Page 10 of Menotte avec toi

“It’s simple enough,” she explained. “Just get comfortable on your side or back, relax, and let me position you. If something feels uncomfortable, or if you change your mind and decide you don’t want to be bound to the chair, just tell me and I’ll immediately unwrap you.”

“I can do that,” I said, sitting first before carefully removing my shoes and tucking them off to the side.

Not only did the cushions feel soft, but they were super comfortable too. As I stretched out on my side and smoothed my dress over my hip, the fabric draped right along the edge of my knee-high socks, showing off the bit of ribbon that was holding them up.

“You’re striking this way,” Mistress Harper declared as I got comfortable, my head resting on the pillow as she started wrapping fabric around the leg that rested against the cushions.

Giggles welled up when she reached my calf, spilling over when she wound it higher, until she found the spot on my inner thigh that always made me squirm.

“I see someone is extremely ticklish, right there,” she murmured, dangling the edge of the fabric over the spot, teasing, until our eyes met.

That first, teasing brush against my skin drew a gasp from deep inside my chest, my body tightened, and I flung my free leg wide when she did it again. When she licked her lips, one eyebrow arching at my inadvertently flashing her, it was the hottest thing in the world.

Like a cat fascinated by dangly bits of fluff hanging from a string, she waved it about, catching the curve of my knee with a light enough graze that I giggled again. When my squirming revealed another patch of skin, she tickled that too, but never for long enough for me to beg her to stop.

It was only when she stopped tormenting me and finished wrapping the strap that I realized there was nothing to hold it in place. No Velcro, no buttons, zips, or snaps, just the end looped over another strip and tucked beneath it.

I didn’t need to be freed, but I did give an experimental tug of my leg to see how it all worked and quickly discovered that the cloth had very little give. In fact, tugging seemed to tighten it.

Okay, that was good to know and to think about once I was ready to incorporate those strips into a drawing, because holy shit, they were both soft and snug.

Like a hug.

“Does that feel okay to you?” she asked, her fingers light as she caressed my cheek and brushed a wavy lock of hair back behind my ear.

“I like it,” I admitted, my words followed by a contented sigh in response to her touch. “It isn’t tight at all.”

“Good,” she replied. “This type of restraint isn’t about being tight, just secure enough to let someone get lost in sensation and enjoy what’s being done to them. Sometimes, it’s hard to sink down and get lost in the moment when inside of your head you’ve got a whirlwind of suggestions playing on an endless loop, telling you what you should be doing in response to what’s beingdone to you. This type of bondage removes the urge to focus on things like that.”

“How?”

“By making them impossible,” she explains. “Once the mind accepts that the body can’t do something, it quits trying to suggest it.”

“I never thought of it like that,” I murmured as she began securing my wrist and arm next, so it remained at my side but secured in a way that made it impossible to lift it.

This time, I didn’t feel the need to test how well it held, since I knew what pulling would do, and I liked it. She was right; not having to think about doing anything at all made it easy to just be there in the moment, especially when she playfully drew the end of that strap down my arm.

I wasn’t ticklish there, but it did raise a crop of goosebumps along my arm that she noticed and blew on, raising more. So many more that I shivered and watched as my nipples pebbled enough that they were visible through my thin, lacy dress.

She noticed, of course she did, and flashed me a wicked grin as she moved around the end of the couch to reach the other side. There, she started with my wrist and arm this time, bringing it to the top of the couch, but with no way to cover myself up if I started feeling shy or modest. I felt neither and doubted I would, not when I had her expression to study. Concentration and desire. Her focus reminded me of my own when I was deep within a piece of artwork.

I’d recorded enough videos of my process to know how lost I got when I was deep in a moment of creation. Was that what I was for her right now? A living, breathing piece of art for her to mold into the picture she envisioned?

Was that what a mistress got out of a scene? Was that part of where they derived their pleasure?

I didn’t want to break the mood by asking, nor did I think I could muster up the effort, or words, when she trailed the end of that strap along my bustline, then back again, over my nipples, so taut that they reacted to the barest whisper of fabric ghosting across them.

When she did it again, I raised my hips, just a little, such a small, inviting motion that hiked my dress up further than I expected it to go. Damp, my panties grew wetter as she used that strap to tease my nipples over and over again until I couldn’t swallow down my gasps any longer and let one out.

“You don’t have to hide your sounds of pleasure from me,” she whispered, leaning over me to speak right against my ear.

Like in the dining room, her breath and the rumbling murmur vibrating against the shell of my ear made me shiver more and a moan escaped.

She’d barely touched me and already my body felt like pinpricks of electricity that danced along my skin. I wanted, no, I needed to see what would happen once she had me completely entangled in those straps.

One limb to go.

My dress was high enough that it barely hid my lavender lace panties from her. Yet she took her time, finding my ticklish spots again and chasing them higher. Each slow discovery made me giggle more. In between gasps and moans, she found a spot near my hip, the flesh that the dress revealed once she’d positioned my leg the way she wanted it.

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