Page 38 of Twisted

“Oh! How beautiful!” The delicate bamboo leaves embroidered on a pale gold background distracted her for just a moment, until I raised her arm to her chest. Her gasp shook the insect just a bit, and then he kept on, up over the mound of her breast. She was visibly shuddering now, barely keeping her hand from scrabbling at the beetle.

“There’s a whole outfit in my suitcase to go with that, kimono and all,” I said conversationally, while I tied her wrists securely to the bars with the ends of the long sash. She gave a sigh of relief when the bonds held however hard she strained at them.

“Thank you so much!” It didn’t matter whether her gratitude was more for the gift, or the restraint. The relief vanished when the stag beetle crept along to her nipple and poised at its tip, feeling for a further foothold. “Jess...” Kit said tightly, then held her breath.

I reached out to reroute him, but she shook her head. “It’s...okay. Okay and...and awful at the same time.” The beetle turned back, revealing the nipple darkened from pink to rose, and so temptingly erect that I could barely resist it.

A lovely flush lit her skin. No longer just struggling to please me, she had crossed a line from fear to arousal, like pain giving way to pleasure. Heat suffused my own body.

By the time the beetle descended between her breasts and over her belly almost to her navel, she was whimpering, not so much like a frightened kitten as a very hungry one. Her thighs twitched, and her wrists strained at freedom, but she wouldn’t beg.

I was the first to give way. “No more!” I retrieved my new pet, tucked him gently back into his box and set it on the nightstand. Then it was my hands that made her skin flush and thighs dampen, and my not-so-harmless mouth that forced her nipples to a rigid pleasure indistinguishable from pain, until her cunt and clit needed all my attention and I drove her on from mewling cries to howling release.

As we nestled close together afterward, catching our breaths, Kit reached up with her now-freed hands to stroke my face. “Isn’t it a good thing,” she said, with a mischievous twist to her kiss-reddened lips, “that really, really scary things turn me on?”

What am I doing with this warm, loving, beautiful, smart, brave girl? Getting luckier than I’ll ever deserve, that’s what.

HANDS DOWN

Rachel Kramer Bussel

Gretchen and I have a pretty conventional relationship, on the surface at least: we’re in our late twenties, got married after a year of dating (three years ago); we plan on having kids; we both work high-pressure, high-power jobs in media, which often require late nights to meet deadlines. We look like young, fresh-scrubbed, all-American white yuppies—at least, that’s what my brother in Santa Cruz, a tanned surfer with blond stubble and a laid-back attitude, tells me, when I see him at Christmastime. But what he doesn’t know, and very few others do, is that beneath our sunny surface, we have a dark side. Maybe dark isn’t the right word, exactly—kinky is. We like to play, and play hard, and after a long day, few things soothe me more than a nice cold beer and watching Gretchen writhe when I tie her to the bed, or a chair, or simply order her to stand against the wall while I beat her, and if she dares move, I shackle her wrists together and use a spreader bar to keep her in place. She loves playing just as much as I do, if not more.

Recently, though, I decided I wanted to do something a little bit new for us by taking our bondage play out into the world—the world of hip, downtown New York City. I would get to see a new side of my gorgeous, kinky wife, and see what happens when I unsettle her, shake things up, show her just how mischievous I—and she—can be. I didn’t want us to be one of those couples who falls into a rut, even if it is a rut filled with spanking, bondage, dirty talk and rough sex. I wanted to bring our kind of sexy fun into an unknown arena, and our upcoming date night was the perfect opportunity.

We settle in at Joe’s Pub, but as Gretchen’s hand reaches for the menu, I tug it down under the table, as surreptitiously as I can. It’s pretty dark where we’re sitting; I’ll need the candle to read the selections, not that I really care. My cock is getting harder by the second as I reach for her other hand and smoothly slip out her wraparound silver bracelet, the one I’ve tucked into my jacket pocket, winding it around her wrists. Ever since she bought it a few weeks ago, I’ve been intrigued with its erotic possibilities, and I’ve held it in my hands, twined it around my own wrists, marveled at how pliable the coils of silver are. It’s almost as if the jewelry maker knew the potential “trouble” it could cause—if, by “trouble,” I mean the most naughty of pleasures.

Before Gretchen can process what I’ve done, her hands are secured in her lap. She looks at me like she wants to laugh, or stick out her tongue, but I give her a calm smile and reach over to pinch her inner thigh. “I’ll take care of you tonight; you just sit back and relax. Don’t drink too much, though, because you’re not getting up until the show’s over.” Of course I’m bluffing; if she’s on the verge of having an accident, I’ll let her get up, but she’ll have to beg.

