by Alison Tyler
Lana hears a sound, her hearing now more acute to make up for her loss of sight, and then something is being snapped around her right wrist, her arm pulled above her head. It isn’t until her left wrist and arm undergo the same treatment that it really sinks in that she’s being tied to the bed. A small voice in her head panics, thinks she should object to this. But she trusts Jason and Sean. If she didn’t she wouldn’t be here. She resolves once more to hold on tight and enjoy the ride, wherever it might lead.
Her ankles undergo the same treatment as her wrists, being bound into a cuff and then stretched apart and secured to the bed. The hands doing the work move with the same efficiency as they did when securing her blindfold and she knows it’s still Jason binding her.
Now fully secured, Lana feels every passing second more acutely than ever before. She is hyperaware of every part of her body; not knowing what is going to happen, or where she will be touched, puts every inch of her flesh on high alert. It’s not an unpleasant sensation, it’s almost like a meditation exercise, and she lets her awareness flow to one part of her body and then another. She only has to think of her breasts on display, and possibly under scrutiny, to feel her nipples harden.
For what feels like hours but is probably only a few minutes, no one touches her and nothing happens. But when she listens carefully she hears the rustling of fabric. The men are undressing, maybe undressing each other. The idea that they are stripping right in front of her when she can’t see a thing is so much hotter than it should be. She’s already imagined them naked. She came here because she wanted to see the real thing. And yet she isn’t disappointed. She gets to have this experience and still maintain her fantasy. Somehow, it’s the best of both worlds.
Lana hears what must be the sliding of skin, of bodies moving together, and then she hears a wet sound. She realizes with a jolt that the men are kissing. They’re right there and they’re kissing. Fuck. She wants to see this. Wants to know what they look like together. Just knowing that they are so close to her and are touching each other is enough to make her wet.
A moment later she feels the mattress dip and knows they’re climbing onto the bed with her. There’s the seemingly unintentional brush of skin against her skin. She doesn’t know who is touching her or what parts of their bodies she’s feeling. And then there’s a hand. She doesn’t know whose. It’s trailing down her chest slowly, onto her stomach, and then stopping, moving up again, lazily stroking at her body. She can feel the slightly rough texture of calluses on the fingers, the occasional scrape of a carefully manicured fingernail. Lana imagines the hand belongs to Sean. That he’s still looking at her with blatant desire. Or maybe it’s Jason, with Sean hungrily watching him touch her. She’s not sure which idea she likes better.
The bed moves again and she realizes they’re on either side of her—she can feel two sets of knees. And then they’re kissing again. There’s nothing else that could be making those sounds. The wet slip of lips and tongue. The soft breaths and barely there moans. Her imagination is so vivid she can almost feel those lips, can almost taste them. A hand falls to her body, cups her breast as fingers tweak her nipple. It’s her turn to moan. She can’t help it; she’s so amped up that every touch sends sparks through her body. She tries her bonds but they hold. She hears a chuckle, sure it’s Jason. He clearly loves this. Loves that she has no control. And she’s beginning to find that she loves it too. They’ve barely done anything and yet she’s already wet. Doesn’t think she’s ever been this wet in her life. Her inner thighs are soaked with it. She’s almost embarrassed.
Someone is getting on top of her, she can feel the mattress shift again, feel hands and legs on either side of her. There’s breath against her cheek, it’s warm and moist and it smells like whiskey. Someone is right there and she can’t do anything about it. There’s a wet noise again, but this time she knows it isn’t kissing. There’s only one person in front of her, of that she’s sure.
Her mind starts to spin, imagining all the things that could explain what she’s hearing, and then there’s a gasp right by her ear. The startled sound morphs into a full-throated moan and a plea for more. That’s Sean’s voice, she’s sure of it. Sean is on his hands and knees over her body and Jason is doing something that is gently rocking the bed and making Sean beg. She can hear every little hitch of breath perfectly and she imagines the look of ecstasy on Sean’s face that must go with the sounds that he’s making. Lana wonders if his eyes are screwed tightly shut or if he’s looking at her, at her blindfolded face, her parted lips, her goose-pimpled body.
