by Alison Tyler
The air moved through the tube stations like a sirocco, a welcome breeze all the same. We stepped out by his riverside apartment block and a breath of air from the water gave my mind a moment of tingling clarity. It was short lived. It was a humid night, and his high-rise location only seemed to magnetize the heady atmosphere of the city.
He flicked on light switches as he walked inside, revealing a sparse bachelor pad with low leather sofas and a coffee table made out of a sheet of Perspex standing on stacked shot glasses. Cute, I thought. He leaned down to the stereo and flicked it on. Music sprang out, feeding background beats to me from every corner. I dropped my bag on a chair and smiled at him, and then I stalked closer to him, my hands on my hips. His gaze roved over my little black dress, my heels, and my thin, angular frame. The atmosphere between us was high with sexual tension.
He paused rather deliberately, as if to make sure I was watching, before hitting another switch. What was this about? A series of spotlights flashed on one by one in the far corner of the room, throwing into stark relief a gym area complete with weights bench, free weights, workout bars ranging high up the wall and floor-to-ceiling mirrors. Imagine my surprise when the area was fully lit and I saw the giant skein of wine-colored rope in the corner, knotted to the wall-mounted bars and dangling to the floor. I glanced back at him and noticed he was watching me, subtly, waiting for my reactions.
Well, what do you know?
I strolled over, my stacked heels clacking on the polished floorboards. I felt very self-aware, but why wouldn’t I? We’d done more than enough flirting to flag up reciprocal interest. I’d taken his invitation to come into his space, and now I discovered he might be the perfect person with whom to explore my curiosity about rope. Besides, his eyes were boring into my back; my entire skin was taut with tension. He’d put himself and his toys on offer. It was up to me push things on; I could sense that. I supposed that I could choose to ignore the presence of the rope or I could give him a signal.
I didn’t really have a choice, now did I? You know my curiosity had well and truly got the better of me. I stroked the rope with one tentative, curious hand. It wasn’t hemp, like the samples I had enjoyed; it was synthetic, slicker, and somehow stronger. I glanced back at Carl. The hatchet man; all rippling muscle and contained sexual energy.
“Is it dyed to match anything in particular?”
His eyebrows lifted, but he was smiling. “Ah, I can tell you’re a connoisseur.”
I had to turn away so he wouldn’t see me smile to myself. “Just curious,” I replied, running it through my fingers. How many willing victims had he bound with it, I wondered?
“The weights bench,” he replied, indicating the bench that stood alone beneath a spotlight.
The color did coordinate. Dark reds; like wine, like blood. I had a sudden image of a naked, pale body, spread-eagled over the vinyl bench, bound and trussed in the wine-colored rope, being fucked from behind. I glanced at him over the top of my glasses, and smiled.
He groaned. “I’m sure others have mentioned this, Megan, but the way you look over your glasses is such a turn-on.”
Well, I know some men have a thing about girls in glasses, but his remark still surprised me. Was that why he had responded so readily to my flirting?
“In fact, it makes you look strong…powerful.”
“Really?” I couldn’t contain my surprise. Now there’s a twist, I thought to myself. Is that what he wanted? For me to be the powerful one? I was thrilled! I love sexual role-play and power interchange. How could I not totally love the idea of dominating a brute of a man like Carl? Arousal sped through my veins. My inner sex kitten was up and out, skidding across the floor with claws out, ready to pounce. I was well and truly interested now.
I unlatched the skein of rope from the bars and began to unwind it as I walked back toward him. When I drew up in front of him, he grasped the rope and tugged. I held tight. The rope went taut between us. He had a wild look in his eye. For a moment I wondered if he had changed his mind. Did he want to take control, after all? I reached for his head with my free hand and pulled him down for an open-mouthed kiss. He moaned into my mouth when I slid my tongue along the inside of his lower lip, very deliberately, sensitizing him and beckoning his tongue into my mouth. I was loading up my arsenal of domina tricks. When I felt his hold on the rope slacken, I tugged. His body was against mine. Powerful, masculine: cocked and ready for action. I felt a surge of triumph. Oh yes, I was going to enjoy binding him up in his rope, gaining full control of his testosterone-fueled physique.
