Bondage Birthday – Ancient Erotica In “Honor” of 50 Shades

In “celebration” of both the premiere of “50 Shades of Grey” and Valentine’s Day, I thought I’d offer a reprint of a piece of erotica I wrote over a decade ago. I hope it inspires a little passion in those of you who might be prone to such things. At the very least I hope it inspires comparison. I like to think that my smut is (was?) far superior to that of E.L. James. But then, she’s made millions. Can’t say the same myself. Ah, the world is full of injustices…(Forgive any typos, I posted this in a hurry!)

The invitation read “Come as you are. As you were. As we want you to be,” a slight variation on the lyrics of one of my favorite songs. The wood-cut on the cover pictured a woman, suggestively dressed and osed in shackels, and the piece of parchment was imprinted with the logo of the private dungeon I frequent on weekends. The time specified was 9:00 p.m.; the date, Friday May 27th, my birthday.

Since no particular costume was requested, I assumed that the interpretation of “As we want you to be” was completely up to me. I selected a full-body leather lattice-work affair that I’d had custom-made. Finally an occasion worthy of it! I slipped my limbs through the webbing, pulling the delicate, supple strings of lambskin until they crisscrossed my body evenly. My breasts were bound against my body by the outfit and I could already feel my pussy tightening in anticipation.

I pinned my hair up in an elaborate tangle of curls, rhinestone-studded bobby pins crisscrossing my hair, echoing the grid of leather on my body. I applied a thin stroke of eyeliner, pinched my cheeks until they pinkened and glossed my lips in sheer opalescence.

To prevent my being arrested en route to my destination, I needed some sort of wrap to conceal my leather-bound voluptuousness. From the hal closet I pulled a floor-pength black satin cape, lined in purple, with a grand gold tassel hanging from the point of the hood and sparkling gold frog closures. I carefully fastened each hook, enveloping my webbed body in the cool satin. Then I wiggled my toes into a pair of black pumps with high, steel stiletto heels.

When I arrived at the unmarked club door, a frail, dark woman let me in. I informed her that I was with the birthday group. As she glanced down the list and her finger came to my name, she whispered, “Ah, you’re the guest of honro? I envy you.” She appraised me with an almost imperceptible once-over, crossed my name off the list and gestured to a hooded man standing to the side of the door who stepped up and took me by the arm.
He led me through a darkened hallway and out into the crowded room, still draped in my satin cape, and up onto a raised platform. A familiar voice introduced me to the crowd as “the birthday girl,” and I received a polite round of applause. When the clapping faded the voice continued, saying that I was to follow every order, every instruction. I was to be submissive, under the complete control of my peers. I nodded in agreement and the disembodied voice ordered me to remove my cape. My hands were shaking as I unfastened the passementerie clasps, one by one, from the bottom, below my crotch, to the top, tight at my neck.

I stood for a second, sensing the anticipation of the audience. Then I gently pushed the slippery fabric off my shoulders and the cape slid to the floor. There were gasps and excited whispers of approbal. The voice commended my choice of apparel and invited the audience to inspect my garment more closely. People moved toward me, running their fingers along the lines of leather that wrapped around my body, the poking at my exposed flesh and tugging at the straps, as if trying to pull my body out through the spaces between the strips. The sensation of the tight suit digging into my skin, all over my body, and the man probing fingers was delicious. Soon there were seemingly a million mouths gnawing at the leather lattice work, saliva dripping between skin and straps, until one by one the connections holding the garment together were frayed and torn. Eventually the straps hung, cold and wet on my frame and soon there was nothing left but a pile of leather shreds at my feet. My skin tingled with the wetness of the audience’s accumulated drool.

The voice asked that the crowd step back and a small blonde woman emerged from behind them. She told me to knee, and as I obeyed, she pulled a dark velvet scarf from deep down in her overflowing cleavage. She placed it across my eyes and tied it tightly in a knot at the back of my head. She told me to stand, took me by the hand and assisted me down from the platform. I was led back through the crowd, following blindly, until I was told to stop. Disoriented and without eyesight, my other senses became heightened. I could smell everyone’s perfume and perspiration, and hear every little gasp of air each person took. The tiny bristles of the velvet fabric over my eyes tickled my eyelids. The air was warm, then cool, then warm again, as bodies brushed closely by me.
The voice said “Lift” and I was raised up into the air by a dozen strong hands and laid down on a cool, flat surface. I could feel the air stif overhead, from a fan or air duct, I assumed, but my body heat was warming the surface and I could feel tiny beads of sweat start to form at the small of my back. Simultaneously there was the quick tearing sound of Velcro and then my wrists and ankles were pulled in four directions and bound, securing me to the surface. This was such a vulnerable position, naked and prone beneath the stirring air. My cunt throbbed.

