Interlude (BDSM)

I lay on the bed, my mask pulled tight and my vision cut off. With a start, I feel the bed move and my heart starts to race. My beautiful four-poster carriage is being wheeled somewhere and I have no idea where.

A small sliver of brightness peeks through the leather mask that blocks my eyesight and I lick my lips. It's colder, wherever we are. My nipples harden and my skin goosebumps as a chilly breeze runs across me.

Somewhere I hear an announcer type voice call out, "Number Five is presented to you as one of your Offerings."

I feel overcome with emotion. This is literally the moment I have been waiting for my entire adult kink life. Ever since I started attending munches and growing more comfortable within the kinky community and my identity as a submissive, I craved something more. Something deeper, darker, and scarier. I wanted to push my limits and most of all, I longed to be a plaything.

I have served several Dominant men over the years in my community in my years and each has taught me more about who I am and how I serve. I am thankful for their training and the relationships I have had. All of it has prepared me for this.

"Five. It is our wish that you be blindfolded during this session and that you do not make a single sound. If you consent, nod, and snap your fingers twice. If you wish to withdraw your consent or stop, merely speak and we will end the scene."

With confidence, I snap my fingers and hold my breath.

Before I can fully process what is happening, there are multiple sets of hands on me. Some are soft, with nimble fingers and sharp nails that dance over my sensitive skin. Others are rough and calloused, holding me in place, flexing power into my submissive state.

I want to cry out, the sensations that have been building for so long have crashed into me like a runaway truck and are desperately seeking a release.

But they said to be quiet.

They said I wasn't to make a single sound.

I am a Good Girl.

So I swallow my groan of ecstasy and try to obey.

I can't tell how many people are watching me as I struggle to control my aching body. I could be in a room with only a few or I could be on stage.

A sharp blast of cold air startles my senses. The hands on my body continue to caress and hold me, but there's something else touching me now. It's rough and fibrous, scraping along my skin. My senses lock on as the sensation grows more and more familiar. Everything in me wants to cry out with joy and wild abandon.

I would know that feeling anywhere. It's the feeling of a hank of rope being dragged across your skin. If submission is my calling, rope bondage is my soulmate. From the texture, my guess is that it's jute. The excitement in my body pulsates and I grit my teeth to keep any sounds of pleasure from escaping.

The hands move my body at will. Bending me, holding me, and positioning me as the rough rope moves across my skin. I feel my robe being removed and my skin exposed as I am leaned up against a warm chest. My arms are carefully being positioned behind me and bands of rope being stretched tight across my upper arms. I have spent enough time in rope to know that I am being put into a takate-kote or box tie. My rigger briefly holds both of my hands and I instinctively know to squeeze them, completing the safety check to make sure the ropes are the right tightness.

"Good girl, Five. I think we will hang you from the ceiling. Nod once if you can hold a futo." The whisper in my ear fills me with pleasure and I straighten up, proud of my performance so far, and nod.

Never in my wildest dreams did I think I would get to spend my time as an Offering in rope. Slowly I am pushed over into a kneel, my face crashing into someone's lap, my ass in the air. Soft hands caress my face and run through my hair.

"You are such a good girl, Five." A different voice this time, a softer and more feminine voice, is next to me. A fluttering kiss is pressed upon my temple and I can't help but arch myself like a cat, eager to press my body into the welcome embrace.

Before more pets or more sweet kisses can be bestowed, I feel the rope start to brush across my leg. Slowly, someone lifts my left leg and bends it, touching my toes all the way to my butt. A multitude of hands reach out to steady me, holding me balanced as he repeats the wrapping motion, pushing me forward as he ties it off. The rope spirals all the way around my leg, tightening with each pass as he completes the spiral futomomo. They take their time here, gently pulling frictions tight and using a firm hand pressure to readjust his lines. I am balanced there, on the bed, exposed. My leg trussed up, my arms bound behind my back, my face shielded by a mask, and my ass in the air–still holding the enormous butt plug they insisted I wear.

The hands on my body never stop. It's a sensation overload as they caress me and hold me. The textures of skin, silk sheets, rope and leather overwhelm me. My arousal is almost painful as I grit my teeth, determined not to cry out. I feel more rope being added, tension lines being checked as another line is added. A hand grabs my long brown hair and pulls my head back, enough to get my attention but not enough to truly hurt. A tie is added to my hair and I feel the rope being pulled taut on my other ankle. It's a strange sort of discomfort but it's one that I welcome with everything in my being.

The smell of rope, cinnamon and candle wax permeates the air.

The sensations running across my body crash in a tsunami of pleasure.

My lip bleeds as I bite it, determined not to cry out.

I am a Good Girl.

I do as I'm told.