He Had A Flare For Ropes by Lizbeth Dusseau, bondage, whipping, voyeurism
Masturbating in secret from another room, she watches longingly as a Master binds, whips and uses his yielding submissive.
Last night, I watched from the open door of the sewing room as Eddie—a six-foot three biker with a trim goatee and ponytail—cuffed Jane’s wrists in leather. I massaged mine as he did—remembering. Remembering not the men who cuffed mine, but the experience of going down under myself and discovering my submission. After fixing a blindfold over her eyes, Eddie peeled Jane’s clothes away—like it was an erotic dance, sending pieces flying like sails to the floor, billowing into nothing. Her dark-skinned body shone—she’d doused her skin with oils. I’d seen her just before the Dom arrived. Naked, she looked as though she’d melt into the warm, yellow light of her sixteen flaming candles. I was hypnotized, thinking how lovely it would be to lay my hands on her the way Eddie did; or kiss her cheek the way Eddie’s lips smooched the tender surface.
He had a flare for ropes, winding them around her neck so that I winced—afraid she’d choke. Jane breathed on, easily, as the ropes kept circling her bosomy torso on down to her healthy hips and sturdy thighs. He made valleys in her skin, deep fissures, indentations that would last days after. Her breasts stuck out between two confining ropes that bizarrely shaped the orbs into unnatural cones of stiff flesh. At their very tips, the nipples stood on end, turning purple. They’d be sensitive to his touch. When he pinched the little nubs, her body jerked while a silent gasp issued from her mouth.
I was gasping, too, my pussy wanting to be rubbed.
When Eddie finished his intricately designed labor, he thrust her forcefully over the back of a chair. I could see him gaining power having her in his control, and how Jane was relinquishing hers to him. The simple exchange would work for the next hour, I presumed, but probably not much longer. I slid down the slide of surrender with her, wishing I was bound. I remembered being staked in the dirt of a cellar floor and left. Could she be that narrow, that subservient to find herself in the same bereft position?
Eddie toiled again, binding Jane’s body to her living room chair, leaving little room for movement, the slightest wiggle, even the tiniest writhing, to escape the pain of his whips.
As he began to beat her body—her back and ass—I lay back on my sewing room cot, and fingered my slit. Remembering, being there, putting myself in Jane’s position, letting the swirling surge of energy work on my hungry hole. It clenched on nothingness, crying for something to fill the gap. I gazed around, my eyes settling on an empty, long-necked beer bottle—which became the cock I needed.
“That’s it, baby,” Eddie encouraged the groaning Jane as his floggers and paddles and braided cat turned her back and ass into a shredded sheet of crimson. I imagined it was me he was egging on, me getting flogged, paddled and whipped. I groaned to myself, the beer bottle doing the trick to take me toward that end. I waited, held off, let the fantasy ebb and flow. I’d made my decision to come with her, to listen to the sound of her breath and the cawing protest that meant nothing, to feel her body rise and fall, feel the ache, the smarting spasms, and the pressing need to let it loose.
Did she feel me, too?
I rocked back on the bed against the pillow with the long-necked bottle in my hand, thrusting it meanly into the cavity, bearing down on it hard.
The rhythm between Master and submissive turned wild—erratic. Jane pulled against her ropes, screamed as the cat bit into her skin, and then suddenly, the whole act changed shape and form… she was shuddering deep, cumming, cumming on Eddie’s fingers, her hole gushing with juices. My own cunt snapped, coating the bottleneck with a frothy liquid and finally easing off—as Jane eased off, as Eddie eased and backed away.
With a few knots loosened, she was pushed to the floor where she crawled to the gap between Eddie’s widespread legs and began to suckle his exposed erection. She worshipped him for three minutes of openmouthed sex—lapping and kissing and allowing him down her throat.
I closed the door to give them privacy, and finished my scene in the silence of the sewing room, listening to the giggles and laughs that concluded theirs.
My fantasy has been tugging at me ever since, holding out its bony hand, curling a finger in my direction, imploring me to follow. To where? Where would a formerly owned slave go to find sexual satisfaction if she didn’t want to give herself away again? I ask the question, but have no answer.
I’ll sit tight and wait. In the past, the right things have come my way—excuse me right is probably not the word I want here. Who’s to say if anything I have done has been right for me?