SFF was on a mission. A mission to get someone to tie me up.
I tried to tell him that watching was more than enough for me, but he wasn’t
having any of it. He seemed to consider it part of his hosting duties to get me
some. I figured the only way out of the belly of the beast was by going through
the other end, so I swallowed my nerves and accepted the situation. K was the
ultimate target, SFF explained, but he was a busy man with many girls to tie
up. But he, SFF, would not let me down.
In the midst of the sexual silliness, the second-in-command
of the bar – we’ll call him Speccy – came over and had a bit of a flirt with
me. He called me 'baby' and I only slightly objected because I figured I’d cut
him some slack due to the language barrier. He was cute, not as cute as K and a
bit younger, but cute all the same. He introduced himself saying: 'My name is
Speccy and I am very small.'
I still don’t know what part or parts of himself
he was referring to. We chatted,
he tried to get me to take some tequila shots, I refused, he wandered away. All
drinks in this bar were free, all night (wow!), once you were inside, but I
wanted to stay sober enough to a) make clever decisions and b) remember making
them.
A little while later SFF announced that Speccy would tie me,
and I should take off my bra. I went to the toilet, looked at my reflection in
the mirror and said to myself 'Well… goodbye comfort zone.' then took a deep
breath and returned to the club. SFF told me that he had passed on my
preference to keep my pants on, and also asked Speccy to whip me a bit. There
was a glint in his eye. Thanks a lot, SFF. Oh well, in for a penny, in for a
topless onstage whipping, I suppose.
Speccy was Japanesely formal in his politeness at the
beginning. He requested that I take off my top, bowed to me, kneeling
face-to-face on the stage, then positioned me with my back to him, facing the
audience. His first touch was soft, gentle, a sensuous trailing of fingers down
my naked shoulders. 'Relax,' he breathed in my ear. His hands were sure,
subtle, across my shoulders and down my arms. I sank into the sensation of it,
closing my eyes. I felt the brush of the rope against my back, easing down my
spine, and then dragged slowly across my chest, the fibres of the hemp scuffing
lightly against my skin. He let the rope uncoil in front of me, let it catch on
my nipples, let me feel every inch of it, pulled it back across me towards
himself. And he was there, warm and present behind me, I was nestled between
his knees, his arms about me, his breath in my ear. He took my arms and folded
them behind my back, and then he began to tie me.
I couldn’t tell you exactly
what happened or when; I slipped into a half-hypnotised, meditative state where
I was only very dimly aware of anything other than him and the rope. I was
pulled back into him, my head against his shoulder, our cheeks pressed
together, our breath mingling, the ropes slowly binding me, squeezing me
tightly, securely, helpless but so relaxed. Rope time is special – it seems
like eternity, but it’s always over too soon. I remember blended fragments: the
soft growls in his throat as he bound me tighter, pulling me into him, the
sparks of sensation as he dragged the rope across my nipples, the press of his
body against mine, his hand in my hair, squeezing, pulling my head back,
enjoying my vulnerability. It was sexy as hell.
I responded with all of myself,
dropping into rope space, leaning into him, utterly relinquishing control,
except for once succumbing to the desire to run my hands, bound at the wrists,
across the part that was pressing into me, as he pulled me backwards. Then my
weight was lifted as he tied the ropes into a ring in the ceiling. I wriggled
into him as he pulled me by the hips and murmered 'Doggy style please,' before
tying me so that my knees were still on the floor but most of my weight was
taken by the ropes, and I was face forward, parallel to the floor, hands bound
behind my back, ready for phase two.
Now, I’d seen the whips he had laid out on the stage, and
they weren’t friendly – he’d chosen a couple of large, heavy, club-ended single
tail whips of braided leather. I assumed that he’d warm into it though, and I
trusted that he knew what he was doing and that SFF was looking on in case
anything got too edgy.
