I can pinpoint the moment Miss Wilson stopped being just a maths teacher to me quite clearly. It’s fixed in my mind, in a way few moments in my short life have been. I can remember the smell of the stuffy classroom, filled with sweaty teenage bodies. The droning voice of the economics teacher, talking about nothing I cared to learn. The heat of the room, oppressive and close.
She came through the door of the classroom without a knock. I could see straight away that something wasn’t right. Her eyes were glassy and unfocused, looking past us, through us. Ignoring Mr Gardner’s questioned greeting, saying nothing at all. Her unsteady gait took her past me where I sat, closest to the door, like she was looking for someone, or something. A confused look on her face, as if she wasn’t quite sure how to express something. I met Mr Gardner’s gaze as the room descended into a stunned silence.
“I think perhaps I should help Miss Wilson across to the nurse, sir? She seems a little unwell.”
He could sense, just as well as I could, what would happen next. A young, slight, small lady, relatively new to the school, she had struggled to project the discipline needed to control rowdy children. Unkind words were said, names called, even from the younger children, and things spiraled into a... reputation. Sixth year kids, the ones that filled this room, had no patience or respect for a teacher such as Miss Wilson, and an opportunity for mockery unheard of had just wandered into their boring afternoon lesson. She didn’t deserve that.
A cursory nod. “See to it, Mr Simpson.” A quick movement, a hand behind the shoulder, gently guiding, and we were out of the door again, robbing the class of its moment. One of the benefits of keeping the teachers on-side: liberties might be granted if you are trusted to not take advantage. A fine line to walk, to not be seen as the teacher’s pet, but I think I’d walked it well. And now, so near to leaving, I couldn’t care less what people thought about me.
Out into the hall, away from the windowed door, to a stairwell bright in hot June sunlight. She was smaller than me, quite a bit smaller, and the supportive arm guiding her quickly turned into a clutching grip, tugging on my bicep. She was mumbling now, incoherent words, confused, but she didn’t let go, let me help her down the stairs.
Coming out on a landing that joined the old stone building housing the economics classroom to the newer school. To the left, the bridge that led to the other building and the nurse’s office. Someone had decided, when the school was expanded with a modern building on the other side of the road, that children crossing the road to get between classes was a recipe for disaster. Their solution? A long, sloping glass corridor bridge to join the two buildings. It must have been designed in winter though, because in the height of summer, it became a greenhouse. A long, slow incline of a greenhouse. I could feel the heat radiating out of it onto the landing, double doors propped open but doing nothing to allow any cooling air to flow.
I could feel how shaky she was on her legs. I’d put good money on that damn bridge being the reason she was in this state in the first place. She wouldn’t be the first to let it turn “feeling a little unwell” into a full-on collapse, though usually it was young students, straight out of the gym, crashing from too many sugary drinks and no proper food. No, the bridge was a bad idea. She didn’t resist when I turned back to the stairwell, down another two flights, to the old building’s main door.
The blast of cooler air as I opened the way to the outside went through her like a dose of salts. A few more staggered steps, and then the grip on my arm just disappeared. I caught her, but I was no body-builder, and her weight dragged us to the side, crashing into the wall. Together we stood, propped up against the stone wall, my chest heaving with the effort, holding her upright. The blocks of the north-facing wall felt almost cool compared to the stuffy air inside, so I simply waited with her in the shadows.
That was the moment she stopped being Miss Wilson, maths teacher. I stood there, looking down at her willowy, slender body. I could feel her breast, pressed against me, soft and firm. Her plain white shirt, clinging to her shapely figure. From nowhere, I could feel myself hardening. I rolled my eyes, not now, for fuck’s sake. But I was used to my body betraying me, well practiced at the sort of adjustment needed to hide an embarrassing and inappropriate erection, or at least not make it so blindingly obvious that my hormones had kicked in.
My movement prompted her to shift against me, the shade of the big, old, stone building helping to cool her, the breeze blowing over both of us. It tugged at her long, dark, straight hair as she looked up at me, a bit of her normal clarity and focus returning.
