Best Bondage Erotica 2012 Read Free Page A

her nerves, making her legs shake uncontrollably.
    She gasped as another orgasm hit her hard. A gush of fluid covered her inner thighs. Had she wet herself? Panicked, she looked down at her jeans, which had a definite wet spot seeping through.
    It’s not pee, silly, she realized. It’s come. She’d never come that hard in her life, never so hard that a stream of ejaculate drenched her. Being cuffed, at the mercy of a block of ice, made her so hot. But she was going to cheat a bit, because there was no way she could wait until the ice melted naturally.
    She pulled herself up in the bed so her head was right next to her hands. Picking up the ice cube with the key in it, she popped it in her mouth. The cold shocked her senses, her mouth overwhelmed by the large cube on her tongue. Tentatively, she sucked.
    And the ice began to melt in the heat of her mouth.
    Thank goodness , she thought, sucking hard even as she bucked her hips wildly, alternating between trying to dislodge the vibrator and trying to come yet again. Now it was starting to hurt, the pain mingling with the pleasure to create an erotic sensation that left her breathless.
    The ice was down to a sliver and she crunched, her teeth hitting metal, tangy on her tongue. She spat the key onto the pillow by her head and grasped it with her trembling fingers. It took longer than when she had practiced, but she finally freed herself.
    Ripping her wet jeans off, she pulled the vibrator out of her
pussy and tossed it across the bed. It was still buzzing, hitting her comforter with a thwop . The clock said she’d been in bondage for the past thirty-four minutes—the most intense thirty-four minutes of her life.
    She lay back on her pillow, her breath coming in shallow pants.
    As intense as the experience had been, as scary as it had been, she had to admit being handcuffed was even more exciting than she ever could have imagined.
    I should really punish myself, she thought, for cheating at my own game. Sucking on the ice cube was a definite no-no. Next time, she’d use a bigger block of ice. She might even drop a key into a plastic water bottle and freeze the whole thing before she handcuffed herself.
    There were so many ways she could torment herself. An anal plug, perhaps. Nipple clamps. A ball gag, holding her jaw painfully open, muffling her cries and ensuring that she didn’t try to suck her way out of her predicament.
    She grinned up at the egg-shell white ceiling. She didn’t need a man to give herself exactly what she craved. The possibilities were endless—and this was just the beginning.

A NIGHT AT THE OPERA
    Elizabeth Coldwell
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    Jonathan has always hated opera. In every other respect, he’s the perfect husband, but on this one subject we’ve never been able to agree.
    Nothing thrills me more than to hear a beautifully performed aria, with a world-class soprano conveying the deepest of emotions in every note. It’s almost as good as sex, if that doesn’t sound trite. Unfortunately, he’s never been able to understand why it moves me so deeply.
    In the early days of our marriage, I actually persuaded Jonathan to accompany me to a handful of productions. But while I sat entranced, lost in the music, my darling husband fidgeted in his seat, bored and clearly wanting to be almost anywhere else. On one occasion, he even smuggled his personal CD player into the auditorium and listened to Dark Side of the Moon all the way through the first act of Tosca . He earned a severe thrashing for that when we got home. I rather suspect it was why he did it.
    After that, I as good as gave up on trying to educate him in
musical appreciation. We would have carried on plowing our separate furrows, mine highbrow, his unashamedly lowbrow, if I hadn’t seen the advert for Opera South’s latest production. They were bringing their acclaimed version of Lucia di Lammermoor to our local opera house.