A Short Story –
Read Part One HereHe had.
He thought so, anyway.
“You’re nervous.” A slight frown began to tug at the corners of her pretty lips. Her graceful, capable hands fidgeted with the blindfold, satiny and soft between her fingers.
“A little.” He wouldn’t lie to her. That had been a rule they’d both agreed to early on. Unflinching honesty.
She ruffled her pixie-cut white-blond hair and shrugged. “We don’t have to do this.” She reached for the rope.
He reached out and covered her hand with his, stopping her. “You want to do this.” This had been a 5 4 3 on her list. His list too.
Was it still?
Was this what he wanted?
He didn’t really know.
It was strange. With his fiancé, Bethany, he’d wanted more. Just more. More sex. More affection. More anything.
Bethany and he had made so much sense, in many ways—having grown up together, sharing many of the same interests. They’d just been such compatible parts of each other’s lives that they’d felt inevitable.
But, as their wedding day approached, Porter couldn’t shake the idea that they’d made much better friends than lovers. He hadn’t been sure—still wasn’t—if she’d just had a really low sex drive or if he’d just never really brought that side of her out, but he just couldn’t imagine staying in a relationship whose flame had died before the wedding.
Whose fire had never really gotten beyond a bit of smoke and kindling, really.
At first, he’d tried to talk himself out of it. Tried to content himself with compatibility and companionship.
But he’d needed—he still needed—more. And, at the time, he just couldn’t resign himself to giving up on at least the possibility of it at nineteen.
So, even though he’d known it’d broken her heart—as well as their families’ and friends’—he’d left.
And now, with Lyndsey and his new life in a new state and a new school, he’d found more. A lot more.
But was it too much?
And how exactly was he supposed to know? Diagnosed with Aspergers, he knew he had trouble with emotions, his own and other people’s. Often, with other people, he could recognize that they were feeling something and that it often meant that he really ought to do something—offer comfort or commiserate—but he was never entirely sure exactly what the expectation were and he certainly couldn’t understand how it always seemed like everyone else just seemed to know them without being told.
Even with his own emotions, he usually didn’t feel like he really understood what he was feeling until he’d talked it all out. Especially with his therapist.
And they had talked about this. Had even gone over the checklist together.
“If this is something you want,” Dr. Bernard Weir had told him in their last session, “then you should do it, but talk to Lyndsey about it. Get on the same page.”
Talk. He could do that. He let her hand go and picked up the blindfold. It was cool and smooth against his skin. It felt like magic.
“What,” he asked, still touching the slinky piece of cloth in his hand, “exactly do you want to do?”
Her head popped up, her eyes wide. She grinned. Bending over, she picked up her tablet, the excitement back in her eyes. “Well, since you gave me your checklist, I’ve been reading some bondage for beginner books.” She tapped the surface so she could show him pictures. “I’ve been watching a bunch of tutorials too. I even found a couple of really interesting blogs.” She handed him the tablet, thrusting it into his hands.
Porter flipped through some of the images. Many of which didn’t look all that beginner to him. Rope cuffs, shackles, gags, corsets, even cages. He stared at the image of a woman bound from head to toe in rope. She wanted to do this?
She took the tablet from him. “I was thinking about trying this one.” She pointed to, according to the chapter’s title, a basic one-column wrist tie. “And modifying this harness to go with it.” She paged through her ebook till she found a tie that wound snake-like around the torso. He stared at the woman’s bound, slightly squished breasts and panty-covered crotch in the image and swallowed hard. The harness didn’t look terribly binding or restrictive but, despite the woman’s pleased, camera-ready smile, it didn’t look all that comfortable either.
“I’ve already tried it on myself.” She tapped the screen a few more times to show him a photo of herself with the harness and a slightly different wrist tie, her body contorted oddly while her bound hands fiddled with her phone. “I wanted to be sure I knew what it felt like before I did it to anyone else.”
He couldn’t help but smile as he imagined her struggling with her phone’s camera. He pictured her wriggling and writhing to get in and out of the ropes with her face set in determined lines. Most of her face was cropped out of the photo, but he could still see the proud curve of her grin when she stared at her finished work.
He wondered if she’d have that same look with him. He hoped she would.
