She rears up over me, her strong legs flexing to lift her before she reaches behind herself to unclasp her bra. The straps glide down over her arms and the cups fall away, revealing tight, brown nipples. My tongue slides over my lips. The memory of her salty-sweet taste arises in my mind. I want my mouth on her full, soft breast, my tongue sliding around and over her nipple while my hand claims the slick flesh between her warm copper thighs. I want her plentiful juices to coat my fingers as I caress her swollen clit. But she’s out of reach. I go a little wild beneath her.
She smiles indulgently down at me. “You want to touch, don’t you? Looking’s not enough for you.”
I do want to touch, dammit. I want to touch her and coax and whisper and growl.
With a click, she activates the vibrator. It makes a tiny buzz, like the razor we all outgrew from a million years ago. I’m wallowing in the sheets, trying to work myself free.
“I’ve missed you lately.” She slides the hefty toy over her mound.
I’m panting now, the harsh sound competing with the vibe. She pushes the tip of the toy into herself. Just the head, up to where the shaft curves. A feathery gasp escapes her.
“So I trained myself to get by without you.” She takes a couple of inches inside her; the wet sound of her pussy, tightening around it, gives me a rush. “I trained myself for the long nights when you wouldn’t be around. I like to think about the night we met.”
She’d brought me home with her that night. Looking at the floor, the wall, at anything but her, I’d asked what she would want with me. Pathetic and worn out. On the way down and still miles from the bottom. She pushed me against the front door and ran her hand over my crotch. That, she said, was what she wanted with me.
“The night we met, you were different.” Her cunt consumes the vibe’s lurid purple shaft and she withdraws it with a slowness that makes me ache. “Like you’d seen your own mortality. The end of the ride. But I knew better.”
She starts to really fuck herself now, the hard plastic rod disappearing into her. She takes it all for a few moments, long enough for me to understand what this was like for her. One hand pleasuring herself in this narrow bed, her eyes closed to imagine her absent partner.
I roll my hips up to her. It’s not so much not being able to touch her—although that sucks—it’s that she won’t touch me. Won’t stroke my cockhead. Won’t lay her nails into my thigh. I am powerless to do more than watch her ride the tacky machine that was there for her when I wasn’t.
She’s flexing herself up and down onto the toy, her free hand palming her breasts, pinching one nipple and then the other. “I knew who you really were.” She sucks in a breath, the sharp sound making me even harder. “I just needed to remind you.” She moans my name like I’m not here, starving for her touch.
The night we met, I fucked her on the floor. I pinned her to the carpet and told her she shouldn’t have taken a stranger home. I wasn’t that man, until she stroked my cock and convinced me I was.
I rotate my wrists until the ropes cross my palms. I pull them toward me, hard enough to shred scarves, snap those stupid Halloween cuffs like the toys they are. My arms are on fire. Sweat beads on my forehead and my chest before trickling down into my shirt.
Bound, I feel stronger than ever, my muscles flexed hard in my shirtsleeves. I summon the last reservoirs of my strength and feel stronger still. She’s pushing harder now, louder, her mass of curls dancing around her face. I’ll be damned if she comes by herself with me tied to her bed.
“Untie me.” My voice is remarkably level, even to my own ears. But she shouldn’t count on a please.
A throaty chuckle between moans. She turns her face up toward the softly whirring fan. “Don’t make me gag you, Michael. I’m almost there.”
“Come here. I’ll fuck you better than you fuck yourself, even with my hands tied down.”
She really was close. She’s shuddering when she slides that vibrator out.
“Say that again. I can’t hear my fuck toy over my fuck toy.”
“I said to come down here so I can fuck you.”
I hold her gaze, and I wait. I wait long enough for her to catch her breath. I stare into those deep brown eyes.
She disengages the toy. In the silence, the click is loud. She tosses it toward the footboard. Her smile warms the room until the air is superheated. She wraps her hand around my aching cock and I have to work not to close my eyes. I have to work not to pump myself into her fist.
