B is for bondage, p.1
B Is for Bondage, page 1
B IS FOR BONDAGE
Also by Alison Tyler
_________
Best Bondage Erotica
Best Bondage Erotica 2
Exposed
Got a Minute?
The Happy Birthday Book of Erotica
Heat Wave: Sizzling Sex Stories
Luscious: Stories of Anal Eroticism
The Merry XXXmas Book of Erotica
Red Hot Erotica
Slave to Love
Three-Way
Caught Looking (with Rachel Kramer Bussel)
A Is for Amour
C Is for Coeds
D Is for Dress-Up
B IS FOR BONDAGE
EROTIC STORIES
EDITED BY ALISON
Copyright © 2007 by Alison Tyler.
All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted in newspaper, magazine, radio, or television reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying or recording, or by information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Published in the United States by Cleis Press Inc.,
P.O. Box 14697, San Francisco, California 94114.
Printed in the United States.
Cover design: Scott Idleman
Text design: Karen Quigg
Cleis Press logo art: Juana Alicia
First Edition.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Breathless Bravos go to:
Felice Newman
Frédérique Delacoste
Diane Levinson
Rachel Kramer Bussel
Thomas S. Roche
Violet Blue
and SAM, always.
Who could determine the point where pleasure becomes pain, where pain is still a pleasure?
—HONORÉ DE BALZAC
CONTENTS
Introduction: Bondage Is in the Eye of the Beholder • ALISON TYLER
Silver Bells and Cockleshells • SHANNA GERMAIN
Transfixed, Helpless and Out of Control CHARLIE ANDERS
Pervertable • MATHILDE MADDEN
Shinju • TERESA NOELLE ROBERTS
Time for a Spanking • SARA DEMUCI
The Pillar of St. Vitus • L. A. MISTRAL
Pearls of Wisdom • CYNTHIA RAYNE
The Consequences of Her Actions • CHARLES BRASSO
Westbound • P S. HAVEN
Promise of Submission • T. C. CALLIGARI
Good Marketing • BRYN HANIVER
Safe • ALISON TYLER
About the Editor
INTRODUCTION BONDAGE IS IN THE EYE OF THE BEHOLDER
BUY ME THIS,” I beg Sam, running my fingertips over the glossy X—rated catalog pages. “This…and this…oh, fuck, and this….”
Bondage is in the eye of the beholder. Just like beauty. I live for being bound. Lust for giving up the freedom of movement, the freedom to do anything but submit. The sight of sterling handcuffs makes me wet. The threat of a collar leaves me weak.
I spend hours at night looking at the hardcore sex toy catalogs, admiring the buckles, the padlocks, the restriction devices of all sizes. I swoon over cages and fucking machines. I swallow hard at the medical equipment, the spreaders and probes and crisp white nurse uniforms. I cross my legs tight when I reach the paddles, leather covered, studded, drilled through with holes.
Sam appreciates the quality of a good set of restraints like any Dom, but he is generally more resourceful. He has a well-worn belt to keep me in line. A wallet chain to bind my wrists. A simple command to make me freeze in place. Control doesn’t require fancy devices—I know that. But that doesn’t mean I don’t melt at the satisfying click of the cool cuffs on my slim wrists.
Still, I understand—bondage isn’t a static word. It’s ever changing. Constantly redefined. To some, the term conjures visions of dungeons and cages, of 24/7 Master/slave relationships. To others, bondage is simply a state of mind. The authors in this collection have taken the concept for a wild, untamed ride. From Shanna Germain’s delightfully kinky “Silver Bells and Cockleshells,” which features sex toys of an organic variety, to “Pervertable” by Mathilde Madden, in which the narrator and his Dom see sex everywhere they go—from the hardware store to pet shops—the pieces embody the range of what bondage truly means.
