WARNING! This is a work of erotic BDSM FICTION. It is ADULT ORIENTED MATERIAL of an EXTREME SEXUAL NATURE, including acts of abduction, exhibitionism, humiliation, and discipline. This is not for readers who are easily offended or incapable of distinguishing fact from fiction. The author does not promote such activity in real life unless it is between consenting adults and practiced safely. The copyright of this story remains with the author, Night Owl. This posting does not give anyone the rights to post or print content without obtaining the author’s permission first.
by Night Owl
A scorpion and a frog meet on the bank of a stream, and the scorpion asks the frog to carry him across on its back.
The frog asks, “How do I know you won’t sting me?”
The scorpion replies, “Because if I do, I will die too, for as you can see, I cannot swim.”
Satisfied, the frog allows the scorpion to climb on its back, and together, they slide into the murky water. About midstream, the scorpion suddenly plunges its stinger into the frog’s back. A deadening numbness begins to creep into the frog’s limbs, paralyzing it. As they both go under, the frog croaks,
“You fool, you just killed us both! Why?”
“I could not help myself,” the scorpion replies, “for it is my nature.”
– Unknown Author
Chapter 32: The Scorpion and the Frog
(Oh, G-G-GOD . . . n-not a-gain!)
Aisha cried out in her head and moaned into the gag. Clenching her eyes shut, she held her breath and tried not to move, but it was too late. The ropes drawn tightly between her legs were rubbing against her, inside her, just the right way. When she couldn’t stand it any longer, she began to twist and squirm, then her insides quaked as the ropes around the rest of her body joined the assault, pushing her over the precipice.
“MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMFFFFFF!” She moaned again, but much louder this time.
When it was finally over, her body went limp, her eyelids fluttered open, her throat raw as she tried to catch her breath. Her muffled screams still echoed in her ears, the last ripples of her orgasm washing through her, spiking every few seconds until it faded away. She had no idea how many that had been — having lost count almost an hour ago.
Her eyes darted around the room, an enclosed patio with large windows surrounding her on three sides. She stared blankly at the ceiling while listening to the rain beat softly against the glass outside. It was all she could do. Raven was an expert with rope ties. He knew exactly how to wrap them around a woman’s body and where, a combination of restraint and torment, and now she could do nothing, but deal with them – alone. Each time she tried to adjust her position, even just a little to relieve some of the tension building in her muscles, she felt them, shifting, rubbing against her, and the result was always the same.
Once, she was ‘Madam Isha’, performer of the most intricate dances. She studied under the most respected choreographers in Russia. Men lusted for her, women envied her looks and talents. She had received hundreds of letters from admirers – most of them from men asking her to marry them.
Then all of that changed after joining The Organization. It didn’t happen overnight. She continued to perform, and the men still wanted her, but their advances were much more direct because it was expected that she accommodate them. Within the Gorean community, most of the women were accommodating. They were either slaves or ‘subs’ – all of them longing for someone to serve with their hearts, their souls, and their bodies. Madam Isha would have nothing to do with that nonsense. She was there to perform, to make money (a great deal of money) and nothing more. She had no desire to let any man control her in any way, that is, until she met Raven.
Aisha twisted her wrists and felt the ropes chafing them. She moved her body a little, and more ropes shifted around her arms, against her breasts . . . and down there.
That was all it took.
Again, her eyes clamped shut. She moaned, her voice breathy against the gag as she rocked her hips, the extra friction setting her inner muscles to clenching . . .
(Not yet! PLEASE not yet! I’m not ready! This is driving me insane!)
The next one was very short, but nearly as powerful as the last. Drawing a shaky breath, Aisha glanced down her body, covered by a sheen of sweat, her breasts heaving as she panted. Yes, he was quite the expert in rope ties, “the best in the business,” someone once told her.
She was lying across a round wicker lounge chair with her butt nested in the thick velveteen cushion. Her left leg was raised and draped high over the back and tied by the ankle to one of the chair legs underneath. Another rope coiled several times neatly around her knee to the chair kept the leg in place. Her other leg was bent over the seat in front and opposite the other, tied by the ankle and knee in the same way, forcing her thighs to remain wide open and her smooth, shaved furrow in plain view. Her arms were stretched up and bent behind a pillow under her head then tied together by her wrists to another leg of the chair with more bands of rope stretched across her armpits. Aisha was quite helpless, unable to lower her arms, unable to bring her legs together, exposed, and humiliated, helpless, and vulnerable, a prisoner of the ropes.
