We’ve broken enough rules in that church already. The rope was just the first one that left marks.
Okay. So this is fucked up, but.
I've been volunteering at this downtown church since last spring. Tuesday nights. Inventory, bulletins, locking up. That's how it started with David, the guy who runs the youth group and wears jeans to staff meetings. Four months ago, we fucked in his car after a council meeting. Since then, his office couch, the storage room, and the baptismal font room because he thought it was funny.
We know how to make each other come fast and quiet. We know each other's bodies. But we don't know this.
Last Tuesday, late, I was putting away rice bags. The storage closet sticks. The gap shows him with his back to me, sleeves rolled up, holding a coil of hemp rope. He's tying a knot against his own wrist, loosening, tying again. Methodical. Shoulders tight. Breathing hard.
I've never seen him look so focused. Or so scared.
"Hey."
He jumps. The rope drops. "Shit. Sorry."
Stare at the hemp. At his hands. Twenty times we've fucked, but my stomach twists now—not from fear, from the sudden image of it. Bound. Him in control. We've been desperate and fast for months. This feels like wanting more than just release.
"Show me," I say.
We end up in the prayer room. The door clicked shut. He pulls out the rope, hands shaking. "'Red' means stop," he says. "That's it. That's all you need to say."
"Okay."
He approaches. Doesn't touch me yet. My skin feels hot everywhere his gaze lands.
"Shirt off," he says. Strip. My fingers tremble. Familiar skin, unfamiliar context.
He presses the rope into my palms first. Rough. Real. Then he takes it back and starts binding me. No more talking. Just the sound of hemp against skin. He starts at my wrists behind my back. Methodical, but he fumbles twice, breathing hard against my neck. The rope crosses my shoulder blades, then over my chest, squeezing just enough that every breath is conscious. Fibers scrape my nipples. More at my waist, pinning my wrists. The more he adds, the more still become. My heart hammers against the hemp.
He steps back. Checks the ropes. His pupils are blown wide. He touches my face, feels my racing pulse. Doesn't ask if I'm okay. Can see I'm shaking. Can see I'm wet.
He guides me down to my knees. My balance is off; he steadies me with a hand in my hair. I'm bound. Held. The power exchange settles over me like a blanket, heavy and suffocating and safe.
He unzips with his free hand. His cock is already hard. He steps closer and presses the head against my lips. Taste him. Salt and skin.
He pushes in slowly. Hits the back of my throat. My eyes water. The panic flares but his hand in my hair is steady, checking, controlling. He pulls back, pushes in again. Can hear the wet sounds in the prayer room. The rope digs into my wrists with every shift of my weight. Can't use my hands. Can't push back. Can only take what he gives.
He pulls out suddenly. "Stand up," he orders.
He lifts me. The ropes make me feel weightless. Bends me over the prayer bench and my cheek pressed to the velvet cushion. He drags my skirt up, panties down to my thighs, trapping my legs. Pussy wet and open.
He pauses. Hand rests on my ass. He drags one finger down my cleft, through the wetness, and spreads it around my clit. Not rubbing. Just claiming. Marking.
"Look at you," he murmurs. "Held open. For me."
He enters me in one slow, steady push. Opens me up inch by inch. I'm tight, and he feels huge like this, hands tied, no way to push back. He stops halfway, throbbing inside me and breathing hard.
"Fuck," he groans. "So hot. So tight."
He pushes to the hilt. Stays there, throbbing. Then moves. Deep. Grinding. Hits places that make my legs shake. The rope digs in with every thrust, keeping me anchored while he uses me.
He covers my body with his. Hand finds my clit, rough circles.
"You're mine right now," he growls in my ear. "Mine. Say it."
"Yours," choke out. "Please don't stop. Please."
He fucks me through the orgasm. It crashes over me, pussy clenching in waves around his cock. He keeps moving, stroking that spot, making it last until I'm sobbing into the cushion. Then he finally lets go, buries himself deep, and comes with hot, thick pulses. Bites my shoulder hard enough to bruise, stifling his groan.
After, he unties me slowly. Methodical. Massages my wrists, kisses the red marks. We sit on the floor for a long time, the rope coiled between us.
He takes my hand. Traces the lifeline.
"Tuesday?" he asks.
"Tuesday," I say.
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