A small number of details have changed since the first edition. The main reason for this is that, as the passage of time has put distance between the events and the present day, I feel more at ease revealing information about the people and places described.
The earlier instalments are here…
viewtopic.php?f=32&t=18965
and here…
viewtopic.php?f=12&t=19635&p=125411#p125411 .
One more thing… I have been somewhat reluctant about posting this chapter, because some of the particulars are more intimate than my comfort level normally assimilates. However, I have committed myself to recording all of my escapades and adventures, so here it is.
I should really like to think there’s something wrong with me –
Because if there isn’t then there’s something wrong with the world itself…
– T. S. Eliot, The Cocktail Party
Not all those who wander are lost.
– J. R. R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring
At the beginning of my second year at university, I had moved out of the apartment I shared with Kate and into one of the campus dormitories. Ever since, I have regretted losing touch with my first roomie. We had some very good times together, helped each other through some bad times. We shared our secrets and our fantasies. As a result, after we went our separate ways, I found myself feeling isolated and rudderless.
By then Jack and I had been dating for a few months, and it was becoming clear to both of us that what we had was never going to develop into a serious, long-term relationship. Ironically, this was most evident when we were doing what we both loved. So it is not just tepid word-play to say that our strongest bond was bondage. And Jack truly was an expert with the ropes. He knew how to apply them to the best effect and was the ideal partner because he knew where the focus should always be. Though strict and sometimes even cruel, he was one of the most unselfish, least self-centred men I have known when it came to our mutual pleasure. He could get his kicks from just leaving me alone, tied up and helpless, appreciating how much it turned me on. We didn’t even have to be in the same room. He was always in control and could be very strict and demanding; he insisted on complete submission and absolute obedience from his women. But he got most pleasure from giving pleasure. (He hasn’t changed, of course, and still now and then gets to tie me up.)
Often after a tie-up session he would sit me down at his feet, or put me across his lap, or have me kneel before him, and tell me to describe my experience in every detail, recounting and reliving all of my sensations and emotions and perceptions. As a result, under Jack’s guidance, the more my body was constricted by the rope and chains, the more my will was bound to his, the more I could explore the boundless frontiers of my imagination, my desires and… yes… my fears.
But we each knew that bondage was not enough for a genuine connection. When not in his thrall, I was too autonomous and assertive for his comfort level. Jack likes a woman to be strong and independent, but only insofar as she chooses self-discipline over self-reliance. So when he started seeing other girls I didn’t object. In fact, one of my most gratifying achievements was to introduce him to Sabrina.
The other person who kept me grounded was my new roommate, Annie. I cannot say that we were ever as close as I had been with Kate or Rachel; but we got on well during the six months or so that we shared. We were alike in many ways, although she was more easygoing and tolerant than I – in that respect a bit like Kate. She was non-territorial, meaning we never had to argue over who owned what; but she also respected my personal space and property, as I did hers. If she did not take her studies as seriously as I did, at least she never interfered with mine. There were times, no doubt, when she thought I was weird. She was right, of course, and was far from the first person to have that revelation.
So it was that one night I introduced her to my world of tie-up games.
It was a Friday evening. We were both dateless (by choice), lounging on the sofa in our pyjamas, sipping hot cocoa. Annie looked like a playboy’s glamour-girl in her short satin chemise and a lovable ingénue in her pink fluffy bunny slippers. She was like that, a paragon of paradox. She was cute as a button but laughed like a loon, and when she did she would fling her head back and her long, wavy tresses flounced across her shoulders in golden cascades. As well as hair to die for, she had legs and a body I would kill for. Yet the amazing thing is that she didn’t care. She had not one self-involved fibre in her trim, sleek body. That’s why she was happy to spend a Friday night at home with a friend and a mug of cocoa.
I told her about all the games I’d played over the years. Her initial reaction was predictable. “I’m not into that sort of thing.”
“What sort of thing?” I asked.
“Bondage, sweetie.”
I tried to explain the difference. Tie-up games are for fun. Bondage is for sex. Not really true, but I was simplifying for the novice.
“But sex is fun,” she protested.
“Missing the point much?” I cut her off. I knew I couldn’t explain it with words. Sometimes you can only teach by showing. So I said to her, “Do you trust me?”
