Left to my thoughts, my arousal subsides some when I think about how close my body is to where the chairs are placed. The table is rather small; all they would have to do is reach over slightly to touch me. I am chained up, completely adorned, and any number of men are coming to sit at the table that I am the centrepiece of. He has bound almost every part of my body.
My anus and nipples burn but the feeling spreading through my body from those places is amazing. I feel like I am on fire in the best possible way. If the gag weren’t in my mouth, they would hear my harsh pants when they arrive. I remind myself to breathe slow and steady.
“The Centrepiece”, Erin Spillane
From reading the title it would look like there are three good reasons to purchase a copy of Best Bondage Erotica 2015.
The foremost reason for making this purchase is that it’s erotica – and erotica is always worth purchasing. It’s a genre of fiction that depends, for success, on arousing a physical response from readers through the descriptive passages of text. There is no other genre that does this as effectively as erotica.
Secondly, and probably of equal importance to the first point, the book focuses on bondage. If you’re going to have a sexual deviance, bondage is currently in vogue thanks to the alleged BDSM undertones of Fifty Shades of Grey. (This is not to detract from the pleasures of bondage by associating it with that particular book. If someone asked me whether I’d rather be tied up and violently fucked, or read FOSG again, I’d be holding out my wrists and offering to share my knowledge on knots).
Thirdly, and again of equal importance to the other points, this collection showcases talents that are rightly presented as THE BEST. This is why the book is called Best Bondage Erotica 2015.
Christie stared at the hook in her skin, clenching tight to Mac’s hand, watching the man slide the shiny curve into position in the freshly pierced hunk of flesh before moving on. She came back to herself after a moment, looking around as if she’d just woken, her whole body tingling with a mix of pain and excitement.
“Doll,” Mac leaned in, “are you okay?”
“I…” Christie watched, rapt, as the other attendant did the same, popping the hook through her skin so she was symmetrical again.
Christie looked at him, a slow smile spreading over her face, a tightness spooling in her chest, identical to the winding beginnings of arousal. She bit her lip and fought the urge to grind her naked cunt against the plastic-covered seat. “I thought there’d be more blood, that’s all.”
“In Suspense”, Shenoa Carroll-Bradd
Best Bondage Erotica 2015 contains lots of familiar authors as well as a handful of names that are less familiar. Once again it shows that, when Cleis chooses to do something properly, they can do it very well. The book also pushes boundaries with some very daring choices that move mainstream erotica up to the next level.
Someone raised his hand. “Four thousand!” the auctioneer said, pointing into the darkness beyond the lights. “Do I hear forty-five? Forty-four?”
More slaps against poor Sheila’s cunt. “Forty-four! Do I hear forty-five? Listen to those screams, folks. That could be yours! Forty-five! Forty-six?”
Sheila’s body was quivering, shaking from her sobs, but she stayed put.
Mistress Anna stopped her whipping, looked out toward the audience. She reached to Sheila’s upheld breast and wiped her finger across it. She held it up to the crowd, wet from Sheila’s tears, and placed her finger in her own mouth, tasting it. She seductively drew the finger from her lips. She lowered her hand to Sheila’s crotch, and showed her finger to the crowd again. It was glistening wet. Now she licked it, tongue extended, not taking it into her mouth this time. She stepped behind Sheila, and whipped her across her ass, hard, harder than she’d whipped either her tits or cunt. Sheila cried out accordingly, a loud, open mouthed moan, with her hands still supporting her breasts.
“It’s five or nothing, ladies and gentlemen,” the auctioneer said, and hands went up. “Five!
Do I hear fifty-five hundred?”
“Auction, In Quotation Marks”, LN Bey
If you love erotica, good writing and bondage this is the title you need to buy.
Madness. Darkness. Death, and what might lie beyond. Gothic fiction takes us to the edge of comfort, icing our wonder with a blast of cold terror as we confront the unknown – including the unplumbed depths of our own own hidden desires.
Mitzi Szereto’s latest anthology marries the tropes of the Gothic genre with graphic erotic content. The results are surprisingly varied, transcending the clichés of windswept moors, haunted mansions and buried crypts to provide some impressively original tales.
