Bound for Trouble

by Alison Tyler

  “Stop reliving it,” he says, smoothing a hand down my back. “Your whole body is rigid, Edie. Let it go.”

  I blow out a long breath, tears pricking my eyes even as my skin responds greedily to his firm but gentle touch. The fact that he knows me so well—is pretty much in my head—is both comforting and unnerving.

  “Don’t you know it’s wrong to covet?” Something different slides up the back of my calf, traveling up my thigh to brush along my asscheeks, and then it disappears. The sensation of it cool, almost cold, and unyielding. But then the crop is back and my pulse jacks up.

  Crops are my least favorite. They are somewhat impersonal. Paddles do fine by me. They’re almost as terribly pleasant as a bare-handed spanking. Whips I favor because he only gives me a few good licks before he worries about my “pretty skin” and by then he’s so frothed up he’s usually bending me over something. Taking me…

  My cunt flexes eagerly around nothing at all. My stomach is light with anticipation. My ears hissing with white noise prompted by my pounding pulse.

  The crop settles along the bottom swell of my buttocks and he says, “I’d like you to say, ‘I will not covet Callie’s tokens for every stroke.’ Do you understand, Edie?”

  I forget myself and nod. No noise from him. Not a bit. Nothing but the tick of the clock and the sound of a car horn out in the real world. Far away but still audible.

  “Yes, Sir,” I cover quickly.

  “Good girl.”

  I can’t help it. My chest puffs up with pride when he says that. Doesn’t matter that my breasts are crushed to the bedding and my shoulders are starting to sing from restriction and my pussy is wet and ready but empty. All that matters in that moment are those two words.

  The first lick of the crop is sharp and fast. Like a razor blade slicing skin before you even know it’s there. It’s a sharp incision-like sensation and then it’s gone.

  “I will not covet Callie’s tokens,” I gasp. I want to cry but I swallow it down. I deserve this.

  He slides the tip of the crop down the crack of my ass, stimulating that bundle of nerves right at my tailbone that always makes me have to pee. That sudden yet fleeting urge makes me writhe even more beneath him. Before I can focus my mind and steady my breath, the crop drags a line of fire along my opposite asscheek.

  “I will not covet Callie’s tokens,” I cry. “And I was worried Peter loved her more than you love me!” I blurt it, finally answering his question. I’m ashamed of what I’ve just said.

  I mean it. What the fuck am I thinking? What I have with Carl is so far beyond what she has with Paul. But then I shake my head, realizing that is not the point. I shouldn’t compare.

  “Never. He could never love her more,” he says calmly. And then: “You’re saying the words but you don’t quite believe them. Coveting what others have and forgetting to cherish what you have is a bad way to go,” he says. The leather tip of the crop drags along my spine and then he lays three sharp blows along the very tops of my thighs. It’s like being branded three times in quick succession and my body arches up, humping over my own hands, from the blows.

  I cry out in frustration and pain and then he gives me a moment to feel that sudden rush of discomfort pooling into a thick warming pleasure. My pussy is pounding in time with my heart. All I want in the world is for him to fuck me. To make it better. But first I deliver three gasping recitations of my commitment to not covet Callie’s trinkets.

  “How many was that?” he asks.

  I go blank. Panic fills me and then I let my body tell me. I focus on each hot line of discomfort currently keeping time with my pulse. “Five.”

  “Good girl. And how many years have we been together now?”

  “Six,” I answer, dutifully.

  “And what’s my favorite number?”

  I can’t help but smile. “Six,” I say.

  “Good. So, let’s pretend we’re in math class. We’ve done five and my favorite number is six. How many blows do we have left to go, Edie?”

  “One,” I answer, my voice muffled by the plump pillows beneath my head.

  “Wrong!” He says it almost gleefully as I wriggle under his gaze. I can’t see him but I swear I can feel him studying me. He’s memorizing his handiwork. The pattern that his crop has left on the pale smooth skin on my backside.

  “I…um, Sir?”

