We’d been at a ropey play party earlier in the day and I’d been under the weather for the proceeding couple weeks, so I’m sure Mr Right knew he was in trouble this particular evening. 

I was just a wee bit pent up.  Like the sort of pent up when it’s been building for so long you sort of forget how in need of release you are because you’ve spent so long tamping down the desire. That desperate tickle in your belly. So at a certain point all it takes is someone running a finger down your arm to make you nearly jump out of your skin.  I was that tightly wound, dangerous and in desperate need of any sort of release.

Rope in hand, I approached Mr Right and undressed him, leaving him standing naked and goose fleshed in front of me. Wanting to keep him wrapped up tightly for a good long while, I started by binding his hands together in a mummy-like position and fashioned what I hoped would be a relatively comfy but secure harness from there.  Once I was sure he couldn’t escape I tossed him into the bed and pointed at where I wanted him to sit, building him a nest of pillows so he’d be sitting relatively up right.

I dumped the rest of his rope out on the bed and began plotting. How to best accomplish what I had in mind without hard points?  Did I have enough rope?  Would he hate what I was about to do?

As we bantered--always the sarcasm and sass, the way we communicate, flirt, and as switches how we encourage whomever has decided to be in charge—I became more sure of myself.  Not long after I got both of his legs frogged in on themselves, he said something that provided all the motivation I’m usually lacking, because I’m a sadist but I don’t want to hurt my sweet man friend.  Sometimes he needs to remind me, he isn’t that sweet.  I don’t remember the words, but I recall the daring look in his eyes as he pushed, seeing how far he could or would go.

I grabbed the blindfold from my bag and secured it around his eyes.  Still there was a snarky smirk on his lips which I wiped away with a kiss before taking the breath from him by tying the rest of the blindfold’s length to the headboard so that he couldn’t loll his head down. He’s often shy with his eyes in the bedroom but I wanted him present now and I wanted to “punish” him by removing his ability to hide his face from me.

The smirk was gone as I continued, pulling first his right and then his left leg up and out to the farthest points of his head board and tying them off.  His legs spread as wide as I thought he could handle and up off the bed so he had to work at holding himself up, no easy comfy position for him to relax into tonight.  Oh no.

He looked so delightfully vulnerable and exposed just then that even without having touched him or him having touched me, I was wet.  But I waited, not giving into my needs just then. Teasing myself just as much as him as I ran the pinwheel along his open thighs, then tracing the ropes around his legs, then his ass and belly.  I laughed cruelly as he whimpered and squirmed, trying to escape but only having a mere couple inches of wiggle room, all he could accomplish was exposing new and more sensitive parts of himself, which I of course teased and tormented.

When he was thoroughly on edge I began interspersing the pin wheel and the smacks with the palm of my hand with tentative movements of my face near his cock.  Not even my mouth, not yet.  Just the soft warmth of my face and perhaps my closed lips to tease him with the proximity, the promise of what would come eventually but not yet.  

Each time I would play at opening my lips to take him in my mouth I would instead pull away and spank or tickle him a new.  When I finally licked at the head of him, the sound he made was like a cry, a pained and grateful mew that had me grinning. 

I teased him with parted lips and tongue for as long as I could before I couldn’t torture myself any longer and finally took him in my mouth.  Again that sound just on the border of pain, so happy to be getting what he wants that the pleasure almost hurts.  I draw that moment out by slowly licking and sucking the length of him. Making even the doling out of pleasure a tease and I’m rewarded with so many more noises.

Soon I sense he can’t hold his legs up any longer so I begin untying them, releasing his legs so that he can stretch them and I can revel in the rope marks they’re decorated in. Before he can become too at ease, I reach into the bedside table.  He’s smart, he knows what comes next. 

I carefully place the condom on him, straddle his legs and tease him with my proximity for only a few moments before climbing on top of him.  It’s my turn to sigh and moan as I ride him, our faces so close that as I enjoy him, it’s relatively soon that the blindfold falls off and we smile at one another.  And as much as I enjoy him bound, I want his hands on me, I want to be tossed around, I want to tangle our bodies together in ways that aren’t possible at the moment.  So as I move against him, I somehow manage to untie his arms, freeing him to touch me. And when my legs tire in this position, I turn to face away from him, rewarding him with his favorite view as I slide up and down the length of him, ass in the air.  

He must roll me onto my back soon after this because I have no memories other than of endless orgasms.  Of vibrating myself to climax and insisting that me fuck me some more, coming on him as I whisper naughty nothings in his ear.  The pleasure so much that I lose track of the events as we try to destroy one another with deliciousness, falling asleep in a sweaty, happy pile.

In the morning we wake to a bedroom floor absolutely covered in rope that takes two days to fully untangle. And it was so worth it.    

My lover goes to another country for two weeks.  Not that long.  Easy peasy.  The time will fly. Absence makes the heart grow fonder and all that, right?  His last words to me are “I’ll miss you.”  He leaves me with a vase of flowers to remember him by.  I’m so secure in our mutual feels for one another that it’s all silly puppy love pouts of longing and not worry about the distance, neither physical nor emotional, that has me bummed.

