Best Lesbian Bondage Erotica

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Foreword

  THE FIRST TIME

  FEE FIE FOE FEMME

  LEASH

  LESSONS LEARNED

  THE BREAK

  NEVER SAY NEVER

  NO MORE SECRETS

  I

  II

  COP-OUT

  VOODOO AND TATTOOS

  HOW IT STARTED

  PHOEBE’S UNDERCOVER BON VOYAGE

  CAMERA

  FROZEN

  JUST DROPS

  AN INCIDENT IN WHITECHAPEL

  THE RACK

  A GIRL LIKE THAT

  LAST TEN BUCKS

  REDEMPTION

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  ABOUT THE EDITOR

  Copyright Page

  FOREWORD

  When many people recall their first experience of bondage, it usually reaches all the way back to childhood. As part of cops and robbers, cowboys and Indians, or another kids’ game, someone had to be restrained at some point. You’d grab a necktie or a belt or something from one of your parents’ closets and tie up the bad guys.

  For grown ups, bondage is an erotic activity with endless possibilities. It seems to transcend categories: you don’t need to be into BDSM to have tied up a lover or been tied up during sex. Self-described kinky and non-kinky folks alike incorporate different types of bondage into their sex play. Have you ever held down your lover’s hands while you were fucking her or pinned her down to the bed with your body? Then you’ve practiced bondage! That’s one of the bonuses of bondage: you can do it without any fancy equipment or use what’s nearby: a silk scarf, a pair of suspenders, pantyhose—heck, I’ve used a rolled up sheet in a pinch. Of course, you can also invest in some elaborate accoutrements, from handcrafted leather and stainless steel restraints to pretreated Japanese hemp rope. Bondage is an erotic playground with countless tricks and toys.

  Browse a list of workshops at a BDSM event and you can see just how popular and varied bondage can be: rope bondage, suspension bondage, Japanese rope bondage, metal bondage, bondage for sex, decorative bondage, creative bondage, head and face bondage, genital bondage, hand and foot bondage, body harnesses, latex bondage, and predicament bondage.

  I think one of the reasons bondage is so popular is that it’s incredibly versatile. It can cover lots of physical and emotional territory, from sensual teasing to sadistic torment, and everything in between. It’s an ideal vehicle to explore explicit power dynamics, since restraining someone embodies dominance, control, power, and authority. And being restrained is a way to submit, surrender, and give oneself over to another. Bondage can also be incredibly physically and psychologically challenging for both partners. The top must create the ritual, calculate and execute the design, and even use physics (to make a safe and successful suspension, for example). For the bottom, she must endure what may feel like an impossible circumstance for her body, let go of fear, embrace her powerlessness, and trust her partner.

  When some people are bound, they panic or fight to get out. They feel constricted, maybe even claustrophobic. Others give in to the experience and are turned on by the sense of powerlessness they feel. But for others, they become totally relaxed and calm; it’s surprising to see how serene someone can look when they’re all tied up. At first, I couldn’t understand how utterly peaceful some people get when they’re in bondage, but then I read a fascinating book called Animals in Translation by animal behavior expert Temple Grandin, who is autistic. Grandin recalls the first time she saw a “squeeze chute,” a tight confining chute ranchers put cattle in to keep them completely still so they can give them immunization shots:You might think cattle would get really scared when all of a sudden this big metal structure clamps together on their bodies, but it’s exactly the opposite. They get really calm. When you think about it, it makes sense because deep pressure is a calming sensation for just about everyone. That’s one of the reasons a massage feels so good—it’s the deep pressure. The squeeze chute probably gives cattle a feeling like the soothing sensation newborns have when they’re swaddled or scuba divers have underwater. 1

  Reading Grandin’s point of view immediately made me think of scenes I have seen where bondage bottoms look like they are in an awkward predicament but seem absolutely blissed out. To an outsider, rope knots rubbing against bare skin may appear abrasive, cuffs clamped tightly around ankles confining, but these things can actually be incredibly comforting to those who love to be put in bondage. That’s what makes it such a complex, satisfying experience for so many: bondage can be both beautiful and brutal—sometimes at the same time.

  Tristan Taormino

  New York City

  June 2007

  Notes

  1 Temple Grandin and Catherine Johnson, Animals in Translation: Using the Mysteries of Autism to Decode Animal Behavior (Scribner, 2005) 4-5. Grandin later invented a center-track restraining system to make the squeeze chute more humane, and her system is used in half the cattle plants in North America.

  THE FIRST TIME

  Laura Antoniou

  The first time I was bound, she wound strips of a mutilated white cotton nightdress around each wrist, chiding me for my rude behavior. How dare I make fun of her exquisite gowns, delicately edged in lace, gathered slightly below the bodice and sweeping to cover my feet while floating above her own delicate ankles. I’d laughed at them, these gently worn, sensual garments of such feminine intensity that I could not even imagine them near my skin, unless they were clinging to her body, then pressed next to mine. But wear such a thing? No, not I.

