My girl walks back into the light and, rather indelicately, climbs onto the black leather spanking horse in the center of the spotlight. She rests her feet and hands on leather-covered bars that run down the sides of the horse, for her comfort. I follow her into the spot and clip one ankle to a ring on the side of the horse and move up toward her head. I clip her wrist, then make my way around the front of her and follow suit with her other wrist and ankle.
I pause to admire her spread cheeks, with the black thong bisecting them, bottom slightly raised. I run my hand over an asscheek and slide a finger under the T at the top of the thong, bringing it down all the way to the mound of her pussy, but no farther. I slide my finger back up and smooth the thong back against her spread cheeks. I give one a little smack. Working my way back up again, I take a handful of hair and lift her head, enabling me to attach the snap hook to her collar and then to the ring at the head of the horse. “Make me proud,” I say—only for her ears.
It’s at this point, when I finish fastening her to whatever piece of furniture I wish to start with, I feel the low buzz of electricity. It starts in my chest and begins to spread. It spreads up to my head and down to my clit and puts me in the proper frame of mind for the game ahead.
My girl is beautiful in her submission. Fastened as she is in this posture, she is the most beautiful girl in the world. She will be even more beautiful and desirable as we go on. I can sense people around us. I know they have felt the transformation, too. They have seen the plain Jane you wouldn’t look twice at on the street transformed into an object of desire. As her submission deepens, she will become even more desirable, and I will become even more desirous of her.
There’s something about public play that does it for me. When I hear the watchers breathing, becoming a bit restless, waiting for my play to begin, my feeling of power jumps to the next level. I know once I get started, I will cease to notice the crowd, but for now, for the beginning, it’s a powerful aphrodisiac.
I walk out of the light, to the bench where my toy bag waits. Something to wake up the skin. Something easy. The suede flogger.
I run it between her legs, following the curve of her bottom, and over her back, and hear a gentle sigh. The sigh is only for me. It is not loud enough for the others. I work her back, flogging her over and over, and slowly make my way down to her buttocks. I have a rhythm going and it stays constant. Down the back, over the ass, down the thigh, back over the buttocks, down the other thigh, back over the buttocks and up the back. Over and over. The same rhythm and pattern. Her flesh is awake now; it tingles. If we were home, in better light, you could see an obvious rosy glow, a happy glow. This light is dim. Are you awake, girl? I am.
Enough with the flogger. I switch to the crop. Time to tenderize. I begin gently—slowly. She doesn’t make a sound. The only sound is the leather of the crop slapping her ass. The smacks begin to sting. I can tell by the sound. I am not yet breaking a sweat, but she is. I can smell her.
Putting the crop away, I come back to her. Run my hand down her punished ass—between the separation—over the panties. They’re wet. Good girl.
“Good girl.”
The leather strap hurts her. I love the leather strap. The sound it makes is clean, sharp. Even in this light, I can see the stripes I lay on her ass. Each time I make contact, her ass jumps a bit, but she doesn’t make a sound. One final smack—this one produces a yelp. That’s all—one yelp. I check on her. Quietly, I ask, “Everything as it should be?”
“Mmm,” she says.
Slowly walking back to her rear, I run my fingers over the welts I’ve raised. Little juices begin to tease my cunt lips. My arousal is not for public consumption—hers is. Ah, but I am definitely aroused.
If I let her come, if I give her permission, she can climax. She can climax over and over—if I let her. She is not to that point yet. We have plenty of time.
I use my palm to smack her bottom. It won’t do to let her cool down now. I scratch her welts and feel her respiration speed up. She is covered in a thin sheen of sweat. Neither of us has entered that particular headspace we strive for yet. I walk back to my bag and return the strap and pull out the heavy leather flogger.
It isn’t as gentle as the suede one. It falls hard. I use it on her back, between her shoulder blades. The hits land harder and harder. The rhythm and the strength it takes to wield this tool become an aerobic workout for me. Now I begin to sweat. My breath speeds with hers. I begin to lose myself with each impact. It’s a continuous responsibility to make sure I don’t completely lose myself to the flow of power.
