Best Bondage Erotica 2012 (3 page)

Rereading the advert convinced me it was high time I took Jonathan to the opera once more. If nothing else, it would allow me to treat myself to the toy I'd spotted on one of my favorite bondage-wear websites. The photograph couldn't have failed to catch my eye. With his burnished silver hair and broad shoulders, the model bore an unmistakable resemblance to Jonathan—at least from the back. For propriety's sake, a pair of tight black trunks concealed his firm ass, a luxury my husband would not be allowed should he find himself in the same position. He knelt, arms behind him, hands buried deep in the most beautiful pair of bondage opera gloves.

I didn't have to see the gloves in the flesh to know the leather would be butter soft, or that once they were in place, the submissive would be incapable of removing them unaided. The sturdy steel D-rings attached down their length and at the end of each glove enabled them to be fastened to themselves, to a hook on the wall or, just as in this photo, to the cuffs around the model's ankles. Endless possibilities sprang to mind as I considered all the delightfully restrictive and uncomfortable positions I could force Jonathan to adopt. My credit card wouldn't thank me for it, but I knew I needed a pair of those gloves. Once I had them, everything else would fall into place.

 

“We're going to the opera,” I informed Jonathan over breakfast a couple of mornings later.

He looked up from his copy of the
Times
. “Really? I thought you said you were never taking me again. Not after the Discman incident.”

“Ah, well, in those days you were able to misbehave and get away with it. This time that won't happen.” My words piqued
his curiosity, but I offered him no further explanation. “Plus, Martin's directing the production, and I thought it would be nice for the two of you to finally meet.”

With that, I declared the conversation closed. Jonathan clearly realized I was planning something, but I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of discovering exactly what.

Over the next couple of days, I took the tuxedo he'd last worn to his company's Christmas function out of storage and had it dry cleaned, and I made an appointment to have my honey-blonde highlights retouched, wanting Martin to see me at my best.

When we dressed on the evening of the performance, I thought we made a most elegant pair, Jonathan in his evening suit with his black bow tie neatly fastened and me in a sweet black dress with a short, flirty skirt and matching elbow-length gloves. We radiated the security that comes from a long and happy marriage and a financially comfortable background; on the surface a typically middle-class opera-loving couple, but beneath that, anything but. If Jonathan wondered why I was taking a bulky leather shoulder bag with me, he was too polite to say anything.

His surprise increased when he discovered I'd arranged for us to have a box, instead of the center front circle spot I normally favored. “I thought it would be nice to have a little privacy,” I told him, settling into the plush, comfortable seat. “After all, we're going to need it.”

The significance of the comment only struck him when the orchestra broke into the opening bars of the overture. This was the moment when I usually reached for my opera glasses, devoting all my attention to the stage. Tonight, however, I kept my eyes fixed on my husband.

“I want you to do something for me, and you're not going to
argue or refuse.” Just the tone of my voice would be enough to have his cock stiffening in his underwear, even as he wondered what twist this evening might be about to take. “Undress.”

“Francesca, are you serious?” he hissed in alarm. “I can't start taking my clothes off here.”

“You can, and you will. Don't worry, no one's looking. Now, get that penguin suit off.”

Despite his muttered objections, I had no doubt Jonathan would begin to undress. Whenever I'd told him stories of my previous exploits, the ones that excited him most were always those involving sex in public, particularly when there was a chance of being caught. I was counting on the deeply submissive part of him, the part that thrilled to the thought of exposure and humiliation, to ultimately override any sense of caution.

Skulking in the shadows at the back of the box, he reached for his bow tie, pulling the two ends apart before shrugging off his dinner jacket. My stomach gave a little thrilled lurch. He was really doing it, and it was just as exciting as in the fantasies I'd had leading up to this evening.

As he removed each item, tossing them to the floor of the box, I scooped them up and placed them in my bag. In moments, he was down to his shorts. I'd laid his outfit out for him while he was in the bath, and I'd deliberately chosen the tightest black underwear he possessed, still thinking about the faceless hunk on the bondage gear site.

