Silk & Steel

Her breath hitched as we paused at the entrance, a visible tremor running through her as the ropes tightened around her wrists and ankles. The silk of the barely-there top clung to her skin, drawing attention to the swell of her breasts and the glistening wetness pooling beneath. I knew she was experiencing the full force of my control, a delicious anticipation blooming within her as she braced herself for what was to come. The raw, daring confession had left its mark, a potent cocktail of need and trust that fueled my every touch. The door, an opulent mahogany masterpiece, opened smoothly as I slid it inward, revealing the lavish ballroom buzzing with the murmur of polite conversation and the clinking of champagne glasses. Unbeknownst to her, and driven by my own twisted desires, I had meticulously crafted a new sensation for her to endure, a carefully designed pattern woven across her body intended to maximize both submission and pleasure.

The ropes, fashioned from thick, supple leather, were expertly knotted and tied, each movement precise and deliberate. They were not merely restraints, but instruments of seduction, designed to tease and deny while simultaneously inciting a desperate yearning for release. As I secured her wrists over her head, I whispered a promise of exquisite torment, a tantalizing glimpse of the pleasure that awaited her beneath the layers of control. Her eyes, wide with a mixture of fear and anticipation, reflected the flickering candlelight, illuminating the subtle tremors that rippled through her body. She arched her back, her nipples straining against the fabric, a silent plea for release that only served to heighten my own arousal.

“Do you love me?” I asked, my voice a low, resonant rumble that vibrated through the room.

“With all of my heart,” she choked out, her voice laced with a hint of desperation.

“Do you love that I’m your wife?” I pressed, tightening the ropes slightly around her wrists.

“Very much so,” she replied, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

“I love being your wife, but sometimes I want you to treat me like something else,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

“Tell me what you mean,” I commanded, my gaze unwavering.

“Sometimes I want you to treat me like a thing to be used. Like… I’m your whore.” The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken desire and a desperate longing for something beyond the confines of our marriage. It was a dark, unsettling confession, one that stripped away the veneer of civility and exposed the raw, primal instincts that simmered beneath the surface.

With that, she swiftly removed the delicate diamond rings from her fingers, placing them on the ornate nightstand beside her. “Now, what will you do with your whore?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly.

My immediate response was a primal surge of lust, a visceral need to fulfill the desires that had been brewing within me since the moment I laid eyes on her. Without hesitation, I flipped her over, spreading her legs wide and laying her feet against my crotch as I secured her wrists to the bedposts. The ropes, now biting into her flesh, tightened their grip, creating a delicious sensation of restriction and vulnerability. As I knelt before her, my hand caressed her wetness, drawing it upward and feeding on her desperate pleas. The scent of her arousal filled the air, intoxicating me and driving me further into a state of frenzied pleasure. My dick, hard and erect, erupted from her mouth, a silent testament to the depths of my desire. I slid it up, sinking it deep into her warm, yielding flesh, taking a perverse pleasure in her involuntary moans of pleasure. For a moment, she allowed me to enjoy her, her body writhing with anticipation as I began to thrust, her cries of ecstasy echoing through the silent ballroom. Then, just as abruptly, she pulled away, her face contorted in a mixture of pleasure and revulsion. She flattened her tits against my chest, her body trembling with the intensity of her experience, and spoke, her voice choked with emotion. “Do you love me?” she pleaded, her eyes filled with tears of both pleasure and despair.

“With all of my heart,” I replied, my voice laced with a hint of regret. “Do you love that I’m your wife?” I asked, tightening the ropes around her ankles.

“Very much so,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “I love being your wife, but sometimes I want you to treat me like I’m a thing to be used.”

“Tell me what you mean,” I commanded, my voice dripping with a dangerous edge.

“Sometimes I want you to treat me like I’m a thing to be used. Like… I’m your whore,” she repeated, her words laced with a desperate need for release.

With that, she slid the rings off her finger, placed them on the nightstand, and said, “Now, what will you do with your whore?”

My immediate response was something you might expect. I’d flipped her over, spread her knees, and laid her feet against my crotch while I held her wrists and fucked her ass until we were both a cummy heap. It could’ve ended there, but then I thought of the ropes. Closing my eyes, I pictured her body decorated; bound with ropes for my pleasure and hers and my cock reawakened. I pinned her arms over her head and whispered how she would become beautifully adorned and thoroughly edged. Her eyes were wide as she listened to my plan, and her body writhed in pleasure as I mercilessly teased her clit with my fingers until her dam burst. Much later, exhausted and content, she curled into me and said, “I think I’m gonna like being your whore.”

