Best Bondage Erotica of the Year

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  Morganna reached through the gap in his fly and into his boxers, bringing Raymond’s balls into view while her hand slowly pumped his shaft. His chin rose toward the ceiling and she heard him sigh again, but he didn’t moan until her mouth engulfed his left testicle.

  A scent that was pure Raymond invaded her nose as his soft, curly down brushed against her face. She explored the thin skin of his scrotum with her tongue, the texture of his nether hair, and the warm, hard bulb beneath it. She rounded over its natural curve and felt his cock pulse against her tight grip. And sure enough, when Morganna petted the head of Raymond’s member, more delicious precome wet her fingers.

  Licking a path from his balls to his shaft, Morganna kissed her way forward and opened her mouth wide to allow for Raymond’s thick girth. She pushed, relaxing her throat and breathing carefully, taking in his full length. Her right hand wrapped around his sack and pulled, her lips clamping down hard.

  Raymond’s deep moan filled the small space while clear droplets of Morganna’s spit began to accumulate in the controlled atmosphere. She felt filled and content, wanting only to satisfy the hunger that drove her to such extremes, bracing herself against the tether at her back. Working her mouth and hands together, she increased her speed, her head bobbing, her lips pressing and molding to his shape. Her tongue swirling circles, she pushed his cockhead against the inside of her cheek, teasing him with the excruciatingly slow, controlled, gentle drag of her teeth. A flush rouged his face when she looked up, his features askew in pleasure, his mouth a tight line and his brow creased in forced concentration.

  Hers. Disregarding the rules. Taking a break. Giving her what she craved, gaining what he needed.

  Morganna’s body warmed. She felt perspiration coat her back and a sweet slickness growing between her legs. She hoped Raymond could smell her arousal, imagine her flavor. Her desire grew with thoughts of how and where their passions could take them.

  She grasped him tighter around his shaft, moving her fist in rhythm with her mouth. Licking and sucking, her actions created a rhythmic tune of audible sex. Raymond’s muffled moans added desperate vocals. He wanted to come.

  Morganna let go of Raymond’s balls and reached down to touch her wet lust. Her fingers were quickly coated with her eagerness. Bringing her liquid passion up, she pushed her way inside Raymond’s boxers, feeling the round shape of his bottom before probing gently, petting the curve of his crack and between his cheeks. He moaned again when she found the pucker of his anus, exploring the entrance with her slippery fingers.

  Raymond hesitated. Morganna heard his loud exhale, felt him force himself to relax. The tension fading from his muscles was her cue to explore. She kept her finger stiff and steady, letting the rocking motions of his hips control the work. Every time he thrust forward into her mouth, her finger broke contact, but as Raymond rocked back and his cock retreated from her throat, his body worked itself deeper upon her finger.

  Her hand and mouth moved in unison, withdrawing and plunging. She pressed with her lips, twisting her finger in circles inside him. She lapped at him with her tongue and felt Raymond’s internal muscles clamp as his gag dislodged from his mouth and his loud, commanding masculinity voiced his pleasure.

  Morganna pulled back just in time to watch his body shudder and his seed shoot like a rocket from his cockhead in long, stretchy strings and beads. She unclipped herself and floated out to catch them on her fingertips, gulp into her mouth, and slick over her belly. Not a floating morsel escaped; she would waste nothing.

  Raymond watched, smiling, the beads of sweat on his face pulling away like suspended rain as his body trembled.

  “I’m dirty, Captain.” Morganna kicked off the wall behind her and gripped Raymond around his upper torso with her knees, holding herself steady with her hands upon his bound wrists, presenting her creamed stomach. “I’ve got you on me . . . Clean me up.”

  Raymond laughed aloud but produced his tongue and licked around Morganna’s navel when she pressed herself against him. She lowered herself, and he dotted kisses over her chest and between her breasts until their faces met. Their tongues entwined, their lips folded and released, the scent of sex heavy in the air.

  A voice crackled over the intercom, and Morganna released her prisoner.

