The Art of Silk Surrender- Part 4
In part three, I was left waiting for the art class to begin, bound on the modeling stage in a standing spread eagle between two utterly unyielding wooden uprights. I was again blindfolded and thoroughly gagged, and, as I heard the first clatters and murmurs of the arriving students, I had been stuck in this pose, under the satin covering, for the better part of a solid hour. My shoulders were burning, there was a fine layer of perspiration coating my naked flesh from the back of my neck to the tips of my outstretched fingers and toes, and the sensual enthusiasm demonstrated by my raging penis in the previous class was anything but evident in this one.
I tried to comfort myself that my waiting was finally over, but had very little success in distracting my tense muscles from their ordeal. I heard Joanna’s voice filtering through the satin sheeting and my gag/blindfolding, and, true to the spirit of the theme, if there was music in her tone this week it was playing something almost military in its firm, curt rhythms. She exhorted her students to promptly take their places at their easels, as she had much to do, and they could ill afford delays. Hearing this, I hoped that it meant the class might be shorter, but my aching body knew this was silly wishful thinking.
I strained to listen through all the silk muffling my ears as she described the procedure for the session. In clipped, severe phrases resembling an army drill instructor, she described how the shifts would be five minutes in duration. Each student would have one session at each easel, giving every one of them the chance to draw me from every possible angle around the circle, and additionally they would have one session without a sketchpad, on the platform with the model.
I knew what this meant. They would be taking turns touching me as the others drew. My mind raced through the arithmetic: five minutes by twenty four students . . . two solid hours with fingers probing me out of the darkness. To my surprise, this thought finally brought some energy to my penis, and I felt it rise up and brush lightly against the inside front of the satin still draping over me.
As if on cue to prevent me from taking advantage of this, I heard and felt Joanna stride toward me and quickly pull the silk away, revealing my nude, sweaty helplessness to the band of artistic explorers. Not giving them a chance to process my naked humiliation and suffering, she continued her instructions.
“You’ll notice, class, that the model is not exactly so aroused as in the previous pose. Although,” she noted as if chiding me in some way, “he is not exactly unhappy about things as you can see.”
My cock, as if able to find stimulation in merely being talked about, bobbed up off my upper thigh, looking for further attentions. I was quite surprised at how I was able to get excited while my whole body strained and struggled with the discomfort of standing there all stretched and splayed out like a butterfly pinned to a spider’s web.
And yet, with the arousal, did not come any relief from the stress on my shoulders and knees.
Joanna continued. “This evening, class, I want you to capture the sense of tension in the model’s body. Last week, we focused on seeing, tonight we will be FEELING.”
I shivered against the satin belts holding me stretched out so exposed. The way she said “Feeling” sent waves of energy up and down my spine, and I found myself pulling hard against the silk ties, instinctively trying hopelessly to escape what lay ahead of me.
“I want you to feel the strain on the model’s shoulders. I want you to absorb the stress on his legs as they fight to hold him spread out so severely. Take those feelings and find a way to let your fingers shape your work to express it for me. Don’t think. Don’t judge. Don’t analyze. Feel it. Draw it. Feel it. And let me feel it through your work.”
I stood taller against the bonds as she described my suffering, my ego not wanting to admit how hard it was to endure the position, then I tensed all over again as she spoke the next words.
“Number One, move to the model. Begin to touch him. I want you to explore his entire body. Feel the tension in his muscles, feel the perspiration glistening on his skin. Investigate his naked suffering, and see if you can absorb why he still can find some pleasure in it. Go on. There’s little time. Feel him. Understand him. Absorb him.”
I felt an incredible tension spread throughout the room as the students confronted the fact that they were about to cross a line from which there was no return. Number One, whoever he or she was, stepped clumsily forward, and I felt them step up to join me on the platform.
Joanna was relentless. “Tick tock, Number One. You can do it. Touch him. Feel him. You’re an artist, you have a passion to know . . . to understand. To understand your subject, so that you can translate your knowledge of him into your art. Do it. Do it.”
Suddenly, hands were on me. Cool fingers. Timid, nervous ones, so lightly dancing on my naked chest that it was impossible to tell a thing about their owner, other than their incredible struggle with their shyness and embarrassment.
Joanna continued to push, and the touch became firmer, and the fingers, now clearly belonging to a woman (I felt long, well-shaped nails), began gliding and dancing along my arms and onto my shoulders, where they began softly kneading my straining muscles. I could tell she was feeling how tense my shoulders were, and she was trying to comfort me as much as understand my ordeal. Joanna, ever the perfect observer, noticed this immediately.
