by Julie S
My Night In Bondage
I make sure I am perfect right down to the smallest detail.
I am wearing my brand new outfit I bought just for this date with my intention of Him wanting to fuck me later: A light blue blouse with a floral pattern of red, white and grey; sheer enough to show him my lacy bra and the pattern and color matches my earrings. The darker blue skirt is short for me, about mid thigh and I have dark blue stockings. The heels are too high to walk very far in, but they make my legs look sexy and for this occasion I am taking fashion over function.
I am thrilled when he meets me in the lobby of the Lexington Hotel. He shows me the way to the Italian restaurant off the lobby where he has a table waiting for us. I know people are looking at us as we walk in. I am so excited to be with such a handsome, older man. I sit close to him, but not too close. I am watching him constantly, admiring his big hands, trying not to imagine them on me. Men’s hands and forearms can be the sexiest part of a man’s body to me. His shoulders look broad in his expensive tailored suit. I get lost looking at his brown eyes with the green flecks; noticing his lips, his chin.
I can’t believe I am here, really doing this. It is crazy. A total mind fuck.
I like dry red wines. I order carefully. I will have a salad. No dressing. I do not want anything messy or anything that I might spill. That would be heartbreaking! He smiles as I tell the waiter I will have a merlot. He knows how wine effects me.
He orders a martini. I am impressed with his knowledge of the menu. I have never been in such an impressive restaurant. God knows I don’t know anyone who could afford to take me here.
As he speaks I admire the heavy gold bracelet on his right wrist. He has an expensive Rolex on his left wrist. I have never dated a man who wore a Rolex before. I try not to act impressed. I notice the real gold cuff links and the rich looking suspenders. The green highlights in his tie bring out the green flecks in his expressive eyes.
He is staring boldly at me. We have never seen each other before, only photos. We only know each other through the Internet. I can’t believe I am going through with this. I only hope he is not as rough as he claims he is.
“I like what I see so far. You are sensuous and very pretty. Enjoy you meal. In an hour I will have you completely immobile unable to move or speak or see or hear in my hotel room and available for anything I want to do to you sexually.”
We have barely ordered our meal and already he is establishing his dominance and I feel my submissiveness is so obvious.
He enjoys my discomfort. He worked so hard to get me here, coaxing, bullying, persuading me for more than a week.
I smile weakly, absentmindedly fingering the little black pearl on my necklace, pleased to see his attention shift to my breasts. I wrap the delicate gold chain around and around my finger, wrapping it and unwrapping it nervously as I study his face.
I am scared. I run my fingertip lightly along the neckline of my blouse. My finger slides inside my blouse. I smile, seeing that he is distracted by my little gesture. I am fully aware the impact the sight of my touching myself would have on a man sitting across the table from me. I probably should behave better.
“My only reason for wanting to meet you is because I want only to tie and gag you,” he tells me. “We would not be here if it were not.” he says finally, his eyes on my finger, which I keep moving in a light, sensual circle on my skin.
I am pleased when he tells the waiter to take his time, that we are here for a leisurely dinner. I want this to last forever. I am in no hurry. He makes me reveal the most private parts of my life to him. Maybe it is the wine. He constantly looks directly into my eyes in a way that melts my heart more than anything. I have never felt a man look so intensely that way. Under the table I feel his leg brush against mine. I twirl a long strand of hair nervously, a habit I have had since I was little. He tells me about his work. About his college. I tell him about my high school days, my old job as a restaurant hostess. He seems interested, which I appreciate. I can’t believe I told him about my father’s death and the story about getting pregnant in high school. I never tell people those stories until I get to know them much better. But he is just so easy to talk to, seductively easy. I don’t usually trust people, but for some reason, I trust him totally.
There is electricity between us. I feel it nonstop. My feelings are pretty intense. I need the wine to soothe my nerves! He has me so excited just to be going out with him. This is so incredibly forbidden.
While we were getting comfortable with one another he tells me I look beautiful today. He compliments my hair and my clothes. His compliments make me blush. I am thrilled at his nice words.
I want to turn the conversation to him. I ask him a few questions, absentmindly playing with my necklace and casually running my tongue along my lips.
He wants to talk about sex and his philosophy about male dominance.
“I am old fashioned enough to still believe that men were designed to hunt, protect and provide and that women were designed to serve, pleasure and provide their children,” he says, sipping his martini. “It is very politically incorrect, but consider even our respective basic designs.”
