Best Bondage Erotica 2

by Alison Tyler

  “I ain’t givin’ you shit! You always askin’ for money.”

  Tyrell looked at Chavale. “Well, damn, you got any money, baby?”

  Reigus and Mike laughed. Doneshia nudged Chavale’s side and Chavale stood quiet.

  “Why don’t she talk? She dumb or somethin’?” Reigus asked.

  “I don’t know, but she fine as hell ain’t she? What’s your name, shorty?” Mike asked.

  “Her name is Chavale and she don’t want your funky ass!” Doneshia yelled, grabbing Chavale’s arm. “Fuck y’all, we gone!”

  “Go get me a pop and a bag a them chips I like,” Doneshia ordered Chavale once inside the store. “Walk slow so I can check that ass.”

  Chavale smiled shyly, looking over at the Chinese man behind the register, wondering if he had heard. She strolled over to the aisle swinging her generous behind under a snug, short skirt. When she got to the chips, she bent over slowly, reaching for a bag on the bottom shelf. She turned to look at Doneshia, who smiled wickedly at the sight of her tight cheeks peeking out from under the hem. Then Doneshia pointed at the sodas. Chavale held the bag of chips in her hand and sashayed over to the fridge. After they’d paid for the snacks and left the store, they continued on to Doneshia’s parents’ apartment.

  Doneshia had first met Chavale when they were both sixteen, in high school. It was 95 degrees and Doneshia had been sitting in the back of the class, ignoring the teacher, fanning her dark, chubby body with her papers. In walked Chavale, the new girl. Every boy in class stared at the pale-brown beauty with the wavy, black hair, and so did Doneshia. But when Chavale took her seat, she gazed at Doneshia, oblivious to the other stares. Even at sixteen, Doneshia knew she’d fuck her.

  Now Doneshia was twenty-two and out of the closet with Christian parents who didn’t approve of her homosexuality. But they were gone for the day. She’d sneak Chavale in, like she always did, and they wouldn’t know a damn thing.

  “Go stand in my bedroom,” Doneshia ordered.

  “Can I have some chips?” Chavale asked.

  “I didn’t say you could speak. You speak when I tell you to.”

  Chavale put her hands on her hips. “This game don’t make no sense!” she shouted.

  “Look, girl, you open your mouth again and you’ll see what you get!”

  Chavale looked at the floor, hesitated a moment, and then slunk into the bedroom.

  Doneshia smirked. “That’s right—go on in there.” She carried the soda and the bag of chips and followed behind Chavale, taking a seat on the edge of her bed.

  “Take them clothes off nice and slow and I want you to look at me when you do it.”

  Chavale blushed, with a shy smile, her face also flushed with heat. Doneshia felt that same heat between her legs.

  The shoes came off first and then Chavale removed her skirt. She wore no panties and she was shaven. Doneshia had done it, even though Chavale protested the entire time. “I ain’t tryin’ to fight through all that damn hair,” Doneshia had announced as she glided the razor over Chavale’s pubes. Now, when Chavale pulled her top off, her large bare breasts bounced in freedom.

  Doneshia looked at Chavale’s naked body in silence for a moment. “That’s nice, real nice,” she said softly. “You can talk now. You want some chips?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, what?”

  “Yes, mister.”

  “Say ‘yes, mistress.’ I ain’t no mister!”

  “I’m sorry—yes, mistress.”

  “That’s better. Now come over here and get some.”

  Chavale hurried over to Doneshia. “Open your mouth,” Doneshia ordered.

  Chavale opened her mouth and Doneshia pulled a chip out of the bag and placed it gently onto Chavale’s tongue. She munched on it slowly, staring into Doneshia’s eyes.

  “Pop?” Doneshia asked.

  “Yes, mistress.”

  She opened the bottle and placed it against Chavale’s lips. Chavale took a sip and then Doneshia lost control and pulled Chavale close, pushing her hand into her fleshy ass, kissing her hungrily on the lips. Chavale ground her pubic bone and pressed her generous breasts against Doneshia’s plump body. But then Doneshia pushed Chavale off.

  “That’s enough!” Doneshia said. “Now sit down!” Chavale sighed and slumped onto the bed.