However it was not just the position of her body that kept her juices flowing. There were more ropes wrapped around her and tied deliberately, not as a means of restraint, but to provoke a response each time she moved.
There were bands of course rope wrapped tightly above and below her breasts, with smaller ropes tying the bands together at the sides and in between, then more ropes running over her shoulders. This rigging created a brazier of sorts, made entirely of rope and it caused her breasts to swell between the surrounding bands.
Further down her body, another rope wrapped around her lower belly, just below the navel, served as an anchor for more ropes. Two of them were drawn downward between her open thighs like a V, and pressed tight against the pedals of her womanhood, pinching her as they came together. The third rope ran right down the center. That was the ‘magic rope’ because she could feel it inside her and pressing hard against her clit. All three ropes disappeared between her buttocks underneath her, then ran up her back, past the belly ropes, and finally, tied off around the arm of the chair just under her head, just beyond her hands and out of reach. There was no fooling herself that she could get out of this on her own. Raven made sure of that. She was completely at his mercy and would have to wait for him to come back and release her.
Throughout her life, people knew Aisha as a feisty, headstrong, and independent woman that no one would ever have described as submissive. She had maintained an iron grip on her personal control, organized to the extreme in her work and home life, highly respected in her profession as an exotic dancer, not only for her beauty and skills, but also in her ability to take control of an audience and even manipulate them from the stage.
So when she first met Raven that night in Istanbul, she immediately recognized the type — both charming and devious — and wanted nothing to do with him. She was even less interested in The Organization, because of the toxic views toward SM that she shared with radical feminists and religious fundamentalists alike. But Aisha was also ambitious. She was always looking for ways to better her life, and the offer Raven laid on the table was too good to pass up. So she packed her things and moved with him to New York to join The Organization.
She was given a new name, Isha, and the title ‘Madam’. She performed all over the country, at parties, slave auctions, and even privately for anyone that could afford her fee. She danced as a slave, wearing the silks, collars, and chains, sometimes in the nude, but again, only for a price. She only did these things to stay ‘in character’ though, and never off-stage. She attended social engagements to promote herself, but never indulged in the activities that occurred there. Most important, she always went home the same night, and never got romantically or even sexually involved with any of the members. In a way, Aisha occupied two worlds, and she lived both of them equally, treading that thin, invisible line between the conventional and unorthodox, the real and surreal. She did this for two years, seemingly effortlessly, without letting one life influence the other.
But during those years, the constant exposure to kink and SM slowly desensitized her, and squeamishness gave way to curiosity. One night, Aisha was at the unveiling of a new dungeon in Washington D.C. She was still barely a year into the scene, and this was the first time she had attended an event as a guest, not a performer. Upstairs, the mood was festive with bright lighting, music, smiles and laughter, while downstairs, it turned very serious — shadows, Gregorian chants, naked bodies covered in sweat, and dungeon work, some of it quite heavy. But what she hadn’t really noticed before was when the guests emerged again, they were laughing, chattering, grinning from ear to ear.
She noticed the same pattern at almost every party or club she attended. It reminded her of a crowd pouring out of a darkened theater after watching a horror movie. How excited and giddy they all were, and Aisha realized then that trauma, fear, and pain, if carefully orchestrated, could actually produce joy, release, and even empowerment.
When it came right down to it, scary movies were really a sub genre of SM dungeon scene. They happened in a dark cavern. You were with others as the film director guided you through a fun house of horrors. You screamed, cried, cowered in fear and, when it was over, felt glad you took the ride.
She talked to people who engaged in SM and they described to her all sorts of odd experiences but in spiritual terms. Feelings of transcendence, healing, euphoria, intimate union with your partner, and so on. For those that had tried both roles, called “switches”, most preferred being the submissive, or “the bottom”, because they could just “let go” and enjoy the ride, while letting their partner or partners do all the work.
