I opened the box and gazed upon Heaven.
Inside was a sea of rope, each length dyed a delicious shade of crimson. Just looking at them made my heart race.
I reached down and pulled a single strand free. As my fingertips caressed the soft nylon, my imagination flamed into life and my pussy clenched. In my mind’s eyes, I saw myself wrapping the rope around a pair of wrists. I imagined tugging the twine tighter, steadfastly imprisoning my captive. I savored the sight of the raised flesh as the binding cut into the skin.
My pussy began to pulse as I imagined taking another length and tying my slave’s ankles…
A high-pitched cackle smashed my reverie, and my fantasy came to a crashing halt.
Suppressing a sigh, I refocused my attention on the rope in my hands. It was only one meter long – no good for an elaborate hog-tie but perfect if you just wanted to bind someone’s arms or legs together – and, it didn’t take long to fashion it into a circular, football-sized coil. I slid the coil off my fist, and hung it on one of the long, metal arms that protruded from the wall in front of me.
I bent over, taking another length of twine from the box. Slowly, I begun untangling it, smoothing out the kinks. Once more, a gentle frisson of excitement washed over me, and my body began to quietly hum with sexual tension.
But, again, my pleasure was short lived, and was mercilessly smothered by another peal of high-pitched laughter echoing across the shop.
The owner of the offensive laugh was Lia, my bottle-blonde, pneumatically-bosomed boss, and the most sexually voracious woman in London.
Given the way she threw herself at every man who crossed the threshold, I’d often wondered if Lia had only opened the shop to meet (and screw) men. If so, the venture had been an unmitigated success: ‘Spanx’ was more potent than a million Tinders. Furthermore, not only were my employer’s conquests numerous, they were also always impressive.
Before I’d worked here, I’d imagined that the typical male customer of a bondage shop came with middle-aged paunch, and questionable body odor as standard. However, the reality was that our patrons encompassed the width and breadth of the opposite sex – and Lia cherry picked the best.
Her latest was no exception. Based on his battered leather jacket and unruly shoulder hair, I had him pegged as a musician. I wasn’t basing this assumption purely on his looks, more on the fact that our humble outlet was sandwiched between two second hand guitar shops. Guitars and sex; modern Soho in three words.
We saw a lot of his type. I couldn’t say whether it was due to guitarists being kinkier than normal people or just more curious, but a large number of our neighbor's clientele braved entering our small, brightly-colored den of BDSM.
And Lia devoured them all.
Just as she would this one. She was leaning across the frosted glass counter giving her latest admirer an uninterrupted view of her perfect, surgically-enhanced breasts. Her impressive tits only made mine seem even saggier and unlovable than usual – which was saying a lot.
Oh yes – the situation was inevitably going to escalate; he was hooked. If he was a cartoon character, he would have been drawn with a waterfall of saliva gushing from his gaping mouth.
All that remained to be decided was where the next stage of the mating ritual would occur – pub or stockroom? The Unicorn would be soon be filling up with people enjoying a sneaky post-work pint; would they head there for a few drinks and more flirting?
Or would Lia forgo any niceties and just take him to our cramped stockroom and fuck his brains out?
It wouldn’t been the first time. Hell, it wouldn’t even have been the first time this week. Thanks to Lia’s unquenchable sexual appetite, more people had screwed in there over the past year, than they had in my bedroom. Two years even.
Lia had always said I could follow her example; as long as the shop wasn’t left unattended, I was free to try and seduce customers any time I wanted. Suffice to say, I’d never taken advantage of her offer. In fact, I’d never even chatted-up a customer, let alone fucked one.
Not that that was my deepest, darkest desire.
Yes, I wanted sex – to be honest, it had been so long since my last dalliance I didn’t just want sex, I needed it. But, more than a lover, I wanted a…
I didn’t get any further due to Lia’s elbow brutally thudding into my ribs.
“Oh, behave. I barely touched you,” my boss replied, her pretty, elfin face a mask of innocence. “Besides, I thought you liked a bit of pain.”
