Best Bondage Erotica 2012

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

Within seconds, Derek was there opening the door as if he had been waiting, too.

  “Maggie.”

  Maggie wished she hadn’t, but she saw it.

  It was only a slight difference in tone and posture and had she blinked, she might have missed it altogether, that subtle show of disappointment that it was Maggie at his door and not someone else.

  “Hey,” she said.

  Derek scratched his head, confusion in his face. “You didn’t say you were coming by.”

  Maggie decided not to mention that she never had to.

  Suddenly, it seemed pointless to even bring up the breakup.

  And she knew it could have been as simple as saying, No, Derek, I came all this way to get fucked. Just one good round of you tying my hands behind my back, bending me over a chair and pounding me from behind and I’ll be on my merry way.

  Yet, it wasn’t that simple.

  Something somehow had changed.

  So Maggie said, “Shopping in the morning. Ugly ass bridesmaid’s dress. I got off work late and I was a little wired so I came on up. Gonna get up and get at it first thing in the morning.”

  The lie was simple, easy and stupid.

  But Derek pretended to believe her.

  He nodded quickly. “Oh, okay. Then you can just, um…”

  Maggie spared herself. “Yeah, I’ll crash in the extra bed.”

  She kissed him on the cheek as she brushed past and then she wished she hadn’t. Derek smelled good; he always did. Freshly showered, his reddish-brown hair was a flurry of wet curls. His bright brown eyes were damn near intoxicating.

  Maggie made the quick right into the guest room, instead of taking the hall straight down to Derek’s they way she would normally.

  She said, “Thanks, babe. Good night.”

  And Derek said, “’Night, Maggie.”

  And just like that, without words, Maggie found herself being broken up with for the second time that day.

  It was after two a.m. when Maggie was awakened by the urge. It was stronger than it had been earlier, and this time, it refused to be ignored.

  Maybe it was the knowing that Derek was there just a few feet away, or that Maggie knew he slept naked, or that she knew he was often hard in his sleep and it was always so convenient to scoot over to his side of the bed and climb on top of him.

  Maybe it was the knowing that Derek was a sucker for surprise middle-of-the-night sex, or that he loved taking over and flipping Maggie effortlessly onto her back, or that he loved bringing her arms above her head and binding her wrists tightly together so she couldn’t touch back.

  Once, he had used a telephone cord.

  The curly wire had left pink impressions on her fair skin. She had smiled gazing at them on the drive home the next day.

  Maggie shifted in the queen-sized bed. She clenched her thighs tightly together. She was turned on and she didn’t want to be.

  But…maybe, just maybe, Derek was thinking of her, too, wanting this but not wanting to say.

  Maggie could do the speaking for him. She could speak for both of them.

  After all, he hadn’t actually said there was someone else. Maybe Maggie was imagining things. She was tired. And tired could easily cause misjudgment.

  Maggie considered this as she got out of bed and discarded her T-shirt and panties on the guest-bedroom floor. If Derek needed a nudge, Maggie knew that her climbing naked in bed beside him would be just that.

  Silently, Maggie slipped out of the room and down the hall. Her bare feet on the plush carpet made no noise.

  And she guessed that would explain why neither Derek nor his companion was startled by or even aware of her presence at his bedroom door.

  Maggie had barely had the chance to digest that Derek had taken another lover, much less imagine what she might look like, but there she was—tall, curvy; skin tanned; hair short, slick and dark.

  Maggie stood there, stunned and mesmerized all at the same time, watching through a crack in the door, her feet seemingly glued to their spot.

  Derek was sitting in a chair, naked. There was wide gray tape over his mouth and binding his wrists as well as his ankles to the chair.

  Almost as tall as Derek, the woman stood over him, smiling deviously. And she was naked, too, except for the black patent leather stiletto heels and bangle bracelets.

  Glancing just behind her, Maggie saw the woman hadn’t always been naked. She had shown up in a red shirt and gray slacks; a long white lab coat thrown over the sofa bore the name FELICE.

  In the chair, Derek was hard, hard in that tantalizingly solid way that drove Maggie wild. His cock rose up, bounced forward and back.

