Best Bondage Erotica of the Year, Volume 2

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  Why not? you ask yourself. What harm can it do? Besides, you were kind of sharp with him. “Go ahead.”

  He turns you toward the table and places your hands flat out a good foot apart from each other. He grabs one of the aprons at the end of the table, and with the paring knife, slices through the cloth. Taking the slice he pulled off and folding it twice, he then approaches you from behind. Your sous chef leans in and whispers, “Close your eyes.”

  Reluctantly, you do as he asks, knowing what he is going to do and not entirely comfortable with it. He ties the blindfold around your eyes, then moves away. You hear him cut away some more of the apron, and you start to breathe quickly as the sound of ripping cloth is amplified. You feel him return. Brushing his lips against your ear, he whispers again, “Do you trust me?”

  I sure as hell do not! You weren’t sure where this was going exactly when this started, but you now have a pretty damned good idea. But you’re exhausted. You’re wound up, tired of making decision after decision. And you need something different to break up what you’re doing or else you’ll end up leaving it all behind, probably after tearing your hair out. With a leap of faith, you whisper back, lying to him, “Yes, I do.”

  He grabs your hands and ties them behind the small of your back. He is no longer being gentle about it. You feel his hot breath on your neck as he exhales quickly, and begin to notice your own speeding up. You can hear your heart throb in your ears as your pulse quickens. He pushes your shoulders forward and down, holding you against the table. Your hands come to rest right above your ass. Your sous chef is no longer being a gentleman. He reaches in front of your houndstooth pants, pushing hard against you, releases the button, and pulls down your zipper. He’s not even pretending this is anything but primal. He pulls your pants and panties around your knees and positions your ass a little lower than the edge of the table.

  You’re breathing rather heavily, practically panting, and that’s when you notice Jesus, I’m fucking soaking. You’re shivering nervously against the steel of the table, not sure how this will feel, but wanting it more and more. He’s still moving behind you. You listen to him unfasten his chef jacket, hear the rustle of his pants dropping around his ankles. The heat coming off his body radiates against your thighs and your ass, and you bite your lip, hoping for what’s coming. The head of his cock swipes against your ass cheek, and your heart jumps. For lack of a better word, just that momentary touch feels substantial. You sigh, bite the lower right corner of your lip, and part your legs a little more.

  Then you feel it. You hadn’t seen his cock at all, but good Christ you can feel it. And feel it. You gasp, your mouth gaping. He’s stretching me! Oh my God! You groan loudly as he pushes further and further inside you. Your eyes bulge underneath the blindfold, your back arching against your tied hands. Finally, you feel it all, the full length of his cock deep inside you. It’s comfortable and uncomfortable, that fantastic pulsing cock. Familiar and foreign all at once. Under your restraints, you squirm on that cock, trying desperately to fuck him, but he’s holding you down so that you can’t move, pinning you, impaling you. Whatever cares you had, they no longer matter. You’re being filled to the core, and want it again and again inside you.

  “Oh God . . . just fuck me . . . please,” you gasp.

  The sous chef obliges, pulling his cock out to the tip, but leaving it inside you. This time when he enters, he thrusts with full force, so hard his balls smack against you. So hard it pushes the table a couple of inches forward. You take a deep breath, gasping for air as over and over, he fucks you deep and hard. Each time he fills you up, he stays there a moment, lingering, gripping on to your shoulder tightly. You try to break your hands free to brace yourself, but your tensing up seems to make him fuck you even harder. The sensation is overwhelming, and your pussy begins to ache and tighten, trembling around his thick erection.

  Pounding you, he whispers, “Whose pussy is this?”

  In answer, you unexpectedly find yourself crying out, “Yours!” You’re so breathless you can’t even get a full sentence out. Finally, you give in. “Oh God, I’m gonna come,” you get out, and you feel your body push back against him, trying desperately to keep him inside you, your muscles clamping down and pulsing around that thick cock.