Possibly the most startling is Benji Bright’s “Blood Soup.” An exacting master chef concocts daily feasts for his reclusive noble employer, whom he has never met. The extraordinary repast he concocts from cow’s blood brings a summons, a moment of shared release and the revelation of secrets. I loved the twisted logic in this tale, laced with somber power.
Another standout tale is “The Wildest Spirit,” by Sacchi Green. Two beings on the edges of society, both scarred by their wild abilities, find common cause and unexpected passion when they try to stop the deliberate slaughter of coyotes. With its simple, concrete language, this eloquent story has some of the flavor of a fairy tale, but it’s not at all clear a happily-ever-after awaits the characters.
Ms. Szereto’s own contribution, “The Dracula Club,” is a delight.
I knew early on that my calling to the Old Country was not the result of some youthful fancy, which was how my family, schoolmates and teachers had always dismissed it. There’s not a huge amount of interest in Transylvania where I’m from, nor is there a huge amount of interest in Goth culture. Everyone thought I was crazy to be working all hours answering phones in a grubby warehouse office in the daytime (where no one had to look at me), then serving up greasy fast food and watery ice cream at the Dairy Queen in the evening (where I could be seen, but the country bumpkins and hot-rodding juvies were usually too drunk on cheap beer to care).
But I had a plan—and it was to save up enough money to fund my trip to Romania and have a bit left over to keep me going until I figured out how to earn a living. What did I care what the local yokels thought of me or my goals? I’d always been an outcast with my dyed black hair and my face and body piercings, my heavy black eye makeup and weird black clothes. The only people back home who dressed in black were the Amish—and they sure as hell weren’t Goth.
In a grimy Transylvanian pub, the narrator meets two gorgeous Gypsy boys – Dragos and Bela – and gives herself completely into their hands – both literally and figuratively. Their smutty, uninhibited three-way couplings are among the most erotic scenes in the book. Meanwhile, bit-by-bit, the beautiful Gypsies lead the transplanted Goth girl toward her dark destiny. She’s more than willing to follow.
T.C. Mills’ “The Wicked Wife” provides a fevered modern-day reading of Bluebeard that definitely got my blood boiling. “Reynolds’s Tale” by Adrian Ludens features Edgar Allen Poe as a character, and is written in a style reminiscent of that master of horror. Rose de Fer’s “Moonfall” gives us a Victorian werewolf, incarcerated in an asylum for the insane by her evil husband and rescued by her mortal lover. “Zapada Alba” by Tracey Lander-Garett is another shape-shifting tale, told in lush, sensual prose. Gary Earl Ross’s “Sister Bessie’s Boys” is a surprisingly sweet ghost story with a strong sense of place.
I would not, by the way, call this collection romance, at least not in the modern sense – but I guess that’s necessary these days to sell books. In perhaps half of the stories, requited desire leads to the promise of a future as a couple. The others are, thankfully, far more ambiguous.
Darker Edge of Desire offer vampires, were-creatures, demons and succubi – but don’t expect them to follow the rules of popular fiction. Overall, Mitzi Szereto has assembled a strong and diverse collection that showcases the creativity of her contributors.
With a book like Midnight Caller by NJ Cole I get to feeling like a broken record (and yes, I’m so old that I remember the vinyl origins of that idiom.) So here I go again: if you like this sort of book, you’ll like this book. You may even love it. Which means, of course, that if you love the Twilight series (but aren’t totally fixated on vampires,) and if you’re turned on by the 50 Shades of Grey saga (but don’t mind a bit of a paranormal element,) you’ll probably enjoy Midnight Caller.
