“Live and learn,” I murmured.
“Huh?” he panted.
I again turned his way. “Never mind.” I gazed from his sweat-soaked brow to his throbbing prick, then to his bound wrists. “Gosh, you’re beautiful, Ron.”
He grunted. “When I’m immobilized, you mean.”
I looked back down the road and continued to drive. “You say potato…”
A couple of hours later, we were finally in the desert. The highway had given way to a cracked, two-lane road, the traffic sparse. As for Ron, his cock would occasionally droop, but I remedied that each time with a smack across his belly or yank on his tender nipple. When I could no longer wait for the inevitable, I pulled off the road and found a dustier, even emptier path to travel along.
Deep within the Mojave, I finally pulled the car over, ours the only one in the bleak, barren lot, the brick bathroom to the side deeply sun-blanched. “Sit tight, hon,” I said as I hopped out of the car.
“Funny,” he barked, rigid cock swaying to and fro.
I ran around the car and opened his door. “Out.”
He shook his head, pouting. “No.”
I leaned in and grabbed both his nipples. He squirmed, moaned and promptly followed my lead. That is to say, he followed me as I yanked him out of the car by said pink append ages. Still, his feet were bound, so, though he could walk, it was in inches, and hopping would’ve taken too long. So I bent down and roughly flung him over my shoulder.
“Aren’t we supposed to do this on our honeymoon, asshole?” he spat.
I spanked his ass. Twice. “That’s for calling me an asshole on our wedding day.”
“You hog-tied me on mine!” he retorted as we moved away from the car and behind the bathroom.
“Out of love,” I replied as I set him down on a picnic bench that had seen better days. Though, to be fair, at least a spindly tree did provide a smidge of shade from the otherwise broiling sun. I then pushed him backward and relieved him of his boxers, and since he was hog-tied, that meant, rrriiiip, off they came, outward as opposed to the standard downward way.
“Hey!” he objected, though I heard it more as a yay! Let’s blame it on the heat—of the moment.
I ran back to the car, shouting over my shoulder, “Now don’t you move none.”
He grumbled something. I turned, ran back, spanked his ass and again ran back to the car, returning with a bottle of water. Except, Ron was no longer on the bench when I returned, but instead was hopping miserably in my direction. Seeing as he’d disobeyed my direct command, and seeing as I’d wisely also brought the remainder of the rope, I herded him in reverse and began to tie him around the thankfully smooth yet spindly tree.
“What’s your mom going to say when I tell her what you’ve done?” His face was red and his cock was so thick and steely that it could’ve cracked open a safe. Though what a waste of a perfectly good cock that would’ve been.
“What would she say?” I replied, standing back to observe my work. The rope was now tied to his wrist bindings, wrapped thrice around the tree, and tied again to his feet restraints. Between two of the turns of rope, his cock jutted out, balls hanging over the cable. “She’d say, ‘Told you those Boy Scout lessons would eventually come in handy.’”
He pulled and yanked at the tethering, though by then, it was only for show; my fiancé, as I’ve already said, wasn’t going anywhere. Finally, he had no choice in the matter. And that, I assumed, was what was giving him that sensational-looking woody of his. As to my own rigid prick, it was being freed from its denim constraints a moment later, until I was just as hard and as naked as he was.
I closed the gap between us and squatted. My face moved into his crotch, the scent of sweat and musk and sex joyously wafting up my nostrils. I downed his cock in one fell swoop, tugging on his dangling balls as I did so. He moaned, loudly, legs buckling as I sucked, his cock pulsing down my throat.
I popped his cock out as I stroked my own with one hand and wiped a river of sweat off my face with the other. His beautiful prick glistened in the desert sun. I stroked it, fast and furious, his breath suddenly ragged, his knees fighting to stay locked. When he was close—years together had taught me to see and hear the warning signs—I yanked my hand free.
He exhaled sharply. “Fucker.”
I chuckled. “That any way to talk to your soon-to-be husband?”
“You wish.”
