Best Lesbian Bondage Erotica

by Tristan Taormino

  The toddy abandoned on the nearby table, Max went to work in earnest unlacing the top of the gown. A few moments’ work and she could see the graceful curves of Bel’s ample breasts with their hardened nipples. Bel writhed on her lap, trying to reach Max’s earlobe with her teeth. Max evaded her and worked a hand up under the heavy nightgown to stroke Bel’s soft thighs. Her tongue slowly crept over her lover’s exposed neck, tasting, savoring the salty tang of her skin. As if she could not bear such pleasure, Bel gave a desperate twist and stretched for her goal, her teeth closing on Max’s lobe.

  Max grabbed her long red hair and for the second time that night pulled her face away. “What have I told you about that? You know what happens to bad girls now, don’t you?” Bel flushed pink, and favored Max with the slow, lazy grin that had won her heart. “Very well, then.” Max’s voice took on the proper accents that she affected when she felt like this. “I want you upstairs and presentable by the time I count to twenty. We’ll break you of this habit yet, my girl.”

  With that, she pushed Bel from her lap and the other woman scrambled up the stairs as fast as she could go. Max started counting loudly as she stripped off her jacket and cravat, then marched up to the bedroom to make her own preparations. Stripped to the waist, she advanced briskly toward the hall closet where she kept her tools. A quick glance into the bedroom showed Bel, naked and face down on the bed’s faded coverlet, her white skin glowing in the firelight.

  The sight roused Max to greater speed as she got prepared. Tonight she had something different in mind. Leather straps in hand, she approached Bel and tied each of her limbs to the bedposts, checking to see that each loop was snug, but not cutting. Bel squirmed with anticipation, prompting Max to smack her bottom so sharply that the print of her hand stood out in red. A strangled yelp greeted the blow and Max smiled in anticipation.

  Once Bel’s limbs were tied securely, Max went for her favorite tool. The whip had been made by a traveling saddler, one who knew his trade. The handle was all coarse braided strips, the lash of soft and coarse strips bundled together. Its solid feel in her palm made her flush red, her thighs moist with anticipation. Tonight, she’d make Bel sing as she never had before.

  She ran the long leather strands up and down Bel’s back, over her thighs, even pushing the braided leather inside her briefly. Bel moaned and quivered, red hair tossed back over her shoulders and gold-lashed eyes closed. The wetness between her legs glistened in the light until it was all Max could do not to reach down and taste her. Instead, the whip sang downward and Max grew wet to the music of Bel’s groans and yelps. She loved that feeling of power, that sense of fulfilling her lover’s every desire. The whip sang downward until Bel’s back was streaked with red, but the skin remained unbroken.

  Bel writhed into the bed, glistening wetness now coating her thighs. She tugged at the ties on her wrists. “Please…please,” she moaned.

  “Yes, me love?”

  “Put it inside me…please….” Max grinned; she loved this moment, this instant when Bel begs for fulfillment. But she wanted to wait, to prolong the moment a few seconds more. She seized a goose feather from the table and began to run it over Bel’s sensitized back, up the inside of her thighs, and over the soles of her feet. Bel shrieked with pent-up frustration and desire.

  Max, still dragging the feather over Bel’s back, unbuttoned the front of her breeches and dropped them to the floor. Dipping her finger in the bowl of warm lard that she kept near the fire for such occasions, she slid her finger slowly and steadily into Bel’s asshole. Her efforts were greeted with Bel’s enthusiastic moans and frantic efforts to open her legs even wider. Leaning down, she sank her teeth into Bel’s shoulder and bit sharply. She cried out again, and Max grinned as she used her other hand to rub lard onto the wrapped leather that she wore as a false penis.

  Balancing herself over Bel’s broad thighs, she slid a finger inside her lover’s wet slit, then brought it to her lips, savoring the taste and smell. Then, spreading Bel’s cheeks, she drove the hard piece of leather into her. Bracing herself with one hand, she wrapped the other in the long red tresses, pulling Bel’s head back and arching her neck. Bel’s shudders signaled the beginning of her orgasm. “Not yet. Not until I say so,” she growled.

