Best Gay Bondage Erotica, page 13
“Pin me,” I’d said once, wanting Lance to bear down on my arms with his hot greasy hands while I felt the cold garage floor behind my shoulder blades and tailbone. I wanted to stick my legs in the air while Lance nailed me with merciless precision. I wanted my back to hurt after, bruises, come leaking out my ass for days. Instead, Lance had bent himself over the hood of a car, radio tuned to a rock station, eerie glow coming from the front office where the only light stayed on, and then shown me his sleek muscled ass before he grabbed his cheeks and pulled them apart: hairy asscrack, brown hole, and a heavy set of balls.
“Fuck me,” he’d said.
So I’d moved up behind him and then felt him twitch. He’d placed his hands, palms down, on the hood. “Spank me,” he’d said.
I’d done so halfheartedly and not exactly knowing why. I’d felt like I was in a movie playing a part I hadn’t rehearsed, hadn’t even looked at the lines.
“Baby,” Tia had said when I told her. “You’re the bottom. Come here.” She’d hugged me, patting my head.
“I know.”
That night at the art gallery downtown, Nicolas, the poet, stood at a podium against a nonsensical backdrop, I guess what you’d call abstract. I’d no idea what the hell it was, the painting behind him; squiggles? Some indication of genius that went over my head. I preferred an elbow to my ribs, a direct hit.
Nicolas had thick Irish-red hair and freckles against a canvas of pale skin, a full feminine mouth; he wasn’t on the tall side, and he wore wire-rimmed glasses.
Not my kind of guy, actually.
I drank a martini—vodka, stiff, three olives—and sat next to Tia and listened to Nicolas read. He kept his hands in his pockets. I couldn’t tell at the time he’d balled his hands into fists, that he was wound tightly, a hot wire. A white cotton shirt showed his thin, almost angular, arms. Not my kind of fag at all. His voice was clear but soft, so I had to sit forward to hear him….
You asked me to bind you with whatever I found: towels, scarves, long-sleeved shirts, or a jacket torn to rope around your wrists so you could put up a struggle. You swore the way you’d bend and buck and beg beneath me would bring you bliss. You said, Give me a life worth fighting for by making me fight you. I bound you so tight the blood stopped reaching your hands; they went white. There, love, you said, curling your fingers and then straightening them to show me your palms. Kiss me, you said, so I kissed the center of your left hand and then realized how to get rid of my pain by causing you some. I bit your numb fingers. I bit your nipples, the undersides of your arms, the side of your hip, and you shuddered. I heard you gasp and cry, and so I painted your chest with venomous languid spit all the way to your stomach going straight past your cock to your asshole; I rimmed you like I could transfer a current through my tongue to your synapses. Frankenstein was a benevolent monster.
Listening to all this gave me a killer erection. I mean it was killing me. I shifted a few times in my seat, cleared my throat, felt my eyes water, and stared into my martini. Stiff drink.
Tia said in my ear, “Like him, don’t you, Ash?” Proud of herself.
As soon as Nicolas finished reading, Tia dragged me to where he sat signing books.
“Ash, Nicolas. Nicolas, this is Ashton, my friend.”
“Hi, Ashton. Or do you like Ash?” Nicolas stood behind the table and held out his hand, white with freckles, just like the rest of him. Long fingers.
“Ash is fine.” I shook his hand. Good thing I was wearing loose pants. “You like Nicolas or Nick?”
“Nicolas,” he said.
“Okay.”
“Ash fits you. Sooty eyes.”
“Huh?”
“Sooty. You know…so dark blue they look nearly black, and your lashes, black as coal.”
“Oh, right.” I stared into my drink again, not used to the way this guy talked.
“I meant it as a compliment.” Nicolas had sat again behind his books.
“Yeah? Thanks.” I looked down on him and felt small.
“Going to mingle,” Tia said. “See you.” She kissed my cheek and then vanished.
“I enjoyed…you know, hearing you read.” Jesus, I felt awkward.
“I’ve got a Pinot Gris at my place,” Nicolas said. “Gift from an editor. Want to join me?”
Option one: No way do you go to his place. He’s too smart for you.
