Cuffed
All the world is her throne. Femdom Erotica. Episode X22.
She keeps a set of handcuffs in her purse at all times. Sometimes, if she’s carrying a small clutch, she substitutes plastic zip tie riot cuffs for metal. But usually she carries police style, double locking, high carbon steel. Usually, if the bag is of any reasonable size, she carries two. They’re either meant to be used on each wrist to draw his arms apart, or in conjunction, one pair to bind him, and the second to secure the first to a wall or chair or bedpost.
After all, much as once you’re carrying a hammer, everything starts to look like a nail, when you always have handcuffs, everything starts to look like an attachment point.
They are walking down a beach. Jagged rocks claw into the sand, building into cliffs that hide and reveal the shore as if you are looking down a billowing curtain.
She carries a big straw beach tote over her shoulder and holds his hand. They are barefoot and careless. And apart for distant silhouettes behind them, they have walked far enough from the road to be effectively alone.
As they curl between the cliffs, they flit in and out of the cool shadows and steal kisses.
And then something catches her eye, and he follows her gaze.
An old iron ring has been driven into the rocks about six feet above the sand. He assumes it’s an old tie down for a boat, meant to be accessible during high tide.
He hears the clinking.
He hears the cuffs.
She gently turns him to face her and, saying nothing, cuffs first his wrists together and then, using the second set of cuffs, lifts his arms over his head and locks them into the ring.
He’s about to talk, but she’s in his face kissing him.
He can hear the crash of a big ocean swell, but in her embrace, all the violence and suddenness of the breaker seems to have been drained out. In the cool shadows all the harshness of the whole world seems far away, carried off on the falling tide.
She pauses, brushing back her hair before kissing him again.
Longer, slower.
Tell me your troubles, oh tender sweet thing, and I will build a little wooden ship and sail them far away, over the horizon.
She lowers her lips to his neck.
All he can do is let it happen.
Then she is tugging his shorts off.
Then he is naked, chained to her rocks.
He feels somehow extra naked.
He wants both to cover himself and to be this way forever.
She giggles, “Now if we could just get a gaggle of teenage girls to run by.” She gets close and whispers, “They’d probably get a kick out of seeing how hard a girl can make a boy.”
Later, when he is released, they slowly make their way back down the beach to the hotel. Still dusted with sand and salt spray, they lope into the airy room and walk towards the balcony to marvel at the view.
As they step into the sun, their eyes fall simultaneously on a pair of heavy metal patio chairs, probably so chosen because their weight would prevent hooligans from carrying them over the balcony. The chairs have several welded metal rings as decoration, and for a brief moment, he gets an image of himself on his knees before the chair. His outstretched arms cuffed to the rings atop the back legs of the chair. Of her in the chair, her back arched, her legs over his shoulders, queening him.
He knows, as if telepathically, that she has seen this image too.
He hears the cuffs jingle.
Because when you worship a Queen, the whole world begins to look like a throne.
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