  Bel tensed, bucking beneath her with the effort of holding back. Max’s head spun with desire. “Now!” she yelled. She thrust hard, the leather straps that held the penis rubbing against her until the touch of rough leather and Bel’s soft skin took her. She fell, shuddering, onto Bel’s quivering back as both collapsed exhausted into the sodden bedclothes.

  After some sweet time, Max pulled the piece of wrapped leather from Bel and kissed her gently. Untying the restraints, she held her lover tightly in her arms, listening as Bel’s breathing slowed. “Can I taste you tonight?” Bel’s large blue eyes had an anxious, pleading look in them.

  “How can I say no to that face?” Max responded, smiling. Her fingers found the buckles that held the straps in place, opening with the ease that came from long practice. Bare of its usual covering, her skin tingled in the cool air. Bel’s eager tongue slid down her neck, over her collarbone, to her breasts, leaving a trail of goose bumps in its wake. Then she paused, the tip of her tongue caressing Max’s nipples until her back arched slightly in pleasure.

  “Oh, that’s good, my girl,” Max groaned. She seldom let Bel pleasure her this way, but tonight it felt right. Bel slid lower, tongue trailing slowly over Max’s stomach and thighs until she worked her way to Max’s slit. There she paused, tongue lapping faster, rhythmically seeking her lover’s release. Max writhed in pleasure for as long as she could bear it, then gently stopped Bel. “Enough, love. Can’t calm down enough tonight. Come here.” She pulled Bel up close and held her.

  They lay quietly for a bit. “’Tis him you’re thinking on, ain’t it?” Bel asked apprehensively.

  “Aye. How can I not? Who is the bastard? Where does he hide himself? How the hell am I going to find him? I want the bleeding sod dead for what he did to Annie! She was good to me when I was but a sprat, better then me whole family, and I’ll have vengeance for her, or know why.” Bel shook her head, having no answers for this. Max looked down at her. “Think on it girl, it might have been you out on Tavern Street.” A cold rage filled her at the thought.

  Unspoken questions danced through Max’s mind. If she was aroused by her power over Bel, how did Smiling Jack himself feel about the women he murdered? She knew she was no killer, except to avenge those of her own that had been done wrong. She had a brace of pistols for Jack when she found him, and few enough questions then. But sometimes she wondered how thick a line separated her from him.

  Not that those questions were enough to stop her quest. The next night and the next, she went out hunting the Ripper. He began to loom large in her mind during the daylight hours as well, a menacing cloaked figure with a bloody great butcher knife, disappearing around every corner and down every alley. The newspapers reported more murders, more speculation, and still she couldn’t find the bastard.

  When she was home, Bel began to fret over her in a way that Max found irritating. On one occasion, the local bobby even asked Bel some questions about Max, just enough to make it clear that Mr. Cruthers’s behavior was becoming suspicious. After that, she stayed in for a night or two, long enough for Bel to think all was well.

  But blood and knives filled Max’s dreams, and more than once she woke screaming from nightmares. It was those dreams more than anything that drove her out into the dark alleys of Whitechapel night after night, fearing sleep. The newspapers all speculated on Jack’s identity, and the police net tightened around Whitechapel but still he slipped through, continuing his bloody work. The knowledge drove Max until her eyes stood out from shadowed sockets, glittering with an unhealthy gleam, and her breath wheezed in her lungs from walking in the burning fog at all hours.

  Finally the night came when Bel could stand it no longer. Knowing she must do something, she wand
ered their house looking for something, anything, that would distract Max enough to bring her back. The whip sat neglected along with the ties, and her fingers only stroked it for a few regretful moments. It wouldn’t be enough, not this time. But she wouldn’t give up yet. Her steps led her to the kitchen where she saw her reflection gleaming dimly at her from across the room. That was it. It had to be.

  She took one of the knives from the table and gingerly tested its gleaming edge. The blade was fine enough to split a hair from her head, and she shuddered at its deadly possibilities. Shivering, she rested the gleaming blade against her neck, the exposed skin of her collarbone, letting its cold promise seep into her bones. She imagined it in Max’s hands, could almost see her blood gleam on the dark steel.

