Strange Days Pt. 02

I braced myself as a hand cupping two cubes settled into my crotch. After a minute or so of chilly massage, the hand pressed the ice into me. I couldn't hold back a moan. The walls of my vagina constricted, so after he'd removed his hand I held my muscles tight to keep it inside me. There was no numbing or prickling. My body heat quickly melted the lumps, and even as the liquid seeped out of me Jake inserted two more. I knew who it was because I heard James say "Steady, Jake; don't overdo it." With that cue, when Jake pulled back I relaxed, and the ice popped out of me.

Dev, meanwhile, had not stopped his stimulation of the other parts of my torso, and also my arms and legs, even the soles of my feet (the only time I felt any real twinges). He missed hardly a spot on my body not in contact with the tabletop. The result was, even though I had prematurely ejaculated my second dose of ice cubes, an ecstasy I have rarely known. And I'm sure that sounds bizarre, especially as it was delivered by a near-stranger and a gay guy. And it would have been embarrassing to be so turned on in front of people I hardly knew; except that they were all going through the same thing... well, half of them, anyway.

Still, I must give credit to the males. They performed well, considering that their pleasure was peripheral. Jake understood and navigated my erogenous zones like a... well, not an expert but a talented rookie.

When that game ended the night was barely half over. In fact, a couple of hours later I found myself volunteering for a second round of ice-play. This time it I partnered with Daniel, and by now we had both shed our inhibitions. This was around midnight, and Jake and I finally left at about three in the morning. It actually felt strange, and oddly erotic, to be getting dressed in the middle of the living room. (The melted ice had long since dried off our bodies; but even that is an agreeable sensation, having the water slowly evaporate from your skin, cooling you as it carries away heat before you begin to warm up.) A couple of girls decided to remain naked as they left, but immediately ran back into the house to put on their clothes. It was freezing outside.

We walked back to Lakeside Hall, about a dozen of us, under a moonless, cloudless, diamond-studded sky. A light but steady breeze lowered the apparent temperature, and I cursed myself for wearing just a miniskirt and a flimsy blouse. But when Jake gallantly offered me his coat I haughtily rejected it. I immediately apologized for my ingratitude, but he laughed it off. I think he believed I was trying to relive my exquisite ordeal with the ice. No; I was just being churlish.

After that night, I began to see the adventure club in a new light. There was a pattern to its activities which seemed more than merely audacious exploits. From the conversation that evening I discovered that Charlotte was one of its founders, and a member of another group I heard mention, the Empyreal Society. This one was more cryptic; Stephanie didn't seem to know about it; but I didn't get a sinister vibe. When, from time to time, I inquired from people I thought might know, the brush-offs were good-natured rather than unfriendly. In any case, I would eventually find myself drawn in.

Something else changed. Whenever I encountered guys who had been at the party, they looked at me differently... not in a leering way but rather with respect and admiration. And that might have been my imagination; but at our tute group meetings Daniel seemed a little less reserved, at least towards me. Whenever our eyes connected, I felt naked again, but without discomfort. And while the others in the group must surely have sensed that we shared a secret, to his credit Daniel never let on.

"Bondage is the life of personality, and for bondage the personal self will fight with tireless resourcefulness and the most stubborn cunning."

— Aldous Huxley, After Many A Summer

(Yes, I know this quotation isn't about rope bondage; but Huxley's observation is astute, and the book is worth reading... if you don't mind monologues.)

The month following the CMNF party was uneventful. There was the last week of classes, and then the revision and exam period. After that I decided to stay on campus for the mid-year vacation, with a couple of trips back home. Stephanie tried to interest me in one of her club's excursions, without success; but to make up for my refusal I agreed to another Saturday night gathering. Steph called it a "Shibari night". I did my research and at first declined the invitation; but as before doubt gave way to curiosity, and even excitement. For in my teens my guilty pleasure was the melodramatic romance novel. My favourite subgenre was the bodice-ripper. I fantasized being a damsel in distress — albeit feisty not feeble. So I had always wanted to be tied up, to experience what it would feel like being both helpless and heroic.

