Best Gay Bondage Erotica, page 10
I started to pull back—instinct—something deeper than I understood. At the movement the snake raised its head, sudden and strong, sent its black tongue into the air. Lulled and seduced by its slow crawl, I hadn’t expected it could move so fast.
“They are skittish,” he said. “Easily agitated. Prone to bite, not flight. No poison, but teeth all the same.”
The snake opened its mouth. I couldn’t see teeth, but I believed they were there. I knew that I was shivering, couldn’t seem to control the way my body trembled.
“Be still,” he said. I’d heard so many ways to say that; so many commands to stop moving, to bow, and yet not one had the power of his simple words.
I tried to obey. I stilled my body so all I could feel was the thump of my pulse in my wrists and neck and thighs. After a minute, he let the snake slide entirely from his wrist, wrap itself around mine. The snake settled in, tightened against the warm pulse of my blood. Its small tail slipped between my fingers, wagged like a cat’s against my skin. I tasted fear or desire in the roof of my mouth. I couldn’t tell the difference.
Nagari let go of my arm and moved away, among the cages and baskets. He came back with a second snake, larger than the first. It wound its way across my other arm, not content to stay at my wrist, instead sliding to my elbow, coiling in the crook. They weren’t heavy, but I felt the weight of their power and speed and the weight of Nagari’s green-gold eyes in the candlelight.
He moved around me, silent as the snakes themselves, taking them from their cages and unleashing them at ankle and knee. They honed in to my pulse points like dogs to the kill. Whether it was the warmth or the movement they were seeking, I didn’t know. I only knew to stand still, to give myself over to the cool weight of them.
One found its home along the crook of my shoulders, at the base of my neck. It didn’t constrict, although I feared it would, just wound itself around, tight and black as a leather collar. I had to raise my head from bowing to breathe. With every exhalation, I felt the pulse of my fear, my desire, beat its way out.
Nagari stood before me, holding a small black snake by the tail. Smaller than that one I’d seen on the trail earlier, it writhed and swarmed. I was afraid of its tiny black tongue, the way its head moved back and forth, the blind seeking. He held out his other hand, a pinkie, and the snake slithered up and wrapped itself around. A ring of ebony and tongue.
Nagari knelt before me without giving the impression that he was kneeling. He did it by keeping his eyes locked to me, by keeping his power over me.
“And here,” he said.
Surprised, I let go of his stare to look down, at my cock uncoiling from its sheath, lifting its head to meet his hand.
My hands at my sides, wrapped in slow-writhing black, bound by ankle and knee and neck, I watched my cock crawl from its small basket and come to life. I had forgotten what it looked like, rosy-pink head ready to strike, the body shifting, lengthening forward into the air.
“Now,” he said. “You are ready.”
He unlooped the black ring from his finger like removing a curl, and rewrapped it at the base of my cock. A small, soft tightening like a rope pulled closed, and my cock jerked twice, rose higher toward my belly.
“Oh,” I said, and the snake at my neck shifted its head behind my ear.
Each time the snake around my cock settled, I hardened, and the snake settled again.
Nagari rose. He, too, was harder than when I’d come in. Devoid of any snakes other than his tattoos, he looked meaner and stronger. He leaned forward without touching me and licked the edges of my lips. I exhaled my pulse again, and he probed into that new space. What he tasted of, I couldn’t say. Nothing I knew to put a name to. Exotic fruits or insects plucked from trees, the dirt and candlewick of the air, the salt and sweet of his tongue. He sucked my tongue into his mouth, eating my voice.
When he stepped back, I tried to follow. The snakes held me there with a raised head, the slip of a tail along the curve of my balls. Everything drew up tight. Still. I bowed my head as much as I could without losing my breath. I waited for the man that I knew would save me.
Finally, he touched me, my shoulder, my hip, the dark curls below my belly, his body slipped and rolled. Undulation. The snakes seemed to follow his motion, to move without moving. If I so much as leaned forward, the black body rings I wore tightened, loosened, scale-slipped along to a new place.
