H Is For Hardcore

Welcome back to the Fleshbot Book Club—your chance to get a sneak peek at some of the hottest erotic literature out now. Today's selection comes from Cleis Press's H is for Hardcore, edited by Alison Tyler.

The following excerpt is from "Headed for Healing" by Rakelle Valencia.

"Hush, or we'll have to hogtie you, too," my wife said.

The rope dug into my Wranglers at the ankles. I was slammed flat to my back by the horse dragging my feet out from under me. The Honda snugged my leather boot tops, gouging out a mark that would have cut deeply into my skin. I shouldn't have stepped off my horse in such a huff to walk off some aggravation. Practice stunk, and if my new partner had been a guy, I would have punched him one in the kisser. Instead, I was fit to be tied with no means of physical release for my frustrations, and she took advantage of that by roping me.

Wiggling upright to sit on my ass, I felt the second rope drop before my hands could reach the first. I knew what they were doing. I was healed, then headed, so to speak. But I was no damned steer, and fooling around like this was dangerous, near to getting a fellow torn in half like those old stories of gladiator times when they quartered folks with four horses for fun or retribution. So I got nervous fast.

Until Kassy, my new header, stepped down from her quarter horse, Spike, and my wife threw me a hint of slack as she dismounted my own roping horse, Dregs. "This ain't funny," I said in a gruff manner that sent the women giggling.

"Hush, or we'll have to hog-tie you, too," my wife replied.

At least they took the ropes down off the saddle horns. Dregs had been known to be a sadistic joker, and I wasn't real confident that he'd stay put once he surmised my position of being stretched out between the two waxed ropes. I wasn't real sure he'd cut me slack instead of making this bad situation worse. He was a rehab that I had picked up along the way and tried to find a job for since no one else was getting along with him proper. He had never attempted to throw me per se, but he was cagey, knowing just how things should go, then doing the opposite unless I knew enough ahead of time to stop him. And the bugger was quick.

With a slight bit of relief, I flopped back into the dirt to lie flat waiting for the giggling twosome to set upon me, most likely with their demand for me to cool off. My wife threw a leg over and squatted above my chest, adjusting her rope from my torso to cinching my wrists. She was my wife, so I let her.

But then Kassy threw a couple of loops and a hooey around my bound ankles with some determination. Now, Kassy was a drifter of sorts. She followed the rodeos. She and Spike could run the speed events, taking most of the buckles every time, but she was a better all-around cowboy than that. Heading steers in the team event with a man healin' was about the only other work she could get, when she could get it. Pro rodeo was still pretty tough on letting the women compete.

I had watched Kassy and invited her back to my ranch as a potential new partner. My last partner had to get his shoulder dislocated for the fourth time, riding bulls. He was now out of the point-running. Which left me out unless I could wrangle a partner this late in the game. There was only Kassy.

My wife licked her lips and threw a couple of loops and a hooey around my wrists, then stood, convincing my arms to stay above my head with her pointed-toed boots pressing into my pits.

My indoor arena was dead quiet except for the snuffling of the two horses as they wandered away toward a bale of hay used as a practice roping dummy for my three-year-old kid who was now fast asleep under the watchful eye of his grandmother up in the old house.

"Hon?" I asked. I knew I had been acting a little hot under the collar with Kassy since there was a lot riding on those earned points. I also knew my wife had taken her side of things and had asked me to lighten up. But I couldn't. And I knew that I had gotten unbearable.

My tension was seething to boiling. "Hon?" I repeated more tentatively. In reply, she tugged at her gritty zipper, surprising me with nothing on under those taut Wranglers. She shimmied out of them, kicking her boots off at the same time and stood half naked above me with her crinkly, pruned triangle of hair taunting my sight.

I said no more. That is, until I heard my belt pop open like a soda can and my own zipper complain of being yanked, hard. "What…what's going on?" I panicked. Tried to kick at Kassy until my wife dropped down to hover over me.

She tore at the pearly snaps of her Twenty-X shirt and leaned on all fours, positioning to fill my mouth with a pert, red nipple while reaching above my head to pressure my tied wrists deeper into the sand. I suckled, forgetting Kassy at that moment.

Kassy walked up and kissed my wife. I'm not talking a small, innocent peck to the lips-it was hot! She grabbed my wife's hair, entangling fingers, to pull her head upward, then teased her with an open mouth, gently touching my wife's bottom lip with the tip of her pink tongue just to move away and start again.

The wife's nipple slipped from my open lips as I gawked. My cock grew in my boxer shorts, and I was glad for the relief Kassy had afforded me before this new torture began.

Their eyes made contact and never left as their mouths danced in an erotic tease. Finally, Kassy sucked my wife's bottom lip into her mouth and tempted their tongues into play. A feminine hand lifted the weight of my wife's breasts, fondling them, pulling at each nipple and twisting them to my wife's muffled moans and groans. The hand that had been wrapped in long brunette tresses eased away to where I could only imagine.

I licked my own lips and looked toward my wife's pussy, seeing thin, rugged fingers circling her clit shaft. Those fingers drew back, following the crack of ass, and ending, I believed, by my wife's lower lumbar because that palm had urged her to sit up and forward, fully on my face, leaving my tied hands alone in the trade for balance.

Kassy gave one last kiss to my wife before I felt those same lips at the tip of my cock's head that had poked its way from cotton captivity. She fisted my shaft, moving the skin up and down its length as her tongue swirled the head and poked into my piss-slit.

My legs kicked once or twice. My mouth hummed with words that were never heard. And my wife began to rock harder on my lips, her engorged clit shaft hitting the tip of my nose, juices sluicing the sides of my stubbly face. I stuck my tongue out and did my best to stroke her hole, which wasn't easy with the rocking force of an entire body sitting square on my mug.

I dragged the thirty-foot rope by tied wrists to reach for those beautiful breasts. Their heft swayed in my calloused hands until I could find and pluck at the nipples one at a time. Incoherent sounds gurgled in my wife's throat. And I knew, somewhere in the back of my thick skull, that she was close to orgasm.

But my dick was in Kassy's mouth. I'm a guy, and I can vouch for the fact that the little head does take over the thinking for the big head at times. This was definitely one of those times. With sweet pussy on my lips, I still couldn't help but think only of the velvet sheath that swathed my prick.

My tied legs no longer jerked, but my hips bucked. I beat a rhythm into that deep throat until my balls crimped up to where they were almost nonexistent outside of the body. I twitched. I lunged. I moved this side, then that. Kassy rode to stay with it, just like at the pro rodeos.

My wife popped off first. I only realized it when she bore down so hard as to sore up my jaw and slop me to soaking by squirting. I tried to get my mind to her. I tried to rub her breasts just how she liked, though I was hampered by waxed rope tied tightly about my wrists and my brain losing any type of focus other than toward my groin.

Kassy's calloused fingers took over for her warm mouth, easing the need to shoot my load immediately. She went back to seductively kissing my wife as her other hand lay flat between those breasts, urging my wife off my face and aiding in impaling that sopping, spasming twat onto my cock.

I lost it. I shot load after load while watching my new arena partner seducing my wife with her passionate kissing.

The horses had made short work of the bale and now snuffled the sodden, sandy tangled mess of human flesh, sturdy cotton work clothes, and waxed ropes. Kassy got up and led the animals away by their bits.
"I think I'll let them cool down," she said as she exited the indoor arena.

I didn't know whether she meant the horses or my wife and me. But it didn't matter, I was healed and headed and laid out like a good-scoring steer. I let the ropes have me then. There was no fight left in my bondage.

Excerpted from H is for Hardcore, an anthology edited by Alison Tyler and published by Cleis Press.

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