The Big Book of Bondage

by Alison Tyler

  I ran my nails along the underside of his shaft, from balls to tip. His breath hissed between his teeth. I had a tube of lube in my pocket; I greased my palm, reached down again.

  “Daniel. I want you to hold that stance. If you lose the position, I’ll stop touching you. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, Anastasia.”

  His muscles trembled as I pulled on his prick. The closer he got, the harder it was for him to stay still, especially in that uncomfortable pose, arms up, body twisted. His breathing was harsh as I coolly jerked him off.

  My clit pounded so hard, I considered stopping and making him get me off first.

  But no. That wasn’t how today’s lesson was slated to go.

  “How long, Daniel? How long do you think I could stroke you while you stand like that?”

  He knew, without my having to tell him, that he needed my permission.

  “Please.” His forehead dotted with perspiration. “Please, Ma’am,” he amended.

  He hadn’t answered my question, but we were early in his training, and I took some pity on him.

  “Now!” I said, stepping to one side just in time to avoid the gush of semen that spattered and decorated the manicured grass. He did break the pose somewhat, but as his spasms subsided, he regained position. It was harder now, I could tell, with his muscles wrung out from his orgasm.

  “Follow through,” I ordered.

  He swung.

  Hole in one.

  I finally did let him touch me, let him lick me and bring me off. It was on an overcast day, which somehow made the grass look richer, like it had when I’d played a tournament in Scotland, the birthplace of golf. The course was closed for “maintenance,” and he caddied for me.

  Naked, of course.

  Over the course of the next few weeks, I put him through his paces, both in golf and in our personal encounters. I pricked his nipples, his inner thighs and cock and balls with golf tees. I spanked him barehanded and while wearing golf gloves.

  Everything carried a lesson.

  We talked about how the best way to get someone to do what you wanted them to do was to convince them it was what they wanted to do—ideally, to convince them that it was their idea in the first place.

  Daniel hadn’t specifically thought about jerking off in the bushes during our first lesson, but he’d certainly thought about jerking off. I’d just allowed it to happen. And that was the real trick, I explained: to make the other person believe you were opening the door for them, when in truth you were encouraging them to do exactly what you wanted.

  “You target their deepest desires,” I said. “The ones they don’t even know they have. You coax those desires out, all the while dovetailing those desires to your own.”

  His golf improved dramatically and, I could tell, his confidence. He stood taller, carried himself with more authority. He got his hair trimmed, just a little.

  We never spoke of continuing our relationship; never spoke personally unless it involved his work (and even then, I didn’t want to know what company he worked for, who his colleagues were).

  As always, I felt the occasional pang of regret. Daniel had been a fast learner in all ways, and his skill at cunnilingus was as admirable as his golf game. He would make some woman very happy.

  I hadn’t yet let him enter me—that was a privilege to be earned—but I’d held that generous, hard cock in my hands enough times to be looking forward to feeling it inside me nearly as much as he was. I spent numerous nights fucking myself with a dildo of his approximate size, fantasizing. (Not that I told him, of course. On the other hand, he was required to tell me in detail about any time he jerked off…if I’d given him permission to do so ahead of time, that was.)

  The leaves were shading to gold and red when we played a round of nine holes. There was little I could instruct him on anymore. He had a natural talent that had surfaced fairly early on; I’d spent the time fine-tuning him, teaching him style and focus and little tricks.

  “Are you ready for your final lesson?” I asked him.

  “Yes Ma’am.” Perhaps a little too eager, but I didn’t have the heart to correct him. Our desires had dovetailed quite nicely.

  I used grip tape to bind his hands, arms spread, to the upright metal bars on either side of the golf cart. He sat in the seat, breathing elevated, watching my every move. Stripping off his pants and underwear was a challenge given the enormity of his erection. I tossed them in the back with his shoes.

  From my pocket I produced a condom. He swallowed hard as I unrolled it down his weeping shaft. I suspected the knowledge of what might happen next had pushed him close to the edge already.

