Twisted: Bondage With an Edge

by Alison Tyler

  It was the dog collar, even more than the note, that made Julie’s flesh feel tingly.

  She breathed hard as she read the note again and again and again, hot waves of arousal pouring through her body.

  There wasn’t much to read, so each rendition was quick but nonetheless caused a whole new ripple of excitement to course through her. She read it so many times she lost track of time.

  She couldn’t resist the urge; she lifted her plain, businesslike wool skirt and slipped her hand in her panties.

  Fuck, that felt good.

  At that moment, Julie would have been happy if Jacob had shown up right then and fucked her brains out. No further preparation. No more ritual. No fucking around, just fucking. But that’s not what the note said.

  Julie really had to expend a lot of effort to get her hand out of her panties. She brought her fingers to her red-painted mouth and licked them, feeling filthy as she did. She unbuttoned her blouse, shrugged it off, put it in the immaculate, empty hamper. She unzipped her skirt, wriggled out of it. She kicked off her shoes; removed her bra, her stockings, her panties. She took off her makeup and got in the shower. On second thought, before her long dark curly hair hit the stream, she stepped out, dripping everywhere, and fetched a shower cap. The last thing she wanted was clammy, wet hair.

  She got back in the shower, scrubbed her face, shaved. She did her legs and her pussy, her armpits. They were pretty much smooth, but it pays to be sure. She lathered and rinsed. The shower massager migrated down automatically, until she was slumped up against the clammy, cold tiles. Her eyes rolled back. She bit her lip. She had to stop herself.

  She got out, toweled dry, shook out her hair. She looked at herself in the mirror and for a split second she was horrified. She had to wear makeup. She reached for the drawer, stopped. That’s not what the note said.

  Julie looked into the mirror again; she made a few faces. She pouted. She whimpered. She touched herself and moaned. She turned around, bent over, looked at her ass and her pussy over her shoulders—one shoulder after the other, trying to get herself from all angles. All right, fine, she decided. No makeup.

  She went back into the bedroom.

  By now, the bedroom was dim and it wasn’t that easy to see what she was doing. But she knew the contours of the leather and metal like she knew the contours of her own sex.

  The collar went first. Just the touch of it against her flesh was enough to feel electric. The sensation of it buckled around her neck was like a telephone call to her clit. She felt moist and slick, despite having soaped up and rinsed and toweled off just a moment ago. Yeah, she discovered with a quick, excited, vaguely guilty finger. I’m already wet down there.

  She had always and would always think of the collar as a dog collar, because there was something fucking hot about being collared like a dog. She had purchased her very first collar at age nineteen from a pet store, blushing and squirming as the clerk rang it up, as if her shame-laced eyes could tell him she didn’t really have a dog, and certainly not a hundred-and-ten-pound one. This collar, however, was not a dog collar—as evidenced by the added hasp, through which she fitted a padlock.

  The lock on her collar gave a click as she closed it.

  The gag came next, by simple necessity. It was shaped like a dildo, but broader and shorter than any dildo she’d ever be able to effectively fuck herself with. Its base fit into heavy strap that she secured around the back of her head.

  The cock gag padlocked, too.

  She had some trouble with the restraints, but it made her kind of hot to have to fight a little. She positioned herself facedown on the bed, softly cursing every aromatic rose petal her clumsy movements knocked on the floor. She liked them there, but this was more important. Briefly, after having to fight the first restraint—on her ankle—she changed her mind and rolled over on her back, positioning herself with the pillows beneath her ass. That was a hot position, but there was no fucking way she’d get her ankles restrained without herniating herself. She returned to her knees and finally got the restraints buckled, first around one ankle, then around the other. She fitted the padlocks through the hasps in the restraints, then hooked the black ropes through them. Each of the ropes trailed to a secure tie point on one of the bed frame’s four corners.

  With each sharp click of a padlock, she became more her husband’s prisoner.

