I'm currently hosting an IndieGoGo campaign to get the funding to publish my first book! It's 30 stories about the first 30 people who tied me up as I explored the world of rope bondage.
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Chapter 1: The First Time
The first person to tie me up was a married man I met online.
This was when the internet was shiny and fresh. The shy and socially awkward people of the world rejoiced, newly able to connect without leaving home or talking face to face with strangers. Hooking up in chat rooms and message boards, long before OKCupid or the plethora of similar dating sites were a thing.
One night I was in a chat room for younger women looking for older men. The literal handful of college guys I had experience with had been dull and unadventurous. They thought back massages or making out in the park was risqué. I wanted something they weren’t up for, even I wasn’t quite sure what I wanted yet but I was aware they wouldn’t be the ones to give it to me. My thought was that perhaps an older and wiser man was the answer; maybe sleeping with men my age was where I was going wrong.
Months before, at eighteen I had lost my virginity to a nerdy virgin I’d had met in a backgammon chat room. Once the subject of sex came up we waited all of a couple weeks to meet in person. It still boggles my mind to imagine that dirty talk occurred while moving virtual white and black markers around, playing one of the lease erotic games in existence.
The first time we met, he drove to the small dairy farm town where I grew up. My parents were away, camping as they did most weekends during the warm season making it the perfect time to invite him over. However, they had unexpectedly left my younger brother behind for me to baby sit. He was a teenager himself so a video game would keep him entertained for days. The situation would require sneaking this fellow into the house somehow without my brother--who would be sure to tattle—noticing.
“I live in the white house on the corner. Walk through the back yard and come to the first story window closest to the back of the house. I’ll be the red haired girl waiting for you.” Those were my instructions to stealing him in undetected. Unsurprisingly, he was game for stealth if that’s what it took to hook up.
We hadn’t exchanged photos so I had no clue what to expect, sitting in my bedroom window, on edge, watching the street, expecting any unfamiliar face to be my internet sweetheart. I was of course holding out hope that he would be attractive even though he was thirty five and had never touched a girl. So my heart dropped for a moment when a pale, doughy man with an uneven haircut and a double chin tip toed nervously to my window. He smiled strangely as he got closer.
“Hi,” I said trying to lure him closer, lest the neighbors or my brother notice him lurking outside the house.
“Um, hi,” was his response as he slowly snuck up to the side of the house, as if the distance between us was occupied by quick sand or pudding. “I’m going to kiss you.” He declares leaning in my childhood bedroom.
Suddenly I forget how unappealing he is and become thrilled by the prospect of being touched. As a distinctly unpopular kid in high school I’ve yet to date, touch, or otherwise experience physical closeness with another person. I don’t feel in a position to be particularly picky so I decide to give myself to this man even though he’s not what I was expecting.
In the moment, it feels very Romeo and Juliet as he takes my face in his clammy palms for a kiss that’s more like being licked by the family dog than the romantic meeting of lips I’ve seen in movies. Though I’ve been practicing kissing every afternoon until there’s a large unexplainable wet spot on my pillow, I don’t know what to do with my tongue. As inexperienced as I am, it seems obvious this guy has even less of a clue. He rubs his chin against mine painfully during each kiss. By Monday I’m chaffed raw by his stubble, trying to explain away the open wound on my face as something that happened by clumsily tripping on the carpet.
I help this unathletic stranger heave himself inside my room where he stays for the next two days aside from early morning and late night trips to the bathroom when my brother is in bed. Despite our best efforts, my man friend is never able to get an erection during this time. The more he thinks about what a disappointment he is, the less able he is to perform. This doesn’t stop me from experimenting in all ways possible with his body, going from inexperienced to having my first kiss, giving my first hand job and oral sex in the course of ten minutes. The remainder of the weekend we talk, play back gammon in the flesh, and I stealthily bring more food or water into my bedroom than one person would possibly need while my brother pretends to not understand what’s happening.
