Best Bondage Erotica 2012

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  Two tall cages stood on either side of the front door. In one, a scarlet macaw perched like a statue, its beak shut tight in a smile and its black eyes looking straight at me. In the other, a black-and-white toucan squatted on the floor of its cage, a mangled piece of bright orange papaya hanging from its face. Fleshy looking fruit and pips the size of fingernails lay in puddles of papaya juice all over the cage.

  “You are here!” cried the mother of the bride, ushering us into the house and clasping each of us in her embrace.

  “Drinks, everyone—Neena, can you…? Now, there are people you must meet. Many, many people…”

  Liz and I locked eyes as we were steered into adjacent rooms. The mother stayed with me, guiding me between flowers and tables of food to introduce me to her relatives, always with an instruction, “You must meet…You have to talk to…You will simply love…” My drink arrived, and I gulped the cold rum and shuddered as it hit the back of my throat. Spanish words swam in my mind, a rapid stream of rich vowels and expressive tones that I couldn’t interpret. I found myself repeating the words muchas gracias, hoping my smile came across as warm rather than exhausted. In return, there was always a clasping of my body to theirs. The constant smiling was exhausting; I could feel my cheeks beginning to ache from the pressure. All around us were relatives talking, laughing; kids squealing and running about; a dog bounding from room to room. My glass was empty, and I could see Neena was behind us, trying to get her mum’s attention.

  “Neena? The empanada…?” More words followed in Spanish. Then she turned to me. “Ah, here, talk to Dino.” Then they both rushed out toward the kitchen.

  The room suddenly seemed quieter. Children’s voices got fainter as they were ushered outside and somewhere music stopped playing. I looked around.

  “Do you like being told what to do?”

  A man who had been slumping on the sofa stood up and approached me.

  I smiled—an automatic reflex. “Not really…”

  His black hair was messy, and he wore jeans and an American college-style T-shirt. I could smell foreign cologne. He towered over me, his broad shoulders already blocking my view of half of the room.

  “I mean, not like this.”

  He raised his eyebrows and stepped closer. My instinctive step back meant that I was pressed against the shelves behind me.

  “Then like what?”

  “I’m not used to all these people. It’s a bit…”

  He took hold of my wrist and gave me the hint of a smile, and with his other hand took my empty glass out of my grasp. My breath was suddenly fast and shallow, and his hand felt cold against my sweating skin. Despite the constant stream of embraces I’d had to endure that day, it felt like the first time I’d been touched. He leaned closer and placed my empty glass on the shelf behind me, his cheek grazing mine as he did it.

  “Hey,” he said, his hand resting on my shoulder once he’d put the glass down. He kissed me once on my right cheek, once on my left, his lips nearly brushing over mine. His hand traveled down my arm and took hold of my other wrist.

  “I should get back.”

  He stepped even closer.

  My pulse was beating urgently under my skin and my cheeks were burning. He looked into my eyes and I returned his gaze: a challenge. That barely perceptible smile appeared on his lips again, and he tightened his grip on my wrists and pushed my arms backward against the shelves. For a second I thought he was going to kiss me, but then he backed away. My hands dropped to my sides and he was gone.

  I looked around. The room had cleared; I was there alone with my empty glass and parched lips, warmth rushing through my body and heat focused between my legs.

  For the wedding I wore a striped satin dress, sleeveless and gathered around the waist, with a full skirt that billowed out in layers of smooth fabric. I’d clipped my hair up in a knot at the back of my head, and on my feet were fuchsia high heels with thick straps that wound around my ankles. The whole ceremony was to take place in our hotel, the lobby filled with white linen and candles, the dining area reserved exclusively for the two hundred or so wedding guests, tables arranged all round the pool and down to the beach with centerpieces of flowers and rum. It would have been gorgeous but for the sense of complete alienation Liz and I felt next to the hundreds of strangers. On our side of the family, it was only the five of us; Liz and I, our parents, and my brother, of course, standing at the front with his bride, signing papers in Spanish without knowing what they said. It seemed to me he was making his leap of faith blind, something I could never have done, something that made me uncomfortable, or perhaps jealous.

