Bound and Bonded

by Kyoko Church

  I looked up at him while he pushed in deeper. He paused with his cock filling my mouth and smiled down at me. ‘See how good we are together, Calliope?’

  * * *

  It’s been glorious.

  Next day he drew up a contract for me to sign and gave me a list of rules and their penalties. It was great fun going through the list. I was throbbing for him by the time we’d finished. He must have found it pretty exciting too because the minute I’d signed he took me straight up to the office and gave me the first flogging I’d ever had in my life and slammed his cock into me there and then.

  I gave up my job to work for him from home. I fit work into my other duties, supervising calls, taking messages, preparing notes for his meetings, organising his cleaning and security staff, preparing his meals and getting ready for when he comes home.

  I get disciplined three times a week, and punishments on other nights unless I’m too sore. He’s very careful not to overdo things. For two days a week I’m not allowed clothes, so if we’re invited out or I’ve forgotten something in the shops I have to tell him and that earns a punishment.

  I’m on my toes all day, trying to juggle all my work with all his requirements. Any slip counts as an offence, so the punishments soon build up. The floggings take the longest, because he has such an expert touch. He can keep me poised on the brink for hours and I get very sensitive.

  After a particularly intense session on my breasts, say, or my inner thighs, I can get pretty weepy – even worse than after a caning, which hurts more but lasts only a few minutes.

  He soothes me afterwards. He says as my Dom he has a duty of care. Sometimes a session in the medical room, where he gently tends my sore backside, massaging it with creams, or fondles my tormented nipples after repeatedly snatching off the clamps, is so arousing it brings on more tears than the most severe caning. And then the sex …

  * * *

  But this week even the discipline falls flat.

  Take last night. He cuffed me to the trapeze for well over an hour with my legs splayed wide and cuffed to the floor. Then he just sat and watched. He had a riding crop over his knees but instead of teasing me with it until I cried out for more he just flexed it now and then and made some phone calls.

  When he finally released me he carried me to our room and tethered me to the bed, gagged and blindfolded. He kissed me all over while I mewed helplessly against the gag and then he buried his head between my legs and devoured me.

  Within minutes I was building to a massive climax. He knew I was close because he pulled away and untied the blindfold and the gag and then slid inside, ramming into me, his first thrust sending a wave of orgasm crashing over me. The spasms went on and on, and after I’d finished he held me tight until I fell asleep.

  Luscious. It was hours ago, I’m still aglow but I feel there was something missing. Where was the spice, the bite?

  And now I’m getting jumpy. I need the endorphins. I’m going to pieces without proper discipline. I’m dropping things, making real mistakes.

  Today I forgot to leave fresh flowers in his en-suite and instead of marching me straight up to the office for a belting – three strokes instantly for sloppy management, an addition to the list for the next punishment night – he just reached for his notepad and wrote down another number.

  * * *

  While I serve his meal I take a long look at the options. Maybe he’s busy at work. Maybe there’s some crisis on and he’s simply preoccupied. But then, he’s always busy at work. It can’t be that.

  Then an awful possibility dawns – he’s found somebody else.

  The thought terrifies me.

  He frowns at me across the table. ‘Are you OK, Calliope? You’re looking a little pale tonight.’

  I smile brightly. ‘I’m fine, truly.’

  I tremble with anticipation. This is one of the nights I’m not allowed to speak. If I do so, even if he asks me to, I earn a punishment.

  Will he notice? Does he even care?

  Apparently not. He says nothing, but jots down another number on the pad. During meals he’s started keeping it by his plate.

  I watch him eat. Will he complain about the half-raw carrots? I served them deliberately to test his reaction.

  Zilch.

  When I serve his dessert, a fragrant raspberry Pavlova, I hesitate before slipping under the table. This, too, risks a whipping. I have to skip dessert as I’m slimming. While he eats his I must kneel between his knees and pleasure him with my mouth.

  But he hardly notices my hesitation, and when I finally kneel he’s already finishing the last crumbs of meringue and it’s time to clear away.

