‘I can’t.’
‘You must. Mark’s instructions were quite explicit.’
How could she let Elliott see her naked? Perhaps this was all a bad dream and any moment now she would wake up.
Elliott regarded her gravely. ‘Take it off,’ he repeated.
With a sulky pout, she let the slip fall to the ground and stepped out of it.
‘Now you can get on the table.’
Claudia felt his eyes burning into her. Her face flushed crimson, she had to look away to avoid his gaze. She was seething. If it wasn’t for the money.
‘Kneel. Leave your shoes on. Spread your knees.’
It felt awkward to sit in such an exposed position on the small table, and acutely embarrassing, but she did it.
‘Now, you do have a choice about the next bit. You can watch everything that happens to you or be blindfolded.’
She hesitated. She wanted to see what was going to happen because she hated surprises. But on the other hand, she couldn’t bear to look at herself naked and vulnerable.
‘I’ll take the blindfold.’
A soft red cloth was placed over her eyes.
She heard the door open, someone else enter the room. A man’s voice. Unfamiliar. She guessed it must be the nawashi, the rope master.
‘Is she ready?’
‘Yes. You can start now.’
She trembled as she felt her arms pinned behind her back, rope biting into the soft flesh of her wrists. Then more rope - or was it from the same length - wrapped around her waist, across her chest, circling her breasts and nipples, pulling tight, momentarily taking her breath away. Then more around her legs, ankles, in an intricate pattern; even the heels of her shoes were bound together.
She winced as rope pinched the insides of her thighs. It hurt. She nearly panicked, feeling a brief flash of claustrophobia before the calm returned.
Then stillness. An amazing stillness. Her body was restricted yet her mind felt strangely liberated, free, as her focus turned inwards, heightening awareness of every sensation.
It was as if she was experiencing her body for the first time: a kind of revelation. Then rope was passed between her legs, grazing her delicate inner lips, like some invisible fingertip. She gasped. Suddenly her entire being became focussed on this area, the slightest pressure magnified tenfold, as if it were the only thing that existed. The only thing.
Unable to move, Claudia’s focus travelled to the deep recesses of her inner self; she experienced complete introspection and serenity. In her meditative state, she became vaguely aware of sounds in the room, other voices, male and female: she had no idea how many. She realized that she was being looked at, admired, an object of abstract beauty and wonder.
‘She looks stunning.’ A woman’s voice, almost wistful.
‘A work of art.’ A man.
‘There’s a particular intimacy in allowing someone to tie you up. There has to be complete trust that they won’t abuse the power you are freely giving them. The intimacy comes from opening yourself psychologically and allowing them to enter, explore and guide.’
Another man. A familiar tone. Surely not Elliott? What would he know about Japanese rope bondage?
‘I’ve heard the experience can be overwhelming, very intense and powerful.’
The first woman again. ‘Can I take a photograph?’
Suddenly, Claudia was jerked out of her trance-like state. She wanted to shout ‘No way,’ but, for some reason, she couldn’t speak.
Then she heard Elliott reply, ‘Yes, of course.’
She wanted to scream at him, but she was reluctant to abandon this feeling of peace and calm. After all, there was nothing she could to do stop him. She was tied up, helpless. She had to go with the flow. So she let go.
When, finally, an hour or so later, the ropes were removed, one by one, she felt so light-headed she thought she might pass out. She felt a hand reach out to support her, to stop her falling. She didn’t want the blindfold to be taken off. She wanted to stay like this. Forever. She did not want to return to the ordinary world. Yet she knew that once her eyes were open again she would feel anything but ordinary. She felt like she had been reborn.
‘Are you okay?’ asked Elliott.
There was genuine concern in his voice, which both surprised and moved her.
‘I don’t know.’
She tottered as she placed a foot tentatively on the floor. Her knees buckled.
‘Hey, I’ve got you,’ said Elliott.
‘Yes. You have.’
