Best Bondage Erotica 2012 (18 page)

He lay beside me, both of us panting and exhausted, his hair tickling me underneath my chin. After a moment he reached up and undid the ropes around my wrists, freeing my arms so I could wrap them around him.

“Are you okay?”

“I don't know,” I replied, feeling my tender neck, my bruised wrists.

He kissed me gently and ran his fingers through my hair.

“Don't worry,” he smiled. “I didn't leave a mark.”

I wasn't so sure about that.

 

Twenty hours later I was airborne somewhere over the Atlantic. The hum of the plane's engines seemed to have been going on forever. I'd dozed off for a while, I thought; it felt like the early hours of the morning. In the seat beside me Liz was sleeping. I touched the bruise on my wrist and felt a flood of warmth invading my body. I shifted in my seat, feeling restless and alert, needing something. I pressed my fingers into the bruise, the pain making my clit throb and desire travel up my neck and cheeks. I undid my seat belt and got up to go to the tiny, cramped toilet at the back of the cabin. In the cubicle I rushed to unbutton
my jeans, closing my eyes and seeing not the basin, the mirror, the no-smoking signs, but his hotel room again. I played the scene in my mind, his hands roughly holding my head, the pressure around my neck, my breaths burning against the fabric over my face—I heard a knocking on the door and called out “One minute!”—my arms and legs tied to the bed, and then the scene changed: a table, purpose built, restrained me, a collar around my neck, my mouth stuffed with silk, clamps on my nipples being tightened until I thought I could stand it no more, my fingers pressing deep inside me and my thumb rubbing my clitoris, my cunt soaking wet and desperate, the room spinning as my orgasm shook my body. I withdrew my fingers slowly. Another knock on the door, louder this time.

“Are you okay?” a stranger called from outside the toilet.

I was out of breath and giddy, but this time I knew the answer.

“Yes,” I shouted back.

I buttoned up my jeans and checked my reflection in the mirror. My cheeks were flushed, my hair disheveled. I washed my hands and tried to practice my serious, up-to-nothing face but my heart was still pounding. I licked my dry lips. I wanted more. My eyes glinted with desire in my reflection and, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't stop smiling.

Lana Fox

 

 

 

 

 

 

The first time I was stirred by a sword, I'd just turned eighteen. Our family had been invited for tea with the Lindens, who lived in a Georgian mansion where everything was crafted from oak. My brother, Henry, who was two years older than me, went to school with their son, Rupe, a fencing team hottie who could drink anyone under the table. While Rupe took my brother to his downstairs lair, Mrs. Linden served me and my parents tea from a porcelain pot. The tea tasted weak, and there was something flowery about it. It took half an hour of politeness before I managed to slip from the room.

I found my way downstairs to the cellar, where, through one of the open doors, I could hear the clashing of steel on steel. The Cure's “Lovecats” was also playing loudly, and I could hear a voice occasionally singing along. Following the noise, I moved toward an open door, glancing into the room. Inside, dozens of swords were displayed against the brickwork, along with photos of fencers in action. And there, in the center, on
a purple crash-mat, were two men in white fencing gear—my brother and Rupe, I assumed—with gauzy masks that covered their faces.

Rupe, who I remembered as the taller of the two, seemed to be an expert with that blade, which he swished so fast it left the dimness gleaming. He was giving my brother chances before pointing the tip at his gullet and laughing, as my brother swore and dropped his sword, holding his head. But as they began another round, it was Rupe I was watching. Aglow with desire, I gazed at the suit clinging round his thighs and the way he held his weapon, slashing the air. He moved his body with an effortless grace, dodging Henry's clumsy moves. Every so often he sang along with the lead singer, and when he got to the part about having each other with cream, he stopped my brother's blade with his and turned his face toward me.

I caught my breath.

Even though I couldn't make out his eyes, I could feel his stare sliding down my body, lingering on my tank top and the girlish skin beneath. “Julie,” he said, lifting off his mask. Running a hand through his mess of blond hair, he raised an eyebrow. “You'd make good prey.”

“Quit it, Rupe.” My brother was now maskless.

“Want to play?” Rupe asked me.

