Best Bondage Erotica 2012

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  But not tonight. Tonight, she wouldn’t give herself the option of backing down—because her hands were locked in place, and she’d only be able to free herself once the ice melted. She had to get rid of the remote before she changed her mind.

  The moment the thought flitted through her mind, she dropped the remote behind the bed before she lost her courage. There was no way to reach it now. Hell. She probably should have turned the vibrations on low at least before doing that.

  No way to go back in time. Nothing to do—but wait.

  She realized she was holding her breath, her abdominal muscles clenched tight. It took all of her concentration to focus on breathing slowly in and out. Her belly relaxed and she let herself sink into the sensations assaulting her, teasing her, making her entire being feel centered around the tiny bundle of nerve endings in her clit. The dildo inside her thumped mercilessly against her G-spot, and she gasped as every muscle in her body tightened at once. She snapped her head forward, curling herself up as she rode the edge of her climax.

  Another orgasm rushed through her, her pussy clamping hard on to the dildo inside her, and she bucked her hips.

  Her clit felt rubbed raw, her insides thoroughly pounded by the rotation of the dildo. She moaned as the pleasure overtook her and looked over at the digital clock on her bedside table. It had only been twenty minutes. What if the ice really took an hour and forty-five minutes to melt?

  There was no way she could handle any more of this. The vibrations were too hard, too much—her body spasmed without reaching a climax. She cried out, no longer sure if it was from pleasure or frustration as she rode the edge of release. Surely she had hit her orgasm limit. The vibrating bunny ears on her clit were jangling her nerves, making her legs shake uncontrollably.

  She gasped as another orgasm hit her hard. A gush of fluid covered her inner thighs. Had she wet herself? Panicked, she looked down at her jeans, which had a definite wet spot seeping through.

  It’s not pee, silly, she realized. It’s come. She’d never come that hard in her life, never so hard that a stream of ejaculate drenched her. Being cuffed, at the mercy of a block of ice, made her so hot. But she was going to cheat a bit, because there was no way she could wait until the ice melted naturally.

  She pulled herself up in the bed so her head was right next to her hands. Picking up the ice cube with the key in it, she popped it in her mouth. The cold shocked her senses, her mouth overwhelmed by the large cube on her tongue. Tentatively, she sucked.

  And the ice began to melt in the heat of her mouth.

  Thank goodness, she thought, sucking hard even as she bucked her hips wildly, alternating between trying to dislodge the vibrator and trying to come yet again. Now it was starting to hurt, the pain mingling with the pleasure to create an erotic sensation that left her breathless.

  The ice was down to a sliver and she crunched, her teeth hitting metal, tangy on her tongue. She spat the key onto the pillow by her head and grasped it with her trembling fingers. It took longer than when she had practiced, but she finally freed herself.

  Ripping her wet jeans off, she pulled the vibrator out of her pussy and tossed it across the bed. It was still buzzing, hitting her comforter with a thwop. The clock said she’d been in bondage for the past thirty-four minutes—the most intense thirty-four minutes of her life.

  She lay back on her pillow, her breath coming in shallow pants.

  As intense as the experience had been, as scary as it had been, she had to admit being handcuffed was even more exciting than she ever could have imagined.

  I should really punish myself, she thought, for cheating at my own game. Sucking on the ice cube was a definite no-no. Next time, she’d use a bigger block of ice. She might even drop a key into a plastic water bottle and freeze the whole thing before she handcuffed herself.

  There were so many ways she could torment herself. An anal plug, perhaps. Nipple clamps. A ball gag, holding her jaw painfully open, muffling her cries and ensuring that she didn’t try to suck her way out of her predicament.

  She grinned up at the egg-shell white ceiling. She didn’t need a man to give herself exactly what she craved. The possibilities were endless—and this was just the beginning.

  A NIGHT AT THE OPERA

  Elizabeth Coldwell

  Jonathan has always hated opera. In every other respect, he’s the perfect husband, but on this one subject we’ve never been able to agree.

