by Alison Tyler
I was so very close to coming when Duncan pulled away. Seconds later, I heard rustling behind me as he seemed to unzip his pants. He stepped closer, wrapping his arms around me, and I felt his erection, hot and hard, nudging my ass as he ripped my blouse open and reached into my bra. He cupped my breasts and then pinched my nipples hard. My cuffs rattled as my body jerked.
“Please, Duncan,” I whispered desperately. He squeezed my nipples again, and I felt a rush of honey seep from my slit.
“Please, what? You want me to fuck you? What makes you think you deserve my cock?”
I nearly sobbed when he said those words. The idea that he could deny me what I most wanted seemed utterly cruel. But thankfully, Duncan was only playing. He released my breasts, and then I felt his dick sliding along my wet slit. He kept it there, poised at the entrance of my pussy for a long moment, teasing me with the promise of penetration. I arched my back and begged him with my body.
“You deserve every bit of it,” he murmured soothingly as he rocked his hips and slipped his dick inside me. “I want to take care of you, Eve, to give you all of the pain and pleasure you crave.”
Duncan moved his hand around my body, sliding down my stomach and over my mound to find my clit nestled within the slippery flesh below. He pressed his fingertips against my button, rubbing in small circles as he continued pumping his shaft in and out of me. I was lost in bliss as he increased the pace of his bucking hips, slapping his pelvis against my well-spanked cheeks and making them burn anew. He continued fucking and stroking me until my climax broke, and I pounded my fists against the wall as the pleasure filled me and years of dreams exploded into bursts of color in my mind. I rode those rhythmic waves as Duncan gripped my hips and pounded into me furiously, groaning as the spasms of my orgasm massaged him and induced his own release.
Seconds later, Duncan slipped off my blindfold and unfastened my cuffs, kissing my wrists where the metal had chafed my flesh. “It’s still there,” Duncan said, his voice filled with breathless awe. “That connection between you and me. But it’s even better now.”
I settled against his chest, feeling protected and possessed by his embrace as I answered, “Some bonds are just too strong to break.”
FILTHY RICH
Shanna Germain
I ’m face down on the bed, my wrists and ankles wrapped in the softest fleece and leather cuffs. A sharp-toothed clamp is attached to each of my nipples, sending soft shoots of pain through me each time I shift on the silk sheets. TJ is lightly whipping my back and the curves of my ass with my favorite flogger, a velvety leather toy we bought on our last trip to Paris. I’m wet inside my lace panties—I always am when TJ whips me—but my mind is elsewhere. Where? I’m not sure. It’s not the kind of good, mindless elsewhere that being bound and spanked usually takes me to. This is a turning and churning, my brain going round and round so much that I almost forget I’m being tortured by a man that I love and lust after and who loves and wants me in return. My skin feels the floggings, the pain, the pricks of pleasure, but somehow, the sensations are not making it all the way to my brain.
After a few minutes, the flogging stops, and the next thing I feel is TJ, lowering his body onto mine. He’s still dressed, and the buckle of his leather belt presses into my ass. His teeth find my ear and nip lightly along its curve.
“Feeling bored, aren’t you, baby?” TJ asks.
I don’t know how to say yes, even though as soon as he asks it, I know it’s the truth. I am bored. We have all of these gorgeous toys, a custom-built bondage bed with hooks and chains, and all the time in the world to play. I have a man who still lusts after me after all this time together, a gorgeous, tall man with dark hair and green eyes like the dark parts of an ancient forest, a man who gets me, who spanks me and ties me up and pulls my hair. And despite it all, I’m bored, bored, bored.
I know, it makes me sound like an asshole, doesn’t it? Which is why I don’t know how to answer TJ. It’s why I lie there silent underneath him, my breath hardly even catching, not half as wet as I should be.
TJ and I are rich now, but it was mostly accidental—TJ’s in a band, and he sold one of his songs to a car company. Every time they use it in their commercial, he gets a royalty for it. And they use it a lot.
But before that, we were poor for a long time. I mean, poorer than dirt-poor. So poor that we scrubbed mold from our apartment bathroom. So poor that we got past-expiration-date groceries and dented cans from the bargain store in the bad part of town. We worked hard, at dead-end jobs, and we had each other and we got by.
