The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 10

by Maxim Jakubowski

  This hotel is more than a hundred years old. I selected it deliberately, hoping that it might offer some Victorian style, but the room is fairly ordinary – no four-poster bed, no fireplace, no curtain fastenings that might serve double duty as attachment points for bonds.

  There is, however, a fine wing-back chair next to the window, with a footstool. My master tosses his backpack in the corner and settles himself into the chair. He grins at me, and butterflies swoop through my stomach. “Well, Sarah. Alone at last.”

  I stand on the other side of the room, the bed between us, clutching my bag. What I really want to do is to rush over and kneel at his feet. I can’t move, though. It seems as though I’m in a dream, rooted to the spot. Hardly surprising. I’ve dreamed about this meeting for months.

  How shall we start, then? Should I strip? The last time we were in a hotel room together, years ago, he bound me to the desk chair with my stockings. The time before, he unscrewed the post from the fake colonial bed and fucked me with it until my screams brought the hotel management knocking on the door. But that was in another life, before I misread my master’s heart and chose a different partner.

  “So, what do you have in your bag?” he asks finally, after watching me squirm for long moments.

  “I have the corset.” I’d purchased it for myself, thinking to please him, knowing that there was no way he would ever buy me one.

  “Good. And the other things that I told you to bring?”

  “I have the ruler, the rope, the alligator clips, and the timer.” I remove the items one by one, arraying them on the bed for his inspection. Without announcing it, I take out a package of condoms and place it on the bedside table. His eyebrows arch in a silent question, but he just nods.

  “I’m sorry, but I couldn’t find a rug beater, or the switches. It’s too late in the year; the trees are too brittle. Anyway, I wouldn’t have been able to carry them …”

  “No excuses!” He sounds stern but I can see a smile twitching at the corner of his full lips. “I’m sure that you know better than to disobey me. We’ll see about your punishment later.”

  He settles back in the chair, crossing one leg over the other. “Right now, I want to see you in your corset.”

  I carefully extract the gorgeous black satin garment from its tissue paper wrapping. My master looks relaxed, but I know he’s not missing any detail as I pull my jersey over my head and attack the buttons at my waist. Of course I’m not wearing a bra. My nipples feel hot, as if illuminated by a spotlight. They seem to scream “Look at me, see how stiff I am.”

  My rayon skirt pools around my ankles and then I’m naked in front of him for the first time in nearly two decades. His eyes widen but he doesn’t say a word.

  “Why don’t you close your eyes while I put it on? It’s rather an awkward process. And I want you to get the full effect.”

  “You can’t hide anything from me, Sarah,” he says, but still, he turns to look out the window while I struggle with the clasps and laces.

  My fingers don’t work at all, I’m so nervous. I know he’s getting impatient, yet I can’t seem to reach the last hooks. I suck in my stomach, worried that I’ve gained weight and I won’t be able to fasten the thing, but, finally, I manage.

  The boned curves press into my flesh. I move a bit stiffly, my breathing shallow so that I don’t burst open the hooks. The corset elevates and separates my breasts; they spill lushly over the top of the garment. Meanwhile, I can feel my bare buttocks bulbing out behind.

  “Okay – I’m ready.”

  My master leans forward, eager, his smile baring sharp white teeth. “Very nice. Come over here.”

  Stumbling a bit in my high heels, I circle the bed and stand in front of him.

  “Very nice indeed. Walk around for me, Sarah. Let’s see more of your tits and your ass.”

  His mocking, lecherous tone thrills me. I’m terribly embarrassed, but I love showing off for him, and he knows it. My pussy swells and moistens. My nipples harden further, so painfully sensitive that one touch might send me into orgasm. He doesn’t touch me, though. He just watches, while I strut back and forth in front of him, swinging my hips.

  I notice the seaweed scent, rising from between my dampened thighs. I’m close enough to him. I know he can smell it too. I don’t dare to look at his face. Instead I hold my head high as he taught me, imagining that I’m wearing the collar he once promised me.

