of my throat sends shivers down my spine. I want to wiggle, arch, welcome the cool sensation on my overly hot skin, but if I move an inch the candle will spill. Then I would be in big trouble. “I know,” he whispers. I swear at times I find it hard to believe that he's
not
a mind reader. Van always knows what to say to make me find my equilibrium. My body relaxes, enjoying each new patch of skin iced by the juicy cock. Goose bumps form on my flesh. The shutter is once again released. The heat of the flash is a delightful contrast.

“So beautiful.”

The hoarse whisper reverberates through me, melting my core. It's quite disconcerting to have your outer skin icy cold while your innards boil. The cock tip reaches the apex of my shoulder and neck. I inhale deeply. My fingers ball in my palms,
creating crescent-moon marks on my soft skin. Van moves the cocksicle deliciously, painstakingly slowly across my clavicle. I can't hold it anymore; he never said I couldn't cry out, so I do. “Oh!” His fingers pinch my left nipple. Hard. They tug on it, elongating the sensitive tip. “Ahhhh,” the moan floats out of me. How can it not? Each touch placed on my body, either by the ice-cold delight or his fingers, arouses and teases. I feel the power building, burning. I almost explode when the icy treat grazes my stiffened nipple. Only his use of the Cree endearment for love stops me. “Not yet,
kisâ
.”

I want to beg. I really do. Instead I choke back the words and concentrate on controlling my erratic breathing. I feel the candle precariously tipping. As the air entering my lungs comes in and out in a smoother rhythm, the candle steadies back into place. “Ew,” I say on an exhale. Just when I think I have regained my control, Van circles the cocksicle around my nipple. The cold raspberry-lime juice leaks on the soft peak. My stomach clenches and the candle topples over. “Ow.” The hot wax stings my lower belly and pubic bone. It keeps dripping down and down. My eyes scrunch together.

Van takes advantage of the mishap and slides the cocksicle across my chest, rubbing it on the contours of my breasts and my rib cage and back up again to toy with my aching, cresting nipples. I shiver and cringe. The sizzling oil hits my budding clitoris; my breath hisses through clenched teeth. I want to close my thighs to offer relief. I want to curve my shoulders in, retract my chest and avoid the feel of the cold spreading everywhere. Half of my body is on fire, and it's not that delicious need-release-now fire; no, this is stinging-pain-will-leave-blisters fire. While the other part is freezing, so much so that I am afraid I'll have frostbite in awkward places on my torso.

“Hush.” As much as I want to comply with his request, the
agony of the cold/hot feeling spreading through me seems overwhelming. Yet, somehow, I pull on my reserve of strength, regulate my breathing and still my body. “Good girl.” I can hear the smile in his voice. I know I made him proud. That in itself is enough to spread some heat in my frozen places. “Don't move,” he admonishes. I lock my limbs in place and wait and wait. Sweat starts to trickle down my spine and pool in the crease of my knees. I feel my muscles burn from the strain of keeping still. Just when I think I can't take it anymore, I hear movement on my right side. I sigh.

Van's warm fingers caress every inch of my skin that is not covered by the jute ropes. They reach the toppled candle and steady it back on my navel. His right hand, dripping in hot, oily wax, travels back up my torso. The fiery shock jolts my nipples erect even more. The blazing heat is spread around my breasts as the satiny hand kneads my tender flesh. I feel my cheeks flush. My blood is reaching its boiling point. The storm brewing inside crests; I feel it so close to the peak. “Oh, no, you don't,” he smirks.

Out of nowhere his left hand is on my thigh, the tip of the cocksicle is pressing against my opening. I don't think I can take this cold/hot invasion again. Before I can decide if I truly can, Van is sliding the cocksicle up and down my labia, teasing my clit with its icy tip. My hips buck. “Be still,” he commands. His right hand travels south, picks up the candle, tips it down. The sting of the oily wax hitting my clitoris, even if anticipated, is a shocking contrast.