Best Bondage Erotica 2014 (24 page)

Turning side on, she pulled an item from her shoulder bag with a theatrical flourish. Even in the dim light of the club, he recognized the all-too-familiar length of fine purple material.

“Now, I'm sure some of you remember the days when pashminas used to be fashionable...” His mistress shot him a look
that dripped icy contempt; he felt as if his balls were trying to crawl up inside his body. “But now, they're really no good for anything apart from binding in place a worthless specimen such as the one I have here.”

As she spoke, she moved behind the post. He felt the brush of soft cashmere against the skin of his forearms.

“If any of you would like to come round to this side, you'll get a better view of the knot, but I'm using a simple French bowline, so there'll be no risk of cutting off this wretch's circulation.”

It was amazing, he thought, how she could express concern for his welfare in a tone suggesting that, given the choice, she'd cut off much more than that. Then the pashmina was being wrapped around his wrists and the thickness of the post—once, and then again, before his mistress tied the fabric in the knot she'd described. It placed no pressure against his flesh, but when he gave an experimental tug, he realized she'd bound him securely enough that he couldn't get free until she decreed it. An electric jolt shot through him, the thrill he always felt when his mistress placed him in bondage. Innately subservient to her will, he couldn't help but react when she enforced her domination over him, especially with more than a dozen pairs of eyes watching their scene unfold.

“So,” his mistress said, “now that you have your slave in bondage, you have the opportunity to give them pleasure or pain. Or maybe just a spot of well-deserved humiliation.”

Her hands clutched the elastic waistband of his shorts and tugged them down in one smooth movement. She let them settle around his knees, restraining him further. His cheeks burned with the shame of being stripped before an audience, even as his cock began to rise. He and Ramona had discussed a scenario like this so many times, but until tonight the circumstances had never been right for her to humiliate him so publicly.

And still she hadn't finished. Withdrawing something else from her bag, she bent to take hold of his cock. “Now, I know many of you mistresses favor the cock cage, and I'm sure more than one pathetic article has his manhood under lock and key tonight. But I find it's far more amusing to show up my slave for the sissy he is.”

With that, she wrapped what he quickly realized was a piece of purple ribbon around his shaft, tying it in a big, floppy bow. A woman in the crowd tittered at the sight; her reaction should have made his cock wilt, but instead it surged up even harder.

“And that concludes my demonstration for the evening,” his mistress said, receiving a rapturous round of applause. She made a brief curtsey of acknowledgment, then the spectators began to drift away, some to the bar, others to the dance floor, muttering among themselves about what they'd just witnessed.

“So, slave...” The words were a spiteful caress in his ear. He smelled the intoxicating scents of latex and her favorite spicy perfume, a mixture that would become even more potent when mingled with the aroma of her plump, rubber-encased sex. He itched to be on his knees, face buried in her crotch, breathing in that scent. “I trust I can leave you on your own for a little while, to allow you to contemplate the wisdom of buying your mistress such an unsuitable gift?”

“Yes, Mistress.” The last thing he wanted was to be left alone. He needed to feel Ramona's fingers around his aching, beribboned dick, teasing a climax from him. But Sir Nigel was beckoning to her, telling her he had someone he'd like her to meet. And with that she was gone, leaving him to stew in his helplessness and frustration.

That had been, at his best guess, forty minutes ago, though it was impossible to gain any real sense of how quickly time passed in
an environment with no clocks visible. All around him, the sights and sounds of a club night in full swing contrived to torment him. Somewhere behind him, he could hear the rhythmic thudding of some implement landing repeatedly on bare flesh—a paddle, he suspected—and the low, anguished moans of the girl being disciplined. Being unable to see the scene as it unfolded sent a shudder of longing through him, as his cock rose once more in response to the images flooding his mind: the rosy bloom on the girl's backside; the steadily falling arm of whoever was chastising her; the glistening juices on her pussy lips, as her body reacted on a purely physical level, turning pleasure into pain. Unable to turn in the direction of the noises, he stared straight ahead, hoping another couple might start to act out their own punishment ritual within his limited line of sight.

