“Back in a sec,” he said, disappearing into the kitchen. Vanessa started shaking, not from the coldness of her sweat evaporating off of her skin. This also wasn’t like the group ride incident. Tears started rolling down her face, but she was laughing.
Damian rushed back in the room with a bottle of chocolate milk.
“Shh . . . shh . . . it’s okay.” He wrapped the towel around her shoulders and rubbed her over it. “I’ve got you. It’s okay.”
Sobbing, Vanessa took the bottle of chocolate milk and removed the cap. She managed to get a gulp down and her shaking slowed.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me. I don’t even feel sad. I actually felt euphoric right before this.”
“It happens to a lot of people.” Damian held her close and stroked her hair. “And I’m not just saying that. It’s called ‘sub drop.’”
“Sounds like a naval maneuver.” Vanessa wiped away her tears with the corner of the towel.
Damian laughed. “Not quite. It’s what happens after a particularly intense scene when the endorphin levels drop suddenly. It was probably exacerbated by the energy you spent in threshold.”
Vanessa nodded. That made sense. Sometimes after a particularly intense criterium race, she’d be in a funk for a week afterward.
He massaged her legs with oil as she finished the bottle of chocolate milk. She wondered if she had to pay extra for this, especially considering how intimate it felt. It didn’t matter. It was worth every penny for how safe felt right now, safe and completely sated. Mostly though, Vanessa felt exhausted.
She awoke wrapped in a blanket, lying in Damian’s lap on the couch as he idly stroked her hair. Some show played quietly on the television.
Vanessa yawned. “How long was I out?”
“Not that long. Besides, I was finally able to catch up on this season.”
“Oh, shit. I’m not making you late for another, er, engagement, am I?”
“No, you’re not making me late for another client.” He smiled, twirling a strand of her hair in his index finger. “I make it a point to only schedule one appointment a day so I can take as long as the client needs.”
Vanessa felt sheepish. Someone had to fret over her once more. As she sat up, the blanket slid off and she realized she was still more or less topless and sitting in a dirty chamois.
“Geez. I sweat and cry all over you,” Vanessa said, wrapping the blanket around herself as she stood. “I don’t want to get any further bodily fluids on you.”
Damian laughed. “Unless you’re into knife play or water sports, I think we’re safe there. Even if you were, I don’t do those things. My specialty is just recreational discipline.”
“And you are amazing at it. I mean, not that I have any other experience to compare it to.”
Damian stood and gave her a hug. “Will you be all right?”
She nodded and returned the embrace. “Yes.”
“Are you sure?” He pulled back and looked at her face as if to check for signs that she was lying.
“Yes, I’m sure.” She beamed at him, still shaking. “As much as I’d love to spend the rest of the day cuddling with you and binge watching things on the couch, I really need a shower.”
Damian nodded. “I’ll wait just in case.”
“Sheesh. I’ll be fine,” Vanessa scoffed.
Damian grabbed her shoulders tightly and looked her in the eye. “Look, this isn’t optional. I don’t mean to scare you, but I have to insist that I stick around for a bit longer to make sure you’ll actually be fine when I leave.”
Vanessa took a nice steaming shower. She had forgotten the pleasure of feeling her pores open up, lathering and rinsing the salt sweat from her skin after a hard workout, but now she luxuriated in it. She also took a bit of extra time spent with the shower massage attachment, no thanks to the intense look Damian gave her as he insisted that he stay. As she put her flannel robe and sweatpants on, she felt human again. She got a couple glasses of water from the kitchen and returned to the living room.
Damian was snoring softly. Vanessa smiled, took a few sips of water, and shifted him into a more comfortable position with a pillow, covering him with a blanket that hadn’t been soaked with her sweat. She squeezed behind him to be the big spoon. It was her turn to take care of him now, she supposed, stroking his hair. After all, he had put in quite an effort today.
They woke up with no sense of time other than the popup message on the television screen asking if they were still watching. Rested and certain that Vanessa really would be fine, Damian got his jacket. Vanessa went into her bedroom and returned with an envelope.
Damian didn’t bother counting the bills before tucking the envelope in his jacket breast pocket. He knew she would be good for it, which led him to wondering.