  I slipped off my thong, pulled my skirt up, and straddled him, placing my hands on the seat back by his shoulders. “You know the rules,” I said. “Patience, control. You’ll know when you’re allowed to come.”

  “Yes, Anastasia.”

  It was the first time he’d used my name since the beginning.

  I sank down onto him, glorying in the sensation of being filled, just as good as I’d imagined. I was wet, as aroused as he was. I posted up and down for as long as I could, until my thighs, strong as they were, trembled not only from exertion but from the buildup of desire. Then I simply sat and ground down on him, grinding my clit into his groin as the pressure mounted.

  A drop of sweat slid down the side of his face. His jaw was clenched with the effort of holding back. But he kept his eyes open, locked on my face, and that was what triggered my orgasm. My hips pumped even as I hissed, “Not yet.”

  Many of my clients never quite succeeded at this one. But Daniel held firm, somehow, although I could see how he quivered, could see how purple his cock was when I slid the condom off.

  I set my foot on the edge of the seat and slowly but firmly pressed my golf cleats into his balls.

  He came helplessly, spurting all over my shoes, the expression on his face a mix of astonishment and relief.

  I unbound him from the cart, but in truth, I had already freed him.

  I said that I never have a personal relationship with my clients, that once our lessons are complete, that’s it. Oh, former clients often bring colleagues to the club to play, and if we run into one another, I’m introduced as the golf pro and they praise my tutelage. I might even join them if they’re one short for a foursome.

  After Daniel was through, I had some free time to catch up on other things, including some back issues of various golf magazines. I was flipping through, skimming rather than reading, and I nearly missed it.

  A photo in a news column. Four men on a course, having won a local tournament. A congressman from another state, commenting on how he was sorry to lose one of his golfing buddies, who was moving to Sandy Bluff, transferring to the company office there.

  I sat up straight, stared. Then I shook my head, laughing.

  Daniel had played me. He hadn’t come to me for golf lessons at all.

  And it occurred to me that maybe, just maybe, I was going to have to invite him for a rematch.

  EYE CONTACT

  Derek McDaniel

  When you give yourself to me, the first thing you’ll do is suck my cock, and you’ll do it exactly the way I taught you. You’ll deep-throat, you’ll swallow, and you’ll make eye contact as you do it.

  Don’t worry about remembering, though; I’ll remind you.

  There will be no going out to dinner first; there won’t even be an introduction. The only introduction you need to me is to drop to your knees and plant your face in my crotch.

  You’ll be trim and toned, your musculature defined beneath the skimpy clothes. Each missed appointment with your personal trainer over the last six months has been punished with a dozen strokes to your pussy, while you kneel, spread before the webcam, and count out each hard stroke for me. You learned to keep your appointments and put in your appointed hours on the stair-stepper and elliptical trainer. You’ll be stacked, too, or something very like it. Your tits will be elevated by a pus
h-up bra a size too small, so they spill out everywhere. You’ll be dressed to the nines, wearing slutty black stockings, seams down the back and red ribbons centered front and back where the garters attach. Several inches’ worth of garter is visible on each thigh, where the lace tops of your stockings don’t quite come high enough to find the tortured hem of your skintight candy-red dress, already riding up so high on your thighs that I can glimpse your skimpy panties. You’ll be perched on six-inch heels, having practiced for months to be able to wear them without falling down. (Not that you’ll need to walk around very much; you’ll spend most of the next three days in one of three positions: on your knees, on your back with your legs spread, or over my lap with your squirmy little ass in the air.

  Your freshly blond hair will be teased to its limit, your face made up, your body tanned despite your protests.

  You’ll look slutty, yes, but even so, it’ll all be premium crap, purchased at high-end emporiums. Even with your tits spilling out and your dress riding up and your nipples peeking through the dress, you’ll almost look like a model—one who pushes the limits of good taste. Almost.

