Best Bondage Erotica of the Year, Volume 2

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  It feels like it might be too much.

  But he looks anyway.

  He can see it all happen, the way Nora is caught off guard when Seth grabs her by the waist. He observes as she kicks out sharply with her leg, grazing John in the process.

  “You absolute dick,” she yelps, and bangs her fists onto his broad back as he pins her to the ground on top of the towel. John shivers. How can he treat her like that, so cavalier, inconsiderate? He would never. He could never.

  “Whose dick?” he asks from atop of her, his tone all cocky and self-assured.

  “Mine,” Nora gasps out, swinging a leg over him. “If you’re not careful.”

  John looks for the floor, because that’s a safe place to focus his attention, only he can’t see much past his hands. He can see what they’re doing, what Seth’s doing, if he cranks his head a certain way, despite the cold press of metal, but when Seth looks back over his shoulder John flinches on instinct. He shouldn’t look, he shouldn’t want to look, but he wants, so much, to look.

  “On who?” Seth teases. He grinds into her and she moans. “On me?”

  “Sure,” she manages. “Or maybe—”John can feel his balls draw up against his body, tight and hot inside his boxers. Her tone makes his stomach muscles tighten up as well. They’re good, together. They’re perfect. Maybe after this one of them will touch him. Maybe Nora—

  “—maybe I’ll use it on him,” Nora says through clenched teeth.

  “And leave me out entirely? Goddamn it,” Seth swears. “You’re such a bitch.”

  “Fuck you,” she says, and punches him lightly in the chest.

  “Ow,” Seth says, and looks back over his shoulder, his handsome face all pouty. As if that really hurt. Despite his build, Seth isn’t great with pain. John sits up a little straighter, pleased with himself. There are a few things he’s better at than Seth, pain and its tolerance being chief among them.

  He moans again when she does, straining forward in his excitement. His shoulders burn but it’s the only way he can see what’s going on, the way she flips and straddles him, the way her hands press hard against his chest until they’re both finished and lie there, side by side, gasping for air.

  Nora rolls off Seth, who is eyeing the unmissable tent in his boxers.

  “You poor thing.” He brings his hand up to touch. It’s damp underneath his palm, and now it’s John’s turn to moan.

  “What do you think?” he asks Nora, who is leaning on her hand, her elbow cocked, scrutinizing him in a way that makes him wish he didn’t have to have a body at all.

  “I think he might want to see a little better,” Nora says, with a horrible, mischievous glint in her eyes. If John could bring himself to so much as fathom the thought, then he’d definitely hate her.

  She reaches over Seth’s body to push the blindfold up over his forehead. It pushes his hair back in a way that must look stupid, girlish, but he can’t be bothered worrying about that because she’s got a hand under his chin and Seth’s untucking him from his boxers, putting his mouth on John’s balls, the underside of his cock, not that he can see, with his hands, forearms, elbows in the way.

  Nora asks, “Do you want me to let you go?”

  He wants to look, he wants to see, but he needs to be held up, otherwise he’ll crash straight to the ground, and Nora knows him, knows him so well that though he can’t make words, can’t say what it is he needs her to do, she knows.

  His words are dry clicks when he tries to speak. She shushes him.

  “All right,” she says, “then that’s what I’m going to do.” He wants to thank her for understanding, for giving this to him, but there aren’t words. She unlinks the little padlock; three short clicks release him. Blood floods into his arms and they tingle like his cock does as she drags him to his feet, kicks his legs apart so he’s just about level with Seth’s face. Seth is kneeling once more, only this time John can see everything, and he can’t, he shouldn’t, he mustn’t. Seth is flushed pink down his neck, his slick mouth right there, and Nora says, “If you can make him last another five minutes I’ll let him finish on your face.”

  “Deal,” he says, before sliding his big hands up the outsides of John’s legs, coming to settle just below his waist. The hair on the back of his neck prickles. The sweat that had built up behind his knees feels cold now that his legs aren’t folded in on themselves. Seth gets one wrist, holding it steady against his thigh, and she pulls on the other, until it’s bent behind his back. His shoulders ache from being held up for who knows how long.

