Best Bondage Erotica 2014 (23 page)

The noise of his cock entering her excites him. Cari extends her neck toward the wall. He reaches down and cups the back of her neck, forcing his cock deeper down her throat. Intense
pleasure explodes. Both palms on the wall above the headboard. His knees stiffen, his cock withdraws and come spurts all over Cari's face. She closes her eyes, but flicks her tongue back and forth, licking all that she can.

“Very good, my come slut.” Quinton slips his hand beneath the twine binding her nipples and jerks. She tenses. A scream erupts from deep inside her throat. Gurgling continues for a full minute. He removes the nonexistent rope from her belly and the arm bindings that aren't really there while she watches, desire filling her pupils.

Quinton massages her arms and hands. He kisses her elbows, knees and hips, all of the joint areas that wreak havoc on her supple body. “The feeling should be coming back now.” His words cue her. Cari sits up. “Not so fast.” He washes her face, using a cloth from the bedside table. “New position. I'll bind your wrists and your ankles together. On your stomach.” She flips over without speaking. Her bottom lifts up. Cari looks behind at him. Her gaze follows his movements. He sees the need to please there.

“I'm using strips of leather for your ankles.” He pulls a leather shoelace tight between his thumbs. The leather lifts the skin a bit as he runs it from ankle to ass. “Put your arms in front of you. For these I'll use my favorite leopard scarf.” He mimics the tying of the knots on her wrists where she can see. She laughs as he ties the real scarf into a bow and wraps it around her neck so that she can feel the texture of the fabric. “Lower your chest, my love.”

His favorite position by far. Quinton pats the outside of her voluptuous bottom, squeezing to get a good feel. He reaches between her legs and pinches her clit. Her legs spread at the knees, but her ankles stay crossed. She has worked so hard the past few months. Her body must reminisce about past sessions
for the mind play to work. Juices run from the center of her pussy. He shoves three fingers in, pumping furiously. She bucks and slams herself down, again and again. Her hips bump side to side. He trails the end of the rope along the small of her back.

“Come for me, my sweet.” Her back curves up, a cat pose she's learned in yoga. He slaps her pussy, his middle finger pushing into her clit each time. “Let me hear your pleasure.” He enunciates each word. Cari howls, head tucked under. As the orgasm travels, her shoulders rise and her head leans to touch her back. Shudders begin at her toes and voyage the length of her spine. Finally, total collapse.

Quinton's cock stirs. This woman electrifies him like no other. He removes his fingers and sucks her juices from his fingers. “So good, my girl.” Cari shifts. He contemplates ending it for the night, but she lifts her ass to the tip of his cock. Semihard becomes fully hard. He needs her touch, her lust and, most importantly, her love.

His cock plunges inside her sloppy wet pussy. In and out, slowly at first and then faster. They work into a rhythm, their bodies move together, fucking as one. Quinton leans forward, plucking the knot on the imaginary silk scarf to release her wrist binding. “Use your fingers, Cari.”

She vibrates her fingers back and forth across her mound, up to her tits and back to her clit. When she grabs both nipples and presses down with her thumbs, he bites the back of her neck, tugging the scarf with his teeth. A second's pause leads to furious fucking. Her whimpers turn into a full-throated scream. Quinton yells out and comes simultaneously. He kisses the small of her back, massages her shoulders and removes the leather ankle binds that aren't really there. He holds her calf and bends each leg, massaging before he gently lays each back on the sheet.

“Turn over, my love.” Cari rolls onto her back, pulling her
knees up to her belly. Quinton stacks pillows against the headboard and sits up, guiding her toward his side. He lifts the top sheet and covers her always cold feet. Her head rests on his chest. It takes several minutes for her breathing to return to normal. He waits.

“Thank you, Sir.” Their lips meet. His tongue enters her mouth and laps around her tongue, holding it still and then creating a tunnel to suck it intermediately. He kisses the tip of her tongue and her lips.