I make a deliberate show of reaching for the menus and spreading Gretchen’s open before her, since she’s incapable of doing so herself. “You just tell me what you want,” I say with a wink. I often advise her to tell me what she wants when we’re in bed; she knows that ultimately I’m the one who will decide if she gets it or is made to wait. The look on her face is priceless; she can’t decide whether to whine in protest or indulge in the arousal I’m sure is already starting. I tap my fingers against the table as I turn my menu over to look at the cocktails. Just the act of immobilizing my wife has me hard, like the air around us has changed, becoming charged with the tension my simple yet powerful act has provided. I’m tempted to twitch the tablecloth so the couple at the next table over can get a peek. Instead, I make my own selection and lean in close for Gretchen to tell me what she wants, but she just lets out a little moan.

“Like that, don’t you?” I ask, even though I know the answer. “Just so we’re clear, if you really need to escape, I’m sure a smart girl like you can figure out how to, but I’m also pretty sure a smart kinky slut like you wouldn’t want to deprive herself of having me take care of you all night.” The words make her breath catch, and I reach for her inner thigh and pinch it again to emphasize my warning. Feeling her smooth, soft skin with the pads of my fingers while the back of my hand brushes the bracelet makes me let out a deep breath, an image flashing in my mind of Gretchen bound with her hands behind her back, sucking me off under the table while I guide her with a hand in her hair. That’s the thing about playing with her—one naughty action always leads to another, a dirty domino effect that I can’t stop, not that I would want to.

Gretchen’s eyes bug out even more when our waitress walks over, her waist-length black hair flying around her, revealing a glorious array of ink along her shoulders and back. She places water glasses on our table. “What can I get you?” she asks, pen poised at the ready.

“I’ll have the antipasto platter and a mojito,” I say, “and my wife will have the deviled eggs combination and a sparkling raspberry cosmopolitan.” There are other items on the menu I know she’d have enjoyed, but these I can feed to her easily and inconspicuously, unlike the pasta or spinach salad, what she’d normally order. The waitress smiles at us and hurries off to place our orders, none the wiser to our little game, I don’t think. I scoot closer to Gretchen and smile at her; the lighting is dim, but I can still tell she’s blushing. “Having fun?” I whisper in her ear, keeping my mouth there so I can breathe against the sensitive area.

“I’m going to get you back for this,” she says, though I’d bet money she doesn’t mean it. Gretchen’s a Type-A powerhouse at work, and sometimes it’s hard for her to let go of work even when we’re enjoying a night out. My job in our relationship is to force her hand—in this case, hands, literally, to relax. One thing I’ve learned about bondage over the years is that it doesn’t work, in any form, if you tense up. For it to work its full magic, seducing both parties into the glorious give-and-take of possession and surrender, you can’t fight it, which is one of the things I love best about restraining such an eager bottom; I’d never want to engage in bondage with an unwilling participant. Gretchen, though, was seemingly born for bondage. All it takes is a little bit of restraint, and it’s like a switch is turned and she’s ready for anything. The very act of keeping her still, locking her in place, prompts her mind to slip out of overthinking mode and her body to slip into full feeling mode. I’m not sure if she knows it, but there’s a visible difference when she crosses over, submits not only to me, but to the adventure bondage promises. There’s a little bit of her good-girl nature that resists every time, until the overwhelming need she has to be taken, controlled, and corralled wins out. If we were in a cartoon, this is when the lightbulb would go off over her head.

Sometimes I don’t even tie her up at all, just order her to stay still, and then have fun with her. I’ll tickle her, or spank her—sometimes I lick her pussy until she screams, as long as she stays in place; one small move on her part and I instantly stop, even if it pains me to do so. I can’t do any of those things right now, so I take an ice cube from the glass of water in front of me and slide it along the side of her neck. “Don’t want you to get overheated,” I whisper. She giggles softly, and I’m thinking about how quickly this cube would melt if I placed it between her legs. Instead, I trail it along her cheek for a moment before casually slipping it into her lacy bra, the delicate lilac one I saw her slip on as she got dressed, when I had to grab her and bite each nipple through the lace before letting her return to getting ready. Thankfully her black top has enough coverage that I can get away with it without exposing either of us as inveterate perverts.

I pull back just as the lights go all the way down and the singer steps forward, pure glam with bold red lips that beckon to every corner of the room, blonde hair piled atop her head and what seems like a ball gown on, complete with a slit up the side, as she greets her audience. “I bet she’d know what to do with you,” I whisper to Gretchen as I pick up another ice cube, this time slipping it under the table and into the palm of her hand. I press my palm against hers, feeling the dripping water melt against our skin.

