Best Bondage Erotica 2013 (6 page)

Once the group disappeared up the trail, Miranda whispered to Brett, “That wasn't fair. You cheated!”

“Are you complaining? Was the price for losing so awful?” He took hold of her wrist, his fingers circling where the bandanna had been. Miranda thought she was sated, but her cunt clenched anyway.

She chuckled. “Not about the sex—but about the cheating, yes. I demand a rematch tomorrow!”

That would give her time to get her own insider information and plan the perfect sexy forfeit for Brett if she won.

Then again, losing again had a lot to be said for it.

 

 

 

 

 

Looking down at the very famous bridge illuminated gorgeously in its breathtaking journey across the rocky mouth of the bay, Heather felt Clint's hand sliding up her thigh.

“Darling,” she said, her voice a musical chime. “What are you doing?”

“Not a thing,” he answered, his voice dark, his mouth close to her ear. “Not a damn thing, remember? I'm on vacation.”

His arms were around her, clutching her close, and his big hand was firm and hard and knew what it was doing. Before she realized what was happening, it was thrust between her legs, rubbing her pussy through her very tight jeans. They were stretchy, with very thin fabric; they, together with the flimsy excuse for panties she was wearing, didn't make much of a barrier against her husband's insistent fondle.

Clint stroked her sex through her jeans. Heather's clit surged. He started rubbing her rhythmically, and Heather gasped.

She whined, “Clint, baby, you shouldn't…people might see us.”

“I'm counting on it,” growled her husband into her ear, his breath hot against her skin.

“You wanna get arrested?” Heather snarked with a nervous purr.

“If that's what it comes to,” said Clint. “Hey, what are vacations for?”

He pressed in harder and Heather whimpered, involuntarily rubbing her ass against his cock. He was wearing a coat, so she couldn't feel it, but she knew he was hard, or getting there. She tried to squirm away, but there was nowhere to go; he had her pinned against the railing, which was how he liked it. And to be fair, Heather really didn't try very hard.

“Clint!” Heather gulped, trying not to pivot her hips and rub her pussy against his hand. She reached back and tried to push on him, but he wasn't budging. “People will see. And besides, I'm cold…”

She definitely was; she hadn't worn a jacket, thinking,
It's California in August. How cold can it be
?

The answer was
very cold.
Heather was shivering before she even got a decent look at that fucking pompous bridge. Her nipples jutted painfully through her light sweater—and that was before her husband shoved his hand between her legs. The wind felt like it was biting into her flesh, and Heather's teeth were practically chattering.

“Honey, I'm
cold
,” she repeated.

“So I'll make you hot,” said Clint. Then he did something
nasty
. He seemed to have planned this part. He took his hand from between his wife's legs. He reached up and seized her wrists—both of them, all at once. He had something in his hand, something hard and firm and metal, with a short chain that rattled.

Before Heather knew what was happening, her husband had
snapped the handcuffs around her wrists and handcuffed her to the railing.

Clint knew how to handcuff a girl with terrifying efficiency, a thing Heather found out with some regularity, though only occasionally in public. Heather squealed and tried to get away, but there was nothing for it. With an easy, smooth gesture, Clint unbuttoned his overcoat, pulled it around her and shoved the edges into her hands. Clint's overcoat was big on him, and his slender wife fit easily inside it. She clutched her hands to the railing with the ends of the coat gripped tightly, and her body temperature began to rise.

“Warmed up yet, baby?”

Heather spat bitterly, “No! I'm still fucking cold. And if you think I'm going to…”

That's when all of it stopped—her protests, and the world.

It was eleven o'clock at night, and the observation deck was practically empty because of the wind and the cold. But Heather knew that only made Clint's dirty mind work overtime. And as cold as she was, she knew she'd give in—like she
always
gave in when he pulled this shit. She knew she
needed
to give in, and Clint knew it, too, maybe more than Heather knew it herself.

