Best Bondage Erotica 2015

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  Close.

  Almost there.

  Two. More. Seconds.

  Payoff.

  WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS...

  Tim Rudolph

  Sometimes guys just want to get off.

  Okay, Pinocchio, tell us another one. Truth is, guys need to get off. It’s our raison d’être, which is a fancy way of saying that we’re fools for our tools. We see a good-looking biscuit sitting on a plate, we’re not happy until we smother it in gravy. It’s a terrible analogy, but you get the idea.

  And that’s the great failing of my gender: Where girls just want to have fun, guys just want to have hot, sticky sex with Jessica Alba on the rec room pool table—while our girlfriends whip us up a postcoital soufflé. Or some other dick-centric variation on the theme. Call it the curse of the Y chromosome, but there it is.

  But in every deck of cards there are always a couple of jokers. Some of us—okay, me—get our clocks wound from delayed gratification. I know that isn’t very fashionable to admit, but I’ve never been a slave to fashion. That doesn’t mean I’m not a big fan of other forms of indentured servitude.

  For instance. I’ve been kneeling on this nasty bedspread in this skanky, pay-by-the-hour Las Vegas motel room for nearly an hour, waiting, waiting. You’d think that having my eyes taped over with ten-dollar poker chips and my bandana-bound wrists crisscrossed behind my back would cool this boy’s ardor, wouldn’t you? Oh, and did I mention the rubber phallus lodged in my mouth, or the braided-leather choke collar looped menacingly around my neck?

  How pathetic, right? How disgusting. How humiliating.

  Says you.

  Says me: It’s everything I could wish for.

  But I’m not really traveling down this dark and twisted road alone, am I? Meet Bob, the unassuming corporate accountant, and his sugar-frosted wife Suzy, a popular orthodontist. It’s their tenth anniversary, and we’re here trying to re-create their wedding night, wherein the newlyweds recruited a downtown street hustler named “Vic” and, by all accounts, got every nickel’s worth of satisfaction for the two bills they spent on him.

  So how did we meet, and who the hell am I? That’s easy. I’ve delivered Mr. and Mrs. Lowery’s mail to their sedate, manicured suburban home in Rocklin, California for years. One day I happened to be leafing through their Swingers Monthly magazine in my mail truck (yes, we’re all snoops) when I was startled by an insistent tap on my shoulder. Well, one thing led to another, and before long I was confessing to Bob how much I enjoyed playing the groveling manservant with other like-minded debauchees.

  “Well, this calls for a road trip!” Suzy exclaimed after we’d exchanged pleasantries and Bob had filled her in on my “naughty nature,” as he called it.

  Suzy. She’s got the legs of a Vegas showgirl coupled with a showstopping backside that draws more double takes than Dolly Parton’s tatas. That’s her pacing the threadbare, gunk-stained carpet, working herself into a libidinous lather. When she gets like this, Bob claims, she can melt the ice in your drink with the heat from her cunt. Physics! Who knew?

  What I do know is that there is a Live Nude Girl working the room, and she’s thrown her mind right into the gutter. I mean, why else would we be shacked up in this raucous dump? Doors slam. Walls thump. Booze-fueled shouts echo down the dingy hallway. But this is the anniversary present that Suzy asked for, this cut-rate ambience, nasty as a razor nick.

  Hey, every ten years, knock yourself out. Get your kink on. You might even enroll a pasty-white mail carrier to do your bidding.

  Bob is certainly game. When last I saw him he was sitting naked on a straight-backed chair, idly stroking his cock while he watched Suzy undress me, then bind me, then blind me. (The rubber sex toy that I’ve been forced to suck on was his idea, the deviant bastard). Bob’s not exactly a party animal, being a numbers guy and all. But he’s no reluctant cuckold, either. He assured me that he would be happy to sit this one out because, well, he likes watching his wife get nasty with relative strangers.

  “It keeps the old coffee percolating,” he confided, winking lecherously. Marriage counselors, take note.

  Okay. Wonderful. But one man’s pleasure is another man’s what-the-fuck. I continue to kneel, my legs cramping, my cleanshaven cock angry with razor burn. Christ, how much longer? The windowless room is hot like an oven and reeks of animals in rut and unfiltered Camels. But because I have no point of reference, it’s easy to imagine that I’m in an underground tomb in decadent Rome, where I’ve been served up as a slavish trophy for some victorious, horny gladiator. My cock stirs at the thought.

