Best Bondage Erotica 2014

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  “Someone has to keep you in line, wife. Now, you will kindly untie my neckcloth.”

  “No,” she cried. “I will not.”

  His fingers tightened on her arms. “If I have to send for my valet to do it, I will allow him to stay and watch what happens next.”

  “Oh, I hate you.” But she knew he was a man of his word, so she did as he asked. Her fingers trembled, moving through the copious folds of starched white linen to locate the knot.

  “The pin first,” he reminded her.

  “I know.”

  “We have been through this enough times.” He tilted his chin so she could slide her fingers inside his collar. “You should be an expert at neckcloth removal by now.”

  She hissed as the end of the pin pricked her finger.

  “Let me see,” he said.

  She held up the injured digit. He kissed it and slipped the pearl-tipped pin into a pocket. “You’ll live. Proceed.”

  She blinked and pouted and went back to her task. From time to time, her knuckles brushed against the fair stubble on his cheeks. He was tall and blond, haughty and handsome. Posey knew that other ladies talked about her husband behind their fans. They whispered that he was sinfully pleasant to look at, a fine figure of a man.

  They didn’t know what he was like behind closed doors.

  “The longer you take, the more time I have to hone my jealous outrage.” He shook his head as she unraveled the intricate folds. “Eversham. I cannot countenance it. I really cannot.”

  “Eversham has kind eyes,” she said with a sniff. “So much kinder than yours.”

  His pale blue gaze fell on her like ice chips. She swallowed hard and focused on her task. When she nearly had it loose he drew her fingers away and unwound the remainder of the neckcloth himself.

  “Undress,” he said, his fingers sliding down his coat to pop open the buttons. His waistcoat followed, thrown over a chair. He scowled when she didn’t jump to obey him. “Undress or I shall do it for you, and you seem to dislike that.”

  “Because you always rip my dress!”

  “I bought it,” he said, turning his attention to his shirt buttons. “I buy all your clothing. I will rip it however and whenever I wish.”

  Oh, he was intolerable. But this gown was her favorite so she decided to obey. She put her fingers to the fastenings she could reach and grudgingly accepted his help with the rest. He stared in a lurid and ungentlemanly fashion as she shimmied out of the dress.

  “Everything. Underthings. Stockings,” he said when she paused. “Have I ever let you keep anything on?”

  She stripped down to absolutely nothing, muttering to herself about the trials of being married to an uncivilized tyrant.

  “Give me your hands,” he said. “Hold them out before you.”

  She did, with the greatest reluctance. Was it so bad to write a letter? A tame one at that?

  “I am going to run away to my father.” She glared at him as he wound the neckcloth about her wrists. “I will tell him exactly how you treat me.”

  “You did that,” he reminded her, tying the cloth and leaving the tails free. “He sent you right back. And what happened then?” He poked a finger in the air. “Ah, I remember. I tied you to the bedpost with my neckcloth and whipped your bottom with a birch rod.”

  He put a hand at the small of her back and led her forward toward the same mahogany bedpost. She hated this post with a vengeance. By now her nails had scratched multiple marks into the ornately carved wood. If you were not such a naughty wife...

  She stared straight ahead as he fixed the loose ends of the neckcloth around the post with a smartly tied square knot. “I hate you,” she whispered with venom. “That is why I write to other men.”

  “You write to other men because you lack discipline, my dear. But do not fear. Discipline is my specialty.” He reached beneath the bed for the bundled birch rod. “I had the groundskeeper freshen this with new twigs. Perhaps you will feel the difference.”

  “This is not fair,” she cried. “If only you loved me! You would not treat me this way.”

  “To the contrary,” he said, the warmth of his chest brushing her back. “I treat you this way because I do love you. Eversham shall not have you. No other man shall. You are mine.”

  She felt a shuddery pleasure uncoil at his closeness, at the threat of him towering over her from behind. He brushed aside her coiffed red curls to press a kiss at her nape, his other hand sliding down the curve of her spine.