He did something to her, then. He did the one thing he knew would make her stop protesting and want it so bad she couldn't control herself.

He knew how to make her forget all human language; with his hands and his lips, he knew just where to touch her. Even when she got scared and embarrassed, she could never remember what the fuck she was supposed to do if she got
too
scared and embarrassed.

And she liked it that way. She liked the way he made her brain go all fuzzy—make her preverbal when he did those
things
…right here in public.

He did “those things” now—three of them all at once. He undid her belt with the skill of an expert. He put his hand in her hair and gripped it lightly, tipping her head forward, making her feel all submissive.

And, perhaps most importantly, he kissed her on
that spot
—the spot that made her crazy. He did it gently at first with tongue and teeth barely grazing her flesh…and then harder as she surged and writhed against him.

That spot
was the place on the back of Heather's neck that only her husband could find. Other men had tried—both before and since the wedding, the latter inspiring many fights and a series of tearful apologies on her part.

That was all before she realized there was no man on Earth who was ever going to find
that spot
with the virulent ease with which her husband did; the guys who had tried had proven disappointments. Clint knew how to find that spot, wake it up, bring it to the point where her mind and her body were totally incapable of functioning in any capacity that didn't involve getting fucked very hard from behind, and maybe spanked and tied up for good measure.

Now, his hands were quite busy—one was unzipping her very tight jeans; the other was gripping her hair to keep her head in just the right position to expose what he wanted. So it was Clint's perfect mouth, with his full, strong lips and his wet, surging tongue, that awakened her
spot
—packing a year's worth of lovemaking into a soft slow slurp across the back of her neck, his tongue caressing her flesh between gentle bites…and sometimes harder ones.

Heather's mind spun. Her eyes rolled back in her head. She tried not to moan. She moaned anyway.

Heather gripped the railing as Clint pulled her tight jeans halfway down her thighs, exposing her sex.

Her legs were not quite together, but not quite apart. With a pair of smooth hard kicks, he nudged them open wider so he could get at her more easily. Heather barely knew what was happening as he forcibly spread her legs; she was simply in heaven. He drove her crazy with his mouth—expanding the “spot” by working his lips and his tongue from the space between her shoulders to the soft spot between her spine and her jaw. She was reeling.

Then Clint's hand went up into her slit, and Heather's mouth dropped open. She shuddered and gasped out a cry of desperate pleasure into the wind.

She could feel the frigid air pouring off the ocean and hitting the back of her throat. As she rode her husband's fingers, Heather felt pinned between her man and the ocean, his glorious right hand and his gorgeous, cruel mouth. Clint's left hand was out of its sleeve now; only her husband's broad shoulders and Heather's grip on the railing kept the coat in place. He reached between them and unzipped his pants. His cock came out; Heather felt it against her bare, smooth ass, trailing smears of precum that seemed alternately sticky and slick, warm and chilled.

Then she was lost in sensation again, as her husband's big left hand slid easily up under Heather's snug sweater and down into the cups of her bra. He took hold of her nipples one at a time and pinched and rolled them. Sensation flooded Heather's body. She loved it when he did that. She loved it even more when he did that with his other hand on her clit, his mouth on the back of her neck and his hard cock rubbing up insistently between her smooth asscheeks.

Heather surged and undulated between Clint's hands, Clint's mouth, Clint's cock. She trembled and shivered and bit her lip, trying not to scream. She couldn't stand it anymore. She needed to be fucked.

If there was one thing she could count on her husband knowing, it was that. He knew when she needed to be fucked, sometimes when she didn't even really totally know it herself. When he'd kissed her and held her just before they left the car, she'd felt ripples going through her—ripples Clint had felt, or detected, or something. While Heather had felt more than content to daydream about their warm hotel bed and how hungrily she was going to suck her man's cock—in fifteen minutes, twenty, thirty, maybe an hour—Clint knew Heather would be happy if she didn't have to wait.