The people there were mostly those as on the previous nights, with a few additions and subtractions. (Daniel was one of the latter.) We convened at Charlotte's house once more. Again we came as couples, and this time I brought Richard. I suspect that he knew about the CMNF party. If he did he showed no resentment. (While I hadn't felt guilty over leaving him out, I worried that someone would spill the beans. But no one did. The adventure club members were discreet.)

Stephanie by now had moved on from Devraj. She was accompanied by Oscar. He was a first-year student who visited our dormitory often because his sister Alice, a postgrad, shared a room with Jessica, a second-year student like Steph and me. Alice and Jessica had been friends before moving into Lakeside Hall; and both were members of the adventure club. That's probably how Oscar and Steph became attached. I found him a bit immature, but that no doubt helped him in coping with Steph's ofttimes frenetic personality. (I mention this because they all will feature in my story.)

We kicked off with snacks and drinks. Those of us who weren't club regulars nevertheless knew everyone, from preceding encounters. Ominously, Charlotte warned us ladies to avoid the coffee because of its diuretic effect. Ten minutes later she cleared her throat and took off her dress, shoes and jewellery. The rest of us women followed her lead. It was another cold night, but we'd been told to wear a bikini under our clothes. I chose my favourite, the lime green Agustina. The males stayed fully clothed. They tried not to ogle, and none of us seemed particularly fazed at stripping down in front of them. It was not so much different from doing so on the beach, except that this wasn't a beach, it was a suburban house, and the men remained fully clothed. Of course, with the Nightie Night and CMNF party still fresh in our minds, the nonchalance was not really surprising. I deposited my shirt, jeans, shoes and watch in a corner of the living room alongside the rest of the discarded clothing.

Charlotte explained that a key part of the bondage experience is the tactile sensation, feeling the ropes tight against your bare skin. She said that the pattern and texture of your rigid bonds provide an enhancing contrast with your soft, smooth skin and supple, yielding flesh — a visual treat for your partner and a sensual one for you. And while the erotic essence of bondage is obvious, I must confess that I hadn't been thinking of it as an aesthetic or sensory experience. James added that tying up a woman is like creating a work of art. Your body is his tableau. Charlotte elaborated. The ropes may follow the natural contours of your curves and crevices or they may create shapes and forms, in ways that bring pleasure to both the artist and his subject. And even though your own role is passive, you participate equally. In fact, the submissive's is the more profound experience. What your master does is by him but to you. And in that respect it is like having sex (with a man). He is the giver and you are the receiver; your gift to him is the acceptance of his. The power over your body that you surrender to him flows back into you.

(I should add that Charlotte and James used the words "submissive" and "master" simply to mean the person who submits to the ropes and the one who applies them. I should add as well that the evening's motif was female bondage; but I did get the impression that this is how it always is for them.)

Charlotte concluded the introduction with a reassurance that sounded more like a warning. "Your bondage shouldn't be easy," she said. The paradox of sensual bondage is that the more stringent and strenuous it is, the greater the joy for both partners. That was something I had yet to be convinced of. I looked around at the faces of the other women and saw mostly frowns. But I reminded myself of the club's motto, "Nulla gloriam sine insania" — "There is no glory without madness"; and of Stephanie's personal philosophy, that comfort zones are for sissies.

Thereafter Charlotte ushered us down a pink-paneled corridor to a large chamber at the rear of the house. There was something weird about that hallway, with its spongy red carpet, subdued lighting and acoustics that reduced the few words anyone spoke to whispers. As we exited into the harsh light at the end, it was like emerging from the birth canal. It gave the strange but distinct impression that it was designed this way, as if the path along the passage represented a rebirth of some kind.

