rope

My lover and I have been experimenting with our adventures, expanding the limits of what we even thought we were capable of doing together.

This is what has led me to thoughts of gang bangs, and various other entanglements that have challenged me in various ways. It is intensely emotional, with the potential to blow the mind…

Nothing has captivated me more, though, than the ruby red rope he brought to my house a few weeks ago. It is gorgeous, particularly against creamy, white skin. I always had fantasies of being tied up. Cords still are attached from years ago when he tied me to the bed. But this was something different.

I thought it was all about the restraint, the dynamic of powerlessness within the scenario. I thought it was about submission, and trust. And it is. Oh yes, it is. I love this, love letting myself enter into that pure space–but this is only the second half.

Last week, the day before my birthday, my lover set to tying me up. He cut the rope into lengths, then started wrapping it around me. Too tight? too loose? How does it feel? It felt glorious…the vulnerability, inescapable. Submission, permission, admission, this sublime gift.

But there is something more that I never thought to consider. The intricate knots, the maneuvering.. it all takes time–and attention. It is perhaps this that I crave more than anything else. I bask in the glow, but it takes time, effort, patience. His, and mine. Tying me up, being tied up, it all is a careful exercise, foreplay, a meditation…

restrain me

I pull, in vain.

Expert knots, stopper knots, but you would let me free, I know. If I asked.

Or would you make me beg? I wish for this, for your desire to keep me here, at your disposal.

I wish for your desire itself, pure within the context of possibility.

I am here, love, open. I percolate. I wait.

Dark–no, light, still more light–in the au-delà, where you have always found me.

I wish.

I may.

I might.

getaway

“You like to tease me, don’t you?”

Louise had followed Gregory’s directions to the estate. He led her past forests, past the long wall, and up the driveway to the home of a good friend–a friend whose family evidently collected châteaux and Maseratis.

Louise stopped beneath the portico, and pulled her car to the side. As Gregory had insisted, she brought nothing but a purse. He said he had taken care of all her needs.

Louise walked to the door and knocked. A small, stern woman answered the door and silently handed Louise a small bag, then brought her through long halls to a large bathroom.

“You may change here, Ma’am,” the woman said. “Mr. Gregory is in the next door to the right. Do not knock. Just enter.”

Louise walked into the bathroom and opened the bag. Ah, how sweet! Luxuries for a lovely weekend!

She looked in: a pair of stilettos and a corset, with a short skirt..

Louise hesitated, then slipped out of her own clothes and put on the costume.

Please feel free to dress in these items, darling, and use the whip as you wish. I am waiting. 

Gregory

Louise walked from the bathroom to the next door, paused, then pushed the heavy oak panel.

“Greg, it’s me. Where are you hiding? I couldn’t wait to see you! I…”

Gregory was naked and face down across the canopy bed. His wrists and ankles were already bound to the posts–the scratchy rope was too tight, already leaving marks though he had little reason to pull them yet. Louise stopped, then slowly circled, tentatively swinging the small whip she had received gently against her hand.

“I think you want me to tease you,” Louise said–her voice more confident than she felt. She brought the whip down against a post, so the leather wound round. Not right. She walked around the bed again, then tried it on the bed between Gregory’s leg, watched him tense at the crack, saw him smile.

When Louise had received the invitation for a weekend away, it was a surprise. She had been seeing Gregory now for months, but he was away so often. Time was so precious, so rare. Too rare, in fact. But now, at last Gregory had managed to book a romantic weekend getaway, time alone.

“No, dear, not tease. What I want is for you to really use that whip. But I am in a compromised situation to demand things from you, I realize.”

Louise wanted to kiss Greg now. She wanted to tell him about her drive, wanted to cuddle beside him as they used to when they first met. But it was not the time, she saw. She knew well of Gregory’s fantasy, though they had never played these games before. But he wanted it now.

Louise raised the whip, and let it fall on Gregory’s thigh. A light red line immediately appeared. He flinched a little as she whipped the other leg, but she continued. He tensed as the strips of leather hit his legs again and again, but he shut his eyes and a sort of calm seemed to move into the room as she whipped harder.

Louise watched as Gregory moaned and cried, his flesh turning redder all the while. The rope was even tighter now, and Louise stopped.

“Are you hurt?” she whispered, tears streaming down her face as she saw the welts rise on his buttocks, his face red, sweat streaming down his face. She bent to kiss his bruised shoulders.

