I was tired.
I had been horny like crazy for two weeks. I need a release. When I closed my eyes, that rope under my bed, coiled and unused floated through my brain. I went to my summer jobs, bored and tired, turning myself on by thinking about fantasies of getting tied to various objects or positions, wondering which position would stimulate me the most. I would then have to struggle to hide my hard-on from everyone else, but hell, what else was I going to do?
This is the last straw, I told myself. I need to tell someone about this.
I walked over to one of my best female friends at work while she was stocking and said, “I have a bit of a problem.”
“Oh?” she said. “what's that?”
“I've been really stimulated lately,” I said. This wasn't unusual for us. We were pretty good friends, and had become accustomed to each other's sex lives. “I can't get my fetish out of my mind.”
“What is your fetish?” she asked.
I shook my head.
“I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours,” she lied.
I took a deep breath.
“Rope bondage,” I said. “I don't like pain, but I like being tied up.”
She smiled.
“That sounds pretty sexy,” she said. “But that's okay. Can't you just turn yourself off from it? Like, imagine yourself in a rape or torture?”
“I tried that,” I said sadly. “It's not working.”
She have me a quick glance, which flickered downwards, and said, “Yeah, you're not hiding your erections well, let me tell you.”
I glanced around furtively, and then reached into my pocket to negotiate a position with my enlarged manhood.
“You need a girlfriend,” she said as my hand emerged victoriously.
“No kidding,” I said. “But I've been working like crazy lately; I barely have time to date, much less get tied up or anything.”
She raised an eyebrow condescendingly, then turned back to the shelf and said, “Well, I'll tell you if I come up with any ideas.”
I shrugged and thanked her for at least listening. Better than nothing.
---
I was bored, surfing the Internet for nothing in particular. I stifled a yawn. My one day off of work, and what do I do with it? Nothing.
My cell phone made a short beeping sound next to me. I grabbed it slowly and flipped it open, and the screen shone upon my face in a blurry text that revealed its message to my sleepy eyes.
“come over to my house at twelve” she had texted me. “its hot so wear something that breathes”
She probably wanted me to come over and watch a chick movie again. She has a damn boyfriend, I thought to myself. It's not my fault I don't steal all the popcorn like the rest of the male bastards out there.
In any case, I took a shower and threw on a tight shirt I had for biking that was extremely light and tight on my skin (perfect for those hot days), and a pair of jeans. Then I drove over to her apartment.
I got out of my car, locked the door behind me, and walked up the steps to her apartment. I knocked.
“It's unlocked,” came a muffled voice from inside.
I opened the door, and peered inside. She didn't have too many windows, so it was usually dark in her main room. But she hadn't turned on any lights, either. Had the electric company pulled the plug after she forgot to pay her bills again?
I walked inside when I heard her voice behind me.
“Freeze,” she said.
I stopped, and turned around, thinking this was all some joke. But a large black pistol met my face as I spun.
“Hello,” she said calmly, holding the gun in her hand. “Thanks for coming.”
I eyed the pistol, my face trying to combine fear and confusion into one unified expression on its own.
“What's going on?” I said slowly.
“The boyfriend's out of town,” she said. “I need some...company.”
She motioned to a wooden chair that was sitting in the middle of her kitchen, the one piece of furniture that had light on it.
“Sit down, please,” she said. I did, slowly, backing away from the gun as slowly as possible. What was going on? My mind was reeling!
I sat down in the chair softly, which was facing away from her and the door, and as I did I heard her footsteps approach quickly. She dropped the pistol and picked something up, but I couldn't see it.
In a flash, her hands grasped mine and before I could react, pulled them behind the chair. I yelped in pain, thrust them together and then pulled what felt like thick rope around them.
“Stay still,” she said, and I could hear the metal of the pistol rustling as if she had picked it up again. “For your own good.”
I resigned for my own safety and let her wrap my wrists even more times than before, pushing my arms against the back of the chair. Then she came around the front and, while holding the pistol, wrapped thick white rope around most of my chest and arms. It was soft rope, nothing abrasive or hard, and was thick enough to not make much of a mark in my skin. But it was tight. It pulled my white biking shirt taut, and I could see my stomach muscles through the material.
She wrapped it around me ten or twelve times, then brought it to the back and secured that as well. I could still move my legs at this point, but the rope was so thick that my upper torso was completely immobile.