Despite the vulnerability of his position, he couldn't help but admire the ingenious way his mistress had used her hated gift against him. She'd taken care with his binding, and he felt no real discomfort apart from the slight ache in his back and shoulders that came from remaining in the same position for an extended length of time. She had treated him with loving cruelty, which was all he ever asked of her, but now he needed more.

Behind him, the girl's moans had taken on a sweeter quality, and he swore he could hear the squelching sounds of fingers being thrust in and out of her pussy. She had taken her punishment, and now came her reward. He groaned. If his mistress had intentionally sought to drive him into a vortex of frustration by binding him in place, she could not have chosen a more perfect spot. He couldn't escape from the aural evidence of someone else receiving the stimulation he craved so desperately.

As the moans peaked, fast and frantic, then died away to soft, satisfied whimpers, he silently begged for someone to offer him
the same treatment. His cock stood up tight to his belly button, precome shining at its tip, revealing the full extent of his need. He didn't care who chose to use him—male or female, dominant or submissive. If only some master would order her slave to her knees, to take him in her mouth and suck him till his seed geysered down her soft, gulping throat. Or if the domina in the elbow-length red gloves he'd seen clapping politely at the end of his mistress's demonstration would wrap her leather-clad fingers around him, working them swiftly up and down his length. He could almost see the stains his white cream would leave on the supple red hide. For a moment, he even entertained the thought of someone taking a punishment implement to him, trailing the thongs of a soft suede flogger over his dick and balls, or rapping his swollen cockhead with a riding crop. The pain would be all the more delicious for being administered by someone he might not even know, someone who'd seen his helplessly restrained state and decided to take full advantage of it.

He writhed against the post, tugging at his bonds even though he knew he had no hope of getting free. If his mistress had chosen to tether him facing the post, he could have rubbed himself against the hard wood, creating just enough in the way of friction with his limited range of movement to bring himself off. Oh, he'd have paid for that afterward, he knew, but what was one more demerit on top of those he'd already earned?

Then, just as he'd slumped back into a resigned, defeated posture, shoulders sagging and cock beginning to deflate, he heard a familiar voice purr in his ear, “Purple may not suit me, but it certainly looks good on you. So, slave, have we learned our lesson?”

“Y-yes, Mistress,” he stammered, instantly hard again despite the thought that she might not have finished tormenting him. Perhaps she'd only come to check on him before going back to
her dominatrix friends, so they could all laugh at his frustrating predicament over more drinks.

“And will we be giving anything other than the finest quality chocolate as a present in future?”

“N-no, Mistress.”

With that, she began to untie the ribbon that adorned his cock. Just the feeling of her long, cool fingers against his overheated shaft was enough to have the come spurting from him to puddle at his feet.

“And you'll have to lick that up, won't you?”

“Yes, Mistress.” His heart beat fast as she loosened the knot that held him in place, his body recovering from the force of his unexpected orgasm. Without pulling up his shorts, he dropped to his hands and knees, hearing the click and complaint of joints held immobile for so long. Under his mistress's watchful gaze, he obediently lapped up every creamy drop.

She ordered him to his feet once more and told him to make himself look respectable.

“Come on,” she said, as he tucked his wilting cock back into his shorts, “let's go home. I'm sure Sir Nigel can carry on the party without us, and I have my own needs to attend to.”

“So, I take it you'll be getting rid of the pashmina now, Mistress?” he said, as she stuffed it back into her shoulder bag, already thinking ahead to the moment when she would peel off the catsuit and order him to worship her body with his tongue. “After all, I'd venture to suggest it's served its purpose.”

