We hiked up to the railway bridge from the side road, leaving our car at the gas station and carrying our gear in packs. I was practically skipping with excitement. I had scoped out this location yesterday on a company tour of the railway infrastructure, and marked the spot with my GPS. I'd told you all about the tour, including the frisson I got from climbing in and out of the high-rail truck, the well-built engineer assisting me with a hand on my lower back. I wanted to go back and play there, I said. It had been so hot, imagining being taken against the back of that high-rail truck like a damsel in distress. There were so many possibilities, I said. You had taken the suggestion and done some research last night, looking at the site on Google Earth and reading up on bridge architecture while I went out to run some errands.
Spanning a wide river that was perfect for swimming afterwards, the bridge had many perfect attributes for a rope suspension photo shoot: far away from civilization, with a few different spots where we could set up for shots in both shade and sunlight. It offered a gravel landing under the bridge supports at one end, falling away to a scree slope that led down to the water.
The train service had been suspended a few years ago due to the aging rail bed and ties, although a local alliance was valiantly trying to restore freight and excursion trips. I'd met the five-man crew that maintained the rails yesterday and heard that they'd planned to work on the north end of the line today, so this spot would be private.
Smiling at my eagerness, you had agreed to take my suggestion and visit the spot today for some rope suspension. "And possibly more," you hinted, with a certain knowing glint in your eye. I was fairly certain this meant some excellent play, and I loved to be under your spell in the great outdoors.
Arriving at the bridge, we set down our packs and scouted out a place for our first piece. Several steel struts jutted out of the concrete abutments and criss-crossed up into the architectural work of the bridge deck. Knowing the safety authority regularly inspected all these bridges for their load capacity, we felt confident that the steel was in good condition. You set up webbing and rings for your suspension point, and got your camera ready nearby, while I laid out our drop mat, ropes, and a few toys just in case we let the moment inspire us. Then I stripped down to my cotton panties and sat down cross-legged on the mat, hands on my knees, as you like to have me wait for you. The air was warm, even with a slight breeze that rippled the soft hair on my arms.
Guiding me to my feet, you began wrapping me with a familiar hip harness, providing several excellent anchor points for suspension. Your hands, confidently manipulating the rope and smoothing it over my skin, helped me settle into that restful, peaceful place that I love to go to. I love the rhythm of your hands and the way you work with the pace of our breathing to create intimacy between us. A chest harness followed next, putting my arms behind me in a way that stretched my shoulders, enough to create that delicious tension but not enough to become unbearable.
"Your eyes are closed now," you murmured in my ear. "You will not see again until I give you leave." This instruction is familiar to me. It's our way of providing sensory deprivation without the need for a blindfold. After many sessions, I've learned to keep my eyes closed through every imaginable scenario, and it's a point of pride for me that with your command, I can render myself unseeing at will.
Working with heavier rope, you created the load lines that took my weight up and laid me to one side. With a single-column tie on each ankle, you guided my long legs into angles that I knew would photograph elegantly. A small smile flickering across my lips, I imagined the visual impact of my pale skin and your burnt orange rope, contrasting against the black and brown structure above me. While I breathed deeply to allow my body to ride through the stress of being suspended, I heard you stepping around me, your camera shutter clicking to capture different angles. Putting the camera down, you came to me and caressed my arched back, my neck, and my hair. I sighed, glowing with a blissful sense of well-being and happiness. I love to be your piece of art, your muse.
I felt the deep vibrations transmitting to me through the ropework before we heard the rumble of something moving along the rails. Blinded still, my hearing was heightened and I could hear the engine of a truck and the scraping of steel wheels against the rails above, drawing nearer to the bridge. As you caught the sound, your hands came to my body and grasped my waist. One of the high-rail trucks used by the maintenance crews was approaching rapidly. I held my breath, hoping that the truck would roll over us and across the bridge without noticing us.
My luck wasn't good. The truck slowed as it came closer. I began to writhe, yelping, "down!" You didn't stir, though. My heart pounded and I kicked a foot against the ropes holding me up, but as always, I was totally caught in your web. Why weren't you getting me down? The truck came to a stop on the tracks above us, just off the bridge, and I heard the tell-tale crunch of gravel as the driver stepped out. I caught and held my breath, afraid to make a sound that would give away our presence. In my nearly-naked state, I could feel every ripple of air across my breasts, jutting out from their harness.
"We're down here," you called out.
Shock.
"Say nothing," you spoke in my ear, in the voice that gives the commands that I always obey.
Footsteps crunched down the rail bed and down the side of the bridge embankment.
"Thanks for calling me," spoke a deep voice. I recognized it immediately as G, the engineer who'd driven me on the railway tour yesterday. I froze, acutely aware that I was strung up and exposed to this person who'd I met for the first time yesterday, in a very professional capacity.
"Here she is," you responded. "I can leave her up, or let her down for you."
I realized, with a chill, that you were making good on a promise you'd made me. One day, you'd said, I would become yours to dispense with. I had longed for the day when you made me so much yours that I became property for you to share, and when I would experience the slutty shame of being a thing of desire. It was completely taboo, so totally against my day-to-day ethics, that I had eroticized it to the point of believing it impossible.
That I was both fulfilling my fantasy, while facing a hugely humiliating exposure, made my brain hurt.
"Put her feet down, to begin, I think."
The suspension was adjusted, lowering my feet to the drop mat beneath me. Your hands supported my shoulders as I found my balance. I hunched over instinctively, ashamed of my near-nakedness, but you held me upright and purred in my ear, "Posture, pet. Make me proud." This command, speaking to my innate need to please you, had the desired effect. My chin came up and my shoulders went back. My back arched, thrusting my ass in the air, while I sucked in my belly and held my showpiece stance. You nudged at my feet and I immediately responded with separating them further than shoulder-width, creating space between my legs. The cotton of my panties felt a chill where they'd grown wet as I responded to the suppressed fantasy of being on display. My breathing was short, shallow, just a fraction away from panic.
You stepped away, but I heard your feet move only to the edge of our play mat. I imagined you presenting me with a sweep of your arms; the goods were on display, and the Master was proud of his handiwork. "You may inspect her," you invited.
G stepped towards me. Though blindfolded, I could still feel his acute scrutiny of me. Smallish breasts captured by a chest harness, with my tiny button nipples flushed and jutting out. My white cotton panties barely concealed my mound, and they continued to darken as moistness grew in me. My long legs were stretched and taut, fit muscles were enhanced by the exaggerated stance and the binding rope. My mouth was slightly open, as I tried to remember to breathe deeply and follow my training.
G's hand touched me, fingers spread wide, right across the solar plexus. I remembered ogling those large, roughened, working hands yesterday in the truck. I'd imagined myself being spanked by them and I'd been amused at my audacity. He stepped to my side and the other hand slid onto my back, holding me within those hands like a piece of meat to be inspected. My elbow touched against his chest and I realized he'd removed his shirt. I wished I could see that.
G's hands then moved over me, lifting and squeezing a breast (not painfully), and testing the flesh of my butt. His hands slid down one leg and up the other, as if I were a horse at market, being checked for confirmation. A soft moan grew at the back of my throat and threatened to escape, but I knew I was expected to remain silent and pliant. Hands glided up my sides and one gripped my jaw, tilting my head to one side and another.
"She's marvellous. Exactly as expected."
