We are in the dungeon. It’s hard to express how surreal the place is, with the reality of being in a club dedicated to BDSM, mixed with the overt corniness of the Nine Inch Nails soundtrack and walls that look like a Renaissance Faire castle.
She is a candy stranger, though. Perfect in the way someone you don’t know at all can be perfect. Her small breasts and her ample hips, the soft swell of an ass that seemed nearly impossibly large on her tiny frame. Her thin waist and her wild hair. A mass of curls that were black flirting with brown and gold.
She is somewhat new to all this, but she’s doing 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.
She is smart, very smart, enthusiastic, acutely aware of her own desires. She isn’t in this to see. She is in this to get what she has needed for a while but didn’t have a name for. She wants to play, but not for keeps. Those words would be what a doctor would write on my prescription if there were doctors for such things.
Her thighs just barely fit into her thigh-high socks. A little roll of chubby skin escapes the tops. She is not a big girl, though. She is just on the edge of thick. She is a bee-stung lip. She is one of those body types that makes my hands fist in my pockets because I just want to bite her and make her squirm.
We had met in the flashing lights and dull moans of a different kind of party. My sweet girl and I were there, and somehow our attentions trapped this exotic girl in our sights. We both danced with her. Pressed our bodies altogether. Made plans for all three of us to meet up sometime for a very suggestive “something.”
This time, though, it was just the stranger and me. My girlfriend was sitting at home, having been told about the whole thing. She was jealous of both parties, but excited to hear the details.
My hand on her side, the warmth of her skin through the thin shirt, I backed her into a wall and pushed my nose into her hair. My lips brushed her ear. My body pushed into hers. I wanted to revel in my most basic kinks. My hand on her ass, rope coiled around her, her thigh-high socks. These are the fetishes that sucked me into this world.
I pulled up her skirt, and I was again treated to the softness of her ass and slightly frilly panties of a somewhat girly girl.
She fidgets when I undress her in public. Of all the things we did last time, this was the most out of her comfort zone. That is fuel for embarrassment, and that is a gift. I pull the pleated skirt up and tuck it into its own waistband. I tug at the bits of her panties that try in vain to cover that ass, and I pull them to the center so that they are nothing but a g-string, and all can see that lovely callipygian prize.
I am very close to her, never leaving her body alone—my legs against hers, my hand on her thigh or bottom.
“Did you take off your bra?” I whisper in her ear. I am playful, conversational.
She nods.
This is only the second time we have played together, really the first in earnest. I move my hands up her thin waist, and I cup her breasts. As I said, they are small, which almost seems wrong for a girl like her with her thick thighs and big ass, but I like it.
I massage and grope them. This is edging around a line. The line between playing, the cold spanking or dominating that can go on, and something softly intimate; dangerously so. We are prepared to play with hitting and tying, but the rest is murky.
Plus, there is the rule. The rule is there, like a door in the distance. To put it crudely, I can’t touch her pussy. This isn’t my rule or her rule, it’s my girl’s rule. We haven’t even started, and already that rule is throbbing in my memory. As well, the sweet image of my girl’s thin fingers trying to beat mine to slip into the wet secrets of this girl was making me anxious.
I focus on the rope. The rope will always slow me down and make me concentrate.
The rope goes like this: I take it out of my bag, pretty tan hemp, a little rough. I pull a little bit, and it unfurls. Then my arms are around her, my mouth a centimeter from her ear. I pull her arms behind her back and wrap the rope, which is doubled, around her forearms twice. I twist and wrap the rope around itself and tie and tie.
Then the rope goes across her back and around her left arm. I smooth the doubled rope under her breasts, my thumbs tracing the outline of the bottoms of them. She is pushing back into me.
The rope goes around her and then loops around the part tied to her forearms. This forms a bight, and I pull and pull, and there is the first wrap around her. Then again, my arms slip around her, my lip brushing her neck, which she exposes to me, a simple weak moan for more. Around the back to slip the rope around the bight again, then around her body once more, this time over her breasts.
