Best Bondage Erotica 2012

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  Lifted swiftly from the cupboard, Kristi was laid upon the sofa, her blindfold still firmly in place.

  Mark spoke, but not to her. “That was an interesting display, Dave. Thank you. I enjoyed that, and Kristi obviously did as well.”

  His wife’s mind raced. Who the hell is Dave?

  Her question was partly answered by the sound of a mild Irish brogue. “I certainly approve of the adaption of the cupboard.”

  “Bondage without punishment?” As if Dave hadn’t commented, Mark spoke thoughtfully to himself. “A concept I confess it hadn’t occurred to me to explore.”

  Not daring to move, Kristi felt the heat of two pairs of eyes boring into her naked body. A flicker of arousal seeped down her spine.

  “Now that I’ve seen your technique in my domain, perhaps you’d like to see mine in yours. You favor the living room rather than the bedroom, I believe?”

  “I’ve always found it convenient.” There was something about the way Dave said “convenient” that made Kristi’s stomach flip.

  “Perhaps you’d like to take a seat?”

  Kristi could visualize her husband gesturing his guest toward the armchair, and suddenly she didn’t want him to remove the blindfold. She didn’t want to see the self-satisfied grins of the men who’d put her at the center of their mutual experiment. All Kristi knew was that however incredible the last fuck had been, she was more than ready for another one. She wanted it now. She wanted it thrashed out of her, and she wanted her unexpected audience to watch.

  Without saying a word, Mark wrenched up Kristi’s hands and fastened them behind her back with handcuffs. Bending her as if she was some sort of rubber doll, he threaded a rough piece of rope around her breasts in a figure-eight pattern, pulling it so that the hemp scratched her skin.

  As the first blow came to her bound tits, Kristi smiled through her cries. It looked as if she was going to get what she most desired after all….

  SUFFER FOR ME

  Teresa Noelle Roberts

  Martin said, “I want to suffer for you.”

  I smiled. I tried to make it an aloof, catlike one, but my heart ached with a combination of tenderness and lust and I’m sure it showed on my face. “You’re such a good boy,” I said, continuing to stroke his long, brown hair. “And so beautiful. Why would I want to make you suffer?”

  He was sitting at my feet, his head in my lap. He looked up at me, his eyes huge and lost, almost tragic. “Please…I want to be worthy of you, Ma’am. I want to suffer for you.”

  Martin was younger than me and new to revealing his own submissive nature. The admission had released a streak of dark romanticism, abetted by much erotica read with too little grounding in reality. I could chuckle about it, remembering my own early, fantasy-fueled explorations ten years ago, and yet his leather- and hemp-scented romantic fancies, his yearning devotion, had swept me off my feet just as much as my firm but sensual control had swept him off his. Now we were trying to figure out where to go from here. I was the experienced one, and I had definite ideas where I wanted things to go with my beautiful, biddable Martin, but a responsible Domme finds a balance between her own needs and those of her sub. This was especially important at Martin’s delicate exploratory stage, where a wrong move could sour his fascination not just with me, but with kink.

  I tangled my fingers in his hair, tugging cruelly. “If you weren’t worthy of me, you wouldn’t be here,” I said, dropping my voice to a low, ominous register. “Do you question my judgment, or my taste?”

  “No. I…I…I’m sorry.” He froze, his entire body rigid with tension. I was sure his cock was rigid as well, caught up in imagining the painful punishment he was sure was on its way, half dreaded, half longed for. “I just thought…” his voice dropped off and he almost whispered the end of the sentence, “I thought maybe you wanted me to beg for it, Ma’am. I mean, you control me, and you tease me, and you make me take care of you in different ways, but you’ve never really hurt me and I thought…”

  “That’s your problem, Martin. You think too much. I’ll make you suffer when I want to, in my way, in my own time. Meanwhile, sweet boy, put that tongue of yours to better use than saying silly things out of bad porn.” I lifted his head off my lap long enough to raise my skirt. He didn’t need further encouragement, and whether or not the delightful alchemy between his tongue and my clit stopped him from thinking, it stopped me.

