Wrapped? Hardly. Rapped? Plenty. Rapt? Completely.

by Pantagruel

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© Copyright 2008 - Pantagruel - Used by permission

Storycodes: M/f; bond; bdsm; tape; sex; cons; X

Author’s note: Thanks to the source material. You know who you are.


Five small rolls of bondage tape, nestled in a neat pile, next to the burgundy pillow. Naked and kneeling in the middle of the bed, your arms loose and casual and your side. Your eyes closed, but not clenched. Your breathing warm and even. I watch for a minute, and share your peace. One roll, unravelled over your mouth. I hold the start in place against your cheek with a firm finger, complete one loop, and the non-stick material starts to stick to itself. One more snug loop for purchase, then the tightening begins. Three, four, five, six, edging to the tip of your chin, and just touching your nose. Your mouth is squeezed flat and tight against it, with no give. You could still flex your jaw, but you don`t.

And so the second roll. It starts on your head, flows under the jaw, and around. Once more for hug-like leverage. Another six times for increasing, deepening restriction. There, you have it. A proper gag. The third over your eyes, wrapping and constricting; pure darkness descends, the tape close enough to press your eyelids shut. The fourth, for refinement, to close the gaps, to run down over each eye, isolating your nose, terminating around your neck. The fifth? One final, pressing horizontal layer, from forehead to throat, to even everything out, and render you anonymous.

A crotch rope. Four thick knots, close to each end. The rope is doubled up, passed around your waist, the ends fed into the loop, and yanked tight. The strands passed under your crotch, the knots finding a snug home along the lines of your emerging dampness. The ends find the lasso at your hips, where they`re tugged ferociously and the whole structure bites in deep, coaxing a groan, a hard exhale, and a slight lean forward. Careful, now. You know what`s expected of posture. Return to that perfect, careful alignment I demand. Good.

I take your wrists, and drag them forward, prompting you onto all fours. Dutifully, you arch your back and present your backside, despite it straining the rope even deeper into your folds. You receive the spanking. First soft, interspersed with unpredictable medium-strength whacks. Upping in heat, upping in volume, upping in frequency, from cheek to cheek, along the cleft down to the curves that segue into your pussy, and back again, your arms shifting as you stabilise. Two whole minutes. I stop. The silence is like a gunshot, broken only by your heartbeat-quick breathing. The heat from your blood-rich cheeks radiates hard enough to reach my face, the enforced circulation offering a rose-red peach dappled with fading-white fingermarks.

I move next to your left hip, resting it against my own, slinking my knee under your belly. Supported, you relax a little. I’m just after more leverage. My left hand takes a length of the rope, and lifts; the sound from your throat is forced to leave your nose, and I`m unsure of whether it’s a soft scream or a hard groan, behind the generous muffling. I don`t care. Still, you brace your arms, any refuge offered by my hip now costing double along the length of your pussy. You don`t know about the paddle in my right hand until it meets your left buttock, cracking with ultraviolent fidelity. You`re warmed up. There`s no need to hold back. Five at a time, before moving between each cheek, every swap bringing with it a fresh tug of the rope as I shift my weight slightly, moored to your body through a knot-raw strip of increasing sensitivity. A full minute, your proclamations and anguish drowned out by the paddle. I stop. You continue, your body echoing with sympathetic jolts, your breathing rampant.

I untie the crotch rope, and peel it quickly from you, another flame amongst the inferno. Again, you make feral, involuntary complaint, but the strength of the gag lends no guilt to my ignorance. A mechanical finger fuck follows, with no lead-in, two of my fingers, from rest to metronome with no warning, the fingers first pistoning, then twisting, then crooking, the fingertips pressed hard against the roof of your pussy, the knuckles offering equal service at its base. Some time later, the hand retreats, takes its slick coating and rubs it over the other hole, into which I hook the thumb of my unused hand. Moored inside you, my remaining fingers stroke, pinch, part, grasp, provoke and squeeze, along and across, inside and out. I stop. You continue, your breathing heavy but slower, your neck stretching up and deepening the arch of your spine as your hips move in hope of welcoming the return of my departing fingers.

It’s time. Your backside is raw to the touch, your pussy aching in time with your pulse, sore to the softest of strokes. I lead you to kneeling, and guide you into straddling me as I lay back, taking my cock inside you. Slowly lowering, your weight overcoming the tenderness of your cunt, the need to pleasure and to please overriding the sting from your battered arse cheeks as they meet my pelvis. And you fuck me, as I watch your shuddering, anguished body, torn between its instinct for comfort and its instinct for release, terminals between which your body flows, creating a current that I feel inside your sodden heat. Your breasts pushed out, your shoulders back, your neck straight, as you`ve been taught; any sloppiness receives a hard slap on each tit.

And I lay there, mesmerised and demanding, smitten with your struggle, goaded inevitably onwards to climax, your body gripping mine deep inside you. Your arms sway and reach out for familiarities that aren`t there - your face and hair, my own hands to interlace your fingers with - your elbows tucking into your ribs in a desperate bid for relief. It doesn`t come. And still you fuck, the tension now so grand that it doesn`t matter that you accelerate your hips, and I buck and shudder, and it hurts you more, and it helps you more, and I thrust myself deeper into you as I come, desperate to penetrate further and further. You feel it, and you slow. Gently rocking, you feel me sit up to meet you, wrapping my arms around your backside, as I lift you slightly, easing the fireballs of fatigue in your hips, but sliding myself just that bounteous little extra centimetre into you.

Your head lolls, and your chin rests into the crook of my neck. I can smell the salt of your sweat, and it`s divine. I close my eyes, and drink you in. You mumble, maybe a word, maybe a final relief; who knows. I smile gently, and bring my arms up around your back, in a full, supportive circle. I have no way of showing my true gratitude.

Except to make things worse for you next time.