Best Bondage Erotica 2015

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  Tom grabbed the shears and marched to the stairs. “Yes, you little sass mouth,” he blurted in exaggerated pomposity. “Prepare to be ass-fucked, woman! On your own living room banister.”

  “Oh god. Did you find the lube?”

  “Lube?” he said incredulously. “What lube?”

  “Come on, Tom,” she said. “Don’t dry-fuck me here. Please? Tom, don’t. I’ll be good.”

  “Too fucking late,” he said. “You’ve turned me on, slut. And I’m not going through all those fucking boxes just to find your goddamn lube. Not with this hard-on you just gave me, you little cunt.” He rubbed the front of his blue jeans, further enhancing the stirrings she’d begun. “Chrissakes, look at this thing.”

  “Oh!” she said. “Did Tommy’s little wifey-poo get him all hot and bothered? Won’t he let her down to do something about it? Big meanie won’t even let her have any lube.” She plumped her lower lip in a show of mock defiance.

  “I’ll be the one to say when and how I fuck you,” he said, twisting his face into a phony sneer. “With lube or not.”

  This was the part of the game Ellen was never quite sure of. She didn’t want to be rasp-fucked. Although she knew she could trust Tom, she couldn’t be exactly sure how far, not when he got that wound up.

  And she could see how his state was becoming, not only from the bulge in his pants, but by his vacant, hypnotic stare. How healthy was he?

  Ellen eyed the shears with a sensible skepticism, imagining the various things that could happen from this point. Would he cut her loose? Not a chance; it wouldn’t do to cut the Velcro. He wasn’t intending to do anything but intimidate her, she figured. She hoped.

  “I can blow you if you climb the stairs,” she said, hoping to ameliorate his passion somehow. “I’ll turn my head like this and suck you off.”

  “That would work for starts,” he replied, unzipping.

  “Then what?”

  “Already told you.”

  “My ass?”

  “Open your mouth,” he said. “Wide.”

  “Ahhh—”

  “Now just keep it open,” he said. “Like that. Keep it open. I’ll dip in and out. Don’t close down on me. I want you to keep open!”

  “Ahhh…haa,” she replied, increasingly aware of forbidden pleasures building between her legs.

  Tom held the base of his cock in one hand, directing the tip over Ellen’s lips, slowly tempting her, inserting it, then easing back.

  Ellen couldn’t resist her own reactions. Repeated mouthy reflexes activated her greedy maw involuntarily, her grasping lips trying to close around the bulb of Tom’s jumpy cock, grabbing in vain at the velvety knob.

  “Don’t close, don’t swallow,” he said. “Let the saliva build. Keep your fucking mouth open, or I’m gonna fuck your ass right now.”

  “My shorts are on,” she teased. “What about that?”

  He grabbed the long shears then tugged at her waistband.

  Ellen felt cold steel sliding down the crack of her ass.

  Snip.

  The industrial scissors made short work of the tiny shorts and undies all at once. Splayed fabric opened like a book, framing the tightest, roundest, cutest buttocks a guy ever had the privilege to stick a dick between.

  “Oh fuck,” she said. “My favorite work shorts!”

  “Ruined now. Open your mouth.”

  Ellen’s husband’s cock resumed its probe, in and out of her parted lips. The shaft pressed farther in, gently folding her tongue against the back of her throat, allowing breath, but not allowing her to close her mouth. Her sense of shame had taken over her sense of judgment. Cheeks overflowed; drooling liquids ran around the hard muscle.

  She sensed a hand under her neck. Was Tom collecting the dribbling spittle that dripped off her chin? “Ghaa. Ghaa haagg…”

  The cock’s exploration of her oral cavity became something of a reflexive challenge for Ellen. She wasn’t greedily sucking at it like she would on an ordinary day; this certainly was no ordinary day. Each time Tom’s cupped hand filled with drool and precome, she felt the touch of him, smearing the liquid between the cheeks of her spread ass, moistening her. A gently twisting fingertip slipped through the tough ring. She swayed her pelvis side to side, mashing her vulva across the top of the banister, directing it to her little bump as the soggy mound crossed and recrossed contours of the lengthwise column.