  Nothing thrills me more than to hear a beautifully performed aria, with a world-class soprano conveying the deepest of emotions in every note. It’s almost as good as sex, if that doesn’t sound trite. Unfortunately, he’s never been able to understand why it moves me so deeply.

  In the early days of our marriage, I actually persuaded Jonathan to accompany me to a handful of productions. But while I sat entranced, lost in the music, my darling husband fidgeted in his seat, bored and clearly wanting to be almost anywhere else. On one occasion, he even smuggled his personal CD player into the auditorium and listened to Dark Side of the Moon all the way through the first act of Tosca. He earned a severe thrashing for that when we got home. I rather suspect it was why he did it.

  After that, I as good as gave up on trying to educate him in musical appreciation. We would have carried on plowing our separate furrows, mine highbrow, his unashamedly lowbrow, if I hadn’t seen the advert for Opera South’s latest production. They were bringing their acclaimed version of Lucia di Lammermoor to our local opera house. I had been desperate to see it ever since I discovered Martin Bellehewe was the company’s new director.

  Martin and I were at university together, longer ago now than I care to admit. We met when I’d auditioned for the choral society’s production of The Mikado. He was the show’s conductor, filled with an energy and love for the music he couldn’t fail to transmit to all those around him, destined for a stellar career in music once his degree was completed. With my thin if tuneful voice, I would never be anything more than one of the chorus, swaddled in a dressing gown masquerading as a kimono and fluttering my paper fan in time to the beat. To almost no one’s surprise but our own, we embarked on a passionate relationship that lasted for nearly two years.

  I didn’t discover the delights of domination and submission with Martin. That came later, with my darling Jonathan. Martin’s inclinations were purely vanilla, though he did love to go down on me for long, delirious spells. I always joked that with his superb breath control, he should be up on stage, rather than in the orchestra pit.

  Jonathan knew all about Martin. He displayed no jealousy when it came to my ex. Quite the opposite. My dear, sweet, subby husband never got more excited than when I was telling him about my former lovers, and how much more proficient they’d been than him. That was almost entirely a lie, though the story of being fucked on a Majorcan beach by a waiter who spoke no English but more than compensated with his eight-inch cock was no exaggeration. Simply put, for Jonathan, sex was always sweeter when it came with a side order of humiliation.

  Rereading the advert convinced me it was high time I took Jonathan to the opera once more. If nothing else, it would allow me to treat myself to the toy I’d spotted on one of my favorite bondage-wear websites. The photograph couldn’t have failed to catch my eye. With his burnished silver hair and broad shoulders, the model bore an unmistakable resemblance to Jonathan—at least from the back. For propriety’s sake, a pair of tight black trunks concealed his firm ass, a luxury my husband would not be allowed should he find himself in the same position. He knelt, arms behind him, hands buried deep in the most beautiful pair of bondage opera gloves.

  I didn’t have to see the gloves in the flesh to know the leather would be butter soft, or that once they were in place, the submissive would be incapable of removing them unaided. The sturdy steel D-rings attached down their length and at the end of each glove enabled them to be fastened to themselves, to a hook on the wall or, just as in this photo, to the cuffs around the model’s ankles. Endless pos
sibilities sprang to mind as I considered all the delightfully restrictive and uncomfortable positions I could force Jonathan to adopt. My credit card wouldn’t thank me for it, but I knew I needed a pair of those gloves. Once I had them, everything else would fall into place.

  “We’re going to the opera,” I informed Jonathan over breakfast a couple of mornings later.

  He looked up from his copy of the Times. “Really? I thought you said you were never taking me again. Not after the Discman incident.”

  “Ah, well, in those days you were able to misbehave and get away with it. This time that won’t happen.” My words piqued his curiosity, but I offered him no further explanation. “Plus, Martin’s directing the production, and I thought it would be nice for the two of you to finally meet.”

  With that, I declared the conversation closed. Jonathan clearly realized I was planning something, but I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of discovering exactly what.