  “You wanted to look.” Nora’s got her hand on the nape of his neck. She shakes him, hard, and John heaves from his stomach up to his chest. Shit, shit? Is he crying? She won’t be pleased with that at all. But she merely sounds firm when she says, “The least you can do is be considerate.”

  “I am working very hard.” Seth grins up at them, delighted with his efforts.

  “Work a little harder,” Nora says, to which Seth just laughs. John isn’t too far gone that he doesn’t wince at that. John would never do something like laugh aloud; he doesn’t have it in him to be insolent. Nor is he shameless like Seth, Seth who’s performing for them—for her—with a hand on his dick and his tongue tracing wet circles all over the place. John twists in his grip, away from the sensation, but she’s there to stop him from running off entirely. Seth’s free hand covers John’s own, pressing it into the front of his thigh. Their hands are moving, back and forth, up and down, working together to reduce him to the nothing he knows himself to be.

  “Seth,” Nora says, and doesn’t have to say more than that. He just knows. He lets go of John’s hand only for her to take it up in her own, then arrange it behind his back until his forearms are clasped together. Again he feels calmed by his own obedience. She hums a pleased noise that only intensifies his pride.

  “He’s good at that, isn’t he?” Nora says against his shoulder. The verbal answer is just beyond his reach. He knows it’s there, can feel the shape of it, but it’s no use. He doesn’t mean to sag but he must because she’s pushing him to stand upright and straighter, straight back into the hot dampness of Seth’s mouth, the roving heat of his hands across his stomach and thighs. With an aching flash John feels himself lurch closer to orgasm, to coming in front of them. The absolute humiliation of that possibility becoming certainty turns to fright, bleeding into excitement, then anguish.

  Nora lets out an exasperated sigh and holds her hand up in front of his mouth. He preemptively sticks out his tongue, does it before she tells him to. He can’t help it; he wants to be good but he can’t stop himself from trying to know what she wants from him. But instead of being cross, she merely murmurs against his ear, “You must really need it, hm?”

  He hates needing it. He wishes, more than anything, that he didn’t need anything from her, anything from him, that he could simply exist in their world, as inconsequential as an end table. His body wants things that he would never deign to ask for. It’s up to her to puzzle them out, to them to turn them into reality. Still he is mired in the hot shame of it all.

  His response is to lick her palm until it’s damp, and then to whine, high in his throat as she wraps her hand around his wet, aching dick, and says to Seth, down there on the ground, “Stay still, you greedy little thing.” Seth grins again, like it’s a normal thing to want a person to do in front of anyone, let alone on them.

  It hurts, in his balls, in his stomach.

  Someone curses.

  Someone screams.

  Seth winces, once, and then he parts his lips as John writhes, tries to look away, but Nora is right there, her own small hand finding him and pulling root to tip until his eyes water. Seth’s mouth follows her hand in the opposite direction, John’s come rolling into the hollow of his cheekbone and then down the side of his face.

  He sags against Nora. “Fuck,” John hears someone say. “Oh, fuck.”

  When Seth’s top lip bumps against the sensitive tip of his dick,
John wonders what would happen to him if he screamed, right now, if he flung himself against a wall, but then Nora is there saying, “It’s okay, John, it’s all right.” Seth bends forward again, sucking once, hard, like he’s trying to make certain he’s got everything.

  There’s come on Seth’s flushed face. John’s come, the shameful evidence of it obvious to everyone. He did that, that awful, awful thing. Shame bubbles up from beneath the haze of orgasm. Why must he be like this? Why can’t he simply be satisfied with that?

  “You’re so good,” Nora tells him. “Look how happy you’ve made Seth.” Seth does look happy, filthy and smug. John basks in that momentary praise until he becomes painfully aware that she only said Seth, she didn’t say anything about herself.

  She helps him into the bed and stays there with him until Seth comes back, his face scrubbed pink and clean, with a water for him and a whiskey for them to share.

