Best Bondage Erotica of the Year, Volume 2

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  “Evening, ma’am. Can I help you?”

  “I’m meeting a friend on the sixteenth floor. I believe he left—”

  He interrupted, “Are you Katrina?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  He nodded, stood, and reached across the desk to hand me a silver keycard.

  “Thank you.”

  I continued to the elevators. Once inside, I pressed the button corresponding to the sixteenth floor and swiped the card. The doors closed and the elevator sprang upward. I exhaled deeply and adjusted the purse on my shoulder. I wondered if I’d made the right decision to meet Quincy at his job after hours. Outside of the two security guards, I hadn’t crossed paths with anyone entering or exiting the building. Had this been a part of Quincy’s plan all along?

  I pulled out my phone and dialed Tara’s number as the elevator dinged and the doors parted. Reluctantly I stepped out into a dimly lit space littered with thirty cubicles about four feet tall. To the right were three offices and a conference room. Light emanated from the slightly ajar third door. I hung up the phone when Tara’s voicemail message kicked on and began walking through the maze of cubes towards the office.

  “Quincy?” I called before peeking through the cracked door.

  “Come in,” a deep voice said from inside.

  I pushed the door aside and stepped into the sparsely furnished office. A single cherrywood desk sat toward the back of the room with a black leather chair behind it. Two armless chairs faced the desk. There was a door on the back wall to the left and on the right, there he was: a shirtless man seated on the floor against a four-drawer vertical filing cabinet with his hands zip-tied to one of the drawers above his head. A black bandanna covered his eyes.

  “Oh my God!” Had my body caught up to my racing mind, I would have run screaming like the building was on fire.

  The door behind the desk suddenly opened, startling me even further. Demarco emerged.

  “Glad you finally decided to join us.”

  I fell back into the wall, my gaze shifting between Demarco and the blindfolded, bound man who I assumed was Quincy even though he hadn’t spoken since he beckoned me into the room. “I don’t understand. What in the hell is going on?”

  Demarco walked toward me but I threw a hand up to halt his advances. He smiled. I wasn’t amused. “Babe, let me explain.”

  “Please do,” I said. “You said you had a meeting this afternoon but yet you’re here.”

  “I was really going to be at the airport. If we’d been on the phone, you would have suspected . . .”

  “I would have never suspected this.” I gestured with my hands for extra emphasis, completely puzzled, and looked beyond him to the silent man on the floor. “How do you two know each other?”

  Demarco explained that the man was indeed Quincy. They’d met through an ad he posted online a few weeks back. The two had been conversing for about a week, hashing out the details of when and where the three of us would meet. When I asked him what he meant, he didn’t answer but continued telling his story.

  “Stop. Right now.”

  “What?”

  “You still haven’t said what we’re doing here and why he’s tied up and blindfolded.”

  “I know you’ve been wanting to add a third for some time,” Demarco said, “and I’ve kind of brushed off the idea, but here he is. A submissive boy toy for your pleasure. Happy birthday.”

  “Happy birthday?” I stopped to think for a moment. “My birthday isn’t until Thursday.”

  “I know,” he said. “If I had done any of this then, you would have definitely known I was up to something so I decided to set this little surprise up a couple days early. Did it work?”

  I turned my attention to Quincy without responding to Demarco. “So you’ve been playing with me all day? You already knew about me the whole time?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “It was all part of the plan.”

  “And what if I decided against seeing you?”

  “Your dude said your curiosity would get the best of you.”

  Demarco shrugged with a slight smile. “Was I wrong?”

  “This is absurd.”

  “I thought you’d like something like this,” Demarco said.

  “Where are we?” For the first time, I let my mind wander to the many fantasies I’d had of a potential third party joining us for some freaky fun. “What if someone . . .”

  Quincy chimed in, “My staff won’t get here until after nine. We got plenty of time.”

