Bondage Bites, page 13
An impish smirk crosses her lips.
“Crazy woman.” He shakes his head and asks, “How’d you get the afternoon off?”
TANGLED
Andrée Lachapelle
The lithe girl hung from the ceiling, twirling, wrapped in blood-red hemp. Her damp hair hid her face from prying eyes, and there were prying eyes, and gasps and throats cleared but not one word spoken by the crowd gathered there to watch her spin in the spotlight.
Beads of sweat traveled along her amber skin and stopped at the swollen, darkening places trapped by the harness that had been created as we stood in awe.
A skilled, latex-clad Black Widow had caught the girl in her web.
And not a single one of us longed to free her.
WET NAILS
Ashley Lister
Bondage,” Mariah sniffed. She shook her head. “Never tried it. Never will.”
She rested back in the seat, extending her left hand to receive the second coat of clear mother of pearl to complete her French manicure. Her lips were pursed tightly, as though the conversation was now closed. She had no interest in hearing about Simon’s depraved sexual outlets. Or, to be more honest, she had no interest in letting him know that her curiosity had been piqued.
“It’s not for everyone,” Simon agreed.
He was the only straight manicurist Mariah had ever met. The others had all been outrageously gay. Simon, dark, attractive and brooding, was unsettlingly hetero with a reputation that suggested he was happy to prove this fact to satisfy the curiosity of any female client. From what Mariah had heard, Simon was able to satisfy more than mere curiosity.
He held her firmly by the wrist. He stroked the polish across each nail with a lazy and languid action. His focus seemed fixed on her hands, his own skill and the aim for perfection with her French manicure.
“I will say,” he spoke distractedly, his concentration away from the words, “you don’t know what you’re missing.”
He finished the last nail and smiled for her.
“And you’re done.”
It was the sort of smile she could imagine him wearing as he thrust into her and allowed his thick, hard length to throb and pulse in a rush of wet, climactic splendor. She tore her gaze away before he could read the lascivious direction of her thoughts. Mariah had no idea where the thought had come from.
She raised her hands and examined the beautiful job he’d done on her nails. The final coat of polish shimmered like molten glass. She held her splayed fingers rigid, as though the very act of moving them through the air might spoil their perfection.
“I’m surprised you’ve never considered bondage,” he mused.
With her hands held by the side of her face, almost as though she was caught in a tableau from a Fosse musical, Mariah considered him warily. “You’re really being driven by this bondage interest today, aren’t you?”
He shrugged. “You’re the one whose hands are currently unusable.”
She glanced at her hands, realizing that she was comparatively helpless as long her nails remained wet.
“I–”
She got no further.
He placed a hand on her shoulder, pushing his fingers beneath the lapel of her jacket. She wore only a thin cotton spaghetti-strap top beneath and could feel the skin of his palm stroking against the bare flesh of her shoulder under the jacket.
The contact was surprising, intimate and arousing.
“I–”
Whatever it was she had been about to say, Simon stopped her words with a kiss. His lips, soft yet peppered with the threat of stubble from his five o’clock shadow, pushed rudely against hers. He smothered her mouth with a kiss that was unprecedented, unexpected and divine.
She attempted to reach for him: not sure whether she wanted to push him away or pull him closer. It was at that moment Mariah realized, regardless of her desires, she didn’t dare touch Simon for fear of spoiling her manicure. Aware of the limitations of her options, she told herself there were more obvious ways she could possibly surrender to him.
She reached for the front of her jacket, intending to pull open a couple of buttons and expose the skimpy spaghetti-strap top she wore beneath.
Again, the nuisance of her wet fingernails reminded her that, as long as it mattered to her whether or not her manicure looked good, she was unable to resist his advances.
Her heartbeat quickened.
Her pulse raced.
The muscles between her thighs clutched and clenched with warm and greedy anticipation.
His finger slipped from her shoulder and moved down to the front of her top. He hadn’t bothered to slide his fingers beneath the fabric. Instead his touch lingered against the thin cotton. The pressure—not harsh yet far from subtle—excited her more than she would have believed possible. Mariah felt the weight of his caress rest over the stiffening thrust of her nipple.
