Terri Asked to be Tied Up (M/F) - part 12
Posted: Sun Nov 16, 2025 12:48 pm
Terri has a fascination with bondage and asked me to tie her up. We have been meeting once a month for her bondage sessions. This was bondage, not S&M, humiliation, pain, or anything similar. She wanted to experience different types of bondage. When we started, Terri set clear rules: I would not remove her panties, and there would be no penetration. After several sessions, she changed the rules to allow me to stimulate her clitoris with a wand-style vibrator.
This is the twelfth part of the story, beginning here. If you are new to these stories, I suggest you begin with session 1.
Our 11th session ended with a surprise. As she was leaving, she stood on her toes and kissed me. To that point, our relationship had been collegial. I was a friend enjoying tying her in different positions, and she enjoyed experiencing a variety of bondage experiences. Now, whether our relationship was evolving into something new was the elephant in the room as we started our 12th session.
For most sessions, I usually decided what Terri would wear. She wore her street clothes to my house (although sometimes we met at her house), and she carried her bondage outfits in a small overnight bag. For this session, I asked her to wear a 1950s-style cocktail dress upon arrival. It was an alluring royal blue dress with cap sleeves and a belt with a large bow on the front. The dress buttoned from the jewel neckline down the fitted bodice to the hem of her skirt. She wore taupe pantyhose and black pumps. Though not of Asian descent, Terri has the body of a young Japanese woman, but with a larger bosom, and the dress made her look like a million bucks.
Typically, we start the session with some tea and friendly chat covering various topics, usually not about bondage. This time, I asked her not to change but to go into the guest room and place the small, blue, remote-controlled vibrator in position to provide maximum stimulation. Readers of the other parts of this story will remember that I can control the intensity and pattern of the vibrations from my cell phone or its small remote. When she entered, she furrowed her brow upon seeing me in a gray two-piece suit. Without explanation and with my hand on her lower back, I escorted her to my car and took her to a quiet bistro for a nice lunch. Again, our conversation covered a variety of topics. I could tell she wanted to bring up the kiss that ended our last session, but I wouldn’t let her—yet.
I eat in the proper American style, placing my utensils on my plate and keeping my hands in my lap between bites. This gave me a chance to play with the remote. I enjoyed watching her eyes enlarge or her hips wiggle as I changed the intensity and pattern of the vibrations, turning it off and on from time to time. Whenever I changed the setting, she would stiffen and let out a stifled little squeak. The small vibrator does make some noise, but you can’t hear it in a sound-filled restaurant. I could see from her mischievous facial expressions that she was becoming aroused.
Every time she tried to talk about bondage, the last session, or what I had planned for this session, I changed the subject. I could tell the anticipation was killing her. Or maybe that was the exquisite, erotic teasing of the vibrator in a public place.
“Are you having fun?” I asked her.
“You are so mean to me! You are driving me crazy!” she giggled.
“Would you like dessert?” I asked. “This place makes a delicious carrot cake.”
“No!” she exclaimed. Remembering where we were, she said more quietly, “You need to get me to your house and tie me up before I do something really untoward right here on this table.”
That made me laugh. “Terri! Shame on you. I thought you were a lady.”
The diabolical blue toy was only powerful enough to stimulate her girl parts, driving her to distraction, but not powerful enough to let her have an orgasm. By the time we got back into my car, and she no longer had to worry about what other people thought, her hips were writhing, her bosom threatened to push through her dress, and her breathing was getting deep and rumbly. Just before reentering my house, I turned it off. I asked her to go to the guest room, take it out of her pantyhose, and change into her outfit for the day’s fun.
Several minutes later, she obediently emerged, wearing a white, wet-look catsuit with a hidden zipper up the back. The suit covered her lovely body from neck to wrists and ankles. Then I held up a lace-up-the-back waist cincher with broad vertical black-and-white stripes. Unlike other corsets, this one had scallops that would rest below her boobs rather than squishing them or pushing them up. She looked nervous about the corset. With some trepidation, she stepped into it and held the hooked front against her tummy. I laced it up slowly, enjoying both her reaction and the effect on her already fantastic figure. I laced it just tight enough to be restrictive, but not painful.
