I don’t know why I still want you so badly, but I do.
We are hip to hip, chest to chest, our bodies shifting like pendulums on these rumpled sheets. Your fingers clutch my hair, tugging back my head, exposing my neck to the quick nips of your teeth and the tender glides of your tongue. As you thrust inside, I know this is familiar, this is us, this is what it was—a tight embrace, a heated surrender. You’ve been inside me one hundred, one thousand, one million times. Loving, breaking, and ruining me.
Yet I’ve never stopped wanting you.
The air burns with the scent of dwindling candles and our sweat, some of it beading down the sides of your face. You tug on my hair again, forcing me to see you as I always have—a crescent face of hunger, a demanding pine for this. You arch up your hips, searing into me, sinking so deep I cannot help the flit of a groan that spills from my lips as my mind tumbles with the questions I can’t stop asking.
Why do I want you like this? How can I still?
The thoughts are fleeting, shushed away with the sucking sound of your mouth on my neck. You take fevered laps at my skin before you catch my lips and gnaw them, your eyes wide open when you rock me in your lap.
“Baby,” you say.
I tremble atop you, my breasts lifting and falling with our motion, my nipples standing for you. Always for you. Every inch of my flesh burns with desire, and yet dances with goose bumps that remind me of what we are doing, this stolen moment we should never have shared. But to say that is to deny the truth. To pretend I can’t feel the swell of emotion I get from the look in your eyes, the rasp of your tongue, and the way your hands slide down to my waist, pulling me off you and around so abruptly I’m startled to be on my knees. My face presses into these sheets, and your cock is buried in my cunt before I can exhale the desperate puffs of air that have become the only noise I know to make with you.
“Fuck, fuck…” you say, plunging inside. Your hands grip my hips, yanking me back onto you, deeper. Harder. How can you always find me, deeper? Your thrusts grow more violent, hungry and greedy like the wet walls of my cunt that ache for you.
Forever, for you.
I curl my fingers into the sheets. My body is no longer mine. The slam of your pelvis against my ass is so strong the sound is louder than anything—my whimpers, my thoughts, my need for you.
“Come for me,” you growl, and I hate that you can command me like this. That you’ve recognized the shake of my body, the flush of my skin, the way that, even with you taking like this, I am giving to you. I’m yielding to your thrusts, to the grind of your fingers on my clit like I love, pinching it as you push, and shove, and fill me with everything you have.
When I come, it is with you.
You are so far in I know you’ve reached my soul, and your arms curl around my waist. You press your cheek to my back as we huddle there, quivering. Gasping. I release the sheets, my fingers sore, my body aching from how hard you’ve fucked me. My mind soars, but I am tangled like these sheets, lost in this mystery of us.
We don’t move for seconds. Minutes. It could have been hours. I think we both knew what it was, what it would do to the two of us.
And it isn’t until you steal yourself away, slipping from my bed and into your clothes, that I ask myself again.
Why do I still want you so badly?
Fall is fast approaching, and it’s about this time each year that I remember my eight-year run at the seven-weekend experience that is Northern Renaissance Faire. This adventure was one I didn’t care for much initially—I’d been dragged out at 19 by a boyfriend who claimed he needed my presence to avoid cheating, if that explains anything at all—but eventually, I found the place to be a festival of fun, filled with colors, costumes, music, and joy. At night, after all the patrons went home, I started to understand it could become a veritable haven of sexual and emotional adventures I’d ultimately have, and have mentioned here on one occasion before. Still, I didn’t feel truly in place there until my fifth year, when I came out to Faire single for the first time. By then I was freer, ready to play and laugh, and to embrace the delights that came into my world.
One of these was a beautiful young woman I’ll call Emma. She was bawdy, silly, and flirtatious, like me—but bolder in a raunchier way, louder in a nurturing way, and sexy in a different way, sporting the biggest brown eyes over a bed of freckles I’d ever seen. These eyes seduced you with the suggestion that she would be the most playful person you’d ever met, which would turn out to be true. This was evident in our meeting, too—where she wore pink velvet hot pants and halter she’d been parading around after hours, and I’d been dancing in my own black velvet mini dress—when we had a near collision on the way to a dinner table because we were distracted by our efforts to whistle at one another. In a matter of hours, Emma and I became smitten with each other—never quite enough to take it anywhere, but to enjoy holding hands, kissing lips, and slipping fingers up one another’s skirts to fondle each other’s thighs as we set out to hunt what we loved best: someone to flirt with, in tandem and shamelessly, while we stirred up as much trouble along the way as we could.