  “I never had it in mind to marry someone so wayward, my naughty young wife.” She jumped as his palm opened against her backside and delivered a sharp slap. “But I’ll be damned if I’ll let you walk all over me.”

  She tensed as he squeezed her buttocks and smacked both cheeks again in quick succession. “I don’t mean to be bad. I’m sorry.”

  “You are always sorry when it gets to this point.”

  She tugged at the neckcloth as he lifted the birch rod. She hated the pain of his birchings. The whip and sting and—

  “Do not pull at that neckcloth, dearest. If you tear it, there will be hell to pay.”

  She shrank forward against the bedpost, her whipping post, burying her face against the linen that held her trapped. The neckcloth smelled of his scents of spice and cologne. “Please,” she cried. “I will not be naughty again.”

  “I sincerely hope not.” Thwack!

  She shrieked and went up on her toes. “No. No, please!”

  “Oh yes, my dear.” Thwack! The birch rod caught her across both cheeks, a burning, smarting stroke of fire. Thwack!

  “I cannot—oh—I cannot bear it, husband. Please!”

  “The time to think about whether or not you could bear it”—Thwack!—“was before you wrote that letter to Lord Eversham. You knew what the penalty would be if you were caught.”

  “I did not intend to get caught!”

  He chuckled and tapped the backs of her thighs. “Stop shrinking away from your justly earned punishment. Position yourself properly. Present your bottom to me as you’ve been taught.”

  She gripped her linen bonds in desperation. “I cannot. Do you think I’m made of iron?”

  “I think you’re made of sugar, sweeting. Bottom out now, or you shall receive double the strokes.”

  She stamped her feet, not that it would be of any use. At least he would know what an unfair ogre he was. She hung on the neckcloth, sticking her bottom out as much as she dared in her situation. Thwack!

  It was too much to withstand. She spun about and danced sideways. “No, please, no. If you will persist in these cruelties—”

  “I will persist,” he said, raising his voice. “I will persist until you have been adequately punished for your transgression.” He flung the birch on the bed and considered her with his arms crossed over his chest. “This will not do at all.” He scanned the room until his eyes lit on her stockings. She watched with a sense of dread as he went to pick them up.

  “What are you doing? Those are my favorite stockings.”

  “That is my favorite neckcloth. We shall endeavor not to destroy one another’s favorite things.” The stockings came around her waist. Wrapped together, they made a formidable restraint. He knotted them hard at the small of her back. “That will keep the middle still,” he said. She felt his fingers in her hair then, pulling and twisting. He tilted her head back for a kiss. “You will not be needing this.” The pile of her curls fell down as he drew a ribbon from the auburn mass.

  He knelt and trapped her ankles, even though she kicked at him. He was stronger than her. It was no great thing for him to cinch them to the bottom of the post with the wide velvet ribbon. He stood back and surveyed his work. “Much better.”

  Posey squirmed helplessly in her bonds. The neckcloth held her hands fast. The wool stockings scratched at her waist, while the ribbon formed a binding vise about her ankles. She could not move an inch in any direction.

  She could not get away.

 
“Now,” her husband said, “I can punish you as you deserve.”

  “Oh, please,” she begged, but there was no mercy in his gaze.

  “Eyes forward. I needn’t tell you to assume the position. You’re not going anywhere.”

  Thwack! Somehow the pain was heightened by the fact that she couldn’t escape it. Each swish of the birch rod found its mark—the throbbing, heated pillow of her hindquarters. By the second stroke she began to sob. By the fifth, she was soaking his favorite linen neckcloth with tears. “Please, please stop,” she begged. “I will never write another gentleman. I will never so much as look at Eversham again.”

  “I should hope not.” Thwack!

  “Please! How can I prove that I have reformed?” Thwack! “Ow! Please, I will do anything to show my remorse. To show I have...”

  He lowered the birch.

  “To show I have lear—learned my lesson,” she stammered through tears. “I’ll do anything.” Her voice faded to a whisper as she slumped against the post.

  “Anything, wife?”

  “Anything. Even...even that thing I don’t like to do.”

