by Alison Tyler
Table of Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Acknowledgements
Introduction
All Tied Down
Dinner at Eight
Be a Good Sport
Jane’s Bonds
Buckle Fucker
It Ain’t Always Easy
See Dick Deconstruct
A Hook and a Twist
Cuffed
Leered At
On Top of the World
Cropped
Girls in the Hood
Her Beautiful Long Black Overcoat
Zip Me, Hug Me, Fill My Life with Meaning
Mahia’s Truth
The Divan
Fire and Ice
The Super
About the Authors
About the Editor
Copyright Page
To SAM
Do not consider painful what is good for you.
—EURIPIDES
Many of us spend our whole lives running from feeling with the mistaken belief that you cannot bear the pain. But you have already borne the pain. What you have not done is feel all you are beyond the pain.
—BARTHOLOMEW
Acknowledgments
I’m forever bound in gratitude to Violet Blue, Eliza Castle, Mike Ostrowski, Barbara Pizio, Thomas S. Roche, Kerri Sharp, Rachel Kramer Bussel, and of course the ever-remarkable Felice Newman and Frédérique Delacoste.
Introduction
Alison Tyler
I’ve always been into bondage. I just didn’t know it at first. Or, at least, I didn’t have the vocabulary to explain the cravings that surged through me. I couldn’t have discerned the letters B/D or S/M from the rest of the ABCs. Yet from the beginning, I understood there was something different about my desires. While friends fantasized about French-kissing the celebrities of their dreams, I imagined being tied up by the stars of mine. And the celebs we admired never seemed to overlap. The tittering teenyboppers in my high school postered their bedroom walls with pictures of pretty boys—Jon Bon Jovi. Sting. Simon Le Bon—while I yearned for men, men who looked like they wouldn’t be put off by the things that turned me on. Older men. Rugged me. Dirty men. My giggling girlfriends nursed crushes on Tom Cruise circa The Firm. I kept it quiet that I would rather find myself bound tightly for Gene Hackman, star of the very same movie.
You see, from the start I wanted to be held in place, captured, made to stay still.
My first serious boyfriend understood what I required. Maybe I was sending out silent signals. Maybe I just look like the sort of girl who needs a bit of old-fashioned discipline in her life. I didn’t have to make the first move. He took charge from our very first date. When he kissed me outside my front door, he anchored me in place by gripping firmly on to my long, midnight-black ponytail and biting hard into my full bottom lip. When he fucked me, he held my slender wrists over my head, so that I couldn’t go anywhere. And when we moved past those innocent first baby bondage steps, he used gleaming metal cuffs, his old leather belts, or diamond-patterned silk thrift-store ties that he owned for no other purpose than keeping me in my place. (He wasn’t exactly a tie-wearing sort of guy.)
Even more important than the toys he owned were the words he possessed. He knew the magic of making me call him Sir or Daddy, as in “Yes, Sir, whatever you say, Sir.” And “Sorry, Daddy. I didn’t mean to be such a bad girl.” He punished me for my endless infractions—and I misbehaved in order to win his wrath. We made a perfect team: kinky and connected.
He read me. He understood. Without me having to ask, he knew.
When we were out in public, he didn’t need words to make me toe the line. He had bindings that kept me in my place and at his side, invisible bindings that others might not have been able to see—but I could. I could feel them as intensely as I could feel his strong hand grasped around my glossy, shoulder-length hair, or his ties tight on my teenage wrists, or his cold metal cuffs binding me to his bed.