  Over the next couple of days, I took the tuxedo he’d last worn to his company’s Christmas function out of storage and had it dry cleaned, and I made an appointment to have my honey-blonde highlights retouched, wanting Martin to see me at my best.

  When we dressed on the evening of the performance, I thought we made a most elegant pair, Jonathan in his evening suit with his black bow tie neatly fastened and me in a sweet black dress with a short, flirty skirt and matching elbow-length gloves. We radiated the security that comes from a long and happy marriage and a financially comfortable background; on the surface a typically middle-class opera-loving couple, but beneath that, anything but. If Jonathan wondered why I was taking a bulky leather shoulder bag with me, he was too polite to say anything.

  His surprise increased when he discovered I’d arranged for us to have a box, instead of the center front circle spot I normally favored. “I thought it would be nice to have a little privacy,” I told him, settling into the plush, comfortable seat. “After all, we’re going to need it.”

  The significance of the comment only struck him when the orchestra broke into the opening bars of the overture. This was the moment when I usually reached for my opera glasses, devoting all my attention to the stage. Tonight, however, I kept my eyes fixed on my husband.

  “I want you to do something for me, and you’re not going to argue or refuse.” Just the tone of my voice would be enough to have his cock stiffening in his underwear, even as he wondered what twist this evening might be about to take. “Undress.”

  “Francesca, are you serious?” he hissed in alarm. “I can’t start taking my clothes off here.”

  “You can, and you will. Don’t worry, no one’s looking. Now, get that penguin suit off.”

  Despite his muttered objections, I had no doubt Jonathan would begin to undress. Whenever I’d told him stories of my previous exploits, the ones that excited him most were always those involving sex in public, particularly when there was a chance of being caught. I was counting on the deeply submissive part of him, the part that thrilled to the thought of exposure and humiliation, to ultimately override any sense of caution.

  Skulking in the shadows at the back of the box, he reached for his bow tie, pulling the two ends apart before shrugging off his dinner jacket. My stomach gave a little thrilled lurch. He was really doing it, and it was just as exciting as in the fantasies I’d had leading up to this evening.

  As he removed each item, tossing them to the floor of the box, I scooped them up and placed them in my bag. In moments, he was down to his shorts. I’d laid his outfit out for him while he was in the bath, and I’d deliberately chosen the tightest black underwear he possessed, still thinking about the faceless hunk on the bondage gear site.

  “All right, I’m undressed,” Jonathan said.

  “Not quite. I want those off, too.” I gestured to his shorts.

  “Please, darling, what if somebody sees me?”

  “I’m sure they’ll enjoy the sight of a handsome man with a nice, hard cock. I know I will. Now, underwear, if you don’t mind.”

  I held out a hand. With less reluctance than I might have expected, Jonathan peeled down his shorts. His erect cock bobbed free in the seconds before he covered it with his crossed palms. He looked so adorable—vulnerable and uncertain, yet willing to do whatever I wished.

  On stage, the action had begun. The baritone playing the story’s villain, Enrico, was singing that his nerves were trembling with fury at the news of his sister’s secret assignations with her lover. There was a time when I would have tried to impart the finer details of the plot to Jonathan, in the vain hope he would follow what was happening, but now I was only concerned with producing the bondage opera gloves from the depths of my bag.

  The D-rings adorning the gloves glinted in the low light. Jonathan stared at them, transfixed.

  “Remember I said I’d make sure you couldn’t misbehave tonight?” I asked. “Well, these beautiful gloves are designed to help me do just that. Hands behind your back.”

  “I don’t want to,” Jonathan murmured, in a tone indicating the exact opposite.

  “Now!” I snapped, the word perfectly in time with a dramatic burst from the brass section. Jonathan pulled his hands away from his cock, so rigid and enticing it took all my willpower not to forget the game and simply order him to fuck me.