  Doneshia walked over to her closet and opened it. Chavale watched as she rummaged for something way in the back. She emerged with a sealed brown box.

  “What you get?” Chavale asked.

  “It’s somethin’ I ordered off the Internet,” Doneshia said as she placed the box on the bed, pulling the tape off. “My momma almost opened this shit. It came when I wasn’t home.” She reached into the box and pulled several items out.

  Chavale’s brown eyes grew wide. “What’s that?”

  “They hoods. We puttin’ ’em on.”

  “I ain’t wearin’ that!” Chavale said, rolling her eyes in defiance.

  “What you mean you ain’t wearin’ it? You do what I say, remember?”

  “They scary lookin’.”

  “No they ain’t. This the one I wear and this the one you wear, ’cause you my slave.”

  “I ain’t no slave!”

  “Hush!” Doneshia shouted. “Now put it on like I tell you to!”

  “Yes, mistress!” Chavale said sarcastically.

  Doneshia shot her a look and Chavale lowered her head.

  “Say it and mean it,” Doneshia commanded.

  “Yes, mistress.”

  “Good, now put it on.”

  “How?”

  “What you mean, how? Just put the shit on!” Doneshia took her own black hood and pulled it over her head. There were holes in the leather for her eyes, and the front of the mask stopped above her nose and mouth, allowing her to breathe freely.

  Chavale giggled and then put her hands over her mouth.

  “Stop laughing, girl,” Doneshia said, trying to suppress her own laugh. “Put it on.”

  “It smells funny,” Chavale said as she pulled her hood over her face. Hers was similar to Doneshia’s, except that her eyes were covered.

  “That’s ’cause the leather’s new, that’s all.”

  “I don’t like this. I can’t see nothin’.”

  “I don’t want you to see. Now lie on the bed and don’t talk.”

  Doneshia returned to her closet and searched around again.

  Chavale sat up abruptly. “What you fixin’ to do?”

  “I’m gonna put somethin’ over your mouth if you don’t shut up, girl.”

  Doneshia walked back over to her bed holding four short pieces of clothesline. She grabbed one of Chavale’s hands and started to tie it to the headboard.

  “What you…?”

  “Hush!” Doneshia shouted.

  Chavale kept quiet as Doneshia tied her other hand and her feet to the bed. Then Doneshia climbed on top of her. She put her lips against Chavale’s neck and felt a vein there throbbing with nervousness and anticipation. The sight of Chavale wearing a hood made Doneshia gush. Just like the pictures on the Internet, this turned her on. As soon as she got some more money, she’d order more stuff. She liked this game.

  Doneshia ran her tongue down Chavale’s neck and to her breasts until it danced over her large nipples. Chavale moaned.

  “Shhh,” Doneshia said.

  Then Doneshia pushed her face into Chavale’s stomach, sticking her tongue in and out of her navel. This made Chavale giggle, but this time Doneshia didn’t quiet her. She brought her tongue to Chavale’s mound and Chavale squirmed and bucked. She knew what Chavale wanted. She wanted it too.

  “You can talk again,” Doneshia said. “Who do you love?”

  “You,” Chavale said. “I love you.”

  Doneshia flicked her tongue at Chavale’s hard clit. Her juices were so heavy they were smeared along the insides of her thighs. Her sweet musk permeated the room. Doneshia was wet too. By now her panties and even her pants were so
aked. But she kept her clothes on.

  “What you want me to do, eat your cootchie?”

  “Yes!”

  “Yes, what?”

  “Yes, mistress.”

  Doneshia dived into Chavale’s cunt. With the girl’s folds shaven, Doneshia could get right to what she wanted. She licked furiously at Chavale as Chavale opened her legs wide, struggling with the clothesline.

  “Oooooh, mistress!” Chavale screamed.

  Doneshia pulled her wet face out of Chavale’s cunt and grinned. “That’s right, baby, I’m your mistress!”

  Her Beautiful Long Black Overcoat

  Bill Noble

  The Mercedes eased to the curb somewhere deep in San Francisco’s industrial underbelly. The purr of its engine died away. Tatters of newspaper hopped and skidded under the glare of a single sputtering streetlamp.

  I nervously raised an eyebrow. “Where’s the club?”

  “At the end of the block. Most people park around the corner on Folsom.”