When he speaks I touch his hand lightly, just brushing the back of his hand, but I know he felt it. I sure did. That electric spark. My stomach is getting that warm erotic tingle.
“Look at the cars around you,” he goes on. “The woman naturally rides in the passenger seat. Why does a woman instinctively seek out a man bigger than she is? An older man? She wants to dominated.” He pauses. “I like being in control. You like being controlled. I can see that. I like being in control of my business and, of course, a beautiful woman.”
I have always liked men who take charge of me, make decisions. All my life I have naturally deferred to men. I never really thought about it until recently, but now I realize I am submissive.
He has such crude thoughts about women. I find it so exciting.
I need another glass of wine. Two glasses and I can feel the warmth of the wine inside me. I am feeling better and talking more, telling him about myself because he is such a wonderful listener and because I am eager for him to know me. When he speaks I listen intently, remembering every word he says. His words. The tone of his voice, the way his hands move when he talks. The way he looks at me. I am taking it all in.
“Since the beginning of time when a man looks down into the eyes of a woman he surges with desire to possess, to own, to control, to protect. That is domination. When a woman looks up into the eyes of this man she is filled with the desire to be held, coveted, desired, possessed, owned, controlled and protected. That is her submission. It is an underlying biological drive. It is inherent in all nature. Don’t deny it.”
He tells me he finds me intelligent and how much he likes that in a woman. I am flattered, but I notice he is now staring at my breasts. I wonder if maybe I should have buttoned one more button on my blouse. Am I showing too much? I worry. But I lean close, shamelessly giving him a good look down the front of my blouse. I am out of control! There is nothing I won’t do for him.
He likes to watch my reaction as he describes what he likes to do with women.
“I have spent a great deal of time and energy creating experiences for the women who have served me. I have drawn hot baths of floating roses, filled a room with candles and decorated a bed with enchanting flowers. I have also bound delicate wrists, blindfolded frightened eyes, gagged beautiful, full lips pulled silky soft hair, whispered frightening warnings into delicate ears and slapped angelic faces. I will use my cock, brain and tongue as weapons to secure your surrender and help you discover a part of yourself you never even knew existed.”
We talk about The New York Times, our dogs, books and my aerobics. I love the beach. He likes to walk his big Rottwieller on the beach. I have a little romantic daydream of him and I meeting at the beach.
He asks me what books I read, who my favorite authors are, what music I listen to and even who I voted for for President. I am pleased that he seems sincerely interested in my opinions. I am a bit surprised that he is a conservative Republican. He teases me about being a bleeding heart liberal, but as he teases me, he reaches out and flicks at my dangling earrings with his finger. When he speaks I deliberately touch his hand lightly, just brushing the back of his hand, but I know he felt it. I sure did. That electric spark. My stomach is getting that warm tingle.
I watch the way he moves. He has such an air of dignity and natural elegance I have never seen in a man before. I focus on his hands. They are so big and strong looking, so handsome and dark. I look up and study his face carefully, trying to imprint his image on my mind forever. I am mesmerized by the sight of him. I find myself leaning close, touching him, hoping he can smell my perfume. His voice is powerfully seductive. He has me almost in a trance.
“Surrender to me, Julie. I am about to take you places you have never been before.”
“Maybe we should get to know each other better first,” I suggest weakly.
“If you want to be safe, I can have you taken home right now and you can sit on the couch and watch television the rest of your life. If you want to live, take some chances. Do as I say. I get the sense you are the kind of woman who craves excitement and adventure.”
I am fascinated by his enthusiasm. His lifestyle is so exotic, so different from my life of living paycheck to paycheck and carrying a purse full of maxed out credit cars. I pepper him with questions about his life. I am pleased that I have gotten him to talk about himself.
I have no idea what to expect. This is totally out of my realm of experience.
“You are a delicate flower just beginning to bloom. But you need someone to tend to you or else your petals would wilt. You are in your prime as a beautiful woman. Do you want to waste all that beauty, all that excitement on a common life? I don’t think so. I can save you. Do not resist me. I offer you an incredible opportunity.
“You want to almost hate me for knowing you so well. I know what you are. I know your dual personality, your hidden secret. The knowledge I have of you, that you wish only to be made to kneel, your wrists crossed and tightly bound behind your back, to be reduced to the living personification of submission and humiliation.”
