Best Bondage Erotica 2012 (13 page)

Yes, I'll anoint you. In that, I can set things right. I take a bottle from the dresser, fancy floral oil, essence of your favorite flower; I don't remember its name. The oil, an apology past, given to you after one of my more impressive transgressions. An apology you warmly accepted, but this bottle that I gave you, it is still full.

Your brow forms a question mark as I pour a pricey measure into my cupped hand. It drips between my fingers like the first splashes at the front of a summer storm on your taut belly. I lower my hand and drizzle some around and between your breasts; on your thick, hard nipples; around your ribs. I turn to your armpits. Your eyes widen.

I tickle you, tickle again, and now you fight harder than you ever have. You hate to be tickled, it's one of the forbidden things, and yet I savor this perverse, reverse torture. You take it. I stop, then coat the oil down one arm and up the other. Your fingers curl and sprawl and try to grip my hand as it oils your palms. My hand slides out like a fish from a hand thrust hungrily in the water.

I'm at the sensitive spot behind your knees. I tickle again, and your legs thrash beneath quaking hips, your feet whip toward the bedposts in tandem, as if touching them might release the cuffs that stay them. You take it. I stop again. You sigh into the wad. You nod.

The sweet aroma of the oil contrasts with the smell of hard sex and well-earned sweat.

The cool white skin over your torso is like wind-sculpted snow, singed to a crust in afternoon sun at the depth of winter, so cold it's hot. I need to feel all of you again.

 

“You can't take my guilt from me any more than I can give it to you, Dana.”

You suggested this a dozen times, but even a novice knows this isn't one of the twelve steps.

“Try me.”

I looked in your face, so earnest, so willing to see it through, though clearly neither of us knew what this meant back then. Your bound limbs were not resisting in the least.

“Really, I've hurt you so many ways. It just doesn't make sen—”

“I trust you, and I need this, too. Please.” You opened your mouth like a starved snake. I placed the silk wad in it, and bound it tight with the other scarf. Your eyes smiled.

 

Your gaze follows every move I make as I come to the only frontier of your flesh not anointed. I comb my fingers down your mound, through curls of bright red hair, and drape my middle finger across your labia, as if I'm shushing your pussy.

It obeys.

But your other lips grow surprisingly loud through the silk wad when my finger thrusts deep inside. I tease at your clit with a flicking thumb, then squeeze my middle finger forward to the recess that marks your G-spot.

I hadn't thought your eyes could get wider.

Your pussy grips me tight. Whereas before you were trying to push me out, now you're ambushing me, trapping my middle finger, but he is not alone. My index finger comes to his rescue. You grip tighter and my ring finger joins in. I grasp inside you like I'm about to levitate your body, exerting perfect pressure on that perfect little spot. Oh, how you moan, how your head swings side to side like you do when you're about to come.

I realize just how much I know about your body, how much I've learned about you, and yet I know so little about what drives you, what truly drives you. Why would a woman like you hold
on to something so worthless, proved so a dozen times? Why would such a fine woman be willing, no,
ask
to be bound and give herself over to such a man? Yes, you've surrendered your body to me time and time again, but nothing like this.

I do know that with one little flick, I could give you an orgasm that would wash down your body like a hurricane swell. Cruelly, I pull my fingers out.

Oh, I understood the word you said through your gag that time. That was downright nasty. It was you that said this would cleanse me, Dana.

I feel filthy.

I sit down on a chair next to the bed. I spread my legs. My cock points at you as if picking you from a lineup. I massage the copious juices you released into my hand into my rod. Hard as I am, I feel it get harder. I begin to ascend toward orgasm and hold my breath. You shake your head, mouth wide beneath cheeks redder than any blush rendered by the brush. Your nostrils flare with an intensity that borders upon spontaneous speech. The frustration in your eyes fades slowly as you stare at my burgundy cock, following the luxurious strokes of my hand.

You shake your head. You carefully compose one muffled word. Yes, I understand it.