“You want to give this a try?” She smiled, trying not to look so hopeful. “We can stop at any time,” she assured.
She let out a relieved breath when she saw him smile at her.
He nodded. “Let’s go.”
“You’re sure?” A part of her didn’t want to ask—wanted to just take his yes for an answer and go—but she needed to be certain.
He laughed. “Yeah.”
She grinned. Good. She really had been practicing. She knew the knot-work by heart, the twist and layering of rope. She flexed her fingers. Let’s go.
She bit her lip.
She looked at Porter and her mind panicked for a moment.
It was different when she was tying herself up or practicing ties on stuffed animals or pillows. She didn’t have to worry about when or where or how to start. Didn’t have to muck about with clothes or limb-placement.
She swallowed hard.
“You, uh,” she said, her voice quiet, “need to take off your shirt.” She gave a cough, her dry throat feeling tight.
She knew this. She did. She’d practiced. Over and over again. Building up muscle memory, so she wouldn’t fumble over it when the time came.
Yet here was the time and she felt…fumbly.
She closed her eyes. Breathe. Calm down.
He nodded and shrugged out of his shirt.
She looked at his shoulders. Too broad for his frame, his shoulders jutted out like wings about to take flight. His pale skin stretched over bone and muscle holding him together like a miracle. Her hand clenched on the rope in her hands, her mind marveling at the canvas he made.
Good. Good start.
Feeling a bit more confident, she reached out to touch him. “Lift your arms.” She pulled his wrists up, so his elbows were parallel with his shoulders, giving herself a clear surface to play.
Carefully, she unwound the rope in her hands, trying to keep it as untangled as possible, while holding tight to the middle bight. That small loop in the middle of the length was her starting point. The first step in the journey. Her fist tightened on it as she shook out the last bit of the forty-feet of brilliantly purple nylon rope. She’d ordered it online and thought the color would look regal and powerful against Porter’s skin.
She wrapped the rope around his waist before pulling the long rope ends through the bight, cinching it right beneath his breastbone. Folding two fingers beneath the rope to hold it in place, she wrapped the rope around his back before looping it front again. She repeated this over and over, careful that the rope lay perfectly flat and untwisted along his middle. She made sure each loop faced the right direction. And that the rope was secure yet not too tight.
When she was done, she could see his chest heave, his breaths deeper, faster. Worried, she tested the rope. No, not too tight. “Are you okay?” Had she done it wrong? It wasn’t a complicated tie; she couldn’t have messed it up.
But he was breathing so hard.
Why was he breathing so hard?
She let out a breath.
“You can breathe alright?” She looked at and touched his skin, checking for discoloration or change in temperature. She didn’t think she was cutting off circulation. But, when she wasn’t the one in the ropes, how could she be certain? Like, without-a-question certain? “It feels okay?”
“It feels good, I guess.”
She wanted to roll her eyes at that answer. She shut them instead.
Breathe. Just breathe.
Good, I guess was less helpful than she was hoping for. She wished she could climb inside his head. Hear his thoughts. Feel what he felt. She wanted to know—beyond a shadow of a doubt—that everything was actually, unguessingly good.
She opened her eyes. Of course. She wanted to smack herself. It was the heart of safe, sane, consensual kink. Talk. Listen. Learn.
If she wanted to know, all she had to do was ask.
She touched the rope winding around his torso in a nylon embrace, the touch a silky twist against her palm. “What does it feel like?”
Porter paused for a moment, looking down at her hand on his stomach. She smiled at the fact that he kept his arms stiffly where she’d left them.
He was such a good boy.
“Tight,” he said.
“Too tight?” she asked, reaching for the safety scissors she’d laid out.
“No.” He shook his head. “Tight in a good way.” He shook his head and blushed a bit. “Safe.” He scrunched up his eyes, bit his lip, and shrugged. “It feels safe. If that makes sense.”
She pressed her palm more fully against the rope. She understood. “It makes sense.” She remembered that feeling, the way the rope bound you together. Took all the anxiety and frustrations, all the feelings and thoughts, that fluttered nervously inside and contained them. Held them still for a scene. As if something larger than you were helping to keep you whole. Like a second skin or nylon armor. “It makes perfect sense.”
He relaxed a bit and smiled.
