Best Bondage Erotica 2014

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  Their torsos—muscular and hard from manual labor—would be bare, as would their lower legs and feet. That was what had taken the time; the five-minute intervals as the men arrived would be spent in a ritual of undressing and putting on the shorts. Their mistress stood directly before them, arms crossed, watching each move critically through her catlike eyes, allowing them to remove their garments one piece at a time at the speed she set, and only on her command. Only once each individual male was ready would they be allowed to sit on the hard shop floor and wait for the action of the hour to begin.

  Unable to imagine Louisa without a book to hand, Nina visualized her holding a notebook out before her, in which she kept a record of the men’s previous performances. If they’d behaved well and pleased her, they would receive better treatment on their next visit. Poor behavior, or failure to conform to the high standards she set, would mean punishment or physical neglect.

  Nina, her eyes closed, safe in the knowledge that Laura would be out for at least another forty minutes, pictured the white van driver. His face was grave as Louisa read out her displeasure, tapping her black pen on top of her notebook as if to punctuate every word of her annoyance. He had failed to make her climax the day before, so today his own satisfaction would be hampered by the presence of handcuffs. After swift and unflinching orders, his ginger counterpart did his mistress’s bidding, and snapped a pair of cold metal handcuffs around white-van man’s wrists, yanking his arms roughly behind his back while he knelt, cowering on the dusty wooden floor.

  The moment his companion was shackled, the ginger man retook his position in the queue of three before Louisa, as she walked up and down before them. In her silence, the gloom of the unlit room enveloped the dominatrix like warm fog, out of which she shone like an enticing beacon of temptation.

  Louisa inclined her head toward the men, as if giving them a signal to begin. They rose together, the tethered man clumsy but still forthcoming, as their mistress lay back on the only item of furniture in the discarded shop, a faded red-velvet chaise lounge, which Nina remembered perching on as she flicked through various books.

  Nina’s eyes reopened. The image in her mind was so clear, so real. She hadn’t been aware that her right hand had snaked its way up inside her white blouse, so immersed was she in her thoughts. Her gaze refocused on the curtained window on the street opposite, wondering whether, if she stared hard enough, she would miraculously develop X-ray vision and see precisely what they were really up to within.

  Keeping her wide blue eyes fixed on the door, Nina allowed her fingertips to brush the tips of her nipples, and gave her kinky thoughts free reign.

  The cloak had fallen back, so only the hood remained over Louisa’s silky hair. The velvet fabric’s edges draped on the floor, her exposed pearl flesh showed the red heart pendant nestled in the very center of her cleavage.

  As she lay, her hands limp at her sides, she remained very much in control, a pagan queen awaiting the service of her loyal followers. A wave of her hand, and the two unfettered servants divested themselves of their denim, their cocks stiff, hard and as ready for action as any Nina had ever seen.

  The ginger-haired man, who appeared to be the favored slave, rose from his knees and, with a double check toward his mistress, collected a vial of oil from the nearest shelf. Unstoppering the small, conical-shaped bottle, he gestured to his shaved companion, who strode to the opposite side of the recliner. Finally, the handcuffed man came, his position obviously lowly, hovering at the booted feet, only able to observe, his dick aching within his shorts, resigning himself to receiving no satisfaction that day.

  “Begin.” Louisa’s voice was deep and sensual, without a trace of uncertainty. There was no visible tensing of her body as the oil vial was held directly above the red pendant, and tipped.

  Unconsciously, Nina held her breath as she observed the pictures in her mind.

  The oil, thick and gloopy, seemed to travel in slow motion toward the line that divided Louisa’s magnificent chest. A heavy scent of sandalwood filled the air as the first droplet hit the brilliant red of the heart stone, and then trickled onward, running between her breasts. That first droplet was swiftly followed by a second, and then a third, each landing precisely on the spot of the first, a monument to the steadiness of the slave’s hands.

  Corking the bottle once more, the ginger man placed it back on the shelf before he and the shaved slave—with a patience that should have won him an award—began to work the oil deep into the tits before them.

