Rope at the top of the Stairs
by John Young
The cups of my basque had been pushed down when he bent me over the table and my nipples were pinched between the stiff lacy fabric and the cool, grainy oak. My arms were tied behind my back, wrist to elbow, wrist to elbow, and from there the two tails of the rope led over my shoulders and the far side of the table and then under it and around the outside of the legs. He took one end of the rope and wrapped it twice around my leg just above the knee and tied it off, and then did the same with the other end, spreading my legs slightly and lifting my feet off the floor, the right one more than the left one. The slight motion rubbed and pinched my nipples between the wood and the stiff fabric, and a slight moan slipped out through my lips as my pussy spasmed. The feeling was spoiled slightly though, by a twinge from the splinter in my ass.
My neck was burning and I let my head down onto the tabletop as he finished the last knot. This pinched my nipples again, causing me to shudder, and I resolved to keep still, as there was no point in getting myself too fired up, obviously. There was a shelf of books in front of me, and I ran my eyes over the titles, old books, mostly, or histories: The Rubaiyat, The Empire of the Steppes, Early Christian Heresies, a biography of Eleanor of Aquitaine, and there on the end (my belly burned hotter at the thought of the scene with the Chinese merchant) Alexander Trocchi’s Helen and Desire. There was a window open in the big bank of them that covered the upper part of one wall a few feet away, and a cool tendril of damp night air off the river outside wound its way over my body, raising goose pimples on my shoulders and on my naked ass, offered up to this guy I barely knew. No, somehow I didn’t think I would be able to intelligently discuss Omar Khayyam just now.
He broke into my thoughts, saying, “Let’s see about that splinter now. Looks like it should come out no problems.” He walked off and I heard him open a cabinet in the kitchen across the room, and he came back with a pair of tweezers, nail scissors, some gauze pads, a shallow bowl and a bottle of rubbing alcohol. He poured some alcohol into the dish and then set the tweezers and scissors in the bowl. He walked over to the table, and picked up his glass of wine and walked back over to me, saying distractedly, “I got enough of them when I was building this place, I’m pretty much the splinter expert now.”
I closed my eyes and could feel his eyes on me. My short dark hair, long thin neck, the faint freckles on my shoulders, the thick laces on the back of my bustier, squeezing my waist into even more of an hourglass shape than it normally was. Generous hips and my ass, my nice ass if I do say so myself, framed by the straps that ran from the back of the bustier down to the thigh-height sheer stockings that I had put on maybe an hour ago in his darkroom, the black, fuck-me high heels on my feet dangling helplessly off the floor now.
I opened my eyes and craned my head around to look at him. Tousled, thinning brown hair, black t-shirt, a noticeable bulge in his black jeans: pretty ordinary looking really. He was sipping his wine and staring at my ass.
“Do you like what you see?” I asked him tartly.
He raised his eyes to mine and smiled, “Yes, thank you.” He took another glance, set down his glass next to the bowl and picked up the tweezers.
“Should be OK now.” I felt him pinch my flesh a bit, and then gave an involuntary jerk as a drop of alcohol fell off the tweezers onto the splinter. It stung like hell, and he stopped to give them a quick wipe with the gauze. He said, “Hold still a sec,” took a hold of me again, and deftly plucked the splinter out.
“Yes, looks great, there’s nothing left in there, and it is bleeding a little. We’ll give it a second and then clean it up with the alcohol.” I closed my eyes. I heard him take another sip of wine and set the glass down on the table. He walked away and came back with the bottle and poured himself another glass. Then he picked up a gauze pad and soaked it in alcohol and wiped down the wound. A sharp stinging pain, and the icy cool of the alcohol evaporating. I jerked again, and was rewarded, for my pain, with the lace grating across my nipples and sending another surge into my pussy.
