Apartment Stories Ch. 07

Every time I fell from grace, I got a bruise. Usually from a crop, but sometimes from a flogger too.

That said, I fell from grace often, and I bruised easily.

I enjoyed the temporary tattoos that his ropes imparted on my flesh. I let him photograph me during the session and after. He let me delete the pictures that I felt might identify me or were more porn than art. Sometimes he hemmed and hawed, particularly if it was a good photo, but in the end he acquiesced. That was the agreement. Before leaving, he copied the files onto my computer so that I could enjoy them after the tattoos and bruises faded. What he did with his copies, I didn't know.

He tied me up. Sometimes he took me when I was helpless. I let him. It was all part of the experience, for him and for me.

He said his wife didn't allow him to practice his art on her. Different strokes. I had no opinion on his infidelity. I could have sympathized with the faceless woman with whom he shared most of his life, but I chose not to. If that made me a terrible person, so be it. It wasn't like I pledged allegiance to the sorority.

We were not lovers. Not really. We were collaborators.

He had his needs. I had mine.

This evening, he arrived on time as he always did. I answered the door in my robe, naked and ready underneath. I was wearing the black leather cat mask he gave me months ago. It was my game face and covered all but the tip of my nose and down. It allowed him to photograph more than he otherwise might have been able to do. He gave me a hug, all tender and comfortably proprietary. Then he was into my apartment with his equipment in bags.

I watched as he set up the camera on a tripod, right now off in the corner of my bedroom. A tremor of anticipation fluttered in my stomach and I could feel the first hints of dampness down there. Pre-game jitters. He had long black hair which he had the good taste not to tie up in a topknot. A trim beard shadowed his face. Tonight he wore a black shirt and black jeans. A bit Johnny Cash, but I couldn't help it if he lacked sartorial variety. Underneath his clothes hid a trim body, corded muscles and taut sinew.

It was like I didn't exist as he set up. He was planning, going through the steps, the scene. After dealing with the camera, he unpacked the other bag. Coils of hemp rope of various thicknesses were arrayed on my dresser. Then a crop and a flogger that we may or may not use. He just wanted me to know that he could. An anal hook. That was a new one. He glanced at me for a reaction. I didn't give him one. I was willing to try anything once.

He was careful and conscientious. During a scene, he often asked me for a number. One being comfortable and ten being intolerable. If I was wearing a ball gag or a bit and couldn't speak, he ran through the numbers and I would shake my head or nod. If I could do neither, he gave me something to hold in my hand that I could drop as a signal. He never let me get to ten, seldom to nine. If I ever got there and he couldn't untie me quickly enough, he had scissors to set me free.

He didn't insist on being called Master or any such thing. I wasn't his slave. Usually he was just Malcolm. And I was usually just Jeannie. But we seldom called each other by our names.

"Ready?" he asked.

I nodded.

"Anything I need to be aware of?"

He meant aches and pains that he needed to work around. Psychological blocks or whatever. "No."

"Alright."

I dropped my robe.

He never told me in advance what he had planned. I enjoyed the surprise and knew that I had veto power if he ever went too far.

Tonight he started with the tried and true, something he knew I liked. Tails of the rope through the bight behind my back, wrapped twice beneath my breasts. Four layers of rope, perfectly parallel. It was snug but comfortable. He repeated the process, reversing tension as he went, and soon I had four strands over my breasts as well. Then double strands looped from my back and over my shoulder. He drew the ropes together between my breasts and cinched everything together. Over my shoulder again and he tied off the first length of rope. As he worked on the harness, I watched in the mirror. Malcolm has done this many times before. His movements were economical and sure, and he was attentive that the tails were under control and didn't whip around. He lightly brushed my breasts as he worked, but this contact was incidental and was at once calming and exciting. It never made sense to me that I could enjoy competing sensations like this, but that was how it worked.

"All good?" he asked.

