His tying isn’t technical. It doesn’t need to be. It’s raw, primal passion, using his whole body to restrain me and the jute simply to hold me in place. Constantly moving, flowing with impeccable pace, reading me, building me.
The consuming mix of restraint and pain quiets my mind but not my body as I respond with whimpers and moans. The sounds tumble uncontrollably from my lips, about as subtle as the bucking of my hips. He uses the cues, more of this, hurt me there, take it further.
I watch him working me out, layering sensations, pushing my buttons and reading the responses, determining what fun he can have. He makes little chuckles at his discoveries; making mental notes of what prompts my reactions, the ones I don’t think about and I can’t control.
Surrendering to the moment is an indulgence. Giving myself the freedom to stop resisting, to let him lead the dance and just flow with it. To embrace the pain I crave, let him see how it affects me, whimpering as he clamps my nipples and forces me to hold the chain in my mouth. Another method mentally noted as sadistically useful, another wry smile at the effect he can clearly see he’s having.
His unique style maintains closeness, moving our bodies as one. Close enough to feel I’m being held everywhere, unable to distinguish between rope and the strength in his limbs wrapped around me. Close enough to feel his breath hot against me, close enough to feel his growls, to feel them rumbling, revealing an appealing animalism.
Close enough that when he moves away to stand above me it shifts the pace entirely…bringing me back into the room, kneeling, stripped at his feet.
“Here Puppy…” He uses the rope to lead me across the room. When did he make it into a lead? My hands are tied, the rope loops around my neck and ensures I do as I’m told, moving swiftly on my knees to kneel at his feet as he sits above me on the sofa. Playful strokes elicit yips and wagging, naturally, easily.
My wagging is stalled when he wedges his leg between both of mine. Holding me with the rope, he moves to balance me on his foot. A short sharp pull at the rope around my neck is all it takes to make me buck.
I’m humping his leg. Just a filthy horny dog on the floor uncontrollably humping at his leg.
I just can’t help myself. The restriction around my neck fires an arousal that drives me; compelled to satisfy the urges.
A raised hand indicates the slap to follow. I brace, much to his amusement, a gentle mocking at my attempts to steel myself. The first hit is harder than expected but I hold firm and ready for more. This. This is what I wanted.
He strikes my face repeatedly with precision. Over and over and over until I’m wobbly. Over and over and over until I stop feeling the individual impacts and instead take it as one, an increasingly intense stinging pleasure pain that makes my cheeks glow. A torrent of hurt that sends me spiralling into a floaty head space.
I fight to maintain upright position, to keep eye contact, to keep smiling and to keep encouraging. I mumble though I’m certain it’s gibberish, just incoherent noises to assure that I’m OK and I like it and I want it. It’s the best I can do to convey the very clear message repeating in my head “Oh gosh, yes , please don’t stop”
And he doesn’t.
He simply moves to the other side and continues. Over and over and over until I’m fully absorbed in a blissed state. One that happily lingers even after he stops connecting, bringing his hand down to stroke my cheek. I’m still floating and then gently, through the blissful haze I realise I’m still humping, I’m still moving myself against his leg, just a filthy puppy.