Email: rachelkramerbussel at gmail.com



 

Lusty Lady

BLOG OF RACHEL KRAMER BUSSEL
Watch me talk about my debut as an author, Sex & Cupcakes: A Juicy Collection of Essays, in this Q&A with my publisher Thought Catalog Books

Monday, December 09, 2013

20 sexy BDSM stories for you in Best Bondage Erotica 2014

My latest annual bondage collection, Best Bondage Erotica 2014, is almost here, and I'm so thrilled! One thing I love about editing multiple anthologies on the same topic, be it spanking, submission, dominance or bondage, is that I truly get to see the creativity and variety inherent in the topic. You might think after you've published over 60 stories on a kink or fetish or activity it might get old, but the beauty of erotica, and why the genre is thriving and new writers want in on it, is because there's always room for new twists. There may not be any new sex acts under the sun, but there are always new ways to describe them, just as there are new ways of telling any story. So without further ado, 20 teasers from each of the stories in the book, which should be in brick and mortar and virtual stores by the end of the year! Ebook and audiobook links will be forthcoming once those are released; I expect Kindle and Nook editions by February, but am not sure about the Audible version date just yet.

bbe2014cover

Buy Best Bondage Erotica 2014 from:

Amazon

Amazon UK

Bn.com

Books-a-Million

Powell's

IndieBound (find your local independent bookstore)

Cleis Press


All rights reserved; do not repost without authors' permission. Story titles are in bold, and yes, we've got a great foreword by renowned author Laura Antoniou, of The Marketplace series fame.

Best Bondage Erotica 2014 edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel, published by Cleis Press

Foreword: No Bondage Please, I’m Kinky by Laura Antoniou
Introduction: Cruel to Be Kind, and Vice Versa

Rope Dancer by Kathleen Tudor


“So, do you like all kinds of ropes, or just the kind you can hang from?”

That caught her attention. She looked startled as her eyes snapped back to me. “Pardon?”

“I was just wondering if you like the feel of ropes on your skin when you’re not the one in control.” I suddenly felt like a world-class idiot. She looked me up and down, buying herself time, I thought. I straightened, feeling foolish and wanting to gather my pride around me, but something in her eyes had changed.

“Maybe you should show me what you mean,” she said.

I laughed. “Have a drink. Decide if you even like me first. Are you from around here?”

Behind the Door by Kay Jaybee

Nina, her eyes closed, safe in the knowledge that Laura would be out for at least another forty minutes, pictured the white van driver. His face was grave as Louisa read out her displeasure, tapping her black pen on top of her notebook as if to punctuate every word of her annoyance. He had failed to make her climax the day before, so today his own satisfaction would be hampered by the presence of handcuffs. After swift and unflinching orders, his ginger counterpart did his mistress’s bidding, and snapped a pair of cold metal handcuffs around white-van man’s wrists, yanking his arms roughly behind his back while he knelt, cowering on the dusty wooden floor.

The moment his companion was shackled, the ginger man retook his position in the queue of three before Louisa, as she walked up and down before them. In her silence, the gloom of the unlit room enveloped the dominatrix like warm fog, out of which she shone like an enticing beacon of temptation.

Louisa inclined her head toward the men, as if giving them a signal to begin. They rose together, the tethered man clumsy but still forthcoming, as their mistress lay back on the only item of furniture in the discarded shop, a faded red- velvet chaise lounge, which Nina remembered perching on as she flicked through various books.

My Own Device by Raziel Moore

I pushed her gently forward, so that her upper thighs fit in the wooden channels. Anna had to move her feet just about shoulder width apart on the floor to fit right, her loose skirt easily letting her. That skirt came down to just above her knees, showing me stockinged calves. As she put her weight against the wood, it gave a low creaking sound and rocked a bit.

“That sounds… sturdy,” she said, sarcastically.

I grinned. “I wanted it to make sounds.” I reached to a side of the device and pulled a lever, resulting in a deep, wooden thunking sound. Anna’s expression told me she felt it against her legs. The slight rocking of the shape stopped as it locked.

“Let me guess,” she said, turning her head to give me a crooked smile as she leaned forward over the contoured top of the thing. My eyes followed her body as she settled. The curves I’d sculpted into the wood from memory of body and hands were as good as I could have hoped for. Anna’s belly, chest, shoulders fit as if cradled, and her hands reached forward for the two polished grips.