“Why don’t you just hire a coach?” he asked. “Someone with your zip code could certainly afford to work with a pro. Plus, I didn’t know the first thing about cycling until you taught me.”
“Been there, done that.” She shrugged. “Let’s just say I needed extra motivation.”
“Next week?”
“Next week.” Vanessa smiled.
Maybe she wasn’t ready to ride out in the world with her team again quite yet, but it felt so damn good to be back in the saddle.
THE LASH OF A THOUSAND WOLFORDS
Trystan Kent
They give me power. They transform me from a petite, polite, pretty Chinese American woman to a statuesque, seductive, stunning, don’t-fuck-with-me Dragon Lady. They are my not-so-secret weapons for they are always on display; I make sure of that with the dresses, gowns, skirts, shorts, and sometimes nothing else that I wear. With names like Sixty Six, Fatal, Stay Hip, High Heel, Crystal Lace, Paulette, Pure, Allure, Katy, and my favorite, Velvet de Luxe, Wolford pantyhose and stockings do my bidding, and I do theirs. It is a bondage we find mutually beneficial.
My not-so-secret weapons have partners-in-crime. They are the accoutrements to my legwear that complete my seductive mien. A short red or black cheongsam, custom split to my waist so that as I walk the full expanse of my legs are easily ogled, from stiletto heels and trim ankles up slim calves, over suggestive thighs to the lower curve of my buttocks. My victims imagine me as accommodating as a B-girl in a Hong Kong bar; a notion aided and abetted by my never wearing panties with my Wolfords. I sit at a bar on a high stool crossing and uncrossing my pantyhose-sheathed legs. Nursing a champagne flute in my hand, stroking the stem, I raise it to my lips and sip and men flock to me.
I choose my finery to appeal to their generic exotic Asian fetish, a Western male notion of a subservient sex kitten waiting patiently for her savior and master to appear. Judging by the Christmas morning look on their faces as they stare at me from across the room, they are certain I’m their enticing gift, ready to be unwrapped, to please them, to be dominated by their masculinity and used for their pleasure, always ready for more, but as soon as they are spent, quickly left for their mainstream significant others as familial duty nags at their consciences.
Before this night is out, I will have selected my chosen one out of the many approaches I’ll receive. Within a few days, weeks at most, through a carefully scripted series of nylon-clad encounters and teasings, they will be my subservient wretch, bringing me expensive gifts so they may be dominated by me and my Wolfords.
I have not always been so bold, nor so predatory. Until a few short years ago my life had been lived in the shadow of men. From the attention and privilege afforded my brothers and not me, to the husband I was unburdened upon by my dutiful parents, to always being overlooked in my career, with promotions and salary raises going to one of the boys’ club, I had been raised and treated as if I were an inferior species. In a sexual epiphany, I came to understand that far from being a liability, my demure Chinese American femininity and how men viewed me were assets to be exploited. Unadorned of nylon and heels, I stand a mere five feet and a few inches tall; potential suitors see me as “cu
te,” as if I were a little girl, a delicate hothouse flower to be cultivated and made to serve them in the bedroom and the kitchen. Once I sheath my legs in the flagrant sexuality of contrasting tan and black trim Katy suspender tights and slip on red-soled Louboutins, I feel superhero tall and look it. And I am not cute. Do not dare call me cute. I am beautiful. I am stunning and I am cunning, and the kitchen is down the stairs and to the right. The champagne is chilled; bring me a glass at once and do not spill a drop on the way back up to serve it to me.
I first discovered the power of Wolford as my marriage dissolved. With a husband off being important with another woman, I was curled up on the couch with a bucket of ice cream watching the red carpet parade of stars going to the Oscars. It was the usual “who are you wearing?” fluff. Sigourney Weaver, towering over the interviewer, wore a red gown split to the thigh. Her statuesque black nylon–encased leg angled through the split, inviting a barrage of paparazzi flashes. The obligatory question popped out and without hesitation, Sigourney, a.k.a. Ripley, a.k.a. alien killer who put cowering men to shame, answered, “Wolford!” An astonished look from the interviewer resulted in more gown identity probing but Ripley stuck to her Wolford guns. She was toying with the red carpet circus, men, and the world in general. She was in total control of everything and everyone; that’s when I first understood how much I had been controlled and how I could become the one doing the controlling. It was my first glimpse of the power exchange at the core of bondage and dominance.
