by Alison Tyler
He undid my ankles and wrists and easily flipped me on the mattress, cuffing my wrists back over my head. Then he retied my legs and stood at the side of the bed.
“We’ll start with a paddle,” he said. “Don’t come on my sheets. I won’t like that.”
I sucked in my breath and waited. He started to spank me. As he did, he said, “Fuchsia’s the hanky for those who like to be spanked. What color is fuchsia for you?”
“Gray,” I murmured.
He spanked me harder and I worked to not buck my hips against the mattress. The friction of the position made me feel as if I might climax at any minute.
“Yellow is for people who like golden showers. What color is yellow for you?”
“Gray,” I told him. I was having a harder time speaking now, and my cock was a living, beating muscle of desire. What would he say if I told him I couldn’t hold back?
“Blue is oral sex,” he said. “What’s blue to you?”
I sighed, “Gray...I’m going to come.”
“Not yet!” He dropped the paddle and climbed onto the mattress behind me. He undid my ankle restraints and pulled me up on my knees. I felt lube between my asscheeks, and I groaned as he slid one finger into my hole. “I’m going to fuck you,” he said, adding another finger, stretching me open. “And then you can come.”
I nodded at his words, thinking, You’d better fuck me quick, then, because this is all too much for me. He finger-fucked me a few more seconds, and then he was in motion, pressing the big head of his fat cock to my back door, giving me a second to grow accustomed to the sensation before slamming all the way home. I was crying at the way that he filled me up, the way he made me his. His cock rode me hard and fast. There wasn’t a hanky color for what I was feeling—taken and used and fulfilled and needed. Or if there were, it would have been a rainbow.
“What color are your eyes?” I asked, suddenly needing to know. “Are they green or blue?”
“Gray,” he said, and he reached his hand under my body and milked my dick for me until I was shooting, coming all over his fist and my belly and his sheets. I worried for a second, since he’d told me he wouldn’t like that, but then I let the worry go. He was making me come after all. He shot his load a second later, filling me up with his spend, then pulling out and staring down at me. I didn’t think he was going to let me go for a minute, but he did, undoing the cuffs and taking me with him into the shower.
“You wanted bondage,” he said. “You came to a big city, looking for bondage, and you were lost, weren’t you?”
I nodded. He was working the soap over me in the shower—his beautiful eyes smiling at me, his big hands roaming over my body.
“Poor baby,” he said, kissing me under the spray, fisting my dick once more as the water rained down on us. “The hanky for bondage is gray,” he said, and he started to laugh. “And when you looked at that wall, all you saw were fifty shades of...”
“Don’t say it,” I begged him, and I silenced his mouth with my own.
STAG BEETLE
Sacchi Green
She touched the little box in my pocket and smiled like an urchin sure of a treat from an indulgent uncle. “Is that my present from Japan?”
I gripped her wrist. “Is that a hand in my pocket, or are you just glad to see me?”
Kit, brow puckered, tried to puzzle out my mood. “Well, of course I’m glad to see you!” She tried to wriggle her fingers against my thigh. My grip tightened.
What am I doing with a girl too young to get a Mae West reference, even by way of Jessica Rabbit? “I’m glad to see you, too, Kitten.” A warm, loving, beautiful girl. “I did bring you a present, but that isn’t it. Careful now. Don’t let the lid come off.” I drew her hand slowly out of my pocket. The white box emerged, still intact, the thick rubber band now perilously close to one end.
“What...” Kit jerked an inquisitive finger abruptly back as the cardboard lid twitched from some inner movement. Her expressive eyes widened as the significance of the tiny ventilation holes sank in.
“Do you really want to see?” Kit had an involuntary horror of creepy-crawly things. “My old students remembered that I’d been interested in their collections when I taught there, and thought it would make a fine present. I couldn’t refuse. It was an honor.”
Kit had met me at the door wearing only a silk shirt, open down the front; now she tucked her hands firmly under her armpits as she hugged herself for comfort. “I don’t know...maybe...” She pulled herself together and let her arms drop to her sides, body taut, scared-kitten face firming until it could have been a smooth stone carving of Bastet. “If I don’t see it, I’ll imagine something worse.”
