The Big Book of Bondage

by Alison Tyler

  I give three or four blow jobs on my knees, hands tied, while they play with me, tease me—never letting me cum.

  Not until Jason gives the go-ahead.

  Then they take me two at a time—sometimes three. Usually one will penetrate me gently, going slow; they know I’m fairly tight, all things considered. Their cocks make me wince a little at first. It doesn’t take long before I’m moaning in pleasure and begging the man inside me to fuck me harder, while I suck another one’s cock and some more line up alongside me, playing with my tits or brushing my hair back.

  By then, they’ve played with me so much that the first cock inside me is what makes me cum. The first time. And sometimes a second.

  They tie me up then—all the way, not just my hands. It’s pretty silly of me to act like I’m struggling, but it’s kind of hot. They like it, too; it’s hopeless. Any of them could hold me down and tie me up. With eight or ten or a dozen? It’s easy.

  They tie me to the table—face up, face down, depending on their whim. At first, Jason took the lead, telling them how to tie me, how to fuck me. Now he lets them decide.

  The table’s nice and comfortable. Padded…secure. I can struggle if I want, and they keep taking me. Sometimes they blindfold me, so I don’t even know who’s inside me at any given time. I like that. They like that. It’s really fucking hot.

  Sometimes, all of them fuck me, taking turns. Just as often, it’s two at a time—usually one in my mouth and one up inside me.

  Sometimes, they’re satisfied long before I am.

  Then they break out some toys.

  They leave me tied up as they get me off at their leisure, again and again. Jason zooms in close, getting video of my face as I cum and my pussy as they get me off with fingers and dildos and vibrators. I know he’ll make me watch it later, and I’ll blush and be embarrassed at what an insatiable whore I was. But secretly, I’ll like it. Well…not so secretly.

  They make me cum until I can’t cum anymore. They get me off until I’m totally satisfied.

  When my boyfriend has a party. I always get satisfied.

  Afterward, when the guys have gone, Jason will wipe me with a damp towel and sometimes let me sleep a little on one of the mats in the basement. He’ll carry me upstairs, where sometimes he’s run a bath for me; other times he helps me into the shower and washes me all over with the shower wand, supporting me with his naked body.

  Sometimes I feel these pangs of fear, and I ask him to fuck me. It’s not that his friends haven’t satisfied me; it’s that I want to feel together with him. I want to be intimate, knowing he loves me, knowing he wants me—even though I’m a dirty little slut who lets men do this to me.

  He always fucks me gently, never trying to make me cum; he just adds his pleasure to the endless line of pleasure I’ve brought men that night.

  I like that.

  I’m always too exhausted and limp with pleasure not to sleep soundly. I cuddle up alongside my boyfriend and feel his naked body, so like and yet so unlike the others.

  As I sleep, I have dirty dreams. I wake up purring and proud. Proud of my man; proud of me; proud of his friends. I wake up happy.

  When Jason has a party, I always wake up happy.

  BUTTER THE BIRD

  Sommer Marsden

  Motherfucking cocksucking son of a monkey!” I yelled. And then I went utterly mental and started flinging butcher’s twine around the kitchen.

  The bird stared at me. Well, as much as an abdominal cavity can “stare.” The place where the eyes had been was long gone.

  “I am becoming a vegetarian,” I hissed at it. It was mocking me. I could feel it. Even stuffed full of carrots and lemons and rosemary for a lovely herbed taste.

  The hair on the back of my neck stood and I cringed. He was there. I could feel him. There. Watching me. Witnessing my…lunacy.

  I turned and winced to see my sixth sense had been correct. “Calvin,” I sighed.

  He nodded. “Faye.”

  “Go ahead,” I snapped. At the end of my rope. Too fucking past caring if someone laughed at me. It was very empowering. Sort of like when you finally lose the last sane shred of your mind and then…you just don’t care!

  “Go ahead and…?” He played innocent.

