You know that saying, “Don’t knock it ’till you’ve tried it.” and how, when someone says that to you, you wrinkle your nose and think, ‘Yeah, but I’m not trying that!’?
Up until a few months ago, I would have done the exact same thing had somebody suggested bondage, but now I wouldn’t turn down any new experience just because it sounds a little ‘out there’.
I always was the kind of guy who, I guess, liked my lovers to be in control. Being handled, staying passive while they turned me and arranged me and did with me what they wanted, was always a big turn-on for me.
Sex was never about my own orgasm. What got me off was the pleasure of service, the way it made my heart beat faster and my temperature rise when a lover would tell me in a gruff voice to, ‘Turn over.’ or ‘Spread your legs.’ The little fantasy that I had no choice in the matter would play itself out in my head and I’d come, sometimes without even having my cock touched.
But it was never about any of that ‘scene” stuff, which I viewed with distaste whenever I saw it in magazines or on the street. Guys in leather and chaps, with whips and handcuffs attached to their belts, that’s what most people think of when bondage is mentioned. I know, I was one of them.
But there’s more than one sort of bondage and it doesn’t have to have that ‘Master/Slave’ bullshit going on.
And it’s not the way it looks, either. You see a photo or a video of some guy being tied up and you think he likes being immobilized, a prisoner. Being tied up isn’t about being unable to move, to resist. It’s about being free.
There’s an incredible freedom that comes when you give over complete control of yourself to someone else.
Someone you trust, of course. You’re not just giving them your body, you’re giving them your entire self.
Letting go of more than just motor skills and physical freedom. It’s like a release from… everything.
When it’s over, it’s not a ‘crawl on your knees and kiss his feet’ kind of a gratitude that you feel, that’s role-playing and not what I’m talking about at all. You’re relaxed, completely relaxed and calm. Bondage has a soporific effect, it clears and refreshes the mind. All the dross of the day, all the petty concerns are washed away and you’re left feeling mentally energized. Maybe you’re physically tired and ready for sleep, but the mind is like crystal sharp and ringing, a thing of beauty.
Let me illustrate:
I’m like most guys, average. Average to look at, average in height, I work in an office and live alone in a small house with my dog for company. I’m single and, like I said, I always chose guys to bring home who demonstrated that ‘in charge’ attitude that I prefer.
No leather, no moustaches and knee-high boots, just men who knew what they wanted and could see that they’d get it from me.
This particular Saturday night, I walked into one of my favourite bars in one of those naturally high moods we all have. A spring in my step, mentally whistling, feeling on top of the world. My favourite stool was available, the barman bought my drink immediately, that kind of a night. Nodding a few greetings to guys I knew, exchanging pleasantries and looking around to see who was there, I spotted a guy leaning on the other end of the bar reading the paper.
He was big. Six three or four to my five ten, at least. Wide shoulders, deep chest, manly thighs; all that romance novel stuff. Blond hair and tanned skin, he had about him that air of confidence that told me he was my kind of man. The leader type.
Eventually, he looked up from his paper to take a sip of his drink and our eyes met. Across a crowded room? I know, I know, bring on the violins, but it’s true, that’s how it happened. He measured me up as I had done him, both of us unsmiling. Deadly serious, this game of pick-up-pricks.
Soon, he folded the paper and came around the bar to where I was sitting and picked me up.
Not literally, I’m talking about the meandering, pointless conversation that is always a prelude to the real business of getting laid.
When that point was reached it was done in silence. He finished his drink in one swallow and indicated the door with a tilt of his head. My reply, of course, was to finish my own drink, pick up my jacket, say goodnight to the barman and head on out, following him.
Cut to my place. Just inside the closed door, I turned to him. He reached out and began to unbutton my shirt. No words had been exchanged since we left the bar. None were needed, we both knew what we were about. I watched his deft fingers dealing with the shirt, not his face. When they were all undone, he pushed the shirt from my shoulders and I shrugged, letting it slide down my arms to puddle on the floor.
Already he had moved on to my belt, unfastening the clasp and zip of my pants he eased the material down over my hips and then stopped. He would not bend to pull them further down; this I had to do myself.
Once to my knees they dropped and I kicked off my shoes as well while I stepped free. My shorts were also mine to discard and I did so, sinking immediately to my knees and bringing up my hands to work on his jeans, never once making eye contact.
