“Get on your knees and crawl to me. Kiss my Allure-covered toes.”
I do not slow my swinging, but outstretch my spread legs, adding to my momentum. He inches towards me on all fours, his eyes locked on my red-soled feet, keenly aware that apart from the view of my tan Wolford covered legs, all he will be allowed to touch with his lips are my toes peeking through the peep toe. He tries to match the motion of his head to the arc of my feet and to avoid the spiked heels of my Lady Peeps but gravity is cruel and physics can’t be denied, so it’s inevitable he receives a foot to the face more than he is able to deliver an adoring kiss to either foot. As I swing back, I kick off the Louboutins and hit him full force with the warm soles of my Allured feet, knocking him backwards. I launch myself from the swing and stand above him. There is a trickle of blood from his upper lip, but he shows no discomfort, content to lick away the spoils of his worship. I offer no concerned platitudes.
“Get on the bed and spread your arms and legs.”
Once he is in position, I step above him, my legs spread above his crotch. The cheongsam rides up my thighs. I aid its ascent with my hands, unbuttoning the dress from split thigh to my neck. I angle my arms backwards and the silk dress slides off my body. I kick it to the floor. I stretch my arms above my head. My small breasts are pert, my nipples hard and bullet-like with large caliber intent.
“Pick it up and lay it neatly upon your clothes. It is silk, and the fibers are doped with my perfume, which will permeate the expensive materials of your suit. You can explain that to your wife and colleagues.”
“Yes, Tryst,” he says as he takes his time sliding his legs out from underneath my widespread legs, the delicious frisson of Wolford upon Wolford no doubt sending tingles throughout his body, as it does, I confess, through mine. Every time I feel that caress on my Wolford-adorned flesh and hear that spark of nylon on nylon, I flash to the time of my first sheathing and what it meant to me, and I am renewed—invincible, powerful, and excited. My pulse quickens and the first trickle of sexual desire flows.
Once my dress is draped over his suit, he returns and slides back spread-eagled beneath me, repeating the exquisite caress of pantyhose upon pantyhose. I look to my floor-to-ceiling penthouse loft windows and the glittering prizes of the city lights, and I see in the reflection my ass and legs tensed to pantyhosed perfection towering above this statuesque pantyhose-wearing man. So high above the city, we are like gods, fallen angels perhaps, and the sight and notion excite me. My trimmed pubic thatch is pressed flat against the tan gusset, my pussy lips split by the crotch seam, and yes, the trickle of sexual desire from a moment before cascades, soaking the gusset as he craves, making me further wet in anticipation both of what I have done to him and what I will do to him.
I squat down on my haunches and rub my Wolford-covered cunt on his Wolford-covered cock. Paying him no attention, I sift through the Wolford bag, announcing each pair as if it were a guest at my orgy.
“Sixty Six, fishnets, in red. Predictable, hardly surprising. Fatal 15 Seamless in black. Plain but a definite classic. High Heel in tan. Nice, the contrasting black seams are perfect from foot to ass and the black heel emphasis decoration is sexy. Good choice. Paulette—interesting selection in purple. The ribbed seams feel unbelievable against my body and my hands when I have them on and I stroke my legs. Ah, Katy suspender tights in tan too, with black rope-like faux suspenders and a black pantylike crotch. Very appropriate. And yes, the Velvet de Luxe 60s that you have on. Open your offerings for me and then I will open the offering you’ve been wearing all day for me.”
I toss the packages on his chest and he opens each, gently extracting each pair as I press my pantyhose-encased cunt on his pantyhose-constrained cock. After a long day of stimulation throughout which he was no doubt hard more than not as the Velvet de Luxe compressed and massaged his cock with every one of his subconscious movements from walking to meetings to shifting position in his executive chair, my rubbing on him now with the warm wetness of my pantyhosed pussy is too much. He spasms under my grinding, the warmth of his pulses soaking his gusset and adding to the wetness of mine as he groans in pleasure and pain at having come so fast. I adopt a soothing tone.