We have Rebecca, the pretty young thing with a submissive streak who would seem virginal if it weren’t for her frequent energetic bouts of masturbation in her glass-walled high-rise apartment. And we have Oliver, the somewhat jaded dom who watches these bouts from a window in the next building, able to see intimate details no human could make out, because, of course, he’s not human at all. His Bocaj ancestors came from another planet in another galaxy eons ago, and, though they look like humans, Oliver (AKA “Sir”) tells us that, “we were more similar to the trees of Earth in our biology than any mammal on the planet.” This, however, does not appear to apply to their sexual proclivities, which are very mammalian indeed. Oliver goes on to say, “The greatest difference between our kind and humans, besides the fact that we absorbed the energy needed to sustain life from the sun and the small amount of food and water we consumed, was that our lifecycle was more comparable to that of a redwood tree. The average life expectancy for my species was nearly two thousand years.”
Oliver himself, we discover, is only about two hundred years old, which may account for the fact that in spite of his dominant nature, he occasionally seems closer to adolescence than adulthood, as when he gets all flustered mentioning oral sex in the presence of his mother, who clearly has far more experience in all things sexual and/or kinky than he can yet claim.
For the most part, though, Oliver is exactly the masterful type that Rebecca longs for, and she’s perfect for him, more dangerously perfect than he realizes at first. He had grown bored with his previous submissive because she was too perfect to give him reasons to punish her, so Rebecca’s not-so-perfect tendency to get flustered is just what he thinks he wants.
Of course the Bocaj folk are immensely strong, with venomous bodily fluids (although apparently some fluids aren’t necessarily as venomous as others,) so he has to be careful not to injure her too badly, or possibly kill her. For quite some time the relationship is limited to his phone calls letting her know that he can see her masturbate, and his own masturbation inspired by hers, so that one hopes that in spite of the aforementioned small amount of water required by the Bocaj, both of them are getting enough liquids to replenish those emitted in such mutual gushing, flowing, geysering abundance. Eventually he gives in to temptation and appears as a colleague at her workplace (owned, of course, by his people) without letting her know that “Oliver” and “Sir” are one and the same; and she, of course, in the best Superman and Lois Lane tradition, doesn’t catch on.
I really shouldn’t be sounding so snarky. Chalk it up to being old enough to remember actual broken records. Midnight Caller is well-written enough, with prose that flows smoothly, characters worth the necessary suspension of disbelief, and very few typographical errors. The sex flows, too—did I mention the geysering abundance?—and the D/s relationship, while a bit on the light side, is likely to be many reader’s cup of…well, tea. I was annoyed for a while by the way almost every scene was described twice, once by “Sir” and again by “butterfly” (Rebecca,) but I got used to it.
Midnight Caller was published almost two years ago, so I suspect it was influenced by the Twilight series more than by Fifty Shades of Grey, which had itself originated in Twilight fan fiction. In the “About the Author” note at the end of this book we’re told that there were over two million reads of NJ Cole’s online work in the previous six months, so it seems fair to conclude that she too has some experience in the world of fan fiction. It’s also fair to conclude that she has a very wide and appreciative fan base, which emphasizes my initial point that if you like this kind of book, you’ll probably love this one.[A guilty admission: when Oliver mentioned the closeness of Bocaj biology to that of trees, especially redwood trees, I thought of the rash of books about sex with dinosaurs, Bigfoot, any and all types of super-powerful and therefore presumably sexy monstrous beings, and wondered for a moment whether something like “Ravished by a Giant Sequoia” would be a viable title. Hmmm…well, nevermind.]
Oh boy. The Thumper rule would apply, but I have to write a review.
Something strange is going on with the model’s upper lip on the cover of this anthology. That’s not the only visual problem with this pdf. The pages are dark tan. I suppose that’s supposed to remind me of the beach, but what it really did was make reading this anthology even more unpleasant.
I tried. I really did. I tried to read through each story and pick three that would appeal to readers, but these stories were such a chore to slog through that I couldn’t. It’s not that the writing is terrible, but it’s not ready for prime time either. I found myself skimming the sex scenes in almost every story then had to force myself to go back and read them. That’s never a good sign in erotica.Obviously, I’m not the audience for stories that include huge backstory dumps in the first three pages, telling rather than showing, and clunky writing. This is volume three, so presumably volumes one and two of this series were much, much better. Maybe you should try reading one of them instead.