Best Bondage Erotica 2012 by Rachel Kramer Bussel

Shouldn’t a friend and longtime roommate be more rather than less understanding than a short-time lover? “I dunno,” he concluded, guilt rising like heat in his chest.
    Hannah sighed dramatically, then crunched toast. “What’re you so scared of, anyway? I’m sure you two get up to much worse than she’s going to do in some club.” She rolled her dark eyes, and Nick wasn’t sure whether it was at what he got up to or what she suspected would go on at Strike, the BDSM club in question. Hannah had pried more details out of him than he’d ever admitted to anyone who wasn’t part of his sex life one late night about a year previously, and he knew even then that he’d never live it down. She kept what she knew to herself, or the friendship would have ended hideously, but no matter how vanilla his life looked on the surface—from his bookishness to his preference for what Hannah called his “uninspired” clothing style—he could no longer hide from her that the kink ran deep.
    Nick risked another sip of coffee as Hannah shrugged, rose and took her mug with her into the front room. She noisily flopped down with her laptop for her morning ritual of reading all the news fit for the Internet. Without turning around, she tossed her coup de grace over her shoulder: “If you’re jealous that she’ll be tying up some other boy, you could always take his place, you know.”
    The rush of guilt became the flush of embarrassment as Hannah’s arrow hit home. If he was slowly creeping around in his mind toward the possibility of loving Paolina, he was assiduously avoiding the possibility of being jealous that she was going to do a public bondage scene with another guy. A stranger at
that, for the plan was to take a volunteer from the audience. No sex would be involved, Paolina had assured him; it wasn’t that kind of scene. And he was thrilled that she felt the desire to reassure him. But, if he was her lover and submissive, then why was he letting this chance go by? He didn’t have to immerse himself in the club scene; he didn’t have to care what any of the strangers watching would think. He could just be there, do this, for Paolina. For them both. Sudden resolve put a shiver through him. It was far from unpleasant. He grabbed his bag and headed for the door. He had a full day ahead behind the desk, editing copy for textbooks in which he rarely had real interest, and then he’d be headed home to change, find directions to Strike, and then off to an unsure but surely interesting night.
    Â 
    As he navigated the empty streets, looking for the converted warehouse that was intentionally placed far from city lights and overmuch attention by sightseeing types, Nick saw in his mind’s eye the wide smile Hannah had given him as he left the house that night. Black T-shirt, tight jeans, black leather jacket and motorcycle boots: it was about as fetish as he got, but it was clear enough to Hannah where he was headed. “You look great,” she’d said, and he couldn’t help but flash a grin. Though they’d somehow managed to navigate a friendship without sex, they didn’t lack appreciation of each other’s attractiveness. And, passing a hand through his coffee-brown hair—short in back, wavy, messy bangs in front—he did feel attractive, if full of first-date-style jitters.
    He made his way into the private club, paid for a one-night membership and found his way to a little table in the back of the darkened main room with little fuss and eyes kept mostly to himself. Only when he was sipping a complimentary Coke (it was BYOB and he’d not remembered that, and he definitely could
have used a stiff shot) did he begin to peek out at the crowd. There was a whole herd’s worth of leather, he noted, from jackets and miniskirts to chaps and bustiers. There were corsets and schoolgirl outfits and Lycra and more