“All right, I'm undressed,” Jonathan said.

“Not quite. I want those off, too.” I gestured to his shorts.

“Please, darling, what if somebody sees me?”

“I'm sure they'll enjoy the sight of a handsome man with a nice, hard cock. I know I will. Now, underwear, if you don't mind.”

I held out a hand. With less reluctance than I might have
expected, Jonathan peeled down his shorts. His erect cock bobbed free in the seconds before he covered it with his crossed palms. He looked so adorable—vulnerable and uncertain, yet willing to do whatever I wished.

On stage, the action had begun. The baritone playing the story's villain, Enrico, was singing that his nerves were trembling with fury at the news of his sister's secret assignations with her lover. There was a time when I would have tried to impart the finer details of the plot to Jonathan, in the vain hope he would follow what was happening, but now I was only concerned with producing the bondage opera gloves from the depths of my bag.

The D-rings adorning the gloves glinted in the low light. Jonathan stared at them, transfixed.

“Remember I said I'd make sure you couldn't misbehave tonight?” I asked. “Well, these beautiful gloves are designed to help me do just that. Hands behind your back.”

“I don't want to,” Jonathan murmured, in a tone indicating the exact opposite.

“Now!” I snapped, the word perfectly in time with a dramatic burst from the brass section. Jonathan pulled his hands away from his cock, so rigid and enticing it took all my willpower not to forget the game and simply order him to fuck me.

The lack of resistance as I guided first one arm, then the other, into the gloves told me how much Jonathan was enjoying being placed in this bizarre predicament. Some submissives fight against the process of being tied up every step of the way, their pleading and struggles all part of the game. Others complain their bonds are too tight, too loose, too inexpertly tied, whining and goading until the only response is to gag them and silence their irritating attempts to top from below. The easiest to deal with are those who embrace their restraint wholeheartedly,
permitting themselves to give up all responsibility and handing the administration of their pleasure to their partner. Jonathan falls into that latter camp, letting me mold and twist him into whatever position I desire without complaint.

“How do they feel?” I asked him once the gloves were in place and fastened to each other with short lengths of chain threaded through the D-rings.

“I can't really move my fingers, but they're surprisingly comfortable,” he replied.

“You know comfortable is the last thing I want you to be…” With that, I took a pair of well-worn leather cuffs from the bag. “Down.”

Obediently, he dropped to the carpeted floor, facing the seats. From what seemed like a great distance, I could hear the harp solo announcing the arrival of the opera's tragic heroine, Lucia. The solo would be immediately encored when it finished, as was traditional, giving me just enough time before Lucia's first aria, “Regnava Nel Silenzio,” to finish binding Jonathan. Jodie Spence, a young Welsh soprano who'd recently gained rave reviews for her Covent Garden debut as the lead in Bizet's
Carmen
, was playing Lucia, and I was anxious to hear her sing without distraction.

Working quickly, I fastened the cuffs around Jonathan's ankles, then connected them to the rings at the ends of his gloves. Now he could only kneel helplessly until I chose to release him. He looked delectable, head bowed, waiting for my next instruction.

I relaxed back in my seat and showed him his final surprise of the evening. Hoisting my skirt, I revealed to him that though I'd chosen my prettiest black suspender belt and sheer stockings, I hadn't bothered with any panties. My cunt, already swollen and slick with excitement, was delightfully framed
by the suspender straps, a visual treat for my poor, restrained husband.

“Do you like that?” I asked.

He nodded vigorously, realizing that whatever I intended to make him do, it clearly didn't, as he'd feared, involve watching the events unfolding on stage.

“Show me how much you do. Lick me. I want to lose count of how often I come before the opera ends.”

