ALL TIED UP - bad audio but good try

The Stewardship Paradigm - A Thought for Tu B'Shvat - Rabbi Sacks

The Stewardship Paradigm - A Thought for Tu B'Shvat - Rabbi Sacks: Few texts have had a deeper influence on Western civilisation than the first chapter of Genesis, with its momentous vision … Read more

ALL TIED UP - part 2

Unfortunately, it wasn’t the loud, gasping groan of a toe-curling, ‘little death” that starts in your soul then ripples through your body in all directions.  It was the cry of that toddler when she realizes her mother is gone.  This scream started however in a dark memory, a mental house of horror and dragged me into a pinpoint within a black hole.   Being bound makes me feel free.  But touching my asshole sent me running from a flashback of being held down and raped. 

We don’t use a safe word.  Angus believes that a good dom knows when something is too much, too intense or frightening for his sub.  So, when my screams overwhelmed the gag, he immediately stepped back and withdrew his finger probe.  He wiped his finger on a nearby paper towel then released me from the handcuffs.  He found my robe on the back of a dining chair then wrapped me like he was swaddling a baby.  He checked my face.  The singular tear making its way from my soul down my cheek startled him.  “Come sit down,” he said.  “Clearly you aren’t as ready for this as originally believed.”

He let me take the ball gag off myself but took it out of my hand and stashed it along with the other toys in the duffle as if it never made an appearance.  Angus escorted me to the couch, careful in his guidance for I was shaking, in a full-blown flashback.  He had seen me like this before - the first time being the night before our wedding.  I felt racket each time it happened.  Although I was suffering from daymares of a sexual assault during my early teens, I’ve been through enough therapy to know that the helplessness felt by someone watching it, particularly if they love you as he loves me, is also devastating.  I am pleased he didn’t apologize – very unbecoming of a dom.  But kept the role-play going, allowing me to keep my dignity.  “I wish to never to disappoint you, your Grace.”

He sat on the end of the couch and patted the seat next to him.  “It is my job to help you along this journey.  That there are bumps in the road is expected.”  He smiled slightly, doing a good job of managing his concern.  He thought a moment then seemed to have an idea.  He reached in the back of his jeans and pulled out one of his hair ties.  “Sit down and hold your hands in prayer position.”  Still shaking and feeling more than a bit dizzy, I started to kneel, but he caught me and pulled me on the couch.  “No, I just want you seated with your hands together but your fingers apart,” he corrected.   I complied.  He wrapped the clothe rubber band to bind my pointer fingers.

I looked at them then smiled at him weakly.  “Thank you, your Grace.”  It did feel good, like a small oasis in the desert.  I lay my head on his lap and he stroked my head.  “This is a setback.”

He sighed but said nothing initially.  For several months, we had been working toward him fucking me while I was bound.  To Angus, being able to do so would be a sign that the trauma no longer ruled me.  Such would mean that there was nothing between me and my true self, symbolized by blissful surrender to someone completely dedicated to me.  Doing so would not only be a sign of his trust in our relationship and him but in myself.  Last month, he had been able to slip two fingers inside my ass and I had a fairly satisfying orgasm.  He said it was “brilliant” and I looked “amazing”.   I know he’s looking forward to applying a stronger, larger tool.  “We didn’t’ meet last month, remember?  These things take consistent attention.  We have two weeks now.  I’m sure we can get back on track.”
“I don’t know why this is so important to me,” I whined like a child who didn’t get what he wanted for his birthday.  “It’s not like the sex isn’t good otherwise.”

“You once said that there are corners and undercurrents to this relationship, all of which you wanted to explore,” he responded plainly, still petting my head.

“I know,” I replied.  Why an abuse survivor would want this was a complicated question.  It's like the assault turned on a switch that wasn’t meant to be triggered just then.  Truth is I love to be of service. There is such power in knowing and accurately responding to the needs of another.  It is a game that calls on a deep sense of your master’s mind and Swiss precision to fulfil his calls before he even imagines them.  I loved to catch him just slightly off-guard with his favourite pretzels or that file he has been looking for.   I’d tried to rid myself of this joy, need to serve another but unfortunately, I’m the guy who saves the drenched kitten in the tree across the street because his girlfriend is worried animal control won’t arrive on time.  I’m no wimp or doormat but the smile on her face when can back with that cat was truly worth nearly breaking my neck.