  Nina wondered how badly they wanted to speed up, to hurriedly push the oil into her flesh, rather than sedately rub it. How much they wanted to rush, to lean forward and take the scarlet nipples between their teeth, to plant their shafts between the thighs of the languid creature reclined before them.

  Was their keeper struggling not to beg her men to go faster? Maybe Louisa wasn’t so controlled as her calm countenance would have them believe.

  As the oil was simultaneously caressed into each breast, Nina could almost feel the fingertips of the men against her own chest. The slippery warm sensation of the sensual massage was reflected in the slickening of her pussy, and Nina thought, Louisa’s pussy, as well.

  Was the scent of sex, rich and heady, being overpowered by the aroma of oil, or did the heavy atmosphere of eroticism merely cancel it out?

  Nina’s fingers worked harder on her own tips, the presence of her satin kickers becoming more and more obvious between her thighs. She hardly dared blink. Just in case today was the day the door opened early. Just in case it was opened wide enough for her aerial view to give her the briefest glimpse of what lay inside.

  There was no movement. Nina looked at her clock. There was still twenty minutes before they were due to leave in reverse order to their arrival. Reverting to her ponderings, Nina could only conclude that the oil anointment of her imaginings was still going on.

  Once every drip of the liquid had been soaked into her breasts, Louisa issued a further signal. This was, after all, a ceremony for her enjoyment and not for the men around her. Lifting the pendant’s stone, after careful consideration, she pointed it toward the men in order. The first to have the heart favored in their direction would receive the most gratification; the second would receive some, while the third man would merely be a thing to provide enjoyment for his mistress.

  Nina fidgeted slightly in her swivel chair. Her panties were uncomfortable, her channel felt painfully empty and her chest felt as though it was being held hostage within the confines of her bra.

  The ginger man would be astride Louisa by now, his beautiful cock consumed deep within her throat. Low animal mewls of pleasure would escape from the corners of the mistress’s mouth as the shaved man, his hands everywhere, would attach his mouth to each of her tits in turn, lapping the oil, savoring the almost bitter taste against the exquisite flavor of her luscious skin.

  Meanwhile, the third man, still a prisoner within his shorts, his dick pushing painfully against the rough fabric, had lowered himself to his knees. Unable to touch Louisa with his hands, his tongue would worship at her pussy, lapping away the gush of liquid as this part of the mistress failed to hide how aroused she was.

  A light perspiration had bloomed on Nina’s palms, a perspiration that mingled with the liquid from her own channel as she played her nub between her fingers. She knew this fantasy—one of thousands about life behind the door that kept her masturbating night after night—had to stop. She couldn’t concentrate at work all morning waiting for lunchtime, and she couldn’t do anything after lunch as she was too aroused to focus. Enough was enough. She had to know. She had to know now.

  Nina hadn’t realized what she was doing until she was already down the stairs, and her hand was pushing open the door to the block of offices where she worked. As she crossed the road, a voice at the back of her head began to shout. Do I really want to know? If the four of them were just discussing a new shop fitting, or having a crafty smoke of some dodgy substance
or other, her disappointment would be crippling.

  As her hand reached for the door, the same wooden door she had stared at every lunchtime for weeks and weeks, her heart drummed harder in her chest, and her throat dried. I have to know! Nina pushed at the door. It was locked. Vaguely aware she was acting like a deranged stalker, she lifted the letterbox, ready to peep inside. It had been blocked up on the inside.

  Walking alongside the window, she tried to squint between a tiny gap in the curtain, but it was too small, and the lack of light inside confirmed her imagination’s assumption that, whatever happened behind the door, happened in the semidark.

  A sudden scrape of metal made her jump, pulling Nina abruptly to her senses as she realized what she was doing. A prickle of panic shot down her spine. What if they’d spotted her? She’d wanted to see but not be seen! There was probably nothing to see anyway.