The next weekend we meet again, this time springing for a hotel room in one of the seedy hotels lining the highway. The experience lasted all of 10 seconds and involved strip go fish as foreplay. I’d gone shopping for a sexy matching bra and panty set that he didn’t pay any attention. He pushed my red panties to the side, squished a condom on, and shoved his half stiff penis inside me at the first hint of an erection. He grunted and felt against me immediately, rolling over to sleep without a mind to my satisfaction. The paper towel textured sheets, musty smell, and snoring man beside me that I felt nothing for opened an emptiness inside me that was hard to identify.
I hadn’t held out on sexual exploration out of any moral reasoning. Living with a mother who controlled my every move left no room for a sex life. At the same time, being surrounded by boys who smelled like manure and didn’t know Sylvia Plath from Shania Twain wasn’t much of a motivation to date. The first time someone that wasn’t from this insular country music and Holstein cow community showed any interested, I jumped on the chance to go at it. I had no fear of sex, it was a relief to now know what it was like, and my curiosity for more was piqued.
The lacuna that was nagging at me as I watched this man that would become my boyfriend for a short while sleep in the jaundiced light filtering in from the ammonia-y bathroom had more to do with disappointment. His two thrust contribution to the event couldn’t have been less satisfying. I had so been looking forward to plunging into the world of sex that I couldn’t believe this was all there was involved. There had to be more, not with this man, but somewhere.
I started looking for it in the body of any boy that was willing, doing anything they asked.
Realizing I was desirable was a dangerous discovery for someone who spent a lifetime longing for attention. It became an addiction, this getting naked with people that I only knew through their words on a screen. The pleasure was still missing however; following these more experienced guys towards their desires wasn’t doing anything for me. It was all one sided. I asked for nothing in return, acting as a vessel for their needs and nothing more; there was still that emptiness after every encounter. I didn’t like these men and the frenzied lust of their continuously ordinary sex acts.
I began saying things like “You can hold me down” or arching my ass towards a partner hoping for a spanking. But nothing came of this; my timid baby steps towards my inner fantasy world were laughed off or ignored all together.
It was about this time, while still dating my back gammon partner, that I found myself chatting up an older fellow who was himself enduring a sexually dull relationship. He was the sort of guy that’s charming in a way only someone cheating on his pregnant wife could be. At the time I didn’t care about anything other than the thrill of the conversation and the possibility of hooking up with him, especially when he asked the revolutionary to me question, “What have you always wanted to try?”
No one had ever asked about my longings. I didn’t know what to ask for, just that in my rare opportunities at masturbatory privacy my mind had been wandering towards images of bondage, always involving rope. Who knows where these thoughts came from, why I wanted to be bound or how I knew about it as anything other than something I had done a lot of in playground games when I was much younger. This wasn’t something I’d seen in what little porn I had access to in the stash my father hid under his bed.
So I didn’t know that this was an activity that anyone else in the world had ever participated in. I still thought it was just me having these thoughts. And yet embolden by the notiion that we would never follow through with meeting, I responded to his question with, “I’ve always wanted to be tied up.”
“Cool” was his only response before moving on to other topics, leading me to believe he wasn’t interested. My face felt hot with the shame of confessing something so raw and only to have it tossed aside as if we were discussing the weather. Luckily he was most of a state away so he didn’t see my disappointment. And yet this didn’t stop me from continuing to flirt and have cyber sex with him every night.
“Where’s your hand?”
“What are you wearing?”
“Tell me how you’d suck my cock.”
He was always the director in these fantasies, I merely played along, responding to his questions, hoping that in my limited knowledge I would manage a pleasing response.
Then one evening, a month into our being in contact, he declared that he would be driving through my town on his way to a work trip. It would be the perfect opportunity to finally meet and take care of that idea of mine. In vivid detail he described what he had in mind, making it clear that not only had he been listening when I’d talked about rope, he was interested in exploring it himself.