“The knot must be helping,” Angus interrupted, “for I see you’re back in your head.  I swear you must have a fully furnished mansion in there!”

“With you and a rabbi in every room!”  I turned my head and offered a bashful grin. 

“Only if her name is Rebecca and she’s laying around completely naked.”  He was referring to a girl from my study group he saw during his October visit.  I’d convinced him to come to a student lecture.
I was feeling better.  Getting past these quickly is a good sign, even if I wasn’t recognizing it as such.  “If memory serves me, you were the one doing all the flirting.”

Angus was researching the Glamorgan legends, trying to identify which crazy tale his father told him as a child were actually true and to fill in some black holes in the clan’s history – like what was behind the druidic spell that bonded my family to his in perpetuity.  “She seemed keen on our family history and our connections to the Crown.” 

“Is that what they’re calling it now?!”  I smiled.  “And yes, I am feeling better.”  I raised up my fingers bonded like a ponytail on an old Barbie and added, “Being restrained so efficiently, who wouldn’t feel safe and secure!”

“Cheeky aren’t we!”  Angus pulled the rubber ties off my fingers abruptly.  “Sit up!  Where’s my tea?”

I sat up immediately and went back to the kitchen.  Lifting the lid off the slow cooker, I said, “Lamb stew?  It should be done in a bit.”  I took a tray out of the frig.  “Rosemary and feta cheese?  These will only take 10 minutes after I heat the oven.  We could nibble and watch a movie?  I think 3:10 to Yuma is coming on TCM, 1957 version, of course.”

“Deetz,” he said, in a soft, earnest tone.  “Let the stew cook.  I’m not hungry just yet.”

“Oh!  Okay,” I said putting the tray back in the refrigerator.

“Deetz,” he replied, “I did miss you.  I missed you a lot.”

I looked at my husband letting his neediness rest like a glob of cum on his shirt sleeve.  “I missed you too,” I said in my best ‘aw shucks’ manner.  “We have to plan better . . . the only way this is going to work is if don’t let anything hinder this time together.”  It wasn’t his fault or mine last month – Parliament’s session was extended and the deadline for my article was changed – we just didn’t juggle things right.  “But I assure you, you have my full attention over this break and, during this time, you can have me any way you want.”  I was back to feeling bold again.  Nothing like being needed.  He looked at me as if he wasn’t sure, so I added, “I’m okay now.  Thanks.”

“Don’t over-promise,” he settled on.  “Now, I am hungry.  You know it is always better for me to eat before sex.”  He leaned over to grab the remote off the coffee table.

Liar.  The carb crash after he eats means he’d be asleep before the movie’s over and he knew it.  He just didn’t want me to feel obligated, trying to make up for the sex we didn’t have.  I turned back to my tray of unbaked pretzels.  “I reckon I’ll pop these in the oven.”  I did so and realized that I was rather chilled in nothing but a bathrobe.  “I think I’ll put my sweats back on.”

“You’ll do such thing!” he barked, a bit unexpectedly.  He stood up and shed his shirt, socks, and shoes.  “Turn up that heat and you’ll be fine.”  He sat back down and crossed his legs.  “Make me one of your martini’s,” he said waving me on and leaning back in his seat.  “This stupid remote is irritating me,” he growled.

I undid the ties and flashed him.  “Oh my!  I’ll get right on that, your Grace!”  I turned up the heat to 27 C.  The nice thing about being married to money is them always reminding you that that money is now yours as well.

Back in the kitchen, I had just started pouring the olive brine in the mixer when I said, “I’m sorry.  I know these flashbacks are . . . troublesome.”  I couldn’t look at him.

“Mate, I’m the bogeyman haunting your unconscious fears.  They see my love coming, so they racket up the pressure,” Angus replied.  I looked back and he was still fumbling with the remote.  When he reached TCM and the movie, he turned to me and affirmed in a tone I can imagine would have been familiar to Geoffrey of Monmouth, “Your fear will not overrun this marriage.  I won’t let it.”

