Hotter than a Texas summer day. Hotter than lava.
Slowly, meticulously, I created a lattice up each of Jake’s legs, then worked my way up his torso. Decorative bondage takes time, and this took longer than usual because I lingered over the texture of Jake’s skin and I studied his reactions. He didn’t speak a lot, but his breathing and body language spoke volumes, and most of what they were saying was “Wow!” I couldn’t help interrupting my work with kisses and caresses. By the time I was done, Jake was embellished with diamonds of rope and jewel-like knots. His cock, set off by the red ropes, jutted upward. A large, flat knot rested just above his cock, right where I’d be able to grind my clit against it.
Like I said, I love rope.
As a finishing touch, I looped a thinner piece of red rope around his cock and balls. Jake made a helpless, frightened noise, but didn’t protest or use the safeword I’d given him. I wrapped it a couple of times, not tight at all, just enough to give him a sense of pressure, and tied it off at the base of his cock as an improvised cock ring.
“Oh my god,” he exclaimed. “Always figured something like this would hurt, but it feels great.”
“I could make it hurt, but I don’t want to.” I knelt briefly and kissed the swollen tip of his penis, just a quick contact with my lips that made him jump with need.
God, I love that kind of reaction.
Only when he was decorated for my pleasure did I lead my cowboy to the bed, a mission style with sturdy posts and a solid headboard, perfect for the rings I’d added. “Lie down, cowboy,” I said. I’m afraid I didn’t sound all that commanding. I’m not that style of domme, just someone who likes to share the fun of rope, the pleasure of letting go. Not every guy likes that style. But it seemed Jake did.
Once he was supine on the bed, I tied his arms together, wrist to opposite elbow, over his head, and then tied his arms to the headboard. The position accented the lines of his muscles, and there’s nothing prettier than work-honed muscles wrapped in rope. I spread his legs—actually he did for me, without being asked—and secured his ankles to the bedposts.
I stood back for a second, still fully dressed, and surveyed my work. My body felt weighted, heavy with arousal. My hot, hung, helpless cowboy looked almost perfect. Almost, but not quite, and I finally figured out what was missing.
I took his hat from the chair where he’d set it and placed it on his head. It didn’t sit perfectly in his current position, but it got the point across.
Jake got the point, too, because he chuckled deep in his throat. “Could have left my boots on, too, ma’am.”
“And ruin my sheets? Don’t think so.” I considered for a second. Maybe it would have been worth ruining the sheets, but I didn’t want to bother untying him.
Now, finally, I undressed. No, I stripped. I danced my clothes off, making a show of it that the bound man on my bed watched with keen, hungry eyes.
By the time I was naked, I was also wet, and my cunt was quivering with anticipation. All right, it already had been, because the teasing way I’d bound him teased me, too. But studying him as he tested the ropes that restrained him—not to get away, but to be sure he couldn’t get loose by accident—made me even hotter. And the way he was looking at me, like I was a goddess instead of a reasonably pretty woman with an interesting dye job, was the icing on the kinky cake.
I stalked over to the bed and stood by Jake’s side, slowly stroking his cock. His muscles clenched as pleasure and pressure built. I hadn’t snugged the cock-tie tight, but as his arousal grew, he would become more and more aware of that little piece of rope. He writhed as best he could and bit his lip and stared at me with those dark-fringed eyes, but he remained amazingly quiet except for a few low groans that curled around my clit and stroked it.
Until finally he broke down and begged, “Please. Please, ma’am, please.”
“Please what?” I asked wickedly, still stroking his cock. I suspected he wouldn’t be able to answer coherently, and I was right.
He moaned and stuttered and finally managed to say, “Don’t know if I hope you’ll fuck me or keep teasing me forever. Just whatever you do, please don’t untie me.”
Now that I could manage.
After one last lingering stroke on his cock, I climbed onto the bed and straddled his face, knocking his hat out of the way. For as long as I could stand it, I hovered just out of easy reach, forcing him to stretch and lap upward in hopes of tasting me, moving when he got too close.
