Best Bondage Erotica 2014

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  Her nod was automatic and more than a little desperate. Her chest filled with that need, all at once, the only thing in the world, and after only the barest hesitation, she inched forward, scooting her knees over the carpet, closing the distance between them.

  “There we go.” His voice held a trace of indulgence, a cookie for her efforts, but just as she managed to bring her attention back in full to his offering, he’d stepped away again, fully this time, closer to the wall and its forgettable painting.

  She huffed through her nose, drawing her mouth closed only to wet her tongue and lips, pushing up on her toes to aid her half-crawl across the floor. She was a fish flopping on dry land, a lost traveler dragging herself to an imagined oasis. By the time she finally reached his cock, his body was against the wall, and her knees were burning from the friction.

  He tapped the head against her nose, gravity making it ache dully. His other hand went under her chin, thumb stroking along the line of her jaw, which relaxed under the attention. Her mouth was still gaping open like an idiot’s. Her whine was thick and audible as she stared up at him, his cock hitting one cheekbone, and then the other, pushing at the thin skin under her eye, leaving a line of precome next to a stray tear that had worked its way out and onto her face.

  “All that hard work.” Still no admiration in his voice, mostly condescension. Her chin twitched again, drawing her jaw up fractionally.

  Suddenly that tender thumb was gripping her face, fingers on the other side, squeezing it so her jaw slid open fully, practically unhinging like a snake’s, and then he sunk his cock in her mouth to the hilt.

  She gagged, painfully, and her vision went blurry, hot, as her throat filled with the hard heat of his erection for a moment that went on years.

  When he pulled back for her to breathe, the stinging shock of oxygen was almost too much. His grip on her face was firm, the pads of each finger and thumb digging in hard enough to bruise. She felt suspended there, her entire weight dangling as he pushed in and out of her mouth—or rather, pushed and pulled her head up and down his shaft, as it dragged against her soft palate, against her tongue. Her breath was afforded in short spurts, through her nose, now running, eyes brimming, then spilling tears down over her cheeks.

  He jerked his cock out of her mouth suddenly enough that she gasped. Her eyes were wild and open as he came on her face, the hot liquid spattering her forehead and nose and lips. She stared up at him in shock, mind wiped blank even as her tongue snuck from her mouth to catch the taste of him, salty and vital and alive.

  His head sagged back against the wall, his panting directed at the ceiling. His hold on her face slackened and finally released, his fingers going to her cheek, and then hair, curling in the strands. Carefully, she leaned forward, and he eased her in kind, until her temple was resting against his thigh, which was warm and quivering under the effort to remain standing.

  He petted her hair. Her tears leaked a little more, mingling with his come, but she kept her head at an angle to prevent any from sullying the fabric of his pants. She did not stir, listening to the sound of his breath slowing and evening out. She only let herself chance a look up the length of his body when he finally let out a long, low sigh.

  He was smiling down at her. Her own smile was slower to come, mouth aching, feeling cracked and blistered at the corners; the pain was delicious, the turn of her lips raw and happy.

  “We have time for a bath,” he told her, fingers incredibly gentle against her scalp, “before we have to get home to the kids.”

  THE SNAKE

  Jacqueline Brocker

  Sybil only saw it when the leaves rustled, and even then, only its tail. A motley green-brown tail, disappearing under a bush. It was enough of the tail, however, for her to see the curve of its form, the slither, like the track of a winding river seen from a mountaintop.

  She would rather have been dangling on the precipice of that mountaintop than standing where she was now.

  Adam was ahead of her, still walking, still talking. But he soon stopped midsentence, turned back, and gazed at her, concerned.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Sybil shook her head, but she couldn’t stop the word from coming out in a hiss. “Snake.”

  He came back to her, put his hands on both shoulders. Her vision was hazy, like smoke in the distant heat, until he said, “You’re bigger than it, and it’s more afraid of you than you of it.”

