Twisted: Bondage With an Edge

by Alison Tyler

  “Fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck fuck fuck,” she says, shaking her head to clear the pain. It undulates through her body, making her arch her back and prop herself up on her left hand. It makes her grind back and forth, rubbing her panty-clad ass against her dirty sheets in a vain attempt to sooth herself, to distract herself from the agonizing pain in her tits.

  What distracts her far more than the sensuous feel of her ass against the sheets is the tight embrace of the heavy padded restraints on her ankles. They’re secured by spring clips and chains to the metal frame of her full-size bed. They rattle a little when she squirms, which is why she wishes she could play music. But she can’t, or she wouldn’t be able to hear the sound from her laptop, which is propped on a pillow between her forced-apart knees.

  She looks at the screen. She moans. She says, “Oh, fuck, that hurts. That fucking hurts.”

  She just keeps saying it and looking at the screen as the pain rumbles through her body. She breathes deep and hard and pulls at the tightness of her ankle restraints. She runs her hand up her neck and feels the thick leather collar with its heavy silver D-ring and the silver chain leash tossed over her shoulder. She tugs at it.

  So what if it hurts, slut, someone says in her mind. You like it. You know you fucking like it.

  She sees a hand reaching for a cock. She smiles and slaps her face. A hand grips a cock firmly. It doesn’t move. She slaps her face again, harder this time, and makes a pathetic whining noise. She pulls at her leash, runs her hand over her collar, slaps her face even harder, pulls at her collar and the leash.

  The hand moves faster. She smiles.

  Fifteen clothespins radiate out from her upthrust left breast, like a porcupine’s quills, only she’s not sure if she’s the porcupine or the victim. The clothespins bite into her flesh; she can barely take it. A wave of sensation crashes through her body and she almost loses it. She panics, gasps, sobs, reaches for the one in her nipple to pluck it away; it’s more than she can stand. Her fingers stop before she removes it. Her fingertips almost touch the clothespin—almost, but not quite. She leaves it there, shivering for an instant as she waits to see if she can handle it. Then she breathes out long and slow and leaves the clothespin where it is.

  Her fingers tremble as she reaches for more.

  She takes three more clothespins from the box beside her bed; one goes on her right breast, down on the tender part where the push-up bra lifts it up tight. She pinches to get purchase, moans softly as she centers the pin. She leaves it and adds another alongside it. She’s less symmetrical now, not caring where they go, exactly—just that they get placed. She picks up speed. She has to cross-reach over her upper belly to pinch her right tit properly; she dislodges one of the clothespins and shrieks. She curses herself for the noise she made; she’s got motherfucking roommates. Quiet, bitch. Don’t make a sound, someone says in her mind. She shoves her hand down into the black mesh panties and rubs herself. She thrills to the smooth feeling. Nice and smooth, bitch...you shave your cunt. What are you, a hooker? A porn star?

  In fact, she isn’t a hooker, and she’s probably not a porn star. But when she looks down to the screen of her laptop, she sees a hand moving faster on a cock, and she likes that. She likes that a lot.

  In her mind, someone sneers, You’re making him jack it, slut. A stranger’s jacking off to you hurting yourself, and you like it. What a sick perverted cunt you are. You should just charge him a flat rate and have someone pack you up and ship you to this asshole to live as his sex slave. He’d probably hurt you all the time, then; would you like that? You wouldn’t have to hurt yourself, then...would that be more or less perverted?

  She grunts as she puts on a fourth, fifth, sixth clothespin. Her breasts heave harder and deeper as she breathes deeper and with greater urgency. She has to remind herself not to hyperventilate. Soon only her right nipple is free.

  On the screen of her laptop, the hand has stopped moving on the cock; now it’s tugging at a swollen pair of balls hanging out of a set of boxers. He’s trying to make himself last, she thinks, and someone says loud in her brain. He’s trying to get his money’s worth. He paid for thirty. He doesn’t want to cum yet. Do you want him to cum so you don’t have to do this anymore? Or do you want him to watch?

  She moves fast to put the three clothespins on her nipples; she’s starting to fly from the pain, feeling suddenly hungry for it.