I don’t want to damage her.
I do want to hurt her.
This is as much for her as it is for me. If she doesn’t hurt, if there’s no true pain, she can’t lose herself, either. There would be no point if I couldn’t control her pleasure in that way.
I feel the watchers getting restless. She is squirming slightly. I notice her hands clenching and unclenching. I ease up. “What is the word, girl?”
“Green, greengreengreengreen.”
“Good girl.”
I put the flogger away and take out a thin, whippy cane and slice it through the air. It whistles. I hear the intake of breath and begin on her upturned bottom. Tap tap tap tap tap tap tap. Across both cheeks, over and over in the same spot, gently—tap tap tap tap tap tap TAP. Her ass jumps several inches above the horse. Tap tap tap tap tap. I smooth the skin with my hand. Gently now, on her upper thighs, tap tap tap tap tap tap. The sound is mesmerizing to me. The feeling is becoming mesmerizing to her. Tap tap tap tap tap tap tap TAP TAP. Shriek. Mmm, good girl.
I can hear people speaking quietly as I walk back to my bag and exchange the thin cane for a heavier one and walk back to her head. I bend down to check on her. Her eyes are open and unfocused. Her mouth is open.
“Good girl.”
I rub the cane against her thighs, then CRACK. Again, slightly lower, I rub it against her skin, then CRACK. Three more times, each a fraction of an inch lower. Each time she jumps. I return the cane. Now I gently run my hand over her bottom and each thigh, smoothing the skin, caressing the welts, putting out the fire. We’re both sweating. I run my hand over her panty-clad crotch and it is soaked through. It’s time.
I move to the front and pick her head up by her hair again, staring into her eyes. She tries to focus on me. I know she can’t. “Now,” I whisper, and I watch the orgasm take her. She shivers and shakes almost imperceptibly against the horse, like the shiver that runs up a dog’s back when you rub him just the right way. Watching her come like that makes me want to fuck her, drag her off the horse and fuck her on the floor. But we’re in public.
We’ve been playing over an hour. Time ceases to exist. I unhook her wrists and move to her feet to unhook her ankles. I lift her feet off the blocks and they hang limply down, on either side of the horse. Her hands are now hanging in the same way. As I unhook her neck I maintain positive contact with her. Her skin feels electric to me. It feeds the sparks jumping on my fingers.
I help her off the horse and embrace her. She can’t stand on her own yet. I slowly walk her to the wall and hook her wrist cuffs to chains hanging from the ceiling, arms outspread. The chains support her. I place her feet apart and hook her ankles to rings in the floor. Now she can rest while I put my toys away. She is positioned facing the watchers, but I don’t think she sees them. Oh, she knows they’re there, but she is too far gone to be aware of anything other than her own body and me.
We are not done. We will continue. If I can’t fuck her now, I’ll keep myself on edge until I can. I cup her breast; she moans. I kiss her lips, and she attempts to devour my mouth. People come and go. We have hours to play yet, my beautiful girl and I.
SEVEN MORE DAYS
N. T. Morley
Brian’s chastity tube is made of hard plastic; it locks around his distended balls and secures his tiny dick pointing down. He can’t even get all the way hard; about one-quarter mast and he’s squirmi
ng in pain, which is the way Natasha likes it.
It’s now been twenty-one days since Brian had an orgasm. He’s never been hornier in his life, and Natasha knows it. For about a week now, all she has had to do is toy with the key as it hangs from the chain around her neck, and Brian starts to whimper as his dick gets hard.
Every morning he uses the shower massager on it, running water over his cock to clean it. Once a week Natasha unlocks his cage for a more thorough cleaning.
Tonight, on the twenty-first day, she has him prepare two washcloths and two basins—one with soapy water, the other with clear. Then she ties him, naked, to the bed.
She undresses where he can see her; her naked body is glorious. After twelve years together, he could still barely even look at her without popping a boner—and that was before he’d gone twenty-one days without an orgasm. Now, he’s squirming and pulling at his bonds already.
At midnight, he starts his last week of torment.