  As I stack the things in the dishwasher the awful truth dawns.

  He doesn’t love me any more.

  It’s a terrible blow, but it’s the only possible explanation.

  With tears running down my face I finish clearing away the things. Everything seems blurred, even my role here. Blindly I stumble up to my room, pull open cupboard doors and stuff some clothing into a bag.

  In the mirror I look like a glamour model, all slinky heels, gleaming, curled hair, saucy outfit. Inside I feel like a wet rag.

  This isn’t working any more. He doesn’t want me.

  I tear off my outfit and pull on a pair of jeans, an old sweater and a sensible pair of trainers. I have a little money and my credit cards, but no paper for a note. I’d better leave him my mobile number, I suppose – then I realise he knows it already. In fact he’s got my mobile, so a swift getaway is not an option.

  Best be open about this, go downstairs and tell him straight.

  As I leave my room I see his office door is open, so hesitantly I knock, then peep round the door.

  He’s not there.

  In fact the whole apartment is quiet – where is he?

  I step into his office, my heart turning over at the sight of the spanking bench and all the equipment. Oh, the happy hours we’ve spent in here. The anticipation, the fear, the release – I swallow and tears well up again.

  Angrily I fight them back.

  On the desk I see his notepad. Curious, I glance through it. All I can see are the numbers he’s been writing all week.

  Why?

  It’s a terrible reminder of a ghastly week. But I mustn’t cry again, I’ve got to find him.

  Just then he walks in. I freeze, because being in here without permission is a big, big deal and once, back in happier times, could have proved very painful.

  He stands very still and looks at me, his expression shocked. ‘What are you doing here? And why are you dressed like that?’

  ‘I’m leaving. You don’t love me any more.’

  He frowns. ‘What?’

  Helplessly, I gesture towards the desk and the odious notepad. ‘The numbers – you just write things down – you don’t punish me properly – you don’t even see me –’

  I break off, overcome. The tears well up again.

  With a swift movement he steps up close and locks his arms around me. His eyes burn into mine. ‘Tell me, Calliope, what day is it?’

  I stare up at him wildly. ‘Day? How should I know? Thursday?’

  He kisses away my tears and tightens his grip. ‘It’s the day before our anniversary. Had you forgotten? Tomorrow we’ll have been together for a whole year.’

  Hope surges but I frown. I still don’t understand. ‘What about those numbers?’ I whisper. ‘And what happened to all the discipline?’

  He kisses me again and hugs me close, his eyes dancing, alive with excitement. ‘You’re always cooped up here. You really need a break. We’re going to a place in the country with a professional dungeon all to ourselves. I thought it might be fun to have some punishments to be getting on with.’

  He points to the contract pinned up over the desk. Below it is a scale of punishments – ‘breakages, four strokes of the strap – insolence, six strokes of the cane’ – there are twenty.

  The list is numbered.

&
nbsp; Joy and relief flood through me. ‘The numbers on your pad are punishments?’

  He smiles his full-on, film-star, megawatt smile. ‘Yep. Got it in one.’

  Oops.

  And I thought he’d stopped loving me.

  I lean up to kiss him and he claims my mouth, all honey and spice. When he pulls away he presses me close and I bury my face in his chest.

  Pierson’s Beautiful Cock

  Ashley Hind

  Pierson has a beautiful cock.

  That’s what it says, etched deep into the wooden fencepost next to the garage block behind the shopping parade. I should know because I wrote it. I did it five years ago, long before I had any real knowledge of what his dangly bits actually looked like, or those of any other lad for that matter. I just needed to write it, to give substance to the stuff of my fantasies. It wasn’t even to show off to my friends. I snuck out one evening and did it alone, nervous almost to the point of distraction that I might get caught in the act. Just seeing my handiwork made me tremble; it was almost like having him in me. Carving that one word ‘cock’ had the breath faltering in my chest and the blood fizzing through my veins, like his rigid tool was actually there before my eyes. I could barely stand up. It was all I could do to finish before running home to lock myself in my room.

