by Alison Tyler
Neither of us was a beginner at wine. Tasting it, however, was a different matter. So we bought a couple of tickets and would have gone if, a couple of days beforehand, Aidan hadn’t remembered he was meant to be meeting an old friend for birthday drinks.
“I’ll make it up to you, I promise,” he said.
Which is how I ended up kneeling before our oak coffee table wearing an eye mask he’d bought specifically for the occasion, having taken the concept of blind tasting literally. On the table were six empty glasses. When I was blindfolded, Aidan brought the bottles in. I knew we were tasting red but other than that, I was clueless.
I listened as Aidan poured wine into the first glass.
“Do I spit or swallow?” I asked.
“Do I even need to answer?” said Aidan. “Here, hold your hand out.”
I complied, fingers fumbling for the cool stem. Raising the glass to my nose, I swirled and sniffed.
“Concentrate,” said Aidan.
I took a large sip, sloshed the liquid around my mouth, gargled, sloshed again then swallowed.
“Do I look like a pro?” I asked.
“Completely,” said Aidan. “What’s it taste of?”
I thought for a while. “Wine.”
“Try harder.”
“Can I have another sip?”
After my third sip, I decided the wine tasted of horses and bonfires.
“Horses?” exclaimed Aidan.
I shrugged. “That’s what I’m getting.”
I heard him scribble notes onto his pad. “Price range?” he said. “We have three categories. ‘Cheap as chips,’ ‘mid-range’ and ‘we can’t afford this so you’d better not like it.’”
“Can I have another sip?”
“You’re not meant to be getting trashed.” He put the glass into my hand again.
I drank and declared the horse wine to be lovely but unaffordable. “You could try for a promotion at work,” I suggested. “Next one, please.”
“Hang on,” said Aidan. “My turn.”
“But you know what it is.”
“I can still taste it,” he said. “Anyway, you can’t drink six bottles by yourself on a Tuesday evening.”
“Hey, I’ve had a hard day.”
I listened to him drink. After a thoughtful pause he said, “Mmm, I’d describe this as…a robust, velvety, well-structured red with notes of plums, bramble, earth and leather, and a lingering twist of smoke on the finish.”
“Cheat!” I declared. “You’re reading from the bottle. But I was right, wasn’t I? Horses. Earth and leather is horses. And bonfires is smoke. I reckon I’m a natural. Do I win a prize?”
“You do! You win six bottles of wine to share with a loved one.”
We continued tasting although technically speaking, I should call it drinking. Our descriptions became increasingly preposterous and silly, and by the time we got to the fifth variety, I declared my tongue to be confused.
“I’ll give you a hint,” said Aidan. I heard him stand and move behind me. He lifted my hair then rubbed something hard and rough against the back of my neck.
I giggled nervously, thrown by this change of direction.
“What are you doing?” I asked. “Is that a loofah?”
“Nope.” He printed a kiss on my neck then scoured the mystery object over my skin once more, slow and firm. “Guess again.”
“Ade, are you horny?” I asked.
“A bit,” he said. “I like you in that blindfold.”
“I like it too. I don’t know what you’re doing though. It’s weird. Disorientating.”
He kept dragging the scratchiness against my neck until it clicked. “Aha, it’s that Rioja we sometimes buy! The stuff where the bottle comes wrapped in hessian.”
“Top marks!” said Aidan.
Soft footsteps took him back to his wine-pouring position on the opposite side of the coffee table, his jeans giving a tiny creak as he kneeled. Our neighbor’s TV was audible, but only just. I’d never heard it before. A silence lengthened between us. I imagined Aidan was reading labels, but then I wondered if he might be watching me.
I swallowed, feeling uncomfortable. “Do something else. Let me guess again.”
“Exactly what I was thinking,” he said. I heard him stand and go into the kitchen. The cutlery drawer rattled, cupboards were opened. He came back into the room and said, “Stay like that. No peeping, promise?”
