Please welcome the sexy bundle of dynamite that is erotic fiction author Kristina Lloyd! We wouldn’t want to mess with this lady ~ no doubt we’d end up hogtied with shiny apples in our mouths ~ but we thoroughly enjoy the way she pushes boundaries and takes sex to the extreme.
If you don’t like your erotica dark, dirty and dangerous – look away now!
The Bondage Pig is a short story culminating in a hot, kinky threesome (or foursome if you count the pig). Simone’s husband, Ralph, is repairing a mysterious antique in his attic workshop. The object seems to be having an odd effect on their household, including on their sexy, surly lodger, Jack. One afternoon, Simone decides to find out exactly what’s in the attic. (And for anyone interested in spotting the literary references in my work, this story is riffing on William Golding’s Lord of the Flies. Poor William!)
Excerpt from The Bondage Pig by Kristina Lloyd
The Big Book of Bondage, ed Alison Tyler, pub Cleis Press, 2013
The door was ajar and that smell seeped out as I pushed, an ancient, earthy scent riding the regular aromatic wave of fresh wood and leather. My hands were shaking. Sunlight slanted in through two large, sloping windows, pale angles hanging like a ghostly representation of the attic’s pine beams. A dusty haze fuzzed the center of the workshop and I switched on a random selection of lights, sending shadows scuttling out of the corners.
Ralph’s work surfaces were strewn with chaos, while sawdust, leather, chunks of wood and mess littered the floor. The corrugated tube of a dust extractor snaked among the debris. Saws bared their teeth. Tools and knives dangling from hooks and poking from pots, glinted with medieval menace. From a high beam, a wooden African mask gazed down with blank, black eye sockets.
But I was used to the mask’s face. It was always there. The face that troubled me was a new one, a dark, burnished face with beady glass eyes and a broad snout pierced by a ring. It belonged to a life-sized, stuffed leather pig, deeply upholstered like a Chesterfield sofa. “Grotesque” is the word that sprang to mind. I stared at the inert beast, my heart quickening. I couldn’t say if I was excited or afraid. I knew only that I was reacting strongly to the pig’s presence.
Leaving the attic door open so I could listen out for Jack or the phone, I drew hesitantly closer. The pig was unlike anything I’d ever seen. It stood on metal trotters, sunlight glossing its quilted bulk. The leather was a dark oxblood, its pouches and pits so taut the skin gleamed with the hard polish of wood. On the pig’s back was a brown wooden saddle, a fine crack running vertically down its center.
I might have guessed at the pig being a plaything from a nineteenth-century nursery if it hadn’t been for the huge, ruddy phallus protruding below its hind quarters. The penis wasn’t corkscrew-shaped as on a living, breathing pig, but realism obviously wasn’t the aim here. If I’d been looking for confirmation the Victorians were an odd bunch, it was jutting out in front of me, larger than life, and then some.
I glanced around the attic, wondering what Ralph made of this bizarre artifact. I recalled hearing him jerk off on the night he’d supposedly been working on the repair. Christ, our problems were bigger than I feared if my love-rival was a leather pig, hung like a horse.
But no, this was something else. The attic possessed an unsettling atmosphere, a brooding eroticism hanging in the air, oppressive and enticing. Objectively speaking, the pig wasn’t attractive, I could see that. But somehow, it created an attraction, almost as if it had charisma. I know this sounds loopy, but I sensed an intangible danger lying in wait for me. In my head, one voice urged me to leave and get a breath of air, while another voice begged me to stay. The latter was not the voice of reason; it was fuelled by lust, and even though I’ve been a committed atheist since the age of fifteen, I felt as if the devil himself had a hand in it. And I couldn’t turn away.
The attic was warm although it shouldn’t have been. I wondered if Jack had surfaced yet. I hoped when he did, he would add more bricks to the fire to keep the living room heated. I imagined he wouldn’t; too much of a layabout to care. He’ll start to care when it gets colder, I thought. I slung my cardigan over a chair, comfortable enough in one of Ralph’s old shirts and a pair of stripy legwarmers I’d knitted for myself two winters ago.
I knew what I wanted to do. I wanted to sit astride the pig. I’d wanted to do so ever since I’d first entered the attic. And I might have done that, might have kept it nice and simple if, on approaching the pig, I hadn’t been struck by an overwhelming urge to handle its big, shiny phallus. I suddenly wanted to feel it in my fingers, hard, polished and lewd. My hunger to touch the pig was also, inexplicably, driven by a desire to give pleasure to a lover. I had to remind myself this was an unpleasant object whose heart was sawdust, whose cock was wood.
I dropped to the floor alongside the pig, reaching below to fondle its phallus like some sick milkmaid. My fingers couldn’t encircle the pig’s girth, so I ran my hand, cupped like a C, up and down its length. The wood was as smooth as glass and marble! That irresistible tactility practically powered my caress. I stroked greedily, slipping along the swinish shaft, then molding my palm to its blunt, rounded end. My groin tingled as I imagined a thick, hard cock sliding inside me, and I remembered, with a tug of nostalgia, the wooden dildo Ralph had once carved for me. It was curved to hit my G-spot. We’d named it Nessie after the Loch Ness Monster. I didn’t know where it was anymore. I needed to rectify that.