“Now that you got me in this thing, what mean thing do you plan for me today?”
“I am all set up for you in the basement,” I replied.
“Uh-oh,” she responded with a slight giggle. “Now I am a little scared.”
She stopped when she got to the bottom of the stairs and saw the eight-foot ladder suspended between two sturdy wooden chairs.
“Terri, I need you to lie on the top of the ladder and adjust your – uh, self – so that your fanny is centered between two of the rungs.” After she adjusted herself into a relatively comfortable position, I gently pulled her wrists over her head. With many feet of soft, white cotton rope, I tied each wrist to the joint between the rail and rung of the ladder. This held her from raising or lowering her wrists or moving them toward each other. I did the same with her ankles. She was now in a sort of relaxed spread-eagled position, but not too spread. With more rope, I fastened her elbows and knees to the rails of the ladder. Then I used the two-inch wide leather straps to fasten her torso firmly to the ladder across her hips, waist, and chest, above and below her breasts. For good measure, I used two more straps to fasten her thighs to the ladder.
“Can you move much?” I asked.
She tugged on the ropes and straps to no avail.
“You didn’t try very hard,” I teased. “Do you want me to tickle you to exhaustion to make sure the ropes are secure?"
She struggled harder, tugging mightily to release herself and trashing against her bonds to the small extent possible. “No! Look! I can’t escape. Please don’t tickle me!”
I approached her, making gestures with my hands as if I was either going to fondle he boobs or tickle her underarms. She squealed and tried to pull away. “Please!” she begged.
Without warning, instead of molesting her, I lifted the ladder and turned it over. Terri yelped in surprise. She was now suspended under the ladder, hanging a little over a foot off the ground. I tied a bandana around her forehead and to the ladder to support her head and reduce strain on her neck. Her boobs looked really enticing, but her fanny begged to be fondled. I forced myself to massage her buttocks. It’s a tough job, but it had to be done. As I rubbed and squeezed her soft, spandex-covered butt cheeks, I asked, “Is everything okay? No pain or numbness?”
“Everything feels fine. This predicament really makes me feel helpless.”
“Do you like it?”
“Yes, very much.”
"I thought you might.”
I dropped to the floor and slid under her. I began to tease her nipples by softly running my fingers over and around them. She closed her eyes and moaned softly. I squeezed her nipples gently. I fondled her boobs, slowly rubbing and squeezing them. My fingers traced circles around her ariolae. Her moaning became raspier. She made little fists, and her feet wriggled. She was clearly enjoying the experience. When she was becoming very aroused, I stopped touching her and stood back up. I gave her a playful swat on her fanny and then walked up the stairs.
“Please don’t leave!” she begged. “That felt wonderful. Don't stop!”
Before turning out the lights, I said over my shoulder, “That’s why I’m stopping. I want you to enjoy your bondage for a while.”
The last thing I heard her say before closing the basement door was, “You are so mean to me,” but she said it with a frustrated giggle. She enjoyed being bound and sexually frustrated.
I balanced my checkbook and performed some light housekeeping chores, all the while knowing that she was in the basement, looking sexy in her white catsuit and snug corset, tugging and struggling with her bonds. It was hard to keep my mind on my work.
Eventually, I went back into the basement and was gratified that she was no closer to escape than when I left. I checked her fingers and toes for circulation, taking the opportunity to tickle her feet mercilessly for a few minutes. She screeched and laughed madly. I thought she might rock the ladder off the chairs. As she bucked and thrashed from the tickling, her head came loose from the bandana, and I had to correct it so her neck wouldn’t get sore.
I turned the ladder back over so she was laying on it again. I had purchased a harness that wrapped around her waist. It had two straps that began in the front, joined into a single strap between her legs, and buckled in the back, digging into her like a thong. It also had a smaller strap that wrapped around the neck of the wand-style vibrator. When the straps were tightened, this harness held the wand firmly against her girl parts.
