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updated july 18 2011
Argus Collection at
www. bdsmbooks.com
Girl on a Leash
by Argus
Chapter 1
I remember the first time my wrists were tied together behind my back. I was still
in high school, still in that phase of my life where image was everything. I was a
very sexual girl, but had to hide it. I had a boyfriend, and we regularly had sex.
But I never felt free to express myself during sex. Sex with Jason was always
complicated, not because of who he was but who were. There were unspoken, unwritten
rules about sexuality in school, and they bound me, even if I was not bound
otherwise.
A girl could enjoy sex, at least at my age, as a senior, but only with a boyfriend,
someone she loved. One night stands were heavily frowned upon. I was safe to have
sex with Jason, and to enjoy it, but not too much. He was male, and an athlete, and
too much of his male ego was bound up in his sexual power - such as it was. I knew
full well that if I were to react strongly he would be boasting about it to his
friends, who would then pass it on to their girlfriends.
I could enjoy sex, but not too much. If I screamed, if I reacted too strongly, Jason
would be so proud of himself everyone would hear of it. I'd be humiliated. So I
always had to control myself when we had sex. Because even at a young age I had
realized that I was a far more sexual person than my girlfriends. I loved sex. I
loved to be seen naked by Jason. I loved to be "dirty" with him. And even though he
really wasn't that good my body burned whenever he was inside me.
It wasn't that I didn't have those fantasies about soft, gentle sex by the
fireplace. I did. But raw, hard, dirty, rough, nasty sex just blew my mind away. I
never understood why. I still don't. But it so happened, of course, that rough, hard
sex was what teenage boys were best at. So I was forced to suppress my reactions, to
engage in an intricate dance of responding, but controlling my responses, my
movements, my sounds, even my facial expression.
Or have him boasting and have all our friends making fun of me. And as I said, at
that age I was terribly, terribly conscious of my image.
I felt myself lucky to have a boyfriend like Jason. He was a star athlete, after
all, and quite large and handsome. I didn't think of myself as beautiful. I was
short, barely over five feet, slim-hipped, with glasses. I had decent breasts, not
huge, but full and round and firm, and nice hair, a soft, dark, gleaming brown which
fell like silk around my face.
I was pretty, but not, to my mind, beautiful, not really. I didn't have the
classical look of the model. My jaw was too strong, my eyes too wide-set, my face
too square. Still, I could not deny the affect I had on boys - and now men, as I
reached maturity. They looked at me - all the time. It was an ego boost, but it was
also a little unsettling, and, I admit it, a bit of a turn-on as I wondered what
they were thinking as they watched me.
I guessed they wanted me, my body, sexually, wanted to do nasty, wicked things with
me, that they were imagining doing nasty, wicked things with me. And that both
embarrassed and turned me on.
Jason and I had been having sex for some time when he first got the idea to tie my
wrists. I'm not even sure where he got the idea from. We were in his basement, a
finished basement rec room, with his parents away at work. We were making out, and I
was getting hot, with my shirt and bra already off, my trousers undone and his hand
down the front rubbing at my clit. He was mouthing my breasts in his inexpert way,
meaning he was chewing too hard, sucking too hard, almost hurting me. But as I said,
I liked it rough, and so despite the almost-pain, or perhaps even because of it, my
breasts were throbbing with need, my nipples sparkling like live wires.
We were on the sofa, and he got my trousers and thong off so that I was entirely
naked. This turned me on, as I have already said. But I felt even more turned on
that afternoon because he was fully clothed. I don't know why being naked while he
was fully clothed was such an added turn-on, but it was.
And then he stopped and stood up, grinning wickedly at me. I was a bit breathless,
but when he reached for me I took his hand and he pulled me to my feet. "I want to
try something," he said, leading me across the room.
"What?" I asked.