Except: absence makes the heart grow fonder…

He texts me about his days, his adventures and I live vicariously through him. One day the phrase “and I had company” appears in his run down of the day.  And I feel a weird flutter in my chest as I read it a couple of times to parse that out.  And the queasy feeling grows, not because he’s likely slept with another woman—he’s free to do whatever he likes within the bounds of safety and honesty—but because none of this is ideal.  There are conversations we should have had before he left, and silly us, we were too busy saying good bye to have those talks. 

So logical me smiles and teasingly congratulates him, eager to hear more about her later, ideally when we’re in the same room so I can touch him, see him smile when he describes their time.  Because I do want to know more and I want him to do all the things (and people) that make him happy.  But emotional me can’t figure out why this hurts. I frantically leave the brunch place I’ve taken myself to while texting him good morning and lay in bed feeling deflated.

Then it hits me. I hear his voice in my head, “She was just keeping me company, stop over reacting, Emily.” Not Mr. Right’s voice.  It’s Mutton, the shit box narcissist abuser whose manipulation and mind games were as plentiful as the amount of women he kept around to make me feel insecure during our two years together. That was years ago and yet…

And I feel like a shit for not being able to say more, say the right thing to Mr. Right just then.  My feels are not his fault.  Dear, PTSD brain, you suck.  Unfuck you Mutton and the abuse that keeps on abusing even though you’re long gone from my life.  It was the euphemism, too familiar, too often used against me, and not the information conveyed that hurt.

Logical me treats herself to an orgasm because Mutton never gets to ruin my day ever again.  Seriously, unfuck that guy.  I turn on porn and fuck myself for a good long while, delaying the inevitable, getting myself just to the edge and stopping to go plainfly slow while watching the man and woman on the screen.  In my head the couple becomes Mr. Right and his mystery hook up.  And it becomes more difficult to wait. 

Holding myself on the edge is excruciating as I fuck myself with the vibrator, not allowing myself the stimulation to my clit that would put me over the edge.  The couple on the screen kiss, looking at one another that way only people who are really enjoying fucking do.  Eyes and mouths wide and bodies absolutely on the same page of pleasure.  Looking almost as if they’re shocked to find themselves in this situation.  Their connection is palpable and erotic as hell.

I wonder if Mr. Right looked at his mystery lady that way.  It’s a look I’ve seen on his face many times.  And I hope so, I hope his hotel room was full of pleasure.  I fantasize about watching them from a chair in the corner of that room, touching myself as my lover fucks another woman.  Would their entangling look anything like ours?  Does he touch her the way he touches me?  What’s specific to our repertoire?

It’s not enough that I’m a dirty old woman fucking this sweet young thing?  Now I’m imagining his trysts?   Knowing this fantasy is weird makes the moment that much better.  So of course this is the moment I move the vibrator to my clit and let go.

And the climax is so cathartic that I cry while coming down from that high. Sweaty and sticky between the legs, face covered in tears, I laugh at myself.  I never stop being surprised at the human heart.  That limerence*, lust, and sadness can occur in the same moment.  That both people can do everything right and one person can trip over the strangest trigger.  That a bruised heart can lead to such debauchery.

Emotional me feels raw the next day until she grows the ovaries to text Mr. Right the “right” way to let me know next time he sleeps with someone else.  100% industrial strength honesty with no euphemism please and thank you.  And that is that.  I have a communication-is-sexy boner the rest of the day.

And the heart grows fonder still…

So I have to throw my hands up and roll my eyes epically at the universe to hear that as soon as Mr. Right gets home, he’s sick.  Instead of having a sweet, sexy reunion we’re both miserable, our bodies playing cruel tricks on us both.  Fortunately he’s well enough a day later to snuggle up and hide from the world. 

We aren’t able to follow our lust anywhere deeper than to spooning but we talk and that’s world’s more intimate.  I hear about the mystery woman and my heart swells to see him shy and pleased, sharing the perfect amount of details.  And in hearing him talk about her I learn more about him, what he likes and what he is like.  What delights him and what drew him to her.  I’ve never adored him as much as when I hear him speak kindly of another woman and their time together.  Because he doesn’t hide anything or compare us. No one is better or more than, we’re just both ladies who happened to cross paths with this same man.  And isn’t that beautiful and strange?

And I tell him of my own minor hook up while he was away.  The rope fun I had when my regular rope bottom was away.  Everything is sweet and silly and out in the open.  We tease one another and giggle at ourselves, it’s not the cathartic sex I’d prefer to be having after having such a vulnerable conversation, but when is life ever perfect?

Instead he lets me hold him through a long night of fever sleep, my arm wrapped around him, hand on his heart, feeling him close.  And I don’t even feel sad about our lack of sexual intimacy just then. Instead I’m consumed with sweetness. For once I actually believe what’s happening in front of me, none of it is manipulation, or denial to keep me on my toes, sad and stressed.  It’s just life.  And we’ll get to the dirty stuff soon enough.  For now the tenderness is plenty satisfying and real.

When I finally get around to tying him up…  Oh boy.

*used here to describe that delightful mushy lovey dovey near obsession that happens early in a romance before the commitment and bonding stage begins