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The Rope at the Top of the Stairs

Give him enough rope


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.

His eyes got even wider when I walked out wearing that. We did another couple of rolls of film, mostly me sitting on or playing around on one of the stools he had made for his kitchen bar. He was clearly aroused, and at that point I had known for an hour that this evening could only end one way. The thing I couldn’t figure though was why he hadn’t jumped me an hour ago, especially when I asked him to tighten the laces on my basque. He had done it, pulling them tighter than I really wanted, without a word, his hands almost impersonal on the laces and my shoulder as he tugged.

Shy? Afraid to screw things up by moving too soon? I myself was feeling... wanton? That was a pale word for what I was feeling. I debated just jumping him as I posed at the top of the stairs. But what was up with the man? He paused to pull a roll of film out of the camera and reload, and my hand brushed against the rope hanging there on the post. I glanced down, then raised my eyes to see what he was doing and saw he was watching me.

“Come on down,” he said. “I’m starving and I said I’d cook something for us. Asparagus tips and sea scallops.”

So down I went. I started to go into the darkroom to change into something for dinner, and he stopped me with a word.

“Are you cold?” he asked with a smile.

I told him no, and he said that he had never eaten dinner with a beautiful girl dressed like I was, and he would very much like to. I sat down and he opened a bottle of sparkling wine from California and stir-fried the asparagus tips and scallops in olive oil with a little butter and a generous dash of the sparkling wine at the end.

We talked for a while, about music and some films we both liked, mostly. I wasn't used to sitting around like this, talking, dressed to get laid. He had a hard time keeping his eyes on mine, I noticed. They kept straying down to my breasts, pushed up by the cups that were a little too small. One time he got up to pull a book of the shelf, and glancing behind me, I caught him taking a long look, the sheer back of the bustier, the laces pulled tight, my ass. Catching my glance, he smiled into my eyes and shrugged. After we had polished off the dinner and the bottle of wine, he asked me if I had any ideas for some more photos.

“I’ve been telling you what to do all night. What do you want to do? Got another dress in there or something?”

Without really thinking about it, I glanced up at the rope at the top of the stairs. His eyes followed mine, and then he smiled at me.

“Go up there and get it and bring it to me,” he said.

What was with me tonight? I got up and brought the rope to him. My cheeks were burning and I couldn’t look at him. He had me hold my hands out and he wrapped the rope twice around my wrists and then looped it the other way between my hands and forearms and knotted it tight. As the rope tightened on my wrists, I tensed up. I had never done this, and I didn’t know him, really. He paused and with the tip of one finger lifted my chin.

“Listen, Emanuel,” he said looking into my eyes, “You are safe. I am a good guy, and nothing bad is going to happen tonight. If you want to stop, or are feeling uncomfortable or whatever, you tell me. I will stop and untie you and we can do something else. You tell me.”

I nodded and said OK. He walked behind me and took the end of the rope and pulled my hands up over behind my head. He looped the rope under my arm, then around the back of my neck, under the other arm. The rope was soft and maybe an inch thick. He knotted it there, and my arms framed my head, my hands tight against the back of my neck. He stepped in front of me to have a look, and then stepped behind me again and looped the rope around my neck five or six times, tight, but not too tight, until it held my head almost immobile, like a neck brace. I tensed up again as he did it and he whispered, “Don’t worry” in my ear, and somehow I relaxed. He picked up a stool and put it in the middle of the room and guided me over there with a hand in the small of my back. He had to help me onto the stool, and the position of my arms made my breasts stand out more and they were rubbing against the sheer cloth that lined the cups of my basque. I could feel the lace through it on my nipples and they were sending urgent messages all over my body, and when he asked me to cross my legs, sort of sidesaddle on the stool, I about died with relief, and almost came in the process of involuntarily clenching the muscles of my inner thighs. Oh, fuck, would you just do me, I thought. My head was starting to spin a little.

Maddeningly, he walked off and picked up the camera and a light and started taking photos again. But only a few, because there wasn’t much I could do, in the way of posing. I just tried to look haughty and smouldering and statuesque.