The next day I called in sick to work and visited a Wolford boutique in Beverly Hills where the knowledgeable sales associate, who was wearing black Velvet de Luxe 60, as she proudly announced with a sweep of her hand, acquainted me with the luxurious pantyhose, further explaining that the number meant the denier or sheerness. I was sold, especially after meeting Katy and Fatal and their cohorts. As soon as I got home, I stripped naked and sat cross-legged on our rarely used marital bed and uncaged my Wolford arsenal. I had bought two pairs of Velvet de Luxe 60, one in black and one in purple, a nude Fatal, a black Katy with black suspenders, and nude High Heels with a black seam. The first thing I noticed—and it was true of every pair, but to the extreme on the Velvet de Luxe 60s—was how silky soft they were on my fingers as I felt them with a careful hand inserted into the inviting sheaths.
Yes, I had done the same thing in the boutique with samples at the insistence of the sales associate as she’d taken me on a crash course in everything I needed to know about stockings, pantyhose, and tights. I’d veritably oozed at how comfortable and sensual the samples felt to my fingers. But here in my bedroom, just me and my Wolfords—my Wolfords—there was no sales hype, just us—a woman and her luxurious and expensive hose. I confess, these nylons were as soft as my frequently bathed, often moisturized, always shielded from the sun, babied skin, and yet, as the sales associate had demonstrated, they were strong, Ripley strong, and were not easily laddered, snagged, or torn. They were what I would become.
As I tried them on and strutted around in my various pairs and posed and admired myself in the mirror, I realized they were my second skin, a chameleon carnal camouflage, and like Sigourney and, by default, Ripley, there was nothing I couldn’t do in them. My ass was tighter and perter, my stomach was flatter, my pussy was caressed by the crotch, and my legs were longer. The soles of my feet were possessed of a nymphomaniacal spring, and my nylon-encased toes wanted a cock to squeeze and massage into coming or a similarly clad pussy rubbing against mine, Wolford on Wolford. Sigourney Weaver had defeated acid-spitting aliens; the new me was ready to take on the world. That very night I kicked out my shocked, slacker husband. I filed for divorce, and yes, I wore Wolford—Velvet de Luxe 60 in black, and I have never looked back, or looked better.
That is how I learned Wolfords were special—and so was I. Together we unleashed a dormant power that was always within me but had been suppressed by generations of male privilege and my complicity. But not any more . . .
I’m in my bedroom sitting at my makeup table, my gaze pingponging from my reflection to the photo of my grandmother in her ornate Chinese opera costume taken at a performance many years ago in Beijing. I’m naked, focusing on perfecting my immaculate porcelain doll visage to match her theatrically exaggerated face, accentuating my black eyelinered eyes and mascaraed eyelashes so they jump out from the red blush eye shadow framing them. A few more brush strokes merge my emphasized eyes with the alabaster powder and foundation covering my cheeks. The blood red glitter of my nails and lips screams in contrast to my pale makeup. My toenails and fingernails match by design, and in a few minutes my feet and legs will be covered with one of the hundreds of pairs of Wolford tights and stockings that are my prize possessions; so much so that if my home was burning down I would run naked into the streets clutching as many pairs as I could.
My subject tonight has begged for me to wear pantyhose, but I discount my go-to Stay Hips because the crotch is bare, and he wants and needs a gusset soaked with my come. My favorite Velvet de Luxe 60s are what I used to lure him to me in the bar where he fell under my spell—what was it? Two weeks ago. Too short for nostalgia. Tonight requires something special from my Wolford arsenal to complete my dominance of him and make him my slave until his novelty has worn thin and I retire him to Tryst’s Home for Laddered and Stretched Pantyhose. Tryst—that is the pseudonym I use with victims. Tryst’s Home for Laddered and Stretched Pantyhose is what I call my war-torn basket of Wolfords; I never throw a pair away; they are saved for repurposing and possible use at some time in the future when the right situation warrants a resurrection; and so it is with my slaves. I never throw them away; like those wartorn Wolfords, they are kept where I know I can use them if needed, and they always come when I beckon.