I gave him my phone number, still positive he wouldn’t follow through. He had a life, a relationship, interests, and a house to remodel. There was a depth to him that the other horny guys I’d been wasting time with lacked. There didn’t seem to be any reason for him to actually make time to call. I couldn’t imagine what there was for me to offer him.
When the phone rang and he said his simple name, my brain filtered it through the Rolodex of all the people I’d ever known who shared that title. It wasn’t until he repeated himself, adding “from the internet” as a kenning, that I realized what was happening. I was so shocked that his words felt like another language, none of it was sticking. It wasn’t until the blur of his voice on the line paused that I realized a question had been asked.
“Are you ready?”
“Yes?” I tried, not knowing what I was agreeing to and too nervous to ask him to repeat himself.
He began reciting cryptic instructions. “Go straight until you get to the billboard that says ‘God loves us.’ Take a slight left. Turn right at the Hardees. Follow the road until you get to a parking lot and pull in under street light closest to the building.”
It took me a while to realize these were the directions to his hotel. He was attempting to add to the mystery by being secretive enough to not directly tell me where he was staying, instead sending me on a treasure hunt that would end with me getting tied up by a total stranger.
At the time I still lived with my parents while going to community college and saving money to get away as soon as possible. So I hid in the laundry alcove of my parent’s house trying to get the cord of the phone to stretch far enough that they wouldn’t hear this stilted conversation. My hand was shaking with so much nervous energy I could barely write the directions down, not trusting myself to remember them. My mother looked at me like I was crazy as I left to meet “a friend.”
It felt like watching myself from afar as I got in my car and drove across town, taking all the back roads in his instructions. I had a vague idea where I was going, it was impossible not to when I’d been wandering these same few miles my entire life. As I made turns that took me in circles several times, I was feeling less sure this was a good idea. I wondered whether he was really in town, if these directions led anywhere, or if perhaps he was luring me down a particularly dark road for impure purposes.
When I finally pulled into a parking lot everything became clear and I had to smile. He was staying at the hotel where only a few months ago I had gone to my senior prom. The juxtaposition of events was amusing. This wasn’t one of the shitty places that lined the highway that were for truckers, cheap relatives visiting town, or afternoon trysts. His room was in the one place in town I would never be able to afford to stay, with a ball room and a supper club attached.
Somehow knowing that he had rented a nice room made it even more difficult to think about opening my door; I sat in my car for a long time nearly hyperventilating. When I had admitted my bondage fantasies to him, it never occurred to me we would meet. The reality of it had me terrified.
The other situations I’d gotten myself into, though I never directed the action, felt like I was the one in control. I decided how far we went, where they could touch me, if we saw one another again. Here I was asking to have that control taken away. Anything could happen in that room and I wasn’t sure I was ready.
Just before I could talk myself into driving away, an average looking but attractive man wearing a baseball hat waved at me from the back entrance of the hotel. I guessed that had to be who I was there to meet, but couldn't be sure. I'd never seen a picture of him.
All I knew was his first name, that he programmed at some big deal company, and was unhappily married. His wife had recently confessed to being pregnant with another man's child. They were going to stay together for the kid but he was perhaps understandably eager to explore infidelity himself, as if fooling around with me would make them “even.”
At the time I didn’t know any better than to help him with those urges. I wasn't there to judge, especially not the first person to be game for partaking in the more taboo urges at the dark corners of my mind. He apparently hadn’t thought me weird or deviant for asking. So married or not, I was going to take him up on his offer.
I turned off my car, stepped into the winter chill, and walked slowly towards the person holding the door open, still unsure if I had the right guy. He looked around nervously as I got close, perhaps keeping up the ruse of intrigue or genuinely paranoid. Saying my name as a question, he took my arm to pull me inside. It was sauna warm but I felt cold to my core with uncertainty, unable to move any further forward or speak.