He asks me about my background, my heritage he calls it. I telt him about my German and French relatives, but he is most impressed that I had a Mohawk Indian grandmother. He says I have good bloodlines and he says that of all my attributes, he is most impressed by the bone structure in my face. He runs a finger along my face, praising my cheekbones, my mouth and my big green eyes. He pinches my lower lip between his thumb and forefinger and gently pulled it out, telling me he likes the way my lower lip is naturally pouty. He says he can see the Indian in my eyes and the French in my mouth.
“You have good genetics. You were designed to be attractive to men. Every feature is genetically designed to excite men physically, to invite sex. You were meant to be bred!”
I feel his hand on my knee under the table. The contact is electrifying. I carefully take a sip of wine and keep talking.
I have a sudden urge to kiss him, but I don’t, of course. I marvel at him. To me, he seems larger than life. I know for a fact that I am eating lunch with a man who can change my life forever.
He touches my hair. His finger grazes my cheek. He has such a light touch, but the contact has a powerful effect on me. His hand drops down to the table and his fingertip ever so lightly traces a path along my wrist and he fingers my gold bracelet while looking at me intently with those beautiful brown eyes. He does not say a word. I am enchanted.
I am disappointed when the waiter brings our food. I take small forkfuls. I want to be dainty. A small forkful of lettuce, celery, an olive. I ordered the salad with no dressing. I enjoy watching him eat. I wonder if he will put his hand back on my thigh when he is finished. The direct eye contact keeps me thrilled even when he is not touching me. It is as if his eyes are touching my soul.
My heart is beating faster and faster. He is watching me intently as I carefully pick the onions out of the salad and place them on the side so that I do not eat any by accident. I take a piece of cucumber on my fork and tell myself to stay calm. I have been disappointed by men too many times and I still keep hoping, though. It will break my heart if I am just a one-night stand for him.
His hand is back on knee under table, distracting my attention away from the salad. I am confused and excited. I do not know how I am supposed to react. I hesitate, giving him a shy smile. As I eat his hand moves up higher on my leg, his fingers stroking my thigh. His hand squeezes me. His fingers slide even further up, tickling the sensitive inside of my thigh. I let out a sigh and watch his face. My heart is really pounding! I like being the focus of his attention. Impressing him is important.
He leans close to me. I can smell his breath on me, he is so close. I can feel his hand has slid boldly up a bit into my skirt and he gives me a squeeze. I don’t say anything and I don’t dare move my leg. He gives me a smile and I am sure he knows he has me.
When we are finished, the waiter shows us the dessert menu. I am tempted by the picture of a huge dessert called Chocolate Decadence. We laugh about the name and he encourages me to order it. While we are talking with the waiter I catch his eye and lick my lips. Is that being too bold? I worry. His hand slides further up my leg. I giggle nervously and touch his forearm lightly with my fingers.
The waiter is standing by me, waiting for me to make up my mind about the dessert, but I am distracted by what his hand is doing under the table. I forget what I am going to do. He makes the decision. I will have dessert. And another glass of wine. He orders a cup of coffee. I am pleased about the dessert. It means dinner will last that much longer. I am not sure what is waiting for me upstairs and I am afraid.
When the waiter brings the dessert and sits it down in front of me it creates a stir. People at the other tables are looking and talking about it. It is just too extravagant. I feel pampered and special. I need help with it. I feed him spoonfuls of chocolate decadence and revel in the sensation of his hand rubbing and squeezing my thigh under the table. There is a crumb on his big lip. I reach out and touch it with my finger. It seems like a wifely, intimate, gesture, and it makes me feel closer to him, accepted. I think I am going to have a heart
attack! This is my wildest dream come true.
All the wine is getting to me. I have to go to the ladies room! But as long as his hand is on my leg I do not want to move. I do not want to do anything to disturb his hand. It feels so good to have him touching me. He has my heart beating faster and faster. I love the way he is looking at me. I have this nervous habit since I am a little girl of twirling a strand of my hair around my finger and I catch myself doing that now. I make myself stop and take another sip of wine to give my hands something to do. Unfortunately it goes right to my bladder! I have to pee so bad. I played with my earrings and thought about getting up to go the ladies room.
I have no choice, but to excuse myself. Whoa! All the wine has made me lightheaded. I hope it doesn’t show as I stand up and walk. I have to be careful. I can just imagine myself falling down in this expensive restaurant with this neat guy watching! Be careful, I, I tell myself. I know he is watching me, assessing me, as I walk away to the ladies room. Is my butt too big? I imagine he is asking himself if this woman is worth anymore of his time. Am I boring him? I am excited. I felt so privileged to be out with him. I know this is my big chance and I am going to make the most of it.
