“Come on, kitty,” he says, giving me a little tug to get me to follow along, down the stairs, into the play room in the basement. I love public play, but I also love the play that is both public and private: at a play party, but down in the basement where it’s darker and closer and more intimate. This night, I’d been distracted by others’ negative energy in the main room and was having a hard time focusing on him and I, as I should have been.
“Now,” he barks, his voice a sharp rebuke as I hold back, not yet in that sweet, compliant state. I hurry to comply.
It’s dark down there, and I am not sure what he’s going to do. We had talked about rope, because that has been at the top of our minds, what with the photo shoot I am supposed to be doing later in the week featuring rope. But (maybe those negative vibes influencing me) I had been resistant to doing it here. He could have coaxed – it wouldn’t have worked. He told. He ordered. He demanded my attention and my compliance and my focus.
I knelt quietly at his feet for a few minutes as he got things ready. I still didn’t know what kind of scene we were doing, until he had unpacked and uncoiled his rope. I shrank back from him. My emotions were swirling with unresolved anger and bitterness – not mine, but those in the room up above – but he grabbed me, and brought my focus to him, and him alone. Whatever negativity was happening elsewhere, it was not here, and now, between us. He grabbed me by the hair at the nape of my neck and pulled me toward him, kissing me deeply, biting my lip, my neck. “Kitty,” he said. “My kitty.” And then in that lull as I slumped against him, wanting to meld my kitty-self against him, he pushed me back and grabbed my leg.
And then he was tying me.
There is a moment, a moment of leaving the negative, to slide into this space that I know so well with him, where my entire world is the world in which we two exist. It stretches out, and out, as the rope he ties around my leg binds me, tighter and tighter, to him.
The outside world ceased to exist.
The rope was tight, but not brutal, and he was solicitous and careful. This was “practice.”
And yet not. Very quickly it because more than practice, and I was flying, even as I felt him adjust and change things to suit his vision or my body’s capabilities more. One leg stretching high, my shoulders still on the ground, hands tied at the last. I am panting into the discomfort, breathing into it, living it. The discomfort, the pain, and I are one. I am floating, my eyes closed, in a kind of ecstasy. I really can’t describe those moments, except to say thinking about it brings gooseflesh to my skin. There is no one there but me and the rope – not even him for those moments. The rope and I acknowledge our kinship, our connection, and in the next moment our inherent conflict, as it tightens, as it bites, as it must do. I gasp, but I lean into it – we are kin. I will not let you best me. You will become me – or I you.
And then he is there. He’s never left, but now he is there, and his hand is between my legs. I can’t help it, I arch and spasm against the invasion of his fingers. I am wet – maybe I always have been? – and his finger pushes into the folds of my sex easily.
I grunt. I twist, trying to open myself more to him. I am panting now for a different reason.
God I love his fingers inside of me. Fucking me, as I hang there, imprisoned in his rope, his fingers pushing in and out. I moan and thrash and push against his finger, his hand. Deeper. Harder. I want my wet scooped out of me, I want to swallow his entire arm with my cunt.
I snarl as my orgasm takes me. Growl. Twist and grovel and beg and pant.
He shoves his cum soaked fingers into my mouth.
This happens more than once, until, finally, the world coalesces around me once more. The rope is just rope and I know pain as pain, and I need to get down. He obliges, with (I imagine) a smirk for his bedraggled enjoyed-the-scene-in-spite-of-herself kitty.
“Wow,” is all I can think to say.
He kisses me, holds me briefly, and then it is over.