She reached out for his wrists and pulled them low over his navel. “Ready for more?”
He sat up a little and nodded. “Yes.”
Good. She wrapped her hands over his wrists and leaned in and kissed him. Very good.
Porter watched Lyndsey wrinkle her nose, bite her lip, and touch the large bundle of rope. She pulled back her hand and shook her head. He saw her hand touch the buckleless belts, then the satin strips, before rejecting both of those.
He wondered what she was thinking. If she had an exact image or plan in her head. Or if this was as new and uncharted for her as it was for him.
He trusted her, either way. With everything they’d done together—with ever new experience she’d given him—she’d earned that. She was the most competent and capable person he’d ever met.
Hell, she’d shown him the books she’d read and the things she’d tried. He had faith that she knew what she was doing; she’d never given him a reason to doubt her.
But maybe he could help. Talk. Get on the same page.
He cocked his head at her indecision. “Why not the rope?” He was actually curious. He knew she likely had her reasons. Maybe it would help them both, if he knew what they were.
She looked up at him, surprised by the question. “Um,” she said, still biting her lip, “well, when I was trying the ties on myself before, I had rope left over from the harness to tie my wrists.”
But with his bigger frame, she didn’t with him. Made sense.
She tilted her head. “And, I could just use more rope, but I only have long pieces and thirty-feet seems like too much rope for a wrist tie.” She shrugged.
All right. “What about the satin?”
She shook her head. “It’s too slippery. I feel like the knots will come undone too easily.”
He shrugged. If she said so. “Why not the belt?”
She touched it longingly. “I like it, but this is our first time trying this all out and the leather seems tough and maybe too much.”
Okay then. “Well, that leaves the cotton.” He leaned forward, feeling the rope constrict with the movement, and reached for the deep forest green strips.
The material felt familiar. Like t-shirt bits sewn into thin lengths. Like taking the everyday and turning it into something extraordinary. He wondered what it could turn him—them—into.
Yeah, he decided; he could handle this.
He handed the strip to her.
She took it from him. “Thank you.”
He nodded and held out his wrists. With his hands held palms-up, he felt like he was offering something to her. Something important. Something meaningful.
She nodded at him and took his wrists in her hands. “Thank you.”
She loosely wrapped the cloth around both wrists a few times before binding them together with a twining knot in the middle.
When she turned to grab another strip, he pulled at the ties, testing them. They held strong, but allowed him freedom to move and twist with them. Nice.
He held out his now bound arms again to her before she tied another strip to the cuffs and tied that end to the bottom of the harness, right below his navel.
She then grabbed his wrists and pulled a bit. Smiling, she seemed happy when they held secure to the harness. She sat back with her hands on her hips and looked down at him. He could practically read her thoughts on her face.
Not bad, for a first try.
He gave the bonds a quick tug. Yeah, not bad at all.
He shrugged, strangely feeling the pulling movement ripple all along the ties. “So what happens next?”
She looked at him, studying him for a second while she thought. “Are you okay with staying like this for a while?”
He shrugged and then nodded. Sure. The tie wasn’t as taxing or uncomfortable as he worried it might be. There was actually something sort of soothing about it.
Safe, like he’d said.
“What do you have in mind?” he asked.
He narrowed his gaze when she gave him a devious grin and bent low into a drawer in her bedside dresser. She held something clenched in her hand.
He blinked at the bubblegum pink butt plug—like a tiny silicone lava lamp—held in between her fingers. His ass clenched reflexively. They’d played with the toy a few times already and, while overall he’d enjoyed the experience, he wasn’t quite used to it yet.
There was something terribly vulnerable in the act of being penetrated. Then add in being tied up to the process.
He pursed his lips. “Can we warm up to this?” He wasn’t saying no. Not exactly. He just needed to work up to it.
She tucked the plug in her fist and lowered her arm. “Of course.” She nodded before flashing that smile again. “But first.”
He grunted when she pushed him back by the shoulders, causing his unstable body to topple over onto his back. He heard her giggle while he wriggled a bit, trying to get comfortable on the bedspread.
He squeaked a bit when he felt her tug his ankles, pulling him half-off the bed, so his legs dangled off the edge of the mattress. “Uh.” Porter’s eyes widened. “This doesn’t feel like going slow.”
