Best Bondage Erotica 2013 (25 page)

Noticing the growing sheen at the top of her open thighs, Ryan grinned, “You are such a messy thing, I think I'm going to have to mop you up.” With eyes that challenged her not to come, Ryan took a single wipe and wrapped it around his index finger, before carefully dabbing all around her sensitive clit.

As Louise squeezed her eyes closed, madly trying to concentrate on not climaxing, Ryan inched his wipe-encased finger inside her mound, pushing it up and down as if he was disinfecting her from the inside out.

This time Louise's groan of longing couldn't be contained by her gag, and as the gruff sound escaped from the corners of her lips, Ryan withdrew his finger hastily, leaving the wipe half in and half out of her body, teasing but not really touching her sensitive skin.

“You are gagged, and yet you still make a noise.” Ryan shook his head with mock regret. “It seems I must punish you further.”

Taking more wipes from the pack, Ryan weaved them together in a short damp coil. Without giving Louise the chance to draw breath, he cracked the makeshift whip across her semi-protected left tit.

Tears smarted at the corner of Louise's eyes as he struck the very top of her covered nipple, sending hot shocks through her breasts that were echoed in her stuffed pussy. Ryan, swapping from one side to the other, repeated the move again and again, until, no longer even noticing the unpleasant taste, Louise clamped her teeth into the restraint as hard as she could, frantically trying not to make another sound.

Obviously pleased with his girl's efforts to be good, Ryan gently lifted the wipes from her chest and bent to her sore tips, licking each with his warm tongue, making them quiver beneath his mouth, driving Louise closer to the orgasm she was still trying to keep in check.

Just when Louise thought she couldn't hold back any longer, Ryan moved away and, picking up the twist of wipes once more, aimed the short coil of material at her newly sucked teats.

Louise screamed; the strike of the whip on her desperate, and now unprotected, flesh was too much. Streaks of agonizing heat rushed through her breasts and on through her whole body, making her cunt contract around the wipe within her channel as if it was a mini-dick. Juddering against the wooden chair, Louise, all control gone, came in a rapid, racking shudder.

As her breathing calmed enough for her to realize she'd disobeyed Ryan again, Louise didn't dare look at him. Lowering her eyes, she couldn't quite believe how much the presence of something as innocent as a baby wipe could intensify her reactions.

“I don't believe I gave you permission to do that.” Ryan's voice was hoarse, but his tone had lost its edgy undercurrent, so Louise risked a glance at her lover. His expression dripped lust, and his erection was so taut that Louise knew he wouldn't be able to hold on for much longer.

Moving with extreme haste, Ryan unfastened Louise's ankles,
plucked her body from the chair and bent her, arms still tethered, over the sofa, her chest squashed against the fabric seat, her knees on the floor.

Louise's gasp as he yanked the sodden wipe from between her legs, was closely followed by the now familiar sound of a new wipe being removed from its holder. Bracing herself to have her backside beaten some more, Louise gave a muffled shout of surprise when a fabric-covered finger begin to play at the entrance to her asshole.

Ryan said nothing as he probed deeper into her anus, making Louise's stomach clench and churn as she pushed back against the intrusion, enjoying the oddly disquieting sensation of the soft wipe and jabbing digit.

Moaning into the sofa, Louise felt strangely abandoned as both finger and wipe were suddenly removed, and she heard the sound of a condom packet being ripped open. Knowing what was to come, Louise tried pointlessly to relax, as her imagination jumped forward to what lay ahead.

Wipe-covered hands came to her breasts, and as Ryan notched his cock into position, he began to knead Louise's abused tips while gradually easing his length inside her lubricated back passage. His guttural cry completely drowned out Louise's own muted squeals as he pumped against her, his balls slapping her butt, his fingers pinching her teats with painful nips.

The wipes between Louise's teeth were so soggy that they began to disintegrate, and Louise spat and spluttered the thinning fabric from her mouth. As the gag fell from her lips, a yell of satisfaction raced up Louise's throat, a sound that morphed into a yelp of release as a second climax overtook her first in its depth and strength, complemented as it was by Ryan spunking into her with urgent force.

