Best Bondage Erotica 2012 by Rachel Kramer Bussel Page A

didn’t. He just thought he should, based on the one-size-fits-all lesson of porn.
    But there was more than one way of making a man suffer exquisitely. And the way I had in mind we would both enjoy exquisitely in the end.
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    â€œYou look so good like that,” I purred, running my nails lightly across Martin’s straining abs. I surprised myself with the husky, lusty quality of my voice, but he took my breath away. I was no mistress of intricate shibari, and the way I’d tied him to the bed wouldn’t earn any prizes for beauty or elegance. The way his body looked, spread-eagled and taut with desire, was another story. He was so gorgeous in his helplessness, yet at the same time, he didn’t seem helpless at all. Martin had gentle hands and a quiet demeanor, at least around me, but he also had muscles, and the way I’d positioned him made those muscles stand out. He looked like a bound, tattooed young god who chose to be exactly where he was for mysterious reasons of his own.
    Maybe not so mysterious: the straining cock was a pretty good clue. But he looked no less divine for his obvious desires. Hell, he looked more so.
    I couldn’t keep my hands off Martin, but luckily I didn’t have to.
    That was the whole point of this exercise, the whole point of having my beautiful boy tied so securely to the bed—to touch him, to tease him past what he thought he could bear and prove to him that he could bear it, and to make it end in pleasure that was also almost past bearing.
    I began with his nipple.
    When I caught it in between my long red fingernails, he braced himself for a twist, a cruel pinch. I could see in his wide,
entreating eyes that he both feared and hoped for it.
    Instead, I caressed first one then the other with all the delicacy I could muster, applying just enough pressure so it pleasured rather than tickled. Then I took one into my mouth, licking and sucking and teasing the little nub, nipping down enough to vary the kind of pleasure he experienced, but not enough to push it over into real pain.
    It occurred to me as I did that that I’d never played with his nipples this way. I’d bitten them, put clothespins on them, dribbled a bit of hot wax on them, but never simply caressed them. In fact, it had been a long time since I had thought of doing this to a man, and I was surprised by how much I was enjoying it.
    â€œMa’am…” he said, something in his tone sounding like the beginning of a protest, as if he didn’t think it was right that I lick and kiss his body.
    I shut him up with a kiss. “I don’t want to gag you,” I explained as I pulled away from his luscious lips. “Not today. But I swear I will if you say something stupid, like you’re not worthy of this kind of attention.”
    He shut up, confirming my suspicions of what was going through his silly, subby head.
    And once he was quiet, I went back to work on his nipples until he wasn’t quiet anymore. Soft moaning, though, was a perfectly acceptable noise, a delicious noise—in fact, the very reason I hadn’t wanted to gag him.
    I raised my lips from a nipple now swollen from suckling and red from my lipstick. “Sweet music, Martin,” I murmured.
    Then I started kissing my way down his body.
    When my lips reached somewhere around midbelly, he jumped as best he could in his bonds.
    When my lips brushed the tight, dark curls of his pubes while entirely avoiding his straining cock, he let out a stifled noise that
might have been a bitten-off curse. I chuckled, and continued kissing and stroking down one muscular thigh, nipping and running my fingernails lightly down the more sensitive skin of his inner thigh until he shivered against his bonds. When I reached his bound ankle, I outlined the rope with my tongue. He shivered at that and sighed. I told him, rather than asked him, “I bet you’d forgotten that I might be gentle with you, but