She teases herself with me, running my cockhead over her slit. A sound oozes out between my teeth. Without the rubber, the wet heat is almost unbearable, the sensation strong enough to make my eyes water, but I keep my eyes locked on hers.
She eases herself onto me, my shaft slowly plunging into her. We sigh as one. Her muscles ripple around me, as the wave of pleasure carries me up into her. The condoms forgotten, there’s nothing between us now. Nothing to separate us from each other. I need to get my hands on her, to pull her onto my cock until I’m balls deep inside her, to squeeze her sweet, luscious ass, to help myself to her abundant tits. My need to really fuck her flashes over me like lightning, directed down and away from my hands into the ropes.
“I missed you,” she says, relief in her voice. She rolls her hips, grinding on top of me before settling into an easy, rocking pace. “I miss the man who fucked me so hard on the living room floor. I miss that guy. Arrogant. Mean. Ruthless.”
I push into her, the contact causing us both to groan. “He never went anywhere,” I tell her, and I actually believe it now.
No more words after that. No more fear, and no more inadequacy. Nothing but my cock buried deep inside her. The perfect sheath of her body claiming me. The breathtaking heat. The warm, earthy scent of her maddens me, and something base and elemental in the darkness of my brain comes to life, desperate to plow deeper into her, to make her mine and give myself to her, more fully than I have ever surrendered to anyone or anything.
Sensation races through me, impaling me. My back arches up toward the ceiling fan. This is what Icarus must have felt like. Reaching up with his whole body, toward light and heat so intense it would kill him, even as the wax and wings melted and collapsed over his shoulders and down his spine and his hands closed on the air. Needing the sun even as he fell, turning into the cool air, not caring if he met his death against the green unforgiving earth or in the ravenous sea below.
I came back into myself then, taking huge swallows of air as she rode out the last surges of my climax.
I’m returning to normal when the ropes loosen beneath her fingertips, as if by magic. I tug one hand free and then the other. I feel myself sinking into the bed, like something that’s melted here being absorbed by the mattress.
She takes my face between her palms and looks into my eyes. For a second, I think she’s going to say she’s missed me again, but she lowers herself to kiss me. A chaste kiss. My lip between hers. Feather-light pressure, warm and solid. I can get one hand onto her bicep.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
I don’t know. I’m bathed in sweat, my clothes sticking to me. The air kisses my wrists where the rope was and makes the skin sing. I’m spent. Completely used up.
Her eyes search mine. I’m hers. I want her arms around me. Her embrace. I’m changed, stripped down and rebuilt.
I nod. I don’t know how I am.
“Can you sit up?” I make my way slowly onto my elbows. She lifts herself off my lap as I pull myself up. A warm trickle of spunk runs out between us. She twists the cap off the bottle of water with a ratcheting plastic sound and offers it to me. “Not too fast.”
It’s room temperature and goes down like heaven itself. It’s all I can do not to suck it all down as she takes the vibrator across the hall into the bathroom. When she returns, her hair pulled up and away from her face, she takes the empty bottle from me and sets it next to the forgotten condoms. The vibe returns to its place in the nightstand drawer, and she switches o
ff the lamp.
“Let’s get you out of these clothes.”
My eyes are still adjusting to the streetlights when she pushes my shirt off my shoulders.
“I’m sorry.” I sidle out of my damp shirt. “I haven’t been around lately.”
She toys with my hair. “Don’t be sorry.” She helps me peel off my undershirt and drops it beside the bed. I hike my boxers back up. She pulls the sheets all the way up over us both and tugs the blanket free, as if we’re going to need it with the radiator on.
“I’m lucky to have you,” I tell her. “I know I am.”
She pillows her head on my chest.
“I’m not trying to get away from you.”
“I know you’re not, Michael. I know.”
“You’re right to remind me, though. All that stuff you said. I’m lucky to still have you.”
She’s sliding off my chest now and rolling onto her side to face me. I deserve this. I deserve whatever she’s about to tell me.
“Is that why you think I said it?”
“Isn’t it?”