“Sorry, I... Just... Give me a moment...” Her body was still leaning completely against mine, pressing into me, head slumping again against my chest. My hand dropped to her head, and without really thinking about it, I tentatively stroked her head. I was completely out of my comfort zone, but it seemed like the sort of thing to do. Right there, leaning against me, she was just a woman, not a teacher. Just someone who needed my help, for a moment. I thought she might push me away, that someone would come out of the school and shout at me for touching a teacher, that something would happen to dispel the magic. But there was nothing. Until quietly, simply, her arms slipped around my waist. No words, no explanation, just a soft embrace.
I can’t say how long we stood like that, it felt like the moments yawned into an eternity. I can still close my eyes and picture the whole scene, so very vividly. But eventually it had to end. She recovered her ability to stand, and without a word, just her arm around my waist, I helped her across the quiet road. The nurse took one look at her and began to fuss efficiently around her new patient, dismissing me with a wave of her hand.
We never really spoke about the incident afterwards. She found me some days later and thanked me quietly, in between classes. I could tell she was embarrassed by what had happened, and I didn’t know what to say, so there it was left. The usual routines of school life continued, like most of my peers the exams were all done with, we were simply marking time until the summer holidays brought results and then, hopefully, off to university. The hot, sunny days did not let up, and every time I crossed that furnace of a bridge, I thought of her.
After the fire, most of the details are a little hazy. I remember the headmaster Mr Bulloch, a kindly older gentleman, bringing me into his office to break the news, the two policemen already there, looking sombre. The home I’d left that morning was a smoking wreck, the family who’d waved absent-mindedly as I disappeared off to school, dead. No-one’s fault, just a freak electrical fire. The wrong spark in the wrong place to create an inferno to trap my parents in a room they couldn’t escape. My home, my family, my life, all snatched away from me.
We... I... had no extended family, no friends in the village. We hadn’t lived there all that long, and my parents were never really the social type, they loved each other, and most of their time was spent in our home, together. I remembered coming home most days to find them hard at work, amidst their piles of papers, debating some part of my mother’s latest work, honing it for publication. That hot summer they always had the doors open, and I’d hear them talking loudly before I’d even made it up the drive. Another moment frozen in my mind.
Mr Bulloch took me home with him that night, and took care of the funeral arrangements. No-one expected much from me. When I look back on it, I can barely remember any of it. I suppose I must have borrowed clothes, slept, washed, but I don’t recall it. I remember hands shaking mine at the funeral, condolences that all blurred into one another, and then... it was done. The school year had ended, they and their families were getting on with their lives.
It was a few days after the funeral when Miss Wilson came to visit. Mr Bulloch had his own family, and they were to go on holiday soon. There was no place for me there, but it was months before I could take up my offer at university. I had turned eighteen some months before, so by rights I should have been able to take care of myself, but that was the last thing I felt capable of. Miss Wilson had offered to let me stay with her, until it was time for university, until the insurance payment for the fire came through, until I was in a place where I could figure out what I wanted to do. I remember her kind eyes, and her sad expression, waiting to see if I would agree.
Mr Bulloch, and his family, were kind in their goodbyes when I left, with little more than a cardboard box containing what was left of my life. I’m sure they were a little relieved to be free of the burden of a mourning teenager.
For the first few weeks, I still felt unsettled. I was quiet and withdrawn, drifting aimlessly through the days. The hot weather of June had given way to a more typical Scottish summer, alternating grim rain and heavy foreboding skies that suited my moods. I didn’t care to leave the house, so being trapped inside by rain and wind didn’t bother me.
Fortunately her house was large enough that she could step lightly around me, giving the space that I needed. She was quietly patient, and even though we didn’t say much to each other, the silences were comfortable. The mornings would often see me simply sitting in one of her chairs, staring out of the bay window at the rain pattering across the glass. I could hear her moving around the house, but she didn’t try to fill the silence with inane chatter, or push me to leave the chair. Cups of tea were provided, with simple meals. I think that was all I needed, then. Time, and space.
When I started to cry, eventually, I remember that she was in the same room, but she didn’t rush to comfort me, just let me have my moment, watching me with those same sympathetic eyes. When the tears started to dry up, she simply came across to hand me a box of tissues. Her soft hand rested for a moment on the back of mine, and then she went off to make some more tea.