  When she picked up the scissors, I laughed aloud and shivered in mock fear. When she made the first cut, just below the neckline, I started to reach for her, to stop her from destroying such a pretty thing. But her arms tightened, and all the concentration in her eyes pinned me to the bed. I had to watch her rip through the thin cotton, making ragged, long tears that rapidly became strips of anonymous white material, ethereal yet stronger than I might have guessed.

  I pulled one hand away, testing her fortitude, and she slapped me with an imperious look. It was delicious. I let her bring my hands together, wrapping them around with one strip, and then across with another; then I relaxed back onto her rich linen sheets and hand-embroidered pillowcases.

  I let her touch me, smiling and sighing between the giggles, and reached for her as if to fight, aching for the strips to be tighter, to keep my hands above my head so there was no way I could impede her progress as she continued to make her points with maddeningly light slaps to my body. I reared up once, to kiss her, and she pushed me back as easily as I could push her slight body around and yes, I let her.

  I wanted to see what she was going to do.

  Because no one had bound me before.

  But we were young and shy and the boldness we showed on stage and in the dark corners behind the scenery vanished into the awkwardness of authentic intimacy. She reared back herself, and during the silence, we both made our decisions. We were apart before long, and she remained a sharp reminder of the dangers of straight women, the perfidy of femmes. And she made me hunger for shadows of her for years, until at last I laid myself down for a woman in a gown, and sighed in perfect release and abandon.

  Or, maybe it didn’t happen that way at all, maybe I imagined it. Because the first time I was bound, it was to my own bed, by a man younger than I; he was an aching, beautiful boy, expertly instructed and coached by the one who knew exactly what she wanted. He danced and ran and shook his body in delight, never still, never at repose, even when he snuggled up to me in the coldest moments of the night. He grinned when I sought his eyes and told him it was time, and he eagerly handled m
y toys and used them in careful progression, making me crazy with need and then falling on me with a passion so pure it had to be exactly as he claimed—virginal. We gave each other a sacrifice that year, cutting into ourselves and handing over the warm, moist parts that were our secret passions.

  I bared myself for him, and he bared himself to me. He struck me with all his youthful strength, and crammed folded towels in my mouth to muffle the cries, and held onto me later, when his body twitched in a sleep without rest. He didn’t tease, couldn’t know how to tease, and so he satisfied me fully, and made me feel that I might actually have a way to fulfill this desperate need in me.

  I knew precisely what he was going to do; I was his instructor.

  I needed to be in charge; no one had ever bound me before.

  And so he knew where the tools were, and knew exactly the kinds of stimulation I wanted, where, how often, for how long. I was in absolute control of my tender young faggot, my sweet lonely lover, and was able to surrender to my passions, if not to him.

  Or maybe it didn’t happen that way at all.

  Because, really, the first time I was bound, it was by a stranger. A tall, powerful woman who could have lived my life twice with time to spare. She buckled worn, leather cuffs onto my wrists and locked them in place and slapped me, hard. I could not look at her while she completed the rituals that transformed her from the rough-voiced seducer in a crowded and smoky bar into the sleek, silken seductress who could charm the most frightened young woman into a very dangerous game. I knew the proper words to say and the proper games to play, but still I went with her to a place I did not know, leaving no one behind to call for me, or to know into whose hands I had given myself.

  She stripped my body and tied me up tight, and for the first time, I truly felt the pull of restraints placed on me by another, the weight of my own body, the limits of my own strength. And she stroked my face tenderly before striking me again, and again, and kissed the blood from my teeth and lips, so I could see it on her when she drew away. In a too-late moment of indecision, I tested the bonds and found them locked onto me, impossible to slip or lift off. And I knew what it meant to be truly helpless, at another’s mercy. Alone, with a person who was known for being merciless.

  I had no idea what she was going to do.

  I was terrified, because no one had ever bound me before.

  She brought weapons before me—silky, dangerous weapons like herself—and let me be romanced by them before they launched into brutality. Opening my bruised mouth, she commanded words from me, and got only sounds, and her fury was so magnificent that I knew she was beyond human. She demanded worship. And in the end, she got it. At a price so great, I was never to see her again.

  No, it didn’t happen that way at all.

  The first time I was bound, it was by words alone. “Stay there,” and “stand still,” and “don’t move,” uttered with a playful, casual simplicity, punctuated by stinging cuts, which threw ripples of distraction all along nerve endings. A light voice and soft hands, and a test that was designed for me to fail. I ground my teeth and set my body and keened lengthy screams that echoed in my skull but actually came out in hisses and gasps. And the more I obeyed, the harsher it was, until the agony exploded and waves of nausea swept through me. Drunkenly stubborn, I locked my limbs in place—I would stay there, stand still, and not move, until rivers of blood covered my body, until my lungs couldn’t draw another breath, until the starbursts of pain behind my eyelids became one bright red light, and I fell to the floor and didn’t know anymore.

  And I did fall, but not to the ground. Instead, I spiraled inward, and my obedience to the commands left my body no choice but to ignore those petty, spiteful stings. They faded into distant jabs, which distracted me from myself, and when they rose in a flurry of angry impotence, I ceased to mind them at all.

