Bound: SS’s Experiment Experiment

0022Sweet Soumise is an adventurous young woman living in Paris. She wrote in asking for a monthly dare, and here’s her response to her most recent experiment from Mr. X.

Dear Mr. X,

Another month, another challenge. But this one was more challenging than you’d intended: I was supposed to “get laid”, as you so delicately put it, but my husband and I were rarely in the same place at the same time! He was traveling for work, and I was busy with a show I had coming up, so I hardly saw him, or anyone else: the lover I’ve previously mentioned and I suddenly found it impossible to match up our schedules. So how was I to complete the dare, or even receive the dare in the first place?

One exhausted night, we made it happen. We had finally gone to bed at the same time (and in the same place), and I sleepily mentioned the idea of him giving me a dare. He knew I’d been “naughty” recently (our term for when I can’t seem to keep my hands off myself—hey, some days a girl can’t think about anything else!) and suggested taking it further: Instead of simply pleasuring myself randomly throughout the day, he was going to give me a number, and I had to come that many times. Each time I was to send him a message to let him know.

“How many times?” I asked him as I struggled to keep my eyes open.

He thought for a moment. “Five,” he said.

I let my eyes close, a smile on my face. “Easy,” I said, and he held me as I faded away….

The next day, he goes off to work, and I get down to business. Lying in bed, my mind wanders to a book a friend received recently, featuring the work of an artist who paints nudes. The paintings looked like comics to me, with their bold black outlines and primary colors. The images have stuck in my mind, and I think about how long it’s been since I last looked for dirty pictures online. A lot of images can be too graphic for me—I’m a sensitive soul, beneath my debauched exterior—and I have to be careful. But if I find just the right mix of dirtiness and artistry…I’m in heaven. A very raunchy heaven.

First I look up the artist Alex Varenne. I love the different styles and appreciate the simple lines, as well as the round bottoms of the girls depicted. I like to think we have something in common, these women in the paintings and I. After enjoying the view, I open another window on my laptop and search for erotic art.

“Ah, here we go,” I think. I scroll through images of women holding their long skirts up, exposing themselves, then drawings of women with their heads thrown backwards, their hair falling behind them while they close their eyes in ecstasy. Sometimes another woman will be in the picture with them, and I think of the wonderful John Willie and his Bizarre magazine. I have the complete set tucked in the drawer of my night table, but I’m enjoying my journey too much to pause my search.

I catch sight of one of his drawings: a woman dressed as a maid cinching another woman into a corset. The second woman has her arms attached to a bar above her head. Slowly, surreptitiously, my hand travels down below the duvet draped over me, and I begin to touch myself. I see another classic Willie drawing of two women seated on the floor, bound and gagged. I start rubbing myself harder. The women in his drawings never look truly distressed, often simply resigned to their delicious fates. They are composed, and—seemingly—unknowingly seductive…but I think they’re aware of far more than they let on.

I feel myself clench, I close my eyes, and let go….

#1: 10:43 am

I am a very lucky girl in a lot of ways, and one of those ways is this: I can have multiple orgasms. In fact, I often do. There’s a very enjoyable tingling radiating out from where I’ve just rubbed myself, and a kind of sensitivity inside me. It’s a sense of openness, and it makes me want to push my ass high in the air and see what kind of trouble it invites. If only I had someone here with me to get into trouble with! But I can get into plenty on my own, and I do: Part of the dare my husband has given me involves spacing my moments throughout the day, but I can’t resist and immediately start pushing against my hand again. My gaze rests on a John Willie drawing of a woman—looking an awful lot like Sweet Gwendoline, only with more wits about her—on her knees, bent over and bound, with her ass sticking up invitingly. I arch my back and the release is gorgeous.