He walked over and untied the ropes around my neck and shoulders. I thought, OK, finally, here it comes. He pulled me over to the corner of the darkroom and looped the rope up over and around the corner post where it met the floor of his bedroom. Pulling on the rope, he raised my arms straight over my head and tied the rope off. Doing this, his chest was against my breasts and he looked into my eyes and I pressed myself, every bit I could, against him. He finished with the rope and stood back, raising a hand to my face and running his thumb over my lips. I took it into my mouth and held it there with my teeth and went to town with my tongue and my eyes.

Now, I thought, if that doesn’t do it, he is truly, deeply, out to lunch. But maddeningly, he sighed, closed his eyes and after a moment pulled his hand away.

“We will get to that part in a minute,” he said hoarsely. He walked away to a desk and took out a scrap of black cloth and walked back over to me, slipping a blindfold over my eyes before I realized what it was. I tensed up again as the satin cloth covered my eyes. My whole body felt electric, and when he touched my thigh, I flinched. He told me to relax, and caressed my thigh, and I managed to hold still. He undid the garters holding up my hose, and slipped off my panties. I was so turned on I was having a hard time keeping on my feet, and then I felt him redo the garter straps and then felt a rope being tied around an ankle. He tied it to something metal, and then I felt my legs being spread between some kind of bar and the rope looping around my other ankle and holding them apart. With my legs spread, tension had come on the rope tying my hands up and I was almost hanging there.

He knelt down in front of me, took my hips in both hands and gently at first, and then more insistently, went to work on me with his tongue. My eyes rolled back in my head and I would have come immediately except that my arms were stretched above my head and my feet were barely touching the floor and the muscles in my thighs were screaming. But he licked me and tongued me, and after a few minutes I forgot about the rest of my body and pretty much everything else as my world narrowed down to my pussy and his tongue. Then he reached up with one hand and pulled down the cup on my basque and, wetting his finger in me, drew a wet circle around my nipple with his finger. The juices evaporated, a sudden cool, and then he took my nipple between his fingers and pinched at the same time he pressed his tongue flat against my clit and I went off, and on and on and on. I kind of think I might have passed out except that during one of the waves I lost my footing and slipped down against the post at my back. A splinter dug into my ass and brought it all crashing back to earth, and I cried out.

His hands let go of my hips, and he asked me why I had screamed. I told him I had fallen against the post and got a splinter in my ass.

“Oh, shit, sorry, that must have hurt. Wait a sec and we will get it out. Doesn’t look too bad,” he said.

There was a tugging at my ankle as he untied the rope around it, and then the other. I got my feet back under me, gratefully taking the stress off my thighs and wrists. He then untied my hands and slipped off the blindfold. He was smiling at me, and grabbed a towel off the top of his dresser and wiped off his mouth, still dripping with my juices.

“You liked?”

“I liked, at least until that 2x4 got rammed into my ass, anyway,” I said, looking over my shoulder at the long splinter lodged under my skin. There was a drop of blood where it entered the skin, and I went to wipe it away, but he caught my hand,

“No, just leave it. You have to be careful you don’t break it off. We will get it out in a second.”

He took the rope and looped it twice around my wrist and knotted it off. Stepping behind me, he looped the rope around my arm just above the opposite elbow, pulled my hand up tight against the opposite arm.

“Hey,” I said, “what are you doing? Get that splinter out.”

“Give me a second,” he smiled, “This is for your own good. We are going to have to operate without anesthesia, and we can’t have you moving around too much.”

He took a second turn around my biceps, and then looped the rope around my other arm and knotted it around my other wrist, snugging everything up tight with the last knot. I felt curiously passive. I remembered the look in his eye when I had his thumb in my mouth, and he said, “We’ll get to that.” I asked myself, “Get to what, exactly?” and was surprised to find I didn’t really care.

He put his hands on my hips and gently pushed me across the room to his desk, a big oak table, old, mission style. With the tops of my thighs against the table, he pressed into me from behind. I could feel his hard-on through his jeans and he gently put a hand on my back and bent me over onto the table...

