As I lay bound to a torture table helplessly thrusting my hips against the empty air in an expression of my desperate arousal, I tried to figure out how I had ended up like this in the middle of a session with a client.
I didn’t have a submissive bone in my body. I didn’t even like being tied up. But somehow this client had me trembling with lust by doing just that. It’s always the fucking quiet ones.
Marcus came in to play at the very end of the shift when I had already resigned myself to being finished with work for the night. The Desk Mistress called back to the dressing room to say there was a gentleman there to see a sub. I was a Switch at that time, so even though my preferences lay in domination, I was obligated to meet him.
I sighed and dragged myself up from the warm embrace of the couch, exhaling to retie my corset, a rookie mistake since I still needed to bend down to get my heels on. After struggling back into platform stilettos that added five inches to my diminutive stature, I walked to the lobby and awaited my turn to introduce myself. I wasn’t in the mood to play anymore, which meant I was seriously not in the mood to sub. I strode into the interview room with the least subby attitude I could muster, looked the prospective client dead in the eye, and said, “I’m Scarlett.”
The man across from me was tall but unassuming. His dark eyes darted away from mine, so I took that as my dismissal and walked out, confident I wasn’t going to get the session.
“Scarlett, he’d like to speak with you.”
Damn it.
Every time I didn’t want a session, it was inevitable the client would pick me. The gods have a twisted sense of humor.
As we interviewed, Marcus explained that he was into bondage. He just wanted to tie me up, blindfolded and gagged.
Jackpot.
In my mind I was screaming, Break the rules you motherfucker! Fuck me now! but all that came out were muffled moans.
It was still technically a sub session, but it was only bondage. I could just sit back and let him do all the work. If I was gagged, I didn’t even have to think of what to say. I agreed to do the session, convinced I was basically going to get paid to take a nap with some rope around me. How wrong I was.
We picked a room, handed over the cash to the Desk Mistress to play for an hour, and went back to select some rope and a blindfold. I grabbed a variety of lengths and thicknesses, since I wasn’t sure of his skill level. He seemed to approve of my selections. I grabbed a few wrist and ankle cuffs, in case he had no idea what he was doing, and a blindfold. I retrieved a gag from my own bag in the dressing room since I always felt weird about using the same gags the clients used.
Marcus had picked the most menacing room to play in. Almost everything, including the walls, ceiling, and floors, was black with red accents here and there. There was a table in the center of the room that looked like it should be used to rack a prisoner: a throne, a torture swing suspended by chains, a bench, and a St. Andrew’s cross. A leather mummy bag hung ominously on one wall. It felt like a medieval torture chamber. It turned me on just being in there.
I walked behind the black curtain on the back wall and started playing a Puscifer album to avoid any awkward silence. The deep bass vibrated through the floor.
“Do you like being tied up?” Marcus asked without looking up from where he was spreading and sorting the rope.
“Not especially,” I answered honestly.
He smirked and looked up at me but didn’t respond.
Marcus selected a long piece of pink nylon and did a fairly simple box tie on me first, in which my arms were crossed behind my back. It was immediately clear that he was no novice.
“Do you ever break the rules, Scarlett?” he asked as he unwound his knots to move on to a different configuration.
I chuckled and replied, “Never. Good girls don’t.”
He pulled the blindfold over my eyes and fastened the gag around the back of my head. I took deep breaths through my nose. Something about gags always made me initially panic, but I was quickly distracted by the bondage.
Nothing feels quite like rope in the hands of a master. As he pulled the length he was working on up between my thighs, I was startled to discover he had guessed the precise location of my clit, and there was now a knot pressing down on it over my boyshorts. As he continued to pull and tie the rope in an elaborate bind, he was deliberately manipulating the knot between my thighs, making my breath come in heavy gasps.
Marcus was a fucking maestro with rope. This wasn’t bondage. It was foreplay.
I was shocked when he lifted me off the ground and laid me down on the bondage table. It was disorienting and reminded me that he was now in control. He added to my vulnerability by spreading my legs and tying an ankle to each corner of the table. He did the same with my wrists, forcing me to arch my back and pull the knot against my clit even harder. It was deliciously frustrating torture.
I hated being out of control, but couldn’t seem to remember why as he dragged the end of a piece of rope down and over my ribcage, letting it trail lightly across my skin.
He kept touching me everywhere but where I wanted him to. As he started pulling on the crisscrossing rope patterns as though I was an instrument to be played, I thought I was going to lose it and orgasm with a client.
I was clenching. Thrusting. Needing. But couldn’t seem to get there.
The rope was cutting into my wrists from my struggles, but I didn’t care. I didn’t really care if I had arms or not. My entire existence was centered on the sensations he was tormenting me with.
In my mind I was screaming, Break the rules you motherfucker! Fuck me now! But all that came out around the gag were muffled moans. I didn’t recognize the desperate noises that were coming from my own mouth.
Marcus laughed quietly, a rumbling sound, and I knew in that moment that he knew. This was what did it for him. He had gotten a Domme to take a sub session with him and then reduced her to a writhing puddle of reckless desire. He had a Mistress ready to beg and he wasn’t even going to let her.
The intercom crackled to life, “Excuse me, your session has ended.”
Marcus didn’t even stay to untie me. He left and had the Desk Mistress send someone up to release my bonds, leaving me mortified to be found shaking with arousal over a client.
Good girls don’t break the rules. But I might have.
PHOTOS: PENTHOUSE MAGAZINE MAY 2004 / TONY WARD