She felt as high as a kite. Spaced out. And although the actual ropes were lying in a coil on the floor, like a sleeping snake, she could still feel them around her body.
Glancing at her arms she saw the marks like livid red bangles, deeply embedded.
‘The physical marks and feeling stay with you long afterwards,’ said Elliott.
How did he know?
‘Really?’
She was smiling vaguely, her body rapidly melting. As her legs gave out on her again, Elliott scooped her into his arms and carried her across the landing into a dimly lit bedroom. He laid her gently on the bed and knelt beside her, kissing her lightly on the neck. Looking into his eyes, so dark and intense, she knew that he would make love to her and that it would be very good.
‘We can’t, not here, not in someone else’s bed,’ she protested feebly.
‘It’s my bed,’ he replied, tenderly stroking a strand of her copper-red hair.
‘Your bed?’
‘And my house.’
She blinked back at him, her mind fuzzy.
‘Anyway, you’re a very rich woman now. You can do whatever you want.’
She sighed. She had actually forgotten about the money. Yet it was the reason she was here, the reason she had allowed this to happen.
‘I’ve wanted you for a long, long time,’ he murmured, his lips grazing her cheek. ‘I couldn’t wait any longer.’
He began to trace the rope marks on her body with his tongue.
She trembled as an unsettling thought struck her. Brake failure, the police said. Unexplained brake failure.
Then the tip of his tongue found the newly sensitive place between her legs and she arched her back and moaned, abandoning herself once more to pure sensation. Any uncertainty she had about Elliott vanished for the time being. There would be plenty of time to think. Later. Much, much later.
Vanilla by Jade Taylor
I’d never been one to believe that sex was necessarily better with people you were in love with.
Sure, the idea was nice, and there was a little bit of the hopeful romantic even in me that hoped it was true. But I was also practical enough to know that you could have mind-blowing sex with people you weren’t madly in love with, or people you didn’t even like that much.
Great sex doesn’t have to make sense.
But I couldn’t understand why, when I finally found someone I liked beyond breakfast, the sex wasn’t knocking my socks off.
It wasn’t fair.
He was just a little vanilla for my tastes.
I was mad on Shaun, I admit it, could have let myself go plunging head over heels for him, but I’d always had that wild streak, that little kink, that stopped me letting go.
That little bit of me saying that I’d get bored, that if we stuck together sooner or later I’d be looking for more adventurous partners (and probably breaking his heart in the process), the part of me that said I’d be doing what I always swore I wouldn’t: settling.
My ideal man meant ideal sex.
Sure, he knew what he was doing, could work his way through the usual repertoire with no problems, could follow instructions and make me come easy enough, but that was all.
Maybe that was the problem - the usual repertoire.
I usually preferred something a little different.
He was a little too technical, always seeming to hold something back, no fire, no passion, no unique selling point that made me think, hey, t
his one’s really good.
So there we are, three months down the line, on a dirty weekend in Amsterdam that really wasn’t that dirty.
We weren’t doing drugs, weren’t getting high and having giggly sex, weren’t exploring the red light district, weren’t taking the seediness of the city and twisting it into our own sexual fantasies.
The most excitement we’d had so far was spotting a man smoking in the Van Gogh museum and his subsequent eviction.
Maybe it was shyness, I thought, trying to give him the benefit of the doubt. He was so funny, so cute, I liked him.
But I was getting frustrated.
Maybe there was an animal hidden deep inside just waiting to be released, but right then I was too irritable to care.
Sometimes a girl just needs a good fuck and shyness be damned.
I was fed up of fucking men I didn’t like, then finding a man I liked that I didn’t like fucking enough.
It was so hot, and although I would have loved to sit down in an air-conditioned bar or coffee shop, football fever seemed to be sweeping the city. I had always hated football, not even the sight of fit men in shorts being able to sway my opinion, and knew I wouldn’t be able to tolerate football supporters as they grew louder as they got drunk or high.
My idea of fun was more cuffs and code-words than watching men chasing a ball for ninety minutes.
