“Personal sex stuff?”
“Yeah, kinda.”
“Like what?”
He won’t let it go. I excuse myself for a bathroom visit, tap the dials, make us coffee, offer cookies, flick through the logbook. Graham takes the book gently from my hands, closes it, puts it down, then takes my wrists and holds them firmly while he asks again, mouth close to my ear, “Like what?”
I start to think that he can sense my freakery in me. But he’s holding my wrists tight, and I don’t want to twist them away. I want him to back me into the control console. Which is what he does. And then he moves in and kisses me. I end up leaning back over the instrument panel uncomfortably. He keeps pushing with his lips, kissing me hard, his tongue rigid as it enters my mouth. But at the same time, he’s holding me to him by my raised wrists. I can’t straighten up and I can’t collapse back and my abs are starting to shake. And it feels so good to be controlled. Held where he wants me. It’s like he knows.
“Like what?” He whispers the words into my ear, his breath making me shiver. He doesn’t let me move and I can feel his cock hardening against my stomach. My own is already stiff.
“I just, er. I just. Asked him if he’d mind me getting some handcuffs. Or if he could tie me to the bedposts.”
It’s easier to say because at that moment I’m staring intently at a freckle on the side of his neck rather than into his face. But when I’m done he pulls back, and I have to meet his gaze. “I knew it,” he says. “I knew you were a kinkster.” I think he might have actually pumped the air in triumph if he hadn’t been holding my arms.
“I’m not...” I can barely say the word he’s used, even though he said it so casually. “I’m not a ‘kinkster.’ I’ve never done anything like that before. I just thought we should try it. I wanted to know what it would feel like. I thought he might understand.”
“And what did he say?”
I remember the words exactly. “He said, ‘I’m not into that sort of thing.’” They seem so simple. But there was an underlying tone to them that said “that sort of thing” is wrong and you were wrong to say it instead of keeping it buried deep.
“Doesn’t know what he’s missing,” Graham says. “Or maybe he does, but he’s too ashamed to admit it. I bet that’s it. Why else would he slap you down so fast?”
He looks at me until I feel I must be tomato red and want to just shrink through the floor. I’m wondering if his use of the word “slap” is as careless as his tone suggests. Then he says, “Do you still want to be tied up?”
Yes. I think about it every night, in the shower every morning, in the car on every commute, every time I jerk off. I look up sites on my laptop that make me feel like I’m going to be hauled from my bed at dawn by the perversion police. I browse handcuffs and rope at online sex shops but am too terrified of the package falling open in the delivery man’s hands to ever order anything. “Yes,” I say. “By the right man.”
Graham clearly thinks he is the right man, without question. Which is what gets me here. Tied to the coffee table in the rest area in the back corner of the control room. Or, not tied, if we’re being accurate. Blue nylon rope looped loosely around my wrists and grasped in my fists. It’s one of those tables with a shelf underneath for magazines. The rope passes beneath that, pulling my arms down toward the floor. That’s what makes my shoulders ache.
“I can’t exactly hog-tie you right here,” he says, while I’m still backed up to the control panel. “Not very safe if something on the plant overheats. Wasn’t there an emergency shutdown last week?” The word “hog-tie” sounds so dirty and demeaning to my novice ears, it makes me gasp. Or maybe it’s a groan.
“Yes, Wednesday. Fire department was here and everything. A valve had got stuck.”
“Hmm. Fire department, you say?” He winks and steps back, letting go of my wrists. I shift my butt from where it has become molded around the edge of the control panel. “Only joking,” he says. “I wouldn’t really hog-tie you on the factory floor and then call the fire department. Not tonight.” He grins like he might actually do it another night. I’m reminded, however comically, that I don’t really know this guy.
“But I’m sure we could do something to give you a taster. Without actually inhibiting your freedom in the event of an emergency. I hate to see you suffering like this. How about it?”
It’s not just about safety in the factory. It’s like he knows what I’m thinking and he’s giving me a way to try this, where it doesn’t matter that I don’t know him very well. It’s just a taster, a trial run, no strings attached. Something to ease my suffering, which is a pretty upside-down way of putting it.