The promise of pleasure was almost enough to make her scream.
When he moved his lips from hers, then took his fingers away from her greedy, wanton flesh, Mariah wanted to sob with frustration.
“It’s a shame you’ve got no interest in trying the bondage thing.” He sounded genuinely disappointed. “I’m sure you would have enjoyed it.”
And then he was gone, leaving Mariah alone and flustered and desperate and wondering how she could tell him that she might have changed her mind. She decided, as soon as her nails were dry, she would let him know.
NOT BEFORE TIME
Vida Bailey
It’s been a long time coming, but I’m finally on my knees for him. My arms are bound behind my back, the soft black rope holds my chest tight. I can feel my breasts presented to him by the harness, thighs apart and taut, messaging excitement to my spread cunt. My urge to be filled is vampiric in its intensity. Where is he?
I smell him draw near. His bare footfalls are soft on the padded floor. His heat is in my face, nearly close enough to touch. Seeking, I reach toward him. I hear the rip of his zipper and the whisper of his cock being taken out. For a second the silky head of it brushes my lips and I whimper as it’s withdrawn. He does it again and I strain forward, chasing it with little thought to dignity. I want. Blinded and in pursuit of cock, I’m shameless. My tongue tags it, once, twice, then it seems I’ve won because he pushes it home, its blunt head opening my mouth wide. My cunt clenches as I take his length into my mouth, the clean salt tang of him snapping my taste buds, the feel of him familiar hard silk against my tongue.
This time it’s different. His hands in my hair aren’t rough, exactly, at least not yet, but they’re insistent and they brook no hesitation or dissent. This time, I can’t move. He claims my mouth, his cock thrusting forward into my throat. My cunt pulses in powerful response but it’s too much and I’m slightly horrified at the retching sound that comes from me, at the roll and throw of my stomach as my gag reflex jumps in.
He pulls back and gives me a moment, stroking the hair off my blindfolded face. I breathe, and find my voice. “Damn, Taig. I thought you’d be better at throat-fucking me without making me gag. You know, with all the practice you’ve had.”
He steps back in surprise, startled into a laugh.
“You cheeky slut!”
The slap smacks against my cheek out of nowhere; blind, I get no warning. But it’s not so hard. In fact, when he holds the back of my head with renewed resolve and opens my mouth with the thumb of his other hand to slide his cock back in, the smart of it beats along with the blood in my sex and in my tied arms. An ache runs through me and I open my throat to him. I’m harnessed and filled and I swallow him down uncomplainingly. I don’t mind the saliva that runs from my forced-apart lips, the noises that come from me, the spit-slick slide of his cock that seems amplified along with my gasps for breath. I don’t mind the phlegmy strings of mucous and precome that his thrusts pull out of my throat. He pushes all the way in and holds my face against him and suddenly, my world shrinks to my roped breasts and the way they press against his legs, the dull pain in my crossed arms and the pulse in my clit, the pounding in my womb. I struggle for breath and my head spins, and deep inside I contract in a way I never have before. The breath control, the bondage, his hands on my head—it’s all come together in the most unexpected climax.
I writhe against him and he pulls back, worried I’m panicking. Maybe I’m panicking, but it feels like I’ve moved to a place beyond that. I don’t want him to stop but I crumple to the ground, all will gone. I want to sleep. My body feels as heavy as lead and I have no thoughts at all. It’s bliss.
Taig squats over me, something like awe on his face.
“I thought you were choking, at first.” I shake my head. “But you weren’t. You were coming. All tied up, with your throat full of my cock.”
“That was my first time blowing anyone dominant,” I say, marveling from within my daze.
He sinks to his knees beside me, gingerly pulling me onto his lap. He traces around my breast, from knot to nipple, with delicate fingertips. “You did good, babygirl. I should untie you now. But I’m not going to. I want to keep you like this forever.”
