Bound and Bonded

by Kyoko Church

  I flash back on all the orgasms he has given me over the past few days and nights. After each I was certain there could never be another one as intense, as knee-tremblingly euphoric. And each new one proved me wrong. If I weren’t suspended as I am, I have no doubt that my legs would give way in response to what he’s doing to me now.

  I feel the pads of his thumbs on either side of my clit, pressing gently against it, circling it, sweeping across it. When he lowers his mouth to me I know it will only be a matter of seconds. The warm wetness of his tongue flicks across my clit as he splays my lips wide with his fingers. Then he closes his lips around me and sucks the hard little bud into his mouth. Sudden bright pain blossoms into pleasure and it takes me a moment to recover from the surge of sensation. He does it again and I feel his fingers slide closer and closer until he fills me again, this time with more than one. He draws his head back and brushes the tender head of my clit with his lips, exhaling hot breath on it before lapping gently at it again. At the same time he draws one wet finger down the dewy crease of my sex and up between my clenching cheeks. And as he tongues my clit with his fingers deep inside me, I feel him slip another finger into my arse.

  The combination of sensations overwhelms me and I surrender to the most powerful orgasm I’ve ever experienced. Not caring who hears, I send a wild and primal scream up into the tower. The bells may be gagged but I’m not. I thrash in my bonds, securely restrained and powerless, at the mercy of devastating waves of ecstasy.

  When the last little throbs finally begin to diminish, I lie panting in my cage of ropes, swaying gently back and forth as my body tingles and tiny fireworks dance behind my eyes. I let go of the fluffy grips and the ropes support me under my arms. Limp and utterly spent, I feel as weightless as an astronaut adrift in space. I could just float here forever.

  I don’t know how long Brian waits before speaking. Minutes? Hours? Days? I have absolutely no sense of time and I barely even recognise my own name when he says it. But I can feel my limbs beginning to protest, and the tingling eventually brings me back down to earth even though it’s the last place I want to be.

  I’m struggling to find words but when I see the delighted expression on Brian’s face I realise I don’t need to say anything at all. All my shame has been purged and I don’t care what a lewd exhibition I make, splayed and exposed and suspended from the bell ropes of a little village church.

  The pins and needles remind me that there is a price for everything and Brian holds me as he unties me and gently eases me down onto the floor. Once there, I curl into a foetal position, still buzzing from the experience. He replaces all the ropes as though concealing evidence of a crime and I close my eyes as the bells at last fall silent, their muffled peal fading with the last twinges of my climax.

  I think of all the pictures on my hard drive. All the elegant, artistic Japanese ones; the rough and functional damsel-in-distress ones; the rude and nasty hardcore ones. I had my favourites, of course. The reliable ones I’d return to again and again for inspiration when I clicked through them with one hand on the mouse and one on my vibrator. Suddenly they all seem bland and boring. Not a single one of them can compare to what I’ve just experienced.

  Rope marks are imprinted on my skin and in some places I can feel bruises.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Brian says, misreading my expression. ‘They’ll fade in a few hours.’

  I wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him. ‘No,’ I say. ‘Promise me they never will.’

  Roped In

  Medea Mor

  Emma Grafton was wrapping up the tiramisu her mother had asked her to bring when she heard her husband’s voice behind her.

  ‘Strip.’

  She turned around, a little disbelieving. Connor stood in front of her, holding a large coil of rope in his hands. The smile playing across his lips told her he had plans for her, the kind that usually involved either tons of patience and discomfort or copious amounts of sweat and semen. Unfortunately, they didn’t have time for such plans. They were supposed to be at her parents’ in an hour, to celebrate her brother John’s thirtieth birthday. The whole extended family had been invited, and her mother had insisted that they come early. She couldn’t believe Connor had forgotten about the party, especially after she’d been slaving away in the kitchen to prepare the tiramisu that was a favourite with all her nephews and nieces.

