by Alex M. Quinlan
I know I'm needy when the first brush of the rope unmoors me; all he'd done was to hold it against me -- to see where to place the first knots -- and I'd come adrift, all the world going soft-focus as the silken kiss shivered my skin from crown to clit. I had to lean against the couch-back as he repeatedly touched me with the doubled rope, just measuring the distance between the knots against my body. It was only the fourth time we'd played, this weekend at the kinky B&B where he'd rented a separate cabin for us; I was just learning that there was a difference in his pleasure, between the bantering smirk that would take my laughter away with his strikes, and this slowly growing stranger, focussed and intent as he sank into what was obviously a more striking obsession.
I'm sure there's some BDSM activity that's more anal-retentive than decorative ropework, but I don't know what it is. Bondage was one of my first loves, even before I knew what it was associated with, and it's been so long; so long since it was something other than a joking example, so long since I had someone who wanted to do it to me, rather than me cajoling the action as a demonstration of how to do it on a big girl with large masses, rather than the bones-and-flesh limberness of the pornsite girls.
By the time he was ready to put the rope on me -- the first line, the one that anchors the rest, just a doubled loop of soft nylon rope with overhand knots periodically along its length -- I was trembling with anticipation inside and out, and my voice had gone hoarse and soft. I could hear myself sounding dreamy and could feel his pleasure -- his approval, his gratification -- thrumming between us, heightening tension.
I had to stand free to take the anchor -- the initial loop, draped over my head -- that had taken so long to create. Hours of slow drifting; maybe five minutes. I expected him to cinch it up between my legs, but it hung loose when he tied it off, balancing the weight so my neck was unpressured. I had no real independent thought as I stood and watched him spread-armed measure a length of rougher rope off a skein, shivering in atavistic reaction at the sound of the spring knife opening. He watched me as he cut the length, and then it was my skin under the blade, tip and flat, raised gooseflesh and the heat in my crotch. He wasn't quite smiling, but the look on his face was more than that -- a smile wouldn't have done it justice, he was drinking me down, a source of sustenance that he, too, needed.
This is so hard to write; I don't have enough distance and I keep slipping back into the memory, into the drifting of doing nothing while another manipulates my body. He tied the middle of the new rope at my collarbone, and proceeded to lace me up -- reaching around behind me, pulling the long lines through the opening between knots, cinching it over my breasts. The first grip of the rope brought the first shuddering to my body: breath catching, my head falling back as my whole being arched into it. Then in front of me again, pulling the rope under my breasts, holding each one up as he ran the line through the open area of the anchor line that lay between them. The pull through, the bare heat of not-quite-ropeburn, the tug and cinch, and then behind me and repeat.
I can't tell you how many loops there were; I was only barely aware of such externalities by the time he did this the third time. He stood behind me once, and yanked, tugging everything tight, compressing my ribs, my stomach, down over my hips, getting the final length to come around and tie these off in front of me. I watched, but it's only now, in memory, that I realize these were quick-release knots. Realize the care he was taking of me, this first time taking me where he wanted me so beautifully, his desire so controlled that all I had any will to do was surrender to it.
I must have managed to tell him that my legs were giving out; he was gone from my sight, and then guiding me backwards, telling me to sit. He had to tell me; I didn't think of it even when I felt the chair behind me. Again I watched the slow measuring of a length of rope, saw without seeing the gaze he passed over me -- assessing, consuming. He anchored this piece lower, between my tits, and proceeded to compress them. They're so large they just sit there, on my large belly, they've never been perky. He didn't make them so, just wrapped rope over them, ran it under a line on the other side, and brought it back to the center.
The shaking wasn't anticipation now -- the cinching, the pain, the gripping of my breast turned everything sexual. Now it was heat, plain arousal, transforming all at once like a overmixed solution will suddenly crystallize. My moans were breathless, breathy, loud in my ears for all my silence, spiced with cries as skin was occasionally pinched in the creation of this compression. The final length was brought around the front, not quite over the nipple, and tied off tightly. I was gripping the seat with my hands, my head fallen against the back of the chair, hips slowly rocking against the knots in my crotch. He ran the roughened end of the rope over my nipple and I nearly came, my whole body spasming at the mindblowing intensity. I think he chuckled then; it's only now I can hear him saying 'Excellent'. All I knew was that it was what he wanted, and I nearly came from the approval.
The other breast was treated the same, with more pinches and more sensitivity as the ring in that nipple was moved and brushed with the rope. All I retain now is that he was finally not touching me anymore, and I was still squirming, slow writhing grinding my clit against the rope, not actually desiring this, no sense of self, no coherence of desire -- pure bodily reaction.
As my body got used to the stimulation its writhing slowed, and my eyes opened. He was watching me, smiling, the wicked bantering smile. "Welcome back," he purred, and took a half step forward to touch me. His fingers ran over my jawline, my cheek, and I turned my head to kiss his fingers. He permitted me to nuzzle his hand for a moment, and then reached down with his other to touch the ropes. "You're beautiful like this. These ropes suit you." I quivered with his approval, his crystalline delight. His fingers brushed the flesh showing between the lines on my breasts, and I jumped, gasping, grinding into the crotch-rope again. "Yes, excellent," he all but whispered.
