“In other words, think about our wedding night?”
“Exactly.”
Later that day, Bryce stood barefoot and waiting at the altar as the music began and one by one, equally barefoot bridesmaids walked down the aisle. He didn’t even glance at them, didn’t even see the two hundred assembled guests, didn’t even see the groomsmen at his side. He saw only Leigh as she appeared in the doorway bathed in sunlight and smiles. From under her dress, he saw her naked toes peeking out. And he knew his seed still lingered inside her, private proof that she belonged to him already.
“That’s my girl,” he said softly to her as she reached the altar.
“Now and always.”
The reverend stepped forward and cleared his throat.
“You two ready to tie the knot?” he asked in a whisper.
“Definitely,” Leigh said.
Bryce nodded at him and took a breath.
“For the second time today.”
THE GREAT OUTDOORS
Teresa Noelle Roberts
The sun was just rising as Miranda and Brett got to the trailhead and unloaded the mountain bikes. Miranda had grumbled as Brett nudged her out of their comfortable bed at the B&B, protesting that there was no need to get up at the crack of dawn while on vacation, but he’d laughed and promised, “I’ll make it worth your while.” Seeing the beautiful day dawning as they set out on their ride, the sky rosy to the east, young leaves fluffy and green on the May trees, and a mist lying thick near the ground like a special effect, Miranda laughingly admitted he’d done a good job making the morning worthwhile, as if he’d done it all himself.
He preened teasingly and assured her, “This is just the beginning.” As they took the trail deeper into the Berkshire woods, Miranda conceded that getting up this early was worth it. They’d done quite a bit of biking and hiking over the past few days, but it had been the weekend, and they’d gotten off to a leisurely start, sleeping in, making love, enjoying a hearty breakfast at the B&B. The trails had been crowded. Now, at six on a Tuesday morning, they and the birds and squirrels had the trail to themselves. The birds were making a dawn racket as Miranda and Brett rode, welcoming them. Okay, realistically the birds were raising the alarm that humans were in their forest at this unusual hour, but to Miranda, it felt like a welcoming chorus. Once, they came around a bend to find two does with shy, spotted fawns grazing beside the trail. Miranda grinned like a fool at that. New England was full of deer but it was different coming upon them in this wild spot than seeing them in the usual suburban fashion, which was dead by the side of the highway.
“Magical,” she breathed. She didn’t think her voice would be audible, but it broke the spell. Looking like a scene out of Bambi, the does flashed their white tails and leaped away while the spotted fawns blended into the shadows. Brett laughed. “That was special,” he agreed, “but even I’m not good enough to set that up. Come on. Race you!”
She thought about protesting that she didn’t know what the goal of the race was, but Brett was already off, his long, lean legs pumping. For a second, she appreciated the view. “Nature at its finest,” she thought to herself. The Berkshire springtime and the deer were lovely, but Brett’s athletic body was a view she could appreciate no matter what the weather. Her body twinged with regret that in order to enjoy the beautiful quiet of early morning, they had to be out of bed. Much as she loved biking, other physical activities also had a lot to recommend them. She let herself remember the night before: Brett’s cock in her ass, Brett’s hands all over her, Brett’s voice in her ear spinning elaborate fantasies, the overwhelming, shuddering orgasms that overtook them both. She was still feeling an occasional twinge in her butt as she rode, but it was the erotic kind that led to pleasant memories, not real discomfort.
Then she shook herself and began to ride like mad. Hot sex was hot sex, but she wasn’t going to get distracted from the race.
Even if she didn’t know where the finish line was.
Even if losing was likely to be at least as fun as winning, if she knew her husband.
The trail whizzed by her as she rode. Soon the endorphin rush of exercise overcame the remembered endorphin rush of last night’s sex and the anticipation of future sex, and she was riding for the sake of riding, loving the way her hardworking muscles felt and the sensual way sweat poured over her despite the cool morning. She splashed through a small stream, laughing giddily as the cold water hit her skin. She deliberately vaulted her bike over a few rocks, soaring for a few seconds and bouncing down with a little shriek. Another muddy patch—she was going to look like a mud-wrestling freak by the time she was done, but that would make a shower with Brett and soak in the hot tub even better. Brett was still nowhere in sight, though, and she was starting to become concerned.