But I’d been teasing myself all the time I’d been tormenting Jake, so I didn’t want to keep this game up for long. I sank down and let Jake’s tongue do its work.
At first, he seemed eager but almost teenage-boy awkward. Maybe he was out of practice, or just not used to having a woman sit on his face. It’s a different angle, a different technique, especially when a guy’s hands are tied. But even clumsy cunnilingus from a hot bound cowboy has a lot to recommend it. Sweet tongue, determined lips, slight rasp of five o’clock shadow against my inner thighs, and the delightful knowledge that in this moment, Jake was surrounded by my sex and my scent and my ropes, lost in pleasuring me.
Before long, Jake found his rhythm, and I found mine as I moved against his insistent mouth. I could feel his muscles straining, knew how much he wanted to touch me with his hands and his cock. And oh, he’d figured out just the right way to lick and suckle my clit. I leaned forward, catching myself on the headboard just above where he was tied, and I ground, adding more pressure to the dance of his lips and tongue. Then I glanced over my shoulder, looking back at the rangy body decorated with rope, at his cock straining against the air.
The sight was enough to push me over the edge, and I cried out profanities as I came.
I grabbed a condom from on top of the headboard, snatched his hat as an afterthought, then moved down his body, kissing and nipping his helpless flesh. His face was slick with my juices, and he was licking his lips as if he couldn’t taste enough of me.
Sadly, I wasn’t sure the condom would sit well over the rope-work on his cock, so I took thirty seconds to unwrap him. He thrust up into the air as blood flowed more freely into his dick. “Shit. So hot. So sensitive. Kind of hurts, but it feels so good.”
I had to take care putting on the condom. He’d be a little hair-trigger at this point, and I had plans for that erection. It might end up being a short ride, but having come once, I shouldn’t have trouble coming again—and he deserved a wild, sweet conclusion to his adventure. Jake bit his lip again as I rolled the rubber over him. His hands clenched and unclenched against the air. The long muscles of his legs were twitching as if he’d been running for miles, and his abs stood out in relief under the ropes.
I wanted a camera. I wanted mirrors all around us so I could see every beautiful cowboy inch of him.
But mostly I wanted his cock.
I took Jake’s firmly in hand, rubbed the head against my clit until I was trembling on the edge of another orgasm and he was muttering, “Please, please, oh shit, please,” under his breath—a prayer, a curse, a mantra. Then I put his cowboy hat on my own head, exclaimed, “Ride ’em, cowgirl!” and took him deep inside me. He laughed, but the laugh quickly became a groan of pure lust, pure heat. I began to rock.
“You like to be ridden, cowboy?” I managed to say, though sexy banter was difficult when Jake’s cock was deep inside me and the knot I’d placed so strategically was rubbing my clit.
“Yes, ma’am. God, yes.” His eyes were wide, and his fists were clenched, and I knew he was holding back for all he was worth as I moved up and down on him. I wanted to make my perfect night of roping and riding a cowboy last, wanted to draw this ecstatic moment out as long as I could, but the human body can only take so much pleasure before it finds release. The rope’s friction on my clit, and the big cock inside me, and the tough man so delightfully bound and docile beneath me, all worked their magic.
The orgasm crashed through me. I cried out, something harsh and wordless, and
convulsed around him. My contractions were the last straw for Jake. He thrust wildly into me, despite having no leverage from his legs, using butt muscles strong from riding. “Oh yes, yes, Jesus god, yes,” he screamed. His voice was harsh, raspy, as his control frayed and then snapped like a worn rope and he came hard.
There was an awkward moment later, after I’d untied Jake and held him while he came down from the high of orgasm in bondage. He looked at me seriously, his eyes clear again and intently focused, and said, “You never told me your name, ma’am.”
“No. I like the way ‘ma’am’ sounds on your lips. So old-fashioned and sweet.” I imagined giving him my name, my number, my email. Luring him back to town, to my ropes, to my bed. Imagined going to whatever little ranching community had created this strong, yielding man and binding him in his own bed, in the barn, under the sky somewhere. “Do you want to know it?”
