We try to be discreet, but there’s no getting away from it. Our obsession is obvious even to a casual observer, and it’s triggered every time we go shopping. For Damian and me, sex toys aren’t limited to ‘adult’ shops; we find them everywhere.
Here’s an example. We decide to get a new coffee table for the lounge. The legs of the old one have been weakened by the uses we’ve put it to. There’s a home improvement megastore about twenty minutes away. We look at far too many tables in cheap laminate, thin metal and glass, flimsy softwood… None of their range is suitable, and somehow Damian gets sidetracked. I find him a couple of aisles over.
‘Look at these, Michelle,’ he says, a shiver of excitement in his voice, ‘we could use them in the spare room…’ Damian’s looking at Damian porn: a small plastic container, marked ‘Eye Wall Bolt for Concrete, Brick and Stone: M8 14mm Extra Strong, two per pack’. The bolts come with metal sleeves that grip into a wall to make them secure.
I know exactly what he’s thinking. The spare room is the only one we haven’t adapted for our special games.
Let me explain.
The bedroom has a custom-made king size iron bed with specially-made attachment points. The front room has a big tapestry on one wall, mounted on a strong timber frame securely bolted to the wall. Take the tapestry down and look closely; you’ll see very slight imprints on the paintwork that come from my breasts, belly and thighs. The living room has exposed beams – it’s an old house – with hooks set into them. We tell people they’re original, for hanging pots and pans. Unless they’re close friends, in which case they know what they’re for because they’ve tried them out. The sofa stands on short but robust legs, which also make perfect anchor points. The kitchen-diner has a heavy farmhouse-style dining table that can bear my weight easily. Even the coat rack in the hallway has a couple of riding crops hanging from it, under the coats, just so they’re handy.
In the garage, one of Damien’s moments of genius, there are two garden gates, seven feet high and wrought iron, that close together to make a cage. And, no, I can’t climb out of it with hands cuffed behind my back.
Our porn, you see, isn’t quite the same as other people’s.
‘You’re thinking,’ I guess, ‘two packs, so one bolt at each corner of the wall, and the eyes will take those shackles you bought last week?’
‘Mmm… Or, with four at the top of the wall it would hold the cargo net we bought last month at the army surplus store…’ His eyes shine and his brain is working overtime. In his mind’s eye, I’m spread-eagled, a foot or so off the floor, and tied to the cargo net. It would move with me as I struggle, making a nice spectacle…
The next rack along has reels of rope, for sale by the metre. There’s a red multifilament polypropylene rope, braided, 8mm diameter. It would look good against my skin. The rope is surprisingly soft, cool and very slick as I run it through my fingers.
Once we worked out there was almost mile of rope in the house – around a hundred lengths of between ten and twenty metres. The suitcase under our bed has about three hundred metres of different kinds: hemp, treated and untreated, jute, various grades of nylon and polypropylene. Hemp is good, and being a natural fibre it warms quickly against flesh. But it’s not enough, never enough, and a vivid red can’t be ignored.
In seconds my hands are tied. ‘Not here,’ I whisper; so why am I smiling? Damian has body-blocked me to hide what he’s done from the couple further down the aisle. He glances around, sees they’re gone, moves a couple of paces back. Hands on hips he admires his handiwork. ‘So what do you think?’, he asks. ‘Is twenty metres enough?’ My breathing is fast and shallow, which tells Damian how aroused I’ve become. He takes that to mean no, we need forty metres. In ten-metre lengths.
As he unwinds the ropes an elderly gent comes round the corner slowly, wheeling a trolley. ‘I don’t know how you’ve managed to get it so twisted, coming off the reel’, Damian says, loud enough for the gent to hear. ‘Here, I’ll give you a hand…’ I smirk in collusion with this, and the gent probably thinks he couldn’t possibly have seen what his eyes tell him he saw.
The girl on the till looks perplexed, can’t work out why I’m so flushed as we pay for the rope and the eye bolts.
Twenty minutes out of town is a small village. There’s a small shop on the main street that sells contemporary designs and furniture from around the world. It takes us nearly an hour to get there because Damian gets the idea of a karada, a Japanese full-body rope harness. We stop at a lay-by and hop over a stile into a field, sheltering us from passing traffic. Not that anyone’s watching if they’re zooming past at sixty miles an hour. I strip off my calf-length leather coat, short dress, bra and panties. The red rope goes around my neck, between my legs, loops back on itself at the back of the neck, goes down to wind around my breasts, is woven into itself to make those classic diamond patterns down my body.
‘Hands on your head,’ he instructs, and I do it reflexively. He swats at my breasts, the sharp whacks engorging my nipples. They feel electrified, full of sparks. Then using the ropework to manhandle me, he bends me over. I keep my hands on my head and allow him to take the weight of my body in the ropes as he thwacks my backside. There’s no warm-up; the palm of his hand takes me full force with blows that redden my cheeks quickly, and the sound of the slaps is so loud in my ears I think passing drivers must hear it.