  Hoping she had the courage to endure what she dreamed of, she put it on the table next to their bed. Then there was nothing to do but wait, so she did. When Max finally returned after midnight, bleary-eyed and edgy, Bel was kneeling on the threadbare carpet in the hall, long hair loose around her shoulders and nightgown open at the neck to display her ample bosom. “I did not go to the cobblers today, as you wanted…,” Bel began softly.

  Max grimaced in fury but forced the words down. She had always feared what might happen if she let her temper go, and tonight the thought made her grind her teeth together. “No, lass. I scarcely know myself tonight. I’d flay you before I knew what I was about.”

  Bel continued kneeling, her hands unlacing the top of the nightgown further. “And I’ve not washed the bedding, as you asked.” She could feel herself growing damp as she knelt there, shivering with trepidation and chill with Max’s eyes fixed on her. They were so strange tonight, those eyes. She hardly recognized them.

  With a sudden movement, Max threw her coat and hat aside. She leaned down and ripped the nightgown open to Bel’s waist, dragging it over her shoulders. Bel looked up and met her eyes, breasts heaving and mouth slightly open, breath coming in pants. In a snap, Max pulled off her scarf and blindfolded her with it. Then she pulled open her breeches and pulled out the false penis. Grabbing the back of Bel’s head, she shoved it into her open mouth. Bel’s eager tongue slid over the leather, welcoming it as far down her throat as Max could shove it.

  Max shuddered as Bel’s eager hands wrapped around her hips, pulling the leather penis further into her mouth. Ah, this felt good! But it wasn’t enough, not tonight. Pulling the leather from Bel’s mouth, she dragged her swiftly to her feet. Bel stood trembling while Max tied her hands together with rope from the hallway closet.

  “Well, my girl, what are we going to do with you tonight?” Max’s left hand twisted Bel’s nipple, making her yelp in surprise and pain, and something deeper that sang over Max’s skin and into her fevered brain. She pushed Bel hard against the wall, then ripped the nightgown from hem to waist. Her fingers drove savagely inside Bel until she cried out and spread her legs further. Max slammed her hand into her warm, wet welcome until Bel could hardly stand.

  “Oh, please…the bed…let me lie down…please….” Max grabbed the rope around her hands and towed her swiftly up the stairs, only just able to make sure she didn’t stumble. Pulling Bel into the bedroom, she grabbed the knife and cut off the rest of the gown.

  Then it struck her. “What’s this doing here, ey?” She touched the flat of the blade to Bel’s neck and watched her quiver.

  Bel whispered, “Oh please…it’s for you. Please…don’t stop.” Max stroked the blade down Bel’s skin, then over her bare nipples, watching them harden in response. By now, Max could smell her own desire and bared her teeth in a savage grin to feel Bel tremble as she ran the knife over her body. She quickly pushed Bel onto her back and then bound her to the bedposts. Her own clothes were hurriedly removed, breath hissing between her teeth in conflicting urges.

  This time, there was no pause to admire the curves of Bel’s body, to prolong her lover’s longing until it was nearly unbearable. She knelt between Bel’s thighs with a pantherlike swiftness, her hands trembling with something she hadn’t known she could feel. She grabbed the knife’s blade, not caring if she cut herself or not, and shoved the long wooden handle into Bel. Bel’s back arched as the handle slid in and out, coated thicker each time with her own juices.

  Max was dizzy with power and desire. Seizing the candle by the bedside, she held it over Bel’s writhing body, carefully tilting it so the hot wax splashed on her belly. Bel screamed softly from the unexpected sensation and pulled back hard on the ties. She shook with a force that almost broke the leather as the knife hilt was once more slammed into her. Putting the candle aside, Max leaned down to sink her teeth into Bel’s thigh. She had left the knife handle inside Bel and found she liked the way it looked, dangerous and shining in the candlelight as Bel’s muscles clenched around it.

  Max straddled her thighs, letting Bel feel how wet she was. Bel tugged futilely at her bonds, trying to get to her. Max began rubbing herself on Bel’s softness, letting it caress her own hot flesh as the edge of the blade caressed her skin. Then she slid up to Bel’s face, and placed her knees on either side of her head. “Lick me,” she commanded, and Bel’s eager tongue slid inside her.