“Please,” Gregory gasped, “please more.”

Louise climbed beside him, and kissed his neck, her fingers tracing the red paths on his back. “I care about you, Greg,” she took hold of the rope, began to loosen the knot. “I can’t…”

“No,” Gregory turned, “no, oh, no. Don’t stop! Please, Louise, you turn me on so much. Please, the whip!”

Louise climbed down and whipped Gregory, whipped him hard, as he begged, pleaded her to stop.

“Do you want me to stop?” she asked.

“No, no!” Gregory panted. “Oh, it’s not the word. Remember?”

Yes. Yes, Louise thought and remembered. It was not the right word at all. She whipped him then until he said it, cried it out once.

Louise loosened the ropes, and saw Gregory’s cock stand as he rose from the bed. He grabbed for it, began to sit, but then stood, then took Louise’s hand and led her to the bath.

Gregory thrust his cock into his hands, yelling out as he quickly climaxed, leaning against the cold shower wall. Come rinsed from his hands as the water poured down from the shower head. He panted, then looked up at Louise and smiled. He reached for a towel and patted his skin.

Gregory fell into the bed and lay motionless, red backside, arms, legs, skin swollen now after all, still, the sting of hot water, the long arousal, intensity of the orgasm Louise had watched. “Oh, thank you,” he said, “it was ecstasy.” His shoulders surrounded her, her arousal stirred for the moment until he let go.

“Gregory, I don’t know…” she kicked off the heals, and lay the whip on the night table. She kissed him gently on the neck and wrapped her arms around him. He was asleep.

Gregory slept the sleep of angels, Louise thought. But she was not quite sure.

The dark clouds and sunlight in the late afternoon cast shadows that made the entire landscape seem more colorful than it really was. It was bound to rain later, which always makes for a romantic evening, Louise started to dream. But not now.

Not ever, it seemed, the promise of romance gone as quickly as it had come. Or maybe the whipping was supposed to be romantic–but she felt a crack in her soul as she hurt him. And yet he seemed to need it so much. Maybe she should have stayed, even if…

But no, not like this. It was not the fantasy that troubled Louise, not the thought of the pain, the delicate balance with pleasure–that, in fact, was the seduction. No, not that she wanted to hurt him, either, but that something was missing. They had barely spoken, before or during. Nothing so intimate should ever be so cold.

As the fairy tale became smaller in the rear-view mirror, Louise felt a surge of relief, driving in the rain, toward the night, through this unfamiliar land, but eventually, finding her way back home.

danger

“No, no.. it’s too cold!” I shout, in just to my ankles in the clear pond.

But I walk deeper, still, to mid-thigh, and let my body adapt to the shock of water.

It never works to enter into these affairs slowly, I know. I yearn for this, for water, and so it is not long before I am underwater, head immersed suddenly despite the chilling breathlessness in the gesture. The discomfort lasts only a moment, but you are already way beyond me, motioning to me to come out past the ropes, deeper. I look back at the land and suddenly fear that my legs will cramp, that I will drown, that something dreadful will happen here–and I wonder why–I know that in another day or two I will find my skin and return, alone if everyone else finds me too foolish to follow.

When you are not here, I dive right in. I defy the lifeguards, lure others out farther, farther out. But when I see you, I feel suddenly shy, want you to lead me even farther into the murky depths, into danger–back home.

And so we are here, once more.

I say “we”, and yet, in this moment, I am alone here, at least physically. I cannot erase you from my mind as I wait, blindfolded, for you to come back to the bedroom and make me pull at the ropes you have secured around my ankles and wrists.  I have known this feeling before, the terror first at relinquishing control, then the soaring freedom, intense and remarkable even in these moments that seem never to end. You have left me here, my shoulders and back covered in the warm blankets, my legs spread to expose all my secrets, my desire. You have filled me, painted me, left me alone to let the sensations wander into my body and stay, heat intensified as my inability to shift, to move becomes uncomfortable, as I think to touch myself and then cannot, as I wait and try to relax.

The door opens. I realize how deep I have gone into myself, how safe I have felt in this permission I grant myself now to abandon the world beyond the bed. You must see the wet spot beneath me, see my glistening skin as you walk around me. Pull me deeper, love, I wish, as you trace a fingertip up the length of my body, stop to twist my nipple, first gently, then harder, harder, until I groan, and arch my back, deeper, deeper into the bed, into my own lust.