P. S. Haven’s runaway wife is trapped in the most unexpected manner. T. C. Calligari’s uptight art maven learns submission is the only way to truly let herself go. Charles Brasso’s wicked vixen needs a man with a plan, and a firm hand, to keep her in line. And Charlie Anders’ twisted Top employs the most unusual method of foreplay I’ve ever read—threats of what Right-Wingers will ultimately do to our country.
From light to extreme, the full range of bondage delights await you in these fanciful stories.
XXX,
Alison Tyler
Shanna Germain
Silver Bells and Cockleshells
BEANS, CHECK. Carrots, check. Cucumbers? A little smaller than I’d like, but doable. I put a few of the longest cukes in my basket, and then fondle a few of the heirloom tomatoes, with their unusual ridges and shapes. He won’t expect those. Not after the perfect round beefsteaks from last year. I pick a few that seem to be the right size and firmness and add them to my basket.
Then I carry the basket over to Sylvan, who is sitting naked and blindfolded in a lawn chair in the corner of my yard. His skin is already shiny in the sun. While he can’t see me, I take a moment to check out his body, which is still as lean and muscular as when we started this game twelve years ago. I can’t say the same—over the years, my catsuit thinness has given way to curve of hip and ass. They say people look like their dogs; I’ve come to look like my vegetables. Split cherry tomato for an ass, hips that taper like squash, breasts like the fat ends of eggplants. The garden has changed, too. A small patch of tomatoes has turned into this: my entire backyard devoted to a once-a-year rendezvous.
Although Sylvan hasn’t seen the garden since he was here last summer—I met him at the front door with the blindfold—he has had a hand in growing it. He used to be just one of my clients, one of the many men who came into my dungeon. But for the past eight years, he has been my only client. He pays me year-round to grow this garden, and once a year to fuck him in it. And who am I to complain? I always hated the darkness of the dungeon, the way it seemed to say, “This is something you must keep secret.” Now I fuck in the sunshine, in the middle of flowers and fruit, to the songs of bees and birds.
I spend another stolen moment drinking Sylvan in: the long legs with the thin feet that he rubs together, the fingers that move lightly on the chair arm. Sylvan does not relax; he moves as constantly and as impossibly as a hummingbird. His cock is the only part that is still. Long and thin like the rest of him, the stalk of it risen between his thighs. He is some kind of businessman, stressed and eternally moving. It is not my place to ask what he does, but it is my job to stop his forward momentum, to still him.
As I near Sylvan, he leans his head toward the sound of my bare feet on the grass. His long cock twitches. Anticipation. He understands it more than any man I’ve ever met. When he became my sole client, I asked if he would pay for a greenhouse, so I could grow all year, pleasure him in the winter months as well as the summer.
“I thought you understood me better than that,” he’d said, his voice full of a disappointment that nearly wilted me. “That would be like having Christmas every day.”
Over the years, he’s taught me to understand anticipation. In the fall, I rip up the dying plants by hand, to get the scent of Sylvan on my skin. All winter, I pore over seed catalogs, masturbate to plant descriptions as though they were the finest erotica. And in the spring, I seed and water and beg these plants to grow and grow and grow.
And now, here’s Sylvan, waiting. And I don’t want to break this moment—like opening the first present under the tree—that is the beginning of the end. But there is his hard cock, already glistening at the tip, and the way I’m moist beneath my summer dress.
I set the basket of veggies down next to the small flower garden. The flower garden is new this year, about as big as a king-sized bed, and layered and layered with flowers—orange daylilies, baby’s breath, lavender. Only one area in the middle is not covered. And that area is surrounded by dark pink wild roses. Wild roses with the biggest thorns I could find. At each corner, heavy wooden stakes are driven into the ground.
“Come to me, Sylvan,” I say.
He rises out of the chair with a grace that belies his age, and takes a few steps toward the sound of my voice. He is not hesitant, although he has reason to be. He trusts I will only bind him as far as he can be bound, and no further.
When he is close enough, I reach up and grasp the sides of his blindfold. My plan was to lay him down blindfolded, but suddenly I want him to see the bed I’ve made for him. To understand the restrictions that I will put upon him.