Option two: Oh, hell, yes you do.
“Fine,” I said. “If you want.” I shrugged then set down my empty martini glass.
“Cool. I hardly ever meet anyone.”
“Why’s that?”
“Phobic, you know, about social situations.” All of a sudden he blushed.
“You’re afraid to be social?”
“Yeah, weird.”
“I didn’t mean it that way.” Shit.
Nicolas bent his head to sign another book. He gripped the pen hard enough that his knuckles went white, tendons stood out on his hands.
Nicolas owned a thousand books organized in rows on numerous shelves in every room. I looked around his apartment that night after the reading: cramped maybe, but neat. Nicolas asked if I wanted dinner.
“Oh, yeah, sure.”
“Takeout?”
“Okay.”
Nicolas picked up the phone and ordered Thai. When the food arrived, Nicolas had to go around digging for change, so I offered to pay, and he blushed and said, “Thanks.”
He spent time looking at his food as he ate. He chewed with patient precision. He commented on flavors and textures, and then on the sauce I had on my mouth.
“Oh, shit.” We both went for my napkin at the same time.
“Got it,” Nicolas said and then wiped my mouth.
After food and a bottle of wine, we sat on the couch, arms at our sides, hands touching.
Nicolas looked at me. I dug my nails into my leg.
“So, um, you been socially phobic awhile?” Fuck; that was the worst question ever.
“Since I can remember.”
“Why?” Great, another dumb question.
“Weird, I guess.” Nicolas met my eyes. “People make me feel awkward.”
“Really?” I was sure I gave him an incredulous look.
“Yeah, if I have to talk to them. I’m good at people watching though. I like to drink stuff in, notice nuances and body language, and catch innuendo. Know what I mean? I like to record information and then try and give it back as art, you know?”
“Huh,” I said. Not sure what else to say. “Yeah, pretty cool.”
Nicolas smiled. “Art can heal, you know? Writers are a little like medicine men.” He lifted the wine bottle and poured more Pinot Gris in his glass. “We’re also terrible drunks.”
I laughed.
Nicolas finished his wine in one luxurious swoop then set his glass down. “No, seriously. Writers stare into the fucking abyss, Ash. It can drive you a little crazy, making sense from the chaos, art from the pain. It’s like playing God,” he said.
I didn’t know what to say to that either. Oh, god. He tongue-tied me. I felt smaller and smaller, and him above me. Nicolas moved in then and took an unbelievable amount of time touching my hair, gazing into the line of my neck, kissing my ear and then my chin before pushing his lips along my eyebrow, leaving a mark on my eyelid. I cupped my cock through my pants, afraid to touch him, not sure what to do. Nicolas kissed me on my mouth. At first, small and tender kissing, then practically violent. He sucked my tongue. I reached for him. Nicolas pulled away, checked me out, like he was reading my face, gauging the temperature.
“You’ll have to walk yourself home.” He nodded toward a window. “Wet out there.”
I sat a moment looking at him, feeling myself blink. Throbbing. It took me a minute to understand. “Okay.” I stood from his couch, not liking it but feeling it was exactly the right thing, him shoving me out the door.
Nicolas pushed his mouth to my neck before pulling away again. “See you,” he said.
The day after Dad busted me sneaking out he said he was taking Mom to lunch.
“You’re not going,” he announced.
I shrugged, trying to play cool. Whatever.
Mom said, “David, maybe…”
Dad grabbed me by the arm, pulling me down the hall. “Know why you’re not going? Because you run around behind our backs. That’s why. Now go to your room.”
“Fine,” I said.
He shoved me in the general direction.
In my room Dad told me to lie on my bed.
For a second I didn’t say anything, confused. He had something with him, I saw now, rope.
“What are you doing?” I was still confused, getting scared.
“Don’t fucking mouth off,” he said. “Lie on the damn bed like I told you.”
I eased around and then lay back, stiff. Mom stood in the doorway. Dad pulled out a few yards of rope. I looked at Mom, who looked at him. “David?”
“Mom?” I said.
Dad tied me to my bedposts using various tricky knots, or so he said.
