Best Bondage Erotica 2012 Read online

  “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.

  DRY RUB

  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?”

  Finally!

  “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.

  “God,” Gina snarled, pulling her skirt away from him. “You really don’t get it, do you?”

  “I said I was sorry.” He leaned back in his chair, but he didn’t roll his eyes—that surprised her. She’d grown so accustomed to his mannerisms that these small changes were throwing her off.

  When he reached for her naked thigh, she took a step back. “Do you have any idea the kind of night I was going to give to you?” Her bare pussy throbbed at the thought. She’d shaved for him—first time in years. Fuck, she needed to get off…

  “Hey, hey, baby.” He raised his dark eyebrows. “You can still give it to me.”

  When he tried to touch her again, she swatted his hand away. How could she reconcile her desire to rub her throbbing clit against the leather bulge of his crotch, and her current abhorrence of his touch?

  The napkins she’d tossed on top of the clean plates caught her eye now, and she picked them up, holding both end to end like she was seeing them for the first time. Terry was slouched in that ugly-ass chair, one hand idly cupping his dick, the other hanging halfway to the floor. She walked around him tentatively in the clunky Doc Martens she could never bring herself to throw away. Falling to her knees behind the chair, she tied his wrist to the metal leg without looking up. He was laughing now, snorting, really, and saying, “Yeah, babe. Kinky!”

  Kink had nothing to do with it. “Give me your other hand,” she said, securing it with a tight double knot when he pressed his wrist to the chair leg. He was stupidly eager.

  “What’s next?” he asked as she circled around front. “You gonna suck my dick?”

  The keen yet smug smile on his face made her want to laugh, but she shook her head instead. Crossing her arms in front of her braless tits, she simply said, “No.”

  “You gonna fuck me?” His eyes were wide with anticipation, and she couldn’t wait to crush his hope.

  “No.”

  He cocked his head to the left, and his prick jumped in that direction, too. She could see it beneath his tight pants. Now it was sinking in that she was in control—she could see the suspicion and incredulity in his squinted eyes. “What’re you gonna do, then?”

  Stifling the impending explosion of laughter, she straddled his lap and pressed her wet pussy down on his bulge. His crotch was so damn hot the leather of his pants sizzled against her juices. She gasped at the intensity of sensation. All day she’d been gearing up to get fucked, and just speculating on the what-ifs had made her pussy pulse under the heavy wool of her skirt. Without panties, her juices had drenched her thighs as she waited…and waited…and waited…

  “What’re you doing, Gina?” He leaned forward to kiss her, but he stunk of booze.

  “You know damn well what I’m doing, Terry.”

  When she clutched his hair in her fist, pulling his face away from hers, he winced. They used to play like this when they were young, before they had a place of their own. Without any privacy at home, they’d make out at the park, on the most secluded bench they could find. She’d crawl into his lap like this, fully clothed, and rub her pussy against his cock. Oh, god, it always felt so good. She’d come three or four times in succession. Fucking was a letdown by comparison, but once they started down that road there was no turning back.

  She was so sensitive, shaved. Every time her slick pussy lips kissed the leather shaft climbing like a snake up toward Terry’s hip, she let out a little whimper. He groaned like she was torturing him, but she didn’t care. “God, I missed this!” she cried, stroking her swollen cunt against his erection. It required a diagonal motion to ride his dick inside the prison of leather, and her thighs were out of practice, but the payoff was worth the strain. Planting her thick-soled shoes firm against the floor, she bucked her hips up and left, down and right, rubbing her clit against the huge swell of his balls before kissing it gently to his tip. Nothing else felt as good as this. She could stroke off with her fingers or her vibe or…well, just about anything, really, but it wouldn’t give her the pleasure of a hard cock throbbing beneath a pair of leather pan
ts.

  The chair jerked twice, and she realized Terry was trying to raise his hands to grab her before remembering they were tied to the sides of the chair. She still had a grip on his hair, and his face looked so pitiful in her hands that she almost wanted to laugh. He was desperate, poor boy, and she wouldn’t give in. Tonight he was a tool of her pleasure, nothing more. She stroked her pussy harder against his cock as he struggled to free himself from the pretty peach napkins. Her mother had bought them as a gift for special occasions. They’d never used them until now.