“Of course I do, sweetie.” (She always called me that.)
“I want to tie you up.”
She gave me a quizzical look but shrugged her shoulders and nodded her head. Neither of us had to say anything more. She sat and watched me, intrigued but unperturbed, as I went to my bedroom. I returned with a small bundle which I dropped onto the coffee table. I studied her eyes as she examined the little pile of satin ribbons and silk scarves. I saw curiosity, uncertainty and a hint of excitement. She looked up at me with an almost childlike “What now?” expression.
I took up one of the ribbons, and Annie held out her arms. I just smiled and silently gestured with a twirl of my hand. She understood, shyly grinned and turned away from me, sitting sideways on the sofa with one foot on the floor, the other folded under her. Hesitantly, she put her hands behind her back. I gently took hold of her wrists and crossed them, then looped the ribbon around four times, crisscross. It was not very taut, until I tugged hard and Annie gasped in mild alarm. I gave her a few moments to absorb the experience, tensing and stretching and twisting her arms to test the bonds. Then I wound another long strip just above her elbows.
This time she emitted a little “Oh!” sound.
“Too much?” I asked.
“No, don’t stop,” she said. I knew what she was going through. There is the feeling of vulnerability, as your arms are rendered completely immobile. There is embarrassment, and a sense of self-conscious shame that you have allowed yourself to be made helpless. For a girl, there is also the delightful effect of your shoulders being pulled back and your chest pushed out. I could see her pleasure growing under the thin satin of her nightie. She saw that I saw, giggled and blushed, then gulped in a couple of deep breaths as I jerked on the rope to make it secure. Nevertheless, I did not make it too stringent, because she would not be used to the delicious discomfort of a full-strength, torso-tightening elbow tie. Instead, I moved onto her feet.
I knelt in front of her, and Annie adjusted her position to face forward. I took off her pink fuzzy slippers and placed them to one side. She put her ankles together and I tied them. She moved her legs about to tease the knot, but I had cinched it and she was rather surprised that she couldn’t wriggle her feet free.
I stood up and stepped back, giving her another few moments to savour her bonds.
“What do you think?” I finally asked.
“Um… interesting,” was all she replied. She was so adorably vulnerable and awkward, such an unfamiliar look for Annie, that I knew I had to complete the job.
“Do you want to go on?”
She licked her upper lip thoughtfully, chewed her lower lip nervously, before simply nodding. I told her to turn on the sofa once more, so I could sit behind her. As I drew the silk scarf over her eyes, she shuddered, just a little, but said nothing as I fastened the knot. She moved her head about, as if testing the efficacy of her blindfold. She giggled again.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Nothing, sweetie. It’s just...” Her voice trailed off into that speechless realm where there are sensations and emotions you cannot express because you’ve never felt them before and so never had to put them into words.
I caressed her bare shoulders. Her skin was as cool and smooth and lustrous as her exquisite chemise. I fondled her luxuriant golden hair and sniffed its delicate fragrance. I felt her shiver, saw her breathing quicken and her breasts heave under the sheer, lucid fabric. She clenched her fists and flexed her arms and puckered her lips. She knew what was coming.
As I folded one of the scarves into a wad, I told her that we should have a safe signal. She didn’t need further explanation, and we agreed that crossing the fingers of both hands would suffice. Because I was being gentle, I did not expect the precaution would be needed. It was just to reassure her that, although restrained, she still had control. When I was ready to insert the gag, I brushed it lightly across her lips to get her used to its texture. I waited until she was ready, and when she opened her mouth I pushed it in as tenderly as I could, leaving enough protruding for her to clamp her teeth into. That way, only the front part of her mouth was packed with the silk. She was not accustomed to being gagged, and it was important to make sure that any choking reflex did not turn into panic.
I wrapped another scarf around her head, over her mouth so she couldn’t work the gag loose and spit it out. She was making muffled, whimpering noises and I checked her fingers. They weren’t crossed. I pushed gently but firmly on her arms. She understood and lay down, on her left side on the couch, facing outwards. She was panting quite rapidly now. Her little nightie, slightly damp from perspiration, clung seductively to her soft curves. Her knees were drawn up almost as far as her chest. Wanting to see the entirety of my work, I grasped her feet and straightened her legs until she was lying at full stretch. I saw that she was not wearing knickers. She flinched when she felt my hands on her thighs, but I was just pulling at the hem of her dress, which had ridden upwards. Although we were alone, I felt I owed her that dignity.