Holding hands he directed me down the long echoing and extravagantly carpeted hallway to his room, the crystal ovals of the chandelier lights jiggling in the breeze we’d let in. When he closed the heavy door behind us and latched it, he seemed just as nervous as I was. He stood with his back against the door for a long while watching me watch him, not knowing what to do with myself in his room. Finally we settled on the edge of the bed together, shoulder to shoulder. All of the oddness of the situation taken into consideration, I was surprised at how comfortable I felt with him. His body felt nice so close to mine, whereas my supposed boyfriend continually disgusted me as I endured his touch and his body, thinking it the only option available.
Now that our words were no longer on a computer screen, small talk was all we could manage. The conversation didn’t matter so much as our proximity to one another, arm to arm, knees drifting closer, looking straight ahead. Social foreplay, a way to kill time, to keep us proper before jumping out of our clothes into what we both knew we were really there for.
When the lulls in conversation became too awkward to ignore, he stood and turned the lights down. Watching him walk towards me, my heart raced and I gave one final thought to leaving. He loomed, looking down at me for a long moment before leaning in for a kiss, an ardent kiss that was somehow both soft and firm. I wanted to keep kissing him for the rest of the night. I actually liked this guy. This kiss, the shared passion was everything that was missing from my few other sexual experiences. I could start to see what all the fuss was about.
The thought kept dancing through my mind at how scandalous it was, him being nearly twenty years older and belonging to someone else. Somehow that made everything more exciting. I couldn't help stroking the shiny wedding ring on his finger as we made out, reveling in how illicit we were being.
We kissed and explored each other, touching without being overtly titillating. It seemed hours later when he began undressing me. It wasn't until I took off his shirt that I noticed how slight he was. I felt a bit ungainly realizing I was twice his weight, wondering if he would be able to pull off being domineering.
As he removed my underwear with one pull, pushed me back on the bed, and told me to stay, it occurred to me that being imposing had more to do with intention than muscle. The look he gave me over his shoulder as he searched through his luggage convinced me to lay still. I waited, naked, goose-bumped, and nervous.
Slowly he unwrapped a coil of cheap beige clothes line, the only thing he had been able to find that was remotely rope like in the town Wal-Mart. I didn't mind, he was going to tie me, that was what was important.
The length of the cord seemed to go on forever; it was long and awkwardly coiled making it a struggle for him. The only thing for me to do was watch and anticipate, but as the minutes stretched on I felt strange laying there motionless. I fidgeted, the nervousness returned, I could sense the same frustration in his body language.
Halfway through the struggle he gave up and approached the bed with a half tangled mess. Making the best of the situation, he took my right wrist and made a messy loop around it which he attached to the head board. Pulling free more clothes line, he repeated the process on my other wrist, then got to work on my ankles, tying them spread eagle. Not having any scissors to cut the single long piece of rope made this not very elegant or efficient; it turned out serviceable enough, him grunting and tugging at the ball of knots whenever he needed more length.
Wiggling, I tested my bindings as he stepped back and watched, smiling nervously, seeming unsure what to do next. I certainly had no idea, this was as far as my fantasies ever progressed.
The next thing out of his bag was a white pillar candle. He lit it and crawled into the bed with me, straddling my chest still wearing jeans and a heavy leather belt that rubbed against my skin as he moved above me. After some playfully menacing, he slid to on my belly where he sat and carefully dripped wax on my chest. I was surprised at how little it hurt. Warmth was all I felt.
“Don’t worry, I won’t leave any marks for your boyfriend to find.”
Wide eyed and watching me carefully, he behaved as if he were doing something highly scandalous and painful. When I didn’t respond with the expected gasp or moan he looked as if he had done something wrong. I tried to play along, squirming on the bed and moaning when he poured another bit of wax near my nipple. This didn’t do anything for me but he seemed to be enjoying himself. I smiled and went along with it as he had his fun.