We were wicked then too, though. Or TJ was. I was mostly an innocent, wide-eyed and untouched, with a brain full of fantasies that I didn’t dare speak aloud. Still, TJ knew what they were, what was on my brain, and he made them come true as best as he could.
“You want to be bound in those, baby?” he asked once after we’d walked by some fetish store, beautiful black leather cuffs and a red collar on the model in the window. I did, but I didn’t know how to say so and I knew we couldn’t afford those things anyway. So I just shook my head and pulled in closer to TJ.
TJ always knew, though. I don’t know how. I still don’t know how he knows what I’m thinking, what I’m lusting after. A few days later, he came home from work with a plastic bag and one of his signature sadist smiles.
I’d had a shit day of waiting on college students for ten hours. My feet were tired, I hadn’t been able to wash the stink of fryer grease out of my hair and I’d made a ton less money than I’d hoped—and still that smile of his made me perk up just a little.
“What’s that for?” I asked, the question more about the smile than whatever was in the bag.
“Later,” he said. And for four days, that was the end of it. I knew where he kept our “toys”—which then consisted of an old belt that had a broken buckle, some well-used clothesline that I’d washed at the Laundromat so it wouldn’t scratch, a couple of clothespins that had been sprung open a little so they didn’t squeeze so tight, and a ten-dollar vibrator I’d had since college—but I didn’t want to ruin the surprise. Even then, I was a good girl. Or at least a good girl for TJ.
He finally opened the bag on Sunday, our one day off together, the day we’d spend in our cheap futon on the floor, feeling luxurious for getting to sleep late. Feeling like royalty. He’d been teasing my nipples with his fingernails—such great fingernails, he had, kept longer and sharper on his right hand for guitar playing—and my body was already responding in that lazy morning roll and buck, hips tilting up to beg for his hand. His ready cock nudged my thigh, the moisture already wetting my skin. I wanted his fingers against me, making me damp, and then his cock in me. I wanted his hands to fall like rain and thunder against the curves of my ass as he fucked me. I wanted so much then. Everything and then some.
I buried my face against his neck, covered his skin with soft kisses. “Touch, please,” I mumbled, still surprisingly shy about asking for what I wanted.
“Soon,” he said. “Close your eyes.”
His touch told me everything I needed to know. The way his fingers moved my hair away from my face, brought the leather around the circle of my neck, how they fastened the buckle tight behind me. And the feel of the leather on my skin, oh, god, I’d never felt anything like that. So rich, so soft, like being draped in the world’s most expensive butter. I was a queen, a goddess, a million ages of what women are meant to be. I was afraid to open my eyes, to see the real world come back, the graying bedspread, the peeling walls. I wanted to be here, bound in the arms of my man for a bit longer.
“Oh, TJ, Jesus, we can’t afford—”
His kiss hushed me, his fingers sliding between my legs brought my voice back into the room. “You deserve this, this and more,” he said. “Someday.”
I could only reach up and feel the leather about my neck, let my fingertips slide over its softness.
“Do you know what this means?” he asked.
“No,” I said. Bu
t I did, even before he said it.
“It means you’re mine,” he said as his fingers found the leather around my neck, tugged me and turned me until my ass was in the air. One hand was curled around the collar, holding my neck up, curving my back. The other dipped between my thighs, stroked me until I was wet and panting.
“Mine,” TJ said as he entered me, filling me, blotting out all the poorness of our lives with his hard, slow strokes.
“Yours,” I said.
We got married years later, in a public ceremony, but we both knew that moment was really the one that mattered, the one that had bound us forever and ever.
As TJ is pressing his weight down on me, I have a sudden memory of that collar, the first one he ever bought for me, the first one I ever wore. I wonder where it is. I know now that it was cheap, but at the time it was the most gorgeous thing I’d ever owned. I wonder if it’s a bad sign that I can’t remember when I last wore it.
“Stacy,” TJ growls in my ear. I can feel his heartbeat against my back. “Admit that you’re bored.”