  Today had been its own sort of foreplay. Shaving her pussy and squeezing into this school uniform had made her pussy pulse hot beneath her skirt. Now, with the pressure of Terry’s dick and the smooth heat of the leather, her clit was throbbing like it had its own heartbeat. It wouldn’t take long to come. In fact, she could feel her orgasm sitting like a trembling itch at the base of her pelvis. She knew just what would get her there.

  Releasing her grasp on Terry’s hair, she quickly unbuttoned her top. As she shoved her tits against his face, his mouth moved like a magnet to the nearest nipple. When he sucked it into his hot mouth, she felt that velvet sensation of tongue on flesh all the way down to her clit. Bolts of energy passed through her, setting off sparks in her cunt as she writhed against his cock. She felt hazy now, like her body was something separate from herself. Still, she felt every burst and blast of her orgasm. “Oh, fuck,” she heard herself sigh. “Fuck, yeah!”

  Grinding her pussy in tight circles against Terry’s balls, she moaned so loudly she could barely hear his grunts and pleas. She did feel the pressure of his crotch against hers, though, as he bucked up against her clit. “Fuck me,” he was saying. “Oh, god, baby, ride my cock.” Her nipple had fallen from his mouth, and she shoved the other one between his lips, stifling his cries.

  When he sucked her tit, the pressure resonated in her pussy and it felt so hot with pulsations she just had to see it. Pulling her skirt up over her hips, she leaned to the side and watched her baby-smooth outer lips splay as she rubbed the hot red inner ones against Terry’s cock. The sight of her throbbing lips gliding against that supple leather, her body and his crotch both wet with her juices, sent her hurdling tits-first into orgasm once again.

  She rode the waves, one after another, screaming, “Fuck, yeah!” as she rubbed her pussy against Terry’s dick, feeling it surge and pulse beneath her body. Whenever he tried to speak, to plead with her, “Let me get inside you,” she shoved a boob back in his mouth to shut him up. He had his chance. He chose to go out with the guys. Gina was making the decisions now, and she liked to work the outside.

  The silver heart-shaped pendant Terry gave her long ago jumped and bounced against her sweat-glistened chest with every buck and thrust. He was trying to stand now, as if that would do him any good, but she wouldn’t move from his lap. She came in rocking waves, an oceanic hum booming in her ears as she gasped for breath. Her thighs were trembling, strained and shaking, but her hips moved of their own volition. She couldn’t stop them if she tried.

  “Fuck!” she roared, hugging his head to her chest, fisting his dark, oily hair. One more round of circles, her clit against the fat head of his cock, and that was all she could stand. Her pussy lips felt huge now, not just swollen but inflated, and her clit was so tender the pressure was beginning to hurt. She climbed out of his lap, stumbling sideways on Jell-O legs, until the table caught her hip.

  He was saying something, probably begging for release, for relief, but her ears were still buzzing with orgasm. She just didn’t want to hear it right now. She got hers. If he managed to get loose, he could fuck himself.

  Gazing down at his lap, at the pussy juice glistening against black leather, she wondered why they called this dry humping when it made her—and, by extension, him—so goddamn wet. The obvious discrepancy between the term and the act seemed overwhelmingly funny in that moment. The laughter that had been sitting in her chest like deadweight since he arrived home finally burbled out and, damn, did it feel good! She laughed all the way to the bedroom, after clearing the table and turning out the lights. She laughed while she stripped out of her old school uniform and clunky Doc Martens. She laughed even after she’d forgotten what she was laughing about.

  In bed, she listened to him calling out, “Gina, baby, you want to fuck now? Why’d you turn out the lights? Gina…?”

  She rolled over, stretching her arms and legs across the entire landscape of their mattress. It felt freeing to have the whole thing to herself, if only for a little while. Too bad Terry had to go off drinking instead of coming straight home like he promised. If he hadn’t spent the night boozing he’d probably have figured a way to wriggle out of those makeshift bonds by now. His loss.

  In an hour or so she’d have to untie him, of course. By then, he’d be dying for a piss and she’d be craving a good hard fuck. Pressing her silver, heart-shaped pendant to her lips, she kissed it and said, “Just you wait.”