  ‘You’re aware that we have to be at my parents’ in an hour, right?’ she asked, trying to keep her voice neutral. She wasn’t questioning his judgement; she was just reminding him of something that appeared to have slipped his mind. He wouldn’t take offence at that, would he?

  ‘Very aware,’ he assured her. He grinned at her with the nonchalance that had stolen her heart six years earlier. It still affected her today, after five years of marriage, mostly because she’d come to associate it with their weekend sexcapades. This was the grin he reserved for when he was about to do dirty things to her – the sort of things that tended to take more time than they had at present.

  ‘So … maybe we shouldn’t be doing this now,’ she suggested.

  The grin disappeared, only to be replaced with a frown. ‘Are you being contrary, Em? I thought we had rules about that.’

  Oh, they had rules, all right. Rules which stated that they were equals during the week, but that she was to obey him in everything on the weekends. Generally, she loved obeying him, to the point where looking forward to the weekend had taken on an entirely different dimension since she’d met him. But this was a special circumstance. It was John’s birthday, and she didn’t want to be the person who showed up an hour late for the festivities. Not today. Lord knows she’d done it too many times in the past.

  However, one look at Connor’s increasingly stern face taught her the error of her ways. Whatever he had in mind, he seemed to have set his heart on it and, when Connor had set his heart on something, it was best not to mess with him. Not on a weekend, anyway. Emma had learned that to her detriment on a few occasions. She’d had trouble sitting afterwards.

  With a sigh, she took off the top she was wearing, then the elegant grey trousers she saved for special occasions. Her eyes were focused on Connor’s as she unfastened her bra and stepped out of her knickers. When she was naked, she assumed the position he’d taught her. Standing tall, she pulled her shoulders backwards, thus making her breasts more prominent. She pressed her heels together and did her best to lengthen her neck. Then she put her hands behind her back, assuming that Connor would want to bind them. He usually did.

  He surprised her, though. ‘Lift your arms sideways, feet slightly apart,’ he ordered.

  She obeyed, and watched with bated breath as he uncoiled the rope, a good thirty feet of thickish hemp. Hemp was tricky, she knew. It held knots extremely well, but could be abrasive, even though Connor had done his best to make it less so. She’d sat next to him as he’d burned off loose fibres and had endlessly sanded the rope in order to make it smoother. It was much smoother now than when he’d bought it, but it still irritated her skin when she struggled too much. ‘That’s the idea,’ he had explained to her with a mischievous smile when she’d had the audacity to complain. ‘To teach you motionless submission and prevent you from struggling.’

  She watched a little nervously as he folded the rope in half and slid the loop around her neck. Two inches below her collarbone he tied the two lengths together in a large, flat knot. He then proceeded to tie three more roughly equidistant knots, until the rope reached her pussy, where he re-tied his most recent knot several times before he appeared to be satisfied with it. Then, smiling at her as if it was the most natural thing in the world, he slid the rope between her labia and, stepping behind her, pulled it backwards through her legs. She could feel it tightening in her crotch and arse crack as he lifted it and began to tie more knots in it behind her back. Then he looped it underneath the rope at the back of her neck, leaving her with a vertical line down both her front and her back.

 
She knew now what he was making. It was going to be a karada, a decorative rope harness in the Japanese style. He’d practised it on her a couple of times before, on both occasions turning her into artfully trussed meat.

  From here, she knew, the two ends of the rope would be separated again, and each end would be wrapped around one side of her waist, weaving back and forth between the central rope on her front and the one on her back until her skin was criss-crossed with lines. There would be diamond shapes and triangles and interesting geometrical patterns. It would be a veritable piece of body art, one which no one but the two of them would ever see, but of which Connor would be rightly proud.

  As he walked around her, directing the ropes between and underneath her breasts to create a hemp bra, she watched his fingers, so meticulous and assured. With great dexterity, he slipped an end of the rope into the space between two knots on her belly and pulled it backwards again to loop it into a similar space on her back. He repeated this process several times, moving further down with each repetition. She watched transfixed as the diamond shapes began to take form on her belly, luxuriating in the sensual feel of the rope sliding across her skin.