“Dad, don’t.”
“Shut up.”
“Mom?” I said again.
She shook her head, eyes darting from me to him.
In the doorway, he blocked Mom, and then Dad said, “You can’t be trusted, that’s why you’ll stay here like this.” Dad grabbed Mom’s elbow. I didn’t even catch her eyes as they left.
I lay in a slice of sunlight that came through the curtains and lit me. I became hot and uncomfortable in my jeans and T-shirt and rubbed my wrists raw yanking the ropes. Pissed my pants. Felt my hands go numb. I started crying. Outside my open window I heard a voice. A shadow came through the curtains like the window had given birth to him. He came toward the bed. My cock went hard. Darry never untied the ropes.
Nicolas called three days later and said we should get together again. I said, “When?”
He said, “Now.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Hurry the fuck up.”
I got there less than an hour later. We had chicken salad and a Chardonnay. Then I asked Nicolas what he wanted to do.
“Ha!” His eyes glowed. “Drink you with my eyes and then spill you onto the page.”
I stared at him.
“What do you call a guy who dates a writer?” He smiled, waiting.
“I don’t know. Tell me.” I walked right into it.
“Material.”
“Whatever the fuck, man.” I was a little angry.
“Joking,” Nicolas said.
“No, you weren’t.”
He smiled.
“What happened to the guy in the poem?” Now I waited for him.
Nicolas shook his head. “I’m no good in relationships.”
“Everyone’s got problems, you know.”
“Sure. What’s yours?”
“Guess…I want men who don’t want me.”
“Why?” he said.
“I like…I don’t know exactly.” I took a breath. “I liked how you cut me off the other night, just shoved me right out the door, kind of mean.”
Nicolas put his hand on my leg. He patted my leg. With his hand he began to rub my thigh.
“And I’ve been thinking about what you read the other night.” I swallowed. “You think you’d like to tie me up?”
“Take everything off,” he said.
I stood up from the couch. “Serious?” After a moment, I undressed.
“You have a great cock,” he said.
“Thanks.” I laughed, and cupped my balls.
“Jack off,” he said.
“Are you serious?”
“Are you?”
I looked at him, nodded. “Yeah.” I curled my hand into a fist around my cock, dripping precum already.
“Nice,” Nicolas said. He watched awhile—gave me the shivers.
Nicolas rose from the couch and removed his shirt, showing me his stark freckled chest, so thin I could almost see ribs. He leaned over, bit my nipple, surprising me. It was like an electric current and I gasped. Nicolas smiled against my throbbing flesh. I felt the curve of his mouth against my nipple, then the end of his tongue on my skin. Then teeth again. Without meaning to I leaned toward him, pushing my cock at him, wanting him to touch me. Nicolas pushed me backward onto the couch then used the long sleeves of his shirt to tie my hands behind my back in makeshift cuffs; I felt the drag and squeeze of cloth against my wrists. I didn’t fight, but felt sweat pooling in my pits, on my brow. I had one moment of panic. My heart beat harder and I took sharp breaths and then heavier ones, hopeful.
“There, you see, better?” Nicolas held his mouth above mine. “Ash?”
“Yeah.” I gasped.
Nicolas kissed me. I raised my hips off the couch, which put pressure on my arms behind me and hurt. Nicolas took off his pants, exposing his long narrow cock bent like a banana, Irish-red pubes, sweet ruddy balls, a toss of freckles on the inside of his thighs, soft stomach, boyish hips. He began to jerk off.
“Fuck,” I said and leaned forward.
Nicolas continued to beat off. “Lift your legs,” he said.
It was kind of difficult, but I scooted down on the couch so I was able to lean back on my hands and lift my legs spread-eagle in the air. My cock lay rock hard across my stomach. “Shit,” I said.
Nicolas positioned himself above me over the couch, crouched in such a way that he was able to fit the head of his cock inside my asshole. He fucked me, pulled out, fucked me some more, then pulled out. “Shit,” I said again. My legs shook. My arms ached. I felt like crying. Nicolas pulled his cock out again, wet with precum and ass juice. “Sit up,” he said. I did. “Open your mouth.” When I’d done that, Nicolas yanked off a fat ribbon of spunk, which hit me in my chin.
