At the Shore

by Max Roper

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© Copyright 2012 - Max Roper - Used by permission

Storycodes: M/f; bond; ropes; gag; hogtie; tease; nipple; voy; oral; mast; climax; cons; X

[This was originally written for a friend. I understand that some readers donʼt enjoy the first/second person present tense style of writing presented here. I tried changing it to standard first person but decided I like this one better. If you are someone who vehemently dislikes this style, send me an email and Iʼll forward you the other version.]

This is a great look for you! With your heels pressed into your ass, the flesh of your calves and thighs bunches up in a most appealing manner. Your big brown eyes look up at me beseechingly. I stand and go downstairs to the kitchen to refill my coffee cup. You groan into your sopping gag.

Where’s he going? Doesnʼt he know I have needs?

Returning, sipping from the mug, I straddle a wooden kitchen chair and watch you. You flip your head, trying to get the hair out of your face. Your eyes move to one of the mirrors and glaze over as you again admire the bound woman in the glass. You begin to move seductively in your bonds. We both watch as you writhe and squirm. After a while, you subside.

I put the cup on the table, and kneel beside you. You feel the callouses on my fingers tracing patterns on your sweat-dampened skin, smell the coffee on my breath as I whisper my intentions in your ear. Telling you what I’m going to do to you.


You were intrigued by stories of my personal Nine Rope sessions, so of course I offered to demonstrate. And of course you accepted. So here we are, in a rented house at the seashore. It’s grey and blowing cold rain outside. Most of the houses on the block are closed up for winter. The surf is audible, just a few paces away. We have food, drink, and a wood stove, The power’s on. The bathroom works. And I brought some rope. As it turns out, just in case, you also brought some rope. We seem to have about four hundred feet of the stuff, cut in various lengths. Should be sufficient.

In one of the small bedrooms, two rollaway cots are folded up and pushed against the wall by the closet door. On the other side of the room is a floor lamp, a small table, and two stout kitchen chairs. There’s an old, thick embroidered rug on the floor. Earlier I gathered three large mirrors from other rooms and set them up in the corner, the area in front of them illuminated by the lamp. I like mirrors.

We sit quietly in the two chairs. You fidget with your skirt, pulling down on the hem. I reach over, my hand on your bare knee, gently touching the patch of skin between sock and skirt, telling you with my eyes and my touch how I appreciate what you’re wearing, knowing it’s not your style, that you wore it only for me. I step in front of you and kneel. I untie your shoelaces, remove your sneakers, and begin gently rubbing your feet through the socks. You find yourself relaxing a little.

So, nine ropes. I sit back on my heels and count them out from my satchel, array them on the floor. A collection of various lengths of soft white cotton clothesline. You look down at them, your breath coming a little quicker. It’s an intimidating amount of rope. You sit quietly, watching as I carefully roll up a large silk handkerchief, tucking the ends in just so, putting it beside the ropes. I stand and remove your necktie, placing it by the rolled up handkerchief. No need to ask what they’re for.

Gently pulling you to your feet, I put my hands on your hips and once again tell you that I only want this if you do, giving you one more chance to gracefully withdraw.

Yeah, right.

Q: How do you do a nine rope tie?

A: One rope at a time.

We’ll start with the wrists. Getting into character, I rather forcefully suggest that you get down on your knees and put your hands behind your back, palms facing each other. I double a six foot rope, wrap it once around and through the larks head, back the other way two more turns and through the secondary larks head, cinch it up snug between the wrists, knotting it away from the reach of your fingers, tucking in the tails.

Next, elbows together. Well, almost. I pull until you gasp, tie it off, cinch it so it gets a little tighter.

You gasp again, make a little noise.

Ah ha. Just the excuse I need.

The neatly folded silk scarf is held up to your lips.

Any last words?