  The lack of resistance as I guided first one arm, then the other, into the gloves told me how much Jonathan was enjoying being placed in this bizarre predicament. Some submissives fight against the process of being tied up every step of the way, their pleading and struggles all part of the game. Others complain their bonds are too tight, too loose, too inexpertly tied, whining and goading until the only response is to gag them and silence their irritating attempts to top from below. The easiest to deal with are those who embrace their restraint wholeheartedly, permitting themselves to give up all responsibility and handing the administration of their pleasure to their partner. Jonathan falls into that latter camp, letting me mold and twist him into whatever position I desire without complaint.

  “How do they feel?” I asked him once the gloves were in place and fastened to each other with short lengths of chain threaded through the D-rings.

  “I can’t really move my fingers, but they’re surprisingly comfortable,” he replied.

  “You know comfortable is the last thing I want you to be…” With that, I took a pair of well-worn leather cuffs from the bag. “Down.”

  Obediently, he dropped to the carpeted floor, facing the seats. From what seemed like a great distance, I could hear the harp solo announcing the arrival of the opera’s tragic heroine, Lucia. The solo would be immediately encored when it finished, as was traditional, giving me just enough time before Lucia’s first aria, “Regnava Nel Silenzio,” to finish binding Jonathan. Jodie Spence, a young Welsh soprano who’d recently gained rave reviews for her Covent Garden debut as the lead in Bizet’s Carmen, was playing Lucia, and I was anxious to hear her sing without distraction.

  Working quickly, I fastened the cuffs around Jonathan’s ankles, then connected them to the rings at the ends of his gloves. Now he could only kneel helplessly until I chose to release him. He looked delectable, head bowed, waiting for my next instruction.

  I relaxed back in my seat and showed him his final surprise of the evening. Hoisting my skirt, I revealed to him that though I’d chosen my prettiest black suspender belt and sheer stockings, I hadn’t bothered with any panties. My cunt, already swollen and slick with excitement, was delightfully framed by the suspender straps, a visual treat for my poor, restrained husband.

  “Do you like that?” I asked.

  He nodded vigorously, realizing that whatever I intended to make him do, it clearly didn’t, as he’d feared, involve watching the events unfolding on stage.

  “Show me how much you do. Lick me. I want to lose count of how often I come before the opera ends.”

  Without further ado, Jonathan went to work. As his mouth made contact with my juicy sex, I let out
a purr of pleasure. This was how opera was meant to be enjoyed, with a naked, restrained man between your legs, licking you into a state of uncontrolled bliss. Eyes half-closed, I listened as Jodie Spence’s pure, cultured voice filled the auditorium. I’d long thought of Lucia Di Lammermoor as a high peak of gloom in a genre that thrives on recounting stories of misery and loss, but never had it sounded so thrillingly captivating as it did tonight. Perhaps it was the technical brilliance of Spence’s performance, coaxed from her by my old amour Martin, but I suspected it had more to do with the way Jonathan’s wet, muscular tongue swept over the sensitive folds of my pussy, keeping me right on the edge of a shattering orgasm for as long as he possibly could.

  As he lapped at me, I encouraged him in the way we both enjoy best, pouring scorn on his efforts and comparing them to those of my former lovers. “Martin could keep this up for hours, you know,” I murmured, between bites of the champagne truffles that are my more orthodox opera-going treat. “He’d have had me screaming the walls down by now.”

  Spurred on by my deliberate mockery, Jonathan pressed his mouth even harder against my crotch, breath sighing against the entrance to my cunt. Glancing down, I admired the play of the muscles in his back, pulled taut by the way his arms were bound to each other. The fantasies I’d woven while looking at the photo of the gloved model couldn’t compare to the reality of having my husband at my feet, ignoring all the discomfort he must by now be feeling in order to carry out my orders to my complete satisfaction.

  My excitement was swelling and building, just as the music was moving to its peak. When his tongue slithered over my asshole and orgasmic spasms shot through my belly, I simply couldn’t help myself. Forgetting for a moment where I was, I sang out in pleasure. Jonathan paused for a moment to watch me come, then immediately returned to his oral ministrations, remembering my request for repeated climaxes.