Playing Rough II

I’m in trouble. I know this because D is brandishing 4mm jute rope, not the 5mm linen he usually ties me with. This is harsher – rougher in texture, with less surface area meaning more pressure. This is going to hurt.

I can’t wait. The anticipation makes the breath catch in my throat.

This is far from being our first tie of the night, but the equipment makes it seem climactic somehow. We’re in a wire cage at the centre of the SM playspace at Transgression. Our first tie here worked much better than our other attempts in the poorly heated area designated for rope, where people keep walking through scenes. People are watching.

D is an exciting rigger to watch. In his hands, rope is a rich tapestry which he weaves with an energy and a sensitivity that I don’t often see. It’s a live animal which he has tamed. It’s his will made manifest.

As he ties my hand behind my back, I have a thought. “Could you blindfold me for this one?”

He nods, secures my wrists, and fishes a thin strip of fabric out of his kit bag before tying it forcefully around my head, obscuring my vision. Yes.

First he ties a harness. It’s tight. A halter around my neck, a harness around my upper body, cinching at my groin. He drags me to the ground, whispering “down” into my ear. A bundle of rope scratches at my inner thighs. He holds me down, elbows on my throat, whilst he ties my legs as tightly as he dares. He attends to my breasts for quite some time, enjoying my sighs and gasps as the rough rope slides over sensitive skin, bites into pliable flesh. With pain sluts like me, he inverts the knots on his ties. It’s not in keeping with the Shibari aesthetic, but it does mean that the rope bites harder and leaves impressions. Pressure marks. He pulls hard on the ropes.

And that, of course, is when I bite his arm. Later, he will smile and tell me I need a new trick for next time, but I feel he is about to let up and I don’t want this to stop – not now.

He drags me by the hair into a seated position and delivers one, two, three, four stinging slaps to my tightly bound thigh, the three black diamonds tattooed there serving almost as a target. I cry out. The blindfold slips, and he yanks it back on. It feels like he’s reaching for something to his right.

I’m not expecting the sound in my right ear, but it’s unmistakable. It’s the jingle of a tiny bell. Puzzling. What could it – ah!

I cry out, louder this time, as something hard clamps onto my left nipple. Jingling, again. The jingling hurts.

I’m suddenly more aware of the texture of the rope than I was before. As if to drive the point home, D drags it roughly over and around my breast, then my nipple around the clamp. I’m screaming now. A sound in my right ear. Jingling again. I jerk my head away, and hear him chuckle. “Now you’re getting the idea,” he says, and snaps the clamp on.

The way he toys with me for the following – seconds? minutes? Time is meaningless here – is almost langorous. He’s got me where he wants me, the sadistic bastard.

Somewhere between a microsecond and a lifetime later, the ties around my legs start to come off. Tension, and release. Tension, and release. I feel hot, my skin flushed from the pressure and the pain. I am panting with exhaustion and barely repressed desire. He takes a little time, digging his fingers into the gnarls that his knots have left and delighting in my gasps. The clamps are the last things to come off.

The breath I draw after that feels like my first.


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