“That’s my girl.” Warm, loving, beautiful and smart. And eager to please. I opened the box, my hand curved close just in case. The stag beetle, two inches of black shell and another inch of chitinous “antlers,” peered over the edge. Kit inclined her head just enough to get a good view, the trembling of her body barely perceptible.
“They’re quite beautiful, in their way. And harmless. I’ll keep him in a bigger box, a very safe box, and feed him fresh fruit—bananas, mangos, sweet peaches.” Was it accidental that Kit’s shirt slipped aside just enough to reveal the soft peach-glow curve of her breast? A startling inner vision of the black beetle moving across that sweet tender flesh sent tremors over my body, too. “It’s an ancient tradition for Japanese boys to collect and breed stag beetles as pets. They’re quiet and don’t take up much room.” Am I babbling? Don’t overdo it, nitwit!
“It was an honor, wasn’t it?” Her hand came out slowly. “Only boys keep them? It must be their way of honoring you as Jess, instead of the Jessica they knew ten years ago.”
“Yes.” A tangle of emotions gripped me. Pride in her bravery fought with a need to push her limits, to see how much she could bear—and how much I could bear before nothing mattered but fucking her so hard she screamed like a wildcat.
“I want to hold him,” Kit said. “Really.” She held steady, the faintest of shivers rippling across the tender skin of her arm, while the beetle took a few steps along the back of her hand and wrist. She was pale and somewhat breathless, still frightened on a level logic couldn’t reach. “I’m not sure I can hold still. Scary things...sometimes they feel so...so...I don’t know. Maybe you could tie me up?”
“How did you guess the real present I brought?” I picked up my backpack and nudged her toward the bedroom. She lowered herself carefully until she sat on the bed, her back against the brass bars at its head, never looking away from the glossy black presence now innocently exploring her forearm—until she felt the wide silk obi wrap her tightly just below her breasts.
“Oh! How beautiful!” The delicate bamboo leaves embroidered on a pale gold background distracted her for just a moment, until I raised her arm to her chest. Her gasp shook the insect just a bit, and then he kept on, up over the mound of her breast. She was visibly shuddering now, barely keeping her hand from scrabbling at the beetle.
“There’s a whole outfit in my suitcase to go with that, kimono and all,” I said conversationally, while I tied her wrists securely to the bars with the ends of the long sash. She gave a sigh of relief when the bonds held however hard she strained at them.
“Thank you so much!” It didn’t matter whether her gratitude was more for the gift, or the restraint. The relief vanished when the stag beetle crept along to her nipple and poised at its tip, feeling for a further foothold. “Jess...” Kit said tightly, then held her breath.
I reached out to reroute him, but she shook her head. “It’s...okay. Okay and...and awful at the same time.” The beetle turned back, revealing the nipple darkened from pink to rose, and so temptingly erect that I could barely resist it.
A lovely flush lit her skin. No longer just struggling to please me, she had crossed a line from fear to arousal, like pain giving way to pleasure. Heat suffused my own body.
By the time the beetle descended between her breast
s and over her belly almost to her navel, she was whimpering, not so much like a frightened kitten as a very hungry one. Her thighs twitched, and her wrists strained at freedom, but she wouldn’t beg.
I was the first to give way. “No more!” I retrieved my new pet, tucked him gently back into his box and set it on the nightstand. Then it was my hands that made her skin flush and thighs dampen, and my not-so-harmless mouth that forced her nipples to a rigid pleasure indistinguishable from pain, until her cunt and clit needed all my attention and I drove her on from mewling cries to howling release.
As we nestled close together afterward, catching our breaths, Kit reached up with her now-freed hands to stroke my face. “Isn’t it a good thing,” she said, with a mischievous twist to her kiss-reddened lips, “that really, really scary things turn me on?”
What am I doing with this warm, loving, beautiful, smart, brave girl? Getting luckier than I’ll ever deserve, that’s what.
