‘Lower,’ he said, putting his hand in the small of her back. ‘I want your ass up so that I can admire it.’
She lowered her upper body until it was pressed against the desk. In this position, her high heels put her waist higher than the desk so that her ass was now sticking up in the air. Ryan pushed her skirt up over her hips, baring her from the waist down. It felt so naughty, being spread out like this on his desk. She shivered in arousal.
She heard rustling behind her and tried to see what Ryan was doing. Before she could ask, he came around the other side of the desk. She lifted her head to see him looping a length of nylon rope around her wrist.
‘Where did that come from?’ she said, hearing the excitement in her own voice.
‘I’ve been saving it for a special occasion.’ He knotted the rope around her wrist, then pulled her wrists together and bound them together. ‘I’m going to tie you down so you can’t get away.’
Part of her wanted to protest that this was crazy and too risky. But part of her, the part that was so turned on she couldn’t stand still, wanted to be tied down and fucked. ‘Oh really?’
Ryan moved around behind her again. ‘Really. Now be a good girl and stop squirming.’
She obeyed, wondering what he was up to. The rope on her wrists tightened, then she felt him tying first one ankle, then the other, to the desk. She realised he had passed the rope from her wrists under the desk. Now she was tied to the desk, connected by her wrists and ankles and utterly helpless.
‘Beautiful,’ he murmured. His hands caressed her bare ass and up the insides of her damp thighs. ‘What do you want, baby?’
She trembled under his gentle touch. ‘You know what I want.’
‘Tell me,’ he said, slapping her ass hard enough to make her yelp. ‘Tell me what you want.’
She could feel him behind her, the shaft of his cock pressing against her ass. Her legs were spread wide, she was completely exposed, and all she wanted was to feel him inside her. Now.
‘Fuck me,’ she whispered. ‘Fuck me, Ryan.’
‘Say please.’
She gasped as he slapped her again. ‘Please,’ she said. ‘Please, please fuck me.’
The last word trailed off in a moan as he slowly slid inside her tight, wet cunt. He pulled back, then pushed deep inside her again. Over and over, in a steadily quickening rhythm, Ryan fucked her.
‘Do you like this?’ he asked. ‘Do you like getting fucked on my desk?’
Natalie moaned loudly, straining at the ropes that bound her wrists. ‘Yes, oh God, oh yes!’
She gripped the edge of the desk with her bound hands, using what little leverage she had to meet his thrusts. He felt so good, so hard, inside her. She had never been so turned on as she was in that moment, tied to the desk while Ryan fucked her from behind. The edge of the desk rubbed against her clit on every downward stroke of his cock and she dug her nails into the wood, aching to come again.
‘Fuck me. Fuck me, Ryan. I’m going to come again,’ she gasped.
He gripped her hips tightly, thrusting harder into her so that every motion drove her aroused clit against the desk. ‘Come for me,’ he demanded. ‘I want you to feel you come on my cock.’
She pushed her ass against him as hard as she could, every muscle straining in her need for release. Being tied down, nearly immobile, only served to heighten her arousal as Ryan controlled the speed, the depth, the force of every stroke of his cock inside her. She wanted more, harder, deeper, and she begged him in a voice that bordered on hysteria, her need to come was so great.
She moaned and gasped as his cock glided along her G-spot and bumped her cervix in that pain-to-pleasure feeling she loved so much. He fucked her hard, the way she begged him, driving her higher and higher until she couldn’t take it any more. Finally, finally, she came, screaming his name, her body rigid and straining against her bonds. Her cunt clamped down on his cock, rippling along the length of him, and his answering groan let her know he was coming with her, deep inside her.
They lay there for a long time, Ryan draped over her limp body as her orgasm subsided.
He pushed her hair off her neck and kissed her damp skin. ‘You are incredible, love.’
‘Mmm, thanks,’ she murmured. She was drained, sore and exhausted, but it was the good kind of exhaustion that would leave her smiling in the morning. ‘You really know how to make a girl forget about work, but how am I going to hide these rope burns tomorrow?’
‘Call in sick and I’ll take care of you.’