Henry's voice grew cool. “I said get the fuck away from her.”

Rupe didn't move a muscle.

I told him, “I'd be useless with a sword.”

As Rupe walked toward me, calm behind his tan, he extended his sword and let the tip hover below my jaw. “You need a man to teach you some good British steel.” I was so afraid and aroused, and afraid of being aroused, that I could hear my every heartbeat and feel my every breath. Although I longed for that sword tip to trace every part of me, I still knew the threat of it.

Henry pressed a hand onto Rupe's shoulder. “Drop the sword or I swear, you'll regret it.”

Though I knew my brother was protecting me, I willed Rupe not to weaken.

Rupe gave a sly smile, lowering the metal between my teenage breasts, letting it dwell for a perfect second there. Again, I willed him to slice through the silk of my camisole and press that blade to my naked skin. In my fantasies, I believed I'd always wanted to be fucked, but now I saw it wasn't so. The danger that quivered at the end of Rupe's blade made me ache for a lancing—trusting him, not trusting him, and wanting to trust him, were all part of becoming a woman, and this moment made my past imaginings seem foolish.

But Rupe backed down and Henry marched me toward the living room where Mr. Linden was talking to our parents about the state of the government.

“Julie saw us thrusting and parrying,” said my brother. “It's no game for a girl.”

“I was just looking,” I protested, but my father still lectured me. I was forced to sit on an upright chair, saying, “Please,” and “Thank you,” while my arousal simmered inside me. I told myself it wouldn't be long until I saw Rupe again, but I didn't realize I'd caused a rift that night, one that had been growing for months. Rupe thought he was all-powerful, and Henry wouldn't take it, and it seemed I was the final straw. After this strange and stunning evening, the boys would stop speaking, and I'd have to suffer three hungry years before meeting Rupe again.

 

Years later, after I'd just turned twenty-one, I returned from university for the summer and found a mustard-colored envelope addressed to me. It was an invitation to Rupe's twenty-fourth birthday party the following weekend. At the bottom of
the invite, Rupe had scrawled: “It seems a shame that you and I should be torn apart by your brother's stubbornness. Come to my party, Julie. I'll teach you some serious swordplay.” Running a fingertip across the writing, I felt lightheaded. I was ready, and I wanted this.

Days passed. My expectations grew. All I could think of was being controlled at the tip of Rupe's sword. The invite said this was a costume party with a historical theme, so I tried outfit after outfit, eventually settling on a silky gold dress held up by thin straps that I longed for him to sever. On the night itself, I donned low heels and also planted tissue flowers in my hair. Then I caught a taxi to the old English hotel. In the half-timbered lobby, I passed two women in Elizabethan ruffs and a wartime butler in a bowler hat, his arm draped round a muscular god. Helen of Troy was arguing with a nymph, and three Flower Fairy children chased each other, screeching.

Mrs. Linden stopped me in the doorway, dressed as Cleopatra. “I know you, dear, don't I? You're Ralph and Tina's girl.” She handed me a glass of wine and began grilling me about the rift between Rupe and Henry. As I gave vague answers, I felt a hand on the small of my back and smelt a dry cologne that made my pussy flood. It was Rupe, gently flicking one of the flowers in my hair. “You're Ophelia, of course. Clever girl. If I see another Helen of Troy I'll slit someone's throat.”

As Mrs. Linden chided him for saying such a thing, I surveyed her son. He'd hardly changed since that night in the cellar, though his golden hair was now loosely curled and floppier than it used to be. His collarless shirt fell open, unbuttoned, exposing his super-smooth chest, and a silver cross hung from a chain against his tanned skin. His sword, in its sheath, was hanging at his side. Hell, how I burned for him then!

“Remember this?” Rupe asked, pressing my fingers onto the
hilt of his sword. I let myself explore the heavy steel—a gesture that felt as personal as sliding a hand between his thighs.

“Who are you meant to be?” I asked him.

“Romeo in exile.” In my ear, he added, “We have similar literary tastes.”

I felt a deep, low burn.

“Rupert, dear,” said Mrs. Linden. “The Worcesters were asking after you.”

“Well,” said Rupe, weaving an arm through mine. “Let's not disappoint them.”