“Will I see you again?”
I shrugged and licked the rope marks on his wrist. “Maybe. You say you don’t get to Austin much.”
“And that’s not likely to change. I’m about as far from Austin as I can be and still be in Texas, and the ranch keeps me busy.”
I thought about long-distance relationships. Thought about mystery and magic. Thought about the fact that part of Jake’s allure was that he was a stranger, a symbol, a cowboy. If we got to know each other outside of our roles this evening, we might find an even stronger connection—or we might discover we had nothing in common except a kink for rope and didn’t even like each other out of bed.
But there was a way that might give us the best of both worlds.
“Just a minute,” I said. I grabbed a piece of paper from the bedside table and scrawled an email address on it. “You can reach me here if you’ll be in town.”
“Cowboy_roper?” He raised one eyebrow and smiled. “Thought you said you hadn’t tied up a cowboy before.”
“I hadn’t. But now I might make a habit of it.”
I’d set up the address after he left. Wouldn’t take more than a couple of minutes on Gmail.
If he never used it, so be it. I’d have a sexy memory of one perfect night roping a cowboy.
And if he did, I’d have the red ropes ready for him.
MEETING
L. C. Spoering
“You came all this way to get fucked?”
It was not much of a question at that point. She stood stripped to the panties she’d taken more than a little care to procure—red, lace, bow, the works—and shivered a little in the artificial cool of the air conditioner on full blast. Certainly it seemed as though she’d come there to get fucked.
The hotel was one of the more anonymous places this could happen—the bed covered in a muted flower pattern, the carpet under her feet an inoffensive dusty pink—and there was a certain kind of shame in that. Even the art on the walls seemed fashioned to be as unobtrusive as possible: flowers in a pot, a table in the sun. It was intended to leave the boarders suspended in place, neither here nor there, the semiopaque curtains on the windows blocking out the view of the street, making it any room in any city, the traffic sounds seemingly miles away, muted by double-paned glass.
Still, she nodded, feeling the hard lump in her throat move up and down as though she’d swallowed a golf ball. Goose bumps ran up each bare arm and leg, and the fine hairs at the small of her back prickled over the ill-conceived tramp stamp she’d gotten there, back in college—a rose, faded this many years later, but marking the area just above the crack of her ass like a sign, a target.
He rubbed his chin, his fingers rasping like Velcro; it must have been days since he last shaved, the dark scruff looking more like a shadow, at that phase, than unclean skin. He stepped closer. Her breath caught behind the lump and she almost gagged, but then he continued around her, like she was a chair, something to move past.
“Are those new?”
She shifted, ball-heel-change. Her hair stirred over the skin of her back and shoulders as she nodded, an additional shiver running from the top of her head to her toes, clenched now in the carpet; she was absolutely ticklish, and her hair against her neck was nearly maddening.
“The whole outfit is,” she said, after a long moment where she could only hear him breathing. Indeed, the skirt and blouse, discarded over the luggage rack, had borne tags until that morning; she’d not even run them through the wash. They were not impressive, maybe—pencil skirt in black, and a red sweater, three-quarter sleeved—but there was a thrill in picking them out, so carefully. She’d clipped the tags while standing naked in the doorway of her closet so that she felt the heat and damp between her legs without ruining the thong she’d bought in the same trip, the one she wore now, the one that was soaked and felt as flimsy as tissue paper against her pussy.
“Did you shave?”
What a question. She nodded, again, then coughed a little. “This morning. Lotion, too.” She was anticipating the next question, eyes focused on the wall across the room from her, his presence behind her almost heavy, pressing on her back even though he didn’t touch her.
“Good.” Her heart pumped, twice, sending two surges of blood: one up to her head, throwing her off her equilibrium, and the other to her clit, which throbbed and ached and made the stain of arousal larger, inching up the fabric, turning the string that ran the length of her crack nearly black.
