His cock plunges inside her sloppy wet pussy. In and out, slowly at first and then faster. They work into a rhythm, their bodies move together, fucking as one. Quinton leans forward, plucking the knot on the imaginary silk scarf to release her wrist binding. “Use your fingers, Cari.”
She vibrates her fingers back and forth across her mound, up to her tits and back to her clit. When she grabs both nipples and presses down with her thumbs, he bites the back of her neck, tugging the scarf with his teeth. A second’s pause leads to furious fucking. Her whimpers turn into a full-throated scream. Quinton yells out and comes simultaneously. He kisses the small of her back, massages her shoulders and removes the leather ankle binds that aren’t really there. He holds her calf and bends each leg, massaging before he gently lays each back on the sheet.
“Turn over, my love.” Cari rolls onto her back, pulling her knees up to her belly. Quinton stacks pillows against the headboard and sits up, guiding her toward his side. He lifts the top sheet and covers her always cold feet. Her head rests on his chest. It takes several minutes for her breathing to return to normal. He waits.
“Thank you, Sir.” Their lips meet. His tongue enters her mouth and laps around her tongue, holding it still and then creating a tunnel to suck it intermediately. He kisses the tip of her tongue and her lips.
“I didn’t last as long this time.” Her expression changes in that instant.
“No, you didn’t.” His fingers rift through her damp hair.
“I love you.” She rubs circles in his chest hair and kisses him on the shoulder.
“I know you do.” He forces himself to stay quiet. She needs this time to sift through her feelings. His heart wants to pull her close and reassure her over and over that she will always be his, but his mind demands he give her time to process. This transition is new territory for both of them.
“This works for us, for now, right?” A direct question has to be answered.
“It works for me, my dear. The way I bind you isn’t so important as the way you react to it. How did it make you feel?” She hesitates. “The truth, Cari.”
“The truth is I long for the ropes, the leather and the scarves you used to bind me with, but my body is assimilating. I feel the materials when the words come from your lips. It will only get better. Next time I’ll open my mind even more. The bits of rope and material facilitate my sub zone.”
“That is what the doctor suggested.” He inches his body closer to hers, careful not to touch any joints.
She cuddles closer.
“I have one more surprise.” He watches to gauge her reaction. Fear clouds her eyes.
His chest tightens. “No, dear. No more play tonight. How about a home movie?”
She laughs. A mischievous grin appears. There’s his dear, his wife and, for as long as he can hold on to her, his life. He presses the button on the remote and Cari watches, wide-eyed, as her sexy, nude form fills the screen.
WEARING PURPLE
Elizabeth Coldwell
Standing with his back to the whipping post, naked but for a length of ribbon tied in a neat bow around his semierect penis and his wrists tethered behind him with the bright purple pashmina, he couldn’t help but reflect that his wife certainly knew how to bear a grudge.
She must have been planning her revenge from the moment he pressed the hastily bought, even more hastily wrapped present into her hands on his return from his business trip to Belgium. For Ramona, Belgium meant one thing, and that was chocolate. Her only weakness, a box of it was never far from her plump, creamy fingers, ready for her to dip into. While she often grumbled about the extra pounds that had gathered on her hips and thighs as the years passed, he loved the look and feel of her abundant flesh, the weight of her body on his as they fucked.
When he told her he’d bring her back something she’d love, she’d dropped heavy hints about a master chocolatier she’d seen interviewed in one of the Sunday supplements. His exquisite handmade pralines, it was claimed, were those by which all others would be measured and found wanting. Nothing less would do for her, so how he ever thought she’d be satisfied with a pashmina instead, he still didn’t know. His excuses that his business meeting had overrun and he hadn’t had time to hunt for the chocolate shop had been greeted with cold-faced silence.
“I’ll make it up to you, darling,” he’d promised.