I wanted to reply that there was a big difference between a smack on the arse and a broken rib. But I didn’t – of course I didn’t; when was I ever that bold? Instead I simply blushed and rubbed my side.
“I’m clocking off early tonight and heading to the pub. ‘Slow-hand’ over there is taking me for a drink. Be a dear and lock up for me.”
“No problems,” I replied.
To be honest, it wasn’t much of an ordeal.
With Lia gone, there was no chance of getting embroiled in a lengthy (one-sided) conversation after we’d locked the doors, which meant I’d actually be out of here a few minutes after I closed up at six.
Not that I had much to rush home to.
“There’s a good girl,” Lia said, zipping up her short, leather biker’s jacket. “Although, I’ve got to say, being a bad one is more fun. You should try it.”
“I will,” I said quietly, looking back down at the rope snaking through my fingers. “Just building up to it.”
The shop fell into silence. I looked up and saw Lia staring at me. Her normally carefree face was staring back at me, sadly.
“You know, for someone whose wants to be dominant, you’re awfully submissive,” she said, her voice tinged with pity.
Lia was right: I was the world’s most submissive dominant.
The desire to be in charge has been there since adolescence. Don’t get me wrong – I love sex.
But BDSM is the thing that really turns me on.
I love everything about bondage.
Of course I did - why else would I work here, enduring the hellish commute into the middle of London and then spend the next eight hours toiling away in a sweat-box all for minimum wage?
No, I did it because I loved what we sold.
Bondage wasn't just a mere sexual predilection; it was a calling, a way of life I was in thrall to, that consumed me. I loved the gags, the ropes, the handcuffs – everything. But, as much as I never minded playing the sub, it was being in charge that thrilled me. I wanted to dominate.
For me, handling our stock was the closet I got to this world. The pitiful truth was that, although I’d moved to the Capital because I thought I’d be able to indulge in my fetish much more than I could in the small Cornish town I’d spent my first twenty five years trapped in, I’d never got anywhere. Nowhere.
Not a single encounter.
I’d tried the fetish clubs…
One of them anyway.
Everyone – even the subs – had been so confident, so assured in their kinky sexuality, I’d wilted just standing in their company. My tall, lumpy frame seemed freakish next to so many toned bodies, whose curves and muscles were accentuated by slick leather and rubber. I’d go back – yes, I was sure I would – once I’d lost a few pounds.
For now, Spanx would have to do…
“Make sure you lock up properly,” my boss said, turning and making a beeline for the door. She didn’t stop as she reached the front of the store, instinctively knowing ‘Slow-hand’ would reach out a huge hand and part the chain mail, string curtain covering the door frame, creating a gap for her to sashay through.
He followed closely behind, and, with a loud, metallic swish, the curtain closed and the newly minted lovers vanished out onto the Autumnal streets of Central London.
I glanced at my watch; five o’clock. I had an hour to fill. And fill it I wanted to.
Although my boss’s absence meant I could conceivably stand around doing nothing, I didn’t want to. Idleness would lead to rumination. And with Lia’s latest, effortless tryst fresh in my mind, there was only one thing I’d think about.
And I really didn’t want to dwell on my comparative sexual meekness right now.
Clean, that’s what I could do.
I bent down, reaching for the box at my feet. I folded over the two halves of the lid, hiding the wondrous rope from view. I was just refastening the package’s sellotape when I heard the loud ‘clink’ of the beaded, metal curtain in the shop’s doorway being pushed apart.
I assumed it was Lia briefly returning to collect her house keys or mobile phone or whatever else she’d left behind. It wouldn’t have surprised me – with all her effort focused on beguiling ‘Slow-hand’, she was bound to have forgotten something.
“That was quick,” I said, swiveling my head towards the doorway.
However, the person standing there wasn’t my boss.
He was in his late twenties, skinny, and casually dressed in tight-fitting jeans and a plain black shirt, buttoned up to the top. His short, fair hair was fashionably parted to one side, and his face wore the uniform beloved of those who work in the media; thick-rimmed glasses and a well-maintained beard.
