Best Bondage Erotica 2 (22 page)

I excuse myself and head for the kitchen, the tension between us suddenly too much for me. It’s a welcome break, one I know she’s not used to—once she has you in her clutches, you’re usually trapped, but she doesn’t really want the upper hand, just gets it by default most of the time and doesn’t know how to get rid of it. This time, she won’t have a choice. I feel the same familiar energy coursing through my blood, the kind that tells me I am about to do something that will change my life profoundly. It’s not so much arousal as intense excitement, and I’m not all that surprised when she follows me into the kitchen, standing there silently as I pour myself another soda. When I turn around, she’s surveying me intently with those dark, smoky eyes, rimmed in black but shining brightly at me, seeking something that I hope I can deliver. They are issuing a challenge, and I put down my cup, knowing that I have no choice but to take her up on it. I walk closer to her, also silent; the first one to talk will clearly lose this game, and I need to have the upper hand. I reach behind me and fish an ice cube out of my drink, then bring it to her lips, letting the icy droplets fall onto her neck and chest, drip down into her luscious cleavage. She opens her mouth and I slide it in, hearing it crack with the sharpness of her teeth.

While she bites, I do what I’ve been wanting to do all night, bringing my hand up under that skirt and pressing against the fire I find there. I push against her wetness, palpable even through the thin layer of clothing, my arm tilted so the edge of my wrist presses against her, not caring who might walk in; fucking the party host has its privileges. I move away slightly and then bring my hand back, nudging her, tapping against her, forcing her to react. She bites down again,
splintering the ice, grinding her teeth as I’m now grinding into her. I bring one of her hands up above her head and the other quickly follows, and when I look in her eyes they tell me all I need to know. She is mine, wholly, completely, just like that, and that look melts me. I have to catch myself, force myself to stand up straight rather than sink down to the ground, pulling her with me. Instead, I push my body flush with hers, biting her chilled bottom lip, licking along its plumpness. I bring my knee between her legs and feel her sink down against me, needing as much contact as she can get, her pussy aching. I nudge her with my knee, then shove it hard against her and she whimpers, her nails digging into the wall, and then just when she’s dying for it, I pull my knee away. I turn her around so she is facing the wall, her gorgeously beckoning ass sticking out, the skirt sending the most heated of siren calls. I leave it in place for now and bring my hand back, spanking first one cheek and then the other. The impact is dulled by the layers of clothing but this is meant only as a tease. In between smacks, I bring my hand back between her legs and push hard against her cunt, practically pushing the fabric up into her, and I can hear her breath hissing out. I pinch her pussy lips lightly, then her clit, wanting to tear off her tights and touch her for real just as much as she wants me to, but I go back to spanking her, and she leans her head against the wall, no longer certain what she wants or needs, too overcome to do anything but stick her ass out and let me decide.

When it’s too much for either of us to take—we’ve become a cloying, writhing mass—we make our way into the bedroom. Candles dot the room, some in modest little glass votives, some big and bold enough to stand on their own. I push her down onto the bed and dim the one lamp, and we are surrounded by darkness, with only the flickering flames to guide us. She moans quietly and stretches her arms above her head, catlike, making it easy for me to lift her skimpy shirt
and push her skirt down around her ankles. I tear at the tights, the rip of the fabric ringing through the air, leaving her naked lips exposed. Of course, she’s the kind of girl who doesn’t wear panties, who thinks that’s a cool, sexy statement, only I have a hunch nobody’s ever exposed her in quite such a way. I pull the tights off her and lean forward to bind her wrists with the webbed rags, and as I do she thrashes and moans louder, clearly in a different kind of heaven than the one she’d imagined. Every stroke of my fingers along her skin, whether a light, easy fingertip over her bicep, or the pinch of a hardened nipple, makes her pant even more. She is struggling, frantic, needy, combative, but with me rather than against me.