“I want to play, and I’d like you to strip,” I murmured, as we pulled apart. I had said my thoughts aloud and almost jolted at the sound of my own voice. But my body was pulsing with arousal. I was on a roll. “I think we both know what’s going on here, Carl, don’t we?”
He nodded, his eyes bright with interest, his fingers quickly wending their way through his shirt buttons. He kicked off his shoes and abandoned his clothes.
“Sit here,” I instructed. I patted the weights bench, while eyeing his body. My heart was racing, my focus closing in on bench, man, and rope.
His eyes never left mine.
I reached over and locked the back support into the upright position, so that his upper body would be on an incline. His cock was rising before my eyes, his body rippling with movement. He was flexing his corded muscles, preparing for what was ahead. I had to drag my gaze away as he took his seat and I moved to stand behind him.
Arms first. I braced myself for action and threw the rope out across the floor, shaking out the loops. Snatching up one end, I squatted down behind him, pulled his wrists together, and secured them inside a figure-eight knot. The rope coiled and twisted across the floor as I worked, alive and supple as a serpent.
He was watching me in the mirrors. “You’re adept with knots,” he commented and shook his head, disbelievingly, as if he’d made a real find. His expectations were now very high. My hands trembled slightly. I hoped I wasn’t going to let him down! I silently ordered myself to go with the flow and follow my instincts.
“Blame the childhood holidays spent boating. My father was a fanatic.”
“Oh, I’m not complaining.”
I walked around him at that very moment and pulled the rope across his chest.
“Far from it,” he added, as I began to truss him to the bench in true earnest.
His nipples were already hard. I wanted to see them trapped between two twists of rope. When I did exactly that, I thought he was going to raise the roof with his enthusiastic grunts.
“Fuck you’re good,” he muttered, his eyes going to the ceiling and husky laughter escaping from his lungs.
“Why, thank you.” I was loving every moment of his submission.
The humidity levels only seemed to rise by the moment. I was creaming, my thighs slick with sweat, my G-string clinging to the damp heat in my groin.
I wound the rope around his torso and across his hips and thighs, carefully arranging it on either side of his cock, lifting his balls between the lines of rope to ensure a snug fit. He cursed under his breath, but I took a deep breath and didn’t let it distract me from my purpose. When I had secured his ankles, tying him to the struts of the bench, I stood back to admire my handiwork.
What a sight!
His cock was dark with blood and distended to its limits, poking out demandingly between the ropes that contained him, the ropes that applied enough pressure to keep him on edge. His muscles seemed even stronger in their containment. His torso bowed under the rope, instinctively working against its enclosure. He was a gorgeous brute of a man, and I had him restrained.
Oh, it fast grew even hotter under those spotlights, fast grew even hotter when I stalked around him, admiring the sight from every angle, watching his growing anxiety with my hungry eyes. I stripped off my dress, my bra, and my G-string, kicking them across the floor. I kept on my stacked heels because they made me feel powerful enough to take him on, an
d the glasses, as a concession for Carl.
It was then that I caught sight of myself in the floor-to-ceiling mirror. For a moment, I was shocked. The chic designer frames perched on my nose were the only nod to socialization. I looked rampant, totally animal. My long, dark blonde hair had gone stringy in the humidity; my eyes were wide and hungry. My breasts, small and pert at the best of times, rode high on my rib cage, nipples hard and primed. A tide of heat was growing visible on the surface of my skin, from groin to neck. My body was on fire, but what was going on in my mind was way worse. I was almost totally out of control, and yet… so in control. That’s what this had done to me: this power.
