Twisted: Bondage With an Edge Read online

  Copyright © 2014 Pretty Things Press.

  All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted in newspaper, magazine, radio, television, or online reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying or recording, or by information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Published in the United States by Cleis Press, Inc.,

  2246 Sixth Street, Berkeley, California 94710.

  Cover design: Scott Idleman/Blink

  Cover photograph: Willie B. Thomas/Getty Images

  Text design: Frank Wiedemann

  First Edition.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  E-book ISBN: 978-1-62778-021-6

  Contents

  Introduction: Gimme a Kink!

  Tie Me Up • ANDREA DALE

  Foundation Stone • JAX BAYNARD

  Love to Hate • MOLLY MOORE

  Dry Spell • KRISHNA LLOYD

  The Customer’s Waiting • GISELLE RENARDE

  Bound by Sight • J. SINCLAIRE

  A Keeper • SOMMER MARSDEN

  Bondage Blogging • MEADOW PARKER

  The Saturday Pet • N. T. MORLEY

  Wilderness Test • VERONICA WILDE

  Be There with Bells On • JOAN DEFERS

  Demica • TAHIRA IQBAL

  Jacob’s Note • DEREK MCDANIEL

  Any Lightness between Black and White • DANTE DAVIDSON

  Stag Beetle • SACCHI GREEN

  Hands Down • RACHEL KRAMER BUSSEL

  Sylvia’s Transgression • TAMSIN FLOWERS

  Body Temperature • THOMAS S. ROCHE

  Camwhore • AUBURN SANDERS

  Twisted Realities • KIKI DELOVELY

  Rope Drought • TERESA NOELLE ROBERTS

  Justice • SADEY QUINN

  Darkness and Light • SOPHIA VALENTI

  Broken • ALISON TYLER

  Tie Me Down • DAN GROGAN

  About the Authors

  About the Editor

  INTRODUCTION: GIMME A KINK!

  By now you know that I’m on a search, a quest, a journey into the unknown. Oh, wait. That’s not right. I do know bondage. I know it like the back of my bound hands. After editing Best Bondage Erotica (volumes 1 and 2), Hurts So Good, Love at First Sting, B Is for Bondage, Pleasure Bound and a slew of others, I definitely am well-acquainted with the words and world of the BDSM trade. But that doesn’t mean I’ve had enough. I can’t get enough. There’s never enough.

  I’ve been a bondage fanatic since I first understood that the word obey could be used in a bedroom. That on my knees on a hardwood floor could be sexier than sprawled in a bed of silken, leopard-print sheets. That a velvet blindfold over my eyes or cold steel cuffs on my wrists could make my heart pitter-patter faster than a bouquet of scarlet roses or a glittery piece of jewelry.

  And that’s how the authors in Twisted feel, as well. These are the stories that delve deep down into what bondage means, stories that will make you perk up and take notice. Or bind you down and make you behave.

  Like this snippet from Kristina Lloyd’s transcendent “Dry Spell”:

  I hadn’t realized what a sadist my new boyfriend was until I’d granted him control of my orgasms. I hadn’t realized, either, what a thrill I’d get from doing as I was told, from obeying Ray’s orders even when he wasn’t there.

  See? There’s that word obey.

  And again, in Veronica Wilde’s dreamy “Wilderness Test”:

  “I knew you were a disobedient counselor, but I had no idea you’d need this much discipline. You are going to be retrained, starting now. Lesson one: obey your senior counselor.”

  Suddenly, her tied wrists were rising over her head. Dax was tying her to something overhead, probably a tree branch.

  I love when the Doms talk like that. You can hear the timbre of his voice, can’t you? You can close your eyes and fall into the story.

  N. T. Morley’s “The Saturday Pet” takes things to a different level:

  Tera was trained and usually obedient. Sometimes she did not obey her owner—and then she was punished.

  How else could a pet be defined?