  Jacob had thoughtfully given her almost no slack to work with. Once her ankles were shackled, her legs were staying spread until she was unfastened. She took a long, hot moment to position the pillows in just the right place—and then she spilled forward, over them, facedown, ass-up, very damned close to being helpless.

  She had to attach her left wrist restraint to the bed first, of course, because Julie was right-handed. She buckled the right restraint before she did that—leaving the padlock hanging free. Then she carefully secured the restraint around her left wrist and affixed it to the black rope tied to the bed frame.

  Then she set about completing her bondage—fastening her right wrist to the bed. It wasn’t easy. But what mostly gave her difficulty was her own impatience, and the tendency of her mind to wander over just what was going to happen to her as soon as she got that fucking padlock closed. She was intensely aroused. Her nipples felt so hard it almost hurt to let them touch the comforter. Her skin felt hot, but sweat was beading all over her naked body. The air of the bedroom felt chilly. She felt more moisture forming on her inner lips, and it wasn’t sweat. Every grunt of exertion came out muffled by the cock gag in her mouth. Every helpless whimper, every squirm, every wriggle, made her hips pump and grind against the pillows. Each time she did that, she felt how tight her ankles were secured to the bed, how wide her legs were forcibly spread. Her ass worked with furious tension, arousal mounting. She felt trickles running down her thighs; Sweat, she felt sure. I can’t be that turned on, can I?

  She certainly felt very, very turned on, that was for sure.

  The padlock clicked closed, securing the hasp of the wrist restraint around her right wrist, and to the black rope that locked her to the bed frame.

  Julie moaned softly into the cock gag. Her hips began to grind as she struggled. Yeah, she decided. I’m really that turned on. She could feel it trickling down her thighs. She could feel her clit throbbing. She tried to hump herself forward and rub her clit against the pillow; she tried to bring her legs closer so she could maybe rub her thighs together. She couldn’t; she was tied too tightly.

  Then she heard him, below, heavy footed and menacing.

  Had he been there the whole time? She would have heard him as she entered the house, surely. Was he out on the patio, hiding? Was he outside the bedroom window, lurking in the night, watching as she struggled? Did he come in while she was showering?

  Julie didn’t care; she simply knew that Jacob was there. She should have known he’d never leave her alone in the house to tie herself up for him...hell, what if she’d had a heart attack or something like that?

  More importantly, there was no chance—no chance at all—that he’d miss the sight of Julie locking herself to the bed. Facedown, ass-up, spread, naked and sweaty and squirming, getting more aroused with every process in the ritual of surrender.

  The back of Julie’s neck tingled to think that Jacob had been there the whole time—but one thing she knew. He was there, now. With her facedown, ass-up posture, she had to twist her head around to see him—and still he was nothing more than a shadow—big, bulky, menacing.

  He didn’t say a word.

  Distantly, Julie heard the chirruping softness of clothes hitting the floor, the clunk of wingtips kicked off carelessly.

  Julie smelled his body as he circled the bed like a shark approaching its prey. Her hips worked ceaselessly; she fought against the bonds and heard Jacob’s pleasured grumbles as he watched her struggles augment her arousal. He felt her up and found her wet. He slid his fingers into her, murmured approvingly, took his fingers out. He drew his big hard hand back and
viciously spanked her. Julie squealed behind the bed.

  She fought the alternating pleasure-and-pain assault of his hand—the hand she’d been craving all day. She struggled against the restraints she’d secured around her own limbs, the ropes she’d locked them to.

  He gave it to her hard again, again, no warm-up. He landed his hand on her ass three times quickly—not a proper spanking, but enough to get her attention. The sting and the thud pulsed through her naked body. Jacob put his fingers back in her cunt—three of them, now, almost too much for her...or just enough to stretch her. He started to thrust in rhythmically. Julie’s eyes rolled back in her head as the big shadowy thing reached out, grabbed her hair, pulled.

  He finger-fucked her right to the brink; when she was on the very edge, he withdrew his fingers.

