“How are we doing?” He bent slightly and pushed his hand beneath my short skirt. His fingers zeroed in on my clit instantly. Slick with my own juices. He pushed a finger inside my pussy and my body responded immediately by gripping him tight.
Jared gave a dark chuckle and quickly withdrew. He stood and grabbed the back of my head, pulling me over the small desk, pushing his cock against my lower lip until my willing mouth popped open and he filled it.
He gripped my hair in his hand, holding it like a lead, and thrust through my lips, then over my tongue. His cock filled the opening of my throat and I inhaled deeply, trying not to gag. His grip on my hair tightened and my eyes sparked with tears, but my pussy got wetter and tighter and my need for him grew to an all-consuming thought.
I shifted as I sucked, moving my mouth down his shaft, giving him pleasure for penance. Knowing my penance would earn me my own pleasure in return. I just had to be a good girl. A model student.
“What’s the rule when we make an agreement?” he asked, pausing, cock still filling my mouth.
I looked up into his dark brown eyes and mumbled around him. Better to answer unintelligibly than not at all.
He withdrew slowly. His hand beneath my chin, fingers curled against my skin. His smile was amused and slightly cruel. His cock slid out of my mouth with a soft pop. “Again.”
“That we not go back on the agreement without discussing it and making a new agreement in favor of revoking the old one.”
“And what does that ensure?”
I blushed, eyes flitting downward. It had been the main tenet of our relationship since the day we met and then our marriage after we decided to tie the knot. “A happy life where we’re working as partners. Together, not opposed.”
He petted my hair and my eyes grew heavy. It was a gentle touch.
“Good girl. You remember.”
His fingers threaded into my hair and yanked slightly. I gasped. And when I did, he pushed his cock back into my mouth. I sucked him as far and as deeply as I could, until I thought my jaw would shatter from the aching. He pulled free of me and tugged me to my feet. He turned me toward the desk and put my hands on the writing surface. He yanked my hips back and knocked my legs wide. He knocked them as wide as the tether allowed, which gave me a tentative balance. But my bound hands pressed against the wood helped me keep it.
He flipped my skirt up and pushed his cockhead against my drenched slit. I found myself sighing, grinding back, trying to get him inside me.
He smacked my ass hard, pushed my legs against my bonds so I teetered. “Don’t push. I will fuck you when I decide to fuck you. Push me, and you go right back in that seat.”
I nodded over and over, gasping for air, mumbling, “Sorry . . . sorry . . .”
He dragged his cock along my opening again, torturing me. As his tip brushed my clitoris, a lightning bolt of pleasure shot through my body. My toes curled in my ugly school shoes. My legs ached from my stance but somehow that only amplified the pleasure coursing through me.
He withdrew; I whimpered. His hand replaced his cock and he slid a finger inside me. I was so wet I could hear it enter me. Then he added a second. He curled them, his fingertips pressing against my swollen G-spot.
I moaned. He had me at his mercy. He could make me come or he could make me suffer.
“What will you do with that belt, Callie?”
I floundered, but only for a second. “I’ll return it,” I said. My heart dropped a little. “What will I give you for your birthday, though?” I asked desperately.
I heard the sound of lube leaving a bottle. He always kept it nearby when he was going to have his way with me. Goose bumps sprang up along my spine in anticipation.
The slick lube was cool on my skin as his finger gently probed my back hole and curled, hitting my G-spot from a whole other angle. “Well, on my birthday, I think we can come up with something.” He moved his finger in and out of me and said, “What do you think?”
I was nodding crazily, getting his hint. “Yes, yes, I think we can.”
“And that won’t cost us anything. Just time and pleasure.”
I nodded again, his finger diving deep inside me. I shuddered when his cock nudged my opening and then slid in just enough to make me squirm. I had to focus all my energy on not driving my body back to make him move. That would be frowned upon. And I would be punished in a different way. I’d be left to stew in my own juices, so to speak, unfucked and ready beyond belief.
I stayed utterly still, the jump rope cutting into my ankles through my thin socks. It only added to my heightened arousal.