Natalie could only imagine what that might entail – and she liked it. ‘Don’t forget to bring the rope.’
In The Saddle
by Primula Bond
I nearly reversed out and drove away again. I hate country weekends at the best of times. All that walking, all that jollity, all that mud. Charades, butlers, and which fork do you use? But I especially hate them when I barely know the host, let alone the other guests. So why the hell was I two hours away from my comfort zone because some guy with brown eyes caught me in a devil-may-care mood the other night and invited me to stay?
You always get lost in the country, too. And that wet, windy Saturday afternoon I was lost. Or so I thought, till I found the big wrought-iron gates. The long drive between elegant trees. So this was no weekend cottage. This was a fucking baronial pile. Thing was, after the gates and the long drive, I still couldn’t find it.
I nosed the car down a promising fork where the gravel was less pitted and studied the cocktail menu where he’d scribbled his number. Tried to phone it. Oh, and the countryside has no signal.
At last I bumped through a kind of crumbling stone archway dripping with ivy, and there I was in the middle of a spotless stable yard. The house, and the guy, and all his braying friends, must be nearby.
The rain had stopped for a moment. Two listless girls hunched on enormous brown horses practically stepped over my little car as they passed. I watched as they kicked their mounts into a trot, onto the vast swathe of parkland I’d just driven through, then they just sparked into life. They rose in their stirrups, all flexing muscles and squeezing knees and toned thighs, leaned low over their horses’ manes, stuck their tight jodhpur-clad bottoms in the air, and went from a standing start to full tilt gallop before you could say giddy-up.
There’s something about the pounding of hooves, isn’t there? It drums through your bones, even from a distance. Something exhilarating, and also threatening. I was breathing faster as I got out of the car and peered round for a kitchen door, a chimney, or a doorstep. A scruffy bloke in faded blue jeans and cowboy boots was forking up piles of dung and straw in the corner. I cleared my throat.
‘Excuse me? Where’s er – where’s the house?’
He lifted his vast wheelbarrow, muscles twitching in his arms. Glanced briefly from under his long, messy hair at my bare legs and pencil skirt.
‘What is this? A bloody Thomas Hardy novel?’
He shrugged, and walked away. I tried to get a look at him, but as I stepped forwards I slipped on the wet cobbles and turned my ankle, snapping my stiletto. When I looked up again, swearing, he’d disappeared. And it had started raining again. Hard.
That’s when I nearly drove home again. No-one would be any the wiser. But that would have been stupid. The alternative on offer was an empty Saturday munching a take-away in Earl’s Court.
I stomped grumpily into the nearest shelter while I decided what to do. Instantly my nostrils pricked with pleasure. The place was suffused with my favourite smell. Leather. The room was lined with gleaming saddles and bridles, shiny metallic buckles and snaffle bits, belts and harnesses and whips.
And in the darkest corner sat a huge Wild West style saddle strapped to a kind of wooden bucking bronco. It was big and wide as an armchair. It had a huge, ornate pommel rearing up in front. That’s for people like Clint Eastwood to idly rest their hands. I glanced out of the window. I was in the middle of nowhere. I looked back at the saddle. God, it lo
oked so comfortable. I walked over the wooden floor, scuffing up sawdust, climbed aboard the wooden horse and swung my leg over the saddle. The flat leather seat felt warm as an animal.
I wriggled into place, hemmed in by the high back and the fat pommel as if I was about to ride into battle. Now I was astride it, my legs spread wide to get comfortable, my skirt stretched taught over the tops of my thighs, my knickers pressing on the wide seat. No wonder cowboys had bandy legs. If I pressed downwards, my pussy squashed against the leather, spreading the puffy lips open. Just flimsy pink silk separating them from the musky saddle. Think of all the bottoms, mostly male, that had straddled this seat. The soft balls hiding inside those button flies, the cocks resting there, safe from the chafing.
I moved slightly, and the headless bronco dipped forwards, tipped back, started rocking. A kind of grown-up’s rocking horse! My legs were flopping about, feet dangling in the air, but I didn’t want to stop. My cunt quivered faintly with the motion. The leather was heating up under me, as if I really was astride a sweaty mount, and it creaked as if speaking.