I looked back at Carl and I forgot to be aware of myself, totally. He was struggling with his burden; he was struggling with his need to come. He was so much a victim of my whims. It was that, I realized, that strength contained, that I hungered for. I wanted to feel its potency roar inside me, I wanted to trigger the final release and feel it where it counted most. I threw one leg over his tethered body, straddling his hips, steadying myself with two fingers latched over the rope across his chest. The air rushed between my thighs, over the hot, anxious skin of my hungry pussy.
“That looks so good in your hands,” he blurted. He was looking down at my talons, where they bit into the rope. “Oh, yes, that’s good,” he said, as I flexed my fingers, scratching my nails over his chest. He went to say more, and then his words slipped away and instead, he roared aloud. With one swift gliding action, I had taken him inside.
I was so wet. My inner muscles clasped at his bloated cock. I could feel his balls primed beneath my buttocks when I ground down against his hips. I didn’t have long; his face was contorted with ecstasy. I gripped the rope that bound him, and rode him, hard and fast, crushing his cock inside me again and again. The bind of rope along the upper side of his cock added its own pressure and I arched over him, my clit sparking against the surface of the rope, my entire body wired into the multiple stimuli.
“Oh fuck, fuck me,” he shouted, rolling his eyes. It was barely perceptible, given his status, but he began to buck his pelvis against his constraints and then his cock lurched and spurted inside me. I grabbed his head in my hands and leaned over, kissing his mouth, crushing my clit on the rope and squeezing his cock hard as he came. Moments later, I threw back my head and roared with my own release.
“You know that handmade bondage rope you mentioned?” I said. Lizzie looked up from her latte and frowned. Georgina’s head snapped round, her eyes bright with interest. She knew me; she knew I wouldn’t mouth off. “It really is special isn’t it?”
Lizzie grinned. I sipped my café negro, whilst winking at Georgiana over the rim of the cup.
“Especially when done with true style,” I added, smiling, and glanced at my newly manicured fingernails—wine-red, of course, to match Carl’s rope. Because it was weeks later and we were still playing. As for my inner sex kitten, I reckon she had become more of a lioness, what with Carl and his rope to toy with, but perhaps I’ll let you decide on that score.
Cuffed
Savannah Stephens Smith
I’m not a cop groupie.
So when a man wearing a dark uniform walked into the office at ten minutes after five, a man with more muscle than he needed, a gun, and a deadly serious expression, my initial reaction was nervous guilt. Oh, no. What did I do?
Then I remembered that I hadn’t done anything, and I was annoyed with myself. And with him, since he’d provoked it. I kept typing—I wasn’t the receptionist, and besides, we were closed. It was quiet, almost everyone gone. I ignored him, far from the sort of reaction I could imagine my friend Marianne having in the same situation: I’ve been a very bad girl, officer, and I should be taken…into your custody.
Sometimes we amuse ourselves with quiet comments as we work, however, I mostly keep my quips to myself. Business is business, after all, and I’m not the office comedienne. But it had been a long week, I was working late, and even an imagined witticism was enough to make me laugh. The audible snort that escaped wasn’t as contained and controlled as it should have been.
The good-looking man at the reception counter looked over at me, his face a disconcerting blank. And he had those cold eyes. Cold eyes—warm heart? Laughter turned into a sigh. Blame it on springtime. It was 5:15, I was still at work, and I was beginning to think that breaking up with my ex, Brian, hadn’t been such a good idea.
Oh, yes, it had. He hadn’t been good enough for me, and I knew it. I deserved better. The trouble is, being strong sometimes hurts almost as much as—
“Trouble, miss?”
The cop at the reception counter was looking at me. Where was our receptionist? Gone home, probably. Well, that wasn’t my fault. I was the department secretary in the rental part of the office.
“No, no trouble,” I said, my face hot. It was none of his business. I went back to what I’d been doing. Typing a tenancy agreement of all things—we were a low-tech office. The agreement had an annoying carbon copy for the tenant. The top page always looked fine (thank goodness for a correction ribbon on the IBM) but the underside was always a mess, with every typo showing through. I peeked discreetly at the cop, the sound of my typing loud in the post-workday quiet. Why didn’t he go away?
