It's been so long since that has happened. I missed it. And it took me a while to get to it. I needed to get in the right headspace.
But I got there, and I wrote this for a new friend.
In other news, there's a new book about to be released, written by yours truly. But that'll get it's own post.
Hands and Ten and Two
He wraps the rope around my wrist, twice, then loops underneath it, between my skin and the rope, and ties it off. It feels loose, and I have to admit I’m a bit disappointed. But he laughs when I tell him that.
“It’s just loose so it won’t cut off circulation or hurt any of the small bones in your hand. Trust me, you’re not getting out of it. In fact, go ahead and try.”
I might be able to get out, eventually, if I had my other hand to help. But he’s already looped the rope through the steering wheel and wrapped up my other wrist. It’s still loose, easily enough room for two fingers between the rope and my wrist. But I can’t pull free. I can move, just a little bit, but not much.
“Ten and two,” he says, gesturing to the wheel. He loops the rope back around the steering column, effectively locking me in place. He ties things off and sits back, looking at me with a smirk peeking through his beard. “Now go ahead,” he says, his voice half teasing and half … something else. “Struggle. See if you can get free.”
The way he tells me to struggle, the tone of his voice, the twinkle of his eyes, all of it sends a rush of heat through my body. I pull at the bonds, not quite registering why I can’t get free. It feels like I should be able to. It looks like I should be able to. But it’s just not happening. I can pull all I want, and all that does is press the rope into my flesh. He warns me that I might give myself rope burn if I’m not careful. And he makes it very clear. “You will be giving it to yourself,” he says. “Because that rope is loose for a reason. The next one will be tight, but we don’t need to worry about bones for that.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, my voice shaking just a little bit.
He doesn’t answer, just pulls out that pair of safety scissors and snips it against empty air a few times.
“This is for emergencies,” he tells me. “Just in case things are too tight.”
“Are these going to get tighter?” I ask, pulling on my wrists again. The knots don’t seem to be getting any looser.
He chuckles. “No, they aren’t. But other things might be too tight.” His smile promises great evil that I know I will enjoy if I can just let it happen. “Like, for instance, your shirt.”
And then the scissors are slicing down my chest, starting at the collar and just snipping their way down, turning my shirt into, at best, a vest. And completely destroying the bra that had been valiantly trying to hold me in. That explains why he told me to wear an old bra I didn’t care about. But I wasn’t expecting that.
Still, as my breasts flop out, I have to admit that it was tight. I give him a small smile and a nervous laugh. I pull against the rope again, trying to help him cut the sleeves off so he can pull the shirt right off me. I even lean forward a bit to give him an easier angle.
He gently puts one finger on my forehead and pushes me back against the seat. “Don’t presume,” he says. “I haven’t decided if you get to keep the shirt or not. After all, it’s not tight anymore.” The scissors go back in the cup holder, and he rubs his beard as if really considering things. “And then there’s the question of exposure. Do you feel more exposed with your clothes in shreds, or would it be worse to be naked? I think being naked you could explain away to yourself. You could own it, be proud of your body, and just sit there topless. But this. No, this isn’t topless. This is your shirt sliced open, your bra cut in half. This is you, exposed, unable to hide anymore. And it would be so easy, if you could just close the gap.”
He reaches over and pinches the shirt together with two fingers, showing me how easy it would be to cover up. “Wouldn’t take much,” he says. “Such a tiny thing, so easy to do, if only you had a free hand.” Then he lets go, and my breasts spring free once more.
“But you need to keep them on the wheel,” he says. “At ten and two.”
He chuckles softly and then takes out another rope. “feel this,” he says, rubbing it against my cheek, then through my fingers, then over my bare nipple. “It’s soft, isn’t it? Has a lot of give. That’s important.” He holds the rope in place, folded over, and runs rope around my breast, pushing the rope back through the loop. “When it has give that means I can pull it nice and tight,” he pulls until the rope has pulled my breast far firmer than any bra ever managed. “And it won’t pinch your skin.
“It’ll cut off circulation, of course. Your breasts are going to turn all kinds of fun colors.” He begins to loop the rope around my other breast, then tightens again and runs the rope behind my back, then back through the original loop and back around, tightening all the way. “But your breasts don’t have bones, so there’s no real risk, so long as we don’t leave you like this for more than an hour or so.”
I let out a wince when he ties a second set of loops, this one a few inches up my breast, separating my nipples, which themselves are standing more at attention than I can ever remember them being. Looking down, they look like pegs. But as he flicks them, I can tell they’re still sensitive. More sensitive.
He runs the rope around my shoulders, but never across the throat. “Have be careful,” he says. “I don’t want you to get injured.” He smirks through his beard again. “I just want you to hurt.”
I nod, biting my lip. I don’t trust myself to speak right now. Seems like it could end badly.
“Remember, if this ever gets to be too much, just say the word and I’ll cut you free. Don’t worry about the rope; I can get more.” I nod, and he leans back in his chair. “And it goes without saying, if you get pulled over, I’ll cut you free of the wheel right away. But that’s still going to require a lot of explaining on both our parts, so drive save, okay?”
I nod again, and he lets out a chuckle. “I’m so glad you agreed to this,” he says, reaching into his pocket and pulling out one last toy. “Now do me a big favor and spread your legs just a bit.”
This I was not expecting, but I have no desire to go back now. No desire, not even an inclination, to say no. I spread my legs, and half expect him to chide me for spreading them so far, so fast. Instead, he just smiles and reaches between my legs. He unzips my jeans, then presses something into the fly.
A few seconds later, when it begins to buzz, I know exactly what it is. I have one just like it at home. But I usually put it to a higher setting. This setting is too low, an insistent tease that never goes anywhere.
I give him a whimpering look, and he smiles, nodding. “Exactly,” he says.
“Now, pay attention to your driving. We’ve got places to go. Foot on the break, please.”
He shifts into gear for me, and I start to pull out into the street. I can’t believe we’re actually doing this. What if someone sees?
It’s as if he can read my mind. “Oh, I bet a lot of people will be able to see. Anyone who gets close, really. And if we drive next to a truck, they’ll be able to look down and see everything. Most people won’t realize what they’re seeing if you’re careful, of course. It’s dark out, and there’s no light in the cab.”
Then he reaches up and presses the light on his side of the car, illuminating the interior.
“Oh, wait,” he says. “Yes there is.”
He laughs again as I squirm, trying to get the vibrator to move, or to turn up, or something.
“Drive carefully,” he tells me, as if he’s a driving instructor giving me a test. “If you can do this tonight, maybe next time I’ll bring nipple clamps.”
That makes me gasp and turn to look at him with a mixture of pleading and terror in my eyes.
He reaches forward and caresses my cheek, then gently turns my head so it’s facing forward. “Eyes front,” he says.
“Hands at ten and two.”