Best Bondage Erotica 2013

by Rachel Bussel

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Foreword

  Introduction

  AN INTRODUCTION TO SHIBARI

  THIS IS ME HOLDING YOU

  TYING THE KNOT

  THE GREAT OUTDOORS

  WHAT VACATIONS ARE FOR

  LIGHTS OUT

  Round One—Marc

  Round Two—Max

  Round Three—Draw

  FEELING THE HEAT

  YOU CAN LOOK…

  THE MOONS OF MARS

  INTERLUDE FOR THE TROOPS

  HOT IN THE CITY

  PASSION PARTY PURGATORY

  STEADFAST

  TREE HUGGER

  A PUBLIC SPECTACLE

  SEVEN MORE DAYS

  A BIT OF A TANGLE

  WHEELBARROW POSITION

  THE LONGEST AFTERNOON

  PLASTIC WRAP

  WIPED

  FOOT AND MOUTH

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  ABOUT THE EDITOR

  Copyright Page

  FOREWORD: UNCOMFORTABLE TRUTHS

  Graydancer

  …I whimper as the future pain whispers to me, and he looks down at me with what would typically be called contempt, except I know it as love.

  —“Foot and Mouth,” Rachel Kramer Bussel

  There is truth in this book.

  It’s not a truth that most of our culture is comfortable with, but it is truth nonetheless. Personally, I think it’s an important truth. I’ve dedicated a significant portion of my life to it.

  In case you’re wondering: it’s not about the bondage.

  There’s a lot of that here. There are bandannas, leather cuffs, plastic wrap, several varieties of rope, bungee cords, even a form of bondage and torture I’ve never even imagined. And that’s saying something.

  The bondage is not the point. If this were just a book about taking away the ability to move, it could just be used as masturbatory fodder and set aside. Cultural critics could safely label it “porn” and consign it to the sargasso of unworthy literature.

  It’s the other bonds in this book that make it more than porn. The bonds of marriage. The ties of duty and the prison of horrific memories associated with military service. The burden of years wearing down relationships, the tight restriction of repressed desires. You find all of these in the book, and it is the mixture of them with the hot bondage that makes the keepers of the cultural status quo squirm.

  There are many ways people deal with these unpleasant realities of Western culture, from psychotherapy to extreme sports to watching reality TV shows. Some of these work well for a lot of people. Some need something different. They deal with the oppressions of life by giving them substance. A scarf tied around a wrist, a corset constricting the breath, the illusion or the physical reality of what they already feel: I can’t escape. There’s nowhere to go.

  That makes Americans, especially, uncomfortable. Never surrender! Empowered, not helpless! The victim is never admired. Our mythos is all about overcoming limitations. Some plucky heroine or clever hero finds a way through any problem and within the hour or two of the dramatic arc, things will all end up all right. We are ingrained with the responsibility to be that person, and if we’re not, we have failed.

  This makes a situation where there are no choices left very seductive. It’s a fantasy of enforced trust, no options save surrender, where there is no longer any need to weigh the factors or question your motives or do anything except experience what is happening.

  Bondage is just a container for experience. A lot of things can happen within the parentheses of it going on and coming off. A physical ordeal, proof that the bound can survive pain and depredation and pleasure. A luxurious womblike security of being cared for, valued, caressed and treasured while helpless. It can be a sacred ritual, sex magic, personal catharsis, a cathedral of straining muscles and futile effort. Try as hard as you can to escape and either feel the triumph of success or the solace of futility and the sweet release from trying. It is the exhilaration of defeat. It is the joyous honor of surrender.

  Within these stories you’ll find another aspect of the human psyche that people try to ignore, what Jung would have called the “shadow.” For everyone who is bound, there is someone doing the binding, someone who is being asked to forego the niceties of polite society and take away freedom. Within the parenthetical rituals of fastening and loosening, more is asked—to administer pain, to use words or deeds to humiliate, use, and hurt (but not harm) their willing subject. They have to go, as one author put it between these pages, “to that dark place.” If you can, as you read these stories, spare a thought for how traveling through these dark places where the shadows lie changes the guide as much as the guided.

  When a knot tightens, a buckle latches, it is a connection of trust and consent at a base level. Before, you could. Now, you cannot. It is an essential change of state, an exchange of power more direct than office politics or passive-aggressive relationship games. That clarity is refreshing. There is no ambivalence to it. There is relationship, mutual vulnerability, intimacy, for a short time or for a lifetime.

  That is the truth of these pages. People choose bondage—whether in real life or only in their erotica—because through it they find freedom. They find a place where their shadow can be nurtured, where they can rest or struggle, as their need demands. They find connection with each other and with the hidden parts of themselves.

  Sure, it’s hot. The stories in this volume are fantasies, even those that are based on reality. They will make you hard, make you wet, make that part of your lizard-brain in the back of your head stir restlessly and make growly noises. That’s more than just your gonads and fantasies, though.

  That’s truth. Fight against it all you want, it’s no less true. Eventually, you’ll surrender to it, or be overcome by it.