  After all these years, and all these collections, I’m filled to brimming with grateful glee each time I discover a new gem. I want the tools to be the same—those treasured, utilitarian devices that make me sit up straighter, make me pay attention. But I want the tales to be brand-new. Sparkling, like a chrome collar on a black piece of leather.

  This collection fulfills my needs—my desperate cravings— with stellar, ethereal, beautiful writing, and kink at the core.

  XXX,

  Alison

  TIE ME UP

  Andrea Dale

  Tie me up. Please.

  I know you like it when I beg.

  Tie me up. It’s the only way I can feel free, only way I can let go. Shiny clanking handcuffs, smooth ropes, silk scarves, red leather fur-lined restraints, your red-dotted Burberry tie.

  I want it. I need it. I crave it.

  And then there’s you. You need it, too, don’t you? You need to see me relax into my bonds, accept the place you’ve let me escape to.

  When my eyes close for the blindfold, you brush a soft kiss on my lips and whisper, “I love you.”

  FOUNDATION STONE

  Jax Baynard

  The house was not yet a house, though it had a roof and four walls which suggested it might one day become one. The inside was cool and dim, light coming from the paneless windows open to the dusky sky. Julia prowled, her running shoes quiet on the subfloors. The rough framing formed skeletal hands between the rooms. Kitchen, laundry room, guest bath, the hall with its high ceiling already in shadow. She ran lightly up the stairs of Carrara marble, starkly formal against the plywood, impervious to weather and time. She moved soundlessly through the upstairs rooms, master bedroom and bath—the latter alone the size of her living room—thinking of the lives that would be lived here. They would have money, whoever these people were. More marble in the bathroom, this time of a soft pink variety, with thready gray veining, as if a burly man from one of the Italian quarrying families had shown up, installed his marble on his own time and departed, leaving behind him a trail of sawdust, ruined schedules, change orders and coffee stains.

  She found a back staircase off one of the smaller bedrooms and emerged in the great room. All the houses in the Hollywood Hills had one, to take advantage of the view, ostensibly, but also to say without words: This is how much money I have. You? Julia had no money to speak of. She had brown hair and green eyes and if she had a great body it was because she took it running come rain (never very likely) or shine for an hour and a half most days. She was not a model or an actress. She was not working on a screenplay. She was not a waitress, aspiring to be a model or an actress. She lived, for nominal rent, in the guesthouse of a friend of her Aunt Gwyne’s and she worked at the observatory. She was single, though she dated enough to know the myth about men always wanting sex was a myth. She was hard pressed to find one who wanted it once a week, much less once a day.

  “Trespassing?” someone said.

  Technically, she wasn’t. There were no doors, just openings where they would be, eventually, with locks connected to an expensive security system. “Yes,” she said. It was him. She thought of him as the Builder; he was probably the architect or the site manager. She had walked past for five months, from when the house was nothing but a gouge in the hillside. She did not always see him. Occasionally, he lifted a hand in greeting and she waved back. They had never spoken and she had never been this close to him. “Nice marble,” she said.

  “Not quite y
our speed?” he asked, coming into the room.

  Julia shrugged. “Is the house a home yet?”

  He glanced at her, then pondered, in the gathering twilight, what was left of the view. Pinpricks of light were beginning to show through the haze. “The little people down on the flats,” she had a heard a visitor at the observatory call them.

  “It has an owner, if that’s what you’re asking. I don’t know if that will make it a home.” He shrugged in turn.

  He was good looking, this man, Julia thought. A genetic accident, her mother would have said. Her mother was a scientist. She thought in molecules and double twists of DNA. It was her way of saying Pretty is as pretty does. It’s what’s inside the person that counts. Julia thought of the clothes she had left, the jewels, the walk-in closet the size of her entire house, the marriage she had walked out of, and felt the great burden of weariness she carried with her, always. It took time to know a person; years, in fact. This man might have hidden depths, glittering at the bottom of the ocean like treasure. He might be half a man. She had no way of knowing.