“No. I called you all those things because it’s true. You are arrogant and mean and ruthless. You are.” She kisses the corner of my mouth. “I love that about you. I love it when you’re all teeth and claws. I love that you’re a man whose suit cost twice my rent payment and that you fucked me on the floor the night we met. I love that. Sometimes you forget about that arrogant bastard I like so much. I’m just reminding you.”
“Really?” I ask.
“Yeah, of course.” Her head returns to its place on my shoulder. “I would never tie you up to punish you, babe. Not for real. That’s not a cool thing to do to people.” She yawns. “I thought you’d been tied up before.”
“I have.” I can’t find the energy to kiss her, so I settle for putting my arm around her. “It wasn’t like this.”
“Well, then, maybe you are lucky to have me after all,” she says.
“Both lucky.”
She snuggles up to me, tight against my body. “That’s the spirit,” she answers.
LEATHER - BOUND
Elna Holst
This night had been months in the making. Selma could feel the delicious trickle of excitement like a string of pearls snaking through her as she propelled the library cart into the lift in the basement and pushed the button for the top floor. She adjusted the ruffles of her satin blouse and gazed into the mirror to make sure her curly hair hadn’t escaped from the rope-twist bun she had arranged it into. As the lift began to move, she smiled ruefully at her own rosy-cheeked anticipation. The plaid woollen skirt chafed at the tops of her thighs where it touched her skin above her sheer, beige-colored thigh-highs. She wasn’t wearing panties. They’d only get lost.
Impatiently, she fingered the access card that dangled from a red lanyard around her neck and sported the likeness of Yukiko Tanaka, head librarian, stalwart friend, and long-time supporter of the hand-picked book club Selma and Ed hosted once a month at their small, lower-ground-floor bookshop along a sleepy lane in the Old Quarter. Yukiko was a gem who always came through—discreetly, no questions asked. Selma would owe her, of course. She smiled at her mirror self again, ambiguously, as the lift shuddered to a stop with a ding and the stainless steel doors opened to let her off.
Easing the wheels of the rolling bookcase over the division between the lift compartment and the hardwood floor, Selma pushed her way out onto the library’s upper mezzanine, her ankle-strapped spool heels echoing through the deserted, dimly lit space. It was after hours at the city library, housed in a restored castle at the edge of the central park, on the eleventh of May, also known as her wife’s fortieth birthday.
Selma reached into her pocket to withdraw her phone and check that her lipstick hadn’t smudged. It was silly; she hadn’t been this nervous since the early days of their courtship, when they were only starting to learn about each other’s fancies and foibles, curiosities and quirks. Selma shook her head at herself in the screen, baring her teeth and rubbing away a minuscule stain of burgundy red. She remembered the young, semi-professional arm wrestler she had met for coffee, nigh on fifteen years ago—just after Edith’s twenty-fifth, it had been. When she’d found out about her recent birthday, Selma had dragged the slightly dazed and—really—mouth-wateringly muscular woman to her favorite LGBT-friendly jewelry shop and presented her with a small silver pendant in the shape of a lambda. It had been a spur of the moment thing. She had never been in the habit of handing out tokens of affection on a first date. But Ed—well, Selma couldn’t help herself. She’d been smitten, and that was the truth of it. Right from the start.
She guessed it had been mutual, though Edith had later confessed she’d been a tad taken aback by the gift. Of course, she still wore it, in a black leather thong around her neck, up until this very moment, fifteen years down the line. Her fortieth birthday, in the sweet and merry, innocently blossoming month of May.
Selma turned off her phone and pocketed it. She didn’t want to be disturbed. Last year, when Ed turned thirty-nine, they’d held an Alice in Wonderland–themed tea party with the book club. A classic, verging on the kitschy, but Edith had loved it. She was such a geek, her partner in business and in life. Selma knew her wife would have been perfectly happy to receive a rare edition of some out-of-print and half-forgotten tome, with a stern admonition to curl up in bed and read for the rest of the day, but Selma had other plans.