Trained like a dog to the sound of a can opener, she heard his black belt, that click back of the buckle, the squeak of leather bending back on itself, the fabric hiss of the strap sliding through the loops of his gray slacks. She knew the colors without looking, the matching suit jacket next to her skirt and sweater, gray wool. His shirt was white with faint charcoal pinstripes. She memorized details like this so that her eyes projected them back onto the blank wall ahead of her, a composite, a trick on her vision, so that he was in two places at once.
“Hands.”
She could feel her pulse in her wrists before she moved them from her sides to behind her back, just above the curve of her ass. She’d painted the nails to match her sweater, but they smudged and chipped the way they always did; she was always too impatient to let them dry properly before digging in her purse or making the bed. Her fingers curled up in this sudden jolt of memory, toward her palms, a strangely self-conscious measure considering her state of undress.
The belt slipped under her hands, against the knobs of her wrists. She swayed, just a little, on her bare feet, the clench of her toes on the pile of the carpet doing little to support her. The leather folded over the narrow path of her arms and she listened to the faint rattle of the bar easing down the strap, forgetting to breathe while he slipped the piece through the frame, pushed the prong through the hole drilled there, far back from the others, newer, rougher, outside manufacturer’s guidelines.
He tugged on her bound hands before looping the leather between her wrists to secure the loose end. The material was warm from being worn so close to his body, and she swooned inwardly, shoulders clicking into place: straight and back, the curve of her spine steep, tits out, nipples exposed to that cold air, at absolute attention.
She was shaking by the time he stepped in front of her again. She’d forgotten all the details of his physical form, she realized: the hook of his nose, the slash of his lips, the dark shock of mussed hair the only break in his rather tidy countenance. He stood there, rolling up his sleeves, and while she tried to focus on his face, her gaze went wandering, right down to the bulge in his pants, a rather natural destination. Another dual pump of her heart and her fingers stretched to reach for it, seemingly unaware of their bound nature.
He smiled at the shift of her shoulders, the bow of her elbows as she mindlessly struggled against the simple bond. “Not so easy, is it?”
She all but choked on her whine, nodding again as she tried to bring up her voice. “Not so much.”
His sleeves were rolled to his biceps; his arms were covered in the same dark hair as his head, ending, rather abruptly, at
just his wrists, leaving the backs of his hands as smooth as a woman’s. A gold watch encircled his left arm, the links like teeth.
“It’s not going to get easier any time soon,” he reminded her, one of those perfect soft hands coming up to touch her chin and tilt it this way and that, thumb catching on her bottom lip to drag it down, exposing the neat white line of teeth. Her stomach clenched, then she squirmed painfully as he pushed her top lip up, examining those teeth, too, pushing her mouth open to check the sharp edges, delving behind them, pressing against the soft spot under her tongue hard enough to hurt.
She gurgled, but did her best to stay absolutely still. Her eyes rolled up in her skull and she found herself staring up at the ceiling, at the one thing in the room that forgot to be inoffensive: the light fixture looked just like a breast, veins and all, warm and pink, nipple dark in the center.
He shut her mouth, tipped her chin back down. “On your knees, then.”
Her descent to the carpet was not entirely graceless, but without her arms for balance, she faltered, stumbled a little, knees hitting the floor harder than she would have liked, sending a bolt of pain up into her thighs. She let out a grunt and looked up at him, sinking back on her feet, the heels embarrassingly rough against her ass.
He shook his head; it was clear to her he was unimpressed. She swallowed at the lump again, chin twitching against that need to frown. Her fingers touched the bottoms of her feet, sending another ticklish spasm through her, enough that everything hurt for a long moment, and she was almost taken by surprise when his cock was out of his pants, right there in front of her face, clean but with that scent of daylong captivity, warm and musky.
Her whine came out startled. He held his dick steady in front of her, hard and pointing true north, her nose in the way. Without a thought in her brain, her mouth dropped open, tongue curled to receive him, and then he took a step back.
Her jaw dropped, and, instantly, she knew she looked like a fool. She blinked rapidly against the sudden rush of tears, but, over the pounding in her ears, she heard him tut-tut, calling to her, “Isn’t this what you want?”
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