The Big Book of Bondage

by Alison Tyler

  He held her effortlessly with one hand, holding her wrist up behind her and his weight holding her down. Her other hand flailed helplessly. She tried to squirm. All she did was tire herself out—and that happened quickly, not just because she hadn’t been doing her cardio lately but because her pulse raced faster and faster as her excitement rose.

  She was wet within seconds.

  She could still smell the ginger on her hands as Arturo held her down and stretched his long arm out so he could seize the ropes he’d stashed on the side of the bed. He got her wrists encircled in moments, looped them over the bed frame tie-downs she was always whacking her knee on and secured her wrists to the sides of the bed.

  Then he forced her legs open and started working on those.

  She struggled, all right—but she felt weak inside, weak and gooey. The scent of ginger was powerful; it overwhelmed her senses.

  Kendra had spent the afternoon around the house doing chores and relaxing, so she wasn’t wearing much—in fact, she might just as likely have been nude, if she hadn’t been cooking. She was barefoot and her hair was back in a ponytail. Her snug red gym shorts were T-shirt thin, and of course she didn’t wear a bra under the old, worn wifebeater she’d liberated from Arturo’s underwear drawer. She could already feel her nipples, stiff with arousal, rubbing against the silken cover of the bed.

  And that was before Arturo, having secured her ankles to the bedposts, dug his teeth into her tank top and ripped.

  Kendra felt the pull of the fabric at her tits, the wrench of his teeth at the shoulder straps, and suddenly the thing was gone. She hoped he wouldn’t give her shorts the same treatment—she liked this pair lots. But the hope was forlorn; the gym shorts were old and tight and already halfway coming apart down the center seam. Besides, wasn’t it she who’d given Arturo an open invitation? “I don’t own a single item of clothing I wouldn’t trade for a good fuck,” she’d purred in his ear by way of telling him that he could pull this shit on her anytime he wanted.

  How many times had he taken her at her word? Half a dozen in a year, at most. Yet, every time was unpredictable—just like this—and every time got her so fucking wet—like now…so wet she fucking saw stars. Like now.

  Arturo knelt behind her, dug his teeth not into the waistband of her threadbare gym shorts—but into the crotch. He started a rip with perplexing ease—and then Kendra gave out a muffled yelp through the gag as Arturo pulled and twisted and ripped.

  In a second, she was naked, bent over and exposed. Her ass in the air and her legs spread very far apart and bound to the sturdy bed frame, Kendra was helpless and wholly open; Arturo could do anything he wanted to her.

  The bed was perfect for this kind of scene. They had bought the bedroom ensemble with a careful eye toward its height compared to Kendra’s height. The four-poster frame was high to begin with. Add that particular box spring and that particular mattress and the particular mattress pad and this particular comforter, and the bed was exactly the right height to bend over and bind a barefoot girl of exactly Kendra’s body shape in exactly this position. If she was wearing heels, it got awkward, but as long as the scene didn’t last too long all the heels really did was make her lift her ass in the air, which was, yeah, kinda uncomfortable after a while—but she’d seen the digital photos; it looked hot. As long as the scene didn’t last more than ten or fifteen minutes, six-inch heels turned her ass from that of a tied-up and helpless girlfriend into the ass of a fucking sex goddess.

  Either way, this position was her favorite because of Arturo’s propensity for doing nasty things to parts of her that were particularly exposed when she was bent over like this.

  There was her ass, of course—her buttocks. Arturo loved them. He took a long lush minute to spank the shit out of them, reddening Kendra’s bottom severely. She squirmed; she struggled; she squealed into the gag. After twenty spanks on each round cheek, when he felt her up, she was dripping.

  He fingered her easily, smoothly, giving her two fingers up inside her and insistently thumbing her clit until her eyes rolled back in her head and she started pumping her hips, half-involuntarily.

  That inspired Arturo to drop to his knees behind her and bury his tongue in her ass. Kendra moaned as Arturo’s tongue swirled around her snug rear entrance. Her pleasure mounted as he licked deeper—and then his finger was in her, just one, at first. It always felt so dirty when the sick little pervert went right to her ass. Kendra had learned to like it. But she’d never learned to expect it.