“Promise,” I said. I remained as still as a statue while he went upstairs. When he returned, his footsteps made my heart beat quicker, and a tingle of anticipation shivered across my skin.
“Now then,” he said. His fingers edged down the front of my shirt, deftly undoing buttons. He pushed the cotton and my bra straps over my shoulders then, taking things up a notch, he pushed both my shirt and bra farther down, baring my breasts while lightly trapping my arms by my side. He took care not to touch my flesh. The exposure and my blindness made me feel vulnerable and slutty, as if there were a distance between us that meant we could be strangers, me a poor captive being displayed for his gaze.
“Sorry, I’ve got another idea,” he said. “Hang on.”
He darted off again, taking the stairs two at a time, then came thundering back down. I listened, motionless, as he cleared bottles and glasses from the table. This game was starting to develop.
“Okay, hands behind your back, please,” he said.
I did as told and he wound fabric around my wrists, tying them together.
“I hope that’s not one of my nice scarves,” I said.
“It isn’t,” he replied. “Well, I don’t like it.”
I laughed, half amusement, half nerves. Bound and blindfolded, I waited, my clothes bunched around my arms, my nipples crinkling as if they’d been touched.
“What’s this?” asked Aidan, his voice a murmur. He started at my shoulder and ran a track of pinpricks across my chest to my other shoulder. He did the same across my back, causing my spine to arch as if my body were retreating from the mild pain, even though I liked it. The faint tick-tick of a wheel made me guess he was rolling out something across my skin. Pizza cutter? Surely not. Anyway, the sensation was too uneven. I racked my brains for several seconds before it dawned on me it must be our pastry wheel. But I kept quiet, feigning bafflement so he would carry on.
Varying the force, Aidan ran the implement this way and that, tracing curves and lines. When he rolled the wheel toward my breasts, I tensed, fearing pain. His touch became gentler and I groaned quietly as prickles advanced across my heavy flesh.
“Pastry wheel,” I said, hearing the catch of lust in my throat.
“Good girl,” he said. I didn’t know if he was commending me on my answer or on how I’d held still, accepting and trusting, but either way I liked the words. “Now this,” he said, setting down one object and picking up another.
I flinched at the new texture then settled into it as Aidan moved soft bristles across my back and above my breasts.
“Hairbrush,” I said. “Easy.”
“Well done.” Aidan pressed the pad of spines to the underswell of one breast, bounced upward, then repeated the action on the other side. Finally, he swept the brush across my nipples, shifting quickly from one breast to the other. The harshness and hint of aggression made me gasp, and my groin pulsed greedily.
I heard him drop the brush on the floor. For a while nothing happened and I waited, my skin sensitized and alert to a touch that might land anywhere, from any angle. The more he drew out the moment, the wetter I became. The silence stretched until I giggled anxiously. I felt adrift, dislocated. I wanted to know what he was doing yet at the same time, the prolonged uncertainty heightened my hunger. I remembered how delicious anticipation could be and realized we didn’t have much of that in our sex life these days. We knew each other too well and generally just got on with things.
Eventually, I couldn’t bear the silence any longer. “What are you doing?” I asked. No answer. I strained f
or the sound of his breathing. Nothing. “Where are you?” I asked, feeling a little panicky.
“Over here.” His voice, coming from several feet away, startled me. In my mind, he was still kneeling on the other side of the coffee table.
“Ade, what are you doing?”
At length, he said, “Messing with your mind.”
“Well, it’s working,” I replied.
Moments later, I jumped again as something touched my back, abrasive and initially pleasant, like scratching yourself hard when you’re itching. Aidan swirled the coarseness over my skin, making me wince when he rubbed an area more than once.
“Shower puff?” I said, although I knew it wasn’t. The rasp was crueler.
“Try again,” he said, bringing the roughness over my shoulder and down. I was feeling braver now, and I didn’t flinch as he rubbed whatever it was over my nipples.
“Jeez, is that sandpaper?” I asked.
“Nope. That’s two incorrect guesses. Three incorrect guesses in a row and I spank you.”
