Ripcord

It’s late. I’m alone in a hotel room in a city I’ve never been to before.

It’s late, but I can’t sleep. I’m alone, states away from anyone I could call at this hour. I’m texting  a partner back home, flirting and sending pictures back and forth, both getting more frustrated but not getting off. He’s teasing me for being insatiable. It’s a fair taunt, but not one I plan to let slide.


I’m sure I can find a way to entertain myself for a few nights alone.

Oh?

Yes, I came prepared. [I send a snapshot of a sheet of clothespins leaning against my thigh.]

And you plan to entertain yourself how, exactly?

That’s up to you.

[He tells me where to attach them. I send a photo when it’s done.]

Like this?

Looks about right…needs more clips though.

Yeah, well. TSA might have looked askance at that. Fuck, pulling these off is going to hurt.

Isn’t that the idea? Is it worse to wait or pull as soon as possible?

Waiting. Gives things a chance to get used to the pinching, then it’s worse when it stops.

That’s what I thought. So let things acclimate then change the climate.

Of course you’d say that. Just what am I meant to do while I’m waiting?

Be patient. [He starts talking about other things, making plans for after I get home.]

Just so you know, breathing makes the clothespins on my ribs shift. Ow.

Aww. Guess it’s just as well I didn’t have you line the whole ribcage, then. I considered a couple of other patterns.

Well, maybe I can try something else after you let me pull these ones off.

Oh, you expect me to let you pull them off.

Fuck.

You bastard.

Yes, that I am. Shouldn’t you be a little nicer if you want me to tell you to pull?

I wish you could be here for this.

Not just because I wish someone else would pull this damn ripcord for me.

Oh? To pull the line or to fuck you mercilessly afterwards?

Or to help keep me quiet when they do come off.

So maybe you should try to convince me.

[Hell. I never beg. I hate begging. If one or two renditions of “please” doesn’t get a result, I settle into a prideful state of “fine, I didn’t need that anyway”]

How would it go if I were there?

How would you want it to?

I don’t know how you’d pull. Jerk the whole string at at once, maybe,  or steadily increase pressure to release one clothespin at a time.

Which is worse?

Whichever is worse? I don’t know which one is worse, they’re both damn near unbearable.

I suspect you’d draw it out. Waiting for that rush of pain to hit is its own special torture, and you do love to torture me.

As if you don’t… I can’t tell if this is about pain or sex right now.

Is there a difference? It hurts. And yes, I’m desperate to come.  My clit is throbbing against that horrible clothespin. What the hell was I thinking, putting one there?

That it would please me. So what is it you want?

I wish you were here. I need to come but not half as badly as I need to taste your cock. I want to make you moan and grab me by the hair. I want to do whatever it is you want me to do.

I want you to keep talking. What do you want?

I want to see your face, what this does to you. I want to fly home right fucking now; to hell with this conference I want you to hurt me.

I need to come. Please. God, I need to come ten minutes ago. My legs are shaking. It hurts. It fucking hurts and I can’t touch myself with all these clothespins in the way.

I’m afraid to pull the cord, afraid I’ll make too much noise. Fuck, it’s going to hurt.

Fast or slow, which is worse? It’s a trick question. Waiting is worse.

Please. I need to come. I need these clothespins off of me so I can shove my fingers in my cunt and imagine they’re yours. Just…please.

Pull.


I’d never begged before. Talking, flirting, demanding others say these things for me, sure, but this was new and a little frightening.

New can be a good thing, right?

 

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