Natasha kisses her way down Brian’s body, letting the key dangle against his flesh. She unlocks the padlock. His dick is already painfully hard; she has to work to get the chastity tube off.
She laughs at him.
“What is this?” she purrs, caressing it. “It can’t be a dick—it’s too small!” She gently thumbs his glans. Brian squeals and pulls against his bonds. If he didn’t have a cock-shaped gag strapped snugly into his mouth, he’d beg her to stop. She wouldn’t listen.
Natasha leans over him to rummage in the nightstand drawer. As she does, she’s careful to rub her tits in his face. She knows he could blow his load any second after twenty-one days without, so she shoves her knee in his balls. She grinds her knee painfully against his swollen nuts.
She perpetually rotates her bedside toys so he never knows what she’ll use on him. What toy is she looking for in the nightstand? Nasty-ass nipple clamps with jagged alligator teeth? A cock whip? Electrodes? Her “nutcracker”—a heavy rubber mallet?
Holy fuck…he hopes it’s not needles or something…is it?
Natasha’s slender hand comes out holding an eighteen-inch ruler.
“You know,” purrs Natasha. “I’ve always wondered just how tiny it is. I remember measuring it once, but that was a very long time ago. Do you remember?”
He does remember, but he can’t respond; there’s that dick-shaped gag, the strap padlocked around his head. He can’t say a word—just like he can’t beg her to stop caressing his dick. The pleasure’s exquisite, but he can’t fucking stand it.
Maybe he could stand it, if he thought she might miscalculate and accidentally jerk him off.
But he knows she won’t.
Natasha caresses his balls with the edge of the ruler, making a show of groping in her memory. “I mean, I know we did measure it, but it was such a small number I’m sure I forgot it right away. Then again, maybe I’m remembering it wrong. I mean, it seems really small…but what with all those bikers and black guys and football players and Armenians and such I keep fucking behind your back, maybe my judgment’s off a little. Do you remember how big it is, baby?”
Seven inches, Brian thinks, as hot humiliation floods through his naked, bound body. She doesn’t really fuck football players, bikers, Armenians. She’s never even had sex with a black guy, as far as he knows; she just gets off on telling him about it. But then, his cock also isn’t that small; if anything, it’s mildly above average. Seven inches is fairly impressive anywhere except porn…but that’s not what it’s about. It’s about the hot pulse of agony that surges through him when his wife complains about how inadequate he is.
His dick throbs hard from her flirty tone of voice, from her chiding words, from her nude body rubbing up against him; her hand on his cock, stroking him. Because he knows that she isn’t going to stroke him off. Not till she’s finished with him.
In another seven days.
Natasha caresses his balls with the ruler.
She says with relish, “I’ll tell you what. Let’s measure it again. If I’m remembering wrong, I’ll go ahead and give you a hand job.”
She smacks his nuts hard with the ruler and cackles as he jumps.
“Actually—here, honey, how about this. If it’s larger than an inch, I’ll stroke you off and let you come all over my face. You’ll like that, won’t you? You’ve got to be packing an inch, don’t you? Even your pathetic cock? I mean, of course I know it doesn’t satisfy me, but I’m kind of weird like that…I like really big dicks. The fact that yours seems so disgustingly tiny could just be about all those Russian rent boys I’ve been letting gang-bang me while you’re at work, don’t you think? Even your little noodle has to be an inch, doesn’t it?”
It’s seven, he thinks pathetically, but the heat pulsing through his balls and his cock and the rest of his body doesn’t come from the pain. It comes from knowing there is no fucking way he’s getting a hand job tonight, even though he wants one so bad he could almost burst into tears.
She’ll never admit his dick is an inch long, and she won’t give him a hand job. Not for seven days.
Natasha makes a great show of stroking his cock gently, edging him right to the brink, while Brian squirms and moans. The bed creaks with his struggles.
Natasha breathes, “Don’t get mad, baby. I’m not trying to tease you. I just want it to be as erect as it can be, baby. I want to give you the best possible chance. Isn’t that nice of me?”
Instinctively, Brian makes an “Uh-huh,” sound behind the gag and nods his head.
She draws the very tips of her fingers down the shaft of his cock.