Soft caresses tickle my arms, my feet, my belly, then sting once, then twice, then again, then gentle again, soft. I see nothing, imagine you standing above me, wish for your cock now, just to see it, if nothing else, just to lick you, taste you, dig my fingernails into your cheeks, my slick fingers then carefully opening you, excavating, thrilling. I want to satisfy you, but cannot, here, you pushing me beyond you, beyond my need to satisfy you. You, pushing me deep into myself. This is what terrifies me the most.

You are near, not touching, warm, breathing, hot skin.

You, quiet, kneel at the foot of the bed and nuzzle your face into me. You lick. I gasp.

I clench, the vibrations intoxicating, my clit tender and throbbing now just from your breath so close. You lick me again, and I moan, pull at the restraints, and feel near tears now, your hand now not gentle. A sting, then just heat, wet. You pet my blazing skin once more.

This could go on for days, I know, this torturous desire for more. More pain, more kisses, more licks. I want you to fuck me, but I do not want this to end. Not really.

But you are rougher now, the stings becoming regular across my legs, my belly, my breasts, and there seems no end. You have lit the jasmine candles–the room may be dark now–or is it incense? No, I think it is the candle, the one on the windowsill, the one in the blue jar. Yes, oh yes, I try to imagine the room, want something to hold onto now. I could say one word, but I feel myself slip into this protected space, so far away, until I want to stay in this world of pleasure promised. Pleasure, if pleasure only when you stop. Pleasure, if more, much more.

Much more. Your fingers jolt me back close to you, then dive into me, remove the toys you have put there–balls and plugs and such–and return once more, one, two, more. I want more, you, your fingers everywhere, my ass, my nipples red, sore from your attention, your mouth, your cock lively and gliding quickly into my slick cunt, then back out, you panting as you torment me–you may come quickly, I can feel as my cunt grabs, wanting, now my climax, close, your cock once more, gliding in, out, I want more, deeper, want your mouth sucking hard upon my nipples now, and you are, you are. More. Yes.

I want you to untie me now. I want to put my arms around you and hold you deep inside of me while the come pumps out of you. You leave me tied, but do not pull out right away as you lie on top of me, breathless. I feel the ropes loosen, and I pull, now free, now my hands feeling the makings of a beard on you, your face close, though I still cannot see. And then I can barely see, even the candlelight blinding, my feet now free, too, as I pull you close with them, your belly soaked with the come still flowing from me while I kiss you, and you kiss me, here.

We are well beyond the ropes, now. We are in danger, I know.

Swim deeper.

red suede

Libelulle walked around the bed, mindlessly running her fingers through the red suede strands of the small whip she had taken from the nightstand. “What now?” she paced, bewildered and energized by the possibilities that lay before her.

Mosquito lay before her. She called him this tonight, though she had never thought of him as prey before. She had never fantasized this scenario that had played out tonight as they teased one another, joking still about the green rope still tied to the foot of her bed since November, just kidding about the ball gag and the blindfold. But he trusted her, as he asked her what it felt like when he had tied her down that one time, and she showed him. Now he was Mosquito, and he could not speak, or see, or escape. She would devour him.

Or she could.

She felt her chest lift as her breath became shallow. Her head became light, and Libellule sat down on the large ball that sat still near the balcony door. She bounced to keep her balance, feeling her pelvis rock, which made her giddier still. She dropped to the floor, onto the fuzzy rug that she had moved to her bedroom one afternoon, hoping to fulfill a fantasy that really did often play out in her mind. It was the one where Mosquito simply fucked her, Libellule in pearls and heels and nothing else, on the white plush ground. A simple fantasy, but one that seemed to evoke some level of hotel glamour that at times fit the need quite nicely, especially when the balcony door was open.

But now Mosquito lay speechless and sightless, face down, spread out, on her soft bed. Beneath his hips lay a pillow, and a towel, because he thought to put it there. And it did not feel so much like bondage when they started, because he showed her how to make the knots, and they were laughing, and talking, and he asked her to do it. And now it was quiet, and she was in control, and she knew it.

Mosquito did not move. She had wondered, if she left him long enough, if he would struggle at all against the ropes. He seemed to sleep now, but she knew his breath when he slept, and this was different. His buttocks tensed at times, when she moved at all, or made the smallest sounds. Each passing moment seemed to raise the stakes, as he waited. As Libellule waited, too, unsure herself of what she was capable of doing.

