I’m finding it impossible to answer him in words. My voice is lost and I’m hoping my whimpers and ruffs are conveying everything that needs to be said. He asks me question after question, almost delighting in my inability to form a coherent answer.
“What happens when you crawl forward pup? Does it pull against your cunt? How does that feel?”
I’m trapped in a harness of rope, down on my hands and knees, forced to move and to pull against the restraints which are secured to the beams above us. He’s on the floor behind me, just out of my eyeline. He’s maintaining our connection with a constant stream of words; hot words which have equal effect on my body as my physical predicament.
He admires his work “Your arse looks like packaged meat. All there and exposed for me”
The harness is tight, made even tighter by an action I can’t see behind me. It feels like he’s twisting and lifting me up, pressure against the rope that runs directly over my clit, round underneath me. Dropping my head, panting, I look between my legs and see how tightly it’s squeezing with each lift, my cunt lips wrapped around each side of the rope.
He lifts me higher with an instruction to raise my legs. The ropes are holding me now, hands still against the floor. “What happens when I lift you? Where will you land when you fall?”
I can barely spit “My cunt” before the pressure of being gently dropped takes the air out of me.
It had started with his plotting look, one that usually shortly precedes “I have an idea” and as yet, I can’t predict what will transpire. It could be something super-hot, something super-mean, or invariably both. This time it was a predicament that treads the thin line between pleasure and discomfort, pushing me to see how much I can take.
He’d stood in front of me with a devilish grin, one that gave away how excited he was with his plan. “Down pup, there’s a good girl, down on all fours. Down you go” Encouraging me, ignoring the dubious misgivings written all over my face. The suspicious eyes still trying to read his intention.
I look up at him after I lower myself down to hands and knees, still trying to assess his strategy. The suspension point is curiously low. Piles of rope surround us. He casually stands above me as if lowering me to my knees was all he had planned. I know this can’t possibly be true. “Good girl, stay down…”
He toys with me for a moment. Makes me beg with my paws up for a coil of rope. He throws it and I fetch like a good puppy. “Come on, paws up…beg” lifting my hands into perfect position before throwing it again, sending me scampering and sliding on the wooden floor. I feel he’s trying to distract me in addition to making me shame faced. He forces me to bring him back the rope in my mouth and drop it in his hand.
I can’t believe I’m entertaining this. An excruciatingly embarrassing delaying tactic to whatever he really has in mind.
Getting into position was a blur. As he’d tied, the ropes passing through and underneath those already in place made them vibrate, increasing the tension, squeezing me tight. It’s uncomfortable but the arousal from being restrained, combined with the rope against my crotch, makes it bearable. A hurty satisfying kind of bearable that becomes equal parts worse and better when he lifts me.
My words don’t return on being untied. Again, the ropes dragged through and out have the same vibrating effect, all I can do is pant, whimper and buck my hips against the pressure. He mocks me for humping the air but doesn’t help, his fingers occasionally running against delicate areas, aching from arousal and the pressure of the ropes.
A finger stroked against my swollen lips makes me gasp. Skin freed from rope is sensitive to the touch and responds to him. I’m a vibrating ball of rampant pup. Now free from restrains, off the leash, out of my puppy harness and melting in his arms.