  “All right?” Seth asks John, his hand rubbing gentle circles between his shoulder blades as he drinks the water, nods violently. There’s a warm, blurry prick behind his eyes. He coughs, wetly, against the glass. “You’re all right.”

  “Seth,” John manages to say.

  Nora hands him a tissue, helps him wipe the tears off his face.

  John repeats himself, stupid beyond measure. “Seth,” he blurts out again. If he cries now he won’t be able to stop for a long, long while.

  Seth puts the glass down on his bedside table. He smells of whiskey and soap. The familiarity comforts him. “It’s fine, it’s all right.”

  Nora turns him onto his side so he’s facing Seth, her own compact body pressed close against his own.

  “We love you,” Nora murmurs and John chokes out a sob. Where do the tears keep coming from?

  “It’s true,” Seth says, and kisses John on the tip of his nose, his forehead, his hairline, his jaw.

  “Seth,” John says again, sleepy and numb this time. His toes are tingling.

  “Shhh,” Nora says, and throws a leg over them both.

  HEADSPACE

  Evan Mora

  It’s take your girl to work day. That’s what Daddy said.

  He was being funny, I know, because take your girl to work day is whatever day he says it is. Like Tuesday. Or all the odd numbered days in the week.

  I keep my eyes down as I walk through the tall glass doors, past the wide reception desk and the two matronly women seated behind it. Some days I can meet their eyes, even nod a polite hello. Daddy told them I’m a consultant working with him on a new project. I even have a messenger bag with a laptop inside slung over my shoulder as proof.

  But Daddy also told me that I was never to walk through those doors with anything on beneath my clothes, and today, that means the white linen shirt he bought me (leave the top three buttons undone) tucked into the tight, summer light denim jeans he favors. I’m conscious of the way my breasts sway as I walk, and the fact that my nipples are tight behind the thin material. I imagine the raised eyebrows, pursed lips, and knowing glances the matrons share and move quickly past them, a flush of pink staining my cheeks.

  I hear the deep tenor of Daddy’s voice through the solid mahogany door as I knock lightly and let myself in. He knows it’s me because he told me to come at three, and I would never, ever be late. He’s on the phone, finishing his call by the sounds of it. He waves me in and I lock the door behind me.

  For a moment, I just drink him in, still as starry-eyed over him as I was the first time we met. He’s a fox, my Daddy. A sexy silver fox who outfoxes all the rest. Tall, lean, and refined, he’s every inch the business magnate from his Ted Baker top to his Ferragamo soles.

  He hangs up the phone and hits me with a smile that makes my breath catch and sets my pulse racing. It’s hungry and confident, the smile of a predator who knows his prey is already won. He pushes his chair back from his desk and pats his lap.

  “Come say hello,” he says, and I do.

  I climb into his lap and feather little kisses along his cheek, his jaw, and on the corner of his mouth. He makes a satisfied sound and slides a hand beneath my hair, cupping the back of my neck and angling his mouth over mine. His kiss is as hard as mine is soft. I melt into him, giving everything he asks, loving the feel of his tongue stroking mine.

  He breaks the kiss and looks at me, a knowing smile pulling at his mouth as he takes in my tousled hair and parted lips and the haze of arousal already clouding my eyes. He cups my ass with his hands and stands, lifting me as though I weigh nothing and setting me down without ceremony.

  “Take your clothes off,” he says, crossing the room to the credenza that sits below the bank of windows on the other side.

  I dither a little, reminding myself not for the first time that no one can see us through that big wall of glass, or through the frosted panels on either side of Daddy’s door. But I’m still conscious of all the unseen people on the other side of these walls, brokering deals and making trades with their designer suits and practiced smiles.

  “Was that unclear?”

  “No, Daddy.” I jump to the task, shivering a little at the coolness of the air against my skin and the heat in Daddy’s gaze.

  He slips something into his pocket and after a moment’s deliberation removes a riding crop from the credenza drawer. He taps the leather end against his open palm as he closes the distance between us, making my nipples harden into tight peaks in anticipation.