“Okay,” I say, very quietly. He grins like a schoolboy.
“Sit there,” he says, pointing to the low table, its wood-effect plastic laminate worn at the edges where decades of boots have rested on it. “I’m improvising here, so bear with me. How would you feel about putting your hands on your head while I go on recon for supplies?”
“Um, okay.” I think that if that’s the only response required of me, I’ll cope, but I really don’t think I can formulate any full sentences right now. I sit on the table and start to raise my arms. “Oh, and you might as well take your coveralls down to your waist and get your top off, too.”
I do it, fingers fumbling with the zip front of the dark blue canvas work-wear. I roll them down to my hips, just like I do at the end of every shift in the locker room. I pull off my T-shirt, dropping it on the threadbare couch. He’s looking in the janitor’s cupboard to the side of me. I raise my arms, linking my fingers on my head, flattening my hair. If I’d known Graham was going to be on the night shift I’d have gelled it. But now I realize it’s good I didn’t because my hands are damp with sweat and I’d only mess it up. I stare straight ahead at the gray controls and the window that looks down on the works. For some reason, it seems the thing to do. Eyes front, like it’s an army inspection or something. I hear him making little noises of delight. “Oh yes, perfect.” “Ooh, this is interesting.” Then he’s in front of me, with a blue rope, a roll of duct tape and a broom in his hands.
My mouth falls open, and my eyes widen in a way that I thought only happened in cartoons.
“Ha!” He’s bursting with glee. “Got you. I’m only kidding with the broom. I just wanted to see the look on your face. We’ll save that for another time, when I’ve broken you in a bit more.”
Oh my fucking god. He’s teasing me and my cock is rock hard and horribly constricted in my underwear. He looks down at me with those cute blue eyes. He has the sort of eyes that will always make him look sweet in spite of his shaved head and unkempt stubble.
“I’m just going to use this.” He holds up the rope. It’s that kind of blue, half-inch synthetic stuff you find lying around in factory stores but which has no known purpose.
“Okay,” I say.
“Oh, I forgot to tell you not to speak. My mistake. No more talking, sweet cheeks.” He bends down and puts a finger on my lips, affecting a solemn demeanor. I try to slow my breathing to make it look like I might still be in control of my bodily responses. Graham kneels in front of me and shows me what he’ll do with the rope. He measures it against the width of the table and puts two wide loops in it to go at either side. He tells me—orders me, I guess—to turn around and lie back. I feel just the slightest touch of his fingers as he slips the loops onto my wrists.
I want more than the slightest touch. I want his hands all over me and, of course, he knows this. He places the roll of duct tape on my bare abdomen, raising a thousand and one images in my mind of what he could do with it. I don’t answer his question, “How does it feel?” I keep my lips closed, imagining what it would feel like to have them taped shut.
Graham lets go of my chin after the question and runs his hands over my chest and down my stomach, around the roll of tape, stopping short at the top of my briefs. My back arches to meet his touch and the tape wobbles. For some reason, I suddenly find i
t an important goal to keep the tape in place.
“Tut tut,” he says. “You’ll have to learn more discipline than that.” The word makes my throat tighten. He grasps one of my ankles and presses it to the leg of the table. “If I could, I would tie your ankles down, too.” I voluntarily press the other leg into the opposite side. “I would have you completely naked.” He walks his hands up my legs, thumbs pressing into my inner thighs, and onward, stopping just beneath my tight balls. “Except, maybe, for a butt plug.”
I have to swallow; my mouth is swimming in saliva. I stare at the polystyrene-tiled ceiling, breathing hard, until Graham rubs the heel of his hand over my trapped dick. Then, I lift my head and look at him. It doesn’t go unnoticed. He steps astride the table, rising over me, and bends to put a hand around my neck. My brain tells me I should be shocked and frightened. But he rests his hand around my throat so gently I register nothing but desire. “And if you’re going to do that, I could collar you. I have a steel one. Imagine if it was fixed down to the table, pinning your neck in place.” I can feel the cold metal on my skin, the restriction against my airway.
