Best Bondage Erotica 2013 (12 page)

“Please,” I gasp finally. I never beg, but tonight I'm on the
verge of tears with frustration and there is no shamelessness I won't sink to. “Please fuck me, I'm begging you.
Please
.”

He laughs and pushes me back onto my knees on the ottoman. The rip of the condom wrapper is the sweetest sound ever and then his thick cock is pushing up my cunt from behind, filling me with heat and friction and fucking me so hard my entire body is shaking like a tree in a storm. One hand is on my tits, squeezing them, the other hand playing with my clit. He's biting my neck, hard and savage. He's the talented brute I've always needed, and he doesn't stop, spearing into me over and over until I'm half screaming, half sobbing. His fingers on my pussy play me up into a mindless delirium and then my face floods with heat and I'm coming, squirting all over the ottoman and crying with joy and relief.

He holds me tightly against him, his teeth in my neck as he groans out his orgasm. Slowly, carefully, he pulls out and settles me on my back on the ottoman, in my own puddle of ejaculate. He kisses me long and deep and then he's back on his feet, sliding into his jeans and boots and jacket.

My mind is a dreamy bliss as they leave. Only as Rupert unlocks my feet and wrists, do I realize what happened.

“He came in the condom.” I massage my wrists, my voice ragged from howling. “You didn't get to see him come.”

“I don't think he was capable of remembering the rules at that point.” He removes my collar. “It's okay. I saw the other one come.”

I see Rupert's long silky cock is still hard. “It's not okay. You didn't even get off.”

“No, I did.” His smile twists. “And then I got hard again.”

I look up at him, so beautiful and elegant in his nakedness.

“That was incredible,” he says quietly.

Our eyes meet. I know what he sees—a naked girl, soft skin
and ample breasts, too tender. A girl who'd do anything for him, but isn't hard enough or rough enough or exciting enough.

He looks down at me with something that looks like speculation. For a moment it seems as if I only need to ask. Then his face goes rigid and he rapidly walks off, past the telescopes and into the office. I get up on shaky legs and move to the window, cooling my fevered body against the cold glass. I don't need to push the issue tonight. We're both cosmonauts on the same voyage, and really it could take us anywhere.

 

 

 

 

 

“You carry a lot of tension in your shoulders,” Tom says, conversationally. “You need to learn to relax, Peter. Unwind sometimes, you know?”

Peter says nothing, but then, Tom doesn't expect him to. They both know that. His hands are bound at the small of his back with a length of rope that rasps at the skin, and the position thrusts his shoulder blades up and out painfully, like thwarted stubs of wings. The floor of Tom's little medic's hut is hard and unyielding under his knees, and yet, these are comforting pains, somehow, compassionate hardships. Tom controls them, after all. It is out of Peter's hands.

Tom's stubble at his temple rasps a little, too, like the rope does, a sandpaper promise. Peter wants to lift his face into the touch, but that isn't how this works: there are no decisions for him to take in this room, no plans for him to make, no strategies to orchestrate. This is Tom's domain, and Peter is subject to his benevolent rule. His eyes remain unwavering on the floor,
face unmoving as Tom kisses it, tongues a line of heat along one cheekbone.

“Beautiful,” Tom says, and the wonder in his voice makes it almost credible. Peter does feel beautiful here, on his knees before the only higher power he knows.

Tom is hard in his pants when he straightens up again, the line of his cock pressing out the soft fabric at his crotch. Saliva starts to collect under Peter's tongue like some kind of Pavlovian reaction as Tom simply stands there, hands at his sides, swelling under Peter's eyes.

“Peter,” he says, eventually, “look at me.” His hand finds Peter's cheek, heel of it cradling the jut of his jaw, and Peter melts into the invitation, making himself malleable as any storefront mannequin.

“Look at you.” Tom's mouth is quirked up at one corner, soft and pink amidst the dark beginnings of beard, nonregulation. “You want this, don't you?” He gestures downward, and his hand is still unfairly soft, not a soldier's hand at all. The silver in him may be tarnishing, but Peter will never believe that all his grace and gentleness are gone, jacked out of him by blood and skirmishes and guerrilla warfare. Peter needs to disbelieve it. It is Tom's core of goodness that keeps him going outside of this room, where they are the Doctor and the Captain.