  Maggie struggled to identify the emotion that coursed through her body as she watched the scene that was unfolding before her eyes.

  She was relieved, she knew that much, and she was too thankful to be envious, she knew that, too.

  Close enough for Derek to touch had he been able, Felice stood there, her thin fingers working her pussy like a violinist’s. The tune coming from her mouth as she tossed her head back in lust was soft and low.

  Derek shivered with the need to break free. He bit his bottom lip at the pleasure of being unable to. The chair rocked with his struggling. His grunts were muffled behind the tape.

  It was a side of Derek that Maggie had never seen before, a submissive side, a worshipping side.

  With Maggie, Derek had always been aggressive, fucking her furiously against walls, on top of hoods, on cold marble floors. He would press his hand hard over her mouth to muffle the screaming, simply because he got off on seeing her struggle.

  But now, here, Felice was clearly in control.

  Felice teased Derek with her manicured cunt in his face. She brought his face close enough so that his nose was pressed there, then she pushed him back.

  Felice was torturing Derek sweetly, and Maggie felt it herself, standing there.

  Stepping away from Derek, Felice moved to his bed and lay back, stretching her long, lean body like a cat. She began twisting and tweaking her own rosy nipples, parting and licking her lips at the sensation.

  Felice’s fingers again made their way to her cunt.

  Maggie was as entranced by it all as Derek was. His chest swelled with rapid breathing. Maggie’s heart raced as well at the sudden realization that at any moment either Derek or Felice could look her way and she would be caught.

  But that excited Maggie even more.

  Maggie’s nipples were hard pink pebbles on her chest; her cunt was overcome with heat and moisture. With one touch there, Maggie could have flowed like a river, but she resisted the urge to slip her hand between her thighs, to slip two fingers inside where she was hot and slick.

  Watching Felice’s back arch as she performed for Derek on the bed, Maggie bit down on her bottom lip so hard she thought it might bleed. She stifled the moans that rose up from her chest and fluttered in her throat.

  Maggie was living vicariously through Felice—and vicariously through Derek as he struggled against the tape. She was feeling what they felt. And though she stood there completely free, Maggie felt as if she too were bound, as if she too were submitting to the torture that was Felice pleasuring herself.

  And then, Felice was coming.

  On top of the covers Felice was shivering. She moaned and sighed, she shook and cried as Derek’s hard cock pulsed in his lap and finally spewed forth.

  Maggie came next, discreetly, holding on to the door frame, fist in her mouth. She squeezed her eyes shut tight, and when she opened them, they met Derek’s.

  He winked.

  Blushing, Maggie backed away and slipped back to the guest bedroom, as quietly as when she had left, having gotten exactly what she’d needed.

  She crawled under the covers, spent. Tomorrow she would go back to her life, but for now, for tonight, she had Derek and Felice.

  Maggie knew now that this was the end for her and Derek, and she knew what she had witnessed had been her parting gift.


  And, having come harder and better than she ever had in her life, Maggie was fine with that.

  KNOT ALONE

  Kathleen Tudor

  I keep a full-length mirror in my walk-in closet. It’s a freestanding antique, made of dark, polished wood that seems to catch the shine of the lights as I dress in front of it every day. Today is special.

  I carry the heavy mirror out of my closet and set it up in my bedroom where it shows off my body in the best possible light. Today isn’t about hiding in closets or being secretive; today is about celebrating me.

  I’ve met a few so-called Doms in the scene. They’re punks and jackasses or dirty old men. I’m sure there are exceptions out there, but the good ones, the kind of men I dream about, they’ve already got their girls, and they don’t seem to bother with the dirty little bondage clubs downtown.

  What I dream of is a man who can drop me to my knees with a glance or turn my cunt liquid with one steamy gaze. I want a man who earns his control over me—a man who can make me beg him to control me. He’ll be nothing like those boys at the clubs who try to order me around and hope I’m in the mood to obey. No, he’ll expect me to listen, and he’ll command me with no doubt or hesitation in his voice, and when he does…

  With the mirror positioned perfectly, I return to the closet to dress myself blindly. I’ve chosen a wine-colored cocktail dress for the evening’s entertainment, and I don it slowly, enjoying the soft slide of the fabric over my skin. I roll a pair of stockings on next, and a pair of mile-high heels that accent the gown perfectly. I’m ready.

