by Alison Tyler
I blushed. I was a whore for those little bites. The ones that left small purple marks on my breasts and my shoulders and my collarbone.
“And I’m not a fool, Starr. When a woman comes that hard after a too-sharp nibble at her skin, well...I can put two and two together. Plus...”
He smiled and there—ah, there—were those adorable dimples and the cartoon-character brown eyes and the small chuckle and god, he was such a nice guy until...well, until, apparently he wasn’t.
“Plus what?” I dared to ask.
John stepped up close to me so that we were eye to eye, nose to nose, naked tits to broad sheathed chest.
“I can smell it on you.”
That broke me, those words, and I whimpered, my eyed darting away from his intense stare.
“So you still say five?”
“Eight,” I said.
“Your lucky number,” John said. “And oddly enough my lucky number doubled.” He winked and sat on the painting step stool. “Come on then.”
I didn’t have to ask. I staggered forward on numb feet and draped myself over his lap. His cock was hard against my chest, his breath warm on my nape. The first blow brought my head up. The feel of impersonal thick wood connecting with my living flesh. Pain flared brightly, fading to pressure before unfurling into a warm slinky pleasure. The second blow crisscrossed the first and I gasped. The X I imagined on my bare ass a blazing red tattoo in my mind.
The third blow hit the opposite cheek and right before delivering four, he slid the smooth wooden instrument along my spine, rucking my shirt up as he went.
I sank into that lulling drag of wood against skin and when I relaxed just a hair, he brought it down for number four.
“My lucky number four,” John said. “Let’s check our progress.”
His fingers slipped between my legs, the very tips parting my nether lips. He made a point not to touch my thrumming clit in any way, but just having his fingers so close was blissfully unbearable. When two fingers dipped into my slippery opening, I arched up to meet him. I didn’t care how shameless it was.
“I’d say this is a raging success.”
The next four blows were cake. I saw the light at the end of the tunnel. And even though they sparked like tiny livewires along my tortured, flushed skin, I gritted my teeth and bared them all. When I was done, his hand dove into my long red hair and he twisted a clump into his hand.
“I’m impressed.”
So was I but I said nothing. A few stray tears had leaked out of me and I trembled there, from the rush of adrenaline and endorphins, still draped over his legs.
“Come on up here.”
On the way, I brushed my face against his lap, my flushed cheek riding the rigid erection he had tucked away inside his faded jeans.
“You can do that later,” he said, turning me.
John brushed his thumb along my lower lip and whispered, “Trust me. I have big plans for this perfect mouth.”
My tongue darted out to taste the salt on his skin and I stared at him. This new John.
“But?”
“But for now, I want more.”
He slammed me to the one unpainted wall and my body jarred, but the impact made my insides shiver for him. He worked his buckle and I stood there watching, my bound wrists aching but I didn’t care. When he kicked off his jeans and boxers and advanced on me, juices graced the tops of my thighs and my stomach went light.
“Please,” I said, and that was all. I wasn’t even sure it made sense, and I was beyond caring.
He slipped my bound hands around his neck and kissed me. His tongue stroked over mine and when I kissed him back, he sucked roughly at my tongue so I felt the resounding tug in my pussy. One big arm looped beneath my right knee and hiked my leg up, the motion parting me, opening me to him, and then he was driving into me. One long easy stroke, I was so fucking wet.
His mouth came down on my shoulder, teeth glancing across feverish skin. His cock filling me, his big body working me over so I felt slightly crumpled and completely boneless. An orgasm swelled toward me as the skin on my bottom throbbed from the paddling. I was so prepped to come it was as easy as breathing.
He rocked into me a bit harder, sliding his pretty white teeth along my collarbone. I held my breath, anticipating the bite that did not come. He pressed against me, pinning me fully and cutting off my air. It was almost impossible to breathe. And that’s when his teeth really clamped down, the pain flashed bright and wonderful and I came, gasping for air that wasn’t there.
He held me steady, not letting me move, and lost his manners. His thrusts an exercise in chaos, his hips rotating and driving, seeking nothing at that point but pleasure.
