Rope and Fixtures

We are both excited to try out some new items that have arrived.  We set aside the time to just relax, goof around and then get down to the business of new toys and options. As we’re sitting there talking and just trying to turn off the day, you tell me that you need me to go get “the box” and “the furniture.”

Seems a little strange, perhaps.  But I expected the box, that’s where our new rope is.  But the furniture is a different story and intent.  When I come back with the different things after a couple of trips, you just point to the middle of the room where you’ve moved the table and have a blanket out.

I lay out our brand new rope and you tell me I just need to check out and come back in a bit.  I look at you oddly but you just grin and let me know that you’d prefer I not say a word, instead just let you do whatever comes to mind in whatever way it comes to mind.  Sure, safewords are in place, but anything short of that, just let it happen.

I nod, but it’s a strange opening.  I’ve not done much with the ropes before, aside from just being lashed to the bed or something else to hold still.  This is completely a different thing.  The anticipation is killing me.

As I stand there, you pull my arms behind my back, making 90 degree angles with them so the wrists are together behind me.   You start wrapping  the rope around, first crossing through my hands, the almost weaving this net around my hands, wrists and starting down my arms.  I have to admit when we started this that I didn’t really think this would be too immobilizing, but the tension in the rope, while not cutting off circulation, is surprisingly tight.

In no time at all my arms are actually relaxing into it.  It’s like they’re settling into the pressure and strength of the rope and feeling it wrapped around, between and over my arms on my back.

You spin me slowly toward you.  I notice something I’ve not seen before – you’re “in the zone” – in a way I’ve never seen.  It’s this charged up energy, this headspace where you are all about the next twist or pull and what sounds like a good thing to address next.  It’s not fully-domme space (yet?) but it’s this playful-serious mode.  It’s both a little scary and erotic all at the same time.

As you pull the ropes around from my arms, making broad diamond patterns against my flesh on my chest, you start this pattern of criss-crossing, then wrapping around an behind me, incorporating my arms, then returning to the front.  You have very specific things in mind – even to the point of pressing my shoulders back, holding them there, then reinforcing that stance with more rope.

My mind is wandering through this space between discomfort, some pain, a lot of really nice pressure, and wondering what it will all turn out like in the end.  I keep reveling in the tension of the rope, in the pressure, in the control it has over my upper body now.  From the obvious arm bindings to modifying my stance and posture, the rope more and more in charge.  I talk myself through re-relaxing, through just being your moldable series of flesh and bones.

As you work your way down my body, you wrap the rope firmly around the base of my cock.  The attention has me instantly hard, and I swear I hear you say “Thank you.  That’s what I needed,” softly to yourself.  You start this firm figure 8 around my balls, wrapping through and around several times.  To say that it’s uncomfortable is a huge understatement, but it’s oddly not in the realm of injury pain, like I always imagined it might be.

Then you start this almost barbershop pole wrapping of me.  It’s very strict and tight, I can feel myself straining against it like a  cage that’s been shrunk down a size, fitted perfectly to me, but a size or two too small.  It’s delicious.  It’s also unrelenting.  Then I feel you pulling me down, not all the way, but well past horizontal – and I feel the rope pulled up behind me, attached once again to my arms, becoming the anchor in the rope system today.

The absoluteness of it all – the immobilization, the pressure, the smell of the rope, and your almost disconnectedness from this experience that is roaring in my ears and pushing all the proverbial buttons, it’s all starting to wash over me now as I do my best to stay present for you.

You turn me slightly toward the furniture.  Our new bondage bench that has all sorts of attachments, belts, footrests, arm rests, head rest.  You slowly lower me onto it face first and hold me while you run the leather straps through my elbows, stabilizing me, but also making me completely unable to go anywhere.  There’s no possible way I could get up now – I have no leverage and I’m attached.

You pull up my legs and put my knees on the pads.  The straps attach here too, my thighs, my calves.  They’re pulled tight against the bench. I’m in this incredibly awkward, arms behind me, cock throbbing and being forced to point at the floor, position.   Bare ass in the air.

