Rope Bunny

Rope Bunny

Status: In Progress

Genre: Erotica

Details

Status: In Progress

Genre: Erotica

Summary

Meeting for the first time, she begins her path as his rope bunny

Summary

Meeting for the first time, she begins her path as his rope bunny

Chapter2 (v.1) - Chapter 2

Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: April 10, 2016

Reads: 1500

Comments: 1

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Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: April 10, 2016

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 She sat on his red leather couch where they had been talking for long enough to almost finish a second bottle of wine. Although definitely feeling the buzz, she suddenly became more aware of her surroundings than she was when she first entered the room. Her eyes had been fixed on him, partially because he was genuinely attractive and she was searching for a flaw to help her understand why he seemed so intensely into her. More than that, she had no idea what to expect.

He prepped her, told her what he wanted, but believing him, trusting him, was a leap.

This was their first in person meeting. Her drive to Seattle took an hour longer than it should have because she turned the car around not once, but twice, and back again. It was his voice that ultimately forced her to follow through with the meeting.

He called her every day for weeks. Some days, she would send him to voicemail, maybe hoping he would go away, but he left her messages. She found that it didn’t matter what he said, the sound of his voice made her look forward to masturbating while playing his messages over and over.

He would tell her about his great skill of tying knots and how her body would be a canvas for his work. He would tell her how he wanted to tie her so that the knots were placed on pressure points that would guarantee her orgasms like never before.

Every once in a while, he would throw in a scenario about him tying her hands behind her back, pushing her down on the couch and shoving his cock in and out of her mouth, pulling her hair and listening to her gag. That was a scenario she didn’t get, and couldn’t even try, but she loved to have her hair pulled, so that in itself made her more than willing to play.

She told him her concerns about safety and mutual pleasure and he always had an answer to appease her. He seemed sane. He was kind. He would tell her about his work at his engineering firm. He would ask her about her life, although she was never very forthcoming. She would tell herself that he was definitely not entirely right in the head … but then she would excuse it because nearly everyone has a fetish, and his happened to be ropes. Still, they would have a completely platonic normal type conversation for an hour and two minutes after they’d hang up, he’d send her a text asking her if she likes anal.

Now with him face to face, she found him to be consistent with how he was on the phone. He first took her to a very nice restaurant, ordered for her, and fed her each bite. Her hands were only to be used to have a sip of wine, or to stroke his cock. Halfway through dinner he pulled her on top of him and while they were fucking, the wait staff came and moved the table back to stop the clanging of dishes. He held up his finger to them, as if he was asking them to wait. When she realized that they were just standing there watching, she worked harder to give them a show. He covered her mouth with a cloth napkin when she couldn’t contain her moaning. His cock was the perfect size, and he kissed.

She wasn’t used to kissing on the lips and touching tongues. It was an ironic to her that she would normally let a man stick his dick in her ass before she’d consider allowing his tongue in her mouth. Kissing was too intimate, but on a different level than sex. Sometimes she longed for it, but usually, she avoided it. She worked her way into it, and found herself sucking his tongue and biting his lower lip as to somehow offset the softness of it all.

Relative to some of their conversations, sex in the restaurant was completely vanilla, and being alone with him reversed all of the relaxation that followed an orgasm of the magnitude she had at dinner. She finally had to move to re-position herself on the couch. She turned her head to left, and there it was. A simple painting of a single rocking chair. She immediately looked down and away as if she was embarrassed that she saw it. He reached out his hand and put it gently under her chin, and turned her head back to the painting.

“I love my chairs, they are works of art … part of my canvas,” he said.

“That chair there, I love so much that I had it put on a canvas,” and he laughed.

She then stared at the painting and noted the great detail, including what appeared to be a thumbprint on the back right leg. It wasn't actually a full fledged rocking chair, but it did rock. The back of the chair had two large slats that could be perceived as bunny ears. Everything he said after that was just white noise and she said to herself, “shut up and fuck me already” over and over hoping she might accidentally say it out loud, or at least work up the nerve to say it out loud.

But he was telling her the story of his chairs. Three years prior, he was traveling on business and was stopped in Wyoming by a closure of the Interstate due to a snow storm. He was touring the historic downtown and wandered in the shops. He came to a thrift shop and found the most unique grouping of chairs. He said he asked some hippie kid playing guitar behind the counter about them … where did they come from, who made them, how long had they been there.

Her son certainly didn’t know their intended purpose. She still remembers when he called her to tell her that he sold all the chairs to this cool guy from Seattle. He then asked her if he could keep the $20 bill the guy gave him after he showed him that all the chairs had a thumbprint signature by the “artist.”