  “We’re just about finished on Phornic-8, Captain Myers.”

  Sweet contentment filled Morganna, her wild, inner creature slumbering for a time. “You’d better get back to task, Captain. Your station’s artificial gravity is still broken.” She nudged herself back and toward the exit, grabbing her spit-damp panties from midair. “I’ll expect to find you ready again when it’s fixed.” The press of a button and hiss of a hydraulic mechanism signaled her departure.

  “Morganna . . .”

  She looked back over her shoulder upon hearing the informality of her name, a smirk plastered wide over her face. “Why, Captain, that’s a breach of protocol.”

  BEACH BLANKET BALLET

  Richard Bacula

  Today I tell him to call me “Katerina,” because I want to think of cats and of ballerinas. Today I want to be a creature capable of complete and unrequited love, to be a thing of pure devotion who asks for absolutely nothing in return, not even breath or life.

  Today we are going to the beach, where I shall be buried alive.

  He drives one of those large, foolish, extravagant vehicles that serve no useful purpose in the city, but that comes in quite handy when we need to drive out across the sands to some isolated place where nobody will wander into our games, finding alarm or offense at what they see, or what they think they see. As the powerful engine thrums and hums us along across the sandy shore, I look out the window, laughing with delight, pointing at the gulls. I make faces at the somber waves, with their relentless cresting and crashing.

  Griffin—that is what I am calling him today, because I want him to be a beast, a monstrous amalgamation of predation, the kind of thing that devours without any understanding or appreciation beyond the fulfillment of its own hunger—loses the smile and merriment that he had the whole drive here. His mouth turns to a slight and cruel scowl, and his eyes darken. When he looks at me, he has the unreadable eyes of an eagle. He’s getting into character, and I feel my heart swell with appreciation for all the ways in which he loves me.

  This morning, he made breakfast. He served it to me in bed because I was feeling lazy. I didn’t even have to ask him—we’ve been together so long that the man can read my needs with only the slightest of hints.

  When we finally stop, Griffin pulls me so roughly out of the car that I almost fall to the ground. Then he shoves me, and I do fall, my nearly naked body hitting the hot sand with a welcome thud. I look up at him, amazed at the completeness that he can bring to a role. He spits on me, then tosses me a shovel.

  “Dig,” he commands.

  I obey.

  “I’m through with you,” he tells me. This is part of the unscripted play we agreed to perform. “And when I’m done with my toys, when they’re broken down and beneath my attention, I bury them.”

  I’m fully into my own role, and my eyes start to slightly tear up, my heart filling with gratitude that this man, this god, would deign to explain his painful plan. I grab the shovel, and I dig, trenching out the hot surface layer of the sand while he turns his back to me, retrieving objects from the vehicle.

  I try to toss the sand as far away as I can, so it won’t mound up around the edges, sliding back in and filling things up before I’m finished. Griffin sets up a beach chair, where he can sit and watch me work. He sets up an umbrella, so that he has shade from the summer sun. I savor the satisfaction of knowing that he’ll be comfortable, as I too-slowly accomplish the task he gave me.

  “Take off your top,” he tells me. “I might as well see your tits one last time.”

  I bare my breasts, nipples hardening as a salty breeze awakens, dances over my skin. I turn myself so he can enjoy the movements of my body as I dig.

>   When I’m knee-deep in the hole, he tells me that he wants to see my ass. I pull my swimsuit down and off, tossing it aside. Now I’m deliciously naked under the sun, warm rays boldly caressing those secret parts of me that go too long without the sun’s attention. I turn around, my ass gratefully presented toward Griffin. I put one foot up on the ground outside the hole, my thighs parting just enough for him to glimpse my cunt when I bend over to shovel.

  It’s a cunt today. Other days, it’s a pussy, or a flower. Sometimes it’s a snatch, slit, or hole. It’s only a vulva or vagina when we’re playing doctor. When we get in the mood, it’s a sacred chalice to be worshipped.

