Best Bondage Erotica 2 (12 page)

A hot clench of desire shook me. I was getting wet.

“All right.” His voice was so gentle that I wanted to cry. That sounded like the Eric I knew—or thought I knew—the one that took moths outside instead of killing them with a brutal smack of a magazine, who loved playing with the neighbor’s dog. But there was more to him, I knew now: unexpected corners in his psyche. I should have known it all along. You don’t get to be a cop without being tough, without being a bit of a bastard. Even if he was a nice guy. Nice guys had their night sides, too.

“Why don’t you kneel, Beth?”

But it wasn’t a question. His hand on my cuffed arm held me steady as I sank to the carpet. I wasn’t the only one who’d been moved by this game of taunt and dare. I was face to crotch with him, and even though his uniform was dark, the fact that Eric was erect was clear. I could see the outline of his penis, stiff against the fabric. An answering wave of desire rolled through me. Being naked for him turned me on. His zipper went down with an insinuating slide, and I pulsed. I’d be damned if I’d let him know, though.

His warm skin touched my mouth and I opened my lips. I didn’t need to be told what to do next. He slid inside, thick, surging upward, and I sucked. It was hard to do without my
hands free. I never realized how much I liked to grab the base of his cock and squeeze. How much I liked to have some control over how much, how fast, or how deep he went into my mouth. I liked to play with his balls, heavy, soft and, vulnerable. With my wrists bound behind my back, I sucked. I was helpless, balancing on my knees, the world come down to his flesh against my tongue, his steel on my skin.

I couldn’t touch myself. I could squeeze my thighs together, but that jeopardized my balance. I sucked. He swayed, slowly sliding his prick in and out of my mouth. It was absurd, with the sounds of children outside, the thunk-thunk of a basketball against a hoop in the driveway next door. I could hear voices rising, falling. A summer afternoon. I could even smell someone else’s barbecue. That’s what we were supposed to be doing. We should be getting ready, not playing out this uncivil, ruthless scene. In the dim light, I sucked him, want growing with every stroke along his shaft, every sigh. Ordinary had fled, leaving me on my knees, bound. I felt like a hummingbird, drinking from a flower in the darkness. A slave girl on the market, being tested in a back room.

I felt better than I had in years.

I was wet and aching for touch. I wouldn’t tell him, though. The whole thing was outrageous. Surely he must know that this episode would be the end of “us.” As soon as I was free, I’d be free of him.

He could smell the lie on me. I could, too: my arousal was in the air like smoke. I sucked him, his skin warm, silky, and rigid.
You like it too
, I thought, shifting on my knees, arms beginning to ache. How long had it been since Eric had spun me around and cuffed me? Ten minutes? Fifteen? An eternity? He’d become hard doing it. He was getting off on this. His erection in my mouth was proof.

My compliance was also proof of something. What, I didn’t want to think about.

Only his cock. I sucked, grateful for that contact of skin, something to focus my hunger on. My cunt was engorged, my nipples too, but there were no caresses to slake my want. All I could do was suck, so I did. That, and rub my breasts against his legs like a pet begging for attention. It was degrading. Luckily for me, his uniform trousers were made of a fabric with a bit of stiffness to it. I sucked him for a long time, falling into a rhythm where I could take him in and out without choking, without fear. He didn’t speak. It went on until his breathing changed, his hand came to rest on my head, and his body began to tense. I wasn’t helpless, then. I could do that to him.

He was close to coming, but he pulled out. I closed my mouth, testing the emptiness, easing my jaw. “Do you like my toys, Beth?”

“No,” I lied, truculent. Why didn’t he touch my breasts? I was helpless to stroke, and my nipples were hard with yearning.

“Liar.” Eric turned away from me, his erection a blunt, fleshy club that protruded, rude and blatant, from his uniform pants. I licked my lips. I wanted that cock again. In me. Deep.

“Arms hurt? Legs?”

“No.”

“Lying again.” His hands were warm on my rib cage as he lifted me to my feet. He walked around me again, observing me. I didn’t know what would happen next, and I’d never felt more naked.