It isn’t until after his eyes appear from beneath the fabric that I remember why I so often blindfold him here. Periwinkle blue, the color of cornflowers before they open. They’re the only eyes I’ve ever seen that make me want to be a submissive. I would lie myself down on rose thorns, let him fuck me with zucchinis, rakes, hoes. But that is not what he pays me for, and so I look away, at the garden bed I’ve made for him. I swallow until my throat opens and I can give commands.
“Here is your bed, Sylvan,” I say. “Lie down. And don’t you dare crush m y flowers.”
“Oh,” he says, when he sees the thing that I have made for him. The shape of his body, perfect in brown dirt, outlined in flowers and thorns. “Oh, Mary,” he says.
The sound of my name is the sound of pleasure. I have pleased him, and thus I am pleased. It is only the beginning, and yet I want him already. I want to fuck him here and now, like a lover instead of someone who is paid. Something that I have never done, something that would end this perfect arrangement.
I force myself to bend down and pick up my rubber gardening gloves. I pull them on with loud smacks. The gloves are purple and textured, and Sylvan looks them up and down.
“Lie down, Sylvan,” I say. “Don’t make me tell you again.”
Sylvan steps over the flowers carefully until both feet are in the dirt outline. He sits, then lies down carefully on his back. With his arms and legs extended, he fits in the space almost perfectly. It is a little tight in the thighs, and the rosebushes prick his skin there. He doesn’t say anything, but I know he likes the way it feels—his cock has become the highest point on his body, rising up toward the sun. Lying there, surrounded by flowers, his bare back and ass against the dirt, he reminds me of the Vitruvian Man by da Vinci. Ideal body, beauty surrounded by beauty.
“Close your eyes, Sylvan,” I say and he does. I’m standing at the end of the garden, just about at his head. I lean down and put the blindfold back on, tie it on the side of his head so the knot doesn’t bother him. He thinks the blindfold is for play, and it is, but it is also to protect his eyes from the sun, and me from his eyes. With his eyes hidden, I will stay in control.
Then I tell him the rules. He knows the rules, he made the rules, but I tell them anyway, because it is one of the rules that I do so and because it sets me on the right side of this relationship.
“You do not speak or move unless I tell you to,” I say. “You do not touch me, you do not touch yourself, and you do not come unless I tell you to. If you want to stop, say the safeword. If you can’t say the safeword, make the safe action. Do you understand?”
Sylvan moves his chin down, just slightly. It’s an old joke between us—how do you say yes if you can’t speak or move?—but I know he is saying yes. We don’t talk much anyway, unless I’m giving orders.
I pick up the squash vines that I cut this morning, and step carefully over the flowers to wrap the vines around his wrists. The vines aren’t necessary—I’m not tying them to the stakes, the stakes are for later—but he doesn’t know that. I just like the way the vines prickle his skin, give him a taste of what is to come. I wrap the vines around his ankles too, tighter. Then I wait.
Our safeword has not changed from day one. But I have never heard him say it. Sylvan moves one wrist against the vine, but doesn’t say anything. Once I gag him, he will not have a safeword, only a safe action. I have never seen that either, although I am always on the lookout for it.
“Open,” I say. He does, opens his mouth wide. I choose one of the largest heirloom tomatoes from the basket—big and yellow, with ridges and indents that will tempt his tongue. And soft skin, of course, the softest.
I put the tomato in his mouth. It fits perfectly. I can see his wonder at the size and shape in the way his Adam’s apple bobs in his neck.
“It is soft, Sylvan,” I say. “Overripe. If you bite, if you close your mouth even a little, it will split open. It will be dangerous.”
It isn’t as soft as that, but I love the way his cock twitches and drools when I say dangerous. And I love the way my cunt waters when I see his cock twitch and drool. I’m soaking inside my summer dress, and I stand and peel it off. There’s just a bit of a breeze through the trees that line my property, and the blow of it feels good against my bare skin. I know Sylvan isn’t getting any relief, though. The dirt is sun-warmed, and the flowers keep the breeze away from him. Already he is slick with his own sweat. Bits of dirt cling to his shoulders.
