A tentative hand spanks me once. Then again, harder, and then again. Someone leans over and says, “You don’t know how to spank, do you? You have to do it on different spots or she’ll go numb.”
He continues his tepid spanking, altering intensity and location. But when I squirm appreciatively on his lap, one of the other guys says, “Jesus, put her out of her misery” and slides an ice cube into my pussy.
They laugh. The cold on my inflamed skin makes me struggle against them and they laugh again, their grip intensifying. “You’re not going anywhere,” one says to me and then there’s a trickle of liquid over my pussy, followed by a hot, strong tongue.
I groan into the other man’s legs. This is what I want: strangers, exposure, powerlessness. Strong hands pinning me down, teaching my pussy something new. An anonymous mouth on my cunt. I’ve almost forgotten Gabe entirely when two more people cram into the booth. One of them grabs a lusty handful of my ass and says, “Look at this hot little slut.”
They yank the belt binding my wrists and abruptly turn me over.
Above me, far-off ceiling lights gleam like fiber-optic stars. New hands spread my legs again and I stare up at four male faces and the beautiful face of a Raphaelite painting—someone’s girlfriend, obviously. With her golden-brown tendrils and sculpted cheekbones, she’s too lovely for this smutty club. I arch my back and she looks back at me with the empathy of another sub.
Her boyfriend fingers me as if it’s no big deal that my boyfriend and his girlfriend are watching. “Damn, she is wet.”
“Ben, go easy on her.” His girlfriend tenderly pushes my hair off my damp forehead. “I’m Miranda,” she says and puts her hands on my breasts, stroking them just the way I like.
“Jesus, you two are going to town on my girlfriend!” Gabe sounds half appalled, half delighted.
“You’re a lucky man.” This guy is a perv. Too dirty for his sweet girlfriend, though she does seem to enjoy playing with my nipples.
The club manager comes over. “Come on, guys, that’s enough,” he says. “We let a lot of shit go on here, but there’s a limit.”
“Yeah, okay.” My dress is pulled down, though I don’t bother to sit up.
“Party at my place,” Gabe says when he leaves.
Miranda’s boyfriend slides out of the booth and pulls me out by my bound wrists before untying the belt. He’s quicker than Gabe; as the others slide or struggle out of the booth, some clearly drunker than others, I think about the things other men know that Gabe doesn’t, the new levels of captivity and adventure they could provide.
A man in a suit approaches us with a card, big and burly like a bouncer. “My friend would like to extend you an invitation,” he says.
He indicates another booth, presided over by another man in a suit. Tall, handsome, mostly bald, and radiating power. Way older than me, older than Gabe. Even through the club’s dark and flashing lights I can see his deep-green eyes watching me.
Gabe instinctively goes hostile. “Thanks,” he says sarcastically and tosses the card on the table, into a puddle of spilled beer. Where from the corner of my eye, I see Miranda discreetly retrieve it.
The next afternoon I wake up on the living room sofa. The shades are pulled but brush against the wall when the oscillating fan passes their way. I’m mostly naked. My collar is still on from when Gabe clipped it last night, one cuff around my left ankle, and an unbuttoned white blouse. Right, the schoolgirl outfit. He made me model it for them last night when we all came back here.
I test my legs first. My thighs are sore. My nipples are bitten and so are my lips. My jaw hurts; Gabe was gripping it last night when he made me suck Ben’s dick. “Get this on film,” he’d said, holding my face rigid as his friend fucked my mouth.
I feel weightless and blissful.
“Oh, you’re up.” Gabe seems nervous, moving his keys back and forth between hands. “I’m going out, you want me to get you something? One of those smoothies you like?”
“Mango.” My voice is a rasp.
Gabe forces a smile before he goes out. He’s nervous because last night went farther than he planned. He found a limit in this weird summer we’ve been having. Maybe it was seeing me with Miranda or filming me with his friends or letting Ben suck him off while Miranda filmed them.