One night, though, the energy shifted; it turned out Emma had met a man, and so our mission this evening was for her to introduce him to me. We found him waiting behind a booth—where I soon discovered I was to embark on one of the most memorable relationships of my life.
This man, John, brought out a serious adoration from Emma I hadn’t yet seen. Even then it was clear that these two could well end up together for life, because John was, in many ways, her male counterpart—bawdy, flirty, and smiling like he lived with a laugh on his lips at all times. But despite the connection fast growing between them, Emma surprised me after layering his face with kisses. She curled her hands around him from behind and looked right at me while whispering loudly in his ear.
“This is Jade. She’s my friend,” she said. “But I think you two should play.”
Now, Emma and I had been flirting with so many people for so long with no intent behind a thing we said that this struck me hard and fast. And though John wasn’t my usual type (for I definitely had one at the time), when he kissed her palms and untangled himself from her arms, then started to circle me—right there in front of her—I sucked in a breath. This feeling wasn’t at all subdued when Emma pressed her palms against her cheeks as though she realized she’d done something particularly clever, and while John kept circling me, round and round, I caught his eye, and he smiled before catching hers.
“I think you’re right, Emma,” he’d said.
And the nod that had come from me was quick and effortless.
Most of my life, I’ve frowned upon labels because I like to try so many different things on—but if I had to tag myself, I’d go with straight, monogamous, open-minded and playful, and above all, flirt. This is part of why I think so fondly of the love affair the three of us formed in that moment; I still have trouble describing it in any sort of specific way, because there isn’t a label that truly fits and it’s not anything I’ve felt since. I guess, in a fashion, what we became was the couple and the coquette—them firmly together, and me acting as the flirt who moved between and with them in varying ways.
In the early nights, the three of us would drink and dine together before cuddling on an air mattress by a dim lamp, where we affectionately established our entanglement as the two of them kissed and John rubbed my shoulders. Emma and I knew we didn’t want to share a bed, but we liked to kiss and flirt, or trace the contours of each other’s bodies when either of us donned a sexy dress. John and I liked to grope and tease one another, and sometimes, Emma liked to watch. All of us agreed we would never work in a threesome, because none of us wanted to share to that degree. So it was determined that, until they grew serious, we would all continue and encourage our separate bonds, however they may happen.
There were many moments between us, but one of the most memorable was the night the three of us had been running around for well over an hour, Emma holding my hand and John cupping my ass, until Emma gave a firm nod in the dark. She took us both into her arms in a great big hug, then whispered, “I really need to visit that other booth across the way. Hmm, I wonder what might happen if you two ran off together?” She pecked me on the lips, then kissed John long and hard, and nearly sang as she danced away, “I’ll be back here in about 15…”
And off John and I slipped, into the nooks and crannies of Faire. There was an excitement in him taking my hand by Emma’s suggestion, leading me into a darkened booth, and backing me against a wall to slam his lips on mine like we’d stolen this tryst—though it was freely given for us to share. In this moment, it was just the two of us, John running his hands along my fishnets, biting my earlobe, whispering how he’d fuck me, rough and hard, over and over, everywhere he could find to take me out there. We’d never actually do that, but it was the fantasy that filled our heads as he dragged his fingernails up my thighs. I still remember the sound of my fishnets tearing in the still of the night, and the feel of his fingers sneaking under my panties before he growled against my mouth. And for what couldn’t have been more than ten minutes, we stood there, clinging to one another, groping, kissing madly, until the melodic sound of Emma’s voice summoned us back, and we tripped innocently out to meet the wink she gave us. Then she wrapped her arms around me, lifted my skirt, and trailed her own hands along my fishnets, giggling to find them ripped. She flashed me the wickedest smile before jumping into John’s arms and giving him the deepest, sexiest kiss…and then we continued on as though we were just three friends, frolicking about for the evening.
Of course, as Emma and John grew more serious, those incidents grew farther between—but the dynamic became sexy in a new way. Sometimes, the two of them liked to claim me as their own, purposely making a scene of their antics with me. Emma would stand on one side, John on the other, and while she affectionately groped my breast and weaved her arm around my waist, John would cross an arm over hers at my back, and use his other one to reach up my skirt. We delighted in the wide-eyed stares we got from this, with John seeing how high he could lift the fabric for whoever watched before I’d turn pink and Emma would burst into laughter. But the second we were out of sight we’d roll together into a huddle, kissing and grabbing through our costumes until we broke away with excited gasps.