  I feel his hot eyes ranging over my body, and I rejoice, knowing that I please him, that he’s as aroused as I am. And all at once I’m awed by the power of our complementary fantasies. I want him to watch me; he has flown 3,000 miles to do just that. He nourishes all my perverse notions, rewarding me for being the outrageous slut that I secretly am, the submissive, devoted wanton that he recognized in me, long years ago.

  “Bend over,” he says, his voice gruff with lust. I know exactly what he wants. I stand with my back to him, between the chair and the ottoman. I bend at the waist, presenting my ass to his gaze, holding the stool for support. He leans closer, but for a long time he still doesn’t touch me.

  His gaze traces paths across my bare skin. I swear I can tell when his eyes linger on the pale globes, or probe more deeply into the shadows between them. This inspection excites me beyond belief. I know that he’ll touch me, sooner or later. I think that I’ll die if he doesn’t do it soon.

  Still, I’m not prepared when he slaps one cheek with his open palm. “Ow!”

  “You are such a nasty little girl! I had forgotten. But now I remember (slap) just how kinky and twisted you really are.” He gives me three more spanks in quick succession, and I’m wailing out loud. At the same time, I’m hoping that he doesn’t stop.

  Of course he does, knowing how to stoke my fires with frustration, but only for a moment. “Across my knees, Sarah.” The armchair is perfect for a spanking, and once again my spirit soars, as he lays into me, landing one ferocious blow after another on my tender butt. I’m where I belong, and both of us know it.

  My butt is burning like it’s been barbecued. It’s starting to hurt enough to interfere with the pleasure. I wonder if he still has that uncanny sense of my limits that he used to demonstrate. Just as the thought crosses my mind, he whispers in my ear. “I’ll bet anything that you’re soaking wet, Sarah.” Without waiting for a reply, he thrusts three fat fingers deep into me. The fires race from my ass to my cunt and back. I come hard, grinding down on his hand, wanting him deeper, always deeper.

  Afterwards, he strokes my hair and plants little kisses on my ravaged ass. As for me, I’m content to just lie across his lap, glowing inside and out from his attentions. His erection pokes through his slacks and into my belly. He doesn’t make any moves to release his cock, and I don’t dare do so myself.

  He’s restless, though, aware as I am of the minutes ticking away. “Go get the ruler,” he tells me. It amuses him to have me supply the instruments of my own torment.

  “Oh no, please, I’m too sore! Please, wait a while till I recover.”

  He ruffles my hair. “Okay, the rope then. Then I want you on your back on the bed. Legs wide, knees up to your shoulders.”

  I’m not sure that I’m still flexible enough to comply with his orders, but I manage. He loops the soft cotton rope around one thigh. “Sit up.” I struggle to raise my back off the bed, and he slips the rope underneath, around my torso, then winds it around my other thigh. I’m now roped open, my cunt lips spread wide. It’s an incredibly vulnerable position. I love it.

  “Grab your ankles.” When I do, he circles my wrist and ankle on the left and then the right, binding them together on each side. He finishes up on my left side with a neat bow.

  His light mood has fled. He’s concentrated, serious. A sparkle of fear dazzles me. What will he do, now that I’m totally helpless?

  “How’s that? Any pain, or numbness?”

  I wiggle my fingers and toes, then shake my head.

  “Good. Now take a look at your
self.”

  I hadn’t realized that there was a mirror at the foot of the bed. It’s difficult to raise my head enough to regard my reflection, but it’s worth it. In all the filthy pictures and videos he has sent me, I’ve rarely seen something so obscene. My thighs and belly are pale as marble contrasted with the black satin of the corset. My labia, emerging from the damp tangle of my pubic hair, are purple and puffy. They are stretched wide, open, and I can see a wet cavern between them, pulsing and quivering. I can’t see my clit, but I can feel it, hard, insistent, crying out for his attention.

  He zips open his backpack and pulls out a plastic bag. “I thought I should bring some supplies of my own.” What does he have? I wonder, simultaneously worried and aroused. He replies as if I’d asked the question aloud. “Just a few clothes pins and elastic bands.” He hovers over me, searching my face. “Are you ready?”