Now, though, they are within the room, and they are nothing but themselves. Peter holds himself steady, resisting the urge to turn his face into the cup of Tom's palm. Tom's smile widens, and his free hand comes to rest at the waistband of his pants, with a teasing hook of his thumb.

“I asked you a question.” His thumb inches down a little, hitching the fabric lower, and his eyes are still and unblinking. “Do you want this, Peter?” And then he pauses, knowing Peter too well, always; knowing that now is not the time for questions
or decisions for Peter to take. “I want you to tell me you want it. Tell me you want my cock.”

Peter's throbbing in his uniform pants now, heat of him pressing insistently against the zipper, and the growl in Tom's voice sets an answering sound coiling out of his own throat. “Want it,” he says, tongue moving stiffly, as if immobilized by the sudden rush of lust.

“That's my boy,” Tom says. His voice is perfectly, enviably calm again as he drags the front of his trousers lower, cock shoving up toward the waistband until the crown emerges, glistening at the slit. “What do you want, Peter?”

There's still shame pooling in Peter's mouth with the spittle as he gasps out, “Your cock, Tom,” but the clutch in his stomach overrides it, the perfect heat of being kept stable, being held. He'd never done this before Tom, before an inadvertent pressure on his windpipe made his cock jerk,
yes
, replayed in a thousand dreams thereafter. But then, it's the well of trust that makes it everything, that lifts the weight—for a moment, for an hour—from his shoulders, and he never had that before Tom, either. Peter trusts Tom with his life, hundreds of times a week. He has no reason left not to trust him with everything else.

Like this, on his knees, Peter is nothing if not absolutely safe, even the minuscule task of opening his mouth undertaken by someone else. Tom thumbs at his lips almost casually, and Peter has only to loosen his jaw, only his tongue moving, eager, of its own unaided accord. Tom's voice, when he speaks, is still steady, but his shoulders hitch a little as his fingers cradle the base of his own cock, angling the tip of it toward Peter's mouth.

“You love this,” Tom tells him, the tone of it flat and unquestioning, and he taps at the swell of Peter's lower lip with his cock. Peter can smell him now, feel the slick of precome smearing against his mouth where Tom is touching it, and his
salivary glands feel like they've gone into overdrive. Wordlessly, he opens his mouth a little wider, a soft sound of encouragement in the back of his throat, and Tom's breath catches, cock jerking forward so that Peter can press his tongue at last to its tip.

“My god, Peter,” Tom says. He isn't given to blasphemy, even now. He has a level of distaste for organized religion that only an ex-Catholic can attain, and Peter supposes that it simply seems illogical to him, pointless, to utter the name of a power he insists is gone, if it ever existed.

Sometimes, though, when they're like this, Tom will say it, and Peter finds that he likes it, for reasons he barely dares consider. Like this, Peter can almost forget—drills, orders, the way his brother looked last year when the bullet perforated his skull. Everything. It's strangely pleasing to think that, maybe, this can make Tom forget, too.

“Open your mouth,” Tom says. “Wider.”

It doesn't even occur to Peter to consider disobeying as Tom pushes into his mouth, thick heat and sour taste of him pressing, heavy and smooth, over his tongue. Occasionally, alone in his bed with the aftertaste of a skirmish keeping him awake, he thinks about this, wonders what it makes him. When he's here, though, resisting isn't an option. Tom commands, and he obeys.

The thing is that Tom is always right. That's part of what Peter loves about him. Peter
does
love this, Tom's thumb hooked under his jaw, fingers cradling the back of his skull to keep him upright as the medic fucks his mouth. He loves the taste of Tom, the heavy push of him at the back of his throat; the way his muscles flutter and clench around the other man's flesh when his gag reflex kicks in. Above him, Tom makes tight little sounds and Peter sucks harder, tongue nudging up against his underside, wanting more of it, chasing Tom's pleasure.

“Peter,” Tom says, and his head lolls back in appreciation,
long throat working as his hips snap forward. Only for a moment, though—Tom loves to look at him; knows, too, that Peter loves to be looked at.

