Oct 212015

Sitting in front of him, exhausted and sweaty from the pain of our scene, I thought that he was going to untie the chest harness. He had already unbound my legs, ran his graceful hands over heated skin in the wake of the rope, so next up was my chest untied. Right?


My brain is often a chaotic swirling of thoughts, speeding by so quickly that sometimes it’s hard to find clarity. Even coming down from the spacey high of the scene, my unconscious background noise was beginning all over again, a realization made evident only when my wrong assumption was brought to light. Proven wrong, the wisps of vague notions of what I should be doing and how I’m doing stilled.

A strand of rope touched my upper arm, instantly I knew it was coconut rope. Coconut rope is scratchy and prickly immediately, no matter the pressure applied. I don’t like coconut rope, but my thighs had been treated with it twice by this man, both times around my thighs when I’m partially suspended and already on a high from the pain. I was okay with coconut rope at the peak of the scene, I discovered, but now – now when my brain was gearing to fire up again?

Now apparently I was okay with it as well as he slowly slid it across my chest, where the rise of my breasts begin. His breath sounded in my ear, heart beat pressed into my back, his clean scent – all of him assailed my senses as I sighed. Hands moved from shoulder to shoulder, the scratchy rope trailing across my soft skin. He tied it around me, pressed me down, my thoughts pressed into nothingness, away from him and yet the whole of my being centered around his will, and towards the rough textured sensation of the rope and peace.

It would mark me; fade to little pink abrasive markings against pale white skin for days to come. It would humble and calm me when viewed.


When I was fully untied, he positioned me to lie on my side and removed the blindfold. I stretched my shoulders and rested my head on one arm, keeping the other also up by my face. I kept my eyes shut, my body welcoming the soft blanket on the floor. I felt him navigate himself against my back, spooning position. His hand softly ran along the side of my body – inch by inch unhurriedly, glided across the back and fingertips swept hair off of my neck. His fingers stroked my scalp, ran through my hair, and I felt so sleepy and cherished. I welcomed the softer, sensual sensations after our scene. He gathered my hair up, clenched it suddenly in his fist, and yanked my head up. My breath caught at the absolute control, his arm slid between my own on the floor and my head, and wound its way around my throat. He pressed my head down a bit into his arm, my throat felt the heat from his strong arm. Vulnerable. At his mercy and whim.

I sighed, the only sound I heard in the silent room. He bent his arm slightly, the pressure more prominent against my throat, and then released my hair. I snuggled into his arm, tried to slow my excited breath, listened to his as a guide…as if I had forgotten what breathing normally was like.

His fingers again went soft and slow across my skin, they reached around my body and picked up a corner of the soft blanket to rub into my skin. My skin loved that blanket, so soothing against rope roughed nerves. His fingers again went to the base of my skull, soothed at a slow pace, yet I still found myself tensing, waiting…hoping.

Sure enough, he gripped again and pulled up. I groaned into the pain and arched a bit to relieve some of the pressure. The arm that I snuggled into tightened around my throat, not choking, but so dominant to my body. He twisted a bit, the pressure against my throat and the tugging at my hair hurt.

One of my hands went to his forearm, the fingers curled around his muscle, and before I dug in my nails I realized that he isn’t mine to scratch and mark – to claw into as I am sometimes wont to do when I am in pain. If we play again, I thought fleetingly, I should ask about that. It’s almost instinctual to press my fingertips into something when I am overwhelmed with sensations. I don’t draw blood, maybe he wouldn’t object.

It was the glorious-overwhelming-pleasure inducing pain that makes me so still I find myself holding my breath at the pinnacle – when my brain quits it seems to forget the simplest of tasks until I cross an unknown threshold and resume. When he let go, I collapsed into his arm again, felt the heat of his body alongside me, relaxed into the floor. He brushed his fingers through my hair, softly caressed my back. His heartbeat thudded against my overstimulated skin and I felt drowsy in the lullaby of his breaths.

I rolled over, threw a leg over his hips; the subtle scent of soap/deodorant/cologne on his skin wafted and added to the overall closeness, and snuggled more firmly against his side. My forehead rested in the center of his chest, my arm wrapped around and lazily circled his back. His hand kept a steady pace up and down my own back as I unhurriedly drifted back into reality.

*To read about the scene, click here.

 Posted by at 5:14 am

  2 Responses to “when I thought the scene was done”

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