  That’s when the fun begins.

  INTRODUCTION: LOVING BONDAGE ANYWHERE AND EVERYWHERE

  One of the main things I look for when editing the Best Bondage Erotica series is variety. I want a mix of types of people being tied up, a range of implements used to bind, a diverse setting for these kinky scenarios. This year, I got all that and more—much more.

  I was especially pleased to see that several authors threw open the bedroom door and took their kinky play outside. In “The Great Outdoors,” “Wheelbarrow Position” and “Tree Hugger,” you’ll find some very creative bondage that borders on exhibitionism, as well as full-on exhibitionism in “A Public Spectacle.” The excitement of being exposed, of baring your body to the elements and not being able to escape should someone walk by, is expounded on with kinky delight in these tales.

  The variety doesn’t end there. There are newcomers, whether to bondage or specific types of bondage play, from shibari to a simple rope harness, plastic wrap to handcuffs to a chastity tube. There are sex toys, all manner of them, from a special pink ribbon to a Hitachi Magic Wand, and they come into play in ways that will surprise and delight you, but what I’m most thrilled about with this collection is what the men and women feel once they are tied up, bound, restrained, at someone else’s mercy. Here’s a sampling:“…this is a stranger for whom I want to be the very best toy ever.” (“The Moons of Mars”)

  “She focused on her breathing. Taking slow, deep breaths, she stared back at him, daring him to do his worst.” (“The Longest Afternoon”)

  “The blatant hunger on his face almost made up for the last year of neglect. But he was struggling against his bonds now, and that just wouldn’t do.” (“Lights Out”)

  “Maybe it’s because I’m a sucker that I fall for it every time. Maybe I just want to. But when I see and hear him taking out the duct tape, I squirm in anticipat
ion.” (“Foot and Mouth”)

  These characters find themselves appreciating even the discomfort of bondage, trading their autonomy for something greater, something that sets them free—from convention, from daily life, from their usual roles. It’s that freedom to exult, strut, mouth off and give and take pleasure that I hope comes across the strongest in these pages. For while these stories take place in a variety of settings, using all sorts of implements and household items, what they have in common is desire, curiosity and a willingness to pursue them, even when you’re not sure where the journey will take you. I hope dedicated bondage fans, newcomers and those of you who share that curiosity about the thrills of being tied to a tree or a chair or a bed, will keep this book handy and be inspired to dream up, and live out, your own fantasies.

  Rachel Kramer Bussel

  New York City

  AN INTRODUCTION TO SHIBARI

  Elizabeth Coldwell

  “I know I say this every year, but I’m going to enroll in a class.”

  I didn’t need to look up from my computer screen to gauge Justine’s reaction. I knew she’d be rolling her eyes in a sarcastic whatever gesture. When the local further education college published its prospectus for the coming year, I always studied it intently, convinced this would be the year I did something to broaden my mind. But even though the college offered evening classes in everything from pottery to car maintenance to conversational Greek, nothing appealed. That was why I’d chosen to look farther afield.

  “Honestly, Mike, I’ll believe it when I see it.” Justine rose from the sofa. “Cup of tea?”

  “That would be great, thanks, and when you come back, let me show you exactly what I have in mind.”

  The expression on Justine’s face when she placed my mug down on the table beside me was priceless. Whatever she’d been expecting, it wasn’t this web page, with its eye-catching photograph of an Asian woman suspended in an intricate web of thick, white ropes.

  “Shibari for Beginners.” Justine read the words out loud. “Mike, what is this exactly?”

  “Japanese rope bondage. Isn’t it amazing? This is the website of a guy who calls himself Master Ty. He’s supposed to be the leading expert of the art in the country, and he’s taking bookings for a couple of workshops at the moment. D’you fancy it?”

  She considered the photograph, taking in every detail of the model in her rope-work cocoon, no doubt wondering how it would feel to be helplessly bound in such a fashion. Willing as she was to step beyond the vanilla, I knew Justine had strongly defined limits, and for a moment I thought she wouldn’t go for it. Then she said, “Why not? You’re always saying we should try something new. Who knows, it could be fun.”

  “Great. I’ll see what dates he has available.”

  I didn’t click on the link to contact Master Ty straight away. There were more photos of the same model in his gallery, and I spent time looking at every one of them. In my mind, it was Justine whose limbs were bound in increasingly tortuous poses, Justine whose face held an expression somewhere between anguish and the purest ecstasy as she hung in willing suspension. Under the bed, I kept a well-thumbed stash of bondage magazines, acquired when I’d first realized quite how turned on I got by the thought of tying a girl up. I’d read and reread them so many times some of the pages had all but fallen out, but I couldn’t bring myself to throw them away. They’d formed my ideas of how a girl in bondage should look and behave, and I still felt myself growing hard whenever I read stories about hog-tying a rebellious brat into submission. But as I admired the intricacy of the shibari bindings, I found in them a mystery I longed to explore. In comparison, a simple hog-tie seemed somehow old-fashioned and functional, effective as it might be.