From there my heightened senses went into overload as fingers massaged me—my temples, the soles of my feet, the tense, elongated muscles of my neck. Warm palms caressed my belly, grazed my breasts. Light fingertips danced up and down my bound limbs, across my clean-shaven pussy, over my masked eyelids and through my hair, loosening my hairpins. Stiff, insistent tongues prodded my flesh, my ears, my nipples, still and cool in the breeze, then warmed by a sucking mouth, then hot between strong, pinching fingers. I writhed and moaned, feeling the juice escape my cunt and slide down between my slick asscheeks to the table, pooling into a wet spot.

I felt the table shift with the weight of someone at my feet. Two smooth, small hands gripped my ankles. How many seconds had passed as all the other lips and palms and pinching fingers left me? When the only contact was my body on the table and the smooth hands on my ankles, I held my breath, almost cringing. Then a silken face was rubbing, burying itself in the bald folds of my cunt, a sharp, slippery tongue jabbing into me, poking past my hard clit, sliding in the slick juices that were dripping out of me. I was practically singing with uncontrollable sighs and moans and shrieks as the face nudged into my crotch, again and again; a nose, a stiff protrusion from the silken face, sliding up and up, rubbing over and past my clit, each of my screams increasing in volume until the poking tongue started working my clit, working, and tiny teeth pulling and twisting it, and then just furious, repetitions lapping until I was sobbing and shaking in my pool of sweat and juices on the slippery table.

As my sobs softened and my tensed muscles telaxed and the singular tongue trailed from my gaping cunt down my quivering thigh, the fingers and mouths started up again, tweaking my nipples, kissing and licking the tears that had spilled from the corners of my eyes and out from under my blindfold. Someone placed their lips squarely upon mine and kissed me, sucking my tongue into their mouth until I was out of breath. Then, some sort of arrangement must have been made because, again, the disembodied mouths and hands pulled away, leaving me holding my breath as before.

From across the room I heard someone start to sing, and the bodies, still close around me, radiating heat and passion, joined in: “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you. Happy birthday dear Evelyn. Happy birthday to you.”

I felt a round, cold object placed upon my stomach. Someone lifted my head up and instructed me to blow. I did as I was told, gathering up as much air as my tightened chest would allow in and expelling it in the direction of the object on my belly. The crowd cheered and applauded and my head was rested back onto the table.
Pressure was applied to my stomach every few seconds and I gathered that they were cutting and distributing cake. After the same movements were repeated a dozen times, my head was lifted up again. “Open your mouth and extend your tongue,” the voice ordered. Again, I did as I was told. A wonderful consistency of chocolate deliciousness was set upon my tongue. I waited for permission to chew it, saliva dripping from one corner of my mouth. “You may eat it,” the voice said. It was a creamy chocolate mousse with a thin, hard chocolate crust. It felt like every one of my taste buds was participating in this sensual experience.

When the plate was removed I waited, my head still being porpped up, as I felt the table shift again and wondered what delight would be next. The air around my waist stirred; I felt the warmth of someone near and movement above me. Then, at my waist, I felt skin against my skin, anklebones jutting into my sides. Hairy legs knelt on the tabletop, brushing my rib cage.

Someone leaned on me—a man. A farily large, heavy man. I could smell him, the scent of his groin, the faint sour smell of sweat and urine, and I detected an increase in the temperature of the air above my chest. Large, weathered hands grabbed at my tits, kneading them, twisting the nipples. I could smell the man’s breath, smell the gin he’d been drinking and the extra lime he’d demanded.

The voice told me, again, to open my mouth and extend my tongue, and I obeyed. Then, again, although nothing had been placed on my tongue, the voice said, “You may eat it.” And in a quick whisper another voice added, “Or should we say blow!” The crowd tittered and in the next second my entire mouth was stuff with the fat cock of the large, heavy man breathing lime and gin. Without my hands, I couldn’t work him in and out of my mouth, so I could only purse my lips as he filled and emptied and then refilled my mouth with this immense, throbbing hard-on.

