my corner

eenslaved:

When I was twenty-one, on the cusp of turning twenty-two, I took a job that summer after graduation. A man hired me so he could tie me up.

He had a fancy house, elegantly furbished. Inside there were smooth marble pillars and heavy, old-fashioned wooden furniture. 

I became intimately acquainted with most of those pieces. I ended up being bound with my head down and ass up over the curved top of an antique treasure chest, spread-eagled on a low tea table, curled up like an egg inside an armoire, his dress shirts brushing my back. I had hung from hooks on the back of doors, knelt on top of kitchen countertops.

It was a weird job. He paid me — really well —  to let him tie me up, and that’s what he did. He never touched me intimately — well, I suppose it was intimate in the way he wound rope around my breasts or up between my legs, but I mean to say he never penetrated me. Except with his rope. 

Sometimes I felt sawed in half by his rope. Like the time he ran two lines through one room, the one I thought of as a ballroom, it was that grand and empty, with huge windows. One rope was secured very high, and the other below it. The lower rope bulged with thick knots spaced at intervals.

My employer — that’s what I thought of him as, for he was — bound my arms up high behind my back. My hands clasped one another, my fingers knuckling my upper back. He kept winding the rope until my arms were bound in an unbreakable web, and then he ran the ends forward, circling the rope around my breasts until they were swollen large as honeydew melons and my skin was squeezed taut.

His rope harnessed my breasts and arms, trapping my upper body, and then he stood on a small stool and fussed with the rope above my head. I stood there, eyes half shut, attuned to my own breathing and the feel of breathing against the constriction of the ropes. I loved how my breasts felt in his ropes. I felt luscious…divine.

When he was done, he had me step one leg over the knotted lower rope so I straddled it. My upper body harness was somehow tied to the rope over my head, but not secured in place; it would move along as I moved, tethering me to the rope tight lines.

His final adjustment was to raise the knotted rope between my legs until it bisected my cunt, almost disappearing in my folds.

The rope was one of the smoother ones — he had several that were coarser, and one that practically had bristles — but even so, by the end of that session, that rope felt like a blade. I strained up to walk on my tippy-toes as much as I could, but I was not a ballet dancer, trained to do so. I dragged my cunt over the ridges in the rope as I crossed the ballroom from one side to the other. Each bump of the knotted areas ground against my clit. It felt good. It felt bad. It felt pleasurable. It felt terrible.

At the end, I hung from my upper torso, pushing my body up occasionally on my toes before sinking back down again, rubbing my clit on a rope-knot, and coming.

The entire time, my employer just watched me. He walked around me and behind me, looked at me from all angles, and didn’t speak to me. He never spoke to me when he began to tie me.

The afternoon of the rope-walk, he had requested that I remove my clothes. He didn’t always do that. Sometimes he gave me clothes to wear, like transparent, tissue-thin robes; other times he bound me in the same clothes I came in wearing. He let me keep the clothes he gave me to wear. My favorite was a dress I thought of as a princess dress. It was voluminous and pale peach, and needed to be steamed because of how his ropes and my writhing had wrinkled it. That time he bound me on my back with my legs spread wide and tied up and out to the sides. The beautiful dress was pulled up to cover my head the whole time. 

Another session I remember was one of our last regular scheduled ones. He paid for me to spend an entire afternoon and evening with him. He placed the ropes on me over my clothes that time — I had shown up wearing a crisp blouse and plaid skirt — ropes cinched my waist, looped around my breasts, and folded my arms together behind my back. My legs were bent and tied open like a frog’s split. He asked me to open my mouth, and then he inserted a hard metal ring gag so I couldn’t close my mouth.

He lifted me up and placed me inside a large cardboard box that fit my dimensions just right. He closed the flaps above me; I heard the ripping sound of tape being torn, and the box was sealed, though not tightly, because I could still see light coming through the edges.

I lay in the dark box and fantasized about my employer, as I often did. He was obviously wealthy and very private. I didn’t know if he was married, or if he had kids. 

I was drifting in a haze of fantasies when I heard a tearing sound. The box was opened, the cardboard torn open until I lay flat on a remaining piece beneath me. 

My employer knelt over me. He breathed in deep through his nose.

“Would you like to come?”

Yes, I did, desperately. I didn’t always get to come in his bondage, but I did often enough to know that I loved coming when I was tied up by him. It was always a rare treat.

“Yarshh suhrr,” I garbled through my open mouth.

“May I touch you?” he asked.

“Pleeeseuh!”

His fingers pinched the tender skin of my breasts as my blouse was peeled apart, exposing my obscenely bulging breasts. I felt like a gift being unwrapped, though he only opened the blouse so far as to expose my breasts. He stroked my puffy nipples, circling them with his fingers, then pulling them into long, tight peaks.

He inserted something hard and smooth into my cunt, I keened with sheer delight at its hardness, though I was a bit disappointed he wasn’t using his own cock on me. 

He fucked me methodically with the foreign object, never alternating his speed, steady as a metronome in his actions of plunging it into me. My sex clenched and squeezed and released it and eventually, I came, wailing.

He continued to touch me, playing with my cunt, for the rest of the long session. He untied me to move my limbs around, massaging them for me, before binding me again. That was the only time I was untied. He kept me hydrated as he always did, so when my bladder grew full, I released it where I lay. He had trained me to do so in the past, when I was bound up in complicated rope that he wasn’t about to undo just because I had need of the bathroom. It still humiliated me to do that in front of him, soiling myself and my clothes — when I had clothes on — but he was so perfunctory about it that somehow, eventually, I became accustomed to it. I had little choice in the matter anyway.