“I’d like to start with an arm binding,” I told her, standing and moving to my rope cabinet. I pulled out a length of soft cotton dyed a rich red. “Upper arm to upper arm, then all the way down to your wrists.” The speed of her breath picked up, and I moved with intentional slowness, savoring the way the thought of being bound seemed to arouse her. “Have you been tied up before?” I slid the rope around one upper arm to start the binding, and she shivered as it slid over her skin.
“No, but I’ve thought about it,” she said. Her voice had dropped to something husky and rough, and I took a deep breath to restore my patience. I was much too close, and got a whiff of floral shampoo, instead. It sent my pulse into overdrive, and I clenched my teeth and forced my hands to move slowly and surely as I pulled her arms back and together. They got disconcertingly close together before I reached the limits of her flexibility. Cool.
“Sometimes struggling is part of the game, so instead of saying ‘no’ or ‘stop,’ we use something called a safeword. Lots of people use the word ‘red.’ It means that all play instantly stops, and we resolve whatever the problem is.” I pulled the rope through a loop and passed it around her arm. It made me smile to feel Emily shuddering beneath my fingers every time the rope hissed over her skin. “You should definitely use it if you feel like any part of you is getting cold or numb, because we want to keep your circulation going. Okay?”
“I understand,” she said. I had reached her wrists, and I finished the knots off out of reach, then tied the extra into a little bow between her hands as a pretty finishing touch.
“How does that feel?”
“I can’t move,” she said, shrugging her shoulders to test the bonds and wiggling her upper body. Her slender form moved enticingly, and I purred approval. “It’s amazing.” Her voice had taken on a tone of wonder, and she turned to face me. “I’m helpless, but I feel so...free.”
I brushed my hand over her face, and she leaned into my touch. “That’s because you’re counting on me to take care of you.” I let my hand move lower, caressing the skin of her neck, tracing her collarbone, then drawing one finger around the curve of her breast. It was delightfully full and soft, and her pink nipple drew into an even sharper peak as I got close. “You’ve surrendered control, and there’s freedom in that. All you have to do is be. It’s my responsibility now to make sure that everything is okay, and that we both come away from this experience happy.”
Her eyes had drifted shut and her breasts lifted and fell in a quick rhythm that spoke to me of arousal and excitement. Some people put up with being tied because their partner likes it, or because it’s a means to an end. Emily was my favorite kind—the rope itself was enough to send her into subspace with boiling blood and a heated body. It was all about the bondage, the feel of rope over skin, the way it captured and caressed at the same time. I smiled in delight as I guided her toward the bed.
“Are you comfortable kneeling? I’d like to bind your legs, too.”
Emily’s breath hitched, and she moved quickly into position, leaning into my helping hands as if this were a long-established routine. It made my heartbeat stutter to see the way that she responded to my every guiding touch. Was there ever anything hotter than a beautiful, powerful woman putting herself trustingly into my hands?
The first short pieces of rope went around her ankles, one each, and I left long tails to dangle. I knew she would be excited with just the feel of the rope against her skin, even if it wasn’t actually binding her into position yet. Then I started to weave, tying her ankles to her upper thighs to fix her in that kneeling position, passing the rope back and forth through that tight fold of flesh between calf and thigh perhaps one more time than I had to, just to watch her shudder with pleasure as the rope surged over her skin.
And then, of course, I had to do the second leg to match. She looked like a goddess or maybe a sacrifice, trussed up in dark jewel red with her arms going straight down her back and her breasts jutting forward. It tempted me toward a breast tie, too.
“You are so beautiful like that,” I told her, running a finger along her skin just above the arm binding. I reached down and touched her hands to make sure they weren’t going cold and bloodless, then moved to her front, licked one jutting nipple and blew cool air across it. She writhed with pleasure, but couldn’t get far with the knots holding her fast. It made me moan to see her so helpless and sexy and trusting. “I have a Polaroid camera,” I said. “I’d love to take a picture of you. Just one, and you can keep it. I just think something this amazing should be recorded, even if it doesn’t last.”