  A thick middle finger explored deeper. Shoved in to the base, his big square row of knuckles forced her buttcheeks asunder, deforming the malleable globes.

  “Umm…unnh,” she moaned.

  “Don’t close your mouth. Don’t swallow.”

  Finally satisfied that sufficient moisture existed to ease the way, Tom set his jeans aside, coated his dick with Ellen’s spittle and swung a leg over the rail behind his wife. Nestled up close to her ass, his hard, leaky cock settled lengthwise into the fleshy divide.

  “Now, baby,” she moaned. “Fuck my ass now.”

  “Told you I would,” said Tom, inserting his thumbs lengthwise into the crack. He spread her cheeks apart, exposing the tiny brown asterisk. “Relax,” he said.

  “Relax?” replied Ellen. “Up here?”

  “You’re not going anywhere,” he assured her. “Nobody’s falling.”

  Before the drool and jizz could dry, Tom pressed his cock against the hard, puckered muscle, massaging her sphincter with its tip, corralling sticky moisture to the point of insertion, where it would do the most good. He forged carefully on, encouraging her. “Open, my sweet. Open yourself to me. Bear down.”

  “Push,” she sobbed. “Push, baby! Into your wanton wife’s little pucker.”

  Tom pushed. Inch by soppy inch, he entered her darkest regions.

  Ellen’s elastic ring relaxed; her resistance gave way. “I’m ready,” she muttered.

  Now accustomed to his girth, she shuffled back against him, whimpering, impaling herself deeper and deeper on his cock, now at maximum hardness and length, fully relinquishing passage through her acquiescent ring.

  Tom leaned forward over her sweaty back, saliva mixed with precome lubricating the way, wagging his lower torso slowly one side to the other, inching farther and farther into his wife’s vast nether regions. He held himself above, not exerting that force, that power he had to keep in control. Not pounding her ass like a pile driver. Discipline. Discipline was needed in times like these.

  Then Ellen was coming. Spouting profanities, sputtering emotive sequences reserved for lovers. No student of language could make any sense of the squeals, cries and excessive emanations echoing through the empty house. Wiggling her ass as much as her bindings allowed, Ellen forgot the meaning of demeanor, forgot the meaning of shame, forgot what it meant to be held captive without protection.

  Tom followed her lead, his own orgasm welling up behind his ears then emptying into her quivering buns.

  Throughout the months that followed, though Tom and Ellen looked forward to finishing the project so they could start throwing parties again, they made the best of the months spent working. It happened every now and then, sometimes several times a week. Sometimes they found themselves inspired by a tool, or a job that needed attention.

  When it became necessary to replace the heavy crossbeam over the passageway from the parlor to the dining room, a small block and tackle was utilized. Sure enough—later that night—there was Ellen. Nude. Suspended, blindfolded, arms spread, hanging from the beam. Her stance divided the bulk of her weight between two short stools set a yard apart, rendering her exposed, vulnerable. Her slender torso was strung up at eye level with the very pulleys they’d employed to hoist the beam.

  Ellen asked, “How long am I going to hang here?”

  Never mind that Tom had unlimited access to her intimate parts. It wasn’t Ellen’s fault anymore. Ellen wasn’t protected from his touches, or anybody’s touches. It didn’t matter that she’d always craved those touches, those debaucheries that had resulted in her reputation in
college. Nympho Ellen, the insa tiable slut who welcomed any and all advances from both men and women. Not her fault anymore. Out of her hands. Her hands were tied.

  Tom spent much of that evening naked, rubbing up against his wife at will, kissing her, pinching nipples in clamps, teasing her unmercifully, penetrating her tender parts with fingers, tongue and various objects, eliciting moans and sighs with each caress. Later, after Ellen came down, they fucked themselves to a deep sleep, cuddled on the floor among the tools and sawdust.

  The job was nearly done. Other than a few minor details, the major work was finally accomplished; it was high time for a celebration of sorts. Tom brought home some black leatherwork he’d designed for entertaining purposes.

  Ellen asked, “What are those?”

  “A couple of things I made up.”