  But not before I’d come up with an idea. He wanted to suffer for me, and a delightful, obedient, clever-tongued morsel like Martin deserved to get what he wanted. I wasn’t that fond of inflicting serious pain, though; too much work for too little enjoyment on my end. It was only worthwhile for me if a boy really craved pain, needed it to be fulfilled, and my gut instinct was that Martin didn’t. He just thought he should, based on the one-size-fits-all lesson of porn.

  But there was more than one way of making a man suffer exquisitely. And the way I had in mind we would both enjoy exquisitely in the end.

  “You look so good like that,” I purred, running my nails lightly across Martin’s straining abs. I surprised myself with the husky, lusty quality of my voice, but he took my breath away. I was no mistress of intricate shibari, and the way I’d tied him to the bed wouldn’t earn any prizes for beauty or elegance. The way his body looked, spread-eagled and taut with desire, was another story. He was so gorgeous in his helplessness, yet at the same time, he didn’t seem helpless at all. Martin had gentle hands and a quiet demeanor, at least around me, but he also had muscles, and the way I’d positioned him made those muscles stand out. He looked like a bound, tattooed young god who chose to be exactly where he was for mysterious reasons of his own.

  Maybe not so mysterious: the straining cock was a pretty good clue. But he looked no less divine for his obvious desires. Hell, he looked more so.

  I couldn’t keep my hands off Martin, but luckily I didn’t have to.

  That was the whole point of this exercise, the whole point of having my beautiful boy tied so securely to the bed—to touch him, to tease him past what he thought he could bear and prove to him that he could bear it, and to make it end in pleasure that was also almost past bearing.

  I began with his nipple.

  When I caught it in between my long red fingernails, he braced himself for a twist, a cruel pinch. I could see in his wide, entreating eyes that he both feared and hoped for it.

  Instead, I caressed first one then the other with all the delicacy I could muster, applying just enough pressure so it pleasured rather than tickled. Then I took one into my mouth, licking and sucking and teasing the little nub, nipping down enough to vary the kind of pleasure he experienced, but not enough to push it over into real pain.

  It occurred to me as I did that that I’d never played with his nipples this way. I’d bitten them, put clothespins on them, dribbled a bit of hot wax on them, but never simply caressed them. In fact, it had been a long time since I had thought of doing this to a man, and I was surprised by how much I was enjoying it.

  “Ma’am…” he said, something in his tone sounding like the beginning of a protest, as if he didn’t think it was right that I lick and kiss his body.

  I shut him up with a kiss. “I don’t want to gag you,” I explained as I pulled away from his luscious lips. “Not today. But I swear I will if you say something stupid, like you’re not worthy of this kind of attention.”

  He shut up, confirming my suspicions of what was going through his silly, subby head.

  And once he was quiet, I went back to work on his nipples until he wasn’t quiet anymore. Soft moaning, though, was a perfectly acceptable noise, a delicious noise—in fact, the very reason I hadn’t wanted to gag him.

  I raised my lips from a nipple now swollen from suckling and red from my lipstick. “Sweet music, Martin,” I murmured.

  Then I started kissing my way down his body.

  When my lips reached somewhere around midbelly, he jumped as best he could in his bonds.

&
nbsp; When my lips brushed the tight, dark curls of his pubes while entirely avoiding his straining cock, he let out a stifled noise that might have been a bitten-off curse. I chuckled, and continued kissing and stroking down one muscular thigh, nipping and running my fingernails lightly down the more sensitive skin of his inner thigh until he shivered against his bonds. When I reached his bound ankle, I outlined the rope with my tongue. He shivered at that and sighed. I told him, rather than asked him, “I bet you’d forgotten that I might be gentle with you, but you’re still at my mercy.”

  “No, Ma’am,” he said, a plea I couldn’t quite understand in his voice. “I don’t forget that. But I’d almost forgotten the rope. Thank you for reminding me.”

  “Remember that you’re thanking me now,” I said. “You’ll probably curse me later. Then you’ll thank me again.”

  Then I worked my way back up, blowing on his cock and balls in passing but not touching them, and repeated my performance on his other straining leg.