  His words were a gentle reminder, almost a mantra, for her to repeat to herself. The world became clearer again, and her gaze found focus once more as she looked up at his face, with his high cheeks and dimpled chin.

  “Yes,” she whispered, trying to agree with him. Then she nodded, trying to confirm it to herself. “Yes.”

  Adam put his arm—large enough almost to engulf her—around her shoulders. She leaned into his broad body, sheltered by his height. He moved her forward, walking her away from the bush. She refused to look at it, though in her mind’s eye it swelled ten times in size, and under it lay the undulating snake. The image became motion, and for the rest of their walk, all Sybil could feel was the snake writhing in her belly, underneath her skin and deep inside where nothing could stop it.

  Only when they got back to the car park, and Adam put his hand on her stomach, did the snake still, and she could breathe properly again. In the car all the way home she said little, as did Adam.

  At Sybil’s place, he made tea, his large hands clasping her white china with more care than she managed when she did it. He put the cups down and sat opposite her at the kitchen table. She hunched forward, hands between her knees, as he leaned back, legs apart. So relaxed, but his eyes were on her with quiet interest. She smiled her thanks for the tea and sipped it, fast. It burned her tongue a little.

  He picked up his own cup, his hands cradling it, covering it. He didn’t drink, but asked, “What should we do after this?”

  Sybil traced the rim of the cup with her fingernail, watching it instead of him. Her nail was filed, pointed and sharp.

  “I have some ideas...” she said, the trail off letting something bloom inside her, something powerful and insistent. It brought a smile to her lips. She felt them draw back, revealing her teeth, and she looked back up at Adam.

  The only sign Adam made was the whitening of his knuckles as he gripped the cup tighter.

  Later, in the bedroom, when Adam was naked and lying on the bed, and Sybil had left on her jeans but removed her shirt, she brought out the black rope they kept in the back of the cupboard, and bound him—not to the bed, but rather wrapping the rope around his body. She’d already forced his hands behind his back, his ankles and knees together. She made a pattern with the rope across the planes of his body. Those binds weren’t needed to keep him still; those were for him.

  The act of tying wasn’t, for Sybil, the best part. If she could have put Adam into a machine and he’d appeared at the other end fully bound, exactly to her specifications, she’d have been content. Or a quick, single one-two of clamping his wrists and ankles down or to the bedposts; that she did enjoy, the grip of his straining limbs under hers. The binding, the elaborate act of it—that was for Adam. That was what he loved.

  For her, foreplay was listening to him breathe—the gasps, the sharp intakes of breath, a whistling kettle, puppy-panting—as his mobility grew more restricted. He’d fight at her hands and the rope—not a token gesture, but not a true push-back—and with each of her victories, his face would fall, his lips parting, eyelashes fluttering.

  All the time, his cock, which she usually left free, was growing harder, and harder.

  It is strange to discover the hidden desires of a lover. Especially when you, for so long, assumed that your own were dark and dangerous, something to be kept hidden in the underbrush, masked, only to be brought out in the most covert of fashions, while your lover’s were simple, as plain as butter on toast and easy to satisfy.

  Strange, but less a shock than a moment of preternatural recogni
tion. The moment had come, some months ago, when Sybil, straddling Adam, lunged forward, and, only meaning to be playful—seem playful—grabbed his wrists, and held them down on the pillow above his head. Adam’s eyes dilated like petals folding in the moonlight, and his cock, already stiff inside her, throbbed.

  Sybil, too, went still, not quite willing to believe what Adam’s body had shown her. Slowly, she tightened her grip on his wrists, and said, “You like that?”

  “Yes,” he breathed, bucking his hips up to hers.

  She leaned closer, nose to nose, and whispered, “So do I.”

  Sybil rode him, and didn’t let go of his wrists once.