He removed his T-shirt, pulling it over his head with crossed arms, as I completed my task and gently lowered his shorts, freeing his semi-erect cock and his balls from the soft fabric. Moving in closer, I ran my tongue along the underside of the shaft, taking just the head into my mouth and softly sucking. His cock twitched with pleasure, immensely gratifying to me, and I continued my ministrations as he brought his hands around to cup my head and began to slowly thrust in and out.
Each movement went deeper down my throat and it became difficult to take him in, but I did not resist.
It was his wish and by my actions I intended to show my compliance with them. He did this several times, finally drawing my head back and walking away, leaving me to follow.
Inspecting my home, his hands on his hips, he looked about him. Not at the decor, which is basic to say the least. but in a searching manner, finally deciding on the most likely looking door and opening it.
He was correct; it was my bedroom and I followed him inside, finding him standing at the side of my bed, his back turned to me, waiting. I came and stood in front of him facing the bed and he placed one strong hand on the back of my neck, guiding me forward to kneel upon the covers. Moving behind me, he pushed me down onto my hands and knees. He spread my legs apart, pushing with the palms of his hands against my inner thighs, until they could go no further. My head he bent forward until it touched the bed, turning my face to one side and bringing my arms back, folding my wrists across my spine.
Like this, I waited to service him, my cock hard and pulsing against my belly at the sheer thrill of it all.
Abruptly he pushed through the tight ring of muscle, the sudden, sharp pain adding to the delicious torment and then he lunged forward, embedding himself completely inside, filling me with hot, needy flesh.
The feeling of him, pleasuring himself in my body was intoxicating, the deep thrusts as he moved back and forth within made a heavenly rhythm, his grunts of effort and moans of satisfaction were music to my ears.
So too, the harsh cry as he came, pumping rapidly inside me. I felt him swell and then empty, his hands sweaty and hot against my hips as he ground out the last of his seed.
He rested for a moment and when he had regained his breath, withdrew. Stroking my flanks in praise he spoke his first word since arriving, ‘Stay.’ He said and then left the room.
I remained exactly as he had placed me, despite the ache of stretched muscles and cramped neck, even though my own release had not happened, I didn’t move, wanting to please and trusting that he would return.
I could hear him moving about in my living room. His heavy tread upon the floorboards, the sound of the television being turned on, then off, and of books being lifted and pages turned as he made free with my possessions and inspected my home. He passed the bedroom door on his way to the bathroom. I saw his denim-clad legs move across my line of sight and heard the light switch, more cupboards open and close and the toilet flush before he returned to the living room..
It was a test of my patience, to see how long or even if I would remain where he had left me and I did so gladly, wanting to impress, marvellously moved by the inexplicable kinship I felt with this stranger.
Eventually, after half an hour or so, he returned to the bedroom but not immediately to my side.
Instead he moved about the room, opening drawers and cupboards. Another test, that I could sense.
This time of my tolerance, my obedience to his wishes in light of this most personal invasion of my privacy.
I waited, sore and needy but quietly proud of my strength and the trust I was displaying for him and in him.
He came around behind me at last, his hand measuring the curve of my buttocks, cupping one, his index finger sliding easily inside my still-open hole. Then he slid the hand between my legs and fondled my ballsac for a moment before running his fingers, like quicksilver, up the length of my rigid shaft.
I heard a quiet laugh as I shivered in reaction, and he said, “Lovely.” My heart swelled with pride because I had pleased him. He knelt on the bed so he could see my face and asked, “Ready for more?”
I nodded, unwilling to speak and breach the moment, and he took my hands from behind my back and guided me to kneel upright on the bed once more. My hands he brought round before me, encased in his own. He took my two hands in one of his and, reaching into the pocket of the jeans he still wore, took out a length of laundry rope that he had retrieved from my bathroom cabinet.
He didn’t ask to bind me, simply held the rope coiled in his hand for a moment and, when I made no objection, he held my wrists together and bound them tight, leaving a few inches of slack between.
I sighed happily and rested against his chest for a moment before he pulled me to my feet and led me by the rope out into the living room.
Between the two bay windows that jut out from the side of the house is a recess, an alcove that was once the front entrance. Now it is blocked off and, while the doorframe remains, I have installed a downlight inside and use it for flowers or to show a painting to best advantage. It is to this alcove that he took me, stopping beneath the doorframe and reaching up to engage the sliding hook that is hidden above it which I sometimes use to hang potplants.
