Best Lesbian Bondage Erotica Page 2

  I hastily shucked off my own clothes, especially my own damned shoes, and they made little black heaps amidst the white piles of Rosalie’s clothes.

  She looked…well, you can guess how she looked, smooth-skinned and plump-limbed, all curves and soft lines. But you probably haven’t imagined with your other senses yet, so close your eyes and imagine the heat of her skin warming the air around us, and her scent like clean sweat from dancing, and just a hint of her sex.

  She lay back against the pillows and smiled at me. She didn’t say anything, but I just knew that if I leaned forward now she’d let me kiss her and to hell with the lipstick. I didn’t try. Instead I pulled a few coils of rope and some bondage cuffs out from the toybox and onto the bed, knowing that with what she already knew of me she wouldn’t be at all surprised. Not in the mood for protracted negotiation, I cocked an eyebrow at her in an inquiring gesture.

  “Sure,” said Rosalie the Beautiful, her eyes outshining her lipstick. “My safeword is ‘Untie me now.’”

  I tied her flat on her back, her hips held down by a wide belt of ropes crossing back and forth from two of the many eyebolts on either side of the bed. I clipped her hands to the headboard at full extension over her head, allowing her breasts to poke temptingly at the ceiling.

  I buckled cuffs around her ankles, and two bigger cuffs a few inches above each knee. I passed a long, slim white rope through the bolts near her hands, and ran it through the rings on the cuffs around her strong, plump, stocking-clad thighs, and as she squeaked in a surprised way, effortlessly pulled her knees high up toward her chest, exposing her sweet, wet cunt. With a quick knot at the ring of the thigh cuffs, I pulled the ropes down to either side of the bed and ran them through two rings there, parting her thighs further. As she began to squirm in earnest, I connected the ends of the ropes to her ankle cuffs and pulled her heels tight to the backs of her thighs, hindering her from kicking or moving her legs.

  I stepped back to admire her, and paused, conscious of my own wetness and of my clit pulsing with the beat of my heart. I ached to touch her, and I let that ache build as I looked at her. Warily, she watched me watch her, and relaxed when she saw that, in the symbiosis of being desired, her potent femme’s power was intact. Held open like a wanton offering, Rosalie’s eyes met mine steadily, proudly. She knew her own beauty; pretty, pretty girl.

  “Don’t just stand there,” she said. “I know you want me.”

  “Oh yeah, I do. I’m dying to have you,” I said. “That’s why this is gonna hurt me more than it hurts you.”

  She looked startled.

  I sat for a moment on the bed between her thighs, slowly looking at every intimate detail of her body, finally meeting her eyes. She licked her perfect pink lips in an unconsciously catlike gesture of nervousness.

  I leaned forward, letting my long black hair brush her thighs, and made myself comfortable on my belly, my face inches from her exposed cunt. Damn, she smelled good.

  I exhaled slowly, open-mouthed, warm breath blowing ever so gently across her flesh.

  She squirmed.

  “Do it,” she muttered.

  “Do what?” I breathed.

  “Go on, taste me.”

  “Maybe.”

  She wiggled halfheartedly, but the ropes prevented her from changing position. I moved closer still, my hair swinging once more against her skin, my lips an inch from her clit. I breathed slowly in through my nose, out through my mouth, making the flow of air as warm as possible.

  “Fuck,” she said, to no one in particular.

  “Maybe that’s what I’d like to do. Slide my fingers inside you, fuck you,” I said, letting each exhaled word play over her clit.

  “Yeah, fuck me.”

  “Maybe,” I said.

  I noticed the spot I was breathing on seemed to be drying a little from my hot breath, but the very entrance to her cunt was becoming drenched. I lifted up, scooched forward, and dropped a very unladylike wad of spit right at the top of her slit, then added another as I watched the first start to trickle downward.

  “Ahh, fuck, what are you…why won’t you…? Jez, do something!” she sputtered.

  I grinned at her. “Maybe.”

  I went back to breathing on her, slowly, with all the warmth I could muster. Every so often she tried to shove her cunt in my face, but as she didn’t have much slack, it was easy to avoid contact.

