The Big Book of Bondage

by Alison Tyler

  “Noah, please don’t.”

  “You don’t really mean that, do you, Tara? You really don’t want me?”

  I sighed as he leaned against me, his lips on mine before I could even answer him. My arms wrapped around him, his shirt clammy with sweat. As his tongue probed my mouth, I felt my knees go a bit weak. I wanted to keep kissing him, but the heat between us was starting to overwhelm me. It took all my strength to push him away, but he didn’t go far.

  “Noah, I can’t breathe.”

  I was nearly panting; the humid air leaving my lungs wanting more. Noah pressed his pelvis into my belly and I moaned out loud.

  “You need to cool down, Tara. And I think I can help.”

  I pressed my hands to his shoulders, trying to get a little more space and a little more air. He was still too close, but he wouldn’t budge another inch.

  “You’re just making it worse, Noah.”

  I watched with hazy eyes as he undid the small black apron where he kept his tips, the long black strings hanging limply in his hands.

  “Trust me, I can help. I know what I’m doing.”

  I went limp against the pole as he was back in my personal space. I let him pull my arms around to the other side, his strong hands digging divots into my flesh. The full weight of his body was against me as I felt the damp fabric slide snugly around my wrists, growing tighter with each wrap of the strings. My chest was thrust forward, the thin fabric of my tank top stuck to my moist skin. I fought against the bonds, but the cutting pain of the straps made me stop. Noah placed a hot palm over my heart, his thumb lazily tracing my nipple until it peaked. His tongue ran up my neck to my ear, his teeth capturing my lobe. The voice that dripped into my ear was hotter than anything I’d felt so far that night.

  “Now, how about we cool you down, Tara?”

  His hands went to the hem of my tank top and yanked it up and over my tits, leaving me exposed, the cotton still clinging to my sweaty skin. My body tensed as his eyes swept over me, the heat between my legs growing unbearable. Noah walked away and headed behind the bar. I could hear the sound of plastic crushing against ice and I licked my lips involuntarily, my dry throat desperate for another cool cube. He approached me with a pitcher of ice in each hand. I could see the water dripping onto the floor from his muscled forearms and I would have given anything in that moment to lick them clean. He set one of the pitchers onto a nearby table and approached me slowly. Our eyes met as he pressed the wet plastic against my stomach. I gasped, the cold both amazing and awful.

  “Noah, Jesus, that’s cold.”

  “That’s the whole point, Tara.”

  He tipped the pitcher and let the ice-cold liquid run out over my skin. I cried out as the moisture seeped into my jean shorts and panties, dripping down to my most sensitive skin. I squirmed, but there was nowhere for me to go. He moved the vessel higher and let a steady stream pass over each of my breasts until my nipples peaked with cold and desire. My mouth opened to protest, but Noah kissed me instead, the heat of his mouth a momentary respite from the cold. For the first time all night, I wasn’t under the spell of the heat, but it was a new kind of torture.

  “There, now, isn’t that better, Tara?”

  I nodded as I watched him extract an ice cube from the pitcher and wield it between his thick fingers. He started at my parted lips, pressing the smooth surface over my parched mouth. I licked at the ice, but he continued on, tracing down my neck. Shuddering as he neared my nipple, I could feel the slippery cold almost before it arrived, my voice echoing off the walls as the ice melted against my hot skin as he circled my nipple, making it impossibly hard. He grabbed another cube, then another, each one disappearing quickly as he teased and tortured my body with the exquisite cold.

  His fingers were still cool as they slid down my stomach, flicking open my button fly with staggering ease.

  “Noah, please.”

  “Please what, Tara?”

  I once again struggled with my bonds, but it only elicited a laugh from him. His hand dipped into my panties, the chill of his skin sending shivers through me.

  “Oh, would you look at that, Tara. I think I found a place on you that’s still way too hot. What are we going to do about that?”