  “What for?”

  “Well, I bought the braided leather stock, took some measurements, added a couple of pulleys, and put ’em together.”

  “What kind of measurements?”

  “Oh, nothing,” he said. “The banister. The leather. You.”

  “What do you have in mind, Tom? What are you thinking?”

  “Take off your clothes.”

  “Now?”

  “Unless you have somewhere to go…”

  “So—this is the big night?”

  “Wait’ll you see, honey,” he said. “You won’t believe how hot you’ll be.”

  Once she’d undressed, Tom guided Ellen to the side of the stairs in the living room, having her back up against the newly finished rungs of the staircase. “Hold along the banister with your arms stretched out,” he said. “They’ll be slanted up and down.”

  “Like this?” Ellen reached out to her sides along the handrail, right arm high above the other on the bias.

  “That’s perfect.”

  Tom wound a single leather thong around each arm along the rail, creating a spiral pattern pressed into his wife’s skin, taking care not to exert too much pressure, cutting off circulation. He continued wrapping the binding round and round her torso and staircase uprights, further supporting her weight, breasts displayed in enticing linear asymmetry. Ellen’s desire-hardened nipples poked out, pinched among crisscrossing strips of black braided cord, contrasted against her pale skin.

  “Step through these loops,” he said, indicating her right leg.

  “Okay.”

  He spread the straps evenly along Ellen’s thigh, gathered them together in one bunch then hooked them to a pulley he’d fastened to the higher side of the banister. The mechanical affair pulled her thigh above her waist, knee rising, calf and foot dangling. Ellen’s pussy lips parted. He pulled the other leg straight out along the bottom, parallel to the stairs, tying her off to the lower struts in another pattern, thus supporting the rest of her. His wife, legs wide apart, was attached to the staircase in a classic Art Deco running pose, as if a bound Nike could take to the air in one giant leap. The doorbell rang.

  “They’re here, baby.”

  “Good god,” gasped Ellen. “How do I look?”

  “Gorgeous, sweetheart,” he pronounced, tweaking her nipples pink. “Just wait’ll they see you.”

  “Everything ready?”

  “Let’s see,” Tom thought out loud, noting objects neatly assembled on the coffee table. “Plenty of food and drinks. Vibrator, remote, lube, dildos, nipple clamps, flail, condoms. Surgical gloves, for the squeamish. Yep, everything’s good. Oh, wait a minute.” He fingered Ellen’s swollen pussy, making sure droplets in her pubic hair glistened under the chandelier.

  “Oh Tom,” she sighed, nearly breathless. “Let them in…please.”

  Tom opened the door. “Hello, hello!” he turned back toward the house. “It’s the Watsons, dear. Bill and Janet! Welcome, folks. Here, let me take your coats. Ellen’s tied up right now.”

  A well-turned-out Janet Watson floated into the parlor, captivated by her hostess’s naked body lashed to the staircase. “Ahh…” she said, “reminiscent of early Abramovic.”

  “Simply lovely,” said Bill. “Happy housewarming, you two. Smells like cunt in here. Jesus, you’ve really done wonders with this place. Great living art, by the way.”

  “Thanks, Bill,” said Tom. “It took lots of effort, but we think it’s worth it. Ellen’s raring to go.”

  “She looks so helpless and lonely up there,” said Janet. “May I kiss her?”

  “Sure, sure,” said Tom. “She won’t be alone long, so nuzzle yourself right in there. Try the wet spot. But Ellen’s far from lonely. In fact, she’s been looking forward to this since we bought the place. Can I get anyone a drink? Hors d’oeuvres?”

  “Thank you,” said Bill, nodding toward Ellen. “I’ll take some of that.”

  “Of course,” replied a cordial Tom. “Would you like to fondle her? Or would you rather slip her the schwanz? Condoms right there on the table. Now or later, whatever…but that’s quite the hard-on you’re sporting. Hey, look! Here come the Harpers! And there’s the Kaminskys, right behind them. This looks to be a glorious evening.”

