I've written a bunch of stand alone stories that are all about the same couple. They are not in any particular order, and you don't need to know anything about the other stories to understand each one. Some stories are very short, just a few thousand words, and some are longer. Some stories are fairly tame, while others are more intense and explore fetishes, BDSM, and specifically S/m themes. I've put each in the appropriate category so people know what they're reading.
I think of them as 'scenes from a kinky marriage.'
I hope you enjoy them.
This one is about rope bondage, and the emotional and energy exchange that can happen between partners during.
As always, I welcome any comments, feedback or constructive criticism from readers.
Thanks, Belle
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Michelle waited for Symon as he had requested, naked on the bed in their basement playroom. Michelle didn't know what Symon had in mind, she only knew that he needed her and that she needed him just as much.
He'd been away, on what was supposed to be a three day business trip to finalize a new account for his firm. But the potential clients had balked at the terms at the last minute, added something unreasonable to their requests, and the trip wound up being a week of tense marathon meetings. Every evening Symon had called her, and she heard his exasperation and exhaustion growing. She'd helped how she could, but nothing but the two of them together would really salve his mood.
The last insult had been an extremely delayed flight due to a bad storm. So it was a red-eye that would finally bring him home to her early Sunday morning. He'd called from the airport just before he boarded and told her that rather than coming to pick him up, he wanted her to just be ready for him.
There were no clocks in the basement. She didn't know what time it was. She wrapped up in a blanket, waiting, giddy and nervous. Horny and excited. A package had come for him while he was away, and she thought she recognized the company, but couldn't quite place it. She'd told him and left it in their home office. She'd just decided to get her phone to find out the time when she heard a door open. Her heart skipped a beat.
Symon yelled out, "It's me, doll. I'll be down in a few minutes."
She tried to yell back, but her voice was caught in her throat. She listened to the thuds of his footsteps as he walked into the kitchen, past the door to the basement. Then the sounds softened and she knew he was in their bedroom, directly above her. She tossed off the blanket, kneeling at the edge of the bed.
Michelle was trembling in anticipation by the time she heard the familiar squeak of the basement door closing and Symon's tread down the steps. He walked through the door to the room, clad only in his favorite boxer briefs, carrying a bag and the package that had been delivered. She jumped off the bed and Symon dumped his belongings on the nearest counter. She practically ran to him and he swept her up; he spun her around like they'd been apart for months. He put her back on her feet and hugged her to him; she wrapped her arms around his back and pulled him down for a long kiss.
His hand slipped down her back and grabbed her ass, then one arm held her waist while he spanked her forcefully. She wriggled her hips against him, into him and shoved her tongue in his mouth.
When they had to come up for air, he held her head in his hands.
"Has it only been a week?" he asked. "My god, I missed you."
She leaned into him, fitting her body against his.
"We've gotta stop doing this. We've each been gone for a week in the past two months. How the hell did that happen?"
"I don't know. Let's not let that happen again."
She reached around and smacked his ass, hard, once. "Deal."
His eyes widened for a second and then he laughed. "You're gonna pay for that."
She pushed away from him, stuck out a hip and put her hand there. "God, I hope so."
He turned and picked up the stuff from the counter, walking over to the dining table. He dumped out the bag, and Michelle saw a variety of snack food, the makings for sandwiches, and various bottled drinks. She helped him put the food away, shivering in delight that this meant an extended session of playing.
Then he picked up the box, took her hand, and walked over to the two armchairs with the table between them. He pulled out a utility knife and slit the tape on the box. He pulled out hanks of hemp rope, dyed in black and red. In all, Michelle counted four hanks of each color. That added to their already considerable collection of rope, and as Michelle watched, Symon went to that cabinet and selected several more bundles, putting them all together on the table. Each rope was twenty feet long, and they were prepared and sold by a reputable company, coming ready for use.
Michelle picked up one of the bundles of black rope, running it through her fingers, twisting an end around, and admiring the quality and the heft of it. She smiled broadly and looked at Symon. He sat in one of the armchairs, and when she really looked at his face she saw the tension still there. She felt the stress rolling off of him, the frustration. She took a step toward him and he pulled her onto his lap so she faced him, straddling his legs. She sunk down, scooting close to him, getting comfortable. He reached for her, wrapping his arms around her waist and back, and pulling her to him.