It was a routine question. There was nothing alarming about a harness. It was more aesthetic than anything. He ran his index finger beneath the ropes to even out the tension even though I was fine with it the way it was. I suspected that he knew it too, but just wanted to feel my skin. I had no arguments. I wanted my skin felt. "Fine," I said.

What Malcolm and I had was my best kept secret. My liberated friends wouldn't understand this fetish. Being trussed up. Immobile and helpless. Being used.

Men had a rich history of taking advantage of helplessness, of abusing trust. Malcolm too. His wife would realize that if she ever found out.

He took a couple of pictures although he probably had dozens of the same from previous sessions.

He returned to the dresser and selected another coil of rope and let it unfurl to the floor.

The next item up was a waist harness. I spread my legs a little to accommodate his hands. This time, Malcolm worked primarily in front of me, on his knees. I felt momentarily like an idol and he a supplicant. He wound the rope several times around my waist to form a belt and then worked on the length that would go between my legs. He tied a knot and positioned it directly on my clitoris, running the rest of the rope between my legs and tying it off tightly on the rope belt. I warmed at his fingers so close to my pussy, but they were intent on other business.

He placed a pillow a couple of feet from the headboard. Above the headboard was an enlarged photograph of my arm and the side of my breast hidden in shadow. My arm bore the impressions of the rope. I remembered how tight it had been in service of just this picture. He wanted the rope marks to be clear and emphatic. It was a simple photo, but one of my favorites.

"Now I want you to lie down on your front."

I complied. My breasts, captured as they were between ropes, didn't quite flatten as they normally would. I was aware of their distended fullness in a way I normally wasn't.

While I positioned myself, I heard him return to the dresser. Several coils of rope were placed next to me on the bed. I glanced at them. Malcolm appeared intent on going all out tonight.

He straddled me as though he were riding a small and not particularly mobile pony. Something shifted on the belt. The knot moved just a little against my clit and the ropes pressed the margins of my anus. I closed my eyes and just breathed. It wasn't painful or uncomfortable. Just foreign enough for me to want to concentrate on the sensations.

Soon he took hold of my wrists and held them together behind my back, informing me wordlessly about what was to come next. An arm binder. I couldn't see what he was doing but I could certainly feel it. My wrists were tied together and then he proceeded to bind my elbows and upper arms. My shoulders complained a little. Here was the initial move of my descent into helplessness. His nimble fingers tied knots and tested the tension. This was when I had to breathe deeply and trust.

"Number?" he asked.

"Four."

I started to get jazzed at this point. The breast and waist harnesses were decorative. This was incapacitating. This was when my transfer of power to Malcolm expressed itself. However much I trusted him, always in the back of my mind was the fact that I was absolutely helpless and that this game could easily be stripped of its veneer and become something else entirely.

He could easily remove my mask and take pictures of my face and there was little I could do about it. He could do any number of things to my body. He had physical control of it, after all. He could ignore the numbers entirely. Go to ten. Go beyond ten. Trust was such a comfort.

I set those thoughts aside. If he were intent on abuse, he could have done it before.

"I'm going to do your legs now."

It was reassuring to hear his voice, reinforcing that we were partners in this tableau.

"Okay," I said.

I recognized the tie and even had a word for it: Futomomo. My ankle was bound with a loose single-column tie. He then pressed my heel firmly to my thigh and looped the rope around it. Because I was on my front, he had to feed the rope between my legs and the mattress with each loop. I tingled at the fleeting touch of his fingers and the movement of the rope against my skin. Several spiralling wraps continued on toward my knee and then the ropework descended again on the outside of my leg in a series of knots. My lower leg was firmly tied to my thigh. I prayed that I wouldn't cramp.

He repeated the process on the other leg.

When done, he retreated and evaluated his handiwork. I closed my eyes and heard the camera move and the shutter click several times.

"Feeling okay?" he asked.

"Yeah."

"Number?"

"Three."

"You were four before."

"You're turning me on."