“I think you’ll enjoy this,” I said as I turned the wand to its lowest setting. Immediately, her body stiffened as she strained against the ropes and straps. She yelped and then began to moan softly. I let her approach the edge of an orgasm and then turned off the device. She vainly pumped her hips to try to stimulate herself to an orgasm, but the only outcome was perspiration beading on her forehead and her face turning red from the effort.
She growled some unladylike things at me when I turned off the vibrator, then, realizing her predicament and her unquenchable desire for sexual release, she pleaded, “Please don’t stop. Please. I’ll do anything… Please!” The last word she nearly screamed as I showed no signs of turning the vibrator back on. Instead, I buckled the red ball gag into her mouth. She continued muffled begging around the gag.
I lifted the ladder and set it against the basement wall. This suspended her in a different way than when the ladder lay between two chairs with her facing the floor. I set a timer on my watch and went back upstairs, enjoying her whimpering as I went.
The timer went off after fifteen minutes. I walked back into the basement, where Terri was struggling to get free. I turned the vibrator back on and observed to see when she was very close to an orgasm. Then I turned it off again. She thrashed angrily, growing through the gag.
I then turned the ladder so that it was propped against the wall, but she was upside down. I set my timer and walked back upstairs. I could hear her struggling and pleading.
The sixth time I returned to the basement, after edging her, changing the position of the ladder, and leaving her alone in her bondage, her hair was disheveled. She had a frantic, desperate look of animal desire on her face, and her eyes begged me to let her have an orgasm. Even so, she looked beautiful in her spandex catsuit, corset, ropes, and straps.
I thought that ninety minutes of this kind of torment was enough. I turned the vibrator back on. As it worked its magic on her private parts, I massaged her bosom slowly, gently. He boobs were engourged, and her nipples poked angrily through the spandex. It didn’t take long. She arched, strained, thrashed, and bucked as wave after wave after wave of intense, powerful orgasms washed over her body. She screamed and howled, entirely out of her mind. Every time I thought she was done, another wave would crash into her. Her screams of pleasure were loud, deep, and frantic. She squeezed shut her eyes, but tears escaped, running down her cheeks and falling on the floor. I think she had fifteen powerful orgasms, a record for me. At last, she collapsed against her bonds, her breathing shallow, whimpering. I turned off the vibrator and removed the harness. I removed the gag and went upstairs, leaving her lying on the ladder, still bound and mumbling incoherently.
I waited twenty minutes before returning, then unstrapped and untied her. I carried her in a Fay Wray style to the couch in my family room. I used fur-covered handcuffs to cuff her feet together and her hands in front of her. I brushed away her hair that was matted to her face with sweat. Terri stared at me blankly. Sensing she was starting to regain her senses, I laid her on her stomach on the couch, where she curled into a jiggling ball and – as expected – started crying. These intense bondage orgasms always cause Terri to weep inconsolably for quite some time. I find this reaction endearing. From time to time, I sat next to her on the couch, rubbed her back, caressed her legs and buttocks, or fondled her boobs. She seemed oblivious, lost in her thoughts, sobbing.
The sun was beginning to set when she sat up on her own and asked to use the lavatory. I uncuffed her ankles and wrists and gave her some privacy. I was surprised and disappointed that she was wearing the vintage cocktail dress and had fixed her mussed hair. Her putting back on her "street clothes" usually signaled the end of the session.
“Are you leaving?” I asked. “I made you a nice dinner.” I really wanted her to stay.
She shook her head slowly. “Are you asking me to leave? I’d like to stay a little longer.”
“That will be great.” I led her to the kitchen and cuffed her hands behind a chair. “Dinner will be ready soon. Would you like something to drink?” I offered her a glass of cool water with a straw, which she drank quickly. I had changed into something comfortable, but while she sat in the kitchen, I went back to my room and put the suit back on. If she was dressed up, I figured I should be too.