He picked up the bowl and the alcohol, and walked off again. A second later he slipped a blindfold over my eyes. I was still wet from earlier, and what with the tabletop treatment on my small but exquisitely sensitive tits, was desperate for a good, long, slow, thorough fucking. I heard the sound of a bottle of some sort being set down on the table beside the wine glass. I opened my eyes, and through a slight gap in the bottom of the blindfold I saw that he was naked now, not in bad shape, but skinny, his hard-on, medium sized, standing out. Then I saw what he had set down on the table, and realized he had a slightly different plan: the bottle of olive oil he had used earlier when he cooked up a stir fry of sea scallops and asparagus tips.
For some reason, for once in my life, I was speechless. I could feel my asshole spasming, my arms and legs felt heavy and my whole body blushed. I struggled against my bonds briefly, illogically, but I could hardly move. It was clear that unless I spoke up pretty quick, that I was going to get an ass-fucking, and from the look in his eye, and his prick, which had been on end all night, it wasn’t going to be a gentle one either.
He twisted the cap off the oil, let a drop or two fall onto my ass just above my hole and poured some into his hand and oiled himself up, a crooked smile on his face as he looked at me. With long slow strokes, he spread the oil on his cock. He kept at it longer than strictly necessary, I would have thought, but then sometimes you just can’t help yourself.
He raised his eyes to my face and noticed the gap at the bottom of the blindfold. Reaching over, he adjusted it so that it fit tightly. I could feel his oiled-up cock slide between my cheeks as he bent over me. He put a hand on my shoulder, and caressed my ass with the other one. I felt goose bumps on my legs and he said softly, “Emanuel, in about 30 seconds, unless you tell me no, you know what is going to happen. I have been about to explode in my pants since you walked in my door, and once I start, I am not going to stop. Speak now, or forever hold your peace.”
Now, I am no shrinking virgin princess, obviously, and that was a nice bit, that last. But the firsts had been kind of piling up over the evening, almost without my noticing them somehow, and I was wondering if I was up for another one. Did I want this particular iron in that particular fire? Trussed up like a, well, when you got down to it, like a Christmas turkey, legs spread, on his table? As I opened my mouth to speak, I paused.
I met him at a party the night before. He had built a loft apartment inside a sort of old warehouse building, mostly divided up for storage units, but here and there artists had their ateliers and sometimes lived there: a half-dozen painters, a couple of sculptors and metal workers, some woodworkers etc. He was a photojournalist, and had travelled a lot. Kind of a dark horse I had noticed the few times I had seen him before, often sitting alone at parties or at the rock club we all went too. I went to the party with a couple of friends who had places in the building, and they told me that he was actually pretty nice, just shy somehow and did better one-on-one. It would be a good party, they said, and his place was really cool.
I went, and had a good time. He shook my hand and gave us all a smile and a peck on the cheek as we came in, and then waved us toward the kitchen table, covered with beer and wine, a couple of bottles of bourbon and some bits of stuff to eat. His place really was cool. He had laid a pine floor over most of it, built in a shower and kitchen, and his bed was up in a loft, with a darkroom under it. All in the cheapest pine and plywood, but varnished here and painted there, and together it looked like one of the apartments you see in the magazines. The walls were covered with some giant photos he had obviously made, during his travels in Asia, by the looks of them, and some paintings done by his friends in the building. In the corner a wooden canoe stood up on its end, and along the back wall there was another one half built. There were shelves of books here and there around the room, and I just sort of walked around taking it all in.
The one thing that was odd was that at the top of the stairs, there was a big coil of thick black rope, hanging from the bolt that held the railing to the corner post of the loft. I thought, “What is that for?” And then with a twinge somewhere inside me, I thought, of course, I know what it is for.
For some reason, I was a little nervous and drank more than I ate. There were a bunch of people around, but even so, I noticed that my friends had been right. He seemed to be having a good time, but spent most of his time sitting on the couch, talking to somebody, or just sipping a bourbon on ice and watching the ebb and flow of the guests around the loft. But once or twice I noticed him watching me. I would look around, catch his eye and he would smile. Later in the evening I wandered over to the back wall of the room, where there were a bunch of black and white photos hanging up to dry on a line. They were of a couple I knew, dressed up funky and obviously having a good time goofing around with each other. Sort of half fashion, half portraits, printed in black and white. I was looking at them when he walked up and smiled at me.