  She looks at her laptop. The hand is pulling at balls. She grabs her collar, pulls, slaps her face three times in quick, rapid strokes.

  The hand goes back to the cock. She watches as he pumps furiously—then stops. His fingers go back to his balls. She feels a rush of excitement.

  She fumbles the ball gag out of the box by her bed. Did she wash it after the last time? She doesn’t care. It tastes rubbery, dusty. It’s awkward trying to move around with the D-rings of her wrist restraints dangling against the clothespins. She can barely move. If she wasn’t propped up on pillows, she wouldn’t even be able to see her laptop behind the irregular curtain of clothespins. Then she wouldn’t know that when she shoves the ball gag in her mouth, the hand starts pumping cock hard and fast again.

  It doesn’t last long; maybe three strokes, then he’s furiously back to his balls, pulling them down. Why do some guys do that? she wonders. Does it really make them last?

  You want him to last, slut. You want him here with you when you cum. What good is a nice hard cum if you don’t get paid for it?

  Awkwardly, she buckles the black leather strap of the ball gag behind her head. She dislodges two clothespins as she does it; pain surges through the distended flesh where they left deep impressions. She howls in pain. She likes the way the ball gag makes it sound; screw the roommates.

  She squirms back and forth, rattling the chains that lead from her ankles to the cheap metal bed rail. She brings her left hand down alongside her bondage belt and awkwardly works the spring clip until her wrist restraint is tightly secured to the belt. She does the same with her right wrist—but not before she does something else.

  She’s got the vibrator ready, next to the bed. All she’s got to do is tug on the cord and it comes up easy. She spreads her thighs as wide as she can. The vibrator is one of those long models—the kind with a big broad head and a long handle.

  She shoves it down into her panties and turns it on.

  She presses her thighs together to trap it. She moans into the ball gag; her back arches; she throws her head back and shakes from side to side. The whole bed rumbles in response. When she sits up again, her laptop is tipping awkwardly back and forth, almost falling off the pillow. But the hand is pumping furiously, and she gives it a big wet look from her big wet eyes and starts fucking her hips against the vibrator.

  She stops moving her hips, pushes her thighs more tightly together and lets go of the handle. She twists her hand around and works the spring clip to the D-ring of the belt. She reaches up again, flailing with her fingers, and grabs the handle of the vibrator again. She pulls at the belt with both her wrists— the left so it looks like she’s struggling; the right so she can open her legs and push the vibe down deep and fuck herself against it.

  Onscreen, the hand is moving faster, leaving the cock more and more. Every few strokes the hand stops and reaches down to pull at the swollen balls. She feels a thrill each time it departs, each time it returns. He’s jacking himself, slut. He’s going to cum. He’s gotta stop jacking himself, slut...he doesn’t want to cum yet. Look at him pulling his balls. Look what you make him do. You make it so he can’t keep himself from cumming. He’s gonna blow his load and it’s all your fault, bitch. What a horny, slutty cunt you are. What an irresistible little bondage slut. I bet you want to see it, don’t you? See his big hot load shooting everywhere?

  She doesn’t; she doesn’t care. She doesn’t give a damn if she sees it or not. What she likes is his hand moving fast and desperate trying to make his cock shoot, and then stopping and pulling at his balls trying to make himself last
. But he can’t. He can’t last, slut. He’s too fucking hot for you, little bondage slut. You’re his camwhore. You’re making him jack himself off. He wants to stop but he can’t. It’s all your fault.

  She’s close. She shrieks and pushes her hips up into the air, lifting her butt off the sweat-sodden bed and pressing her thighs together. She throws her head back. Her hair is everywhere. Clothespins go popping as she gag-screams and writhes. Pain floods the deep imprints left by the clothespins.

  She goes rigid. She cums hard. Her pussy contracts; her body goes hot-cold-hot-cold with blasts of pleasure. She screams into the gag. All that comes out is a muffled sound. Thank god; her motherfucking roommates are probably already wondering what the fuck all that rattling is.

  Her ass pumps hard for a minute; it lowers to the wet bed. She opens her thighs and pulls the vibrator out of her panties. She flips the switch, tosses the vibe to the side. It hits the floor and the switch goes on again. It rattles there, buzzing on hardwood.