  She was halfway back across the road when an arm reached out and caught her elbow. Nina spun around, ready to push her assailant away.

  She froze as her eyes fell on the blood-red pendant around the woman’s neck.

  Louisa smiled into Nina’s eyes, her gaze both welcome but also warning her. “Your curiosity has been noted.”

  Nina’s mouth opened and closed, but no words came out.

  “Would you like to see?” Louisa was steering Nina back toward the shop, her low-cut, ankle-length scarlet dress brushing against the ground as she walked.

  “I’m really sorry, I was just daydreaming, I didn’t mean to...” Nina’s words died on her lips as her sex contracted and her stomach did a backflip.

  There was no chaise lounge in the shop. The deserted room didn’t smell of sandalwood. It didn’t need to. It just smelt of sex—raw, uncomplicated, desperately desired sex, the source of which was the three tradesmen. They were not wearing shorts. They were not wearing anything. They were, however, ready, waiting and fastened together with a circle of rope, as if they had all been kidnapped by a cartoon character.

  “I’m sorry my boys can’t come to greet you properly. A little rude of them, I admit, but as you can see, they are a little tied up at the moment...” Louisa studied Nina intently as she spoke, the lust radiating from her feline eyes difficult to disguise.

  “So, Nina, I am sure you have a million questions, but the whys and wherefores of how this state of affairs came about can wait. They are very dull anyway. Instead, let me explain what is happening right now; what happens here, at this hour, every day. This is sex roulette. Each day my boys are tied together in a back-to-back-style triangle. One of them is chosen by the roll of these three poker chips...” She lifted up three plastic discs, each colored according to the bodywork color of the vehicle the men owned. “But as there is only one of me, only one of them gets what he came for; until the next day, when they have the chance to get lucky all over again.”

  Louisa cupped the chin of the ginger-haired man as she spoke, his erection as solid as his colleagues’, their legs all showing the marks of recent whippings. Nina suspected that whatever she had imagined happening behind the door, it was nothing compared to what actually went on.

  The mistress clasped her free hand firmly around Nina’s and walked her, nerves racing, toward her willing hostages. “Today, my darling boys, it looks as if the odds have just doubled....”

  MY OWN DEVICE

  Raziel Moore

  We are all prisoners

  of our own device

  but my device

  has room for you.

  (Inspired by The Eagles’ “Hotel California”)

  “Show me,” she said, the faintest trace of huskiness in her voice.

  Though I’d been planning this since soon after my last visit with Anna three months ago, I had to physically push through a wave of sheepishness and self-consciousness I hadn’t felt—especially with her—in years. It took me a moment, but I succeeded.

  I led her to my device.

  “It’s really pretty simple in concept.” I surprised myself with how steady my voice was, how gentle. “You face it like this.” I stood her toward the arced “back” of it. “See how your legs fit in these curves? Yes, you have to part them a little.”

  I might have even succeeded in being ominous, because Anna’s face darkened around her smile as she moved, her expression narrowing from amusement to intrigue. I loved that subtle metamorphosis.

  We each had our harbingers.

  I pushed her gently forward, so that her upper thighs fit in the wooden channels. Anna had to move her feet just about shoulder width apart on the floor to fit right, her loose skirt easily letting her. That skirt came down to just above her knees, showing me stockinged calves. As she put her weight against the wood, it gave a low creaking sound and rocked a bit.

  “That sounds...sturdy,” she said, sarcastically.

  I grinned. “I wanted it to make sounds.” I reached to a side of the device and pulled a lever, resulting in a deep, wooden thunking sound. Anna’s expression told me she felt it against her legs. The slight rocking of the shape stopped as it locked.

  “Let me guess,” she said, turning her head to give me a crooked smile as she leaned forward over the contoured top of the thing. My eyes followed her body as she settled. The curves I’d sculpted into the wood from memory of body and hands were as good as I could have hoped for. Anna’s belly, chest, shoulders fit as if cradled, and her hands reached forward for the two polished grips.

