Tied Up

I wonder how long he's going to leave me here.

The wall is cold against my cheek and the bulb of the reading light incubates the side of my forehead. It casts large, distorted shadows around the room. A flickering candle becomes a beating heart, a stack of pillows become giant Lego-bricks and my own head is a clotted nest of writhing anemone.

I blink. And crane my neck as far as it will go in an attempt to catch sight of him. I feel the vertebrae on my spine uncoil protestingly, crick by crick.

It doesn't exactly hurt to move. Rather, it pinches, nibbles, and throbs. I don't know what sort of knots he's used but they're tight. I guess he wasn't joking when he said he used to be a Boy Scout.

My flesh is soft and buttery against the rope.

It's futile to escape. To tug awkwardly on the left is to feel a corresponding tweak on the right. Any attempt to roll or twist would mean the risk of over-balancing and landing on the floor in a cold, crushed heap.

That doesn't make me sorry for what I've done of course. He can do what he likes, but there's no way I'll crack. Or submit. Or beg.

Or cry out his name with pleasure.

He announces his return with a few sharp tugs of the rope and my limbs flail involuntarily up and down to greet him like a marionette. He chuckles and then pulls one more time for good measure.

Prick. I look at him sullenly, mutinously but say nothing. I know a bout of hysterics will most likely be punished by a pinch to my nipple or bruising spank.

'Last chance...' his voice drips honey in my ear. His expression gives nothing away but his eyes are dancing, flanked by grooves that extend to the top of his cheek.

'I told you, you can go fuck yourself.' I say the last two words especially slowly. For emphasis, I aim at his face and spit. But he recoils and my saliva spatters darkly on the sheet between us.

He chuckles. And his cock gives an involuntary quiver.

I realise too late that I've pushed it too far. His arm snakes round to grab a fistful of hair. My head snaps back and I start to wriggle about like a hooked eel. He's leaned in close and I feel his breath caress my face. His fingers burrow between my clenched thighs, rousing the swollen nub that's peeking out between my pussy lips.

The direct stimulation makes me more and more sensitive, pushing me to the brink of pleasure and tearing discomfort. I am sweating all over. I wriggle some more to dislodge his fingers, but in doing so, invite them to slip a little deeper.

And then, without warning two of his fingers plunge straight into my boiling cavity. My body instinctively jerks but the rope holds fast. Immobile, I feel the sensations shoot straight to my head, lingering behind my eyelids. My mouth has gone dry and all I can muster is a series of small unghs at the back of my throat.

Then for a brief second, relief.

He draws his glistening fingers out and holds them near my nose. I can tell how aroused I am by my smell – it's dense and almost feline. He draws back and licks his fingers seductively. I stare at him, happy to catch my breath.

Then he invades again, this time twisting and vibrating his fingers for extra effect.

And again. This time rougher and more vigorous.

And again. My insides are thrumming, my wrists and ankles are singing with a raw, keening sweetness. My moans are forceful and voluptuous. My limbs have long ceased their futile struggle. Instead I feel every pore in my body on fire, in open rebellion. His fingers carry on with their assault, except that he's watching me intently now, deep in his own arousal.

And then the final wave comes. It's sweet and explosive, as I knew it would be. I surrender completely to it. Taking my well-deserved pleasure. Savouring it, no, demanding it. Knowing that I'm free.

The scenario described above is purely consensual. If you want to role-play this way, do it with someone you trust and make sure you establish rules beforehand. Also, always use a safe word – something unusual (i.e. NOT 'Stop' or 'Enough') but easy to remember. Mine is ‘water-based make-up’! :)