The more Aisha began to understand why the people involved were who they were, the more she found herself questioning a lot of the things she thought she knew. But still, she could not go so far as to try it herself and put herself completely and unconditionally under someone else’s control. What she wanted, deep down, was a man who could take her to that special place of freedom that she heard so much about, but only someone she could trust.
Almost a year had passed before she finally confided in Raven, the man who first introduced her to The Organization. She discussed at length and on many occasions with him what she was feeling. Raven both listened and offered his insights.
Then one day, they were walking through the forest near Dark Oak Manor, when Raven suddenly took her hand,
“Come with me,” he gently ordered, and led her to a large, dead oak. On one of its low branches were leather cuffs dangling down from a rope.
Aisha looked sheepishly at the cuffs and then at him.
“It is time you finally gave this a try. Don’t you think?”
She nodded without saying a word and allowed him to guide her to the tree where the cuffs hung open and waiting. There, he ordered her to strip and then locked her wrists inside the cuffs. As he drew the other end of the rope, she felt her arms pull upward until she was on her toes, her body stretched taut. She felt the cool September air against her bared flesh, the tightness of leather around her wrists high above her head. She was helpless, exposed, completely at his mercy, and exhilarated.
“Don’t worry, pet,” he said. “I’ll go easy on you this time. Just a taste . . . for both of us.”
After tying the rope off to another branch, Raven circled her slowly, his eyes never leaving her body. Her head was bent backward, ready to submit, her long auburn hair shifting in the breeze. Her (once) proud breasts rose and fell mesmerizingly in front of her as each breath quickened slightly in anticipation of what might happen.
Was he going to whip her? She had seen him do it many times to helpless slave girls until their bodies were striped all over with red marks. Fear suddenly washed over her. When she felt Raven’s hands grasp her hips from behind, her heart jumped inside.
“Dance on the rope for me,” he ordered.
Aisha knew what he meant, for she had played the part of a bound slave many times on stage, only this time, the bindings were real. She twisted and rocked her hips. She focused on the way she moved, each muscle trained for such the task. All the while his hands roamed over her body at will. She danced for quite some time, enduring the touching and slaps, until her arms began to feel the pressure of her own weight and the rope.
“Keep going,” he ordered. “Don’t stop until I say you can stop.”
So Aisha kept dancing off the rope, swirling around in frantic and heated movements until a strange feeling overcame her. It wasn’t a feeling of joy or exhilaration, but more like an out-of-body, detached from reality feeling of utter calm, peace, and tranquility.
At that point, she was completely unaware of any strains to her body, unaware of her primitive surroundings. She had no real interest in the person who brought her there either. A state of deep recession and incoherence took over her consciousness, for how long, she had no idea, until she heard Raven’s voice order her ‘stop’.
She moaned helplessly as he turned her around to face him, then lifted her legs high with his strong arms. Without warning, she felt him inside her. His hard cock pulled out and back in again over and over without stopping while her body, still hanging on the rope, rocked lazily with his movements. She felt Raven’s hand reach back and pull her head back by gently grabbing her hair. Aisha closed her eyes and moaned again as she felt him leave open mouth kisses down her exposed neck to her collar bone.
The aroma of sex pervaded the air, intoxicating her, driving her to want more. Moaning in desire, she made little thrusting motions with her hips. It took very little of these before she thrashed in her first orgasm of the afternoon. Her moans were loud and impassioned. Barely able to catch her breath, a second orgasm hit her. She struggled with her arms and the rope, desperate to react more than she could to the overload of pleasure she was experiencing. When the third orgasm hit, Raven joined her.
After it was all over, and as the high came down, deep exhaustion kicked in and a throbbing pain in her limbs. Raven unlocked her arms and gently carried her to a blanket he had laid out for her. Drawing a shaky breath, she glanced down her body. She looked pale against the dark gray blanket and the dead leaves surrounding her, her breasts heaving as she panted, her desire still unseated.
“Now you know what’s like, pet,” Raven said before he kissed her.
It would be an obvious observation to say that Aisha’s life changed after that. She became obsessed with her new discovery. Whenever she had sex, it was only with Raven, and there was always some form of restraint involved. Nevertheless, she felt compelled to set up some ground rules – to have some control, at least, over what was happening to her. For instance, she insisted on no whippings or anything that would leave marks on her flesh. She was a dancer, after all, and her body was a valuable commodity.
