BONDAGE BY THE BAY: TALES OF BDSM IN SAN FRANCISCO
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by M. Christian
Category: Erotica/BDSM Erotica/Travel
Description: One of the kinkiest cities in the world, San Francisco is home to BDSM night clubs, dungeons where very intimate parties are held every weekend, shops that sell every form of bondage instrument from whips to chains and beyond - and a myrid ways for meeting and loving like-minded people. Without a doubt, the city some have dubbed Bagdad by the Bay, is a city of kinksters (straight or gay, bi or trans, or perhaps all four) out for all kinds of delicious erotic adventures. In this one-of-a-kind anthology by master erotic writer and editor M.Christian some of the top erotica writers working today share their experiences and fantasies of BDSM in SF. From loving relationships between masters and slaves to pain sluts in the city's clandestinedungeons, this book has something for everyone! With stories from Xan West, Karen Taylor, Jude Maso, Ralph Greco, Jr., Jerry Rosen, Shashauna P. Thomas, Jessica Lennox, Jan Vander Laenen, M. J. Rennie, Thomma Finland, Mykola Dementiuk, Sharazade, Wade Heaton, and Blake C. Aarens.
eBook Publisher: Renaissance E Books/Sizzler,
eBookwise Release Date: August 2011
Available eBook Formats: OEBFF Format (IMP) [213 KB]
Reading time: 134-187 min.
He is nervous. He almost didn't make it out the door. He stands on the corner of 19th and Lexington, eyes darting as he chain-smokes in the cold.
He can't believe he is here. His boots carried him here against his will. His hunger outweighing his anxiety -- it was pure ache that motivated his post; a nervous, bold naming of his desire, cocky little scared boy aching to fuck drunkenly. He needs the alcohol to hide from his own self. And I have forbidden it, which really pisses him off. How can I demand he meet me at a bar and then require him to be sober?
It's the anger that motivates him to walk into the bar. He stands at the far wall, staring, heart racing. He can't do this.
He is curiously near to the bar and his hand jams into his pocket to see how many drinks he could get. His chin sticks out, thinking he could just sit here all night, drinking, watching me as I sit quietly at the table, writing. He could down his tequila and watch my boots as I leave, never approaching me.
He catches a glimpse of my eyes as I glance up in his direction. Unbidden, an image fills his head, my eyes looking down at him as I force his head down onto my cock. He tries to shake it off, but it keeps coming.
It's this image that motivates his boots to cross the floor to me without his full permission. I have paused in my writing to watch the floor by my feet, checking for a nervous boy's approach. Which is a good thing, otherwise I would not have heard the throaty tentative, "Sir?" And who knows if he would have the guts to repeat it.
I lift my head to look him over, noticing his dusty boots, the bulge in his torn jeans, his pecs bound down so he passes better, his twitching hands, the pulse in his throat racing. I meet his eyes, and nod to the chair across from me.
"I have two questions for you, boy."
His eyes dart from my lips to the floor.
"1. Are you sober?"
"Yes," he says grumpily.
I nod acknowledging that I believe him.
"2. What is your safeword?"
His eyes widen with fear. He swallows, speaking softly, "Red."
"Very good. Carry my bag, boy." I gesture to it, shrugging on my jacket and striding out of the bar, knowing he will follow.
I had described to him what I was going to do to him, and he racks his brain trying to remember exactly what I had written. All he can think about is that image of my eyes meeting his, my cock deep in his throat. His heart is racing and he is struggling to keep up with my long strides, his eyes focused on my boots.
I hear his frantic pace behind me, confirming my trust, and turn the corner, stalking to the spot. I stand against the wall, knowing I need to keep one eye on the street. I watch his nervous eyes, his boots shuffling, the pulse beating in his throat, and a surge of power fills me. I breathe it in deep and feel it lift me, my cock throbbing. In these moments I am not conscious of the fact that my cock is attached by thin strips of leather. It is fully mine, and the throbbing is very real.
My gloved hand moves steadily toward his face, knowing his eyes are mesmerized by it. It rests briefly against his cheek, and he breathes the scent of leather before he feels it grip him, thumb stroking his throat as the gloved hand presses against the back of his neck.
His heart leaps to his throat and I can feel it race against my thumb. It's not fair, his mind screams. He wordlessly drops to his knees and looks up.
There is nothing like the first sight of a boy on his knees. I rake over him with my eyes, taking my time. My thumb strokes the pulse of his throat, claiming him. He is mine, under my hand, in my care, if only for the duration of this scene, he is mine. The thrill of reading him, watching his responses, carefully deciding how to play with him. I can taste my own fear in my mouth -- will I be able to read him? There have been so few words between us. Can I read his body, his energy? The fear only ups the ante. I sink into my self-trust, planting my feet in it. The back of my hand strokes his cheek. My thumb grazes his lips.
I watch him carefully as I free my cock. His eyes widen. Is that fear? Excitement? Both, I decide, stroking my cock as I watch him. He is scared -- what if it isn't how he wanted? Or worse, what if it is? What if he really is a cocksucking fagboy who gets on his knees for strangers in alleys?
"You want this, don't you?"
His eyes widen further. He licks his lips in silent response. My cock swells as I speak softly to him, stroking.
"You've been dreaming about this, haven't you? This is what you crave, being on your knees in an alley, a cock in front of your lips. You are aching to have my dick in your throat."