Best Bondage Erotica 2012 (11 page)

“No, Ma'am,” he said, a plea I couldn't quite understand in his voice. “I don't forget that. But I'd almost forgotten the rope. Thank you for reminding me.”

“Remember that you're thanking me now,” I said. “You'll probably curse me later. Then you'll thank me again.”

Then I worked my way back up, blowing on his cock and balls in passing but not touching them, and repeated my performance on his other straining leg.

By the time I made my leisurely, teasing way back, poor Martin's face was as red and straining as his untouched dick. His muscles were even more defined now, tense with need.

I took a long, deliberate moment to admire my handiwork, no contact with him except a hand resting lightly on his thigh. “Beautiful boy,” I breathed. “Beautiful, beautiful boy. Be good and don't go anywhere. Oh, wait. You can't anyway.” I smiled as I said it.

“Curse you, Ma'am,” he said in a small yet happy voice. “Curse you and bless you. I couldn't take this if I wasn't bound.”

I leaned in close, cupped his face. “Yes, you could,” I whispered, surprising myself with the intensity in my voice, “if I wanted you to. But I'm being kind this time.”

I turned away long enough to grab the lube.

Martin winced at the slight coolness of the slick substance as I coated his cock, or maybe the wince was simply because
he was that sensitive. That thought made me grin.

The grin turned into an outright laugh when he sighed with pleasure and thanked me. “Don't thank me yet, sweet boy. You said you wanted to suffer for me, and suffer you will.”

Then I proceeded to give my boy the most teasingly drawn-out hand job in the long history of hand jobs.

I watched his face as I stroked him; listened to the subtleties of his breathing; checked how his muscles tensed, how his hands clenched and strained against the ropes, how his feet tried and failed to move. Whenever his breath caught in his throat too much, or I saw his ab muscles start to twitch, I backed off, resting my hand on his hip bone, stroking that smooth, hot skin lightly, until his breathing regularized.

By the third time I did this, he was thrashing against the ropes so hard I'd have feared for my bed if it wasn't a sturdy Mission frame. His skin was glazed lightly with sweat, making him look all the more beautiful. His eyes were all pupil, and he stared fixedly, frantically, as though he was looking through time and space and seeing the face of the divine in me. His lips moved in a silent litany. I could guess what he was saying, or at least the gist of it, but nevertheless I demanded, “Speak up, Martin. I can't hear you.”

“Please,” he begged, his voice still barely audible. “Please, Ma'am. Please.”

I knew what he was pleading for, of course, but I wanted to hear him say the words. “Please what, dear?” I stroked his rigid length idly—only it wasn't idly at all, but carefully, calculatedly, just enough pressure to keep him hard and aching with the need to explode, but not enough to bring him any closer.

“Please…” It was clearly an effort to make his brain form a coherent thought. “Please let me come, Ma'am. Please.”

“Doesn't it feel good?” I was stroking more forcefully now, cupping his balls.

I bent down and ran my tongue over the head of his cock, just once. My mouth had never gotten anywhere near his cock before.

He arched up off the bed with a harsh cry. Without the ropes, I swear he might have levitated until the ceiling stopped him. “Hell yes, but almost…too…sensitive. Almost hurts.” His voice was strained almost to breaking.

“Should I stop?” I sat up, withdrew my hand. Withdrew all contact from him except my hip brushing his flank, because he was flying way too high for me to pull away altogether. That would be too cruel in a game that ultimately I hoped he too would enjoy.

“No, please. But please, please…let me come!”

“In time, sweet boy. In time.” I kissed him almost chastely, though he tried to make it deeper. “Right now it's making me wet and hot to torment you, to see you suffer.” He made a sweet, tortured noise that made me wetter yet.

I slipped my hand under my skirt and ran my fingers between lips almost as sensitized and needy as his cock must be. I showed him the glistening evidence, then ran it over his lips.

He desperately sucked my fingers as if that might bring him relief.