He laughed. "Good. You're turning me on too."

He told me once of a previous partner who treated rope bondage as something to be endured. A trade-off to keep him happy. It sounded to me like a reasonable accommodation, but he broke it off with her anyway. It's like preparing a dish that you know the diners will treat as fuel rather than an experience, he explained. There's no satisfaction to be derived from that.

Fortunately, it was always an experience for me.

"Alright, this is when it gets fun."

I knew what that meant. Fun for him was usually discomfort for me. I was okay with that, though. It was what I signed up for.

I felt a rope form a loop around my ankles, fastening them together. Then the rope joined my ankles to my wrists. And with that, I was well and truly trussed up.

When Malcolm completed the hogtie, he stepped back and appraised his handiwork. "Lovely," he murmured.

A few photographs later and he was back, sitting beside me on the bed.

He wordlessly traced the ropes that bound me. He could touch me anywhere because I was in no position to deny him. And he did. His touch was curious and possessive. He slid his hand between the sheets and my breasts and squeezed. Then down my bound arms to my ass, where he tested the ropes that ran up between my cheeks and the knot that rested against my clit.

"Ready for something new?"

"Yes," I whispered.

He rummaged around his gear for a minute and then returned. I felt his weight on the bed. He separated the twin strands of rope that ran up my ass and pressed the lubed ball of the hook against my anus. At first glance, the ball hadn't seemed so large. It certainly felt different.

"Relax," he said.

Easy for him to say, I thought, but I tried anyway.

I gasped when the ball defeated my muscles and the hook seated itself. With a little bit more, I could have come at that moment.

"Number."

"Four."

"Alright. Let's amp it up a bit."

Amp it up? What was he up to?

He nudged my knees apart, which was difficult as my ankles were tied together. Shortly thereafter, his fingers spread the ropes that traced my ass and something hard and slippery nudged my pussy. Without finesse, he shoved it home and I squealed. A moment later, my nether regions were bathed in sensation. If I had to guess, it was one of those rabbit vibes, the one with a shaft that had rotating beads encased in silicon and a vibe for the clit.

"Might have warned me," I gasped.

"More fun this way."

Bastard, I thought.

At that moment, the bastard was fiddling around with my hair, fashioning it into a ponytail around which he tied a rope. It dawned on me what he was about to do.

The ends of the rope then descended to the hook.

"Shit, shit, shit."

"You're doing great," he whispered.

He tightened the arrangement, forcing my head up off the bed. He cupped my chin and raised it even higher as his other hand did whatever to tie the rope off.

Now this was a stress position. The moment I dipped my head, the hook pressed insistently into my ass. Easing that pressure increased the strain on my neck and back.

"Too much?" he asked with concern.

"No."

But it was, almost. A solid seven. I was quivering at this point, as much from muscle strain as arousal.

"Tell me if it gets too much."

I nodded, biting my lip. I didn't know how long I could maintain the position, but said nothing. I was grateful for the helplessness and the discomfort of staining limbs. I could never explain this to my friends.

Malcolm removed the camera from the tripod took a few more pictures, moving around the bed to capture the best angles. My ponytail and the rope, the hook in my ass. My wrists tied to my ankles. My arched back. My breasts which had risen from the bed so that I looked like the woman at the prow of an old ship.

He observed me closely as he undressed. I hated how leisurely he went about it while I quivered and sweated, groaning as my joints and muscles squawked and the hook wedged itself between my ass cheeks.

"Number?"

"Six."

He disappeared for a moment and the humming from the rabbit vibe grew more insistent. He must have goosed its settings. I'd forgotten it in the cascade of other sensations, but I could ignore it no longer.

Malcolm returned and knelt before me, naked now. His cock pointed at me, thick, purple-headed, and veiny, begging for some attention.

I wasn't in any position to go to him, so he had to come to me.

"Closer," I whispered.