She knew what she was doing, moving slowly, languidly, seductively for me. And the curve of the thing raised her ass just so…

The Neckcloth by Annabel Joseph

“We have been through this enough times.” He tilted his chin so she could slide her fingers inside his collar. “You should be an expert at neckcloth removal by now.”

She hissed as the end of the pin pricked her finger.

“Let me see,” he said.

She held up the injured digit. He kissed it and slipped the pearl-tipped pin into a pocket. “You’ll live. Proceed.”

She blinked and pouted and went back to her task. From time to time, her knuckles brushed against the fair stubble on his cheeks. He was tall and blond, haughty and handsome. Posey knew that other ladies talked about her husband behind their fans. They whispered that he was sinfully pleasant to look at, a fine figure of a man.

They didn’t know what he was like behind closed doors.

“The longer you take, the more time I have to hone my jealous outrage.”

Anyway Sommer Marsden

I was stuck.

I wiggled my arms and tried not to panic. It wasn’t a big deal. Not really. Mason was just in the next room brushing his teeth. But still, I’d have to admit I was stuck. Take the teasing…

I struggled some more.

I was just starting to sweat when I heard that dark chuckle, felt my skin rise up in a revolt of goose flesh at his warm velvet voice. “Having some trouble there, Robin?”

I glanced up, gave him a fake laugh. “No. It’s fine. I’m just…” He watched as I pushed my arms against the wall. How could I be this solidly stuck in the arms of a jacket? Even worse, how could I be in the position to have to admit it and ask for help?

Eel by Annabeth Leong

An idea sparked in my chest, mingled with desire I’d never admitted before. “You want to get tied up, right? You don’t need Ethan for that.”

She groaned. “No one wants to tie me anymore. They’re all afraid of being embarrassed.”

Alicia spat the last word out, and I gave her a look. “For good reason.”

“Whatever. It’s still true. Nobody wants to play with an eel. At least, not an eel they can’t beat.”

A little warning voice spoke up in the back of my head. I’d decided long ago not to play with Alicia, pretty as she was. I liked being her friend, and I honestly didn’t know how well I’d handle her ego challenges myself.

I told that warning voice to go to hell.

No Strings Attached by James McArthur

I grasp the ends of the rope, nylon weave squeaking against my sweating fingertips. My shoulders ache and the coffee table is hard beneath my spine. My cock is throbbing inside my tight briefs. So many nights’ fantasies are at play in my mind, I almost don’t realize Graham is talking to me.

He grips my chin and makes me meet his gaze, shaking the images from my mind. “Nick, are you with me?” He told me not to speak without permission. Does asking a direct question confer permission? I don’t know. I don’t know the rules. But I want to learn them. I want Graham to teach me them. I stay quiet. “Good boy,” he says. “I want you to keep a tight hold of that rope. It’s only looped around your wrists loosely, but I’ve made it short enough to give you some tension. How do you feel?”

Do I speak? My answer would be too big for my mouth. I feel fuzzy in the head, weak at the knees, short of breath, hot and cold. I don’t even know if Graham appreciates every little subtlety of the situation that’s got me like this. Helpless against my body’s craving. The fact that I’ve got my coveralls rolled right down to my hips and no top on and he’s openly assessing my chest and abs, while he is still fully clothed. The fact that he’s looming over me, his fingers still pressed into my jaw while I lie here completely immobilized. Not by the rope, which is more symbolic than effective, but by my lust and the fact that Graham is promising to make my long-held but unfulfilled fantasies real.

Roping the Cowboy by Teresa Noelle Roberts

“Have you ever tied up a cowboy, ma’am? Because I’m available if you’d like to.”

I turned to the man who’d just propositioned me, ready to snarl at him.

Instead, I smiled.

I live in a city with the unofficial motto “Keep Austin Weird,” so I’m inured to oddity. And since I’m a pretty woman with flame-patterned hair and a fondness for wearing Docs with fishnets and very short skirts, I sometimes get hit on in fairly outrageous ways.

Which is fine if the outrageous come-on is also polite. Hell, if the polite outrageous line is being delivered by someone hot, I’m not above considering it. And the guy asking the provocative question was a tall, handsome, dark-haired example of one- hundred- percent- genuine cowboy.

Meeting by L. C. Spoering

“You came all this way to get fucked?”