I walk carefully, not wanting to stumble and not certain where the restrooms are. I pass a man who gives me a nice smile and steps aside to let me pass. In the ladies room I examine my face in the mirror, brush my hair out, fix my lipstick and dab more Miss Dior perfume behind my ear. I make sure no one is looking and I spritz perfume down between my breasts and on the back of my knee. I worry. Did I use too much? I don’t want to overwhelm the guy!
On my way back to the table our eyes meet again and he gives me a wonderful smile that reassures me. I am hopeful that he really does like me. When I get to our table, he stands up and pulls my chair out for me. He has so much class! I notice he left two crisp hundred dollar bills to pay for the dinner. I am impressed.
“Did you know that when you walked by, all the men were watching you?”
“I didn’t notice.”
“You must be used to men looking at you all the time.”
I drank too much, I am afraid. But it does not show too much. He puts his hand on the small of my back as we walk out of the restaurant. I like people seeing him touch me and guide me like this. I like people seeing I belong to him. He makes a joke about how fat I am going to be after that dessert and I blush. He leads me directly into the elevator and his beautiful dark finger presses the button for the sixteenth floor. I am impressed with his confidence. He has no doubt about my willingess. Of course, he has done this before with other
women and it is obvious he knows what he is doing.
The room is awesome. I am flattered he would spend so much money for just an hour or two with me. He could have taken me some place else. There are plenty of cheaper hotels within walking distance. The Lexington is beyond anything I have dreamed of. I probably would have gone to the YMCA with him. I have never been in such a nice hotel. I run to the window and look out at downtown Manhattan. While I am ooohing and aaahing over the furnishings, the thick white carpeting, the marble bathtub, the mammoth king sized bed, he locks the door. The click of the lock makes me turn around.
From the way he is looking at me I realize that he is no longer interested in my intelligent conversation. I doubt that he ever was interested. I accept that. We did not come to this hotel room to discuss The New York Times Book Review. Dinner is over. He bought me my salad and dessert. Now it is his turn to have lunch!
His expression has changed. He did not look at me this way in the restaurant. I know what he is seeing now: two soft tits, a nice ass, a wet pussy, a hard clit and cum. That is what he wants me to be, why I am here. Now I am a slut. As he undresses me, I wonder if he were really impressed with my intelligence at all, or was he just charming me out of my panties?
I am about to find out how different he truly is from any other man I have known.
He walks around me, studying me.
“I am a true sadist, and enjoy long sessions of slow, agonizing torture and humiliation,” he says, speaking like a teacher to a young child. “Although I do play safe, sane and consentual, my basic style is strict and harsh. I prefer to use my intuition instead of safewords. The soft female body was built for torture, and I’ve spent years unlocking it’s secrets and vulnerabilities, some of which even you are unaware of.In a few minutes I’ll know exactly which buttons to push to make you scream and beg.”
I take deep breaths and try to act calm. This is where it gets intense for me, but I get lost in his kiss. I love his lips, so soft. And his tongue. I get lost in his kiss. He tells me he can taste the wine on my mouth. We kiss a lot. His kisses are so hard and poweful I know my lips will be swollen and tender tomorrow. He takes total control. Like he said, he is a man who knows what he wants and takes it. That excites me, but also frightens me. I have never had a man suddenly take such total control of me. As he slowly, methodically unbuttons my nice blouse he speaks to me in a low voice.
“All those men in the restaurant who were watching you would love to be right here right now.” He has my blouse open, pulling it off my shoulders. “You knew they were watching you. Men watch you all the time. Don’t they?”
“Don’t they?” he repeats insistently. “Don’t be coy. Tell me. You know those men all want to fuck you.”
I nod.
“That is an awesome compliment. You like having men want you. Don’t you?” He quickly wads up and carelessly throws my pretty blouse across the room.
“Tell me you like it.” He unzips my skirt and lets it drop to the floor.
“I like it,” I whisper.
He kisses me dramatically and powerfully.
“Tell me.”
“I like men wanting to fuck me.”
He pauses and looks at me appraisingly as I stand there in in the new lacy white bra and panties I had bought at Victoria’s Secret just for him.
I stand there self consciously, hoping I meet his approval. My heart is beating wildly. This is about as exciting as it gets! I nervously bite my lip, waiting, but he doesn’t say anything. He just looks.