Then we saw the Torture Museum.
‘This looks a little different,’ I laughed, knowing that although it wasn’t the sort of museum he’d had in mind for this trip, he already knew I’d be a bitch if I didn’t get my way.
‘Sure,’ he nodded hesitantly, fumbling in his wallet for a handful of Euros; still fumbling by the time I took control and paid for us both.
Please God, let the fumbling be just nerves, I thought; please don’t let me be fucking a fumbler.
Inside it was deserted, dark and cool, and I reached for his hand as he followed me up the narrow staircase, feeling like a bitch as the air-conditioning hit me.
The rack was first, and as he read the information board aloud I studied the gruesome pictures, wondering why people would invent such a thing.
Then there was the pear, and again he read the information aloud as I ran my hands over the structure, imagining the pain it could cause.
The disturbing thought was lifted by the realization that it looked similar to some of the stuff I’d seen in fetish clubs, the thought that some people had obviously found more pleasurable uses for it.
There were many other devices I’d never heard of, and it made me smile as he paused by the scold’s bridle.
‘I bet you’d love that, it would stop my moaning,’ I laughed, trying to let him know I realized I’d been acting like a cranky bitch, trying to make him relax, hoping that would help things.
‘It might help,’ he sighed, looking so despondent I couldn’t help but go over to him, circling my hands around his waist and standing on tiptoes to kiss his neck.
I knew the effect it would have, knew his hot-spots so well already, and knew that he’d probably tell me to stop, that there were people around, that we should behave ourselves.
Instead he kissed me hard on the mouth, pulling me closer, his tongue touching mine as he relaxed in a way I hadn’t expected.
Despite everything I felt a rush of excitement, felt the blood rush to my groin, my pulse quicken.
‘I kind of like it when you’re moaning,’ he whispered, and there was no mistaking his meaning as he nuzzled against my neck, his breath hot on my skin, making me sigh in anticipation.
Maybe there was hope after all, I thought.
I pulled him closer, hooking my leg around him as I finally felt some passion, knowing that there was nobody around to see as I kissed him hard, tongues tangling as I felt him growing hard against me.
I shifted slightly as he began to grind his cock against my stomach, trying to angle myself so he could rub against me. It didn’t work until he grabbed my hips, used his strong arm to lift me, rubbing his cock against my swollen lips. My skirt began to ride up, and his hands went beneath it to cup my arse, and I sighed loudly.
Despite my need for something different it was I that pulled away, flustered by the way he was taking control; by the way he was making me react.
By the way my body reacted.
‘You’re not playing now?’ he asked, grabbing me by the wrist, holding me tightly.
‘Maybe later,’ I replied, sure that later I would get to see more of this passion, that finally I would be truly satisfied.
‘What’s wrong with now?’ he asked, pulling me closer again. I tried to resist, knowing that I could easily get carried away, but when he got close enough to kiss me he instead laughed and stepped away.
I stepped back, puzzled.
‘Thought you liked playing games?’ he asked, smiling at my confusion.
I blushed - I never blush - wondering whether he meant what I thought, what I hoped, and how.
I turned to the next exhibit, hoping to gain my composure while he examined it.
Instead of reading the information aloud as before, he pulled his camera out of his pocket.
‘Let’s get a picture.’
‘Let’s not,’ I answered; I’d never enjoyed having my photo taken.
I expected him to agree, to submit to me as usual, but instead he grabbed my wrist again and pulled me closer to the exhibit. Instead of pulling away, I had to admit it was a turn-on as I submitted docilely to his demand, and let him bend me over and position me in the stocks so my wrists and neck were caught firmly between the pieces of thick wood.
‘One for the mantelpiece,’ I tried to laugh, but my mouth was dry and my laugh high-pitched and false as he fastened it securely, so I was completely trapped.
The thought turned me on.
I’d always enjoyed being submissive, and I was already so horny, my clit felt swollen and throbbing before he’d even touched me.