The room had a vaulted ceiling with exposed beams. It was bare of furniture except for a row of tables against one wall, on which were heaped coils of ropes, stacks of satin sashes, a pile of variously coloured vinyl ball-gags and some other paraphernalia. There were mats laid out in rows on the polished wooden floor. Charlotte gave us a moment to take in the sight. The expressions on the faces of the girls around me — wide eyes, open mouths, flushed cheeks, sweaty brows — and the gasps and giggles spoke the unspoken words. Of course, as James began handing out nylon ropes and satin sashes to the males, their expressions were of slightly embarrassed glee. However, while everyone tried not to appear too excited, no one seemed overly nervous. After all, these people had climbed mountains, descended cliffs, jumped out of aeroplanes, eaten bugs. The mission statement of the adventure club was about going beyond conventional margins.

We started with a warm-up of calisthenics and other loosening-up exercises, to enhance our flexibility and endurance, and also to boost our confidence and self-discipline. An unfocused mind, Charlotte explained, is as detrimental to good bondage as an unprepared body. To have control over your responses allows you to immerse yourself in the ropes' embrace, to receive the full experience and to prolong it. I noticed some of the women nodding and smiling; Stephanie was one. Others, like myself, were more tense. So the workout enabled us to shake off some of the jitters.

The males were not allowed to opt out of this, although some wanted to stand back and enjoy at their leisure the sight of us jigging and bobbing, sweating and puffing and straining in our bikinis. But Charlotte insisted they join in.

"You and your partner must have patience and self-discipline," she explained. "It makes it more enjoyable for the both of you, and you will be able to tie her up for longer, and more strictly, if she's relaxed and comfortable."

Charlotte then told us females to put on our blindfolds. I folded my sash, which was midnight blue, so I could tie it about my head, and Richard then adjusted the fabric to make it fit firmly over my eyes, shutting out every scintilla of light. That was when I felt the first goosebumps on my flesh. As I'd learnt with the ice-play, being rendered sightless is scary because you can't see what's coming; it's arousing because your other senses (hearing, smell, taste, orientation and in particular touch) are stimulated; and it's romantic, because you must place your trust in your partner.

To spice things up, James asked the males to take a few steps backward, while Charlotte instructed us women to shuffle forward and choose a new partner. The men remained silent as we groped about. My hand rested on the sleeve of a ruffled shirt and I recognized it as belonging to Oscar. There were more girls than guys, so four of the former ended up paired together. They were promised that they would get to swap roles during the evening. (I was somewhat disappointed that I wasn't one of these. I might have enjoyed being tied up by a girl, and tying her in turn.)

Then we began. Charlotte and James took the lead. They were still working as a couple, and she gave advice, guidance and directions to both sexes, while blindfolded and being bound. It was rather amusing, hearing our coach give her instructions in such a matter-of-fact manner, on how she was to be tied up, while she was being tied. Every so often her deadpan delivery would be interrupted by a squeal, a moan or a heavy sigh, when James hauled extra hard on the rope or wrenched her arms ferociously behind her in a too-stringent hog-tie, or when the intensity of the moment simply got too much for her to keep bottled up inside.

James took over the commentary at those times when he gagged her; but she kept trying to have her say, the words coming out as mumbles, snorts and gurgles. The comical effect lightened the mood at moments when we got into more arduous poses and postures. And I marveled at the rising chorus of grunts and groans reverberating around the room, until I realized that I was part of the choir. I clenched my teeth to stifle my own noise.

"Are we having fun yet?" Stephanie's voice squeaked after one resounding outburst. Everyone laughed. Then we were gagged.

My attempt at stoicism didn't work; and after Oscar had pried apart my jaws and thrust the vinyl ball between my lips, I rejoined the babbling cacophony. Dribble and drool oozed from the edges of my gag, and ran over my chin, or across my cheeks or down my neck, depending on how I was trussed and tethered. Bound in a hog-tie, lying on my belly with my arms wrenched upwards behind me and my ankles rammed against my backside; displayed in a frog-tie with my knees spread part, my shoulders pulled back and my breasts thrust forward; squirming in a ball-tie; writhing in a shrimp-tie; dangling in a strappado; I tried not to be a passive prisoner.

Oscar tried to soothe my spirits, stroking my head and massaging my neck and shoulders. He took Charlotte's advice when she reminded the guys that whenever possible they should wind or wrap the cord around several times, not just to make the binding more secure but to spread the pressure and prevent damage to the skin. He also did a manful job of keeping my bikini in place at times when the contortions of my limbs or the resistance of the ropes threatened its structural integrity.