HANDS DOWN
Rachel Kramer Bussel
Gretchen and I have a pretty conventional relationship, on the surface at least: we’re in our late twenties, got married after a year of dating (three years ago); we plan on having kids; we both work high-pressure, high-power jobs in media, which often require late nights to meet deadlines. We look like young, fresh-scrubbed, all-American white yuppies—at least, that’s what my brother in Santa Cruz, a tanned surfer with blond stubble and a laid-back attitude, tells me, when I see him at Christmastime. But what he doesn’t know, and very few others do, is that beneath our sunny surface, we have a dark side. Maybe dark isn’t the right word, exactly—kinky is. We like to play, and play hard, and after a long day, few things soothe me more than a nice cold beer and watching Gretchen writhe when I tie her to the bed, or a chair, or simply order her to stand against the wall while I beat her, and if she dares move, I shackle her wrists together and use a spreader bar to keep her in place. She loves playing just as much as I do, if not more.
Recently, though, I decided I wanted to do something a little bit new for us by taking our bondage play out into the world—the world of hip, downtown New York City. I would get to see a new side of my gorgeous, kinky wife, and see what happens when I unsettle her, shake things up, show her just how mischievous I—and she—can be. I didn’t want us to be one of those couples who falls into a rut, even if it is a rut filled with spanking, bondage, dirty talk and rough sex. I wanted to bring our kind of sexy fun into an unknown arena, and our upcoming date night was the perfect opportunity.
We settle in at Joe’s Pub, but as Gretchen’s hand reaches for the menu, I tug it down under the table, as surreptitiously as I can. It’s pretty dark where we’re sitting; I’ll need the candle to read the selections, not that I really care. My cock is getting harder by the second as I reach for her other hand and smoothly slip out her wraparound silver bracelet, the one I’ve tucked into my jacket pocket, winding it around her wrists. Ever since she bought it a few weeks ago, I’ve been intrigued with its erotic possibilities, and I’ve held it in my hands, twined it around my own wrists, marveled at how pliable the coils of silver are. It’s almost as if the jewelry maker knew the potential “trouble” it could cause—if, by “trouble,” I mean the most naughty of pleasures.
Before Gretchen can process what I’ve done, her hands are secured in her lap. She looks at me like she wants to laugh, or stick out her tongue, but I give her a calm smile and reach over to pinch her inner thigh. “I’ll take care of you tonight; you just sit back and relax. Don’t drink too much, though, because you’re not getting up until the show’s over.” Of course I’m bluffing; if she’s on the verge of having an accident, I’ll let her get up, but she’ll have to beg.
I make a deliberate show of reaching for the menus and spreading Gretchen’s open before her, since she’s incapable of doing so herself. “You just tell me what you want,” I say with a wink. I often advise her to tell me what she wants when we’re in bed; she knows that ultimately I’m the one who will decide if she gets it or is made to wait. The look on her face is priceless; she can’t decide whether to whine in protest or indulge in the arousal I’m sure is already starting. I tap my fingers against the table as I turn my menu over to look at the cocktails. Just the act of immobilizing my wife has me hard, like the air around us has changed, becoming charged with the tension my simple yet powerful act has provided. I’m tempted to twitch the tablecloth so the couple at the next table over can get a peek. Instead, I make my own selection and lean in close for Gretchen to tell me what she wants, but she just lets out a little moan.
“Like that, don’t you?” I ask, even though I know the answer. “Just so we’re clear, if you really need to escape, I’m sure a smart girl like you can figure out how to, but I’m also pretty sure a smart kinky slut like you wouldn’t want to deprive herself of having me take care of you all night.” The words make her breath catch, and I reach for her inner thigh and pinch it again to emphasize my warning. Feeling her smooth, soft skin with the pads of my fingers while the back of my hand brushes the bracelet makes me let out a deep breath, an image flashing in my mind of Gretchen bound with her hands behind her back, sucking me off under the table while I guide her with a hand in her hair. That’s the thing about playing with her—one naughty action always leads to another, a dirty domino effect that I can’t stop, not that I would want to.