I know the standards have changed from lunch when I was judged to be an interesting companion. Now I am being judged by the heft of my breasts, the slimness of my waist and the curve of my hips. Next, I know he will judge me by how “good” I am in bed. I help him with his tie, slide off his suspenders and unbutton his shirt, kissing his chest while his hands cup my butt, pressing me against him. I can feel him growing hard against my leg, but I am afraid to look down at it. I lick his skin, savoring the taste and smell of him. I am wet and feel that electric tingle growing in my belly as I run my hands over his broad shoulders.
We are standing so close together, I can smell him. We are both very quiet. There is no more talking. But there is a delicious tension between us. As he looks down at my face, maintaining eye contact, I feel his hand slip into my panties and tug at my fine curly pubic hairs. I gasp as his finger enters me. I close my eyes in embarassment as I feel his finger inside me, probing. I lose my balance and hold onto his shoulders. His finger finds its target and zeroes in on my hard little b-b, tickling it and making me shiver at his touch. We both look down at his hand on me, his big finger pushing in and out of me. The contrast of his big masculine inside my delicate panties is intriguing. We study the sight, but do not say anything.
I stand next to him and he slides his finger back inside, then a second and a third finger push deep inside me.
His hand is wet from me and he wipes my wetness on my thighs.
I remove his cufflinks and place them on the table by the bed.
There is no talking between us. The only sound I hear is his breathing. The sight of the expanse of his chest makes my mouth go dry. I lean forward and kiss his chest and slip my hands inside his shirt, savoring the feel of his chest hairs, his warm skin against my palms.
“Put your arms behind your back.”
He says it like it was the most natural thing in the world to tell a girl minutes after their first kiss. I hesitate. I do not really know this man after all. HIs tone makes it clear he expects to be obeyed. This is a big moment for me. If I let him restrain me, I will be totally helpless. If I do not please him I know I will never meet a man like him again.
“Of course it is hard for you,” he says finally. “It is abhorrent to the way you have been raised.”
He loves to lecture me about the natural submissiveness of women. “The truth is that a submissive woman can’t be expected to do as she’s told. She rebels because she want to be bound, forced, whatever. You love to be forced to do what you want to do. You want to be tied up and used, but creatively. “As I said, put your arms behind your back, Julie. Do it.”
I am trembling. It is like his voice controls me. I take a deep breath, close my eyes and put my hands behind my back. There is no going back now.
He takes his time, whispering and kissing me. I put up no resistance as he ties my wrists together with strong thin cords. It is clear he knows what he is doing. He has tied up many women before me.
Once my wrists are bound tight he pulls my arms behind my back, bringing my elbows together a bit painfully, wrapping the rope around my arms just above my elbows, making my back arch, pushing my breasts out toward him. I wince.
“Letting me tie you up is consent to do whatever I want. Fear, a little pain will enhance your pleasure. Don’t you agree? Of course you are in no position to argue.”
He strokes and caresses me tenderly. He is gentle, yet firm as he works the cords. He tightens the cords until my elbows touch. It hurts. He is very methodical and precise about his knots and takes a long time before he is satisfied with the way he has me tied up.
“There. That is nice. Like I told you before, elbows cranked back. Shoulders back. Chest out. I do like the look.” His voice is husky and strained I cannot budge. It hurts. He has me totally helpless.
“I know precisely what you want, and precisely when you’ve had enough. You want to be made to suffer, but not hurt, and a master must know the difference to a fine degree. You need ropes to be tightened the tiniest fraction beyond what you can endure, then be made to ask for more.”
He pours a glass of wine and brings the glass to my mouth, tilting it so I can drink. Wine dribbles onto my chin and he kisses it away.
He praises my flexibility. He says the stretching I had done in my years in ballet had made my body limber and supple, perfect for his purposes. He asks me if I feel the tension and strain. I nod. He asks if it hurt. I nod. He asks if he had me to that point where I can stand it no tighter. I nod.
My heart is pounding so. He pulls the cord tighter and tighter around my slender arms, cinching it as he forces my elbows to touch. He ties the knot, holding my elbows in place behind my back, forcing my shoulders back, arching my back and pressing my breasts out. He gives the knot a tug, making me wince at
the pain.
“Let’s face it, a woman who permits herself to be tied up deserves whatever she gets. A woman who lets me tie her up wants me to take control, wants ecstasy beyond description: feathers and whips, hot candle wax: loving adoration and harsh humiliation. Any woman who lets a man tie her up wants to be controlled. I will not let you down, bitch.”