Libellule stood. She took the red suede and let the strands softly stroke Mosquito’s right thigh, then his left. Mosquito’s hips moved back slightly, his head turning just a little into the pillow. She stopped, and lay the whip gently on Mosquito’s back. Libellule was fully clothed, as she often was when Mosquito was naked, even when he was fucking her. She felt the power in his skin, and wanted to be powerful, too. She took off her heels, one by one, placing each heel close to each of Mosquito’s hands, so he knew, at least a little, what she was doing. She let him hear the zip as she removed her dress, let the dress fall on the ground, and bent over to pick it up, her warm body close to his head as she lay the dress beside him, the faint smell of perfume and perspiration now close to his face. She unhooked her bra, let the lace trace his legs just as the whip had a few minutes earlier. He ground his hips into the pillow, now feeling the restraint. She was stripping for him, slowly, and he could not see her, or touch her, save in his imagination. Her panties remained.

Her panties were pale pink lace, pale pink not covering her black hair, pale, pink, sopping. Libellule bent and tentatively picked up the red suede from Mosquito’s back, gently letting it linger on his back, like a feather, first up, then down to his chiseled marble ass, which now belonged to her. Mosquito was incapable of saying no to anything she wanted do to to him now. She could be cruel. She felt it, and the thought excited her, her panties now irritating her plump labia as she stepped back to look at him again.

Libellule walked close, ran the suede down Mosquito’s thighs once more, now aware that she was stalling, that it was time. She had to whip him.

And so she raised the red suede, let it snap in the air, now no longer soft on his skin, but stinging. He moaned–or tried to–and Libellule watched the red mark raise ever so slightly against the white of his beautiful ass.

She whipped him again, harder. Stopped, amazed at her intense anger now, anger at being so excited by this, at having tied him up where his dick was so inaccessible. She was angry at this desire to hurt her Mosquito, angry at her intense need.

Libellule yanked off her panties, and threw them near Mosquito’s face. She reached into her cunt, greedily, sticking in fingers in a frenzy so unfamiliar to her that it frightened her. She had to come, and felt no remorse in meeting her needs as she grabbed the vibrator and placed it directly onto her clit, barely able to contain her excitement.

She could come. Should have. She was too excited, and Mosquito was in perfect control, there thrusting into the pillow as he heard her moan and thrash. He could come just like that, she imagined. She imagined his cock was hard, that he would have welcomed any touch from her. She wanted him, wanted him to take over and fuck her violently. She watched him there, trusting her, saw the red mark across his backside, and felt tears well up, a lump in her throat. It hurt her to leave marks on his skin, and yet it is what he wanted, what she wanted , too from him. She watched him there, as he breathed and rocked. She felt the whip in her hand, and her hot aching need as she thought of the power he entrusted in her. It was wild, intoxicating, this power.

And she knew now. She knew why it had been so long since he had tied her up.

Libellule could stand no more. She walked to Mosquito and pulled off the ball gag.

“What do you want?” she asked him.

“You tell me. I am your prey.”

“I want you to fuck me,” Libellule said.

She untied him. Mosquito rolled to his back, his cock springing up. Libellule felt a sigh of relief, her cunt still aching, Mosquito now reaching for her nipples.

“I want to hear you moan again,” Mosquito said, and he twisted his fingers gently, the blindfold now fallen, so he could see her face, so he could stop as he saw her pain increase.

“Climb on me,” Mosquito begged, and Libellule straddled him, her fire only hotter as his cock glided into her. She fucked. She fucked him hard, and watched as his face changed, as he let go of her nipples and grabbed at the blankets beneath him, as he then grabbed her hips and pushed her down harder, pressed to feel his cock fill her as she screwed him.

Libellule could not stop. She could feel his cock quiver, about to shoot up inside of her, and it would push her to climax, too, just as it had so many times before. But different. She let go, forgot all modesty, let her mind imagine the most forbidden parts of herself, the parts in which she takes the reigns and rides him, hard, the parts in which she abandons all notions of nice–if she ever held on now to a thread of niceness still in bed with Mosquito. She did. She was sweet, and caring, and responsible. But not now. She let go of all of her that was not slut, and fucked him up and down, spreading her legs wider, and rubbing her clit down each time she ground into his hips.  He held her there, groaning loudly as she felt his come fill her swollen cunt, making her scream as she clamped his cock uncontrollably, her legs shaking, too, her breasts heavy and sore, her hips suddenly tired like a man’s.