“Just in case you decide to become chatty,” she said from behind me, and a shorter length of thick rope went over my head and onto my mouth. She pulled it tight, and I was forced to let it invade my teeth and tongue. She tied it even tighter and pulled it a few times. My cheeks were pulled back an centimeter or two.
Then she came to my front again and bent down to lash my legs to the chair legs. Her rope went up and down the leg. The chair was a sturdy old wooden throne of a chair, and made out of a heavy enough wood that I couldn't move or tip it and inch. I shifted my bottom uncomfortably, and my mind was beginning to race.
She finished my legs and looked at my lap. She laughed.
“You never were good at hiding your erections, “ she said.
I looked down at my manhood, and a sudden wave on pleasure hit my mind in an instant. I had been so worried about the predicament I had forgotten the fantasies I had been dreaming up at work. I tugged against my bonds and my body once again flooded with passion and fury. My eyes rolled up to the ceiling in awe of this power.
She rose from the floor and grabbed yet more rope, and pulled it around my still somewhat free lap. She wrapped the white rope around my thighs and the bottom of the chair, but stopped a few centimeters from my manhood. She dropped the rope off with extra to spare and tied it from below.
She rose to survey her work, clapping her hands together and smiling.
“That went well,” she said, picking up the pistol from off the ground. “As long as you follow my commands, I won't give you this ultimate punishment here, kay?”
I murmured into the thick rope in my mouth and nodded a feeble agreement. Like I was in a position to make arrangements in the first place.
“Your first task,” she said, touching her other hand to her chin and rubbing it softly, “is to stay like this for ten minutes. Can you do that?”
I nodded again. She smirked and left the room.
I breathed heavily through my nose. What was going on here? Should I have told her that I had a rope bondage fetish? How could this person I had known for so long brandish a pistol and force someone into a position like this? What had I gotten myself into?
I pulled against my ropes in failed attempt after failed attempt. She had tied them well. They were not Boy Scout material, but they didn't have to be. They were tight and secure, and I was bound to the chair with only millimeters to move.
My body was pulsating with energy. My left leg was vibrating outside my control. I was scared, but my body was throbbing in intense pleasure I had never experienced in my entire life. I couldn't escape. I couldn't just get up and cut the cords like I had done in all of my pathetic self-bondage attempts. This was real. I was the superhero, captured and tied by the villian, and unlike in the comics, for me there was no escape.
I had never told anyone about this fetish. This was sacred. When I watched Power Rangers as a child, only I would know that when the rangers were captured and toed to poles, I was secretly enjoying the spectacle, though I didn't understand why. When I watched Sin City, I watched Rosario Dawson get tied to a chair, much like I had been forced into, and felt my manhood swell in size. It was a connection. I understood, then and there.
While thinking on this, I discovered that I had enough slack in the bonds in one certain area. I could move my bottom from the chair and move up and down only slightly, about a centimeter or so. I had to remember this for later, I thought.
Eventually I gave up struggling despite the pleasure it spread throughout my skin and waited for her to come back. Minutes passed like hours. I could see no clock in the kitchen around me – it was all black and dark. I was faced so that I couldn't see a stove or anything. Time was everything and nothing. It passed and it didn't pass.
My breathing became halted and shuddering. My legs stopped trembling for a few seconds and then began again. My manhood was nearly bursting out of my tight jeans, and I was sweating beneath the ropes and my biking shirt. She hadn't been kidding in her text – it was warm in here.
Then I heard footsteps, and she came back, her face broke into a fake smile as she saw me still tied to the chair, as if the mere act of being so was a success of mine.
“Good work,” she said. “Now, for your reward.”
She moved forward to me, reaching to my jeans. She unbuckled my belt and unbuttoned the top, and then unzipped the front all the way down. Then she pulled my boxers down just slightly, and let my manhood stand erect.
She smiled, bent down to my level, and then leaned into to wrap her mouth around my cock.
My pleasure was beyond words. I trembled again with emotion, passion, and hormones that raged in my brain like wild animals. She wasn't aggressive at all, and it didn't last long, but my body shuddered with the memory of it.
My left leg started thumping again. She looked down at it, her eyebrows arched.
“Well,” she said, “we can't have that.”