  I nod, then yell as he fastens a plastic clothes pin to one of my pussy lips. It bites into my flesh. Sharp pain ricochets through my sex. Each echo modulates subtly in the direction of pleasure. I feel liquid trickling from my cleft on to the bedspread. Then he ramps up the pain again by clipping a symmetrical pin opposite the first.

  “You know I’m a frugal guy. Why bother paying for toys when there are so many ordinary household items that can be pressed into kinky service? Shall I add a third clothes pin on your clit, Sarah?”

  The pain is already overwhelming, though muddied with pleasure. He’s giving me the chance to choose. I don’t really want more pain, but I want, I need, to please him. There’s so much time to make up for.

  “If you want,” I whisper. “Whatever you want.” My clit throbs, trembles, anticipating new agony. But I’m so aroused by now that the third pin hardly hurts. It just turns up the volume on the pleasure.

  My master sweeps a fingertip through the opened folds of flesh in front of him, ending with a flick to the plastic pin fastened to my core. I moan and writhe, though I can hardly move, trussed up as I am. “You looks so sexy, Sarah. I’ve got to get some pictures.”

  He leaves me stranded on the bed, open and aching, while he gets his camera. The shutter clicks quietly as he captures me from a variety of angles. “These will keep me company, after you’ve gone.” I’m so embarrassed I think that I’ll die, but at the same I can’t wait to see the photos. “Maybe I’ll put these up on the Internet.”

  “No, you wouldn’t …”

  “Are you sure?” I’m not, not 100 per cent. He has a contrary streak that’s a bit scary. “Or maybe I should email them to him.” My master has actually met my husband, briefly, but he refuses to say David’s name.

  “No, don’t, please …” David knows, intellectually, that I’m interested in BDSM, but I think he’d find these photos, this reality, pretty difficult to face.

  My master leans over and brushes his lips across mine. “Don’t worry. I think I want to keep these treasures all to myself.” This brief intimacy is enough to set me shuddering, teetering on the edge of another orgasm.

  He sees, and laughs. “Don’t come yet, little one. I’ve got some new sensations for you.”

  He kneels on the bed between my splayed thighs, and I hope against hope that he’ll simply pull out his cock and fuck me. But instead he grabs one of the elastic bands and starts snapping it hard against my inner thighs. The rubber stings the tender skin there; I notice that dampness seems to make the sensation stronger. The pain is not extreme, but it wakens the bite of the clothes pins.

  “The elastic leaves little red marks,” he tells me. “I’ll bet you’ll still have them tomorrow.”

  There is no tomorrow. There is only now. I’m tingling all over, balanced between pleasure and pain, wanting him as I’ve never wanted anything else.

  “Please …” I moan. “Please, Eric, touch me …”

  “Poor little Sarah,” he says. “My poor horny little slave.” He wriggles one of the clothes pins on my labia, and I scream at the fresh rush of pain. He pulls roughly at the one attached to my clit. I tumble into a loud, frenzied climax, my body jerking like a helpless puppet as jolt after jolt of ecstasy hits me.

  I regain my senses. I’m drenched with sweat. The bedspread underneath me is sodden. My master is smiling at me, looking pleased with himself. Love surges in me; tears tickle the corners of my eyes. I want to let him know what he does to me, how much I need him, how grateful I am.

  “Feeling better now?”

  I nod weakly. “Thank you …” The words I want to say suddenly seem silly, mushy. He’ll just mock me the way he so often does. I lie silent as he removes the clothes pins. I still feel the ghost of their bite. He begins to untie me, the stops.

  “I’m hungry. How about some lunch?”

  Maybe lunch would be a good idea, a chance to take a few deep breaths, reduce the intensity. “There’s a nice sushi place around the corner that we used to go to …” I tend to avoid using David’s name under these circumstances, too.

  “Oh, I don’t want to waste our time by going out. I’ll just order room service.”

  “But …” He withers my objections with a masterful look. Before long he’s on the phone, ordering a hamburger and French fries and an ice tea. “What do you want, Sarah?”

  I’m not hungry. I’m aching and stiff and a bit sad. “Oh, I don’t know. Do they have tuna sandwiches?”