“Perfect like this,” Tom says; grits his teeth and rams deep, the force of it tearing at the corners of Peter's eyes. “Your pretty little mouth around my cock, Peter, look at it. Mouth like that on a man, should be—
fuck
—illegal—and you fucking love it, don't you? You fucking—love it—”

He gets disjointed, always, near the end, and Peter's dick swells at the sound of it, Tom's thick voice getting thicker in his own throat, cock getting thicker as it leaks in Peter's. It's wet now, so wet, spit and precome making each thrust slick and messy, strings of it drooling from the corners of Peter's mouth. Peter moans, deep and rough and it's unintentional, but Tom is so perfect like this, thrusts erratic as he shivers toward his climax in Peter's mouth.

“Peter,” Tom gets out, and it's broken, barely a breath of the word. Peter sucks at him, hard and firm, and Tom cries out; bucks backward, and Peter groans his disappointment for a moment as Tom slips fully out of his mouth, cock full and glistening and ready.

Then Tom whispers, “Look at me,” and understanding takes root in Peter's stomach, a fluttering heat that leaps like butterflies as his eyes find Tom's. Pointedly, he opens his mouth a little wider: puts out his tongue.

Tom comes apart with a moan like dying, like fury, pulsing out his completion in sticky strings of heat. Peter's covered in it, his cheeks, his lips, his eyelashes; he swallows what he can and then curls out his tongue again, seeking more. Tom's breath hitches, cock spurting out pearly little aftershocks of come as Peter licks his lips, tonguing at what he can reach, his own breath short and quickening in his chest.

“Jesus Christ,” Tom says, weakly; but Peter is too strung out with heat to say anything at all.

Tom is on his knees within a minute, one hand snaking around Peter's waist as the other finds the fastenings of his pants. “Peter,” he's murmuring, breathlessly, frantic little twitches of his fingers as he fumbles for Peter's cock. “God, Peter, you look so fucking beautiful,” and Peter shouldn't
love
it, the spatter-wax sensation of Tom's come all over his face, but there is no God to help him, and he does, he fucking does. He's almost trembling by the time Tom gets his dick out of his pants, pulsing in his hand, and his wrists are aching but Tom's fingers are too clever and quick for him to care.

“Come on,” Tom is saying, thumb flicking over the head, smearing strings of slickness back down over Peter's length. “Come on, I got you, that's it—come on, Peter, come for me,” and that does it; sets his back arching as he comes in long pulses, the cry ripped from his mouth something wordless and fierce.

The aftermath is nothing but white noise. It's often that way. Tom unfastens his hands, rubs at the red marks on his wrists. Peter is dimly aware of Tom's mouth, at his wrists, at his lips. Washcloth, passing over his face. Tom's hands, lowering him.

“You're safe,” Tom tells him, and it's a lie, but Peter can believe him, with the taste of Tom's come still sour in his throat and his head still buzzing with sex and possession. This is why he does it, he knows. This is what he needs.

“You're safe,” Tom tells him, stroking gentle fingers through his hair.

“I know,” Peter says, and closes his eyes.

 

 

 

 

 

“Ninety-eight point seven in here.”

Jonas says it with great enthusiasm as he tugs open the old white fridge. The fridge is at least thirty years older than I am, but still hums along like a pro. Jonas partly chose this apartment for that damn fridge and I've often wondered what he'll do when it bites the big one. But I have bigger things on my mind as he uncaps a beer.

“Hot, yeah?” He cocks his head and grins at me through the open doorway as he says it.

I twist my right shoulder a little, trying to find relief. Then I stretch my body a bit to the left to try and unkink my ribs. Nothing really works for me. It's an exercise in futility, really. Hot, sticky, annoying futility.

Jonas comes closer, bare feet hissing on the hardwood floor. His jeans are slung low, his chest bare due to the smothering heat and humidity. He runs the cold, cold mouth of his beer bottle over my collarbone and my skin instantly puckers into goose bumps and a shiver runs rampant through my skin. Jonas chuckles and
takes a lazy tour between my breasts with the cool glass.