This is what you get when you marry a peer of the realm.  Who said chivalry was dead?

THE END

ALL TIED UP

Angus arrived at my suburban Philadelphia flat an hour after my last final and handcuffed me to water pipe above my head, near the sink.  He took the cup of tea I’d prepared for him earlier and inhaled a thirsty man’s a sip.  “Ah, still warm and quite tasty!” he said referring to the cup warmer I’d purchased a few days earlier for just such occasions.  I’m a prized slave because I always think ahead, anticipate his Grace’s needs.  When you grow up the son of a valet, you learn tricks for keeping your master happy.  I provide much better service, in many ways than any of the women Angus ever dated - in and out of the bedroom, the beach, the backroom at The Eagle, or the closet on the fourth floor of the estate – yeah, I said closet.

Angus Mac Innes-Reese, the 12th Earl of Glamorgan looked like he just walked off the cover of a best-selling romance.  A solid 6’2”, dark brown hair with green eyes, typically dressed in Miami casual with hair tied in man bun, with Druidic symbols tattooed irregularly on his arms, legs, and stomach, Angus was once the most eligible bachelor on four continents.  Rich, titled men are always welcomed on the market.  Mothers threw their daughters at him and, at that time, he was more than willing to drink the milk.  Then I came along and showed him another way.  We'd married little more than three years now.   How did I do that?  What’s the secret of turning a straight guy gay?  He's not gay but then that's another story.

I’m not gay either – the word that fits best is “pansexual” or someone who would love and fuck anything that moves.  Ever since that emotionally unavailable creature society labelled as my father found me in my twin bed with the stable boy and the daughter of a local wealthy banker, I have felt no shame in who I choose to love or screw with.  I left home and secured this moniker while abroad.  I lived in Thailand while studying martial arts and sleeping with Lady Bois.  Before that, I lived in San Francisco with my boyfriend who loved rimming and my blowjobs.  And before that, I travelled between BDSM clubs and events in Chicago with my BFF Toni.  I was drinking heavily then so, though I was madly in love with her, she spent much of that time rescuing me from various forms of violent sexual debauchery.  Now I choose to be married to this person, Angus, and now my label is “Viscount”. 

Not that I’m a bad catch either.  From the neck down, I’m Bruce Lee to Angus’s Cary Grant.  I have a mess of Japanese symbols and words tattooed around my body along with a brand on my back that sparkles whenever I am aroused.  When I was a teen, that damn thing would burn more holes in my school shirts, particularly in Ms. Edwards’ fourth hour – that woman had an ass I still dream about.  From the neck up, my brown hair and topaz eyes are rather nondescript though with my curls growing out, I was looking less mean and more like the cute boy from the local yeshiva, a Jewish religious school.   Angus had me grow out my hair – I’m sure you know why.

Angus leaned against the sink while taking the measure of my flat.  “We could still get you a maid.”  I love how the superrich always talk in third person – as if to pay homage to all the minions who actually do the work.

“I won’t be able to find anything afterwards,” I replied.

“How do you find anything now?” he teased.  Angus took another big sip from his cup, the steam warming him on this wintery day.  He changed the subject and avoided eye contact when he asked, “How bad have the flashbacks been this time?”

“Who knew you could binge-watch trauma!?” I replied.

“How often?  How many?”

I weakly tried to put him off again.  “Less than when I was last home but more often than I would like.”  That’s the bad thing about sharing your life with someone, you can’t stop sharing ‘cause your partner will just keep asking.  “I need to figure out how to do my morning prayers and 15 minutes of mindfulness meditation – I’ll be better organized next term.”
 
He let that slide, sorta.  “Second-year rabbinical student with a bachelor’s in philosophy and physics and a current GPA of,” he glanced at my computer screen on a nearby counter which was to my school profile, “4.3 – please, you’re overworked if you ask me.”  Angus walked to his duffle bag and pulled out something red, black, and shiny.  “But I have the cure for all those bad thoughts, insecurities, and self-recriminations.”  Under the direct light of the efficiency apartment’s kitchen, I recognized the object more readily.