After that dam had broken, I started to pay a little more attention to my new world. It wasn’t that the grief had gone, just that it no longer occupied all of my head. Miss Wilson took this to be a good sign, and we started to talk more. Little things at first, the inane stuff that comes up when you share a home with someone. What to cook for breakfast, the weather, then fragments of trivia about her life. That her summer holidays from teaching were quite happily spent in the company of a good book and a nice bottle of red wine. That she wouldn’t have gone away even if she didn’t have a house-guest.
So we settled down into something of a routine. I would cook the simpler meals during the day, she would cook at night. Conversations over food, and outside of meal-times we enjoyed peace and solitude in different parts of her house. Her guest room where I slept was ample and comfortable, and it was in a good wicker chair I spent much of my time, looking out of the window. Her offer of books from her ample library was taken up, but I won’t pretend I really took in any of what I read, at times I was simply thumbing forward through pages.
When we talked, she was careful in her choices of conversation. Topics from books, daily mundanities, these were safe. Talk of the past, of family, these we avoided, not that I was keen to bring them up. Talk of her role in the school, of her time teaching me, was also deftly skipped past. We talked sometimes of other people in the school, students or teachers alike, but as if they were simply shared acquaintances.
As time went on and we talked more, I couldn’t help but catch hints of wistfulness in her voice. She knew her reputation amongst the students, something she had fought against but now seemingly had resigned herself to. It also turned out that neither had she made friends amongst the staff either. She had moved to the village shortly after graduating her teacher training, leaving college friends behind; vague hints were dropped of a relationship gone sour, that she had wanted a clean slate.
I found myself watching her, over our glasses of red wine. She was careful not to get me drunk, she said, but I was hardly a stranger to alcohol. Admittedly, a large glass of nice merlot was a world away from corner-shop vodka swigged from the bottle in a park, but I wasn’t going to fall over drunk from one glass. But a pleasing buzz settled over me as we drank, and I was content to just watch her intently as she talked. I could see the sadness in her eyes as she spoke of relationships past, and of her life here in the village.
It had never occurred to me she might be lonely. She was beautiful, a world away from most of the aging, blowsy female teachers at the school. I had simply assumed that she had a boyfriend we never saw, or that the Miss was an affectation and there was a husband somewhere. As her glass waved around as she spoke, I was watching how she moved, how the loose fitting shirt she wore fluttered against her body. Suddenly in my mind I was leaning against that stone wall again, her body pressed against me. All those same hormones, all that same blood, came rushing back, and not just to my face. I stammered something, talking over her, some excuse, and stood up quickly, draining the last of the wine I’d been nursing, and practically running from the room. She just went quiet and watched me go with dark, wide eyes in the candlelight. I wasn’t sure if she looked hurt, or angry, or just sad.
When I closed the door to my room, I leaned against it, heart thudding in my chest, face crimson. It took a long few moments to calm down again, before slipping under the covers guiltily. I could hear her moving around downstairs, glasses clinking as she tidied, then made her own way to bed. I couldn’t sleep, for a long time, staring at the ceiling, thoughts of her running through my mind, guilt, grief, worry. The house seemed full of odd noises, every one of which shook me away from dreams.
The next day, breakfast was awkward and silent, I made my excuses and slipped away quickly, back to my room. Lunch and dinner were the same. I didn’t know what to say. I could see in her face that she was hurt, that she didn’t understand, but I couldn’t bring myself to explain, and instead I hid away.
I heard her go to her bed early, the floors of an old house communicating every movement to anyone who cared to listen. I was in bed too, staring at the ceiling again, mind churning. She took you in because she felt sorry for you, I thought, she’s not interested in you like that. My pillow over my head, trying to drown out my own voice in my head. Your parents are dead, and all you can think about is sex! Tossing and turning, no position comfortable. You have to tell her, tell her why you’re avoiding her.
I sat up in the bed, eyes focusing on the door in the dim light from the streetlamps peeking through the curtain. She’d taken me in, and she deserved better than me making her feel bad about something that wasn’t her fault at all.
Across the landing and up a small flight of steps, her room faced the back of the house. I tiptoed across the creaky floorboards out of habit, as if I was simply making a trip to the loo in the middle of the night and didn’t want to wake her, which was daft. It was still early, she wouldn’t be asleep yet, and I could come clean to her about why I’d run out on her the night before. My heart was racing as I knocked on her door, pushing it open as she acknowledged the knock. If I hesitated now I’d run back to the room and I didn’t know if I could try again.