Raven agreed to her terms.
Then that morning, he told Aisha to meet him in the sunroom in one hour. She took a hot shower, then shaved her entire body, even between the legs – the way a kajira should. The dress she wore was a light green swirl of chiffon draped airy and elegantly down to her high heels. Thin, spaghetti straps crossed the back of her neck, delicately anchoring her graceful silhouette while leaving her back exposed. She left her hair down, knowing that Raven preferred to see it flowing loosely over her shoulders.
The room he was waiting in was a type of solarium surrounded by glass on three sides and the ceiling above. When she entered, Raven looked at her and nodded in approval.
“Very beautiful, pet, as always,” he said, “but for this evening, I’ll have to ask you to lose the dress.”
Aisha did as she was told, making a show of it by sliding each strap off her shoulder and letting the dress slide down to a pool on the floor. Raven then led her to the place she was to be bound, much like that first time they were in the forest, only now it would be on one of the bowl-shaped rattan lounge chairs occupying the room. He proceeded to tie her to the chair, wrapping ropes tightly around her breasts first and cinching them off before having her sit cross wise in the cushioned seat, with one leg bent high over the back and her arms draped behind her head. As he tightened the last knot, Aisha knew they had gone too far, but she said nothing. She didn’t protest. It wouldn’t have mattered anyhow because she was helpless and completely at his mercy now. In fact, her protests would only have encouraged him to continue. She knew him that well.
He left her there, alone, without saying word, and all she could do was wait for his return.
Staring at the ceiling again, she listened to the muffled, distant thunder outside, and the rain striking the windowpanes. The sounds were sensual.
Now she was ready.
Arching her back, she pushed her chest upward. The course ropes tightened around her swollen breasts. Her nipples grew stiff and pointed upward. She pushed her long, taut belly up next with the bands of rope wrapped tightly below her shallow navel. The dried wicker creaked as her body shifted in the chair. That sound really got her juices flowing.
Lifting her ass up off the cushioned seat as much as she could, she felt the V ropes between her legs working their magic once again. She curled her head back, and Aisha, the slave girl, the poor wretch, and mere shell of the woman she once was, uttered a loud shriek as another orgasm ripped through her bound and helpless body.
(Where in HELL is He?)
Was the last thought she remembered before her mind went numb.
If Aisha could turn her head to the right just a few inches more, then she would have seen by the corner of her eye that Raven was not as far away as she thought.
Sitting in a leather chair under the dim light of a reading lamp and holding a glass Cognac, he watched the girl silently through a clear sliding door to the next room. His position was perfect – he could see her struggling in the wicker chair, but she could not see him. He watched her arch her body upward against the ropes. She shook her head violently, with sweat-laden tendrils of her hair sticking against her cheek and screamed. Rain from the storm outside lightly tapped on the glass all around her, and the occasional burst of thunder cast flashes of light on her glistening, waiting flesh. The scene was striking, and he wished he had thought to set up a camcorder for this one.
Raven learned long ago that Aisha was drastically different than any woman he had ever met. She was fiercely independent. No man could control or tame her, and many tried.
But Raven knew any woman could be turned with a little time and patience. To him, the relationship between men and women was simple – men were dominant and women were submissive, even subservient to their stronger counterpart.
Woman WANTED to be equal, sure, but only on the surface, such as the workplace, in politics, even in marriage, but at the core of a relationship and behind the bedroom doors, when it came to sex, they wanted the man to take control, to be dominated. If some feminist did not see this, then she was either lying to herself, or just an empty vessel with no passion for life. Whatever the reason, she was not being true to her own nature.
He remembered reading My Secret Garden by Nancy Friday. This was THE quintessential book on female fantasies, written during the height of the feminine revolution. Not surprisingly, much of the content was focused the woman’s ‘needs’, but interestingly, there were no fantasies where the woman dominated the man, aside from a woman occasionally having a rubber prick strapped to her crotch. One would think, Raven surmised, that these self-proclaimed, bra-burning feminists would prefer tying their male partners down and playing the dominant role, but they didn’t. They wanted their men to tie THEM up and in many cases have their friends join in on her depredation.
