Fetish Friday #25: B Is for Bondage

I've talked about dungeons and submission and boot-licking. Hair and tickling and fucking cartoons. But as far as I can tell, up until now, I haven't dedicated a Fetish Friday post to bondage. And you know how I feel about bondage.

Learning to Love It, my first novel for Virgin, was all about a naive girl's introduction to bondage. And yet I can't really remember when *I* was that naive girl. Looking back, I feel as if was always aware of wanting to be tied down, wanting to be cuffed, wanting what I wanted with such an scalding-hot intense desire from the get-go.

My first short story that I ever sent out was BDSM-themed. The editor at Playgirl magazine wrote me a personal note that said she liked the story but it was too dark. (She accepted my second, more-vanilla piece, which still included a blindfold and bondage!) Bondage on a Budget, written back in the 90s, was the first bondage-themed collection I wrote. And my first ever pitch to Cleis was actually called B is for Bondage (I also pitched S is for Spanking at the same time)—long before I ever showed them my whole erotic ABC list. They chose the bondage-theme and let me run with Best Bondage Erotica (which as sold more than 22,000 copies), then Best Bondage Erotica 2, Hurts So Good, Slave to Love, Love at First Sting, and Pleasure Bound.











Bondage is in my blood.

Luckily, I'm not the only one. Check this out. A few quick keystrokes on Google wins you: 1 - 10 of about 1,360,000 for fetish + bondage. (0.21 seconds). And Wikipedia has several pages dedicated to bondage. My favorites:

Bondage (BDSM), the practice of tying people up for pleasure
Self bondage, the practice of tying oneself up just for fun or for pleasure

I find that adorable. "Just for fun or pleasure."

My very first real boyfriend (as opposed to all those faux beaus I had lining up to ask me out) used handcuffs on me. But then I was with a series of vanilla men, who honestly scared me to death. I'd always thought that once you were out and about in the world, you'd be able to get what you want. It hadn't occurred to me that what I wanted would freak someone out. That what I wanted was wrong or bad or repugnant. I tamped down my desires for several years and tried my best to fit into the seriously restricted fantasies of one of my men. He employed a different type of bondage. Emotional bondage. When I broke free of those restraints, I made a promise to myself never to be with a man who thought my dirty fantasies were dirty. If you know what I mean.

You know, I've been out of that headspace for so long that it's amazing to me I can still crawl right back beneath the cloak shame. So quickly. So genuinely. When I think about how Byron reacted to my desire to be bound—when I think about that drunken night when I confessed all of my darkest fantasies—a shudder runs through me.

Because I am on a new computer, I do not have access to the miles of bondage-themed files that were on my old hard drive. So again, I put out the call to you. If you have bondage-related snips to share, please post them on your blog, and let us know where to go in the comments.

Here's a little excerpt from my story in Rachel Kramer Bussel's collection Mile High Club, which is proof that I like to add kink to just about any theme.:

“With a blindfold on, doesn’t matter if there are lights or not.”

Oh, god, he was right. Who cared if there were lights? Who cared if we had one of those power outages that often happens when the city gets too darn hot for its own good. No, that’s not the same as living in the wilderness, but it’s about as close to camping as I ever get.

In this manufactured darkness, I kept up my monologue. Sasha had not only put the idea in my head—she’d given me the gift of a $5,000 vacation. Guilt had me nearly as giddy as Adrien’s tongue.

“Sasha said that the nights were so still you can hear yourself breathing.”

“I hear myself breathing all the time,” Adrien said, bending down to me, letting me lift my head to press my ear to his broad chest. The steady rise and fall of his breath soothed me, as much as the sound of traffic outside our window.

Would I be able to handle no sound at all?

Adrien pumped himself over my body, and even with the blindfold on, I could visualize what he looked like: long dark hair pushed off his forehead. Dark blue eyes focused intently on my own face, watching for the changes in my expressions that would let him know I was getting closer. His cock dipped between the lips of my pussy, and I could feel how wet I was. He thrust in again, slim hips meeting my body, and then he rotated slowly, so that his cock stirred me up inside. Finally, I gave up playing little-miss-travelogue. Fucking Adrien always takes me away—as neatly as a jet slicing through the dark velvet sky. I couldn’t speak when he worked me like that. On a bed. In the middle of the night, with the hot air around us and the lullaby of traffic out our window.

But that made me think of one more selling point: “You’re all by yourself,” Sasha had said. “You and Adrien would be the only people there. Your own private oasis. Your own private island.”

Adrien undid the bindings on my wrists and slid the blindfold from my face. I hadn’t come yet. Neither had he. I felt as if I might melt in the heat, melt from desire, from the way he was watching me. Somehow, I didn’t realize his plan until he pushed up the window and dragged me out onto our fire escape. I was naked, and I gripped onto the cool metal and looked down at the San Francisco traffic as he positioned himself behind me. His body was warm and strong, and he held my hips and drove in, hard.

No noise, Sasha said. No people. No lights. No sound.

But fuck me, I like the noise.

And I found myself adding to the cacophony as Adrien rocked his cock in to the hilt. Couldn’t keep myself quiet as he wet his cock with my own juices, then slipped the head between the cheeks of my ass. Pressed there—ready. Waiting.

I groaned and lowered my head to my chest, desperate to climax. Adrien ran one hand down the front of my body, as his cock pushed into my ass. His fingers landed naturally on my clit, rubbing, rubbing to get me over the edge, to loosen me up to the pain-pleasure of the throb of his cock. His fingers became my metronome, ticking, tickling, so that he managed to time my climax with his own.

If we were all by ourselves, then we couldn’t be exhibitionists, could we?

If we were all alone, then just like that tagline in Alien, nobody would be able to hear me scream.

*****

Oh, this clip reminds me that Shanna has a piece up about beauty. Finding beauty in cities or country or up or down. I *do* find beauty in cities. In fact, I have been drawn to them my whole life. In a gallery show recently, the only painting I wanted to bid on was a sky cut by wires. Everything else in the place was pastoral. (For some reason, my link to her blog is not working right now.)

Finally, I'm on a search. I saw this pair of slacks the other day, and after Googling madly, I learned that they are called "bondage pants or bondage trousers." Can you believe it? Here's the definition I found: "Bondage pants are trousers with superfluous zippers, straps, chains, rings and buckles, giving an appearance of a BDSM style. They come in a variety of colors and patterns; one of the most common patterns being tartan. They also come in a variety of styles, including tight or baggy, long, short or Capri."

The best ones I can find are in the UK. Let me know if you find a link to a local distributor, will ya? I think I need some Tartan ones!

XXX,
Alison

P.S. If you'd like to review any one of my bondage books on Amazon, please drop me a note and I'll send you a copy. You've got a slew to choose from!