[Educational aside: when I say 'warm into it', I’m referring
to the common practice with impact play, or 'stuff where you get hit by stuff
for fun', to start with lighter impact, and build into the stronger, heavier
stuff. This serves the triple purposes of letting the submissive acclimatise,
avoiding peaking too early (I mean, when you’re at a theme park, you go on the
smaller rides first, so you can enjoy their effect, and save the biggest for
last, because to do it the other way round makes the rest of the day a bit of
an anticlimax, right?), and physiologically building up a cushion of swelling,
which protects your flesh from being damaged too deeply as you progress to the
heavier stuff. Not everyone does this, but I’d say it’s generally considered to
be sensible.]
Well, he patted me on the bum, and I relaxed, thinking he
was going to spank me a bit, but then the next thing I knew he’d taken a few
steps back, and thrown a first thud of the whip. Oh wow, that hurt. He was
hitting me on the part between my hips and my lower back, a part less cushioned
by fat, and I was excruciatingly aware of it. I tried to wriggle into a
slightly different position, so he’d hit me on a softer part, but it was
impossible, I was trussed up like a chicken. He hit me again, again, not
quickly, lazily, with a smile on his face, and every blow felt like it was
sinking into my bones. I cried out. I NEVER cry out, at least not loudly and
involuntarily. Now I was making noises I didn’t know I could make. It was
almost too much, I wasn’t sure I could take it anymore.
I realised we hadn’t
agreed a safeword (I’m going to assume that, thanks to that god-awful tome
which I refuse to name, most of you know what a safeword is). Stupid. A couple
more blows landed and I was really reaching the end of my tether, convulsing
and yelling into the floor. I looked back at him in desperation, wanting to say
something, but still not wanting to humiliate him by shouting 'stop' onstage.
He must have seen the look in my eye because he stopped. He came over, stroked
my trembling buttocks, and brought a magic wand into the equation, first
rubbing it against me, then strapping it in place with more ropes. This was a
nice thought, but I’m more specific in my orgasmic needs than some, and the
wand just wasn’t placed quite right, so actually it was vaguely annoying. And
then he stepped back again, and picked up the whip...
Having had a chance to
breathe, I thought I could take it for a while longer. The endorphins were no
doubt flowing. Soon I was back into hurt animal mode, knowing nothing but the
pain, not caring what noise I made. Letting the thud of the whip reverberate
through me and explode out of my lungs somehow reduced the agony. He was a
little gentler this time, I think, but not much. Occasionally he whipped the
magic wand instead, making it jerk against me. I don’t know how long I would
have stood out, but suddenly it was over and they were untying me. K was
onstage helping Speccy to get me down. In fact, it was all a little perfunctory
and rushed. Something was up. SFF wandered over to me, leaned in close with a
little smile, and said
'Ze Yakuza ‘ave just told us zat ze Police are ‘ere, so
we must take you down now.'
Oh god. So there I was, bound up onstage, waiting
for the police to come in. That’s a vulnerable moment. High on endorphins, I
decided there was nothing to be done – struggling would only make it more
difficult to untie me, and make me look like an idiot to boot. Pride gets me
through – not to mention into – a lot of situations. So I waited patiently for Speccy
to untie me, and smiled at the ridiculousness of my life. I fully expected them
to rush in and deport me at any moment. But low and behold, my luck held, the
police didn’t come in, and soon I was free and clothed, and being thanked by Speccy
for the experience.
'You are really sexy. That was great. You are a sexy
dynamite blonde. Take my card. Send me your contact.'
And so the night wound down. I went to sit, floating and
grinning, on the edge of the stage, get checked over and grounded by SFF and
his lady, and make conversation with my new fans from the 'audience'. SFF was
leaving and I elected to go with him to his crash pad rather than stay at the
club alone with no language skills and no knowledge of the way back to the
station. I levitated along behind him, noting with an internal giggle the
cherry-on-the-cake surreality of his comment as we walked down a narrow
alleyway:
'Zere are many leetle toads in zis alley. Try not to squeesh zem.'
Back at his we were treated to champagne and cakes, and his lady got drunk
instantly, broke her stony reserve, and demanded that he teach her how to
compliment my breasts in English. The hilarity of a Frenchman trying to teach a
hammered Japanese girl the phrase 'nice tits' still makes me smile to this day.
The only thing that from then on, in fact, that DIDN’T make me smile was the
sight of my arse in the mirror. I had known it was a bit painful to sit on, but
jesus christ.
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