Best Bondage Erotica 2012 (6 page)

They proved a point there and then as they widened when he realized I'd rendered him completely helpless. The cuffing he'd obviously found kinky, but taking his power of speech away? He was unsure, but not turned off. His erection was still very much there, and I was looking forward to sinking onto it. Especially now that he was quiet.

I took off my clothes without further ado then made a final visit to my overnight bag. This time I retrieved a condom and walked back to Ethan, unwrapping it as I went. Kneeling between his legs, I grasped his thick cock and began to masturbate him, slowly. He closed his eyes and moaned into the gag, his shaft twitching beneath my fingers. I loved the feel of it in my hand, velvety warmth surrounding a core of steel.

Ethan was clearly enjoying himself, too, as the amount of precome gathering at the tip of his bell-end was increasing rapidly. I bent and closed my mouth over his glans, swirling my tongue up and over, just enough to lick up all the sticky fluid and have him thrust his hips at me.

Before he got too excited, I slid my mouth off Ethan's cock with a
pop,
then rolled the rubber onto it. Standing, I straddled him, hooking my feet around the back of the chair for leverage. Then I sat back and proceeded to be a complete and utter tease. I grabbed his dick and slid it up and down my wet slit, his meaty cockhead dipping into my soaking wet folds just a little.

His muffled moans were getting me really hot. My clit was swollen and sensitive, and I knew I'd climax without too much trouble. Remembering how much it turned Ethan on when I came, I held his shaft still and rocked my hips against it, stroking my clit over and over until I felt the telltale signs of my orgasm approaching.

Picking up the pace, I pushed harder against Ethan's cock, needing that extra pressure to get me off. Then it happened: I hit my plateau and after a couple of suspended seconds, I plunged off it. I gasped and moaned my release, my cunt greedily grabbing at thin air as it spasmed.

I looked into Ethan's eyes the entire time. They widened as I started to come, and he strained at his bonds as I thrashed and moaned on his lap. He soon stopped when I quickly maneuvered myself up and fed his cock into my still-quivering pussy. I was so wet that it slid in up to the hilt with little resistance, despite his impressive girth. I gave myself a couple of seconds to savor the sensation, then started to bounce up and down, riding his cock like there was no tomorrow.

Probably because there wasn't—not for us.

I loved the feeling of total control I got, having Ethan bound to the chair, silent. Even if I was on top, he'd usually be doing something to alter the pace to his own preference, whether pulling my hips harder to his or thrusting up at me. But not this time. Beside his being cuffed, my weight was pinning him down, so the pace was mine to pick. And boy, did I pick it.

I fucked Ethan hard until I sensed he was getting close to orgasm, then I slowed down until I was barely moving. I did this two or three times, having no intention of letting him come until I was good and ready. And you know the best thing about it? He couldn't utter a damn word of complaint. Sure, he was making some noises and mumbling into the gag, but as I
couldn't understand a single word of it, I pleased myself.

Soon, though, I knew I had to finish it. My legs were growing wobbly with exertion and my clit was so rigid it almost hurt. I needed—and wanted—to come again.

Looking Ethan straight in the eye, I said, “Ready, baby?”

He nodded, but without waiting for an answer, I'd already started bobbing up and down on him again. Gritting my teeth, I rode Ethan's cock rough and fast, my hands gripping the back of the chair so hard that my knuckles went white. I felt the slow burn of my orgasm start to build again. I leaned forward slightly, mashing my clit against Ethan's pubic bone with each movement.

Soon the burn turned into a full flame and my pussy flexed and squeezed Ethan's cock as my orgasm crashed throughout my body. Ethan was unable to hold out any longer, and a series of strangled noises came from his mouth as he hit his own peak, his shaft leaping inside of me as he spurted his release into the condom.

I slumped onto him, completely exhausted. We were still and silent for a while until Ethan wriggled, my dead weight obviously making him uncomfortable. I sighed, saddened to end the fantasy of a silent Ethan.

Slowly I got up. Retrieving the key for the cuffs, I released Ethan and left him to sort out the gag himself. By the time he'd untied it and disposed of the condom, I was already in bed, feigning sleep. A brighter guy would have known I was faking it, but not Ethan. Sated and therefore happy, he snuggled into bed beside me and soon we were both asleep for real.

