Intricate Ties

Her wrists get tied together, as do her ankles. My rope is old now, which sets off complicated feelings. Eight years since I got the tan hemp and it still has the same smell, though now it is worlds softer.

I don’t remember when it started feeling so comfortable in my hands, but I like it. I know the right knots. Maybe not the perfect knots, but ones I can tie fast and pretty and strong.

Some people need tight intricate ties or they will squirm out, but not her. She is the kind of girl who wouldn’t dream of escape. She is the kind of girl that sits and stays when told.

She gets shoved down on the bed with three pillows under her belly. This pushes her ass up high and puts her face down into the mattress.

It is a position I’ve put a lot of other people in, but every time and every person feels so new and electric.

All that pretty skin exposed. Red lines across her back where I scratched her while we made out. Her hips turning a little with want.

I pull her up by her hair for a moment. Her cheeks are bright red, her lipstick smudged across her face, her eyes open but unfocused. The drugs of need and sub space. That trance rope puts some people in.

She is sweet and beautiful. Very ready. There is something wonderful about turning someone so smart dumb with lust. She is panting like an animal.

I put one hand on the back of her neck, holding her in place, and put my other hand between her legs.

I want her to realize how wet she is. I want her to think about how fucked up she is for getting so turned on by this.

Another complicated thing is how I don’t get hard until I hit her for the first time.

Marionette

The studio, his studio, that dirty gentleman’s studio, was bare.  All the carefully collected furniture (he collected many things, all of them carefully) was pushed out of the way. The long main room was clear and the mats were on the hardwood floor and early morning light was shining in thick square beams from the old windows and showed the little particles of dust in the air.

Dorothy, as usual, was making art. Luckily, she sometimes let me watch.

She said nothing but led me to a little chair with a connected desk; the ones they have in college lecture halls. On it was a small old fashioned portable typewriter. Black and scratched and loaded with a fresh sheet of paper. A table next to the desk held a box with more paper.

She kissed me on the cheek and left me to my part, which was to record what was about to happen.

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Choke

The girls were sat on a blanket, back to back; naked, save their panties. The black blanket was laid neatly on the somewhat dusty hardwood floor. I knelt in front of Margot and Hector knelt in front of Betty. The rope was around both of their pretty necks. Looped and looped around and around. Their hands tied at their sides, their backs held straight out of either eagerness to please or suspense at what might happen next.

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Word of Mouth

Downstairs, a bar that’s a half secret, a party that is supposed to be kept quiet. We were told when the door closed things would get interesting…

The painter is a chemical necessity in these situations. She is a catalyst in a way I am used to being. One of the million ways we are the same. The same hungers, the same taste, the same perceptions.

The redhead is on someone’s lap. She has been morsel I’d been coveting for a while now. Not seriously, not even particularly, but one of those shiny beautiful people your eyes linger on for a few second when you see them across the room. All cream skin and fire hair and cool attitude.

For all the ways we are alike, the painter has many advantages I do not. She is a woman, she knows all of the privileges of that, especially in this setting. And she knows everyone. I thought I knew everyone, but she is entrenched and this is her crowd. I get a nod from this crowd, she gets a kiss on the lips. And now she is kissing the redhead.

The music is loud, I am next to a pretty blond thing, my hands around her waist, my lips on her neck, but my eyes across the room as the painter is on her knees in front of the redhead who is still on someone’s lap.

The well dressed crowd is throbbing around us. Suits and ties and garters and fishnets and finery is everywhere. Clothes are coming off quickly though. Lean muscles and naked breasts catch my sight and the whiskey is making everything vivid and dull at the same time.

The blond in my arms is squirming. She’s watching the show too. She is nervous energy under my fingers as I toy with the edge of her panties.

The painter is pulling down the redhead’s flimsy bra, her bare breasts small and pretty. Nipples almost the same cream color as the rest of her skin. Then the painter’s curly black head is between the thighs of the redhead. I can see her hungry hands pulling black panties to the side.

My girl, doing the exact thing I would do to that prize of a redhead. I can close my eyes and almost slip away, into her, imagining what she tastes like.

The thought dissolves as I kiss the blond, hands consumed with all that skin in front of me.

When I see the painter dizzy and swaying towards me later I am smiling and she is smiling and she kisses me. She knows, of course, of my crush. We spill secrets faster than we spill our drinks. She knows and she kisses me again and I’m torn between wanting to kiss this beautiful woman and wanting a little taste of the redhead.

“I want to taste her,” I groan into the painter’s ear. She laughs and almost slaps me, but then her fingers are in my mouth. Salty, and wet. It’s bad, but it’s just a little bad. I suck on those two fingers and I can taste her. Then the fingers are almost down my throat, because I should remember what’s mine and what isn’t. Then we are kissing and her eyes are on my eyes and as always we are communicating a million things.

I’m drunk and happy and the world around me is dark electric bacchanalia. The music gets louder, people are hitting each other and kissing and rubbing and pulling. A girl stretches her hands up to the ceiling as a man ties her tight with red rope.

This is exactly where I want to be with the person I want to be with. It’s perfect.

The Callipygian Sublimation

She is a candy stranger. Perfect in the way someone you don’t know at all can be perfect. Her small breasts and her large hips and soft swell of an ass that seems nearly impossible on her tiny frame. Her thin waist and her wild hair. That exoticness that is so difficult for people to get right.

She is new to this, but she’ll do just fine. In fact, it’s hard to find regulars with an attitude so perfect for these games. Right for me, that is. Everyone wants something different from places like this. The Venn Diagrams of our emotional, physical and sexual wants. Cross-indexed by our needs.

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Fiction – The Date, Part Two

Warning: This story involves forced sex/rape fantasies and role playing. Read The Date, Part 1 first.

I wonder what she saw when she looked at me. I was dying of curiosity, actually. I wanted to see the look in her eyes, study her body language, pick her apart, but we both had roles here. I had to drive. I had to look forward and clench my jaw and go.

“This isn’t the way to my apartment.” She was pouting with every word.

I didn’t have to pretend when I scoffed.

When I got to my block I was trying to formulate something that wouldn’t seem that horrific to anyone who might see us, but at the same time let her know that I was serious. I parked across the street and turned off the engine. I looked at her dead in the eyes. She had her arms folded in front of her chest and she was frowning.
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