  He made a soft sound. “Even that? You are remorseful indeed.” He was still a moment, then he sighed, knelt and slid the birch rod under the bed. “Very well. In that case, I suppose it’s fortunate you are so well restrained.”

  She heard him cross to the bureau and slide open a drawer. The rattle of a glass jar was followed by the drawer easing shut again. He undid the falls of his trousers, took them down and laid them aside. His member was stiff and reddish-purple, jutting out in front of him. Posey whimpered and closed her eyes. “Please, do not be slow and meticulous about it. Do not make me wait.”

  He returned to her, stood behind her and caressed her smarting bottom, poking his hard length against her back. “This is not a thing I can do quickly. You know that by now.”

  She arched her hips forward, so the wicked, tingling pearl at her center contacted the mahogany post. “Please don’t hurt me, Thomas.”

  “Then relax for me.” Deft fingers slid down the crevice of her bottom to the tight, secret place he sought. He reached for the jar and pressed a dollop of the slick cream at the opening. She pushed back against his fingers, moaning at the dull ache of penetration. The stockings scratched her as she wiggled her hips.

  “Be still,” he whispered, “or I will bring out the birch rod again.”

  She tightened her fingers in the starched white neckcloth and squeezed her eyes shut as he palmed her buttocks and parted them wide. He pressed the head of his phallus against her tight hole, gently at first, then more insistently.

  She couldn’t move an inch to evade him.

  “Oh...Thomas...” He slid in a bit farther. There was building, terrifying discomfort, but no real pain. He reached around to cup her breasts, the roughness of his cheeks scratching across her temple and jaw.

  “If you were not such a bad girl, we would not have to do this,” he said.

  “I know,” she replied mournfully.

  He slid deeper. She felt the tight orifice give way and admit her husband’s thick rod. He eased slowly into her trapped, helpless body, inside that shameful place. She was pinned from behind now, restrained by her husband in the deepest possible way.

  “You are not grinding on the bedpost, are you, dearest?” he asked. “We talked about how inappropriate that is.”

  “I am not,” she gasped, pressing her hips forward. “It’s only that when you thrust deep inside me, it pushes me against the post right...right there.”

  “Ah. So it cannot be helped.”

  “No. No, sir, it cannot.”

  She drew in a deep shuddering breath, closing her teeth on the cloth that smelled of her husband. Her ankles fought the grip of the ribbon as she arched on her toes. “Please, sir,” she said between pants. “If you really want to punish me, you should not be so gentle and slow. You should feel free to give me the harsh treatment I deserve.”

  His fingers tightened on her nipples in a worsening pinch. “It was a terrible thing to write that letter to Eversham,” he said, his pace quickening. He drove in and out of her bottom in rough, short strokes. Her naughty button was forced against the bedpost in a most arousing rhythm.

  “You are really teaching me a lesson now,” she sighed. “I am so very sorry. So very sorry. So very—” She gritted her teeth and threw her head back as he thrust to the hilt inside her. She felt the neckcloth give way as an orgasm built and broke wide within her, sharp pulsations of pleasure originating in her bottom and turning her entire body inside out. Her husband bucked and groaned behind her, driving deep in the throes of his own release.

  He put his hands over hers. They both breathed deeply and spasmodically for long moments.

  “God, Tom,” she said, going limp against the post. “Holy hell.”

  He sighed as he licked a trail across her shoulder. “That was the best one yet.”

  “I agree,” she said. “Even better than the medieval wedding night.”

  “By far.”

  He withdrew from her, his hands circling her waist, running over the authentic reproduction Victorian-era wool stockings they’d purchased online. “These feel kinda scratchy.”

  “They are. But the birch rod feels worse.”

  “Good thing you’re a maso,” he said, a smile playing at the corner of his lips.

  “It is a good thing. You were whaling on me at the end there.” She wiggled her wrists in the neckcloth. “I think I ripped this. Actually, I’m sure I did.”

  “Bad girl. You’ll have to be punished. Or...” He slapped her ass. “We can buy another one on eBay.”

  “At this rate, I’ll have to learn how to make them myself. This is the third one this month.”