That last word comes out of him with such vehemence. It is like I have been slapped. The word sends a chill through me. He brushes my hair away from my face and kisses my nose. He calls me a cunt. He is smiling sweetly when he says it. Then he tells me I am a slut. No man has ever talked to me that way.
“That part of being bound that makes a bitch feel safe and protected is what she adores. Sometimes she might need nothing more, at least for a little while, and a knowing lover will give that and leave you to squirm in delicious helpless solitude, maybe blindfold you and play that piece of Mozart which he knows can reduce you to emotional jelly, or make caresses into mind blowing tortures with almost no physical contact at all.
“I’ve been playing naughty games for years and no woman has ever been different.”
Tying me up is like foreplay for him. It has given him an intense erection. He grits his teeth when he talks and his voice is strained. The sweetness and seductiveness is gone. Yet, the menacing way he looked at me is so thrilling. I had wanted an adventure.
“Tying a woman up liberates her. It is exhillerating. I am allowing you to explore something forbidden without having the guilt and responsibility of making decision. I am freeing you.”
He tells me he is going to introduce me to a new kind of passion. He is going to show me what I really want, what kind of woman I really am. He tells me I will experience more passion and excitement in the next few hours than most women know in a lifetime.
He picks up a heavy jade lighter from the coffee table and flicks it, making the flame flare up big in front of me. I am trembling. I am amazed that I find this to be having such an erotic effect on me. He holds the flame up to my face, waves it around so close I feel the heat on my skin. The flame is hypnotic. I am mesmerized. I watch the flame, unmoving. His voice is a lulling, low whisper. He enjoys scaring me and hurting me a little. He laughs whenever I jerk away from the flame. I can’t jerk away too far. If he chooses to set my hair on fire or burn me there is nothing I can do with my arms tied so tightly behind my back. I ask him to stop, but he ignores me. I start to cry. He says he likes the way my lip trembles when I cry. He tells me it was sexy. Men usually try to comfort me when I cry, but he certainly doesn’t.
“Real tears are an aphrodisiac,” he says. “Unlike some, I’ve absolutely no difficulty consensually hurting a loved one … in fact, I happen to do it rather well.” He laughs.
I will never forget his knowing smile and intense eyes. He really enjoys himself. He burns strands of my hair, making it just disappear with a little bit of smoke. I can’t move. Inside I am terrified, but I can’t believe he will really hurt me. My heart is pounding wildly every time he brings that flame closer and close to my face. He likes the way my eyes get bigger and bigger. I am not so sure anymore that he will not really hurt me. I begin to wonder. He never quite burns me, but he comes close enough I feel the heat against my lips and cheeks.
When he tires of that he reaches between my breasts and hooks a finger under my bra. He slowly pulls my bra away from me an inch or so and holds the flame there. The flame flares suddenly, making me scream a little in surprise and the delicate, silky material of my bra just melts away, revealing my naked breasts.
He cups my breasts in his hands, squeezing and kneading the soft mounds. He rolls my little nipples between his fingers, then pinches and twists until I cry out. He reaches down and hooks a finger into my panties at my hip. He flicks the lighter. I kneel there motionless, feeling the heat against my hips as he
burns my panties off me.
My panties fall away from me. He picks them up and examines them carefully, plucking a tiny curl of hair in his fingers and studying it carefully. He holds my panties up to his nose and inhales my scent. My stomach tingled as I saw the contrast of his masculine fingers on my delicate underwear.
I am surprised at how exciting it is to have my underwear burned off me that way. I am breathing hard. My heart is racing. My little nipples are hard and erect. And I am definitely wet.
This is crazy! He does not say anything, but quickly pulls out more rope and ties my ankles separately to the rope binding my wrists. He is very intense as he produces more ropes and begins tying my legs up. He rolls me over onto my back and I am totally immobilized. He has the ropes rigged so that I am positioned with my back arched, my little breasts forced out by the pressure of the ropes binding my arms behind my back and my legs are bent and spread by the ropes binding my ankles to my wrists.
“You are hogtied, sweetheart.”
He picks up my singed panties and presses them against my lips, pushing them into my mouth with his fingers. I have to force myself to breathe through my nose to keep from gagging.
He pushes me onto my stomach and ties my wrists to my ankles behind my back. I definitely feel “hogtied.” I cannot move! If I made a mistake with this man, it is too late now. Whatever he wants to do with me, he is going to do. “You kick, scream, fight against it, but that circle of soft cord tightening around your wrists and ankles creates a wet excitement that you cannot deny,” tells me in a husky whisper. “You open your mouth so that I can use it as you want it to be used. I have the power to make you beg, because you have given
yourself totally.”
