Best Lesbian Bondage Erotica

by Tristan Taormino

  “Make me a table,” I ask, my words chopped into the fan that pounds hot air just above my head. It is an early August evening that begs for fantasy without motion.

  “You already have a table.” She is bored by my request. Her finger continues to drag over my skin, passing just under the waistband of my loose cotton boxer briefs. She is not going anywhere, but constantly moving. She is a tease.

  “Not a table exactly, more like a platform, the kind of table you lie on when you go to the chiropractor. One that lets me lie on my stomach without squashing my face. One that lets me lie above you but not on top of you.

  “So you’re saying you don’t like to lie on top of me?” She is offended but not sincerely. She waits for detail. Her articulate mind is already drawing the straight pencil marks of the board edges. I see the spaces between the supports for my hips, shoulders. She is waiting to see what is not covered.

  “I want you underneath me,” I say, “but free to move. I want my legs to be supported, but also restrained. I want a ’90s version of a medieval torture device: the sex rack.”

  She laughs, an internal rumble like the one a cat used to make from under the bed. Her fingers continue their patient movements around, across, gaining some momentum. “Why do you need a device?” she pouts.

  I begin to describe my vision to her, my hips moving slightly with the anticipation of perfect angles created by such a feat of exotic carpentry. The empty air above my shorts is acute: nothing to push against as the heat becomes concentrated from my extremities, crawling in from my fingers, toes to flush my outer and inner lips, to the clitoral core. A padded board would press on the lowest reach of my gut, where innocuous belly meets raw sex, the final frontier of intangible star-crossed skin. “Think of it,” I murmur, rubbing my hand across my ribs and slowly lower...

  I am suspended just a hair-width above my lover’s mouth, close enough for her to touch her tongue to where I am now aching, to push between the inner flesh, to the tiny heartbeat that burns in anticipation of a mind-blowing physical flush. My legs are held apart by spring-balanced boards, pressure-sensitive to my growing ardor. Her tongue flicks lightly, and I fear now that I might actually drip on her, something one doesn’t normally notice mid-fuck.

  The soft, wet pressure-suction blend is almost more than I can bear, and I squeeze my thighs together, coming up against the genius of the “rack.” Resistance is causing my inner muscles to clench around nothing, as I am being made to wait, torturously, for each next element of pleasure. I grind my pubic bone into the “hip board,” as my lover has named the structure, with such originality, knowing that if something doesn’t happen soon, I’m going to scream “Fuck me, you bitch!” so loud that she’ll lose her lease.

  My lover has excellent timing. Just as my fingers clench harder than I thought possible into the pillow supporting her head, she slips three fingers into me, and I instantly bear down on them, not caring if I break her hand. My legs are (magically!) allowed to slide a bit closer together but not close enough to provide critical tension. I am so slippery that I feel as if her three fingers were nothing more than a Q-tip, and a cheap one at that. “Fuck me harder,” I mutter, groaning slightly, no longer caring if I sound like an ass. I almost feel her smile on my clit, as she removes her fingers and substitutes something longer and wider, and I almost buck against it, it’s so deep. It feels like three hands or her whole arm and I think I don’t give a shit what it is, I’ve never wanted to come so bad in my whole li—“Uh-uh-uh.” The boards are creaking slightly, and I almost lose it, praying the whole damn thing doesn’t collapse in a million pieces. My legs pull closer together, resistance easing as I approach the edge. Tighter, tighter, I don’t think all the Kegels in the world could have prepared me for this moment—small nuclear fusion bomb on a direct path from her tongue—explosion of heat and pain-pleasure rushing up through my stomach, down to my kneecaps. My head shoots forward and my fingers press through her hair to her scalp, and I try to control the riding of my hips, but my brain has shut down momentarily and she is gently sucking as if to coax the last few drops of tension out until finally I press my thumb into her mouth, easing her away, and I tumble off the rack onto the bed beside it. She crawls onto the sheet next to me and slowly begins to trace my hot and weary skin with her fingertips—

  “Do you really think that’s necessary?” she asks, rolling onto her elbows to let the fan blow in her face.