You shake your head, meeting my eyes in the mirror with a smile, and open wide. I pack it all in and wrap the necktie tightly across your mouth and around the back of your neck to hold it in place, pulling it down hard to knot it, jamming the wad deeper into you, the material of the tie pushing into the corners of your mouth. You move your jaw around, experimenting, realizing you now have literally no say in anything that happens, noting gratefully that I rolled the bandanna so that no loose ends would reach down your throat. Your reality begins to shift as your physical freedom is restricted and you enter ‘bottom space’. In spite of the strain on your arms and shoulders, feelings of sensual delight are washing over you.

The third rope is a long one and is wrapped around your upper arms and chest, above and below your breasts. Ostensibly to hold your arms tight against your sides, but of course the visual and tactile effect on your magnificent breasts is an added benefit and no reasonable person could blame me for making a loop in front, bringing the cords together in the center of your chest, accenting your vulnerability. It was wise of you to come braless. No dramatic but expensive knife play will be needed. I undo a few more of the buttons on your blouse.

Oops. That’s all the buttons. Oh well. I carefully move the blouse material out of the way, not disturbing the ropes, yet exposing the bare skin of your breasts to my touch. We both fixate on them for a while. I knead the firm creamy flesh, and roll the nipples between my fingers. I dip my head down for a little taste, making you buck and reminding me we have more ropes to apply.

Now we reach a delicate situation.

The so-called rules state that each of the nine ropes must serve a purpose other than just ornamentation. A crotch rope serves a definite purpose, even if that purpose is not restraint. We didnʼt discuss the use and installation of crotch ropes, but your arms are completely bound, and you’re gagged. I get to decide.

You’re still up on your knees. I reach down with both hands and spread your legs, reach under your skirt, between your thighs. Things are quite moist in there. I explore for a while. You are being a good girl, trying to hold still, making delightful gag noises. You push hard against my hand as the palm grazes a sensitive area. I was supposed to be installing a crotch rope. Instead, instinctively, I roll you onto your back and shoulders, moving down between your still-unbound legs.

Sliding my shoulders under your knees, I begin licking and kissing your inner thighs, working my way up until I reach your damp panties, which rip quite satisfactorily and are quickly discarded. I move my lips to your lower lips, spend some time there, getting to know you. My tongue makes its first assault. You push against me and clamp your thighs around my head, making urgent noises.

Some time later, getting back to my original intention, I double the longest rope and wrap it around your waist once, through the larks head positioned directly under your navel, back around your waist several times, interweaving it with your wrist rope and pinning your wrists against the small of your back. I tie it off in front, leaving two tails about six feet long, These are brought down between your legs, up the back between your sweet round ass cheeks, over the waist loop, back the way they came, through the valleys, up to the waist loop in front. After tying a knot at the waist, each tail goes around a thigh to the back, grabs a pair of strands from between your cheeks, comes back to the front, and finally ties off where it started under the navel, creating a lovely diamond pattern on your ass.

[Oh dear. That took longer to write than it would to tie. And looks messier in print than it would on your body. So let’s just say rope number four is an intimate crotch rope, doubling as a secondary wrist restraint.]

Your skirt has become more ceremonial than functional. It’s still cute, though.

Now, finally, we move down to your legs. Did I mention how much Iʼve been enjoying your legs?

I roll you onto your stomach and kneel behind you, picking up your feet, surreptitiously checking your hands for circulation problems. No blueness yet. I begin slowly, gently, rubbing your sock-clad feet. I roll the socks down and off. You purr a little into the gag as I continue rubbing, stretching, kneading your soles, then the tops of your feet, working my fingers down your calves, back to the feet, strong fingers working gently but relentlessly. Your mind drifts...

When I stop, I put the socks back on. I can’t help it. Those socks. May I tell you again how much I love your outfit? Youʼve outdone my fantasy with those grey and white argyle kneesocks, soft faded denim skirt, crisp cotton shirt. And the necktie was was an inspirational touch. A subtle invitation.