  Then she heard a buzz; without much warning, he touched a vibrator to her clit. She shrieked behind the gag. He almost pushed her over; he almost made her cum. She had been on the edge before—now she was tottering, ready to lose it.

  He pulled away at the very last instant—so close, she almost thought he was going to get her off without meaning to.

  Which would have been fine with her at that point—oh, she wanted it bad. But it was so much more delicious to be teased beyond the point where she could stand it.

  Jacob switched off the vibe and set it on the bed nearby.

  Julie felt Jacob’s weight on the bed, bearing it down, making it jiggle. Every motion was excruciating; every touch made her tremble. His heat was all over her. She smelled his sweat. His naked body pressed up against her from behind. She felt his hand still in her hair, pulling. She felt his other hand coming down harder—much harder—on her ass, no warm-up, just a trio of strokes again—enough to get her attention...as if he didn’t have it already!

  He guided his cock to her slit; he teased her first with the stroke of his cockhead—then with another hard series of spanks. He ran his hands all over her hips, her thighs. He caressed her back. He tickled her. She jerked in bonds. He spanked her some more.

  “Just what I like,” growled Jacob fiercely, “a birthday girl who can follow instructions.” It was the first thing he had said since he entered. Then he entered her, and the loud series of moans she uttered as he penetrated her told Jacob that his wife was having a very good birthday.

  In fact, it was such a good birthday that when he brought the vibe to her clit, she exploded almost instantly; he felt her pussy clenching savagely around his cock as he fucked her. She came so hard the spasms of her muscles almost pushed him out of her. Almost.

  He said, “Happy birthday, honey. And we’re just getting started.”

  Julie moaned softly and tears trickled out of her eyes.

  Jacob delivered long, rough strokes deep inside her. If she knew Jacob, the night really was just getting started.

  Julie relaxed into her bound position, moaned into the dildo gag and let her husband take control. Jacob’s note had been the best birthday card ever.

  ANY LIGHTNESS BETWEEN BLACK AND WHITE

  Dante Davidson

  You seem confused.”

  I was standing in front of the wall of hankies, thinking, Damn, there are a lot of screwy people out there. When I say wall, I mean I was facing a fucking floor-to-ceiling wall of different-colored bandanas. Each bin was labeled with the code. Some of the labels made me hard—I’ll say that right away. But others made me shake my head in wonder. Blue/teal = cock & ball torture (when worn on the left) or cock & ball torturee when worn on the right. I actually mouthed the word “toturee” as I’d never seen it written before. Mauve = “into navel worshippers” if worn on the left, or “has a navel fetish” if worn on the right.

  Lavender meant “likes drag queens” on the left or “drag queen” if worn on the right. Would you really need a hanky for that? I wondered. Would a drag queen, all dolled up in finery, deign to wear a hanky?

  I must have been standing by the wall for a while, because suddenly I felt a presence behind me.

  “Need any assistance?” a man asked me, his voice an undeniably sexy rumble.

  I turned my head, startled from my reverie. The stranger was tall and lean, dressed in dark jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt. I wondered if there was a color for what he was offering—and if that imaginary hanky were worn on the left would it mean “provides assistance” and if worn on the right mean “needs assistance”? Clearly, I was out of my league.

  The man smiled at me. He had a nice smile, dark curly hair, the type of gray eyes that have always made me think of stained glass—as if an inner light is shining through.

  “Are you looking for something special?” he asked, and his voice caressed me once more. His fingers strolled through the different bins, lingering on the various “wants head/cocksucker” (light blue), “wears boxer shorts/likes boxer shorts” (paisley).

  “How do people keep these things straight?” I asked.

  “We don’t get a lot of straight here,” he said, grinning.

  “No, really.”

  “There are a few main popular ones,” he said, shrugging, “the rest are more for show.”

  “And the popular ones are...?”

  He faced me again, and he said once more but in a more suggestive voice, “Are you looking for something special?”