  MULTIPLE CHOICE

  Emily Bingham

  I wake up smiling. Every creaking joint and sore muscle flashes me back to a bed that isn’t mine. That vague pain in my shoulders is a memory of my wrists tied to the headboard. The ache in my knees and the absolute necessity for coffee are pleasant reminders of the reasons I didn’t get much sleep.

  The tightness in my boxers forces me out of the daydream of sweaty bodies and entangled limbs, back to the present as I undertake the ritual of caffeine making. Watching the oily ground beans drenched in hot water brew, there’s no harm in snaking a hand down the front of my body. Images in my head of last night have made me instantly erect. The problem is, once I get started it’s difficult to stop.

  Soon, I’m leaning against the counter, breathless, stroking myself and glad my housemate sleeps until noon. At least I hope he will today because I’m at the point where I can’t let go of the momentum. The danger of being caught only forces me closer to release.

  My mind flashes through a best-of compilation of sexiness. Heaving bodies, wet flesh, soft lips, hard cock. I’m a goner, coming in my kitchen before the coffee is ready. I clean up and caffeinate. It’s time to focus; there are things to do today and being distracted while on a ladder just won’t do.

  Morning preparations complete, I brace myself for the outdoors. It’s wet, dark, depressing—a typical winter in Oregon. That pleasant, sexy buzz melts away almost instantly. The cold months have a way of sapping the joy out of a person. To make things worse, while dragging the ladder out of hiding I notice something on the windshield of my car. A hit of rage gets my blood racing.

  A parking ticket? Really?

  As I get closer, I realize it couldn’t be. Even the progressive city of Portland wouldn’t be using purple paper to issue citations. Intrigued, I pick up my pace. The mystery is so great I want to extend the moment. I run a finger along the edge of the paper and then end the torment of not knowing by opening it.

  Seven p.m. My place. Dress well.

  It isn’t signed but I have a good idea who left the note. My pulse is raised for more pleasant reasons now. Looking around, I wonder if I’m being watched. This thought somehow makes it hotter. I fold the paper and slide it into my front pocket, feeling an impossible heat radiating off of it. Suddenly I know exactly how I’m going to stay warm and motivated today. The sooner I finish, the sooner I can think about those six simple words. Gutters have never been cleaned with such intensity.

  Later, soapy, slippery and hot in the shower, I’m tempted to jerk off again, but don’t. I decide to delay the pleasure but regret the decision when faced with getting dressed. Even at half-mast, fitting my dick into the slick black pants is a struggle. It takes all my willpower to think of anything dull enough to make it possible to dress without this throbbing ache of need taking over. I zip up and sigh, one step closer to getting out the door.

  Then I wonder,
is it wise to be contemplating this? I’m not even positive who left the note. What if I get to her house and she’s busy? She’ll give me that look that says, Fella, I think you’re hot and all but I’ve got other plans. But it has to be her words; it’s not wishful thinking.

  In dress pants, a button-down shirt, suit coat and shiny black shoes, I cut a pretty dapper figure. Nerves make it difficult to recall where to find my phone, keys and wallet but I eventually manage. Luckily, the autopilot section of my mind takes over, aiming me in the right direction while the rest of me plays over the possibilities of what could soon take place.

  Pulling into a driveway on a dark street jerks me back to reality. This feels ominous, like the beginning of a cautionary tale: Portland man, murdered by woman he met online. News at ten. And yet the lust coursing through me opens the car door and guides me to the back of the house, through the noisy gate and into the total darkness of the backyard. I realize I’ve never seen her place in daylight.

  Just before reaching to knock, I notice the bench to the right of the door, illuminated in the glow of the porch light. My name is written in feminine script on the note card attached to the paper bag. This makes me both more and less nervous, but at least I now know I’m in the right place.

  My blood races, causing my hearing to go womb-like and become the only sound I hear. My body is betraying me, depriving me of one of my senses before she can.

  The door is unlocked. Put what you find in the bag on your wrists and come inside.

  Slipping this card in my pocket with the other note, I open the bag. I’m almost afraid to look. Whatever is inside feels small but heavy. In the darkness, I have no clue what it could be. I give it a tentative once-over with my fingers; it’s something smooth with a furry edge and dangerously cold metal.