When He Tied Me Up


When I was 17, I married a rock musician, a bass player. The marriage didn’t last long. In the end it wasn’t the serial infidelities that caused our foundation to rot and ultimately crumble. It was a profound difference in Philosophy.

Initially we were probably just another pair of oversexed teenagers needing to fuck like we needed air to breathe. And oh how we fucked. Blow jobs in the back seat of a Chevy Impala with Led Zeppelin’s Lemon Song on 8 track making me suck harder, making the crotch of my too tight jeans turn dark with my own release. Summer nights in tents at the lake with his mouth clamped firmly over mine to diminish the sound of my cries while his parents slept in the tent next to us.

At first we were careful. He would pull out and come over my then flat stomach. I loved the feel of his hot sperm pooling on my fevered skin. Then one night in the back seat of the Chevy Impala it was just too good. With practice and a great deal of teenage desire we had perfected our fucking. One night we came together screaming into the night. He didn’t pull out. He apologised but in truth it was as much my fault as his and gradually I became addicted to the feeling of his come spurting deep inside my pulsing, hungry pussy. I needed the completion. I needed the dirtiness of his come mingled with my pussy juices sliding out of my cunt as he bit my hard nipple.

This was in Oklahoma in the late 60s. Birth control was not easy to acquire and always required your parent’s approval. So we were not careful and I was pregnant. The worst part of being pregnant was not when he said “I don’t really want to get married but if I did, it would be you.” This was followed by ” And my music will always come first.” And then he shoved a bouquet of red roses at me. Truthfully, I didn’t want to marry him either. Who would want to marry someone who didn’t want to marry you? But it was the late 60s in Oklahoma. Our parents took over and we did as we were told. No, the worst part of being pregnant at 17 was that sex had lost its appeal. I was no longer the sexy dirty slut fucking in the backseat of an old Chevy. I was a MOTHER.

A few years later we were living in Los Angeles. He was recording, doing session work, occasional gigs, occasional road trips and just generally being a typical, faithless musician. It was a fairly dull existence. I couldn’t get my head around sex as being anything other than another housewifely chore. It became difficult to spread my legs, even more difficult to come. I became quite accomplished at faking an orgasm but then a musician’s ego can be a colossal thing. I don’t think it dawned on him that he had lost the ability to make me come. Or maybe, he had so many lovers it didn’t matter to him.

When he was stuck at home and not out performing and fucking on the road, we started to get a little more creative. Late night visits to Porn movies, finger fucking in dark theatres while lonely men around us got themselves off. Whether their heavy breathing was a product of what was playing on the screen or my head bobbing over Johnny’s lap, I don’t know. I do know the experience made my cunt slick with need and my breathing come out in muffled moans. Some nights we couldn’t wait to get home. We pulled the car over and fucked and steamed up the windows with our breathing and our cries under the yellow light of Hollywood lamp posts.

As time went on, I needed more and more stimulation. I suspect the easy groupies throwing themselves at him were a kind of welcome respite. We had a friend who was in the gay BDSM scene at Venice Beach. I remember one late night sitting in the Atomic Cafe in Little Tokyo after a late night of clubbing. Pretty boys walked by with prettily coloured handkerchiefs in their pockets. He would translate a kind of kink code to me. I was fascinated and also a little shocked. I could see the eroticism of golden showers but defecating on someone’s chest was harder for me to grasp but the taboo of the act made my clit throb even then. I would find myself envying the easy sexuality of young gay men.

One night when we had probably had too much to drink, Johnny told me to take my clothes off and lie on the bed on my back with my legs spread. I would like to say that I hesitated for a moment but I didn’t. Perhaps, it was the command in his voice. Perhaps it was the wine. Perhaps it was merely that I didn’t know what was coming next and I liked how that felt. He stripped his clothes off and came to me with 5 scarves in his hands and an erection. I’ve always had a thing for scarves. Even now there are dozens hanging around. He took my wrist and tied it to the bed post. At this point I actually giggled, whether out of nervousness or a kind of childish innocence, I don’t know. Then the second wrist was tied to the bed post. I stopped breathing for a moment. He was completely silent and never made eye contact. Then each ankle was tied to the posts at the foot of the bed. My breathing was coming fast and shallow by now. He looked up at my face, walked over to me and ran a finger down my face. He had one more scarf in his hand. He whispered, “Are you okay?” When I nodded my head he whispered in my ear, “I’m going to blindfold you now.”

There were no safe words. Honestly, we had never heard of safe words and, anyway, this was my husband. I had known him since he was 15. Although, this man was a very different aspect of my husband, very much a stranger to me.

The blindfold went on and I panicked for just a minute until I felt his touch. Then, I craved his touch. I knew this man’s body and moves as if it and they were my own. But he mixed it up, worked to surprise me and then suddenly I was no longer aware of being tied up on a bed tensing for the next touch, anticipating his next movement, the next pinch, the next bold stroke. I was floating on a sea of sensation and need. I came long before his fingers entered me finding me slippery and molten. I came again when he shoved his dick balls deep in one stroke even as I screamed into the darkness, “Harder!” My cries rapidly turned to pleas begging for more of something I couldn’t name. I came so many times that night until I finally lost consciousness and woke up curled up against my husband with scarves hanging from the bedposts. That was the night that defined me.

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