  But you won’t be a classy girl; you won’t be a model; you’ll be something far filthier, and two things will announce that you’re not classy at all, you’re a piece of kneeling trash, the plaything of a man you’ve never met before.

  First, around your creamy throat, there will be a collar—black leather, its padlock engraved: SLUT.

  That won’t be very classy.

  And over the stockings, you’ll be wearing knee pads.

  That’s even less classy.

  But you’ll sure be glad you have them; those are eighty-dollar stockings. And pillows are so last century.

  In seconds, you’re on me.

  You kneel before my armchair with your legs apart. Your slutty blond hair scatters all over my lap.

  You kiss my cock through my slacks and reach for my belt buckle with your dagger-tipped fingers. We’ve been in the same room for one minute, and your face is in my crotch. Good girl.

  You try to open my belt while you kiss my cock all over, through my slacks. I’m wearing a suit because I do that sort of thing. And this is our first date, right? You’ll get lipstick on my pricey slacks while your slender hands try to work my belt buckle—and fail. You’re not used to having the long, red nails. I made you grow them over the course of months, made you punish yourself every time you broke one until you were sufficiently “motivated” to let men get doors for you, among other things. The sharp red nails make it hard for you to open my belt, even though I made you practice. The nail polish matches your lipstick: slut-red, bright as blood. Your lips are slathered with it—the color that only a truly shameless slut would wear to meet a man for the first time…even if she’s already been having webcam sex with him for nearly seven months.

  While your slut lips redden my slacks, I take pleasure in your struggles not to break a nail against the leather as you strive to unfasten my narrow belt. I don’t move to help you. I let you struggle, smiling, pleased with your eagerness, pleased even more by your skill.

  I sip my Scotch and puff my cigar as you gingerly work the end of the supple leather belt out of the buckle.

  I think Good girl, but I don’t say it.

  It simply wouldn’t do to reward you with praise—not yet. Not until my cock’s in your mouth, at the very least.

  You finally get my belt undone, looking up at me red-faced. You unbutton my pants; that part is easier. So is sliding my zipper down; you can pinch the zipper between two long nails and draw it down easily. Your slender, sharp fingers reach into my pants to get my cock.

  You ease it out of my boxer shorts, out of my slacks, and against your other hand, caressing my cock, the head slick and glistening with precum. Your hands look pretty on my dick, just like your face looks pretty up against it. When I first saw your hands—on webcam, about one minute before I made you spread your legs and spank your pussy with them—they were so pale. Now they’re a light golden tan, like the rest of you. I made you tan, despite your protests; you didn’t want to be some dumb bimbo slut.

  I told you, “Yes, you do,” and I guess I was right.

  Your pretty pale skin is now the color of a Jersey girl now; Guidos everywhere envy me.

  You caress my cock. You’re nervous, panting, your forced-up tits heaving so hard they seem almost ready to pop out of your dress. You look up at me shyly as you stare at my naked cock, inhaling its scent, preparing to suck it. You hesitate. Your face turns pink. Your new tan can’t hide your blushing embarrassment—not entirely. I like to see you blush.

  “Come on,” I tell you, drawling around the cigar. “Don’t pretend this is the first dick you’ve had in your mouth. Open wide. Do your duty.”

  You give a little shiver and a flutter of your black-caked eyelids.

  No, it’s not the first cock you’ve ever sucked. You’ve sucked exactly three, not counting silicone ones. You were a virgin till twenty-three, and had two boyfriends since then, plus a single one-night stand between the two. And now my cock is in your pretty face with its whore makeup, slut hair, a pair of red lips that quiver as you lower your face to suck me.

  Your eyes look big and innocent; I’ve had you wear a garish shade of blue eye shadow and cake your lashes with black mascara. Your lips, red, slut-painted and pouty, circle the head of my cock. You slide your mouth down onto it.