  Exhausted, I toss my discarded tank top and boxers off the bed and roll into the crevice between her triceps and her rib cage. “I guess it’s just one of those weird fantasies,” I muse. My hand slides over my stomach and down between my legs. “I’m going to be sore tomorrow,” I complain, drifting into sleep.

  A GIRL LIKE THAT

  Toni Amato

  She’s the kind of girl who brings out the worst in me. Coming on hip and cool and all into sex, rubbing some part of herself all up against some part of me every chance she gets. I’m not saying all the things my people taught me about women are so great, but I’ll tell you what, where I come from, that kind of girl is called a cock teaser.

  It’s like there’s this small thing, like those stars they talk about, those White Dwarves, sitting deep and low in my belly, and this girl comes along, doing her number, and that son of a bitch just goes nova.

  She makes the worst part of me want to do the best it knows how to teach her a thing or two about fucking. A thing or two she thinks she knows all about, but doesn’t have a goddamn clue. I know these middle-class types real well. See, it’s like they think they got the nasty down pat, ’cuz maybe they’ve done it with a couple dozen different folks, in a couple dozen different ways, and they’re like, liberated, you know, cutting-edge perverts.

  And this girl, I can tell she’s got a thing for hillbillies, biker trash, rough trade. Or at least, she thinks she does. She’s read a couple of books, seen a couple of movies, and now she thinks she wants herself a roll in the hay with one of them low-class types. ’Cuz we’re “such animals in bed.”

  But she don’t know from animal, except for that one time someone made her take it on all fours. All cosmetics and watching themselves in the mirror, thinking how naughty they are or, what’s that big word the college girls use? Oh yeah, transgressive.

  Makes me want to teach her another thing or two she hasn’t picked up yet, give her a couple of real life lessons—not all prettied up and theoried up. Couple of lessons she won’t forget but won’t be in such a hurry to brag about, either. Because it’s all about control for her, all about another notch in her lipstick case.

  But it ain’t gonna be that way, when I get a piece of her. It ain’t gonna be that way, ’cuz I’m gonna take all of her, and let me tell you, I know that girl ain’t got a fucking clue what it really means to be taken. She don’t know what they say, where I grew up, about how if you roll around with a pig, you end up dirty. That’s what she likes to think her sex is, and that’s what I’m gonna make her really feel like. Dirty.

  Gonna get her alone, somewhere, don’t care where, as long as she can make all the noise she needs to, as long as she can holler and scream and pound the walls. Gonna call her damn hand.

  ’Cuz I know that all it’s gonna take is me looking at her a little longer, next time she starts that shit, just me holding her eye a little harder. See, she’s sure she can get what she wants, whenever she wants in. Thing is, sometimes you got to be careful what you wish for.

  Want to take that girl and slam her up against a wall, kiss her till her lips are raw, and till she’s hoping I’ll let her come up for air. Maybe make her bleed, a little, and get that good taste of blood in my mouth. Want to see her eyes get wide and wild and maybe a little not so certain what she’s in for. Want to feel her teeth rattling against mine.

  Want to suck spit out of her mouth, then give it on back to her, start right off pushing at her edges.

  Want to rip her shirt off the way she thinks I’m supposed to do, on account of how hot sh
e makes me. Wreck the damn hundred-dollar thing she went and asked me how’d I think she looked in it, when what she really wanted was to see if I was thinking how’d she’d look out of it. Then I’m gonna show her my knife, the one I’ve had since I was a kid, the one I’ve used to skin deer. Gonna tell her all about it, too, while I trace it down her, neck to belly. Tell her how you do it fast and deep, like, while the blood’s still warm.

  Then she’s gonna be wondering what the hell she got herself into. She’s maybe played with knives before—the pretty, shiny kind that ain’t no good for nothing but show. But us hillbillies, we use tools, things you got to have to get the job done right.

  I want to push that short skirt she’s been waggling around in up over her hips and run my knife along the edges of her panties. If she’s even got panties on. Want to tell her how much I like to see it all shiny with pussy juice. Gonna cut the crotch right out, quick and clean, and leave her with a cool breeze blowing on her. Slap the flat side up against her bush, run the handle up in between her lips, maybe even let her clit feel how sharp I keep it. Wanna watch her try to crawl up that wall.