Then, arriving slightly out of breath at the top of a steep upgrade, she heard a jolly, “You lose.”
Near a chain-link fence that provided some protection from the drop-off beyond without blocking a panoramic view of the mountains, Brett had set up a small picnic of bread, cheese and strawberries, nestled for safekeeping in a plastic container.
Miranda took a swig from her water bottle before gasping out, “How did you get here? You weren’t—” She took another swig of water. By the time she swallowed, her heart rate and breathing had almost returned to normal. “That much ahead of me.”
He said blandly, “Cheated. Bartender last night told me about a side trail while you were in the bathroom. Not as muddy as the main one, either, I’d say.”
Miranda looked down at her spattered legs and laughed as she replied, “Getting dirty is half the fun.”
“I’ll get you dirty. Get your butt over here.” Something in his voice, a rumbly timbre that wasn’t always present, made her shiver with anticipation. Whatever her forfeit for losing the race might be, she had a feeling it was going to be more interesting than feeding him strawberries or rubbing his sweaty legs. Normally she’d call foul on his cheating shortcut, but he had something in mind and she was going to roll with it.
For now. She’d get him later—once the fun was over and she could set up another bet with which they could also have fun.
She went to join him on the flat, sun-warmed rock where he’d set up the picnic, but he shook his head. “Check out that view, Miranda. If you look through the fence, I think you’ll be impressed.” He stood and led her over, feeding her a strawberry as they walked. The strawberry was cool, tart-sweet, a little crisp, and after the fast ride, it tasted great.
Distracted by the luscious berry, and by sucking on Brett’s fingers, Miranda didn’t pay much attention to the high chain-link fence until she actually got there. “That’s weird. Someone left bandannas…” Stuck in the fence, she’d been about to say, but she recognized one of them as her own pink skull bandanna she hadn’t been able to find when they were leaving. The other one, badly faded and sporting a Patriots logo, she recognized as Brett’s. She gulped, her bike shorts suddenly damp with something other than sweat and mud.
“Take your shorts off and lean against the fence.” Brett’s voice went all low and growly.
“Is that a good idea?”
He added, in a more normal tone, “I tested it. It’ll hold, and there’s plenty of room between the fence and the drop-off in case there is a problem.”
As she rolled off her shorts, it occurred to her that she probably should have thought about the possibility of plummeting to her death. But all she could think about was getting caught bare-assed and bound in the woods. They hadn’t seen or heard a soul, but still…
But still, it was damn exciting, she admitted, which was why she was stripping instead of offering all sorts of reasonable arguments why she shouldn’t. They’d done a few crazy things in public before, but this was the first time Brett had involved bondage in it, even something as mild as scarves and as dubiously public as a backwoods bike trail before seven on a weekday morning. After working the shorts off over her sneakers—a bit of a tric
k—she slipped off her zippered fleece and tank. The tank had had a built-in bra, so that left her naked except for the sneakers. She shivered, partly from excitement and partly from chill. The idea of being naked in the great outdoors was sexy, but the reality was goose bump–inducing and not entirely in a good way.
Brett, apparently guessing her hard nipples weren’t just from arousal, slipped her fleece jacket back on and she snuggled into it gratefully. Brett tied her wrists to the fence using the bandannas—a loose tie, she noticed, something she could slip if a fourth-grade class trip crested the hill en masse or if the fence started swaying menacingly. Her body, though, didn’t register that the bondage was little more than symbolic. It registered that she was bound to a chain-link fence, essentially naked, overlooking a precipitous drop and an amazing view of the mountains, and right next to a public trail. Risk and more risk. She could escape easily enough—but she didn’t want to. She wanted the risk of exposure, even the risk, slight but real, of the fence giving way. Her cunt, already tender and damp, slicked up even more, and a hot trail seeped down her leg. Her clit felt swollen to three times its natural size. Despite the fresh spring breeze, she could smell her own arousal. Usually it took kisses and caresses to get her to this point, even with the fillip of bondage or spanking or the other playfully kinky games she and Brett enjoyed, but being in the great outdoors, exposed to the world, tied to a fence like a dog, and in a slightly dangerous position, turned her on to an insane degree.