  By the time I made my leisurely, teasing way back, poor Martin’s face was as red and straining as his untouched dick. His muscles were even more defined now, tense with need.

  I took a long, deliberate moment to admire my handiwork, no contact with him except a hand resting lightly on his thigh. “Beautiful boy,” I breathed. “Beautiful, beautiful boy. Be good and don’t go anywhere. Oh, wait. You can’t anyway.” I smiled as I said it.

  “Curse you, Ma’am,” he said in a small yet happy voice. “Curse you and bless you. I couldn’t take this if I wasn’t bound.”

  I leaned in close, cupped his face. “Yes, you could,” I whispered, surprising myself with the intensity in my voice, “if I wanted you to. But I’m being kind this time.”

  I turned away long enough to grab the lube.

  Martin winced at the slight coolness of the slick substance as I coated his cock, or maybe the wince was simply because he was that sensitive. That thought made me grin.

  The grin turned into an outright laugh when he sighed with pleasure and thanked me. “Don’t thank me yet, sweet boy. You said you wanted to suffer for me, and suffer you will.”

  Then I proceeded to give my boy the most teasingly drawn-out hand job in the long history of hand jobs.

  I watched his face as I stroked him; listened to the subtleties of his breathing; checked how his muscles tensed, how his hands clenched and strained against the ropes, how his feet tried and failed to move. Whenever his breath caught in his throat too much, or I saw his ab muscles start to twitch, I backed off, resting my hand on his hip bone, stroking that smooth, hot skin lightly, until his breathing regularized.

  By the third time I did this, he was thrashing against the ropes so hard I’d have feared for my bed if it wasn’t a sturdy Mission frame. His skin was glazed lightly with sweat, making him look all the more beautiful. His eyes were all pupil, and he stared fixedly, frantically, as though he was looking through time and space and seeing the face of the divine in me. His lips moved in a silent litany. I could guess what he was saying, or at least the gist of it, but nevertheless I demanded, “Speak up, Martin. I can’t hear you.”

  “Please,” he begged, his voice still barely audible. “Please, Ma’am. Please.”

  I knew what he was pleading for, of course, but I wanted to hear him say the words. “Please what, dear?” I stroked his rigid length idly—only it wasn’t idly at all, but carefully, calculatedly, just enough pressure to keep him hard and aching with the need to explode, but not enough to bring him any closer.

  “Please…” It was clearly an effort to make his brain form a coherent thought. “Please let me come, Ma’am. Please.”

  “Doesn’t it feel good?” I was stroking more forcefully now, cupping his balls.

  I bent down and ran my tongue over the head of his cock, just once. My mouth had never gotten anywhere near his cock before.

  He arched up off the bed with a harsh cry. Without the ropes, I swear he might have levitated until the ceiling stopped him. “Hell yes, but almost…too…sensitive. Almost hurts.” His voice was strained almost to breaking.

  “Should I stop?” I sat up, withdrew my hand. Withdrew all contact from him except my hip brushing his flank, because he was flying way too high for me to pull away altogether. That would be too cruel in a game that ultimately I hoped he too would enjoy.

  “No, please. But please, please…let me come!”

  “In time, sweet boy. In time.” I kissed him almost chastely, though he tried to make it deeper. “Right now it’s making me wet and hot to torment you, to see you suffer.” He made a sweet, tortured noise that made me wetter yet.

  I slipped my hand under my skirt and ran my fingers between lips almost as sensitized and needy as his cock must be. I showed him the glistening evidence, then ran it over his lips.

  He desperately sucked my fingers as if that might bring him relief.

  “I need you to suffer for me a little longer, Martin, because it’s making me feel so good. Can you do that?”

  He replied with a muffled but enthusiastic, “Yes, Ma’am,” around my fingers.

  With his consent, I returned to my teasing work. And as I did, I talked softly. “You look so gorgeous right now, Martin, all flushed and messed up and sweaty. You’re going to have lovely rope marks on your wrists and ankles because you can’t stop yourself from struggling. But at the same time you want to give yourself to me, to take whatever I give you. Right?”

