She stood perfectly still as he loosely twisted the black silken stocking then placed it carefully over her eyes, drawing it tightly behind her head then tying it, once, twice, pausing to check the blindfold so that she could not see, and that its tightness made it impossible for her to even open her eyes, should she be tempted to do so.
Her wrists were already bound with wide yet pliant leather bracelets, each with a silver ring that clasped and locked with the other. She stood, bare-breasted, naked in the soft light, as he slid his strong hands along her inner thighs, slowly forcing her legs apart. Nearly losing her balance, she leaned forward instinctively, clumsily catching his taut muscled shoulders with her bound hands, steadying herself as he crouched in front of her. His hands continued pressing her inner thighs slightly apart as she dutifully stepped outward, planting her feet firmly this time.
"Steady now, my pet," he said gently. Her eyes closed and bound, she felt him lean in, his breath on her freshly-shaven mound, and her hands now rested lightly on his thick hair, fingers entwined yet not gripping, and she inhaled in a soft hiss as his warm tongue touched her.
He slid his hands around to her outer thighs, and she adjusted slightly, opening herself more to him, as his tongue now circled her, purposefully ignoring the small pearl and warm opening. He focused only on the outer, his tongue slow and intent on the edges, her lips, and the tender bare rise above them. Arching her back slightly, pelvis inching forward, her fingers slowly tightened their grip on his hair, and she whimpered.
"Patience, dear one," he said in a calm voice, pulling back, his hands sliding behind to cup her ass affectionately. She released her grip on his hair, hands clasping together reverently, almost shyly, and he pinched her playfully on the meat of one cheek.
She smiled, blinded by the silken bindings, yet able to see his expression clearly in her mind. His eyes would be dark, smoldering, yet dancing with the knowledge of things to come.
He settled his hands on her thighs once more, pressing them inward and she twisted her bare feet on the light carpeting, scooting them back together, until he removed his hands to signal acceptance.
"Relax," he said clearly, his tone yet calm, but now expressionless. "Let me look at you."
She straightened her back, lifting her head slightly, knowing her small breasts would be thrust outward, her calves taut and muscular from her stance, and her hands still clasped together as if in prayer, forcing a slight cleavage.
She smiled, then giggled, suddenly feeling very much on display, and a little nervous.
He growled, low and sensuous, then said calmly, "Be still, my pet."
She nodded, saying clearly, "As you wish, m'Lord," proud that the words no longer felt foreign between her lips. And she stood very still, her chest moving only slightly with her breath, the sound of the fire crackling across the room lulling in time with her breathing, yet her mind whirled with anticipation.
There was an unzipping noise, and she grinned widely, assuming already his delight at her exposed before him. Yet then she paused, puzzled, at the sound of something that was obviously not his disrobing. Something being pulled? Opened? An odd, light, whooshing noise, then a soft thud as it landed heavily on the floor, and he hummed lightly under his breath as he prepared for her.
"Um, what is this?" she asked almost bashfully, still grinning, and now curious, then quickly added, "Sir" and nodded, reminding herself of what she'd wanted, agreed to — her affection for him clothed in respect and honor.
He did not respond, merely continued humming and unraveling what she soon realized was the long rope from its bag.
She shifted her weight from her left foot to her right, bending her knees ever so slightly so the joints would not tighten up. He did not chastise her, she saw, and was comforted in the reassurance that he knew of this weakness, an illness long gone that had left her more sensitive in some muscles and joints, though not all....
Her eyes rested, adjusted to their hindrance, closed and accepting. She inhaled deeply, small breasts rising, and exhaled slowly, smiling at the scent of nag champa and oranges...and a spice she could not place. She heard the solid click and whirring of the CD player, then an adjustment of the volume as Portishead began.
For a brief moment she forgot she stood naked, small, and bound in the large yet cozy room, and wiggled her toes in delight at the sounds of the music she so loved. It was from this reverie that she was shocked by his sudden and rough grasp of her wrists — his fingers looping through the silver rings and rotating her around until she no longer knew which direction she faced.
His thick fingers lifted the rings effortlessly upward, over her head, and she grunted slightly as he fed the rope through the rings, then back upward over the wooden ceiling beam, lifting her arms, her shoulders, her body, until she hung nearly suspended, her feet barely touching the floor.
He did not pause to check the perfection of his judgment. He simply tightened the rope, securing it so that she was given only the option of balancing tip-toed on her feet, or grasping the rope with her fingers balled into fists, supporting her slight weight from above.
"Do not move." He said, his voice calm, commanding, yet she thought she detected the slightest hint of a smile echoing in his words.
She grinned, pleased, arrogant, confident in her certainty of his pleasure, and gripped the rope tightly, securely. Yet before the smile faded from her face she flinched as something ice cold ran lightly over her neck, trailing across her back — now arched by her position — and rested on her shoulder. She bit her lip, shivering outright, chill bumps raised, and her brows furrowed until recognition crept into her mind. Beads, strands of beads, the kind thrown in abandon at Mardi Gras, the kind begged for by bared breasts and hedonistic want.