  I lost myself, as if in meditation, as I pushed each exhale hotly past her clit, thinking nonthoughts about the sweet, musky scent of her cunt and her stifled growling noises. Every so often I added another bit of saliva above her clit, never touching her, but watching her twist and groan at the sudden sensation of wetness.

  “There’s a puddle under your ass now, not spit but cunt juice,” I breathed, whispering to her clit as if it was my secret friend, not mentioning the wetness under my own hips.

  “Touch me, you fucker.” She started a rhythmic rocking motion, moving as far as the ropes would allow, only an inch or two each way.

  I extended my tongue and made it a hard point, letting her make the barest contact between my tongue and her clit. Immediately I felt her reaching for me with her hips, as far as she was able. But I simply held my place, using the faintest possible pressure as her clit brushed my tongue-tip on the upstroke and the downstroke.

  After about a few dozen downstrokes, she suddenly sucked in and held her breath, and I leaned back and away from her, watched her pretty face contort in a snarl and the entrance to her cunt twitch hungrily. Nice.

  “Why won’t you lick me, you evil bitch-bastard?”

  “Because I’m worried about mussing my lipstick,” I said.

  She started cursing, colorfully. Her cursing would have made a pirate’s parrot lose feathers. It would have made a biker blush. It made me laugh, out loud and joyful.

  I climbed up her body, nestled my hips between her spread thighs, and snuggled in. She gasped as my pubic hair pressed into her cunt after so long without touch, and I smiled down at her.

  “Holy, you’re so wet, I think I might get a steam burn.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Is that your safeword?”

  “No!” And then she started cursing again, as I lifted my body from hers and nuzzled into her tits, getting to know them. They were soft and weighty, full and rounded; the left one was slightly larger, a touching imperfection. Her large, dark nipples pointed straight at the ceiling, and went stiff as I watched.

  Not every woman considers her nipples an erogenous zone, so I suckled on one for a second, to test. She gasped and bucked toward me, not away.

  “Hey—are these candy?” I exclaimed happily, and dove right in.

  I happily lost myself in no time again, moving from nipple to nipple whenever I thought the other might be getting lonely, lightly and experimentally sucking, biting, and licking until I thought I had deciphered the language of her curses and wriggles. What she liked best seemed to be a firm, direct suction at the tip of her nipple, with a slight graze of my teeth every so often. She never quite stopped trying to bring her body in contact with mine, but I stayed up on my elbows, with just my soft belly occasionally picking up wet streaks from her cunt. It wasn’t just to tease her; I thought I might embarrass myself by coming if I humped her thigh even for a second.

  Finally, I left her wet, chewed, lipstick-stained nipples and ran my tongue in a trail down the curves of her belly, across her garter belt, continuing on in a casual fashion along the length of her cunt. She hissed when I contacted her clit on the way, growled when I dipped inside her, and began to rock against me when I dragged my tongue back, making my tongue flat and soft and dragging it so very slowly up between her labia.

  “Oh please,” she said when her hard clit just naturally slid into my mouth, my tongue pressing underneath. “Please. That. Do that. Oh….” She sounded sniffly, so I sat up a little to check how she was. Her expression was soft and unfocused, her eyes full of tears. I felt the little spot in my hear
t grow even warmer with affection for her.

  “What do you want, Rosalie the Beautiful?” I asked tenderly, adding my private qualifier to her name for the first time.

  She smiled fuzzily at that. “Please touch me, Jez. Lick me. Fuck me. I’m going out of my mind.”

  “Yeah, I think maybe it’s time,” I said. And, watching her face, I slid one finger inside her, found she was wet enough, pulled out, and pushed three fingers back in, a little roughly. Her eyes rolled back and her whole body welcomed me in. I slid out and back in again, and her mouth opened soundlessly, her back arched. I did it again, and again, experimenting, trying to learn everything about her in a few short strokes.

  I made a guess that she’d like to be fucked hard and fast, in direct contrast to my soft teasing game. Oh yeah. Then I thought maybe adding direct pressure on her G-spot would feel right, and within a second knew I’d guessed correctly. She held nothing back, her body and face telling eloquent stories about her body’s responses.