Already her shirt is pulled taut, her breasts more prominent. Again to the bight, then up over her shoulder, some subtle intricacy going in and out of what is already there and then the pull that cinches and those breasts and trapped between all that lovely rope. Then back and put on the sides of each breast to further capture them, and then she is turned around abruptly so I can see my neat little trick.
Those little breasts standing as far at attention as they can. Her mouth a little slack, and her breath a little ragged.
Through the thin t-shirt, her nipples are straining now. I tug on them through weak and frustrating cotton.
She is closing her eyes to the mingling little potion of pain and pleasure dripping into her veins. She is a good girl.
I spin her around and bend her over the high leather bench. It’s sort of like a pommel horse without the handles. My hand feels hot on the cool skin of her ass. It is soft, as I’ve said, again and again, soft well-lotioned skin. As I almost lazily spank her once, then twice, I picture her coming out of hot showers every morning and anointing her body with rich perfumed lotions and oils.
I am spanking her, but my other hand is all over her. I tug on the ropes, my hand around the thick knots in the back. I tug at her mass of curly black hair. I even snake my hand between leather and shirt and take hungry handfuls of her imprisoned breasts.
I spank and spank and then trail nails down her inner thighs. I spank her inner thighs, picturing how the vibrations work their way into intimate spots. I spank her ass, low and in the center, knowing I am almost spanking her sex at this angle.
She is more than moaning. This isn’t the soft caught breath of someone simply being spanked. This girl is taking hits like thrusts right into her. I wonder if I could make her come this way. The next time I hit her, my fingers trail onto her inner thigh, and I feel some wayward heat and wetness. My fingers claw at her leg. I want to just slip one finger up and under that inch of cotton. She is pushing her body back at my hand, begging to let me.
Spanking becomes sublimation for the driving need to penetrate her. She pushes her body towards me, and the hardness under my thin pants rubs against the softness of her thigh.
I step back. I step away, twist my neck this way and that to get the tightness out.
We are both panting, and I pull her up and push her against a wall. This is a good moment to rest. We take a break. We breathe. This is far more intense than I thought I would be. We are watching each other’s reactions.
“I have a rule, I mean- my girlfriend and I do.”
She nods, moving into me, lips on my cheek. She is half listening, but mostly drunk on the spanking.
“I can’t- touch you-” I move my hand down her stomach, stopping on the top of her panties, just above where I can start to feel warmth radiate. “Here.”
“Okay,” she says simply.
“But next time, when she is with us-”
Our mouths brush against each others. I’m really not sure if kissing is alright. Sometimes it isn’t. Sometimes in a place like this, a spanking is a spanking. It was not discussed, but perhaps this is off-limits for other reasons, for other people.
“That will be-” she smiles, “very interesting.”
I’m overthinking. Her lips are painfully fat and sweet, gloss nearly all licked off. We are almost fighting not to kiss. Brushing closer and closer, and then some minute barrier is passed, and the world is the taste of new lips.
Then swirling and whirling down against her. Her hands naturally coming up and over her head, so my hands can instinctually pin them there. Suddenly our acts seeming almost comically rote. Top, bottom, bend, spank, moan, grunt, repeat; but this kiss is different and separate from that.
I stop.
Something inside of me taps me on the shoulder. She stands there, where I left her, looking dazed, her lips glazed, her legs unsteady. I picture my girl kneeling in front of her. I imagine the two of them, my girl’s full lips on this girl’s. My girl is thinner still than this one, yet more buxom. How would they match up? Who would take the lead?
I realize that I summoned up a phantom of my love to save me from the fact that I was heartbeats away from devouring this girl, curly hair, and all.
Perhaps it was something about this place. People lose their individual grace in the somewhat dim light. Bodies become bodies, and acts become acts, and sex is free and all around. Limitations of the world are left at the door, so the simple rules of lovers also seem to waver.
I step in and kiss her again. It was that tender kiss that said it was over, at least for now. I turn her slowly and sink into the familiarity of untying someone. I hug her and kiss her once more, and we speak in hushed tones for a bit, and then we part, off to find other trouble to get in.