  She realized she could still smell ginger—stronger than ever. It couldn’t be her fingers, could it?

  It wasn’t. It was the peeled ginger root, she realized—Arturo must have snatched it from the kitchen and stuck it in his pocket.

  When a peeled ginger root is thrust inside the human anus, it causes a powerful tingling sensation. It’s deeply erotic if you’re into that sort of thing—at least, that’s what Kendra had read. “Tingling” was one way to put it. It was a little like getting a spearmint-oil enema or something. Heat and cold swirled together, making her head spin and her pussy go all funny. Confused sensations rolled through her naked body. She would have been pissed if it was anybody other than Arturo. But he always knew just how far he could push her.

  But still, Kendra couldn’t help thinking bitterly, does that son of a bitch realize that ginger root doesn’t have a flange?

  Then the sensation rocketed to new levels as the full impact of the ginger root hit her. It didn’t just tingle; it stung. But it still did things to her inside—gooey things, making waves of cascading pain and pleasure get all tangled up in her belly and her throat and her clit.

  Kendra still hadn’t assimilated the sensation of the ginger root up her ass when she heard the telltale hum of a plug-in vibrator and felt the pressure on her clit. Pleasure blasted through her, conquering any lingering anxiety. Arturo knew from experience that the base of the vibrator wand tucked easily into the bed’s railing—especially since he’d installed a strap there to hold it. And in this position, that held the vibe right up against Kendra’s clit.

  That left his hands free. Arturo mounted her easily at first, getting his head inside her—and then he encountered an inexplicable tightness. Kendra felt his cock stretching her almost painfully—almost. Her eyes popped open wide behind the blindfold and she howled into the gag. Arturo slowed his thrust momentarily—but he knew the timbre of Kendra’s moans even better than she knew them herself. They were moans of pleasure. However tight she felt, it was fucking infuckingfucking-credible . She didn’t know why she was so fucking tight. She sure as hell wasn’t dry inside—far from it. So it had to be the ginger.

  Of course. Her ass was assaulted by all sorts of unfamiliar sensations. Her pussy responded. It was a kind of sympathetic magic.

  Arturo had to work to enter her fully, and Kendra had to work to take it. He reached down and steadied the vibe against her clit, which only made Kendra’s muffled howls of pleasure rise in volume as the soft round head of the vibe connected more firmly with her clit. By then he was deep inside her, his cock working hard to get in and out of a channel made tight by the fullness in her ass and her pussy’s reaction to the sensation assault on her body. Her tongue worked fervently against the dick-shaped gag as she moaned. Her eyes roved wildly behind the leather blindfold.

  She cried out more loudly, until even the gag couldn’t really silence her. Sometimes she cared if the neighbors heard. This wouldn’t have been one of them…except she realized she was really being a screamer tonight. Well, she thought, what the hell? Six o’clock on a Friday, anyway—right? What the hell. Half of them wouldn’t be home, right?

  Who was she kidding? Half of her neighbors were state workers. They’d left at four to beat the rush hour. They were relaxing on their couches—above, below and to either side of her. They could probably hear everything—and even with the gag, Kendra was giving them plenty to hear.

  She decided she didn’t care. She just moaned lou
der, practically spitting out the gag. She was getting closer and closer, her ass still tingling wildly, sensation flooding through her naked, tied-up body. She fought against the ropes, trying to fuck herself on Arturo’s cock. She was getting close… very close.

  Arturo pinned her tight, not allowing her hips to pivot. He fucked her rhythmically, tormenting her, matching his strokes to the sounds of her squeals and always giving it to her just a little slower and softer than she wanted.

  Until the end, that is. Then it seemed like he could tell, somehow (was the fucker psychic?) exactly how close Kendra was to exploding in pleasure.

  He kept on holding the vibe against her, but he went to work with his hips and his cock and his weight, letting the combined power of gravity and his gym-toned muscles do the work.

  Arturo gave it to Kendra fast and deep, pounding her with what felt like a grudgefuck—except it was exceedingly shallow. Arturo knew, from vast experience, that the way to make Kendra cum was to fuck her fast and shallow.