Bastard
, she thought, clutching the coat and the cuffs and the railing.
Smug fucking bastard
.

She wanted him in her.

Swaying, Heather bent forward, leaning hard against the railing. Her body reacted instinctively, as if on some evolutionary level. She felt as if her craving had turned her into an animal. She knew how to mate without conscious thought. She presented her sex to her husband, wanting him more than she'd ever wanted anything. She felt the handcuffs scraping the metal railing and tugging at her wrists as she desperately clutched the ends of the coat in her fingers, afraid she would lose her grip in her pleasure and let the whole world see him take her.

Bent over, Heather lifted her ass as high as she could. She was much shorter than him, so that just barely put her sex within reach of her husband's glorious cock—which meant he'd fuck her at a downward angle, she knew. From her experience, that could only mean good things.

Still, Clint was so much taller than her that he had to stoop a little to get it in her. As he did, he paused to take a brief glance over his shoulder before he took his wife up against the railing.

The coast must have been clear. With his right hand, now slippery with Heather's cunt, Clint reached back between her
legs and guided his cock to her entrance. He penetrated his wife with agonizing slowness; she wanted him in her, but he took his time. All told, it probably took half a minute…but to Heather, pinned against the rail and feeling helpless, it seemed an eternity. Clint was torturing her.

He got what he wanted; Heather gave in. She finally shoved herself onto him, moaning into the icy wind as she did. She started fucking back onto him, and if anyone was watching, there would no longer be any doubt about what they were doing. Clint's right hand had returned to her clit, his left to her tits, his lips to that spot on the back of her neck. He fucked her and stroked her and pinched her nipples, and sent cascading electric tingles through her body as his tongue swirled against her flesh between gentle bites—and hard ones, sometimes, as she got closer and closer.

She'd been right; the angle was perfect.

Heather tried to stifle her cry of pleasure, but it was hopeless. She let it all out.

Heather howled into the wind, cumming hard on her husband's cock. She had to stop fucking herself back onto him, and just sort of spasmed there, helpless, suspended between his cock and the railing.

He took up the slack and drove deep inside her as he felt her sex spasm around him.

He let himself go deep inside her.

Heather felt the soft wet surge of her husband's seed in warm, rolling spurts in her pussy, and if anything, she came harder as she held as still as possible so as not to lose it.

As Clint's cock spent itself inside her, he leaned forward and kissed Heather's “spot” with one last tender, wet slurp of his tongue and hard bite of his teeth. It sent a sharp rush of pleasure through her body, and Heather pulled hard at the handcuffs,
feeling very out of control. She felt the wind at the back of her throat again, and realized she was moaning at the top of her lungs. She didn't even care if people could see her.

Heather trembled all over and not from the cold. Without unlocking the handcuffs, Clint pulled up Heather's jeans, zipped her pants and his own, buckled them both up and righted her bra cups. He pulled her sweater back down over her tits. His hand dipped into his pants and came out with his keys; they jangled against the railing as he unlocked her.

He didn't put his arms back in his sleeves; rather, he swept the coat off of his shoulders and wrapped it around his shivering wife. He walked her to the car with his arm around her shoulder. Her teeth were chattering, but the walk helped her focus and turned up the heat. It raised her body temperature just enough that she felt warm as Clint held her door and helped her into the car.

That's what she loved about her husband, Heather thought as she buried her face in his coat and took a deep draft of his scent. One of the many things. Always such a gentleman…even when he'd just handcuffed his wife over an observation deck railing and fucked her from behind.

Always a gentleman; that was her husband.

Clint started the car and pulled onto the onramp.

As he merged, Heather's thoughts returned to the warm hotel bed. She remembered what she'd been thinking of doing, when Clint had kissed her and held her and sensed her need. She'd been thinking about getting into the warm hotel bed and sliding down under the covers and sucking her husband's perfect cock with the kind of vacation-sex gusto that comes once a year, at best.