  I bit my lip as his fingers dipped back into the pitcher of ice and retrieved a cube. I was shaking my head, but my voice was no longer working. He kissed me hard and as I writhed against him, the ice slid between the lips of my pussy. My mouth was freed just in time to cry out in a jumbled mix of agony and joy.

  “Oh, fuck! Oh, god, Noah.”

  The ice danced over my clit, melting quickly in the heat and creating a slick path for Noah’s fingers to follow. He pushed a little bit further until he was moving it inside me, the cold heel of his palm strafing against my clit. I gasped as he took a drink from the pitcher, letting some ice flow into his mouth. He kissed a cube into my mouth before dropping his head to my nipple. As the cube shrank down to nothing, his rapidly warming mouth was a welcome respite from the frigid ice.

  He dropped to his knees in front of me, setting the pitcher gently on the floor. My shorts and panties were soon next to it, my legs pushed apart by his insistent hands. I couldn’t stop watching him, especially when he again filled his mouth with ice before moving his lips ever closer to my cunt lips. The shock of bitter cold made my eyes finally close when his tongue turned from frosty to furious as he devoured me. He sucked my clit and slid a finger inside me. I was eager to touch him, but all I could do was lace my fingers together in their prison. I tried to move my hips, to urge him on, but he lapped at me slowly, intensely, until once again I was sweating from the heat.

  When he stood, I was ready to beg, which was no doubt his aim all along. He pressed his warm, damp forehead against mine and I breathed out the only words I could think of in that moment.

  “Fuck me, Noah. Please.”

  He smiled, planting a kiss on my lips before shucking off his shorts and sliding on the condom. Grabbing my leg, he held it at his waist, opening me up. He entered me in one smooth stroke, my still-hard nipples strafing against his chest.

  “Jesus, Tara. You are so fucking hot.”

  I was hot. Every part of my body, even the parts touched by such freezing ice, were scorching hot as I took him, his cock buried deep inside me. There was no teasingly slow buildup, just a good, hard fuck. Which was exactly what I needed. My eyes fell shut; the only sounds in the pub were our soft grunts and the constant hum of the ice machine replenishing its stock. I heard him digging in the pitcher on the table, extracting a few more perfect cubes as he fucked me slow and deep. He seemed to enjoy it so much, swiping the ice over my burning skin and watching me react. After each flash of biting cold, his hot mouth followed, warming my skin back up again. The cubes melted quickly, but each was quickly replaced by another, the warring temperatures overloading my already overheated mind.

  When he reached down with cool fingers and toyed with my clit, my body could take no more. I was over the edge, his mouth swallowing my guttural cries as I came under his relentless fingers and his thrusting cock. I was nearly spent when he came, his fingers digging into my leg, the heat from his straining body making me heat up all over again. But this time, I didn’t mind the warmth as we both stood panting, trying to catch our breath in the sweatbox the pub had become. He untied me quickly and my arms went around him, touching him for the first time. He ran ice over the red marks the apron made on my wrist, soothing my distressed skin. I looked into his eyes, so tender in that moment. We kissed until neither of us could breathe and had to pull apart out of necessity. And even more reluctantly dressed in our sticky, sweaty clothes.

  With trembling hands, I reached for two more ice cubes, popping one in my mouth and offering one to him. He took it from me, sucking on my wet fingers for good measure. We chomped the ice in silence, letting the cool liquid slide down our throats.

  After all the lights were off and the windows closed, we headed out into the burning-hot
night, the heat wave still unbroken. Noah pulled me into his arms, kissing me hard before looking into my eyes.

  “The weatherman said it’s supposed to be just as hot tomorrow. I guess we’ll just have to suffer through for at least one more night.”

  “I wouldn’t call it suffering, would you, Noah?”

  “No. I guess not. I just hope the ice machine holds up.”

  “Me, too, Noah. Me, too.”

  “GOLF” SPELLED BACKWARDS

  Andrea Dale

  I glanced up when the door to the pro shop opened, and sized up the man who entered.