  He nodded tightly.

  “And even though this is hard to handle in some ways, I bet it’s also pleasurable. Exciting. You’re just so sensitized now that the pleasure’s also painful, like pain can be pleasurable.”

  Another tight nod.

  “Remember how this feels, Martin. Remember it with every cell in your body.” I timed the movements of my hands to the cadence of my words, letting both become slow, relentless, hypnotic. Between extremes of pleasure, enforced obedience, and bondage, Martin was already so far into subspace I was dealing with an altered state of consciousness. If I remembered my college psych classes—and the erotic hypnosis demo our local BDSM community had arranged—I might be able to slip a suggestion, at least a fun one that he’d want to obey, into his wide-open brain. “Remember every detail, because even though you feel like you’re suffering now, you’re going to want to relive this afternoon over and over again. You’re going to want to remember this peak of arousal and the powerful orgasm that follows. Aren’t you, Martin?”

  A very small voice replied, “Yes, Ma’am.”

  “Do you still want to come, Martin?”

  “No, Ma’am.” He hesitated, then added, “Well, yes, of course…but when you want me to. This is awful and wonderful, and I know when you let me come, it’ll be amazing.”

  “And what if I don’t let you come, what if, after all this teasing, I deny you?”

  I could see in his face how he was struggling to answer me both honestly and respectfully. After what seemed like a very long time, which I punctuated with a series of excruciatingly slow strokes on his cock, he replied, more coherently than I would have expected, though in a shaky voice that sounded like he was holding himself together by sheer will, “I really hope you wouldn’t do that, Ma’am, please. But it’s your choice. And no one’s ever died from not coming—though right now I feel like I might.”

  I thrilled to the message there, the way his wish to obey and please struggled with his body’s by now urgent demands and how he conquered those demands for my sake. “You are such a good boy, Martin, such a wonderful, good boy,” I said, and I meant every word. “You’ve pleased me very much. And I think right now it would please me to have you come for me. Come for me, Martin, and remember how it feels. Let it burn into your brain and your body. Come for me now.”

  I didn’t change what I was doing, but the words, the permission, set loose a freight train of an orgasm that engulfed his whole body. His face reddened and screwed up so he was almost unrecognizable, and his eyes rolled back into h
is head. His abs contracted and rolled like a particularly ambitious belly dancer’s. The ropes groaned against the bedposts. His cock danced wildly, spurting come everywhere. He bit his lip, but it didn’t stifle the roar of fulfillment.

  So hot—so hot I came myself watching him. The orgasm was quick and shimmering, like hands-free ones usually were, but it was followed by a second wave of pleasure as warm as sunlight. This wasn’t a physical orgasm, but a blend of pride and delight and tenderness as heady as coming and far more dangerous, because it meant that my heart was snared by Martin’s beautiful submission as tightly as his body was by my ropes.

  And just for that, just because looking at him caught in pleasure so strong it was almost pain made me want to slap a collar on his neck and hell, maybe a ring on his finger, I didn’t relent, as I often would after a good come softened me.

  When his struggles subsided and his face slackened but his dick hadn’t, I rested my palm on his come-slick belly. “You remember how that felt, the buildup and the orgasm?”

  He nodded, his eyes so spacey I expected to see stars in their depths.

  “Good boy. Relive it for me now and come. Come again, Martin.”

  I wasn’t sure it would work. I hadn’t formally hypnotized him, after all, just tried to slip in a suggestion when his brain was out to lunch.

  A look of awe and astonishment overtook him as his abs began to contract under my hand. His cock twitched, though there was nothing left to explode out.

  This time he didn’t even try to hold back his cries.

  When the cries faded to something more like sobs, I untied him quickly. Then I curled up on his come-splattered chest. “You’re safe, sweet Martin,” I murmured. “You’re safe and you’re brave and you’ve pleased me wonderfully.”

  “Thank you. I didn’t think…” His voice was shaky, almost inaudible, but I could tell now that the tears were tears of release, nothing bad. “I didn’t think that was possible. Thank you so much, Ma’am. Thank you.”