“Gonna use your juices to work him open,” Jason’s sex-deepened voice warns just seconds before she feels his massive fingers sliding against her, into her. She cries out, she can’t help it. Jason’s fingers are working into her, his thumb absently brushing against her clit—as if it wasn’t already clear that her pleasure wasn’t the focus this evening. And then his hand is gone as quickly as it came, leaving her throbbing and wanting, all of her awareness focused sharply between her legs.
The bed moves again. It’s Sean being pushed forward and thrusting back. It must be. Lana’s sure she knows what they’re doing now. What Jason is doing to Sean. Jason’s fingers are inside him now, they must be. The same fingers that were just inside her.
The pace of the breathing by her ear is ramping up now, coming in ragged little gasps. “Oh, fuck. Fuck, yes. Jason, please.” The word please is so elongated it’s barely a word. Sean’s hissing right into her ear, and the sound of his broken begging gives her chills.
Lana feels something wet hit her belly, and her mind reels for a moment trying to imagine what it could be until she realizes with a start that Sean is so aroused that he’s actually dripping on her, leaking. That’s somehow both the hottest and most disgusting thing she can think of. It would be one thing if she was involved. If she was coaxing the fluid out of him with her hand or her mouth. But this is different. They’re paying no more mind to her than to the bed. Dirtying her up as carelessly as the sheets that will be housekeeping’s job to clean up.
But she’s not going to ask them to stop. If this is as close as she’s going to get to having them, she’s going to take it. Even if it’s frustrating, even if it’s unsatisfying, it’s still maybe the single hottest experience she’s ever had, and the fantasies from this are going to last her a lifetime. She wants to memorize the sound of Sean’s desperate pleading, play it back in her mind on nights when she’s alone and touching herself.
There’s a shifting of weight on the bed again. There’s moaning again too, and this time it’s both of them. Sean’s voice by her ear is ragged and Jason’s, from further away, is deeper—almost a growl. The movement on the bed increases. Jason must really be fucking him now. She can hear the slap of skin on skin over the grunts and gasps, all the private, intimate sounds they’re making.
Her whole body is tingling with arousal. She should be annoyed, hell, she should be pissed. She’s being treated like furniture, like a prop, or at best like a sex toy. And yet she’s not bothered at all. There’s something so perfect about experiencing them together this way. She thinks, now, that it would have been a shame to take all the mystery away.
The bed is rocking so furiously that she’s almost getting motion sick. Sean falls forward a bit, his arms brushing against hers and his forehead on her shoulder. He’s damp with sweat—she is too, she realizes then. Lana arches up toward his body, strains forward as much as her bonds will allow, seeking any contact she can get.
Teeth bite into her shoulder and there’s a hot splash against her belly. She gasps, knowing exactly what it is, what it means. She wonders if Jason’s hand was on him, or if he came untouched. “Fuck, Sean,” comes out as a growl above her and she knows that Jason is coming too. After just a moment, the motion of the bed stills, and she can feel them climbing off the bed. “Don’t be impolite to our guest, Sean, clean her up.” These words are followed by warm wetness against her stomach. Sean is licking her, eating h
is own spend off her flesh. Her stomach roils and she shudders. All of her awareness focuses on the hot drag of Sean’s tongue against her skin; long stokes and little kitten licks. She longs to feel his mouth move lower, to feel his tongue between her legs.
All too soon Sean’s mouth leaves her body and after a moment of unidentified noises hands begin to work at her ankle, undoing its bindings. The hands work systematically until she’s untied, and then the blindfold is removed, too. She blinks up at the brightness of the room, slowly bringing her arms down and bending her knees, feeling the blood move back into her limbs with an unpleasant tingle. She rubs at her wrists, feeling where they’re marked from her struggles. Lana wonders how badly she’ll be bruised, hoping for a physical reminder of this night, even if only for a few days.
Her eyes focus and fall upon Jason. His jeans have been pulled on, but not buttoned, and he hasn’t bothered with a shirt. He’s tossing a towel into the bathroom before coming back into the room to stand at the foot of the bed and smile at her. She smiles back, lazily; she’s still in a daze even though she didn’t do more than lie there. No words come to her, so instead of speaking she looks for Sean, finding him sprawled in the arm chair, wearing boxer-briefs and a T-shirt, a drink back in his hand. He returns her lazy smile.