  “One tuna sandwich coming up.” He conveys the information to the person at the other end of the phone, then hangs up. “Ten minutes, they say.”

  “That’s fast! So, can you untie me now?”

  “No, I don’t think that I want to do that just yet. I’d like the room service waiter to have the chance to appreciate you.”

  “No! Please, no.” The thought is as horrifying as it is arousing.

  “Are you refusing me, Sarah? After all these years, are you going to disappoint me?”

  No, not that. I’ve disappointed him so many times. Broken so many promises, as we both know. This time, today, I want more than anything to please him.

  “No – it’s okay. If that’s what you want.”

  He sits down next to me, gently brushes my hair away from my face. “Good girl. You’re mine, aren’t you, Sarah? Mine to use as I please?”

  The old thrill races through my trussed up body. This is what I crave, to be owned, to be cherished. “Yes,” I say, so soft that he has to lean close to hear. “I’m yours.” And at that moment, as he kisses me, I believe what I am saying with all my heart.

  The doorbell shocks us both. “Hush, be still now,” he says as he gets up. “Just a moment,” he calls to the waiter. He raises the corner of the bedspread and flips it over me, hiding my bound form. Then he goes to the door.

  The waiter looks barely twenty, rangy with tousled blond hair. He can’t help staring at the strange, shrouded lump that is my body as Eric signs the check. “Is your wife all right?” he asks.

  “My wife couldn’t be better,” Eric replies. I hear an edge in his voice that the waiter probably misses. “We’re just playing a little game.”

  “Hide and seek?”

  Eric tries hard not to laugh. “Not exactly … There you go. Thank you.”

  “Sure thing. Have a nice lunch.”

  “Oh, we will.”

  I’m laughing too, in relief and in joy at being alone again. I should have known that he wouldn’t risk exposing me that way. Then I think of some of our past encounters, and I’m not so sure.

  “I’m always torn,” says Eric as he works at undoing my bonds. “Between showing the world what a delicious slut you are, and keeping you all to myself.”

  I stretch out my legs and groan at the stiffness.

  “Sorry to keep you tied up so long. Maybe I got a bit carried away.”

  “I’m out of shape. Not used to this stuff anymore.”

  “I’ll get you whipped into shape in no time.” He hands me my sandwich with a grin. “Here. You’ve got to keep your strength up.

  “You know, it was so hard to d
ecide what to take with me this time. I thought about bringing my laptop and some recent videos. We could watch them together – there’s nobody I can really share that sort of kinky stuff with except you. But then I thought we wouldn’t have the time … One idea I had was to make a ginger fig for you – you know, a little present after not seeing you for so long. I’d love to see how you react to a spicy plug of raw ginger up your ass. But then I realized that it would dry out on the trip, wouldn’t be effective …”

  He talks on between bites of his hamburger. I’m content just to sit here in his presence, my sex still humming from my orgasms, listening to my master, face to face with him at last.

  After a while, though, both his food and his conversation run out, and we’re there, looking at each other, wondering what comes next.

  “I want to see you naked,” I say finally.

  “Well, I want to try out that wooden ruler.” So he does, and of course, I like it. I’ve always been willing to let him experiment on my body. It turns me on like nothing else, to put myself in his hands, to let him investigate the effects of various implements, positions and techniques. Sometimes the sensations are pleasurable. Even if they’re not, giving myself to him sends me flying. When we’re apart I miss his voice, his hands, his humor, his intelligence, but most of all I miss the roller-coaster thrill of his taking control and his outrageous sexual imagination.

  By mid-afternoon my buttocks are criss-crossed with scarlet streaks and I’ve shaken through two more climaxes. He seems pleased with himself. Still, he must be frustrated. Certainly there has been a bulge in his trousers ever since my first spanking.

  We’re stretched out together on the bed. I’ve taken off the corset. He’s still fully clothed. Tentatively I reach out and stroke his erection. “Aren’t you uncomfortable? Don’t you want to come?”

  “I’m putting it off as long as I can. When I come once, that’s usually it for quite a while.”

  I remember in the early days of our relationship, how he’d jack off all over my bound body and be ready to fuck me twenty minutes later.