“Yes,” she said. “Take it.” Her voice was thin and breathy with arousal, and I moved closer, grabbed her by the hair and leaned over her, tipping her head back as I kissed her senseless. Her body was hot and soft as it pressed against me, and I let my other hand wander up and down her arm. The sensation she would feel would be one of intermittent touch as my fingers wandered from rope to flesh to rope again; it would remind her vividly of the way she was bound—as if she was likely to forget.
When I pulled away, she gasped for more and I had to steady her before I could grab my camera and snap the shot. It was perfect, the way she stared hungrily at me behind the lens. I pulled the picture free and set it down with her clothing so she would remember it later.
“Part of me wants to just keep tying, but I think you look like you’re ready for some more play,” I told her, a note of smug teasing in my voice. She whimpered as I moved to stand next to her. I’d positioned her sideways near the edge of the bed so that she was in the perfect position to touch and tease from a standing position. I kissed her more lightly this time, and let my hand play over the front of her body as I traveled steadily toward her hot center.
I could already smell her arousal, so it was no surprise to dip my fingers into her folds and find them saturated and swollen with her desire. I let just the tips of my fingers slide between her lips and brought them up to my own mouth to taste her. She let out a sweet sigh of desire as I licked my fingers clean. “Do you want some, too?” I asked. I ran one finger through the wetness and brought it up to her mouth. She sucked my finger into her mouth with surprising alacrity for someone so deep in subspace, licking and flicking her tongue over it as I slowly fucked her mouth.
“I love how responsive you are,” I told her, and finally took custody of my finger back. I traced my tongue over her lips, staying just out of reach, and she whimpered with frustration when she realized that she couldn’t rise up on her legs to force the kiss. I laughed softly before I gave in, pressing my lips against her soft mouth and sliding my fingers deep into her cunt at the same time.
Emily writhed against me as I penetrated her with fingers and tongue, taking possession of her body through sheer force of presence. Our tongues danced together as I plundered her mouth. Her body writhed and rolled as much as she could make it while my fingers slid deep inside her. She was sensitive and open beneath me, and I ran my free hand through her hair, nearly as tense with desire and excitement as she was.
Her intermittent whimpers turned into one long moan of desire before I shifted my hand and gave her what she needed. I moved my thumb to massage her clit even as I curled my fingers and found that spongy bit of flesh that marked her G-spot. Some women hardly feel a thing, but Emily cried out into my mouth and her whole body tightened and shook as her pussy clamped around my fingers in undulating waves of orgasm. I smiled as I devoured her cries, and curled and uncurled my fingers, drawing out her orgasm and sending her cries higher and higher until it was impossible to keep my mouth closed over hers.
I moved to her throat, instead, kissing and licking and nibbling the sensitive flesh there as she threw back her head and screamed. When she started to giggle and thrash, I pulled my hand gently free and smeared her cream across her beautiful breasts before taking first one, then the other, into my mouth and licking it away. They rose and fell impressively as she struggled to catch her breath. I found one of her n
ipples and bit down gently, and she mewed softly.
They were perfect breasts, large enough to bounce and sway but not yet affected by the steady pull of gravity. What else could be expected from someone who spent her free time defying gravity every day? I tasted the creamy skin and sucked the rosy nipples into my mouth, tonguing them diligently and lifting the full weight of her breasts in my hands. I could be a lesbian just for the breasts and the way that they feel when you lift them and cup them and gently squeeze.
Emily arched into my touch, and I expanded the tease, running my fingers up and down her sides and belly in swirling patterns to send goose bumps trailing in my wake. “Want more,” she gasped, and I smiled and nipped at her breast one last time.
“Me, too.” I hurried out of my clothes and tossed them aside, not caring where anything landed. Then I climbed up onto the bed, straddled one of Emily’s bound thighs and leaned over her, supporting my body weight and hers as I bent her back until I could press my pussy into the flesh and rope across the top of her leg. With one hand braced on the bed and the other one around her back to support her weight, I began to rock my hips, rubbing my clit against her.