“Oh dear. What shall we do now? You’ve soaked my brand-new Allure tights and your Velvet de Luxe are sodden with your come.”
He bites his lip, his eyes still closed, his back arched, his toes locked in curled rigor, his fingers threatening to tear through my sheets as he grips the bed, his knuckles white with tension. I take the five pairs of brand-new Wolfords in my hands and work my way up his chest until my drenched pussy mound is on his mouth.
“There, there, we have all night. Lick me clean. Lick your come and my juices from my Wolfords.” My soothing tone evaporates. “It’s the very least you can do after coming so soon.”
The tension from his face and body melts away. He dares a smile.
“Of course, Tryst, I will make amends.”
And he does acquit himself more than admirably. He is deft in the oral arts. His tongue laps across the cotton gusset and nylon crotch, and with each lap I think of a cat licking a hand, and it’s me that purrs as his tongue probes inside me with surprising strength, pushing the gusset into my sensitized pussy and working it around my sodden walls. I aid his skilled ministrations with a forceful undulation that stimulates my clitoris, producing further creaminess for him to guzzle. I’m close to coming and I know I should stop to maintain my BDSM distance and control, but what’s the point of being in control if you can’t exert it as you see fit, for your own pleasure and release? I grab his head and pull him into the cradle of my thighs, and rub his face into my pantyhosed crotch in ever-forceful circular motions. His tongue moves the gusset around my clitoris, and he sucks it into the material and massages me to orgasm. I come as the Turandot aria hits a high note. I clench his head tight into my sex and squeeze it with my thighs, my arms held high in the air mouthing along—Vincerò, Vincerò, Vincerò. Victory, indeed. I collapse forward and steady myself on the bed frame.
Nothing is said for many moments; the only sound in my bedroom is the gradual slowing of our breathing until the opera starts again, and I regain my composure. I reach for the Fatal 15 Seamless in black and knot the crotch around his right hand and the legs around one of my bedposts. I use the red Sixty Six fishnets in a similar manner to secure his left hand. I swivel on his chest and inch down his body until I straddle his waist, my sodden pantyhose leaving a glistening trail snaking downwards. He tries in vain to lean forward to continue his cunnilingual artistry but it’s impossible now. His upper body is Wolford bound. I lean forward and slide my Allured legs back toward his head, making maximum stockinged pressure along his torso. I bend my legs at the knee, angling my feet upward and crossing together at the ankles then descending to meet at his eager mouth.
“Suck my pantyhose-covered toes like you sucked my clitoris, as if each one was a clitoris. Attend my feet and toes.”
He opens wide for my pantyhose-enclosed size five tiny feet and toes and shrimps them with gusto as if they were exotic food morsels. It’s a delicious, delirious feeling that again stirs my desire, and steels my resolve to complete my pantyhose binding. His cock is already hard and pulsing and demanding as I press my body down on the damp firmness of the Velvet de Luxe 60s and slide back and forth. I use the ribbed purple Paulettes to anchor his right leg to the bedpost. The tan Katy suspender tights with faux rope suspenders are perfect to bind his left leg to the remaining post. He’s now spread-eagled and secured by my Wolfords and ready for the culmination of my performance.
I pull my feet out of his mouth and rotate my body on the fulcrum of his cock, replacing my pussy momentarily with my butt. I stand, pressing firmly down on his body with all my weight. He groans as his compressed cock is compressed even more. Breathing deep, I can tell from the wideness of his eyes he knows he’s vulnerable. I smirk at him. The powerful executive and upstanding husband relishes his lack of control, and I relish
my total control over him. I let him stare at me. I say nothing for several minutes, towering over him, enjoying the feeling of complete dominance, communicating with this pause that what happens next is in my hands whenever I decide to begin the final act.
“I think I’ll change. My Allure tights are simply soaked from my pussy to my toes.”
He’s rapt as his eyes follow the arc of my hands to the waistband of the tights. I ease them off my hips and down, exposing my sodden pubic mound in a silent, slow reveal. I flop down on the bed between his widespread thighs and press my bare sex against his nylon captive balls. I lift one leg and put it in his mouth.
