Posted by red on March 29th, 2008 in Kink, Lust

We snaked into the Starbucks a few moments before it closed. The warm coffee was appreciated – I was feeling the slightest of chills from the night air, confirming that yes indeed, I was a tad under dressed.

It’s funny, I would have thought that the rope harness peaking out from under my black halter-top dress would have made me blush deeply if seen in public, but for some reason it wasn’t phasing me. No, instead my attention was focused on the rope ends dangling down the inside of my legs, cresting just below the short hem of my dress. Every time they grazed across my skin, I was sure my jolt and my smile were obvious to anyone watching.

The coffee shop closed, so we left. Monk finished his coffee with a flourish – how he did it so damned quickly was beyond me. I continued to nurse mine as we drove down the road. This leg of the car ride was particularly difficult – not only was I steadying a hot cup of coffee, I was trying to stabilize my wiggles and movements as the car went over bumps, doing my best to stop the rope drawn tight between my legs from making me yelp *too* much. I’m pretty sure I only partially succeeded.

The space was quite busy when we arrived, but we found a spot quickly nonetheless. I watched intently as he prepared for the scene ahead, taking it in, letting my imagination get ahead of itself as I did so. Finally, he looked at me with eyes that spoke their intent very clearly. We were about to begin.

“Better make a pit stop,” he told me, “Cause once we start…”

Visions of my crotch rope danced before my eyes. It’s like he could tell what flew through my mind, because he looked at me with terribly amused eyes and said “I guess you’d better be careful.”

I no doubt flushed red, as my embarrassment burned in my cheeks before channeling down my spine, making me ache deep within. As I fumbled with the rope, trying desperately (and successfully) not to pee on it, I blushed deeper. My sex throbbed deeply against the line of hemp drawn across its core, calling for more struggles and more friction. More more more….

I doubt that the blushing had subsided before I was back before him, but I didn’t care. His eyes smiled as he drew the rope through his hands. I love those sorts of moments – when you’re just about to play with someone in earnest, and the energy is arcing through the air with such intensity that it almost feels difficult to breathe. It’s a moment that you wish could last forever. But you need to breathe and so it just can’t. And in that moment when you do – when you take that sharp slow inhalation of breath – the sweet sensation of surrender, of lust, of anticipation reaches a crescendo. Time doesn’t stand still – no, in fact, time rushes forward at a breakneck speed, hurtling you towards the play that you’re so very eagerly anticipating.

He reached forward and grasped at the neckline of my dress, ripping it sharply to the waist seam. The top of dress gaped open limply, exposing my breasts and their rope harness to the room. Very quickly the harness around my torso was attached was tied to ropes strung overhead. There was a hoist – ever so slight – that pulled me to the balls of my feet. As I teetered and tried to find my balance, he reached out and grabbed at the remains of my dress, ripping again whilst jostling me off balance once more. My knees softly buckled as I swooned back and forth and right into the first blow. A loud slap resonated up off my chest, followed immediately by an ‘oof’ involuntarily from me. I erupted into giggles and hopped around to face him head on. Looking down, I saw my right breast enflaming red against the pale white background of my skin. I distinctly remember marveling at the awesomeness of that strike, but very quickly my attention was grabbed by the second. Then the third.

Every strike pulled me off balance again and I’d sway away from it, willing my feet to somehow contact the floor better and provide me with more stability. But instead they betrayed me, their limited contact with the ground acting as a pivot point, and as I applied more pressure down on that point, my swaying momentum funneled into erratic rotations. I learned quickly enough that subtle movements were the key to the limited control that I had over my balance. I say limited because every time I was about to establish it, another blow would ring across my chest, making me sway yet again.

He circled me, slinking slowly like a predatory cat, eyes flashing before each strike. I used the pivot point at my feet to turn around, fighting to constantly face him as I worked to slowly turn. It was hard, and a lot of fun, and I remember that my laughter was punctuated with moans and oofs as his blows landed carefully on my body.

He came in close, hands finding the tattered silky remains of my dress and tearing them aside till only a few tattered lengths that were once my skirt dangled loosely down my legs. He tilted me forward and collected my right leg, tying a cuff to my ankle and hoisting it overhead as well, so that I was now only in contact with the ground on one set of tip toes. It was much harder to stay stable, but I discovered that I could spin faster if I tucked in my tied leg and slower if I stretched it out. It was vaguely reminiscent of spinning on a tire swing as a kid. Gleeful.

He put clover clamps on my nipples and watched me arch with the pain. Clover clamps are so intense I can barely take them – but I love them for that very reason. He hung a heavy metal clip off of the chain between them and I my eyes rolled into the back of my head as I involuntarily jerked in surprise. As I swayed the weight swayed, making me squeal and (frustratingly) sway some more. It hurt so fucking much, but when they came off, it felt so fucking good. Like a wave a bliss washing across the surface of my skin.

He tickled my foot, and I couldn’t get away. He beat my ass, slamming his hands down onto it with jarring force. He smiled at me as I tied to hop away, he tore into me when I tried to hop towards. I was feeling awfully heady; and his smacks weren’t really hurting all that much anymore. I just kept craving more.

We danced like that for some time, a mass of sweat, giggles, swaying and punches. Finally, the intensity and energy started to wind down, and we approached the end. He let me down slowly; I felt a little off center back in solid contact with the ground. When he’d finished removing the ropes that had so graciously restrained me, he took his bandana from his back pocket and wiped his face and chest with it, then tied it over my eyes. He pushed me to the ground, bundled me into a little ball, and then planted a big black boot down on either side of me and sat down on my back. I zoned out somewhat, hidden in that little world behind the bandana, focusing on the aches throbbing up from my bruised breasts. He stood me up eventually, and gave me the ropes, neatly bundled and tied together with the shredded remains of my black silky dress.

The bruises on my breasts were epic, and took well over a week to finally fade. Much to my delight, they throbbed deliciously and reminded me of their existence for a few days afterwards. Kind of like a free gift with purchase, one might say.