Lana pauses, not sure if she should be waiting for instruction, but after a moment it’s clear that their game is over. “So, um…” she manages to say as she crawls off the bed and fumbles for her clothes. Jason turns away from her to retrieve his drink as she quickly gets dressed. She doesn’t know what to say. What the hell does someone say in a situation like this? Thank you doesn’t seem right. See you around, maybe.
She finishes dressing before turning to look at the men again. Jason has perched on the arm of Sean’s chair. There’s a careless intimacy between them that wasn’t there when she walked into the room. As if to emphasize this, Sean’s free hand comes to rest on Jason’s thigh.
“So, I’ll let myself out, then,” she says, feeling awkward. “And, uh, this’ll stay between us. Of course. I mean, I won’t tell anyone.” She’s babbling now, but she can’t stop herself as she moves toward the door—ready to exit the room and leave this strange experience behind.
Jason gives her a wink and says, “What’s to tell? You didn’t see anything.”
JUST DESERTS
Kiki DeLovely
She’s got me hog-tied, face-down on the floor. Although quite the aficionada for being restrained, put in challenging positions and the like, this is one of the very few times I’ve been bound so restrictively. Certainly I’ve never been trussed up and simultaneously closed in with a floor against my face. Being somewhat claustrophobic, I’m delightfully surprised that I don’t feel panicky. In fact, this predicament is having quite the opposite effect on me. It quiets my mind for the first time in days and I can finally experience my body completely, without interruption; the voices around me seem far off, I feel the rope digging into my flesh. And for a tactually motivated person like myself, being tethered like this is heaven.
She runs her palms over the ropes and then up my thighs. “This isn’t supposed to be a scene—I’m only allowed to give brief demos tonight—but, damn… You sure are tempting…” Pushing it a little further, she inches up my skirt just a bit more and inadvertently locates the single most erogenous place on my body. That spot where ass meets inner thigh just shy of pussy. I inhale sharply, not loud enough for her to hear me in such a large crowd, but my body must be whispering secrets to her fingertips because she lingers there, lets her knuckles dig in. I close my eyes, exhale, and feel every last nerve ending on the surface of my skin. The connection emanating from touch. The rope just tight enough to be delectably uncomfortable. The mastery of her obvious skill. The general humility of her nature is refreshing—she’s not overly cocky like so many. All this gets me hot.
Tonight’s ties are only a taste of what’s to come for me tomorrow. Still, the simplicity of this hold gets me out of my head, calms my spirit while exciting my body at the same time. I want to experience a rope suspension and she eagerly agreed to rig me up, but it would have to wait for the next day. Quite the endeavor that isn’t without its risks, the full weight of my Amazonian body suspended midair using only rope. But I trust her. Handed over in a flash, she was telling me about her craft, going over safety information, and I caught a look in her eye. My shyness evaded me long enough to finally take in the green flecks in her eyes, bound in a gaze that I was somehow able to sustain, despite my nerves. It was then I knew. And now my body feels it too. There’s something about the energy she puts off—I find her enticingly compelling—so quietly sexy, she almost flew under my radar. Almost.
This is my first camp. It took me thirty-some-odd years to finally experience what I had so envied in my childhood friends. Summer after summer, I stayed home while they had gotten to experience the adventures of camp; though this was definitely a more unconventional and very…adult…version thereof. Camp is so very unique from any other gathering I’ve ever heard of—connecting with nature, acres of wooded land in the middle of nowhere, while experiencing your darkest desires. More than that, you witness, take part in and perhaps even manifest fantasies you never knew were possible, let alone hiding inside you. There’s no judgment, just an open air of loving (and lustful) support that lends itself to the unearthing of clandestine salaciousness. Camp really is all about the community experience.