I sat near her, and I caressed her cheeks. I released the handcuffs and asked, “Terry, why did you kiss me last time?”
She blushed a little and pursed her lips into a tight little smile.
“Do I need to take you back into the basement and persuade you to tell me?”
Instinctively, her dainty hands flew into her lap as if protecting her girl parts. “No, please. I don’t think I can stand any more today. I feel all wobbly, and my whole body is still quivering. I'm going to walk funny for a week."
“Please tell me. Did you feel sorry for me? Was it just a friend thing? Why?”
I could see her struggling with how to respond. Finally, she blurted out, “I think I’m falling for you.”
“That’s why I untied you before I asked. I don’t want this to be some kind of Stockholm Syndrome thing.”
“I don’t think it’s like that,” she replied. “I have come to treasure these sessions. Not just the bondage – which is more amazing than I had ever dreamed it could be – but because I enjoy spending time with you before and after the bondage.”
I carried her to the couch. “I think I’m falling for you, too, Terri. I didn’t think I could feel this way again after my wife died.” We sat on the couch, smiling, staring into each other’s eyes. She reached around my neck and pulled my face to hers, kissing me long and hard. We made out like two high school kids in the back seat of our parents’ car. Over our eleven bondage sessions, I had seen – and touched – her naked bosom. I had teased and caressed just about every inch of her body except her girl parts. I had given her more intense orgasms than she thought possible, but somehow our fully-clothed petting, caressing, and kissing was more intense, more pleasurable. Dinner had gone stone cold and needed reheating by the time we lay panting on the floor, our limbs intertwined, exhausted, and in need of food.
Terri Adds:
His ability to find unique positions is uncanny. Part of what makes these sessions so intense is that I never know what is coming next. Once I am helplessly in his power, he nearly drives me insane by edging me and tickling me. I also enjoy the quiet time, alone in my bondage, struggling to get free. I know I can’t get free, and frankly, I don’t really want ot get free, but the sensation of struggling against inescapable bonds is incredible.
I was really worried about having kissed him at the end of our last session. We had been friends. I enjoyed his company at least as much as the bondage. I had stopped going out with other men. Though he was unaware, I had begun to consider him my “steady.” I didn’t want to ruin that by taking the relationship where I wanted to go, not knowing if he felt the same. I tried to tell him I was falling in love with him, but when he wouldn’t let me broach the subject, I thought he didn’t feel the same way about me. It made me sad until I lost myself in my bondage sensuality.
Typically, before a session, we have tea and chat. Our lunch date, all dressed up, with that darned vibrator tormenting me, was quite the turn on. I felt so pretty in that dress and at the same time so wanton and slutty as he stimulated my girl parts by remote control.
Once he tied me to the ladder, he kept bringing me to the edge of an orgasm. I tried to hide when I was getting close, hoping he would make a mistake and let me cum. He knows my body too well for me to fool him like that. I wanted sexual release – but not bondage release – so much! The ladder was an interesting predicament. I particularly liked it when I was suspended facing the ground. The straps and many, many turns of rope stopped the bonds from cutting into me, but they held me very snugly, inescapably. He says that when he finally let me cum, I had fifteen orgasms.
I don’t know. I was completely incoherent. Through the intense pleasure, I had a vague sensation that I was immobile and screaming, but I had no will over myself. After he does this to me, all I want to do is curl up and cry. I don’t know why. He has never hurt me. He always follows the rules. He isn’t making me do anything I don’t want to do. He would release me any time I asked. It is just the way my body responds to those intense, bound orgasms. My girl parts are extra sensitive for several days afterward, and my muscles ache. Yes, I feel helpless and vulnerable when he ties me, but I also feel warm, secure, and loved.
He was careful to make sure I was untied before he asked me why I kissed him at the end of our previous session. He didn’t want this to be part of a bondage game or something he forced me to say under sexual duress. I was afraid to tell him I had fallen for him. I was worried that if he didn’t feel the same way, these sessions would end, and I might not see him again. When I finally admitted it, and he said he felt the same way, a different kind of pleasure wave washed over me. I threw myself at him, and he responded in kind. It was wonderful.