When he put the wet tips of his fingers to my cock, my eyes unfocused in the half-life, spelled shapes and shadows into things that weren’t there. I rose for him. I let him trail around me, loop me with his fingers, sidewind his way up and down me until I worried that my knees would buckle, that I would fall into the dirt, snake-wrapped and writhing. His hand tightened, the snake at the base did the same, until I was surrounded by white and dark skins. Until I couldn’t see anything except the rosy head of my cock, slick and shining in the candlelight.
He let me go, let my cock bob up to my belly in its wanting. From behind me, he put his lips to my ear. I could hear his breath, and the glide of the snake’s head through my hair.
Something flickered at the crack of my ass. Snake tongue? Man tongue? I moaned, low in my throat.
“Still now,” he said.
He bent me slow, from the waist, one vertebra at a time. The snakes stayed coiled, silent. His fingers spread my asscheeks, searching for entry to that hot, wet place inside me. I could only think of snakes entering burrows, even as he slid his finger all the way in and wiggled it inside me. Everything outside stopped as he began to work me with his fingers. The snakes slept against my skin, the candle flames sat straight and tall. Only my pulses moved, quick as mice, scampering their way to neck and wrist and cock.
He fingers left me and I knew what was coming. I wanted it, but I wasn’t ready. I didn’t think I was ready, so focused on cock and snakes and his lips against my ear.
“Wait,” I said.
He didn’t.
The first push and I hissed, leaned my tongue out and tasted my own lips.
The second push, I opened for him as though he’d unhinged me.
The third push, I sucked him in whole.
He put his hand on my cock and a long strip of pleasure started in my back and brain, worked its way down and up and sideways. He fucked me without moving me, without letting me move. Only my cock jumped inside his fist, precum shining on its dark head. What it felt like, I couldn’t say, something I hadn’t felt in too long. Letting go and holding on and intoxicated blood beating hard, flooding my body.
My fists clenched and the snakes at my wrists shimmied awake, raised their heads. My cock twitched, and Nagari’s hand and snake constricted, milking the venom from me, sending the hot white spray into the dirt. As I came, my voice entered the room and the snake at my neck sank his teeth into the flesh of my ear.
Nagari pulled out of me and came seconds later, spraying the back of my heels. The snakes there twitched and pulled.
He unwrapped each snake as carefully as he’d bound me with them, slid each one back into its basket or cage. My ear and ass throbbed. My cock was still spitting out off-white droplets into the dirt. The smell came to me again, earthy and primal, but stronger now, muskier, and I recognized it for the sex-scent that it was.
When I was naked of the snakes, and Nagari wore his again, he handed me the pile of clothes I’d shed earlier. I took them, but they didn’t feel like they belonged to me anymore. If I unfolded them, I knew I’d find a layer of my own skin there as well, opaque and empty of life.
Nagari pulled his robe on and sat back in his chair, his eyes once again on the snake at his wrist. I took my wallet from the pocket and put all the cash I had on top of one of the snake baskets. He didn’t look up.
I stepped out of the shack and was surprised to find it was still daylight. My eyes watered against the bright of the sun. I put one hand over my eyes and laid my clothes next to the path. Then I moved forward in my new skin.
A GIFT TO THE RISING DOG STAR
David Holly
Day 57
Fifty-six nights had passed since my captors carried me to the house of Millo. His dwelling was a reddish edifice of two stories with walls of sun-baked mud, an emblem of its owner’s accomplishment in trade. Consigned to the slaves’ quarters, I wore a simple tunic and ate the coarse food. Only the slave Athaliah would talk to me. During the afternoon of my fifty-seventh day, she found me where I squatted against a smooth wall that was still cool in spite of the growing heat.
“Kareah,” she said slyly, her derisive scorn ever present. “Your fate has been decided. Millo has consulted Ephraim, Sorcerer of the Chaldeans, who advised giving you to the Enaeriae.”
“What are the Enaeriae?” I asked. I was not of this place, for Millo’s marauders had stolen me from my home in a land far to the west. Thus far, my bondage had not been onerous, nor had any demands been made of me. Still, I was the proverbial stranger in a strange land and not master of my own soul.
