Best Bondage Erotica 2012 Read Free Page B

I had been desperate to see it ever since I discovered Martin Bellehewe was the company’s new director.
    Martin and I were at university together, longer ago now than I care to admit. We met when I’d auditioned for the choral society’s production of The Mikado . He was the show’s conductor, filled with an energy and love for the music he couldn’t fail to transmit to all those around him, destined for a stellar career in music once his degree was completed. With my thin if tuneful voice, I would never be anything more than one of the chorus, swaddled in a dressing gown masquerading as a kimono and fluttering my paper fan in time to the beat. To almost no one’s surprise but our own, we embarked on a passionate relationship that lasted for nearly two years.
    I didn’t discover the delights of domination and submission with Martin. That came later, with my darling Jonathan. Martin’s inclinations were purely vanilla, though he did love to go down on me for long, delirious spells. I always joked that with his superb breath control, he should be up on stage, rather than in the orchestra pit.
    Jonathan knew all about Martin. He displayed no jealousy when it came to my ex. Quite the opposite. My dear, sweet, subby husband never got more excited than when I was telling him about my former lovers, and how much more proficient they’d been than him. That was almost entirely a lie, though the story of being fucked on a Majorcan beach by a waiter who spoke no English but more than compensated with his eight-inch cock was no exaggeration. Simply put, for Jonathan,
sex was always sweeter when it came with a side order of humiliation.
    Rereading the advert convinced me it was high time I took Jonathan to the opera once more. If nothing else, it would allow me to treat myself to the toy I’d spotted on one of my favorite bondage-wear websites. The photograph couldn’t have failed to catch my eye. With his burnished silver hair and broad shoulders, the model bore an unmistakable resemblance to Jonathan—at least from the back. For propriety’s sake, a pair of tight black trunks concealed his firm ass, a luxury my husband would not be allowed should he find himself in the same position. He knelt, arms behind him, hands buried deep in the most beautiful pair of bondage opera gloves.
    I didn’t have to see the gloves in the flesh to know the leather would be butter soft, or that once they were in place, the submissive would be incapable of removing them unaided. The sturdy steel D-rings attached down their length and at the end of each glove enabled them to be fastened to themselves, to a hook on the wall or, just as in this photo, to the cuffs around the model’s ankles. Endless possibilities sprang to mind as I considered all the delightfully restrictive and uncomfortable positions I could force Jonathan to adopt. My credit card wouldn’t thank me for it, but I knew I needed a pair of those gloves. Once I had them, everything else would fall into place.
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    â€œWe’re going to the opera,” I informed Jonathan over breakfast a couple of mornings later.
    He looked up from his copy of the Times . “Really? I thought you said you were never taking me again. Not after the Discman incident.”
    â€œAh, well, in those days you were able to misbehave and get away with it. This time that won’t happen.” My words piqued
his curiosity, but I offered him no further explanation. “Plus, Martin’s directing the production, and I thought it would be nice for the two of you to finally meet.”
    With that, I declared the conversation closed. Jonathan clearly realized I was planning something, but I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of discovering exactly what.
    Over the next couple of days, I took the tuxedo he’d last worn to his company’s Christmas function out of storage and had it dry cleaned, and I made an appointment to have