There were things I could have done to Annie; but I felt that this was enough, at least for her first time. I sat on the floor next to the sofa and stroked her hair again, as she slowly settled into the “zone”, that dreamy state of both arousal and serenity, in which the whole of your existence shrinks down to your own bound body. When I am tied up, gagged and blindfolded, deprived of all movement in, and most perception of, the world beyond the ropes, I feel not helpless but incredibly self-reliant, imprisoned and yet liberated. I wanted to give Annie time to feel it too.
However, I didn’t wait to see her fingers crossed. When I released her, there was a mug of fresh cocoa, a soothing hand and comforting words to bring her back from the zone. She sat in silence for a long time, just looking at me. Sweat stippled her cheeks and forehead, glistened on her arms and thighs. Her hands were fidgety, as if attuning to their recovered freedom. Her knees were pressed together, and she kept smoothing out any creases which shortened her dress by even a fraction. Her lips wrinkled into a timid smile. A long time later, she uttered a single word.
“Wow.”
To master others is power. To master oneself is strength.
– Laozi, Tao Te Ching
My brother Alex has always been my bête noire, but without him I would likely have never developed my love for tie-up games. Two and a half years my junior, he’s a true aficionado of bondage who learned and perfected his craft under the inspiration and guidance of yours truly. Indeed, as I have written about previously, when for the first time I was properly tied up, it was he who did the deed; and over the next few years I could rely on him whenever I wanted to play the damsel in distress. In turn, he took great delight in making Bossy Big Sis his trophy.
He knew how much I adored being captured and bound. Even when I was still the bigger and stronger of us, I always gave in. This was not due simply to my love of the ropes. There was also the thrill of the challenge, the buzz I got from exploring and testing my limits. I understood that it takes strength to submit. And as a result, knowing that I would always be his willing prisoner, Alex made it his mission to push me to the edge of my endurance.
Occasionally, during the school vacation, as soon as our parents left for work he would accost me and tie me up. He thought it was a great joke to leave me that way all through the day… or until I begged to be released. My ransom was to do his chores and wait on him for the next few days. The prospect of thus being his slave for the rest of the week was enough of a humiliation to test my stamina; and yet I almost never resisted when he came after me with rope and tape. So I was really more his accomplice than captive.
However, sometimes I regretted my submission. Once, immediately after I had made him breakfast, the ungrateful rapscallion wrestled me to the kitchen floor and trussed me in a strenuous hog-tie which had me moaning and groaning and squirming on the cold, hard tiles as he ate the meal I had gone to the trouble of preparing for him. He quietened me with a spray of tap water, and that gave him the inspiration to torture me for several hours, into screaming hysteria and eventually mute exhaustion, with trickles and tickles and prickles. He even invited over a couple of his friends to join in on the torment. Damn, that was a good day!
That episode was when he had grown to outweigh and outmuscle me; but I rarely needed to be so roughly subdued. Of course, as I have mentioned before, there was never anything icky or yucky about our games. Indeed, once I had found a boyfriend who could not just tie me up but do things my Baby Bro couldn’t, Alex began to feel rejected. There were still a few times, which I have described in previous chapters, but I felt bad that the monster I had helped create was now left to roam alone in the wilderness. So it was gratifying to introduce him to Michelle.
In contrast to his sensible, conscientious girlfriend, Alex has always been reckless and feckless; but to my utter amazement and ungrudging admiration they have survived and thrived as a couple. Like Jack and Sabrina, Michelle is the more mature in both real and apparent age; and the fact that she has tolerated my Baby Bro’s peccadilloes for so long inspires in me much awe and some bewilderment. Also as with Jack and Sabrina, I was responsible for bringing them together, and I was only mildly surprised to discover that Michelle had her own history of bondage games. When it comes to arranging pair-ups, I must have some sort of internal TUGs heat-seeking device.