“Fuck!” she exclaimed. Fuck indeed! I froze in the doorway, transfixed by the sight of her. I’d expected her sitting on the bed, or under the covers. She was on the bed, yes, but buck naked; ropes criss-crossed her body, spreading her to the corners of the old wooden frame. Her head had jerked up at my entrance, and a look of horror was dawning on her face. The moment of frozen silence was broken by her sudden thrashing, arms and legs tugging wildly.
“I... Sorry!” I did the only thing I could, turned and practically leapt out of the room, slamming the door behind me and pressing my back against the wall beside her room, mind reeling. I could hear her swearing again in the room. Any other time that would have shocked me, I’d never heard her curse before. But there wasn’t room in my brain for that any more, it was filled with the image of her glorious body, like that...
“Wait!” Her voice was muffled through the door. More cursing. “Come back!”
“I’m sorry,” I called back, “I’m so sorry, I should have knocked, I’m going to go now.”
“Just... Aggghh! You have to come back!”
If my heart had been racing before I went into the room, it was about to burst now. I had to breathe hard, focusing, trying to calm down.
“Damnit, please, get back in here!”
Reluctantly, slowly, I cracked the door again, as if I could somehow steal my way in slowly enough she wouldn’t notice. She was still there, on the bed, on display, but she’d stopped thrashing around, and was staring at me. It wasn’t anger on her face, it was something else. Fear maybe?
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t think... I...” She let out a low, tortured wail, and burst out crying, her face contorting, throwing her head back into the pillow. I could feel my own face prickling, red with sympathy, horrified at what I’d done. I stepped forward unthinkingly, wanting to reassure her, hand reaching out, but as soon as I got close I recoiled, realizing just how inappropriate it would be to touch her right now. “No no, please don’t cry!” In the end I found myself just hovering by her bedside, looking down at her, wavering back and forth, while she got her sobbing under control. All the while, in the back of my mind, my libido was talking quietly but insistently, pointing out just how hot she looked, bound; how perfect her pale form was against the light red covers; how close she was; how helpless; how that open suitcase peeking out from under the bed had all sorts of interesting looking toys lying in it.
Eventually the crying had stopped, and her dark eyes opened to look at me with concern, reddened from tears. “You must think I’m a freak, tying myself up like this.”
I shook my head quickly. “No no, I just... I didn’t expect...” With my hands I made a sweeping sort of gesture to indicate her body. She bit her lip and closed her eyes again. I tried to be reassuring. “It’s fine, really, if this is a thing you do, then...” I faltered. “What... do you do?”
Her face was bright red, from the tears, from embarrassment. It was a little moment before she replied, in a hesitant voice. “I just... Sometimes I want to feel... I like to pretend, and so I put these on, and...” She raised her left hand, captured as it was in a loop of rope that bound it to the top corner of the bed. “I don’t tie them all tight, I leave one loose so I can get out. Just so it feels like it’s real. But then you knocked, and I panicked.” She tugged on the rope, ineffectually. “It’s too tight now, I’m stuck.”
We were both calmer, the talking helping to bring things back to something normal. She was looking up at me intensely, trying to gauge my reaction. “Look,” I said, “don’t worry, I don’t think you’re a freak. At all. I shouldn’t have just barged in, you could have been doing anything, I just didn’t think. You have nothing to be ashamed of, if you want to feel...” Again with the sweeping gesture, “you absolutely should.” I smiled, what I hoped was a reassuring smile.
“I...” She paused for a moment, then cracked a smile, pressing her head back into the pillow and laughing. “Thank you for understanding. I’ve been doing this for so long, but I’ve never told anyone about it. I thought I was going to die of embarrassment.” The relief in her expression was palpable, and I nodded and smiled encouragingly. “It’s just... it feels so nice sometimes, the way the ropes hold me tight, and when I’m alone at night, I just can’t resist.”
“Have you been doing this the whole time I’ve been here?” Now I was thinking back over my stay, questioning all the sounds I’d heard during the night, all the things I’d dismissed as the odd noises of an old house.
“Well... not all the time, not like every night or anything.”
“But some nights?”
The blush that had been fading from her face began to return. “Well, maybe a few. Quite a few...”
I laughed, and she laughed with me. Definitely more relaxed now her secret was out and I hadn’t judged her.