I couldn’t walk away now if I wanted to, the force of her lust would surely overpower me in a second. Her struggle is only with herself; with her need to strain and stretch, to feel the shivers that wrack her body as the fabric presses against that thinnest of skin on her wrists, as it sends tickles up through her arms, as I complement those gentle skin taunts with bites along her arm, her stomach, her thighs. I’m scraping, biting, stroking everywhere except her famished cunt, which she pushes at me, begging me to finally, finally fuck her like I’ve promised to all night, promised with my pinches and smacks, my kisses and clawings. But it’s too much fun to watch her squirm, to watch her try to get a word out; even a short one like “Yes” or “Please” simply becomes a ragged rush of air, a sigh, a moan, a clench. I stroke the backs of my fingers along her slit, so wet I almost slide inside against my will. Her feet try to kick off the skirt, but I
tsk
at her and she stops, moving within the limited confines the fabric allows, her legs only permitted slight room to part.

Maintaining the silence, I keep my eyes on her as I walk across the room, picking up a small white candle whose flame arches into the air. I walk back, my hand cupped in front of it to further the fire. She stills now, slightly uncertain, not sure if
she truly wants this particular fantasy to come true anymore, but damned if she does, damned if she doesn’t, because the need is so clear in her eyes it could burn me hotter than this candle. I tilt it slightly, letting a few drips spatter her belly, and she jerks but keeps those cool dark eyes on me. I continue, splashing droplets of wax here and there along her torso, darting along the path between her sumptuous breasts, rubbing the wax into her once it has fallen. She is so still now, her body on high alert for danger, for pleasure, for anything that will ease the fire between her legs. I hold the candle still in my right hand and shove two fingers deep into her pussy, with no warning, and now she lets out a cry, a scream of arousal and frustration, of pent-up need, of everything she has contained for far longer than the length of this party. I push further, then pull out and enter her again, her body easily navigable. I have to fight to control myself, to not throw the candle on the ground and myself on top of her.

There will be time for that later, but for now I go slowly, slower than either of us wants. Delayed gratification is highly underrated. I want to keep her on edge until she is ready to explode into a million tiny bursts of pleasure that leap from her body, coursing out in an orgasm worthy of a fireworks display, all bright light and loud boom, obliterating everything else in sight. I keep my touch light, stroking, teasing, feeling, rather than ramming my fingers in the way I might do another time. I get to know her every curve, every lingering stroke telling me something new. I feel each simple shudder, each reaction, a slow fizz that builds and builds. I pour more wax, watching the way it melts within the holder, the hot liquid swimming. I watch it harden on her and touch the residue, her skin slowly cooling beneath it. She looks up at me with glossy, wet eyes, filled with unshed tears of need and joy and fulfillment, eyes that have probably not cried in front of someone else in longer than she can remember. I pull my fingers
out, paint their wetness along her leg and move up to kiss her. I kiss her hard now, strong and furious, wanting to push the tears back in, strike them from the record, give them to someone else. She is so fragile inside, and I don’t need words to tell me that this is more than a simple fuck to her, more than a one-night stand with some older woman she’ll later brag about to her friends.

“I’ll be right back,” I tell her, needing a moment away. In the hallway I feel like I need my own cigarette, but instead rush to the kitchen, not wanting to leave her for more than a few moments. I hurriedly fill a cup with ice, keeping it behind my back as I enter the room. Those eyes watch me so fiercely I almost want to blush; if I didn’t know better, I’d say they see right through me. She’s a sexual sci-fi heroine whose power lies squarely in her pussy.

“Close your eyes,” I tell her, and her obedience is more powerful than a blindfold, a tacit trust placed solely in me. Power can’t exist in a vacuum, it only feeds off the need for others to respect it, and I feel it surge through my body, keeping me safe and alive, needed and needy. Again I hold a candle over her, moving lower down her stomach, letting the wax drip near but not onto her cunt, teasing her with the heat’s potential to sear as well as soothe. While the candle is hovering so close she can feel the heat without the actual wax, I fish out an ice cube and trace it along her tender slit and smile softly to myself as she arches her back and lets out a squeak. Her hand moves to sneak down toward me but can’t, and I watch as the reality of her immobility passes through her brain. She wants to protest even though she knows she likes it, the body’s instinctive urge to push away anything that might be threatening. But even if her hands hadn’t been tied, I think she would have inched forward and then become still as she does now, her teeth gritted and eyes slammed shut as she arches against the dripping ice I keep rubbing along her sweet
skin before shoving it inside her and watching as the icy water dribbles out of her. As I shove the frozen cube inside, I let a drop of wax fall on her lower stomach. The combination of fire and ice prove too much for her, and while I work the cube into her deepest hiding places, she comes, clenching my fingers, pushing the cube out of her, letting out a roaring scream that has been building for who knows how long. She shivers from the chill, from the orgasm, from the all the intensity I’ve just wrung from her, and I watch as she comes back down to earth, her face momentarily slack, at peace, no longer with any façade to maintain. I hold her down by her bound wrists for a moment, letting her feel my weight, my power, letting her know that I want to be in charge of her again, but will let her go for now.