  The meal was all seafood and red meat and alcohol. Waiters brought glasses of champagne on silver trays, and I sat at our poolside table with an array of Cuba Libres, shots of whiskey and sparkling wine. The dancing started as night fell, sounds of reggae and dancehall and disco filling the room and floating out over the pool and down to the beach. Lights and mosquito repellant lanterns filled the air with a sultry glow and an unusual scent, and I felt light-headed, out of place and giddy as one of my new in-laws dragged me to the dance floor. I was spun round and round, passed from relative to relative in a haze of laughter and fast, pounding beats; man after man slipped his arms around my waist, grabbed my hands, pulled me across the room and spun me on to the next until I felt like I might collapse with the heat of it all and then, sitting at the edge of the room, a beer bottle held to his lips, I saw him. I pushed my way through the dancers, ignoring the hands reaching out to grab mine, sidestepping everyone who tried to approach. He was watching me. We were the only people in the room not smiling.

  “Hi,” I said. “Do you remember…? We met yesterday, at the mansion.” He raised his eyebrows. I wasn’t sure if he’d get my sarcasm; not everything translates. I waited for a second in silence, and then continued. “How are you liking the wedding? This is all crazy, isn’t it?” I gestured round the room. “What are you drinking?”

  “Come upstairs.”

  “What?”

  “You hate this, too.” His eyes bored into mine. His voice was quiet but I had no trouble hearing it over the music. “Right?”

  “Right.”

  “Come upstairs.”

  I nodded, and without saying anything else he led me by the hand away from the crowds.

  He had a room on the fourth floor. We went up in the elevator, side-by-side, standing close. He didn’t speak. In his room he locked the door and drew the curtains. I stood by the bed not knowing what to do, my head spinning with all the drink and the suffocating heat hanging in the air.

  “Take your clothes off,” he said.

  “What?” I stifled a laugh, my smile fading fast as I realized he was serious. I had a choice: to stay or to run. I reached behind my back and pulled the zipper of my dress all the way down, letting the satin slip over my clammy skin. I stepped out of the dress, still wearing my heels. I was naked but for my thong, which he pulled down with practiced hands. Then he was standing up again, close to me, roughly taking my arms and pushing me down onto the bed.

  “Don’t make a sound,” he said.

  As I lay still, watching him, he picked my dress up from the floor and walked towards me. I felt myself shiver despite the heat, my eyes willing his to look at me, to smile, to say something. He sat on the bed next to where I was lying and smoothed a layer of the fabric over my face. I could feel his hand pressing it down over me, the slightest sound escaping from his lips; then suddenly the dress was wrapped over my head, layers of skirt smothering my face, covering my eyes, nose, mouth. Through the fabric I could make out vague shapes in shadow and light; every breath had to be deep to get enough oxygen through the layers of satin. He pulled the belt from the dress around my neck, securing it in a knot to one side. My heart racing and my breathing fast and desperate now, I lay on the bed completely naked, effectively blind; I didn’t know what he was going to do to me, but I stayed there anyway. I calmed my breathing. I waited for what he would do nex
t.

  First he lifted my left hand. I felt rope tighten against my skin. He pulled my arm up to the top corner of the bed, securing it somehow. I held out my other hand obediently, and he guided it toward the other corner, fastening more of the rope around my wrist. I lay there, waiting, tensing against the knots that secured my hands above my head. One by one he took my ankles and pointed my feet to the corners of the bed, spreading my legs wide open. Moving slowly, deliberately, he tied them down. I strained against the rope, but it was tight. He made no sounds, no more movements. My heart was racing. I could still hear the music from outside and voices chattering; I was glad I wasn’t down there. Something in me shifted; my eyes stopped straining to see through the satin, my limbs relaxed, my skin stopped shivering, my breathing slowed. I felt my mind slide to a place it didn’t usually go, and I started holding my breath. He turned on the air-conditioning, and I felt a cold rush of air over my skin. My nipples hardened instantly, a shiver moving up and down my body.