If we were home, I’d surely take an ice cube and slide it along her pussy lips, tracing them until she squirmed and moaned, then press it inside her. I’ve done it before and it never fails to amuse me to watch her squirm, tightening around the cube, seeming to want to draw it deeper and expel it, processing the cold assault on her senses. And surely if, right now, her hands were free, the right one would be between my legs, teasing me, making me harder; she’s as skilled at the subtle art of semipublic displays of affection as I am. I maneuver up her thankfully short skirt and manage to deposit the ice cube into her panties, just as I did in her bra earlier, and bring my fingers back to hers. She clasps one, digging her nails into my skin. The sharpness spikes its way through me, and I lean against her while the singer oozes seduction as she starts to sing—and strip. She’s down to a gorgeous black camisole, black panties and garters attached to leopard-print stockings, by the time the first song ends, and I raise my hands above my head to clap, a sharp contrast to what Gretchen can do.

“Didn’t you like that song, baby?” I ask softly, just as our waitress appears. Our water glasses are in the way, and I deliberately move each one as she sets the plates and cocktails before us. The waitress lingers for what feels like a moment too long, and the tension passes from Gretchen to me, but I know that for every actual bit of fear she feels, there’s even more excitement. And it’s not like we’re doing anything illegal or even dangerous; she knows she can get away if she truly wants or needs to, and that I would help her do so if there were a fire drill or something. I would never do anything to harm her, and in fact, it’s her willingness to do this, even when with a rustle of our tablecloth someone could easily catch on, that makes me truly excited.

I take Gretchen’s drink and bring it to her lips, watching them part just enough for me to pour some chilled red liquid into her mouth. I picture the singer taking a turn feeding my beautiful wife and then it’s no leap to picture my cock pressing between Gretchen’s gorgeous lips, the singer stroking her hair. I set her glass down and take a sip of my own drink, before picking up my fork. “Hungry?” I ask, as my fingers drift into her lap, brushing against her makeshift bonds—I can’t seem to stay away. The show only lasts an hour and a half, yet I’m the one finding the delicious agony almost interminable. The longer we sit here, the more I want Gretchen, in ways that are fully unfit for public consumption.

“I’m starving,” she says with a smile, as the next set starts and the singer is back in a pale-pink sheath dress that clings to her perfectly. Gretchen and I have only had a threesome once, but talking about and checking out hot women sets her off. I pick up a deviled egg and bring it to her lips. As she takes a bite, out of the corner of my eye I see a woman at a nearby table looking at us, and I whisper as much to Gretchen. Whether or not this woman knows Gretchen’s hands are secured in her lap, my feeding her is clearly risqué, even for this hip crowd.

“Do you want the whole thing?” I ask, as she savors the creamy confection. She opens wide and I push the rest of the egg between her lips, her tongue brushing my fingers in the process. I smile at the woman watching us, then give my full attention to the singer. She’s beckoned a man onstage to help her change into an elaborate pair of heels, and he kisses the tops of her feet as he exits.

We keep watching as the blonde bombshell swoons and flirts her way through everyone from Marilyn Monroe to Britney Spears to Beyoncé. Gretchen doesn’t know it, but I have a surprise for her when the singer asks for a female volunteer. Suddenly, I raise Gretchen’s bound hands above her head, and immediately, the whoops and hollers from the neighboring tables cause her to look up at us, followed by a spotlight. “Oh my,” giggles the singer. “You with your hands tied, get up here,” she says. I pull Gretchen’s hands down so I can undo the bracelet, but I quickly coil it around her arm and send her down to the stage.

I watch proudly as she gets a whooping round of applause, and the singer admires the bracelet and even sticks out her wrists so Gretchen can show her how it works. Then they go behind a screen and the singer changes outfits while asking Gretchen questions, using the microphone so we can all listen to her responses. Hearing my wife confess to having had her hands bound beneath the table almost makes me come. When Gretchen returns to our table, I don’t care who’s looking anymore, and give her a full-on tongue kiss.

The show is winding down. We get the check, which also contains a note from our waitress saying, “HOT!!” I give a generous tip and lead Gretchen outside. “Let’s take a cab,” I say, even though we’d normally walk. I’ve already flagged one before she can protest. “Ladies first,” I say, and once we’re settled in, knowing I only have a few minutes, I reach for the bracelet and bring her hands behind her back. Soon her wrists are secured there, her body turned so she’s facing the window, her back toward me.

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