  She’d heard karadas described as rope prisons. She herself didn’t think of them that way. To her, a karada was a caress, a hempy kiss to go with the sweet caresses Connor would occasionally bestow on her neck and breasts as he arranged and re-arranged the ropes. She relished the intimacy of the experience, the perfection of the patterns, the meditative ambience that Connor had assured her was the most important aspect of bondage. Most of all, however, she relished the way the crotch rope shifted each time he looped an end beneath it. It wasn’t long before she found herself responding to the movement, feeling chills of pleasure run up her spine with each subtle shift. And then, suddenly, Connor stopped.

  ‘Aren’t you … aren’t you going to bind my arms?’ she asked a little hesitantly when the harness was complete and Connor had tied the ends of the rope on her back.

  He looked at her, his head cocked to one side. ‘Do you really want me to deliver you at your parents’ doorstep naked and with your arms tied behind your back?’

  She chuckled at the notion, a little embarrassed. ‘No, I guess not. But what …?’ Her voice trailed off as she saw his face.

  ‘You’re going to go to your parents wearing this karada under your clothes, to remind you that you are bound and bonded to me, and that only I can set you free. You’re going to feel my hand on you even when I’m not physically touching you. And wait …’

  He walked to the dinner table and came back with a pair of nipple clamps that he had apparently removed from his toolbox while she’d been busy wrapping up her four bowls of tiramisu. To her relief, they were tweezer clamps, which weren’t too painful. Of course, their relative painlessness did have a downside, which was that Connor often made her wear them for several hours on end, which was uncomfortable.

  She waited patiently as he played with one of her nipples to make it stiff, then attached a clamp and slid the ring sideways to determine the amount of pressure. He repeated the process with the other nipple. Then he stepped back to admire her from a little distance, looking satisfied with his own work. ‘Yes, that will do nicely. Now go and get dressed. The purple skirt, I think. A top that fully covers the harness. No underwear, no stockings. And don’t put up your hair. I want it down.’

  She nodded respectfully and spoke the words he wanted to hear whenever he gave her a direct order. ‘Yes, Connor.’ Once in the bedroom, she found the loose purple skirt he had specified, plus a thick black sweater which she thought would do a good job of hiding the harness underneath. As she slipped into the skirt, the crotch rope dug into her arse crack, an unsubtle reminder of its existence. For the time being, though, the nipple clamps were a greater source of discomfort than the harness.

  When she was fully dressed, she turned around in front of the mirror to see if the rope and clamps were visible underneath her clothes. After satisfying herself that they weren’t, she went back into the living room and presented herself to Connor, who subjected her to an equally thorough examination.

  ‘OK,’ he judged eventually. ‘Now let’s get on the road.’

  As she slid into the passenger seat, Emma once again felt the rope dig into her crotch, a feeling that was both uncomfortable and surprisingly pleasant. With a start, she realised that the bottom knot was right on her clit. No doubt that was intentional. Connor wouldn’t have redone that knot several times if he hadn’t intended it to be exactly where it was.

  ‘How long will I be wearing this?’ she asked, trying to hide her excitement by making small talk.

  ‘For the duration of the party and our drive back. Unless you’re bad, in which case I’ll let you wear it until bedtime.’

  Until bedtime. It was a scary thought. Emma didn’t think she could wear the harness that long. At some point the hemp would start chafing, and possibly even rupture her skin.

  ‘For my information, what constitutes being bad?’

  ‘Anything that goes against my wishes. Listen to my instructions and you’ll be fine.’

  So there would be instructions. Bad ones, most likely. The prospect intimidated her a little, but it also sent a thrill of excitement through her.

  She remained quiet for the next ten minutes, aware of nothing so much as the knot between her labia. It was right on her clit, and every time she shifted, it pressed down on her like Connor’s fingers, except a little drier and itchier. The hemp felt harsh on her tender flesh, but not unpleasantly so.