It would have been easy to get off just feeling myself slide against the firm flesh of her thighs, but with the ropes criss-crossing her skin, my clit was assaulted with sensation. I tried to focus on kissing the soft white expanse of her neck and collarbone, but my orgasm crashed over me so quickly that it stole my breath and shook my entire body. She cried out with me, echoing my pleasure, and I pulled her forward and over, onto me, before I went completely limp.
It took a few minutes of regrouping before I had the energy to ask her how her arms and legs felt. “My toes are tingling, but it could just be from those kisses,” she said.
“I should untie you.” And though she whimpered a complaint, she sat patiently as I eased each knot free and pulled the ropes across her sensitive skin and away. When she was completely free, I sat down next to her and took her feet in my hands, massaging them gently, both for pleasure and to help her keep her circulation up. Then just to feel her strong hands in mine, I took her warm fingers and did the same.
“What comes next?” she asked, tracing the rope indentations across her thighs with something like lust in her eyes.
“That’s still up to you, my pretty little rope dancer,” I teased, bringing the hand I had been massaging to my face and letting her thread her fingers through my hair. “You can go if you want to, but it would be nice if you’d like to stay longer.”
She smiled and used her hand in my hair to pull me closer, sitting up so that we could press our breasts together and hold each other close as we kissed. She scratched at my back and pulled at my hair until I rolled, pulling her with me so that I was lying on my back while she straddled my lap. When her little fingers danced over my nipples, I thought that sometimes it’s worth it to skip the rope and leave hands free. And then her fingers moved lower, and it was the last thing I thought for a long time.
She was gone when I woke up the next morning, in a sex-mussed bed, feeling deliciously sore all over. She’d taken her clothes and her bag, but she’d left the Polaroid on the kitchen table, a phone number written across the bottom with a firm, feminine hand. I smiled as I went to make coffee.
That was a year ago, and I still love to see Emily in ropes, whether my own or hers, high in the air. And I still have that little Polaroid displayed on my bedroom mirror where I can see her bound form and her tousled hair and lustful, hungry eyes waiting to devour me each morning as I dress.
BEHIND THE DOOR
Kay Jaybee
The first van drew up at exactly half past twelve. It was never late.
Nina could feel the beat of her pulse accelerate as she watched from her office window.
Every day the same van came. It was white with gaudy adverts proclaiming the painting trade of its driver emblazoned along its sides.
Pretending to adjust the blinds, Nina found herself holding her breath as the spiky-haired, stocky man, with paint-daubed shorts and grubby T-shirt, left his vehicle and dashed through the door to the empty shop opposite.
Tearing her eyes away, Nina checked her watch. In three minutes it would be twelve thirty-five, and the next van would arrive.
This van was blue, and much larger, with a ladder strapped to the roof, and claims of being able to improve your double-glazing written on the hood. This driver was taller than the first, his ginger hair cropped closely to the outline of his skull.
He, too, all but ran into the neglected shop.
It had been a bookshop once. Popular, busy and friendly. Then one day a year ago, it was suddenly deserted, as if the Internet revolution had ruined it within the space of a day. Now it sat, with a single curtain, faded and worn, pulled across the length of the old shop window, blocking the outside world from whatever, or whoever, waited inside.
Conscious that she hadn’t typed a word into her computer for at least five minutes, Nina turned to her keyboard and filled in a few more blanks on the spreadsheet before her. She had another three minutes before the final vehicle came at twelve forty.
They were rarely early, and they were never ever late.
The red car, a hatchback bursting with the tools of the carpentry trade, pulled up next to the blue van. Its tall, slim owner, whose shaved head was always covered with a baseball cap as he went in—but always bare when he came out—checked the time before he strode with purpose toward the solid wooden door.