Athaliah snickered at my ignorance. “The Enaeriae are the dog worshippers of the Owl Goddess Lilith, the Great Whore of the Hebrews. In their rituals, the Enaeriae priests take the place of the goddess when they assume the position of the ass or the dog.”
“Those are all animals,” I muttered, not comprehending.
Athaliah mocked me again. “You will soon appreciate my meaning, Kareah. I trust that the priestly ritual will gratify you—though neither our master nor the Enaeriae will trouble about your pleasures—or your pains.”
Day 73
Nothing happened for many days after Athaliah told me that Millo had offered me to the priests, and I began to suppose that she had been false or misguided. However, on the seventy-third day of my captivity, two strangers arrived at the gate. Soon Athaliah summoned me to the courtyard. My master Millo was bowing obsequiously to two men seated beneath the frond shelter. Arrayed in many-colored raiment fringed with bells, their faces painted like owls, the men were swilling Millo’s luxurious yellow wine and picking at bowls of dates, nuts, and honey cakes.
“Here is Kareah,” Millo said. “Is this merchandise not as well-rounded as I promised?”
The two strangers were examining me as though I were the scape-ram selected for sacrifice to Azazel. “Let him be stripped of his tunic,” one of the strange men spoke.
Millo directed two slaves to undress me. As I stood bare beneath the burning sun, I saw my only garment carried into the house, doubtless to cover the nakedness of Millo’s next captive.
“Turn him,” the second stranger demanded, and the slaves slowly revolved me for the men’s inspection. After I had been turned twice, the strangers demanded, “Bend him.” The slaves bent me, quite low, with my rear toward the strangers, and held me long in that humiliating pose. At last, the strangers acknowledged that the temple would be pleased to accept Millo’s gift.
“Let the bequest be bound,” the strangers decreed, and several slaves brought forth long hide strips that had been soaking in water for a week.
“No,” I gasped, for I knew how the leather would bite as it dried and tightened.
The slaves laughed at my protests as they drew my arms behind me and fixed my wrists. Other thongs were tied around my chest, strung down to my crotch so they pulled my rod and stones close, and threaded between my buttocks. This latter binding gave me pain, and I complained bitterly, but the slaves only chortled as they bound my legs. Athaliah was one of those, and she whispered as she tied me. “Your manhood will no longer be of use to you, Kareah. Lilith will use you—in the guise of her priesthood—in the manner she sees fit.” Athaliah winked as she added, “Your orifices shall substitute for the Great Whore’s slit.”
With that perplexing prediction reverberating through my thoughts, Athaliah slipped a sack over my head so that I could not see, nor even scarcely breathe, and the slaves tossed me helpless into the strangers’ cart.
Day 91
As I squatted in pitch-black confinement, miserable with dread and despair, Azgad came for the final time and assured me that the night of my resurrection had arrived. I had been nine days like unto one dead, and having died to the world I knew, I could be reborn as Lilith’s surrogate.
For two days after being carried from the house of Millo, I rode in the back of a cart, bound and naked, hungering, burned by the sun, half-suffocated, afraid the ever-tightening bonds would stop my breath or blood. I heard the drivers talking about the Great Ziggurat that rose to Uranus and descended into Tartarus, though I could not then see the temple.
Unable to walk after my ordeal, I was carried behind walls of cyclopean stones. There, under the watchful eye of the acolyte whom I came to know as Azgad, young men washed me of my filth and gave me small bites of food. When I had eaten, they locked a leather collar around my neck, not so tight to strangle but not so loose to slip off. A leash fastened to the collar, so the young men could lead me like an ass or a dog. These young men concealed their genitals with leather breechcloths that threaded between their clefts and tied around their waists, but they kept me bare as the day I was born. Still, they calmed me, cleaned me, fed me, massaged me, and exercised me. Before many days passed, I regained the use of my muscles, and indeed, developed new ones where no bulge had existed earlier.
