by Roz Lee
My body vibrates like a pecan tree with a hydraulic tree shaker attached to it. My boobs would probably fall off if not for my bra.
“Hey.” Fingers beneath my chin lift me to my feet. “If you really don’t want to do this, you can go. But I wish you’d give it a try. I can’t imagine a more perfect person to showcase my bull ropes or my rigging skills. I’ve been working for months, drawing up plans to take advantage of your dancer’s body. I promise not to harm you in any way.”
God, he holds me captive with just his fingers. What does he need ropes for? “I’m scared,” I admit. “But I need the money.”
“Oh, sweetheart, please. Don’t do it for the money. Do it for yourself.”
I search his eyes for a meaning and come up empty.
“I’ll pay you the agreed-upon amount, even if you decide to walk right now. The money means nothing to me, Beth. You, however…I’ve wanted to rig you since the first time I saw you. I think you were a freshman. It was the beginning of my senior year. You came out of one of the classrooms near my locker. Most teenage girls are like new colts, all legs and arms and they don’t know what to do with them. But you? You moved with a grace that set me on fire. I’ve fantasized about rigging you ever since.”
“Rigging me?”
“Tying you up. Turning your body into a work of art, with rope.”
I had no idea he even knew I existed in high school, much less fantasized about me. If I’d known, I probably would have dissolved into a puddle of hormonal goo, unable to function. All these years later, the statement still had the power to rock my world. I’d been with men, some had been really into me for a short time. Knowing this man, this god of man, had been dreaming about me for over a decade simply takes my breath away.
“Breathe, baby.” With his arm around my waist, he lowers me to the floor. One big hand on the back of my neck pushes my head lower.
I gasp, filling my lungs with chilled air that carries his scent—leather and sexy man—two of my favorite things.
“That’s better,” he says, helping me to sit upright.
I can’t look at him, so I glance at my surroundings. I don’t have a lot of experience, but I’m not ignorant of the world. I’ve read about BDSM and dungeons, so I can name some of the apparatus. My gaze lands on a table set up off to the side. It’s piled high with enough rope to rig a three-mast schooner. A plastic container on one end is labeled Rigging Supplies.
I want to ask him questions about high school, and why, in all the intervening years, he never approached me, but when I open my mouth, the words on my lips are, “Why here?”
He looks as surprised by the question as I am, but he recovers quickly. A smile curves his lips. “I have everything I need here.” He points to the rope. Then I follow his gaze to the ceiling. An electric winch, the kind nearly everyone in these parts has mounted on the front of their pickup, hangs above our heads. “I would have preferred to do this at my house, but Wanda said the lighting is better here.”
“I don’t want to know what that’s for,” I say, fixated on the winch. Truth is, I do know what it’s for, and god help me, the idea of being bound, suspended, and totally at Colton’s mercy is about the hottest thing I can imagine.
“Don’t worry. We won’t need it for a few days. Today, I’ll bind your wrists and arms, in front and behind. Tomorrow, I’ll add some leg and body bindings. If you’re comfortable, maybe we’ll get to the suspension on the third day.” He holds me close, his arm banding my back, his hand stroking my biceps, firm, but soothing. Just like his voice.
Wanda strides back in. She’d been gone longer than it took to adjust the average thermostat, but I’m grateful she recognized I needed time alone with Colton, and gave it. If I could get up off the floor, perhaps we would get along okay. “Is that better?”
My internal body temperature has risen from permafrost to hot spring. “Yes, thank you.”
I try to stand. Colton, despite his bum leg, hops easily to his feet and holds out his hand to assist me.
“Ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.” I take a deep breath then let it out. My legs tremble. It’s going to take more than a few minutes to process what he’s told me. “What do I do?”
“These are nude shots”—Colton’s eyebrows arch up in a challenge—”so I need you to strip then take your spot on the backdrop.”
“Over here okay?” I move to one of the alcoves out of camera range.
“Perfect.” He turns his back on me, heading to the opposite side of the room and the table laden with rope.
Stripped and standing on my mark, I wonder what Colton will think of my smooth crotch. I don’t remember mentioning my hairless state to him the night we talked. I could have, though.