I can feel the bulge in the front of his trousers as he moves behind me, lets me go slowly. But of course the ropes are biting into me exactly where his cock would go… Eager and responsive I turn, offering him an open mouth. ‘Not yet, slut,’ he says. His voice carries that dominant tone I love, but also a little moan of desire…
My long leather coat covers Damian’s handiwork, and getting back over the stile is an interesting sensation. The rope between my legs is damp well before I’m back in the car, my clothes tossed casually onto the back seat. I have to sit carefully, partly because the ropes are tight, digging into my clit, and partly because my ass is tingling. I squirm in my seat in a way that makes Damian chuckle.
He has an evil chuckle.
At the shop we find a heavy, Indian style table in reclaimed teak. It’s exactly the right height for me to bend over, kneeling – we know this because he makes me assume the position right there, in the shop. I prop my chin on my hands, like I would if there was a coffee on the table right in front of me, except I’m very aware of my nipples all over again. The rope treatment and the casual beating they endured on the way here has made them very sensitive, and they rest on the table top, squashed gently against the cool inner lining of my coat. I realise that my ass is in the air and swaying gently as my thighs rub together. The pull of the rope between my legs is provocative. I feel the salesman’s eyes roving over my body and bite my lower lip to stop myself whimpering.
Damian borrows a tape measure from the salesman, checks the length of the table, then casually moves to measure me, from head to buttocks. It’s the right length to support me, lying back on it. The guy must know what’s in our minds. ‘A lot of people like this design,’ he says coolly, ‘because it’s so solid. It can take pretty much any abuse.’
‘It’s got a wonderful distressed finish,’ I murmur, just loud enough for Damian to catch, ‘To match the distressed female who’ll be tied to it.’ His sudden intake of breath is… rewarding. I’m storing up trouble for later. That’s a good thing.
The phone on the sales desk rings, and the man excuses himself to answer it. The desk is on the other side of the store, behind a set of display cases. Damian takes advantage of this to raise the hem of my coat, displaying my arse to the shop window. I whimper; I daren’t even look to see if anyone’s passing outside. The feel of his fingernails on my bare skin gives me goosebumps, and a shiver that runs inside me, from the very top of my head to my clit.
We have an estate car: the table fits neatly in the back, and I’m sure there’s a knowing smirk on the salesman’s face when Damian removes my clothing from the back seat in order to fold it down.
‘New rope; new table. Hmm… what’s missing?’ Damian muses. He teases me that way. ‘I think we should make one more stop on the way home.’
He can’t resist the equestrian shop. Actually, neither can I. Riding crops are a favourite of ours. The assistant is a petite redhead with charming freckles and a matter-of-fact manner, whose dress sense sits somewhere between riding club and dominatrix. Today she has calf-length slouch boots with many buckles and straps, and cream stretch riding breeches. When she bends over she displays very pert, tight buttocks with the suggestion of a black G-string under the breeches. Her blouse is worn loose, with a tight camisole top visible underneath that leaves no room for a bra – and indeed the nipples on her small, high breasts are clearly defined under the thin fabric. Slightly at odds with this look is a metal collar with a very obvious padlock fastening on the front. I’ve long suspected she’s no stranger to the use of a riding crop on a human rump, but I can never work out if she likes to use a crop or have it used on her. Or both, of course.
She points out the rubber-handled models. ‘Most of our clients like these for a better grip,’ she says. Damian eyes one of the traditional black designs, and I like the look of a 25-inch neon-pink version with a wider end to it. Damian takes the pink one, feels its balance in his hand, snaps it in the air experimentally.
The girl’s green eyes look into mine. ‘I think you’ll find it’s a good weight,’ she says, ‘with the tip not too large so it concentrates the force well.’ My eyes are out on stalks as she turns to lean over the counter, presenting her backside in a way that stretches the fabric tightly over well-toned muscle. When Damian gives her one experimental, but nonetheless hard, thwack her lips make an ‘O’ and she rises up almost imperceptibly on her toes.
That’s only a partial answer to my unspoken question, though.
Of course we get both crops.
She winks at me. ‘That’ll make eight crops you’ve bought in the last two months,’ she observes, smiling. ‘You know we also have bullwhips and lunge whips? Should I show you our selection?’
I have a mental image of her hanging by the wrists from a rafter in a stable somewhere, a master or mistress intent on putting tiger-stripe welts onto pearly-white smooth skin. It makes me feel lightheaded, yet also intensely juiced-up.
Damian hands her a business card. ‘If you want to get involved in some after-sales service…’ he says urbanely. Maybe some day soon my curiosity will be more completely satisfied.
I can feel the desire rising in him, and I’m right. On the way home there’s a local tourist spot, a picnic site a hundred yards off the main road, a clearing in a wooded area. Damian unties the karada I’ve been wearing all this time, the release of the ropes from by crotch making me feel empty and moist at the same time. He quickly re-ties it in a style known as ‘shinju’. The rope goes around my torso and upper arms twice, below and above the breasts; them wrap around my forearms, which are folded behind me, so trapping my hands. The ends feed, one over each shoulder, to pull the two torso ropes together at the front, between my breasts, exerting pressure on them. And of course there’s a metre or so left that become a kind of leash.