He groans and whines and whimpers and pulls at the restraints that secure him to the bed.
The pleasure is excruciating.
He’s maybe three seconds from coming; all she’d have to do is tighten her grasp and jerk, maybe once, maybe twice. Certainly no more than half a dozen times.
He’d blow his load all over her hand. Three weeks worth of jizz, with Natasha’s constant teasing. His nuts are swollen with it. They’re so blue they’re indigo.
Natasha stands Brian’s cock up straight up from his crotch. She measures.
Her mouth drops open. She makes a horrified sound.
“Eighteen millimeters, baby. What is that in inches?”
Seven, thinks Brian bitterly, but his arousal is soaring. Didn’t he beg for this? Didn’t he softly coax his beautiful wife into locking him up and tormenting him like this? Didn’t he talk her into it by making promises?
He sure as hell did. And she knows it. She’s really pressing her advantage. She whaps his balls again with the ruler and says harshly, “Darling! What is that in inches?”
Brian can’t say a word; his mouth is stuffed full with silicone dick. So he just whimpers in pain as his blue, abused balls throb.
Natasha gets up. She gets her laptop. She sets it on his chest and cuddles up against him, absently caressing his cock between keystrokes as she punches 18mm convert to inches into the search engine.
As her laptop puzzles over that query, she reaches down and flicks his swollen nuts hard with her fingers. She digs in her long, painted fingernails. She twists and torques his balls a little. Then she gets all sweet and nice and lets her fingertips tickle up his cock, which only makes him squirm more, and yowl and cry behind the gag. She gently thumbs his glans again, purring into his ear.
The heat at the base of her laptop sizzles into his chest, meeting the pulses of pain from his nuts and the agonizing pleasure from his cock.
“Holy shit,” Natasha says when the answer comes up. “It’s even smaller than I thought! Zero-point-seven inches, baby. Sorry, darling. No hand job for you.”
She takes her hand off his cock, caresses his face, kisses his cheeks.
If he wasn’t gagged, he’d probably try to point out that the ruler has had CM plastered over with MM, which he can clearly see as she makes him kiss it, before she whacks his balls again. He wouldn’t tell her that because he wants to dissuade her from telling him how sma
ll his cock is. On the contrary, he loves the way Natasha thinks on her feet. If he pointed out that his dick was actually eighteen centimeters, how would she handle it?
Would she tell him boys can’t do math? That he must need glasses?
Or would she just laugh and say, “Keep telling yourself that, baby. Live in denial if you want…it’s kind of adorable. Do you also believe in Santa Claus?”
Now Natasha’s all over him, rubbing her tits on his chest, in his face. She grinds her pussy on his thigh; it’s incredibly wet. She leaves a snail trail up one thigh and down the other, then wriggles up and teases her slit gently up and down his cock. Brian goes cross-eyed, whimpering. Soon his dick is slicked up, juicy with her pussy.
“It’s really too bad,” she purrs into his ear. “I was almost considering fucking you. Would you have liked that?”
Her laugh of pure joy makes his heart race.
“I know I wouldn’t have, but it seemed the nice thing to do. But you’re just too small, baby. I’m sorry.” She crawls up his body, taking her time, leaning heavily on his face and rubbing her cunt on his chest while she rummages in the nightstand some more.
This time, her hand comes out holding a vibrator.
She snuggles up against him, switches it on.
She draws it down the shaft of his cock, making him squeal. She laughs merrily. She nuzzles the vibe up between her legs.
She sighs softly in pleasure and undulates against him.
She mewls, “You don’t mind, darling, do you? I mean, since you can’t satisfy me…you do love me, don’t you? Don’t you want me to come?”
He groans into the gag, and nods.
“Good, baby. I’d let you eat me, but the last time you did, you drizzled precome all over my foot, remember? And Mister Tiny certainly can’t go back in his chastity tube right away. Not till I give the poor boy an ice pack…”
Natasha is moaning, humping against him. Every now and then she takes her hand out from between her legs and caresses his swollen balls and aching cock.
Best Bondage Erotica 2013 Page 14