This time it was I who was displayed as he slipped the rope over the hook, forcing me onto the balls of my feet. Then he moved around in front of me and decided on his arrangement, spreading my legs apart once more until I was on tiptoe and every muscle was taut and showing to best advantage. He clicked the switch and the alcove flooded with light, illuminating his living sculpture.
“Beautiful.” he said, running a hand down straining arm muscles and across tightly stretched belly. He didn’t need tell me to stay, I would not have moved for the world. Fighting to remain in the position he had chosen, difficult as it was, while he returned to the sofa and made himself comfortable.
The light in the living room was off and I could see him only by the faint glow from the television as he turned it back on and settled down to watch the news. I admired his chiselled features, the firm jawline and straight, Roman nose, heavily muscled hairless chest and those firm thighs; containing such power, as I now knew. I could see myself too, reflected in the hall mirror, my flesh glowing in the warm light. Every muscle, from toes to fingertips, given sculptured form by the strained position.
He watched the newscast and then a portion of another program while I held my self still, ignoring the cramping and pulling as best I could, encouraged by his occasional glances in my direction and his quick smiles of approval for my suffering.
My erection had subsided somewhat, not proof against the ever-growing pain, but it sprang into hard life once more when he turned his eyes from the television and watched me instead, his flaccid cock rising from where it had rested against his thigh, growing more erect the longer he looked.
Turning the television off, he came and stood before me, his eyes intent upon my face, searching for something. I met his gaze with my own, radiant with the calm conviction that this was right and proper, to be before him like this, bound for his pleasure.
He smiled then, a smile of recognition and of welcome. Reaching out with both hands, taking my nipples between his thumbs and forefingers he squeezed and twisted them slightly. I drew in a hissing breath at this new pain, suddenly outraged that he could think that I would enjoy such a thing.
Then it hit me. The pain peaked, and a rush, a tingling, sent quivers of pure pleasure from my chest to my cock as if there were a direct connection between them. A moan left my parted lips and he gathered it into a kiss; our first. One hand snaked slowly down over my belly, giving me time to shake my head in negation if I wished, and grasped my balls.
Our eyes locked as he quickly twisted his hands; the pain and then the heady rush of pleasure zipped and bounced between my nipple and the tortured sacs. My entire body convulsed, hips rocking. Only the bonds stopped me from collapsing to the floor from the incredible endorphin rush.
Stepping back, he waited for me to recover. When my shuddering breaths subsided a little, he whipped his hand out and slapped my cock with the flat of his palm. Again and again he did this thing. Slowly at first, with a pause between each blow that allowed me to feel the pain crest and subside, then faster and faster until it peaked, the pleasure and the agony mingling together in one mind-destroying rush that sent my orgasm shooting from my balls and out from the head of my cock in explosive spurts.
Exhausted, I hung in my bonds, mind clear and empty of everything except what really mattered; who I was and what I wanted. Moving behind my limp, sweaty body, he entered me roughly. His thrusts were brutal, asserting his dominance, the male of the species at his most animalistic. He held my hips in an iron grip, allowing no movement, and pistoned in and out of my hole, twisting to change the angle of penetration, withdrawing fully to plunge back inside with pitiless force. Grinding against me, breathing heavily in my ear, he came, his final thrusts ferocious in their intensity as he ploughed my channel.
Finished, he leaned against me until he regained his breath. “Do you want more?” He asked. I nodded.
“I’ll write down my address.” He said, kissing the back of my neck. “Come to me there next weekend.
For the entire weekend. Don’t come if you don’t mean it.”
With that, he released me, allowing me to place my still-bound hands about his neck for support until my shaking legs and protesting muscles recovered enough that I could stand unaided.
He untied my hands and we walked together to the door where I once again dropped to my knees and, kissing the head of his cock, tucked it away and zipped his jeans while he put on his T-shirt.
Handing me the scrap of paper with the all-important address on it, he kissed me once more, deeply and thoroughly, and then left.
I slid down the wall just inside the door, exhausted but content, clutching the precious paper to my chest.
Finally I knew, completely and without doubt, just what it was I liked, what I wanted and, most of all, what I needed above all else, and it was a freeing revelation.
I had given all I had to a stranger and he had taken my trust and not abused it, but rather had held my soul in his hands, allowing my mind to fly, before returning it, whole and unharmed. Until the next time.
Then I realised… I didn’t know his name. And, that it didn’t matter.
End
© November, 2000