Several subscribers have commented that they find bondage kinkier than spanking (I’ll save that debate for another day) so here’s a short bondage erotica story. It follows on loosely from The Muse.
Kinky Shorts is a collection of very short stories accompanied by highly erotic fetish photos designed to stimulate your imagination and turn you on published on Secret Obsessions. Some of the stories are free to read, some are for free subscribers and some are exclusive to paid.
If you are a paid subscriber you can see the illustrated version of The Exhibit on Secret Obsessions
I stand naked before him. My surrender is total. He is inside my mind. He knows what I want, what I need, my deepest fantasies.
Ropes wrap around my wrists and ankles. He pulls the soft, pliable bindings tight, working with care, until they hold me, naked, to the chair. I am displayed: my pussy wet, open. A work of art to be admired.
The final touch: a blindfold. I can be seen but not see. I can sense his gaze on me, hear tiny sounds of movement in the room, catch his scent when he comes close. There is silence: is he sitting, watching? Is his cock out? Hard flesh standing proud, inspired by me.
I imagine being displayed in a gallery with the title, Nude in Bondage. A living sculpture. An invitation below, to touch, feel, to use.
I hear movement, footsteps; my first viewer. Fingers brush my nipples, explore the curves of my breasts, gliding over the surface, sensing the texture of my soft skin. My nipples harden as if sculpting themselves into a new form.
The touch disappears. I can feel my heartbeat, my nipples ache, sensations prickle through me as if flowing down to my sex. Blood pulses, swelling lips, unfolding them like a flower greeting the sun.
There is silence. The anticipation is making my head swirl. I crave the next caress, but it does not come. I sense he is sitting, watching, knowing that the desire within me is building to a peak. I squirm against the bondage; only tiny movements, but enough to tell him that the sculpture has come alive.
At last, he moves. I gasp, there is the lightest stroke of my pussy lips, so delicate that it is more a movement of air than a touch. I open my mouth, silently pleading for more. The fingers press just a tiny bit harder. There is contact now as they circle the lips.
I can feel that I am hot, wet, liquid as they stroke inside the pulsing folds. I cannot suppress the sound that escapes from my mouth: a low wail of desire.
The fingers move, circling, pressing on the bud where all my senses are focused. The touch sends crackles of energy pulsing through me. I jolt against the bindings, the once soft ropes now biting into my flesh as I writhe against the ties.
He does not stop. His fingers are inside me now, sliding between my silken lips, curving up, seeking out the spot. His thumb presses against my bud and my body explodes. I feel it shatter into a thousand pieces as if to slip from the bondage and break free.
He is a true artist, a master of me. Slowly, my body reassembles itself. I turn my head, my mouth open, offering myself to him. I feel his fingers, still coated with my honey touch my cheek and sense his flesh close to my lips.
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