  “My name is Graham,” he said. He held out his hand. Julia looked at it like an offering made in a country where one is unfamiliar with the customs, but it did not waver. She put her hand in his. It was not bad to be touching him.

  “Julia,” she said. She stared at him in what little light was left. Dark hair, light eyes, tanned skin. A bump in his otherwise aquiline nose. Wide shoulders, a solid body, as if he, too, spent time somewhere other than standing around a construction site all day. She realized she liked having her hand in his.

  “Would you like a cup of coffee?” he asked, and Julia had a brief memory, a flicker in celluloid, of a coffeepot sitting on the granite countertop in the kitchen.

  “I’d rather have bourbon,” she said.

  He had not let go of her hand. It was nearly dark, but a glow coming from behind him said the house was electrified and there was a light on somewhere. “That could be arranged,” he said. He pulled her a step closer. “Do you know what a foundation stone is?”

  She shook her head, wanting to know what he smelled like. It was important, what men smelled like. It was what the sheets would smell like the next morning.

  “Before there was concrete”—his hand continued to hold hers; the other began to learn the shape of her forearm from wrist to elbow—“foundations were built of stone. Builders were usually the owners of the houses and it was the custom in that country to lay a foundation stone, sometimes near the hearth, sometimes at the north corner of the house, marked with the date and name of the family. This was known”—he was touching her bicep, her shoulder, trailing his fingers across her exposed collarbones, his touch overtly sexual now—“as the first memory of the house.” Julia did not move away and that was answer enough. “I’m going to kiss you,” he said, giving her time to object. She didn’t move. It was her neck he kissed. And sucked. And licked. “I’ll keep doing this until you touch me,” he murmured, as if she had forgotten an item of protocol.

  Julia lifted her hands, till now hanging by her sides like so much flotsam. She put them on his back, pulling up the tails of his shirt to absorb the warmth of his skin. “Here?” she asked. “Now?” She had learned to be direct. It saved time.

  He stopped what he was doing to look at her. He pulled the tie from her hair and smoothed the tangles with his fingers. “What do you need?” he said.

  “I want to feel something other than disgust,” Julia said. She could feel the pounding of her own heart, the liquid rush between her legs, the prickling of sweat across her chest.

  Graham kissed her again, not on the mouth. “I want to tie you up,” he said, “and fuck you.” Her eyes widened only slightly. He could be direct, too. “Will you run?” he said. He lifted his hands, making it easy for her to go.

  “I don’t think so,” she answered.

  He walked away. “On this,” he said.

  “Painful,” Julia replied. The table he indicated was a table saw. The blade was twelve inches across and curved teeth curled around the rim like waves in a Hokusai print of the sea. He flipped a lever and the blade sank out of sight. He picked up the cord and held it. Julia walked to where he stood. Closer, she could see the dark flush staining his cheekbones, evidence that he was not as calm as he seemed. This was not a date. She did not have to play by those rules. This was not an assignation, something her ex-husband was very much in favor of. She did not know what this was. The man next to her had not moved except to gauge her height and make another adjustment to the table and now he waited, not speaking. A fall, Julia decided. A jump from a precipice. But the ground was a long way off.

  She expected him to taunt her. Scared? Can’t make up your mind? Run away, little girl. He touched her again, running a calloused fingertip from the hollow of her throat to her nipple, surprisingly gentle. The nipple pebbled anyway, making her shudder. She had been married on her twenty-first birthday and she was thirty-two. The number of decisions she made every day was appalling. She sometimes tried to avoid making any, but then there were more the next day, piled up on her doormat like unopened mail. To be tied down? To have someone else make the decisions, even for half an hour? She was delirious from the thought. “On or off?” She gestured to her top.