“Oh, I know you will,” had been her reply. She’d all but thrown the length of fine cashmere material at him. “I mean, purple, of all colors. In all the years we’ve been married, when have you ever seen me wearing purple?”
In his haste, and in the subdued light of the railway station concession where he’d made his ill-advised purchase, he thought he’d chosen a wrap that matched the cornflower blue of Ramona’s eyes. Lying discarded on the bed, its true shade became all too obvious, mocking his poor judgment. Another mistake, another demerit to add to the list his mistress carried in her head. Retribution would come, it always did. He just never knew when, or where, or even how. And that made it worse—and better, on so many levels.
Tonight began like any other party night. His outfit for the evening lay on the bed when he emerged from the bathroom showered, shaved and powdered. Snug-fitting leatherette shorts, socks and heavy black boots. Nothing else. His collar would be fitted around his neck in the moments before leaving the house, further emphasizing his status as lowly slave and Mistress Ramona’s chattel.
His mistress waited for him downstairs, the taxi already ordered and on its way. As always, she looked magnificent: dressed from head to foot in shiny black rubber, a blue-and-black waist-cincher nipping her in around the middle and making a perfect hourglass of her curves. So worthy of his respect, his adoration, it was all he could do not to fall to his knees and worship her. That, he knew, would come later, with an audience present to witness his groveling show of obeisance. Keyed up and already almost unbearably horny, he didn’t notice what she slipped into her latex shoulder bag in the moments before they left the house. If he’d been more observant, he might have had some inkling of how this evening would progress, and the humiliating position in which she intended to place him. Not that he’d have been able to prevent any of it. The only way he could have done that was by bringing her back the chocolate she craved.
When they’d walked into Club Strict, they’d been greeted by an effusive Sir Nigel, the club’s regular host for the last five years and one of their oldest friends on the scene. This, however, was no ordinary night—Sir Nigel was holding his birthday party, for invited guests alone, and for one night only, just about anything went. There were none of the usual restrictions on public nudity or sexual interaction in the club environment. Still, the night was young, and as he’d made his way to the bar to order Mistress Ramona a gin and tonic, he’d seen little in the way of play. A bare-breasted blonde crawled on a leash in the wake of her stocky black master, and a balding, bespectacled slave he recognized as one of Sir Nigel’s regular bridge foursome lapped at the feet of a redheaded mistress who chatted away to a friend, totally oblivious to the sub’s presence. He wondered what the man’s bridge partner would say if she saw him now, semi-clad and subservient, or whether she already knew he, like everyone else here, had a secret side he kept separate from his daily, vanilla life.
They’d been there more than an hour before any serious action began. In that time, he’d refreshed his mistress’s glass once, and followed her obediently around the club, eyes downcast, as she’d sought out acquaintances and caught up on all the gossip. It was just like every other night at Club Strict, and he’d relaxed fully into his role, as he always did.
“Ladies and gentlemen, goddesses and worms, might I have your attention?” Sir Nigel’s voice boomed out above the low, throbbing bass of the sound system. “Thank you for coming to my party and making my transition into my sixth decade such a delightfully depraved one. I’ve arranged a couple of special performances for you all tonight, and I’d like to present the first of tho
se now. My very good friend Mistress Ramona is about to give a bondage demonstration, with the aid of her pathetic excuse for a submissive, Slave Graham...”
At the mention of his name, he’d stiffened to attention. His mistress had mentioned nothing about any such demonstration when they’d left the house tonight. Even before he could begin to wonder what she might have planned for him, she marched him over to one of the pieces of equipment set up in the club’s central playroom—a sturdy, black-painted post, designed to allow a slave to be tethered to it for a whipping. A small crowd, the lithe, silver-haired figure of Sir Nigel prominent among them, began to gather round as his mistress ordered him to stand with his back to the whipping post, and to clasp his hands together behind himself, so that he effectively embraced the wooden structure.