The door used to be propped open with a solid-iron cat-shaped doorstop all day, but now it was left firmly closed. Prying eyes were prevented from even glimpsing within, as the men never opened it beyond the requirements of their own body size as they sidled inside.
“Are you coming for lunch?” The question from Laura, her only colleague in the small accounts office, made Nina jump as she continued to pretend to work, while keeping an eye on the activities outside.
“Better work through today, sorry, I’m a bit behind.”
“Again?” Her friend smiled at her. “Too much daydreaming out the window, honey! I’ll bring you back a latte.”
Wishing Laura would hurry up and disappear, Nina smiled back at her. “Thanks. That would be lovely.”
Relieved to finally be alone, Nina stopped tapping blindly on her keyboard and devoted all of her attention to the shop opposite. Every day she mulled over a whole host of possibilities as to what they were doing in there. At first she had taken very little notice, assuming that they were about to do up the premises to ready them for a new owner. But as the weeks had turned into months, and nothing seemed to have happened to the property, yet the men still appeared every day, Nina’s imagination became more lurid.
The bookshop had belonged to a striking redheaded woman called Louisa, whose age would be impossible to gauge. One day she’d been there, the next she was gone. Nina, who’d been a regular customer in her bookshop, frequently had the impression that Louisa wouldn’t be someone you’d want to argue with. Always immaculate, always calm, her voice had been strong and positive, giving off the vibe that arguing with her would be more than a little unwise. Not that Nina had ever had reason to disagree with the woman. Her book recommendations had always been excellent, and her welcome warm.
Was she still in there? Was it Louisa, the slightly domineering proprietor with an interesting array of boots and chunky jewelry, whom the three men went to visit each lunchtime?
Nina knew she was becoming obsessed. Each evening at home her musings became more exotic, as, with her hand between her legs, her speculations wild, she pictured the redhead ordering each of the tradesmen to their knees the instant they walked through her front door.
Curled in her bed, strumming the folds of her pussy, Nina would clearly visualize Louisa standing in the center of the forgotten shop. Instead of books upon the shelves, there would be the tools of her new trade—whips, handcuffs and dildos set alongside rows of ropes and butt plugs, nipple clamps and vibrators
. Any sex toy Nina could conjure in her mind would be lying on those wooden shelves, each patiently waiting for the hour when the men came.
Cloaked in velvet, a hood over her long, loose, curled hair, Louisa would wear nothing but knee-length scarlet boots, the pair with a zip running right up the back that Nina had admired and secretly coveted so often. Around her neck she’d wear a thick-cut, blood-red, heart-shaped pendant, its dazzling brightness highlighting how very pale her naked flesh was as she paced the room, awaiting her servants’ arrival.
Shaking herself, aware of a sweet dampness spreading between her legs as she indulged in erotic speculation, Nina directed her eyes back to the computer terminal before her. There was no point staring at the shop door. Nothing would happen for an hour; then, at five-minute intervals, the men would reappear. The owner of the white van would leave first, followed by his blue-van-driving colleague and finally the carpenter.
It was their carefully staggered arrivals and departures that fascinated Nina as much as what might happen while they were inside the shop. Her knowledge of sex wasn’t vast, but she knew that in five minutes you could achieve a hell of a lot. Men certainly didn’t need that long to become naked and aroused. Sixty seconds would probably sort those jobs out.
Trying to ignore how tight her breasts felt beneath her bra, Nina toyed with the idea of creeping down to the shop and trying to peer into the window or listen at the keyhole. She didn’t quite dare though. The images of what they might do to her if she was discovered sent trickles of fearful arousal through her, as she temporarily abandoned all hope of work, and let her brain fill in the gaps.
At that moment Nina was sure that all three men would be kneeling before Louisa. They would all be attired in the same way. Tight blue-denim shorts, cut marginally too small so that their cocks had no room to maneuver beneath them, would encase their lower halves. They would be allowed no underwear, their commando status causing maximum discomfort and arousal to their imprisoned shafts.
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