He moves around me, adjusting and tightening the cords. I lay on my stomach, my arms tied tightly together at the elbows, my knees bent with my ankles up behind my back tied tightly to my wrists. I felt like a turkey being prepared for the oven! He pats my butt soothingly and whispers that he finds me definitely attractive this way.
I lay there unable to do more than wriggle against the cords. He presses a small rubber ball into my hand and tells me if things got more than than I can take I can release the ball and he will know I have reached my limit. He studies my naked, bound body, fondling and examining me.
He runs his fingers through my long hair, arranging my hair to please him. He kisses the back of my neck, runs a strong finger down my spine, down, down and all the way down to the crack of my ass. It is a delicious sensation.
I fight a growing panic that makes my heart beat so fast, yet at the same time, lying naked and bound on the floor kindles that warm erotic glow down in my tummy, the beginning of an orgasm. My senses are electrified. No man has ever made me feel this way before. No man has ever treated me so. Somehow, it seems
right. I am still scared, though. I do not know what will happen next. He rolls me onto my back. He goes over my naked body with those lucious big hands, kneading and massaging me, rubbing me with warm oils. He kisses and licks every inch of my body with his warm, soft tongue, making me shiver as his saliva dries
on my naked flesh. He nibbles my earlobes, nuzzles my armpits, tickling me deliciously. He sucks my toes and licks the soles of my feet! He kisses me behind my knees, making me shudder with pleasure. It is such an incredible, soothing, sensual experience. Then he traces a feather across my body. He is so skilled, so attentive. It is an exquisite sensation. I wonder how many women he has tickled with that feather. This is foreplay in the extreme. No man has ever spent so much time with me. I am in heaven! I shudder, shiver, tremble and moan as only the feather moves ever so lightly over my skin.
After the feather, his fingers move soothingly over me. And into me. I open my eyes when I feel a sharp, metallic sensation, scraping very slowly across my skin. My eyes widen at the sight of a razor blade between his fingers. He is moving it very carefully along my skin. He has a very serious, intense expression on his face as he focuses on the razor blade, moving it slowly along my arm, the inside of my wrist, over my breasts. I hold my breath, afraid to protest. He does not seem to be planning to hurt me, but he is very intensely involved in the razor blade on my skin. The blade raises goosebumps on my flesh as it passes over me. He outlines my breasts, circles my nipples, then scrapes it down along my belly and futher, circling my vagina
and tracing the blue vein along the smooth skin of my inner thigh. That is my femur artery. I know that if he just knicks that artery I may very well bleed to death right here on the carpet. If that is what he wants. I wait for this game to play itself out. I bite into the panties stuffed in my mouth. This is new territory for me. I thought I had experienced it all with men, but I have never been treated like this.
As the blade moves along my skin, I feel overwhelmed by the intensity of the moment. It is almost a ritual. I like his seriousness. He is totally focused on me, and the blade, like no man had ever focused on me before. I am confident this was a game, a test of my trust. Still, I do not want to be cut. I have no desire to be hurt. But I do want to impress him with my trust.
He brings the blade back to my throat. He holds it there, pressing it against my skin. Harder. Harder. His eyes are serious. He remains quiet. I remain passive, breathless. I look up at him. I feel the blade slice into my skin. The cut is stinging and burning. Warm blood flows out of the little cut. His face closes down. He is licking my throat, kissing my cut. I feel his tongue, warm and rough, against my skin. I shiver. His mouth is closed over the wound and I feel the suction of his mouth on me. It is strangely erotic. Like a vampire feeding on his victim.
His hands fondles and kneads my breasts. “Men must love these, don’t they? You like to be touched like this?” He leans down and gently kissed my nipples, nibbling them gently, then nibbling and sucking at them tenderly. He rolls my nipples between his fingers, kissed them, calling them my “sweet points.” His saliva coats my breasts, he leans down and blows softly, creating a coolness, an exquisite sensation. He is so attentive. I moan and sigh with contentment.
With my wrists tied behind my back I can do nothing. I watch him hold my left breast in one hand, and flick my sensitive little nipple with his fingers to make it stand up. He has a collection of objects — some I recognize and some I don’t — scattered on the floor around me. He holds a strange looking metal clip with sharp, mean looking teeth over my nipple. I brace myself, but I am not prepared for that sudden sharp pain when he lets go of the clip and it bites into my delicate nipple. It is an intensely sharp, burning pain. I cry out into my panties and writhe in my ropes. He holds a second clamp over my other nipple and lets it snap onto my nipple. I gasp and cry. He likes the sounds I make and the way I arch my back and wriggle against his ropes in the first moments as I react to the pain.