  He keeps fucking you, harder, deeper, as you throw your head back and scream out in ecstasy. As if on cue, he takes his hands off your shoulders and reaches for your hands, pulling them back, lifting your body up. There’s a tug in your shoulders, and as your body leans upward above the prep table, his cock somehow reaches further inside you. Such an odd sensation, hovering above something that could support such a forceful fucking, and yet the only support you have is his physical restraint on your arms and wrists. His grunts, his thrusts, his scent and yours as he fucks you senseless—all of this is about him taking what he wants from your body. With every deep, hard, Earth-shattering penetration, you lose more and more control.

  But that’s the point, isn’t it? You trust him to take control. To seize control. To surrender to him. As he pushes his thumb in your ass and pulls your hair back, you realize how much you love what he’s doing to you—with you. How your needs and his are in perfect alignment, an erotic push/pull you can’t get enough of. He’s fucking you savagely like an animal and nothing else matters outside of this primal fucking, outside of him so deep inside you.

  As you finally give up control, you just can’t take it anymore, and come again all over his thrusting cock, crying out, shivering on him, feeling your tits bounce hard underneath your chef jacket. You can tell he’s getting closer too.

  He pulls you off his cock and pushes your shoulders down. Blindfolded, hands tied and on your knees, pants around your ankles, juices dripping down your thighs, you open your lips, waiting for what seems like an eternity for his cock to slip against your tongue. That soft head opens your mouth wider, and you tickle underneath it with your tongue as it pushes in. You taste the sweat and moisture along the length of his shaft, and you moan around this man’s thick cock as it makes its way in and out of your mouth. As he fucks you, he groans louder and louder, his fingers running through your hair and getting a firm grip.

  Then you taste it. Mixed with your own, you could taste the salt beginning to drip from the head, until he finally comes so hard and so much you can’t keep it all in your mouth. And God help you, you really try to swallow him whole, eagerly, hungrily, wanting to savor every last taste of you and him together.

  You feel him withdraw, and you sense he is certainly satisfied.

  But so are you. You’re breathless. Drenched in sweat and come. Unable to move or act without him. But you are calm. Relaxed.

  He helps pull you up, removes your blindfold, and sits you on the stool. As he cuts your bonds, he hands you a towel. You look up at him, his shirt open, and that magnificent cock still dangling between his legs.

  He asks, head to the side, genuine, and sincere, “Do you need anything?”

  Your eyes lift up from his delicious length up to his gaze. Wordlessly, you shake your head. With a smile, the sous chef gathers his things and within a few minutes leaves for the night.

  With some regret, you suddenly realize that you still don’t remember his name.

  FRIEND WITH BENEFITS

  Charlie Powell

  Up until now, Cami has always tried to be the chill part of Netflix and chill. Lately however, that approach hasn’t been working so well.

  She’s been trying not to message Rob. She’s not sure he’ll get it—is worried in fact that not only will he not get it, he’ll completely misunderstand her reason for telling him. And yet, as with everything important in her life, she wants to tell him, wants him to be the one to tell her it’ll all be okay.

  Autumn isn’t supposed to be like this. It’s always been her favorite time of year, ever since she was a kid. There’s something about the change in season that gives her a sense of renewal, even if the trees are shedding their leaves. It makes her think
of the things she used to covet as a teenager: new schoolbags, freshly sharpened pencils, never-used markers.

  If only those were the things she was craving now. But they’re not. The thing she’s craving now is a baby.

  Except that crave is perhaps the wrong word. At fifteen, she adored babies. At fifteen, it would have been fair to say she craved motherhood, and that craving persisted for another ten, maybe even another twelve years. But now she is thirty-five and she feels as if her biology has backed her into a corner. She still wants to be a mother, she’s pretty sure of that, but right now all she wants is another five to ten years to keep doing all the things she loves—late night bars, travel, men.