  “So pretty,” he says, tracing the curve of my breast with the crop. Daddy loves playing with my breasts.

  He drops back into his chair and lays the crop on his desk. “Come here,” he says, making space for me between his legs. This time he traces my curves with his hands. I love Daddy’s hands. They’re strong like he is, long-fingered and tanned, and equally skilled at delivering pleasure and pain.

  He settles his hands at my waist and captures a nipple with his teeth, drawing it deep into the heat of his mouth and making me moan. I thread my fingers through his hair, holding him to me, desire curling through me as he teases me with his tongue. One hand slides down between my thighs, urging them apart, and then he’s inside me, his chest rumbling with approval at the wetness he finds.

  He works me with his fingers and mouth, thumb stroking my clit, teeth grazing my nipples. It feels so good I close my eyes and let my head roll back. As the sensations wash over me, the beginnings of an orgasm tighten low and deep in my belly.

  Then his teeth clamp down and my body goes rigid and it’s all I can do not to cry out aloud. His hands are like a vice at my waist, holding me still while his teeth grind my tender flesh.

  “Please, please, please . . .” I plead, but I don’t ask him to let go; I know better than that. My hands tremble as they stroke his hair, holding him to me when my body is screaming to push him away. He stays locked on for so long a sheen of sweat breaks out on my skin. I’m not sure how long I can hold on and then suddenly, the pressure’s gone.

  “Ask me to bite the other one,” he says against my skin, trailing kisses from one breast to the other.

  I don’t want to ask.

  His hand lands on my ass with a sharp crack.

  “Ask.”

  “Please, Daddy . . .” I whisper, letting the words trail off.

  He slaps me again, the sting blooming into heat.

  “Please bite the other one,” I force myself to say; he bites down fiercely. Fire races through me from every point of contact. It goes on forever, or feels like it does; when he releases me, I sag against him in relief.

  “Look how beautiful that looks,” he says, tracing the marks he’s made. They’re like perfect circles around each areola, the imprints of his teeth so deep and red they’re almost purple.

  He picks up the crop and catches me on the nipple, a swift strike that makes me flinch. He does it again and my hands rise instinctively. It’s too soon, and the sting hurts like the dickens. He raises an eyebrow at the hands covering my breasts, but I’m slow to lower them, which earns me ano
ther swat on the ass.

  “Behind your back,” he says.

  I do as I’m told, clasping my hands together so I’m not tempted to move. He brings the crop up to my mouth, nudging my lips apart with the tip. I open up and he runs the flat of the leather against my tongue.

  “That’s it,” he says. “Nice and wet.”

  Then he begins.

  He’s good at keeping me off guard, switching from one breast to the other, one stroke on the tender side of my breast, the next directly on my nipple. I don’t need to see the color of my skin, because I can feel the flush rising in my chest, and it’s getting harder and harder to stay still. There’s no sound except my erratic breathing and the crop hitting my skin, which seems absurdly loud to my ears.

  The next stroke hits the very tip of my nipple. I bite off a yelp and twist my body to the side. He waits until I turn back and does the same thing again; this time I can’t stop my hands from rising and I back a step away.

  He lays the crop down on his desk and rises, his 6’2” frame dwarfing my 5’4”. He cups my chin in his hand and raises my face to his.

  “I think you’re forgetting who’s in charge of this game.”

  “I’m sorry, Daddy,” I say.

  “You want to be the boss?” His smile makes me shiver. “Why don’t you sit in the boss’s chair.”

  “No, Daddy, I—”

  “Sit.” There’s an edge to his voice I dare not ignore.

  I sit in his chair, conscious of my nakedness, of the wetness between my thighs meeting the supple leather beneath me.

  He’s back across the room, rummaging through another drawer in his credenza.

  “A-ha!” He raises a triumphant fistful of multi-hued computer cables and electrical cords and marches back over to me, dropping them on the desk. He rests his hands on top of my wrists on the armrests of his chair, lowering himself until we’re eye to eye.