“So,” she said, tugging at the ropes holding her wrists, holding them out towards me meaningfully, “are you going to help me out of this?”
I laughed and reached out to hold her hand, tenderly. “No.” I could feel the expression on my face changing, the reassuring smile turning to a knowing grin as I looked down at her, eyes roaming over her body, taking it all in one more time before shaking my head. “No.”
That took a moment to sink in. As I watched the smile fall from her face, the realisation dawning, I felt my lust for her surging. “What?” But she knew what it meant. I could see her mind, urgently reminding her of her situation, could see it racing ahead and contemplating possibilities. She was so cute when she bit her lip like that. Her breasts rose and fell as she started to breathe faster, and her wrists pulled tight against the ropes once again.
“I’m not going to untie you.” Both of my hands cradled her wrist, sliding along her forearm as I sat down on the bed beside her. Her dark eyes bored into mine, trying to read me. “I don’t think you really want to be loose. You said it felt good, when the ropes hold you tight.” At this she looked away, staring up at the far corner of the room, blushing fiercely. “I want it to feel good for you. So you can enjoy what I interrupted.”
She started squirming again, tugging and shifting. I looked longingly down her body, admiring the way the ropes pinched into her skin. Crossing her flesh in diagonals, pressing inwards. Her legs were bent double, each ankle tied to the thigh, before the ropes stretched out to the round knobs atop the posts at the foot of the bed. When I looked back at her face again it was clear that something fundamental had changed. Her lip was still firmly held between her teeth, but her eyes were closed and her neck was arched back, head pressed into the pillow.
I was winging it, absolutely, not knowing what I was doing. But this felt so right, like it was coming from somewhere else. Part of me was waiting for her to speak out, to tell me not to be so daft, and to untie her then and there. But she didn’t. Instead she writhed slowly on the covers. I could see her muscles tense against the bonds, wiggling her toes, clenching her fists, every rope taut.
I couldn’t resist running my hands further across her body, over her chest, her pert, small breasts. Her nipples were hard and red under my fingers, and the slightest touch of those nubs made her body shiver, a delightful ripple of movement. I caressed one, and then the other, back and forth, exploring. Nothing in my limited experience with girls at school had prepared me for this luscious feast of a woman’s body.
On instinct, I leaned in, taking a nipple between my lips, sucking it into my mouth, and circling it with my tongue. I was rewarded by a long, low moan, and I watched her stretch her bound arms as wide as the ropes would allow, grasping onto the thin covers and scrunching them between her fingers. I took my time, enjoying this new-found power, moving my mouth over her pale skin, licking and sucking and kissing her chest. I let my hands trail down her sides, fingers tracing lines across her skin, and she let out a sudden squeal, her head snapping up and staring at me warningly.
I couldn’t help but laugh, but held my hands up innocently, standing up from the bed. At this the sudden tension in her body evaporated, and her face took on a worried expression. I could tell she was afraid I was going to leave her there. My foot nudged the suitcase, still sticking out from under the bed. Her kinky toolkit didn’t stop at rope, there were handcuffs, leather cuffs, a collar, a flogger... everything a budding dominatrix might need. I spied a couple of toys that gave me ideas, and tugged them free of the pile.
When I stood up again, brandishing the soft, satin blindfold, she was watching me intently, head craning to see from her prone position. Still she said nothing. Had she resisted, I would have made a joke of it, thrown it down again, but she didn’t. She even lifted her head slightly as I leant over her, slipping it into place, tucking her hair out of the way and nestling it over her eyes. I could feel her body relax a little under me as she gave in to the darkness.
I dropped my face close to the side of her head and said softly, “you make quite a lot of noise when you’re tickled.” At that, she let out a low, soft mew, an almost apologetic sound. I lifted the second of my toys to her mouth. She must have known what it was, from the smell of the rubber ball, to the feel of it against her lips. Slowly, reluctantly, she parted them, opening her mouth wide, accepting the ball behind her teeth. Again the co-operative lifting of her head so I could buckle it behind her head. Baring her teeth, biting on the ball, wrapping her lips around it with a little slurping sound. Her back arched again, tensing her limbs against the ropes.