The following morning I woke up before him, as usual. Slipping out of bed quietly, I dressed, then grabbed all my stuff. Pulling an envelope out of my bag, I gazed at the perfection that was a silent, sleeping Ethan for a minute or two, then put it on
the pillow I'd vacated. I knew it was wrong to dump someone by letter, but ending a relationship is never easy, however you do it.

I'd decided to split up with my trophy boyfriend the best way I knew: in silence. Without our exchanging a word, the end of the relationship would not be sullied by words. Our last shared memory would be the most amazing fuck of our lives (so far), rather than bitter words and meaningless explanations.

And it doesn't get much better than that, does it?

Salome Wilde

 

 

 

 

 

 

“You really ought to go,” said Hannah, pointing the corner of her overbuttered toast in Nick's direction. “She's been asking you for weeks.”

Nick frowned, then took a sip of the coffee that was too hot to drink and felt the burn as a reproach. “I guess,” he answered, wondering if his tongue would hurt all day and ruin lunch. Her “sensitive boy,” Paolina called him, but he was no masochist. Not really, anyway. The image of Paolina's broad smile and full lips flashed before Nick's sleepy eyes and he smiled in return.

Last weekend had been incredible. There was nothing Paolina wouldn't do for and to him, and nothing he did not give in return. From the care she took in tying him—not too tightly—to her four-poster bed to her skill with a strap-on, he knew, after only three months of dating, he'd never find another lover like her. He basked in her possessive attention, cooked her sumptuous meals and served them in her tidy little apartment, felt enjoyed but not fetishized for his mixed-race background, slept contentedly
with her when she invited him to spend the night, and wondered if perhaps this might get serious. But the club thing, that was different. If he was sensitive, he was also private. Paolina seemed to accept his preference, so why couldn't Hannah? Shouldn't a friend and longtime roommate be more rather than less understanding than a short-time lover? “I dunno,” he concluded, guilt rising like heat in his chest.

Hannah sighed dramatically, then crunched toast. “What're you so scared of, anyway? I'm sure you two get up to much worse than she's going to do in some club.” She rolled her dark eyes, and Nick wasn't sure whether it was at what he got up to or what she suspected would go on at Strike, the BDSM club in question. Hannah had pried more details out of him than he'd ever admitted to anyone who wasn't part of his sex life one late night about a year previously, and he knew even then that he'd never live it down. She kept what she knew to herself, or the friendship would have ended hideously, but no matter how vanilla his life looked on the surface—from his bookishness to his preference for what Hannah called his “uninspired” clothing style—he could no longer hide from her that the kink ran deep.

Nick risked another sip of coffee as Hannah shrugged, rose and took her mug with her into the front room. She noisily flopped down with her laptop for her morning ritual of reading all the news fit for the Internet. Without turning around, she tossed her
coup de grace
over her shoulder: “If you're jealous that she'll be tying up some other boy, you could always take his place, you know.”

The rush of guilt became the flush of embarrassment as Hannah's arrow hit home. If he was slowly creeping around in his mind toward the possibility of loving Paolina, he was assiduously avoiding the possibility of being jealous that she was going to do a public bondage scene with another guy. A stranger at
that, for the plan was to take a volunteer from the audience. No sex would be involved, Paolina had assured him; it wasn't that kind of scene. And he was thrilled that she felt the desire to reassure him. But, if he was her lover and submissive, then why was he letting this chance go by? He didn't have to immerse himself in the club scene; he didn't have to care what any of the strangers watching would think. He could just be there, do this, for Paolina. For them both. Sudden resolve put a shiver through him. It was far from unpleasant. He grabbed his bag and headed for the door. He had a full day ahead behind the desk, editing copy for textbooks in which he rarely had real interest, and then he'd be headed home to change, find directions to Strike, and then off to an unsure but surely interesting night.

 

As he navigated the empty streets, looking for the converted warehouse that was intentionally placed far from city lights and overmuch attention by sightseeing types, Nick saw in his mind's eye the wide smile Hannah had given him as he left the house that night. Black T-shirt, tight jeans, black leather jacket and motorcycle boots: it was about as fetish as he got, but it was clear enough to Hannah where he was headed. “You look great,” she'd said, and he couldn't help but flash a grin. Though they'd somehow managed to navigate a friendship without sex, they didn't lack appreciation of each other's attractiveness. And, passing a hand through his coffee-brown hair—short in back, wavy, messy bangs in front—he did feel attractive, if full of first-date-style jitters.