Outside, the wind rattled the stable doors and knocked over a bucket, but there was no one else here. Well, those lanky girls might come trotting back any minute. That oaf sweeping the yard was probably long gone. I glanced out of the window, imagined his dark, sardonic (or was that satanic?) face staring in at me, grasping his broom or whatever between big, dirty hands.
Christ. Anyone could come and stare in at me. What was I thinking of? That guy from the bar who invited me here, whose name I couldn’t bloody remember, he could pitch up any minute looking for me. All his posh mates. The bloke with the mucky brush would have told him by now there was a townie bird tottering about the place in stupid shoes.
I jumped off my mount, heart pounding, blushing scarlet, pacing about as if I’d already been caught red-handed. Well, I’d just pretend I was someone else if he caught me. I don’t know. The new stable hand or groom or whatever they’re called. A rambler gone off track. He’d never know the difference. Cats all look the same in the dark, and we’d only seen each other, the other night, in the dark.
Anyway, the place was deserted. It was raining harder. The sky was black. My little car huddled by the crumbling archway. Any minute I’d make a dash for it. But first I wanted another ride in that saddle. It was stained dark deep in the seat, from all those sweaty buttocks rubbing and sliding. On impulse I peeled my skirt off, shoved my bare foot in the swinging stirrup. As I swung my leg over to climb back on, I felt my pussy parting. I’d heard of saddle sores. So I kept my knickers on, wriggled the pink silk down in to the saddle, smiling again at the creaking sound it made, like I wasn’t alone.
I grasped the high rounded pommel at the front with one hand and the high, ornate back rest at the back and slid myself back and forth, smiling as the leather heated under me with the friction. Quickly my sex lips started to get sticky, vibrating with the heat. I speeded up.
‘Giddy up, boy,’ I whispered, wondering if I sounded like a nutcase. The saddle gripped the wooden bronco and the bronco rocked under me, using my rhythm but then its own momentum, getting faster, dipping its headless torso to the dusty floor, rearing and tossing me backwards in my seat.
All the while I gripped with my thighs, and the satin of my knickers slid easily across the leather. My knickers were getting really damp with the movement and my excitement. The smell of the leather grew stronger, mingled with my own wet, sweet aroma.
I closed my eyes, raising myself off the seat as far as the long stirrups would allow me. They were extended, because cowboys ride with straight legs. Brits like those lanky girls shorten the stirrups, ride with bent legs. I pushed my knees into the side of the saddle and tilted my butt so that the chilly air could get to my pussy. Then I banged myself down on to the seat, rubbing frantically up and down the saddle, grinding myself against the skin surface so as to feel the heat in every crevice, spreading my legs wider so as to press my clit down and start rubbing some more. My thighs started to quiver, but I kept myself raised up and forward over the saddle, like those girls had done, allowing myself to be swung and rocked by my wooden horse.
The bronco got faster. It gave a kind of low humming as it rocked, as if it was breathing. My heart beat faster, too. There must be a switch somewhere. I didn’t know then that if I stopped, it would stop. I grasped the high, rounded pommel to keep my balance, but as the bronco lurched forwards I fell against it. The thick, phallic stem pushed between my legs. It triggered a violent tremor through me and I gasped. I wanted something big and hard inside me. I clambered to my knees and lowered myself on to it. It was too big to get inside, but the shape of it was perfect for my private game, and before long I was squealing with growing pleasure as I gyrated round the thick leather stem.
‘Did you know,’ came a deep voice into the dusty silence, ‘that pommel means ‘little apple’?’
I groaned, nearly coming at the thought that someone else was there, watching me. I held myself very still, my butt in the air, my legs quivering with the effort of holding me in that position. Sure enough the bronco slowed down, but not entirely, so that I was forced to rock very slightly with it. My cunt was clenching ferociously with frustration. I could feel the juices seeping into my knickers.
‘No,’ I almost sobbed, twitching my hips slightly, arching my back. I held on to the pommel as if I was pole-dancing. ‘But this little apple is about to come!’