  The “club” was the City’s reigning BDSM establishment, the Cathedral. The Mercedes’ diminutive driver was Caryl Leverett, sixty-something venture capitalist and one of California’s most relentless Republican fundraisers (I’m a penniless liberal; at my lover’s request, I’d left my Dean button in the dresser drawer). The flickering streetlight transformed Caryl’s snowy hair into an improbably cherubic halo.

  My lover sat quietly in the backseat, not speaking unless spoken to. I ached to touch her, to reassure or to be reassured.

  Caryl cleared his throat. “Deirdre,” he said. I heard the rustle as she came to attention.

  “You may have forgotten about opening our doors,” Caryl said. His voice held a carefully modulated mix of annoyance and indulgence.

  Deirdre got out of the car, her overcoat wrapped around her just a little too tightly. She opened Caryl’s door first, of course, and stepped back respectfully as he emerged; then she came and held my door. I tried to use my best puppy eyes to send a little love, but she kept her gaze obediently on the pavement. Maybe it was me who needed the reassurance.

  Caryl handed her the keys. She opened the trunk and extracted a heavy leather duffel bag, looped its strap over her shoulder, and brought the keys back.

  He smiled at me, an expansive smile for such a spit of a man—he barely cleared five-four—and lifted a black-gloved hand in the direction of the club. “Shall we go?”

  As we started out, Deirdre, lugging the forty-pound bag of toys that Caryl would use on her tonight, walked a respectful half-dozen paces behind us. Had anyone been on the street to see us, we would have made a curious chiaroscuro: Caryl with his flaring eyebrows and mobile, alert face; me, a thirty-three-year-old wannabe and showing it, shivering in my just-bought black shirt and dangling triskelion from eBay; and Deirdre, elegant and silent in her ankle-length black overcoat. Her shining hair, pale in the glare of the single sodium streetlight, swept almost to her waist.

  I don’t know what I’d been expecting, but it wasn’t a rusting, corrugated iron wall three stories high, interrupted only by an ancient door that screeched in protest as Deirdre opened it for us. And it wasn’t the paunchy, broad-shouldered man in leathers who checked Caryl against the guest list and eyed my ID. And it certainly wasn’t the cocktail-party decorum in the vast, complicated dungeon inside.

  At the cloakroom, Deirdre shrugged quickly out of her overcoat, turning heads as she did so. Caryl’s elegant leather collar emphasized the slenderness of her neck. My lithe lover—Caryl’s chattel for the evening, I reminded myself—wore a black halter with bright, dangling chains that teased her nipples to perpetual arousal. Black net stockings began at mid-thigh and terminated within spike heels. The heels gleamed the color of old blood. Tension constricted my throat, but a steady clutch of arousal churned in my groin.

  Caryl took me on a tour as Deirdre went, eyes down, to fetch us drinks. It was still on the early side for a San Francisco party, so only a single scene was in progress: a tall black woman systematically flogged a sinewy man who was bound over something that looked like a vaulting horse. Clusters of people chatted among the machinery, the cages, and the Saint Andrew’s crosses, some in fetish gear, some in casual dress. Some of the machinery was ominously intimidating, and some of the people might have been flown in from the set of Rocky Horror, but what struck me most was the essential ordinariness of the low chatter.

  Caryl ensconced us in high-backed chairs that faced two massive wooden crosses. When Deirdre returned, drinks in hand, he instructed her to lay out the toys. When she was through, he turned to me. “Are you still comfortable with being an observer?”

  I nodded, trying a little too hard, I think, to communicate suave confidence. Maybe this evening had been a really bad idea; maybe I didn’t want to see what my lover did on her nights out.

  The ruby studs on Caryl’s black shirtfront glittered. “Don’t get close unless I tell you to—I don’t want to worry about striking you accidentally—and as the evening gets busier, be careful not to impinge on the scenes around us. And if our play distresses you and you need to leave, no one will be offended.”

  He stood and led Deirdre to the right-hand cross. He stripped her naked wordlessly; with a tightening in my stomach, I watched the first signs of heavy-lidded arousal invade her face, watched my lover give herself up utterly to this wealthy, politically alien man I’d only met once before. With an easy expertise diminished only by his straining on tiptoes to reach the high rings, he buckled her face-in, arms angled above her head, legs spread and chained at the ankles.