Wanda pays me no mind, checking her cameras and all manner of shit I know nothing about. I shift on my feet. This must be how skydivers feel the first time they stand at the open door of a perfectly good airplane. Anxiety churns in my stomach. I’ve come this far. It’s time to jump.
“Hold your hands out, wrists together.”
I jump at the sound of Colton’s voice. I’d been so absorbed in my thoughts I didn’t hear him approach. I stretch my arms out in front.
“This is nylon rope. It will be easy on your skin.” He loops the red cord around my wrists, placing one of his thick fingers underneath for a spacer. “This doesn’t have to be tight, it’s for looks only today.”
He works quickly. In a heartbeat, my wrists are bound in an elaborate and beautiful knotted scheme—not tight, but there is no way I could get out of it on my own. Taking my fingers in his, he examines my fingertips. I say a silent thank you to my friend Jasmine who keeps my nails flawless and my body hairless in exchange for dance lessons.
“Your color looks good. Not too tight?”
“No. I don’t think so.” I wiggle my digits to demonstrate all is well.
“On your knees, then.” He helps me to the floor. Per his instruction, I sit back on my heels and spread my thighs wide. He turns to Wanda. “How’s this?”
The photographer looks through the lens on the tripod-mounted camera then glances up. “You want to leave her hair down? It won’t show in the up-close shots, but it might in the wider angles.”
“You’re right. Don’t know how I missed it.” Colton moves behind me. As his deft fingers comb through my hair, lifting, parting and braiding, it is all I can do to keep from groaning.
“That was fast,” I say as he steps off camera.
“I make my living braiding rope.” He studies me with a critical eye. “Feelin’ okay, still?”
“Fine.” My feet are going to sleep, but as a dancer, I’m used to physical discomfort.
“Chin down. Look at your hands.” Wanda barks orders. I comply. Lights flash and shutters click in a rapid-fire burst. “I thought we might get by without oiling her, but I’m not getting any muscle definition,” she complains.
Colton reaches for something behind the box of suspension gear then approaches. He helps me stand. “I could untie you and let you apply the oil, but it will be quicker if I do it myself. Do you mind if I touch you?”
I stare at him, wondering for a second if my overactive libido has conjured up his question. He raises one eyebrow, holds the bottle of baby oil up for me to see. A hysterical giggle forms in my throat. I choke it back, croaking out my answer. “No. Go right ahead.”
How many hours did I spend as a teenager imagining this man spreading suntan lotion on my body? Too many to count. After drizzling a line along both my arms, he smears the oil on, his warm, callused fingers gliding across my skin. I close my eyes against the sensual onslaught. I’ve always thought spontaneous combustion to be an urban myth, but Colton’s touch has convinced me. Flames lick at my insides while he spreads liquid fire on the outside.
“Her tits and shoulders are going to show,” Wanda calls out. She’s been studying those tests shots on her computer screen. “And her thighs. Might as well do all of her while you�
��re at it. I’m going to get another reflector out of my car. Be right back.”
“Breathe,” he urges. I don’t even realize I’ve been holding my breath until Colton calls me on it. “I should untie you, let you do this yourself.” He fills his palm with oil. “But I’m not going to.”
Thank you, God. I’m breathing like a bronc sprung from the chute. I want his hands on me so bad. Then they’re there, covering my breasts, massaging the globes, plucking at my nipples until the shy nubs stand at attention and I’m ready to collapse.
“Raise your arms up.”
Stupefied, I do.
Colton steps closer. “Drop them over my head. Let me have your weight.”
I hang from his neck while he coats my abs and stomach with oil. I have no will of my own at this point. I want him in every way a woman can want a man. I want him inside me most of all. My pussy throbs in tandem with my heartbeat. I’m a slick mess, and not just from the oil he’s putting on my body.
“’Gonna coat your mound, baby. Any objection?”
I shake my head. His fingers brush over the tender flesh. Someone groans. Maybe both of us.
“You are so fuckin’ beautiful. Soft.” His fingers part me. “Ready.”
“How we doin’? ’Bout ready?” Wanda’s voice booms through the building—a warning shot that startles us apart.