But it was probably no coincidence. I had met Michelle through my former flatmate Kate (who had originally hitched me up with Jack). I then introduced Michelle to Alex. I thought they might hit it off, even though it seemed such an odd match. She’s stylish and elegant, a year and a bit older than my brother and in my opinion way above his class (although in this respect I may be biased). She is, in her social and public life, not as strident as I can be nor as cool and shrewd as Sabrina, but she’s no less self-confident and self-reliant. Though pretty and petite, she has a sort of “earth mother” quality. She gives the impression that she’s connected to everything and everyone around her. And for her, bondage is primarily sensual. The appeal is in the physical experience of being tied up and helpless. She’s fascinated and excited by the ways her body responds to the ropes. So I guess that when she’s bound, gagged and blindfolded, she has a kind of mystical bond with her bonds… which is a weird way of putting it but the only way I can really describe it.
Except for a few oblique references, it hadn’t even come up in my conversations with Michelle and Alex. I was beginning to think that their partnership was bondage-free; and if that was the case I thought I knew why. My brother is strictly into boy-on-girl tie-ups. He hates surrendering control, and so far as I know has never been on the receiving end of the ropes. Michelle, on the other hand, is not the type of girl to settle for a one-way deal. I have always suspected that my brother needs a matriarchal authority figure to bring order into his life, and from what I’ve seen Michelle provides it. If it were not such an old-fashioned phrase, I would say that in their relationship she wears the pants.
But then, one Saturday morning, I called round to her place for some reason I no longer recall. Alex was just finishing his first year at university and still lived at home with our parents. Michelle occupied a small apartment located just off-campus. The building was full of activity, with people coming and going or just hanging about, but Michelle’s flat was mysteriously quiet. I wasn’t surprised when it was Alex who answered the door, but I became increasingly baffled as he ushered me inside, nonchalantly made me a cup of coffee and offered me some of his breakfast.
From his odd demeanour I knew he was up to something, and finally I could bear the suspense no longer.
“So where’s Michelle?” I demanded.
My brother did not answer, but strolled out of the kitchenette, beckoning for me to follow. The bedroom door was open, and there she was, prone on the bed. She was lying on her stomach, half-wearing a frilly negligée, the top pulled down to her waist, the hemline drawn up over the bare flesh of her bottom. Her hands were bound behind her back with what looked like a couple of brassieres joined together, and her ankles trussed with pantyhose. Her feet were secured to the end of the bed with another pair of tights. She was turned towards me. Her faced was flushed and she was panting heavily through a bulbous ball-gag. She looked up at me with doleful eyes, slowly blinked and grunted a terse greeting.
Alex casually sat on the edge of the bed and released the nylon tethering her feet. I assumed he was going to untie her, and so did she; but instead he placed one hand on the rear of her knees, and with the other grabbed her ankles and bent her legs until her heels touched her backside. She rasped an ineffectual protest, then just sighed as he used the pantyhose to put her into a full hog-tie. She continued to twitch and make gurgling sounds through her gag, so he gently kissed and caressed the top of her head. He ran his fingers through her hair, moist and stringy from perspiration. He tenderly brushed away the little beads of sweat which had gathered on her forehead and cheeks, and dabbed off the tiny bubbles that dribbled from the corners of her mouth, around the edges of the ball. It all seemed so un-Alex-like gallant, until I saw what he was using… crumpled up pink lace panties which matched her dishevelled nightie.
My brother stood up, admiring his handiwork as his girlfriend, looking so helpless and so incredibly sexy, squirmed in her bonds and softly moaned. He turned to me with a malevolent grin.
“How about that breakfast?” he said.
So that is how I discovered how well I had taught my sibling protégé. I felt so proud.
Michelle was still trussed and gagged when I left. And now I understood that her love of bondage runs almost as deep as mine. She enjoys being on either end of the ropes, but because my brother doesn’t, she always takes the sub’s role. And yet, acquiescing to his wishes, yielding to his control, does not make her weak. She is the strong one. This is a fact that I have learned from my years of tie-up games and which defines my relationship with Rob. There is a sublime delight and a special dignity in surrender, when it comes from your inner strength. And it is by no means a self-denying sacrifice. Once you have experienced the joy of submission, you discover that your most intimate desires and passionate longings are a wondrous and mysterious valley to be explored, not a void to be filled. Opening up to possibility by liberating yourself from inhibition never depletes the reservoir of that receptive, inquisitive spirit; it replenishes the well.