It was her fortieth, after all. She wanted to make it special. It was a tradition of hers.
“Can I invite my siblings?” Edith had asked four weeks ago, to which Selma had answered with an emphatic no.
Ed had pouted. Selma had pinched her cheek.
“Invite them for the weekend, if you must, though do we need to have all of them?”
Ed looked aghast. “You want me to choose between my brothers and sisters?”
Selma had sighed, conceding defeat in advance. “It’s just that you have so many. It gets—cramped.”
“I love you,” Edith had replied gravely, meaning: end of discussion. It wasn’t that Selma didn’t adore Ed’s sibs, which she did, each in their own way. But when the six of them got together, all at once, with their significant others and the children—all those nephews and nieces and whatnots—dear God.
She’d ordered catering and booked the shared courtyard round the back. Edith would make it up to her, would appreciate the effort, would make it worth arranging a minor festival, and then some. She always did.
The floor on this level creaked, ever so slightly, as she went along; Selma had never noticed before. But then again, she had never before had the privilege of visiting the public library when it was completely devoid of—well, the public. It was a fantasy come true.
It was Ed’s fantasy come true.
Beaming beatifically, Selma passed another section of bookcases, arranged in neat rows along the tall-windowed eastern wing of the building. Edith had nearly fainted when she had brought her up to the main entrance, a scant two hours ago. Selma had let her loose with all her heart, vicariously relishing her wife’s childish delight as she ran pell-mell, helter-skelter, delving deep into the behind-the-scenes. She had followed the conveyor belt where returned books passed along during the day right into the very heart of the off-limits, exclusive-to-staff part of the library. She had filled up her own cart of random, yet-to-be-shelved returns and dashed from here to there and back again, putting them up in their assigned places, looking like nothing so much as Curious George gone berserk. Selma wasn’t fooled by appearances, however. She knew very well Edith could rattle off the classification system by heart. The old and the new one. She was a fountain of knowledge where all things book-related were concerned. It was how Selma liked her women: clever, with a touch of nerdy zeal.
And endearingly submissive. With a dollop or two of challenging brat.
After a little over an hour, Selma had clapped her hands together, and Edith had responded promptly, loping up to her w
ith a big grin that threatened to split her face in two.
“This was the best present ever. Thank you, thank you—”
“Take your clothes off.”
Ed just about keeled over. Just about.
Selma’s pace had quickened. There was a din in her ears at the mere thought of how her darling had looked, nude but for her lambda necklace and the two tan leather cuffs with brass rings around her wrists, which Selma had gifted her with in the morning, over tea and pancakes in bed.
As she’d stood stark naked in the empty central hall of the library, Ed’s eyes had been glossy with conflicting emotions: embarrassment at her outré get-up in this familiar place turned unfamiliar; a budding arousal as Selma raked her gaze over her; a vague fear of security personnel stopping by on their rounds of the city’s municipal facilities; and trust. Above and beyond, first and foremost. Forever trust.
Selma had opened the voluminous handbag she habitually carried and brought out two things: an intricately twined length of leather rope, perfectly matching Ed’s new cuffs, and a powder-pink butterfly vibe, fully charged, straps and all, to which Selma carried the remote in the pocket of her skirt, subtly bulging over her lower abdomen—a bulge that had earned her more than one furtive glance from her partner over the course of the evening.
“I know it’s your birthday, pet, but this is for me,” Selma had said, effectively releasing her wife from any sense of obligation, laying the foundation for the entertainment de nuit. Edith’s fair skin pinkened. Selma crouched down and helped her step into the straps, sliding the vibe into position over Ed’s groin, snug against her clit.
As was to be expected, Edith had already been moist, her slickness brushing Selma’s fingers as she arranged the thigh straps, pulling them tight; Christ, but she felt divine. Fifteen years and going and Selma still found it difficult to withstand the temptation of dropping everything and burrowing her face in that lovely, luscious, eminently lickable cunt right then and there, plans and gear and setting and literary devices be damned.
Best Bondage Erotica of the Year, Volume 2 Page 8