  Up until that point, Adam’s face when he came had been polite, an exhalation of air leaving his lips, a mere pleasantry, like eating a small piece of candy. This time, Adam’s head lolled from side to side, and, as her thighs squeezed his, when he did come, his eyes turned a brilliant white, his mouth opened like a lion’s, and he screamed. And Sybil’s body, mere seconds after, was rocked with an avalanche of pleasure, beginning from the top of her head, an orgasm that came not from her clit, but from her mind, electric pulses raining down her back, over her chest, overtaking her whole body.

  “You’re okay with this?” Adam whispered to her afterward, his head on her chest. They’d never lain like that before; always it had been her on him, woman leaning on man. Already, this new arrangement of their bodies felt better.

  “Yes.” She kissed his temple. “More than okay.”

  It didn’t take them long to find other interests in common.

  When she finished tying, there he lay, long and patterned, the smooth black rope criss-crossing his legs and chest. She’d left his cock free—the only part of him save for his neck and mouth not bound.

  Sybil thought of the snake. She’d seen so little of it. Had it been as decorated as Adam was now?

  She chose the flogger for its soft leather straps—soft, that is, until she was ready to lash it down over his body. For now, she held the strands to her palm, like a horsetail, so he could see what she would use on him.

  He swallowed, his Adam’s apple rolling like a boat on a wave. Sybil opened her mouth to catch the taste of his vulnerability, and the scent of his arousal.

  She knelt next to him, her knees brushing against the skin and rope on his hip. He gazed up at her, and she thought of a grasshopper caught in a spider’s web, hanging in the balance, waiting, dreading...wanting.

  She eyed his cock, pink and erect, but not yet straining to come. She smirked, and lightly encircled the base with her thumb and forefinger. His whole body went taut, and his jaw set.

  “Some people call this a snake.” Her finger and thumb travelled up the length of tough, pliant muscle. “But it isn’t like one, is it?”

  “I don’t call it that,” Adam whispered.

  Her whole hand shifted to grip it all. “Remind me, what do you call it?”

  “Yours.”

  At that, she licked her lips, nodded and let go of his cock.

  “Are you scared?” Sybil asked.

  He exhaled. “Yes.”

  She let the flogger trail across his crest. “Are you turned on?”

  “God yes.”

  Sybil raised the flogger behind her head. “Then take it all.”

  Adam only had the barest second to brace before the first strike fell across his chest. And when he cried out, from the way the whites of his eyes flared, Sybil knew it was as much from shock as pain.

  She laid into him, thrashing the flogger all over his body. The only places she avoided were his face and cock. The rest of him, though, was all hers for the attack.

  How glorious Adam looked as he took the blows! He writhed and twisted, curling from side to side, each strike bringing a new cry to his lips: ones that were sharp and short, long howls like a wounded wolf, breathy gasps of air, wails that shot through her chest, keen and sharp as an arrow. Sometimes she paused, just long enough for him to think it was over, but never enough to let him catch a full breath.

  Red welts appeared on his body. First light, then puffy, before turning that color that reminded her flesh is not just skin but blood, as well. His cock grew hard and purple. With the criss-crossed black ropes, he looked like she had lashed paint across his body—Adam as a canvas, his skin hers to do with as she pleased. He tried to move away from the flogger and her relentless arm, the ropes giving him just enough hope to try, but ultimately his binds hindered his attempts to get away from her. This revelation sung of how much power she had right now, how much control she had over Adam. Her chest hummed, full of frantic bees in a hive.

  All the while, she saw the snake underneath her. She was hacking it, not to pieces, but lashing down on it with her flogger, driving it away, driving it to distraction. It wasn’t about killing it—oh no—but about scaring it, scaring it as much as it had scared her, a lesson to it not to be anywhere near where she walked, how dare it!

  Her rage whirred in her head. Right in the front, right on top, burring through her forehead, pulsing at her temples, vibrating through her scalp. It rolled down her neck, met the swarming in her chest, until she was on fire.

  It couldn’t always be sustained; moments of reality broke in, asking the key question: would Adam let her know, would he give the signal that it was enough? She lashed and lashed, and wondered, not for the first time, would she know? Or would she drive him into the brush, like the snake. Would he never want to emerge again?