“Don’t comfort him. Understand him. If you comfort him, you are assuming something that will block your capacity to truly KNOW him. Go deeper. Move beyond your simplistic, superficial feelings, and get to the TRUTH of his experience.”
Her fingers jumped away from me for a second, then I felt her take a deep breath and follow her instructions. She reached up and brushed across my face, spending equal time on the texture of my hair, my beard, my skin and the satin of the scarves imprisoning me in silence and darkness. Her hands slid down across my chest again and down my legs, which were now clearly trembling with the physical and emotional strain of the moment. She ran her fingers all around both sides of my thighs and down my calves, then slid across my right foot as my feet were too far apart for her to touch both simultaneously.
“Come on. Come on. You’re missing something. Do it. Don’t think. Just do it.”
The moment of truth was at hand, literally and figuratively. I felt her rise in front of me, and her warming fingers closed nervously around my throbbing penis, and I felt it stiffen even further in response. There I was, stretched out naked, blindfolded and gagged, as an unknown female was lightly stroking my erection as two dozen artists recorded the experience. It was the most astonishing experience I had ever had to that point in my life, and I could never have imagined being so thrilled and so embarrassed all at the same time.
As Joanna urged her on, the student cupped my balls with one hand and continued holding my cock in the other as she tried her best to understand what she was supposed to be feeling, what she was supposed to be doing. I tried to resist bucking my hips, still not wanting to surrender completely to the sexuality of the moment, and finally, she released my groin and moved around behind me.
Gaining some measure of confidence, she allowed her fingers to play across my back, up and down my legs, and across my arms once more. I told myself that she was relieved that I had not exploded right there in her hand, and congratulated myself on having enough control to not go there as yet.
Joanna called out. “Thirty seconds. Cover everything.”
I felt her gather her resolve for one final pass, and she laid her hands across my naked buttocks. She kneaded and probed, and with one final burst of energy, she pushed my nether cheeks apart and ran her touch lightly around my rear passage. As we shared a moment of shocked confusion at what we were both feeling, Joanna called to switch off, and I felt her scuttle away in relief.
The energy coming at me next was unmistakably male. Before I had time to register my own reaction to this reality, his hands were on me. As if his ego was not willing to let his classmates sense his trepidation, he began grabbing me all over with a desperate firmness. He very quickly passed across my chest and my arms, then attacked my cock as if it were a door handle. I realized that he was more concerned about being thought of as enjoying it than I was, so I barely processed the fact that a man was tugging at my penis in front of a crowd of people. His own discomfort was too obvious to me.
Feeling he had worked my member sufficiently, he gave my balls a few tentative squeezes that weren’t painful, then he passed on down to my feet and ankles. I imagine he realized he was moving too fast, so he stood up again, and began to let his fingers dance all over my face and neck. He seemed much more comfortable investigating the myriad shapes and textures of my hair and the scarves, and the way they contrasted with the skin of my face and shoulders. I began to clinically assess his touch, and noticed my hard-on was softening considerably. I was a bit surprised to find that this didn’t relieve my nerves as much as I thought it would. A man was touching me, and it wasn’t turning me on, but a part of me was somehow a bit disappointed or something. How odd, I thought.
He finished off his work on my head, and moved around behind me. As before, he immediately confronted the taboos, and he started kneading and prodding my ass cheeks as if he were shopping for melons or avocadoes. The utter lack of sensuality of this brought my attention back to the incredible strain across my shoulders, and I began instinctively to squirm against my bonds. I felt his grip tighten, and wondered if he was thinking his touch was beginning to turn me on again. I giggled into my gag at the thought, despite everything.
He spent the remainder of his time on my limbs and back, but I felt the same sense of relief from him when Joanna called for the next switch. He almost pushed himself away from me with a hand on my upper back as he faded away into the darkness of my world, only to be replaced by another woman. I could literally smell her coming, her flowery perfume was so intense to my heightened senses.
The second woman touching me was quite a turn-on, and my penis responded almost immediately. Her fingers were much more confident, bravely searching my flesh and moving without prompting to take hold of my rising cock. I was happy for the assurance of her caresses, which, rather than bringing me toward risking an orgasm, actually brought me to the edge of entering what everyone refers to as sub-space.
Without knowing what it was at the time, I found myself slipping into a zone where the pain in my limbs and down my back began to blend together with the soft caressing and stimulation of my naked skin into one vast sea of undifferentiated sensations. Was I in pain, was I being pleased? It slowly began to mean less and less as the minutes wore on.
I let the student have full permission and opportunity to freely touch me wherever and however she was inspired. I stopped thinking or caring about who was touching me or why, and sank into a dark, moody murk of pure sensation. Her turn was over before I realized it, and the process continued.