#2: 10:49 am

I turn over on my back, letting my breath slow down, and give a quiet little laugh. I send my husband a message, and in turn get one back: “Naughty girl.” The words give me a quiet little thrill, and I wonder how much time I have to let pass before I can get back to “work”. To give myself a little break (and to see if I can actually obey the rules of this game and not do it all at once), I start looking for more art. It turns out I find drawings much more enjoyable than a lot of the photos I find. It’s the modern ones where the women barely look human that turn me off. I don’t find it appealing at all to see garish, balloon-boobed women posing with their long, fake nails, their Technicolor makeup hiding more than revealing as they snarl at the camera like they’re pissed off to be there. I understand everyone has their kink, I just don’t find the fakery of this enticing at all. I’m much more interested in reading the humor of Gwendoline and watching Bettie Page pose in lingerie and bathing suits she made herself. Apparently I need my erotica to be multifaceted….

The more I search, the more I lose track of the time. I’m aware of a soft, gentle pulsing sensation emanating from my clit. I fall into a world of smooth pencil lines that give form to women in all sorts of tantalizing situations…. I see one drawing of a woman stretched facedown over a man’s lap, his arm raised. This is exactly the position my husband and I whisper back and forth to each other about when we’re in bed. I study the curve of the woman’s ass, how you can almost make out a little bit more in the shadow where her legs meet. I love the suggestion of this part of the body.

I’m wet. So, so wet.

I take a last look at the drawing and close my eyes. I imagine the pressure of my husband’s legs beneath me as he presses me down onto his lap, the feeling of his hard cock pushing against me while he holds me there. The hard sting of each spank, the sound of the smack! lingering in the air…and the anticipation, the rising anticipation as I wonder if this will be the spank that ends with his hand sliding into me, exploring me…and will it be rough, will it be gentle, will it quickly end with another spank or will he take his time, letting his fingers do whatever he feels like in the moment…?

#3: 12:02 pm

When I finish, I let out a loud whoosh of a sigh, and surprise myself by springing up out of bed. I need a shower…and my hand needs a rest!

* * *

After lunch, I realize I only have a couple more hours before I need to leave, and I still have two more orgasms in front of me. How can I make these different, I wonder. I still have my search results up on my computer. And I decide that I should just go as dirty as I want to, despite my slight embarrassment over sharing what I’m looking at. I don’t mind sharing with my husband what turns me on…but there’s suddenly shyness around the idea of dutifully giving access to you, Mr. X., to my more private fantasies. I’m hesitating, even though I know exactly what I want to look at.

I pick up my laptop and bring it back to the bed (which, in an attempt at decorum and decency, is now made). I scroll through the erotic comics and am flooded with images. Men are surrounding women who are bound, held open with expertly tied ropes, pleading looks on their faces. Underwear is pulled down, pussies exposed. There are questions asked while standing above a woman whose head is bent under tousled hair, questions about what to do with her…what to do with her next.

I used to wrestle with these feelings, the idea that I could feel pleasure from images of women being forced. It was upsetting, and it took me a while to come to terms with it. But when my husband ties me up, he isn’t forcing me. I go out of my mind with anticipation and excitement, and moan in frustration when he makes me wait, but he isn’t forcing me. Maybe that’s part of why I enjoy artwork so much. I don’t have to worry if something horrible is happening in a dodgy video. I can appreciate that this is truly a work of imagination, and the inventiveness of that only adds to my excitement.

I rub myself vigorously as I take in each panel of drawings—here she kneels, bound, waiting for the men to decide what they’re going to do, now she’s being turned over, legs outstretched, there’s a hand stroking her, a voice marveling at how wet she is, and all the while she’s reduced to making muffled sounds behind her gag, eyes big and round and pleading. There’s a hand on her ass, now arms are holding her from behind as someone else starts pushing his way in and out of her…the other arms curve around her and hands cup her breasts. I imagine my husband holding me as I writhe within my ropes. My eyes close and I hear his voice, “What a good girl.”His hands are in my hair…. “Come for me, my good girl….” I jerk my body back and forth, and I’m the woman in the drawing, surrounded, tested, tantalized….

“Come for me, good girl….” And I do. I do and I do and I do.

#4: 3:36pm

#5: 3:37pm

#6: 3:43pm

Okay, so I didn’t space them out like I was supposed to. But maybe that “bonus” one will give me extra credit? Now I’m mixing my sexual fantasy metaphors. I lie back, exhausted, and smile. I start to picture what I’m going to write, and even though I have no energy to get up and verify this in a mirror, I’m sure I’m blushing.

Over to you, Mr. X.



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