When he came, I kissed him fiercely. Sucking at his lips to lick that sound away. The sound of us fucking—for real—for the first time. The first time I was myself entirely. No walls, no fear, no hiding.
John took my face in his hands for just a second. Brushing his thumbs along my cheeks before he let me go.
“Now that I’ve expressed myself, you have a decision to make. I’m a nice guy but even nice guys get tired of waiting,” he said, ripping the blue tape from my wrists. My skin rejoiced as if inhaling deeply. The blood flow brought pins and needles to my skin.
I just stared at him. Taking him in.
“Starr?”
“Yes. I heard. A nice guy.”
“I am right?”
“Yes, you are. You’re a nice guy, John. My John.” I blurted it out, and when his eyes met mine I felt my cheeks color.
He gave a nod. “That’s what I’ve been waiting to hear. Now we have pizzas to go get.” He bent to grab his jeans.
I watched him move. Drinking him in with new eyes. Okay, so I’d been wrong. He was a keeper, after all.
BONDAGE BLOGGING
Meadow Parker
We were pretty deep into the evening when I realized that Jamie and Andre were planning on tying me up.
What finally tipped me off wasn’t the hand massage Andre was giving me or the way that Jamie caressed the back of my neck; both of those seem obvious in retrospect, but at the time that wasn’t what convinced me.
It was when Andre started asking questions about my sex life.
“I never did get to ask you if you play,” said Andre, his chocolate eyes bright and his wide, gorgeous mouth twisted up in a grin. “Do you?”
His big, dark, powerful hands, which had been massaging my fingers and palm, moved up to my wrist. My other hand was limp on my thigh.
So this was how it was done, huh? This was how the bondage bloggers did it? Was that all it took to get a girl into bed? Two beers and a comment about carpal tunnel? “Here, I’ll show you something that helps,” he said, massaging my fingers. And then, with that grin that always melted me, he added: “If it works, I can teach it to your boyfriend.”
And me, with my dorky little flirt in response: “If I had a boyfriend.”
“Girlfriend?”
I said, “No,” a little too quickly, a little too loudly, and then added, “Never,” a little too emphatically, which made me worry that Jamie might stop what she was doing to my neck.
She didn’t. The gentle touch of her fingers, in fact, turned into something very close to a kiss, except there was no actual contact yet. Just the whisper of her breath and a ripple down my back to my butt, which suddenly felt all wicked and squirmy and tingly with the memory of just how pretty her butt looked when it was very red and very striped because Jamie was facedown, ass up, whipped, gagged and struggling.
She didn’t kiss me, though—not yet. She just sort of leaned in and breathed on me.
I could feel myself responding. I got positively wiggly in my shorts. I felt dorky in them, and in my dumb South-By-Southwest T-shirt a size too small to begin with and washed on hot like all my clothes because I simply can’t be bothered. I hadn’t really dressed for seduction. But then...does anyone ever really dress for being seduced?
Maybe someone othe
r than me, I guess. Having stewed all day in the ninety-degree heat and my airless hovel of a top-floor apartment, I had figured it would be dumb to dress to impress so I tried to look casual. My one kinky outfit had been purchased a week before and remained unworn, hanging in my closet, waiting the three days for Folsom. It was not safe for drinks with friends at Lombardi’s on a weeknight, even if those friends were in fact Internet famous.
I had showered out of politeness, of course, and slathered on some makeup—I always do when meeting new people, though heaven knows why since I always end up feeling like I walked into Tammy Faye Baker at the mall. I usually call it quits when there’s slightly more lipstick on my lips than my T-shirt.
It was a nice warm weeknight, and the patio was warm and calm and we mostly had it to ourselves. There were hyacinths, and the scent caressed my senses as gently as Andre and Jamie were caressing my neck and my hands and my wrists. The scent of the flowers gave me a little tickle deep inside. I felt high. So I answered Andre...sort of.
“Um,” I said, “I don’t think so.”
Andre looked at me like I was crazy. Jamie laughed lightly.
“What is that supposed to mean?” she asked, her voice soft and musical, close to my ear. “You don’t think so? Are you telling us to stop?”