  WORTH REDEMPTION

  Craig J. Sorensen

  The thick, gold chain sways like suspension cables, give and take in a strong wind. The heavy cross ticks its slow, steady, perfect rhythm—a hypnotist’s watch.

  Your soft voice is muffled, grows a bit of an edge. I continue to stare at the cross to focus away from you, to prolong this moment, but I just can’t resist.

  I look down.

  Your hair sprawls around your head like a halo. Your lashes echo this aura around a skinny rim of defiant cornea, its color rendered a vibrant shade of gray in the moonlight and candles that are, one by one, sputtering their last. Your jaw is open, like midway through a shout. You grunt at me meaningfully. I’d love to thrust my tongue deep in your mouth, taste your adrenaline, burn off those defiant traces of lipstick that remain. Of course, that is not an option right now.

  You are so tight on my cock, so slick that it feels like butter spread to force off a ring that strangles a finger.

  You wouldn’t try to push me out, would you?

  God, I want to let go. I twitch at the edge of release, a sizzling electric charge deep in my balls: kind of hurts, kind of feels good. A few firm strokes, and I’d explode.

  The cross comes to rest. Silence.

  You stood on your tiptoes and nuzzled my cold ear. Your warm breath traced down my lobe, inside my heavy leather coat. A sweet whisper: “You’ve forgiven me time and time again. Why can you not forgive yourself?”

  “It’s not the same thing. I’ve hurt you so many times, Dana. I practically drove you to him. Um, them.” I cleared my throat and looked at the ground. I kicked out as if the rounded rock below camouflaged a gold nugget. It didn’t.

  “I’ve forgiven you, William; you’ve forgiven me. You have to forgive yourself.” You touched my chin to lift it. My eyes remained fixed downcast. My resistance was cracking. So tempting, but so strange. So similar, but so far from our usual. You must have known I was giving in. Silently, swiftly, you took me by the hand and led me home. You stripped so suddenly, so certainly. Strange how meek and small you looked, which is not you, not even in submission, Dana. You took the cross from your neck and suspended it from the center headboard finial. You pulled the covers from the bed like a matador and fell in the middle of the nude bottom sheet. Your body opened wide like grand double doors to a temple.

  You seemed so supple as I put your left hand in the first steel bracelet. Your right hand balled into a fist, your arm twitched. A fish nibbles at bait, the pole slightly bends; resisting, but hooked, just a small fish. The fist relaxed into the second bracelet and I closed it. You scissored your legs after I cuffed the left foot, and it took a hearty tug to spread the right, but I know how strong your dancer’s legs are. I felt you relax your grip. I paused. You didn’t say a word. It was the point of no return. I pulled my hands away. The foot stayed in the cuff. I locked it. You gave a tiny nod.

  We’d done this sort of thing so many times before, I knew all your boundaries. This was different. I lifted two meticulou
sly folded silk scarves you had placed on the nightstand, and wadded the first.

  You opened your mouth. I stood motionless.

  My cock springs out as I raise my hips like a drawbridge. Your eyes pop into a desperate glare and you groan into the silk wad. You were close to letting go, weren’t you? As close as me, maybe closer. I turn on the bright light next to the bed and you squint against the sudden flood, but don’t turn away. You blink like police car lights to help your eyes adjust.

  Your gooseflesh is dry. Splotches of pink scattered over your torso recall the wax, thin as water, drizzled about while you grunted and yanked the restraints. Your muscles suddenly flexed like a bodybuilder’s. Music constrained in your throat as I peeled the cool wax, then studied each piece like a Rorschach. Does sin have a shape? Yes, that’s the shape.

  I see sin.

  The depths of your throat rumbled when I peeled what had pooled in the top edge of your pubic hair. Fresh shapes, and I see transgression. I see inequity.

  Your nude body is magnificent in the piss-yellow light. Would it be blasphemy to anoint you? Your corneas remain tiny slits below half-drawn eyelids, but their cobalt blue seems all the more radiant. You eye my cock, which curls toward the ceiling, eager to finish its task.

  I’m not sure this is working, Dana. Redemption is such a fickle thing.

  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.