  There’s Rob, of course. But even if she does decide that now is the right time to embark on motherhood, it won’t be Rob that she embarks on it with. She adores him, sure, and he adores her, but he already has a primary partner. If she had a kid, how would they continue to make it work? Diary management is difficult already. Often, what with work and friends and jobs, they have to plan weeks in advance when they want to see each other.

  There’s no reason why today would be any different, why he wouldn’t already have plans. But she calls him nonetheless.

  He answers, and suddenly she’s lost for words. It’s 10:00 a.m. on a Sunday when she has no other plans and she knows as soon as she hears his voice—his voice that has so often been able to soothe and comfort her—that this time it won’t be enough. She needs to see him in person.

  “You’re horny?”

  “I don’t know”

  “Sad?”

  “I . . . no, not exactly.”

  “Would it help if I came over?”

  She wasn’t expecting this, but she’s grateful. So fucking grateful.

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, I can do that. I have a few hours free this afternoon. And Cami?”

  “Yes?”

  “When I fuck you, how do you want it?”

  They’ve spoken to each other like this for as long as she can remember. To outsiders, she knows it might sound abrupt—cold, even. But she loves it, the way he forces her to put her desires into words, the way the back and forth between them acts as a kind of foreplay, the way every exchange shimmers with anticipation.

  Usually, she’d say something like “I’ve been thinking all week about sitting on your cock—sinking onto it slowly so I can feel every thick inch” or “I’m desperate to have your dick in my mouth,” but right now, none of that is true. She hasn’t thought about him much at all until today—she’s been too wrapped up in worrying about the future.

  She takes a deep breath. She doesn’t want the words to come out wrong. “I’m not sure I want you to fuck me?”

  They couldn’t have come out more wrong if they’d tried.

  This time, it’s him who’s momentarily silent. “I . . . okay. Okay, I’ll be over in a bit.”

  It’s the first time she’s not been sure sex will solve the problem. In the past when her mental health has tanked, which it does, regularly, all she’s wanted is physical contact. But today, she feels that if she doesn’t talk about this it’ll only continue to eat her up inside once he’s gone, no matter how many orgasms she’s had.

  “Are you breaking up with me?” he asks when she opens the door to see him standing there looking like something from an advert for autumn, all ruffled hair, flushed cheeks, and plaid shirt. She hasn’t been outside all day, hadn’t realized how cold the weather has turned.

  “What? No!”

  He looks confused. “You wanted to see me, it sounded urgent, but you don’t want to fuck. You always want to fuck. What am I missing here?”

  “I want to talk.”

  “About us?”

  “No. About some shit I’m having a hard time with.”

  “Then we’ll talk. Tea?” He heads for the kitchen. He’s always been right at home in her place, and she loves that. It makes him feel like a solid part of her life, rather than someone who’s just passing through.

  They sit next to each other on the sofa with their drinks, but she still can’t relax. Her leg jiggles uncontrollably and tea sloshes over the edge of her mug, soaking the jersey wrap dress she’s wearing. She heads for the kitchen to fetch some paper towels. While she’s dabbing herself down, she gazes blankly out of the window, watching the leaves drift slowly from the trees and smoke rise from a bonfire next door.

  “Rob?” she calls.

  “Yeah?”

  “Can we go for a walk?”

  “A walk?”

  “I need to get out of here for a bit. Clear my head.”

  “You’ll need to wrap up. It’s freezing out there.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’ve got some stuff in the car.”

  They head for the woods and Cami starts to feel better almost immediately as she kicks through piles of dried leaves. She’s wearing her warmest scarf and a bobble hat, and she’s holding the hand of one of the best men she knows. Rationally, she knows her life is good. If only her anxious brain would calm the hell down and realize that too.

  “Go on, then,” Rob says, when they’ve walked about a mile. “You said you wanted to talk, and I’m all ears. Spit it out.”

  She turns to face him, grinning. “Honey, you know I never spit it out.”

  “Hey, don’t you get smart with me, or I’ll make you pay for it later.”