“No, no, no,” I said, my face reddening quickly. “I mean, about Andre’s question. I don’t think I’ve ever played.”
Andre cocked his head, tossing his dreds in a rakish gesture. His grin just melted me.
“Well, if you don’t know,” he said, “who does?”
Now I was very red, and Jamie was laughing more lightly, which only made her breath feel warm and gentle and sexy on my neck. She brushed her lips there, and it felt like lightning ran through me. She kissed my shoulder and I felt her tongue—just a hint of it. I made a strangled noise as I tried to talk.
I stammered, “I’ve done a few things. But I’ve never done a scene. I mean, not really. This guy I was seeing—we tried, but...no, I don’t think I’ve ever really done much.”
“Well, what have you done?” asked Andre, leaning in a little closer as his hands caressed my forearms. There were gentle swells of pleasure coursing through my body; the farther up my arm he stroked, the farther down my arm Jamie kissed me. Now her tongue was shameless and active. Andre held my hand up so she could take it from him; her fingers laced through mine and she brought my arm back a little so she could kiss it wetly.
One of his hands traveled up to my face; he brushed my hair away and gently touched my ear.
“If you don’t mind my asking,” he said. “Or...we can stop. You’re not uncomfortable, are you?”
I was very uncomfortable, but I didn’t want them to stop. I was uncomfortable because I knew there wasn’t a damn thing they could tie me to without getting the cops called.
This absolutely isn’t happening, I told myself. It couldn’t be. What would the kinky couple from The Secret Fire want with a boring little fan-girl like me? Free beer? They paid. To get shown around San Francisco? Survey says uh-uh. I live in Oakland, and I’ve only been here for a year and a half myself. I don’t get out much. I haven’t done much.
And now Andre was asking exactly what I had done...while his wife kissed my neck and he gently stroked my arm. It was helping my carpal tunnel, all right—which I don’t even have.
So I answered Andre’s question: What have you done?
I told them in detail—abbreviated detail, but it didn’t really matter. There wasn’t much to tell. Some scarves, some handcuffs, a boyfriend or two. At home, a pair of leather restraints, a dog collar and nipple clamps I used when I was alone. More stuff about when I was alone. Candle wax, clothespins, silicone cocks, a wire coat hanger—a hissing intake of horror at that. Ten lengths of premium rope mail-ordered from Phoenix, which I’d never taken out of the package because it scared and embarrassed me that I didn’t know how to use it.
I didn’t look Andre in the eye very much as I told the story, and Jamie was still behind me.
I didn’t look him in the eye partially because when I did my tongue got thick in my mouth and I could barely speak, but also because I was embarrassed. But I wasn’t embarrassed because my sex life was dirty. I got embarrassed because it was lame. I was twenty-six years old, for god’s sake. How was this the most I’d done?
Andre smiled and listened. He sometimes asked questions. When he did, he asked them softly, gently, smiling; his questions were firmly respectful.
Jamie’s questions weren’t. She said very different things than her husband, in a very different tone of voice. She was slowly becoming harder, scarier, the Jamie I knew from a few scattered posts. I thought about girls trussed and moaning, tits and butts striped with red, their faces between her legs while Jamie pulled their hair. She alternately kissed and slapped them and they always hugged her at the end. I felt her lips against my ear and I shivered.
Where Andre only asked clarifying questions, Jamie asked leading ones. She asked me nasty things. “You wished he’d hit you harder, didn’t you?” “Does it turn you on to have your hair pulled?” “How wet do you get when you torture your nipples?”
This last thing was said as she eased her fingers up my T-shirt and down my bra and felt them, hard and sensitive. The answer, in case you’re wondering, was and is very.
When she wasn’t tweaking my nipples, Jamie let her caresses turn into scratches, as her sharp red fingernails began to bite into the sensitive flesh of my belly and breasts. All the while, she kept kissing and licking my neck. Toward the end, I felt her teeth.
It took ten or fifteen minutes to relate my entire history with bondage. Like I said, there wasn’t much to tell, but Jamie managed to make it sound like the prehistory of a slutty little fuckslave who was begging to be tied up and hurt.