  It is still visible today, although the stark yellow of freshly exposed timber that is still ingrained in my mind’s eye has weathered. Tellingly no one has added any kind of rebuttal, clearly because Pierson was and constantly remains a Sex God, to me and to a multitude of others. Now that vampires are back in vogue and black-haired, pale-skinned, brooding males are much admired, you can probably add countless more to the list. But I wanted him all along. It was he who was elected to take my virginity on my eighteenth birthday. He who ended up, albeit accidentally, introducing me to my penchant for a very particular kind of bondage fetish, thus bringing rapture to a land of frustration. Three years later, to the very day, he is to come to me again. This time, after all my years of waiting, I am finally going to get my fill of him.

  * * *

  I can use the word ‘bondage’ these days with impunity. It holds no fear for me as it once did because I understand it now. In fact, say it enough times and it becomes as benign and essentially ridiculous as all those other ‘–idge’ words, like ‘porridge’ or ‘sausage’. The name’s Bondage. James Bondage. Once upon a time, before I was in the know, I thought it a dark word, a black word. It conjured thoughts of secret unspeakable kinks, of whips and racks and mediaeval tortures. The image of slavery was there but mostly buried beneath thoughts of pain and ravished flesh. I wonder how many others still assume that to be ‘into bondage’ must mean you are either a sadist or a masochist? That you take your pleasure by torchlight, within dark dungeons, dressed in leather? Perhaps everyone by now has seen the light.

  I have no appetite for pain. I live to be restrained but I have no desire to be thrashed, caned, singed with candle wax, shocked with electric prongs or even tickled. Popular culture may these days allow our heroes to be pain-givers but to me there will always be something sinister about someone who takes pleasure from hurting others. It is not something I think we should normalise. To me, bondage is not about darkness and suppression. It is about a wonderful sunrise within your soul, an awakening, a freeing of your sexual spirit. To me the word no longer appears black in my mind’s eye, but gold. Perhaps this is because I ‘suffer’ from a rather particular affliction.

  I am, you see, an insatiable masturbator, a wankaholic. There is probably a genuine medical name for it, like megafrigomania, or something – I haven’t actually checked. Some might say the medical name for it is ‘being young’ but there are specifics to my problem beyond frequency. If I see or think of anything that makes me horny – and my imagination is always searching for things that will – I feel a compulsion to act on it immediately, almost as if I have to damp down the rising fire of lust through masturbation. I cannot allow the desire to build; I have to get my hand in my knickers.

  The action is frantic. It’s a race to finish myself off before the thoughts can bloom and grow. It always leads to a release but a premature one, a forced one, an unsatisfactory one. It is like I am tearing the climax from my body rather than letting it wash over me. It produces a dullness rather than a glow. It leaves bitterness and frustration rather than a contented smile. I cannot just sit on my hands. The urge to act overtakes me. I’ve tried everything, used all sorts of toys, but they just get cast aside if they don’t act quickly enough and my fingers become their customary blur on my poor little puss. The key point is I don’t have a compulsion to masturbate as such. I have a compulsion to act on my rude imaginings, almost as if my body is embarrassed that I’m having them, and the only way to do this is through masturbation.

  To compound this I have a dirty mind. Many things, even abstract ones, can set me off. Once, when out strolling with a friend on a sunny day, a proper rambling type passed us in the opposite direction. He was OK looking, with nicely tanned muscular legs, but that was by the by. The point was that I had already had an image of him demanding to fuck us both in that field, and so barely two minutes later I was squatting behind a hedge on the pretence that I needed to pee, just to rub the urges away. I could have spent the whole walk in secret glee, embellishing on the scenario, building up the back story before picturing my friend and me side by side on our knees with him swapping between us. Instead, before he was even out of sight, I was hiding in the undergrowth, wrenching out my sneaky orgasm.