  “Two,” he says, his lips brushing my earlobe. He’s leaned over me. I can feel his heat and his presence. It seems huge and dwarfing with my eyes covered.

  I jump with surprise as he begins to lay gentle kisses down my spine. His lips find the small of my back, and he drags his tongue lower. More kisses, provoking little jerks of my body, over the warmed skin of my ass where he’s left his disciplinary mark.

  “You should not worry about what she has,” he says to me, his tongue flicking along my asscrack, dragging just beneath my ass where thigh meets bottom. “You should focus on what you have.”

  I know he’s right but I can’t say a word because my brain has shut down. My body is responding quite violently to his ministrations and I grind my hips against my clasped, trapped hands, hoping to get some friction. I’m so desperate for some contact between my legs. I’m so desperate to get off.

  “Don’t you dare,” he says, biting my bottom none too gently.

  I jump and immediately still my wayward hips.

  “Now for those two strokes,” he says. And then there is just silence. Nothing but. I wait and I wait, ears straining to pick up any sound of him. I’m almost certain he’s gone from the room when the first blow falls right across the backs of both thighs. My back arches and my mouth presses down into a tight seam. Another blow and I let the sob I’ve been holding on to fly off my lips. Because that is it. Two. He said two and that was two.

  Now he’ll take off the blindfold and—

  But he doesn’t. The bed dips with his weight, and he yanks me up on my knees. He knocks my legs wider with his knee, and I hear his zipper hiss. The perfunctory nature of it has me panting, desperate for him. His cock drags from my slick opening all the way back to tease at, but not breach, my ass. Then he slides back to my waiting cunt and pushes in just enough for me to feel him there. I want to drive myself back, fill myself with him, but know that pushing him would probably result in no fucking at all.

  “I was disappointed in you,” he says, sliding in another inch.

  I bite my tongue to keep from begging. To keep from crying out. I feel like I might scream.

  “But then…” His hand strokes my lower back. “I was disappointed in me. I think maybe you don’t understand what you mean to me…”

  “No,” I say, tossing my head. “That’s not—”

  “Hush.”

  I hush. He slides in another inch and stills again. I want to plead, but manage not to. I am half full of him and my body is begging for him to move.

  Then he does. No more words. His fingers grip my hips roughly and he slides all the way in, grinding his hips back and forth, levering in and out of me roughly. I push my head to the bed and thrust back to take him. I want to touch myself but don’t have permission. I whimper and I sigh and I simply take what he is offering.

  “Good girl,” he grunts again. As if he’s read my mind, he slips a hand under me and gets his fingers slippery with my juices and rubs my tortured clit.

  “Sir—”

  “You may,” he informs me, knowing what I’m going to ask.

  I come with a loud sob and then add, though it has nothing to do with our Dom/sub display, just our relationship as a couple: “I’m sorry.”

  He growls at me. My words have affected him. Carl wedges a finger in my back hole even as his other hand continues to stroke and coax my clitoris to another climax.

  I feel the first few tears behind my blindfold. Wish I could take back my childish display. Not feel so petty about Callie’s stupid collar. Because this, this, is what matters to me.

  Just a few more teasing thrusts an
d I come again, knowing that if I did not have permission he would have said. Our encounter has devolved into normal make-up fucking it seems, and it makes me happy. I’ve paid my dues and now I can come at will, feel free to push myself back to impale myself on his driving cock.

  Freedom…with a blindfold and cuffs. The thought makes me smile.

  A second finger slides in my back hole and I’m full of him in both places. So full. So tight.

  “You give me one more, Edie,” he says.

  Gladly.

  He does that thing with his hips, that thing that always makes me wetter than I already am. His fingers nudge deep in my ass and I’m coming again, eyes squeezed shut tight behind the blindfold.

  I get one more good girl before he starts to come, pulling out of me fast, to come on my skin. “Mine,” he says, his voice more rough than I’ve heard it in years.

  I drop to the bed. Waiting for the blindfold to come off.