“Fuck,” I gasp, breaking the rules. “You have a steel collar? Do you do this a lot then?”
He sinks down until he’s sitting on my pelvis, my cock crushed and throbbing beneath his balls. He’s a big guy and the weight makes me tense muscles I didn’t know I had down there to stop him from squashing me.
“I don’t remember allowing you to speak, but since you did, yes, I’ve done this before.” He keeps the pressure on my throat light, but moves his thumb and forefinger up to my jawbone so I can’t move my head. When he puts the palm of his other hand across my mouth, I have an urge to lick it. “But I’d forgotten what it’s like to be a novice with a world of possibilities ahead of you.” He makes it sound like a magical wonderland. “I’ve always loved being tied up. But it took me a while to discover how much I enjoy giving other guys that feeling. And you, a newbie. You’re so responsive. I want to spend a long time with you finding out what you like. There’s so much to try.” He’s like a kid in a sweetshop.
I realize I’ve managed to part my lips beneath his palm and am flicking my tongue onto his sweat-salted skin.
“I should tape your mouth to stop you doing that,” he says. “But just imagine having to pull the tape off quick if the fire alarm sounds. Ouch.” My hips are rocking beneath him and if he keeps talking like this I might actually come from the slightest friction of my briefs. The rope is cutting into my wrists, because I’m grasping it so tightly.
“You have a lovely body. I’d like to cover it with rope marks. And you mentioned handcuffs.” I moan a little. “But right now, I have to go and take the three a.m. readings. Don’t move.”
I feel too light, too free, with his weight gone from my pelvis and his hands gone from my face and neck. I press my legs into the sides of the table and imagine that collar pinning my head into my place. I imagine rope wound all around my body so tight I can’t budge an inch. I imagine tape across my mouth and a blindfold over my eyes. I imagine Graham bending me over first to push a fat butt plug inside me. I’m well away with this very detailed fantasy when I realize he’s finished doing the readings and is standing just out of my line of sight looking at me as my hips pulse and my chest heaves. I glance up and see him raise his eyebrows.
“You are going to be such fun,” he says. “You’re not working tomorrow night, are you?”
I shake my head.
“I guess we could still meet for a drink,” he says. “But we’d have more time to play if you come straight over to my place. Agreed?”
I nod.
ROPING THE COWBOY
Teresa Noelle Roberts
“Have you ever tied up a cowboy, ma’am? Because I’m available if you’d like to.”
I turned to the man who’d just propositioned me, ready to snarl at him.
Instead, I smiled.
I live in a city with the unofficial motto “Keep Austin Weird,” so I’m inured to oddity. And since I’m a pretty woman with flame-patterned hair and a fondness for wearing Docs with fishnets and very short skirts, I sometimes get hit on in fairly outrageous ways.
Which is fine if the outrageous come-on is also polite. Hell, if the polite outrageous line is being delivered by someone hot, I’m not above considering it. And the guy asking the provocative question was a tall, handsome, dark-haired example of one-hundred-percent-genuine cowboy.
You see a lot of desk jockeys in Stetsons and boots around here—this is the capital of Texas, after all, even if Austin is more known for tech and alternative music than cattle these days. But I can pick a real cowboy among the wannabes by the way he carries himself (or herself—there are real cowgirls, too), the way he wears his hat, a weathered, wind- and sun-burned look and fine crow’s feet, even if he’s young. But mostly it’s the eyes. Cowboys are used to a long focus, looking at a far horizon, not at a computer. So when a cowboy chooses to focus on you, it is a choice and he really focuses, like you matter, not like you just happen to be in his line of vision. This particular cowboy was focusing his greenish-brown eyes, and his attention, on me in a way I’m not used to seeing in someone I don’t have tied up already. Like I was the gateway to a heaven he never thought he’d reach.
And did I mention handsome? Cheekbones to die for, a deep tan and dark hair, almost black, with a few featherings of silver. Broad shoulders. Narrow hips. His intense hazel eyes were almond-shaped and fringed with long lashes like a showgirl’s, an arresting note of softness in his knife-edge appearance.
