Bondage Bites, page 2
He tells her to strip and doesn’t even watch. What she’s wearing isn’t relevant; he’s interested in what’s underneath. And not just her body, he’s looking much deeper than that. Sometimes Grace thinks he can see right through her. It’s uncanny.
He seems to know that by having her strip she’s laid bare, her armor of confidence removed. Grace is instantly vulnerable: to his gaze, to his touch, to his tools and toys and most significantly to his mind and intellect.
It’s not his physical strength that holds her, though he is by far the stronger person. Nor the security of her cuffs or bindings, though they are tight. What holds her still is far more subtle and powerful; she is held by the force of her desire to please him.
The order to strip is the first command of the scene, but it won’t be the last. It sets the tone; she is to obey. And she does obey, with an almost frantic eagerness. With every action Grace strives to show just how good she can be for him.
The frenetic energy is all contained within her; outside is calm and quiet while inside thoughts tumble through her mind. Her body screams and thrills at each new sensation, but outside all is silence.
Until it isn’t.
Are those sounds coming from her? The gasps, moans and shrieks? The begging voice Grace hardly recognizes as her own?
There’s his voice too, calming and centering.
Can she last a little longer?
Can she take a little more?
Can she?
Yes.
Yes.
Yes.
DOLLFACE
Tamsin Flowers
When he had secured the last knot to his satisfaction, Toby stepped back to look at his handiwork. Dollface was lying naked, facedown, on the dining table, her wrists and ankles tied securely to the four table legs at the corners with a soft black rope he’d bought specially for the purpose. It was a big table and her legs were spread wide, allowing Toby to enjoy the view: the black rope against her lily-white skin, the soft pink rose of her vagina, blossoming in the heat.
“You’re beautiful, Dollface,” Toby said.
Dollface didn’t answer, probably because Toby had applied a ball gag to her mouth before he started to tie her up.
None of it was particularly necessary—the ball gag, the ropes. Dollface was a passive creature. She rarely said much and that was one of the reasons why Toby liked her so much. Adored her, in fact. A quiet girl who loved to be restrained as much as he loved to restrain her. They were so well suited.
Toby stroked her back as he walked around the table. Her skin was cool to the touch. Smooth and flawless. It made his cock buck. Time he got out of his pants. He ruffled her hair, so long and soft, like spun gold, and then undid his fly. His pants slid to the floor. He like to get undressed in front of her, where she could see him if she dared look up. But she didn’t. Her pleasure was tied to restraint and self-restraint.
Naked now, Toby took a breath and savored the moment. His beautiful girl, waiting silently and throbbing with need. He knew what she wanted. She wanted him to take her, first in her soft pink pussy and then in her tight little ass. She was greedy and she wanted a double dose of fun. But Toby was the man to give it to her. He stroked his cock fondly, his hand appreciating its hardness, his cock responding to the caress with a rush of heat and a dribble of precome.
There was a tube of lube in the top drawer of the dresser; he was always prepared and he wanted to be able to slip in easy without hurting her. He went around to the foot of the table and climbed up on his knees on the small triangle of dark wood between her splayed legs. He lubed his fingers and swept them down into the dark crevice between her legs, eliciting a squeak from Dollface and a low groan from himself. He leaned forward and swept her hair to one side so he could nuzzle her shoulder and the side of her neck. Her body was soft beneath his, the rise of her buttocks like billowing clouds on the flat plain of the table.
It was time. Supporting himself on his knees and one hand, Toby used his other hand to guide himself into the slick embrace of Dollface’s wet pussy. He was enveloped by her and it felt so good. He slipped in and out, pressing down hard against her ass, grinding his hips into her as he plunged deeper. He reached around to squeeze her breast, perfectly round in his hand with a hard nub of nipple.