“I didn't last as long this time.” Her expression changes in that instant.

“No, you didn't.” His fingers rift through her damp hair.

“I love you.” She rubs circles in his chest hair and kisses him on the shoulder.

“I know you do.” He forces himself to stay quiet. She needs this time to sift through her feelings. His heart wants to pull her close and reassure her over and over that she will always be his, but his mind demands he give her time to process. This transition is new territory for both of them.

“This works for us, for now, right?” A direct question has to be answered.

“It works for me, my dear. The way I bind you isn't so important as the way you react to it. How did it make you feel?” She hesitates. “The truth, Cari.”

“The truth is I long for the ropes, the leather and the scarves you used to bind me with, but my body is assimilating. I feel the materials when the words come from your lips. It will only get better. Next time I'll open my mind even more. The bits of rope and material facilitate my sub zone.”

“That is what the doctor suggested.” He inches his body closer to hers, careful not to touch any joints.

She cuddles closer.

“I have one more surprise.” He watches to gauge her reaction. Fear clouds her eyes.

His chest tightens. “No, dear. No more play tonight. How about a home movie?”

She laughs. A mischievous grin appears. There's his dear, his wife and, for as long as he can hold on to her, his life. He presses the button on the remote and Cari watches, wide-eyed, as her sexy, nude form fills the screen.

WEARING PURPLE

Elizabeth Coldwell

Standing with his back to the whipping post, naked but for a length of ribbon tied in a neat bow around his semierect penis and his wrists tethered behind him with the bright purple pashmina, he couldn't help but reflect that his wife certainly knew how to bear a grudge.

She must have been planning her revenge from the moment he pressed the hastily bought, even more hastily wrapped present into her hands on his return from his business trip to Belgium. For Ramona, Belgium meant one thing, and that was chocolate. Her only weakness, a box of it was never far from her plump, creamy fingers, ready for her to dip into. While she often grumbled about the extra pounds that had gathered on her hips and thighs as the years passed, he loved the look and feel of her abundant flesh, the weight of her body on his as they fucked.

When he told her he'd bring her back something she'd love, she'd dropped heavy hints about a master chocolatier she'd seen interviewed in one of the Sunday supplements. His exqui
site handmade pralines, it was claimed, were those by which all others would be measured and found wanting. Nothing less would do for her, so how he ever thought she'd be satisfied with a pashmina instead, he still didn't know. His excuses that his business meeting had overrun and he hadn't had time to hunt for the chocolate shop had been greeted with cold-faced silence.

“I'll make it up to you, darling,” he'd promised.

“Oh, I know you will,” had been her reply. She'd all but thrown the length of fine cashmere material at him. “I mean, purple, of all colors. In all the years we've been married, when have you ever seen me wearing purple?”

In his haste, and in the subdued light of the railway station concession where he'd made his ill-advised purchase, he thought he'd chosen a wrap that matched the cornflower blue of Ramona's eyes. Lying discarded on the bed, its true shade became all too obvious, mocking his poor judgment. Another mistake, another demerit to add to the list his mistress carried in her head. Retribution would come, it always did. He just never knew when, or where, or even how. And that made it worse—and better, on so many levels.

Tonight began like any other party night. His outfit for the evening lay on the bed when he emerged from the bathroom showered, shaved and powdered. Snug-fitting leatherette shorts, socks and heavy black boots. Nothing else. His collar would be fitted around his neck in the moments before leaving the house, further emphasizing his status as lowly slave and Mistress Ramona's chattel.

His mistress waited for him downstairs, the taxi already ordered and on its way. As always, she looked magnificent: dressed from head to foot in shiny black rubber, a blue-and-black waist-cincher nipping her in around the middle and making a
perfect hourglass of her curves. So worthy of his respect, his adoration, it was all he could do not to fall to his knees and worship her. That, he knew, would come later, with an audience present to witness his groveling show of obeisance. Keyed up and already almost unbearably horny, he didn't notice what she slipped into her latex shoulder bag in the moments before they left the house. If he'd been more observant, he might have had some inkling of how this evening would progress, and the humiliating position in which she intended to place him. Not that he'd have been able to prevent any of it. The only way he could have done that was by bringing her back the chocolate she craved.