After dinner, I asked him to tie me up again.
This is the twelfth part of the story, beginning here. If you are new to these stories, I suggest you begin with session 1.
Our 11th session ended with a surprise. As she was leaving, she stood on her toes and kissed me. To that point, our relationship had been collegial. I was a friend enjoying tying her in different positions, and she enjoyed experiencing a variety of bondage experiences. Now, whether our relationship was evolving into something new was the elephant in the room as we started our 12th session.
For most sessions, I usually decided what Terri would wear. She wore her street clothes to my house (although sometimes we met at her house), and she carried her bondage outfits in a small overnight bag. For this session, I asked her to wear a 1950s-style cocktail dress upon arrival. It was an alluring royal blue dress with cap sleeves and a belt with a large bow on the front. The dress buttoned from the jewel neckline down the fitted bodice to the hem of her skirt. She wore taupe pantyhose and black pumps. Though not of Asian descent, Terri has the body of a young Japanese woman, but with a larger bosom, and the dress made her look like a million bucks.
Typically, we start the session with some tea and friendly chat covering various topics, usually not about bondage. This time, I asked her not to change but to go into the guest room and place the small, blue, remote-controlled vibrator in position to provide maximum stimulation. Readers of the other parts of this story will remember that I can control the intensity and pattern of the vibrations from my cell phone or its small remote. When she entered, she furrowed her brow upon seeing me in a gray two-piece suit. Without explanation and with my hand on her lower back, I escorted her to my car and took her to a quiet bistro for a nice lunch. Again, our conversation covered a variety of topics. I could tell she wanted to bring up the kiss that ended our last session, but I wouldn’t let her—yet.
I eat in the proper American style, placing my utensils on my plate and keeping my hands in my lap between bites. This gave me a chance to play with the remote. I enjoyed watching her eyes enlarge or her hips wiggle as I changed the intensity and pattern of the vibrations, turning it off and on from time to time. Whenever I changed the setting, she would stiffen and let out a stifled little squeak. The small vibrator does make some noise, but you can’t hear it in a sound-filled restaurant. I could see from her mischievous facial expressions that she was becoming aroused.
Every time she tried to talk about bondage, the last session, or what I had planned for this session, I changed the subject. I could tell the anticipation was killing her. Or maybe that was the exquisite, erotic teasing of the vibrator in a public place.
“Are you having fun?” I asked her.
“You are so mean to me! You are driving me crazy!” she giggled.
“Would you like dessert?” I asked. “This place makes a delicious carrot cake.”
“No!” she exclaimed. Remembering where we were, she said more quietly, “You need to get me to your house and tie me up before I do something really untoward right here on this table.”
That made me laugh. “Terri! Shame on you. I thought you were a lady.”
The diabolical blue toy was only powerful enough to stimulate her girl parts, driving her to distraction, but not powerful enough to let her have an orgasm. By the time we got back into my car, and she no longer had to worry about what other people thought, her hips were writhing, her bosom threatened to push through her dress, and her breathing was getting deep and rumbly. Just before reentering my house, I turned it off. I asked her to go to the guest room, take it out of her pantyhose, and change into her outfit for the day’s fun.
Several minutes later, she obediently emerged, wearing a white, wet-look catsuit with a hidden zipper up the back. The suit covered her lovely body from neck to wrists and ankles. Then I held up a lace-up-the-back waist cincher with broad vertical black-and-white stripes. Unlike other corsets, this one had scallops that would rest below her boobs rather than squishing them or pushing them up. She looked nervous about the corset. With some trepidation, she stepped into it and held the hooked front against her tummy. I laced it up slowly, enjoying both her reaction and the effect on her already fantastic figure. I laced it just tight enough to be restrictive, but not painful.
“Now that you got me in this thing, what mean thing do you plan for me today?”