  Average height, decent build—he probably ran or swam—with thick brown hair in a style that tiptoed the line between corporate and rebellious. Someone moving up the ladder but not quite fitting in yet. I sensed intelligence as his gaze took in the shop, and me.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Hi, yes, I’m here for a one o’clock golf lesson.”

  I didn’t have to look at the clock. “You’re a little early.”

  He smiled, and it seemed genuine. “Better that than late.”

  “You’ll have to wait until Jenna gets back; I’m covering for her while she’s at lunch.”

  To his credit, he read between the lines. “You’re the golf pro?”

  I stepped out from behind the counter, hand extended. “Anastasia Schiff.”

  “Dan Emerson.”

  Firm grip. That would do well for him.

  I watched him size me up, giving him another few points for not commenting on the fact that the Sandy Bluff Golf Course pro was a woman. I considered docking him a point or two for the way his gaze lingered on my bare legs and the swell of my breasts. Golf shirts and shoes don’t exactly make for sexy outfits, and I’d be a fool not to appreciate that he found me attractive.

  Plus, I don’t believe leather and stilettos are necessary. It’s all about attitude.

  “My friend Craig Zable recommended you—well, the pro here,” Dan added. “He didn’t mention you were a woman.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Is that a problem?”

  “Not at all,” Dan said. “I trust any recommendation from Craig.”

  I remembered Craig. My clit tingled pleasantly at the memory. Tall guy, sandy hair almost in a buzz cut, a little cocky—at least, until I’d given him a few lessons.

  Then he’d been cocky in a different way.

  Hmm… If Craig had recommended me, he thought Dan would be a candidate for the same treatment.

  I licked my lips, and Dan’s gaze followed the track of my tongue. I certainly hoped so.

  As we rode the cart out to the driving range, I asked the right questions to learn more about Dan. He told me where he worked, that he was a junior executive, that he had pretty much guessed golf was one of the ways into the old boys’ network. He wasn’t wrong about that; I got a lot of my clients that way.

  When I asked about a Mrs. Emerson and he said he wasn’t married, my body reacted again, excitement thrumming in my veins. I didn’t give my lessons to married men. If he mentioned a fiancée or even a serious girlfriend, that part of the training was right out. I have my standards.

  He’d been golfing a few times, understood the basics, but—and he said this with a charming laugh—he had a lot of experience on the mini-putt course.

  When we stopped and got out, I laid down the rules.

  “I take this very seriously,” I said. “I can’t abide anyone wasting my time. If you’re not on board one hundred percent, that’s the end of your lessons.”

  “I understand,” he said.

  He didn’t, not yet. But he would—I hoped.

  “You will follow my orders without hesitation,” I went on. “You may certainly ask for clarification, to make sure you understand, but you will not question my requests nor my judgment. Is that understood?”

  He nodded. “Yes.”

  “Good.” I smiled. “Then let’s get to it.”

  I suggested the club he use, grabbed my own. He carried the bucket of balls from the cart without my having to ask. Good sign. My body hummed in agreement.

  I hit a few balls, explaining what I was doing, discussing stance, technique, follow-through. I sensed Dan wasn’t giving my lesson his full attention. Out of the corner of my eye I watched his gaze on my form.

  My body, that is. Not my golf form.

  Time to put him to the test.

  I stood back, analyzing his swing. Yes, he’d had some experience, had the basics down. But he definitely had a way to go.

  I stepped up behind him, reached around him to put my hands over his where they gripped the club. Of course, this meant that I was pressed against him, my breasts to his back, my groin to his ass.

  “You need to adjust your grip,” I said. “Up on the club just a bit. Your left hand should be about a quarter inch beneath the butt. Align both your thumbs down the shaft. That’s it. Good job.”

  I stayed against him, guiding him through the swing in slow motion. My body moved against his. My breath was deliberately hot in his ear as I murmured instructions. My nipples were hard—not deliberately, although the cotton weave of my shirt was deliciously rough, and I wondered if he could feel the hard nubs.

