Bound and Bonded Read online

  Forever Bound

  Bondage Erotica

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Ring My Bell – Rose de Fer

  Roped In – Medea Mor

  Madeline and More – Giselle Renarde

  The Billiard Room – Tabitha Rayne

  Beginner’s Luck – Annabeth Leong

  Getting Somewhere – Maxine Marsh

  OOPS! – Flora Dain

  Pierson’s Beautiful Cock – Ashley Hind

  Taming Maria – Kathleen Tudor

  The Demands of Mistress Miranda – Michael Hemmingson

  The Belt – Elizabeth Coldwell

  Putting on the Dog – Heather Towne

  The Unicorn – Kyoko Church

  More from Mischief

  About Mischief

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Ring My Bell

  Rose de Fer

  I don’t like the way he’s eyeing the ropes.

  No, that’s a lie. If I’m honest, I do like the way he’s eyeing the ropes. A lot. And I can’t help the little tingles of pleasure and the weakness in my knees as I imagine what he could do with them. But there’s no way I can admit that to him. No, my fantasies are my own dirty little secrets, nothing I could ever share with another person.

  But here’s the thing. Do I really have to admit it to him? Can’t I just feign nonchalance and pretend I’m not desperate to know how it feels to have my wrists bound and stretched up over my head, the position forcing me onto my toes? To have my ankles tied to the bedposts and my legs spread wide so I can’t close them? To have my long hair twisted and twined into an elegant knot and secured to a bar that holds my head in place? Can’t he just read my mind?

  If these images sound specific it’s because I’ve downloaded a few photos. Well, more than a few. Probably hundreds. I live in mortal terror of a computer crash that will send me to the data-recovery experts who will get a privileged glimpse into my private fantasy world. Or perhaps more than a glimpse. What if one of them found the pictures as arousing as I do and perused the whole extensive library? Would I be able to tell from the knowing grin as the guy handed my laptop back to me? What if he happened to be an expert rigger who was looking for someone willing to submit to his coils and knots? What if …

  Oh, who am I kidding? That would never happen. That’s the sort of ‘meet cute’ that only happens in cheesy romcoms. And anyway, why am I thinking about some nonexistent computer geek shibari master when Brian is weighing the lengths of spare rope in his hand and looking up at the bells like that? More to the point, why is he looking at me like that?

  Blushing, I avert my gaze, peering up into the tower as if I’m fascinated by the bells. In actuality what I’m fascinated by are the long ropes descending from them and held teasingly out of reach. They might be the legs of a fluffy multicoloured octopus suspended over our heads.

  ‘Pretty,’ I say. It’s an empty, meaningless word, just something to fill the silence.

  ‘Have you ever rung bells?’ Brian asks. He puts the coil of rope back on the scarred wooden table by the font and moves to my side.

  ‘No,’ I say. Then I remember. ‘Well, kind of. One time. When I was a kid.’ At his expectant look the embarrassing memory returns and I look down at my feet.

  Brian laughs. ‘You got pulled off your feet, didn’t you?’

  I cover my face and nod, remembering the humiliation of the event. I’d only thought to ring the bell once and scamper away before anyone saw me. But the bell had other ideas. The vicar told me off, my sisters laughed at me and my parents looked as ashamed as if I’d spat on the altar.

  ‘You’re adorable when you’re embarrassed,’ Brian says, which only embarrasses me further. My face is burning.

  ‘So you know how to ring bells?’ I ask, desperate to change the subject.

  ‘I’m sure I haven’t forgotten. My uncle and I used to help ring the changes here when I was a boy.’

  The image seems incongruous. Somehow I can’t picture Brian doing anything so churchy. With his ripped jeans and long hair and Celtic tattoos he seems out of place here. But perhaps he was once a rosy-cheeked choirboy, just as I was once a fresh-faced little girl in plaits.