  Finally someone breaks the suspense. It’s Bob, cracking open another Coors, the carbonated phishh so close that it tickles my nose. Lucky hubby has himself a ringside seat.

  And then I feel the mattress give behind me, and I’m enveloped by the heady aroma of jasmine perfume. Suzy! She playfully tugs on my ears like I’m her housebroken puppy and says into one of them, “It’s not nice to read other people’s mail, Philip.” She has the lilting, come-hither voice of a phone-sex operator, but lust has abraded it like sandpaper. “So I think I’ll just have to go all postal on your ass. You don’t mind, do you?”

  “Mmphh” is all I can manage. But despite my discomfort—or maybe because of it—my cock continues to swell in anticipation. In anticipation of what, only the anniversary girl knows for sure.

  “What’s the matter,” Suzy asks, laughing at my pained expression. “Cock got your tongue?”

  This strikes Bob as hilarious; I can hear his high-pitched laughter catch in his throat, as though he’s watching Sinbad crack jokes while he leans back in his chair, masturbating.

  “Here,” Suzy says. “Let’s take that filthy thing out of your mouth—you wouldn’t believe where it’s been. Besides, there are other ways we can play.”

  So now it begins, I think. The dirty dentist has my punishment all mapped out. And she has a rapt audience of one who eggs her on by whispering sweet pornographic nothings from his bedside perch. Maybe these people are disciples of Sade. Maybe they’re all about means to an end. Their means, my end.

  “Beer,” I say through numbed lips after Suzy uncorks the dildo from my mouth. My throat is as dry as the fake desert out by our rental car. “Please. Just a swallow.”

  Suzy jerks on my choker with surprising force, testing my gag reflex. “I like you better when you don’t talk so much,” she says. “Understand?”

  But just as quickly she goes all Good Witch on me by holding a can of ice-cold beer to my lips. Oh, sweet nectar! Then she palms my balls in her creamy hand like they’re delicate quail eggs, and part of me wants to believe that the worst is over. Maybe this whole production was just a warm-up act to see if I’d make an obedient plaything.

  Yes! Maybe next time we’ll do it up right at the Aladdin. Silk sheets. Room service. Jacuzzis!

  “Well, my work is done here,” I say, chirping like a goddamned canary in the jaws of a cat. “So feel free to cut me loose whenever you want. It’s been fun, though.”

  Nobody says a word, but I can hear the bedsprings groan as Bob climbs up to get closer to the action. I imagine him and Suzy exchanging the knowing looks of the long-and-happily married and nodding conspiratorially. Then Suzy grabs a hank of my hair and snaps my head back.

  “What part of ‘no talking’ didn’t you understand? Dirty little fuck toys like you should be seen and not heard.” To get more purchase, she winds the free end of the choker around my neck, doubling my agony. My thighs quiver in defeat, and I don’t resist when she forces my head back down and plants my face on a musty pillow.

  Okay. Deep breath. Time to reevaluate. I’ve played this role of Nancy Boy before. Face down, ass up. Submissive in every way. I can do this. I want to do this. Besides, in Vegas the house always wins, and Bob and Suzy—the dealer and the pit boss—are sitting on twenty-one.

  “Perfect,” Bob says, so close that I can smell his dime-store aftershave and hear the friction of his hand gliding ove
r his cock.

  “Not quite,” Suzy says. “Aren’t you forgetting the ring?”

  The ring? What is that, some sort of sentimental keepsake celebrating their decennial? Because if it’s not—

  “Daddy’s been shopping at the dirty bookstore again,” Suzy says, laughing like a villain in a cartoon. “And I think it’s just your size.”

  She shamelessly gropes my hairless cock and I’m thinking: Oh fuck. The freaky degenerates are going to put my dick in a sling while I’m trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey. Then they’re going to take me for a joyride down BDSM Boulevard, where they’ll probably do some terribly scurrilous things to me. Things that will turn me into a mewling slut who begs for more.

  Oh my god…Can it get any better?

  Yes. But only if it gets worse.