  But I saw him. Oh, I saw him, pressing his plump, kissable lips together in a tight line to keep from laughing at me. Schooling his face in an expression of confusion. But he was not confused. He’d seen me get bested by the bird. The infernal fowl.

  The…possessed…poultry!

  “And laugh,” I seethed.

  “Never.” He took a step into the kitchen.

  He was tall and lanky and his hair was the color of bleached wheat, his eyes pine-colored with small striations of rich brown. He was beautiful and maddening. The last part because he was good at everything. Everything! He could write a financial report with one hand and smoke the perfect salmon with the other. Paint, build, write sonnets, do laundry. The man was a jack-of-all-trades, master of all.

  Annoying.

  But I loved him, so my annoyance lasted only a few heartbeats. Once in the room his energy brushed up against mine, feeling very much like a phantom cat twining around my legs, sliding sensually against my skin. He never belittled me, always helped me and found me highly amusing.

  I’m not sure how I fell ass backward into Calvin but here he was, once again, examining the situation that was currently making me foam at the mouth.

  “Can I help?”

  “Sure,” I sighed. Feeling suddenly tired and defeated.

  “Dinner?” he asked, nodding toward the bird.

  “Yep. I thought nice roast chicken and some garlic mashers and some beets. Fresh ones. Roasted with sea salt and the greens, all drizzled in olive oil.”

  He touched my shoulder. Just my shoulder. He was even touching me through my thin blue sweater, but the effect was the same as if I’d licked a lightning bolt. My body tingled and my toes flexed and I felt a rush of color to my face.

  “Sounds wonderful,” he said. I could smell the cigar smoke on him and knew he’d been outside in the yard with a beer and something nice, maybe a Partagás. And here I’d brought him up by going full-throttle hissy fit on a poor dead bird.

  “Yes…I hope. But it’s fine. I’ll figure it out. I didn’t mean to… Go back to your cigar.”

  “I was done,” he said, eyes on the roasting pan. “So what’s the problem?”

  “I’m supposed to tie the legs. So it stays all nice and tight and juicy.”

  I hadn’t meant it to sound that way. So dirty. But as soon as I said it, my cheeks blazed with heat and his eyes seemed to grow darker.

  He half smiled at me and shook his head. “Faye,” he sighed. His bigger hand took mine and he pressed my palm to the erection he was suddenly wielding. But he said nothing at all.

  I curled my fingers against him, my breath stalling out. But then he pushed me away and said, “Where’s the twine?”

  I looked at the floor, ashamed. Then I sort of flung my hands about and said, “All over.”

  Calvin chuckled and found the piece of cardboard the twine had been wrapped around. He snipped off a small section after winding it all back onto the board nice and neat and tight. “It’s not so hard. You tie it in a circle. You loop it around this way…”

  He demonstrated. But I couldn’t concentrate. All I could focus on was the flexing and bunching of the muscles in his big forearms.

  “Um, yes,” I sighed as if I was following him.

  “Then you pull this section through and you tuck this under and…voilà!”

  I eyed his bound bird and shook my head. “Okaaaaaaaay,” I said. “Show me that about sixty more times and I might get it.”

  “Faye,” he said again. He was washing his hands with hot, hot water and sandalwood-scented soap but he was watching me. And I could see it in his eyes. He was interested in way more than poultry at the moment.

  “Yes?”

  “Take off y
our clothes.” He was twisting the twine around his hand and then unraveling it. Twist. Unravel. It was like watching a metronome, only with the promise of sex.

  My pussy went soft and wet instantly; the heat and the moisture made me feel plump and ready and damn near mindless. I pushed my yoga pants down and he made a noise to see me bare under there. My sweater hit the deck next. Calvin was the one to unhook my pretty pink bra in the front and take it off. His mouth covered my nipple and his finger slid into me to test me.

  “You’re all flushed and wet,” he said.

  I thought he meant my cheeks were flushed, but I wasn’t sure. When he added a second finger in my pussy, I didn’t care.

  “Turn around,” he said, biting my nipple hard enough to make me jump.