I snuggled into him, washed with a dizzy wave of peace.
JUST ANOTHER SCOLD’S BRIDLE STORY
Tilly Hunter
Let’s get the clichés over with first. Yes, I work in one of those “dungeon” museums full of horrible medieval torture devices and information boards with scenes from the Spanish Inquisition. Yes, we have a little tongue-in-cheek initiation ritual for new staff that involves the pillory. Yes, I’m ordering a custom-made scold’s bridle because my mind and sexuality go to strange and dark places.
Phew. Glad that’s done. I’ll get on with the story in a mo, but I should explode a few assumptions first. I’m not a guide at the museum; I’ve never made special use of the exhibits after hours; I found the initiation rite funny but not terribly arousing. I’m in the finance office. Borrrrring. I know. But that’s how come I’ve chatted a couple of times to the blacksmith who makes some of our props out in a semi-medieval village in rural Sussex. Nice chap. He fits in our commissions between making wrought-iron gates, reenactment-society armor and bespoke BDSM gear. Which brings me back to the point.
And the point is Tony. My lovely, loving, squeezable husband Tony and his love of imaginative restraints.
I’m on the phone to the blacksmith, Mike. “I need to order one of those scold’s bridle things, but it needs to fit someone properly, for, like, a kind of demonstration.”
“I see. The ones I’ve made for the museum are based on actual historical pieces, but when I’ve had people order them for, er, personal use, we’ve found they’re not terribly effective. They only really work if they’re tailored for the, um, user.”
“Hmm. Well, I could bring out our, er, willing volunteer to see you. It would need to be at the weekend though. It’s not actually for the museum. One of those personal things, as you say.”
“Oh, I understand. I could meet you at the forge on Saturday morning.”
So off we go, Tony and I, sat-navving our way into the back of beyond one sunny Saturday morning when the hedgerows are frothing with cow parsley and the sparrows are chirruping monotonously, just like they probably did back in the thirteenth century.
You might guess the little misunderstanding that’s coming up.
“Have a seat and I’ll measure you up,” he says, thoroughly non-nonplussed by the presence of sexual deviants in his smithy. But he assumes it’s for me.
“No,” I say, “it’s for him. This is Tony, my husband. Sit down, Tony.”
Mike doesn’t so much as raise an eyebrow. Tony, on the other hand, is obviously feeling the heat from the roaring furnace. His face is flushed and his forehead damp with sweat. He sits in silence as Mike jots down measurements.
“Could you extend it so there’s a collar part too, attached to the headpiece?”
“Sure.” He makes the required measurements of Tony’s neck while Tony’s toes fidget on the dusty dirt floor and the bulge in his jeans cries out for attention. “How do you want it to work? The original version had spikes on the tongue-depressor part. I’ve made ones with slightly blunted spikes before. Do you want that? Otherwise they can almost always get their tongue out from under it. Unless you make it really long, then it makes them gag and they can’t swallow.”
We opt for spikes. We go back for the finished product two Saturdays later. This time it’s a damp, drizzly day and the yard outside the forge is puddled and muddy.
Mike holds up the bridle for us to inspect. I can’t help noticing several sets of shackles hanging on hooks behind him.
“Looking good,” I say. Tony says nothing. He’s been saying a lot for the past fortnight about how much he’s looking forward to trying it on to the point where I thought he was actually trying to provoke me into wanting to shut him up for real. But now he’s in the grip of his yin-yang, love-hate of humiliation and there’s a lump in his throat stopping him talking.
“We’d better try it,” I say.
“I think that would be best,” Mike says. And I wonder about him. How do you come to be a twenty-first-century blacksmith making bespoke BDSM gear?
Tony sits and I let Mike fit the bridle, pushing the spiked steel plate into his mouth. Mike is careful to keep Tony’s hair from getting caught in the hinges as he closes it and slips a bar of metal over the fastening pin. “You put a padlock on here,” he shows me, “and there’s space to fit a leash here.”
“Can you move your tongue or talk?” I ask Tony.