One compelling lesson for me was that the more restrictive the bondage the better it feels. The ropes deny you the ability to move in the space around you. Your blindfold deprives you of one sensation while stimulating others, and your gag prevents communication (except for primitive guttural sounds). But when you're cut off from the world, with your entire existence shrunken down to the confines of your bonds, your isolation becomes a connection to your inner being, as you draw on your own resources of willpower and endurance; while at the same time you are intimately bound to your partner, not physically by the rope but emotionally by your dependence on him. You discover strength in your submission, power in your vulnerability, self-reliance in your helplessness, sensuality in your suffering, delight in your discomfort, ecstasy in your agony, euphoria in your humiliation, pride in your shame, intense self-awareness in your sensory deprivation. Your thoughts are as random and chaotic as that sentence, yet crystal-clear. These are the paradoxes which make your bondage both excruciating and exhilarating — the experience of being imprisoned and yet liberated, feeling incredible arousal and unbelievable serenity. You draw energy and vitality from the ropes even as you're surrendering to their hold on your body.

I had read or heard that you can become so submerged in your bondage that you zone out, you enter a languid, blissful even trance-like state. But I didn't experience that. I couldn't relax or let my mind wander. I found it impossible to separate myself mentally from the ropes. I could feel every strand, every fiber, every twist and coil during every second I was bound.

The session was divided into segments, each of which commenced with Charlotte demonstrating some technique and position. Or rather, James demonstrated on her, while she provided most of the commentary. We progressed through stages of difficulty, beginning with rudimentary hands-in-front and simple behind-the-back, crossed-wrist ties. The men used supple nylon cord that felt like it had been treated with softener so it wasn't abrasive and didn't chafe or burn the skin. And while we were going through the essentials, it was obvious that many of the guys had not much grasp of the fundamentals, such as cinching to properly hitch wrist and ankle ties. It baffled me that they hadn't done research, as I had. And even though Oscar was more adept than some, as I sensed from the noises around me, I could have wriggled or kicked free of some of his first efforts. But he quickly improved, encouraged by Charlotte's reminder.

"Don't hold back. If it isn't tight..." Her voice was suddenly smothered.

"It isn't right," the men finished for her.

Before we moved on to the more rigorous ties, Charlotte invited the males to try a few simple exercises, like having them attempt to get their elbows to touch behind their backs and trying out the "reverse prayer" position. Even without the extra stringency of rope, most were quite shocked at how difficult it can be, and by the sort of stress it puts on your shoulder blades in particular. Most gave up after a minute or so; but that didn't deter them when they put us into contorted tangles of trussed-up limbs.

I gasped when my arms were wrenched behind me and bound with my elbows almost touching. This thrust out my chest until I felt the straps of my bikini top straining to near breaking point. My heavy breathing further tested its cohesion. I was sweating and trembling; my skin prickled; my nipples hardened. And that surprised me. I had not expected to be so sexually aroused.

Then came the crotch-rope. We had just come out of a strappado. This had not been as severe as it might have been, but was a challenge nonetheless. Ropes were slung over the ceiling beams. My arms were bound behind me in double hammer-lock style (wrists crossed between the shoulder blades), rather than stretched out backwards. Oscar tied the suspension rope to my elbows and hauled on it until I was on my tiptoes and bent forward. He did this slowly so I could adjust to my shifting centre of gravity and adapt to the increasing strain. It was more uncomfortable than painful at first, but after a while my back and shoulders were hurting. My feet and calves began to stiffen until I feared a full-blown cramp. I was puffing and panting through my gag, hoping my ordeal would soon end but wanting to know how far I could go, how much I could take. On either side of me, in front and behind, the other girls were enduring with the same noises and the same resolve to endure. (During the entire evening, no one used her safe word or signal, and we were proud of that.)

I realized how marathon runners and triathletes feel. They endure for what they extract from the experience. Overcoming adversity, pushing through the barriers allows you to go to a place where your personal power resides.