“I am all set up for you in the basement,” I replied.
“Uh-oh,” she responded with a slight giggle. “Now I am a little scared.”
She stopped when she got to the bottom of the stairs and saw the eight-foot ladder suspended between two sturdy wooden chairs.
“Terri, I need you to lie on the top of the ladder and adjust your – uh, self – so that your fanny is centered between two of the rungs.” After she adjusted herself into a relatively comfortable position, I gently pulled her wrists over her head. With many feet of soft, white cotton rope, I tied each wrist to the joint between the rail and rung of the ladder. This held her from raising or lowering her wrists or moving them toward each other. I did the same with her ankles. She was now in a sort of relaxed spread-eagled position, but not too spread. With more rope, I fastened her elbows and knees to the rails of the ladder. Then I used the two-inch wide leather straps to fasten her torso firmly to the ladder across her hips, waist, and chest, above and below her breasts. For good measure, I used two more straps to fasten her thighs to the ladder.
“Can you move much?” I asked.
She tugged on the ropes and straps to no avail.
“You didn’t try very hard,” I teased. “Do you want me to tickle you to exhaustion to make sure the ropes are secure?"
She struggled harder, tugging mightily to release herself and trashing against her bonds to the small extent possible. “No! Look! I can’t escape. Please don’t tickle me!”
I approached her, making gestures with my hands as if I was either going to fondle he boobs or tickle her underarms. She squealed and tried to pull away. “Please!” she begged.
Without warning, instead of molesting her, I lifted the ladder and turned it over. Terri yelped in surprise. She was now suspended under the ladder, hanging a little over a foot off the ground. I tied a bandana around her forehead and to the ladder to support her head and reduce strain on her neck. Her boobs looked really enticing, but her fanny begged to be fondled. I forced myself to massage her buttocks. It’s a tough job, but it had to be done. As I rubbed and squeezed her soft, spandex-covered butt cheeks, I asked, “Is everything okay? No pain or numbness?”
“Everything feels fine. This predicament really makes me feel helpless.”
“Do you like it?”
“Yes, very much.”
"I thought you might.”
I dropped to the floor and slid under her. I began to tease her nipples by softly running my fingers over and around them. She closed her eyes and moaned softly. I squeezed her nipples gently. I fondled her boobs, slowly rubbing and squeezing them. My fingers traced circles around her ariolae. Her moaning became raspier. She made little fists, and her feet wriggled. She was clearly enjoying the experience. When she was becoming very aroused, I stopped touching her and stood back up. I gave her a playful swat on her fanny and then walked up the stairs.
“Please don’t leave!” she begged. “That felt wonderful. Don't stop!”
Before turning out the lights, I said over my shoulder, “That’s why I’m stopping. I want you to enjoy your bondage for a while.”
The last thing I heard her say before closing the basement door was, “You are so mean to me,” but she said it with a frustrated giggle. She enjoyed being bound and sexually frustrated.
I balanced my checkbook and performed some light housekeeping chores, all the while knowing that she was in the basement, looking sexy in her white catsuit and snug corset, tugging and struggling with her bonds. It was hard to keep my mind on my work.
Eventually, I went back into the basement and was gratified that she was no closer to escape than when I left. I checked her fingers and toes for circulation, taking the opportunity to tickle her feet mercilessly for a few minutes. She screeched and laughed madly. I thought she might rock the ladder off the chairs. As she bucked and thrashed from the tickling, her head came loose from the bandana, and I had to correct it so her neck wouldn’t get sore.
I turned the ladder back over so she was laying on it again. I had purchased a harness that wrapped around her waist. It had two straps that began in the front, joined into a single strap between her legs, and buckled in the back, digging into her like a thong. It also had a smaller strap that wrapped around the neck of the wand-style vibrator. When the straps were tightened, this harness held the wand firmly against her girl parts.