“I need you to suffer for me a little longer, Martin, because it's making me feel so good. Can you do that?”

He replied with a muffled but enthusiastic, “Yes, Ma'am,” around my fingers.

With his consent, I returned to my teasing work. And as I did, I talked softly. “You look so gorgeous right now, Martin, all flushed and messed up and sweaty. You're going to have lovely rope marks on your wrists and ankles because you can't stop yourself from struggling. But at the same time you want to give yourself to me, to take whatever I give you. Right?”

He nodded tightly.

“And even though this is hard to handle in some ways, I bet it's also pleasurable. Exciting. You're just so sensitized now that the pleasure's also painful, like pain can be pleasurable.”

Another tight nod.

“Remember how this feels, Martin. Remember it with every cell in your body.” I timed the movements of my hands to the cadence of my words, letting both become slow, relentless, hypnotic. Between extremes of pleasure, enforced obedience, and bondage, Martin was already so far into subspace I was dealing with an altered state of consciousness. If I remembered my college psych classes—and the erotic hypnosis demo our local BDSM community had arranged—I might be able to slip a suggestion, at least a fun one that he'd want to obey, into his wide-open brain. “Remember every detail, because even though you feel like you're suffering now, you're going to want to relive this afternoon over and over again. You're going to want to remember this peak of arousal and the powerful orgasm that follows. Aren't you, Martin?”

A very small voice replied, “Yes, Ma'am.”

“Do you still want to come, Martin?”

“No, Ma'am.” He hesitated, then added, “Well, yes, of course…but when you want me to. This is awful and wonderful, and I know when you let me come, it'll be amazing.”

“And what if I don't let you come, what if, after all this teasing, I deny you?”

I could see in his face how he was struggling to answer me both honestly and respectfully. After what seemed like a very long time, which I punctuated with a series of excruciatingly slow strokes on his cock, he replied, more coherently than I would have expected, though in a shaky voice that sounded like he was holding himself together by sheer will, “I really hope you
wouldn't do that, Ma'am, please. But it's your choice. And no one's ever died from not coming—though right now I feel like I might.”

I thrilled to the message there, the way his wish to obey and please struggled with his body's by now urgent demands and how he conquered those demands for my sake. “You are such a good boy, Martin, such a wonderful, good boy,” I said, and I meant every word. “You've pleased me very much. And I think right now it would please me to have you come for me. Come for me, Martin, and remember how it feels. Let it burn into your brain and your body. Come for me
now
.”

I didn't change what I was doing, but the words, the permission, set loose a freight train of an orgasm that engulfed his whole body. His face reddened and screwed up so he was almost unrecognizable, and his eyes rolled back into his head. His abs contracted and rolled like a particularly ambitious belly dancer's. The ropes groaned against the bedposts. His cock danced wildly, spurting come everywhere. He bit his lip, but it didn't stifle the roar of fulfillment.

So hot—so hot I came myself watching him. The orgasm was quick and shimmering, like hands-free ones usually were, but it was followed by a second wave of pleasure as warm as sunlight. This wasn't a physical orgasm, but a blend of pride and delight and tenderness as heady as coming and far more dangerous, because it meant that my heart was snared by Martin's beautiful submission as tightly as his body was by my ropes.

And just for that, just because looking at him caught in pleasure so strong it was almost pain made me want to slap a collar on his neck and hell, maybe a ring on his finger, I didn't relent, as I often would after a good come softened me.

When his struggles subsided and his face slackened but his dick hadn't, I rested my palm on his come-slick belly. “You
remember how that felt, the buildup and the orgasm?”

He nodded, his eyes so spacey I expected to see stars in their depths.

“Good boy. Relive it for me now and come. Come again, Martin.”

I wasn't sure it would work. I hadn't formally hypnotized him, after all, just tried to slip in a suggestion when his brain was out to lunch.

A look of awe and astonishment overtook him as his abs began to contract under my hand. His cock twitched, though there was nothing left to explode out.

