Here’s another taste of my forthcoming collection of erotica. Next week, I’ll reveal the title and a bunch more details about the project. 

You have several strengths, bumblebee, but subtlety is not one of them.

I found the leash and collar you left on my desk, incongruous and comical amongst the endless drafts of dissertation and supply of partially dried highlighters. Like a dog who wants a walk in the park, dropping the instruments of her release at her owner’s feet in blatant suggestion. You’re precious, I’ll give you that. And so very, very determined. But subtle? Hardly.

Of course I noticed that the duct tape had been eased to the front of the usually innocuous drawer of household supplies, along with the scissors, coupled with the relocation of my riding crop to the closest, most convenient hook along the wall of my closet to be nestled amongst my belts. Surely this was the purpose of your sudden interest in home improvement, that I might notice it.

But, such efforts imply that I had somehow been neglecting you. And it is awful dramatic to confuse disregard with denial. I assure you, my refusal to reach for the crop (or the harness or any other item in this house that you’ve managed to somehow pervert to your own little fancies) has been entirely intentional.

But, if you want to be tied up so badly, I’ll certainly indulge you. 

I’ve taken the liberty of laying out a few things myself. Maybe you’ll recognize your old friends – the duct tape, the scissors, the crop, your leash and collar. Perhaps it’s been some time, but I am sure you are not completely estranged from the cuffs, the clamps and the blindfold.

Your face drops when I order you to pick up the scissors, but you comply and dutifully bring the blades toward the waistband of your jeans. 

“All right, love,” I interject, relishing the fact that you have obeyed, “you can just remove them. Fold them on your bed. But leave the panties on. Those get sliced off.”

You pout, “they’re new.” 

“And here I was, being generous,” I lament, reaching for the scissors that you have returned to the bed. You act fast, unbuttoning your jeans and tugging them down to your ankles. You kick off your sandals and shake the rumpled legs of your jeans from your calves. “The shirt, too.” You obey, unhooking your bra and sliding it from your arms for good measure.

I hold the scissors back out to you, handle-first with the sort of attention to detail and safety a mother exercises when handing such a device to her child. You huff and swipe them out of my hand, hitching them into your panties and exhaling anxiously with the first snip.

“I would’ve cut the sides if I were you, not straight-on down the middle,” I comment, taking a seat on the bed. “But I suppose you always do have a flair for the dramatic.”

You draw the scissors back and sip through one side, then the other with an indignant “hmph.“ 

“Let’s see them,” I say. You hold them up by the remainder of the waistband between your thumb and forefinger, disdainfully and just a little flushed. “No, come on, let’s see the crotch.” Your brows furrow and you take hold with both hands, stretching the fabric to reveal a small patch of wetness. “There’s the moneyshot,” I tease. You cannot meet my gaze.

I rise to my feet and reach forward, taking hold of your chin. Tilting your head as to bring your face in line with mine, I chuckle when your eyes continue to look away: a tiny rebellion. “Girl,” I scold and feel the smallest trace of a shudder tremor through your jaw, followed by a hard swallow. You so hate being admonished, even in a single harshly-delivered word.

“Yes, Mistress,” you choke out, eyes darting to meet mine. 

My grip softens. “The scissors, please,” I request and open my palm. Unable to look down, you cautiously tap the handle on the pad of my thumb before dropping them into my hand. I release your chin, but continue to stand closely. Your anxious breath tickles my collarbone. “The panties should be in your mouth. Doesn’t that sound about right?” 

You nod solemnly and ball up the fabric before pressing the wad past your teeth.

I grin and return to my seat on the bed, enjoying the show. “Now the duct tape. Three strips over that. Neatly.”

Before applying any of the strips of tape to your mouth, you rip each off and arrange it on the nightstand. Ensuring that the lengths were more or less equal, you press them one after the other onto your lips, bulging with the fabric of your panties. When you have finished, you shift your jaw in an attempt to demonstrate that you have done your job well and that the gag will not be dislodged.

Smiling, I reach once more for the roll of duct tape and wave it in front of you. “Around your head. Three times.” Your nostrils flare and you stomp your foot in protest, letting out a low whine below the tape. “Don’t give me that. Just pick up your hair and be careful about it.”

You collect the roll and carefully press the exposed end of tape to your right cheek. With your left hand carefully lifting your hair out of the way, you pass the tape around your head in three meticulous winds. I hand you the scissors and you snip away the excess before allowing your hair to once more frame your silent face. 

“There we are,” I sigh contentedly before tossing you the bundle of crocheted rope. “Tie your ankles. Not so tight you’ll cut off circulation. And take care with it, be a diligent little Girl Scout, bumblebee.” I wink. 

You groan and untangle the rope. First, you attempt to sit on the bed, but a meaningful glance redirects you to the door. Grumbling under the gag, you secure your ankles together and adjust yourself so your bare ass is settled on the carpet and your restrained legs are extended in front of you. Wordlessly, I toss you the handcuffs, which you catch with narrowed eyes. You click the first into position before sliding the other hand into the opened cuff.

“Nope, behind your back, love,” I interject and you roll your eyes, rearranging yourself until I hear the decisive click.

I sit down on the floor beside you, cupping your face softly. You welcome my grip this time, mistaking gentleness for mercy, and meet my stare. “Very good, love,” I coo, stroking your cheek through the layers of duct tape with my thumb, patting the skin that bulges slightly over the gag. “Now take a deep breath in and be even better for me.”

You squeal into your panties as I attach the first clamp, followed by the second, to your hard, eager nipples. Your arousal has betrayed you, allowing the tools of your torture to be applied so easily. I kiss your brow, dotted with anxious perspiration.

“Don’t give me that look,” I tease and give the chain a slow yank down to your navel. You squeeze your eyes shut, your face contorting deliciously with pain. “This one suits you so much better anyway.” I unhook my finger from the chain and remove my hand from your cheek before rolling you onto your stomach.

I relish the whine from behind your gag as your clamped nipples come into contact with the fibers of the carpet. “So, maybe I should explain tonight, bumblebee,” I begin, reaching for the riding crop. I trace the leather up the inside of your thigh, a threat that leaves an adorable trail of goosebumps in its wake. 

“It was so nice of you to send me such a cute little reminder,” I tease, using my free hand to push the leash and collar off of the bed, letting them fall in front of your face. “Did you want to be my little pet real bad, baby?” You nod eagerly and I scoop up the leash and collar, tossing them over my shoulder. “Too bad.”

“Hmm?” You exclaim behind the gag.

I draw the crop away from your skin before hitting the bottom of your left foot. Grunting, you grind your bound feet into the carpet. I settle my other hand on the back of your head to stroke your hair. Seeing you in such a state, I can’t help but chuckle.

“Awww, love, you don’t think you were going to get away with getting what you wanted, did you?” I land the crop on the back of your thigh, eliciting a squeal. “Maybe next time, bumblebee.”