  He informed them that he owned a cleaning company and the architecture firm that rented out the space was a long-time client of his. They usually cleared out the floor around five and didn’t return until eight in the morning. He added that he had contracts with several other companies that occupied the high rise but their employees’ shifts varied, unlike that of the architecture firm’s staff, so we were safe to play uninterrupted.

  “You down?” Demarco asked.

  I shushed him before I closed the door. I strode to the desk, set my purse down, and dragged one of the chairs across the floor toward the corner where a potted plant rested. “Sit and face the wall.”

  “Babe . . .”

  “You didn’t think this little stunt of yours would go unpunished, did you?” I pointed to the chair. “Sit. With your mouth closed.”

  “Come on . . . please . . .”

  “Now.” I snapped my fingers. “If you’re obedient, I may let you watch later.”

  Demarco lowered himself into the chair, facing the corner as instructed. I spun around and moved to where Quincy rested on the floor with his legs outstretched in front of him. I knelt beside him and reached for his nipple ring, pulling it lightly at first and then a little harder. He winced.

  “Like pain with your pleasure?”

  “Yeah.”

  I twisted the ring between my thumb and index finger until he groaned. “Want me to stop?”

  “Nah,” he said through gritted teeth.

  “Good. I wasn’t.” I leaned in and kissed his lips. He kissed me back, his tongue sliding into my mouth. My free hand shot up to his throat, forcing his head back into the file cabinet with a thud. “He must not have told you. Ask for permission and then you may receive. Got it?”

  “Yeah.”

  I released his nipple and stood to unbutton my blouse. Tossing it on the desk atop my purse, I glanced over my shoulder to see Demarco with his head pressed into the corner like a naughty child.

  “Think you’ve learned your lesson?”

  “Yes,” he said in a low voice. “Can I turn around now?”

  “No,” I barked. “Not yet.”

  I returned to Quincy and leaned down so his head rested between my breasts. I could feel his warm exhales, the deep inhales as he took in the perfume I’d sprayed on before leaving the hotel.

  “You like these titties in your face?”

  “Yeah.”

  I ran a hand over his work pants, feeling a throbbing erection hidden beneath the fabric. “I see.”

  “You want to suck them?”

  “Yeah.”

  I pressed them into his face. “Beg.”

  “Please . . .”

  Rubbing my hand over his clean-shaven head, I asked, “Please what?”

  “Let me taste one. Please, Trina . . .”

  I liked the need in his voice, the desire, the way he said my name. I told him to say it again. He did, a second and then a third time.

  “You like the way my name feels on your tongue?”

  He nodded, my breasts pressed against both of his cheeks.

  I shot over my shoulder, “Get up and move your chair over here.”

  Demarco eagerly sprang from his seat and dragged it across the floor to the spot I pointed to.

  “Take everything off but your boxers and sit. I want you to watch another man enjoying me as you have.”

  He quickly removed his shoes and socks. His pants, button-down, and tank top followed.

  “
Interlock your fingers behind your back,” I instructed. “Don’t want you tempted to touch yourself until I grant you permission.”

  I turned my attention back to Quincy, straddling him. “Open your mouth.”

  Quincy obliged, his tongue slithering out as it had done before. I popped one of my breasts from the blue bra that contained them and brought it to his lips. He latched on, his tongue circling my nipple. The metal drawer restraining his wrists rattled above us. I knew he wanted to grab them, me. I wanted to feel his hands gripping my waist, have him palm my ass, but liked him under my complete control even more.

  I reached between us and unzipped his pants, finding he had no underwear on. I brushed my hand over the woolly mound of pubic hair and ran my fingernails along his massive erection, feeling him twitch from the sensation. My fingertip grazed the tip where pre-come oozed out. I pulled my hand from between us and tasted his sweetness.

  “Like that?”

  “Um hmm.”

  I began gyrating on top of him as he continued sucking on my breast.

  “What’s on your mind behind that blindfold?”

  He released me from his mouth. “How good that ass will feel on this dick.”

  “I bet you’d really like that,” I said. “Me sliding up and down on that wood, you stretching me out like no other man has before.”

