"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)

"6": Expose, exhibit

I never knew where we were headed. He'd call, give instructions about when he'd be picking me up, what I ought to wear or bring, and then he'd show up. Always precisely on time.

This evening he took me to a play club. Once a month, this venue held events by invitation, so the crowd was a carefully culled selection of players, all delightfully complicit.

When we entered, there was a grouping of people gathered around a bar. These places normally didn’t serve alcohol, to encourage coherence, but they served some kind of refreshments. The crowd was varied – 20 – 40 year olds in dark colors, leathers, all dressed in some manner of fetish attire. Many pretty topless women, some collared slaves. A particularly nubile blonde woman gyrated on the leash held by her Mistress - a rotund, beast of a woman who sat and ignored her pleas for attention. A very handsome young boytoy, shirtless and sculpted was being humbly led by his Mistress - a tall, willlowy brunette with long dark hair. The lighting was dim, and a variety of play stations were set up throughout the main area of the room, surrounded by an outer rim of tables and chairs. There were about 100 people in the space.

As per his instructions, I was wearing a severe black corset, a tiny black g-string and very high stilettos. When we entered, he had me remove my coat and stand before him as he sat and surveyed the room. “Take off your panties,” he said. I froze and then my fear thawed into excitement. I felt a rush to my groin as I noticed people staring at us out of the corner of my eye. I dutifully slid them down my thighs and let them drop to the floor, never taking my gaze off him. “Put your thumb in your ass and a finger in your pussy.” This was humbling and physically very awkward. My ass was dry and I struggled to actually stick my thumb inside it. I wiggled it as best I could and bowed my head. He then led me by the hair, as I hunched over, trying to walk and keep my fingers in place at the same time. He was diminishing me.

We approached a wooden rack that was built in the shape of an A-frame with horizontal slats. “Stand here,” he gestured as I stepped forward with my stomach leaning against the smooth wooden boards. He raised my arms up above my head. “Keep them here.” He reached down into the navy blue Adidas gym bag he carried with him whenever we went out to play in public. He pulled out some leather restraints and fastened them to my wrists, securing them to the slats above my head. He pulled out his riding crop, the handle of which I could always see poking out of the gym bag, like an ominous talisman. He began lightly tapping my ass with the crop. He used quick, light taps that, given the eroticism of the situation for me, only increased my arousal. He focused on my ass and my thighs, building the intensity of the tapping and I’d lean the weight of my body into the slats for support.

I let go. I didn't feel any pain. I had a heightened awareness of my body but still, even with the now stronger whipping, I only experienced pleasure. I was slipping into an altered state, my whole body vibrating like a giant erogenous zone. I stuck my ass out in the air, wanting my pussy to be exposed. My back was arched and I felt very sensuous and very sensitized. He’d press his body forcefully into mine, his stubble nuzzling against my neck as he spoke low and throaty. “Everyone is enjoying watching you.” His voice was like an anchor, and it left me feeling even wetter. I would look up out of the corner of my eye and I could see men, some standing against the wall, watching as he flogged me. One of them caught my attention. I recognized him from another life. My first reaction was panic, until I read the look on his face. He was enrapt and euphoric. The anxiety dissolved into a feeling of collusion and mutual secret-keeping. I didn't acknowledge him, nor he me.

I had waves of pleasure washing over me, and I felt near-orgasm when Andre would stop and press his body into mine. I loved seeing and feeling these men watch me. I could only see a handful of them, since my back was toward the center of the room.

Andre leaned into me again, this time reaching up above my head to untie me. He brought my hands down to my sides and held my wrists with one hand. He used his other hand to place a blindfold over my eyes. I stood and waited for his instructions. “Come this way,” he said steering me gently by my elbow to lead me to another station. I could see nothing as I walked gingerly, a little unsteady in my heels. He guided me to lie down and stretched my arms out to my sides and secured them. I could feel him placing my feet into stirrups, tying me in as well, and then spreading my legs open. I felt a wave of excitement. The gentleness of his movements was soothing and I felt I would let him do anything to me.


He placed clothespins on my inner thighs, and then fastened some that pulled and held open the lips of my pussy. My outer labia are large, so he was easily able to spread them open. Wide. I felt a rush of excitement heave from my groin into my stomach and chest. It was dizzying in its intensity. My pussy felt like it was on fire. Wet, throbbing, hungry. He continued placing pins, leaning over my chest at times to press his weight into me. “Many men,” he’d say, “are enjoying your open pussy.” I loved the thought of this room full of people staring at my cunt, my cunt being opened for them to look inside me. At their leisure. I could hear men coming up and talking to Andre. They would flatter me, flatter my cunt and he would repeat their words in his responses so I could hear. “You can touch her if you like.” I felt fingers, tentative hands, stroking my lips and the opening of my cunt. Someone's fingers edged inside and deftly probed me. I writhed and panted. I loved the thought of being a plaything for any random person who might approach me.

I loved the feeling of being stripped of any pretenses, with nowhere to run or hide. To reveal my cunt, my core, my vulnerable spot was to open to any possibility and to love it. Naked and raw, yet ready for anything. No pride, no fear.

Eventually he untied me, removed the pins and blindfold and very gently helped me to sit up. I felt unsteady with a rising feeling of euphoria. He led me with his arm around my shoulder across the room and back to the seating area to gather the rest of our things. I stood in front of him, with a warm feeling in my chest and a half-smile. I was soft, suppliant and peaceful.

A man came up to us and thanked us profusely. He was giddy. Andre smiled and nodded and made a little conversation. I felt flushed. I watched him but I had nothing to say.

As we left the building and walked back to the car, I marveled at how different I felt. My hips liquidized and diffused elation and satisfaction up and down the block. I walked slowly, with a deep, soft confidence and fearlessness.

Photos: Craig Morey, Aeric Meredith-Goujon

Drawing: Rodin

Better bondage

Originally, I thought this sculpture by Philippe Meste was just a tribute to a fine, fine positioning of limbs. It's more than that though - when a woman kneels into it, it encloses her so that only her breasts and her pussy are exposed, effectively locking her into place. I can't imagine needing to be locked, but I suppose such a device would reduce mobility and increase precision.

I *can* imagine somehow getting myself into that thing (though it looks like I'd need help) and arranging myself so that I'd be in view for my lover when he walks in the door. I'd have to time it well, so I wouldn't be waiting very long, but a little anticipation would be worthwhile.