  I have masturbated in alleyways and telephone boxes, in the back seat of a friend’s car and under tables in nightclubs. I have had to drag my hand out of knickers and run to stop me doing it completely out in the open, by some garages, just because etching the words ‘Pierson’ and ‘cock’ in the same sentence got me so het up. Once, in a pub, an unidentified female with a chubby bottom crammed into tight jeans bent over about two feet from where I was sitting. I saw the scraps of her diamante-encrusted whale-tail and maybe a third of her voluptuous behind. I remember actually slapping the table with my palms in my rush to push the chair away and get to the toilet. Just from that portion of female bum and its proximity to my face! I had to pretend to my friends I had an upset tummy, to cover my hurried exit.

  There may be no prevention, but there is something of a cure, albeit a temporary one. If I cannot get my hand in my knickers, I cannot douse the fire within. The thoughts and images are thus free to blossom. If you forcibly tie me, you set me free. You allow the pleasure to gather and build way beyond anything my body would allow if left to its own devices. You can give me the kind of wonderfully shivering, sweeping releases I automatically rob myself of. That is why to me bondage is now ever golden.

  My first experience of it could easily have been a disaster rather than the epiphany it proved to be. There I was on the bed in just knickers and bra, almost delirious with the prospect of surrendering my virginity to the man of my dreams, on the very day I was officially welcomed into adulthood. Pierson had those thick chrome rings on and was dressed in black as always, his shirt unbuttoned almost all the way down. This wasn’t specifically for my benefit. He arrived like that. He always seemed to arrive at gatherings thus – certainly the only male in these parts who could do so without getting run out of town or kicked to death for such pretentious affectations. The bell would sound and he would be there, draped against the doorframe, smouldering. The skin of his face and chest would show white against the rest of his blackness, and all the girls would coo and hatch instant secret plans to murder any rivals to his heart.

  Of course it wasn’t me who got him there. I had no chance of that. It was all down to Madeleine, the only person I have ever thought the equal of Pierson – a true Sex Goddess even back then and one of the very few he gave any respect to. I hadn’t even meant to invite her to my birthday gathering, since she had been in the year above me and outside my usual circle. However, she came into the deli where I worked at w
eekends. She seemed to like me for some reason, and I always found it impossible not to volunteer information of any kind to her, even if she didn’t ask for it. So, having told her about the party, I had to invite her.

  ‘I shall bring Pierson,’ she said. ‘I shall have him break you in.’

  Well, despite the equine images this produced, I was still beaming at her and clearly enraptured enough for her to want to make good the promise. I wasn’t there at the negotiations. I could picture her going to him, telling him she needed a favour. I could see him trying to bring my face to mind out of the sea of fawning females, deducing that I was reasonably blemish-free and not bad looking with make-up on. Certainly with a bit more to grab hold of than most of the pale waifs endlessly wafting around him. Probably more ‘normal’ too; less suicidal. He would have checked his diary before agreeing to do me this honour.

  So to the night in question: we had barely kissed and he used the time to strip me of my top and skirt. He put me on the bed and climbed on, smiling knowingly down at me. Then he asked if he could tie me. I said yes, or at least gasped it. I was too overwhelmed and flustered to even begin to think what it might mean. He was a Sex God so it had to be OK. He bound me to the headboard with silk ties found in my father’s wardrobe (my parents rather rashly having gone out to allow me the freedom of their house now I was an adult). Only when I was bound did he suddenly decide he needed to collect us some more alcohol from the kitchen for the evening, since he planned on spending a good long while with me.

  As it happened he didn’t return. I found out later that he had been waylaid at the fridge by another girl jealous of his attentions towards me. Maybe she was better looking than I but that’s not why he stayed. He stayed because she was flirting outrageously and he saw an opportunity to exert control, and that is the thing that always makes him tick. He informed this boy-stealing beauty that if she wanted him, she would have to suck him off, right there in the kitchen, in front of all those onlookers. She wasn’t the type one would assume would comply, but she was tipsy and randy and scared of losing face, so she got on her knees and did his bidding, even collecting a nice round of applause at the end for swallowing it all down.