Brett positioned himself behind her and gripped her hips. For a second that felt much longer, he didn’t move. A robin started singing loudly overhead, underscoring Brett’s stillness, making the wait excruciating. Then, with a soft sigh, Brett sank into her, his cock filling her so deeply she felt it in her ass, sensitive from the night before. Pleasure jolted through her, warm and bright as the spring sun, abrupt as the drop-off so close to their feet. Brett began to move, not thrusting like an animal the way Miranda’s hungry cunt craved, just slipping slowly in and out, filling and retreating. “Push back against me if you want it harder,” Brett said, his voice harsh and urgent.
Part of Miranda registered he didn’t want to put too much strain on the fence, sturdy as it seemed. The rest of her didn’t care about that bit of common sense. What mattered was that he was being slow and gentle and she wanted hard and fierce. She gripped the fence and pushed back onto Brett’s cock, tugging the bandanna bindings. “Oh, yeah,” Brett sighed, gripping her more firmly, but not thrusting any harder. Miranda pulled forward and slammed back onto him over and over again, pleasure pulsing through her each time. Each movement made her even more aware that she was tied to the fence, stretching herself from it and retreating toward it, but unable to get away from it—not that she wanted to. Before long, her thighs and butt muscles, already well used from a couple of days of hard biking and equally hard fucking, started to burn, but she didn’t care. She needed…she needed…
Brett reached around her body to stroke her clit, driving her lust higher. She needed to come, needed it desperately, but she needed him to come, too. She squeezed and pumped with her cunt as she thrust herself onto Brett. The fence rattled as she tugged it with each movement.
And somewhere in the distance, Miranda heard the sound of distant voices, as if a group was heading up the trail.
That realization, that risk of being caught, was enough to push her over the edge. Sensation more wild than the landscape around them overwhelmed her. She screamed out a sharp, warbling shout that, while wordless, couldn’t possibly be mistaken for an animal; bucked so hard the fence swayed, and clenched down on Brett’s cock. He cried out, “Oh, god!” loudly enough that a flock of thrushes flew out of the tree overhead, and he surged into her.
In the silent aftermath, they both heard the unmistakable sounds of another group coming up the trail. In record time, Brett untied her and they both scrambled into their clothes. By the time the other group—two men, a woman and a golden retriever—passed by on foot, they were cuddled on their rock nibbling their picnic and pretending nothing out of the ordinary had been going on. Miranda wasn’t sure they fooled the hikers, who seemed very amused as they waved, but they hadn’t given a full show, either.
Once the group disappeared up the trail, Miranda whispered to Brett, “That wasn’t fair. You cheated!”
“Are you complaining? Was the price for losing so awful?” He took hold of her wrist, his fingers circling where the bandanna had been. Miranda thought she was sated, but her cunt clenched anyway.
She chuckled. “Not about the sex—but about the cheating, yes. I demand a rematch tomorrow!”
That would give her time to get her own insider information and plan the perfect sexy forfeit for Brett if she won.
Then again, losing again had a lot to be said for it.
WHAT VACATIONS ARE FOR
Thomas S. Roche
Looking down at the very famous bridge illuminated gorgeously in its breathtaking journey across the rocky mouth of the bay, Heather felt Clint’s hand sliding up her thigh.
“Darling,” she said, her voice a musical chime. “What are you doing?”
“Not a thing,” he answered, his voice dark, his mouth close to her ear. “Not a damn thing, remember? I’m on vacation.”