To Raven, this was the human condition, embraced by most cultures throughout history, and these contemporary theories of the modern relationship were just a ripple in a stream that would never cease from flowing, never change course. If he met a woman who did not see this his way, then he simply lost interest because he had no time to wait for her to come to her senses.
However, with every rule, there was an exception.
From the first evening he saw Aisha dancing in that smoky paga tavern in Istanbul, he had been obsessed with her. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and her style of dance was impeccable. He even admired the way she controlled the crowd with her moves and her sexuality. She had them all worked into a frenzy, showering her feet with gold coins and waving paper bills in their hands. Later, when Raven met her backstage, his suspicions were immediately confirmed – that this woman was exactly like the character she portrayed on stage. Normally, he would have moved on, but he couldn’t let her go. For one thing, she was hell of performer and would serve The Organization well if offered the right incentives. Perhaps in time, she might come to discover her real nature and pursue it with him.
He offered Aisha a job, the title if ‘Madam’ with a slight name change to ‘Isha’, and most importantly, a lot of money. He treated her like a princess, a goddess even, but only because she was a woman — a creature so tenderly sculpted by nature that reverence was simply natural, and not because she was his superior or even his equal as a human being.
In Gorean mythology it was told of a long war between men and women in which the women lost, and that the Priest-Kings, not wishing them to be killed, made them beautiful, but as a price of this gift they also decreed — that they and their descendants, to the end of time, would be the slaves of men . . .
Raven always liked that story because it justified his psyche, which could never be changed no matter how hard he tried (not that he ever wanted to). When he was invited into The Organization, many years ago, he found people like himself. They had adopted a culture based on a mythical, ancient world called Gor, where in each city there were literally masses of young, desirable women serving their men in ways that he would never experience in the ‘real world’. In the Gorean culture, if you wanted a girl, all you needed to do was to select one from the multitude of women kneeling before you, and that girl would be yours. No questions asked.
But the lifestyle wasn’t just about sex. It was about having a place and knowing it, about exploring and preserving man’s true primal nature, while overcoming, through discipline and devotion, the modern standard so often thrust upon them during most of their lives.
Gor was about the harshness of humanity and the balances of its beauty when men were in their dominant positions of leadership, and the women comfortably accepted their servitude. True kajirae, or slaves, were never forced to do anything — rather, they wished to do whatever they could for their Masters because of a deep dependency for them, and a commitment to be taught, and to uphold a sense of perfection to a man who honored her with his collar.
Raven took another drink and focused his attention again on the girl. She seemed to settle down a little after her last orgasm. He watched her breasts rise and fall against the ropes each time she took a breath, her nipples as hard as marbles, and that sight, alone, made his stiff member ache all the more. He never grew tired of breast bondage. The simple act, alone, was an important element in the domination of the female, and for many reasons.
First, and most obvious, was the fact that the breasts were provided with an abundance of nerve endings that were notoriously resilient to ‘attention’. Then throw in the mental and psychological aspects – the orientation of the human with the breast as a source of sustenance – and they became a mental target of great importance, as well as the physical one, when it came to torture and discipline.
But more than anything, nothing enhanced the feminine assets to Raven more than the look of a young woman’s smooth, pale breasts tightly juxtaposed against the coarse fibers of a fine piece of dried sisal or hemp rope.
He set his drink down for the last time and got up from the chair. He walked to the clear sliding door, then paused. Aisha was moaning again and he knew the next few moments here would be exquisite.
He lingered in the doorway and watched her body lurch against the tight ropes, then twist and squirm, the wicker chair creaking underneath each time her weight shifted. There was rhythm to her movements, much like her dancing, only now she was putting on one of the most stimulating performances he had ever seen. What a pity he didn’t have that camcorder!
She struggled harder, her breath coming out in gasps and groans, then finally came to rest with her head tilted back in complete exhaustion, breasts heaving again as her lungs struggled to take in air.
Raven quietly stepped forward and entered the enclosed patio. The rain had finally subsided, the last drops pelting heavily against the glass, but growing thunder in the distance signaled that more would be coming.