  When I step out of the closet, I step into my fantasy. I move to stand in front of the mirror and watch myself as I run my hands down my own body, smelling the sweet scent of my arousal as it rises up like a cloud of perfume. The scent is heady and intoxicating. My hands caress my breasts and even ascend to tangle in my hair for a moment, releasing a different kind of perfume. I let my hair drop, enjoying the feel of the bouncy curls settling around my shoulders.

  I meet my own eyes in the mirror, my gaze sensual and sexual and proud as I reach back to unzip the gown. It falls in a whisper and pools at my feet, and I kick it gently aside, delighting in my bare breasts. I lift each of them, weighing them in my hands, squeezing gently, tantalizing and teasing myself with my own reflection as I admire my eroticism.

  Next, the rope: I have a coil one hundred feet long ready on my bed nearby. It’s a beautiful purple color—the color of amethysts—and I admire it a moment before I double it up. I hold the loop in front of my chest, wrap it around my back and pull the other end through the loop. I slide the slack through slowly to keep the nylon from burning my skin as I pull. It hisses through as I pull, pull, pull until finally the tails are free. I drop them at my feet, move the knot up on my chest to rest just beneath my beautiful breasts and pull it tight.

  I love the feel of the rope as it constricts me. My breath shortens, more from arousal than from the pressure, and I pull the slack around my body the other way, then through the last bit of the knot I’ve formed. I enjoy every second as the rope hisses through the hitch. When I pull a little too fast, I feel the heat on my skin and add my own hiss to that of the rope. The sensation is almost as tantalizing as it is painful, but even more tantalizing is that slow, smooth pull of the rope until the full slack is through again. Once more I take the rope around my body and through, and I pull.

  The work goes faster as I wrap the rope around and around my body and the tail grows shorter and shorter as I pull it tight around me. Soon I’m panting from a combination of arousal and constriction as the rope corset grows, coming down from my ribs to enclose my diaphragm and belly.

  With each pull of the rope through the loop, rubbing against my skin, caressing me, wrapping me and hugging me tight, my pussy grows wetter and wetter until my panties are soaked through.

  Lower, lower it goes, until I run out of rope just below my belly button, above my hip bones. I tie it off prettily and stand to admire myself. My rope corset hugs my figure in, and standing there wearing nothing but my stockings, heels, and the rope, my breasts free to the evening air, I have never looked sexier. I brush my hands down my sides on top of the corset and moan slightly at the sensation of all that rope. I love touching it while it touches me.

  When I am done admiring myself for the moment, I kneel down in front of the mirror, my legs spread wide, and adjust it so that I can still see myself completely. My hands find their way down my body and into my panties, one hand holding my stockings out of the way as the other plunders the treasure there. The warm wetness is like a river, like a flood. I use my whole hand to cup my sex, the heel of my hand pressing into my clit and making me squirm. When I pull my hand free, it glistens with my arousal. I wipe it across my breasts and moan as the heady scent surrounds me even more strongly.

  I didn’t think I could possibly get more aroused, but my cunt pulses when I pick up the shears. They’re a good, heavy-duty pair with titanium blades, used for cutting fabric. The fabric I have for them today doesn’t stand a chance. I draw the closed blades slowly across my throat to feel the soft scratch of it, then down my breasts until I finally rest the closed scissors against my covered pussy. I can feel the cold of them through the thin, damp panties and stockings.

  It only takes a moment to cut through. I feel a slight pinch against my labia and pull back, carefully cutting the crotch of my panties free without damaging myself. It would ruin my fun, and I’ve already come so far.

  When I toss the offending scraps of fabric away, I feel freer than I have in a long, long time; strangely at odds with my tightly bound torso. Even the still air of the house brushes against my bare, dripping cunt sensuously, screaming the difference between covered and naked flesh.