The anonymity of this encounter had me turned on almost to the point of dementia. I gasped and wheezed, trying to breathe and suck off this huge man, performing blind fellatio for the murmuring audience, wanting so badly for him to spurt his come on me and in me and all over me. I heard him start to grunt and knew his orgasm was not far off, so I bobbed my ehad faster, sucking, sucking, trying to concentrated, then I felt something smooth and cold and hard penetrate my sweating cunt. Someone was working some sort of dildo in and out of me, mathing the thrusts of the huge man hulking over me, shoving the object deep inside me as the man rammed his cock into my throat.

My eyes rolled back in my head behind my velvet mask, and as the scent of sweat and lime and gin overpowered me, I was frantically shoving my pussy at the pumping dildo, trying to cry out in orgasm, even as the hulking man was spewing huge gobs of come down my throat, across my cheek, onto my tits, down my neac and back into my mouth, then pulling my head into his twitching, muscky groin. He was groaning and expelling that gin and lime scent as I lay there under him, my inner muscles clenching and spasming.

At some point the hulking man climbed off me and down from the table and I rested, panting, the entire surface a slip’n’slide of sweat. My heart was pounding so hard, as if amplified, and I believed I could hear the heartbeat of everyone in the room as they came intheir hands, their lover’s mouths, onto the floor, wherever they could find to release their juices and seed in a massive group orgasm. The air was close and heavy with the smell of come and sweat, and I swooned there in my table-size puddle. I could barely catch my breath.
And then it started again, the fingers poking and the palms sliding and skidding across my sweaty body, but there was something else, something different, a new texture. It was like mud—warm, gritless mud. And when the many tongues began moving over me, over the mixture of mud and sweat, I knew that the cool substance must’ve been the chocolate mousse. They spread it and rubbed it and licked and lapped it, a massage of many tongues, chocolate-coated tongues creeping in and out of my mouth, and I sucked the creamy mousse off them, my mouth gaping like a land-locked fish as I waited for the next mouth to meet mine.

The many sensations of touch and smell and sex were overpowering. I felt high and lightheaded. When the faceless touching and tonguing finally tapered off, someone freed my wrists and ankles from the restraints, with those quick tearing sounds of Velcro again. I was helped down from the table. My arms and feet felt as though they were floating beyond my control, and yet at the same time they felt immensely heavy. The voice said it was time for me to take off the blindfold and join the rest of the party guests, so I untied the strip of velvet and blinked, taking in the view of my surroundings.

My many friends stood around me, their faces smeared with chocolate mousse and they were smiling and holding sweaty glasses of champagne. “To Evelyn, on her birthday!” they cried in unison, and someone slipped a full bottle of champagne into my hand. I toasted myself along with the crowd, tipping the bottle back and taking a long chug of champagne.

We were in the basement of the dungeon, which is equipped not only with the usual SM stockades and shackles, but with a huge, round jacuzzi. People began shedding their chains and leather and garters and slipping into the hot bubbling water, and I joined them, happy to be rid of the sticky layers of saliva and chocolate mousse.
We drank and carried on late into the night, the many guests making good use of the available facilities. Couples shackled one another to the walls and submissives bent over leather hassocks awaiting the smart slap of passing dominants. A particularly attractive brunette woman was dangling blindfolded in a harness hung from the ceiling, her bared bottom being expertly pinkened at the hand of a brutish man in nothing but a series of heavy cock rings.

At one point, the festive bottles of champagne were replaced by icy cold beers served from jumbo coolers. Beer and bodies passed from hand to hand and mouth to mouth, all property becoming community property. The room was a striking tableau of total carnal indulgence.

It was a truly joyous celebration of life—and lifestyle—and certainly my most memorable birthday ever.

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3 responses to “Bondage Birthday – Ancient Erotica In “Honor” of 50 Shades

  1. Much, much better than E.L.James. But why do you think 100 million copies of the trilogy were sold? Is BDSM that popular or is it that most women want to cuddled and cocooned in wealthy security?

    • I’m afraid I can’t answer that. No one I know is interested in being cocooned in…anything. Cuddled, yes. And BDSM? I think it holds an appeal for far more people as a fantasy than a reality.

  2. I agree with you…Your erotica much better than 50 Shades. However the appeal of 50 Shades I would bet is the journey from frustrated female naivete to empowered human being. The wealth eliminates the need to address the practical matters which we all live our lives in. And who knows the Red Room could also be a metaphor of working through childhood trauma, and therefore does not begin to touch on the erotic they way your story does.

    I believe the popularity of ELJ reflects a readiness (maybe–but then with the election of Trump, maybe not) to evolve an increment more, of a larger part of our population…well I did the calculation-100,000,000 is only 1.4 millionth percent of the globe. Its a start…maybe.

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