  “Don’t move,” he said.

  His fingers stroked my skin from my elbows to my armpits, the sensation making me conscious of the soft exposed underside of my arms. Where my breath caught in the satin over my nose and mouth, beads of sweat clung to my lips, the heat over my face contrasting with the icy air blowing across my body. I felt a wave of pleasure as he sucked on my nipples, then a stab of pain as he held them between his teeth and fingers, twisting them until I struggled against him, my body straining from side to side but unable to escape. I felt cold metal clasp around each nipple in turn. I didn’t know if I should be enjoying this, if I should make him stop, but I couldn’t, wouldn’t, the tight pinching on my nipples at once unbearable and intoxicating. My clit burned with a need to be touched, stroked, licked, pressed, anything. He pushed down on my hips where they’d risen off the bed and I groaned with the closeness of his touch, arching up, desperate for his hands on me. “Don’t move,” he repeated, his voice different, commanding, a stranger’s voice that I obeyed, forcing myself to lie still despite my aching need, the words please fuck please god racing through my mind.

  And then he started kissing and licking his way down my body. With every touch of his tongue, goose bumps rose up on my skin, needing more, forcing myself to stay perfectly still despite my longing to move, to push my hips up off the bed and feel his tongue on me and when, at last, he licked my clit, slowly, the warmth was exquisite. All I knew was the wetness of his tongue sliding over my cunt, teasing the sides of my clit, bringing me to the point of orgasm then stopping, blowing cold air and slipping one finger into me, then two, three, four fingers pulsing deep inside me. He started licking my clit again, so gently it was hardly there but it was everything, every inch of me was aching for him. I groaned as he withdrew his fingers, moved them down and started stroking my asshole, slipping them inside one by one, just the tips at first, then deeper and harder, two fingers, more, the fullness sending my mind somewhere new, my surrender to it complete as at last a violent orgasm pulsed through my body.

  He withdrew his fingers slowly and kissed my hips, my stomach.

  “Stay where you are,” he said. “Keep your eyes closed.”

  He lifted my neck and pulled the dress away from my face. I kept my eyes shut tight. As he freed my nipples from the clamps, one by one, the release pulled at my skin and made me cry out in pain. Then his touch was gone, and I lay there waiting, shivering in the freezing air until he knelt on the bed beside me, pulling the covers over me, my gratitude for the warmth indescribable. I felt some part of him brush my lips and I kissed his skin, the back of his hand perhaps. He made a sound, half sigh, half laugh and held his hand over my mouth and I reached up to kiss it again, feeling more love for him in that moment than I felt for anyone. He was kneeling by my shoulder, and he bent down to kiss me, his lips warm and wet.

  “You’ve done this before,” I said, my breaths still coming fast and deep, and he didn’t move for a second, then whispered to me, “Have you had enough?”

  “No,” I said, “No, no,” and I felt the bed dip as he moved to kneel at either side of my neck. His hand stroked my cheek, my chin, and I felt his fingers on my lips and let him open my mouth the way he wanted. He held my head up as I welcomed his dick into my mouth; I could feel his fingers through my hair as he pushed himself deeper down my throat, my tongue licking the length of him as he thrust into me until I gagged. He withdrew, kissed me deeply, opened my mouth with his fingers and held my head steady as he eased his way back down my throat, slower this time, holding me still as he pushed deeper; I could feel myself beginning to gag again but forced myself to relax, opened my throat for him and leaned forward until I had the whole of him inside me, my forehead pressed against his stomach. He held me there, not releasing my head, not letting me move, clasping me tightly to him as he let out a low groan and began to thrust again, his dick throbbing in my mouth and his movement speeding up, relentless and uncompromising, twisting my hair around his fist and forcing himself deeper down my throat until his warm cum burst into my mouth.