  Max’s back arched as she rode Bel’s tongue until she came, hard, filling Bel’s mouth with her taste. She climbed off Bel and looked over her lover’s body. Small burns marked her thighs in red streaks. The knife handle was still firmly clenched in Bel’s cunt, her slick wetness coating it down the blade. Max pulled the knife out and looked at it. Bel groaned and moved her hips as though begging for more. Max ran the tip of the blade lightly over her thighs, pleased with her response.

  Undoing the ropes, she flipped Bel onto her stomach and fastened her once again to the bedposts. Going to the closet, she pulled out a flexible cane. Putting the knife aside for the moment, she began to lightly smack Bel’s calves and thighs. Bel’s moans inspired her and she worked her way up and down her lover’s back, striking a little harder each time. “How much can you take tonight, me girl? Can you take all I’m going to do?” Max growled menacingly as she applied the cane.

  Bel’s shriek after a particularly sharp blow made Max pause for a moment. Her hand ran slowly up Bel’s inner thigh as she writhed and attempted to move closer to Max, to coax her fingers inside her wet warmth. The welts on her back stood out in sharp relief against her white skin, and Max ran her fingers over them, gently tracing them.

  She found she wanted more, more power than she had ever exercised over her lover before. The Ripper knew the power of life and death; why shouldn’t she? She wanted to see blood on the knife’s edge, to know the power of the open cut. She wiped the tears from Bel’s wet cheeks and whispered, “Do you trust me, darling? I’m not done yet….” Bel nodded, her eyes still covered by the blindfold. Max could see her stiffen a little, expecting the cane.

  Once more the knife was in Max’s hands, the cane laid aside. She hesitated a long moment, listening to the call of steel and blood. Slowly and gently, she ran the knife’s sharp point over Bel’s shoulder, feeling the skin shift beneath it. Then she sank it in, cutting a series of shallow lines on Bel’s left shoulder, her hand trembling with the effort it took not to do real harm. Bel screamed as Max drove her other hand into her slit so that she felt the two sensations at once. Bel came hard, pulling Max’s hand further inside her as she shook and quaked. Max leaned down and licked the blood carefully from Bel’s shoulder before she cut the ropes to set her free.

  With an effort at self-control so profound she shook with it, she put the knife back on the table. The tang of Bel’s blood still on her lips, she slipped the blindfold from her lover’s eyes. She saw Bel’s gaze light on the blade, still stained with a drop of her own blood, and Max flinched a little. But she had stopped, not shedding her lover’s blood wantonly or brutally. Bel’s eyes glowed with something that she had not seen in them before: a strange mixture of lust, terror, and surrender.

  It warmed her soul and she pushed her hand inside until she could form a f
ist inside her lover. Bel clenched, quaking and twisting around her hand, long red hair soaked with sweat. When she stopped shaking, Max pulled her hand gently out and dropped to the soaked sheets beside her lover. Bel shuddered and collapsed on Max’s shoulder. Max held her until she fell asleep, then bandaged her shoulder. She blew out the candle and sat thinking in the dark until sleep took her. Tonight, she had called her demons when she chose and dismissed them when their time was done; that was enough for now.

  A fortnight later, the papers screamed that there was an end to killings in Whitechapel. The Ripper’s reign of terror had ended. What had happened? Had he tired of his game or died in a madhouse? Had he stalked the wrong prey and ended up dead in the Thames or at the end of a longer, sharper blade than one of his own?

  No one knew for sure, but Max stopped prowling the streets at night. The strange, feverish light in her eyes was replaced by a newfound calm. True, when Max put up her pistols along with her long nights, Bel thought that there was less lead shot than she remembered. But Max volunteered nothing and Bel did not ask, opting instead to savor her nights on the knife’s edge.

  THE RACK

  Lucy Wikersham

  My lover is a builder of tables, chairs, bed frames, and wooden boxes. She drafts her own designs and buys her own supplies. Sometimes, if I ask with the appropriate charm, she builds things for me. A desk for my computer, a butcher-block cutting board for my gourmet fantasies. I am lying on my back, head slightly tipped over the edge of the futon mattress, dreaming a design for her. Sprawling next to me, she traces the light covering of sweat that slowly winds its way from the hem of my short tank top to the curve just above my navel, dropping off suddenly toward the bed. I squirm slightly with the tickle.