Chicago Erotica 101 workshop on Thursday, BlogHer, free bondage story, "Obedience"

A reminder that I'm in Chicago July 26-29, July 26th teaching Erotica 101 at 7 pm at The Pleasure Chest, the rest of the weekend at BlogHer with the likes of Susie Bright, Amy Sedaris, Susan Mernit, Always Aroused Girl, Viviane, Deborah Siegel, Felicia Sullivan, Amber Rhea, and many more awesome bloggers. If you're going, on Friday from 1-1:30 I'll be selling and signing copies of He's on Top and She's on Top at the BlogHer bookstore.





Also, you have one more week (through July 31st) to get a FREE copy of Naughty Spanking Stories from A to Z 2 sent directly from me. U.S. addresses only. All you have to do is buy either He's on Top or She's on Top from Amazon.com, then forward the receipt to rachelkramerbussel at gmail.com with "Amazon" in the subject line, and I will send out a book to you. I'll even sign it if you tell me who to make it out to. You can read stories from He's on Top and She's on Top here.

But since you may have already done that, here's a from my anthology Secret Slaves: Erotic Stories of Bondage. I wrote it under one of my pseudonyms, Tanya Turner, and there are 29 other super hot pansexual bondage stories in the book too:



Obedience
by Tanya Turner

The most delicious moment always comes when John runs his fingertips along the back of my neck. That's really all it takes for me to go rigid with fearful delight, or delighted fear, I'm not really sure. Sometimes he'll just come up behind me when I'm washing the dishes or brushing my teeth and simply breathe on my neck, quietly, almost creepily, except that it's our ritual. It's his signal to me that whatever I'm doing stops, immediately. I turn off the sink or put down the toothbrush and immediately put my wrists behind me. "I'm ready, sir," I say, my voice sometimes trembling because no matter how much I think I'm ready, I'm always taken back to the beginning with him. That's saying a lot after a decade together.

I follow him when he bids me to turn around, my hands still behind my back, already locked into place by silent agreement. It's always clear to both of us that I am choosing to obey him, even though in the moment it feels like I'd take death by fire over anything else. That choice seems so predetermined, yet it makes me feel even more subservient to know that were I given any other option, I'd always choose to do his bidding. Sometimes I find myself placing my hands in front of or behind me, arms together, my face gone soft with the need to be told what to do, directed, schooled, because he's the perfect teacher.

We don't speak and the silence is slightly eerie. I long to tell him how wet I am, how my entire body, not just my pussy, aches for him as I watch his strong back marching ahead of me, leading to the bedroom. I long to whimper, to run up and put my arms around him, or at least kiss him on the back of his sweaty neck, but I keep them in place. We arrive, and he points to the huge cross stationed none-too-subtly in the corner of our massive bedroom, one of the added bonuses of living in a gargantuan suburban home. I practically float over to it, settling against its familiar wooden contours, my arms up above my head, my legs spread, my body conforming to the X of its shape as if I spent every day like this. Just feeling the wood against my arms and legs, the thin layer of my pubic hair flattened against its front, my ass, as well as my true nature, exposed, is enough to make me shiver. I clamp my lips together, knowing no sound is expected of me. The ropes are softened from washing and use, and also seem to fill a groove in my skin, though John makes sure not to be too rough. There are never marks after a day or two, though sometimes I wish there could be, wish I could gently rub my wrist or lean down and massage my ankle, having my coworkers feel sorry for my carpal tunnel or poor heeled feet, when really I'd be reliving these moments that make the drudgery of the corporate workday more than worth it.

His fingers as he fastens the ropes are agile, steady, practiced. He can get me all trussed up in under two minutes, the knots sturdy and simple. "Lift," he says, his words economical as I wiggle one ankle and then the next, confirming that I cannot escape—I'd be heartbroken if I could. Before he gets to my arms, he trails his fingertips lightly up the backs of my thighs until he reaches my pussy, where he even more lightly skims a lone finger along my sex. I long to sink my hips down, jam his finger deep inside me, show him what I really want, but I know that would get me the exact opposite. Instead I hold still, my insides churning, my outsides for once not betraying me. If you saw me from the back, you might think I was asleep, but up close, I am trembling imperceptibly. I bite my lip, my teeth grinding against the plump pink skin, as he rises, pressing his pajama-clad body against me so I can feel his erection as he leans forward to tie my wrists to the wood. These he doesn't do as tightly, and he makes sure I know that he wants this just as much as I do. When he's done, he weaves his strong fingers through my hair, giving a tug that sends tears of arousal to my eyes and my head flying back. "You'll be silent, I'm sure, Lucy," he says, his eyes meeting mine upside down. I swallow heavily, sure he can see the movement in my neck, before he pushes my head back into place.