I returned to form.  “You have always said I talk too much, you Grace.”

He fit the ball gag in my mouth and secured the leather belt in the back of my head just above the neck.  “If only this shut off your brain,” he sighed.  “Oi! Such bad behaviour!”  He checked the handcuffs then looked down at my ankles, likely considering whether or not to bind them.  “I’ll do them later,” he mumbled.  “You do understand that your suffering comes from failing to follow my instruction, eh?  These two weeks off from school will be an opportunity for me to boost your training – that ought to quiet those nerves of yours, end those silly nightmares.”

Angus and I started this form of “play” the night before our wedding when he put my cock in a male chastity harness.  While guests danced to some wedding DJ’s idea of music, he fucked me in a bathroom on the 2nd floor our home in Cardiff, Wales, the Morganwg Estate.  With my dick constrained, I had the best anal orgasm of my life.  Lovely.  Since then our sex play moved into Japanese rope tying, often referred to as kinbaku, I’d found a peaceful relaxation that I heretofore never knew existed.  Kinbaku, or ‘beautiful bondage’, is an aesthetic form of sadomasochism. The goal is to create an eye-pleasing display by the positioning of the body and the construction of the knots.  Although he is rather laid back in most ways, when it comes to money and sex, Angus is Machiavelli if that man had OCD.  He likely had the sex for the whole weekend outlined like an event planner on a tight schedule.  He often said he knew when the binding was right.  “It’s the only time your mind comes close to silence.”  He was right about that.  If he hadn’t married me, I’d hire him to do this – a once a week, a sort of 'Lunch with Rope'.

“It’s chilly in here,” Angus grumbled and went to the thermostat.  The radiators clang as the steam entered them and they pushed out additional heat.  He walked back to me and started methodically undoing my clothes.  Tossing my trousers on the nearby couch, he exclaimed, “Mate!  Going all commando now, are we?”

All I could do was nod my head.  Smiling is difficult when you have a ball gag in your mouth.  I knew he’d be pleased I’d properly dressed dick with the new harness he got me for Yule.  Angus isn’t what anyone would call ‘religious’ but was raised, as were all of us who lived at the estate, to have more than a healthy respect for the old ways.  As the representative of the Glamorgan clan in a mixed marriage, our house had was a strange hodgepodge of Jewish tradition and Druid sensibility.  Chanukah presents meant 150,000 euro donations to 8 different children’s organizations while I got a dick harness for winter solstice.  A win-win for everyone, I thought.

The muscle boy cage had arrived with a note that said, “Prepare for my arrival” with the implicit direction not to touch myself.  He didn’t want me distracted from my finals by masturbating. 

He rubbed his hand up and down my caged unit and moaned in my ear, “Mmm, now what should I do with you?”  He stared at me, biting his lower lip as he does while tracing his finger against the exposed skin between the bars.

I tried not to move, not respond to his lingering touch.  I tried not to move but was being overcome by longing.  I tried not to rub myself against his palm but my waist must not have gotten the text.  I’d only mouth the words ‘I love you’ to Angus three times – at our wedding, once when I thought he was near death, and after a year plus long break up.  It’s just our way, I guess.  Why bother with words when your body doesn’t lie?  And right now my whole body was passing a lie detector test with flying colours.

He abandoned my cock, licked his pointer finger, started playing with my left nipple with a feather-like, circular massage.  He raised one eyebrow before announcing, “Someone on the online group posted an instructional video of a variation on the Kômon Sarashi Shibari technique.” 

I gave an affirming nod.

He offered a hesitant smile as if he was about to break from play.  Angus turned away to retrieve something from his duffle before I could read his expression further.   But I didn’t need my clairsentient powers (yeah, a psychic rabbi – but that’s another story) to know what crossed his mind.  He knew where the line was.  It was agreed upon when we started down this road.  Yet, this limitation continued to be a source of disappointment for him.  When I talked to Toni, who’s a psychologist, she said he probably fears that it is a reflection of my commitment to him in general, that complete surrender here represents me giving myself up fully to the marriage and I’m afraid to do that.  She’s probably right.  She usually is.