"I want to feel your tits," he declared, simply. She knew he didn't mean with his hands.
She arranged herself so that her breasts were pushed up and compressed between their two torsos. He wrapped his hands higher, behind her shoulders, and pulled her more closely to him. She scooted forward more, pressing her pelvis into his as well and stretching her arms around his neck. His head fell back resting on her forearms and he closed his eyes. But she didn't feel him relax; his arms and hands continued to shift and move around, never quite settling comfortably anywhere.
He opened his eyes again, staring at the ceiling. She brushed her fingers through his hair, and he shook his head as though irritated. Then he sighed, squeezed her into a hug and said, "Sorry."
Michelle stopped moving, hoping that her own easy breathing would help him relax. Then she thought about the rope; she thought about the careful and methodical way he'd bind her. She waited him out, saying nothing, enjoying the heat off his skin, the faint musk of his sweat, the feel of his chest hair on her flesh. They sat there, still, for some unknown amount of time. He squeezed her to him again, then patted her butt. He slipped his hands up her shoulder and gently pulled her back.
He reached for the nearest bundle of rope and cut off a few inches.
"What's that thing you do with your hair?" he asked. "A braid, but it's attached to the back of your head?"
She stared at him for a second. "You mean a French braid?"
She mimed parting her hair and twisting sections over each other.
"Yeah. That, I guess." He put his hands loosely on her thighs. "Can you sit here and fix your hair like that? Or do you, I dunno, need a mirror?"
Michelle shook her head. "No mirror. You want just one braid, straight down the back? Or something—"
Symon was already nodding. "One braid is fine. I want to watch while you do it."
She shrugged, "Ok. But I always wind up closing my eyes."
"That's fine. I just never get to watch."
She canted her head even as she reached up and slipped her fingers under the hair at her crown. "It never occurred to me that you'd want to."
She kept working the sections, over and under each other. She closed her eyes, and heard him say, earnestly. "Sometimes I think it's magic, how you make all that hair of yours disappear."
"No magic. Just a skill a woman needs, if she's got as much hair as I do."
It didn't take long, and soon Michelle was weaving the main section of the plait, the tail that would hang down her back. When she got to the end, Symon handed her the piece of rope, and she had him help her tie it securely so it was fastened. Even tightly braided, the tail of her hair hung down almost to her waist. Symon reached for it and tugged, watching Michelle's head turn the other way.
"Two of these," he mused. "They'd be like reins."
"Don't get any ideas."
He laughed. "Too late."
He glanced over at the other table. "Let's eat, I just realized I'm starving."
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While Michelle prepared sandwiches and drinks, Symon's hands rarely left her. His fingers traced patterns on her skin, up and down her spine, around her ribs. He stood close, pressed himself to her. She leaned into him, opened herself to his touch, allowed his exploration, his rediscovery of the topography of her body. She moved with him, helping him reacquaint himself with her curves and crevices. His eyes never left her either, drinking her in, filling up with the shadow at the hollow of her throat, or the way her hip curved to join her thigh.
She observed him, listened to his tone of voice, the look in his eye. She felt the tension underneath the laughter. She heard the frustration, even in the jokes. She stayed close, touched him. Her fingers sought his skin, his lips, brushed the waistband of his boxers. She traced the topography of his body, the planes of his chest, the curve of his spine, his round firm ass.
They ate fast, laughing, joking about his horrible trip and the interminable flight. He regaled her with his unvarnished opinion of the new clients. When they were done eating she put the dishes away. They each used the bathroom and met in the open area near the table. She stood before him, presenting herself to him. Her hands clasped behind her back, her feet spread just past shoulder width. She stood with her shoulders back, her spine straight, and her gaze meeting his dark blue eyes.
He smiled down at her and drew himself up tall, emphasizing the fifteen inch height advantage he had over her barely five foot frame. He stood close enough that she had to incline her head to see him. He circled her, traced his hand around her, stopped behind her and wrapped his long fingers around her neck.