Lydnsey smiled and reached over him to remove his pants. “You didn’t say slow down; you said you needed to warm up.” She tugged both his pants and boxers off, baring his cock. “Hot enough for you?”
Porter rolled his eyes and groaned at that but soon moaned when Lyndsey’s hot mouth moved over his hard shaft in a slick slide.
No matter how often she did that, he’d never get over it. The heat of her mouth. The sweet suck of her lips. The way her tongue swirled over his sensitive skin. He shut his eyes and threw his head back onto the mattress. Fuck, that felt good.
Her hands stroked the base of his cock. Then his balls. Before slipping back to caress his ass. She gave his dick one long, last lick before she ducked into her drawer again.
Pulling out a bottle of lube, she spread some on her finger. “You ready?”
He felt his ass tense. In anticipation. Out of nerves. He wasn’t sure.
She scooted closer, pushing his thighs high and spreading his legs. His balls tightened and his cock twitched. Swallowing hard, he shifted on the bed.
He felt exposed. Laid open.
And strangely ready.
Spread wide the way he was, Porter was keenly aware of his anus. A hole meant to—needing to—be filled. Focusing on that feeling, he let the muscles in his body relax.
He heard her pleased coo as she stroked his thigh. He shut his eyes when he felt her finger press against his opening. Her touch was gentle but confident. She was in her element now. She slid her finger inside him, laughing throatily when he gasped. He bucked a bit at the feeling, causing her finger to slip deeper.
He held his breath while his body adjusted. Then she began to move. Just small strokes. Easy movements meant to tease.
Then she added another finger, increasing the pressure, the sensation. His back arched into the touch. She had small, delicate fingers—graceful and pretty—and he could feel every inch of them thrust inside him. Touching him in ways no one else ever had. That, before her, he’d never even known to want.
He whimpered when she pulled her fingers free, shivering a little at the loss. Vaguely, he was aware of her—the sharp snap of the bottle opening, the slight wheeze and squirt while she applied more lube—preparing the toy.
And then it was there. The tip poised at his ass. Again, she gripped his thighs and spread him wide. With his arms bound, he couldn’t even brace himself. He felt completely at her mercy.
And it was oddly thrilling.
He felt her press the plug in place, leaving it, like a part of her, inside him. He felt full. Whole, in a way that should not have made sense but did.
In the moment, he wondered why he’d been so worried about it. So nervous. This was Lyndsey. He was with Lyndsey. And he’d yet to find anything she could do to him that he didn’t like.
“Do you mind if I take a picture?” She held up her phone.
Porter paused—stone-still—for a moment.
“I won’t show it to anyone,” she promised. “I just want to remember this moment, you know.”
He did know.
He saw the same glimmer of pride and joy on her face that had been in the picture she’d shown him of herself. This was uncharted territory for her too. And they’d made it. Together. Of course she wanted a keepsake to hold on to.
He understood that.
Kinda wanted it too.
But was it a good idea?
He squirmed a bit, feeling the ropes pull and the plug press insistently.
It wasn’t that he didn’t feel pride and joy in the moment too.
It’s just that he knew, as a straight male, it was probably weird to allow penetration, much less enjoy it. Right? He knew that he should see it as a loss of control or a violation of traditional roles. And, God knew, he didn’t really want anyone other than Lyndsey to see him like this or know about this. He was pretty sure that there weren’t many people in his life who would understand. Who wouldn’t automatically see him as less—less in control, less strong, less of a man.
He’d always been a small guy, skinny and gangly. All awkward angles and proportions. He’d grown up being made to feel like he already wasn’t tough enough or strong enough. Like a runt. Or a pussy.
Did he really want a picture to prove it?
Which, he knew from his cultural studies classes, was a completely heteronormative and utterly sexist and stupid worry.
But that didn’t make it less real.
Porter held impossibly still; this position suddenly making him feel vulnerable in more ways than one.
But, he thought when he turned himself on his side a bit to watch her clean her hands with wet wipes before reaching for her phone again, he trusted her.
This was Lynsdey.
She had a way of making just about anything sexy and fun. She had a way of making him feel safe and bold. Like, with her, life—each new experience, each shared moment—was an adventure. With her, he didn’t feel less; he felt more.