Colton makes quick work of my thighs, assists me to my position on the floor. Then he’s gone. I’m alone with the lights, the click of the camera, and Wanda’s military-sharp orders. By the time she’s through, my legs are cramping and I’m sure I’ll be seeing spots for the rest of my life.
“Next pose. Don’t forget to oil her up,” Wanda directs. “I’m going to take a break.”
Back on my feet, Colton releases my hands, tossing the used rope to the side. Following his brusque commands, I turn, managing to remain upright while he oils my back, paying special attention to my rump. My traitorous mind silently wills him to part the globes and explore deep. Real deep. I’m a bad, bad girl, imagining all the ways he could avail himself of my body while he has me restrained.
He grabs more red rope. In a flash, my arms are secured behind my back from wrist to armpits. My shoulders ache, and I’m painfully aware of how the pose makes my boobs stick out. Not until I’m on my knees again does he inquire as to my state of being.
“Okay, I guess. I think I’m going to be sore tomorrow.”
“You’re doing great. I scheduled a massage for you this afternoon.”
I’m about to protest but he cuts me off.
“My treat. It’s the least I can do for putting you through this.”
As much as I need the massage, and the money he’s paying me, the truth is, I’d pose for free just to have his hands on me the way they were earlier. The distance he’s put between us can’t be measured in inches or feet, and I long for the man who, a few minutes ago, set me on fire with a few words and a bottle of baby oil.
Fade
The massage, a couple of over-the-counter pain pills, a hot shower, three solo orgasms, and a restless night behind me, and I’m back again. Wanda gives me my orders—minimum makeup, hair back in a ponytail. I’m bare-assed naked, slathering myself with oil when Colton walks in and sees nothing but my hair. He takes it down, does some elaborate braid thing with his magic fingers then leaves me to finish the lube job on my own.
My wrists are bound in front of my body, a different pattern than yesterday. He wraps my legs together from ankle to thigh in what he calls a double-ladder design. It’s intricate and mystifyingly beautiful. To keep my balance, he lowers the winch and attaches a bar to it—sort of a trapeze thing, by no means steady, but if I hold on tight, I won’t topple over. Finished, he tucks the rope ends in. Rising from the floor, his nose brushes close enough to my slit he can’t help but get a whiff of the honey pouring from my pussy, yet he says nothing. Does nothing.
Frustration claws at my insides. Yesterday, he went out of his way to turn me on, it seemed, and it worked. Today, he’s going out of his way to not turn me on, and failing miserably. I’m beginning to wonder if the money is worth the loss of my sanity.
Wanda snaps a series of close-ups below the waist. If it’s possible for a pussy to blush, mine is. I doubt anyone would be able to identify me from this angle, but the idea of strangers viewing photographs of that part of my body intimidates me. She and her camera retreat to the computer set up where she can view the photos. I let out a tense breath, glad to be moving on.
“How’s your back? Can you do a backbend?” Colton’s voice winds me up like a mare in heat.
“Not with my legs bound. I need them apart for balance.”
“What if someone supports your waist? Keeps you from falling on your head?”
“That would work, but I don’t see how—”
“Leave it to me.”
I’m still trying to envision how the pose is going to work when he activates the winch.
“Hold on. I’ll have you down in a few minutes.”
I’m practically on tiptoe. Colton winds rope around my neck, crisscrosses my chest, under my boobs, around my boobs. He calls out for Wanda to hand him a bull rope which he wraps around my waist, weaving the ends expertly with the rope already caging my torso so the handle sits right over my belly button. He tugs on it, jerking my entire body toward his. “Perfect. Wanda, can you come hold her steady for a sec?”
“Let me get a few shots of her first.”
Colton lets go, his hands coming back to stop me from swinging like a pendulum before he steps out of Wanda’s viewfinder.
“That’s some fine work, Colt,” she says, her shutter reeling off photo after photo as she circles me.
“Thanks. You got her? I need to change.”
“Got her.” She sets her camera aside and grabs the handle at my middle.
“Where’s he going?”
“He’ll be right back. I have to say, when he described this shot to me, I thought he was nuts, but it’s going to sell product like crazy if it’s half as good as his vision.” She tugs on the bull rope. “Damn, he’s good. Don’t worry, hon. He won’t let you fall on your head.”
“Wha—?”