He twisted it and her body bucked. He rode her harder, grunting with the exertion. He was sweating now, skidding across her back as a slippery sheen built between them. With each push down against her ass, her pussy tightened round him, clenching, holding him and adoring him. He slid a finger down between them to prepare her for his second ingress, spreading her buttocks and stroking lube across the small, sweet pucker. He wanted to come in her ass, fill it with his come, ram hard into her until she had to bite down on the gag and strain against the ropes.
He worked it with his finger till he felt she was ready to take him, then he pushed up against it. It was tight but he knew, with a bit of work, he would fit. And then the heavenly squeeze, the painful grip of her ring of muscles as he thrust in and out. Just feeling the knotty entrance with the tip of his cock was almost enough to make him come, but he wasn’t going to let his girl down. He clenched his jaw and fought the sensations as he slowly applied enough pressure to gain entrance. Dollface didn’t relax; if anything she clenched even tighter around him and as he thrust in and out he was on that glorious cusp between pain and pleasure, the best feeling in the world, and he knew that she would be feeling it too.
He grappled for her nipple and pulled on it hard as Dollface strained against the ropes at her wrists.
POP!
With a rush of air she deflated and Toby’s thrusting dick crashed into the unyielding surface of the table underneath.
“Goddammit!”
It was the third Lovedream DeLuxe Doll he’d burst this week.
CHALK
Kathryn O’ Halloran
Put your hands here and here,” he says.
I move as he tells me, placing my hands on the iron bed frame. Then I wait. I wait for him to tie me, with ropes or leather or even silk cords. He knows what I want and why I come here.
But instead he gets out a stick of chalk. Chalk? What the fuck? I want to raise my head and ask him but I know better than that.
He rubs the chalk on black iron, a mark each side of my hands and I wonder what this game is.
“Don’t move,” he says. “If you move your hands, you’ll smudge the chalk and I’ll know. I’ll see the smudges and I’ll know.”
“But…”
“Silence.”
I want to weep. A girl needs something more than chalk.
At first I can hear the birds outside and I can feel the springs in the mattress beneath my knees and the strain in my back. Then my mind plays tricks on me. Did he leave the room or did he stay? I thought I heard him leave but maybe that was last time?
I think I can feel the heat of him hovering very close to my skin at times. I think I can hear the slow creak of a floorboard in the way that someone who is trying not to make a noise would make it creak.
I could raise my head and look around but if I do, I might move my hands without realizing. I might smudge the chalk.
My breathing slows down as I sink down lower into myself. This is how he gets me. How he makes me condense. All feeling, all thought, all distractions are gone.
Then I think of only one thing. If I move my little finger. Not even move it, just raise it up from the post a little; I could do that. He would never know. Even if he is in the room watching, he won’t know. All I need to do is raise it and put it down in exactly the same spot.
I think about raising it. I think about the motion. I wonder if my hands have gone white from holding on so long and gripping so tight.
Then I think I feel him again. A ghost of a touch. I shiver. I know he is there, sitting in the chair in the corner quietly watching. And I am here bent over on the bed with my head down and my back slightly bowed and my hands gripping the posts and not moving. Not a muscle. Not a flinch.
But he is not here. I heard him leave. I thought I heard him leave.
I will move my finger, I decide. I will it but my finger doesn’t move. My finger obeys when my mind does not and I wonder if I will ever be able to move again.
Then I hear footsteps and the door opening. He returns to the room even though he’s always been here and he takes my left hand from the post and he turns it palm up. Then he does the same with my right. The chalk is unsmudged.
UP/DOWN
Vida Bailey
He knows. He knows the words to whisper to lock my hands in place. He knows how to make me freeze and ready myself for the ties. He knows how to bind me so safely and tightly that I can’t move at all, how to bend me completely to his whim. And he knows how to take every little bit of choice away, so for once I’ll stop thinking, stop analyzing, stop worrying. He knows how to push me so I can fall without fear, openheartedly, so I can come freely in his tightly locked chains.