He walked me across the room, clutching my wrist now, me naked, him fully-clothed,
and my pussy throbbing with hunger. He stopped at a corner cabinet and opened it,
bent, and rummaged inside, then came out with a short length of white rope. I stared
at it without understanding at first.
"Turn around."
He put his hand on my bare shoulder and guided me to turn my back to him, then
seized my right wrist and pulled it back behind me. I felt the rope being wrapped
around it and felt a kind of shockwave roll through me.
"What are you doing!?" I gasped, struggling, turning.
He didn't fight me but let me turn, and the rope slipped off my wrist as I jerked my
hands back.
"I want to tie your hands behind you."
"What? No way! Why!?" I demanded.
"Just - because," he said awkwardly. "I think it'd be hot, you know, kinky."
I frowned at him suspiciously. He was my boyfriend, and so I trusted him, and the
thought of having my hands tied up made me squirm with excitement because he was
right and it would be kinky.
"I don't know," I said.
I did know. I knew right away, but I could not be seen to give in to easily. I was
bound by the rules, and I didn't want my reputation to suffer.
"Come on! Please! I think it'll be neat!" he exclaimed.
"You won't tell anyone?" I said, glaring challengingly.
"I promise!"
I chewed my lip uncertainly. "Okay, but if I say untie me you untie me."
"I promise," he said eagerly.
So I turned around, giving every appearance of doubt and uncertainty, and let him
pull my wrists behind me and tie them together. When he turned me around I felt a
kind of psychic blow, staring up at him, naked, wrists tied behind my back. And he
was still fully clothed. I felt helpless, but in a strange, wicked, exciting way.
He grinned at me, and from the bulge in his jeans he was obviously excited by what
he saw.
He turned me around again, then turned me to face him. "Now you're at my mercy," he
said, leering.
I didn't reply, and he led me back to the sofa, this time sitting me across his lap.
He began to fondle me, running his hands over my body, groping my breasts, rubbing
at my pussy, slipping his fingers inside me as he chewed on my breasts. There was
nothing new in what he was doing, but having my wrists tied made it seem new, made
me feel each touch more powerfully. I was having to control myself almost at once,
to suppress groans and gasps of pleasure as my body overheated.
He bent my head back, pulling on my hair, so my back would arch, and chewed on my
nipples and breasts so they ached and throbbed and burned. He moved his hands more
roughly over me than usual, as if my helplessness made me more his property. And he
said as much. "You're my bitch," he said, growling at me as he pinched and rolled my
nipples and thrust his fingers inside me.
I gasped aloud, and spread my legs, and his fingers pushed roughly deeper as he
chewed at the nape of my neck. He was clearly getting hotter and hotter and my bare
bottom was rubbing against him through his jeans. He pulled more roughly on my hair
so it hurt, my head going far back, my legs splaying wider as if to balance myself.
I was on the edge of a powerful orgasm and fighting to hold back, not wanting him to
think I was this aroused by being tied up.
He suddenly threw me off, shoving me roughly aside on the sofa and getting to his
feet. He turned, yanking down his zipper and pulling out his erection. He pulled me
roughly into a sitting position and thrust his cock into my mouth. I took it
eagerly, gasping, moaning, sucking as he pushed it deep. His hands went to my hair,
as they always did, combing through it. But now he was more aggressive than he
usually let himself become, and unlike other times I didn't feel the need to
restrain him.
I let him pull on my hair, and let him thrust more deeply into my mouth, more
quickly, more violently. I let him use me without correcting him. I thought about
protesting several times, about pulling back, glaring at him, demanding he ease up.
But I thought about it mostly for the sake of my reputation, not because I wanted
him to stop. I didn't want him to stop. Something about being roughly used, like his
bitch, as he said, with my hands tied behind me, was doing some really weird things
to my mind.
I let him thrust into my mouth, through my tightly closed lips, let him gag me
repeatedly as he groaned and thrust and humped forward. And when he jerked back he
pulled me by my hair so that I slipped off the sofa and found myself on my knees. I
liked up the length of his body at him and he looked down with wide, hungry, excited
eyes, and all I could do was suck on his cock as it pumped violently into my mouth.