Very cute. Youngish, maybe thirty-five or so. Dark hair, neatly short. Clean shaven. I couldn’t tell what color his eyes were—and it didn’t matter, I reminded myself—but they were serious. And there was some serious muscle on him, too. His shoulders strained against the uniform, and he wore that gear they all come equipped with as easily as if it were made of plastic. Clack, clickity, clack went the keys of the typewriter. Click, click, to backspace and correct. Clack-clack-clack. Clack. I peeked again. He was looking at me. Then it hit me, and I felt sick.
My laugh. He thought I was snorting. At him. Snort. Pig. Cop. Pig.
I spoke before I thought. His eyes were intense, and the office was so quiet. I hated my urgency to apologize, but did it anyway. “Sorry. I was just… It’s been a busy day. I didn’t mean it that way.”
“Mean what?” Nice voice. Low and deep, warm as a furnace’s rumble on a December night.
Crap. “Never mind. I’m sorry. Has anyone helped you? I believe…,” I gestured to the counter, “they’re all gone for the day.”
And that’s how it started. He was there to pick up keys, so I abandoned the hateful typewriter and searched for them. Up close, he was even more intimidating. The way they wear that uniform sets them apart from the rest of us. As I searched, I explained about the laugh, how busy it had been lately, and that I was working late. “I think stress makes me silly,” I apologized.
“I can relate,” he said, and smiled. When he smiled, he wasn’t so scary. He had a nice smile.
I found the keys. They were propped up in a white envelope with Congratulations, Eric! written in a feminine hand. One of the realtors from the sales side. “My house,” he said. “Nothing big or fancy, but…” The pride on his face as he held the envelope, shaking it gently and making the keys inside slide back and forth, took away from the menace of his uniform.
“That’s great,” I said, and meant it.
It turned out that he was looking at me because he thought I was pretty, not because I’d made a pig snort sound. What do you know? But when he asked me out, I declined. I had work to do, and so I closed the door and locked it behind him—I noticed through the window that he waited until the deadbolt turned and clicked before he nodded and walked away with his keys. And his uniform. I went back to the typewriter. I sat down, put my hands on those keys, and noticed that everyone else had long gone, and no one cared if I worked late. I said out loud: “Screw it. I’m going home.”
I don’t troll for tickets, turned on by a uniform, and I don’t hang out in cop bars. Frankly, I’ve only read about cop hangouts in novels. I’m like most people: when I see that light-bar-on-top silhouette in my rearview mirror, I get a pang in my gut and hit the brakes. Then I
drive like a teenager with a brand-new learner’s permit and a mother in the backseat. I’m a good girl, and I stay out of trouble. And I’m no slut.
But sometimes things can change a little. The second time Eric asked me out, I said yes.
Eric soon learned I wasn’t a cop groupie. I didn’t want to hang around with the other wives and girlfriends of his fellow officers—frankly, none of those women were interesting enough for me to give up a good book or my own private time. I’d done my time trying to please a man, doing what I thought he’d want me to do. And be.
I was too old for that nonsense.
But the trouble with cops is that they make you feel guilty—even when you haven’t really done anything.
It was a summer afternoon. Eric had moved into his new house, a modest bungalow that needed a little fixing up. By July it was neat, newly painted, and pleasing. I was there, waiting for him to change. He had just come off shift. He had come into the bedroom, dumped most of the gear on the bed, and then gone off again to answer the phone. We were going to go to a barbecue at his sister’s place. I was going to meet his parents.
There it was on the bed. The belt, and all the accessories. I thought of that poem, the one about adoring a fascist. Then I decided that it was too nice a day to think about the implications of adoring a fascist, psychosexual complexities, or even modern poetry. Was it Plath? Maybe, Plath and her line about a brute heart.
Eric wasn’t like that, though—he was a teddy bear who only looked tough. Underneath the uniform was a guy even my mother would like. Despite his work, generally he was sunny and sweet. And underneath the uniform was a man I could, just maybe sometime, love. I waited for him, idly checking my hair.