  By the time the hole is deep enough—the one I’m standing in, I mean—it’s wet at the bottom. I’m standing in water, with my shoulders just beneath ground level. Griffin tosses me a towel, a massive beach blanket, and orders me to dry the sweat that covers my body. He finishes the ice-cold beer he’s been drinking, then climbs down into the hole with me.

  He hands me a toy, a rubber egg with a motor inside. It’s wireless, and I know that he has the remote. We’ve used this one before.

  “I might as well inter my toys together. I’m done with this thing too.” His eyes glance down between my legs. “Bury this one first.”

  I spread my legs, take the toy, and place it inside of me. It slides in easily. Digging for him, laboring for his pleasure, has given me my own pleasure. His desires are my desires.

  The egg is fairly large, and it creates a pleasant fullness within me, a firm presence that my body can cocoon itself around. My hips roll involuntarily, feeling the way the egg shifts when I move.

  Griffin kisses each of my breasts good-bye, an unnecessary gesture that makes my heart and my nipples swell. He gives my cunt a few soft strokes, one finger grazing across my clit. Then he pulls my hands down to my sides and wraps the beach blanket tightly around me. When it’s snug, he grabs another towel, and uses it around my legs. When he’s done, I’m mummified, snugly standing oh-so-still because if I move, I might helplessly topple.

  The towel is soaking up the water at the bottom of the hole, and Griffin climbs out, taking the shovel with him. He starts filling in the hole around me, and I’m shocked at how dismayed I am that he has to do this labor himself. If only I could bury myself somehow, but I can’t even move my arms.

  As the sand slowly surrounds me, it gets easier and easier to keep my balance. By the time the sand is up to my neck, it’s no effort at all.

  Griffin pats the sand down, packing the surface tightly.

  “Well,” he tells me coolly. “This is it. I’d tell you that I’ll miss you, but I won’t. I’ve been seeing a few other girls on the side, girls who are better than you are.”

  There’s a sharp sting of jealousy that drowns in my love for him, dying as swiftly as it’s born, in the oceans of my acceptance of everything he has to offer and to withhold.

  “When the tide comes in, I suppose you’ll drown. The high-water mark is back up there,” he points up the beach a ways. “I guess the waves will be about a foot over your head.”

  He’s lying, of course: we made sure that our game takes place where there’s no danger at all from the tide. I’m completely helpless, truly, and if he had a heart attack or something, if something went wrong . . . well, why compound disaster through carelessness?

  He gathers up his things, packing them in the vehicle while I patiently wait. I pretend that I think he’s really leaving, and part of me believes it. That’s the trick to acting, to role-playing: you have to believe it yourself, on some level.

  After everything is packed up, he walks back to me.

  “You took too long to dig that hole. You always were slow and lazy,” he tells me. He’s indifferent, as if he were discussing or disrespecting the weather. “Now it’s been too long since I’ve come, and I need to drain my balls.”

  He knows I hate that phrase, “drain my balls.” It’s funny, isn’t it, how some words or phrases just set us off? Funny too, how that kind of reaction can be twisted toward our own pleasure? A word or phrase can be a slap to the face, but a well-timed, well-placed slap to the face can be one of the sexiest things in the world.

  Today when he says it, the way he says it, I can feel my body react as my mind recoils. The words make my ego shake, but they make my cunt quiver, just as calling it my cunt makes my pussy quiver. Somehow, the word pussy brings us back to Katerina, back to cats.

  I had a kitten once, an adorable little creature that loved to be held. It couldn’t get enough cuddles or attention, and often the only way to satisfy it completely was to engulf it. I would tuck the thing up under my shirt, its soft fur against my bare skin. It would knead my bra-clad bosom with its little claws, peeking its sleepy, satisfied head out from between my breasts. I loved that kitten, and I envied it, because it knew the paths to its own satisfaction better than any other living thing I have known.