“You’ll make a beautiful story,” he said. I shouted at him, called him terrible names. Nicolas untied the ropes.
THE HARNESS
Doug Harrison
The San Francisco morning fog was burning off as I sauntered along Polk Street, a scene I know well. I could easily be a guide for visiting perverts hankering to explore the seedy stores displaying girlie magazines, lascivious lingerie, and multicolored dildos from small to huge behind their unwashed, scratched windows. My specialty, however, is an in-depth knowledge of establishments with more than a token gay presence of a few sticky magazines containing photos of overendowed muscle builders. I’m a connoisseur of stores that speak directly to the city’s serious gay population with glossy hard core sealed in cellophane; locked display cases of cock rings, ball stretchers, and tit clamps; and rows of clapboard booths for viewing gay porn with waist-high, cock-sized openings in their stained walls.
But that day, after wandering over to Hayes Street, past a pizza parlor and pawnshop, I came to a small unfamiliar shop fronting a freshly swept sidewalk, with sparkling windows. My eyes danced among shiny black leather chaps, pants, jackets, vests, caps, and polished boots shimmering in an array of pressed 501s, denim work shirts, and tank tops. Soft chimes announced my entrance with the first three notes of “One Fine Day” from Madame Butterfly.
A rail-thin man with a salt-and-pepper beard and thinning crew cut ambled my way as I scanned the shop. He was dressed in tight leather pants and a blue work shirt. He looked me over and smiled.
“Welcome,” he said, and extended his hand. We shook as I returned his grin, but his frail, bony hand belied his attempt to appear vigorous.
“Nice store,” I offered.
“My partner’s dream,” he replied, and dropped his head. He looked up abruptly. “Interested in anything in particular?”
I hesitated as I scanned the racks and cases. “Something in leather.”
He nodded, smiled, and followed my glance to a rack of harnesses. We approached the assortment of minimal, but essential uniforms for Tops and bottoms, Daddies and boys, or Masters and slaves.
A spotlit harness hanging from hooks on the wall above the display caught my attention. My jaw dropped.
It was a Top’s harness. A harness that reflected the authority and supplemented the respect due its owner. Not a bottom’s harness with thin straps that crisscross shoulders and chest, but a full body harness with two-inch-wide heavy leather straps, V-shaped over the shoulders, riveted in front and back to thick metallic semicircular rings, and adjusted with one-inch by two-inch heavy metal buckles. The buckle thongs were kept in place with matching metal grommets set into the leather, unlike the punched holes of cheap harnesses. Two matching straps and buckles joined the front and rear rings by passing around the torso just below the nipples.
My cock twitched as I admired this masterpiece of leather and metal workmanship.
A leather strap, V-shaped at the top, traveled from the metallic ring and was riveted to a leather triangle that covered the crotch area. The triangle was secured in place by straps and buckles that passed around the waist and also matched the shoulder straps. A detachable pouch with a dozen or so symmetrical, gleaming studs was fastened to the triangle by three snaps. Two adjustable leather straps about one-half-inch wide went from the bottom of the triangle to the waistband. Most unusual, just like a jockstrap. I could imagine the leather biting into the juncture between my thighs and cheeks, perhaps tugging on a hair or two as I tightened the straps to frame my ass. My cock now throbbed.
Finally, I reveled at the four gleaming chains that went from codpiece and waistband, front and back, to the large torso rings, front and back. A slow breath out was overtaken by my gasp. My face flushed as my dick pushed against the thin fabric of my jeans; the bulge was not to be denied.
The salesman’s gaze traveled from my face to my crotch and returned to my eyes.
“Would you like to try it on?”
I nodded. He fetched a long wooden pole with a metal hook, lowered the harness, and stood facing me. “My name’s Ned,” he said.
“Brad. Glad to meet you.”
We again shook hands as he offered the harness to me, not in a tangle of fists, arms, and leather, but with a fluid motion. We held on to each other and the harness, prolonging the exchange, and swimming in a bittersweet emotion I sensed but could not fathom.
