Her heart was pounding still, bath water cradling her, warm and bubbly. I don’t know anything. What do I wear? “Loose and comfortable” is no hint. What have I done? Scrubbed and smoothed, she stood in front of the mirror, combing her hair. I don’t look bad. Ran her hands up her legs, rubbing in some vanilla scented body oil. Over her compact breasts. Touched herself briefly. I am so fucking wet.

In the kitchen, dressed only in a Tshirt, she trembled. I feel so . . . so creepy. Or naughty. doing this. Her finger dipped into the honey, and she touched herself, spreading just a little into the growing wetness.

What does he expect? What do I want. What is going to happen? Am I really doing this? What the fuck do I WEAR???? Am I stupid?

Lacy black panties. The tight black top. What now? A lightweight, tight black sweater she’d never worn in public. That’s a cute look, turning to check her butt. Black slacks. Some low flat flats. A simple hair tie. Just a simple face, applying the least she was comfortable with, but gotta have red lips. And she did. Black highlighted by red, and a gold necklace with a small teardrop of gold. She spun in front of the mirror, feeling 12, and caught herself smiling, bit her lip, and giggled out loud.

. . . . . . . .

Daniel simply didn’t invite people over. He had a few friends, more or less, and fewer needs for company any more. What he did have was a very special skill set. And was looking for a special friend to once more share that skill set, and determine whether Rachel was a candidate for a very special event.

Shower, no shave. Soft white pullover. Jeans, fitted just right, tucked in around his ass, suggestive bulge in front. Daniel didn’t notice this, but others always did, at least the women. No shoes, just muscular bare feet with nicely tidy nails. In the mirror just an average man, reasonably well muscled, dark almost black hair, modestly short, a dark wash of more than stubble framing a neutral mouth. Hard dark brown eyes, with a touch of green, a sparkle, a deep, abiding warmth hidden within. Thick dark brows. And the faint impression of a smile at the corners of his eyes.

College girl. Beer will be good. Samuel opened his top dresser drawer, pulled out a set of keys, walked to an old trunk, unlocked it. She would look good in black . . . . In a moment, black and red hemp line lay on the white bedspread, waiting for willing flesh.

. . . . . .

The uber dropped her off in front of an undistinguished but well maintained condo. Nothing expensive, nothing anyone would notice. Trees and bushes maintained by some anonymous crew, adequate brickwork, a little bit of variation. Probably managers, retired people. Who knows. What does he do? What the fuck am I doing? Maybe I should have had the uber wait a minute? That’s it, I’m uptalking to myself. I am a moron. She couldn’t wait to get inside.

Her hand trailed along the chunky black car’s fender on the way to the door. Old car. Big tires. His?? The door was just a door. Painted red. No wear. It looked like any other door. Except usually she knew what was on the other side of a door. There was a bell button. And a brass knocker, with some of the lacquer worn off. Frosted glass. She just stood there. Reasonably pretty, dressed in black, her heart pounding, eyes wide open, lips just parted. And couldn’t ring the bell. Couldn’t knock. Frozen.

. . . . . .

She actually came. Brave girl. Shouldn’t leave her waiting. Looks petrified. Daniel turned from the monitor, walked to the door and opened it. Rachel’s gaze turned from paralyzed fear mixed with excited anticipation to simple surprise. But she didn’t move. Geekette seems to have failed to load!

. . . . . .

I am a moron. I am going to wet myself in 10 seconds. Why can’t I move?

“Come,” and he took her hand, pulling gently, leading her into his home. “Sit, please.” She obeyed. “Beer?” A brief nod. She is completely terrified. Cute! Rachel watched him cautiously as he moved from the dim living room to the carefully lit kitchen. He moves very tightly. Nice ass. What the fuck am I doing here? Glass against glass, two soft pops, the sound of pouring. He silently handed her a proper glass with light amber liquid, a nice thin head and sat diagonally to her right, blue denim against black leather. The beer was crisp and things started feeling much better, for both of them.

“You are here to experience a bit more . . . compression? . . . than you usually get.”

She nodded in assent.

“There’s nothing to worry about, I have experience, and I have some scissors available to cut you loose. If you want me to stop, say “BLUE” loudly, or tap or kick three times, then three times more. If I have any question at all, I will stop and you can tell me to go or not. OK?”

“I understand. I am a little scared.” That was putting it lightly. I am so fucking wet.

“You can wear as much or as little as you want. This is not a sex game or anything like that. Necessarily.” He smiled a little, his eyes very deep and penetrating. “Let’s start out here.” Daniel rose, walked into the bedroom, and returned with a black rope. “Hold out both your hands, that’s it, both wrists together.” The doubled rope formed a loop, which went around her wrists and gently tightened, several more wraps following, then a quick knot and she was his.