  He runs a hand through his hair and I watch the simple gesture, remembering the feel of his hands on me in the club the night we met. We weren’t able to shout over the pounding dance beat but we managed to communicate well enough without our voices. And we’d spent the last few hours before the sun came up in a nearby Travelodge, where we didn’t sleep at all. Neither of us was keen to return to our respective mundane jobs in the morning but we kept each other company with rude texts throughout the day, reminiscing over our antics the night before. It kept me sane until the evening, when we could meet up again.

  We had dinner, then each other. I was only halfway out of the sleeves of my stretchy red top when he pushed me down on his bed and kissed me hard. In that one moment I felt a wave of excitement beyond anything I’d ever known. I was completely helpless until he drew back to strip me the rest of the way and all night I kept hoping he’d pin me down or suggest some other way of restraining me.

  A scene popped into my head from a film I’d seen where a man asked his lover, ‘May I blindfold you?’

  ‘Don’t ask her,’ I’d moaned at the screen in frustration. ‘Just do it!’

  I imagined Brian asking me politely if he might tie me up and it was like someone had thrown ice water over the fantasy. He knew my body so well already; how could he not know what was in my subby little mind? He shouldn’t need to ask; he should just know.

  A muffled bong snaps me out of my reverie and I blink in surprise, forgetting for a moment where I am. All those sleepless nights catching up with us, no doubt. Well, me anyway.

  Brian has released one of the long bell ropes and my eyes go wide as he takes hold of the fluffy grip.

  ‘Brian, don’t –’

  But instead of the noisy clang I’m expecting, the bell only makes another soft bong.

  ‘It’s OK,’ he says. ‘The clappers are muffled.’

  ‘So what’s the point of ringing them?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t intend to ring the bells.’

  Something in the way he says it makes it sound wicked. Did he really emphasise the word ‘bells’?

  ‘Then what …’ My voice trails off as he fishes a large key out of his pocket and heads for the door.

  A thousand thoughts flash through my mind at once. I’ve only known this guy for a few days and I’ve hardly slept since meeting him. He could be a psycho for all I know. He was vague about his job when I asked him what he did; maybe he doesn’t even have a job. Maybe what he does is seduce girls and suggest he show them this lovely old church, lock them in and slash them to ribbons on the altar in some blood-soaked Satanic ritual.

  Maybe. But somehow I don’t think so. Even if my judgement is impaired through lack of sleep, my body has its own instincts and it knows what it wants. What I want. And I want whatever he is about to do to me.

  I watch silently as he turns the key in the ancient door. The tumblers clank home like the lock of a jail cell and my legs begin to tremble. Then, smiling, he pockets the key and returns to where I stand beneath the raised tentacles of the bell ropes. One by one he lifts them down until the fluffy grips dangle free, encircling me. I feel like an animal caught in a brightly coloured cage.

  He smiles at me as he raises my right arm and loops one of the bell ropes around it. With a look he tells me to hold my arm still and I obey the wordless command, watching transfixed as he constructs a cradle with the thick rope, winding it around itself and knotting it above. I could easily slide my arm free of the loose loop but I suspect there is more to
come.

  He does the same with my left arm and I test the strength of the ropes by gently leaning back and tugging down. The two bells I’m tethered to respond with a muffled ringing and Brian smiles.

  ‘Very nice,’ he says.

  I press forward for a kiss and he obliges me. Warm wetness pulses between my legs. All my life I’ve dreamed of an encounter like this. I’m familiar with the sensation of rope against my skin, but only from inept experimentation. On my own. It’s just not possible to tie yourself up in any convincing or arousing way without feeling a little silly or worrying what will happen if someone barges in unexpectedly. Or even worse: if you get stuck. I’ve ruined all such private moments with the ‘what if’ image of me hobbling to the phone and trying to dial 999 with my nose.

  Brian brings me back to the moment with another kiss. Something in his eyes says he knows my frustrations and desires. Perhaps he’s felt it too in his own way.