I untie the knot and let her wriggle free, then blow out the candle and place it on the ground, allowing her to relax in her postclimax haze. I trail my icy fingers along her arm, teasing her with the lingering cold. She shivers and I pull her close, wrap her up in my arms. We huddle there, candles blazing around us, our bodies hot where our skin meets, cool where the breeze hits. She’s still an enigma to me, but I’ve gotten a little closer to her core, and even if that’s the closest I ever get, it will be enough.

 

 

 

 

 

 

His wife-beater T-shirt caught my eye first. The tight-ribbed cotton showed off his muscular arms and broad chest. I turned slightly to look at him, my hand on the small copper mailbox key, my whole body still like a deer considering the chances of crossing the street safely. If he noticed me, would that be a good thing or a bad thing? The connection happened suddenly. His eyes made forceful contact with my legs, and I felt each moment as he took his time appraising my outfit: slim, short skirt in classic Burberry “Nova” plaid, opaque black stockings, shiny patent leather penny loafers, and lace shirt with a Johnny collar that was probably a bit too sheer for work, but I’d paired it with a skimpy peach-colored camisole and nobody said anything. Maybe somebody should have.

He
did.

“Wore that to the office today, did you?”

I blushed, instantly, automatically, and pretended there was dire importance in the action of checking my mail. My fingers felt the slippery multitude of magazines and catalogs stuffed inside the tiny box, and I hoped I wouldn’t drop the
whole handful of mail. I could feel him moving closer, and now I could smell him, as well. Some masculine scent, mentholated shaving cream or aftershave. Not cologne. Wouldn’t be his style. No metrosexual, he.

His hands were on me now, thick fingers smoothing the collar of the shirt, then caressing the nape of my neck, his thumb running up and down until I leaned my head back against his large hand. Crazy, right? In the lobby of the apartment building, letting this man touch me. But I couldn’t help myself.

“A little slutty,” he said, “don’t you think?”

My mind reeled at the insult. Slutty? The entire outfit cost more than a thousand dollars. The skirt alone was worth nearly half of that, and I’d gone without small pleasures for months in order to justify the expenditure. Now, his hand became a fist around my hair, gathering my black-cherry curls into a makeshift ponytail and holding me tight.

“Don’t you think?” he repeated, his voice tighter, as tight as his fist around my long hair. With his free hand, he pushed my mail back into the box and flipped the door shut. I dropped my hands to my sides, no longer needing to pretend to busy myself.

“Yes,” I murmured, agreeing suddenly. It
was
slutty, the skirt far too short for a professional woman, the shirt sheer enough to be lingerie. The whole outfit was much more appropriate for bedroom games than office politics. What had I been thinking when I’d dressed myself that morning?

“Yes—” he repeated, his voice tighter still.

“Yes, Sir,” came just automatically in agreement, as automatically as my feet began to move when he pushed me forward to my apartment at the end of the long, narrow hallway. I stumbled once on the blue-and-maroon-colored Oriental runner, but he caught me, his other hand high up on my arm, so firmly gripping me that I could feel the indents of his fingers
digging into my skin. I’d have marks; I could see them, dark eggplant-purple bruises showing each place his fingers made contact, but now I said nothing.

He hurried me through the door to the living room, then kicked the door closed and hauled me quickly to the sofa. I saw everything swirling around me. The chocolate leather of the sofa, the bare shiny wood of the floor. He sat down and looked at me, and I shifted uncomfortably before him. I knew better than to sit, knew better than to do anything but wait. Yet waiting was the worst. Waiting and wondering. And hoping.