I remember the first time my wrists were tied together behind my back. I was still in high school, still in that phase of my life where image was everything. I was a very sexual girl, but had to hide it. I had a boyfriend, and we regularly had sex. But I never felt free to express myself during sex. Sex with Jason was always complicated, not because of who he was but who were. There were unspoken, unwritten rules about sexuality in school, and they bound me, even if I was not bound otherwise.
A girl could enjoy sex, at least at my age, as a senior, but only with a boyfriend, someone she loved. One night stands were heavily frowned upon. I was safe to have sex with Jason, and to enjoy it, but not too much. He was male, and an athlete, and too much of his male ego was bound up in his sexual power – such as it was. I knew full well that if I were to react strongly he would be boasting about it to his friends, who would then pass it on to their girlfriends.
I could enjoy sex, but not too much. If I screamed, if I reacted too strongly, Jason would be so proud of himself everyone would hear of it. I’d be humiliated. So I always had to control myself when we had sex. Because even at a young age I had realized that I was a far more sexual person than my girlfriends. I loved sex. I loved to be seen naked by Jason. I loved to be “dirty” with him. And even though he really wasn’t that good my body burned whenever he was inside me.
It wasn’t that I didn’t have those fantasies about soft, gentle sex by the fireplace. I did. But raw, hard, dirty, rough, nasty sex just blew my mind away. I never understood why. I still don’t. But it so happened, of course, that rough, hard sex was what teenage boys were best at. So I was forced to suppress my reactions, to engage in an intricate dance of responding, but controlling my responses, my movements, my sounds, even my facial expression.
Or have him boasting and have all our friends making fun of me. And as I said, at that age I was terribly, terribly conscious of my image.
I felt myself lucky to have a boyfriend like Jason. He was a star athlete, after all, and quite large and handsome. I didn’t think of myself as beautiful. I was short, barely over five feet, slim-hipped, with glasses. I had decent breasts, not huge, but full and round and firm, and nice hair, a soft, dark, gleaming brown which fell like silk around my face.
I was pretty, but not, to my mind, beautiful, not really. I didn’t have the classical look of the model. My jaw was too strong, my eyes too wide-set, my face too square. Still, I could not deny the affect I had on boys – and now men, as I reached maturity. They looked at me – all the time. It was an ego boost, but it was also a little unsettling, and, I admit it, a bit of a turn-on as I wondered what they were thinking as they watched me.
I guessed they wanted me, my body, sexually, wanted to do nasty, wicked things with me, that they were imagining doing nasty, wicked things with me. And that both embarrassed and turned me on.
Jason and I had been having sex for some time when he first got the idea to tie my wrists. I’m not even sure where he got the idea from. We were in his basement, a finished basement rec room, with his parents away at work. We were making out, and I was getting hot, with my shirt and bra already off, my trousers undone and his hand down the front rubbing at my clit. He was mouthing my breasts in his inexpert way, meaning he was chewing too hard, sucking too hard, almost hurting me. But as I said, I liked it rough, and so despite the almost-pain, or perhaps even because of it, my breasts were throbbing with need, my nipples sparkling like live wires.
We were on the sofa, and he got my trousers and thong off so that I was entirely naked. This turned me on, as I have already said. But I felt even more turned on that afternoon because he was fully clothed. I don’t know why being naked while he was fully clothed was such an added turn-on, but it was.
And then he stopped and stood up, grinning wickedly at me. I was a bit breathless, but when he reached for me I took his hand and he pulled me to my feet. “I want to try something,” he said, leading me across the room.
“What?” I asked.
He walked me across the room, clutching my wrist now, me naked, him fully-clothed, and my pussy throbbing with hunger. He stopped at a corner cabinet and opened it, bent, and rummaged inside, then came out with a short length of white rope. I stared at it without understanding at first.
He put his hand on my bare shoulder and guided me to turn my back to him, then seized my right wrist and pulled it back behind me. I felt the rope being wrapped around it and felt a kind of shockwave roll through me.
“What are you doing!?” I gasped, struggling, turning.
He didn’t fight me but let me turn, and the rope slipped off my wrist as I jerked my hands back.
“I want to tie your hands behind you.”
“What? No way! Why!?” I demanded.
“Just – because,” he said awkwardly. “I think it’d be hot, you know, kinky.”
I frowned at him suspiciously. He was my boyfriend, and so I trusted him, and the thought of having my hands tied up made me squirm with excitement because he was right and it would be kinky.
“I don’t know,” I said.
I did know. I knew right away, but I could not be seen to give in to easily. I was bound by the rules, and I didn’t want my reputation to suffer.
“Come on! Please! I think it’ll be neat!” he exclaimed.
“You won’t tell anyone?” I said, glaring challengingly.
I chewed my lip uncertainly. “Okay, but if I say untie me you untie me.”
“I promise,” he said eagerly.
So I turned around, giving every appearance of doubt and uncertainty, and let him pull my wrists behind me and tie them together. When he turned me around I felt a kind of psychic blow, staring up at him, naked, wrists tied behind my back. And he was still fully clothed. I felt helpless, but in a strange, wicked, exciting way.
He grinned at me, and from the bulge in his jeans he was obviously excited by what he saw.
He turned me around again, then turned me to face him. “Now you’re at my mercy,” he said, leering.
I didn’t reply, and he led me back to the sofa, this time sitting me across his lap. He began to fondle me, running his hands over my body, groping my breasts, rubbing at my pussy, slipping his fingers inside me as he chewed on my breasts. There was nothing new in what he was doing, but having my wrists tied made it seem new, made me feel each touch more powerfully. I was having to control myself almost at once, to suppress groans and gasps of pleasure as my body overheated.
He bent my head back, pulling on my hair, so my back would arch, and chewed on my nipples and breasts so they ached and throbbed and burned. He moved his hands more roughly over me than usual, as if my helplessness made me more his property. And he said as much. “You’re my bitch,” he said, growling at me as he pinched and rolled my nipples and thrust his fingers inside me.
I gasped aloud, and spread my legs, and his fingers pushed roughly deeper as he chewed at the nape of my neck. He was clearly getting hotter and hotter and my bare bottom was rubbing against him through his jeans. He pulled more roughly on my hair so it hurt, my head going far back, my legs splaying wider as if to balance myself. I was on the edge of a powerful orgasm and fighting to hold back, not wanting him to think I was this aroused by being tied up.
He suddenly threw me off, shoving me roughly aside on the sofa and getting to his feet. He turned, yanking down his zipper and pulling out his erection. He pulled me roughly into a sitting position and thrust his cock into my mouth. I took it eagerly, gasping, moaning, sucking as he pushed it deep. His hands went to my hair, as they always did, combing through it. But now he was more aggressive than he usually let himself become, and unlike other times I didn’t feel the need to restrain him.
I let him pull on my hair, and let him thrust more deeply into my mouth, more quickly, more violently. I let him use me without correcting him. I thought about protesting several times, about pulling back, glaring at him, demanding he ease up. But I thought about it mostly for the sake of my reputation, not because I wanted him to stop. I didn’t want him to stop. Something about being roughly used, like his bitch, as he said, with my hands tied behind me, was doing some really weird things to my mind.
I let him thrust into my mouth, through my tightly closed lips, let him gag me repeatedly as he groaned and thrust and humped forward. And when he jerked back he pulled me by my hair so that I slipped off the sofa and found myself on my knees. I liked up the length of his body at him and he looked down with wide, hungry, excited eyes, and all I could do was suck on his cock as it pumped violently into my mouth.
“Suck my cock, Emily!” he panted. “Suck it! Suck it!”