  The pretty practicing dentist tells me that this might pinch a little, and without warning she takes the slack out of my balls with one hand while the other gingerly works a narrow elastic cock ring over them until it grips the base of my shaft. Jesus Christ, my nut sac! I wince. I grunt. Tears come to my eyes. Now my balls are squished together like two peas in a perverted pod. I dig my fingernails into my palms, anticipating more pain, but it’s the constriction that’s killing me: The bitch has left me with a raging hard-on and a serious case of blue balls.

  So why am I grinning like a shitfaced jack-o’-lantern?

  “You like that, don’t you, slutboy?”

  I gasp, unable to answer—I hadn’t expected such a hedonistic rush. I almost hate myself for being such a spineless church mouse, but I can’t suppress my groans of gratitude.

  “Yes,” I finally manage to whisper. “I like it. Very much.”

  “And you’ll do anything I ask, won’t you?”

  “Anything. Everything.”

  I feel her weight shift, and before I know it she’s straddling my back and pulling hard on the choker. It hurts, but the way her sumptuous ass spreads indecently across my skin soothes and excites me. I can feel Suzy’s arousal mount as well as she wantonly gyrates her pussy against my spine, smearing it with her juices.

  It feels like the walls of the airless room are closing in. Now it’s as steamy as a jungle hut and redolent of musk, making me half-crazy with lust. But Bob and Suzy, the wicked pirates who’ve hijacked my booty, have conspired to leave my aching cock in a state of rigid agitation by cutting my “boys” off at the pass. What they’ve done is so unspeakably cruel, so punishing, that my cock responds by weeping a drop of precome. Go figure.

  “You know, Philip,” Suzy says, panting huskily, “they say that every orgasm is like a little death.” She smushes her tits against my back then sticks her tongue in my ear. “Ever had a near-death experience while jacking off? You know, where you get off just before you kick off? I understand that it’s quite something.”

  “I’m not sure I…”

  “Don’t answer and don’t argue.” She two-fists the choker, then gives it a vicious twist, and I feel myself getting light-headed, like I’m sucking helium.

  “Ride ’em cowgirl!” Bob hoots. But he wants to write his own salacious chapter to this bawdy novelette. “Two’s company, three’s an orgy,” he says, chortling like a man who’s about to lose his mind.

  Yeah, well so much for sitting this one out. In a surprisingly athletic move he scooches under my upraised ass and takes my pulsing purple cockhead into his mouth, where he rolls it around on his tongue like a gumdrop. The sensation is shocking, thrilling, exquisitely depraved—the mild-mannered accountant has my number down cold.

  But it’s his wife who’s the real sex maniac. Suzy’s a hard-charging dynamo consumed with prurient behavior, and I can tell that she’s caught up in Bob’s down-and-dirty cock play by the way she rears back on the choker and rides me like I’m one of those barroom mechanical bulls.

  “Fuck him, honey!” she says, digging her heels into my thighs. “Tickle his balls! Lick his asshole!”

  Bob-the-party-crasher doesn’t need any goading. He spits on my cock, then rolls it between his hands before taking the length of it to the back of his throat. Smutty lad! He’s already got my sperm boiling, but now he ups the ante by worming his stubby finger into my asshole and rummaging around for my prostate.

  “Christ, I need to come,” I whimper, sounding like a school kid who’s had his lunch money stolen.

  Suzy laughs. “Don’t we all? What do you think, husband? Does our fuck toy deserve his reward?”

  But instead of showing mercy she cinches the choker up so tight that it bites into my windpipe. Okay, now I really can’t breathe. At all! Panic sets in, but it soon gets displaced by a strange, suffusing calm. It’s like I’m a South Seas pearl diver down too long without air, but past the point of caring whether I ever resurface. Big Bad Death? Big fucking deal. Bring it.

  “He’s coming!”

  It’s Bob, sounding like he’s just hit the jackpot. Suzy immediately lets up on the choker, and I feel my lungs inflate like happy birthday balloons. Then her slender fingers partner up with Bob’s, and while he swiftly rolls the cock ring off of my balls, she grips my shaft just under the head and jerks it like a woman trying to resurrect the dead. Everything gets lost except for the moment, but the moment obliterates me. The orgasm breaks over my head like a hundred-foot wave, and I come so hard that Suzy yelps with delight when I uncoil a rope of pent-up jizz that pools then quickly melts into the fucked-up, fucked-over bedspread.