That’s when it hits me.  So to speak.  My ass, hanging out.  It washes over me with this realization of just how “available” I’ve become.  I can feel surges of panic running through me.  The adrenaline, the not knowing.  My face is straight down, looking at the floor, lodged against the head rest.  But my mind is all over my body, taking stock, trying to find a weak point.

And that’s when the first hit lands.  I don’t know what you’re using, it’s not incredibly painful, but the sharp impact and the sting don’t even being to wear off at all before you’re after the other cheek.  This continues, not overly hard, but constant, for about 2 minutes, then stops.

I can feel blood rushing to my back side, and my head is all over the place.  The rope.  The incredibly erotic pressure, then “no choice but to quit or go forward” of it all.

Just when I’m getting a little cocky about dealing with the swats, the world slows to this super-slow-motion mode and I register the “swoosh” and actually hear, before I feel, the bite of your crop.  I would recognize it anywhere.  It’s not punitive.  But it’s growing in intensity.  I feel myself willing it forward, trying not to fight the restraints because I know there’s just too much rope and leather in the way.

After a long series of rapid fire, strong hits, you stop again, but this time it’s only for a couple of minutes, then you’re back and I can hear the energy this time in the hits, but I’m clearly adjusting  – the impacts are bolting through my brain at the same time that I can feel myself pulsing in the rope. It’s like it’s clamping down on me, reminding me that it’s in charge.

As I begin to panic at the hits, you stop again.  But then within what seems like microseconds, you’re back at it, slowly, but clearly over time upping the energy.

I feel myself cross that point – that point of pain vs. pleasure.  My brain sort of settles in and decides that it’s not going to fight any more, it’s going to ride this wave of feelings and fun.  The impacts are too sharp to not pay attention to each and every one, but the immediate rush afterward is incredible and non-stop now.

A little voice in the back of my head is telling me that I need to keep it together.  I need to manage through this.  I need to not lose my cool and freak out or even break down.  Another little voice is yelling at me that I need it to stop.   Yet another voice – it’s panicking because it knows I have no intention of stopping.

This last voice.  It’s the one that drives everything forward.  I can’t focus on anything any more.  It’s all a blur of really bright lights and really dark darks.  I can feel me starting to go over the edge, the pain shooting in and then subsiding.  I can feel my inner voices arguing.  “Stop the madness!” but I can’t.  It sounds so cliche’ but I want to be whatever it is you need in the moment.

You must sense my bouncing around in this odd state.  It’s almost like I’ve become this massively submissive, horny, blissed out partner in all of this. You slowly start winding down the hits, and let me just lay there a bit.  I can feel you slowly unwrapping me, untying me in reverse order and my cock surges forward as it is released.

You lean in and take me into your mouth, pulling me forward to the edge in what must be only seconds.  At this point, I have zero control and you’re playing with me, light touch, firm, back and forth.  Just as the orgasm starts to roll through me, you change to a feather light grip.  You keep stroking as I come for what seems to me like years.

And you keep stroking.  It passes that point of amazing and enters the point of torture.  I still have no means of getting away, rolling over, nothing.

And you keep stroking.  My insides are convulsing against you now, I’m begging you to stop, it’s like everything in my being is begging you to stop.  You do.  Sort of.  You keep your grip and slow to an almost not moving pace, but now you’re alternating between very, very firm and feather grip.  Back and forth, stroke for stroke.

My temples are screaming with my heartbeat, my insides are churning and clenching and convulsing.  I get just to the point of coming and you stop, adding a ruined orgasm to the mix.  I have no idea where it came from, and I’m cursing the fact that it somehow made it to the scene.

As I’m laying there, trying to find my head, trying to get some semblance of rational thought, I remember a while ago that you said that at some point, you’d have to break me, in order to rebuild me.  You’d have to go beyond that point of no return to reset us.

As I leaned into you and wallowed in this overwhelming energy, I can see that you’ve started that process.  And the clarity it brings is amazing.

16 thoughts on “Rope and Fixtures

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