Untying her arms a few moments later, Ryan soothed and
eased out Louise's cramped shoulder muscles. “Was that okay, Louise? Did you like your present?” He anxiously stroked her sweat-spotted hair away from her forehead.

“Oh, yes.” Louise smiled up at him reassuringly. “Where did you get that idea from?”

“I was driving past the chemist, and they had a display of wipes and stuff, and I got to thinking…”

“You're kidding?”

“Nope! It's your fault. I can't stop thinking about all the things I could be doing to you.”

Louise kissed him. “Well, you just keep thinking!”

As she spoke she picked up the few remaining wipes, weighing the packet in the palm of her hand. “Fancy discovering just how good some of that felt?”

Without hesitating, Ryan got onto his hands and knees…

 

 

 

 

 

Shiny silver bondage tape. Dangling bells at the ends of matching nipple clamps. A black leather paddle. A Wartenberg wheel, that tiny, mean, metal medical implement. Pink feathers. And an evil grin. I shiver not so much because Bennett has those sadistic items in his hands, save for the last, which he sported on his lips, but because I can already feel the sticky heat of the tape trapping my mouth, the brush of the light feathers against the overly sensitive skin under my arms, the wheel winding its maddening way along my tender, ticklish soles. Even more than those inanimate objects that my man loves to animate, though, it's him who makes me shiver. Bennett knows even better than I that he and he alone can make me stay stock-still, can make me tremble in fear and arousal so closely combined I have no idea where one starts and the other stops.

My entire body strains toward these kinky accoutrements, and toward him, the pull so deep I can barely remember a time before I was at his mercy, even though I know there exists such a
time. Now it's just me and him and however he wants to use me. Sometimes he only wants my mouth, sometimes my ass, sometimes my pussy, sometimes my mind. Sometimes I put on shows for him, sometimes I tell him stories, sometimes I bend over.

Today I know it's not about what I want or can do for him at all; he wants to hurt me, and therefore he will, and I will like it, because that's how I respond to him. My nipples can already feel the press of the clamps, the deep heat that seems to burn its way through me, and stays there. Bennett's smile is a little mysterious, small, playful, which usually means his mind is concocting grand plans to torture me. If he could read my desire for pain, for service, for full immersion in being completely his from day one, then now, well past day one thousand and one, it's like he knows me better than I know myself.

He's not the kind of person you can ever tell what you want straight on. Or you can, but it doesn't do you any good, not as a sub. Or more accurately, it doesn't do me any good. Bennett gets a perverse pleasure out of denying me what I crave, out of only giving in when he knows I'm so mad with desire I almost no longer want it. Then he unleashes every ounce of sadistic determination on me, but not a moment sooner.

He's not interested in the “You like to be spanked, therefore I'll spank you” kind of equation. Too straightforward, too boring. He's told me as much. “If you just want some man to play Dom, or play Daddy, go find someone else,” he told me on our first date. I hadn't intended to tell him all about my kinkiest fantasies; the ones I'd never told anyone, even the men I let tie me up and have their way with me. I hadn't ever truly gone there, hadn't even realized where “there” was until, without even a drop of wine, Bennett coaxed the truth out of me. The very naughty truth that made my cheeks burn, as I whispered it across the flickering candles and elegant tablecloth and forgotten meal.

It's not just because he's a genius, literally, and his mind moves too fast for that to be at all interesting to him. And it's not the wealth of lovers he's had before me on whom he's honed his Dominant skills, either. It's that he wants each time to be better than the last. He wants it to matter. He wants me to feel it not just on the tender surface of my skin but inside, deep down, all the way, where it counts. When he takes out his knife and traces it along the swell of my breast, he wants me to wonder, even for a split second, if he'll be careless—or, worse, careful—and break the skin. He wants me to wonder, when he tells me he is bringing guests while I'm all trussed up, if he really is, and how many. He wants me to be uncertain whether he'd actually try to get his gigantic fingers inside my tight but eager ass without lube.