“I’m not fucking bored,” I say. It sounds like the lie that it is, stiff and self-determined, angry because it has nowhere else to go.
“Come on, baby,” TJ says, wrapping his fingers in my hair and tugging my head back so that my face is off the sheets, so that I can’t hide in that silky fabric. “I know you better than that.”
I struggle beneath him, struggle inside the cuffs that bind me. “Get off,” I say because I have nothing else to say. Because I am worried that if I’m bored, then he is bored too. Because if we have all of this, everything we could ever want, and we’re not enjoying the fucking, then what does that say about us? That we’re done? I’ve loved TJ for so long, wanted him for so long. I still want him. So how can I be bored?
“No,” he says. His fingers trace the side of my neck, that place where my pulse beats hard when I’m excited or pissed off or scared. “It’s okay to be bored. You just have to admit it.”
There is silence between us for a long time. Not the good post-coming kind of silence or even the content kind of silence. This is a silence full of sharp edges and pressure. I can’t breathe under him and I’m pretty sure he knows it.
“Fine, I’m bored,” I say, and I have to be angry about it. Damn him. Damn him for always knowing me so well, for being able to read me like no other, for not even having to see my face to know if I’m telling the truth.
“Me too,” he whispers, and that shiver of fear slides up through me, fast and hard. So hard it makes me certain I can feel tears pooling in my eyes. We’re done, then. Our forever and ever bond is broken. I can feel it, feel him pulling away from me.
But he doesn’t leave me. He stays on top of me. He kisses the side of my cheek, and that’s how I know I am crying, because I can feel him pushing the teary streams against my skin. “Don’t, baby. It’s not us,” he says. “We need to bring the dirty back is all.”
There is the sound of a buckle jangling, and TJ’s hands around my neck. I feel the collar, the one I’d been thinking about, and I wonder again how he can know me so well, how he is always one step ahead of me. The collar doesn’t feel the way I remembered—it’s not soft at all, but scratchy and broken. It pinches my neck in the places where it doesn’t curve right. Somehow, that’s all perfect. The pain of it, the discomfort, brings my body to life with little sparks. TJ’s fingers wrap inside the leather so that it grows tighter around my neck, and a small growl rises in his voice. “Roll over,” he says. “Spread-eagle. Eyes open.”
He slides off the bed, leaving me on sheets with my arms and legs spread out. TJ’s still talking and I’m following some of it, bits and pieces here and there about being tired of being so clean, so posh, but mostly my mind feels like it’s short-circuiting, somewhere between confusion and desire.
He has rope in his hands, our old clothesline—where in the hell did he find that?—and he’s wrapping one end around my ankle. His erection bobs with every wrap of rope, and I don’t know which is making me wetter—the feel of his hands working so steadily to loop and knot the rope around my ankle or watching his arousal. He tucks the rope under the end of the mattress and then ties my other ankle. Already I feel bound in a way that I haven’t in a long time. Immobilized. I’m so wet that I can feel it soaking my spread thighs. My nipples pucker and push into the air, aching for his touch, for the brush of the edge of a belt. Every time I pant or swallow, I can feel the collar, its tight pinch and choke.
“Hands forward,” he says.
I bring my hands down to my belly, clasp them together.
“Good girl.” The old, broken belt makes its way around and around my wrists. The buckle is still broken, so TJ ties it off, cinching it tight.
“Wiggle,” he says. But I hardly can. My cheeks burn, and I am delighted and amazed at their flush. How can I be embarrassed? We’d done this a hundred times, a thousand, but I always am. And it’s been a long time since I was this powerless before him, in front of him.
He brings out the clothespins, squeezing them open and closed, his grin wicked. My nipples are so pointed they’re easy to clamp. The wood bites into my skin, and I make a noise somewhere between a groan of pleasure and a swear.
TJ stands back, hands on his hips, and he inspects me. “So much better,” he says. “I’ve missed having you all trussed up, all dirty.” He walks around me, touching and looking.
He tweaks one of the clothespins, sending a jolt through me. When I cry out, he laughs, delighted. Two fingers brush the cleft between my legs before he brings them up, wet, to press them into my mouth. I taste of dirty thoughts and desire, of a hot want that seems ancient and timeless. He presses my tied-together hands between my thighs.