I nodded. “Yes, actually.” Again I grabbed ahold of his throbbing tool. “Now, will you shut the fuck up, please?” In order to accomplish this next-to-impossible feat, I mashed my mouth into his, and his tongue, his only nonsecured body part, snaked and coiled with my own as we swapped some heavy spit and I jacked our pricks in sync.
His breathing quickly grew shallow, mine as well, as rivers of sweat cascaded down our bodies. Still, neither of these two things were on our minds when, for the last time as single men, we both spewed as one.
He exhaled sharply down my lungs, his body trembling as his cock erupted in an aromatic torrent of white-hot jizz, thick bands of which rocketed outward before landing in several splats on the arid ground below. My groan matched his moan as my own cock pulsed and shot, several streams of come flinging this way and that as I huffed and puffed, stars swimming before my sweat-stinging eyes.
A smile worked its way up his face as he fought to catch his breath. “Thank you,” he managed to squeak out.
“For?” I replied.
He shrugged, as best he could. “For…” He stared down at his bindings and then over at me. “For everything.” He laughed, his finely etched belly shaking as he did so, the rope shaking as well. “Gives a whole new meaning to the term.”
My laugh matched his. “Tying the knot?”
“Exactly.”
I wiped the sweat off his forehead, his cheek, his neck. “Are we still doing that?”
His smile widened, stretching across his damp, reddened face. “Of course, Ted,” he replied. “Was there ever any doubt?”
I sighed as I began to untie him. “Never,” I told him, fairly meaning it.
“Forever,” he purred, watching my progress, or lack thereof. “Until death do us part.”
I fell to the ground and stared up at him. “You, uh, you might have to wait for that in order to get untied from this tree, actually, Ron,” I freely admitted. “Because they gave out merit badges for tying these suckers, not, sadly, untying them.” My sigh repeated. “Do you think we can go for a round two and try to untie said knots after that?”
His grin remained, as did his stellar erection. “I do, Ted,” he vowed. “I most certainly do.”
BADDHA KONASANA
Corvidae
“Good job, Andrea, your posture is looking much better.”
I grunt. I don’t know what he’s talking about. I can see my pose in the mirror. Everyone around me is hovering in a perfect chair pose, graceful as cranes. My pose looks more like a broken futon.
Tomas’s hand brushes my lower back. In the mirror I see him nodding in approval. “You should be feeling this in the lumbar spine,” he tells the class. “Feel the tension evenly on both sides, supporting your spine as you lengthen forward with your arms.”
Of course there’s tension in my spine; there’s tension everywhere. There usually is whenever Tomas approaches my mat.
I started coming to yoga as part of a New Year’s resolution, but after four months, I’ve realized that I’m not just coming here for my health. Listening to Tomas’s smooth voice and watching his lean body flow through the movements like water soothe me in ways my poses never can. The struggling and the pain are almost worth it when he comes around to gently adjust and correct me, melting the tension in my muscles with his touch. Those brief touches are pretty much the only contact we have, besides my shy hello at the start of class and a breathless thank you and good-bye at the end.
Real breezy. It’s a wonder he even knows my name…
“All right, gently come out of your ut
katasana, pressing up with your heels. Keep your arms lifted, elongate both sides of the rib cage, then come down and prepare yourself for savasana.”
Thank god. Lying flat on my back. A pose I can actually accomplish. I flop down in relief and bury myself under an eye pillow. This is always my favorite part of class, lying in the warm dark, bathed by the even breathing of everyone around me, listening to Tomas pad around the room as he makes gentle adjustments where necessary. Usually I have no idea how uncomfortable I am until he moves me into a better position.
And I know it’s a meditative pose, but you’re supposed to let the thoughts drift without judgment, so how can anyone judge me if my mind usually goes to a very restless place, inviting Tomas along?
Today, though, I can’t conjure my happy place. Days like today—when all I’ve done is struggle—I feel like an idiot, especially compared to all these lithe yoga kittens around me. The voice in the back of my mind tells me that I’m slowing everyone down, that I’m a hindrance to Tomas’s lessons and the only reason he knows my name is because he looks for it on the signup roster in dread….