The thought of being so publicly exhibited only served to turn me on further.
I smiled as he took the picture, then the flash momentarily blinded me.
When my eyes adjusted to the darkness I could no longer see him.
‘Shaun?’ I called quietly, wanting to know where he was, but not wanting to attract the man who’d sold the tickets’ attention, not wanting him to find me like this, bent over with my arse in the air, wearing my little denim skirt that covered very little, trapped.
To find me bound and horny.
Despite that, I felt myself getting wetter.
I heard movement behind me, but couldn’t turn my head to see who it was.
‘Shaun?’ I asked again, but when I got no reply I fell silent.
Then I felt hands touch my waist.
Immediately I knew it was Shaun, knew that I was finally going to get something a little less vanilla, and felt my cunt flood with anticipation.
I felt his hands pull at my skirt, leaving it bunched up around my waist, exposing my almost bare arse, my panties so small they were almost non-existent.
For a moment there was nothing, and all I could hear was my breathing, getting heavier and faster as I waited for him to touch me, wanting it so much.
I’d never been hornier.
And then he touched me.
His hand stroked across my arse, slowing as it reached the crack, a finger teasing around my anus, my panties providing no resistance to the intrusion.
Not that I wanted them to.
I moaned softly.
I pushed my arse higher, calves straining as I stood on tiptoe so I could part my legs further, wanting him to move his attention to my swollen clit.
‘Please,’ I begged, hearing his breath quicken with my pleading request.
I knew he was as horny as me, but he continued teasing me.
Gradually his hand moved forward, finally stroking my clit through the already sodden fabric.
He hooked his fingers around the sides of my thong, pulling down the flims
y material, and I lifted my feet willingly to step out of it.
I was totally exposed, totally trapped, anyone could have walked into the museum and seen my naked cunt and I couldn’t have moved, but I didn’t want to stop.
I heard a zip, then a rustling of material, then his hands were holding my hips as he stepped closer.
I felt his cock against my bare arse, the tip hot, hard and sticky, and he used his knee to part my legs further, then thrust deep inside me.
He felt expert at it, filling me up then pulling out completely, made me feel like I was nothing but gaping hole and swollen clit. I wanted him to touch me so much, wished my hands were free so I could touch myself as he moved so slowly inside me.
But I was trapped completely.
‘Touch me,’ I moaned, but instead of touching my clit his hands roughly pushed up my shirt, pushed up my bra and rubbed my nipples roughly as he started to move faster inside me.
‘No,’ I moaned, wanting to protest more loudly, but knowing that someone could easily hear me and come to investigate. I tried to move away from him, tried to pull away from his cock, but it was useless; I was completely vulnerable like that and unable to move.
The thought made the juices rush down my thighs, and it was his turn to sigh loudly as he felt it.
‘Say sorry,’ he whispered, moving a hand away from my breasts and finally sliding it between my slick and swollen lips.
‘What?’ I asked, moving my hips desperately, trying to make him touch me.
‘Say you’re sorry for being such a moody bitch,’ he demanded, fingers teasing my clit, cock thrusting deep inside me.
I would have said anything then, anything to make me come like that.
‘I’m sorry,’ I apologized, but it wasn’t good enough.
‘Say it all,’ he demanded, his fingers slowing. ‘Or you don’t get to come.’
His cock moved faster as his fingers moved further away from my clit.
‘I’m sorry for being such a moody bitch,’ I apologized, and at last he touched my clit. His fingers were firm and steady, caressing my clit with long slow strokes, his cock barely moving inside me then as I knew he was close.
I heard the door open below us, and although I knew I should be insisting Shaun release me, let me tidy myself up, I said nothing, the thought of someone being near turning me on, and as Shaun rubbed harder, thrust harder, I knew he felt the same. Seconds later I came hard, grateful for Shaun still holding me up as my knees went weak, and seconds later Shaun came hard, holding my hips so tightly his fingers left distinct bruises.
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