He moved closer to Aisha and studied the elaborate ropework, following each of the rope’s paths as best he could. To Raven, rope bondage was not just something ‘kinky’ you do with a slave. Rope bondage was an art. Like fresh paints on a canvas, rope on a body became an element of expression. From the wickedly sadistic to the amusingly light-hearted, rope was limited only by the imagination, and as with the object bound before him, no two ties were ever quite the same.
Looking down at Aisha, he knew this was the first time she had let herself be tied up so elaborately, and most likely it would be the last. He knew it from the beginning when they first had to discuss the boundaries of their upcoming sessions. “No whips please. I don’t want any marks on my body, or no one will want to watch me dance. Nothing demeaning either. I don’t like to be humiliated . . .” and so on.
Of course Raven agreed to all of the terms, but he had no intention of following them. A true slave accepted every situation dealt to her, and he had waited far too long for this moment – to do to Madam Isha what no other man had been able to do – and he wasn’t going to spoil this opportunity by mitigating it with a bunch of silly rules!
He trailed his fingers along her body, barely letting the tips graze her flesh. She moaned at the slight contact. It was delectable to watch – the dancer, disciplined in isolation, syncopation, rhythm, and strength, affected to strongly by the smallest touch. Her dark eyes widened, then snapped shut. She held her breath and shuddered but tried to remain still so as not to entice the ropes while Raven’s fingers danced along the contours of her tight stomach, one finger dipping to tickle her navel. A river of piqued flesh clearly showed where his fingers had traced their path. Her eyes opened again and flashed an angry glare at him. She moaned an angry protest through her gag.
(“Where the HELL have you been, and when are you going to untie these FUCKING ropes?”) He could almost hear her screaming at him.
Raven knew this woman had a temper. It was rumored that she once pulled a knife on a man who had made unwarranted advances on her and left a deep gash in his arm. A woman like this would never forgive. Never forget. Their relationship would never survive, having now violated her trust and broken every promise he made before she allowed him to tie that first knot against her body.
The thought made him pause a moment, uncertain as to if he should continue, but his concerns were quickly silenced as another moan, this one more sensual in nature, tore itself from her lips. His fingers brushed over her breasts and teased her lovely nipples with just a feather touch of his palm. There was no turning back. It didn’t matter how she would react later, only how she was reacting now; that those soft sighs were elicited by him, meant for him, and him alone. She was learning.
His fingers outlined the gentle curve of her left breast, then tip-toed along the inside of her arm. Her breath hitched, a sharp sound that caught his ears with intrigue. His other hand dropped lower, sinking between her smooth, open thighs. Fingers fluttered lightly against her sex, barely a brush, and her hips bucked against him. The ropes tightened, creaked and she shrieked. Curses spilled forth from behind her gag, a cacophony of stringed, muffled words that made no sense.
He leaned down and kissed her cheek. She tried to turn her head away, but Raven grabbed a fist-full of her auburn hair and forced her head back to him. His other hand moved up to her breasts again and squeezed them gently. Her flesh was hot and moist with sweat from the constant rubbing and embracing of the ropes.
His lips went on to draw tiny, invisible patterns along her cheeks and throat. The collaboration of barely-there sensations and the never-ending friction of hemp against her most sensitive areas sent her into a flurry of felicity that she couldn’t deny, a desperate moan reluctantly leaving her throat. That was Raven’s favorite sound, one that showcased the vulnerability she was constantly hiding. A little humility never hurt, though she would berate him about it forever.
He pulled his silver handled crop from the inside pocket of his coat and rubbed it against the sensitive flesh between her legs, now swollen and glazed over with anticipation. She moaned and writhed in contentment.
“Do you like the feel of this, pet?” Raven asked.
She moaned again and nodded ‘yes’.
“Good. That means you are ready. In a moment you’re going to experience the other end of my crop.”
Her eyes snapped open and stared directly into his eyes. The smoldering look behind them conveyed her sense of betrayal, but then quickly changed when she saw Raven holding the crop, this time by the handle, her own juices still glistening off the silver grip.
“Yes . . . yes, I know, my pet. We had an arrangement, didn’t we? No whips, no crops, and above all, no garish red marks on that pretty flesh of yours . . .”
He raised his arm.
“. . . but you really didn’t expect a man like me to play by the rules, did you?”
A loud clap of thunder signaled that another storm was coming, and it drowned out her screams as the crop came down hard.