I have given tonight’s subject a task to complete before coming to my domain. Because he begged that I wear pantyhose, I ordered him to visit a Wolford store and purchase six pairs in my honor. His selections will tell me volumes about how serious of a pantyhose connoisseur he is. Out of the six pairs he is to wear one all day under his business suit at his executive job. He is to be naked under the Wolfords so that his cock receives maximum stimulation throughout his very full day of important meetings that he presides over while thinking of me and the night ahead I have promised him as a reward for his obedience.
Conventional BDSM wisdom suggests I should wear a black shade of pantyhose to greet him in my chamber, but I rely upon the unconventional wisdom of Marilyn Manson, who in an interview I read considered tan pantyhose to be the most sexual and slutty of legwear. I choose Allure in tan with a contrasting black floral pattern and faux stocking band and garters, casting the spellbinding illusion of wearing tan stockings with a black garter belt and no panties. Black patent Lady Peep peep-toe Louboutin slingback 150 mm stiletto heels add the perfect fuck-me shoes touch. Ass-cheek short, waist-high split, black silk cheongsam with gold embroidered dragons running along the winding button trail from split to high-collared neck is the perfect embellishment to my Louboutins and Wolfords. I apply a dash of Guerlain Idyllic perfume in all the right places and make sure my makeup is as pristine as when I applied it. My dyed platinum blonde hair, piled high above my head with stray wisps falling rebelliously around my face and neck completes my modern-day imperial Chinese seductress fantasy ensemble—carefully crafted to use my victims’ stereotypical fantasies against them.
On cue, the doorbell rings and I buzz him up to my penthouse space. I unlatch the door as agreed upon in our arrangement, and I sit in a sex swing across from my four-poster bed, rocking back and forth in candlelit flickering darkness, sipping upon a glass of Pol Roger Sir Winston Churchill vintage cuvee. Make no mistake in the tableau I create; I am not a delicate bird in a cage swinging on its perch for your amusement. I am the cage.
He enters and closes the door with a soft latch. He announces himself but I do not answer. Silence speaks volumes of erotica in these situations. After a little fumbling in the candlelit darkness he ente
rs my bed space and pauses on the threshold, no doubt soaking in the view of me rocking back and forth from shadow to flickering light. My legs are not crossed but open, the waist-high split of the cheongsam painting the pornographic image he searches the internet for. He holds the white bag with black lettering in front of him.
“These are for you, Tryst. As you requested.”
“Put your Wolford offerings on my bed.”
He obeys, showing me the contents of the bag as he lays it down.
“Six pairs for you, one of which I have worn all day.”
“Which one did you choose?”
“Velvet de Luxe 60. Your favorite. You wore them the first time we met.”
“Show me,” I command, unfazed by his flattery. He sheds his tie first, pulling the knot aside, dropping it on the floor. He kicks off his Gucci loafers, revealing no socks, just the shimmer of the tights encasing his feet. His many-thousand-dollar jacket and trousers fall to the floor like a discarded chrysalis. He makes no attempt to pick them up or fold them. The tails of his snow-white shirt obscure the bulge of his cock pressing against the opaque crotch. In contrast to the speed with which he discarded his suit, tie, and shoes, he takes his time with his shirt, unbuttoning it slowly, dawdling at the cuffs, the unfettered shirt then sliding off his muscular arms to find its place on the floor. His chiseled body stands before me, naked except for my Velvet de Luxe 60s. His cock strains against the stomach panel. I am impressed but I won’t show it.
“Pick up your clothes, fold them, and place them on the chair over there.”
“As you command, Tryst.”
As he bends to do as ordered, I enjoy the muscularity of his buttocks straining against the elastomer of the tights, revealing his bulging balls pressed flat by the stricture of the taut crotch. I press the “play” button on the remote and Puccini’s Turandot flows from my surround sound speakers. Opera is the perfect accompaniment to my pantyhose passion play; it lasts for hours and Turandot especially complements my imagery, telling the tale of the cold, powerful Princess Turandot being wooed by a determined Prince Calaf. Of all the western operas I enjoy, Turandot is my favorite, borrowing themes from Chinese operas of the kind my grandmother performed in, and of course, the famous aria, “Nessun dorma,” is very apropos of what I have planned for my Calaf. No one sleeps tonight . . .
Best Bondage Erotica of the Year, Volume 2 Page 4