As crazy as it may sound, that’s where we liked it to stop. It satisfied all of us in different ways—me running off to find my own lover for the night, them heading back to their tent to be together. They often called me their “little aphrodisiac,” which suited our bond—and though our friends shook their heads and inquired often, trying to understand what it was we shared, we laughed at the need for an explanation of what we got so well. I think that’s the simple truth of many great relationships—they may not make sense to anyone else, but to the parties involved, they really are pure magic.
Over the coming years, our love affair didn’t end so much as it morphed once more. We all grew away from Faire; Emma and John moved in together and she started a business, and I found a new hobby that took up my once Faire-filled weekend time. I was delighted to attend their wedding a couple years later, where at an open mic for reception speeches I playfully—yet respectfully—honored the “most beautiful, fun, and wonderful couple ever known on this planet.” Which, in truth, I still think they are.
These days, Emma and John are settled and happy, with one gorgeous daughter and another little one on the way. I see them every few years, and when I do, they both cast me those smiles of theirs, full of so much life and joy. We talk mostly of now—careers, children, hobbies, and such. But occasionally, we let one another know with the coy winks of our eyes and the tame but reminiscent squeezes we share that, despite the changes that life brings in the ever-shifting seasons, none of us have forgotten the very special love affair between the couple and the coquette.
Photo courtesy of HT Honey
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I have never been all that quiet about the origin of my stories. Many of them are purely fictional, or fantasies I’ve dreamed up, conscious or not—but a few are retellings of true events, actual encounters I’ve twisted to be better, or on occasion, semi-fictionalized redos of things I’ve been lucky enough to enjoy in real life.
Today, I’m delighted to tell you that Bondage Bites is officially out—it’s a new title edited by the amazing Alison Tyler, and published by Cleis Press. To say I am over the moon to be in an Alison Tyler collection is a massive understatement…but to get to say I have three short shorts in this anthology—all connected to my personal life—basically has me giggling. Er, grinning. No, blushing.
Okay, maybe a combination of all three!
So, to celebrate the release of this hot anthology of super short stories, I will give you some dirt—that is, I’ll share a snippet of all three stories, each with a taste of the reality that inspired them.
Here we go!
First, with the tamest personal connection of the three tales:
A few years ago, I went on vacation to Italy. I traveled throughout the country, but I got particularly caught up during my stay in Tuscany, where I had a rental car to check out everything in the area I could. (This song came out during my stay, and it become my driving theme, if you’re curious.) One night, while dining at this incredible family owned place in Poggibonsi, I spotted a rather magnificent storefront gate in an alleyway that got my gears turning. The waiter commented at one point that I had a nice blush on my face, and—based on the scene running through my head—I can’t say I was all that surprised. So, after finishing dinner and taking a beautiful stroll under the moonlight, I went back to my villa and wrote out a snippet of the entire fantasy I’d envisioned and then sent it to my lover back home.
Once the vacation ended, I decided that wasn’t enough. I needed to turn the whole thing into a full story, which soon became “The Gate”…
When you gestured back at the gate, I understood why you’d brought your backpack to dinner. The flush that spread through me couldn’t be from the wine—not after only two sips—and I wanted to rush to feel the surprise you had in store. Still, I knew the longer we took, the quieter the alley would be.
We took forever, too. No one seemed to mind the leisurely American couple, or the way we didn’t speak, just stared at one another with half-grins while you stroked my hand. When we finished, we wandered around the cobblestone center hand-in-hand. It wasn’t until past one that you led me back to the gate.
“I haven’t seen anyone for almost an hour. Are you ready, Mara?”
I nodded. My role now was to remain still, which is what I did as you removed the cuffs from your bag. I clenched my knees together, feeling a charge clamor up my thighs and straight into my pussy over the thought of being seen, and of what you would do to me once you bound me here.
You grinned under the street lamps as you fastened me to either side of the gate, and once I was secure, your hands roamed around my neck and down my back. Then you kissed me and lifted my skirt, stroking my thighs right there in public. You gripped me, kneaded me, your breath hot on my cheek. You took my gasp as an invitation and slipped your fingertips under my panties, nudging them aside so you could feel how wet I was for you—and moaning when you discovered my short curls soaked through.
I wanted you to touch me deeper, but you liked to string it out. You whispered, “How does it feel to be bound, my love?”
Strangely, I didn’t take a picture of that gate—but I have never forgotten how gorgeous it was, or the way it felt to just sit there drinking wine in the pleasant breeze, dreaming up a scene that I later got to flesh out in a full tale.