  Then Adam screamed. It was the scream of a man so close to coming undone, to breaking, that another strike would destroy him. Sybil knew the sound so well, she could have cried out in her own relief. His voice had broken through the crackling fire in her, and she knew it was time to stop.

  Her chest heaved, her mouth was open, trying to get in as much air as possible; how little she’d breathed! On the bed, Adam wept, his body still, patterned with the black rope, the red welts, a martyr nearly shattered. Sybil threw the flogger to the ground, pulled down her jeans, and straddled him, enveloping his cock with her cunt in a swift, downward push. She was wetter than she’d realized. Adam moaned, his upper body rocking from side to side.

  “Good boy.” She wiped his tears away and framed his face with her hands.

  He smiled at her, eyes red, cheeks wet. “Thank you.”

  She could have wept herself at that. She kissed him, and said against his mouth, “No, thank you.”

  Then she fucked him until they both came.

  CLIPPED

  Lucy Felthouse

  Nancy fidgeted and messed around with the things on her desk as she waited for her document to print. All fifty pages of it—twice over. No wonder it was taking forever. She’d finished her to-do list for the day and the document was her last task, bar separating the two copies, keeping one for herself and stuffing the other in an envelope and dashing to the post box just outside her building. The address and postage labels were ready to go, too.

  God, it really was taking an age. She could almost feel herself getting older as she waited. Irritably, she flipped the lid off the small plastic box holding her paper clips and emptied them out onto the desk. She was so bored that she started sorting them into piles based on their color: red, blue, green, pink. She quickly grew fed up with that game and began linking the clips together, slipping one onto another and making a chain. It wasn’t challenging or even particularly interesting, but somehow it lulled Nancy into a kind of trance, and the end of the row of clips soon reached the floor. She carried on putting them together as the printer churned away in the background.

  “Er, Nance, what are you doing?”

  Gerard’s voice came out of the blue, startling her. She dropped her crazy creation. “Fuck, Ger, I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “Obviously not,” he said, nodding toward the brightly colored pile on the floor and smirking at her. “Having fun, were we, babe?”

  She flicked him the V sign. “I was just bored, that’s all,” she said, bending to pi
ck up the paper clips. “This document is taking forever to print, and I have nothing else to do while I’m waiting.”

  “I have an idea,” Gerard said, walking across their open-plan flat and standing beside Nancy’s chair. “How about”—he grabbed an arm of the chair and swiveled it so she was facing him—“we have some fun?” He leaned down to kiss her, grinning as a soft moan escaped her lips.

  Nancy twisted her head away. “You know what, I like the sound of that. Shall we move over to the bed?”

  “God, no,” he replied, “I think we should take advantage of where you are right now.” He straightened, then grabbed the chain of paper clips from her hand. “And I think these might come in handy, too.”

  “Why, what are you going to do? Clip me to the chair?”

  “Yes, that’s exactly what I’m going to do.” He held each end of the row and stretched it out to its full length. “Wow, you were bored, weren’t you, babe? Just as well, too, because I’m definitely going to put this to good use. Hold on to the arms of the chair, please.”

  Nancy frowned, then reluctantly did as Gerard said. Immediately he looped the chain around one of her wrists, fiddling and manipulating to create a makeshift handcuff, then did the same with her other arm. So now she was pinned to the chair with sort-of handcuffs, and the handcuffs were connected by a row of paper clips. It looked bizarre; it was bizarre, but somehow, the situation took the arousal inflicted by Gerard’s kiss and multiplied it. The warmth between her legs grew hotter, and as her husband leaned down to capture her lips with his once more, blood rushed to her crotch, and her labia and clit began to swell.

  By the time he pulled away, she was gasping, her heart pounding, and her clit and pussy ached. Everything except for her and Gerard had faded into the background, including the insistent chugging of the printer.

  “Horny, baby?” he said, quirking an eyebrow.