He chuckled appreciatively, obviously aware of how hard this was for me, the simply standing there part.
His fingers stroked the spot just above my asscrack. “Look at you being such a good girl. I’m pleased.”
Without warning, he plunged into me. It rocked me up on my tiptoes. His left hand on my hip, his right hand busy with my back hole. His finger still deep inside me, rubbing against his driving cock as he fucked me.
He rocked into me, finding that sweet rhythm that managed to force his cock against my tender G-spot with every thrust. I pushed my hands, still tethered together with a shoestring, against the desk. The chunky wooden structure didn’t budge an inch as his pounding became more intense.
His finger drove in and out of me in sync with his dick.
I heard a sound and realized it was me moaning.
Another amused chuckle from Jared and then a hard, deep thrust that managed to push me over the edge. I came, crying out in the silent, too-warm room as my pussy spasmed around him.
Another few strokes and I felt him pull out of me swiftly, then the warm kiss of his come along the swell of my still-throbbing ass.
I stood there, trembling, catching my breath. He touched my shoulder, then kissed the back of my head and helped me stand. “Hands,” he said.
I held them out and he looped them over his head so that I held his neck as if in a common embrace. Didn’t matter that my skirt was all askew and my ass mostly bare and dripping with semen.
“Was it a nice belt, love?” He kissed the end of my nose and I lost it, laughing.
“Lovely.”
“I bet. You have good taste.”
I nodded. “I do have very good taste.”
He cocked an eyebrow at me. “And if memory serves you taste very good.”
“You might have to go back to see if memory serves,” I said.
“Possibly later tonight. But first . . .” He unhooked my arms from his neck and unwound the string. Then he bent to undo my ankles. His face so close to my tender, swollen pussy was almost unbearable. And thinking about a possible round two tonight made my insides molten all over again.
“But first what?” I managed.
He looked up at me and grinned. “First you have a belt to return.”
THE BEGUILING OF MERLIN: AN EROTIC FANTASIA
Tiffany Reisz
Mona entered her private office at the Red, her little art gallery on Savoy Street. She’d come in search of a missing invoice, but the invoice was forgotten completely when she spied a book of Pre-Raphaelite art plates on her desk, a red ribbon marking a page.
Mona’s heart danced and her blood heated as she saw that red satin tongue sticking out of those cream-colored pages. This was her lover Malcolm’s game. When he was in the mood to fuck her, he left a painting on her desk as a hint, sometimes a challenge. Whatever was in the painting, that was how he’d have her that night. One night it had been The Slave Market by French artist Jean-Léon Gérôme, and her body had been auctioned off to the highest bidder—Malcolm, of course. Another night they’d sported in a sacred grove as she’d played nymph to his satyr in honor of the famous painting Nymphs and Satyr by the old master William-Adolphe Bouguereau.
What was it to be tonight?
Mona let the anticipation build as she sat primly in her desk chair and pinned a wayward strand of candy-apple-red hair into the knot
at the nape of her neck. She forced herself to flip through all the pages of the art book and not turn right to the marked page. Mona had always adored the Pre-Raphaelites, those painters who were obsessed, it seemed, with beauty and beauty alone. The paintings had no meaning, no message, and no morality, not unlike Malcolm. The artists simply loved painting beautiful things—lakes, oceans, magical houses, lovely long-limbed boys, and beautiful women, usually their mistresses.
Finally Mona turned to the marked page.
Ah. This was a new game—The Beguiling of Merlin by Edward Burne-Jones, one of the last of the Pre-Raphaelite painters. Mona knew this painting and loved it. It showed a woman of rare power, Viviane, the famous Lady of the Lake from Arthurian legends. In the painting, the Lady of the Lake had tricked the wizard Merlin in some way so she could bind him in the branches of a spiky hawthorn bush and steal his book of magic.
How fitting. Malcolm was very much a Merlin who worked strange erotic magic on Mona every time they had their trysts in the back room of the Red. Malcolm hadn’t just marked the painting in the book. He’d left a note for her as well. She unfolded a crisp white note card and read, If you can steal my book of magic as Viviane stole Merlin’s, you’ll know how I do all my tricks.