A series of soft chimes breaks the cycle. People around me start to stir. Wow, ten minutes already? Time sure flies when you’re hating on yourself.
“Thank you everybody! Namaste!” Tomas’s voice stirs the class back to life. “Remember, if you borrowed a mat, please wipe it down before returning. Megan’s evening class today is cancelled, so no need to rush out of the studio.”
I roll to a seat, bleary as a newborn. People around me are similarly disoriented, but gaining speed as they collect their blankets and props. I rub my eyes with the heel of my hand and lean over to do the same.
A familiar pair of feet stop in front of my mat. “Andrea,” Tomas’s voice drifts down. I gape up at him. From this angle he towers above me, a statue of David in Lycra and spandex. Even in the dim light of the studio, I can see his eyes smiling at me, emerald against his tan skin.
“Buh?” is all I can say.
“Andrea, do you have a couple minutes? I wanted to go over a couple suggestions for you, if that’s all right.”
I nod.
He smiles reassuringly. “Great, just hang tight for a sec. Richard had a quick question. I’ll be right back.”
He pads off. Only then do I realize that my jaw is still hanging open.
I sit on my mat, stewing in anxiety. What could he want? Am I doing something wrong? Is he going to make me switch to another class, better suited for amateurs? I pick up my yoga strap to wrap it, but start twisting and fiddling with it instead.
Tomas comes back as the last of the class passes through the curtain to the front lobby. I’m still focused on the strap and barely glance up as he drops down to a seat in front of me.
“Andrea,” he says in the same calm yet commanding tone he uses to instruct the class. “I can tell that you’re frustrated, but you have to understand, we call it yoga practice for a reason. It’s never perfected. We’re always learning and growing through our practice. And whether or not you believe it yet”—he leans forward and rests a consoling hand on my ankle—“you are making progress.”
I shrug, still not looking up. This is already the longest conversation I’ve had with him, and I haven’t even said anything yet. My breath is shallow from a combination of embarrassment and excitement.
“Some people describe yoga as ‘a balance between effort and ease.’ While you’re engaging one part of your body, you should be relaxing and elongating others.”
Ha. That’s easy for him to say. It’s easy to be relaxed and confident when you’re already strong.
“You focus well,” he continues, “but you’re focused on the effort, with none of the ease. You trust my instructions but you also need to train your body to trust itself, trust the muscles that are doing the work, and relax the rest.”
Yeah, well right now I don’t even trust myself to not blush like a schoolgirl just by looking at him.
He watches me in silence for a few moments. I hunch over my mat, still not daring to look up. “I have an idea,” he says suddenly, leaning over to grab my blanket. “Fold this up so it’s at least four layers thick. Sit on the edge, with your feet below you in baddha konasana.”
I put down the strap, arrange the blanket as he says, then hesitate.
“Bound cobbler pose,” he prompts gently.
Ah, yes. Middle school PE butterfly stretch. I place the soles of my feet together in front of me and spread my knees wide. I grip and curl forward over my feet, not because you’re supposed to, but because if I don’t, my tight muscles will snap me out of it like an overwound rubber band.
He rolls up to his feet and paces around me. “Okay, take a second to check in. Do you feel how your muscles are fighting against themselves?”
“Mrrg,” I respond.
There’s a clank of metal hitting the floor. I risk a glance up. Tomas has my strap in his hands, spreading and untwisting it. The D-rings clink as they drag against the wood. We use straps in class all the time, so pulling it out is nothing strange.
What is strange is the look on Tomas’s face. He’s watching me intently, eyes drawing my gaze in and boring through it. His hands are moving purposefully, but slowly, letting the woven canvas pour through his fingers. His face is neutral, but I could swear I see the hint of a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“I want to try something,” he says, kneeling next to me. “Something to help support you so your muscles can learn to relax. Is that all right?”
“Mrrg,” I agree, nodding.
I watch as he folds the strap into a large loop, deftly manipulating the puzzle of the D-rings. I remain motionless as he leans over to settle the loop around me.
