Beautiful, depraved

Intimacy. Debauchery. Irreverence.

Saturday, April 19, 2008

"6": Of love and human bondage


It is incredibly freeing to be tied up.

I have permission to relax. To receive. My legs are spread open, my will forced open and my cunt is the focus of the room. My arms splayed out by my sides exacerbate a feeling of helplessness and powerlessness. The restraints edge away the tiniest remnants of resistance and I am free to accede. I am the embodiment of "yes," of being able to accept whatever happens to me, on any level.

My fantasies constantly replay the motif of coercion. It's usually light, and I'm a willing participant, but the coercion is a catalyst - an excuse for me to be as slutty as I truly desire. The more I am tied up, the more I own my utter, dripping wantonness.

*
Andre was the first person to truly tie me up. It's one thing to be bound with fishnet stockings and pretend to go along for the ride. It's another to feel solid leather handcuffs around the wrists and hear the clasp of a metal carabineer fasten shut. There is no turning back.

He tied me up a few times in his home before we ventured out in public: Spread-eagled on the king size bed and in the door frame standing up; with my back on the floor and my legs up over my head, ass in the air. Bondage can be a contortionist’s art, a measure of endurance. Ultimately, the aim is to distract and quiet the mind and let the body take over - the body in its infinite wisdom.

The evening he first took me out into public *and* tied me up, was choreographed very carefully - he arranged with a dominatrix friend of his to set up a cadre of experienced players. He wanted to be sure that my first foray into group play would be positive and memorable. It was.

I'd just come back from a surf trip in the Mexico and my body was tanned, firm and striated. We'd gone shopping for a "display" piece for me to wear - a slightly cheesy stripper-esque ensemble: a bright orangey-red satin thong and matching bikini top with clusters of gold sequins. It was cheaply slutty - a look he liked to encourage in me.


When we arrived at his friend's apartment, a number of people were there already. "Lady Cynthia," dominatrix in residence, was attending to aperitifs in the kitchen, while a couple of nubile young slaves – one male, one female - scurried around her, carrying out her demands.

Cynthia was an Amazon. She looked like one of the voluptuous, crazy busty, narrow waisted women from Conan the Barbarian. Long, wavy, platinum hair, a corseted waist, black thigh high boots and topless. Her breasts were magnificent - large and full but with a lovely shape. She was dominant in the way that few people are - she commanded the entire room. No one would dare fuck with her. I was in love.

Her apartment was small, with a lot crammed into the space. Her bed was in one corner of the main living room and there were chairs and sofas filling the remainder. Andre greeted Cynthia with a kiss on the cheek. She was warm and seemed glad to see him. I stood waiting as they spoke for a few minutes and then she turned to me. She had a wicked look in her eye - fearless, but playful at the same time. I stared back at her, my breathing shallow. She held my gaze for a long time, with a slight smile. Finally she looked back at Andre. "Undress her," she said. I could feel the blood rush into my pussy. He looked at me and nodded. I kept my eyes riveted on him as I unclasped my top and slid the g-string down my hips. I placed my hands behind my back and opened my legs in a wide stance.

Others in the room stirred and began to watch us. Cynthia reached for my nipples and squeezed them hard. My labia were thick, heavy and swelling. She led me by my hands, still behind my back, into another room.

Her dungeon. It was also crammed full, but with pleasure and torture equipment: a huge black throne of worship, a padded wall rack, an X-frame, harnesses and stretcher bars hanging everywhere. She led me to one side of a device that looked like a human size scale of justice. There was a metal bar running across the top, suspended from the ceiling. A cable ran alongside it and then split into two cables dangling from either end. She secured my hands behind my back with a set of cuffs and then fastened my legs so they remained in an open stance. She pulled the two cables down to my chest, and adhered two clips to my nipples. She then pulled on the other end to create tension, hoisting my nipples up until I was forced to stand on tiptoe. The pull on my nipples was searing.


People wafted into the room. Her female submissive, a petite, loud, mulatto woman - half-Jamaican, half-German, with aqua colored eyes – strutted in, wearing only light pink panties and asked Cynthia if she could spank me. “Of course. You can do whatever you want with her.”

The mulatto woman slapped my ass with her hands, cackling. My nipples were starting to burn. Hands squeezed my breasts, brushed my pussy, groped my inner thighs. So many hands. I had no idea where they were coming from. I was awash with pleasure. Writhing. Throbbing. My head was bowed, hair falling over my face when I felt a sharp tug on my nipples. Cynthia’s other sub, a soft spoken twenty-something mural painter with wavy blond hair falling over his face, stood directly across from me, in the opposite position on the human scale. She began hooking him up in the same was she had me, except that she wrapped a thin rope around his testicles. We were now in a similar, complicit predicament. If I let my heels sink to relieve the pressure in my calves and nipples, I would pull up at his tightly wound testicles. And vice verse. We stared at each other with what I can only call love. I wanted to save his testicles. He wanted to protect my nipples.

Someone’s head buried itself in my chest; a man was nuzzling and kissing my breasts. Fingers danced around and in my pussy, flicking my g-spot. I wanted to collapse and float but my nipples constantly reminded me that I must remain standing.

*

At the point when I had become a mass of sensations, I was released. The combination of my nipples, my calves, my stretched feet, my pussy, the back of my neck, the slapping on my ass – I sunk into a well of pleasure, of feeling, an amorphous weave of just being. I had no thoughts anymore.

I was led back into the other room and placed on the bed, on all fours, with my ass facing the room and my head toward the wall. Cynthia dropped a pile of candles beside me and announced to the room: “You can fuck her with these.” By now, every sensation was becoming exquisite, slowed down into deliberate motion rendering only pleasure. My ass was slapped, my pussy gratifyingly prodded, my body squeezed and all I could do was laugh. I was absolutely euphoric. I loved this. Loved it.


Andre guided me onto the bed. The female submissive crouched on all fours, sucking the painter’s very hard cock. “Eat her pussy,” Andre said. I paused for a moment, looking at her, looking at him. This was my first pussy. I leaned forward, tasting her delicately. The taste was foreign – musky, sweet. I was slightly repulsed at first; it was so different than cock. I kept tasting, roaming around her with my tongue and I realized slowly that pussy is delicious. I was lost in her cunt. I could have stayed there a long time. She groaned and Andre pulled me back on top of him. I kissed him tenderly. I was so utterly open. Everything felt like it was in slow motion, like I was moving through syrup. Between my legs, painter sub boy spread my thighs apart and licked my pussy. I had never felt anything like it. Was it him? The evening? My endorphins? No matter. It was the best cunnilingus I'd ever received.

Andre flipped me on my back and climbed on top of me, fucking me slowly, gently. Someone else reached over for my nipples and squeezed hard, so hard and it only made me smile. I had completely melted. I felt gentleness and exquisite pleasure from everyone who touched me and a sense of being suspended in a thick, viscous warmth. I wanted them all to touch me. Again and again.


Photos: Unknown, Signe Vilstrup, Ellen von Unwerth (last two)

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