“Help me off with these.”
His teeth grip the spaces between my toes. I push the hose down and pull my leg up and out of the sheath. I repeat with the next one until my legs are free of the Allures.
“Keep your mouth fastened on my pantyhose. Do not let go.”
After several more pussy pounds of his balls, I straddle his chest so that I can encase his head in my sodden Allures. I pull the pantyhose over his head so that my sodden gusset is squarely over his nose and mouth. I loop the legs through his mouth as a gag and around his neck to tie them in a knot underneath his chin.
“Now you know how my pussy feels encased in these tights. You can taste me, and you can see through your pantyhose veil that my pussy is bare and my legs are unadorned. This will not do. I shall sheathe my legs in your tan High Heel offering.”
I sit on the edge of the bed, performing a show all legwear connoisseurs live for—watching a woman insert her legs into her pantyhose and then stand to work them over her hips, settling the crotch in place with a few sexy hip shimmies. I sit back down on the bed, stretching my legs out one by one with pointed toes, letting him marvel at my lithe limbs. With him hypnotized by my leg show, I reach for a bedside drawer and remove a sharp, pointed pair of dressmaker scissors and turn to face him, snipping together the blades. I slip on my Louboutin Lady Peep stilettos and climb onto the bed, teetering above him with the scissors as my heels sink into the mattress.
“Are you ready for the Lash of a Thousand Wolfords?”
He mumbles and nods his head.
“Are you willing to submit to them?”
More nods and mumbles. I snip the scissors fast and loud down toward his crotch. I place the spike of my Louboutins on his balls and the peep toe at his straining cock tip.
“And you know the safeword is denier—d-e-n-i-e-r—like deny her, which I don’t believe you can. If you don’t say it, then we stop when I want. Agreed?”
Enthusiastic nods. I kneel between his thighs and begin the surgery, slicing the crotch of the Wolfords down from the waistband, running the blunt side of the blade along his cock as I part the material in long, precise cuts. I continue over his balls, pressing the scissors into his seam as I snip. He tenses, trying not to shake as I angle the blades down to his ass, where I detour around his thighs, turning the Velvets into stockings. I pull the panty area free and roll the material into a crude rope that I knot around his balls and the root of his shaft to make sure his erection stays engorged and demanding.
I step off the bed and enjoy the sound of my Louboutins clicking on the hardwood floor. From a hook hanging in my closet above my basket of Tryst’s Home for Laddered and Stretched Pantyhose, I take down a braided whip comprised of strips of Wolford stocking and tights. There are a thousand of them give or take a few, including those adorned with crystals to add unexpected stings. I wrap the strap around my wrist and walk back to my victim, swishing the Wolford lash in the air as I approach. The sound it makes is a threatening hiss, like a snake poised to strike.
I stand on the bed astride his body and let the lash tips flop to his chest, draping them down his torso, dancing them upon his cock with little strokes and twirls designed to make him think this isn’t so bad. As pre-come oozes from his purple swollen cockhead, I raise the lash above my head and bring it down full force on his cock. His body arches. He gasps a strangled scream through the Allure gag. I do not pause, working the lashes from head to toe, always returning to his cock, making him come with lashes of a thousand Wolfords, eliciting sobs of pain and joy but no safeword utterance of “denier.” So, I don’t stop. I place my spike heel on his chest so that my peep toe sits on the Allure gag, my nylon-encased toes teasing him with their proximity. With a backhand sweeping arc I’ve practiced to perfection the lashes come down hard on his cock from behind my back. He did not expect that. He struggles against his Wolford bonds, but they are too strong, too well made to give in. As am I. And he does not. Another backhand crack and he convulses a long stream of come up his chest, onto his face and my Allured foot. I let him lick his release from my toes in a momentary respite, but I will not let his cock soften. I have more moves in my thousand Wolford lash repertoire to rain down upon him.