“What makes you think I’d want to tie up a cowboy, cowboy?” I raised the bourbon I’d been nursing to my lips and looked into his eyes as I sipped. His eyes narrowed but his pupils dilated. He leaned toward me, but stopped before he got into my personal space. I swear I felt his dick harden.
It was hard to tell in the bar light, especially with his dark complexion, but I swear he flushed. “Right before they went to the restroom, your friends were teasing you about boys and rope. Sorry for eavesdropping.”
When Heather and Dana are tipsy, you don’t need to eavesdrop. They make sure everyone knows whatever they’re oversharing. Sometimes this was an annoyance. Tonight, I’d call it a feature.
I swung my legs around to the side, making sure he got a good look at the fishnets, and at everything my little red dress wasn’t hiding. “It’s fun to tie up boys. But it’s more fun to tie up men.” I looked at him as coolly as I could, smiling a slow, predatory, red-lipped smile. “Which are you, cowboy?”
He gulped and glanced away. His big hand fumbled with his empty beer bottle. But when he looked back at me, his gaze was steady. “Like to think I’m a man. But I reckon I’ll be whichever you want tonight. That is, if you’re interested.”
“Good answer. Next question: do you always ask strange women to tie you up?”
“Never.” Something in his voice told me he was telling the truth. “I’ve always been curious, but never knew how to ask. Can’t ask a woman who knows me well, because she thinks I’m one kind of man and might get turned off finding out I don’t always want to be the tough guy. Can’t ask a stranger because it’s a good way to get slapped. Thanks to your friends and their pink drinks, I know you like bondage. And I’m hardly ever in Austin, so if I make a fool of myself we’ll never see each other again. Figured you’d probably say no, but you probably wouldn’t slap me.” He stopped and looked stunned, as if he didn’t know where all the words had come from.
I set my drink down and leaned in toward him. “What makes you think I was going to say no?”
Then I kissed him. My hands went to his wrists, holding them, and while it was obvious my small hands could only immobilize him if he chose to obey me, he did.
I paid the bar tab—my friends’ too, because I owed them a thank-you—as I hastily explained when they returned from the restroom to find me kissing a cowboy. My new chew toy, Jake, followed me home, driving an F450 that had clearly se
en heavy use.
We went through some quick negotiations, which I think surprised Jake pleasantly. I don’t think it had occurred to him that bondage might involve his desires as much as mine, and might not involve the kind of sadism he’d stumbled across in porn. “Nothing wrong with pain and humiliation if people are into that,” I explained, “but I’m not and it doesn’t sound like you are, either. I just like rope.”
More like I love rope—the way rope decorates a man’s body, and the way new worlds open to him when he realizes my ropes mean he doesn’t have to be tough and in charge for while. That he can relax and be taken in the best possible way.
Jake’s look of relief was beautiful.
Almost as beautiful as his body was when I told him to strip and he did.
He wasn’t a romance-novel cowboy cover model. I like looking at those pretty guys with their big, decorative muscles, but there was something about Jake’s lean body shaped by riding and roping, its taut power and overall strength, that I liked better. His skin was olive everywhere, but he had a workingman’s tan, darker on his face and his ropy forearms than the rest of his body, not the uniform bronze of a cover model. He had a sprinkling of dark-brown hair on his chest, pointing down to his groin, and a thicker, darker thatch around his cock and balls.
I decided fire-engine-red rope would be the perfect color for him, a fierce contrast against his dark complexion.
When I started by wrapping rope around one of his ankles, then worked up, I surprised him again. “Aren’t you going to tie me to a bed or something?” he asked.
“Patience.” I kissed him, letting rope trail over his skin as I did. He shuddered as the red, soft length teased his nipples, tickled his flat belly, brushed his straining cock. I kissed him again before he could speak, tasting beer and cigarettes on his breath. Not my normal turn-ons, but I liked the hard, stereo-typical masculinity of it, in contrast to the way he was giving himself to me and my ropes.
The Western hero, subdued by kisses and the mere tease of rope.
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