Shibari Shenanigans

loveisfluid:

my date, who has been nicknamed “Grey” a la 50 Shades (he’s also salt and pepper haired), had my hands tied together behind my head and then to a harness around my chest, and my thighs had been tied to the upper bed posts, so I couldn’t move. He kept slapping my legs, harder, then softer, and would trace his fingertips along my legs to put me on edge. After a few minutes, he leaned over and said in a deep, dramatic voice,

“Do you like it when I touch your THERE?”


I had told him about E L James always calling pussies/clits “there” and how obnoxious it was.

Yeah, I basically couldn’t stop laughing after that.

Avant Guard

It’s a Chinese-looking place with bouncers, Jack had texted me, so when I saw what looked like a pagoda scrunched between two NYC shops, I figured that must be it. Only the place looked deserted. Even the big round lamps weren’t lit.

When I got close, though, I could see flickers of movement through the gate. “Is this the Avant Guard party?” I asked softly, and the gate was opened for me.

I stepped inside. I was in a tiny wrought-iron box with two large men. One of them opened a second inner door for me, behind which was a dark velvet curtain. I pushed this aside and found myself in a gloomy room decorated in a way which reminded me vaguely of the Sherlock Holmes movie, with a red-painted bar with gold dragons on the wall behind it. There were a couple people in formal wear, but nothing that wouldn’t be happening in a regular bar, so that I wondered if I was in the right place. 

An old man dressed in a bonnet, diaper, and bib wandered out of the other room. Ah, I was.

In the inner room there was a white mattress, and Jack was tying up a pretty, chubby girl with red hemp rope. I gave him a hug, then settled back to watch him thwack her. His other hand was buried deep in her pussy. Though she wriggled and moaned energetically, there was a kind of rhythm to it, and it made me meditative.

That night I was sad, dear readers. Somehow, I’d managed not to have sex—het sex, so-called “normal” sex—in at least five months. I’d approached no less than six people, only to discover that they each had their own reasons for not doing it: they were in a committed relationship, or only did it when they were in love, or preferred almost any other form of sex over penetrating someone. Most memorably, one was in chastity. 

After the third or fourth refusal, speculations on their unspoken reasons began to eat at me in my quiet hours. Instead of turning to other things, the need had grown until ideas of sucking cock and being fucked began to crowd out my dreams of boy’s bellies. The night before I’d fancied I’d been able to feel every swollen ridge of my g-spot as I lay trying to sleep on my hostess’ couch…

Jack finished with the girl—the first of many that night—and started to tidy his rope away into a neat coil. “Hey Molly!” he called over to me. “Could you look more bored?” 

I started and blushed. It wasn’t that I was afraid Jack wouldn’t beat me, or that he’d be unskilled. I was afraid that my need had become so huge that a beating would simply not be enough.   

"You’re kind of a wimp, as I recall," said Jack.  

"A bit," I allowed.

He asked me what I wanted him to do to me and all I could think of was my last lover throwing me on the bed and thrusting his cock into me. After a moment, I told him my nipples would most likely be able to take more punishment than my behind, and that “biting was good”. 

Jack told me strip, though I kept my ugly shoes on to protect me from the cold floor. Then he tied my wrists behind my back with hemp rope. This way, he told me, I couldn’t stop him from doing anything particularly painful. Then he brought out the clover clamps. I gasped when he put them on.

Then I forgot all about my depression as he held up one of my breasts and with the other hand delivered a hard, stinging slap. In seconds, my breasts looked red and raw, and I discovered that no one seemed to mind if I squealed liked a pig. 

He threw me on the mattress, bringing new pains. I realized that if I tried to inchworm on my belly into a new position, there was no way to avoid hurting my breasts even more. Jack manhandled me like a sack of potatoes, turning me over onto my side and spanking me bare handed. Then he brought out his canes. Each tiny crack hurt like a wasp sting.

"You’re SO MEAN, Jack!" I wailed. "Aren’t you going to be nice to me at all?" He asked what I meant and I lifted my thighs apart. "Down here would be nice!” 

He laughed and began hitting me on the pussy. The outer lips stung with each blow, but the vibrations stimulated me deep inside as well. Then he sank his teeth into my inner thigh and I screamed. 

"You call yourself a switch!" he taunted me. "Yellow is your favorite word!" 

I saw through the haze that people—lots of people, maybe ten or fifteen people—had crowded into the tiny room to watch him beat the shrieking chubby girl. At one point he ground the tip of his cane into the red raw welts on my breast.

After a while, Jack pulled me into a sitting position on the edge of the mattress and started to finger me. I knew he would try to kiss me, since he doesn’t mind that I have the whore’s mouth, but I also knew he’d tease me first.

I was having none of that. As he leaned forward, I leaned back, until he pulled me forward with a growl and rewarded me with my first kiss in many months. I hadn’t even dared to kiss Lucien yet. 

"Are we done?" I asked when he helped me stand up a little later. He said something I couldn’t quite hear, and I was left standing confusedly by the mattress, made helpless by my tied hands. 

Jack came back with his belt. He held half of it coiled in his hand around the buckle, and flicked the other half at me. The end snapped on my flesh, leaving a half-moon shaped welt.

He hit me again with a knotted hemp rope. I danced around the mattress saying, “Please, please, don’t hit me with that again, Jack!”

He laughed and hugged me. You did pretty well, he told me later, for a non-masochist.