The punishment continues until the sun chases away the twinkling city lights. “Nessun dorma” again serenades Vincerò from the speakers. My victim is spent and exhausted and I am rejuvenated because I know The Lash of a Thousand Wolfords never ends. Even after this immediate act is over, body memory is permanent. He may think he is released when I finally untie the Wolford bonds, but he will never be free of our influence. It will only take seeing a woman in tights, or even passing a Wolford shop, for a visceral desire to see me, to take control of him. Such is our power, Wolford and me. Vincerò.
DAY 730
Rebecca E. Blanton
Seven hundred and twenty-nine days had passed since Cleo had been collared. Her collaring ceremony had been one of the happiest days of her life. It surpassed graduating college, her twenty-first birthday blowout, finding out she was pregnant, and the day she’d met Lou. Each of the following 728 times she’d knelt to be collared by Lou, she thought momentarily of her collaring ceremony. No matter what the day brought, no matter what was on her to-do list, no matter how broke or stressed or tired she was, dropping to her knees to take her collar centered her and brought joy.
She and Lou had been throwing around ideas for their anniversary. They didn’t enjoy the typical romantic nights out. Dinner and a movie usually bored them. Plus, Cleo was a better chef than most of the professionals in their Chelmsford neighborhood, so she and Lou stayed in to eat most nights. They were too broke to do a long weekend away at the beach or in the mountains, so those options were out. Plus, with a one-year-old, they were both always tired.
Cleo wanted something special though. She wanted to reaffirm her commitment to Lou. She wanted to deepen the relationship and push her boundaries. Lou had introduced her to kink. They’d met four years ago at a professional conference in Detroit. Lou was presenting his work in epigenetics and Cleo was presenting part of her dissertation as a poster session. She had attended Lou’s panel and was hot for teacher.
At the Saturday night cocktail hour for conference attendees, Cleo worked to catch Lou’s eye. She dressed in a low-cut little black dress which hugged her ample curves. She pushed up her large breasts with a pink satin bra which shone bright against her olive skin. She kept tossing her long, dark locks back over her shoulders. When she caught him looking at her, she walked over to ask him a question about his work. She had constructed her question all afternoon. She wanted to blow Lou out of the water with how intelligent and advanced she was for just being a PhD candidate. When she walked up to him at the cocktail hour, all that came out was, “Wow! I really loved your presentation. So smart!”
She wanted to turn tail and run. She’d sounded like a groupie meeting Mick Jagger for the first time. She blushed violently, dropped her deep brown eyes, and prepared to make a hasty exit. Lou noticed her embarrassment and replied, “Thank you. And what are you presenting here?” This began the first of many conversations about their respective work.
Deeply grateful for his grace in the situation, she began to explain her dissertation work. She found herself giving her rote answers as she was distracted by his wide, welcoming smile and large, square front tee
th. His looked like the nerdy cousin of the “most interesting man in the world” from the beer commercials but sounded more like Neil deGrasse Tyson. The combination of looks, intelligence, and grace was heady.
Lou taught at a university less than two hours from Cleo. They began meeting for coffee regularly, presumably to discuss career development. Once Cleo defended her dissertation, Lou made a pass. They started dating.
Lou had been in the kink community for over ten years. He had worked with a mentor Dom while he was in grad school and taken his first sub during his assistant professorship. He took his kink as seriously as his academics: attending conferences in both areas, researching what he was interested in, and creating meticulous practice regimens. He moved quickly from interests in bondage and impact to more rarified forms of kink.
On their first date after Cleo finished her grad work, Lou brought up the subject of kink. Cleo was aware of this world, though her only forays into it had consisted of light spankings and hair pulling by an ex. She wouldn’t even really classify it as “kink”—it was more just rough sex. Cleo was intrigued and began exploring her more subby side with Lou.
It didn’t take long for her to figure out she liked thuddy sensations, disliked super stingy things, liked being restrained, and it always took a little coaxing to try and get her to try something new. The thing she liked most, though, was pleasing Lou. When he would praise her performance, call her a “good girl,” or tell her the day after that he’d a great night, she beamed. She would take any hit he delivered with joy if he broke a smile after her yell.
Best Bondage Erotica of the Year, Volume 2 Page 5