Okay, next up:
This one has a bit of a funny back story because, well, in truth…
Bondage accidents happen.
Lucky me, I happened to experience one such accident—which had my doctor and I exchanging some seriously hilarious emails for a solid week after it happened. The good news is that all was okay after a little stretch of time, and safety shears found their way into my closet for the next time. *Cough.*
Now, while I feel it’s important to remind that fiction is not meant to be an instructional guide, I can’t speak highly enough about owning a pair of shears.
And it’s from that recommendation that “Safety Shears” was born:
“I think it’s okay,” she said, clenching a hand, then releasing it. She smiled at him. “You have the safety shears handy, right?”
He nodded, jumping off the bed to show her that he did indeed have them, right there on the nightstand. When he stood upright, the glow from her lamp cast the sexiest of shadows over his abdomen, enhancing the results of all the working out he’d done of late. He was such a pleasure to look at, the most handsome lover Julia had taken in years. And with the eager way he stared at her, he’d proven delightful in more ways than one.
“Of course. I wouldn’t want to give you carpal tunnel. Or anything worse. Can you imagine?” Matthew chuckled and crawled between her thighs again, but now he grew serious, quiet. He admired his work. “Dear God, you’re beautiful like this.”
Julia had only been cuffed before, but something about Matthew made her want to submit to his every whim. He’d spent the last twenty minutes binding her like a man possessed, stopping every so often to caress her face or brush back her hair. Twice he’d slipped a finger inside her, testing her and moaning at how her pussy flinched around him. “Please, Matthew, fuck me,” she’d cried, and he’d hurried back to the business of tying her up. Now he ran his hands over her inner thighs and down to her ankles, fondling the rope that connected them to her wrists. Instead of the traditional hog or frog tie, he’d left her on her back with her legs splayed and her thighs free so he could more easily access her. And he did just that, tracing back from the ties and over her belly, then circling his fingers around her nipples and making her gasp.
“I need you,” she whispered.
Ah, safety shears…
Okay, finally, it’s time for what may be my most favorite (and definitely the most personal):
“In the Morning”
For this story, I opted to try something I’d never done before—I took an old lust letter I’d sent to a lover and converted it right into a story. Not to worry, though! No boyfriends were harmed in the making of this story. I warned the recipient, way back then, that I’d probably end up doing this at some point—and he totally got a kick out of the idea. See, when we dated, we were supremely open to sharing fantasies, and if we weren’t speaking them in bed, we were sharing them in emails, via text, or on the phone…. Some of them got acted out, and others didn’t, but suffice it to say that “In the Morning” is a tale fully based off a real email I sent during our very memorable affair:
Somehow, he’d shifted my arms behind my back without me ever stirring. Now he patted my wrists in satisfaction with the knots he’d pinned me in, and I felt an immediate rush of warmth between my thighs.
“I told you what I expected in the morning, darling.”
Without another word, Gabriel crawled off the bed and stepped behind me. He’d bound me so many times before, and every time, I felt this way—this desperate longing, this hunger for his touch. The heat from my pussy seared up through me, and suddenly I wanted nothing more than to feel him, to lose myself in the way we moved together.
“Come to me,” he said.
I squirmed beneath the covers, my arms pinned too closely to my back for me to use them in any useful fashion. I managed to roll to my side and slide off the bed, landing on my knees directly in front of him. Gabriel was naked, his beautiful prick swollen and upright before my face.
“Show me how much you want me, Katharine.”
I grinned. Even bound like this, that would be an easy feat—I always wanted him, each second of every day. I wiggled closer, my balance off with my hands bound, and then I took him in my mouth. I swallowed him, licked him, wanting to devour every inch of him, and dear God, he tasted so delicious on my tongue, so tantalizing when I couldn’t grab onto him or stroke his length. He jumped and jerked between my lips and I moaned, because I still wanted him so much more…
And there you have it! A small sampling of three stories that are pretty damn connected to my real life. Please pick up a copy of Bondage Bites not only to read these stories in their entirety, but to check out all the fabulously hot bondage short-shorts you’ll find within. Alison Tyler is a phenomenal editor, so this collection is, no doubt, going to be a huge hit. You can pick up a copy at Amazon and other retailers today, and I hope you enjoy what you find!
Thank you so much for reading!