Three? Four? No, six. Yes, six strands she counted, pearl-shaped and some slightly larger than others, all cold as snow against her skin.
His hand released the beads, bound at one end in a whip fashion, and arranged the strands so that all six draped over her slight shoulder, some down the front, resting on her breast, some trailing down her shoulder blade behind.
The palm of his hand paused a moment to cup her breast, and he spoke clearly, purposefully:
"Do not move."
Her neck stretching backwards, her face upturned, knuckles whitening at their grip, she murmured, "Yes, Sir," and his hand released her breast.
Again he spoke, his voice calm, emotionless, yet unmistakably clear:
"Do not let them fall."
"Yes, m'Lord." She bit her lip once more, her arms already beginning to tire, and had a sudden moment of worry at how she could rest her weight on her tip-toes yet not endanger the beads now sending shivering waves through her flesh.
"Do not move. Do not let them fall." His voice now cold, firm, an unquestionable imperative, hot breath in her ear. He did not wait for her reply, but moved away silently, leaving her so quietly her ears had no focus on his presence.
And she swallowed, the shiver threatening to wash over her again. The beads unbearably cold.
She held on to the rope tightly, her teeth clenched, jaw working slightly in disquiet, her slender arms taut and flexed, small muscles awakening like petulant children who must arise from safe slumber despite their desire to sleep.
But then she heard him once more, movement outside the crackling of the wood in the fireplace and languid music. Where is he? She wondered, and released her grip ever so slightly on the rope overhead, testing her weight on her toes, all the while holding as still as possible.
'Do not let them fall,' he had told her. She nodded wordlessly, her mind still focused on her task, and exhaled quietly in relief as her fingers slowly flexed, each in turn from the rope they still held. The chill from the beads remained, albeit slowly — very slowly — fading. She smiled ruefully, knowing then he'd stored them in the freezer beforehand.
She heard him stirring again.
He was not by the fire — her ears strained to find a certainty in the direction she now faced, and as if responding to her search, the volume on the player now increased, the music a tempo that was no longer lulling but arousing, working in time with the wood crackling within the bowels of the fireplace that seemed behind her — though she could not be sure.
She could hear his movements now even above the music: a rustling, something...a drawer? Opening then closing. Then another. The bathroom door (she knew its familiar squeak, and smiled), then what sounded like the lock on the small wooden chest jingling (or was it his keys? She could not tell). But his actions were not random she knew, and once again a smile crossed her doll-shaped lips. He's playing with me, she realized, yet the thought did not widen her smile so much as remind her of his intent. He knew precisely what he was after — the objects, the effects, the tools of his affection — satisfying her need.
As her thoughts wandered, another shiver traveled quickly up her spine, over her flesh, though less from the chilled beads than the awareness that every movement he made was intentional.
He's biding his time, she thought. Making me wait. And with the realization, the shiver shot back up deep inside her, prodding awake her solar plexus, and somewhere heat began to bloom deep within.
A renewed anticipation traveled swiftly from her womb, bringing with it languid fluid, and she shuddered involuntarily with desire, then was gripped by sudden panic as she felt the beads shift slightly from their neat position on her flesh.
The sound of his movements halted, and her fingers tightened once more around the rope, steadying her body still slightly swaying from her distraction.
And yet the beads did not fall.
Her mouth opened then clamped shut as she tried to refocus on the task at hand. 'Do not move,' he'd said. And she knew the beads were proof of her obedience. 'Do not let them fall.' A tiny moan escaped her lips, beads of sweat beginning to form on her chilled and taut body.
If they fell he would know. He would know she had failed her task. He would know she had not learned the lesson she needed — and wanted — to learn.
A single bead of perspiration now slid from beneath her arm down her side, cooling instantly, and her mind focused once more on her stillness, yet the warmth between her legs was increasing, and the chill of her flesh now less demanding than the heat within.
Some part of her thrilled at her body's primal response to being stripped naked, blinded, bound and pulled taut, unmovable, physically powerless. She struggled to keep her mind still and focus on her task.
Her shoulders were already beginning to burn, and fingers threatening to cramp from her grip on the line, yet as the warmth within grew and her cunt gripped then released in anticipation, she whimpered slightly, greatly aroused already, now anxious for his attention.
She sighed softly, hearing him so far from her across the room — perhaps in the other room again? And she shifted her weight, less to accommodate her aching arms than to clench her ass muscles in some vain effort to feed that need growing in her cunt.
And as she shifted more fully so did her attention, and with her muscles flexed, her body moved just enough...and she realized too late the error of her ways.
The beads began to slide slowly down her chest, she bowed her head instantly and grasped at the strands with her teeth, but could not reach them in time.
They fell.
She froze, gripped by terror at the shock of what she'd done.
Oh fuck, he heard it! OH FUCK!