  When I first considered cruising the gay scene, I knew I would be at a deficit. Not only am I shy—ungodly shy—but I’m also color-blind. I don’t mean that in the “we are the world” way—although I honestly don’t care about a lover’s nationality as long as there’s chemistry. No, I mean, there are colors I can’t see. Or colors I see wrong. So that if I were to walk into a bar and note a pale-blue hanky in a guy’s back pocket, and think, Oh, cocksucker—I could be way off base. The blue might be pink, and I might accidentally pick up an “armpit freak,” or a “cowboy’s horse.” Not that there’s anything wrong with those desires—they just don’t happen to be mine.

  The hanky code—which could have helped me get around what my shyness prevented me from discovering—was truly the bane of my existence.

  I lamented my problem to the stranger at the sex toy store in the Castro, and he asked matter-of-factly, “Why don’t you simply buy a hanky, slip it into your back pocket and wait for the right man to find you?”

  “I can’t wait,” I said, and I knew I sounded breathless. Then, worried, I asked, “Does that sound stupid?”

  “No,” he said, “it sounds honest. How long have you been in town?”

  Was it that obvious? “Two days.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Daniel.”

  “Daniel, I’m Lem.” He took a step closer to me, and I could feel the heat coming off him. I was almost dizzy from our connection. Screw the colors, I wanted him to take me right there, kiss me, press me up against the wall of hankies and...

  “What fetish were you looking for?” he asked.

  I swallowed hard. I’m shy, like I said. And I have such a difficult time—have always had a difficult time—asking for what I want. But here it was, my chance. I wasn’t going to let this go. “Bondage,” I whispered.

  He smiled and looked at me. “Gray.” He didn’t ask if I were bottom. He didn’t have to. He took me from the wall of hankies and into the toys, grabbed up a few different devices, and then led me out the back door to his pickup truck.

  “Don’t you have to pay for those?”

  “Not when you own the store,” he said. We drove to his house in the Marina, and when we got to the spot, he said, “You have a safeword?”

  I shook my head.

  “Let’s go with hanky,” he said, and he winked at me. He was obviously enjoying himself. I will admit that I was, too. My dick was rock hard in my 501s. But I was also nervous. I’d been craving this forever, and I didn’t know what to do, how to move forward, what to say. My fantasies rarely featured much dialogue. I guess my fear was evident, because Lem put his hand on my back.

  “Don’t worry so mu
ch,” he said, and he led me into his house and to his bedroom, and stripped me of my boots, jeans and shirt. He had me cuffed to his bed in a matter of minutes, my wrists anchored above me, my legs apart. My cock stood at attention, begging for release, but he ignored my erection.

  “So you were looking for a hanky,” he said.

  “Yeah.”

  “Because you wanted someone to give you what you wanted.”

  I nodded.

  “So what do you want?”

  I rattled the chains. “This.”

  “What else?”

  I’d rarely gotten past this image. My fantasies had almost always ended here, with me tied to a bed. The tying had been what was important. The being unable to go. Except I’d had to go far in order to get to this place. I’d had to leave my small, dull hometown in the Midwest, ride a bus for a miserable amount of hours, hole up in the cheapest hotel I could find, and then walk into a sex toy store in order to make my dreams come true.

  Sure, there had been a few stolen kisses in my past. A drunken night behind a bar when a man I’d known forever made a move and I let him touch me. But I hadn’t ever told anyone what I truly desired. I hadn’t figured out how.

  Lem said, “Use your imagination, boy. What next?”

  I sighed and said, “Let me come.”

  “That’s it? Bind you down and make you come? I don’t think so...”

  I closed my eyes. I tried to figure out what he’d want me to say. I saw the images in the magazines I’d been jerking off to for years. Lem came close to me. He kissed me and then bit my bottom lip hard, startling me with the pain. I opened my eyes and stared into his. “Daniel. What do you want me to do?”

  I said, “Hurt me,” and I felt my dick leak a little precome.

  “Yes,” he said, nodding. “That’s what comes next.”