  I dreamed of tying Justine up in such a fashion. She’d look absolutely gorgeous with rope wound around the base of her breasts, constricting them slightly, so the skin of those pert mounds was suffused with a rosy flush. Another length of rope would, with expert guidance, be placed between the lips of her sex, putting a subtle, insistent pressure on her clit, keeping her on the verge of orgasm. But with her movements restricted, she wouldn’t be able to wriggle and create enough friction to make herself come. I’d long fantasized about tutoring Justine in delayed gratification, preventing her from coming until I decided she’d earned the privilege, and this seemed like an ideal way of learning some of the skills I’d need to play that game effectively.

  At last, tearing my eyes away from the gorgeous images in the gallery, I went to make the booking.

  “Slight problem,” I called out, causing Justine to come hurrying back to the PC. I swiveled in my chair to face her. “The beginners’ workshops he’s advertising are both completely sold out. But he does offer private tuition sessions. They cost a little more, but he’d come to us, and it means we’d have his undivided attention for a couple of hours. What do you think?”

  Justine nodded. “Sounds fine to me. I must admit, I was a bit nervous about doing this in front of a bunch of strangers, but if it’s just me and you…”

  “Okay, then I’ll see when he can fit us in.” Under the desk, my cock, already excited by the images I’d been viewing, stiffened further at the thought that soon I’d be learning how to put my lovely Justine in Japanese bondage. Once I’d emailed Master Ty, I’d see if I couldn’t persuade her to peel off her panties and reveal whether the thought of being tied up got her just as horny as it did me. Grinning with anticipation, I started to fill in the inquiry form.

  Master Ty had a slot available sooner than I’d expected. A cancellation meant he could fit us in the following Sunday. Such short notice meant neither Justine nor I had time to develop cold feet and think about backing out of the arrangement. Instead, we followed the instructions he sent us in advance of the session to the letter. We’d acquired some lengths of conditioned hemp rope—Master Ty had told us jute was more traditional, but I hadn’t been able to find any in such a short space of time, and he’d assured us hemp was a better than adequate substitute. In preparation for his arrival, we’d moved the coffee table and the easy chair out of the living room to give us plenty of floor space, made sure we had a jug of water and bowls of nuts and dried fruit to snack on, and dressed in a minimum of clothing. “Underwear or shorts are best, maybe a T-shirt,” Master Ty had advised us. “Nothing restrictive, and nothing you’ll be too warm in.” For Justine, that meant a pink vest with the thinnest of straps and a pair of lacy black boy shorts. I’d raised an eyebrow, surprised she hadn’t opted to cover up a little more, given that we were welcoming a stranger into our home, but she seemed quite happy with her choice. Meanwhile, I was in a faded navy T-shirt that I now wore only for sleeping in, and black jersey trunks. I really hoped I didn’t get an erection at any stage of the proceedings, though I was sure Master Ty had seen it all before in the course of running his shibari sessions, but at least the T-shirt was long enough to disguise the evidence if I did.

  Just before ten, I heard a sharp knock on the front door. Master Ty, right on time. I had to admit he wasn’t quite what I’d been expecting. When we’d been corresponding, I’d pictured someone in his forties or fifties, with years of experience in the BDSM scene. Instead, he couldn’t have been much older than midtwenties—younger than Justine and me by nearly a decade—with dark hair shaved down almost to the skull and a thick steel tunnel in his left ear, stretching the lobe wide. The black sleeveless vest he wore showed off the blackwork tattoo running the length of his right arm, and his legs were tanned where they emerged from baggy shorts. His handshake was as firm as my own, and he had an easy, relaxed air that made me warm to him. Moreover, a faintly dominant aura clung to him, and I sensed instinctively that Justine would find him attractive, though I wasn’t sure why it made a difference. All I knew, as I led him through to the lounge, was that he appeared to be someone we’d both be comfortable around.

  “You must be Justine, right?” he said, enveloping her in a quick hug. “Nice to meet you.” He shrugged off t
he backpack he’d been carrying over one shoulder, setting it down on the floor. He’d promised to fetch rope, in case we hadn’t been able to find anything suitable in time. I wondered what other tools of his trade he might have brought with him.

  Master Ty settled himself on the sofa, gesturing to us both to sit. “Before we start with the actual techniques, I wanted to talk you through what we’re going to be doing today; explain a little bit about the history of Japanese rope bondage, the psychological aspect of tying someone up—and doing the tying—and the safety aspect, which is the most important thing of all. ‘Always safe, always consensual,’ that’s my motto.”

  “Can I get you a cup of tea?” Justine asked, realizing it would be a while before we got round to the practical part of the session.

  “Thank you. Milk, two sugars, please.”

  So we sat and drank tea while Master Ty talked us through what we could expect from our session with him, me on the sofa by his side, Justine sitting cross-legged on the floor at our feet. In that position, the slight dampness in the crotch of her shorts was all too visible, and I’m sure she was completely aware of the view she was giving us both, the black lace stretched tight over her pussy lips. But she acted as though she didn’t know she was giving us a teasing little show.