The authors in this collection will bind you to their stories with invisible ties, as well. Rakelle Valencia’s “Buckle Fucker” takes you right up onto the back of a bucking bronco before roping you down to a bed for just as powerful a session between the cheap motel sheets. In “Her Beautiful Long Black Overcoat,” Clean Sheets editor Bill Noble visits an S/M club in San Francisco with his girlfriend and her dominant Republican lover, where the tension couldn’t be tighter or the scene more explosive. Elaine Miller gives a whole new meaning to being a team player in the lesbian three-way tale “Be a Good Sport.” The extremely talented Marilyn Jaye Lewis’s powerful foray into the mind of a cheating wife in “Dinner at Eight” will leave you as breathlessly lustful as the wine-swigging main character herself. And Tom Piccirilli’s mesmerizing tale of two lonely singles in “It Ain’t Always Easy” teaches several important lessons—including the fact that you should always know where you left the handcuff key before you begin to play!
From start to finish, these bondage-inspired stories are luscious, naughty, and infinitely sexy. And I promise you this: they’ll definitely have you bound to your chair and begging for more.
Alison Tyler
San Francisco
May 2005
All Tied Down
Ayre Riley
“Let’s try it, Gracie,” Gabriel whispered to me, his face pressed against my long auburn hair, his strong arms holding me tight. “We can stop any time you want. We won’t have to do anything more than that—”
He wanted to tie me down. Just tie me down and fuck me. No chains. No whips. Nothing scary. His voice was both patient and hesitant, as if he were scared that I might not agree, but he needn’t have worried. I’ve always been into playing with new ideas. I had no problem with doing it outdoors, fucking in the back of his shiny black pickup truck after a rock concert at the Greek Amphitheater, going down on him on the aerial ride at the amusement park at the beach, the little blue metal car swinging and swaying with our raucous movements. And even though I’d never told him about my fantasies—well, deep down, I’d always wanted to play a little more kinky. Or a lot more kinky. Even if I never told anyone, I’d always had these urges that went unfulfilled by all of my past good-guy boyfriends.
“Are you game, Gracie?” Gabriel asked me, his arms around my trim waist, pulling me even closer to his muscular body in a spoon embrace. “Are you, baby?”
I rolled out of his grip to look over at him, and I realized as I stared at his gentle, yearning expression that I’ve always been with the good guys. You know how some girls always go for the bad boys? The ones who treat them cruelly, who don’t call when they say they will, who don’t act like gentlemen in any manner of speaking? I’ve never fallen for that type. The Mickey Rourke type. The Colin Farrell type. Unlike many of my friends, I never saw the appeal in dating a guy who could only think about racing motorcycles and wearing well-worn leather. I never yearned for rough whiskers and whiskey breath. But in the back of my head, I always wondered, did it take a bad boy to give me what I craved? Would it take going in for that sort of sickly twisted relationship in order to get what I needed? I hoped not. That’s all I could do—just hope.
I never mentioned my sexual daydreams to Gabriel. I liked him too much, and I was scared I’d frighten him off if he ever saw the real me, the one I carefully concealed from everyone else: parents, teachers, girlfriends. But now, he was the one bringing up the concept. He was the one saying that he wanted to tie me down. Just tie me down and fuck me. Nothing scary. So why not? Why would I say no to something that he promised would bring me great pleasure?
And he was right—it did.
Being tied to the mattress was divine. I lay in the center of the be
d, my wrists over my head, my ankles spread wide apart. Gabriel used his own expensive work ties to fasten my trembling limbs, and when I turned my head I saw that for my wrists he’d chosen a tie I’d given him for the previous Valentine’s Day: a navy blue one decorated with miniature crimson hearts. That made me smile and relax. Yes, we were dabbling in bondage, but this was my sweetheart, my one-and-only. Even when tying me down, he played nice.
He took a moment to look at me, and I could tell that he was admiring my naked form bound for his own personal pleasure. When he was ready, he climbed onto the bed and used his tongue to trace pretty pictures up and over my clit. He took his time, moving away from me when I was desperate for him to let me climax. Only giving in when he was good and ready.
But he didn’t want to stop there.
“You liked that, right?” he asked, his sex-glazed mouth so close to my ear that his breath warmed my skin. “Didn’t you, Gracie?”