Garbled noises in his throat and a shake of his head. His hands are clutching the sides of the chair as if he’d very much like them to be tied there.
“And the spikes, they’re not too sharp?”
A firm shake of the head.
The metal cage comes down in four strips from the top of his head, the front one dividing around his nose to the mouthpiece before joining again beneath his chin. The separate strip under his chin is a nice touch to keep his mouth closed. The four bars then curve in around the contours of his head to the wide collar. Perfect. I can’t wait to get him home. In fact, I’m going to act like a toddler in a shoe shop. “I think we’ll leave it on if that’s okay.”
Mike nods. I pay him and smile as he tells me to come back if there’s anything else I need. What I need right now is to get my husband home.
“Heel,” I say to him. I’m mixing my kinky metaphors, but I can see Mike is impressed as Tony, after just one wide-eyed moment of panic, drops to his hands and knees and crawls to the car behind me through the mud.
WIGGLE ROOM
Rachel Kramer Bussel
That good, honey?” Ned asked, his gaze studying me in all my trussed-up glory. One of the things I love best about my husband is how seriously he takes our bondage play. He’s a kinky nerd—the best kind, because he doesn’t just like to do things, in bed or out, but to understand why he’s doing them. When we got together five years ago, he was a virgin when it came to bondage, discipline, spanking or any kind of power play. “I don’t see myself as that macho kind of guy, Yvette,” he confessed mournfully to me one night. We’ve come so far since then.
I’ve shown him he doesn’t have to be what he considers macho to have me at his mercy. I’ve been there since he took me to a hidden restaurant and fed me all sorts of mouth-melting delights, then went down on me until I came so many times I was giddy by the end. Besides, I’m not into punishment play. He may swat me in the kitchen and tease me for being a “bad girl” because I’ve burned something yet again, but when he ties me up it’s all about getting off.
So instead of being bratty, I simply beamed at him. “Perfect,” I replied, which meant that I had plenty of room to wiggle against the pretty purple ropes he’d gotten me for our one-year anniversary. Not only is purple my favorite color, but he’d washed them to make them extra soft and even added little pompoms to the ends so they tickled when they brushed against me.
“Then you’re right where I want you,” he said. He was a quick study, not needing long to realize that if I was tied up, his tongue could have its way with my pussy until he was covered with my juices. Meanwhile, I could thrash and writhe and feel the sweet tug of the ropes against my wrists and ankles.
“Wait—there’s one more thing.” I flexed my thighs, straining as I wondered what he had in mind. “I’ve been reading up on something new.” And with that, he proceeded to take a string of red rope and maneuver it around my breasts. I’m a sucker for the feel of rope digging into my skin, but I’m even more of a sucker for a man who takes initiative. The fact that he had come up with the addition of breast bondage made me wet, something he could easily see if he glanced between my wide-open legs. Unfortunately, I couldn’t wiggle my way to making sure he felt my wetness; the best I could do was a few upward bucks of my hips, which were met by firm kisses and the instruction to stay still.
“I’ll take care of you when I’m ready, don’t worry.” Soon he was done, and my breasts bulged obscenely against the red ropes. “If I wasn’t so eager to play with you, I’d add another one right here,” he said, edging one finger along my slit. I stayed as still as I could, lest my eagerness make him focus elsewhere. Instead, I pulled upward against the ropes at my wrists.
I couldn’t help a whimper, followed by fast, shallow breaths as I strained against them. My knees kept trying to spread themselves open, but they couldn’t go far. Ned traced his fingertips along my wrists and down my inner arms, just enough to lightly tickle me. “Where should I touch you first, my bondage queen?”
“You pick,” I said. There were too many parts of me aching for him for me to give an accurate response.
“These look good to me,” he said, tugging on one nipple, followed by the other. At first I watched, panting as he twisted both nipples at once, before flicking each one hard with the tips of his middle fingers. When he mashed my now-hard nubs between his fingers, flattening them and causing a current of energy to run deep into my core, I shut my eyes.