****

He stood behind me. I heard the cap come back off the bottle of oil and felt him stick an oily finger, just the tip of it, into my ass. I didn’t know what to say, and so I shut my mouth.

His weight came on me, and the hair on his arm brushed against my ass as he reached for himself to guide his prick into me. I felt his chest hair tickling my bare upper back, and his breath on my ear as he took the lobe between his teeth. He bit down, just enough to hurt and at the same time the head of his cock popped through the ring of muscle in my ass, there almost before I had time to notice. I involuntarily clamped down around him, and he groaned in my ear. It hurt like hell, but the nip on my ear had done its work, and the pain in my virgin ass was already fading as he paused there, bent over me. I could not see, and my hands could touch nothing and all my senses were concentrated in my poor, distended nipples, sending their message to entirely the wrong place, and in my ass, squeezing and slackening around his cock. He said something I didn’t catch, letting go of my ear and standing up straight, and then he twined his fingers in my hair, took hold of my hip, and pushed into me in one long, slow, deliberate thrust.

I screamed, cursed him. He slid himself out and I almost fainted with relief. Then he poured some more oil on my ass and thrust himself back in and I screamed again. He started fucking me, slowly and deliberately, in long strokes, pulling almost all the way out and then pushing back in until he was in to the hilt. After a while, I felt him lean over me, pressing my nipples between the lace and the oak again, and my pussy was sending distress signals, as was my ass, and I clamped down around the base of his cock this time and he shuddered and groaned in my ear, resting his head on my shoulder, not moving.

After a moment, he lifted his head and said, “You can’t believe how this feels, but if it hurts too much, tell me and I will stop.”

With that, I lost my temper. “No, you bastard, it’s you who don’t know how this feels. I can say that it is an insane pain in the ass. Fuck me, fuck me hard, cum in my ass and if you do it right, you might just survive the night because when you get done and untie me, I am going to teach you about Pussy, you asshole.”

I clamped down on him again and he lost it and started pounding into me. The second slop of oil had greased the skids pretty well, and the pain had faded. He had taken my hips in both hands and I could feel every inch of him sliding out, and in and out again. Somewhere in there while he was slamming into me he reached his hand between my legs and somehow got his thumb all the way into my pussy and started playing with my clit with the tip of a finger. So that was why he had tied one leg higher than the other.

Considerate of him, really: he might just be worth the effort to house train.

I could feel his cock sliding over the knuckles of his thumb inside me, the finger caressing my clit and suddenly my nipples kicked back in, rubbing against the tabletop as he drove into me over and over again and after a minute the orgasm poured onto me like a ton of wet sand, driving the breath and the wits out of me.

Fuck me, I thought dimly, that was wild, and as I drifted up out of the endorphin fog I felt him go deep and I clamped down on the very base of his cock and held on tight and he went off like a fire hose. I could feel him slowing down inside me, and then pull out as he slumped over my back.

I lay there too, recovering, and he stood up, and then bent over me again and, tilting my chin up with his hand, kissed me for the first time. It took him a minute or two to get me untied. I could feel that I was going to have bruises across the tops of my thighs from where he had pounded me into the table, and despite the orgasm I had just had, I was looking for more. I picked up the rope and walked over to where he was standing. I kissed him and took his wrists in mine and slipped around behind him.

“What are...” he started but I was already knotting the rope. I grabbed him by the ear and dragged him over to the shower. I turned on the water, shoved him in, and then adjusted it to a nice steaming hot. I soaped his cock and balls up good, rinsed it off and then soaped them up again.

“I am going to take a powder for a minute. You just stay there and let that soap do its work, OK? Don’t let it get rinsed off before I get back.”

He was still looking a little cross-eyed, standing there, bound in the shower. I couldn’t resist a quick kiss. “Don’t worry boy, “ I told him, as I grabbed a robe from a pile on top of his dresser, “You did... well, let’s say OK, and you just might survive the rest of the night.”
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