Angus laid out his tools on the kitchen alcove like a doctor preparing for surgery.  A bag with three types of restraint apparatus – 1/2-meter-wide of silk rope to affix to my body and ¼-meter-wide harsher hemp rope for my asshole and balls, 5cm wide bondage tape for nipples - safety scissors for quick release, and a special mixture of shea butter with sandalwood, his favorite scent, because he took great pride in keeping my skin pristine.  He stood back a moment to study is wares, a devilish grin creeping across his face.  But he was very contained, no hint of arousal except a thin mist of sweat on his forehead.  A good dom was laser-focused on the needs of the sub and its the dom’s duty to bring freedom and pleasure to his lover.  Angus’s pleasure came from watching me lose my mind in his hands.  We’ve had sessions that lasted nearly 24 hours and he never took his clothes off, never got a hard-on, and only touched me through an application of the rope.  He was taught over four years by one of the best doms in Europe, who happened to also have been my therapist but that too is from another story.

I had started shaking slightly, either from the excitement or the arctic weather seeping through the single pane apartment windows.  Angus studied me again then squinted and decided, “I will leave you uncovered for now.  You have become haughty and need a lesson – your life is cold without my care.” 

I nodded then lowered my eyes.

“Good,” he affirmed.  “Then let’s get started.”  He took the suave and began applying it to my feet.  “I spent these last two weekends at Sensei Yukimura Haruki retreat.” Haruki was a world renown Japanese bondage artist.  We received private training from him when we first started.  Since then Angus had reached out to him whenever he felt stuck in his designs or technique, which coincided, ironically, with ups and downs of our marriage.  Funny thing that.

I closed my eyes.  A moment later, the sound of the paddle against my right butt cheek was more startling than the slap was painful.  “Pay attention!” Angus ordered, like a Black mother in the grocery store with two hungry kids.  He stared at me as a reminder that I didn’t have permission yet to enjoy this and to do so would be considered disrespectful, like premature ejaculation.  After his pause, he squatted down and returned to prep my body.

The suave he applied was creamy, more ointment than lotion.   Its formula also included a warming element that made the cold areas on my body colder, as if the warmth of my left foot came from robbing my right one.  As he moved up to my legs and knees, the previously massaged spots cooled too increasing the heat of upcoming sections but leaving the previous ones feeling abandoned.  “It’s like our weekly Facetime, eh?” he said as he moved up.  He pressed his hands against my inner thighs until I stood shoulder feet length apart, this way avoiding my cock and balls.  “It’s the let down at the end when you hang up after it’s over.  You had been so high, lost before you dialled in the anticipation which makes you drop so much further when it’s all over.”

I miss you too, . . . terribly.

“But it’s good for you too, eh?”  He said as he reached around to work the cream around my ass.  “The longing teaches self-control, does it not?”  He stood up completely as his fingers tapped against the very bottom of my mid-back.  My respiration rate steadily increased.  He leaned into me, letting his fingers move toward my crack, eventually brushing against my hole in a circular motion that would normally have had me swimming in ecstasy.    My heart pounding, he pushed inside while groaning something in French in my ear.  He nibbled on the lobe and I screamed.  Unfortunately, it wasn’t the loud, gasping groan of a toe-curling, ‘little death” that starts in your soul then ripples through your body in all directions.  

TO BE CONTINUED

FROM THE ARCHIVES OF THE AUTHOR

Many years ago, my biographer worked on some fun fanfiction using two characters from a BBC show, Torchwood. It was a Doctor Who spin-off and she wanted to offer psychosexual reflections on the relationship between an immortal and a young man who heretofore had only dated women. Check out this story and a few others and learn why I chose her to tell my clan's story. Enjoy!

Ianto and the New Year's Eve Snowstorm (3871 words) by HippyChick1964
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Torchwood, Janto - Fandom
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Jack Harkness/Ianto Jones
Characters: Jack Harkness and Ianto Jones; other Torchwood characters mentioned
Summary:

Ianto is gladly going home for the night and hoping for a quiet evening. Now what is that saying about "best laid plans"?