I couldn't blow him, not as I would have ordinarily. Bobbing for dick was out of the question. My ass ached from the movement of my head and my back cursed its unnatural arch. He had to fuck my face.

"Hold my head," I gasped.

He got the idea. His hands bracketed my head and held it in place while he shuffled forward. The rope between my ponytail and hook slackened and I moaned in relief. Then his hips moved.

It occurred to me that all of my holes were being used. My attention flitted from one to the other. The hook I could feel only vaguely. The vibrator more so. But his cock, that beautiful cock, took most of my attention.

I couldn't control its depth. Malcolm thrust in and out with practiced care, but occasionally went more deeply than I would have allowed had I been in charge. I gagged and he backed off a little. Saliva ran down my chin and formed a wet Rorschach blotch on the sheets.

The fact that he held my head captive while he fucked it only added to the rush of being restrained. Really, there was no part of me that I controlled, but for the pressure I exerted on that vibrator that was nestled between a knot and my clit.

While he worked his cock in and out of my mouth, I did my best to hasten the end, using my teeth to exert some pressure on him, swirling my tongue beneath his invading shaft.

"Let go," I gasped.

He did and my head fell forward. I engulfed his cock while the hook wedged itself more deeply in my ass. It hurt, but I was beyond caring. I moved my mouth as best as I could over the slick length of his erection, controlling the movement against the various aches that the hogtie produced in my body. Meanwhile, I moved my pelvis to better connect with the vibe.

I couldn't keep this up for long. My neck, back, and shoulders screamed from the position and I was swallowing him more deeply than I ever had before, even as the hook conspired to arrest my movements. It was frustrating and painful and all the more arousing because of it.

A solid eight.

And then the sum of all of these sensations promised to add up to something explosive.

I let go a gurgling moan against his shaft. Saliva dribbled. I could taste him now. Salty musk.

"I'm going to come in your mouth."

He'd never done that before. It was one of the things on my "maybe" list. Perhaps I should have included it in my "never" list, but I wasn't in a position to do anything about it. Anal play was a maybe item as well, but look at me now. I could say no, but decided to let it go.

He was going to come in my mouth. I pondered that until I couldn't anymore for the simple fact that I was going to come as well. Between the discomfort of my position and the cock that was prodding the back of my throat, my pussy had been quietly going about its business, generating a sloppy froth around the swirling, vibrating rabbit and working its way up to some kind of crescendo.

I pressed the crown of my pussy against the vibrating ball while the shaft swirled and prodded my hole.

I wanted to moan, but all that came out was a sound that was usually followed by the Heimlich maneuver.

His hands returned to my head for the finale. The movement of his hips became erratic. His cock swelled in my mouth.

In spite of the various parts of my body that were screaming for relief, I tipped my head toward the cock. The hook plumbed new depths and I pressed my pelvis against the bed.

And then, blessed nirvana, the gain to my pain, the petit mort, the toe curling release that was my reward.

And into that achy blessed bliss spurted seemingly ounces of salty, tangy spunk. I didn't know whether to moan or swallow, but somehow managed. Malcolm gouted his seed into my throat while my pussy and ass clenched against their respective invaders. I would have been flailing my limbs in abandon at this point, gasping my pleasure, but Malcolm had made sure that none of this was possible. Instead, I quivered and vibrated in near silence, attuned to my body in a way that wouldn't have been possible had I been free.

After Malcolm untied me and removed my mask, I lay there like a rag. Like a doting Dom, he cleaned the lube off my arse and massaged the abuse from my muscles and joints. He stopped now and again to take photos of rope impressions on my skin.

Then, when I announced that his aftercare had measured up, we sat up in bed with a bottle of wine until it and the earlier exertion made me sleepy.

"Next week?" has asked when he noticed me nodding off.

I couldn't imagine it, not now, but knew that I'd be ready and willing when the time came. "Same time, same place."

He kissed me on the forehead and tucked me in.

I didn't hear the front door close.