He knelt, his hands on my inner thighs, and opened my legs wider. I almost stumbled, but kept my balance. He leaned in, and deliberately licked at my damp skin. Just once, and I gasped with pent-up want when his hot tongue slid over my pussy. Once. Slowly across my swollen clit—the hard center in a sea of wanton need. That was the cruelest thing, far worse than the handcuffs, far worse than anything. To do it just once. He chuckled again, and rose, his prick still thrusting
outward, a baton of a different sort. “What to do with you…,” he mused, as if he didn’t have a hundred ideas. He pivoted slowly, hand on his chin, pretending to consider the possibilities.

Eric went to the bed and slipped his nightstick from the loop. He wouldn’t beat me with it? No. That wouldn’t be rational. But fear prickled my flesh again, desire abating for a moment. I thought of something else he could do with it, and another wave of dread washed over me. I didn’t want that.

Gently, with calm control, he slid the nightstick against my damp pussy. I gasped at the cool of it. Desire returned. At last, something was touching me. The smooth surface glided along my hot skin. I was panting. I spread my thighs wider and bent my knees to increase the pressure, and rode the wood. Eric chuckled in the dim bedroom, and pressed harder. I whimpered and humped it. I didn’t care that all my dignity had gone, flown with the
click
of the cuffs on my wrists. I needed to come. “Please touch my breasts,” I whispered, hating myself for voicing it.

He didn’t bother acknowledging my request. He touched me when and where he wanted, and all I could do was suffer or enjoy. I was a sweet ache, all skin and nerves. He went back to the bed, and absently stroked his cock, stiff and conspicuous, looking down at his belt and accessories. I swayed, almost dancing, my blouse and bra dangling ridiculously. I wondered what would happen next.

“I can’t really use the spray—you’re already pretty cooperative, Beth.” He considered the flashlight. “And I think you’ve seen the light.” Another low laugh. He picked up the belt. “Sit.” I perched on the edge of the bed, legs primly together, just as my wrists remained bound behind me. He knelt before me, and I thought he was going to go down on me now. My knees drifted apart, I tilted my cunt to him. He held up the belt. He stroked my inner thighs with it, the leather cool and
heavy, though an entirely different sensation from the cuffs and the baton. Slowly he teased me, tracing patterns on my skin; circling my belly, my thighs, closer and closer to my vulva. He brushed my pubic hair with the belt and I sighed. It felt like wind sounds when it drifts through the tops of the pines at night. I opened my legs wider, throbbing. I could see his prick, swollen, but I couldn’t touch him. It was driving me crazy. I closed my eyes.

I felt something nudge me open, but it wasn’t his mouth, or his finger. The tip of the leather belt prodded between my labia, going ever deeper. I didn’t know what to say. I was wet and Eric crouched before me, intent. Carefully, he pushed the leather belt into my pussy, and I breathed, deep and ragged. I felt dizzy. It was awful and demeaning. It was a terrible taunt: close, but not a cock.

“Is this kinky?” His voice was soft.

I didn’t answer. He pushed a little more and I didn’t close my thighs or try to stop him. I rocked against the belt, not sure if I was trying to get away from it, or trying to rub my slick pussy against the edge of leather. I craved hot friction. “You like it, Beth,” he said. “Don’t you?”

“No.”

He smiled at the lie. “Stand.” Eric unlocked one wrist, my arms dropped to my sides and I sighed with the pleasure of release. I shook off my blouse and bra, shook my tingling arm. Freedom didn’t last long; he pushed me back down onto the bed. I was weak and entirely compliant, under the spell of his strangeness. “Lie down.”

I did, the bedspread smooth against my skin. He left my shoes on. He took my right arm and cuffed my wrist to the bedpost. I looked up at the blank globe of his overhead light. “Better?”

“Yes.” My voice was a grateful mumble.

My spread legs were an invitation one didn’t need to be a
cop to decode. Still, he took his time unbuttoning his shirt. I moved, restless against his sheets. I watched Eric undress, the dark uniform falling away,
cop
becoming
man
. Underneath, he was muscular and hairy, and entirely comfortable nude. He sat on the edge of the bed.

He slid a finger down my vulva, my lips opening for him again. He slipped into the wetness up to his knuckle, more easily than the leather belt had. I eyed his cock, springing upward, and the length of his thigh, muscled and downy. He was beautiful. Then Eric was on top of me, a solid weight, his skin all along mine. I reacted with a surge of want, ferocious, pulling him to me with one arm, pulling at the cuff with my other. At last the warm head of his cock touched me. I quivered, and worked my hips up to meet him, to urge him to enter me. I was slick, sticky, and unbearably ready for him.