"Suck my cock, Emily!" he panted. "Suck it! Suck it!"
He thrust into my mouth hard, his fat cockhead jabbing against the inside of my
cheeks, scraping along the roof of my mouth, threatening to choke me with each deep
thrust. And all I did was obey him, sucking and licking at him as he pumped,
moaning, gasping whenever he pulled to hard on my hair, not doing a thing to resist.
It was as if my bound wrists had somehow robbed me of my willpower, or freed me of
the need to maintain a proper image of equality between us.
I could hardly believe I was getting so intensely hot just from having him rutting
into my face. But I was almost trembling with the inner heat, with sexual
electricity crackling through my body, with my nerve endings spasming and twisting,
especially between my legs and on my breasts. I imagined myself as his bitch, his
whore, his sexual possession, his slave, and let him jam his cock so deep into my
mouth it penetrated my throat. I gagged, but he was so far gone he hardly noticed or
cared. He thrust himself right into me, his big hands tight in my hair on either
side of my face. He pulled my face forward so that his cock pushed right down my
throat and my face was jammed into his groin.
I could hear his voice, full of passion and heat "Oh fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" he cried.
I was in a state of shock, my throat full of cock, my nose jammed into his pubic
bone, my head held there by his tight grip on my hair. Oddly, with him filling my
throat I felt less of an urge to gag than I had when it first pushed through. But
now, in his excitement, he began to fuck my throat, using his grip on my hair to
yank me forward every time he thrust into me. He fucked my throat in short, furious
little strokes, gasping and cursing with passion as he rammed forward again and
again.
I just let him. I didn't fight. I was still coping with the shocked realization
that he was in my throat, and that filled me with contrary feelings. I was shocked,
frightened of being unable to breath, and excited. I had deep throated a guy! But
it was really all so quick, so fast, so hard, so violent, that I really didn't have
time to think before he came and spurted himself deep into my throat.
Then he began to withdraw, pulling his cock free. He let go of my hair and
staggered back, and I fell back against the sofa, gasping for breath, coughing
violently, red faced, saliva spilling down my chin and onto my chest as I half lay
back against the sofa, gulping in air.
He was apologetic, not, I think, because he really regretted what he'd done but
because he was afraid I'd go ape shit on him. But he was still really aroused. He
helped me back onto the sofa and then dropped to his knees in front of it and began
to eat me out, to repay me, I guess he thought. He hadn't untied me, and I lay
back, slumped low on the sofa, legs spread wide, as he licked at my clit and
fingered my pussy.
And I was still kind of in shock, still gulping in air, still confused, still
conflicted.
I was still very, very hot, though, and while he was no expert at pussy licking I
was not all that discriminating either. My body began to overheat, and I was soon
bucking up against him, moaning and gasping and panting as my body thrilled to the
touch of his mouth, his lips, his tongue and his fingers on my hungry sex. My
orgasm was violent and extended, and I barely had the presence of mind to try to
suppress my responses, to keep from screaming out loud, to keep from making too
much of a spectacle of myself as my insides twisted and flared with intense sexual
pleasure.
And then, teenage boys being what they were, he had gotten hard once more, and so
rose up and thrust himself inside me. My orgasm was just beginning to ease off, and
being so deeply and roughly penetrated raised it once more. I could see him looming
above me, blocking out the light as he began to thrust, feel his hot breath in my
face, feel his hard fingers digging into my calves as he forced my legs up and back
against the back of the sofa. But I could do nothing but gurgle weakly, my eyes
glazed as he pounded his cock into me and his hips slammed mercilessly against my
tight little bottom.
That was the first incident. The second came only the next day. He wanted me to
deep throat him. I wanted to deep throat him. We both knew I could do it since I
already had. So we were both naked, still in his basement, and I was on my knees,
untied, trying to force my lips down harder on his cock. But every time his
cockhead hit the entrance to my throat I gagged and jerked back. It was frustrating
for both of us.