I nodded, my whole body still alive and tingling with pleasure. “Yeah, I did.” Being bound was even better than I’d pictured; better than I’d fantasized about alone, my fingers moving quickly and making their magic circles up and over my clit, up and over, until it happened. In my head, I hadn’t understood the power of being powerless. Now, I was starting to figure everything out.
“So let’s take things up a notch.”
“Meaning?”
“You tell me, Gracie. What would that mean to you? What visions does that idea conjure up for you?”
I closed my eyes, trying to guess what he expected me to say, trying to read his fantasies solely from the way he was asking the question. What would a good boy like Gabriel fantasize about? What would an all-American guy like my sandy-haired boyfriend think was pushing the edge? Gabriel’s a devoted son with an upstanding job. He’s a man who’s never once forgotten my birthday, or our anniversary, or any special occasion at all. He’s even bought me gifts on St. Patrick’s Day. What would he consider kinky? I was already tied down—and he had ravaged me without me being able to do anything about it. Not that I’d wanted to do anything about it. He’d started by kissing my lips, letting me return his passion beat for beat, and then he’d moved slowly down, working his way along my entire body until he had reached that place between my legs, the place so desperate to feel the wetness of his kisses, and—well, what could be better than that?
“Blindfold,” he suggested, breaking into my thoughts. “A blindfold, Gracie?”
So, yeah, as soon as he said the word, I thought that I should have known to say it myself. I’ve spent many pleasurable hours imagining the appeal in the abandonment of a sense, picturing how it would feel not to know where he was going to go next, what he was going to do, when he was going to fuck me.
“Sure,” I said, trying not to sound as excited as I really was. I didn’t want to spoil the effort he’d put into creating this exotic encounter. Would he possibly think less of me if he knew that sometimes, just sometimes, I take one of my expensive silk scarves, the ones I wear when I go to out-of-town conventions, and blindfold myself before allowing myself to come? I close my eyes tightly under the slippery fabric and pretend that Gabriel is the one placing the blindfold over my eyes, that he is the one plunging my world into darkness.
“Really?” Gabriel asked.
“Yeah,” I said slowly, “that would be okay.”
I was still agreeing when he brought the purple velvet blindfold out of the dresser drawer and held it up for me to see before positioning it over my eyes and fastening the back beneath my heavy hair. I had only long enough to realize that he’d gone out and purchased this particular toy for our use, that he’d planned this event for me, that it wasn’t in the least bit spontaneous—and then we started again, with Gabriel kissing me all over, alternating the places he paid attention to and the pressure of his kisses, so I had no concept of what to expect. His mouth was wet and open, and I shivered at every connection of that wet heat with my naked skin.
Then suddenly he moved over my body, reaching in the drawer again. After a moment, I felt something different, something which I recognized instantly as a feather, caressing and playfully tickling the bottoms of my feet, my inner thighs, working right up over my clit, which still hummed from my first orgasm of the night.
“You trust me, right?” he murmured. “Right, Gracie?”
Deep breath. Did I trust him? Yeah. Of course, I did. I nodded.
“Say it.”
“I trust you, Gabriel.”
“Mean it.”
“I do,” I said quickly. “I do trust you. Of course I do.”
“Then confess to me—”
“What—” I stuttered. “What do you mean?” All at once, the fact that I couldn’t see him made me feel off balance. This idea of being captured, a concept I had explored in my head for years, took on a deeper meaning. I couldn’t see him with the blindfold in place. I couldn’t get free without his assistance. What expression was on his face? Precisely how intently was he staring at me?
“Now, tell me the secrets you’ve been keeping.”
My breath came faster now. I tested the binds with my wrists and my ankles, for some reason feeling intensely confined when before I’d only felt erotically captured. He brought that feather back into play, so that I was wildly squirming and laughing even as my mind scrambled desperately to figure out what he wanted me to say.
“I read your journal, Gracie,” he said—the one to actually confess—“so I know. I know all about it, baby. So now you tell me.”