I’m sweating in the gloves too, but I don’t take them off yet. I picked them just for their texture. But that’s for later. For now, I choose the biggest cucumber out of the basket. First, I cut the ends off. I had hoped that the cukes would be big enough to fit his whole cock in. Sylvan’s not big around, but he’s long, too long to fit inside. So I will have to make do.
The potato corer works smooth and easy on the cuke’s insides. I work with the corer near Sylvan’s head, so he can hear the sound of metal against flesh.
When the cucumber is hollowed out, I run my gloved fingers inside its slick, wet interior. Perfect. Then I lean over Sylvan and slide the end of the cuke over the tip of his hard cock. Not all the way. Just enough to let him feel how wet and cool it is, how slick. Just enough to make him wonder what it is. Enough to make him want more.
A bit of saliva dots the sides of the tomato in Sylvan’s mouth. He is trying not to moan, not to bite or suck. I push the cucumber down, slowly, loving the way his cock disappears inside the green and white vegetable. When it’s all the way down, the tip of his cock pokes out of the end.
I go down on my knees on the flowers between Sylvan’s legs. The cucumber holds his cock perfectly upright, in its own little bond, just for me to suck. I always love that first taste of his pre-cum, salty and sweet. Mixed with the cucumber juice, it tastes like sushi on a hot day. I lick and lick the smooth top, suck the sweet juices from him.
The tips of my gloved fingers are wet from cucumber, and I press one against Sylvan’s asshole, working it slowly around until I feel him start to open, just a bit. At the same time, I keep my tongue on the soft, smooth curve of him.
Sylvan is being so good, so quiet. His fingers flex slightly but he doesn’t try to move his wrists or ankles, doesn’t test the bonds. Only his chest, hitching up and down, shows his struggle to be still. I run my tongue over the tip of him one last time, putting the point into his little slit, cleaning him all up, before I stand.
“You’re being very good, Sylvan,” I say as I reach into my basket. I move the veggies with deliberate care, letting him hear the way they rub against each other. “I think you deserve a reward.”
I pull out the vegetables that I want, line them up next to his body. Then I move back between his thighs. I put a green bean in my mouth, suck it while I work. With one hand, I pump the cucumber up and down, up and down. With the other hand, I rub my gloved fingers across Sylvan’s thighs, up his belly, over his hard nipples. His nipples are like his cock, thin and long, and I pinch one, then the other. They grow even harder beneath the texture of the gloves.
Sylvan’s head is turned a little to the side. His mouth is open around the tomato. He breathes in small, short gasps. I give his nipple one last tweak and then take the green bean from between my lips.
The green bean, slick with my saliva, presses against the tiny bud of Sylvan’s ass. The bean is so small it enters easily, opens his asshole up until a third of it is buried. I’m still working his cock with the cucumber, up and down. I wiggle the green bean in his ass, slide it in halfway. I could go farther, but I love the way his asshole looks, its pink pucker opening around the dark green of the bean.
“How does that feel, Sylvan?” I ask, knowing he cannot answer. “I hope it feels good, because it’s just the beginning, you know. I have so much planned for you today.”
Sylvan’s buttcheeks clench and release, clench and release. It is his only movement. I let go of the cucumber and then pull the bean from his ass. It makes a small, slippery sound and my own ass pulses, feeling empty.
I put two fingers to my clit, feel how slippery wet I am, even through the gloves.
“I’m going to fuck myself now, Sylvan,” I say. “Too bad you can’t see me.”
I suck on a second green bean, bigger than the one I chose for Sylvan. Then I press the end against my asshole.
“Too bad you can’t watch me…” I press the bean into my ass. It is small, but it fills that ache. I move it in and out of my ass with the same rhythm I use to rub my gloved fingers over my clit. My breathing quickens. I can feel myself dripping into the dirt…“Watch me fucking myself.”