I stepped back again to appreciate the vision of bondage before me. For all her muscles were tensing, her body seemed... more relaxed. She had decided to trust me, even though I’d taken away her ability to resist. I started to see that she wasn’t lying, she really did like to be tied, helpless.
As I watched, she began that slow writhing again, as if in the absence of my touches she needed some other sort of stimulation. It was hypnotic, sexual, primal. My own body was responding to it in the only way it could, blood pumping through my cock, rigid in my pants. Part of me wanted to touch myself, but a bigger part of me wanted to touch her. My own body I could fondle whenever I wanted, but this luscious vision before me was new, and incredible. I stepped between her parted thighs and ran my hands down her bare legs, feeling the coarseness of the rope in contrast to her soft, smooth skin. She moaned as I caressed her sex, soft downy hair surrounding glistening pink folds. My fingers were coated with her juices as I explored, parting her nether lips and sliding my fingertips across her most intimate parts.
The sounds she made as I touched her were varied and loud, and I could hear her ragged breathing around the rubber ball in her mouth, slurps and gasps accompanying moans. I started to find a rhythm for toying with her, fingers delving and circling, watching for her reaction. I could feel her passions rising, and it felt incredible, being able to give her such pleasure that she couldn’t resist. When I pressed my mouth against her sex, tasting her wetness, delving my tongue inside of her, she cried out into the gag, arching her back and trying to press her mound more firmly against my lips. I was taken by surprise and pulled back, only to find her sweet pink flesh thrusting just inches from my mouth. I couldn’t resist a grin, as I moved just close enough that I could flick my tongue over her sensitive folds, just a little, again and again, keeping just out of reach so that no matter how hard she strained, she couldn’t add to her own pleasure.
Eventually she collapsed heavily back down on the bed, exhausted, and I gave her a moment to gather her breath, noisy as it was hearing her gasp air through her nose and around the gag. I passed the time by planting little kisses up her thigh, across her knee, down her calf, alternating between legs. By the time I reached her ankle her breath was less ragged, but when I kissed the bridge of her foot, I could feel her tense again. Looking up at her, over her stomach, rising and falling rapidly, I grinned and then took a hold of her foot more firmly in both hands. She tried to pull away, but the rope jerked her to a stop quickly.
Slowly, carefully, I kissed her foot again, closer to the toes this time. A little whimper from the head of the bed, muffled by the gag. A long, slow lick, across the top of her toes, brought a long, low whine. So I wasn’t surprised, when I sucked her big toe into my mouth, and she let out a groan. It was such a delicious noise to hear, and left me in no doubt that she was certainly not complaining about my attention. Swirling my tongue around her toes, one after another, kissing and sucking, lavishing time on each one individually. I could see she was clutching the covers again, breath coming harder and faster, the other three limbs pulled tight against their respective ropes, straining.
When I let her smallest toe fall from my lips, having sucked away most of the wetness I’d applied to them, her body untensed again, shuddering and convulsing a little, as the moan coming from the gag tailed off. I’d never felt this powerful, this charged. Every little motion I brought out of her made me quiver, every primal, lustful noise echoing through me into my throbbing core. I couldn’t resist massaging my cock through the fabric of my jeans as I stood up, but I knew if I continued I would explode, so pent up was I. Instead I summoned all my willpower, and stepped lightly over to the other leg.
As soon as I put my hands on either side of her calf she jumped, instantly tense again. Her foot waggled in front of me, toes stretching and curling, as if it had developed a mind of its own, discovered in its new awareness that it was bound up tightly, and was trying to escape. I had no intention of letting it go anywhere, of letting her go anywhere. She was mine to play with, and play I would. My mouth was hungry for her, lips questing, kissing, lavishing the same attention on this foot as the other. I deliberately followed the same pattern, knowing that would mean she would know what was coming next too, but this time I went slower, drawing out the sensations. Just as I’d hoped, this brought out equal parts lust and frustration, hearing her alternate between moans of desire and banging her head against the pillow, grunting in complaint at being denied what she craved.
Lapping at her toes with my tongue, licking, lashing, delving, sucking, knowing that she wanted this so badly but couldn’t take it on her own, all of it was such a rush. I was almost sad when I reached the last toe again. But the reactions were all so delicious. When again she had collapsed into the bed again, I clambered onto the covers, between her thighs, leaning over her body so I could look down at her from above, her long straight hair tousled and spread around her on the pillow. I slipped the blindfold from her eyes, and she blinked against the sudden light, squinting up at me.