  I didn’t know what was happening.

  I had never been bound before.

  Not much later, hands beat against my locked arms and fingers and bent me forward and at last I moved, and the sizzling, crackling awakenings of my body finally made me cry out. I could barely hear him, cradling me, his once cynical voice trembling with shame and horror and fear, as he asked over and over again, why I had not moved. I knew then that he could hold me no longer, and so I let him soothe me, and did not remind him whose bonds had held me so fast. I knew that he hated me then, and I allowed that hate to fill me with much-belated pain, and freed myself minutes after he left me for the last time.

  No, it couldn’t have happened that way.

  No, really, the first time I was bound it was after years and years of bondage, when I was handed two pairs of cuffs and told to put them on. When I passed under the bed legs the rope I cut the night before, and lay down in a genuine state of fear. Not of her, but fear that because I had never been bound, I shouldn’t have been there, hadn’t earned my way to that strange bed and those accurate hands.

  And with the two items I had brought and the one she had, she taught me what it was like to be tied, to be spread so wide that there were no safe places on my body. She taught me that wherever I had gone before was not accessible through her, and when at last the tears came, I gave myself to them wholeheartedly, never losing myself, never turning away.

  The cuffs were snug and light, and when I pulled against them, I did nothing but press my body wider for her. And in time, when I was turned and moved, it was her voice that held me and the bondage seemed almost superfluous. I struggled against the ties and sighed in agony as they refused to give, and in one blissful moment, reared against them, fingers curled and my entire body tensed to tear them from their anchor points. They held. What a luxury to be so tightly bound.

  “Luxurious, ain’t it?” she breathed into my ear.

  And I cried again, clean tears that poured through me, soaking my face, my hair, the sheets beneath me, because I was so grateful for that moment.

  You see, I’d never been bound before.

  And when the bonds were gone, I found that they had stayed with me anyway, and I slept in them and wore them for quite some time. The marks were not to fade from my body for months, years maybe, but the cuffs are still there, waiting for the rope under the bed.

  But maybe that wasn’t the way it happened at all.

  Maybe it’s still to come.

  FEE FIE FOE FEMME

  Elaine Miller

  All night long she wouldn’t let me kiss her because—she said—our lipstick colors clashed.

  Checking the address she’d written on a piece of paper, I’d picked her up at her house earlier. Rosalie, the paper said, then her phone number and address. No last name. Dykes don’t need last names when we have attributes and ex-lovers to be known by. As a dyke I’m Jez the Goth, or Sharen’s-ex Jez, never Jessie Tate. And Rosalie…could be New-in-Town Rosalie, or Rosalie the Beautiful. Maybe if I was into U-Haul rental she could be Jez’s Rosalie by the second date.

  My heart skipped a beat as she’d appeared in the doorway dressed like an old-time movie starlet, her loose curls bouncing around her sparkling brown eyes. She’d taken my hand, and I’d leaned in for a kiss, which she dodged, laughing impishly. And explained. I was annoyed that she was right about the lipstick clashing. I was wearing my usual vampiric matte blood-red, and hers was something a worker bee would die trying to collect for her queen. Raspberry pink, glittery under the new-car deep gloss, her lips were startling and perfect jewels against her brown skin.

  I took Rosalie the Beautiful to LICK, the only full-time lezzie bar in town. Once there and seated at a table beside the dance floor, we lost no time in flirting. She pretended to lose one of her gold earrings in my cleavage, necessitating that she trail her fingers around my breasts, trolling for it, while I protested that she had to find it, quick, because I wear only silver with black clothing. And of course, I only wear black clothing.

  But she still wouldn’t kiss me. She would dance so close to me that the lines of her face blurred in our body
heat, oh yes. She would let the slick material of her skirt smooth the way as she rode my thigh to the beat of the house music. Later in the evening, she’d let me hold her tight in the dark corners of the bar, one hand cupping her full breast, my thumb strumming across her nipple as she squirmed, my other hand tangled in the hair at the nape of her neck. But every time I tried to kiss her, throughout the evening, she just laughed and twirled away, leaving a cloud of girl-scent, a flare of her skirt, and the teasing word Lipstick.

  By the end of the night, I was cross-eyed with frustration. When Rosalie the Beautiful whispered a lewd invitation in my ear, I simply answered, “Yeah. Let’s go to my house,” took her hand, and pulled her out of LICK, past the approving smirks of my friends. And on the way home she wouldn’t kiss me. She teasingly said that it was all about preserving her shiny, glossy pink lipstick. Besides, she wouldn’t want to distract me from my driving.

  We tumbled in my door as one body with eight limbs, panting and pulling at each other’s clothes all the way to the bedroom. She didn’t seem to want to stop for a tour. We fell across my bed and I unzipped her dress and, with her wholehearted help, peeled off every item of clothing that could get in my way. I left her the pretty white stockings and garters, but threw her pinching high-heeled shoes on the floor. I’m a femme, too; I know these things.