My nipples throb with sharp pain. I try to cry out, but with my panties pushed into my mouth my cries are muffled. “I said rough, didn’t I, honey?” He has a second clip in his hand. It has spring tension, jagged teeth, and my eyes widened as he slowly positioned it over my right nipple, holding it there, its steel teeth open over my little nipple. Then with a sudden movement, those teeth bite down into my tender nipple and both nipples are burning. I squirm and twist in pain against my ropes. This is what interests him. After several moments of
intense pain, the burning subsides, but he twists the clamp, reviving the pain. “It is a science,” he says, as he keeps adjusting, twisting, removing and replacing the clips to keep my nipples burning.
He likes the way my lower lip trembles when I am really hurting. Then he waits another five minutes and tightens the clamps another twist or two. I feel my nipples throbbing. When he does take the clamps off, the pain is horrendous. My little nipples are on fire! It is truly torture, and a sharp pain that I never really experienced before.
“That is the blood flowing back into your nipples, Julie.”
When he finally remove those clamps my little nipples are just crushed, flattened and dented.
I do nothing, but bite into my panties as he reaches down between my legs. I close my eyes and tense my body as I feel his hand on my vagina, his fingers probing, exploring me until he finds what he is looking for. He gives my delicate clit, a painful, twisting pinch. He is pleased, enjoying my torment. This is more than I bargained for. I cry through my panties, but he pays no attention. The little ball falls from my hand and rolls across the floor, ignored.
I am overwhelmed and confused. This man has me trembling with fear, tense with excitement, moaning with pleasure and gasping in pain.
He finally takes off his Armani suit, folding the slacks carefully and hanging his coat carefully while he steps on my new blouse. He holds his prick in his hand, stroking it slowly. It is standing erect, pointing at me. He rubs it against my face, brushing my cheeks, along my lips.
“Let me introduce you to my friend, Richard. Sir Richard to you.”
He puts Sir Richard in my cunt first. His prick is deliciously warm and wonderfully hard inside me. He rams into me hard, using his erection as a weapon to batter me and drive the breath out of me. He rams into me with an incredible speed and rhythm. He has me moaning and crying out.
While he fucks me this way, he starts playing with my asshole. I wriggle my ass and thrust my hips back at him. He takes his cock out and puts it to the entrance to my ass. He sort of hesitates.
There is nothing I can do to stop him. If he wants that, it is his. No man has ever been there before. I am afraid. But at the same time I want him to be the one who gets me there first.
I try to relax, but my splincter muscle instinctively tightens to repel the unnatural intrusion. His big hands spread my cheeks and he presses his cock into my tightness. The pain is searing. I feel this bluntness, this sensation of fullness overwhelms me. I bite into my panties as he fights against the resistance of my tightening splincter. I am afraid he is going to tear me, but he does not seem to be concerned as he presses on into me, his swollen cock head progressing incrementally up into my tight tunnel where no man has ever gone before.
I brace myself. My body tenses. Then something happens. Once his swollen cock head passes a certain point, my anal muscles relax and he pushes himself on into me, filling me. He has overcome the natural resistance of my body, he has conquered the last barrier. It is incredible. The sense of fullness overwhelms
me. The sensation of his hard cock is magnified by the tightness of my asshole. He is very gentle at first, then he pumps harder and harder. He is really getting turned on! He is almost incoherent. I bury my face into a pillow as he rams me viciously. The force of his thrusts rattle the knickkacks off the coffee table. It hurts so much. It feels so good.
The clamps come off my nipples when he presses me into the floor. He is pretty heavy and there is no way I can keep my chest off the floor.
He comes very powerfully. I feel its spasms deep inside and his cock grews soft and falls out of me. He lays next to me, stroking my long hair, rubbing my back, massaging my butt with his big hands, kissing my neck, telling me how much he is enjoying himself. I feel a surprising sense of relief and gratitude toward this man for what he has just done to me. I never knew being tied up, scraped with a razor blade and fucked in the ass could be so romantic!
He tells me I will be spending the night. I cannot go home until he decides! It is clear, just like at dinner and with the ropes and everything else, that it is his decision, not mine.