  He did that, long enough to drive her right to the brink.

  Then he seized the ginger root and pulled it out.

  The sudden vacancy in her ass was what drove her over the edge—not least because it let air in. The ginger root was big enough that it left her gaped for a second, and the icy sensation of air on her ginger-tortured asshole was enough to make Kendra go rigid and practically scream behind the gag. The sudden rigidity of her hips and her legs gave Arturo the necessary leverage he needed to bring her over the edge with those short, sharp thrusts just barely inside her that she so adored.

  Kendra came harder than she’d come in months—maybe all year, and that was saying something with a horndog, sex-expert pervert boyfriend like hers. She came so hard it made her plowing by the borrowed fucking machine last month seem like a French kiss.

  Her whole body was suddenly suffused with sensation. Deep in her core, she spasmed—feeling the pulses from her cunt to her throat to her nipples to her belly and all the way up into her ass. With the sizzling, tingling sensation still pouring through her, Kendra was left in a daze.

  She felt Arturo fucking her faster, deeper, harder—far more smoothly, with exactly the rhythm he used when she watched him beat off. She felt a rush of pride and excitement and submissive tension; she was his fuck-hole. Knowing Kendra was well and truly finished, he decided it was his turn.

  It didn’t take him long; he must have been really turned on. That brought Kendra a warm glow of pride… although who was she kidding? All she’d done was bend over and—

  The flood of his seed deep inside her obliterated all conscious thought for Kendra as she felt a wave of deep affection and receptive pleasure.

  Arturo’s hands started working again, undoing the knots and unbuckling the gag. The penis-shaped gag came free, and Kendra sighed in pleasure, smiling. As Arturo freed her, Kendra felt the lingering sting in her ass.

  She decided two things.

  One, Arturo was buying her another pair of gym shorts tomorrow.

  Two, they were sending out for Thai food. You just can’t have homemade curry without ginger root.

  BURNED

  Alison Tyler

  Jenny was the type of girl who stole things. Small things, like the few bucks remaining in your billfold if you inadvertently left your wallet on the counter. Important things, like the carnelian beads your mother had given you for your sixteenth birthday. Irreplaceable things, like your husband. I’ve known her type of woman before. In fact, I’ve gotten good at spotting them over the years. Why? Because when you’re married to a man like Rick, you have to expect ladies will worm their way out of the holes in the headboard in order to try to steal him away.

  What makes Rick so fucking special?

  Well, there’s the fact that he’s handsome. And by handsome, I mean turn-your-head, wolf-whistle, catcall, panties wet when he meets your eyes, dreamboat, movie-star handsome.

  How did I hook up with a man like that?

  Fuck you.

  No, really. How many times have I been out to dinner with my husband and had a waitress pull me aside and ask me that insensitive question. “So how did you two land together? What’s your secret?” As if a troll like me must have performed a magic trick by the light of the full moon to woo my man. Sacrificed a goat. Bathed in pig blood.

  I’m not ugly. Don’t set yourself on the wrong path there. But I didn’t win the gene pool Olympics the way Rick did. My man’s tall—six feet four inches in bare feet. He’s the type of hunk I grew up gazing at in posters on my wall. Magnum, P.I. The Six Million Dollar Man. Broad shouldered, barrel-chested, gorgeous from tip to toe, and that tip includes the most beautiful cock I’ve ever seen.

  And me?

  I’m barely five feet, and I’ve got what my grandmother always used to call “character.” That means that my lips might be a little fuller than your average runway model. My hair is kinky curly. My nose wrinkles when I smile. My eyes are dark, and I always have those purplish smudges beneath them—part Hungarian bloodline, part insomniac’s curse.

  Why does Rick love me? Not because I could take on a Victoria’s Secret angel. That’s for sure. At least, not without playing dirty, sucker punching her when she flapped her white-feathered wings on the catwalk. He loves me because one day two years ago he wandered into my studio while looking for a friend of his who’d just moved out—that was his line, anyway. I was hanging paintings on the wall, organizing oils, stretching drop cloths. The door was open and he stepped in, glanced around and said, “I like that one.”