The next student was another male, I believe, but it again mattered less and less. When the inevitable moment of him touching my cock came, I found myself surrendering to the pure experience of the touch without really caring about who or why. My cock remained hard at his grip, and it vaguely occurred to me that he gave it a few tentative pumps, as if he thought that was what I wanted. I think I bucked my hips a bit in response, and his fingers moved on to other muscles. The same thing happened when he did my backside. I felt his fingers circle my anus quite pointedly, and barely noticed that he did everything but actually penetrate the nether threshold. I sank into my bonds, letting their soft yet utterly inescapable grip support my weight more and more. I barely noticed at all that his touch had been replaced by the next student, and only fully realized another female was touching me about half-way through her whole turn.
Sinking deeper and deeper into sub-space, the class continued through the entire rotation, and by the time Joanna’s words of “Last Round” drifted through the darkness, I was barely aware of who or where I was. Soft, tender hands explored my exhausted flesh, caressed my dancing erection, probed my straining buttocks, and were gone.
Immediately, I felt the satin covering slide across me, and it only served to press me even deeper into my own cocoon of pure sensation as the air became hot, thick and heavy around my tired, nude body. I’m sure Joanna gave a fine speech about how great the students were, and how proud she was of them as they confronted their repressions to find their passions, but I couldn’t hear a word. I was in some other universe.
After a time, I knew the cover was being removed again, more by the change in air temperature than the feeling of it being dragged across my skin. I felt Joanna standing behind me, and she leaned right into my ear as before.
Her words were like a lifeline, slowly, carefully pulling me up from the bottom of the sea. “Come back. Come back, my sweet boy. Come back to me. You were amazing.”
I suddenly became aware of the incredible pain across my aching shoulders, and, ever the master, Joanna began kneading my muscles in earnest.
“Come back. You’ll be fine. Let me take care of you, Sweetie. You deserve it after all that.”
She dug deeply and expertly into the exhausted flesh across my back, and I felt new life and fresh blood begin flowing across my torso at last.
She continued. “I’m going to release your arms, but just let me have them. Don’t let them drop, or start swinging around.”
I felt the belt release from my right arm, and Joanna expertly took hold of my freed limb in her caring grip, slowly circling it around, then bringing it down behind my back as she repeated the process with my left arm.
“I know you’ll want to be free, but if you trust me, this will help you recover faster if I pull your muscles in the opposite direction.”
With that, she looped one of the belts around my wrists, and I found myself with my arms lashed together behind my back. I worked my arms around a bit, testing my new and unexpected bondage, and realized that the strain on my muscles was, as she had said, actually quite relieved in the new bondaged position. I stopped caring that I was bound. I might say it actually felt reassuring and I knew I was in the hands of knew exactly how to take care of my utter surrender.
She bent down and released my legs, taking up each foot like I was a prized race horse, and circling it around a bit before letting me stand up straight again. As I steadied myself on my feet, now together, still blindfolded and gagged, I felt her loop a second belt around my ankles, totally trapping me again.
Without another word, she eased my bound body down onto the soft, luxurious satin of the platform, and I sank into the padded stage, exhausted. Barely understanding what was happening, I let her bend my knees up, and she tied my wrists to my ankles in a loose, almost cozy and comfortable hog-tie. Then, she unwrapped my face, and removed the padding from my mouth so that I could work out my tired jaw muscles.
Her voice was soft in my ear once more. “Shall I leave on the blindfold while you rest?”
Utterly exhausted, I nodded quietly. “Fine, then, Honey. Just relax. Sleep if you want to. I’m right here and you’re perfectly safe.”
I felt the satin drapery slide across me, and sank deeper into a happy tiredness as she tucked me in, surrounded in silky satin sheeting. As I drifted off to sleep, I marveled at how comfortable it was to rest all naked and hog-tied and exhausted.
I awoke again after an hour or so of blissfully cozy sleep, and called out for Joanna. She was there almost before the sounds left my lips. She wordlessly unwrapped me from my sheeting, then released my bonds, finally removing the blindfold at last.
I let her give me a quick, firm massage across my back, shoulders and limbs, until she was satisfied that I was fully recovered. She sat down next to me as I propped myself up, and we embraced for a long, warm, skin against satin moment. I drank in her perfume and the warm beating of her heart separated from my nude chest by just a single layer of soft silk, and I smiled from somewhere deep inside unknown parts of me.
Pulling back a bit, she planted a soft, warm kiss right on the end of my nose, and grinned.
“Wait ‘til you see what I have in store for the next class.”
I couldn’t imagine.
More in part five if people like it
story continues in The Art of Silk Surrender 5
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