It is present within you, barely seen. When summoned, it is endless.
– Laozi, Tao Te Ching
The year you were born marks only your entry into the world. Other years where you prove your worth, they are the ones worth celebrating.
– Jarod Kintz, This Book Title is Invisible
I am not a huge fan of birthdays. I don’t enjoy fuss and frills, and I have never really understood what the hoopla is all about. Of all life achievements to be fêted and rewarded, this seems to me the one least deserved… at any rate not by the one receiving the accolades. But everyone else thinks they are important, so when my number comes up each December, I grit my teeth, go along and make the most of it.
My 21st birthday was my first since Rob and I had moved into our house together. As I have described, he was new to tie-up games and skeptical about bondage. Even nowadays, although enlightened, he remains more a dilettante than a devotee. And it did no good for my campaign to convert him that shortly after we moved in together I was stricken by a severe bout of pneumonia which put me in hospital for a while. But it was my own fault. I belong to that marginally dysfunctional subset of society known as the overachiever. My illness was therefore due in large part to exhaustion caused by too much work. It was a bad patch coming so early in our relationship, because convalescence took a long, long time. Even sex became a rare treat, and our nascent tie-up games had to be put on hold. But Rob was magnificent through it all. I decided that he represented an excellent life investment.
I resolved that my birthday would be the ideal opportunity to reignite our passion… but also to discover what Rob really thought about the kinky side of my nature, and how he would respond now that I was finally able to let it out once more.
I took inspiration from my previous birthday, shortly after Rob and I became a steady couple. We were planning a celebration, modest though it had to be (since we were two impoverished students). But duty intervened when the head of the physics department chose to call a staff conference for that afternoon. Despite my best manoeuvrings and intrigues, I could not get out of it. After two years of toiling for subsistence as a waitress, I was thankful for my low-paying tutorial job at the bottom of the academic totem pole, and was doing nothing to jeopardize it.
(Editorial note: Purists and pedants will object that the bottom of a traditional totem pole is the most honoured position. But our idioms don’t always reflect actuality, so please do not condemn me, good reader.)
I arrived home (to our minuscule apartment) around six o’clock, tired and frustrated, to find my love waiting for me with dinner. It was nothing elaborate but very romantic. Unfortunately afterwards I spoilt the mood when Rob gave me a present and I got angry, because I had issued strict instructions against it. Given our limited budget, I considered gifts to be trivial and wasteful. Of course, I immediately regretted my tantrum, so we kissed and made up.
Rob then proved his moral superiority when he asked me what I really wanted for my birthday. In response, I said “Wait here, I will be back” (so he wouldn’t think I was storming off in a huff) and left him in the living room. I went to our bedroom and brought out my little treasure chest. It’s just a shoe-box in which I keep my special toys – red rubber ball-gag, soft nylon rope, blindfold, etcetera; but my guy’s eyes bulged a little when he beheld it.
I placed the box on the dining table (which adjoined the tiny space we called the living room). I was still feeling bad about my outburst, and as we all appreciate, guilt can be a powerful aphrodisiac. So I knew what I had to do. It’s a lovely feeling when reality and play begin to merge and you suddenly see, with crystal-clear clarity, where you want to go and how to get there. But of course I had the benefit of nearly ten years of practice.
Rob was standing beside the table, pondering the box and its contents, when I knelt down on the living room carpet and told him, “I’ve been a bad girl.”
He was having more trouble than I keeping a straight face, but eventually he responded. “And what should your punishment be?”
“Is that a rhetorical question?” I thought.
“Can’t you think of something?” I said.
He started rummaging amongst my toys. There is only so much rummaging you can actually do in a shoe-box, but that was not the point. He was keeping me waiting, and I started to itch and twitch. Finally, without looking up he waved a hand casually in my direction and ordered me to get off my knees.
There was another long pause. Though I was standing rigidly to attention with my head bowed, out of the corners of my downcast eyes I could see he was maintaining his nonchalant façade. Then he said, so casually, “Take your clothes off.”
Even as I started to move, he interrupted: “On my command.” His tone of voice was conscientiously bland.