So far being tied up was both better than I expected and somehow disappointing. It wasn’t the magical transformative experience that lived in my head. Then again, but dreams rarely are. Mostly it was a little weird. But it was actually happening and happening with a sexy guy so I had no complaints. In the moment, I tried not to analyze things too much, instead enjoying the feel of him and the look in his eye.
Somewhere along the way, one of my hands came untied, I pretended to be securely bound so as to not ruin the moment or make him self-conscious about his bondage skills. After all it was his first time too. I was focused on the feel of the rope biting into my wrists and ankles, that delightful sense of helplessness. He could have done anything he wanted that night as long as I was bound while it happened. Though we had talked about it being okay for him to do more, he seemed content to sit back watching me struggle, occasionally touching me in sensual but not overtly sexual ways.
When he began to clean the dried wax from my body, peeling it away with his fingers, it became obvious he was getting ready to untie me. I was a little saddened at how nearly uneventful the evening had been, that he, playing the role of a perfect gentlemen, hadn't taken advantage of his bound captive. My worry was that he didn’t find me attractive enough to do any more than that or he hadn’t enjoyed himself. But I had no language at the time to communicate these concerns so I watched him unloop the rope, not looking forward to leaving him so soon.
The impromptu knots and wiggling had made it impossible to untie me gracefully. Instead he hacked at the clothes line with the tiny dull knife in his pocket, leaving forlorn lengths of unraveled rope on the floor. I admired the marks on my wrists as he tried to apologize for them.
“Don’t worry, they’ll be a good souvenir.”
He smiled handing me my discarded clothing piece by piece while I dressed, understanding he didn't want me to stay around much longer. I thanked him for everything. At his door we promised to do it again sometime soon though I half suspected I would never hear from him again. So I was surprised to get a call the next time he was in town. It was the middle of the day, my parents both at work for several more hours so we flirted with danger by meeting in my living room. That’s all the further we got before undressing, the spark we’d ignited during our first chaste meeting exploding, making it impossible for us to wait any longer to consume one another.
We fit nicely, him sliding inside me quickly and effortlessly, holding me close to him while thrusting inside me. Our eyes meeting the times when he pulled away, to watch me, curious about my pleasure. I didn’t know that sex could feel this good or last this long. I didn’t know that a good lover would want me to get something out of it as well, would touch me in return, and kiss me endlessly.
He was only the second man to penetrate me and I was glad to have waited. Glad that I’d set up the rule with those random hook ups that, no matter how much they protested, they could do anything except put their cock inside me. Glad that I’d saved something that felt special now. Glad that I’d had the unpleasant experience of losing my virginity earlier so I had something to compare this to and fully enjoy.
Sure, we were both lying cheaters in this time before the word polyamory ever came into my vocabulary, before I knew of a way for us to explore one another without our partners getting hurt.
He illustrated for me what sex could be like when it’s good, when there’s a spark. My time with him opened a new world of desire that made the ten second sex long I was having with my boyfriend, the blow jobs I’d been giving to random guys from the internet on the side, seem ridiculous and completely unnecessary.
We messed around a handful of other times before he disappeared, never logging on to our chat room again. I continued connecting every night, hoping he would reappear, heartsick with the uncertainty of his departure. Until I moved on, distracted by a new body, laughing at myself for what I pathetic little girl I’d been for him, falsely thinking we would become something more.
In that winter we spent keeping one another warm we never played with power or rope again. It turned out not to be his thing. He was much more interested in regular old fashioned sex. That regular uncomplicated sex he couldn’t get at home. And it was spectacular sex, every time better than the last. Yet there was always part of me waiting for more rope, unable to ask.
I mistakenly conflated his disinterest in bondage with my having done something wrong, having asked for too much. Reverting back to thinking of it as a thing to hide, so it would be another five years, in another life, in another city before I would get a chance to be bound again.
If only that lover knew what he started, the role he played in kindling my lust for bondage.