  I turned. He kneed my thighs apart just so. My stance wider than when my knees were pressed together but much less than shoulder width apart. When he began to wind the twine around my thighs—just above my knees—I found myself panting. My head was buzzing, my stomach a tangle of knots and excitement.

  “Tying the bird is to help keep it pretty. And to help keep it juicy.”

  I bit my lip when he said juicy.

  “Now you are always pretty. And always juicy. And I truly do doubt that anything could keep”—he pushed his fingers back inside me, from behind this time—“these juices in. Not really.”

  I moaned, hanging my head. The kitchen was sunny, and outside the sky was blue, the air cold. I heard the wind chimes on the side porch banging merrily in the wind.

  “Try and move your legs, sweetheart,” he said, lips pressed to my ear so my nape prickled.

  I tried and couldn’t.

  “Good,” he said. “Now you’re supposed to butter the bird, did you know that?”

  I nodded. I hadn’t gotten that far yet. I had failed my Bird Binding 101 and had a fit.

  “But I prefer a healthier alterative to butter. I prefer oil. Olive is good. It’s nice and healthy and”—his lips pressed to the back of my neck and goose bumps raced along my shoulders—“slick.”

  I sighed, watching him reach past me and pluck the large bottle of olive oil from the counter. He drizzled his fingers with the light green oil over the sink so I could see his hands but not him. The bulk of him was crushed to the back of me, his breath hot on my skin.

  “But just for the sake of audible pleasure, I will say I’m buttering the bird. You being the bird, of course.”

  He laughed softly and then reached around my hips, pushing his pelvis to the back of me even as his now-slippery fingers invaded me from the front. He pushed his fingertips between my already moist folds. Parted my nether lips and stroked all around my clit so that I moved restlessly against him. I heard myself talking but didn’t know what I was saying.

  Then I realized it was, “Please, please, please…”

  “Hush, Faye.”

  So I hushed, biting my lips to seal off the chant.

  My reward was his slippery finger pressing and twirling and teasing my clit, so I tilted my hips forward to get more. To make it easier for him.

  His fingers delved into my cunt, testing me and then teasing me so that I was within an inch of coming. Then he pulled his hand away and began a slow and somehow sinister tour of my back, kissing and licking and nibbling the back of my neck and down along my shoulder so I danced with energy. His mouth played over my shoulder blades and then settled on the middle of my back, where he placed a slow, warm kiss on every knob along my spine. I heard his knees pop a little as he squatted down to lay more tender kisses along my flanks.

  I shimmied and swayed and tried to keep quiet even as one moment it tickled and the next it had my pussy flexing with need. It was torture. And it was perfect.

  He found my clit again by reaching through my legs and rubbing me with just the right pressure. All the while his kisses rained down on the swell of my ass and the crack between. I hovered on the edge—praying he’d make me come, praying he wouldn’t. Caught in the luscious world where orgasm was within kissing distance but hadn’t quite arrived.

  Calvin surprised me by plucking my clit between his fingers and biting my bottom at the same instant. I came fast and loud, my shaking hands planted on the ugly green countertop. My bound legs shook like I might fall.

  “Ah, now my bird is good and juicy.” Calvin chuckled. His zipper sounded like the buzz of a chain saw. His belt buckle hit the tile floor like a bomb going off.

  My entire body was on red alert. All my senses heightened. All of me bright and brilliant chaos.

  He turned me slowly and pushed my shoulders gently. Helping me kneel, he walked forward and traced my mouth with the tip of his cock. My tongue darted out to gather the small sweet drop of precome and he made a low sound. Fingers threaded in my hair, he drove into my mouth, sliding with leisure along my tongue. It was only a few thrusts, and when he pulled away I chased him with my mouth to try and get a few more.

  “No more of that,” he said. He held my shoulders to steady me so I could stand. Then he kissed me almost chastely and said, “I have other things I’m interested in.”

  And I was being turned again to face the bird. The. Bird. The bird that had mocked me and was now all trussed up, looking like a food magazine spread.