I have to fight to release my cock from my hand before the first ribbon of come springs from it. I look over your defiled, anointed figure and pause to gain a little reason. I stare at the heavy cross suspended directly above your head like a wind chime in the eye of a hurricane until I relax a little. I straddle your stomach and study every line in your face. Perhaps I have gone too far, just as I did so many times before.
Just one more line, then I'll quit.
That electric rush, the incalculable relief as the white powder supercharges every cell. The restraint, staying on that wagon dutifully, vies with the desire to jump. Jump, like a
Black Tuesday stockbroker plummeting to earth, not sufficiently lightened to fly with freshly emptied pockets. Gravity wins, and the rush is so great with realizations that come just before the splatter, dear Dana. But the truth is, you don't really understand that feeling, do you?

My cock starts to feel numb.

I grant your carefully composed and delivered request and release the scarf around your mouth and pull out the wad. You drink in air like a woman pulled from the depths of a lake, your chest rising and falling in a steady thick rhythm. Out. You mumbled the word, “Out.” The wad is indeed out. Your mouth is free, and you can tell me now to go fuck myself. I will understand. Did you mean you want out, entirely? Done with me? Finally got wise? I can hardly blame you. I'll go away, as far as you command, Dana.

You simply lie, stretched, panting breath after breath. Not a word.

I pull the key from the nightstand and reach for the cuff at your right wrist. I can hardly wait to free you.

“No.” Your voice is barely a whisper. “Please, please finish me. I need it bad. Please.”

Oh, and I need you. I rest my knees between your wide-stretched thighs and press my cock to your mound and push inside. I've never quite felt you like this. I linger, open my lips over yours and you gape like I've just shoved a fresh wad of silk in. My tongue fights desperately to meet the challenge. You grunt into me. You taste bitter. You taste sweet.

I raise my hips slowly, until my tip is barely held in you. You draw a deep breath and hold it. I cling to your stretched chest as if I might slide off you in the great coating of oil, and descend inside you so slowly that you take two breaths before I'm full depth again.

There's a long silence. You whisper, “Oh, please?”

The posts of the bed bang the wall like a John Bonham solo. Flecks of plaster fall like snow. The big cross clacks and dances, and your hands drain from the cuffs like empty gloves. I push my mouth deeper in yours, trying to find the source of your syncopated, hoarse moans. I grope your helpless body. We've never fucked harder than this. We can both remember bruises that would attest to just how much that means.

Your voice elevates, levitates, cascades, and you yell out with the force of a landmine. I feel free. It washes over me. You have fulfilled your promise, and brought me precious redemption. Even in the shallow pool of cohesive thought that remains in me, fighting for oxygen against my needful cock, I am cleansed. It's like putting a broken nose back into place without anesthetic; searing, sudden deep pain, then relief.

Memories of my wrists, bound, in the back of a squad car, and knowing I'll be away long enough to dry out. Just like then, I need it; I willfully surrender. I rise up on my arms and look down your taut body, strung and tuned like guitar strings, your waist clenching like you're at the end of a thousand ab crunches. Fibrous muscles taint down-soft skin as you come, over and over.

Your fingers scatter like saplings in the wind, bright red toenails appear and disappear in convulsive clenches. Over and over you grunt loudly, wildly, your eyes dancing to me, to the room—sounds of deep pleasure, sounds of pain. A deep pain I thought you could not understand.

It seems you do.

My orgasm strains like a kinked fire hose, just barely opened.

Squeezed.

Squeezed.

Oh for god's sake, squeezed. The kinked hose straightens,
and it feels like I might never stop. It is exquisite. It frightens. It relieves.

It extinguishes.

My chest falls to yours like a felled redwood, and you take it like hard forest ground in winter. A long pause, bodies still united, just the sounds of two drowned people, freshly pulled from the lake, gurgling for air.

You finally break the silence with a whisper, “Are you free?”

“Yes, Dana.” I release the cuffs and you curl to my drenched body. We kiss gently, delicately. Kiss again, and again. It seems an hour passes while we simply kiss, teenagers in the backseat of a big car, big kisses. You taste so good, so fresh. I rub your wrists, the indentations where you pulled over and over against the cuffs. I comb my fingers in your hair, gently remove the tangles. I stroke the small of your back, and along the ridge of your shoulder blades, down your serrated spine like I'm opening a zipper.