With single word directives, he told me what articles of my clothing to remove. He took his time, and mine, to enable us both to experience the intensity of each and every moment. I began with my shoes. I placed them on the floor beside me. Then I took off my jeans. Rob instructed me to fold them and place them on the chair nearest to me. I did so and returned to my spot in the middle of the room. My blouse was next. After the first button, he told me to slow down, so that he, and I, could savour the full sensual flavour of my undressing. When eventually all the buttons were undone, I drew the blouse off my shoulders and let it slide down and from my arms. Then I folded it and set it on top of my jeans.
Before we continued, Rob made me perform a couple of slow pirouettes with my arms raised above my head. He said how beautiful and sexy I looked in my socks and underwear. After that, the socks came off. I fondled them for a second as I lay them atop my discarded blouse.
“Bra,” he said, and I slid the straps from my shoulders, again very slowly, then reached behind my back and unfastened the clasp. While I was doing this, Rob had begun taking the items out of the box and was arranging them neatly on the table-top, pretending not to be watching me. I knew he was, and he knew I knew. It was part of the game; and for all his naïveté when it came to tie-up play, he was uncommonly skilled in raising the tension.
“Now finish it,” he commanded. “Take off your panties,” he added… unnecessarily, since I had nothing else to remove. When I had added my knickers to the forlorn little bundle on the chair, I returned to the centre of the room and again waited.
Rob took his time, prolonging my suspense. When finally I felt ready to burst, he commanded me to put my hands behind my back. He circled me a couple of times, like a prowling beast of prey, trailing the silk scarf across my naked shoulders and breasts. He placed it over my eyes, caressing my cheeks with his hands as he drew it behind my head and secured it. Then he bound my wrists with the nylon cord.
Rob continued to draw out each moment for as long as possible. When I felt the light pressure of the rubber ball against my lips, I opened my mouth and accepted my gag. Then I was ordered to kneel, and to bend forward until my forehead rested on the carpet. When he touched the outsides of my thighs, I felt within me a tingling of anticipation; but he drew his fingers down my legs and took hold of one of my ankles. He placed it over the other and tied them.
Once more he left me, to contemplate my sins. After a lengthy interval, he said: “Are you sorry for how you behaved?”
Through my gag I mumbled an apology. I barely managed to suppress a giggle of excitement.
“Good girl.” He patted my raised behind, massaging the bare flesh to sensitize it. “Are you ready for your punish…. your reward?”
I didn’t answer; and I don’t know if he changed his words deliberately. Anyhow, in a way, they were the same thing, almost. The line between pleasure and pain becomes blurred, but it never disappears altogether.
It was not much of a spanking. The sting went away as soon as he stopped. Then he had me stretch me out on the carpet, flat on my stomach. He turned me over. I was compelled to lift my midsection by pushing on the floor with my feet, in order to shift my weight onto my shoulders and off my bound arms. With my ankles tied in a crossed position, Rob could part my knees without causing me too much discomfort, and he lowered himself between them. With one hand he gently stroked my face and played with my nipples. I felt the knuckles of the other hand rubbing lightly against my belly as he opened his trousers.
“Happy birthday,” he whispered.
Birthdays are nature’s way of telling us to eat more cake.
– Unknown
One year on, I went for romantic rather than erotic, more out of necessity than choice, since I am not particularly sentimental by nature. But Rob was still treating me like an invalid, and serious or strenuous bondage was out of the question. That afternoon, while he was still at work, I got off early and came home to make the arrangements. We had a small veranda, shielded from the street by shrubbery, where I set up a table with candles and flowers, elegant silverware and fine crockery, crystal glasses, soft music – all the accoutrements for an intimate dinner. I even designed and printed a menu. It included two items for dessert, sweet and tart. Lest you overestimate my tact and subtlety… the tart was a picture of me in a tiny black negligée.
Of course, I was not going to spoil the meal by actually preparing it. My cooking skills are a monstrous travesty, and it’s only a mild exaggeration to call my kitchen a toxic waste dump. My own mother told me I cannot boil water without a recipe, can’t butter bread without burning it, etcetera. (I am, incidentally, also the world’s most inept gardener. My hands have been registered with the Department of Agriculture as a defoliant. Little Miss Domesticated I am not.) So I ordered a banquet to be delivered.