Again, much like Lia’s conquest earlier, I wasn’t basing this assumption purely on appearance: This was Soho, after all – if you weren’t a tourist or a musician, you worked in the media. And, if you were male, that meant you probably had a beard.
But I was guessing that our potential customer’s wasn’t mere affectation: the cheeks of his round face were smooth, boyish and pink – the facial hair gave him an air of fragile maturity that he needed. If wasn’t for the beard, he’d probably still be asked for ID in the pub.
At first glance, he wasn’t anything special. I don’t have a particular ‘type’ but, if I had, this slight, trendy creature most certainly would not have been it.
Well, then he smiled at me.
It wasn’t the usual one I get from customers. Ordinarily, the men overcompensate, plastering a fake, smug grin that does little to cover their embarrassment. Such smiles only heighten the unease between us, not dissipate it.
But his was different.
There was nothing brash or artificial about it. It was subtle, nothing more than an almost imperceptible raising of the corners of his mouth. But it was real. There was no shame – he seemed happy to be here.
Here, in this den of depravity.
A current of electricity slalomed through me. I was so surprised by it, that it took me a moment to realize he was speaking to me.
“Sorry?” I asked, foggily.
“What was I too quick at?” he asked. “When I came in. Apparently I was too quick?”
That gentle smile still lit up his youthful face.
“Oh, that? It’s nothing… I thought you were someone else… I…”
I was rambling. Shut up, Melissa.
Breaking his gaze, I looked down at the box at my feet.
“Well, I just hope you’re not too disappointed that I’m not them.”
“No, not disappointed at all,” I said with a fake cheerfulness. “In fact, I’m glad. I’m…”
Right - stop it now, Melissa. You’re babbling like a lunatic.
“Glad? That’s good.”
“‘Okay then,” I said, trying to sound more businesslike. And failing. “I’ll be over by the cash register if you need anything.”
Smiling, I turned, and marched towards the front of the shop. In less than a dozen strides, I reached the counter. Something to do - I needed something to do…
Reaching under the counter, I pulled out a grimy cloth, and began to wipe the glass surface top. As I did, I subtly, I cranked my neck to the left, to watch… him.
Instantly, another bolt of energy jolted through me.
He was standing in front of the display of crimson rope, arms outstretched, his fingertips caressing the soft nylon twine. But he wasn’t exploring it with idle curiosity; he was enjoying it.
I knew this because the dreamy look he wore was the same one I did when I stood in the exact same spot.
I could feel my face heat up; my cheeks were probably the colour of a ripe tomato. I resumed scrubbing imaginary marks off the counter top. But…
I couldn’t help myself.
Slyly, I looked at him again.
He’d moved, and was now standing in front of our selection of gags. He reached out and lifted a leather ball gag off one of the display arms. He studied it, intrigued. But, again, there was no sense of embarrassment – he seemed perfectly at ease, happy.
Just as I was whenever I handled such things.
That’s when I heard Lia’s voice - loud and clear - echo around my head: “Go for it.”
What? I silently asked.
“Go over there and speak to him.”
To see if he needs help?
“To ask him out, you fool.”
“Shut up,” I said aloud. No, no no! Luckily he hadn’t heard.
I continued wiping the glass, but the thought had taken root in my brain: Should I?
What if, instead of having to go and seek a partner outside the shop, one wondered in?
But what if he was married? What if…?
What if I spent all my life fantasizing abut something but not doing anything about it?
I subtly turned my head, back towards my potential mate. Yes, he was cute. And I knew he was kinky, like me. Plus, I had to admit, he had a nice ass. I’d never noticed before but his skinny jeans accentuated the curves of his compact behind. Without thinking, I pictured spanking it.
Lia’s voice was back.
I wanted to. I did. But…
What if he says ‘no’?
“Then he says ‘no’ and you try again another time. But that’s missing the point.”
“What if he says ‘yes.’’”
“You can’t spend the rest of your life worrying about what could go wrong. You’ve tried that; look how that’s worked out.”
I looked back at him. The more I studied him, the more I liked what I saw. Why shouldn’t I go and speak to him?
Yes, why shouldn’t I?
My mind was fifty per cent resolute; fifty per cent terrified. But I was going to do this.