I asked him about the photos and he said that it wasn’t really his thing, that he was more of a journalist, more of a street photographer, waving at the big photos on the wall, but that when he found interesting people who wanted to pose, he had a lot of fun messing around with it. I looked back at the prints and before I knew what I was saying, asked him when he would take some photos of me.
He smiled and said. “You are a beautiful girl, Emanuel, why don’t you come tomorrow evening. I will cook something and then we will do some pictures.”
The next day around 7, I turned up with a couple of outfits and a little makeup bag. I had been on pins and needles all day, and didn’t know what to expect. In the loft, he had obviously spent the afternoon cleaning up after the party. It was neat and toward the back of the room he had set up some lights and some strobes with white translucent and silver-lined umbrellas. A big canvas drop cloth had been tacked up to the wall and ran down over the floor to form a backdrop. I had seen set-ups like it in fashion magazines. He handed me a glass of wine and waved me toward one of the stools around the kitchen table.
“Mi casa es su casa,” he said. “Let me just finish one thing and we will sit down and figure out the program for the evening.”
I watched as he messed around with some black cables and some little plugs with clear plastic knobs on the end of them. When I asked, he told me that the cable ran from a strobe, or flash, on a light stand to the camera to trigger it. The little plastic things were called slaves, and when one strobe went off, they sensed the light and triggered the strobe they were attached to, so you didn’t need to have wires running everywhere. He was finished in a minute and sat down at the table across from me with his glass of wine. I asked him what he wanted to do, and he said it was pretty much up to me.
“Just go into the darkroom over there, the switch is on the left. Put on what you want, and we will start taking some photos and see what happens.”
In the darkroom I opened my bag. There was a filmy, white silk dress, another funkier outfit, and the lacy black basque, panties and hose set that I had bought earlier in the day. I set them out on a glass light table to look at. The basque was more than a bit much right off the bat, and I was definitely feeling more Rita Hayworth than Pipi Longstocking, so the white silk was really the only choice. So I put on the dress, and after a moment, decided that even though they were white, my bra and panties had to go -- too many lumps and bumps.
I walked out of the darkroom and sort of gave a half shrug at him, sitting at the table, sipping wine. I was rewarded with a smile, maybe too cat-that-ate-the-canary, thinking back on it. But his eyes widened and he said “Wow,” and I blushed all over. We did a bunch of photos in the dress, against the backdrop, more in one of the antique scalloped wing chairs he said he had inherited from his grandmother. I climbed the stairs to his bedroom and he took some photos from below and I had to be careful not to give him an eyeful without my panties on. I loved the dress. It was not a mini, and came down to just above my knees. It was filmy and clingy. I loved the way it gave me a whole body caress, I looked fucking great in it, and the only downside was that I was starting to get seriously turned on. He obviously thought I looked great too, as I could see him shifting uncomfortably sometimes, adjusting the bulge in his jeans when he thought I wasn’t looking.
Making the pictures was fun. He flirted a bit, but not too much, and seemed genuinely occupied with his lights and his camera, adjusting and fiddling with them constantly, turning on the room lights sometimes, and turning them off sometimes when he wanted a different effect. It was a little strange to stand in a pool of light, and not be able to see at first what he was doing out there in the dark. But it soon became normal and I was having a good time vamping and posing and whatnot.
After a while he stopped and set down the camera and suggested I try another outfit. When I went in the darkroom, I left the door open, and slipped off the dress. I don’t know why, I guess I just wanted to see what he would do. Naked, I fiddled with my makeup a bit and thought: Pipi or femme fatale? and kept an eye on the door. I think if he had tried to peek it would have been over. But I could hear him with his cameras, loading film and a soft pop as he opened another bottle of wine. I was going to have to watch out for that too. Things were very cool, but it wouldn’t be a good idea to get really wrecked. After an hour of photos and the silky full body massage and the unaccustomed lack of panties, Pipi was right out, and I slipped into the basque and hose.