  It’s time for the next ropes. These are blue, and they are thicker than the purple one that corsets me so beautifully. I kneel to bind my shins to my thighs, looping the rope around my heels in an elegant tie that forces me legs to remain bent in this kneeling position. It is art, shibari, and I admire the matching knots on each leg for a few long moments, then I place my vibrator on the floor between my legs. The next knots will be the hardest.

  I use a scarf for this tie, long and silky and easier to manipulate. It isn’t easy to bind your hands securely together behind your back, but I manage. I’ve practiced for tonight so that everything will go perfectly. The scarf slips over my skin, tightening just as it has when I’ve practiced, putting me instantly into my submissive place. I am bound, helpless and exposed before my own reflection.

  I study the woman in the mirror. Her eyes—my eyes—are wild with arousal, hair mussed and bedroom-sexy from shifting it back and forth out of the way as I bound myself in this slow, erotic dance of ropes and will. My breasts sit beautifully above my bound torso, my bound arms pressing them forward and up, my chest heaving as much as it can within the restraints; below them my cunt glistens. Even as I watch, a long, slow drip of my arousal streams from my cunt to the floor beside my sex toy. I moan when I see it, longing to lap it up or to feel someone else eating me.

  It takes a long moment with my eyes shut tight before I feel in control of myself again. I pick up the toy. I’ve practiced for this, too, checking my bound hands, playing with various toys to find just the right one. The vibe is slim and longish, but not so long as to make it easy as I switch it on and strain for my pussy. I can stimulate my cunt easily, but to reach my clit I have to lean forward toward my reflection, straining my hands downward. The challenge of the position makes it hard to focus on my clit, and when I do manage to hit the spot just right, the shudders that explode through me ruin the contact.

  It is exquisite, perfect, beautiful torture.

  I struggle. I scream. I go mad. The vibe buzzes mockingly, and I am further aroused by the sight of my own mad struggles in the mirror. It takes me almost twenty minutes to finally bring myself to a crashing, overwhelming orgasm. I nearly collapse as it washes over me, and I scream as if I’m being murdered
until I hear annoyed pounding on the walls and stifle myself. Next time, I’ll wear a gag, I think, and smile as I pant raggedly from my place on the floor. When I recover, I end the struggle, unknotting the bonds with careful fingers. It takes a while to get my hands free, but that was the point. My legs are simple to release, and I sit back to massage them and ease the cramps that have set in from being so long on my knees.

  When I catch sight of my reflection, I am sitting on the floor before the mirror with my legs splayed wide, my hair a crazy tangle, my eyes satisfied and still a little wild. I smile at my reflection, blow it a kiss and lean back to try to catch my breath for a moment. Finally I stand, giving the corset one more loving brush of the hand before I begin to unknot it.

  Once the corset is loose, it would be easy to wiggle out of it, letting it drop to the floor and release itself. The knots wouldn’t even tangle. Instead I stand before the mirror, enjoying the sweet caress of the rope against my skin as I slowly release it, link by link. My skin prickles as it is slowly exposed to the air again.

  The last length of rope comes free, and I coil the long stretch, admiring my reflection all the while. The imprints on my legs are still strong where the rope bit into the skin, but that is nothing compared to the grooves indented into my skin by the tight rope that hugged my ribs. I run my fingers over the marks, adoring the look and feel of them while I still can; in a matter of hours they will be gone with no trace, leaving me with only the erotic memories of tonight.

  As I finish cleaning up, I can’t help but begin to think of new situations, new knots, new plans. Who needs a Dom anyway?

  THE INSURRECTION

  Valerie Alexander

  I hadn’t been back to Cape Cod in nine years when I drove up to visit my parents in July. They’d rented a beachfront cottage there every summer since I was a kid, but I’d stopped accompanying them once I started college. I said I was busy with internships, trips with boyfriends, or grad school. The real reason was a broken heart, or maybe devastated ego is the more accurate term—whatever the diagnosis is when a man is so mysterious and beautiful that you hand over your heart and pussy to him like a hypnotized rabbit, and then he tires of you and moves on.