Gretchen’s eyes bug out even more when our waitress walks over, her waist-length black hair flying around her, revealing a glorious array of ink along her shoulders and back. She places water glasses on our table. “What can I get you?” she asks, pen poised at the ready.
“I’ll have the antipasto platter and a mojito,” I say, “and my wife will have the deviled eggs combination and a sparkling raspberry cosmopolitan.” There are other items on the menu I know she’d have enjoyed, but these I can feed to her easily and inconspicuously, unlike the pasta or spinach salad, what she’d normally order. The waitress smiles at us and hurries off to place our orders, none the wiser to our little game, I don’t think. I scoot closer to Gretchen and smile at her; the lighting is dim, but I can still tell she’s blushing. “Having fun?” I whisper in her ear, keeping my mouth there so I can breathe against the sensitive area.
“I’m going to get you back for this,” she says, though I’d bet money she doesn’t mean it. Gretchen’s a Type-A powerhouse at work, and sometimes it’s hard for her to let go of work even when we’re enjoying a night out. My job in our relationship is to force her hand—in this case, hands, literally, to relax. One thing I’ve learned about bondage over the years is that it doesn’t work, in any form, if you tense up. For it to work its full magic, seducing both parties into the glorious give-and-take of possession and surrender, you can’t fight it, which is one of the things I love best about restraining such an eager bottom; I’d never want to engage in bondage with an unwilling participant. Gretchen, though, was seemingly born for bondage. All it takes is a little bit of restraint, and it’s like a switch is turned and she’s ready for anything. The very act of keeping her still, locking her in place, prompts her mind to slip out of overthinking mode and her body to slip into full feeling mode. I’m not sure if she knows it, but there’s a visible difference when she crosses over, submits not only to me, but to the adventure bondage promises. There’s a little bit of her good-girl nature that resists every time, until the overwhelming need she has to be taken, controlled, and corralled wins out. If we were in a cartoon, this is when the lightbulb would go off over her head.
Sometimes I don’t even tie her up at all, just order her to stay still, and then have fun with her. I’ll tickle her, or spank her—sometimes I lick her pussy until she screams, as long as she stays in place; one small move on her part and I instantly stop, even if it pains me to do so. I can’t do any of those things right now, so I take an ice cube from the glass of water in front of me and slide it along the side of her neck. “Don’t want you to get overheated,” I whisper. She giggles softly, and I’m thin
king about how quickly this cube would melt if I placed it between her legs. Instead, I trail it along her cheek for a moment before casually slipping it into her lacy bra, the delicate lilac one I saw her slip on as she got dressed, when I had to grab her and bite each nipple through the lace before letting her return to getting ready. Thankfully her black top has enough coverage that I can get away with it without exposing either of us as inveterate perverts.
I pull back just as the lights go all the way down and the singer steps forward, pure glam with bold red lips that beckon to every corner of the room, blonde hair piled atop her head and what seems like a ball gown on, complete with a slit up the side, as she greets her audience. “I bet she’d know what to do with you,” I whisper to Gretchen as I pick up another ice cube, this time slipping it under the table and into the palm of her hand. I press my palm against hers, feeling the dripping water melt against our skin.
If we were home, I’d surely take an ice cube and slide it along her pussy lips, tracing them until she squirmed and moaned, then press it inside her. I’ve done it before and it never fails to amuse me to watch her squirm, tightening around the cube, seeming to want to draw it deeper and expel it, processing the cold assault on her senses. And surely if, right now, her hands were free, the right one would be between my legs, teasing me, making me harder; she’s as skilled at the subtle art of semipublic displays of affection as I am. I maneuver up her thankfully short skirt and manage to deposit the ice cube into her panties, just as I did in her bra earlier, and bring my fingers back to hers. She clasps one, digging her nails into my skin. The sharpness spikes its way through me, and I lean against her while the singer oozes seduction as she starts to sing—and strip. She’s down to a gorgeous black camisole, black panties and garters attached to leopard-print stockings, by the time the first song ends, and I raise my hands above my head to clap, a sharp contrast to what Gretchen can do.