Damian pulls me away from the car and has me lean back against a tree, legs apart, exposing my pussy to him. And he uses the pink riding crop, bouncing it gently against my clit and then building the strokes until I can barely contain the pain, and yet I’m also at the point of coming.
He won’t let me come. Bastard. He’s really building the pressure; when he does finally allow me to come I’ll need a gag, because I’ll be screaming. Instead he drags me back to the car, forcing me to sit naked in the passenger seat for the remainder of the journey home.
We arrive back at our cottage as night is falling. Damian parks on our small gravel driveway. He opens the boot and manhandles the coffee table indoors. Then he returns for the crops, the rest of the rope and the eyebolts, my coat, my clothes.
‘What about me?’ I ask. He opens the passenger door. ‘You can come inside when you want to,’ he says.
‘But I’m naked…?’
He appraises me with a smile. ‘So you are.’
So I get out of the car, naked, in the gathering dusk, and allow Damian to lead me inside. Which he does very slowly. He takes me to the new table, now in the centre of our living room, makes me kneel and bends me forward over it. The last thing I see before the blindfold goes on is the glint in his eye and an erection pushing fiercely against the button fly of his jeans.
I wriggle slightly, making my arms and shoulders comfortable against the ropes and being thankful for the coolness of the wooden table top against my now enlarged and very sensitive nipples. He’s even had the foresight to put a small cushion on the table to absorb the pressure of the rope knot on my sternum.
Expecting my backside to be attended to by his hands and then the riding crops, I’m puzzled by hearing him leave the room, and then the sound of a power drill… of course, I realise, he’s putting up the eye bolts in the spare room. This will be a long session and he’s making me wait. The sensation of cool air on my open and exposed pussy builds my anticipation and frustration: I could shriek with the tension I feel in every muscle yet I daren’t move.
I don’t even hear Damian walk back into the room. The first smack on my arse seems to come out of nowhere. I let out a yelp that echoes off the walls, and I’m aware now of his depraved chuckle. He puts a foot between my thighs and pushes my knees further apart, flattening my back and giving him a better angle to work with.
‘Nice position,’ he says. ‘You’re a provocative little minx. But if you’re going to make that amount of noise, I feel a gag is in order.’
With that he rains a series of slaps on my arse cheeks that make me twist and writhe. I keep quiet a few seconds, and then it’s too much: I need some way to release the shock waves that judder and sizzle right through me. He takes hold of the ropes across my back to pin me down, and keeps going until I’m too out of breath to squeal any more.
I feel more ropes wound over my body, holding me down to the table and securing my knees wide apart to the legs of the table. Then a chinking sound, and I feel the shock of cold water on inflamed skin. He’s using ice on my arse. A trickle runs down the crack between my arse cheeks, finding the lower edge of my labia. I pull vainly against the ropes, not because it’s painful but just because the sensation is too intense.
My head is up, and something pushes hard into my mouth. A ball-gag. He secures it tightly and I know whatever happens next won’t be gentle. I have to force myself to relax, breathe evenly, led my head drop forward to take pressure off my neck.
‘Blank, pink, black, pink…’ Damian is evidently musing about which crop to use. Or use first.
Whatever he decides, it stings like hell and he was right about me needing the gag. But the sting is strangely, perversely exciting and soon the noisy thwacks and my squeals of protest become noisy thwacks followed by moans of sexual pleasure.
Damian tells me I’m a depraved, degenerate, wicked whore to respond like that.
His words kick me over into…
A massive, incandescent, incendiary orgasm.
At which point, he decides to take care of his own lust. The cock that slips easily into my moistness feels like it ends somewhere between my ribs. A tiny space at the back of my mind wonders if this is the same erection Damian’s been harbouring since I first knelt here. The rest of my mind is somewhere in orbit.
Damian takes his time. He starts slow and strong. And I can feel my body caressing, sucking, urging at him to go faster and harder. But he’s in control, I’m tied and helpless, and he’ll do what he wants. The feel of his cock is amplified by the feel of the crop which he’s still using on my red-hot buttocks. Erotic tension builds in me like a fire, every time he hits the G-spot another dose of petrol on the flames. There is no escaping it. I’m going to…
…and he judges it to the precise point that I come as he floods inside me. Liquid metal shoots along all my nerves, a tracery of sexual conflagration connecting all the points from clitoris to the very top of my head. Behind the blindfold I’m seeing stars, fireworks, lasers writing in the sky.
When he unties me I slide back off the tabletop and into his lap, and lie in his arms for what feels like hours. He removes the gag though not the blindfold. I’m grateful – I don’t think I could bear any light in my eyes.
‘When you’re feeling recovered,’ he purrs wickedly, ‘I’ll take you upstairs. I put in the eye-bolts and hung the cargo net on them.’
I protest, but weakly. Damian just takes it as me being provocative, and truth to tell, he’s right. I’m looking forward to waking up in the morning stiff, sore, and with a huge smile that lasts all day.