“I think you’ll enjoy this,” I said as I turned the wand to its lowest setting. Immediately, her body stiffened as she strained against the ropes and straps. She yelped and then began to moan softly. I let her approach the edge of an orgasm and then turned off the device. She vainly pumped her hips to try to stimulate herself to an orgasm, but the only outcome was perspiration beading on her forehead and her face turning red from the effort.
She growled some unladylike things at me when I turned off the vibrator, then, realizing her predicament and her unquenchable desire for sexual release, she pleaded, “Please don’t stop. Please. I’ll do anything… Please!” The last word she nearly screamed as I showed no signs of turning the vibrator back on. Instead, I buckled the red ball gag into her mouth. She continued muffled begging around the gag.
I lifted the ladder and set it against the basement wall. This suspended her in a different way than when the ladder lay between two chairs with her facing the floor. I set a timer on my watch and went back upstairs, enjoying her whimpering as I went.
The timer went off after fifteen minutes. I walked back into the basement, where Terri was struggling to get free. I turned the vibrator back on and observed to see when she was very close to an orgasm. Then I turned it off again. She thrashed angrily, growing through the gag.
I then turned the ladder so that it was propped against the wall, but she was upside down. I set my timer and walked back upstairs. I could hear her struggling and pleading.
The sixth time I returned to the basement, after edging her, changing the position of the ladder, and leaving her alone in her bondage, her hair was disheveled. She had a frantic, desperate look of animal desire on her face, and her eyes begged me to let her have an orgasm. Even so, she looked beautiful in her spandex catsuit, corset, ropes, and straps.
I thought that ninety minutes of this kind of torment was enough. I turned the vibrator back on. As it worked its magic on her private parts, I massaged her bosom slowly, gently. He boobs were engourged, and her nipples poked angrily through the spandex. It didn’t take long. She arched, strained, thrashed, and bucked as wave after wave after wave of intense, powerful orgasms washed over her body. She screamed and howled, entirely out of her mind. Every time I thought she was done, another wave would crash into her. Her screams of pleasure were loud, deep, and frantic. She squeezed shut her eyes, but tears escaped, running down her cheeks and falling on the floor. I think she had fifteen powerful orgasms, a record for me. At last, she collapsed against her bonds, her breathing shallow, whimpering. I turned off the vibrator and removed the harness. I removed the gag and went upstairs, leaving her lying on the ladder, still bound and mumbling incoherently.
I waited twenty minutes before returning, then unstrapped and untied her. I carried her in a Fay Wray style to the couch in my family room. I used fur-covered handcuffs to cuff her feet together and her hands in front of her. I brushed away her hair that was matted to her face with sweat. Terri stared at me blankly. Sensing she was starting to regain her senses, I laid her on her stomach on the couch, where she curled into a jiggling ball and – as expected – started crying. These intense bondage orgasms always cause Terri to weep inconsolably for quite some time. I find this reaction endearing. From time to time, I sat next to her on the couch, rubbed her back, caressed her legs and buttocks, or fondled her boobs. She seemed oblivious, lost in her thoughts, sobbing.
The sun was beginning to set when she sat up on her own and asked to use the lavatory. I uncuffed her ankles and wrists and gave her some privacy. I was surprised and disappointed that she was wearing the vintage cocktail dress and had fixed her mussed hair. Her putting back on her "street clothes" usually signaled the end of the session.
“Are you leaving?” I asked. “I made you a nice dinner.” I really wanted her to stay.
She shook her head slowly. “Are you asking me to leave? I’d like to stay a little longer.”
“That will be great.” I led her to the kitchen and cuffed her hands behind a chair. “Dinner will be ready soon. Would you like something to drink?” I offered her a glass of cool water with a straw, which she drank quickly. I had changed into something comfortable, but while she sat in the kitchen, I went back to my room and put the suit back on. If she was dressed up, I figured I should be too.
I sat near her, and I caressed her cheeks. I released the handcuffs and asked, “Terry, why did you kiss me last time?”
She blushed a little and pursed her lips into a tight little smile.
“Do I need to take you back into the basement and persuade you to tell me?”