  I turned to see who was talking. I had my black hair scraped back with a red bandana, battered overalls on over a white wifebeater tee, kick-ass Docs splattered with teal paint. “Which one?” I asked, turning to look where the stranger was pointing.

  “The girl on the bed.”

  “Oh, her,” I said. She was my former. Ex. Lover. Capital on the Ex. I should have taken a knife to the canvas based on what Jenny had done to my heart, but I was too proud of the work to destroy the piece. My goal was to sell the painting for a hefty price tag and then splurge on a trip to Paris. I thought that selling her ass would give me pleasure. The painting, you see, was a nude.

  Rick walked through the studio as if he had a reason to be there. “I’m Lola,” I told him, offering a hand. He actually ignored me as he continued to look at the pictures, but he was so intent, I forgave him the rudeness. “You’re good,” he said.

  “I know.”

  “Really good.”

  “I really know.”

  I took the time to look him over. Part of me did so automatically. As an artist, I’m always assessing the lines and the angles, the way people’s features fit. The way I might paint them if I had a shot. The other part of me looked at him in a less clinical way. I hadn’t had a cock in a while. I wondered if he was all show, or if he might be able to do the deed in a manner that would work for me.

  “My friend used to live here,” he said, finally explaining. “I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d see if he was still around.”

  “By friend, you mean drug dealer?” I asked. I’d found remnants that could mean nothing else. And people had come by at odd hours, other needy folk like Rick, searching for their savior in a dime bag.

  He looked at me.

  “No judgment,” I added.

  “In that case…”

  That’s how we found ourselves getting stoned in my studio. I didn’t have the bed in yet. We sat on the drop cloth–strewn floor and smoked the little bit of marijuana I had left in my coffee can. Do all druggies keep their stash in Folgers, or is it just me?

  He told me he was going through a rough breakup. That he hadn’t gotten high in forever. That he’d driven to his dealer’s place on a whim. I told him that I had moved in here when my ex and I had flamed out. Told him that I painted more when I was unhappy than when I was happy. Rick proved me wrong on that one, let me tell you. He turned all my used-to-bes into so much nonsense. Back then, we were
new. We were raw. We were fucking on the floor like animals before the afternoon had ended. The pot? Maybe marijuana helped—we were relaxed, and there was none of the weirdness about going on a date first, wondering if you’d get a kiss on the cheek or a grope on the ass. He had his knees bent, and he touched my foot with his foot. He put one hand on my leg. We were fondling each other as the late-afternoon sun hit the opposite wall.

  There was music in the clink of my overall buckles when he undid each one. There was a gentlemanly quality in the way he helped undo the knots on my Docs, the way he pulled off every scrap of my clothing before spreading me out on the floor. But there was brutality in the way he fucked me, and I thought, I could get used to this.

  I wonder if it’s the fact that I didn’t act as if I wasn’t good enough that turned him on. I mean, since that afternoon I’ve witnessed the power of Rick’s appearance on other people. He makes them stammer. Stutter. Forget their own goddamn names. But I’ve been painting pretty people all my life. I am not wired in that way. I mean, I wasn’t. Yeah, Rick made my panties wet. But maybe it had something more to do with the way he touched me, the way he seemed to understand how my thoughts clicked together, more than the fact that he could have bench-pressed three of me if he tried.

  Okay, so where does Jenny come into all this?

  Well, not at the start. There were two years at the beginning when Rick and I ate and drank and devoured each other. When my man came home for lunch simply to fuck me against the wall, forgoing food in favor of my pussy, or for the flavor of my pussy.

  And then one day Jenny showed up. A girl with a black heart. Rick had never been too concerned with the fact that I was bi. He knew I wasn’t going to cheat on him or leave him for another woman or another man. We were rock solid like that. He worked at his job all day while I painted. He fucked me every free second he had. He knew I wouldn’t leave him just because he didn’t have a pussy. “Bi” in my world simply means that I’ve been with men and I’ve been with women. Before Rick there was Jenny. Before Jenny was Max. I go with my heart. I don’t care what parts you have as long as they connect with mine.