“Can I touch you?” he asks, his breath surprisingly close to my ear. I stifle a gasp and nod.
His hands brush against my back, sliding the strap down so that it rests against the crest of my hip. He loops the far edge of the circle under my clenched feet, then runs his hands along the strap to smooth out any folds, brushing against the curve of my waist and the insides of my thighs.
I shudder, but not from muscular strain.
“All right,” he says finally, leaning close again. Whiffs of him drift over me, a subtle bouquet of sweat and incense. “Let me know if any of this starts to feel painful,” he says. All I can do is nod, my beating heart choking my throat.
He starts cinching, the loop squeezing tighter around me as he pulls out the slack. His hands skate across the band, keeping it flush against my body, stroking my skin through the canvas. My mind reels. It’s way more contact than he gives anyone in class, but then he’s never done anything like this in class before.
“How do you feel?” he asks.
I have no words to describe the sensations inside me, the thrill of being handled like this. Handled by him. Instead, I resort to my old standby: sarcasm. “Like a bundle of asparagus,” I mutter, still bent awkwardly forward.
He chuckles. “I’m going to go a little farther. Again, let me know if you want me to stop.”
I have no idea what he means, and honestly I’m doubtful whatever he’s doing will work anyway, but right now I’m too dazed to protest. He pulls the loop tighter. The strap presses more insistently against my hips and thighs, gently pulling them toward my feet. It’s wide enough that it doesn’t pinch in painfully. All I feel is an unrelenting pressure—a pressure that is gradually increasing.
Tomas stops. “All right, Andrea,” he says softly. “Let go of your feet and lean back.”
I hesitate, muscles shivering with tension. My instincts say the minute I let go everything will splay open, like an unbundled bunch of asparagus. I glance up at Tomas. He smiles and places a hand lightly on my upper back, coaxing relaxation into the delicate skin between my shoulder blades.
“It’s all right. Trust the strap, it’s strong enough.”
I exhale and let go.
My back cantilevers back to vertical. I spread my a
rms out, expecting to catch myself as I fall back on the mat.
But…I stay upright.
I look down, surprised. It’s just a band, looped between my hips and feet, but somehow it feels like so much more. There’s pressure on my back and under my feet, but the rest of me feels like it’s floating. My bent knees are a good foot from the ground, but for once they aren’t straining to remain that way.
“Very good, Andrea,” Tomas’s voice purrs from somewhere above me. “Now really relax into it.”
I take a few deep breaths and close my eyes. My weight is settling farther into the strap, but it responds with equal, inexorable pressure. Shivers run along my spine as my nervous system tries to comprehend the sensation of being simultaneously restrained and exposed. My inner thighs are especially vulnerable, braced open by the grip of the strap. They tingle in protest but I breathe through it, just like Tomas has taught me.
When I open my eyes, my knees have drifted fractionally closer to the floor.
I look around the studio. Tomas is over by the shelf of props, digging through one of the baskets. The voices from the lobby have died out. I realize with a jolt that we may be the only people left in the entire place. I can’t decide whether that’s exciting or terrifying. It feels like both.
Tomas comes back with another strap, casually uncoiling it and dragging it behind him, smiling at me as he advances across the floor. My stomach flutters. I’m already in the pose; what could possibly be left for him to bind up?
“This is an interesting trick I learned years ago from…a teacher of mine.” He winks at me. “This one is a little trickier to set up, but once you learn it you can do it on your own. Do you want to try?”
I nod mutely. He drops to his knees on the back of my mat, thighs and abdomen hovering just inches behind me.
“Lift up your hair,” he says in his class voice, a voice I’ve been conditioned for four months to obey unquestioningly. I comply, gathering it up and holding it with both hands.
“Good,” he says. “Keep your arms lifted like that.” He brushes his fingers across the back of my neck, then drapes the midpoint of the strap across it, letting the loose ends fall down my front on either side. His breath tickles my skin as he leans over my shoulder, adjusting and untwisting the strap. I remain still, not even twitching an elbow until he tells me to.
Best Bondage Erotica 2015 Page 7