  I peered over my shoulder to see Demarco’s reaction. He remained seated with both hands behind his back, his erection standing tall through the slit in his boxers. He licked his lips as he watched.

  “Are you enjoying the show?”

  “I am,” he said before hesitantly asking, “Can I . . . ?”

  “You may. Do it nice and slow. No spit.”

  He brought his left arm from behind his back and began to slowly stroke himself.

  I turned my attention back to Quincy, who was tonguing my nipple. “Did he tell you about me?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So you’re into girls . . . like me?”

  He nodded.

  “Tell me how much.”

  “I can show you better than I can tell you.”

  I pulled away from his lapping tongue and stood. “Is that right?”

  “Yeah.”

  I unzipped my pants, pulling them and my panties to my knees. “Stick out your tongue again.”

  He did, his tongue meeting the tip of my dick. He leaned forward and kissed it.

  “Put it in your mouth.”

  He hesitated, kissed the tip again.

  “Don’t act like you haven’t sucked dick before. I know how you freaky trade boys are.”

  “It’s been a minute,” he admitted.

  “The time is now.” I jerked my hips forward, my dick sliding between his lips.

  He opened his mouth fully and took me into him, hungrily bobbing his head back and forth. I moaned while gripping the edges of the file cabinet. I closed my eyes as one of Quincy’s restrained hands found my exposed breast. He gripped it and kept sucking me, taking me deeper and deeper into his mouth until his nose pressed against my shaved pubic area.

  “Come over here and play with his dick.”

  Demarco got down on all fours and crawled across the floor between my legs. With one hand, he reached into Quincy’s pants, pulled out his dick, and began sucking it just as aggressively as Quincy was with mine.

  “I meant jack him off but okay.”

  I palmed the top of Quincy’s head to guide him back and forth and closed my eyes again, feeling myself getting closer. My eyes snapped open when I heard Quincy gagging. I looked down to see Demarco stroking Quincy’s slobbery dick as foam shot up and out onto his pants and the hardwood floor around us.

  “Where do you want it? On your chest? Face? ’Cause I’m about to come.”

  Quincy kept on sucking. I pulled away from his eager mouth and erupted in his face. I grabbed myself and kept jerking as I continued to spurt nut onto the bandanna, his cheeks, and his open mouth. He licked the liquid on his lips before rubbing them together.

  “Put it back in.”

  I stuck my dick back into his awaiting mouth as he licked around it with his tongue. Demarco crawled up beside Quincy and began stroking his dick at a feverish pace until he exploded onto his stomach and chest. I backed away from the pair, slumped against the file cabinet together and panting.

  “Kiss each other.”

  Demarco gazed up at me, his fist still clenching his erection. I could tell he wasn’t interested in being intimate with Quincy in such a way.

  “Do it.”

  He leaned over and kissed Quincy on the mouth. Quincy didn’t flinch or shy away but also didn’t respond the same as when we had kissed.

  “Do you like how I taste on him?”

  Demarco quietly sat back beside Quincy.

  “You’ll be okay.” I smiled.

  “Trina?” Quincy called out.

  “Yes?” I stuffed my breast back into the bra and reached for my blouse.

  “Can I see what you look like before you go?”

  “No,” I said. “That’s your punishment for toying around with me all day.”

  “Damn, you cold.”

  “I get the impression you kinda like it.”

  He wiped the corner of his mouth on his shoulder with a smirk.

  “Thought so.” I pulled up my panties and slacks.

  “If you’re ever in Bmore, hit me up. Maybe we can play again,” he said. “You got my number.”

  “Maybe . . .” I grabbed the strap of my purse and put it on my shoulder. I looked down at Demarco as he wiped sweat with the back of his hand. “Release him and clean yourself up. I’ll be waiting for you downstairs.”