  Time enough later, or tomorrow, for my harness and dick. No time, right now, even to reach for the lube. She seemed close to coming already, and I didn’t want to tease her for even one moment more.

  I moved and took her clit in my mouth again, soon finding the steady side-to-side rhythm that made her cunt clench around my hand. I closed my eyes and put everything I had into pushing her over the edge, lost in her taste and smell, reaching as far as I could inside her with every stroke of my fingers.

  Rosalie went rigid, shaking, and her soft cries grew urgent. Her cunt clamped around my fingers, almost squeezing me out, but felt I knew what she needed. I pushed harder inside her.

  When I felt her muscles flex and heard the ropes attached to the headboard creak, I concentrated on her clit, flicking it hard with my tongue, once, twice, a third time…and she sucked her breath in and then wailed like a cat. She came in intense, shaking waves, her cunt’s deep throbbing squeezing my fingers, and I kept going, fucking her more and more gently until the tension slowly melted out of her muscles, and it was time to stop.

  I slid up her bound body, released the buckles on her wrist cuffs, and looked fondly at her. Breathing hard, flushed, and tear-streaked, she was more beautiful to me then than any woman I’d ever seen.

  Despite everything we’d done in the last hour, her lipstick was still raspberry-glossy and perfect.

  So I kissed her.

  LEASH

  Michele Serchuk

  Amanda and I were sitting in my living room after karate one morning, reading erotica, feeling each other out. Not literally. We were talking about bondage, the excitement of the forbidden. Fine in theory, but when she asked me if I liked being dominant or submissive, I froze. Couldn’t say the words, didn’t know her well enough, choked on shame and pride. I got out some words about power play, the erotic tension built into switching roles, and the transfer and exchange of power. All true, but I didn’t own anything directly. We went on to safer topics.

  Sunday afternoon, a few weeks later. Amanda sashays up the stairs, her libido reaching the fifth floor while her feet are still on three. She wanders about, losing clothing matter-of-factly. Well, yeah, it’s not like we’ve never changed together before. Forbidden fruit, dancing sprite turns naked around the room. Shows dark against white walls, cocoa sleek, fuzzy and wild. She’s happier without clothing, wants you to see her body. I know the feeling.

  “Look what I brought,” she says. Amanda brings toys. A leash and collar, black leather strip twirling out of her woven pouch. She stands sassy in the middle of the white floor, showing me what she’s brought to play with. “I have another one at home with spikes, but I didn’t want to get too intense, you know?”

  “Oh yeah, right. Cool. A leash.” And what the hell am I going to do with a leash? What’s proper leash protocol? I don’t want to say this is new to me, appear unsure of myself. Death before embarrassment, you know. My first impulse is always to act cool, a bad habit I’m trying to break. From inside my cool I’m trying to think, to gather myself. I’m more than a little intrigued, but something about this still makes me feel squirmy.

  So, what is it about this leash thing? It’s this object-thing and I want to conceal it, deny it. I don’t want to deal with its existence. Much more than any silk scarf or bathrobe sash tied tightly around my wrists, this object embodies my fascination and lust for power play, those words, dominance and submission . Object of ridicule, subject of snickering jokes about pathetic degenerates, shame I didn’t think I owned. I feel lurking vestiges of someone else’s puritan values and a flash of political indignation. Scarves are garments until the moment they become bondage, but that leash and collar has no other purpose. I want to touch it. I want to hide.

  That object in Amanda’s hands is confession, and I am remembering my grade-school jump rope made of stretchy, orange rubber tubing with white handles. I am remembering the thrill I got tying my ankles together in my dark bedroom at night when no one was watching. I was too young to know that heat flash as sex but old enough to know it was “bad,” to know better than to tell anyone, ever. I’m thinking of all those spankings my Barbie Dolls got. I’m thinking I don’t want to think about this now. I just want her to kiss me.

  Turning to find her, I move into her arms. We begin exploring each other, steamy and soft. Who is she, I wonder, and how can I please her? I’ve forgotten the collar, lost in her skin, in her curves. Something in her lies sleeping and I want to wake it up, see her on fire, feel her passion. I glide over her, inhale sweet spice, taste salt.