Slowly, he pushed his cock into me, slippery enticement making it easy. He groaned. My turn to laugh, in triumph. He fucked me, slowly, his cock sliding in and out in long, measured strokes. I fucked him back. With one hand cuffed to the bed, the other on his ass, I wrapped my legs around him tight. I hated him with joy and pleasure.

His voice was a slow, patient whisper as he remorselessly stroked me with his body. “You’ve—” He thrust in. “Been bad—” And out, his skin a hot embrace. “You know.”

“Yes.” I rocked with him, faster, and bucked back, my fever rising. I was almost there, the hot friction—

I made a sound as I came, like something hurt. It didn’t. Still cuffed, I felt my release come. It rolled over me, lifted me. I soared. “It’s for your own good, Beth,” he muttered, frantically thrusting. “All for your own good….”

I know.

Oh, I know.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I remember the first time a grown man leered at me. Not a college student or an early thirty-something, but a real adult, someone my father’s age. Someone who should’ve known better and probably did, but chose to lust after me anyway. It happened the summer before I left for college while I was hanging out at a pool party with my best friend. I’d just turned eighteen. We had wandered in from the pool for the snack table, unaware as we passed the bar that the adults’ consumption of highballs had surpassed frat house kegger dimensions.

That’s when I noticed my girlfriend’s uncle. His face was slack from too much drink, but his eyes had narrowed and a sly grin had crept across his face. Lurid, the look was unmistakably lurid. And it was aimed right at me.

That look—
his
look—was so penetrating that I felt like he knew my every secret—like whether boys had already parted my legs—and it suggested he had his own secrets, like the unsavory possibility that he knew even better than those boys how a man could part my legs. Ultimately, his leer told me
that he’d like nothing better than to have a go at me.

I was stunned, instantly humiliated, so ashamed that for the eternity of a split second I froze in a clichéd deer-meets-headlights trance. I blushed so hard, it hurt. I prayed that his niece, my best friend, didn’t notice his drunken leer—or my embarrassment. It was all so lump-in-the-throat disturbing and repulsive.

“Meet me outside,” I told my girlfriend. I fled the room with, I hoped, some measure of grace to conceal my plight. But my every step felt clumsy, leaden, and weighed down by my shame. I could only assume success because no one questioned my behavior.

In the fresh air of the cool evening, the blush of humiliation faded from my cheeks and my racing heart slowed. But a rush of anger followed on its heels and I grew as livid as that man had been lurid. My anger was so potent, I shook uncontrollably.

There, in the coming darkness of midsummer’s eve, I vowed to myself if a man ever leered at me again, I wouldn’t let it go uncontested. I’d glare back and stare him down. No one else would ever have the upper hand again.

Or so I thought. In the coming years, my vow would protect me from men but not from my own fantasies. You see, I never forgot his leer and I often recalled the moment I spied it. Then, in the privacy of my fantasies, I enacted my vow and stared him down. My own eyes would narrow; my lips would slip into slyness. I would up the ante rather than diffuse the moment. In my fantasy, we’d slip away so I could reveal to him my brazen and knowledgeable self. In my fantasy, I was forever eighteen, but in real time I was forever aging and my past shame had transformed itself into pure thrill.

If my fantasy became luridly skewed, then my reality grew downright warped. I developed a preference for older men, starting with college professors and, later, on-the-job
superiors. I wasn’t bucking for the dean’s list or top-notch performance appraisals; I could earn those on brains and merit alone. I wanted them because I lusted for the raw power of an older man, one willing to foist his sexual prowess on younger flesh. And I craved being that younger flesh.

I craved Daddy fucks.

But now that I’ve reached forty, finding a good Daddy fuck isn’t that easy. It’s hard to find savvy older men who can look beyond the middle-aged woman to see the inner girl, to find men who don’t apply the strict numeric standard of “27 and under” in defining
girl.

Funny, really, because younger men often look my way, hoping to catch my gaze and interest. Sure, young hunks crave an older woman’s worldly experience but however trendy MILFs might be right now, younger men were never credible candidates to me.