His arms were around her, clutching her close, and his big hand was firm and hard and knew what it was doing. Before she realized what was happening, it was thrust between her legs, rubbing her pussy through her very tight jeans. They were stretchy, with very thin fabric; they, together with the flimsy excuse for panties she was wearing, didn’t make much of a barrier against her husband’s insistent fondle.
Clint stroked her sex through her jeans. Heather’s clit surged. He started rubbing her rhythmically, and Heather gasped.
She whined, “Clint, baby, you shouldn’t…people might see us.”
“I’m counting on it,” growled her husband into her ear, his breath hot against her skin.
“You wanna get arrested?” Heather snarked with a nervous purr.
“If that’s what it comes to,” said Clint. “Hey, what are vacations for?”
He pressed in harder and Heather whimpered, involuntarily rubbing her ass against his cock. He was wearing a coat, so she couldn’t feel it, but she knew he was hard, or getting there. She tried to squirm away, but there was nowhere to go; he had her pinned against the railing, which was how he liked it. And to be fair, Heather really didn’t try very hard.
“Clint!” Heather gulped, trying not to pivot her hips and rub her pussy against his hand. She reached back and tried to push on him, but he wasn’t budging. “People will see. And besides, I’m cold…”
She definitely was; she hadn’t worn a jacket, thinking, It’s California in August. How cold can it be?
The answer was very cold. Heather was shivering before she even got a decent look at that fucking pompous bridge. Her nipples jutted painfully through her light sweater—and that was before her husband shoved his hand between her legs. The wind felt like it was biting into her flesh, and Heather’s teeth were practically chattering.
“Honey, I’m cold,” she repeated.
“So I’ll make you hot,” said Clint. Then he did something nasty. He seemed to have planned this part. He took his hand from between his wife’s legs. He reached up and seized her wrists—both of them, all at once. He had something in his hand, something hard and firm and metal, with a short chain that rattled.
Before Heather knew what was happening, her husband had snapped the handcuffs around her wrists and handcuffed her to the railing.
Clint knew how to handcuff a girl with terrifying efficiency, a thing Heather found out with some regularity, though only occasionally in public. Heather squealed and tried to get away, but there was nothing for it. With an easy, smooth gesture, Clint unbuttoned his overcoat, pulled it around her and shoved the edges into her hands. Clint’s overcoat was big on him, and his slender wife fit easily inside it. She clutched her hands to the railing
with the ends of the coat gripped tightly, and her body temperature began to rise.
“Warmed up yet, baby?”
Heather spat bitterly, “No! I’m still fucking cold. And if you think I’m going to…”
That’s when all of it stopped—her protests, and the world.
It was eleven o’clock at night, and the observation deck was practically empty because of the wind and the cold. But Heather knew that only made Clint’s dirty mind work overtime. And as cold as she was, she knew she’d give in—like she always gave in when he pulled this shit. She knew she needed to give in, and Clint knew it, too, maybe more than Heather knew it herself.
He did something to her, then. He did the one thing he knew would make her stop protesting and want it so bad she couldn’t control herself.
He knew how to make her forget all human language; with his hands and his lips, he knew just where to touch her. Even when she got scared and embarrassed, she could never remember what the fuck she was supposed to do if she got too scared and embarrassed.
And she liked it that way. She liked the way he made her brain go all fuzzy—make her preverbal when he did those things…right here in public.
He did “those things” now—three of them all at once. He undid her belt with the skill of an expert. He put his hand in her hair and gripped it lightly, tipping her head forward, making her feel all submissive.
And, perhaps most importantly, he kissed her on that spot—the spot that made her crazy. He did it gently at first with tongue and teeth barely grazing her flesh…and then harder as she surged and writhed against him.
That spot was the place on the back of Heather’s neck that only her husband could find. Other men had tried—both before and since the wedding, the latter inspiring many fights and a series of tearful apologies on her part.
Best Bondage Erotica 2013 Page 4