  Amanda makes whimpering, cooing noises as I slip fingers into her, feel her inner walls suck me inside. My fingers explore, feel the hard dimple of her womb as I push in deeper. I feel her slick and warm against my thigh as she rides me, lingers between my legs, stroking me. I float, riding lazy waves of sex-thrill.

  I have forgotten her toy. She hasn’t. It’s in her hands again, and I refuse to say “Hey, wait, I’m a leash virgin.” She gives it to me. Oh no, what the hell do I do with this now? Nice girls don’t play with leashes, and feminists don’t tie people up, especially not other women. Funny, I don’t recall these thoughts ever being so loud when I’ve played this way with a man. I don’t know if it’s the leash/scarf thing or a gender thing; my hormones are racing and I’m not even certain right now why I’m doing this, but I can’t back down and, truthfully, I can’t resist the challenge.

  I hold her down and slip the collar around her neck, moving her body forcefully, feeling her size and my strength. My robe is by the bed and I slip the sash out of the loops, grab her hands, and bind her wrists. Her pleasure is obvious to me, incites me to give her more, her movements and noises showing me the way to be this person, to dominate her. She squirms as I run the leash down between her breasts, between her legs, and yank it hard, up her back. Pinning her to the hard futon, I pull the leather tight. I wonder how the sharp tugs on the collar must feel and imagine the deliciousness of being trapped. Her ass twitches back and forth as she rubs herself against the leash, and I tentatively spank her a few times with the looped handle. It makes loud, satisfying, slapping noises. I do it again, more forcefully this time, and watch, fascinated, as she twitches harder.

  I am whispering to her, nibbling on her, watching her get hotter and hotter. My hands run over her body, moving her as it pleases me, catching her head, pulling her in to kiss her, spreading her thighs to expose her clit. I want to make her come.

  Remembering how she liked being penetrated, I begin to fuck her, not exploring like before but pushing, thrusting, filling her. Her response is immediate and fierce. She cries out and gives herself to me, wet and open. I have four fingers in her, see her juices shiny on my knuckles. Her moans come wilder and louder as she rubs herself back and forth over that black leather leash, swallowing half my hand, as she comes.

  We sit up laughing and I untie her hands. I’m beginning to surface, not sure where I’ve been, not even sure if I’m back yet. But she’s not done; she remembers
my words about role reversal and power play needing to go both ways. That leash and collar is in her hands again, and her imp eyes are fixed on me. “Your turn,” she says.

  Big mouth. Amanda is reaching for my neck. I feel politics and pride screaming in my stomach as a heat wave engulfs my cunt. I can’t move. No, I don’t want to move. But I want to struggle; I feel our near-equal strength as we wrestle, knowing she has to win. She has me, slips the collar around my throat, jerking my head back by my hair. It feels dangerous and forbidden. She tightens the collar almost past the point of comfort; blood pulses at my temples as I feel its rough pressure at my throat. I move over to give myself air, relaxing my guard; she has me, pulls me where she wants me, flat on my back. She wants my hands; I see the sash and hold out my wrists even as I pretend to fight. She ties them so tightly that the only way to keep it from hurting is to bend my elbows with my arms stretched out and over my head. I have never felt so helpless. Slowly I recognize that there is nothing I can do, that she has to please me now. I lie there, wrists aching, and luxuriate in the realization that I am hers and the pleasure now is mine. She has a dildo in her hand as she moves in over me. I’m your captive, I think, do me.

  Amanda’s eyes sparkle. Her hand twists in my hair as her gaze travels over my body. My breathing sounds ragged in my ears. I am waiting for what comes next. I feel her body pinning me down and the heat of her thigh against my crotch. Nothing comes next. I am waiting. Amanda is staring at me.

  “You like this, don’t you?” she asks. Her voice is soft, low, and in complete control. I buck upward and grind against her hip in response. “That’s not an answer. Tell me. I’m waiting.” I can’t speak. I am choking from deep inside. The words are stuck in my chest somewhere, and I cannot say anything. I wonder what I had been thinking of when I started flirting with her that morning on my sofa. I remember starting off feeling so daring; I don’t think I had believed this would actually happen.