  Once, I went away to university for the day, and when I came home I found one of my socks lying on the couch. My kitten had dragged it there and had stuck his head inside. He was purring quite contentedly. I stretched the sock open, helping him get inside and turn around so his head was peeking out, and he had his own little sleeping bag, a snug cloth hug that held him as tight and as long as he liked.

  That is the way that I felt now, trapped inside my blanket cocoon, buried in the sand with just my head peeking out. As Griffin tied the towels around me, he squeezed me with his hands, held me close against him. He used his body to hold me, then used the towels as an extension of his touch. It feels like he’s still hugging me, the towels containing the echoes of his love.

  “I might as well nut inside your mouth.” The crudity stings and delights me. “Open up.”

  I open wide. My mouth is eager to hug him back, to engulf him as I am engulfed, to make him feel warm, safe, and loved. I want his cock to feel like a happy kitten, or Katerina.

  Griffin peels down his swim trunks. He pulls his shirt off and tosses it aside. The man is gorgeous clothed, and doubly so naked. His cock is at half-mast and rising slightly as he kneels to bring it closer to my eager mouth, the full light of the summer sun shining against his body like a spotlight, lighting up all those places normally left in shadow.

  He holds his cock up against his belly, and he thrusts his cleanly shaven balls forward where I can lick them, my tongue stroking and snaking all around them, tasting and teasing his soft flesh. He moves his body forward to graciously grant me access to this place or that, letting me lap at the tickly stretch of flesh where his thigh meets his loins. The length of his cock is resting on my face, and it’s getting hotter and harder as I use my mouth to please him.

  I do some things with my tongue that make him grunt and pull back. He uses his hand to aim himself, then thrusts forward, pushing the head into my mouth. I am immobilized by the beach, and while the cocoon is safe and loving, it’s also becoming a prison. I want to use my hands on him, but I can’t. I want to move my legs, but they’re held firmly in a grip of stone.

  This forces my mind to ignore my body, to focus all of my awareness on my head, on my mouth. It might be a bit like being mostly immersed in a sensory deprivation tank—awareness of everything below my neck is fading, then gone, and I am just a head on the beach. I am just a mouth being used. I am just a hole, with a cock inside.

  His hand reaches behind me, palming my head (my self) like a volleyball. His fingers grip me firmly, and he starts thrusting himself—just the first inch or so—in and out, fucking my face at a leisurely pace, concerned only with his own sensations and pleasure.

  I can hear the waves lapping against the shore, as I lap my tongue against his thrusting cock. Lap, lap, lap. Lick, lick, lick. My awareness of myself as an individual, as a person, is getting both washed and fucked away from me. I am becoming a thing of purest purpose and beauty, a thing that exists to delight another: I am a thing that is suffering, but whose suffering is irrelevant compared to the beauty and pleasure
that I can inflict. This brings us to the ballerinas.

  I studied ballet once, for a time.

  I spent countless hours holding this painful pose or that, punishing and pushing myself to become an object that could delight and entertain crowds of elite masses. I had longed to be on the stage, to be loved and desired with such abandon that the crowd would lose control, rise to their feet, and break into spontaneous applause. I had longed to be showered with roses, as I bowed on stage before an amazed and adoring crowd.

  I never got to perform on stage, not in front of an audience. I wasn’t good enough. I couldn’t even please my instructor, much less the crowds.

  I ignore the aching in my body, and I keep my concentration focused on Griffin’s relentless cock, which is working deeper and deeper inside me. Like the sea, it’s slowly gaining ground. I remember his threat about the tides, and I imagine what it would be like when the first splashes reach my face, filling my mouth with briny foam, drowning me with . . .

  My attention is suddenly split, as my cunt bursts into life. I can feel how wet I am, how utterly aching with need I’ve become. I’ve been shifting my hips, been moving and squeezing that toy inside of me. My face is flushed, and I start to moan around Griffin’s cock, which is deep inside of me. His balls are against my chin, and he’s leaning forward enough that my forehead is being pressed against that scrumptious stretch of firm flesh that lies between his cock and his navel.