You crane your neck a bit to watch in the mirror as I select another rope and begin to tie your ankles. I do them the same as the wrists. You feel the next rope wrap around your legs, this time just below your knees. I roll you onto your back. The next rope wraps around just above your knees and is cinched off. My hands roam over your legs, my eyes closed, moaning a little.

You have a brief moment of fear. How crazy is this guy?

Too late now.

My eyes open, I smile at you. I won’t really eat you, I say. Not this time.

I pick up rope number eight and wrap it tightly around your upper thighs. The cinching sets off little lightning strikes as my finger pokes the tails between the tender flesh of your upper thighs, brushing against sensitive areas. I fold your legs back, heels up tight against your ass, and begin wrapping the final rope around your shins and thighs. After tying it off, there’s a few feet left, so I roll you onto your side and connect the tails to your wrist rope, pulling your hands right up against your feet, just to complete the symmetry of the thing.

You are now an interconnected package of female flesh. And you’re very aware of the female part. We both are. Several times Iʼve had to back off, readjust myself, calm down. You look absolutely stunning. Ropes crisscross your body, squeezing and compacting you.

It took a while, one rope at a time.

I reach for my Nikon, begin slowly moving around, recording you from various angles. First with the flash, then, telling you to stay still, I try some low-light exposures on the tripod. I use the remote to put myself in a couple shots, posing with my artwork. I move away, put down the camera, sit and watch you.

Deep into your zone, you move around a little within the confines of your bonds. Sometimes your eyes open and you look at me in a daze. You eventually wriggle onto your back, a position that tries your endurance. You twist around to look in the mirror and see an unbelievably sexy woman, folded into a pretzel and thoroughly trussed up.

As you squirm about, you notice movement makes the reflected woman even more attractive, so of course you do even more wriggling and writhing. Your groin and brain are humming. Conscious thought has long since stopped, replaced by presence, sensation, and pure bliss.

I remain motionless, convinced that I’m feeling much of what you’re feeling, watching you dance for us.

You reach a crescendo of writhing, moaning pitifully, making eyes at me, thrusting your hips at me.

Gosh, I wonder what she’s trying to say?

Looking at you is almost too much. If I don’t back off, I just might have an ‘accident’. I readjust my swollen cock one more time and decide to go for some coffee.

A while later, kneeling beside you, I slide my hands along your straining thighs. You shiver from the touch, quiver from the physical stress. Your hands are uncomfortable under your back. A rope is chafing your shin. And there’s a tremendous burning in your thighs and hips from your taxing position. Youʼve been like this for a long time and are really ready to be untied now.

One of my fingers moves between your bound thighs. You werenʼt sure there’d be enough clearance to allow me entrance. There is. You werenʼt sure you’d want any more. You do. Another finger follows. You arch against me, discomfort forgotten.

Don’t you dare untie me!

The rest of my hand finds its way between your legs and begins to explore. The other hand slips in from behind, contact is made, entry rights are obtained.


When I finally get back to my coffee, it’s quite cold. You offer to make the next pot while I tend the fire and make sandwiches. I’m impressed at your ability to make coffee with your wrists bound. Sitting by the stove, discussing what went right, what couldʼve been better, we listen to the rain and the ocean, then look at the photos on my laptop.

You’re a little critical of your body. I reassure you.

I’m a little critical of my ropework and photography. You reassure me.

But, really, we both know we’re looking at great pictures of a beautiful woman in well tied, strict bondage. We watch in silence for a while as the computer gives us a slideshow. After it’s played through a few times, I turn it off, sip my coffee, look at you and smile.

You smile back, much more comfortable with each other now.

I mention that I think I can restrain you almost as well with just two ropes.

You’re intrigued, then mention the chairs, how sturdy they look.

I agree, and ask if you noticed the hook in the ceiling.

Of course you did.

We haven’t even looked in the basement yet. I’ll bet it’s dank and gloomy and has a convenient post or two.

We have the house for a week. That may not be enough time.


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