There was a kind of snaking shiver in the air, and a loop of thin rope coiled round my wrists, wrapped several times round them, and lashed my hands tightly to the pommel.
The voice got deeper. ‘And did you know that I don’t take kindly to trespassers? Let alone little tarts writhing half naked on my pride and joy, getting it all wet and mucky. That saddle is worth a fortune. That’s real silver on the buckles. Maybe I ought to get you on your knees, licking it clean –’
‘I’ll do whatever you like. Just don’t stop me!’ I wrenched at my restraints, but I was tied fast. I closed my eyes and sank forwards over the pommel. I was starting to tremble in the cold. ‘And I’m not a trespasser. I was invited.’
‘So who invited you? The lord of the manor?’
‘Yes! Well, I think he’s the lord – he didn’t look particularly lord-like –’ I tried to swivel round in my seat, but something hard and blunt prodded me in my spine, right between my shoulder blades, making me jerk upright. The rope bit into my skin like a vicious bracelet. I winced, but it was thrilling. ‘Anyway, he’ll tell you I’m his guest. I met him in London the other night. He asked me to come. I got lost, that’s all. If you tell him Angela from Whispers Nightclub is here. The redhead. He’ll know –’
‘I’m not running your errands! Even if you are a randy redhead.’ He was coming closer, his feet scraping across the floor.
‘You’re the stable-hand, aren’t you?’
The rope jerked at my wrists from somewhere behind me. ‘So what’s his name? This best friend of yours who invited you down for a dirty weekend?’
I sank down into the saddle. The sound of my whimpering in the dusty silence turned me on. My skin was pricking up in goose-bumps. My nipples shrank back in the cold, poking against my flimsy shirt. I heard him smacking something impatiently in the palm of his hand. Smack, smack.
‘I’m waiting for an answer.’
‘I didn’t get his name, OK? I could barely hear him speak with the noise and the music! He just gave me his address, and told me to come.’
‘I doubt it. Angus would never just give his address to a complete stranger, however sexy. He’s very private. So I’ll do him a favour. Lean forward.’
I leaned forward, which made my butt jut instantly in the air. ‘What favour? Who’s Angus?’
There was a brief silence, then a swishing sound, soft as a whisper yet cutting the air. Then something whipped across my bottom, the sting instant and sharp. I gasped and flinched with shock.
‘What the fuck!’
‘
Your punishment for trespassing.’
I bit my lip, humiliated by the pain. My butt cheek was smarting like fire. ‘I told you. I was invited –’
‘Not to swagger round my stables and straddle my best saddle, you weren’t. Just stick your little bottom in the air. Higher!’
I pulled myself forwards, my fingers waggling pathetically. The rope manacles held me fast. But I liked how it looked. The helplessness. The hopeless tugging and pulling to get away. And I could imagine how I must look, bottom in the air, legs parted as I knelt on the saddle, flesh wobbling as he whipped me. Playing the pathetic little victim even though we both knew perfectly well that I was nothing of the kind. Not when these urges were twisting, uncoiling inside me. Not when I was enjoying it so much-
Now the sting of the smack was fading, leaving a surprising warmth spreading right through me. My cunt twitched, and tightened.
‘I’m naughty, so naughty.’ I heard myself whimper, though it sounded suspiciously like the gurgle of laughter. ‘I’m sorry.’
He was up behind me now. I could feel his warmth, smell his sweat. ‘Sorry? For what?’
He stroked the spot where the whip had come down, lightly with his fingertips as if tracing his own handprint. His voice was soft now, hissing almost. I arched my back like a cat, relaxed, offering myself to him.
‘For being sad enough to drive through a wet weekend because some jerk gave me his number in a nightclub –’
The stroking stopped. ‘Some jerk?’
I swayed my hips from side to side. My knickers were so damp now they were stuck up my crack, chafing at my sex, rubbing at my clit. The more I swayed, imagining him getting hard at the sight of it, the hornier I got.
‘I mean, picking up strange women in nightclubs. Hasn’t he got a woman of his own?’
‘Plenty.’ The stroking continued, so gentle I could barely feel it. The sting of the slap had gone. But I was tensing up now.
Tie Me Up Page 12