It was not much of a question at that point. She stood stripped to the panties she’d taken more than a little care to procure—red, lace, bow, the works—and shivered a little in the artificial cool of the air conditioner on full blast. Certainly it seemed as though she’d come there to get fucked.

The hotel was one of the more anonymous places this could happen—the bed covered in a muted flower pattern, the carpet under her feet an inoffensive dusty pink—and there was a certain kind of shame in that. Even the art on the walls seemed fashioned to be as unobtrusive as possible: flowers in a pot, a table in the sun. It was intended to leave the boarders suspended in place, neither here nor there, the semi-opaque curtains on the windows blocking out the view of the street, making it any room in any city, the traffic sounds seemingly miles away, muted by double-paned glass.

Still, she nodded, feeling the hard lump in her throat move up and down as though she’d swallowed a golf ball. Goose bumps ran up each bare arm and leg, and the fine hairs at the small of her back prickled over the ill-conceived tramp stamp she’d gotten there, back in college—a rose, faded this many years later, but marking the area just above the crack of her ass like a sign, a target.

The Snake by Jacqueline Brocker

The act of tying wasn’t, for Sybil, the best part. If she could have put Adam into a machine and he’d appeared at the other end fully bound, exactly to her specifications, she’d have been content. Or a quick, single one-two of clamping his wrists and ankles down or to the bedposts; that she did enjoy, the grip of his straining limbs under hers. The binding, the elaborate act of it—that was for Adam. That was what he loved.

For her, foreplay was listening to him breathe—the gasps, the sharp intakes of breath, a whistling kettle, puppy-pantings—as his mobility grew more restricted. He’d fight at her hands and the rope—not a token gesture, but not a true push-back—and with each of her victories, his face would fall, his lips parting, eyelashes fluttering.

All the time, his cock, which she usually left free, was growing harder, and harder.

Clipped by Lucy Felthouse

“Why, what are you going to do? Clip me to the chair?”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m going to do.” He held each end of the row and stretched it out to its full length. “Wow, you were bored, weren’t you, babe? Just as well, too, because I’m definitely going to put this to good use. Hold on to the arms of the chair, please.”

Nancy frowned, then reluctantly did as Gerard said. Immediately he looped the chain around one of her wrists, fiddling and manipulating to create a makeshift handcuff, then did the same with her other arm. So now she was pinned to the chair with sort-of handcuffs, and the handcuffs were connected by a row of paper clips. It looked bizarre; it was bizarre, but somehow, the situation took the arousal inflicted by Gerard’s kiss and multiplied it. The warmth between her legs grew hotter, and as her husband leaned down to capture her lips with his once more, blood rushed to her crotch, and her labia and clit began to swell.

Tart Cherry by Kathleen Delaney-Adams

The rope smelled damp, like earth and dirt, a scent that made her pussy swell. She inhaled deeply, inviting her hunger to enter her holes, to chafe her insides, stoking a burning need that bound her to him. Eyes downcast as she had been ordered, she relied on other senses to guide and arouse her. Her nostrils were full of hemp, the thickness of its odor, and the sweaty scent of him, a whiff of his cologne, and the musk of her own sex wafting up faintly to tease her. Her ears strained to catch a hint of him—his mood, his movements, his breath. She ached to anticipate what he might have desired of her, what might come next, listening intently for a whisper of his own dark longings.

An hour ago, she had wandered the dank rooms of the basement as if bored, pausing now and again briefly if a scene caught her eye, dismissing most. She was hard to impress—she prided herself on it, imagining herself a femme of vast experience, a heavy player among heavy players, and who the hell could top that? No one here tonight, surely.

It was rare to find herself without a play partner, yet tonight she couldn’t quite bring her interest to a peak, preferring to stay on the sidelines of the Dykes at Play party. Truth be told, and you didn’t hear it from her, the last few months had felt like yawners, and she feared her pussy stank of desperation and loneliness. How damn unattractive. She was shaking her head in self-disgust when she turned and found him watching her.

He exuded butch confidence—reeked of it—leaning casually against the wall, hands loose at his sides, salt-and-pepper hair, gray-blue eyes perusing the room, packing bulge beneath his jeans. Yum.

Ring of Fire by Michelle Augello-Page

Lights flickered in the distance, even though I could barely see the house through the thick canopy of trees. I bit my lip, trying to contain my excitement, as my master drove slowly along the narrow gravel road. He had made reservations months ago as a special gift to me, for our anniversary. The trip didn’t take as long as we had expected, and we were early. He parked the car and shut off the ignition, then reached over the gear shaft and pulled the seat belt tight across my chest.