Libellule lifted herself off Mosquito and sat beside him, wild eyed and panting like a panther that has just killed. He kissed her and smiled, and rolled back to reach for a pillow. And Libellule saw it: the red flash on Mosquito’s naked ass, a tattoo of her violence and her lust. Her heart pounded once more as she saw it: the whip on the nightstand, making her shiver, making her want to have him, all of him, once more.

fever

Hunger.

I cannot help but wonder as I wander through the streets and alleys of my mind what lies around the next corner. These days, it seems the smallest thought turns into a real being, living, breathing… and in reality always there before, but now transformed into figments of my desire, of your desire, of our collective lustful imaginations.

So it shall be. A jug of lube, a bundle of rope and thou, beside me singing in the wilderness… perhaps? Or in the sweetly familiar love nest where we explore bodies and minds, discovering paradise, redefining it in a balance of pain and pleasure?

I crave your skin, skin hot, crackling as you roll over and let me whip you into submission.. would you? Would you release your will, if only for a few precious moments, let me drive you beyond debauchery, beyond pain, beyond pleasure?

I crave your skin, your hot skin, your sizzling skin as I dowse about the surface, as I crawl beneath it, tapping the pleasure within you, you your bountiful well.

I release you. Yes, if I were to release you, let you ravish me, let you scoop me up, let you wash me out, would you be satisfied? Or would you come back for more, craving more?

the way we were

Scattered pictures of the smiles we left behind…

Not quite those misty watercolor memories. The image is as clear as day and shining right here on the screen of my cell phone. I used to glance every so often–hoping that my colleagues were not standing behind me while I did–it all came rushing back to me then…

You, tied up.

Me, with whip.

You, waiting.

Me, with camera.

You, squirming.

Me, clicking.

You, cringing.

Me, laughing.

You, relaxing.

Still waiting.

Still squirming.

–WHACK!!–

Still cringing.

–WHACK!!– (a little harder now)

Relaxing.

Me wet.

You hard. (That was predictable.)

Me Tarzan.

You Jane.

That is quite a thought, that, you–submissive, feminized even. Yes.

No pictures of that, but yes memories… hopes blurred… “time erasing every line”… and now, with the magic of the keypad, delete. Gone.

sweet surrender

As I start to pull out of your driveway, I stop, immediately covered with goosebumps as I realize that you moved the seat back when you went to buy milk this morning. Yes, this morning. You took my car out while I lay naked and tied to your bed. You left me there, alone and tied, and rather than despair at this, I let go of all sense of myself, luxuriating instead in my incapacity to do anything but doze off, wander within my own mind–even with your plug filling my ass–your soft comforter covering me in the faintly sunlit room.
————————
You hint while we are out walking about things I forgot on your birthday. We come back to your house, and you beg me for your spanking. That wonderful chair in the corner of your bedroom, you bent over my lap as I hold you down, pull down your briefs just enough to slap you once for every year.. hard. Harder than I ever meant to, but making me wet as I chance to slap you more–intoxicating–only to hear you whimper, watch you bounce back and flinch. All the way to this year… you compliant as I scoot to the end of the chair and plant my heels on your shoulders and push your head down. Good. Good.
———————–
We kiss, fuck. You ask me to tie you up. And I do. I go through your dresser drawers to find the restraints, the whips, the dildo, and I let at you, thrashing you to your outer bounds–or one would think. Intense, yes, but can I find your limit? You grasp at the restraints, breathing slowly. But you still want more. No. You never beg me to stop, I fear not, though I stop at last, your ass hot to my touch, red. You, quivering beneath the covers, calming, as I calm myself from the delight of watching your reactions.

I whip you again in the morning, waking next to you, letting you fuck me hard, and then wanting you all the more, aggressively, as I hold your wrists down and climb on top of you, biting and kissing you, my prey, my delicious lusty fuck meal.
———————–
I am exhausted now, dear, undone by the intensity of the experience… your voice carrying me through my own pain as you whip me, promising more, pushing me just a little more, asking me if I want more… and yes, yes I do. I pause, then tell you yes. Spank me one more time, don’t stop. And I shiver, awaiting it as you talk gently to me. And then I break into tears, none sad, but cathartic as I hold you, and you stroke my hair and tell me I am beautiful.
———————–
Where are the limits in this? I remember still holding that small red whip in my hand for the first time, running it over your naked legs, stunned at the power that I held there when I hit you and you loved it. I loved it. I feared it, a little, feared my own excitement at the reactions I could pull from you.

