Bowstring
Pulled taut. Femdom Erotica. Episode X33.
Disclaimer: I’ve always been a little hesitant to share this piece. I try only to write about techniques I have done, have seen done, or were done by someone I trust. This one is purely fictional. Moreover, done improperly, this move could probably be dangerous (although that’s true of many of the things I write about). However, people have always responded really well to the story, so I’ve put aside those objections and sent it out into the world. I hope you like it too. But, officially, for the record, don’t try this at home, kids.
D.F.
She sits in his lap on one of the metal sling back chairs from their patio. It’s made of mesh stretched between a metal frame, pitched between upright and reclined, and the top curls over and down, as if he were meant to be a sheet of paper, and the chair a catch tray for an immense unseen printer.
She is rubbing against him.
His hands are tied behind his head, pulled over the chair and down by a rope that runs to an anchor on the floor. The rope passes through a metal ring and then up to her hand.
He is inside her.
His knees and ankles are tied together, closing his legs so she can straddle him more easily.
As she rides, her hand pulls up on the rope. Each time she does, his body arcs as his arms are bent painfully back. He bends upwards to meet her like a bow curving under the weight of its string.
“That’s it, baby, right there!”
She hauls in on the rope. He tenses, pelvis thrusting ever higher.
With each pull, the stress in his shoulders forestalls his orgasm. And each release draws it ever nearer.
She has, at least in his mind, an almost supernatural ability to delay her climax. She’s been teaching him to do the same, but sometimes she prefers more direct methods.
This is a technique she claimed to have invented. She told him before they began that she had to be very careful how hard she pulled the rope. He wasn’t sure if that was a warning or just meant to scare him. But each time she pulls, he gets a little extra jolt of fear.
She sinks onto him and grinds.
The pleasure begins to overwhelm him. A soothing warm need to succumb throbs from every place she touches.
His breathing is quick in his throat.
He’s on the verge.
His voice is suddenly panicky.
“Mistress, Mistress...”
She pulls on the rope, hard.
His whole body goes rigid with the pain, and a haggard whimper escapes his lips.
“No coming, slave, not yet.”
She releases just a little, and he sighs, the discomfort retreating.
“Yes, Mistress.”
She plucks his string again, and he thrusts into her.
She gasps, her lips curling, her grin folding into an evil, silent laugh.
He whimpers more, his voice narrow and high, the sound of a thin guitar string about to snap.
She releases again and rocks forward.
A breast falls into his mouth, and he begins to suck.
She believes that a sex slave, while in the act of serving his owner, should suck on anything placed before his eager mouth. She has made him to believe it as well.
His tongue greedily surrounds the nipple, finding it stiff and hot and electric.
She grinds against him.
He’s already close to coming again.
She continues rocking forward, sighing slightly as the nipple comes out of his teeth.
She bucks up, almost sliding off him completely, then drives herself downward, squealing with delight.
Her face collapses onto his. She kisses him. A dozen little kisses on his lips, as if overcome merely by the need to touch them. The little kisses merge into one big kiss, pushing right into him.
It touches him deep within. It touches him when he was a little boy gazing up at a sky filled with stars.
Her pace increases.
The pleasure is building in him; he can’t hold it back.
It feels so good. Hearing her pleasure feels so good.
He’s making her happy. He’s making her come. The thought begins to consume his mind.
He is about to --
“Oh, Mistress!”
She heaves in on the rope and he seizes up. He is held on the razors edge. The arrow is knocked in the string. The target is in the cross hairs. His wooden arms creak under the tension.
“Are you close slave?”
“Oh yes, Mistress, oh yes.”
Her voice goes as cold as a shark’s eyes.
“Beg.”
“Oh, Mistress, please, oh please let me come. Please let your slave come, you feel so good, you feel so good... I... I...”
He’s babbling. He can’t think. She puts a gentle finger to his lips. Her eyes distant and dreamy.
Still pulling on the rope, she begins to move again, starting softly, building. He can feel her shudder as he pushes deep within.
“You want to come, slave?”
“Yes Mistress, please…”
“Do you want me to come?” Her voice is distracted, her mind on what she’s feeling. He can sense it taking over her. He can feel her finally welcome it. It’s all he ever wants to feel.
“YesMistress!Morethananything!” He says it so fast all the words run together.
She tugs the rope even harder. He squeaks in pain; she gasps in pleasure.
Her pace is picking up.
Even the rope won’t hold him back.
“Mistress, I’m so close.”
“Come for me.”
She pounds hard onto him and throws back her head as her orgasm rolls up her chest and out her mouth in a glorious moan.
She releases the bowstring and lets his arrow fly.