  Whew. Emission accomplished. Annihilation averted.

  Ah, but this is Sin City, where vice is on call 24/7. In this town there really is no rest for the wicked. I’ve seen Bob and Suzy’s satchel of toys—cuffs, plugs, clamps, gags—so I know that we’re just getting started.

  But do I look concerned? Am I wearing a poor-me frowny face? Not a chance. Because the postman always delivers, and he’s brought a little something-something for the celebrating couple. It’s nothing fancy. It doesn’t come with ribbons and bows. It’s just a little get-acquainted game he likes to call Return to Sender.

  And it starts right now.

  THE THUG

  Sommer Marsden

  “Boss said to keep you on ice in here.” He dumped me in the claw-footed tub with a soft grunt. I have to hand it to him—he put his hand beneath my head to keep me from rapping it on the porcelain.

  Then he sat back on his haunches and studied me. Tall and broad in a pin-striped suit and a fedora that had seen better days, he was handsome in a thuggish kind of way. The darkness in his brown eyes sent a chill through me.

  He pushed my wavy bangs back into place, restoring my hairdo to pristine pin curls. I’d have thanked him but for the strip of duct tape over my lips.

  “I’m only doing what the big boss wants, doll face.”

  Doll face. I shivered again. I imagined the big strapping body beneath that suit. The scars from a life spent wild.

  “It’s not necessarily what I want to do, see?”

  I nodded vigorously. My best bet was to go along with whatever he said. His tie was askew slightly and some particular part of me wished I could straighten it.

  He reached out slowly as if I would—as if I could—bite him, and stroked the sticky tape over my mouth. I felt a pulsing rush of blood in my pussy, a swollen kind of want in my clit. I shut my eyes briefly and tried to ignore the feel of my nipples going tight in my bra.

  I shifted my wrists but the rough rope bit deep into my skin. I flexed my fingers to keep the blood flowing. I tried to wriggle my ankles in their hemp bonds, but only managed to make my arousal worse and twist my back-seam stockings around my legs.

  “I could be persuaded, though. I could maybe accidentally let you go if you were to…do me a service.”

  His fingers smelled of the unfiltered cigarettes he’d been smoking since he nabbed me on my walk home from work, tied me up and dropped me in the backseat of his car, demanding I be quiet or I’d “be sorry.”

  The dress was hiked up around my hips and something was i
tching, which made my nose begin to itch. But I couldn’t do anything with my hands bound and the sensation was starting to drive me mad.

  I nodded. I’d do it. Anything. Whatever he wanted.

  He grinned at me. His first true smile. It made him look less thuggish, but not a lot.

  “Glad to hear it, doll face. Good to know some old-fashioned reason still works. I think you might even like the favor you’re about to do for me. At least I hope you will.”

  He got me up on my knees in the tub, my belly pressing the porcelain. It was cold even through my navy-blue polka-dotted dress. I found myself wishing he’d take my dress off me, but I pushed the thought away. I watched him open his belt and then his pants. He didn’t even have to fish around in his striped blue boxers for his cock. There it was, standing at attention, the tip flushed and shiny with urgency.

  He looked me in the eye and there was that flash again, that darkness in his gaze that set off something deep inside me. “I’m going to pull that piece of tape off, okay? Don’t get it in your crazy little head to do anything rash. Do you hear me?”

  I nodded. My heart pounded and I wiggled my wrist again and felt my pulse beating crazy and heavy beneath my bonds. He pulled the tape off and I sucked in a great breath of air.

  “I’ll do whatever you want,” I said. “Please.”

  He smiled, taking my face in his hand, running his thumb up my jawline. “You look like a smart dame. I’ll trust you not to bite.” Then he leaned in and tapped my lower lip with his cock. He smelled of tobacco, cotton and a musky cologne.

  I shut my eyes and sucked his tip into my mouth. He pulled free and tapped my lip again. “Baby blues open,” he said. He moved back enough for me to see my bright red lipstick ringing his cock. “See what pretty marks you leave.”

  Before I could reply he pushed his cock back in my mouth. I dragged my lips along his silken sheath, feeling the tip brush the back of my throat. My eyes watered slightly and I shivered. He chuckled and pushed a hand down into the bodice of my dress. He slid his fingers past the grayish blue silk brassiere I wore and pinched my nipple hard.