How has it come to this? How have we unleashed this craving for this exchange? for the intense vulnerability and trust as we push our physical capacity, and more than that, our emotions? Unleashing the demons, playing with them until they run far away, along with the everyday, the mundane. Finding the sublime in moments stripped of all but the moment itself, the whip, our bodies, our minds.

all by myself?

Mmm.. mood lighting may not seem necessary when I am alone, but in fact it is the time when ambiance matters most, matters most for my imagination to run wild.

My imagination runs wild as the candles flicker, here in the shade-darkened afternoon room, dark save the balcony door left slightly open, a line of sunlight coming in with the faint breeze, the fresh smells of the day, the humidity, the buzz of the street below.

I wish you were here.

Is this not always what we say? think?, as we lie back in a soft bed, pillows propped up behind us, vibrators, toys, lined up for this sort of self-seduction. Masturbation is not always so well planned, but indeed, I do seduce myself right now, soaking in the warm perfumed bath, glancing at the used condoms tossed at some earlier moment into the wastebasket beside the bed.

My skin feels soft, damp, sweet, even to me. I lie back and groan to myself as my fingers plunge beneath panties put on why? Perhaps only to remind me of the way that you take them off, teasing, testing, making them wet. Naughty you. My panties are wet, yes, and it is because of you, because of that ever present image of you, your head there, down, there, your tongue circling and sucking, and my fingers reminding me of it all as I shut my eyes and lean back into utter luxury, the warm bath soothing, the tea, the candles again.. I am taken in so easily by all of this, and I want to be, want to let my daydreams bring you here to me now.

You are here. Do you remember these moments? Me, satiated. Yes, but after you hold my legs apart when I start to squirm, start to feel overwhelmed, and yes you overwhelm me with that circling tongue, you, the scent of you, your naked body stretched out with your hands pushing me apart, holding me down, bringing me to climax with that tongue, your mouth penetrating me through every orifice you find there, you licking with fury as I get louder and you feel your cock throb as you feel my orgasm closer, there, again, as you realize how easy it is to keep going and bring me higher and higher. Me satiated, perhaps, but wanting you, wanting to take you over.

You always move off of me, let me touch your cock, but stay on your belly, your ass inviting me to play with it. Yes, your lovely ass so willing, so tempting, so vulnerable there as you are, stretched out naked on my bed, your cock engorged, your balls heavy, your wish for me to penetrate you so keen as you soak in the flavor of my cunt all over your face. I want to tease you as you have teased me, but more, want to push you hard, see your face as your buttocks become redder and redder. I never need to tie you down for this: you willingly submit to my paddle, my hand, my hairbrush, all for the one moment that the sting is intense, the finger is wet and plunging into your ass so sweetly, so warmly as you relax then tense up in the confusion of the moment.. a strong sensation, pulsing, feeling that you might come quickly, explode. But you don’t. Not yet.

And I am so hot here thinking of this, thinking of you letting me whip you hard as you take it, only grimacing as I do it, and insisting that you want more as I question my own limits, whether I have pushed as far as you really can go. I find myself ever wetter, again, thinking of the way you push up onto your knees when the whipping seems to have ended, when you invite me, beg me to push my fingers into your lovely ass. When you want for me to lick your ass, suck your balls, fuck you.

Fuck me. My pussy is wet, swollen, primed from the coming waves and from the notion of your own lust, the awareness of your cock swollen too, wanting.

Tease. Tease.. I think of you here, the candles, the music, my breathing shallowed as I reach into my little orange bag and find the toys that most remind me of you. I fuck myself, yes, it is you, you fuck me here, somewhere in this daydream outside of time, outside of space, somewhere here in an afternoon, you are here, turning me on still. I tie my own legs to the bed, all the more excited by the restraints, nipples clamped, holes plugged tight, tighter, the no-escape pleasure like lava pouring down a mountainside hot hot, like you, exploding inevitably inside me as you pound me, as you take me, as you fuck me hard the way I must be fucked.