  “Like this.” He pulled it up until her breasts were exposed, but left it on. He bent and sucked her nipples until her legs gave out, then he bent her over the saw. He tied one hand with the cord, looping it over her wrist several times and knotting it to the leg. The other hand he tied with duct tape. She felt the adhesive on the fine hairs of her wrist. He tugged, and she felt an answering throb in her pussy. He spread her legs, putting her feet where he wanted them. He peeled down her running tights, leaving the material bunched below her hips. Everything was hard—the table, the floor, the walls, the man behind her, her memories (how do you say you love someone for ten years and wake up one day and not like what you see?)—except her flesh, pale and yielding. His breathing roughened. “Every day I thought of this,” he said, opening her with his hands. “Every time I saw your ass twitch by, I imagined this.”

  She was wet already, drenched. “I thought you were busy,” Julia said.

  “Not that busy,” he countered.

  If she turned her head she could find the view, but she didn’t want it. She wanted the dark and the waiting; and the feeling, when it came, pulled an inhuman sound from her throat.

  “Go ahead,” he told her. “There’s no one to hear.” He pushed into her with one hard, sure thrust. It bore no resemblance to the inept fumblings of men who needed permission to start and praise when it was over. The table threatened to roll with the force of his thrusts and he flipped a switch to stop it. The wheels locked in place. Julia turned her face against the cold metal, her nipples rubbing on the fine corrugations of the surface. Her hands strained against the bonds; her right had enough room to twist and hold the table leg. Her left, held fast in the tape, flexed and fisted on air. It went on for a long time. He was strong and big and he pushed her through the first heady spasms of desire. He felt the instant her body surrendered to the hard work of fucking; he dragged her from there to a place where, even as she tensed to take him, again and again, her body went liquid and hot and she couldn’t control her limbs so he did it for her.

  By the time he pushed her to her toes and slid a hand beneath her belly, slippery with sweat, she had forgotten about her clit. There was only the friction of his cock pounding into her body, and that was all she wanted, but he made her remember her clit. It was too much. She howled against it, but he made her feel that, too. She came. She came and felt the heat of her blood everywhere in her body, but mostly where he was touching her.

  He untied the cord. He got a knife and cut through the tape, pulling it away from her skin without mercy. He pulled her top down and her tights up and, since standing on her own legs proved to be unsuccessful, he carried her into the kitchen. He set her down on the counter where she remained upr
ight, barely. He fetched the bourbon, good Kentucky bourbon. It was his house. The first thing he had done when there were counters and cabinets was to put a coffee pot on the counter and bourbon in the cabinet.

  She came back into herself, enough to watch him with curious eyes. The first sip he took in his own mouth and with a hand on the nape of her neck, let it trickle into hers. That was the first time he kissed her. They drank the bourbon slowly. They watched the headlights making rivers through the stars, fixed and burning, below them.

  LOVE TO HATE

  Molly Moore

  The cuffs are tight on my wrists and ankles, and when I pull on them I can hear the distinctive sound of chains. The room is silent but for that, and I lie there behind the dark of the blindfold playing with my own bonds. Pulling and twisting, making them talk to me. Their voice fits perfectly into my darkness, and despite knowing I’m here in this room, my mind slips to dungeons, guards and an evil captivity.

  I’m happy here in this place, naked, vulnerable and blind. I wait for you, knowing you will come for me. For now my mind draws pictures for me, of who you are, and why you have me here like this. I know I should be scared of the unknown and ashamed of my nakedness, but then I have never been very good at what I should be; why should chains and darkness and an electric fear change that now?

  My body aches. I am glad of the moment’s respite from your abuse and yet I miss you already. My playful toying with the chains soon turns to a restful impatience. I hate waiting, I hate being left. I hate not knowing. I hate being played with. I live for this hate and the way you make me face my darkness. I love my hate. It is a passion.

  The sound of the whip still rings. My body twitches at the memory of the split ends trailing their evil kisses across my breasts leaving bright red welts in their wake. I moan at the memory, and I crave more. I know the heat between my thighs betrays my love of the hate.

  You’re silent in your approach, and I’m so lost in my own body and mind that it’s not until I feel the bed shift under your weight that I know you’re back. Without a thought of the consequences words of admonishment spit from my mouth....