  “Sit up.” He helps me and when I’m sitting up, he removes the link between the leather cuffs and I can move my hands. Again, he drags something cool—something metallic maybe—along my skin. It disappears before I can identify it. Then, slowly, off comes the blindfold.

  “You are not a leather girl,” he says. His green eyes are serious. Intent.

  “No, Sir.”

  He picks something up off the nightstand. “Which is why I got you a metal collar.”

  I stare at it as if I’ve never seen a collar before. This one is special, though. A glittering white gold with a single O-ring. A lone diamond sparkles to the left of the ring. “I had this made for you. To give you for our six years together. To show everyone…” He smiles at me. “Those who may know what they’re looking at and even those who don’t—what you mean to me.”

  I swallow hard. Almost crying but holding on.

  He presses the edge of the O-ring so the hinge slides open, allowing him to slip the end of the collar out so he can open it wide to put it around my neck. Then he slides the end back in the ring and the collar is on me—cool beautiful metal—a complete circle.

  “Mine,” he says again, cocking an eyebrow.

  “Yours,” I say.

  His lips brush mine and I take that kiss so eagerly it’s nearly embarrassing. “I know I don’t say it enough—at least I don’t think I do—but I love you, Edie. In the collar, out of the collar, under my hand or just by my side.”

  I swallow again. “I love you too.”

  Somehow the words seem so incompetent in the face of this conversation.

  He grins at me. “I was going to give it to you tonight when we got home. But you saw hers and you got all…you know.”

  I nod, blushing terribly.

  “You took all the fun out of it, Edie,” he sighs. But I can tell he’s not serious.

  “I’m sorry—”

  He slides a finger up my flank where a hot red stripe still throbs. “That’s okay. I found a way to get it back, didn’t I?”

  I laugh. “Yes, you did.” He kisses me again. “Sir,” I add, just because I like to hear the word come out of my mouth. It makes me happy.

  THROUGH THE DOOR

  Andrea Dale

  They say that starting a story with someone walking through a door is a cliché.

  But doors and thresholds have powerful symbolism. They represent change, transformation. The simple act of stepping through a doorway can mean leaving your old life or your old self behind.

  So I believe my story starts when I walked into the dungeon in a large, anonymous city far, far from where I lived.

  I’d done as much research as I could, so I mostly knew what to expect. Downstairs, a dance floor with a throbbing beat, and private rooms for “conversation.” Upstairs, the open dungeon, an amusing irony.

  The music was faint here, more a beat vibrating the floor like a frat party beneath a movie theater. The primary sounds were thuds and cracks, gasps and shrieks, moans and screams, sobs and the occasional nervous or delighted laugh.

  All the sounds went straight to my pussy. My stomach clenched—in a good way, oh yes—and my nipples beaded to delicious attention, making my silk shirt feel like a wicked, teasing prison.

  I watched a woman, tied to a St. Andrew’s cross, getting whipped. Her eyes were wide and unfocused, her mouth open. Another cliché—the silent scream—and yet she made no sound. Her response was clear, though: her hips rolled after every strike, her sweet, round ass thrusting back in desperate, eager supplication.

  Please, Sir, may I have another? She didn’t have to say it aloud.

  Not to mention, the person whipping her was another woman.

  Unbidden, I felt my back straighten, my breath catch and release, my mouth open just a little, enough for my tongue to dart out and lick my lower lip. Want.

  My hips rolled, mimicking hers.

  So it wasn’t much of a surprise to have another woman approach me, ask me if I liked what I saw, and for me to admit was I was here for.

  Because the story doesn’t need the details, the discussion, the agreements. Just that my safeword was daffodil (I have Welsh in me), and that she was amenable.

  Eager, even. As was I.

  What did I want? she asked me. Oh, what didn’t I want? Whips and chains, leather and ropes, paddles and whips and flails, oh my!

  It was hard to say the word aloud, but finally I managed. “Bondage,” I said, that was the main thing. To be tied down—or strapped or chained or whatever—was the crucial act. To be made to believe I was helpless. (I wouldn’t be, with the safeword, but still.) Helpless to whatever she wanted to do to me, pain or pleasure. Helpless to whatever she wanted me to do: come or not come, react or wait in excruciating anticipation.