I know, sweetheart, when you want to you can take it all away. You can bind me tighter and tighter into a space that expands, twist me up into nothing while my fear finds wings. All in the moment, all heartbeat and pulled shoulders, stretched neck. Your hand pulling my hair into a thousand tiny points of pain, mouth stuffed with you, breath gasping, panicking around you. Your hand at my throat and your kiss. You kiss safety. Firm lips pressed to me, I am anchored. Anchored I follow the line back to where you are. I follow the line home.
TAKEN FOR A RIDE
Tilly Hunter
The trunk of the car. You know it’s stupid. You guess it’s illegal. And your car is tiny. I mean, it even fits in the garage at your new house. It’s the first garage you’ve owned, but even you know that garages are for storing bicycles and ladders. No one actually parks in them.
But there’s the thing. Your tiny car fits in your garage. You can open that tiny trunk in private. Put things in it. In private. Stare at the dimensions. In private. Empty out assorted picnic blankets and wet-weather gear and snow shovels and hiking boots and rest your ass on the plastic rim next to the catch. In private. Lean back nonchalantly, hands going inside onto the scratchy gray carpet, until you can drop your ass inside. In private. And then, well, you’re almost all the way. Might as well just see. Swing those legs round, lower your upper body and you’re in. You’re lying in the trunk of your city runaround staring out at the metal shutter of the garage door and imagining what it would be like to have someone else put you there. All in private—until your husband appears, having padded round silently from the side door into the utility room.
You blame it on movies. It doesn’t matter if they’ve involved men or women. What matters is that the actor-slash-kidnap victim has her hands tied behind her back. At least. Ankles are optional. Other rope configurations—optional. Tape across the mouth is theatrical but not very practical. A blindfold or hood. That could work. But maybe the point is to realize how dark it is in there when the lid slams down. To blink up in dazzled fear when you hear the click of it opening again and see that first sliver of light as you squirm against your restraints to wedge your body into the farthest corner away from your captors.
“Honey, you seem to be in the trunk.” He’s not particularly surprised. Which would be odd, in some other relationship. Some vanilla, missionary position on a Friday night relationship. But, thank fuck, you don’t have one of those, despite becoming a respectable garage owner.
“Yes, dear, I do. I just thought I’d try it out now that we have the garage. You know.”
He knows. He doesn’t even give you time for second thoughts, doesn’t try to talk sense into you. Instead, he grabs a length of rope—what was it even doing in the garage?—and asks you to turn over so he can bind your wrists behind you. And that’s it, you’re lost, all sense gone. All senses alive. The chemical scent of cheap upholstery, the scratch of it on your cheek and bare forearms, the taste of rubber and oil in the air as your mouth falls open and your tongue flicks over your lower lip, wishing for a shoulder to lick, an earlobe, the tip of a penis.
“Are you my poor little kidnap victim?” he whispers in your ear, hot breath making your hairs stand up. “Where will I take you? What will I do to you? Will you ever escape?”
You look up at him; your mouth’s open but the link between brain and vocal chords has been severed. You breathe that acrid scent of car while he binds your ankles. Where is he getting all this rope from? You keep rope in the bedroom, not the garage.
And then he does it. Slams the lid. And it is dark. If you crane your head round to where the parcel shelf meets the backseat, there’s a chink of light at the corners but that’s it. Your cunt’s starting to throb and you’re wondering how long he’ll give it before he lets you out and fucks you. Then you hear a rumbling. The garage door going up. The next thing you feel more than hear. Vibrations all along the lower side of your body as the engine fires up and starts pumping waste gases through the pipes beneath you. Newtonian forces fight gravity, rolling your skin and bones against that thin carpet as the car moves backward, swings round and accelerates away. It’s at that moment that your brain has a reality check.“He’s actually fucking well driven off with you in the trunk,” it says, as if it’s disavowing any part in events.
Corners. Braking. Stops. Starts. Rights. Lefts. Those books where the kidnap victim memorizes a route from the movement of the vehicle even though she can’t see… It’s all bullshit. You’re starting to feel a bit sick when there’s a longer stop that lets your stomach settle, but not your cunt. Despite the dizziness, your cunt has kept throbbing so much that even the thought of the hot exhaust pipe has become phallic.
