Bondage Erotica
"Warrior" a sex story by Phedra Johnson
My ruined pantyhose are still in his bedroom. Split from crotch to ankle by the sharp point of his bowie knife. He'd have cut my panties too, but I protested, squirming from his grasp. I sprung lightly off the bed giggling, making a run for the stairs. In two giant leaps he aborted my attempts to escape and pinned my arms behind my back. One swift movement swept my legs from underneath me - a clean kill.
He whispered in my ear, "A clean kill." I'd have fallen in some dark alley, never made a sound, a wide-eyed corpse. But this wasn't war. Or was it?
There are pressure points all over the body. Backs of knees. Under arms. At the base of the nose. Gentle pressure brings mild discomfort. Harder stimulation can bring blinding sheets of pain. With probing fingers he threatened and teased. Any struggle tightened his grip and my mind began to race.
He was fresh from the battlefield. The rough stubble of his beard was grinding into the tender flesh of my shoulder. If I craned my neck I could see his boots standing at attention near the door. That's when I remembered the letters about walking through puddles of blood and shit. One full year of hell.
Now he was home with his nails digging into my wrists. He was home with his weight pressed upon my back. With his warm breath stirring the tendrils of hair near my ears. I had gotten ready so carefully and now I was a rumpled puppet on the floor of his bedroom. A quick jerk hoisted me to my feet. I squeezed my eyes shut as my body made violent contact with the mattress. Deftly torn pantyhose were transformed into restraints.
I was helpless. I didn't dare scream. I waited.
There was a scraping noise and the metallic click of a lockspring. Then the monstrous combination of a pistol being cocked and...silence. The room became totally silent except for my labored breathing. I gathered my thoughts and slowly counted to five.
1...2...3......4.............5........
I cautiously rolled onto my side and he was looming at the foot of the bed. Soundlessly he had stripped off his clothes and stood with his sidearm hanging grimly at his hip. From head to foot he was a tensed coil of muscle and sinew. Chest heaving and eyes intense he watched me wiggle toward the headboard. I didn't wiggle far before he caught my ankle and flung my legs apart.
Everything then became a frenzy of pent-up longing, frustration and fear...
Fingers, which only moments ago brought pain, now sought pleasure. A left index and thumb firmly clutched my clit - their right handed partners encircled my breast. A gun forgotten, but not gone, pressed icily against my fevered cheek. Fear became a glacier melting slowly with the springtime of our passion.
I was melting, the moisture flung from his fingertips and spattering onto the bedsheets. Soon I was a whimpering, quivering mass grinding against his knuckles. Thrusting my hips upward demanding his fully erect devotionals.
It had been so long. He had imagined this on endlessly lonely nights. Clutching my moth-winged memory to his chest. Drowning out the crackle of automatic gunfire to hear my sobbing gasps for breath. He wasn't going to rush.
The tip lingered, its heat radiating across my starving slit. Gently tapping out a Morse code of delayed moments. Then just as I was lulled into blissful inattention - it became a cutting blade.
He aimed for the core of me and struck true. I cried out and became an arching fury. My arms vaporized their restraints and became entangled around his waist. Our bodies became war drums and we pounded our warnings to the neighbors. Angels drawn to the commotion covered their eyes for modesty.
Long days. Parched nights. Vast expanses. Bullets. Blood. The metallic taste of fear.
They all were exorcised phantoms as he lost his ability to tell up from down. I pushed up. He pushed down. The walls bowed outward. And the sound boiled out from the wellspring of his being. A prolonged, mortal cry of ecstasy.
My name.
Originally published January 2007 - "Happy Nude Year!"