“Mmm, so, do you want me to untie those ropes now?”
Her eyes narrowed and she stared at me, shaking her head vehemently from side to side.
“Well I can leave you to get some alone time then.”
Another determined head shake.
“I did interrupt you after all.”
Her dark eyes were burning intently into mine now, and when she spoke into the gag it was slow and deliberate. “...uck ...ee.” She kept staring, trying to make sure I understood. For my part I was a little surprised. Had I really believed it would go that far?
She raised her hips underneath me, rubbing her mound just barely against the front of my jeans, and then repeated herself. “...uck ...ee ...ow.” Her stare softened, becoming pleading. “...eeess.”
I laughed nervously. “I... ah... don’t have any protection.” She shook her head again, determined, biting down onto the ball in her mouth. “Is that... okay? Safe?” A deliberate nod. Well, that’s something! I was conscious that I was smiling so hard that my cheeks had started to hurt. Her eyes stayed locked on mine as I straightened up. Unbuttoning my jeans, I shuffled backwards off the bed, dropping them to the floor, freeing my cock so that it waved in front of me. Awkwardly I pulled off my socks and t-shirt in a rush, until I stood there, finally as naked as she. Still she stared at me, neck craning to see me over her bound form. The sight of her flushed, bound, nude body was nearly enough to make me cum right there. I was under no illusions about how long I would last, inside of her.
My last measure of willpower was spent on dipping down and grasping her thighs, pulling her towards me and burying my mouth into her sex. Nose nestled in amongst her downy hair, tongue lapping at her clit, dipping inside of her. Another low, primal moan from behind the gag, gasping for breath, pelvis arching upwards and welcoming my tongue inside of her. Eagerly I licked and sucked, but after only a moment she screamed out into the gag. I looked up, concentration broken, to hear again, “...UCK ...EE!”
I needed no more encouragement, could not resist any longer. Climbing up onto the bed, over her, readying myself. She lay there, panting, looking up at me. One final nod, and I plunged inside of her. Her wetness surrounded me, a glorious sensation, welcoming my hardness in. She threw her head back, eyes closed, and tensed her arms and legs, pulling tight against the ropes. Another thrust and she cried out into the gag. The sensations overwhelmed me, the feel of her against my body, the muscles of her sex caressing me as I slid in and out, over and over. I joined her in the cries of pleasure, thrusting, fucking, moving with her, bodies in tune. My climax came quickly, too damned quickly, like an explosion of fireworks in my head, losing control of my motions as I spurted. Her sex slick with both our wetness now, and I felt her shudder and buck, muscles tensing and arching, one last, long cry of pleasure into the gag, before we both collapsed, spent and sweaty, into the sheets.
It was a few moments before I could get the strength to move again, to slide out; my sensitive cock sending another shiver through my body as it came free, still hard but fading. She lay there, still breathing hard, eyes closed, head lolling to one side. My fingers didn’t seem to work as I undid the strap of the gag, tugging the drool-covered ball from between her teeth.
“Thank you,” she said, in a dreamy, soft voice.
I put my hand to her cheek, caressing the pink skin where the strap had left its impression. “Thank you too.”
We didn’t need words after that, not for a while. I untied the ropes around her wrists, rubbing the marks the tight loops had left on her skin. Before I could take care of the knots on her legs, she had slipped her arms around my waist and pulled me down into an embrace. So there we lay, her head nestled into my chest, me looking down at her. Caressing her long, dark hair, just as I had on that hot summer day, feeling her against me, taking in the moment.
I wish I could say that night took all of my grief away, and that everything was fine after that. But life doesn’t work that way. People don’t work that way. Finding someone new could never replace those I’d lost. But in that summer she helped me remember that there was still joy to be taken from life. We explored our shared love of helplessness and teasing, passionately and often. I learned more than I imagined possible, and in return I gave her all the attention she deserved and had been denied.
Did we live happily ever after in bondage? No. Would I have enjoyed that? I think so. But the summer came to an end, and my place at university beckoned. Miss Wilson had her own life to return to, and deep down we knew that we belonged on different paths. Just, for a time, we were two slightly broken people, helping to fix each other, in the best possible way.