By the time I was done, it wasn’t just Jamie feeling me up. Andre’s hands were up my shirt, too; if he hadn’t had such a big, broad frame, we might have been kicked out of Lombardi’s by then. I was pretty sure we were about to be. I just didn’t care anymore.
His thumbs worked my nipples. Jamie bit my neck. Her fingernails firmly raked my scalp as she pulled my blonde hair.
“And if a hot couple were to come across the bay and try to seduce you?” sighed Jamie. “Would a horny bondage slut like you invite them home to your place?”
“In fact,” said Andre, taking his right hand out of my shirt so he could glance at his wristwatch, “I think we just missed the last BART train back to our hotel.” I could see the clock behind him; it was barely past midnight. There were lots of trains left, but I wasn’t about to tell him that.
“So I have to invite you home,” I blurted. “But I don’t have a couch.” Again with the giggles. I sounded stupid. I hoped no one had a recorder going.
“We’ll figure out something,” said Andre.
I know it seems, in retrospect, like I should have known Andre and Jamie were planning to seduce me. Why else would they have crossed the bay at ten o’clock on a weeknight because they happened to be in town for Folsom Street?
But like I said. I guess I couldn’t believe a pair of mini-celebrities would be all over me like that. I mean...Jamie and Andre were Internet famous. Weren’t they out of my league?
I knew all about Jamie and Andre’s sex life and their bondage adventures; that was how I knew them. I’d been reading their bondage blog for years. The Secret Fire. It was up for a few months on some little blogging site, but somebody gave them shit for the content of the photos. They moved it to another host, then another; the URL never seemed to stay the same for very long. They got a lot of traffic, judging from the zillions of comments telling them how hot they were. An embarrassing number of them were mine.
They never charged for the blog or the photos; they never censored a thing. Except for their faces. They’d show Jamie’s pussy with Andre’s fist inside it; they’d show her flesh distended by ropes and striped by whips and canes and reddened by Andre’s hand, but the
y wouldn’t show their faces. The closest they’d come was to show Jamie’s gorgeous mouth up close as she screamed in orgasm. But it was never from an angle where you could have picked her out of a lineup; fans like me would probably have recognized Jamie’s uvula before we recognized her face.
I had thrilled to Jamie and Andre’s antics for more than a year. I’d gotten seriously turned on to their deeply poetic locker-room stories. I’d gotten up close and personal with my own secret flames and my even more secret parts while looking at pictures of Jamie tied to the couple’s bondage bed. Once or twice, they’d brought home another girl, but they never mentioned how they knew her—or how the seduction was accomplished.
I guessed that maybe I was in the process of finding that out.
When they tied up girls, things got nasty. Not because of Andre—because of Jamie. Andre was a sadist, but mostly he was a gentle, strong, powerful and loving bondage dominant. Jamie was a bitch. She was totally a bottom to Andre (in the bedroom, at least), but when she got her pretty little red-nailed hands on a female playmate, she was a sadist par excellence.
And not in a nice way.
In the photographs of tied-up bodies Jamie sometimes wore a hood or a mask, or was shot from the neck down. It didn’t matter to me; it wasn’t their faces that made me follow their filthy adventures with such fascination. The fact that they were both damned good-looking—which I’d just found out an hour before—was more of a surprise to me than anything else about them. They weren’t movie-star gorgeous, but they would have been hot even if ropes hadn’t been involved.
But it all ended maybe a year ago, when “Professional commitments require us to suspend the publication of The Secret Fire...” If you want to know what a geek I am, I actually screamed when I read it. I’d gotten a little obsessed with them, and thinking of living without those hot and sexy updates every few days...ugh! I sent them an email and told them so—the first email I’d ever sent a blogger. They answered and stayed in touch.
And luckily for me, I’d downloaded every last picture and cut-and-pasted the text of their two or three hundred posts into Textpad and saved them on my hard drive. I reread them; when I got an e-reader, I even figured out how to convert the text to an e-book file so I wouldn’t have to bring my laptop to bed anymore. I even resized their pics and offloaded them to my phone, so I could double-fist it if I wanted...pics in one hand, text in the other.