“Open your legs.”

I opened my legs, wide, and my already short dress rose even higher, exposing my shaved pussy. Holding the seat belt with one hand, he smacked my pussy with the other. Each slap released a deep moan from inside me, as waves of pleasure-pain washed over me, revealing my excitement in the moist wetness between my thighs. He felt my arousal with his hand, pressing his palm against my heat, then slid his fingers inside me.

Belted In by Roxanna Cross

The leather of my chastity belt bites into my tender flesh. I squeeze my thighs together at the flood of need that moves through me. My eyes remain glued to the cargo cart rolling out onto the tarmac. They lovingly caress the bright yellow straps and knots holding the luggage in place.

Subconsciously, I tug on my sleeves until they cover my thumbs. I can’t help but wonder if the other travelers see through my power suit. If they notice the puckered, criss-crossed diamond shapes marring my aboriginal golden skin. Would they be appalled by the red welts circling my wrists and ankles?

Strong hands unhinge the yellow mesh and my mouth waters. I squeeze my thighs together. Once again I feel the bite of leather. I know I need to get myself under control before the plane takes off. I close my eyes and go through my breathing exercise.

Pegged by Emily Bingham

“Do you trust me?” I ask, straddling his lap.

He looks at me from the dark pools of his eyes over the rim of his thick glasses, the hint of a shy grin on his lips. Slowly, he nods, almost as if it pains him to admit it. I take his curly head in my hands and lean in to kiss him. The boy is talented with his tongue, his mouth so inviting that at times it’s easy to get lost in. Part of me wants to be greedy,; roll over and let him have his way—, splay me open and worship the folds between my legs as long as he likes.

I resist the urge, wanting tonight to be about him and taking him where he wants to go. It’s his turn to be small and defenseless for an evening. I want to be so kind to him that it becomes cruel. This game of taking control over such a sweet man, a gentle giant who dwarfs me in every way, amuses me each time we play it. Who am I to tell him what to do? His hand is big enough to engulf half my chest;, with just the strength of

one arm he could—and regularly does—toss me aside and take what he wants. We both know he could turn the tables at any time.

Tight-Rope Walker by Tilly Hunter

“It was your idea, remember,” Jake said as we puffed up the hill with all the other Sunday afternoon ramblers.

“I know, but I didn’t quite realize how walking in it would make me feel.”

“Too late to change your mind now. Even if I was inclined to take it off, which I’m not, there’s nowhere secluded to do it.”

He was right. It had been my idea to climb the 1,335 feet of Wrekin, one of the most popular family strolls in England’s West Midlands while wearing a karada, a rope body harness. And there was indeed nowhere secluded where Jake could take it off me. We’d come out of the trees half a mile back and now the terrain was just bare stones and scrubby grass.

Jake had practiced the various harness possibilities several times since getting into the more intricate shibari bondage. But never before had I strode out for miles uphill while wearing it under my clothes, and I’d had no idea of how it would feel. No idea of the tantalizing but unsatisfying friction against my clit, the rawness as it rubbed the tender membranes of my pussy and ass, the difficulty taking the deep inhalations I needed against the rope around my chest and belly. It was deep discomfort of the kind I liked best.

An Appreciation for Beautiful Things by Giselle Renarde

She held out her finger and pressed it against his lips. “Hurts like hell.”

He kissed it better, then kissed her lips. “You obviously can’t be trusted to keep your body in check.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Dell untied the thick ribbon that held the bedroom curtains open. “It means that you need a little help.”

The black satin looked like a million bucks against Genevieve’s pinkish skin. He wrapped it around her wrists, securing her hands above her head. There. Now she couldn’t swat at the brush while he whacked her. She looked good facedown on the white duvet with a long black ribbon tied around her wrists.

“That’s better,” he said, rubbing his erection across her hands. He leaned over and kissed her hair while her fingers struggled to grasp his dick. “Now back to work.”

Mind Fuck by Kissa Starling

Quinton stands at the foot of the bed, gazing. She wears nothing, as instructed. Plumped- up pillows prop her arms on each side. More padding lifts her calves and feet, thighs parted, displaying her luscious center. Her chestnut hair cascades behind her head, curling on the ends close to her shoulder.