One day after an intense session of lifts designed to swell my buttocks, Azgad told me that my new birth would occur in nine nights. Until that time, I must reside in the house of Cerberus. Azgad hauled me, still unclothed, down a curving stair into the bowels of Tartarus. Deep down, we reached a cell, about six cubits around and four cubits high. A round hole in the floor gave to a foul cesspit. After Azgad had secured the end of my lead to a bronze hook sunk into the stone, he abandoned me to the terrifying darkness.
Lacking fire or knife, I lay curled in the unfeeling dark. Twice a day Azgad came, and I welcomed his arrival no matter what delights or horrors he brought. With a bladder attached to a hose, he flooded my bowels with scented oils and bid me release into the cesshole. Twice a day, I received three bags full of the warm olive oil. Then cleaned inside, I lay while Azgad washed me from head to toe. At the last, he fed me and gave me sweet water to drink. Once his tasks were completed, he abandoned me to the demon-haunted darkness until his next visit.
On his eighteenth visit, Azgad performed his customary ritual. However, after I had emptied my bowels and refreshed myself with food, he took a knife of bronze and sliced the lead at the iron ring. “Come, Kareah. Be born into the life of the Enaeriae,” said he, and he hauled me up the steep curving stairs.
After my close confinement, the hall into which Azgad brought me was impossibly large. Crouched in shadow stood four altars, facing the directions of the wind, the mountains, the sea, and the fires. Torches and incense burned on the altars, and behind them stood four man-sized statues. One statue was ass headed, one dog headed, one owl headed, and the fourth was like unto no creature I knew. However, most remarkable about the statues were their immense jutting members, swollen for penetration into some orifice.
A fifth altar stood in the center of the hall, and to this Azgad led me and secured my lead. His tasks complete, Azgad slipped into the lowering shadows from whence came the sibilance of breath. A form then approached me. He bore the body of a man, virile, erect, and naked save for a harness of leather, but he had the head of an owl. I struggled to unfasten the lead, but hope of escape was futile. My heart raced until I comprehended that he was only a man wearing a mask. He wordlessly displayed a second mask designed to fit over a man’s head. When he set the mask he was carrying upon the altar, I saw that it was the visage of a dog. The mask did not have holes for eyes, rendering its wearer blind, but it did have a round hole at the mouth. The significance of that opening did not occur to me then.
The priest then held a tall clay vessel filled with dark wine to my lips. Some grain was mixed into the wine, which thickened the drink, and it had a musky odor, but I drank it down. My mother had stirred poppy juice into wine to help me sleep, but the priest’s wine tasted quite different from my mother’s mixture.
When I had drunk fully, the priest took the dog mask and slipped it over my head. The mask felt very strange, and vibrant colors swirled before my eyes. I tried to lift the mask, which was making my skin crawl, but huge hands seized my shoulders and pulled me forward until I was sprawled across the altar. My wrists were quickly secured to two iron posts affixed for that purpose. Beyond all reasoning, I felt my rod hardening, and I was sorry that my hands were tied. I would surely have reached for it, rubbed it, fondled it, and pounded it until I spilled my seed—no matter how many priests might be watching. I felt a sexual heat coursing through my entire form, and thoughts such as I had never entertained before beat upon my mind.
“The first phase of your new birth begins,” intoned a voice. “It is written that you, Kareah, shall serve the lusts of men in the stead of the Goddess. You will now taste the seed of the acolyte.”
I had the sense of a man approaching me, standing near to my masked head. I could feel the heat of his loins. Then something large and smooth pushed through the mouth hole of my mask and brushed my lips. All unbidden, I opened my mouth to taste it, and it pushed in, gliding along my tongue until it reached the back of my throat. Perhaps the drink had stolen my reflex to gag, for the object seemed quite natural there, though naught else felt ordinary in my body or in my mind. My flesh was aflame with dry lust, and my mind was whirling with spiraling owls and running dogs and braying asses.
The object in my mouth pulled back to my lips, though I lapped it with my tongue on its way. When I caressed it with my lips, it slid forward again. A thin fluid was leaking from it, a tart but pleasant taste. I sucked harder, trying to extract more tasty fluid.