I crawl off the sofa and lie naked on the carpet. Slowly, just enough to wake up my skin, I rub myself against the bristly fibers. Gabe left his phone on the table; I take pictures of my swollen lips, the eyeliner smeared around my eyes, the bite marks on my ribs. Something for him to remember me by. Then I look in my purse and find the older man’s card, courtesy of Miranda.
* * *
Now it’s just before midnight and I’m back at the club, following a big-shouldered man up a flight of stairs. The thunderous music below is a faint throb through the walls. I’m wearing a short clingy white dress and sandals that are just delicate straps and a five-inch heel. Hair in an uptwist.
My stomach is a fluttering knot as we reach the top and he opens the door. “Welcome.”
The massive room before me is painted forest green, with leather sofas, cages, and a long bar. Through the crowd I see a wall of TV screens that show the club and what seem to be private rooms. But the real show is clearly up here: a voluptuous redhead shackled to a St. Andrew’s cross, several naked girls wearing animal masks, and a brunette using a crop on a very pretty and naked boy.
Some of the men turn and look at me. It reminds me of parties I used to go to, how I used to be addicted to this kind of attention. Now that seems like such a boring breed of beauty. I’ll be more beautiful an hour from now when I’m ruined, when the white dress is filthy and crumpled in a corner and my mascara is smeared and my mouth is puffy from being bitten.
The club owner, the older man, is waiting in a leather chair, his green eyes trained on me. I walk toward him, unsteady on my heels. He’s in his forties, with a controlled tension in his muscles that’s graceful and menacing at the same time.
“You know why you’re here,” he says.
My hands shake as I unzip my dress and step out of it. The men watching make it hard to unhook my bra. The truth is, I really don’t know why I’m here, other than the electric adrenaline pouring through my veins. I don’t know what he’s going to do to me or how I’m going to feel twenty minutes from now. It’s almost like skydiving again, that exhilarating leap into terror and jubilation, as he clips a collar and leash on me, then laces my arms behind me in a leather arm-binder. “Are you ready?” he says in my ear, leading me to a closed door. I nod and the door swings open and then I’m freefalling once again.
DELICATE MATTERS
Leandra Vane
Shawn was not an expert in historical textiles but he was certain the WWI-era tuxedo pants he was wearing were not the best at concealing his hard-on.
But that’s what happens when you work in a museum and start having kinky sex with your coworkers.
Or rather, that’s what happens when you work at a museum, start having kinky sex with your coworkers, and the museum’s textiles collection gets commissioned for a fashion show at a convention four hours from home. Everyone on staff, from the registrars to the museum director, had been fitted for an outfit in the collection, along with several other volunteers. Which was how Shawn found himself trying to keep everything on track while wearing a tuxedo from 1914. Not an easy task, especially when he kept getting distracted.
Shawn caught a glimpse of his lovers again through the crowd. The first fashion show of the day had just ended and they were both still attired in their original historical outfits. Joslyn wore a slate blue dress from 1897 that matched her eyes and Alton had on a suit from 1928 that only sufficed to make him look like an awkward gangster. To Shawn, though, they were perfect. He was about to cut his way through the crowd and see what they had planned for the hour and a half lunch break before the next textiles show, but he was intercepted by a hiss in his ear and the cold clamp of fingers around his wri
st.
“I swear to god if one of the Whittaker twins gets even a speck of Cheez Doodle dust on that Edwardian silk, I will murder them.”
This was not the first time the conservator for the museum had threatened to kill the Whittaker twins that day, but this time she also killed Shawn’s boner.
“Janet, calm down, please,” Shawn said, setting his arm on her back to guide her. She was wearing antebellum hoops, so fortunately she couldn’t move quickly or get too close to anyone.
Shawn whispered to her as they weaved through the crowd. “Take a deep breath and remember . . . those are Dr. Whittaker’s nieces. And they’re going to post a million selfies of themselves having such an amazing time today in their outfits, on their little road trip. And Dr. Whittaker will be so happy to see that when he’s thinking about donating an obscene amount of money to our foundation this fall.”
Janet gritted her teeth and glared.
“Just—take—the—Cheez—Doodles—away.” She huffed off.