  And when she starts in like that, trying to get that sharp thing away from her tender spots, I’m gonna put one hand around her throat, gonna use the other one to put my knife between her teeth and tell her to hold it there. Tell her she’s got an awfully pretty face and she ought to be careful. Gonna lift that girl up and pin her against my hips. She’s small enough for it. Gonna push up against her so she knows what I got in my pants. Gonna make sure she knows how hard I am for her, gonna tell her my balls are hurting and she’s damn well gonna do something about it.

  Get her up against a wall like that, I’m gonna have her cute little ass sitting in my hands. That skirt, and the way she’s been walking around in it was supposed to make someone like me wanna fuck that ass. And I do. But first I’m gonna work it. Gonna fill my hands up with her asscheeks and work it, while I grind into her, dry humping, biting at her tits. I’m gonna suck those tits like candy, like I’m the hungriest man alive. Pull some of that soft skin in between my teeth and leave her a mark or two to remember me by.

  I ain’t gonna stop till I feel her go limp, till I can tell that she’s gonna need my help standing up. Play with her clit long enough till it feels like it’s gonna burst, with her ass till it’s making those little kissing moves. I ain’t gonna stop till it’s the last thing she wants me to do.

  Then I’ll let that girl fall. Hard. Let her fall to her knees and take a good look at the front of my jeans. Maybe she’ll still be trying to be cool, then, but it won’t be that way much longer. Gonna take my belt off and tie her hands together, behind her back. Gonna make her undo my button fly with her teeth. Bet she knows how, too, a girl like that. Gonna make it hard for her, pushing up against her face till her back hits the wall again, till she has to keep her balance by leaning against my cock.

  Then I’ll take it out for her. Let her see what she’s been toying with. Maybe slap her on the face a few times. With my cock. Tell her all about how that’s her new best friend and how she damn well better make him happy. How being teased makes him kind of cranky. Run my thumb along her lips, pushing up under them and along her teeth. Nice teeth. Hate to see anything bad happen to them.

  Wanna see her lipstick get smeared all along my cock, wanna see her lips get wide and full. Bet she gives damn fine head, a girl like that. Bet she never had anyone fuck her mouth till she gagged. Bet for all her selling herself as some new Linda Lovelace, she never woke up with the back of her throat sore.

  Gonna let her suck me off till I’m almost there, till I’m where, if I were a real boy, I’d be coming in her face. Kind of wish I could, too. Wish I could see it running down her chin just so I could wipe it away and tell her how good she is, doing a good cop-bad cop mind fuck on her. Girl like that, you got to work at keeping her off balance, got to pull a trick or two on her to make her realize she ain’t seen everything, yet.

  Then I’m gonna put my knife right up under the softest part of her jaw and tell her she better stop. Pull my cock out slow and rub it all over her face, make it all shiny and slick. Tell her how pretty she is.

  Gonna pull her up by her hands and spin her around. Take the belt off her and wrap it around my fist. Slap the end up against her pussy and make her lick it clean. Then I’m gonna wrap it around her neck, just tight enough to make her think. Gonna twist my hand away, making it hard for her to breathe, and tell her to bend over, tell her to reach down and spread that ass for me. Gonna tell her she better hope she got it good and wet, ’cuz I’m ready for a ride. Make her brace her hands against the wall and step in, wrapping my hands around her stomach, pulling her up against me. Gonna go so deep, she feels my jeans against her ass.

  Yeah, girl like that makes me want to fuck her down and dirty, slow and deep and long enough to make my brain take a vacation. Want to fuck her till all I see is red, all I hear is my cock pumping in and out of her. I want to take her breath away from her and just long enough to make her struggle, feeling how she moves on me, then let her go, fucking her in time with the way she’s gonna be gasping for air.