The note was signed, All my lust, Malcolm.
How could Mona resist that challenge? She’d wondered for months now how Malcolm worked his magic, how he transformed the back room of her art gallery into the paintings they played in whenever he was in the mood to use her body. At first she simply thought he was wealthy enough to put on lifelike plays for their pleasure alone. But as the months passed and the fantasies they explored grew more elaborate and terrifyingly real, she had to admit there was only one explanation for how it was done—magic.
Mona examined the painting in the book again. In it, the Lady of the Lake wore a gauzy gown of blue gray. Mona had a nightgown that would do nicely. She returned to her apartment and found it in her closet. At midnight, she returned to the Red. In her office she quickly changed into the gauzy gown, eager to see her mysterious magical lover again.
She opened the door to the gallery’s back room, which was nothing more than a storage room—usually. But when Malcolm wanted to work his magic, he could turn the back room into anything—an auction house, a sacred grove, a labyrinth, a Roman prison.
Mona stepped across the threshold and onto soft grass. She shut the door behind her and found herself in an enchanted spring forest.
How? How did Malcolm do it? She had to know. If she beguiled her “Merlin” well enough, perhaps she would learn his secrets before the night was over.
But first . . . she had to find him.
Mona dug her naked toes into the spongy ground and glanced around at the mossy trees that towered fifty feet or more above her. The air smelled clean and pure, dew wet and dreamy, like the first morning breeze off an ancient unspoiled lake.
She heard the lapping and laughing of water nearby. Mona ran toward it, remembering that in this fantasy she was the Lady of the Lake. And if she was the Lady of the Lake, she needed her lake, didn’t she?
Mona rushed through the woods until she came to the rocky lakeshore. The lake stretched far and wide before her, glinting in the dawn light. And across the lake on the opposite shore, she spied a man in a dark-blue cloak disappearing between two trees.
As she was the Lady of the Lake, it was nothing to walk across the water. Once on the other side, she slipped into the woods and found a hawthorn bush with vicious thorns aplenty. Across from the bush stood an ancient gnarled yew tree, with branches so low they scraped the ground. She took the blue scarf from her hair and used it to loosely tie her wrists to a branch above her head.
“Help?” she cried out. “Help me, please!”
She tried not to laugh as she cried out for help. This was the hardest part, keeping a straight face as they played their games.
Hardly a minute passed before Malcolm stepped into the clearing. He stared at her, clearly amused by her pitiful attempt to play damsel in distress. She burned with desire at the sight of him—the black hair in the roguish wave, with a touch of silver at the temples, the strong nose and jaw, the dark glinting mischievous eyes, the hands that knew all the secrets of her body . . . she had to have him. Now.
“You require help, my lady?” he asked.
“A wicked knight in stolen armor captured me,” she said, “as I was out picking berries. Please, untie me before he returns and takes me away with him.”
The scarf was so loose around her wrists, she could have slipped her hands from the loops. She thought if she could take Malcolm—Merlin—unawares, she could push him backward into the hawthorn bush where he would be trapped by the thorns. If only he would take the bait . . .
She was the bait.
Under his cloak, Malcolm wore rough canvas trousers and a linen tunic. He did a very good job of looking like an ordinary Jack-of-the-Green and not the wicked magician she knew he truly was. He took off his cloak and hung it over a branch. She spied his leather-bound book of magic tucked inside a pocket in the cloak lining.
“A wicked knight in stolen armor,” he repeated, his tone mocking. “And you . . . out picking berries. I see no footprints of a knight. I see no berries.”
He stepped closer to her, so close they would have been eye to eye were he not a head taller than Mona. He raised his hand to her neck and caught a curling red lock of her hair around his finger. He lifted the lock to his nose.
“I’m not so sure I should release you,” Malcolm said. “No berries. No footprints. You could very well be a witch.”
“I am no witch,” she said. “Only a maiden, far from home.”