  When he pulls away at last he pushes my short skirt up around my waist. I glance nervously around, half expecting to be accosted by an outraged vicar. Is it blasphemous, what we’re doing? Even if I were one of the faithful flock I doubt I’d be bothered by this stage. Not when a lifelong fantasy is about to come true.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Brian says. ‘We’re alone. I’ve locked us in.’

  His words chill me as much as they reassure me. I am completely at his mercy and we’ll be undisturbed for however long he intends to play with me.

  He takes hold of another rope, loops it around my right thigh and pulls it taut. The tail of the rope is coarse and scratchy but the woolly handgrip is too high up for this job. The layered coils he winds around my leg create a wide band of support and I relax and watch him work. At one point he brushes the gusset of my knickers with the rope and I moan softly.

  Again he ties an elaborate knot somewhere out of sight above me and then he repeats the process with my left leg. Both ropes are wound several times around my upper thighs, holding me securely, but I’m not quite as trapped as I’d imagined I’d be, since I could still pull my arms free if I wanted to.

  He seems to read my puzzlement in my face because he gives me a wicked grin. Then he takes hold of the ends of the ropes he tied my legs with and begins to pull. And I give a startled little cry when I feel my feet lift off the stone floor. I gasp and kick my legs in surprise, losing a shoe in the process.

  ‘Be still,’ he says chidingly.

  I do as he says. I clutch the soft grips on the arm ropes and the wide loops take the weight on my underarms as the position tips me back. He raises my legs just off the floor until I’m sitting in a sort of sling. The position draws my legs apart and if I try to push them together the bells chime softly above me.

  ‘Comfy?’ Brian asks casually.

  I’m too astonished to speak. The sensation of being raised up off the floor is both scary and exciting. I make some sort of sound, a mousy little squeak he clearly knows how to read. I suspect he’s done this before. But instead of feeling jealous at the thought of past girlfriends, the idea excites me even more. I imagine him tying up a succession of girls, approving of the responses of some, finding fault with others. All at once I feel like a harem girl who dreams of being the sultan’s favourite. I am determined not to disappoint him. Like an obedient slave, I want to make him proud.

  Brian smiles at me and crosses to the table, where he picks up two coils of thinner rope. ‘Like I said, I used to ring the changes here when I was a boy. That meant hours of practice, often on my own. So I found ways to make it more interesting.’

  He unwinds them and moves around behind me. I feel him take hold of my foot and I wiggle my toes as he slips off my remaining shoe and places it beside the other. The rope rasps against my ankle and I tremble as I stare around me at the church. I can’t help imagining rows of stern-faced parishioners sitting in the pews, turning round to look at me. I might be some innocent peasant girl on trial for witchcraft, at the mercy of the villainous witchfinder who must restrain me to do his duty.

  My sex throbs wildly with each fantasy as Brian knots the rope around my ankle and draws it back behind me, securing it to the rope around my thigh. Finally, with both my ankles secured, I realise I can’t close my legs at all. My knickers feel shockingly wet in the cool air of the church and I shudder in anticipation as I listen to him walking around behind me.

  At last he returns to face me and I wonder if he is pleased. I hang before him as though I’m kneeling in midair, my legs splayed, my crotch at the level of his chest. And all the while, the bells produce their muffled peal above us with every tiny movement I make. I wonder if anyone can hear it outside the church?

  He stands between my legs and gazes at my silky pink knickers. My arousal is more than obvious. With a finger he traces a line from one bent knee up along my bare thigh and across the loops of rope. I shudder with pleasure as he draws his finger up the soaked little crease. He teases me, stroking me through my sodden knickers, flicking my clit and pressing his knuckle against the warm wet centre of my sex, the place that hungers for penetration.

  I long for him to slip his finger underneath the elastic, to tear away the sheer material that separates us. The bells register my frustration as I twist in my bonds, straining with my hips to press harder against his questing fingers.

  Then he moves away and I whimper with longing, not daring to beg him or make demands. Some primal instinct tells me I must wait for his favours and rewards. Like a good little slave, I think, and the thought makes me even wetter.