  She knew what she was doing, moving slowly, languidly, seductively for me. And the curve of the thing raised her ass just so...

  “What was that, darling?” she asked, a wicked smile in her voice.

  I had groaned without realizing it.

  “Oh, that is so beautiful,” I replied, gloating and glowing at the near realization of my concept. I’d have to show her the sketches later, but she put my drawings to shame. “Hold it right there. Just a couple more things.”

  I pushed on a polished panel beside the handholds and pulled out the short coil of leather I’d stored there, unfurling a cuff that I attached to her wrist as she watched. I could see the slight shudder that went though her body as I closed the cuff because I was looking for it. Her other hand loosened on the grip, as if she was going to pull it away, before I gently caught it and placed it in another cuff from the other side. Anna’s breathing quickened, as had mine. We’d played games like this before, though not quite like this.

  “What are you up to, Laz?” I heard that tiny quaver in her voice. That first hint of the Anna only I know, coming to visit. My lack of answer was another hint of the Lazslo only she knows.

  I moved behind her and pulled two more broad leather straps from their hiding places, fitting them simultaneously around the hollows at the back of each of her knees. I let my fingers linger on the sheer fabric covering her legs, feeling her flex them and test the bonds a second after it was too late. I knew she was pulling at the cuffs, as well. I’d made them so that there was just a little bit of play, enough to give, I’d hoped, the smallest illusion—or temptation—of freedom of motion.

  “I’ve had enough of midlife crises, Anna. I’ve decided to concentrate on the now, not looking forward or back. I asked myself, what do I want right now?”

  I tried to sound detached, analytic. I failed.

  “And you came up with a giant violin scroll?”

  I looked at her on my construction, frowning in concentration.

  “Mmm. It was really the curled arm of an antique chair that inspired me, but yes, the violin works, as well.”

  “And this is what you want?”

  “It’s part of it.”

  “And are there other parts, then?”

  I ran my hand up her thigh, bunching her skirt until I found the top band of her thigh-highs. My eyes followed higher to her skirted hips and upraised rear.

  “Ohh, yes. Yes.”

  My fingers itched. Not yet. Anna let out a sound—a cross between a sigh and a whimper—that made me salivate.

 
One more strap, a thin leather belt that went around her waist above her hips. Just strong and snug enough to hold her against the wood.

  “Oh, Lazslo.” How I loved the way her voice changed. “It’s holding me like a big hand. It feels...made for me.”

  “It is.” I released the lever I’d first pulled, making another satisfying thunk. The curl of wood groaned and rocked forward, pulling Anna off her feet. She gasped as her footing vanished, her hands jerking for support on the handgrips, before settling into the odd rolling sensation as the device found a new balance point.

  I spent a moment letting the reality of it all sink in. Anna—my own Anna now—perfectly situated on my own device. Part of it, even. The one part that had been missing. A deep breath, as Anna watched me watching her. Her sometimes-haughty expression was now much more guarded as she waited for what I was going to do next.

  “You have too many clothes on, Anna,” I said. We had both used that line on each other more than once over the years. Usually it resulted in a laugh, followed by hands—one or two pairs—moving to remedy the situation. This time Anna’s response was a quiet moan and a tug on the leather restraints. My device creaked under her.

  Both Anna and I have learned a certain amount of foresight. Anna’s skirt, sensible and conservative, was buttoned at the side, and she’d taken the care to leave it one button past nominal modesty. It was an easy thing to undo the rest of them, unwrap her and slide the opened fabric from under her, revealing lace-edged thigh-highs and plain, if pretty, panties. As I removed her shoes—there’s only so much kicking one can do if bound at the knee—the rounded base of the device creaked and rocked with Anna’s movements. Anna tensed under my fingers as she rocked back farther than she expected.

  “Jesus, Lazslo, this thing isn’t going to flip backward and crush me to death, is it?” The edge to Anna’s voice was almost pissed off. Either she truly lacked confidence in my carpentry skills, or the disequilibrium was having a real effect.