  CHEF’S SPECIAL

  Emma Chaton

  You’ve had a frustrating day in and out of the kitchen. Two cooks out with the flu. A shitty server with an even shittier attitude. Milk that had been left out too long. Mold on one of the cases of strawberries that came in, so all of them had to be tossed. And then getting slammed with dinner guests who had nothing better to do than to carefully rearrange the dishes which you had put so much thought into, because after all, it shouldn’t be any problem for the chef to switch out the risotto for quinoa, right?

  You’re angry, and anyone who’s around you knows it. And anyone who knows you well knows to stay the hell away from you when you’re like this. Slamming mixing bowls and pots in frustration against the prep table didn’t help. Most everybody had gone for the night, but you were still there, pulling out a bunch of apples and peeling them for something (you hadn’t even decided what to make yet), to replace the strawberries for whatever it was you hadn’t even decided to make with those yet either. Only one of your sous chefs was around, quietly avoiding you as he picked up what was left of tonight’s kitchen.

  One apple. Two apples. Four. You’re exhausted. You’re sitting on that one uncomfortable wooden stool mindlessly carving away with your paring knife, one after another, not even sure what you’re cutting them for. You’ve long stopped concentrating on what you were doing, gazing off in the distance. It’s well after 2:00 a.m., and you can feel the knots in your neck throb and tense up. It’s affecting your shoulders, your lower back, even the backs of your legs are aching. It’s been a long year building your restaurant’s reputation, and your body is showing the signs of wear. You can’t even remember the last time you went out, as you wipe the tiredness from your eyes. When you allow yourself to think about it between slices, you realize it’s even been quite some time since you’ve been with someone. You sigh, thinking that maybe the tension wasn’t just in the shoulders.

  Your sous chef had been dancing around you for a little bit, trying to dodge your attention and your knife as he made last-minute swipes of the counter. “Sorry, but I’ve got to get up to that spot right there,” he announces, pointing in front of you.

  Whatever else he is, you think he’s a decent sous chef, but in the blur of the day you can’t be sure at this hour. A little stocky, clean-shaven ac
ross the face and head. Green eyes. And ridiculous ears that won’t stay put on the side of his head. Still, he’s worked hard for you over the last few months, and largely kept to himself. James? Connor? Alfred? No, that’s the ears, you think. Why’s he even working this late? you wonder. Another eager sous chef wanting to move up the line, you imagine. At least he’s competent. And here. As he moves in front of you, you lose track of what you were doing, and cut your left index finger.

  “Ouch, shit,” you hiss, and hold on to your finger for dear life. It isn’t deep, but you hate cutting yourself. You’re a chef, after all; aren’t you supposed to be above such amateurish things? You rush to the faucet and start cleaning it out, when he appears next to you with a first aid kit, without a word. He starts prepping and cleaning with peroxide and gauze, making a nice little bandage to fit snugly on your finger. You take a deep relaxed breath at his kind mending.

  “Thanks.” You smile wearily, suddenly realizing you still don’t remember his name.

  He smiles back at you, nodding. “You seem a little tense.”

  For a guy who barely says five words all day not related to cooking, he’d managed to pick five words that were a bit obvious. You roll your eyes and shrug.

  “You get like this a lot, I’ve noticed.” Your sous chef pauses, taking a deep breath. “I can help.”

  You’re taken aback at this, especially since this may very well have been the most in-depth conversation you’ve had in eight months. But his words seem loaded. I can help. Help how, exactly? Help how exactly, alone in a kitchen after closing time? But you shake off your suspicion, knowing full well lots of sharp things are within your grasp. With a deep breath of your own, you finally ask, “How so?”

  Your sous chef takes your unbandaged hand and leads you back to the prep table. “You need to let go. Give up a little control at the end of the day. It’ll help.”

  “What? A fucking breathing exercise?” you snap. Then, embarrassed, realizing how rude you came across, “I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

  “It’s fine.” He smiles again, kindly. “Can you give me about five minutes of trust to help you relax?” he asks, patiently sighing, sounding like he’s stepped off a commune, and taking yet another deep breath that fills his barrel chest.