  “You won’t understand.”

  “Try me.”

  “Fine, fine. I want to have a baby.”

  She waits for the look of horror to appear on his face, waits for him to tell her that that’s completely out of the question for them, but he does neither of those things.

  He says, “Keep going.”

  Once she starts explaining, she feels as if she might never stop. She tells him everything: her fears about choosing a donor, her concern that it’s not fair to deprive a kid of a relationship with their father, her worries that the IVF will be painful, or worse, that it won’t work. She confesses she’s scared that one day she’ll regret not having tried harder to find a traditional relationship, that she’s not sure she can afford to do this alone, that she hates the idea of having to rely on her parents for childcare. And yet, she wants this. She’s always wanted it. It’s just . . . it’s just it feels so unfair to have to know for certain when the time is right, to have such a small window, and to not be able to know for sure whether she’ll enjoy being a mother, or whether it can never actually live up to the fantasy of motherhood that she carries around in her head.

  While she’s saying all this, he just listens; he doesn’t say anything when she starts to cry, either. He finds a clean tissue in his pocket and passes it to her, but then he just holds her and lets her sob for a bit.

  “I’m sorry,” she says eventually. “I’m just being ridiculous.”

  “You’re not,” he says. “In fact, saying you’re being ridiculous is the first ridiculous thing to come out of your mouth. Of course thinking about this is going to be stressful, and you’re right, it’s totally unfair that women have to make this decision in their thirties, and it’s completely normal to not feel ready and to want more time.”

  It’s like a huge weight has been lifted from her shoulders. Even in her wildest dreams, she’d never have hoped that someone would acknowledge her fears in this way. And she certainly wouldn’t have imagined that having her fears acknowledged would make her feel so damn horny.

  “You know what I said about wanting to fuck?” she asks.

  “About not wanting to fuck,” he corrects, gently.

  “I think I’ve changed my mind.”

  He does that face—the one between a grin and a smirk—that always infuriates her because it makes him seem so damn smug, but also makes her want to suck his cock immediately.

  “You do surprise me,” he says.

  “Is that weird?” she asks. “You know, because I was crying and stuff?”

  He takes her hand and moves it to his dick, wh
ich is already swelling under her palm. “It’s not weird.”

  “It turns you on?”

  “No! God, it’s just not weird, is all. You turn me on.”

  “I could go down on you right here,” she says. “There’s no one around.”

  There’s something about the idea of kneeling in a crunchy pile of leaves and taking his cock as deep into her mouth as she can that really appeals to her.

  “You could. I might have a better idea, though.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’ll show you back at yours.”

  * * *

  When they arrive home, she takes off her boots and moves to unwrap her scarf, but he stops her. He gestures that she should go upstairs just as she is, and he follows behind her. He’s also still wearing his outdoor stuff.

  “Give me your scarf,” he says, and she does.

  “Lay down on the bed.”

  She can see what’s going to happen now, but that doesn’t make it any less exciting. She toyed around with some plastic handcuffs once, but no one has ever tied her up like this before.

  She begins to unbutton her coat, but once again, he stops her. “Leave it. Just lay on the bed.”

  One at a time, he takes her arms and binds them—over her coat—to the headboard, the first arm with his scarf, the second with hers. Next, he pulls down her thick, black winter tights and her underwear and uses her tights to tie her left leg.

  In her underwear drawer, he finds a second pair of tights, and then her right leg is tied, too. She’s surprised at how little she’s able to move, given his improvised kit, but she’s not complaining.

  And then she’s completely at his mercy.

  It’s odd, how much more exposed it makes her feel, the fact that she’s not naked, especially when he takes off all his clothes and circles the bed like an animal considering its prey. She can’t take her eyes off his thick cock, jutting proudly from his body. She can’t wait to feel it inside her.

  But Rob has other ideas.

  He pushes her coat and her dress up around her waist, and then he kneels on the bed beside her, his gaze leveled directly on her cunt.