Maybe any other time, she would be fascinated to hear from someone who bought and used her work. But that night, she was sitting next to a man who initially introduced himself on an online “dating” website with a message that read, “I want you to be my rope bunny. I think you’re perfect.” Knowing he probably sent that to 100 women, she didn’t care. She was curious.

She knew it wasn’t quite 100 because she replied, “why am I perfect, lol?” and he did have a specific response in relation to what she wrote on her profile. She didn’t actually write anything. She had come to believe that no one reads them, and so she copied a description of her star sign and pasted that into the required space. She was very much a Cancer and it fit her well enough that she couldn’t be accused of writing anything dishonest. Not that it mattered. But he told her that he has found that women who feel a strong relation to their sign to be very good subs. He made another comment about how attracted he was to her blue eyes and curly hair in her photo, but she just let it go, and the conversation continued, and almost a month later, here she was.

She almost pulled out of the shock to ask him if any of them had broken, but she realized that talking about the chairs made him erect. And even if she wasn’t really listening, because she really couldn’t, hearing the almost giddiness in his voice made her wet.

She looked across the room, and there was another chair, similar but different to the one in the painting.

“Do you see the knob-like protrusions on the legs?” he said, acknowledging her focus on it.

“I discovered they are perfectly balanced for sex. That one is for a woman on top,” he said. “The whole set, every one, is designed for a different position. Let me show you,” he said.

She knew. She wondered if it was a game, and if he knew that she knew, or if she had just encounter the coincidence of a lifetime.

He sat on the chair and patted his legs for her to come straddle him. She was wearing a skirt and no underwear and all she wanted was for him to take down his dress slacks before she got on. She knew if she touched him, it would definitely leave a wet mark.

First, she straddled him with her feet on the floor, and then she lifted them to the knobs which fit perfect to her toes. The knobs were meant to position the legs and the pelvis perfectly to provide the greatest friction in all the right places. She knew this chair wouldn’t be an exact alignment for any woman, but it was for her.

The chairs all had multiple possibilities, but yes, each had a particular position in mind. Some were specially reinforced to withstand certain pressures better than others. The backs were at different angles, the seats had varying shapes and one was even partially bottomless. The bunny chair was actually intended for the man to stand behind. There were grips on the front of the seat, and the feet could be placed on the floor, or more ideally through the wide opening of the slats near the seat. She always found it hard to contain herself when groups of little old ladies would come into her thrift shop and remark how beautiful the chairs were and how they could “just tell” that there was something special about them.

She overpriced them because she didn’t really want them to leave. She had tested them all, not always with her now ex-husband, but she knew why they were special. No one else knew - except for her co-testers, and she did make a few modifications after feedback.

She had often wondered to herself if it would somehow get her off if a good Mormon family with four kids bought the set to surround their dinner table and host family home evenings.

She desperately wanted to ask him if he knew what they were for when he bought them, but she stayed silent, and blamed the alcohol for her apparent change in mood.

He seemed to ignore her anyway and pushed her off him. He smiled, then gripped her arm and led her down the hall. He opened the door to a room that appeared empty except for the rocking chair with the bunny ears. He took off her clothes, nearly ripping her shirt.

“Stand in front of the chair, and close your eyes,” he said firmly.

While she was rarely so obedient in her day to day life, she felt such relief in being told what to do. It made her free. Free of making the wrong decision, free of consequence, free to trust and free to love, the latter two being thing she was sure she is otherwise incapable of feeling. It sounded like he undressed, and opened the closet.

She could feel him walking around her. He moved the chair and stood so close she could feel his breath. Her body was covered in goose bumps. He reached from behind and held her breasts and put his chest to her back.

“Breath with me, my canvas. Slow. Deep,” he said.

He moved one hand between her legs and pinched her clit between two fingers and then rubbed backwards like he was tracing a wishbone. He pushed his fingers inside her, but only as if to tease. She felt herself dripping down one of her legs. He then raised his hand and put his fingers in her mouth. Her taste was so good to her that she sucked his fingers until it was gone.

He suddenly backed up and she had no sense of where he was, still with her eyes closed. He returned to her, and she could feel the tip of his hard cock near her lower back. And then she felt nothing but his breath on her ear. At that point, she was too aroused and exhilarated to think about chairs, or the fact that the chair in that room was the only one she had ever made with any possible use in bondage, and he found it. Her entire body was twitching at random until he broke the silence.

“Wrists, please.”


© Copyright 2017 Virginia Sutherland. All rights reserved.

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