“Come,” pulling her gently up by loose ends of the rope. She followed to the middle of the room, which only held a very nice Bokhara rug, red with black. “Stand.” Another rope began circling her, untied, moved by his hands, traveling up and down her vibrating body. Her eyes closed. “Now you turn against the rope.” And she did as bidden, feeling the tight band through her sweater, then her slacks, up and down, nothing existing except her hungry body and the soft caress of rope.

Firm hands lifted the bottom of her sweater a few inches. She gasped, and her knees started to buckle, but held. “Now against skin.” She turned again, the rope intensely and surprisingly soft and firm, threatening and sensual. “You like your eyes closed, and the rope against your skin. More?” She nodded. “Your hands.” She extended them, and he slowly, tenderly released her bonds. My hands are trembling. This is a dream. Her body felt electric, quivering, humming, heart racing. “Arms up.” She obeyed, and he gently, firmly, and surprisingly sensually pulled her sweater up and up and up until it hung from her wrists. She watched his hands pop loose the inverted cuffs, then stood still. Waiting.

The next rope was red, laid carefully on the black leather chair along side the shorter black one. “Wrists together.” She obeyed again, and her wrists were bound. “To the center, arms up.” God, there’s a ring in the ceiling. What am I doing? He moved to the side of the room, and with a quick motion, the ring on a swivel descended into the light. I am on display, like a butterfly pinned. His hands swiftly tied the loose ends of her wrist wraps to the ring, which rose slowly until she was supported, but not suspended.

The long red rope doubled around her at the bottom of her ribs, wrapping gently, holding, not even squeezing, just delightfully firm. He turned her around one way, then the other, her hands swiveling above her. The rope quickly reached the bottom of her top and, without pause, gentle fingers rolled it up for the next course. He’s touching my boobs . . . . Her pulse was racing, breath almost gasping. The next course, a little higher, then lightly, delicately, the slow trace of knuckles laying rope across one nipple, then the next. Her knees buckled so that she hung briefly, a quick gasp, and she was up again, eyes closed. With one hand, her top slid up, over her head, over her arms. The encircling rope ends were tied, and then laid gently over her shoulders, down her back, looped through, tied. Her lips vibrated, whole body buzzing, light, floating.

Forever later, the blindfold comforted her, breath straining against her bonds while his hands traced her body, gently, then firmly, exploring in silence. Her thoughts were . . . quiet? Empty? She simply was, hovering between the wool against her feet and the bonds at her wrists, embraced in a rope sheath. Head back, enveloped in rope space.

His hands - he is going to take my pants off . . . I want him to take my pants off. Thumbs in the waist band, Daniel slowly, with infinite attention, slid Rachel’s pants down, over her black panties, thumbs sliding across lace then buffed skin, by her knees, to her ankles. Without command by touch or word, she lifted her right foot, then her left. She envisioned herself suspended in a beam of light, black rope, blindfold, red rope, black panties, red and black rug. Trembling, gasping, then still.

The rope is strong with this one. Let’s play. Returning with another black rope, Daniel folded it, passed it between her feet, and gradually moved it against her ankle. She swayed against it, feeling the texture. The contact moved up, little by little, pressing the inside of her left leg. She pressed back swinging, squeezing, intent, all focus on the tiny space containing rope and skin. A space that rose past her knee, along her inner thigh. God, don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop. Finally, the contact reached the edge of her panties. One strand slid across the wetness to the other side, and she pressed downwards, rocking her hips, breath coming in short gasps. The strand loosened, came together in the middle, and rolled upward, front and back, riding into her most intimate parts. She rocked briefly, building intensity, and cried out “Aaaahhhhhhhh, aaaahhhhh,” sinking into the moving rope, letting her arms take the weight, red sparkles in her vision, pulse like a steam locomotive balls out.

The rope disappeared, and arms surrounded her, holding her, skin against skin and rope, denim against her legs. Rachel’s head rested on Daniel’s shoulder for an eternity. The buzzing in her brain lessened, and thought returned.

A straw hit her lips, and she drank deeply of some fruity sparkling water, and stood again, visualizing herself in the light. Then his hands continued their exploration, over rope corset and the small of her back, lace over butt and hips, gently tracing the line of her panties.

And then, thumbs in the waistband, and her panties slid slowly downward. Her silent mind suddenly filled – about fucking time!!! OMG I am STANDING HERE WITH NO PANTS. She could taste the silence and smell her own excitement.