  On her laptop, the cam window’s empty except for the little thumbnail that shows her with her legs spread and her tits like porcupines. The guy is gone. Did he cum? There’s no way to tell. She didn’t really want to see it, but she wishes she knew one way or the other.

  With some significant effort, she unfastens the spring clip attaching her right wrist restraint to her bondage belt. She reaches over and frees her left wrist. She undoes both buckles impatiently; her wrists are sweating.

  Her stomach is sweating, too. She’s sweating all over. She unbuckles her bondage belt and tosses it irritably on the floor. She takes off her gag and leaves it on the sweat-soaked pillow beside her.

  She looks down at her tits, which are heaving from her deep, desperate breaths. They always hurt more coming off than going on. It’s one of the reasons she likes them.

  But she’s never worn this many before; she’s never had a client who asked her to wear so many. And it’s probably been almost twenty minutes since she put on the first one. She never leaves them on that long.

  In her head, she hears her nasty voice.

  That means it’s really going to hurt, slut, taking those fucking things off. The longer you wait, the more it hurts. What is that, like thirty of them? Nah, you lost a few...there’s still like twenty-five left. Damn, that’s gonna hurt. You’re probably gonna cry. You’ll definitely scream. You’ll probably like it. You just wish you had some guy to watch you, don’t you?

  She’s humming with terrified anticipation as she takes deep breaths, porcupine tits heaving. She reaches for the first clothespin.

  Her laptop chimes. She sees a chat flag.

  She sits up awkwardly, feeling the wetness under her butt and the pull of her flesh against the clothespins. She leans forward.

  She sees her own image distorted through the fish-eye lens of the cam. Sweat coats her face, as it does her whole body. Her mascara’s everywhere; black drops of it dot the wooden clothespins. Her lipstick’s ruined. Why does she even wear makeup for these things?

  She double-clicks the chat flag. It’s a new user—one she’s never heard from before.

  I see from your profile you like clothespins, the message says.

  She takes a series of deep, quick breaths; she looks down at her tits and trembles in a softly familiar blend of terror and pleasure.

  She shifts her ankles, feeling the embrace of the restraints, hearing the rattle of the chains.

  She wipes her hands on her sheets. She types:

  I sure do. In fact, I’m wearing about twenty-five of them on my tits right now. Wanna see me take ’em off?

  She makes a smiley face. She never makes a smiley face.

  She breathes deep and hard as a long moment passes.

  Then she hears another chime, sees the credits rack up in her profile. Twenty more minutes, prepaid. A half-hard dick appears on the screen, a hand furiously pulling at it.

  So you’ve been a nasty little fuckwhore, says the voice in her head. Let’s see you hurt yourself.

  She reaches for her ball gag and stuffs her mouth full. She buckles it tight, tucks her left hand under her tit and lifts it up.

  She plucks away clothespins. The hand moves faster. She bites down on the gag and lifts her butt off the sweat-soaked sheets.

  TWISTED REALITIES

  Kiki DeLovely

  My first four, semilucid nights at Misericordia Hospital were spent in a haze, and for that reason I was unsure as to whether or not I had imagined him. So picturesque, dark curls offsetting his hazel eyes, an exquisite blend of feminine and masculine, he looked like he had walked off the GQ pages of my dreams and materialized by my bedside to check my vitals. I could only recall brief flashes of him coming and going. I heard his voice, reading something about a woman too disturbingly beautiful for this world, how she ascends into the heavens, and then his words faded away in the distance. I saw him taking a syringe to my drip line and then everything went blank. I even thought I could recall his scent, trailing off into the night. My body—a much more reliable source than my mind at this point—distinctly remembered feeling how he positioned himself on the edge of my bed one night, the heat of his thigh pressing up against mine. Then gone.

  Surely it had to be the drugs.