He steps over to her, opening his fingers wide above her wrists. Two small pieces of packing tape and a ball gag liea in his hand. He touches his warm lips to hers, mimicking the insertion of the gag. Cool air passes where their lips part. The gag sits beneath her chin as a reminder.

“I hereby secure you, Cari;, my fingers weave bindings across your forearm.” He bends to kiss the inside of her wrist; his tongue trails to the crook in her elbow. “Your wrists and arms are immobile. The tape secures you to the bed.” His fingers pause at her breasts. The tiny amount of adhesive bonds to her delicate skin.

“Your pink rosy nipples will be scarlet red when I finish with them.” His palms push her large breasts together until the nipples touch. He covers them with his mouth, raking down with his front teeth over the peaks. She gasps beneath him. Her shoulders press into the sheets and her pelvis tilts. Her breathing quickens. His tongue lathers thin marks left behind. Cari shakes her chest and whimpers when the bindings limit her reach.

Wearing Purple by Elizabeth Coldwell

Standing with his back to the whipping post, naked but for a length of ribbon tied in a neat bow around his semi-erect penis and his wrists tethered behind him with the bright purple pashmina, he couldn’t help but reflect that his wife certainly knew how to bear a grudge.

She must have been planning her revenge from the moment he pressed the hastily bought, even more hastily wrapped present into her hands on his return from his business trip to Belgium. For Ramona, Belgium meant one thing, and that was chocolate. Her only weakness, a box of it was never far from her plump, creamy fingers, ready for her to dip into. While she often grumbled about the extra pounds that had gathered on her hips and thighs as the years passed, he loved the look and feel of her abundant flesh, the weight of her body on his as they fucked.

When he told her he’d bring her back something she’d love, she’d dropped heavy hints about a master chocolatier she’d seen interviewed in one of the Sunday supplements. His exquisite handmade pralines, it was claimed, were those by which all others would be measured and found wanting. Nothing less would do for her, so how he ever thought she’d be satisfied with a pashmina instead, he still didn’t know. His excuses that his business meeting had overrun and he hadn’t had time to hunt for the chocolate shop had been greeted with cold-faced silence.

“I’ll make it up to you, darling,” he’d promised.

“Oh, I know you will,” had been her reply. She’d all but thrown the length of fine cashmere material at him. “I mean, purple, of all colors. In all the years we’ve been married, when have you ever seen me wearing purple?”

Dual Mastery by Rachel Kramer Bussel

In some ways, my two submissive, sexy sluts are a study in contrasts. Tanya is short and curvy, with natural red hair and freckles, while Wendy is almost as tall as I am (six feet), pale with jet-black hair. Next to them I tend to look rather middle of the road, but I don’t mind; it just attracts more curiosity and attention once people realize that both women belong to me. I like to make people wonder what it is I’ve done to garner such female devotion; those who truly want to know are welcome to find out.

I’ve told them they’re allowed to dress in jeans and sneakers when we travel, but they both have enough fashionista and exhibitionist in them to want to dress to the nines while in the air. “After all, if you’re gonna go, don’t you want to look fabulous while doing it?” Tanya once joked, masking what I knew was a true fear of death by plane crash. That’s another thing I love about her: she is relentlessly optimistic, and forces that optimism to override her fears, something she’s applied to our BDSM play as well as all areas of her life. She teaches me just as much as I’ve taught her, and now that Wendy is a part of our lives, I see Tanya teaching Wendy what it truly means to submit, while I oversee their erotic education.

I’ve learned so much about women from living with two of them, seeing how they are different and how they are alike, how they behave similarly when surrendering to me, and differently. Yes, Wendy is our slave, but she’s as much a part of our family as anyone else; both Tanya and I would take a bullet for her. Her slave status is not a trapping; rather, it’s a way of life, a way of relating that makes life richer for all of us. They are both extremely eager to please, to provide, to obey, but each does so in slightly different ways. I know exactly how hard each of them can be pushed, what kinds of spankings they can take, how much they like to struggle, what naughty words push them to the edge of orgasm. It’s this ongoing process of learning, of plotting what will thrill each of them, that makes being their master a joy and, at times, a challenge, one I willingly take on, with pride.

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1 Comments:

At December 09, 2013, Blogger Elise-Maria Barton said...

Wow, I am so glad I won a copy of this! I can't wait to crack a good bottle of wine and chew on these juicy stories!

 

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