“I know that many of you are constantly searching for new ways to restrain your submissive,” Mistress Ramona was saying, as the audience hung on her every word, “and new methods of reinforcing your discipline. And it is very important that they know just how low it’s possible for them to sink in your estimation, and how hard they must work to regain even a shred of respect.”
His stomach churned with nauseous anticipation, the hairs on his arms and legs prickled to attention. The rebuke in her choice of words might not have been obvious to those watching, but he knew he was about to pay for his misdemeanors.
“Now,” his mistress continued, “it’s always nice to have good quality equipment to play with, like padded leather cuffs, silk bondage rope or even proper, police-issue handcuffs—eh, Mike?”
The man she’d addressed her comment to, a detective in the local force, chuckled gruffly and fingered the shiny silver cuffs that dangled from his belt.
“But what if you don’t have your toy box with you, or you’re experimenting with a little tie and tease? What might you use then?”
“Stockings,” someone at the back of the crowd piped up, even though Ramona didn’t appear to have been soliciting a response.
She shook her head. With her back to him, he couldn’t see her expression, but he suspected she wore the patient smile that indicated a foolish answer had been given. “Many people think that, but cheap nylon stockings can be dangerous. When you pull on them, they keep tightening, and you never want to put your slave in something that can cut into their flesh. But there are plenty of things you can use instead. A necktie, a silk scarf, the sash of a dressing gown. We can all find something that’s been shoved into a drawer, forgotten and unwanted. Something—” she paused, letting her previous words sink in “—like this.”
Turning side on, she pulled an item from her shoulder bag with a theatrical flourish. Even in the dim light of the club, he recognized the all-too-familiar length of fine purple material.
“Now, I’m sure some of you remember the days when pashminas used to be fashionable...” His mistress shot him a look that dripped icy contempt; he felt as if his balls were trying to crawl up inside his body. “But now, they’re really no good for anything apart from binding in place a worthless specimen such as the one I have here.”
As she spoke, she moved behind the post. He felt the brush of soft cashmere against the skin of his forearms.
“If any of you would like to come round to this side, you’ll get a better view of the knot, but I’m using a simple French bowline, so there’ll be no risk of cutting off this wretch’s circulation.”
It was amazing, he thought, how she could express concern for his welfare in a tone suggesting that, given the choice, she’d cut off much more than that. Then the pashmina was being wrapped around his wrists and the thickness of the post—once, and then again, before his mistress tied the fabric in the knot she’d described. It placed no pressure against his flesh, but when he gave an experimental tug, he realized she’d bound him securely enough that he couldn’t get free until she decreed it. An electric jolt shot through him, the thrill he always felt when his mistress placed him in bondage. Innately subservient to her will, he couldn’t help but react when she enforced her domination over him, especially with more than a dozen pairs of eyes watching their scene unfold.
“So,” his mistress said, “now that you have your slave in bondage, you have the opportunity to give them pleasure or pain. Or maybe just a spot of well-deserved humiliation.”
Her hands clutched the elastic waistband of his shorts and tugged them down in one smooth movement. She let them settle around his knees, restraining him further. His cheeks burned with the shame of being stripped before an audience, even as his cock began to rise. He and Ramona had discussed a scenario like this so many times, but until tonight the circumstances had never been right for her to humiliate him so publicly.
And still she hadn’t finished. Withdrawing something else from her bag, she bent to take hold of his cock. “Now, I know many of you mistresses favor the cock cage, and I’m sure more than one pathetic article has his manhood under lock and key tonight. But I find it’s far more amusing to show up my slave for the sissy he is.”
With that, she wrapped what he quickly realized was a piece of purple ribbon around his shaft, tying it in a big, floppy bow. A woman in the crowd tittered at the sight; her reaction should have made his cock wilt, but instead it surged up even harder.
“And that concludes my demonstration for the evening,” his mistress said, receiving a rapturous round of applause. She made a brief curtsey of acknowledgment, then the spectators began to drift away, some to the bar, others to the dance floor, muttering among themselves about what they’d just witnessed.