  “Tell the bird you’re sorry,” he said. I could almost hear him smile.

  “I…what?” I chirped.

  His big hand came down on my right cheek—it was a cracking hard blow that made me jolt. “Tell. The Bird. You’re. Sorry.”

  “Why!” I yelped.

  Another two blows that crisscrossed the first, and my skin burned and tingled with heat.

  “For losing your patience,” he said. And then he did chuckle.

  “I… This is silly—” I started. Three fast blows this time to the left cheek stopped my words. My pussy thumped in time with my runaway heart. I imagined my skin arcing with electricity and pain. A small bit of fluid fled my body and I thought how the juice was not staying in this bird.

  “Say it and you’ll be a happy little bird.”

  He wrapped my hair around his fist and very slowly levered me forward a bit over the counter. It was as if I were addressing the bird.

  I said nothing.

  He ground his cock to the back of me. Letting me feel the heavy length of his erection and what I was missing. “Go on…” he singsonged.

  Feeling like a total moron, I said, “I’m sorry, um, bird, for…”

  For what? For what! It was hard to think with my pulse racing and my cunt flexing and my bottom beating with heated thumps.

  “Impatience,” he whispered against the back of my neck.

  More of my juices slipped free of me and I licked my lips, trying to calm down. “I am sorry for my impatience.”

  Calvin stepped up against me, his cock a hard presence he took a moment to nestle between my buttcheeks. He gripped my hips in his strong hands and licked a straight line up the back of my neck. My scalp prickled; my nipples stood out in super-sensitive points. He reached up and plucked them.

  “Vin,” I sighed.

  I was the only person allowed to shorten Calvin to Vin, and only in times of desperate arousal. Hearing that, he kissed down each shoulder and then placed a hand at the small of my back and pushed me forward a little more. My hair—which he’d released—hung over the stainless steel sink.

  He tortured me for a moment, running the tip of his cock over my slit. My legs were bound so close together he only had enough room to maneuver, and the friction was maddening. He breached me, penetrating slowly, whispering things I couldn’t make out and didn’t care to, given how intent I was on him pushing into my body.

  When he was in, he stilled, not moving a lick, and I let out a sound that was more sob than cry. “Please, please…”

  I had no shame.

  “Hush now.” He reached around me, still filling me, and found my distended clitoris with his fingers. Fingers that knew my body almost as well as I did. He pinched-pinched-soothed
and then started to move. Short staccato bursts of his flesh into mine. Thrusting hard enough to make me sway, toes barely keeping contact with the floor.

  Swirls and whirls and revolutions of his fingers on my clitoris, and his cock driving into me hard enough that my arms shook as I held myself up.

  “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” I found myself saying to the bird.

  I heard him laugh and his strong hands were on my shoulders, anchoring me as his rhythm became frenzied.

  “Touch yourself,” he growled, and I nodded. I did it, my trembling fingers taking up right where he’d left off.

  It was only a moment, I was so swollen, so amped up, before I was chewing my lip and trying not to come. Not yet. Not without him.

  But he saved me. He always does. He banged into me, hard enough to move me forward so my hipbones clipped the edge of the counter. He could feel my pussy flexing. He could hear my breath. He knew my signs. So he knew I could obey when he rasped “Come” in my ear.

  And I did. I think I was still apologizing to the chicken. I’m not sure, because my bound legs were shaking and tingling with pins and needles and my pussy was spasming around him as he emptied into me, his teeth latched to my shoulder.

  It was like a series of gunshots, our climaxes, and the fallout was deafening. Silence filled our sunny little kitchen but for the sounds of us catching our breath.

  Then his hands were splayed around my waist and he held me. I turned my head and he kissed me, even as my bottom beat with risen blood from his blows.

  “Do you know the best part of what we just did, Faye?”

  “The orgasm?”

  “Nope.”

  “What?”

  “That’s going to be the best chicken you’ve ever eaten.” He laughed.