  My memory could not quite piece together the facts surrounding my accident either. The rain was coming down hard and so I didn’t see the big cat until the very last second. Her gold-brown eyes staring at me through the droplets on the windshield, confused as to why I would disturb her moment of peace as she stood, unflinchingly stoic in the middle of the road. I flinched, swerved, felt the car gliding along the slick pathway and then everything spinning in slow motion. But that’s all I could recollect. The doctors informed me that the car rolled several times. The air bags saved me from death, but my head hit the side window hard enough to knock me out for a couple of days. Even when I regained consciousness, I was still in and out with little, if any, warning. Between the skull-numbing pain and the drugs they fed me to keep the worst at bay, I couldn’t trust myself to distinguish reality from dream. Then there was the layer of surreality surrounding my gaze-divertingly hot nurse. Gabriel.

  On the fifth day of this bedridden state, I resolved to approach the evening with a clear head. Or at least as clear as my concussed brain would allow. I refused the pain meds they tried to push on me so that I could be cognizant of Gabriel’s late-night visitation. I had to know that he was real. Perhaps he wasn’t? But that’s about as far as I could let my imagination wander. Had I been in my right mind, I wouldn’t have even taken it that far.

  I awoke to his light eyes peering intently into mine. Mierda. I must’ve drifted off.

  “How’s the pain, cielita?” Glancing down at my chart, he continued, “I see you’ve been refusing the Dilaudid.”

  Somewhat taken aback at the immediate intimacy of his stare penetrating me upon waking—the feeling of him inside me even before my first thought could form—it took me a second to put words together. “I’m still trying to find my way out of the haze. At moments, I felt like I was losing my hold on reality. I just want to think straight. Without the drugs, the pain is certainly keeping me bound to reality. I hope.”

  Gabriel began nodding at my mention of grogginess, letting me know that he understood. He didn’t see anything unusual about my choice to take on the pain for clairity’s sake, unlike the other nurses. Rather, he respected it. I sensed that he thought it wise and actually quite reasonable.

  “You’ve been able to sleep despite the intensity of the headaches, so that’s a good sign.”

  “I’ve actually grown somewhat accustomed to the maladies in my head...” I spotted the slightest shift in his facial expression and I crumbled. “Oh, god, I used that word incorrectly, didn’t I? How embarrassing.” I launched into a babble about how it’s all still quite fuzzy and I know it’s nothing in comparison to a severe head injury but I’ve been having these damn leg cramps at night that wake me just when I seem to drift off, and I h
eard my voice and recognized how ridiculous I sounded. Why the hell was I telling him this? My mouth kept flapping and I beseeched my brain to please stop.

  Rescuing me from the red-hot flushing across my face and my mouth that wouldn’t seem to quit, no matter how much I willed it, Gabriel broke in, “Why don’t you let me see what I can do to keep your calves from tensing up?”

  Not waiting for my consent, he reached for my legs. He slowly peeled back the stark white hospital bedding until just the edge of my thigh was exposed. He gripped just past my knee and began massaging me there. Gabriel took his time working out the soreness, digging into my atrophied muscles firmly, hurling me into delectation. As he brought needed relief to my legs, it felt as though he was sending every last drop of blood in my veins directly to my clit. I began to throb. Hard. So hard I feared that he might be able to hear it. I couldn’t help but stare at the thick vein in his neck that seemed to be pulsating in time with my licentious heartbeat.

  “I have to admit, I’m delighted to have you so lucid tonight. It feels a little...selfish.” Gabriel stopped himself, but I couldn’t muster the courage to ask him why. After a while he spoke again, telling me that this was his last night at Misericordia. He was involved with a program that transferred him all over the world and he’d be heading to Aracataca, a small river town near Soledad in Colombia’s Caribbean region, the very next day.

  “I know you haven’t exactly been coherent for most of our conversations, but I wanted to thank you because for the first time since I got here, I haven’t felt alone. There’s something... comforting about you....” His voice trailed off so I could hardly make out the last bit, “...and deeply provocative.”

  As he’d just barely uttered those last three words, the air sparked, igniting a palpable intensity between us, and I felt all my inhibitions fall away. They hit the floor, shattered into a hundred indecipherable fragments and dissipated into the atmosphere, as if they had never existed. Usually, I bury my passions in exchange for practicality. I resist ever getting swept up in a moment, never one to indulge in lustful craving. And yet here I was, sitting in a fucking hospital bed, ready to tear off this godawful nightgown, rip out my IV with my teeth, and devour this most sumptuous of men.