  Your lips feel plump, wet with drool, sticky with lipstick. Your tongue feels soft and eager and juicy. You start to suck my cock, bobbing up and down eagerly, whimpering softly at the back of your throat as you give yourself to me. You get me erect and take me deep into your mouth, swirling your tongue around hungrily. I’m very pleased by the feel of your mouth; I’m pleased still more by the feel of your firm, erect nipples brushing against my knees as you dance up and down on me.

  But you’ve forgotten a critical step.

  That pleases me even more.

  I put the cigar in my mouth. I reach down and brush your massive cascade of bleach-blond hair back, gathering it in one hand. I expose your pretty face and watch as you take my cock in your mouth, the big wide shaft disappearing between your pursed red lips.

  With one hand I pull your hair. I pull it till you whimper around my cock.

  With the other, I slap your face.

  Your black-rimmed shiny blue orbs go wide in surprise as you feel the sharp blow. It’s surprise that could have translated to an unexpected bite, but I was ready to take that risk for the pleasure of seeing and feeling your shock in the very same instant.

  I pull your hair again, harder, forcing your head back.

  My cock slips from your plump red mouth with a pop.

  You let out another cry, louder, your mouth open wide in surprise.

  I slap you again—thrice more, harder each time. I don’t hit hard enough to really hurt you—just to surprise you. It’s hard enough to make you cry out in earnest.

  I give you three more slaps against each cheek, your big eyes shamed and seeking.

  Your face is so pretty, framed as it is by the pulled-up blond hair and the long hoop earrings.

  Even through your paid-for tan and the makeup, I can see the red in your face.

  You blush so prettily.

  Your eyes roam wildly as I seize your chin with one thumb and forefinger, force your head back with the other hand tight in your slutty blond hair.

  Your wide black-rimmed blue eyes start to brim with tears.

  When they fall, they’re jet black, coursing thickly down cheeks tanned and blushing—rivers of shame.

  That’s what I like.

  I like to see you crying black tears rich with cheap mascara—the tears of a slut.

  I watch the pretty tears go rolling down and make cooing noises.

  “Are you crying, slut? Are you crying because your Master slapped you?”

  I slap you again. More tears roll down your rosytan cheeks; you’re not crying, and I know it. All
that makeup just makes your eyes water, as does my cock all the way in your mouth. But it’s really the bright lights overhead that are making your eyes go all watery; I put them there for a reason.

  You look up at me, frightened and excited. Your nipples are hard against my knees, practically popping through the dress.

  “I’m sorry, Sir, what did I—”

  “What have I told you?” I growl around the cigar. “Always make eye contact the first time you take a man’s cock in your mouth. That way he sees the submission in your eyes. Don’t you remember?”

  “There’s just so much to remember,” you whine, and I cut you short with another firm slap.

  You squeak sharply, press your lips together for a second while another pair of tears rolls down your cheeks. I can feel you squirming and rocking against me; you can barely keep your hips from pumping. That pussy must be molten beneath your tiny little dress and your tinier little panties.

  I slap you.

  “What do you say, slut?”

  Your moist blue eyes look up at me, widening.

  “Yes, Sir. I’m sorry, Sir.”

  “Tell me what you do.”

  “I make eye contact the first time I put a man’s dick in my mouth.”

  “Good girl,” I say, caressing your face. “Forget again, and you’ll find yourself getting a very hard spanking.”

  I watch your face with pleasure as the threat sinks in. A shiver goes through you; I watch it ripple from your humiliated eyes to the glorious slope of your butt, propped up tight against your six-inch heels.

  I seize my cock and slap your pretty face again.

  It coaxes a tiny sob from your pretty mouth, and two tears from your face. You can’t keep eye contact as you gasp and whine. I slap you again. You look up and let me see your shimmering eyes, topping the black rivulets on your cheek.

  I ease up my grip on your hair, and you take my cock in your mouth. Your eyes stay aimed at mine. You never stop looking as you slide your mouth over my dick, halfway down the shaft, your tongue swirling. You bob up and down. It’s an awkward position, but it’s worth it; your face looks so very pretty with my dick in your mouth.