  And I’m gonna save the best for last. Gonna save that sweet little asshole till I feel her pussy clamping down on me, till I feel her thigh muscles start to shake. Gonna wait till I know she’s almost there. That’s when I’ll step back a little, pull her away from the wall, push her head down so she’s bent over with her ass up in the air. That’s when I’m gonna take her, for real, because there ain’t nothing like feeling all of a big old cock working its way in to make a girl give it up. And that’s what I’m gonna do, gonna make that girl give it all up to me, like she ain’t never done before. Gonna stand there with my boots on and slide my cock into her sweet ass and out again till I know she’s feeling every goddamn inch of it. Ain’t gonna give it to her proper till she begs.

  And I guaren-damn-tee she will. Because I’m gonna be that girl’s back door man. Gonna fuck that sweet ass of hers until we both get to grunting and hollering and doing it nasty like she ain’t never had it before. Till she don’t know up from down from sideways and I got her heartbeat right there in the palm of my hand. ’Cuz a girl like that brings out the best in me.

  LAST TEN BUCKS

  A. Lizbeth Babcock

  I call you, late and unexpectedly, and ask if I can come to your home. You say I can, which was my hope (of course). I come in a taxi, the better way, despite what the Toronto Transit Commission would have me believe. I wear only nylons and a short, sleeveless dress under my winter coat. My legs are clad in thigh-high boots. Your favorite. I am completely focused on you. Focused on what is about to happen. I struggle to ignore the incessant chatter of an annoying cabdriver, offering only a monotone mm-hmm where absolutely necessary. I am polite. I always have been.

  Finally, I arrive. You have left the porch light on for me. It is blazing on your darkened street, like a firecracker in the sky. I give the driver my last ten bucks, but I would have paid anything to see you tonight. I would have found a way to come.

  My attire does not surprise you but you are pleased, like when you anticipate that something will taste really good, and then it does. You tell me to go downstairs. I do. I wait, and soon you come too. You are wearing leather. You are fully dressed, fully butch. The sight and smell of your gear arouses me before we even touch. You are harnessed, already. I tell you what I need, even though I think you know. You pull the front of my dress down, exposing my tits. You don’t touch them, only look at them, and approve of them.

  You pull out several different toys from your special chest, where you keep your sacred treasures and the means through which you attain your most sadistic desires. I have never seen the full contents. They are sacrosanct, secured by lock and key, like dangerous weapons or precious jewels. You control them, and tonight, me.

  You make your selection, telling me why you have chosen this one over and above all of the others. You want to mark me, make me scream and s
quirm. I listen to your words like an eager student who has an aching crush on her teacher…the kind of crush you share with your girlfriends on the telephone while giggling, screeching, and making promises not to tell.

  You want me on my knees in front of you, and although I am cooperative, you push me down aggressively. You place the heel of your hand on my mouth and slide it across my face, making a messy streak out of my blood red lipstick. I offer up my arms to you, holding them together, my wrists exposed. Methodically, you tie my hands in front of me, always my preference with a newer playmate.

  We talked about that on our first date when we met for a late-night drink at a local pub. It was your intensity that struck me then—that held me there well beyond my self-imposed curfew. You looked deep inside of me that night, and everything around us was superfluous and inane. It was packed, as usual. But all of the other people were nothing more than moving colors, blends of light and dark around us, incoherent fusions of sound. I described to you my darkest fantasies and told you of my experience thus far.

  You watched my eyes and lips with intention as I spoke. Your sense of your own power was what made me wet, and I secretly pushed my crotch against the edge of my chair like an animal in heat. I imagined you fisting me right there—the table our stage, the patrons our audience. I was present but lost all at once.

  When I excused myself to use the washroom, you followed me in. You told me to lift my skirt for you, and you felt what you had done to me firsthand. You slid your fingers under the edge of my panties and fondled me. I stared into your eyes, completely defenseless. I leaned back against a long counter of sinks and let you have your way with me. I wanted to come all over your fingers in that moment. I wanted you to play with my clit mercilessly until my moans became so loud that you would have to cover my mouth and force my silence. You didn’t do that though. You didn’t let me come. You gave me just enough to make me want more. Just enough to make me need more from you. It was humiliating in a way, being forced to show you my wetness only to have you smile and walk away. I left that night with a sense of your ability to control me, to control a situation. And you did this with a seductive ease.