“So, slave...” The words were a spiteful caress in his ear. He smelled the intoxicating scents of latex and her favorite spicy perfume, a mixture that would become even more potent when mingled with the aroma of her plump, rubber-encased sex. He itched to be on his knees, face buried in her crotch, breathing in that scent. “I trust I can leave you on your own for a little while, to allow you to contemplate the wisdom of buying your mistress such an unsuitable gift?”
“Yes, Mistress.” The last thing he wanted was to be left alone. He needed to feel Ramona’s fingers around his aching, beribboned dick, teasing a climax from him. But Sir Nigel was beckoning to her, telling her he had someone he’d like her to meet. And with that she was gone, leaving him to stew in his helplessness and frustration.
That had been, at his best guess, forty minutes ago, though it was impossible to gain any real sense of how quickly time passed in an environment with no clocks visible. All around him, the sights and sounds of a club night in full swing contrived to torment him. Somewhere behind him, he could hear the rhythmic thudding of some implement landing repeatedly on bare flesh—a paddle, he suspected—and the low, anguished moans of the girl being disciplined. Being unable to see the scene as it unfolded sent a shudder of longing through him, as his cock rose once more in response to the images flooding his mind: the rosy bloom on the girl’s backside; the steadily falling arm of whoever was chastising her; the glistening juices on her pussy lips, as her body reacted on a purely physical level, turning pleasure into pain. Unable to turn in the direction of the noises, he stared straight ahead, hoping another couple might start to act out their own punishment ritual within his limited line of sight.
Despite the vulnerability of his position, he couldn’t help but admire the ingenious way his mistress had used her hated gift against him. She’d taken care with his binding, and he felt no real discomfort apart from the slight ache in his back and shoulders that came from remaining in the same position for an extended length of time. She had treated him with loving cruelty, which was all he ever asked of her, but now he needed more.
Behind him, the girl’s moans had taken on a sweeter quality, and he swore he could hear the squelching sounds of fingers being thrust in and out of her pussy. She had taken her punishment, and now came her reward. He groaned. If his mistress had intentionally sought to drive him into a vortex of frustration by binding him in place, she could not have chosen a more perfect spot. He c
ouldn’t escape from the aural evidence of someone else receiving the stimulation he craved so desperately.
As the moans peaked, fast and frantic, then died away to soft, satisfied whimpers, he silently begged for someone to offer him the same treatment. His cock stood up tight to his belly button, precome shining at its tip, revealing the full extent of his need. He didn’t care who chose to use him—male or female, dominant or submissive. If only some master would order her slave to her knees, to take him in her mouth and suck him till his seed geysered down her soft, gulping throat. Or if the domina in the elbow-length red gloves he’d seen clapping politely at the end of his mistress’s demonstration would wrap her leather-clad fingers around him, working them swiftly up and down his length. He could almost see the stains his white cream would leave on the supple red hide. For a moment, he even entertained the thought of someone taking a punishment implement to him, trailing the thongs of a soft suede flogger over his dick and balls, or rapping his swollen cockhead with a riding crop. The pain would be all the more delicious for being administered by someone he might not even know, someone who’d seen his helplessly restrained state and decided to take full advantage of it.
He writhed against the post, tugging at his bonds even though he knew he had no hope of getting free. If his mistress had chosen to tether him facing the post, he could have rubbed himself against the hard wood, creating just enough in the way of friction with his limited range of movement to bring himself off. Oh, he’d have paid for that afterward, he knew, but what was one more demerit on top of those he’d already earned?
Then, just as he’d slumped back into a resigned, defeated posture, shoulders sagging and cock beginning to deflate, he heard a familiar voice purr in his ear, “Purple may not suit me, but it certainly looks good on you. So, slave, have we learned our lesson?”
Best Bondage Erotica 2014 Page 17