  He returns with another rope and this one he fastens to the tangle of knots that bind my legs. It drops it down between my folded knees, where it hangs for a moment, loose and limp. But the look in his eye tells me that this rope is not as innocuous as it looks. And I understand when he swishes the frayed end of the rope through the air like a whip and then flicks it sharply against my pussy.

  I yelp, more out of surprise than pain. The little stroke makes my cunt throb and I hold my breath as he raises the rope again. He brings it down briskly on my swollen mound and this time I cry out in earnest. I struggle in my bonds but there’s no way I can escape the sweet torture. Again and again he inflicts it on me and each time I feel my sex burn more fiercely in response. My knickers are drenched by the time he finally stops but he isn’t finished with me yet.

  He draws the rope tight up against my sex and feeds it around behind me, forcing me to straddle it. He tightens it slowly, increasing the pressure until he is satisfied. The rope vibrates slightly as he secures it behind me. The pressure against my clit is immediately almost more than I can take. I whimper, writhing helplessly, but every movement only serves to increase the friction, to stimulate me further.

  Gasping and panting, I feel each little throb the rope forces from my tender sex. Brian’s hands reach around me from behind to clasp my breasts, and my nipples tighten like pebbles inside my T-shirt. I’m not wearing a bra and his fingers find the hard little knots and close around them, pinching them cruelly.

  I throw my head back and arch my back, crying out as the crotch rope presses into me again. I’m lost somewhere between pain and pleasure and I don’t know which is which any more.

  He drags the front of my shirt up to expose my breasts and then pulls it the rest of the way up over my head, anchoring it behind my neck so my breasts are fully on display. Goose flesh springs up along every inch of bare flesh but it’s not from the chilly air of the church. My muscles quiver, straining against the unfamiliar position. Every movement, however small, triggers an equal response from the ropes binding me. It is as though the ropes are a living creature, one that tightens its grip on me with each little struggle.

  Brian kneads my breasts from behind, playing with my nipples and kissing the back of my neck. My skin tingles all over and the crotch rope is in danger of wrenching a powerful climax from me already. Apparently sensing my nearness, Brian stops and loosens the rope. I whimper in protest.

  ‘No, no,’ he sa
ys with a chuckle.

  Bereft of its stimulation, my clit throbs even more insistently, its pulses so desperate they almost hurt. There is nothing in the world I want more right now than to come and I wriggle and squirm to beg for it with my body.

  ‘Please,’ I whisper.

  But he is a cruel, teasing master. ‘Not yet,’ he says firmly.

  The authority in his voice makes me melt and I close my eyes, abandoning myself to whatever further torments he has in mind. I’m desperate for release but at the same time I never want the moment to end.

  I moan with frustration until I hear the sharp snick of a blade. My heart leaps like a fish in my chest but I force myself to keep my eyes closed. He wants me to trust him and I do. Completely.

  ‘Stay perfectly still,’ he tells me, his voice a silky whisper in my ear.

  I nod to show him that I will, demonstrating with my stillness that I will do whatever he tells me, that I am completely his.

  There is the icy bite of cold steel against my bare thigh and I grit my teeth, willing myself to be absolutely still. He draws the blade along my trembling skin before slipping it beneath the edge of my knickers. The wispy silk falls away to one side and I writhe a little at the exposure. He slices through the other side and I am completely exposed for him.

  ‘Good girl,’ he says, rewarding me with the touch of his warm fingers against my swollen clit.

  I gasp and roll my hips, my thighs quivering and straining with the position. But the helplessness is exquisite.

  With both thumbs he spreads the lips of my pussy and my face burns hotly at the exposure. He teases the wet opening of my vagina and I nearly scream when he finally slips a finger inside. He swirls it around inside me and my body feels electrified. I throw my head back with a gasp and look up into the tower. If only the bells were free of their muffles; their wild jangling might serve as the voice of my body, filling the air with an unrestrained peal of ecstasy.