The plan cemented in my mind. It wasn’t just what she would wear, but where she would wear it. The church formal was always Black Tie, and I decided her external elegance would pay homage to the origins of the only thing she would wear underneath. The night arrived and she stood naked before me while I slowly and deliberately wove the pattern and tied each knot. Her breathing was heavy and a little erratic, no doubt from both nervousness and anticipation. She was a good girl though, and I gave her comforting praise as it slowly came together. The result was breathtaking; even more striking and arousing than I had anticipated. Once completed, I took her hand and led her to the full length mirror for the reveal. Her response was everything I’d hoped. She delicately traced her fingertips down the lengths of rope, along each knot, around each bare breast, and over each nipple before turning her attention to the cords between her legs that nestled themselves on either side of her vulva. Catching my gaze in the mirror, she said, “These are going to get really interesting.” She was right.

“What’s the name of this?” I asked.

“It’s called Hishi Karada, my love, and it looks like it was made for you,” she replied.

She observed herself from each angle and said, “I think I agree, Sir.”

She would’ve admired longer, but it was time to get ready. I pulled the truly elegant Japanese kimono dress from the closet. The top was long sleeve, a beautiful red silk adorned with traditional peony flowers, and cinched together with a black obi belt. It just barely covered the ropes on her shoulders. The skirt was a black chiffon; long, flared, and pleated. I held her hand as she stepped into the red bottom Just Nothing heels and whistled at the beauty that stood before me. She smiled demurely and curtsied before closing the distance between us and running her hands down my chest. Then she kissed me, took a step back, and removed her rings. “If I’m to be your whore for the evening, I won’t be needing these.” With lust coursing through my veins, I escorted her to the car and we were off. The road offered vibrations that assisted the ropes in doing their job. Her squirms and moans were a reward of their own and offered high hopes of a delightful evening. We finally arrived at the church. Her breath was heavy as we paused at the entrance. I knew she was feeling the ropes. Her nipples stood proudly against the fabric of the thin top, and I knew how wet she was down below. Our masks provided a veil for the heat passing between us, and we each grabbed a flute on the way to our table. I smiled when she sat. A low moan escaped her lips and a shudder ran through her body as the braided strands teased her delicate femininity. Her ragged breathing was only noticed by me. Our pleasurable evening had only just begun. After the opening course, I escorted her to the floor where we danced. Her steps faltered occasionally as the ropes tugged with her movement, and by the end of the dance, her eyes begged me to let her cum. I only smiled in declination and her nearly silent protest made my lust burn. The evening’s activities were festive and at times we engaged with others, but each interlude to the tune of smooth jazz on the dance floor kindled the fire fueled by the secret beneath her dress. The sweet, tortuous denial was a pleasure to behold. Her whispered pleas fed my hunger and I teased her to the brink again and again. Time finally granted her its mercy and the ball came to a close, but her evening had only just begun. Escorting her to the car, I told her to leave the mask in place. Once underway, I lifted her skirt and touched everything but her clit. Sweet, slippery cream oozed from her depths the scent intoxicated me as I drove. Her moaning, strained obscenities, and begging were music to my ears and I could not have been more pleased. When we reached our bedroom, I removed her top and kissed every inch of exposed skin. When the skirt finally fell at her feet, I licked everywhere but the center of her juicy folds. Now wearing only the mask, the Karada, and her heels, she stood before me drenched in a heated sheen. I guided her to her back and bound each foot to a corner of the bed, then did the same with her wrists. Spread and taught, she was now a plaything at my mercy. I stripped except for my pants and teased her with a feather from tits to toes. Light flicks from the tendrils of a flogger followed the same path, and fed our mutual need. Partially sated, my lips caressed hers, then trailed down her body till they reached her sexual core. I drank in her scent before releasing my tongue to feed. Her cries were now of pleasure and her body convulsed again and again. My desire to be sheathed in her warmth took over, and soon I too convulsed in the pinnacle of physical bliss. Released from her bonds, she cooed under my hands as they first bathed, then massaged every inch of her skin. Returning to our bed, I retrieved her rings and placed them once again on her finger. She pasted her body to mine, and we each basked in the emotional and spiritual intimacy brought about by the gift we had each received in the other. A few weeks later, I entered the house and was greeted by smooth jazz. My tuxedo pants, a white shirt and black tie were hanging by the door. Tucked in the shirt pocket was an envelope. The only things inside it were her rings.

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