I laughed. “Now I don’t know if I should try harder or play dumb.”
“Your call,” he said.
“Give me a clue.”
“Think kitchen.”
“Pan scourer!” I said.
“Correct. Wire wool on your nipples. Is it good?”
“Sort of. I preferred the hairbrush. Something else, please.”
“Okay, take your knickers off.”
I wriggled them down from under my skirt then sat back on my heels.
“Open your legs,” said Aidan.
I hitched up my skirt and shuffled my knees wider. Aidan touched me. “You’re so wet,” he said.
“Uh-huh.”
He held me open and squashed a bulky softness there. “How’s that?”
“Nice,” I replied.
“Hold it there between your pussy lips.”
“What is it?”
“Still the pan scourer.”
“Oh. Doesn’t feel like it.” Without the pressure of his hand, the prickliness was absent. Instead, I just had a delicate weight of texture between my thighs, my moist crease enveloping the cool, crisp sponge and leaving me hyperaware of where my arousal was focused.
The next object I guessed immediately from the smell. Chamois leather. Aidan smoothed it over my skin, its suppleness a velvet caress where my skin was slightly tender from the scourer.
“Okay, another,” he said, removing the leather cloth. “This is different. You need to keep very still.”
I barely breathed as he touched one breast, pinching a fold of skin between his fingers. The squeeze grew harder, and I realized he’d attached something to me. He did the same on my other breast, closer to my nipple this time. The pain, though still mild, went up a notch.
“That okay?” he asked.
“Yes, nice. What is it? A hair clip?”
“One guess gone,” he said.
“I don’t know. Something from your toolbox. A man thing that I wouldn’t know the name of.”
“One guess left.” He took a nipple between his fingers. “Tell me if this is too much.”
Tightness surrounded my nipple, then gripped it. I could no longer feel the earlier two pinches. “Ah! Ow! No, that’s fine, it’s good.”
He tapped the things he’d attached to me, bringing the sensation back. “This next one will be obvious,” he said, “so it’s not part of the guessing game.”
I heard a gentle whirr and immediately recognized the sound as belonging to one of our electric toothbrushes. He traced the smooth side around my breasts, and I knew where he was heading. He rummaged beneath my skirt, pressed the buzzing pad to one inner thigh then to the other. Moving higher, he vibrated it against my pussy lips where the pan scourer was still lodged. My groin throbbed and I ached to feel the touch on my clitoris. He teased a long time, buzzing the toothbrush over my swollen lips and near my clit but never on it.
“Ade, please,” I said. “I want to come. I need to.”
“What’s your third guess?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Please let me come.”
“Guess,” he said.
“You sod,” I whispered.
He chuckled, clearly enjoying how he was tormenting me. He flicked the attachments on my breasts and my need spiked.
“What are they?” He touched the toothbrush to my clit for a second or two then withdrew it.
“Damn, I don’t know. I can’t think straight when you’re doing that.”
“Do you want me to stop?”
“No.”
“Then take a guess,” he said.
“I really don’t know. Please.”
“Do you give up?”
“No,” I said. “But I don’t know. Maybe. Um, oh god, those clips we have holding up the curtain in the utility room?”
“Well done,” he said, moving the toothbrush onto my clit. “They’re clothespins. So wrong but well done. Because I really, really want to spank you. I want to bend you over the coffee table and spank you till you’re pink.”
His words edged me closer as the toothbrush trembled on my clit, vibrating hard where I was engorged and receptive. Its touch was better than my vibrator, more of a fast rocking than a wasp-like buzz. Behind the darkness of my mask, I thought of being powerless beneath Aidan, his hand landing on my bared ass. My orgasm tightened, rose and spilled over. The spasms clutched and I whimpered until I was wrung out, weak from coming.
Aidan didn’t let up. Even though I was as floppy as a rag doll, he guided me toward the coffee table, half-lifting me, half-guiding me, until I was laid awkwardly over its surface, my head hanging, my arms still tethered. The scourer fell from between my thighs. Aidan shoved my skirt higher, exposing my buttocks.