Rupe led me through a high-beamed hall, which was filled with clowns, queens, gladiators and fairies. A long oak table stretched down the center of the room, laden with voluptuous food: sumptuous cheeses, deviled eggs, peaches stuffed with ricotta.

“Are we going to talk to the Worcesters?” I asked.

He raised an eyebrow. “We've more pressing matters at hand.” When I stared at him, he added, “Darling, I've been waiting for you to turn twenty-one. I may be a rogue, but I'm a gentleman first and foremost.”

At this moment, we were assailed by a Marilyn Monroe, who purred flirtatiously at Rupe and gave me sour little looks. “Rupe's a devil,” she told me. “The things he does to a girl.”

“Julie's about to find out,” said Rupe.

I nudged him.
How rude!
But Marilyn was marching angrily away.

After that, there was a powdered aunt dressed like an opera singer, asking him why he wasn't studying law like his father and then a Pierrot and Pierrette who were clearly old friends. Everyone wanted to talk to Rupe. I was so desperate for a shafting, I almost begged him to take me right there.

When he finally managed to break us away, Rupe gestured toward a door. “That's where we're heading. Make eye contact
with no one.” He explained that a member of his fencing club worked at this hotel. “It's a storeroom, apparently. I have a key.” I flushed at his directness. As we strode toward our destination, he ran a hand across my ass, making me tingle and gasp. “No underwear,” he said. “You
have
grown up. I'll teach you a lesson, you Shakespearean whore.”

“What if I don't want to?” I asked.

“Then I'm nothing but a fool.”

At the approach of a couple of men in tuxedos, Rupe told me, “Here's how we get rid of them,” and with that, he grasped my face and kissed me, long and hard, with his hands grazing my hardening nipples. He pressed his stiffness against my belly, and I felt myself turning crazily wet as his lips slid hungrily over mine. Pulling away at last, he took me by the wrist with a roughness that made me giddy and dragged me through the crowds toward the storeroom door.

The room we entered was shadowy, though the moonlight from outside lent an eerie glow. As my eyes adjusted, I made out a Roman statue, a pile of stacked chairs and an antique table. The velvety curtains were tied open with cord, and next to them was a suit of armor, the mottled bronze gleaming in the milky light. Rupe explained that this was where the staff kept the props for feasts and balls. We stared at each other. Slowly, he drew his sword from its sheath until I saw the flash of its steel, and he held its naked metal between us, the blade pointing at the ceiling. “Beautiful, isn't it?” he said.

I was too aroused to speak.

“If you want me to stop at any time, call me by my full name—Rupert.”

“Okay.”

“Shall we play?” he asked.

“God, yes.”

The smile that sprang to his lips was so sweet and genuine it took my breath away.

With a swipe of the gleaming blade, he cut through a curtain cord, which fell to the floor; this he used to bind my wrists behind me before backing me toward the table. The presence of the sword, now fully sheathed at his side, seemed to electrify the air. Standing mere feet away from me, he slid the blade free, brandishing it before lowering its point to my throat. Thirsty and afraid, I arched backward, but the point moved with me—a mere inch from my skin. “I could cut you,” he said, on the edge of a snarl. I didn't need to look down to know his sex would be hard. He raised my chin with the tip of his sword and I felt the sharp, cool steel. Quivering, I knew that it wouldn't take much to make me come.

“You're all mine,” he said.

I told him I was, though even as I spoke the words, a part of me wasn't sure.

Suddenly, cheering rose from outside the room. “Rupe? Where's Rupe? Time to cut the cake!”

The edge of Rupe's grin twitched as he told me he wouldn't be long, and I guessed he was enjoying this opportunity to torment me. Turning toward the door, he slid his sword into its sheath; as he left the room, the door slamming behind him, I glanced down at my vulnerable flesh and ached with pure arousal. I had no proof that he'd ever return.

I'd never trusted like this.

 

At the window, the curtain was only half closed and the moonlight spilled across the Roman statue, a bust of a boy in an ivy crown with vacant eyes. I burned as I remembered Rupe's sword slicing through the darkness, and I dreamed of the steel pressed onto my sex as I rubbed against it, wet.