Slowly, hesitantly, I moved out from the behind the counter.
At a snail’s pace, I made my way down the central aisle of the shop towards the stand housing the gags.
My heart was thudding. I felt sweat begin to form on my palms….
No. This was a stupid idea…
Ten feet away…
I’ll just turn and go back to the till, and forget it ever happened…
Six feet away…
What was I thinking? Turn! Now!
But I didn’t – instead I kept moving forward.
I didn’t know when I was going to stop, I just assumed I would come to a standstill at a safe, neutral distance.
Without warning, he turned away from the stand and took a step forward. And straight into my path. If I’d been concentrating – instead of worrying about the absurdity of what I intended to do – I might have had time to stop. But I didn’t and my sizable bosom thudded into his firm chest, knocking him backward.
Startled and embarrassed, I just stood there, frozen to the spot.
Finally, his shocked expression changed into one of concern, and he spoke.
“Oh my God. I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I stuttered. “And no need for apologies; entirely my fault. I’m the one who should be saying sorry.” I paused. I could feel my cheeks heat up, reddening with shame and awkwardness. “So, here goes - sorry,” I added.
Brilliant. I’d come over here to ask him out and all I’d done was assault, terrify, and then profusely apologize to the poor man.
“Honestly, no need,” he said, gently. “Just an accident. No harm done.”
As he talked, the corners of his mouth turned upwards, and that gentle smile played across his face once more.
It took me a second to register it, but he was showing no sign of fleeing. In fact, instead of desperately trying to escape from the crazy lady who’d just accosted him, he was acting as if nothing had happened.
Scrub that – he was acting as if something pleasurable had just happened.
Instantly, my embarrassment ebbed away. In its place, I felt my earlier resolve begin to gently flame into life once more.
Could I actually do this?
We stood there, in silence.
He stared at me. I stared at him.
It should have been awkward. But it wasn’t.
However, I had to do something. If this was going to happen, I had to act.
“Can I help you with anything?”
It wasn’t meant to sound sexually salacious – I’d simply, and automatically, reverted to salesperson mode. However, as the corners of his mouth sharply turned upwards, I realized that was how it sounded.
“I don’t know; can you?” he asked.
Defiantly, his blue eyes held mine.
“Are you single?” I asked. The words left my mouth before I had the chance to think…. What had I just…?
“Pardon?” I asked, still stunned by my brazenness.
“Yes,” he repeated, slowly. “I’m single.”
And – in that moment – something magical, something mystical, occurred. We said nothing, but – somehow – information flowed back and forth across the physical space between us.
It was primordial, subconscious.
I felt it in my gut, my pussy. Whatever I wanted, he would be a willing participant.
And all those years of doubt fell away, crashing to the floor beneath me. In that second, I became someone else.
I knew – just knew – what I was going to do next.
And it was going to be more than just ask him for a drink.
Much, much more.
“So, can you help me?” he asked.
“Yes, I can,” I said. “Don’t move.”
I span and marched towards the front of the shop. In the space of a few seconds, I’d shut and locked the door, and was already walking back towards…
... my prey.
I stopped, a meter in front of him.
“Turn around,” I said. As I spoke, I felt my heartbeat speed up and my pussy moisten.
I took a single step forward. Our noses were almost touching.
“I said, turn around.”
“And why would I do that?”
“Because I need a plaything. And you want to be played with. So, turn around, and go to the stockroom at the back of the shop.”
I felt empowered, alive. It was intoxicating and I was high on the adrenaline. Certitude filled me – there was not a speck of doubt within me. And I knew he was going to do exactly as I said.
And I was more aroused than I had ever been.
Taking one last, long look at me, he turned and began walking.
Before I followed him, I reached out and took a ball gag off the display beside me. A few steps later, I paused again, beside the box I’d discarded earlier. I bent over, grabbed a handful of rope, and followed my slave.
My long legs soon caught up with him.
He was at the door. Extending a hand, he grasped the handle, pulled it down and the door opened.
I lifted my hand and gently pushed him over the threshold....
To Be Continued...
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