Shawn sighed. Part of landing the job as assistant director at the museum meant he always had to play the bad cop. He headed toward the meeting rooms behind the hotel’s central banquet hall that were serving as the green rooms for the event.
Once there, he did find the Whittaker twins. But they weren’t actually eating the Cheez Doodles. They were participating in some new trend where they put snack food on their face to take selfies and they had paper towels spread over their outfits to keep the material safe.
Shawn diffused the situation by rounding up his staff for the catered lunch and helping everyone put on the long black capes that a local salon had donated for the event. This doubled in protecting the garments as well as giving everyone a new selfie opportunity.
Though Shawn kept an eye out, it was soon apparent Joslyn and Alton were missing from the parka-clad lunch crowd. When Shawn finally got a moment, he fished his phone from his duffle bag in a corner.
There was a text from Joslyn.
Caught you staring ;) Meet us in the room if you can get away.
A hot ache spread over Shawn’s skin. He texted back:
Scene?
There was no place to stash his phone, so he kept it in his hand. He quickly found the museum’s secretary, who was wearing a much less restrictive ensemble from the 1940s, and put her on twin patrol. When he saw Janet had found some old colleagues from another museum to mingle with in a greenroom across the hall, Shawn made a break for the hotel lobby.
The phone vibrated in his hand as he waited for an elevator. Joslyn’s answer appeared on the screen.
Yes.
Shawn was happy to be alone as he stepped into the elevator and punched the button for the fifth floor. With a shudder, the elevator began to drift upward, and Shawn’s mind began to settle into subspace. The thoughts he was having in his 1914 tuxedo were fucking obscene. He loved it—he loved them.
At thirty-two, Joslyn was younger than Shawn and at forty-seven, Alton was older. The forming of their relationship had been a slow and not an altogether painless process. After many shy conversations, they ascertained Shawn wanted to get tied up, Alton wanted to kiss men, and Joslyn wanted to be on top. The leap was finally admitting they wanted to do it all together.
Life had been exceptionally wonderful—and erotic—ever since.
When the elevator dinged on the fifth floor, Shawn shifted himself under the antique fabric before exiting to the hall.
Each step on the maroon patterned carpet sent a jolt of anticipation and arousal upward through his core. He stopped at 514 and knocked on the door of the room the three of them were sharing. They had rehearsed a lie to explain why the three of them had gotten a room together. But amidst the excitement and chaos, no one had asked. The doorknob clicked inside and Shawn felt it in the pit of his stomach.
The door floated open and Shawn had to admit he saw the huge, puffed shoulders of Joslyn’s dress first, and her bright, mischievous eyes second. She had to back up to allow him to enter the room around her excessive skirts.
Shawn’s mind was already swirling, but he noticed two things right away. The first was that the room was chilled—they had the air conditioner going full blast. The second was that the chair from the desk had been placed in the open area in front of the beds.
Alton stood behind the chair, his hands resting on the back. Still in his ’20s suit, he had the same mischievous glint in his eye. Shawn felt his knees tremble.
“Well, hello, sir,” Alton said. “Would you like to have a seat?”
“Wait, we aren’t playing in these clothes,” Shawn said, but not strong enough for it to be a command.
“Well,” Joslyn said, “you are.”
Shawn swallowed. “Maybe we should . . . not.”
Joslyn grinned. “And ruin the scene we’ve been plotting for weeks?”
“Weeks?” Shawn asked.
“Weeks,” Alton answered.
Fuck. Knowing they had been planning the scene for so long sent a surge of anticipation through Shawn that made him dizzy. But these fucking clothes were too important to have even the slightest thing go wrong.
Shawn fought against every ounce of arousal as he reasoned, “Look, if you both top me, I won’t have time to service you after anyway so maybe we shou—”
“You’re not servicing us after this scene,” Joslyn interrupted, her Top Voice slicing his sentence short. “We will very graciously wait until tonight for you to pay us back, so you needn’t worry about that. And we’ll all be sacrificing lunch to pull this off, but I think when you treat us to dinner this evening it will be well worth it.” Her voice softened and she ran her thumb down his jawline. “And we’ve planned this very carefully. We have put every precaution in place, as you can tell by this arctic climate. If anything happens to these precious clothes, it will only be because you are the one not paying attention. But that’s the fun part.” She puckered her lips and kissed the air. “Whattaya say?”