Movement again. The nausea holds off. You press your cheek into a bit of grit caught in the nylon fibers beneath your face. It’s probably come off the bottom of your hiking boots, some bit of dried-up trail dirt. You’re rubbing against it, savoring the itchy discomfort, when the car comes to a more decisive stop and the engine cuts. A door opens. Shuts. The garage door rumbles. A catch clicks and the lid starts to open. The light dazzles you even though the garage door is closed once more.
“Enjoying yourself?”
You make some kind of guttural sound that you hope conveys the meaning, “Fuck me now.”
“You’ll have to wait,” he says. “I got drive-through.” He waves the brown paper bag in explanation, before slamming the lid down again.
You almost find your voice. But what comes out is not a word; it’s delirious frustration.
SHOWING RESTRAINT
Thomas S. Roche
What about these?” asked Paul. He reached over Jasmine’s shoulder and plucked another pair of padded leather restraints from the rack. They were considerably heavier than the workaday pair Jasmine held in her hands; these had padding of smooth black material with a faux-fur look.
Paul held the new restraints up for Jasmine to inspect. He still towered over her, his big arm reaching over her shoulder. He held the restraints just a little too close to her face—too close for comfort that is. But she didn’t move away.
Instead, she took a deep, deep breath of the new-leather scent. It hit her like a sledgehammer. She swooned. She would have been flattened, just like a character in some cartoon, if Paul’s broad body hadn’t been right there behind her to prop her up, and if his big hand hadn’t been there on her shoulder to steady her.
Paul felt her sway. His fingers, powerful but gentle, closed at that place where her shoulder met her collarbone. As Jasmine took another deep breath, the scent of the leather seemed to suffuse her body. She felt it right down to her core…and beyond, where she felt pretty sure her panties were getting quite wet.
Jasmine never took her sparkling green eyes off the new, heavier restraints in Paul’s hand. She just kept staring and breathing deeply. She fumbled the pair she’d been holding back on the metal rack. Paul’s hand had lightened up slightly on her shoulder and collarbone. The tips of his fingers had started to work, gently tickling her flesh in a peculiarly sensitive spot only he seemed to have ever been able to find. The other guys she’d been with had kissed her there, caressed her there…it had been fine, but not like this. It felt like Paul had some occult knowledge that told him how to find that spot on her neck that simply didn’t exist in three dimensions.
He knew other spots, too, farther back, toward the nape of her neck. He worked his way back there, his fingers light and deft, while Jasmine just stared and breathed.
Paul’s voice was a susurrant growl in Jasmine’s ear.
“Well?” he said.
“I like them,” she said. She breathed deep. “God, they smell great.”
“Take them,” said Paul, as if telling her to go ahead and take a cookie. “Feel the weight.”
Jasmine hesitated.
“Um,” she said. “How much are they?” The price tag dangled from one buckle, a plain white tag on a string, but it spun in the breeze from the air-conditioning vent. She couldn’t tell if that was a five or an eight. And was that a one or a seven?
“Don’t worry about it,” said Paul. “Take them. What do you think of the feel?”
This time, she obeyed his command. Her hands moved as if of their own accord. She took the restraints from Paul’s hand and held them nervously. Just the weight of them sent a ripple through her. They were heavy—twice as heavy, it felt, as the first pair. She ran her fingers over the softness of the black faux-fur padding; the touch of it on her fingertips made her forearms tingle.
Jasmine’s mouth opened slightly and she inhaled at once through mouth and nose; it augmented the bouquet and she swooned again. In fact, she almost thought she was going to faint.
But by then, Paul had her by the hair, good and hard, gripped in his left hand, fingers laced through. He pulled, just a little, and Jasmine’s mouth popped open wider, her mouth a silent O of need.