  I stepped back, slowly. His next swing went wild.

  “Daniel!” I said sharply, and was gratified to see him flinch. “Pay attention.”

  I stalked around to face him. His next swing was better, but the tenting in his pants was clear. I bit back my smile.

  “That,” I said sternly, looking pointedly at his groin, “is getting in the way of your swing.”

  Oh, sweet boy, he blushed. Before he could say anything, I continued. “You see that copse of trees over there? Go and take care of that problem. Otherwise we can’t continue.”

  We were alone on the driving range. It was always off-limits during my training sessions.

  “Ex-excuse me?”

  “Is that a request for clarification or a protest?”

  I folded my arms across my chest, plumping my breasts up in the process and watching his eyes slide down, then dart back to my face when he realized what he’d done. I also watched the play of emotions cross his face, from confusion to understanding to panic to realization.

  And then to acceptance, of a sort.

  As he walked rather stiffly toward the trees, it was all I could do not to plunge my hand down my pants and get myself off.

  He was hooked.

  We didn’t speak about the situation after he returned; I simply offered him a wet wipe, and his hand shook a little as he thanked me for it, and we went back to the lesson.

  He was early again for his next lesson.

  “Did you practice since our last instruction?” I asked.

  “Yes.” The flush suffused his cheeks again. I’d left the question deliberately vague, hoping he’d jump to a certain conclusion. Good.

  “And did you think about what I taught you?” I watched him carefully, my belly tight with anticipation.

  A hint of a smile, no doubt at the memories. “Yes.”

  “Good. Today we’ll work on putting.”

  Today didn’t start out as well as last time, though. He might have remembered jerking off in the trees at my command, but he’d forgotten how to hold the damn club. Maybe he was distracted, wondering what I’d do next, or by the fact that I was wearing a short golf skirt, but I didn’t care.

  I rearranged his hands on the club, told him not to move, and stalked off to the cart. When I turned back, I was thrilled to see he hadn’t budged an inch, frozen in the leaned putting stance that would strain your lower back if you stood that way too long.

  “If you’re not going to remember a simple thing like how to adjust your hands, we’ll have to keep them there with other means.” I held up a roll of double-sided grip tape.

  “But, Stacy—”

  “Excuse me?” I snapped. He jerked, eyes wide. “You may address me as Ma’am, or Ms. Schiff, or Anastasia—I’m not a stickler there—but y
ou will not use the casual diminutive of my name. Understood?”

  He swallowed. “Yes Ma’am.”

  “Now, were you protesting my teaching methods?”

  “No Ma’am.” He set his jaw. I nodded. Good. He was willing to push it further.

  “Good.”

  I wrapped the tape over his hands, most of it sticking to the golf gloves he wore. Ripping tape off his flesh wasn’t the type of pain I was planning on…at least, not yet. Obedience first. Limits next.

  His putting was adequate. I gave him some leeway for being distracted by his hands bound by tape and by the burgeoning lump in his pants—especially because I was pleased the former was helping to cause the latter.

  We kept at it for as long as I could stand, ball after ball just missing the cup, a few making it in. Finally, I said we’d had enough, and I wanted to see him make a few drive swings, to reinforce what we’d gone over last time.

  And to push things to the next level.

  A few swings, and then in slow motion, and then as he was rotated back, prepared to swing, I said, “Freeze, right there.”

  He did.

  I stood in front of him, locked his gaze with mine.

  “We have to work on form and concentration. It’s crucial: on the links, in the boardroom, in the bedroom.”

  His gaze flicked sideway, met mine again.

  “Are you willing to do whatever it takes?” I asked.

  “Yes Ma’am.”

  No hesitation. I liked that. I didn’t stop staring into his eyes as I worked his belt free, popped his shorts open, slid his underwear down. Because of his position, the garments caught on his knees. His cock sprang free, red and swollen, a generous size.