She grabbed even more rope from behind me somewhere and bent over to my leg, wrapping it even more securely than before, tying it slightly over the top of my knee to pull it down to the chair. Now even my instinctual reactions couldn't move the rope a bit. She also did this to my other leg.
Then she rose, looking at me again, putting the pistol on the floor.
“Your next task,” she said, “is to stimulate me in any way you can.”
She went behind me again, and then suddenly a darkness shrouded my eyes. A blindfold. I was to stimulate her while tied and blindfolded?
Then I felt a weight on my lap as she sat on top of me, almost as if I were the chair itself. I could not move, but thankfully neither she wasn't very heavy.
I could feel the pressure of her hips against my bound lap, her subtle movements rippling the rope's fabric. She was waiting. I was thankful for her patience, which she seemed to have an unlimited supply of despite the gun.
As she pressed against my chest, I used that extra space I discovered earlier to move ever so slightly up and down. This allowed my exposed manhood to rub up against her thigh, and my chest to rub her breasts.
She laughed and pressed harder against me as I struggled, moving up and down, up and down. She was returning the favor, pushing her hands against my sides and helping me stimulate her entire body. Her hands explored my chest and love handles slowly, her hands so gentle and soft...
She rose suddenly and breathed hard, picking the pistol up yet again. She grabbed my shoulder and moved me up and down slightly, as I had been doing. She sighed angrily.
“Well,” she said. “I think you've been a bit of a bad boy while I was gone, no?”
I murmured into my roped mouth, “No.” I couldn't see the expression on her face.
She tutted her tongue and moved behind me, her footsteps piercing the silence. With a blindfold, sound was magnified. I could hear the smallest twitches, and even her pistol as she held it loosely in her hand, patting against her leg.
Then I felt rope pull down on my shoulders, wrapping around me and the chair. Then it pulled taut at the bottom. Now I could not move even that little tiny bit of freedom.
“There,” she said. “That's better. Now, for your punishment.”
She leaned in close to my ear, and I could hear her lick her lips.
“You did satisfy me a bit, but I'm disappointed in your loyalty. For that, I think...we'll tie down your penis for a little while.”
I murmured into my rope. I did not know what I was even intending to say. What was the use?
She walked behind me and then in front again.
“This rope is a bit rougher than the rest, but it will serve some good, I think,” she said. “Maybe you'll learn a lesson.”
She bent down as I heard the creases on her jeans cracking and rustling slightly. Then I felt it – the tough, raw rope that pinned my penis to my body. It was uncomfortably tight, squashing my manhood into my harder flesh above it. She wrapped this rough rope around me a few times to secure and punish my struggling but still rock hard manhood, and then under and around my testicles as well. Then she gave everything an extra tug – with a mild but unsavory friction and pain – and tied it off on top.
“Stay like that,” she said, “and I may just forgive you for your insolence.”
I heard her steps echoing away, down the hallway. I wanted to shift in the seat, but I couldn't. I couldn't move a muscle now.
---
I don't know how long she left, but it was torture. The pain was mild and dull, but the rope seemed to feel my every vibration and shift my manhood slightly, resulting in more abrasion. It was just enough to drive me wild. I couldn't see anything at all.
The steps echoed back, and my neck perked up on its own. She pulled the blindfold off my face only a few inches up, into my hair.
“We're going on a bit of a road trip,” she said. “If you're good, you might like where we get off.”
My eyes widened. What did THAT mean?
She replaced the blindfold with yet another smirk, and then began unfolding the ropes around my torso and arms.
“If you move a muscle, I'll use my ultimate punishment,” she said. So I stayed as still as possible as she untied my legs, lap, and manhood from the chair. She left the wrists tied, however.
“Stand up,” she said.
I did. She then wrapped rope again around my torso, but this time without the chair. Around and around, pulling tighter and tougher around my waist and chest.
“I see you've learned to obey now,” she said as she redressed my bondage. “Very good. The crotch rope taught you something.”
She then moved elsewhere, out of my hearing range, and then returned.
“I can't guarantee you won't be seen by anyone in your present condition,” she said. “If you move fast, it won't matter.
“Besides,” she said brightly, “they can't see you if you can't see them!”
What the hell? Was she drunk or something? That wouldn't be any good.
She tied a smaller length or rope around the front of my torso and then tugged. I followed, my legs still free to walk and move about. I could not move my arms or hands, however.