Colton reappears wearing nothing but longhorn leather chaps and boots. At least I think he has on boots. Once I tear my gaze from his bare chest and defined abs, I lock onto his package. His cock, gloriously erect, rises nearly to his navel. When he walks, I catch a glimpse of his sac swinging heavy between his legs. Hell and damnation. Fuck me eight ways to Sunday and back again. No wonder he’s a champion bull rider. He’d probably intimidated the shit out of the beasts.
With my legs bound, frustration reaches a boiling point. Every female mating instinct I have urges me to part my legs, but I can’t. I snarl—actually snarl at him. He stops at the table, tosses a rosin bag from hand to hand then drops it. Wanda melts out of his way. He takes her place, pressing his body against mine, letting me get a feel of what he’s denied me.
“Shh, babe.” He grips my handle. As he’d done thousands of times, he curls and uncurls his fingers until the grip is comfortable and sure. “Got your camera, Wanda?”
“Yep. Just the way we discussed?”
“Exactly.” His eyes never leave mine. “On the count of three, let go, babe. Head back, eyes closed, I want you to arch your back as slow as you can. I’ve got you. I won’t let you fall.”
“Okay.”
“Wanda is going to document the whole thing. Go as far back as you can and hold there. When you have to come back up, just say my name and I’ll help you.”
His cock bobs against my stomach. With me arched over backward, him holding me by his bull rope, my legs and body bound, he’s riding me. The images are going to be erotic, and beautiful. It won’t matter what he’s selling, people are going to buy.
“Ready?” I nod, holding his gaze until he says, “Three.”
I close my eyes, let go of my only grip on the world. Controlling my fall, I stretch backward,
vaguely aware of Wanda’s presence and her camera recording the most sensual moment of my life. My fingers touch the floor at the same instant Colton places his free hand in the middle of my stomach. His legs move against mine in a parody of riding. His cock parts me, slides across my clit. Tears form, overflow, and stream down my temples. The orgasm slams into me, ripping my insides to shreds. I scream Colton’s name. In an instant, he’s holding me close, my arms looped over his head, his massive erection throbbing between us. Blood rushes from my head to my toes, making me dizzy.
“Baby,” he croons in my ear. “It’s all right. I’ve got you.”
It isn’t all right. Nothing is ever going to be all right again. Not after that orgasm. Embarrassment and shame feel like lead-shot in my belly. I’ve ruined his well-thought-out photos. Unable to stand on my own, I’m an emotional wreck. “I’m sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry about. Right, Wanda?” he calls out.
“Fuckin’ best shoot ever,” she says. “You’re a genius, Colt.”
“Not me. It was Beth.” He smiles down at me. “I knew she was the one.”
His statement throws me. Is he talking about back in high school, or does he mean for the photo shoot? Or both? Had he considered the possibility of bringing me to orgasm, or had it been a welcome surprise?
“Can you do another backbend? Just one more and hold it for a minute or two?” His voice is pitched low, just for me.
I nod. Best I can do with the few brain cells I have left.
“That’s my girl.” He brushes his mouth over mine, barely a touch, but the warmth of those sensual lips caressing mine sends a throbbing message to my pussy. I close my eyes and let the heat sear my innards.
“Ready, Wanda?”
Jerked out of my reverie, I lift my arms above my head, taking my weight on my feet again.
“When you are.”
Colton’s gaze bores into mine. “Go down easy, babe. I’ll have you the entire time. Hold it as long as you can. Call my name out, like you did before, if you need to come up.”
I couldn’t think of a thing to say. I let my head fall back. My body follows until my fingertips brush the floor. Blood rushes past my ears, muffling the click of Wanda’s camera. The head of his cock notches between my pussy lips—rubs my sensitized clit. Christ Almighty. Surprised by the intensity of the feeling, I bite my lip. I’m going to come again, and there is absolutely nothing I can do about it. I feel, rather than hear, Colton’s guttural groan then the first spurt of hot semen hits my stomach. My abdominal muscles coil tight a second before releasing in a violent quake that shakes me to the core. All I want to do is collapse in a heap, but the ropes intricately woven about my body prevent me from doing so. I hurt all over, physically and mentally.