This time he didn't even try to hold back his cries.

When the cries faded to something more like sobs, I untied him quickly. Then I curled up on his come-splattered chest. “You're safe, sweet Martin,” I murmured. “You're safe and you're brave and you've pleased me wonderfully.”

“Thank you. I didn't think…” His voice was shaky, almost inaudible, but I could tell now that the tears were tears of release, nothing bad. “I didn't think that was possible. Thank you so much, Ma'am. Thank you.”

“After suffering for me, you deserved a treat.” I thought for a second before I added, “And you know something, sweet Martin? I wasn't sure it would work either. But I'm so glad it did.”

Might as well admit I didn't know everything, I thought, lightly kissing his sweaty chest. Being a clever boy, he'd figure it out on his own eventually. After all, I wasn't planning on letting him go.

No, I wanted to keep this one around to suffer for me—and come so prettily for me—for as long as I could. Maybe, just maybe, forever.

Giselle Renarde

 

 

 

 

 

 

“You're late,” she said. “Again.”

He'd been drinking, too. She could smell it on his breath when he made his usual round of excuses. “Gina, baby, I'm sorry. I was out with the guys and…”

“And you drove like this.”

His expression altered with her flat-out accusation, but she was too damn mad to pussyfoot around the issue. For a second, she was convinced he'd push past her, swearing under his breath. She was truly surprised when he slouched inside the door frame, leaning his head and shoulder against the jamb. His hair was a dark, slick mess of strands against his forehead. She hated the way it made her pussy throb, just looking at him in all that leather. How could her body betray her like this?

“I'm sorry,” he said again, and this time it seemed like a genuine apology.

Still, sorry wasn't good enough. When he reached for her fingers, she pulled them away. “You said you'd be home four
hours ago, Terry. Four hours, I've been waiting like this.”

When he asked, “Waiting like what?” the anger sitting in her belly burbled up toward her heart. She turned and stomped down the hall in a huff. He really had no clue—none at all! Why did she put up with him? It wasn't until she started clearing the table that he called out, “Hey, what's that you're wearing there?”

“Oh, you like it, do you?” she hissed when he'd kicked past the plastic toy shopping cart in the hallway and perched outside the dining room. He'd taken off his jacket, and now wore just a T-shirt and those soft-as-butter leather pants. Steeling herself against his allure, she asked, “Do you know what serendipity is, Terry?” She didn't wait for him to answer. “Serendipity is when Caroline and Ayden both happen to get invited to sleepovers on the same day I just happen to fit back into my old school uniform. That's seren-fucking-dipity if ever I saw it, Terry, and what do you spend the night doing?”

Terry hung his head down low. “Drinking with my buddies,” he mumbled, plunking himself down on one of the ugly-ass dining room chairs he'd insisted on buying: leather seats and backs with chrome bodies. Christ, she'd let him turn her dining room into a sports bar, and why? All for love, love, bloody-fucking-love.

Gina released an irritated breath, clattering clean cutlery onto the plates they hadn't used because
somebody
didn't come home for dinner. Her breath hitched when she said, “You could have killed someone, drinking and driving.”

“What, on the hog?” he snorted, like this was all a big joke. “If anybody got killed, it would have been me.”

Whipping a cloth napkin at the table, she turned and met him eye to eye. “Exactly,” she said. Why didn't he understand? “That's exactly the point, Terry.”

There was just too much to be angry about, but
god
, the way those leather pants clung to the muscles of his thighs made her weak in the knees. She'd geared herself up to get laid tonight, and she wanted it. At the moment, she might not want
him
, but she still wanted
it
. She wasn't even wearing any panties under this scratchy plaid skirt. She wasn't wearing a bra under her knotted white shirt, either.

When Terry reached for a pleat and fondled the wool between his thumb and forefinger, a growl escaped his throat. She watched his calloused fingers rub the fabric of her skirt, mesmerized by the motion. And then he let out a big burp and the spell was broken.