Touching the smooth texture of the rope, I feel the effect as a wave of pleasure stirs my already awakened desire. Pulling the tangled mass from its velvet home, I toss it to the bed in haste, then begin to strip while standing in front of the dressing table mirror. I used to hate this ugly relic of the past: the severe lines and dark wood; its massive, overpowering presence in my small bedroom. Mom says there’s no other place for it—I could think of dozens, like the Salvation Army Thrift Store. But then, my opinion can’t hold a candle to one hundred years of family history locked inside this silly cabinet. It belonged to Mom’s grandmother, and thus it is a treasured work of art, a prized antique—likely worth thousands of dollars, she’d be quick to tell you, if she only had time to take it to the Antique’s Roadshow for appraisal. I thought lady’s dressing tables were supposed to be delicate, dainty as the feminine spirit. But perhaps my great-grandmother was not a delicate woman, rather a practical one as staid, austere and hefty as her dressing table.
Much as I’ve hated the thing, in the last few months I quit fighting it. Once it became useful, an important centerpiece in the fetish ritual that burns in me, it took on the character of a stern, omnipresent being presiding over the complex scheme I conduct for its critical appraisal. I doubt my ritual would be as potent without it.
As soon as I’m naked, I gaze into the mirror feeling my wanting bubbling up like water about to boil. When I’m standing, I can barely see my eyes in the mirror—so sometimes I sit in the little chair to conduct the early stages of the ritual. But I rarely allow myself that much time anymore. All I need to see is the feral look in my eyes, the smirk on my lips and the undulating nakedness of my body, as I begin to run my hands along its slopes, along the lazy curve of my hip, and the small cushion of budding breast flesh. I think critically of myself as most teenagers do—my brown hair is too plain, my lips too pouty, my mouth too large, my eyes just a simple, uninspiring hazel. But I don’t think critically now, not when the ecstasy is so close. My brown hair sways erotically as it moves across my shoulders like a fondling hand and my pouty lips reflect my ability to please a man. My eyes seduce.
Licking my lips like an exotic dancer before her sex-hungry audience, I squeeze my pert, pink nipples, showing off. Then I squeeze them harder still, until I feel a current of painful energy skirt down through my groin and into my thighs. I hear a silent, masculine whisper telling me to ‘do it harder… make it hurt’, so I obediently pinch them again and watch my groin thrust forward and my hips roll with this wave of pleasure.
And now the rope.
I don’t know what decides for me, the desire alone or the voice in my head. Maybe they are one and the same. I start with the rope around my waist, tying it tight enough to cut into my flesh. Once I knot it at my belly, I thread it through my crotch, pulling unmercifully hard through my open labial lips to the right of my love bud and then up my anal crack to the small of my back. Secured at the waist rope, it takes another deep dive into my nether regions, where I thread it along the left side of my swelling bud. I can barely touch the little thing now, afraid I’ll trip the glory switch and come too soon. The inner me would be angry if I took shortcuts. I live for the tease, celebrate the edge and the teetering on the brink and the painful ‘almost there’. I can taste the desire, the hunger on my tongue. The thirst makes my mouth dry.
In a command performance for my stern mirror, I yank the ropes with cruel intensity. When this is over, there will be rope burns in the crevice and raw places that will ache for days. I love this fact—a fact that will draw me to my masochistic pleasure again, before the remnants of this scene fade. I finally tie off the rope at my waist in a twisted, messy knot. My belly flesh bulges crudely around it. I’m no great beauty any day, by my skewed estimation, and now I’ve marred the image even more, grotesquely distorting the smoothness of my youthful contours.
I kneel on the small low-backed dressing table chair that barely fits my butt. Bending forward, I rest the weight of my torso on the left side of the table. The formidable mirror is even closer to me now, which makes me worry that I’ll be sucked into its one-dimensional reality. This tawdry view of my tied groin sends a guilty, gratifying shiver though my bones. But I don’t linger with this vision of my dark insides. I’m urged on by the incredible force of my desires.
I reach to my right, for the fat amber bottle. No one knows but me the real purpose of the colored bottles carefully arranged on the lacy dresser scarf. Mom must think they represent a tacit acceptance of the hated dressing table. Nothing could be further from the truth. The bottles are cheap glass items I found in an antique store and Woolworth’s six months ago, when I deliberately searched for phallic objects that I could stuff into my pussy and ass on days like this one, when the inner voice will not be denied. I realize the danger in using glass. But there’s a certain thrill involved, too, knowing that if the glass breaks while it’s inside me, I may have my ritual necessarily exposed to an emergency room of snickering doctors. I tempt fate every time my pubic muscles squeeze.
The amber bottle is my favorite because it forces my pussy wide. Coated with my juices, the bottle slides into my vagina with ease. While leaning on one arm, I pump the phallic piece with my other hand, shoving it hard, shoving it deep, and feeling it finally crash land at my cervix with a painful thump. I’ve lost myself to the moment, taking instructions from the fantasy.
Holding the bottle in place with my vaginal muscles, I open the dresser drawer and pull out a handful of hairpins. On strict orders from my inner self, I affix the pins to my labia lips, one-by-one. These don’t have the bite of clothespins—which I’ve also tried—but they have their own allure, turning my labia into a porcupine of prickly pins. Eventually, even this soft bite will have an alarming effect.
I go back to bottle-fucking, abandoning all previous careful form for the impulsive ride to my sexual end. When the moment calls for another change, I withdraw the bottle, listening to the slushy, sucking sound as it slides from my vagina. The slick amber glass, with some maneuvering and manipulation, will fit into my ass, but it takes some additional effort to push the ropes off my anus. Kneeling upright, I manage the feat without much problem—I’ve done this before. In this position, there’s just enough slack in the rope so I can wedge the top of the bottle into my rectum. I have to nudge it slowly and allow the muscles to slacken, but my intention is very clear, and not even the pain accompanying the forced entry can dissuade my desire. In reply, my belly grinds with precum spasms.
(c) 2002 Michael Berkowitz, http://www.michaelberkowitz.com