Lyndsey saw Porter nod. “Just don’t take it with my face in it.”
Of course. Of course.
She held up her phone and lined up her shot. God, he looked good. He was thin, but had a fine layer of muscles. She loved to just watch him move. The shift and play of sinew and bone was beautiful. And the rope added an extra element, enhancing and displaying his form. With his legs still high and spread, she could see the plug’s base peek out pink and unmistakeable between his thighs.
Yeah, that was hot.
She shifted her lens to crop out his face, though a part of her really wished she didn’t have to—wanted to have all of him in this moment to keep forever—but she’d never do anything without his permission. He was giving her this; she had no right or desire to take any more.
She took her picture before turning the phone around and coming close, so she could show him. She let him see. “What do you think?”
Porter stared at the image for a bit and shrugged.
“I think it looks amazing,” she said, leaning in to kiss him. “You look amazing.”
He turned and raised an eyebrow at her. “You think?”
She set her phone aside and stroked his chest. “Uh-huh.” She nodded and drew swirling, winding circles over her skin with her fingertip, trailing further and further south. “I think you look very good.” She coasted her fingers over his hips, making them thrust up, before dipping down over and between his thighs. She saw his dick twitch, eager for attention.
She smiled. He’d been such a good boy; he deserved a reward.
And, hey, come to think of it, she thought she’d been pretty good too.
So, she took a pillow and propped his head up a bit before she moved between his legs and reached for his dick. She gave him a daring look. “Can you see all right?”
She gripped him harder when his gaze focused down and heated at the sight of his cock in her hand between them. “Uh-huh.”
Her grin widened. “Good.” Very good. Because she wanted his full attention for this. She gave him one more squeeze before she reached in her drawer again for a condom. Making quick work of it, sliding the latex over his aroused shaft, she felt a thrill of excitement run through her. “Ready?”
“God, yes,” he said once the condom was securely in place, “please.”
Excellent. Bracing herself on the dorm’s carpeted floor, she guided his sex inside her.
She heard him moan as she took his whole hard length inside her. She’d never tried this position before, but had seen it a couple of times in some of the porn she watched. She’d always liked the power of it. The strength of it.
She grabbed his ankle and pulled herself back, watching his dick slide out of her, before plunging back down against his hips. God, that was sexy, watching her body literally take his. Consume and devour him. Make him, for this time in this space, hers.
She watched him turn his hands, only a little—the cloth and ropes binding him not allowing him much give. She gave out a low and throaty giggle when she felt him begin to stroke her clit as she ground herself against him.
She bit her lip and rode him, loving every feel and sensation. With his sex sliding slick and wet inside her and his touch on her clit, even the burn in her thighs and calves and ass felt good. The strain in the muscles felt like a fire urging her on. She swiveled her hips madly, the speed and intensity of her movements becoming needy—greedy—as she felt her climax coming.
She saw—felt—his body tighten. Looking up, she watched his orgasm take him and listened to his grunting cry. His face was contorted in a pleasure that looked almost painful while his hips writhed.
Then her body clenched, her own arousal too much. Her hand reached between them, grabbing hold of the wrist cuff, while the other fisted her comforter in a vicious, visceral squeeze. She felt her pussy pulse around the still hard cock inside her, clamping hard on the flesh.
She collapsed down hard onto him, her body exhausted and overwhelmed. She didn’t want to move. Couldn’t move. Her body drowning in sensation and pleasure.
His sighs echoed in her ears and the tremors of his body shook her. Each twitch of his cock stirred inside her, sending orgasmic shivers through her.
She blinked and raised her head a bit off his chest. “What?”
His body jerked when she shifted, letting his now softening cock slide out of her. She felt his whole body tighten while he moaned weakly. “On a scale of one to five,” he said, while she moved up to lay more comfortably over him, “that was definitely a five.”
She laughed softly. Hell yes. She wrapped her arms around his head, holding him close to her breast, wanting to savor the moment a little longer before she untied him. Would definitely do again.
Please check out my story, "Safeword," in this new anthology from SinCyr Publishing, where women reclaim and recognise their power in myriad ways, and it's not always pretty.
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