Anya came to him shouting, bounding across the shore, the wind catching her hair and the sand battering the soles of feet she’d stripped from her sandals before she left them in the backseat of her car. Her belly was tight from such a well of emotion she felt she could blow like the wind, one way, then another, but she didn’t want to ignore the pain in her side anymore, the bruises on her arms that she’d stared at, long and hard, sure this was it. This was now.
They met in a collision so forceful it seemed contrary to all they’d been—their chests slamming tight, their mouths wild, their hands seeking one another, needing one another, puffs of breath spilling from their lips as they clung. Josh kissed away the drops rolling from the corners of Anya’s eyes, and she smoothed her thumbs over the line of his brow, both of them whispering their love and their tales as the wind kicked up the water once more. This time the sea didn’t sing to them, but for them, washing onto the shore and summoning them close, then retreating to leave the smooth spread of sand upon which they were meant to lay.
Once Josh drew back from her, he cupped the sides of her face. She thought maybe she was crazy, or they were completely out of their minds—but when his palms, warm and sweet, held her tight, Anya knew this was right, knew the shivering inside was part of the course, part of their fairy tale. One cannot have joy without pain, and they had surely had theirs—she saw the trouble in Josh’s eyes that melted when he looked at her, felt the certainty brimming between them as he pressed his lips to hers, kissing her like he never wanted her to leave again. Like he never would, either. She leaned hard against him and his knees gave, taking them down to the wet shore, and Josh pulled her onto him until she straddled his hips and felt the power she found with him. With him she wasn’t broken, afraid, or weak. She was everything she wanted to be, everything she could be, and as he arched up against her Anya felt the way his body told her this, and the desire in the trail of his hands over her skin. She kissed him as they both fumbled with his shirt, and once he shrugged it off his shoulders she lifted her dress up over her head. He gasped, for she’d come naked beneath, not wanting anything to stop them this time, both of their lives discarded to leave only them, this moment, this truth they’d sought. When Josh spread kisses over her breasts and eased out of his pants, she’d never felt more alive, more real, than they were now.
They had come here many times, but never had they done this, naked here, so open, so free. The waves crested and swelled, reassuring them, dancing in the sway of the wind as Josh ran his hands up her sides, lovingly touching her scars. Anya leaned back above him, letting him see all of her. For so long they’d snuck here in the dark, their short visits a rush to touch, to kiss, to move together before time slipped away and they were forced to leave each other once more—but now, she imagined that time stood still as Josh stroked her skin, then thumbed the split of her folds. They murmured there with wanting sighs, hungry and needy but slow in their caresses, until finally Anya could wait no more. She guided him into her, and Josh groaned at the touch of her hand, at the silky feel of her encircling him tight. And once Anya began to move above him, digging her knees into the sand and rolling her hips to take him deeper inside, her body quaked with the choice they’d made. They rode it gleefully, confidently, their excitement filling the moans that carried onto the wind, surrounding them in a chorus that stirred the pleasure in her, stronger this time, lifting her soul like it always had with him. Anya closed her eyes but Josh slipped his fingers into her mouth, drawing her gaze as she shuddered above him. The spasms of her cunt gripped him, urged him, made him mutter words of love before he, too, came, and she fell over him there on the sand, their bodies hot and slick, shaking with this new union, this wholly different love they’d opted to share—theirs and theirs alone. When their breaths slowed she peeled herself off him, trailing a finger down his chest and smiling at the mirrored trace he made over her belly and along her leg.
“We’re going to be happy,” he said. “I know it.”
She nodded and took his hand, pulling both of them up from the shore. They were covered in sand so Josh led her forward, into the water they’d never dared go before. The waves licked at their feet as they walked into it, and Anya squealed at how cold it was against her skin. Josh cupped it and splashed it over her before she did the same right back, and then the two of them ventured until their legs were submerged, the water cocooning their calves, knees, and thighs, the current so strong it tried to rock them from their stance but failed as they wrapped their arms around one another, kissing there, close.
“This is real,” Josh said. “We’re real. And I think we’re going to be okay.”
Okay echoed in Anya’s ears and she closed her eyes, loving that Josh’s lips came soft again, peppering her upper lip, then the bottom one, before he kissed her full and strong.
Maybe he was right and they would be. Or, maybe they wouldn’t. But Anya knew what surged between them was magnificent like the tide—here now, loud now, sweeping up against their legs as they held one another beneath the moon that had hardly waned. It was as if it had lingered well past its reign to see how the next part of their story began, smiling upon the embrace that molded them together, and sending the wind to kiss their cheeks and gust around them with a whistle of encouragement that had been there all along.
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