He made his way into the private club, paid for a one-night membership and found his way to a little table in the back of the darkened main room with little fuss and eyes kept mostly to himself. Only when he was sipping a complimentary Coke (it was BYOB and he'd not remembered that, and he definitely could
have used a stiff shot) did he begin to peek out at the crowd. There was a whole herd's worth of leather, he noted, from jackets and miniskirts to chaps and bustiers. There were corsets and schoolgirl outfits and Lycra and more spike-heeled shoes and boots than he'd ever seen in one place. The men were far less decorative, on the whole, most going for leather and T-shirts or prim black suits with narrow ties. The majority paraded their submissive girlfriends or wives behind them or on ostentatious leashes. He could pick out the very few gay and lesbian couples easily enough, though there wasn't a lot of difference in presentation. Both gender and role were on proud display. The few submissive men with their dominant women interested him most.

He stared at one young-looking guy in nothing but a cock cage, head down, sitting at his mistress's feet. She was heavily made up, trussed into a corset and long black skirt, and was stroking his shaggy head with long, red nails. A “hetfemdom” poster couple, Nick concluded. Mostly, he found himself wishing he were at home with Paolina, naked and exposed to her desires and demands. Too much here was for show, and that wasn't what kink was about for him. How much did Paolina really get into this, he wondered, and would it prove too great a wedge between them?

He didn't catch even a glint of his lover before a particularly pompous master of ceremonies with shaved head and ample belly mounted the little stage and welcomed everyone to show night at Club Strike. He rushed through basic club rules and etiquette, explaining that after the show, the back playrooms would be open for everyone to enjoy scenes of his or her own using various equipment. Next, he read through the roster of the night's events, which would include three acts: Sir Trebor and Titiletta, The Spider and the Fly, and a play piercing demonstration by Master Jashin and Lady Jedi. Nick frowned. Why
was there no mention of Paolina? He was shifting in his chair, wondering if he should ask one of the bouncers or another patron, when he caught sight of her. Walking by the curtain at the back of the stage, Paolina passed in an instant, but he was entirely certain it was her, from the shoulder-length black hair with its funky blue streaks to the catsuit-clad curves of her ample hips and perfect peach of an ass. Even her little rounded belly and what another man might have called less-than-average breasts were perfect to him. Once more, the awareness that this must be love struck Nick, and hard.

Clearly, she would be performing, and given that she was neither a “Titiletta” nor a “Lady Jedi,” he could only assume her act was The Spider and the Fly. He liked it. Though no less kitschy than silly or pretentious scene names, he could enjoy the thought of Paolina as a spider…and himself as the fly. Sadly, before he had his opportunity to swallow his fears and offer himself up publicly to his beautiful predator, he had to spend more than an hour watching the dreadfully clichéd flogging scene of Trebor (which he later learned was simply Robert with the letters reversed) and Titiletta. The leggy blonde with her perfect teeth and fake tits made the most absurd high whimpers and squeaks he'd ever heard a woman make. To be fair, it was obvious the two were enjoying themselves. He wielded his floggers with grace and style, if you liked that sort of thing. She made a pretty picture bound to the St. Andrew's cross, her pert behind reddening nicely for the silent, appreciative crowd. But it was so performance driven, so focused on looking good. Competent Dom and decorative sub, but was there anything deeper going on?

His thoughts shifted. Did he hope Paolina would offer more? If she simply put on a superficial show, he would be both disappointed and relieved. What they shared together was genuine, heartfelt, sometimes so intense they talked about it for days
afterward, reliving and rejoicing in it over lunch, by phone or email. They both felt it, he was certain. If she could put a stranger through the physical and emotional pleasure and pain she gave him, what would it mean about them? His heart raced with unfamiliar insecurity. Paolina was the one who'd contacted him on the dating site, who'd asked him out. She'd taken the risk of telling him her erotic preferences and taken him to bed. She'd directly expressed her happiness at their compatibility. She made him moan and cry and come and beg for more. And she was the one who asked for sexual fidelity. How much more proof of her attraction did he need? Why was he terrified she'd come out and perform with some stranger and it'd be passionate and gripping? He'd always seen himself as fairly confident with women—an attractive, easygoing guy, comfortable taking the lead in a relationship even when he preferred sexual submissiveness when the partner was up to it. Wasn't he still that guy?