Shawn looked toward the chair. Alton held his arms out, welcoming him to sit.
Fuck me. Fuck them. Fuck these clothes. Fuck everything.
Shawn threw his phone on the bed and sat down in the chair.
Alton brushed the side of Shawn’s face with his fingers; the warmth tingled on Shawn’s cheek in the cold air. As Joslyn approached Shawn, Alton walked around them, disappearing into the bathroom.
“Good,” Joslyn said. “Now, darling. Do you remember what Janet said about the history of my dress when she narrated during the show . . . or were your thoughts elsewhere?”
Shawn’s eyes traveled down the curves of Joslyn’s dress, her waist accentuated by the cut of the bodice and the corset he knew was cinched tightly underneath. Joslyn placed a stern finger under his chin to bring his gaze back up to her face.
“I thought so,” she said. “Well, let me remind you. This dress I am wearing was made in 1897. But the lace on this dress was taken off of an older dress. And the collar was taken off an even older dress than that.”
She reached behind her neck and gently unclasped the lace collar. It was thin, delicate, and gorgeous. She held it in front of his face.
“They date this lace to around 1810 or 1815.”
She played the lace across his face and it felt like flower petals on his closed eyelids.
Joslyn took a step back. “Put your hands behind your back.”
Shawn’s eyes shot open. “Joslyn. That is 200-year-old lace.”
She just shrugged. “Three little letters make one very effective safeword.”
“I know my safeword.”
“Well?”
The throbbing in Shawn’s temples was even more intense than that in his dick as he wrestled with the desire for Joslyn to do what he thought she was going to do with the lace.
“Green,” he said as he put his arms behind his back.
“Wonderful,” Joslyn said.
She walked slowly around him, not to build anticipation, but because she could only move so fast in the
antique outfit. Shawn’s breath hitched in his throat as he felt her hands bring his wrists together while the cool lace weaved around them in an infinity loop. Though the collar wasn’t holding his wrists in place, even the slightest move made tension on the lace that Shawn could feel. It almost gave him a heart attack.
“Now,” Joslyn said over his head. “I’m going to give you the most important command I’ve ever given you in my life. Keep your goddamn hands behind your back.”
The throbbing instantly returned to his dick.
“Yes, Mistress,” Shawn breathed.
Shawn was finding the lace was only part of his problem. With his hands behind his back, he was also putting quite a lot of tension on the seams of the tuxedo jacket. Not only could he not part his wrists, he had to keep his shoulders just right to keep any of the seams from stretching.
His heart was pounding and a line of sweat broke on the back of his neck. He heaved in deep breaths of cold air. He loved the sensation of bondage. Whether it was Joslyn’s leather straps holding him tight or the hot, sensual weight of Alton on top of him enveloping every inch of Shawn’s body, Shawn felt the greatest ecstasy when he felt captured, held, and owned. And he now knew the most robust ropes or heaviest clasps had nothing on a delicate slip of strategically placed lace.
Shawn’s focus and excitement were so amped he had developed tunnel vision. Alton appeared in the center, kneeling in front of Shawn. Alton had taken every towel from the bathroom and set them aside. With his free hands, he set to work on the front of Shawn’s tuxedo pants.
Shawn gasped. Every small movement of material under Alton’s hands had Shawn’s senses singing. Shawn was grateful to be wearing modern underwear beneath the antique material, because he was leaking precome from his desperate cock.
Keeping his arms and shoulders in place, Shawn managed to roll his hips forward enough for Alton to carefully pull the pants and Shawn’s fitted boxers down. Shawn felt every centimeter of fabric sliding down his ass and thighs.
When Shawn’s erection popped free, Alton took it gently in his grip, like Shawn’s cock was just as delicate as the clothing. Pleasure shivered through Shawn’s body.
Best Bondage Erotica of the Year Page 13