Maybe it's because I'm a sucker that I fall for it every time. Maybe I just want to. But when I see and hear him taking out the duct tape, I squirm in anticipation. I know I will miss the chance to mouth off, or to simply tell him basic things like, “Yes!” or “Fuck,” or “Please,” or “More.” We are both attuned to the verbal nuances of power play, so it's rare that he takes away my power of speech. He does like to see me drool, but gags aren't his style. He's more the type to shove four fingers in my mouth and wait until the saliva starts to spill down my throat, or hand me a particularly large cucumber and insist I take it as far as I can.

I'd be lying if I said I didn't know that a part of him, and, yes, a part of me, is already thinking about how the tape will feel coming off, how it will rip at the tender skin of my upper lip, my chin, my cheeks. Will it leave red marks? Will my lips burn? I whimper as the future pain whispers to me, and he looks down at me with what would typically be called contempt, except I know it as love. That's his way, and when he pinches my lips closed with his fingers, I instinctively spread my legs. Trust me,
we have plenty of truly tender, TLC moments, but not when we're about to indulge our deepest desires. I'd say “do a scene,” but there is nothing of performance art about this.

“You want the tape, don't you, Sophie?” he asks, even though it's not really a question. He peels the shiny silver tape so close to me I hear its separation from the roll loudly. When I nod, he frowns at me.

“Yes, Bennett, I do, I want the tape. You know I want the tape.” Except it's not about knowing, it's about acknowledging these truths, saying them out loud, admitting them.

In 12-step programs, they say that admitting it is the first step, but in kink, at least my kink, admitting it is not about disowning it, but the very opposite: owning every ounce of what makes me so perverse as to want that tape on my most tender parts. It's a good thing I'm so clear on my own perversions, because that's the very next question Bennett asks me. “Where do you want the tape?” Oh, but is that ever a trick question. Do I want it on my nipples—and will I want it when it comes off my nipples? Do I want it binding my ankles together? Do I want it wrapping my wrists together so that I can see myself like a glinting Christmas present, all wrapped up and waiting for its proud owner to tear apart?

The answer I give goes against what anyone who doesn't know me in this context would think I would say, because when the words, “Over my mouth,” leave my lips, I'm surrendering a part of me we both like me to use: my voice. I'm a loud girl, a screamer, a crier, a beggar. I like to whimper and ask for things and simply say Bennett's name when everything gets to be almost too much. His name is something I can hold against my tongue like a butterscotch hard candy, keeping it clutched there tightly, its two syllables nowhere near those of my safeword. That stays buried at the back of my throat, somewhere near where his cock
hits me when he puts it there, buried in a place I know I can access, but like to forget about. I love the idea that I don't really have that word at the ready, that all I have is him choosing for me. So when I tell him where I want the tape, I am, in effect, giving him that, taking that word away. We always have a fallback plan, but we both know it's not quite the same. We know the power of words; the ones we say, over and over, and the ones we never say. He tells me sometimes that only a chatterbox like me could appreciate the art of silence, the inherent power play in waiting for another to speak.

I shut my mouth and try to shut down my mind a little, too, as I stare back at him, waiting to see what he will do to me. I like that he asks for my input, that he'd have put the tape anywhere I asked, but also that with him, I never give false answers. His questions have a way of prying me open, of probing parts of me I barely know exist until I'm forced to answer, often surprising even me with my response. The tape is surprisingly gentle as it glides over my clamped lips, so gentle that I don't quite realize how strong it is until I try to separate them. I breathe deeply through my nose and watch him, my other senses on high alert. He puts the tape down, and I know he is done with it, but not done with me—far from it.

Next are the clamps. I watch as he pulls and twists one nipple; for a mere moment I am a voyeur, watching my own body, until the rush of heated pain is impossible to ignore. He knows when it hits me, he always does, and that's when I see a little grin break across his face. He knows he's got me, not because my mouth is taped shut or because my wrists are dutifully arched above my head, not officially bound yet but trapped there by his silent command, or because my legs are spread, but because I liked what he just did—a lot. I liked the pain that washed over me, and the heat that dives into my nipple when he fastens the
clamp, and I like it all the more when he repeats himself at my other nipple. “You're born to do this, Soph,” he says softly as I hum against the tape. He lifts the pink feather and dances it along my neck, teases it against the clamps, runs it right against my underarm. I pull my arm down and trap it between my arm and my side, but he simply stares at me, hard, and I raise my arm again.