She shook her head. “The couple Sir Nigel introduced me to run a monthly fetish market, and they're always looking for people to run workshops and demonstrations. They'd like me—us—to attend the next event, and talk about how to enjoy bondage on a budget. Said using the pashmina was a really inspired touch. Oh, I won't be able to go quite as far as I did
tonight—sadly, they won't allow me to expose that sissy cock of yours.” She gave his bulge an affectionate squeeze through his shorts, smiling as he groaned with reawakening arousal. “But don't worry, my love, there are still plenty of other ways I can humiliate you with your clothes on.”

His mind racing as he tried to imagine all the delightfully shameful things she could—and would—do to him the next time she had him bound with the pashmina, he followed her out to the cloakroom.

DUAL MASTERY

Rachel Kramer Bussel

Some people I've met in the kinky world think that owning a sex slave is easy. They consider the mere idea equivalent to a nonstop orgy, 24/7. I hate to bust their bubble—or yours—but while I love being a master to two women, I work hard to keep them happy, and in turn, I am amply rewarded. I wouldn't trade my life for a conventional one for millions of dollars, but a good master has to give as good as he gets—at least, that's my philosophy.

I'm not the kind of master who thinks my job is to be the sole provider for a household of three; in fact, I admire that both women are savvy go-getters in their careers. I love overhearing my wife Tanya negotiating prices for her jewelry supplies or seeing Wendy work a room for an event she's organized, knowing that for me and me alone (unless I've given permission otherwise) do they bow down, get on their knees, become women utterly unrecognizable from the powerhouse professionals they are in their respective business worlds, where they are revered and
even feared by some. Where would the magic be in conquering a woman who already appears to be conquered by the world? I'll pass on that.

With three incomes, we are more than comfortable, which allows for plenty of time off, sometimes spent in our home dungeon, sometimes simply curled up on the couch watching a movie, or with both women on their knees at my feet—you never know. So what's hard isn't money, or even time; I'm thankful to have plenty of those, and we take at least three major vacations a year. One of my favorite things to do is stroll through an airport on our way to some lush beach locale, an arm wrapped possessively around each of the women. I make it clear that we are not mere traveling companions, but lovers, not with obnoxious public displays of affection, but by the simple yet powerful use of body language. All it takes is a hand lightly teasing Tanya's ass or a brush of Wendy's lips against my cheek to display to one and all what kind of vacation this will be. Showing off my beauties is a thrill I never take for granted, and it makes even the mundane task of going through airport security an opportunity for a little bit of exhibitionism.

In some ways, my two submissive, sexy sluts are a study in contrasts. Tanya is short and curvy, with natural red hair and freckles, while Wendy is almost as tall as I am (six feet), pale with jet-black hair. Next to them I tend to look rather middle of the road, but I don't mind; it just attracts more curiosity and attention once people realize that both women belong to me. I like to make people wonder what it is I've done to garner such female devotion; those who truly want to know are welcome to find out.

I've told them they're allowed to dress in jeans and sneakers when we travel, but they both have enough fashionista and exhibitionist in them to want to dress to the nines while in the air.
“After all, if you're gonna go, don't you want to look fabulous while doing it?” Tanya once joked, masking what I knew was a true fear of death by plane crash. That's another thing I love about her: she is relentlessly optimistic, and forces that optimism to override her fears, something she's applied to our BDSM play as well as all areas of her life. She teaches me just as much as I've taught her, and now that Wendy is a part of our lives, I see Tanya teaching Wendy what it truly means to submit, while I oversee their erotic education.

I've learned so much about women from living with two of them, seeing how they are different and how they are alike, how they behave similarly when surrendering to me, and differently. Yes, Wendy is our slave, but she's as much a part of our family as anyone else; both Tanya and I would take a bullet for her. Her slave status is not a trapping; rather, it's a way of life, a way of relating that makes life richer for all of us. They are both extremely eager to please, to provide, to obey, but each does so in slightly different ways. I know exactly how hard each of them can be pushed, what kinds of spankings they can take, how much they like to struggle, what naughty words push them to the edge of orgasm. It's this ongoing process of learning, of plotting what will thrill each of them, that makes being their master a joy and, at times, a challenge, one I willingly take on with pride.