As the resident pastry chef, I spend a good portion of my day in the kitchen whipping up tasty treats for the campers, all of whom are assigned volunteer hours. And that is how I met her—in my kitchen. She was on prep duty and we were in the weeds. I was beyond stressed. She had a calm, charming way about her, despite me freaking out over the twenty pounds of butter gone missing and an overflowing chocolate catastrophe in the oven. At one point, I had swung by her station to give further instructions, and as I walked away she called out, “Yes, chef. Thank you, chef.” A smile crept across my face, a spark hit my panties and I threw her a look over my shoulder. A perpetual bottom everywhere else, I often forget just how toppy I get in the kitchen.
We meet in the dining hall the next day to share breakfast and some thoughts before our hot morning date. But really the heat begins instantaneously. She asks me what I like about rope and I struggle to find the words. How does one put language to that which exists almost entirely in the unspoken? Being bound is meditative, gives me a sweet respite from the maddening constancy of wheels spinning uncontrollably and slams me firmly into my body in the most delicious way. When I’m in that space, there are no words. It’s all such an inexplicable, ethereal experience. To be forced to feel.
Stumbling over my thoughts, I decide to turn the tables, “Why are you drawn to rope? What does rigging someone up feel like for you?” I realize immediately I wasn’t quite prepared for her answer. She’s smart. Even smarter than me. Possessing quite the impressive vocabulary, and though she’s far from abstruse, her command of the English language is daunting. Obviously having put a lot of thought into a question she’s answered before, she throws out a few esoteric words, one of which I’ve never even heard before. This, of course, gets me wet. Well-matched intelligence is always a huge turn-on, but when I’m clearly out of my league? That’s a rare day. Where some would be intimidated, I’m sucked in, dying to know more, to learn from her. My intellectual boner raging. She likens each rope suspension to a snowflake—each one utterly unique, perfect and evanescent.
When I ask what else she’s passionate about, a string of complex language flows from her lips directly into my cunt. It’s as if my questions give her permission to share with me her incredibly provocative thought process. This is the most seductive kind of foreplay for a girl like me. Turn me on with your mind and your hands can do as they please. Impress me with your critical thinking and I’ll do just about anything for you.
Her eyes light up when she gets into academic mode, a glint of obvious avidity. Not dissimilar to the
look of playful delight and attentive dedication as she contemplates her rope in regard to the body before her. Lost in thought as to where she’s going with this, I take advantage of the opportunity and study her face, suddenly privy to how she takes in all of me, carefully considering every curve of my body—I see her plotting out loops and ties, discovering how this snowflake will be strung up. My first rope suspension, rising in her eyes.
She leads me out the back door of the dining hall, through the field, up toward her cabin. Squeal. (My favorite cabin.) I have such a fondness for its members, its energy and sex appeal. I sneak them treats from the kitchen late at night. It started out as a gift to a top who aptly suggested that a gooey chocolate delivery from a girl who wants to get cut would make a good impression. Quite quickly, it became habit. The cabin-mates praise my skills, appreciating how the treats fuel them after scenes, give them a boost for what’s to come. During one late-night delivery, I sneak a peek at “the board,” getting a rush from seeing my name with more than a few check marks after it. Members of Squeal pride themselves on being very dirty players and like to keep tabs on all the conquests of the cabin, à la notches in the bedpost. Except that it’s them keeping score for everyone outside of the cabin—quite the hot little nonconsensual game—and they give out awards at the end of camp. (I’ve been assured that I’m a shoo-in.) Secretly I wonder who claimed their stake first and got to add my name. It’s open for wide interpretation what one might consider check mark–worthy, which is why I don’t know for certain, but my money is on my rigger.
We stop a short distance shy of Squeal. The playground. I look up and consider the metal crossbeam just above us. Swinging beside the swings. An achingly sexy choice for a scene. The exposed, public nature of it. The fact that it’s right outside her cabin (almost as if she’s showing me, and our scene, off to her cabin-mates). The idea that our scene won’t be in the dungeon and instead bringing it back to the community-based (and exhibitionist-prone) sensibility of camp. All of these factors play a role in the heat mounting inside me, between us. The understated nature of our chemistry lends itself to a slow boil. Such involved rope work inevitably takes time and patience. I delight in every sweet second of buildup.