Instinctively, her dainty hands flew into her lap as if protecting her girl parts. “No, please. I don’t think I can stand any more today. I feel all wobbly, and my whole body is still quivering. I'm going to walk funny for a week."
“Please tell me. Did you feel sorry for me? Was it just a friend thing? Why?”
I could see her struggling with how to respond. Finally, she blurted out, “I think I’m falling for you.”
“That’s why I untied you before I asked. I don’t want this to be some kind of Stockholm Syndrome thing.”
“I don’t think it’s like that,” she replied. “I have come to treasure these sessions. Not just the bondage – which is more amazing than I had ever dreamed it could be – but because I enjoy spending time with you before and after the bondage.”
I carried her to the couch. “I think I’m falling for you, too, Terri. I didn’t think I could feel this way again after my wife died.” We sat on the couch, smiling, staring into each other’s eyes. She reached around my neck and pulled my face to hers, kissing me long and hard. We made out like two high school kids in the back seat of our parents’ car. Over our eleven bondage sessions, I had seen – and touched – her naked bosom. I had teased and caressed just about every inch of her body except her girl parts. I had given her more intense orgasms than she thought possible, but somehow our fully-clothed petting, caressing, and kissing was more intense, more pleasurable. Dinner had gone stone cold and needed reheating by the time we lay panting on the floor, our limbs intertwined, exhausted, and in need of food.
Terri Adds:
His ability to find unique positions is uncanny. Part of what makes these sessions so intense is that I never know what is coming next. Once I am helplessly in his power, he nearly drives me insane by edging me and tickling me. I also enjoy the quiet time, alone in my bondage, struggling to get free. I know I can’t get free, and frankly, I don’t really want ot get free, but the sensation of struggling against inescapable bonds is incredible.
I was really worried about having kissed him at the end of our last session. We had been friends. I enjoyed his company at least as much as the bondage. I had stopped going out with other men. Though he was unaware, I had begun to consider him my “steady.” I didn’t want to ruin that by taking the relationship where I wanted to go, not knowing if he felt the same. I tried to tell him I was falling in love with him, but when he wouldn’t let me broach the subject, I thought he didn’t feel the same way about me. It made me sad until I lost myself in my bondage sensuality.
Typically, before a session, we have tea and chat. Our lunch date, all dressed up, with that darned vibrator tormenting me, was quite the turn on. I felt so pretty in that dress and at the same time so wanton and slutty as he stimulated my girl parts by remote control.
Once he tied me to the ladder, he kept bringing me to the edge of an orgasm. I tried to hide when I was getting close, hoping he would make a mistake and let me cum. He knows my body too well for me to fool him like that. I wanted sexual release – but not bondage release – so much! The ladder was an interesting predicament. I particularly liked it when I was suspended facing the ground. The straps and many, many turns of rope stopped the bonds from cutting into me, but they held me very snugly, inescapably. He says that when he finally let me cum, I had fifteen orgasms.
I don’t know. I was completely incoherent. Through the intense pleasure, I had a vague sensation that I was immobile and screaming, but I had no will over myself. After he does this to me, all I want to do is curl up and cry. I don’t know why. He has never hurt me. He always follows the rules. He isn’t making me do anything I don’t want to do. He would release me any time I asked. It is just the way my body responds to those intense, bound orgasms. My girl parts are extra sensitive for several days afterward, and my muscles ache. Yes, I feel helpless and vulnerable when he ties me, but I also feel warm, secure, and loved.
He was careful to make sure I was untied before he asked me why I kissed him at the end of our previous session. He didn’t want this to be part of a bondage game or something he forced me to say under sexual duress. I was afraid to tell him I had fallen for him. I was worried that if he didn’t feel the same way, these sessions would end, and I might not see him again. When I finally admitted it, and he said he felt the same way, a different kind of pleasure wave washed over me. I threw myself at him, and he responded in kind. It was wonderful.
After dinner, I asked him to tie me up again.
