Cougarling, with rope of course

Some light rope play in the morning. A pentagram chest harness. Easy enough, but not for her: Unskilled and clumsy, painstakingly following directions shown on a youtube video, backtracking, trying again.

He was patient, always. Happy enough to feel the rope on his skin, gentle kissing, her chin already scraped raw from the night before when he had arrived after a full day’s work, a flight, a drive, carrying his five o’clock shadow into his long weekend. The rope play had a friendly camaraderie rather than some hot intimacy that spoke of more.

They’d agreed a bike ride along the beach at low tide, up to the rocky point that jutted out to the ocean, then back along the river.

She untied him, gently touching his skin as she unravelled the rope from his body. He was ready for the hog tie she’d said would come next.

She looked at the time.

“Ride first!”

His face registered some slight disappointment.

“The tide,” she said.

He smirked. “Oh really?” Thinking he could change her mind.

Her hand connected with his cheek in a slap before he could expand on that thought. His eyes flew open. She was true to her word: A slap for every time he questioned something she said with what appeared to be his habitual reply. “Oh really?”

“But I never!” he protested, futile and funny.

She laughed. “You JUST said it!”

“No, I didn’t…”

She laughed again. Silly boy.

Later, long after the surf-side bike ride and a break at a cafe on the river, the curtains of her bedroom windows were drawn, the heater in the corner was managing the winter chill, a soft yellow light bathed the room in a warm glow.

He was face down on the bed, a different kind of rope harness wrapped around his broad chest, his hands trapped behind his back. Another rope connected the harness to his ankles, drawing his legs up. His body all muscle with little flex, there was no bend to it.

He uttered a little ‘oof’ when she pulled the rope tight to draw his ankles up, visibly relaxing when she allowed his legs to stretch out.

The bright steel claw she brought out looked like it would do some damage, his brow furrowed when she showed him. She slipped it onto her middle finger and trailed it lightly over his skin. Listening to his breathing and soft moans, she found sensitive flesh and trailed over it and back, then moved off. The pale skin on the inside of his arms, the sides of his neck and behind his ears, up further into his hairline, then down. The curve of his arse, his inner thighs, the bottoms of his feet. So many delicious spots. Rarely increasing the pressure, she travelled his beautiful body with it.

“Feels so nice,” he murmured, stupored.

“Yes,” she said, moving from knee back up his thigh, his legs parting a little wider in invitation.

She let him lay in the rope after a while, petting him gently, checking the tightness now and then, until he started to get restless, and she decided to move on to something else.

Smacking his arse, she told him to see if he could get out of it.

He enjoyed the struggle, it was somehow satisfying for both of them. Both laughing at his efforts and frustration. He was not going to give up, and she knew that her ropework was sloppy. It was only a matter of time before he got his hands free and the jig was up.

She leaned back on her elbows with a smile to watch him struggle.