We fit together in a parcel of bed small enough for a cat.

 

I haven't slept so deeply since I was a kid. The whole day that follows is bliss. We change the sheets, blankets and comforter together. I fix you lunch while you toss out the dozen spent candles we burnt to their last, then place fresh ones. We walk barefoot on the cold sands arm in arm and talk about the times to come until our feet go numb. We don't speak a word of the prior night until, freshly showered, you light the fresh candles as I wait for you in bed.

“Do you feel redeemed?” You pull two fresh silk scarves from the drawer and place them on the nightstand.

“Oh, no doubt, Dana.”

A glorious full moon bathes the bedroom in pale light. You lie with me and comb your fingers through my chest hairs.

You give me a delicate kiss, pull up, look me in the eye and kiss again. “Truly?”

“Truly. I feel free.”

“Good.” You kiss me hard, and my eyes shock wide when your tongue penetrates like a swat team across the threshold of a drug magnate's door. You pull away after a teasing lash to the back of my incisors. Your hand crawls up the sheet like a spider. You push my hand toward the bedpost. A handcuff pulls taut. It feels cold and familiar against my forearm, but still open. You'd told me once you wanted to do me like this. I never answered. You never asked again.

You whisper, “Am I worth redemption?”

I've never submitted to you. Oh, but I urgently press my wrist tight into the cuff. “Yes, of course.” I actually worry you might back out in the steady silence. I hear that familiar sound, tiny knuckles crackling and my hand is bound. I open my mouth wide and accept a big wad of silk. Still, I pull my other hand to my chest. A good fisherman knows the fish tastes sweeter after the struggle. You'll have to fight to get me in that next cuff. Fight me, just enough. You'll have to work for your redemption, too, Dana.

Thankfully, you do.

Elizabeth Silver

 

 

 

 

 

 

Goth night at the club, and whose idea was it to have theme nights, anyhow? Fuck, if it were up to me, I'd just stay in my sweats and watch replays from this afternoon's soccer game, but someone has to tend bar and a guy's got to make a living. No one ever told me, you see, that my philosophy degree was as good as getting my paper hat bronzed, so I've got to pay for more school to get out of this shit-hole, to make my life better, bigger, stronger, more than it is now. Every time I talk to my parents, they're always
so proud
of me, too. It's damn exhausting is what it is, but you've got to do what you've got to do. So.

So here I am, dressing up and feeling like an idiot because I'm damn near poking my eye out with this eyeliner. I'm just glad that this is only the dry run for tomorrow night.

“Fuck it,” I mutter, tossing the pencil on my bureau. No makeup is better than missing an eye, I figure, and I reach for one of the accessories that I can't shrug off, not after the fuss I kicked up trying to find the right one, slipping it on with a lot more practice.

The collar sits around my neck, loose and comfortable, a black and shiny accessory to dress up my clubbing outfit of black trousers and black mesh shirt. The thin band of black leather looks stark against my pale skin, the chromed O-ring a teasing invitation that I don't have any intention of letting anyone close enough to take me up on. Besides, everyone wears them these days, and just because I had to search in three sex shops when even the most goth stores didn't seem to have what I was looking for, that doesn't mean anything. At least mine feels good.

I have to adjust myself in my pants, making room for how good it feels, and that's just a little too weird, so I hook my finger in the ring and tug on it once as I mug at my reflection. Something about what I see makes me feel…strange. I feel warm and uncomfortable, in ways that I'm not entirely sure I want to deal with, so instead, I just shove it to the side and stick my tongue out, panting like our landlady's cocker spaniel.

“Arf-arf,” I say with a grin, just as my roommate lets himself in without knocking.

“I hope you're house trained,” Stefan says, tossing the last piece of my outfit at me. I catch it out of reflex, arms curling around the leather. “Here you go, Kevin. All laced and ready to go. Never would've thought those summers dressing up as a peasant would pay off like this.”