I really wanted to do it. To be an accomplished at deep throating would be - well,
something to brag about, at least to my closest friends. Few could do it, and to
us, in our naivety, it marked a really skilled, more mature, more sexually
accomplished woman. It didn't mark a girl as a slut, for sluts were pathetic things
of no power. No, it would mark me as sophisticated.
And then Jason suggested he tie my wrists behind my back, and he take over. I was
afraid, but I also wanted it to work, and the idea of being tied up again was hot,
surprisingly hot. I let him, and knelt before him as he pumped slowly in and out of
my mouth. I was kind of backed against the sofa, with him in front of me holding my
hair out to either side of my head to control me. I felt helpless, scared, and
excited.
He thrust forward and his cock pierced my throat. I tried to jerk back again by he
pulled forward on my hair and forced his cock deep into my throat. I fought weakly,
but had no strength, and no position. He leaned in, his knees pressing me back
against the sofa, his hands tightly clutching my head. My face was jammed against
him now, his cock buried in my throat. My throat felt quivery and fluttery and I
felt like gagging, but he gave me no choice.
He pulled back slowly, and now I felt like I was throwing up. Fortunately, I hadn't
eaten, and there was really very little in my stomach. His cockhead popped free and
I coughed and gasped for breath, just as red-faced as the other day, saliva still
dribbling down my jaw and onto my chest.
"You just need more practice," he said. "You know you can do it."
It wasn't me that was doing it, but neither of us really thought of that. And both
of us wanted me to be able to do it. So I didn't fight as he pushed his cock into
my mouth again, and over the course of the next half hour thrust it down my throat
again and again and again, until something inside me did realize I could do it and
it became much easier to bear.
He came in my throat twice during this time, but being young he was still hard. And
he wanted to fuck me. He pulled out and roughly pulled me forward so I sort of
dropped onto my shoulders, my bottom in the air. He knelt behind me and shifted my
legs apart, then ran his hands over my tight little bottom and rubbed my pussy.
I found the position - embarrassing - and yet for some reason it really struck
something deep inside me. I was on my knees, my ass in the air, my hands tied, and
I was really, really hot as he rubbed his spit-wet-cock up and down my warm, moist
pussy. He entered me roughly, and began to really pound me almost at once. I
grunted helplessly as his hips slammed into my little bottom, as his big cock
pounded into my throbbing, overheated sex.
My chin was pressed against the rug, and my wrists twisted weakly against the rope
as he road me. My insides were quivering and shaking and burning and I felt so
incredibly slutty and wanton and used that my mind just flipped over and I came
violently, clamping my mouth shut to keep from screaming as Jason continued to
pound against me.
The next time I tried to deep-throat him I managed to do it without being tied up.
And the more I did it the better I got at it.
Now bear in mind I was a very slim, petite girl. I wasn't skinny, but my shoulders
were narrow, my hips slender, my waist flat. Jason was very strong and more than a
foot taller. He could and had picked me up in his arms easily, thrown me over his
shoulder, carried me around jokingly, and thrown me into pools. And it really
drives home to you how weak you are in comparison to someone else when they can
effortlessly pick you up and throw you around like a rag doll.
But as I began to really understand, I had power over him when I was on my knees
with his cock in my mouth. I began to really explore how I could suck him better. I
even went on the internet to look for tips. I wanted to make myself powerful, and
the only way I could do that was through sex. And so by the end of the summer I was
a really accomplished blow job artist. I could reduce big strong Jason to groaning,
wriggling putty, and keep him like that for long periods of time. I could make him
beg, make him say almost anything.
And if Jason was rough when he thrust himself into me that was because I was so
hot, because I was so sexy, because I had driven him wild with lust. Me, little old
me. And that was a kind of power.