  And I wanted it done to me by a woman.

  Her face lit up. She was pretty—not classically beautiful, not model thin nor perfectly featured, but she had bright blue eyes and reddish-brown hair, and nipples that thrust even through a red-leather bra. Those eyes had a sinful glint, and her mouth curled in a smile that hinted of sweet cruelty, and that was all it took.

  I wanted her to dominate me, to restrain me, to make me feel.

  We went to a private room downstairs—I didn’t care, but she, solicitous, thought it might be best for my first time. I didn’t know how she knew it was my first time, or my first time for what (a club, bondage, pain, a dominant woman). I probably had a look.

  As it was, on the way there, I told her my safeword, told her what I wanted. Desired. Needed.

  The door closed, shutting out all external sound, which surprised me a little.

  She didn’t ask my name, nor did I ask hers.

  “I’ll just call you my pet,” she said. “My pretty precious pet. Pets always want to please their mistress, don’t they? To be praised and stroked when they’re good; to be punished when they’re bad. When they’re naughty.”

  Her voice was like a rough purr, pitched just for my ears, and my thighs went weak and my pussy swelled and dripped at her words.

  I knelt on the padded floor, ass resting on my heels, and said, “I’m sure I’ve been naughty, yes.”

  “Oh good,” she said with that evil grin. “You have such a scrumptious ass, pet, that just cries out to be blistered. And those breasts…clothespins, I think.”

  I shuddered.

  “But only after you’ve been tied down,” she went on. “Can’t have my pretty pet escaping.”

  The door was right there. I could stand, walk out, walk away, the end.

  I turned my head away from it and waited, burning beyond desire.

  The room held almost no furniture, certainly no elaborate systems of restraint. No, those were reserved for the public room: horses and racks and cages. There was a padded table here, like one you’d rest on for a massage, but instead she lowered a hook from the ceiling, then rummaged in a cabinet on the wall and selected a set of padded leather restraints for my wrists.

  There was more in the cabinet, but I didn’t look at that door. I wanted
to be surprised. My mind could probably imagine more insidious torture devices than those that lived inside, more deliciously brutal scenarios than those that were possible tonight.

  She ratcheted up the hook until my arms were straight overhead but my feet firmly on the floor. She made sure I was safe. I could still close my eyes and pretend I was suspended, dangling helplessly and twisting in the wind.

  But I kept my eyes open, because she told me to.

  I took a deep breath in through my nose, settling into my precarious, powerless position. I could smell my own sweat—I didn’t shave my pits so I was familiar with the odor, but this was tinged with fear…fear and excitement in equal measure. I realized only then that the room had no smell; it must be scrubbed down after every encounter.

  Strange, what the brain latches on to in times of intense emotion.

  I discovered why I wasn’t fully stretched when she nudged my feet apart with the toe of her red stiletto and she knelt to buckle my ankles into a spreader bar. Now my body was taut. Still no threat of permanent damage, but now the feeling of helplessness really kicked in. I couldn’t really move or shift much.

  Then again, I didn’t want to.

  Bondage comes in a myriad of forms, and while I’ve always dreamed of being bound and used by another woman, I knew—knew especially well, now—that psychological bondage is just as powerful.

  She said, “Don’t move,” and I didn’t, not when the paddle came down on my ass, not when the flail did, and mostly not when the crop did. And even then, it was more when the crop hit my upper thigh.

  And even then, only a flinch and a long, low moan, in a voice I didn’t even recognize as my own.

  I could only imagine how I looked: arms suspended overhead, my fingers loose and limp; my head bowed, hair obscuring my face as I sucked in deep breaths. Naked, bound, spread, my ass and thighs red and welted.

  My nipples tight and pebbled, almost painfully so (I knew better than to think they couldn’t feel more pain). The insides of my thighs wet with my juices, all the more frustrating—and a touch humiliating—because I couldn’t close my legs.