  He lay beside me, both of us panting and exhausted, his hair tickling me underneath my chin. After a moment he reached up and undid the ropes around my wrists, freeing my arms so I could wrap them around him.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I don’t know,” I replied, feeling my tender neck, my bruised wrists.

  He kissed me gently and ran his fingers through my hair.

  “Don’t worry,” he smiled. “I didn’t leave a mark.”

  I wasn’t so sure about that.

  Twenty hours later I was airborne somewhere over the Atlantic. The hum of the plane’s engines seemed to have been going on forever. I’d dozed off for a while, I thought; it felt like the early hours of the morning. In the seat beside me Liz was sleeping. I touched the bruise on my wrist and felt a flood of warmth invading my body. I shifted in my seat, feeling restless and alert, needing something. I pressed my fingers into the bruise, the pain making my clit throb and desire travel up my neck and cheeks. I undid my seat belt and got up to go to the tiny, cramped toilet at the back of the cabin. In the cubicle I rushed to unbutton my jeans, closing my eyes and seeing not the basin, the mirror, the no-smoking signs, but his hotel room again. I played the scene in my mind, his hands roughly holding my head, the pressure around my neck, my breaths burning against the fabric over my face—I heard a knocking on the door and called out “One minute!”—my arms and legs tied to the bed, and then the scene changed: a table, purpose built, restrained me, a collar around my neck, my mouth stuffed with silk, clamps on my nipples being tightened until I thought I could stand it no more, my fingers pressing deep inside me and my thumb rubbing my clitoris, my cunt soaking wet and desperate, the room spinning as my orgasm shook my body. I withdrew my fingers slowly. Another knock on the door, louder this time.

  “Are you okay?” a stranger called from outside the toilet.

  I was out of breath and giddy, but this time I knew the answer.

  “Yes,” I shouted back.

  I buttoned up my jeans and checked my reflection in the mirror. My cheeks were flushed, my hair disheveled. I washed my hands and tried to practice my serious, up-to-nothing face but my heart was still pounding. I licked my dry lips. I wanted more. My eyes glinted with desire in my reflection and, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t stop smiling.

  GOOD BRITISH STEEL

  Lana Fox

  The first time I was stirred by a sword, I’d just turned eighteen. Our family had been invited for tea with the Lindens, who lived in a Georgian mansion where everything was crafted from oak. My brother, Henry, who was two years older than me, went to school with their son, Rupe, a fencing team hottie who could drink anyone under the table. While Rupe took my brother to his downstairs lair, Mrs. Linden served me and my parents tea from a porcelain pot. The tea tasted weak, and there was something flowery about it. It took half an hour of politeness before I managed to slip from the room.

  I found my way downsta
irs to the cellar, where, through one of the open doors, I could hear the clashing of steel on steel. The Cure’s “Lovecats” was also playing loudly, and I could hear a voice occasionally singing along. Following the noise, I moved toward an open door, glancing into the room. Inside, dozens of swords were displayed against the brickwork, along with photos of fencers in action. And there, in the center, on a purple crash-mat, were two men in white fencing gear—my brother and Rupe, I assumed—with gauzy masks that covered their faces.

  Rupe, who I remembered as the taller of the two, seemed to be an expert with that blade, which he swished so fast it left the dimness gleaming. He was giving my brother chances before pointing the tip at his gullet and laughing, as my brother swore and dropped his sword, holding his head. But as they began another round, it was Rupe I was watching. Aglow with desire, I gazed at the suit clinging round his thighs and the way he held his weapon, slashing the air. He moved his body with an effortless grace, dodging Henry’s clumsy moves. Every so often he sang along with the lead singer, and when he got to the part about having each other with cream, he stopped my brother’s blade with his and turned his face toward me.

  I caught my breath.