  “Either that, or we move on to another era.” They looked at each other, then back at the neckcloth drooping from the post.

  “Not yet,” she said. “I’ll learn how to make them. It can’t be that hard.”

  “You do that. I’ll assemble a few more birch rods.” He grinned at her, slipping a hand down to cup her slick pussy. “Eversham shall not have you!”

  “Not ever?”

  “Not ever.” He kissed the curve of her neck. “You’re mine, my naughty, naughty wife.”

  ANYWAY

  Sommer Marsden

  I was stuck.

  I wiggled my arms and tried not to panic. It wasn’t a big deal. Not really. Mason was just in the next room brushing his teeth. But still, I’d have to admit I was stuck. Take the teasing...

  I struggled some more.

  I was just starting to sweat when I heard that dark chuckle, felt my skin rise up in a revolt of gooseflesh at his warm velvet voice. “Having some trouble there, Robin?”

  I glanced up, gave him a fake laugh. “No. It’s fine. I’m just...” He watched as I pushed my arms against the wall. How could I be this solidly stuck in the arms of a jacket? Even worse, how could I be in the position to have to admit it and ask for help?

  He stood there smirking. His amusement became too much for me and tears pricked my eyes. “Goddamn it! Your mother’s like a fucking bird. Why did I even think to try this on?”

  I wiggled my shoulders and felt the fabric give just a tiny bit, sliding down my forearms. But it wasn’t much. They were trapped behind me pretty tightly, caught in too snug, thick fabric that didn’t want to yield. My arms remained bound behind my back, cinched by unforgiving velvet jacket arms.

  “Do you need help?”

  “Yes! No!” I moved some more, feeling the bite of stiffness in my shoulders from having my arms so far back. “This is fucking ridiculous!”

  Panic had set in. All I could think about was what if he hadn’t been home? What if I’d been alone? What the fuck then?

  Mason stepped close to me, crowding my personal space. I froze. He smiled down at me. His brown eyes were amused; his thin but kissable lips followed the sentiment. “Would you like me to help you?”

  I was
nude but for a pair of lavender lace panties and some argyle kneesocks, of all things. We were supposed to just go out and grab a cheesesteak or pizza for dinner. I was supposed to be throwing on some clothes. Instead I’d dove into the bag of castoffs his mother had given me. She was a foot shorter and twenty-five pounds lighter than me. Why she insisted on giving me her clothing rejects was beyond me. Why I always insisted on torturing myself by trying them on was even more baffling.

  He was waiting. Watching me. I continued to wriggle like a fish on a hook even as he calmly observed.

  He put his hand on my belly. Spread his fingers wide. I stilled. “Robin. Would you like me to help you?” he asked once more.

  I sucked in a breath, feeling his fingers on my skin and the stiffening of my nipples, which he noted with a quick glance and a small smile.

  “I...” Why wasn’t I saying yes? “She’s so freakishly skinny,” I said by way of answer.

  He nodded. “My mother is petite.”

  “Why does she give me her clothes?” I watched him watching me, and my heart thumped in my chest. A caged thing that wanted to be set free.

  “I have no idea.” He reached up and pinched my nipple between his fingertips. Fiery lust blazed through me.

  I wanted to touch him. To be touched. So I said, “Yes, please help me out.”

  His eyebrow went up, and a smirk played across his lips. He bent, eyes still on mine, and sucked my other nipple into the damp heat of his mouth. He sucked hard, and I felt the echo of that pleasurable draw on my flesh as far down as my cunt.

  Mason had forgotten dinner. I could tell by the look in his eyes. I’d seen that look before, when he wielded a paddle, or just his bare hand, or even a crop. My stomach dropped like I was falling, my breath quick in my throat.

  “Please,” I said. But even I wasn’t so convinced.

  He drew a finger down the middle of me from chest to mound, then stopped to cup my pussy through my panties. His smile had turned dangerous. “I don’t know.”

  I struggled, panic flaring hotly inside me. Small beads of sweat dotted my upper lip, and I licked them away.