When Rob arrived, I greeted him at the door in my prettiest lace camisole and frilly French knickers. I made him change into his best (indeed only) suit while I poured the wine and selected the perfect ambience music. Our feast turned up exactly on time. And as we sat down to begin the entree, I put on my most coquettish expression, slipped the straps of my top off my shoulders and tilted my head in the direction of the potted palm standing nearby. Draped over its fronds were my crimson silk scarf and a coil of soft nylon rope. Rob got up from the table, came round behind me and gently tied my blindfold in place. I put my arms behind my back. He bound my wrists and elbows.
“Too tight?”
“No… make it…” I grunted in a most unladylike manner as he tugged hard on the rope and wrenched my shoulders backwards.
I have written about this before, but it is worth reiterating. Eating sans vue or, if you will, dans le noir (the French makes it even more romantic and sensual), is a most exotic and seductive culinary experience. Stripped of your normal visual cues, your senses of taste and smell are enhanced, and that enriches your awareness and appreciation of the flavours, aromas and textures. When you are bound and have to be fed as well, you depend completely on your partner. You cannot be sure of what is going into your mouth when the fork or spoon hovers tantalizingly under your nose and nudges alluringly against your lips. The food then slowly reveals itself on your palate. Each morsel becomes an epicurean exploration, each sip an intoxicating adventure.
We started with seafood cocktails, moved on to the main course of chicken with truffles and wild mushrooms. In my heightened state of sensitivity, the exquisite flavours of the meal and the cool breeze wafting onto the veranda proved almost unbearably arousing. My skin tickled and my insides tingled. I started to shiver, and Rob suggested we move inside; but I didn’t want to spoil the mood. Anyway, goosebumps can feel sexy too.
When it was time for dessert (the sweet one), without saying a word I rose from my place and came round to where my man was seated. He pushed his chair away from the table a little so I could lower myself onto his lap. He caressed my thighs and stroked my bare shoulders, trying to warm me up I guess… but all he did was make me quiver even more. I was panting quite heavily and coughed a couple of times. He pressed two fingers against my lips.
I thought he had decided we should retreat into the house after all; but he just made a hushing sound. Confined in the darkness behind my blindfold, I had no idea what was happening, but perhaps someone was walking past the house. Even with the porch light on, we could not be seen from beyond the fence; but if the gate hinges had squeaked the resulting encounter, with me in my bound and sightless state, might have been embarrassing.
Rob chuckled.
“What’s so funny?” I quietly demanded.
“That turned you on, did it?”
“Why do you say…?”
He just laughed and ran his hand lightly over my bosom. Drawn taut by my bonds, my breasts strained against the delicate satin of my camisole, and… well, let’s just say that effects of the sensual dining and chilly breeze were outstanding. I began to protest that it had nothing to do with the prospect of an unwelcome visitor; but he held a cup to my lips and I sipped lime-blossom tea. I dribbled and the warm liquid dripped onto and trickled down my chest.
“Sorry about that,” he said. “I’ll fix it.”
“Fix what?” I thought.
He put his hands on my shoulders and slowly slid the straps of my top down my arms to where the nylon cord was looped about them, and drew the camisole down to my waist. I felt something cool and soft playing over my nipples and then pressed to my lips. I tasted candied ginger. Then he spoon-fed me strawberry mousse. I remember a moan of ecstasy, and then things become a blur.
I can vaguely remember that when the meal was over, Rob declared that he was not clearing up on his own. He took off my blindfold and unbound my hands but immediately retied them in front, so I could help with the work. While my arms were briefly free, I removed my camisole.
“Take off your knickers as well,” Rob said.
I obeyed. I figured I would not have been wearing them for much longer anyway. He took them, crumpled them into a small wad and shoved them into my mouth. He used the scarf to complete the gag. We then set about the cleaning and washing up. I have done this many times with my hands tied so I didn’t drop anything breakable. After we had finished, Rob put me over his shoulder and carried me to the bedroom. He secured my bound wrists to the headboard. He took out my gag and we kissed.
He lowered his body towards mine, supporting his weight on his knees and elbows as warm, firm flesh touched cool, clammy, goosebumpy flesh.
“Happy birthday,” he whispered.