An over enthusiastic caress on my part caused the pig’s stout member to creak and shift. For one terrible moment, I thought the beast was alive, its porcine arousal swelling in my hand. I tested again, eliciting another grunt from the wood. Then, terrifyingly, the shaft dipped a fraction as if it were coming loose in my hand.
Oh hell. I held my breath, fearing I might have broken the monster. How on earth would I explain that to Ralph? But no, not broken. This cock, I realized, was much more than a cock. I repeated the action, pulling the shaft backward. The entire pig shuddered and squeaked. With a groan, the wooden saddle split open down the center and began to rise and separate. I pulled harder on the phallus, now understanding it functioned as a lever. I leaned backwards as the saddle separated further, a compartment emerging from the pig’s center, three tiers of drawers opening out beneath each saddle-half, staggered like those of a cantilever sewing box.
I shuffled backward on my knees, gawping in astonishment. The drawers resembled wings. I couldn’t deny my excitement. My heart was thumping, my stomach fluttering. Our attic had the weirdest treasure. I was about to peer forward to inspect the contents of the drawers when I glimpsed a figure in the corner of my eye. I shrieked. I had company. My heart stalled. I felt woozy, hot.
Standing in the attic doorway was Jack, wearing nothing but a pair of faded, black jogging bottoms, ragged at the hem. He was propped against the door-jamb, arms folded, smirking. His biceps curved into the broad bulk of his shoulders, black tattoos licking at his contours. The hair on his creamily pale chest glinted red-gold in the mellow, autumn light and further down, a neat coppery line ran from his navel, down his flat belly, and disappeared into the waistband of his joggers.
I pressed my hand to my chest as if to keep my heart from leaping out. “How long have you been there?”
“Long enough,” he replied smoothly.
I blushed, saying nothing. There was no point.
“Stunning, isn’t it?” Jack strode into the room, hands in his baggy pockets. His outline smudged when he walked through a wedge of dusty sunlight. He looked mythic, otherworldly. Sensation pulsed in my groin, and I quickly grew tender and wet.
“You shouldn’t smoke in the house,” I said.
“I’m not smoking.”
“But sometimes you do. Ralph and I don’t smoke and we don’t want people smoking in our house either. You have to go outside. I can smell it from your room too. It’s not on, I don’t like it, this is our house, mine and Ralph’s. You can’t just – “
“Okay, okay. I’ve got the message.”
“What are you doing up here?”
“Same as you,” he said. He stood a few feet from me, looking down and smiling. His cock was lifting inside his joggers, pushing obscenely at the fabric. I wished I wasn’t on my knees, wished my cunt wasn’t tingling so insistently.
“No, this is my house,” I said, sounding bolder than I felt. “This is my husband’s workshop. I have every right to be here. You don’t. You’ve overstepped the mark, Jack. You’re arrogant and presumptuous. And nosey. You have no damn – “
“Quit with the attack!” He jerked his chin at me, eyes flinty with anger. “I saw you. I stood here and watched you work that shiny pig-dick. Saw how you loved it.” He took a step closer, deliberately intimidating. “And you know what? I did exactly the same thing when you and Ralph were sleeping. Yeah, that’s right. Crept up here one night and wound up making out with… with that.” He flipped a dismissive hand toward the pig. “Because I had no choice, see? I had no fucking choice.”
He gave me a long, hard stare as if, with the force if his eyes, he could make his words sink in.
I looked at the ground. “I know. I’m sorry.”
“And Ralph had no choice. None of us do.”
I nodded. “It’s the smell.”
“I don’t know what it is,” he replied. “But it’s here, that crazy, fucked-up… bondage pig. And it’s got to us. We have no choice.”
I nodded again.
“Take a look.” His voice was gentler but his words still felt like an order. “It’s worth exploring.”
I have to confess, at first I thought he was referring to his cock. His directness thrilled me and I imagined dipping a hand into his joggers to free him. One tug of the drawstring and he’d be mine. An urge to betray Ralph swept over me. I wanted to be reckless and greedy, wanted to have another man all over me, inside me, everywhere. When I caught Jack’s intended meaning, I mentally backtracked and kneeled up to examine the contents of the pig’s trays as politely as I could. Jack moved to stand behind me, his bare feet astride my legs. He swept my hair back over my shoulders, his gesture tenderly proprietorial. My cunt throbbed with need.
Spread before me, the six shallow drawers were cluttered with bondage gear and strange-looking implements. Tentatively, I rummaged among the tangle of brown leather and brass, growing more confident and curious by the second. Jack continued to lightly stroke and lift my hair, making me nervous although I liked it. I selected a slim wooden paddle, unvarnished and crudely fashioned, and ran a thumb along its chipped, rough edges. I was glad Jack couldn’t see my face.
“Spanking,” he said as I set the piece on the ground. He wasn’t informing me. He knew I wasn’t naive. He was itemizing the things we would do together.
The Big Book of Bondage features some of the hottest names in erotica and was released on Valentine’s Day in the UK. You can buy in paperback or kindle at Amazon UK and Amazon US. And I’m sure the Sh! Girlz will order in stock if you oink nicely!
About the author:
Kristina Lloyd writes erotic fiction about sexually submissive women who like it on the dark, dirty and dangerous side. Her novels are published by Black Lace and her short stories appear in a range of anthologies, including several “best of” collections, in both the UK and US.
Her fourth novel,Thrill Seeker, will be published in May, 2013.
Find out more here: kristinalloyd.co.uk