In a more normal voice he said, "I did a good job, do you think so?" I could only nod, breathless. "I even have a handle." He gripped some length of rope linking the ones over my sternum to the ones nearer my crotch. With a soft yank he nearly tipped me into orgasm. "Such lovely dancing you do. Dance on my strings, my marionnette." And then he started jerking on the rope, jerking my tits, jerking the ropes on them tighter, rubbing my clit with every motion. I think I started screaming then -- not in pain but in need, in need to express the heat and desire he was driving me to. He pulled me to standing, and twitched me around, leading me by this handle, abruptly moving my body till I fell back onto the bed. I started to lay back and he had me stand up again, move around, so I was laying across the foot of the bed, my legs up and supported, my head and shoulders almost off the other side, my body arched up into the pressure of the ropes. I groaned, writhing slowly, helpless reaction.
I know there were more words in there, that he was talking softly and calmly, as one does to a disturbed animal, guiding me with voice as well as focussed touch. But it's background, it's the surround and support of 'safe to surrender' that comes through the memory, not the words.
Then he was by my face; he must have been on his knees next to the bed. I don't know where he was touching, but it wasn't touch anymore: it was electric jolts bucking my hips, it was my clit trying to engorge and lift against the pressure of the rope, it was mindblowing everything-stimulus without the release of the ability to remember that it was possible for me to beg for orgasm when my training wouldn't break. His fingernails were there, the cold shiver of the knife was there, the nasty evil stingy little stick was there, poking and prodding and striking. All I could do was buck and shudder and cry out wordlessly, over and over, caught in the loop.
And then he stopped, and just petted my hair till I caught my breath. I blinked up at him, but couldn't see him -- somewhere he'd taken my glasses away. "You need a break," he said conversationally. I must have made a confused sound. "You stopped responding to my lightest touch. So you must need a break." His voice was somewhere between a melodramatic 'how could you do this to me?' and a factual recitation. The fact that he was able to do this and not have me feel like I'd failed boggles me now. "So there's something we should do instead." I looked up at him again. "I would like to put your clothing on you, and take you into the house." I must have looked startled, cause he laughed. "Do you think you can do that?"
I opened my mouth to panic, and all that came out was, "If you want."
He gave me a broader smile. "Oh yes. I want." And so he pulled me up to standing by the handle, and held me balanced while the fit of trembling passed. He rummaged through my suitcase till he found a shirt that would sit close enough around my neck to hide the ropes, and laughed at my scream when the soft cloth stroked over the bound flesh of my tits. He held my pants for me to step into when my attempt to bend over nearly had me fall. And then he took my hand in his and led me through the garden to the main house, where I suddenly remembered that there were some people walking through to book an event. I balked, babbling something about strangers. He looked at me, capturing me with his eyes, and just said, "I'll walk that line. Can you?" All I could do was fall into his gaze and walk forward again.
By the time we'd crossed the yard and taken our shoes off in the alcove, I'd gained some coherence; I could talk, at least. The few people there said I looked sleepy, and asked me if I was ok. "Yeah, just spacy from the massage," I managed to answer. As I moved around I was constantly aware of his eyes on me, even as he sought out the person who was sharing a ride home with him later that day. I couldn't sit down so I just leaned against the bar, staring at nothing. A few more people might have tried to talk to me, but I have no memory of it, just of nodding at words that seemed to be directed to me. His eyes burned on me, kept me from coming out of my trance-like state. I could have dealt with complete strangers better than these people I'd been bantering with the day before.
Suddenly he stood in front of me. "I want you to drive home like this. Can you do it?" I just looked at him, my brain trying to tick over. I can sit, I thought. I can drive? Before I could say anything, he said, "I want you to be honest. Can you drive in this?" My voice moved as slowly as my mind. "I think it's too tight," I answered. Before I could frame another sentence, he said, "If I took the front rope off? You could drive for a while, to the first rest area? The second?" I blinked and nodded.
And so he took my hand again, led me past the clearly amused people, through the yard to the cabin we shared. He held the door for me, standing behind it. As soon as I was inside he slammed the door and grabbed me, hard. He forced a kiss into my mouth, gripping me tightly against my physical stumble, creating the mental tumble that took me straight down into mindless need again. Pulling away, he gripped the handle of rope and jerked me to the bed; I seem to remember a soft growl. He pulled my shirt nearly off, leaving it wrapped around my arms and head like a blindfold, and painfully jerked the ropes off my breasts, pinching, burning the flesh. I screamed with every jerk, kept off balance, hips and cunt grinding against the rope that rubbed my drenched flesh. When he had the rope off he ripped the shirt off my arms and pushed me, hard. I landed on the bed in complete disarray. With one leg between mine, his knee against my cunt, he grabbed my hands and lay on top of me.
Suddenly I was screaming, "PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE," a word at last to beg for release. "Now," he said just before his mouth closed on mine, his tongue ravishing my mouth. The shriek ripped from me, raw power burning through me as finally I came. Howling into his mouth, he sucked the breath from me, fed on my release as it convulsed me over and over and over. I couldn't stop, it wouldn't stop, raw need finally freed to shred my nerves, lightning blasting tree.
Somehow he knew when my body actually did stop -- he lifted his mouth from mine with a softer kiss when my breath just came raggedly without the howl. "Good girl," he said with a grin, and got off me. "Now we pack. I have to go." And so we did, me slowly less dazed, more dressed, washing the dishes we'd used and picking up the towels left draped around from my earlier shower.
He kissed me deeply and long before getting into his van. I said my goodbyes and left also, somehow transmuting my dreaminess into focus, into obedience to the murmured 'drive safe'. I took the ropes off when I made my first pit stop, about an hour down the road.
And now I'm home, and he's still elsewhere. I think I called him 'master', which I'd never done before, and he'd said he didn't want. We'll have to talk about that. I think.
I'll see him again in five weeks. My skin still tingles from the ropes.