Without further ado, Jonathan went to work. As his mouth made contact with my juicy sex, I let out a purr of pleasure. This was how opera was meant to be enjoyed, with a naked, restrained man between your legs, licking you into a state of uncontrolled bliss. Eyes half-closed, I listened as Jodie Spence's pure, cultured voice filled the auditorium. I'd long thought of
Lucia Di Lammermoor
as a high peak of gloom in a genre that thrives on recounting stories of misery and loss, but never had it sounded so thrillingly captivating as it did tonight. Perhaps it was the technical brilliance of Spence's performance, coaxed from her by my old
amour
Martin, but I suspected it had more to do with the way Jonathan's wet, muscular tongue swept over the sensitive folds of my pussy, keeping me right on the edge of a shattering orgasm for as long as he possibly could.

As he lapped at me, I encouraged him in the way we both enjoy best, pouring scorn on his efforts and comparing them to those of my former lovers. “Martin could keep this up for hours, you know,” I murmured, between bites of the champagne truffles that are my more orthodox opera-going treat. “He'd have had me screaming the walls down by now.”

Spurred on by my deliberate mockery, Jonathan pressed his mouth even harder against my crotch, breath sighing against the entrance to my cunt. Glancing down, I admired the play of the muscles in his back, pulled taut by the way his arms were
bound to each other. The fantasies I'd woven while looking at the photo of the gloved model couldn't compare to the reality of having my husband at my feet, ignoring all the discomfort he must by now be feeling in order to carry out my orders to my complete satisfaction.

My excitement was swelling and building, just as the music was moving to its peak. When his tongue slithered over my asshole and orgasmic spasms shot through my belly, I simply couldn't help myself. Forgetting for a moment where I was, I sang out in pleasure. Jonathan paused for a moment to watch me come, then immediately returned to his oral ministrations, remembering my request for repeated climaxes.

I'd often walked away from a night at the opera feeling emotionally wrung out, but that hardly began to describe my state of mind as the action moved into the second and third acts. Everything was building toward Lucia's famous “mad scene” where, having murdered the man she has unwillingly married, she rants and raves and finally expires of her sorrows. In other circumstances, I would have been swept away by Jodie Spence's commanding grasp of the scene's nuances, the power in her voice belying her petite, delicate frame. But her ravings were nothing compared to my own, as Jonathan took me to a place where I could no longer hear the music all around me, only my own tormented breathing and muttered pleas for him not to stop what he was doing, never to stop.

“Oh, oh, oh,” I panted, thighs clasping tight round Jonathan's head as at last I knew I couldn't take any more. I was so wet, I was afraid my juices must have soaked the seat beneath me. My elegant evening gloves were stained with powdered sugar and sweat, and my hair had come loose from its neat French pleat. A thoroughly satiated mess, I knew I still had to do one last thing before this glorious evening was over.

Working with some assurance despite my lust-dazed state, I released my husband from his bonds. The cuffs and the beautifully wicked gloves fell to the floor. Jonathan struggled to his feet, trying not to wince as his cramped limbs reacted to their sudden freedom.

“Darling, you were such a good boy.” I grasped his cock firmly round its base, so hot and vital even through the fabric of my own gloves. “And every good boy deserves favor…”

My gaze was torn between the stage below us, where Lucia's lover, Edgardo, was reacting to the news of her death with a mournful aria detailing his grief, and Jonathan's face, contorted with ecstasy as my gloved thumb smeared the first dewy beads of precome into his straining cockhead.

As the music built in a crescendo, I tugged Jonathan's foreskin back and forth more steadily, pulling it over the glistening purple crown, speeding the rhythm and launching him toward the point of no return. His fingers were curling into fists, the cords standing out on the side of his neck as I used my free hand to stroke his full, low-hanging balls and tickle the seam between them.

“Come for me,” I urged him. “Come before he throws himself on his sword.”

“God, I wish you'd throw yourself on my sword,” Jonathan muttered, reminding me just why he and opera appreciation would never mix.

With timing even an experienced director like Martin would have envied, I brought Jonathan to a heaving climax, his come spattering in thick white droplets onto my thin black gloves. In perfect synchrony, the singer playing Edgardo slumped to the stage while Jonathan sank to his knees.