“Fuck yourself,” he says. “While I watch.”
My face burns hotter—I want to turn my head away, close my eyes—but I do as he says. I wet my fingers in my own desire, then rub small circles around my clit. He watches my eyes, his own green ones turning darker. With one hand, he takes hold of my collar, pulling my head up. With the other, he aims his cock toward my mouth.
His tip is glistening, the hole at the end wide and open, and I want him buried in my throat when I fuck myself. I want to feel him come deep inside my throat, to taste his sweet salt while he groans and shudders above me.
“Please, please,” I say, just as his tip parts my lips. He doesn’t sink any deeper, though, teasing me instead, wiping his arousal over my lips and tongue, holding me away from him by the collar.
“Oh, I’ve missed this,” he says. His thrusts deepen, just a little, until I can take the whole head of him, suck him into the heat of my mouth. I focus on his length and taste, wrapping my tongue around him, urging him deeper.
He slips out, and I groan from the loss of him. “I didn’t say you could stop,” he says, and I realize I’ve let my hands go still.
“But I’m going to come if I keep—”
“That, I think, is the point,” he says. He moves my hands back into position, rubs them hard over my clit, until I’m doing it myself, my hips bucking up as much as they can with my ankles tied.
“Now you can have my cock in your mouth,” he says, and the groan I let out is part for the slide of my fingers on my clit, but mostly for wanting him, for the way he starts to stroke into my mouth, quick and whole.
TJ talks the whole time, his words sending small shudders of pleasure between my ears and my mouth and my clit. It’s a tiny circuit that runs through my body; if it keeps speeding up, it’s going to send me over. TJ knows this, of course, which is why he keeps talking, keeps thrusting, keeps reaching down to tweak the clothespins on my nipples.
“I’ve missed you being my cheap, dirty whore. Tied up in clothesline and broken belts. I’m going to throw out all the sheepskin and fleece and silk. I’m going to rub your nipples raw on rough cotton sheets. I’m going to bind you to the floor with the dog’s leash, hands and knees, and fuck you until you’ve got rug burn. I’m going to hold t
hat loud plastic vibrator to your clit until you beg me to stop and then I’m going to hold it there some more and listen to you holler as you come.”
Fuck him, I think, for knowing everything I want before I even want it. Fuck him for giving me everything. … And then the short circuit goes into overload, runs mouth, nipple, clit, bam bam bam in time to TJ’s thrusts. There is only the pleasure of having my mouth full of TJ’s cock, of the pain in my nipples, of the flutter of my own fingers on my clit.
TJ’s words stop too, fall away into a groan of pleasure as he floods my mouth and throat. He tastes just like me, filthy thoughts and sweet heat, and I swallow him down as I come.
“Still bored, baby?” he asks a few minutes later as he unloops the belt from my wrists, watching my face with those green, green eyes.
“No,” I breathe. I’m not sure where my brain and body are, but I’m having a hard time pulling them all together enough to answer him, much less think. “Not bored.”
“See?” he says as he takes the clamps slowly off my nipples. “I told you it wasn’t us. We got all clean and rich, but we forgot how to be dirty and rich.”
“Filthy rich?” I say. TJ starts laughing, then he takes hold of the old collar around my neck and leans down to kiss me, soft, the laughter rolling from him to me, just another invisible bond between us.
“Exactly,” he says. “Dirty, filthy rich.”
LIFE DRAWING
Vida Bailey
The women were so beautiful. That wasn’t something Rosie had anticipated taking from the sessions, when she signed up. Casual life drawing meetings her friend had organized, they didn’t have the cash for a model, much less a teacher. Instead each woman took turns sitting, or standing, or in the case of the ones who did yoga, holding poses. She marveled at them, the set of their hips, the auras of curls or straight strands of hair, and somehow, most of all, at their wrist bones. There was such elegance, such strength and delicacy, in the braced poise of a woman’s wrist, in her splayed fingers. She encountered enormous frustration in being unable to render what she saw with such clarity, what she looked on with awe.