He digs his nails into the skin at my nape, then scrapes them down my back. When he reaches my ass, he grabs a handful of flesh, hard, squeezing, pinching. It hurts, and for a moment, that's all it does. My body absorbs the pain, my wrists, of their own accord, tugging against their bonds. Every shiver I make seems to reverberate through my body, my legs rippling against the ropes, the flashes of lightning traveling down and then back up until they center in my cunt. He lets go of my ass and even though it hurt, I miss it. His gaze burns into me, and I hope my ass is pretty enough, firm enough, pleasant enough for him. It always is, yet there's still that chance that this time it will fail to pass muster, will soundly disappoint.

He walks away, and instead of my body sagging with relief against the wood, I stand straighter, as much as that can be done when shackled to a large wooden X. My ears perk up while my eyes and lips stay shut, as I wait for his return. Even though I'm listening, I actually don't hear him until the loud whooshing of the flogger flying through the air startles me back into the present. Moments later, it's raining down against my back. I'm much more of an ass girl, to tell you the truth—a few solid smacks against my behind and I'm quivering, trembling, in a word—gone. But my back takes more getting used to. The flogger doesn't hurt so much as pound into me, its impact magnified by the soft suede strands as they all thud against me at once. His practiced arm whacks my shoulders, and I feel the heat against my back before it travels lower. My limbs strain against their bonds, and every time I don't escape, every time the delicious rope reminds me of my place in our world, my pussy gets a little tighter and wetter.

The back is just a warmup for what I consider The Real Thing. While the flogger can feel soothing against my back, like a kinky deep tissue massage, on my ass, John's anything but gentle. He rears his hand back and lets fly, the suede strips slamming against one cheek and then the next. My body gets pushed against the wood, and I revel in the impact, the force, the feeling of the flogger hitting my skin but then going deeper, its dual impact walloping me through and through. In this process, we meld into one, joining forces as he lands each blow as if offering me a bit of himself. It's beyond the ache for his cock inside me, beyond the rush of pain and heat, beyond the ropes chaining me to the wood. The details stop mattering the more I skid against my restraints, the more I succumb utterly and fully to these urges that take me higher and higher even as they literally keep me securely in place, for what they are really doing is letting me take flight. If you've never truly been tied up, never been fastened snugly like a baby, grounded so all you have left is your own desire, you may not understand the sheer bubbly joy his beating brings me. I am at his mercy, should he choose to pause or stop, choose to lance me along the backs of my legs, or turn me around and beat my breasts, making pinpricks of blood form along my chest. I am his and only his, the only one I'll let strap me down like this, the only one who can do it and give me such euphoria, because I know he knows precisely what it means when I do.

He waits until I am frantic, on fire, going mad, until I could both stay in this position forever and am clawing at the wood, giving up on my manicure to dig my nails into anything they can reach—the X, the rope, my skin, in order to reach down and touch my most sacred place. Only when I am that frantic, that far gone, does he relent. The blows get softer, maddeningly teasing as the suede lightly brushes me, like he's dusting me off, polishing my pink skin. Then he drops it on the floor, where it lands with a solid thud.

This is when, were we in another sort of position or location, he'd tell me to spread my legs—but they already are, wider than I normally make them. His fingers find what they are seeking, then tap against my open pussy lips. I am exposed, my cunt his for the taking as he taps away, his fingers thudding harder and harder against my sex until I almost want to cry. He switches hands, using his left for my pussy and his right to smack my ass, the noises and sensations tipping me over the edge. I've given up clawing, struggling, moving, and just wait for him to do whatever he's going to do to me, my body ready to please.

And because he's not a cruel master but a kind one, he gives me what I crave the most—himself. He unties me but repositions me bent over the bed, my arms fastened now with fuzzy pink cuffs, way too girlie for the kinds of things we've just been doing, but they work nonetheless. My legs are free to move where they will, but all I want to do is spread them like before, and I do, offering myself fully to his cock, which plunges into my dripping hole. My wrists are warm against the fur, but not as warm as my insides as his hot spear burns me until I'm entirely molten, melting, mush. I'm his, sinking and sagging against him, my pussy aflame with the buzz of anticipation, the buzz of waiting, the buzz of being tied up and waiting for him to take me, my very own obedience training, and I've somehow been awarded the greatest prize of all. Lucky me, I think as I come, exploding against him, the cuffs, the bed, already looking forward to doing it all over again.