  He flogged her. Flogged her with a skilled, relentless rhythm. Flogged her until her ass and back glowed cherry red.

  The flogging was almost more than I could bear. My cock was ready to burst—and I wanted to run, to call a cab and flee for home. I was wracked with guilt for being so turned on.

  He turned her face-out. I could see she was deep in what she had told me was her “sub-space,” lost in the torrent of sensation and turn-on. Watching her slack face, her vulnerable breasts, her delicate genital hair—arousal and dread soared together in me.

  He began flogging her again in this new position. What I had been witnessing was just the beginning. He progressed to cruel-looking, vibrating nipple clamps that pulled from her the first cries of pain and then a writhing, red-faced orgasm. A black box among the array of toys was an “electrostimulation device,” something brand-new in my experience. Deirdre loosed startled howls as he probed her nipples and her now-glistening labia.

  The intensity grew and grew. And my tension grew right along with it. Deirdre got together with Caryl only a few times a year, and always for power play. I knew about their relationship from the first, of course: we have no secrets from each other. I’d asked nearly a year before if I could accompany them to a scene. Power play was part of an erotic world I knew next to nothing about, but on the nights my lover disappeared into Caryl’s world, I ached to know what was happening. Caryl’s invitation to me had been tendered a few weeks before.

  The evening had begun with dinner at a busy, fashionable restaurant. Caryl and Deirdre hadn’t “played” as we ate; it was simply a social occasion. Except that Deirdre never took off the long black coat…and I never lost my awareness of what she wore—or didn’t wear—beneath it, or what was happening to her nipples as she spooned her vichyssoise.

  The snap of Caryl pulling on a latex glove brought me back into the room. Nose to nose with her, three fingers thrusting into her, he brought my lover to a pleading, head-tossing orgasm that left her hanging slack in her chains, spent. He kissed her in the aftermath, formally but quite tenderly. It wasn’t a bad performance for a Republican, and it was an opportunity for me to struggle with the uncomfortable truth that their kiss churned up more jealousy than her orgasm.

  He turned to me with impeccable timing: “Would you like to have a little time to connect with her?”

  I mumbled something that was intended as a yes and stood. Caryl lif
ted Deirdre’s silken hair from her face and caressed her cheek with a finger. He spoke to her gently: “Is it all right if I’m away for a few minutes?” He gestured: “He’ll be here for you.”

  She kissed his hand in assent.

  As Caryl walked away Deirdre struggled to raise her head. She brought her eyes to focus with a loving look. “Are you all right?” she murmured.

  “Am I alright? I’m not being beaten and electrocuted!”

  I stepped toward her where she hung and gave her an open-mouthed kiss. “It’s hard watching. Harder than I thought.”

  She nudged my cock with her knee and grinned an exhausted, walleyed grin. “Good,” she said, “as long as it’s not too hard.”

  I brushed my lips down her neck, struggling to suppress the fine shaking that had seized me since the flogging began. “Are you all right?” I asked. “And how is it having me here?”

  “It’s what I wanted.”

  Her whisper was barely audible over the tumult of the couple next to us. There, a bristly-bearded young man was flogging a porcelain-featured Chinese woman: a relentless, two-handed rain of blows, the whack of leather and the woman’s cries almost continuous. Sweat streamed from both their bodies. Astonishingly, the woman was unrestrained: she held her body to the cross through sheer will.

  Caryl returned. He gave Deirdre a drink of water and without a word, turned her so that her backside was again exposed. As he clipped in the last chains, he invited me to stand in the narrow space behind the cross. Stomach leaden with dread, I took my place.

  He began again, this time wielding a flogger with a thick, braided handle and terrifyingly thin, cruel falls. My face was a foot from Deirdre’s. She held my eyes with her own, wide, undefended, and blue. I shook. She was calm, transparent to the sensations that assaulted her.

  This flogging made what had gone before seem like a trivial preliminary. Caryl had unbuttoned his shirt and rolled up his sleeves. His hair whipped his face as he whipped my lover. My nostrils filled with the stench of leather and pain. As the session intensified, my ears filled with my lover’s cries, wrenched from her, impact after impact.