When they'd walked into Club Strict, they'd been greeted by an effusive Sir Nigel, the club's regular host for the last five years and one of their oldest friends on the scene. This, however, was no ordinary night—Sir Nigel was holding his birthday party, for invited guests alone, and for one night only, just about anything went. There were none of the usual restrictions on public nudity or sexual interaction in the club environment. Still, the night was young, and as he'd made his way to the bar to order Mistress Ramona a gin and tonic, he'd seen little in the way of play. A bare-breasted blonde crawled on a leash in the wake of her stocky black master, and a balding, bespectacled slave he recognized as one of Sir Nigel's regular bridge foursome lapped at the feet of a redheaded mistress who chatted away to a friend, totally oblivious to the sub's presence. He wondered what the man's bridge partner would say if she saw him now, semi-clad and subservient, or whether she already knew he, like everyone else here, had a secret side he kept separate from his daily, vanilla life.

They'd been there more than an hour before any serious action began. In that time, he'd refreshed his mistress's glass
once, and followed her obediently around the club, eyes downcast, as she'd sought out acquaintances and caught up on all the gossip. It was just like every other night at Club Strict, and he'd relaxed fully into his role, as he always did.

“Ladies and gentlemen, goddesses and worms, might I have your attention?” Sir Nigel's voice boomed out above the low, throbbing bass of the sound system. “Thank you for coming to my party and making my transition into my sixth decade such a delightfully depraved one. I've arranged a couple of special performances for you all tonight, and I'd like to present the first of those now. My very good friend Mistress Ramona is about to give a bondage demonstration, with the aid of her pathetic excuse for a submissive, Slave Graham...”

At the mention of his name, he'd stiffened to attention. His mistress had mentioned nothing about any such demonstration when they'd left the house tonight. Even before he could begin to wonder what she might have planned for him, she marched him over to one of the pieces of equipment set up in the club's central playroom—a sturdy, black-painted post, designed to allow a slave to be tethered to it for a whipping. A small crowd, the lithe, silver-haired figure of Sir Nigel prominent among them, began to gather round as his mistress ordered him to stand with his back to the whipping post, and to clasp his hands together behind himself, so that he effectively embraced the wooden structure.

“I know that many of you are constantly searching for new ways to restrain your submissive,” Mistress Ramona was saying, as the audience hung on her every word, “and new methods of reinforcing your discipline. And it is very important that they know just how low it's possible for them to sink in your estimation, and how hard they must work to regain even a shred of respect.”

His stomach churned with nauseous anticipation, the hairs on his arms and legs prickled to attention. The rebuke in her choice of words might not have been obvious to those watching, but he knew he was about to pay for his misdemeanors.

“Now,” his mistress continued, “it's always nice to have good quality equipment to play with, like padded leather cuffs, silk bondage rope or even proper, police-issue handcuffs—eh, Mike?”

The man she'd addressed her comment to, a detective in the local force, chuckled gruffly and fingered the shiny silver cuffs that dangled from his belt.

“But what if you don't have your toy box with you, or you're experimenting with a little tie and tease? What might you use then?”

“Stockings,” someone at the back of the crowd piped up, even though Ramona didn't appear to have been soliciting a response.

She shook her head. With her back to him, he couldn't see her expression, but he suspected she wore the patient smile that indicated a foolish answer had been given. “Many people think that, but cheap nylon stockings can be dangerous. When you pull on them, they keep tightening, and you never want to put your slave in something that can cut into their flesh. But there are plenty of things you can use instead. A necktie, a silk scarf, the sash of a dressing gown. We can all find something that's been shoved into a drawer, forgotten and unwanted. Something—” she paused, letting her previous words sink in “—like this.”