She pulled me along like a dog on a leash, as we exited the apartment and down to her assigned garage. I knew the route, but not well enough to do it blindfolded. She lead the way, and none too nicely, either.
I could tell we arrived, and she said, “Stop.”
I stopped. Then I heard her insert her key into a door, and then I heard the the trunk open.
She nudged me toward it, and I gently moved into the car and felt it with my hip. Then I sat on it, and she pushed me in.
“Hold still,” she said, and then tied my legs together up and down. Again, she left my manhood alone. Apparently I wasn't disappointing her now.
Then she pushed my head down and forced me to lie on the floor of the trunk, and then closed the lid.
Even though I couldn't see anything, I could feel the darkness and the enclosed space around me. I wiggled slightly, but there wasn't much room. I could hear her get into the front seat, and I heard the car engine cough up to life. Then the garage door opened, and the car began to move.
She hadn't zipped up my pants, I suddenly noticed. They were tight enough to not fall down my legs. Even my boxers were still down. My manhood had been sticking out the whole time. It was still a bit sore from the crotch rope.
I hoped to myself that nobody had seen me in such a state in her apartment, even though I desperately wanted to be rescued.
The car moved forward for a while. Once again, I had no point of reference for time or space. We could have moved two miles or two hundred miles for all I knew. Time passed by in the blink of an eye and in the course of a lifespan. My body still surged with tension, emotion and energy, and I was still afraid.
The car stopped. She opened her door, and I heard her footsteps come to the back. Her shoes on a gravel road?
The trunk opened, and she lifted the blindfold from my face. I blinked weakly at the sky a few times. It was not as bright as before. It must have been the late afternoon; I had been in bondage for at least several hours.
“We've arrived,” she said mysteriously. She pulled my legs out of the trunk and then hoisted my torso up, so I was sitting on the edge of the car.
I looked around wearily. A silent road. This was some out-of-the-way country road, with nothing but a few patches of grass among the forests. No chance of a rescue here. Just trees and grass.
“Can you hop?” she asked me. “Because that will be your next task.”
She walked over to a sturdy, low hanging tree about ten meters away and said, “Come over here.”
I moaned into my rope and then attempted to slide off the car. It failed miserably. I slid sideways and fell off the side of the car. Once on the ground, I felt like a turtle, unable to move.
She saw this failure from the tree and came back over again.
“Tut tut,” she said in a disapproving voice. “Perhaps you were not cut out for this after all. That was especially terrible.”
I could not see her face, but I could view the pistol shifting in her hand.
She bent down and hoisted me up into her arms, which was a feat in itself. She then did a combination of a push and a carry to move me towards that low hanging tree. I stumbled along, not wanting to go. What was she going to do now?
She spun me around and placed me against the tree, kneeling. I moaned as she walked a few paces and turned around, her eyes on the pistol. No! She couldn't! I was helpless!
She smiled evilly at me.
“This is my ultimate punishment,” she said in mock sadness as my eyes pleaded with her. “Oh, well. You were such a good friend. I had hoped this would work out.”
And then she raised the gun. I screwed in my face tightly tio brace myself, but I could not move my body from the tree behind me. I was immoble, helpless, alone and traped.
There was no way out.
And then...
Liquid splashed my face in a streamed jet. I opened my eyes to see it erupting from the end of the pistol. It was yellow, and smelled like... urine? I sputtered in the stream of the foul liquid, trying to turn my neck and avoid it.
She let the stream of urine stop for a second, mainly because she was laughing so hard she couldn't catch her breath. I looked at her slowly as she bent down to my level.
“Hopefully,” she said, still chuckling, “you don't have a problem anymore.”
Then she went to the back of my head and unwrapped my mouth only. My jaw dropped as the rope came free, and I tugged at the rope on my wrists.
“You... you threatened me with a squirt gun? Just to help me with my bondage fetish?”
“Yeah,” she said. “It's pretty real looking, isn't it? I've had it for a while now.”
I smacked my lips and found they were tinged with urine, and looked down at the grass. I spit. It was getting dark, and the blades of grass' shadows were disappearing.
“Are you going to set me free yet?” I asked. “It's almost sundown.”
“Hell no!” she said with a dirty smile, quickly putting the rope on my protesting mouth. “You haven't seen anything yet.”
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06.05.10