“A maiden?” he repeated. “A maiden in the woods should smell of earth and soap. You smell of water lilies. I don’t think you’re a maiden at all. A maiden would blush.”
“You’ve given me no reason to blush.”
“Then I shall.”
He grinned a devilish, wicked grin as he stroked her cheek with the back of his hand. She warmed at his touch but didn’t blush. The things he’d done to her during their nights together had taken away all her shame. She couldn’t blush if she tried. But for the sake of the game, she did try.
“No blushes,” he said as he pressed his body against hers, pushing her back into the rough trunk of the yew tree. The scarf on her wrist tightened its grip. She could still escape, however, if she wanted to.
If . . .
“I’d hardly blush from the merest touch of a man’s hand on my face. I’m a maiden,” she said, “not a child.”
“Ah, but there’s other ways to find out if a lady is a maiden as she claims.” His warm breath tickled her shoulder as he whispered the threat into her ear. With his fingertips, he caressed the sensitive flesh of her bare neck, traced the line of her throat down to her chest, and teased the swell of her breasts bound tightly in the bodice of her gown.
“A maiden,” he continued, “would never let a strange man take liberties with her in the forest, would she?”
Before she could answer, his supple fingers gripped the bodice of her gown and pulled it down, baring her breasts.
She gasped but didn’t blush, even when he stared hungrily at her full breasts, even when he took them into his large strong hands and held them tightly, lifting and molding them against his palms.
“A beautiful lady to be sure,” he said, “but no blushing maiden.” He rubbed her red and tender nipples with the rough pads of his thumbs. “No matter. I love a lying lady more than a fainting maiden.”
“I’m not lying,” she said, though her every move proved her a liar. After all, what scared maiden would arch her back and push her breasts into the hands of her captor? He caressed her nipples until they were sore and stiff and aching. Without warning, he pinched them in tandem and she gasped, a rich womanly sound that echoed through the woods. He pinched her nipples again, twisting them gently between his thumb and forefinger.
Mona moaned, as no ma
iden would.
Malcolm, her Merlin, only chuckled as he teased and tenderly tortured her breasts until they felt heavy in his hands. He took her nipple between his lips and sucked it greedily. It hardened in his hot wet mouth. She arched again in her bonds as he drew on her nipple, pulling it deeper into his mouth and rubbing the very tip of it with his tongue.
He pulled away and met her hooded, heated gaze.
“Still no blushes,” he said. Before she could protest, he took her other nipple into his mouth, sucking on it hard enough she groaned. But he was right. Not a blush to be found on any part of her body.
He worked his mouth’s magic on her breasts until they throbbed on her chest like twin hearts. He kissed a path from her breasts to her neck and put his mouth to her ear again.
“The two most beautiful breasts I’ve ever sucked,” he said, “and yet not a blush in sight. Let’s find out if you’re a maiden once and for all.”
Malcolm yanked up the skirt of her gown, raising it to her stomach. Then he grasped her thigh, lifted her leg, and draped it over the low yew branch at her hip. He took her other leg and wrapped it over another branch. She wasn’t merely tied to the tree now, but spread open on it, hands above her head, thighs forced impossibly wide. Trapped. Bound. Exposed. Who was beguiling whom here?
But perhaps she could still win the game.
Malcolm ran his fingers up her trapped thighs.
“You mustn’t,” she said, trying desperately to stay in character when what she wanted to say was, You must. You absolutely must.
“But I will,” he said. “Let’s see if this maiden’s cunt has a maidenhead.” He cupped her between her thighs, holding her pussy in his palm. The forest was cool that morning, and his fingers were almost cold against her burning flesh. He ran the tip of one finger down the seam of her vulva, splitting the slit and parting her opening. He slowly slid one long cool finger inside her vagina. She shuddered in pleasure at the penetration, shuddered again when a second finger joined it. Slowly he moved his fingers in a wide spiral inside of her, opening her and spreading her, spreading her and opening her wet red inner flesh until her wetness dripped out of her and down his hands.
Best Bondage Erotica of the Year Page 20