“Guess,” he said.
A sharp tap cracked onto my ass with the sound of a dull pop. It wasn’t his hand. He hit me over and over, the impact of every blow accumulating, making my flesh hotter and more tender. He spanked one buttock then the other, then went back to his first target.
“Wooden spoon,” I gasped.
“Yes,” he hissed. He hit me harder and faster but it was impossible to say whether this was a reward, a punishment or simply him getting into his stride. But the reason didn’t matter because I was getting into it too. Who cares about motivation when you’re both flying high?
When my ass was quivering and flushed with heat, Aidan cast the spoon aside.
“Guess,” he said, jerking my hips toward him.
I heard him unzip and felt him nudge at my entrance. “You,” I said. “Your cock, your cock.”
He plunged into me, strong and straight, his hands gripping my blushing ass. “That’s right,” he said, thrusting in and out. “My cock, my cock.”
He fucked me as I lay over the table, unable to touch him, unable to see. My ass was on fire and I felt stuffed full of him, all my sensory awareness centered on his driving cock and the ripples of pleasure radiating out from my core to my tenderized butt. He fretted my clit and I came again. Minutes later so did he, fingers digging into my bruised cheeks as he hollered his bliss.
When he withdrew from me he said, “Guess.”
I laughed softly. “Your come.”
He untied me, helping me off the table before removing my blindfold. I blinked hard. The room seemed so bright, so packed with furniture, pictures and strewn magazines. We sat against the sofa for a while, catching our breath. Then I picked up the blindfold from the floor, stretched the elastic over Aidan’s head and secured the fabric over his eyes.
He gave a tentative laugh.
“Guess,” I said.
CHAPTER SIX
TIED AND TEASED —
BEGINNING BONDAGE
A dame that knows the ropes isn’t likely to get tied up.
—MAE WEST
Bondage is such a loaded word. What do you see when you think of bondage? Dungeons? Black leather? Dark, sinister tools and implements? (May I come over to your house ton
ight? May I bring a friend?) Sometimes people forget that kink can come in a variety of, oh, let’s just say it, shades. You don’t need to dive into the deep end right away if bondage is something new to you. Play light. Tiptoe into the world of BDSM (in a pair of high-heeled patent-leather boots, of course). Use your imagination before you reach for cuffs, whips, floggers, crops…those can come later. You can come right now.
But how do you even begin?
X-rated, X-rated, read all about it. My number one piece of advice for couples wanting to delve into new territories is to read some smut. (Which you’re doing right now, you good pupil.) Discover what makes you hard, what makes you wet, and decide first of all whether the words are enough. Maybe you can get off simply on hearing about what other people like to do. If not, then go slow. Choose a safeword. Check in constantly. Invest in a safety manual. And have fun. Sex shouldn’t be so serious that you can’t crack a smile while cracking that whip.
Admittedly, my novice days are long behind me. But that doesn’t mean I can’t remember the first shivery thrill of being tied down the first time. Bondage can rely simply on a command, like in my short story “Playing for Keeps”:
My training began as soon as we’d moved in together, our first night in our new house.
“Let go of the headboard, Sarah, and we’ll have a much more humiliating lesson tomorrow,” he assured me.
Staying still for a whipping, staying still on my own accord, is nearly impossible for me. Being tied down is so much easier. So much less work. There is no choice involved. No mental trauma. But holding steady, wrists overhead, body clenched, back and thighs and cunt whipped severely. That takes will.
Bondage can happen when you least expect it, like in one of the first stories I ever wrote, “Zachary’s Bed”:
Zachary’s bed is in the middle of his room, and I am in the middle of his bed. My arms are tied above my head to the curlicues of brass that make up the frame. My ankles are fixed to the railing, my legs spread wide apart beneath the thin, satin sheet. The bindings are simply old silk ties of Zachary’s, secure, but not constrictive. One of the ties has a painting of a naked lady on it. I look up and meet her eyes before calling out my lover’s name.