Oh, Christ. Oh, Jesus. Oh, fuck.
“I know what you think about when you take that naughty little hand of yours and bring it between your legs late at night. I know you wait for me to fall asleep, listen for my breathing to go soft and heavy, and then the sticky sap starts to flow down your thighs as you crest the waves of those silent orgasms. I know everything. But I need you to tell me. I need to hear you say it.”
So he did know. Knew more than I was willing to tell even myself. That what I wanted was this. But more than this. Far beyond this. What I wanted was for him to take control. Total control. Not to ask me anymore if this was okay, or if that was okay, but to just do it. To do everything. To do whatever he wanted to with me. Using me. Taking me. Forcing me. No more nice and sweet and gentle lovemaking for his pretty girlfriend. But real and hard and fast and raw. And I understood even more than that: before he started, I had to say it all out loud. Creating truth from fantasy. Making it all real.
“Say it,” he insisted.
“I want—” but the words died right there.
“Say it, Gracie.”
“I want to be yours.”
“You are mine.”
“More than that.”
“Say it.”
“I want you to do things to me.”
He sighed. “Oh, yes, baby, I know.” My request unleashed a torrent from him. As if he’d been waiting forever for me to say the words that would set his own fantasies free. “You want me to fuck you hard. Isn’t that right? Harder than I do now. Harder than I’ve dared. You want me to take you doggy-style, my hand in your hair, holding you steady for my pace. You want me to slam you up against the wall and just fuck you, holding your wrists over your head, keeping you right where I want you. You want me to make you touch yourself when we’re caught in traffic, right there in the car, where everyone can see you, if they’d only look. You want to have to do what I tell you. Is that right? You want me to make you do things.”
I nodded.
“Is that right?” he said again, his voice more softly menacing than I’d ever heard it before.
“Yes, Sir,” I managed to respond. “Yes, yes, yes.”
“But what if you fail me?”
And now we were at the part of the fantasies that I’d written down quickly in my journal but refused to reread. The parts that gave me the most pleasure as well as the most shame.
“Then—” I started.
“Yes, Gracie? What, then?”
His whisper was almost scaring me. A hiss. A demand for more information.
“Then I want you to punish me.”
“Punish you how?”
I couldn’t turn back now. I had it within my grasp to get everything I’d ever wanted. I had to come clean. I had to do exactly what Gabriel insisted. Confess. “I want you to spank me with your hand and your belt. With a Ping-Pong paddle. With whatever you need to use. A wooden spoon. A ruler. A hard-backed hairbrush. I want you to make my ass burn from the blows, and then I want you to stand me in the corner with my panties dangling around my ankles so I can think about how I might better please you in the future.”
“What else?” Gabriel asked me. “What else should I do to you if you disobey me?”
I took a deep breath. “I want you to call me names, to slap my face, to use clothespins on me.”
“Clothespins?”
“You know, on my nipples, and my pussy lips, and my clit—” Now, I was grateful for the blindfold, so I wouldn’t have to see the look on his face. Would he leave? Was he disgusted with me? “I want you to make me beg and—”
“And—”
“I want you to make me cry—”
“Oh, Gracie. Who would have thought? Who would have thought that my good girl could be such a bad girl at heart?”
I didn’t have an answer for that. I didn’t have an answer for anything. I was waiting, my breath held, to see what he’d say next. To see how he’d deal with all I’d just confessed to. He’d read my fantasies, but could he handle them now that I’d said everything out loud? Now that I’d really come clean. Now that I’d confessed.
“Of course I will,” my good-guy boyfriend said. “Anything you need, baby,” my all-American man promised me. And I suddenly realized that maybe you don’t need to date a rough-and-tumble guy in order to find a Master. You only need a kindred spirit. That maybe Gabriel was looking the whole time for someone like me, a good sort of girl, fine and upstanding, sweet and even-tempered, who wanted only to serve and obey and be disciplined for failing her Master.