  Feeling experimental, she tilted her pelvis a little, trying to get the knot where she wanted it to be. A thrill shot through her as it hit the right spot. She tried it again, with the same result. Soon she was rotating her pelvis in a series of rhythmic movements, so small that they were barely visible to the human eye. Except to Connor’s, obviously.

  ‘Enjoying yourself?’ he asked, looking sideways at her. Judging from his smirk, he knew exactly what she was doing. He always did. Undoubtedly he’d been waiting for her to do this, for her to discover the self-pleasuring properties of the rope. No doubt he was hoping to have her randy as fuck by the time they reached her parents’. A little shamefully, she had to admit that it was a distinct possibility.

  ‘It’s … interesting,’ she said. She slumped in her seat, which made the rope grow a little tauter between her legs, then brought her pelvis upwards a little. She could barely suppress a moan as the hemp tightened over her clit.

  Connor grinned. ‘I’m going to have fun watching you this afternoon. Seeing you get yourself off while chatting with your uncles … I’ll gladly suffer your mum’s food for the pleasure of that.’

  ‘That’s because you’re a horrible sadist,’ she answered, shifting ever so slightly against the rope.

  He just laughed at her. ‘Too right, sister. Don’t you forget it.’

  * * *

  As she had expected, Emma was half mad with desire by the time they arrived at her childhood home. She felt a little embarrassed as she congratulated her brother and watched him unwrap the present she’d bought him, a set of Blu-rays of films he’d loved as a child and had said he’d love to watch with his own children. The paranoiac in her was certain that he could smell her arousal or, failing that, would notice she wasn’t wearing any underwear, or that there was a chain dangling between her nipples. Who knows, he might even hear some rustling as her thick sweater interacted with the hemp harness underneath. She couldn’t hear it herself, but his ears had always been sharper than hers.

  However, if John noticed anything out of the ordinary, he didn’t let on. Nor did her father, who had an uncanny knack of spotting things that she felt self-conscious about, and a nasty habit of pointing them out in public. Nobody at the party said anything about her looking unusual or uncomfortable; if anything, they seemed to think she was looking healthy and rosy. But, although they didn’t seem to notice anything, she was very much aware of Connor’s amused glances, and t
hat they made her every bit as wet as the rope and clamps she was wearing.

  She soon learned to move as little as possible, so as to prevent the rope from chafing her skin and the chain between her nipples from visibly moving under her clothes. She spent at least half an hour rooted to the same spot, waiting for other people to come to her rather than the other way around. Eventually, though, she had to leave her spot and mingle. It would be rude not to.

  As she flitted around the room, chatting now with a cousin, now with an aunt, she was aware of Connor’s eyes following her. He smiled every time she shifted her position ever so slightly in an effort to get the knot on her clit in the right spot. He shook his head almost imperceptibly as she scratched herself under a breast, surreptitiously trying to displace the itchy rope that was digging into her skin. He grinned sardonically whenever she glared at him, telling him with her eyes how hard she was finding his torment. And, judging from the bulge in his jeans, he found her predicament as arousing as she did.

  Finally, when she found herself without a conversation partner for a moment, he sauntered over to her, turning his back to the other people in the room to hide his erection from view.

  ‘I bet you’re sopping fucking wet,’ he said under his breath as he handed her a glass of wine.

  She coloured, hoping that no one would have heard the words.

  ‘Well? You’re dripping, aren’t you?’

  She nodded, speechlessly.

  ‘Tell me,’ he instructed her.

  ‘I … I’m wet, Connor.’ She glanced around, checking whether any of her relatives were within earshot. Only Aunt Muriel and Uncle Fred seemed to be close enough to be able to hear them, but thankfully, they gave no indication of having overheard anything they shouldn’t have.

  Her words weren’t good enough for Connor, though. He wanted details, as he always did. ‘Tell me how wet you are, Emma.’