Kelli

Kelli

Chapter 1 of the Continuing Series
an erotic bondage story by Robert Deane
To this day, I am still not sure what first attracted me to her. Perhaps it was those long legs. I still smile every time that I think about the phrase to describe those legs, how they go all they up to there (and we know where “there” is.) And the black leather high-heeled boots that she often wore when she danced only added to the elegance of those long legs.

Then there was the hair. I don’t know of many ladies who can wear hair that length, down to the middle of the back, and still look elegant. Long, coal-black hair. Yet even as dark as it was, it managed to capture the light, as it captured me. I remember telling her on more than one occasion that, if she ever cut her hair, I would have to hurt someone. Not her, of course, but the person who cut that gorgeous hair. I never could hurt her; my job was to protect her, not to hurt her.

And, of course, there was the body. Okay, so maybe she helped Mother Nature a bit. On most other girls I would call them “plastic boobs.” But somehow, she took what was she was given and made it better. Not extreme, as others had done. Enhanced is a nice word. Soft is a better one. Snuggly is the best.

If I was not sure what attraced me, I knew, without a doubt, what kept me there. Simply, the smile in her voice, every time she heard mine. I could hear that smile over the telephone. And that run-towards-me-from-the-middle-of-the-room-and-fling-herself-against-me hug as she yelled out my name. At those moments when she was especially glad to see me, she would, almost child-like, jump up into my arms and wrap her arms and those long legs around my body. Yes, wrapped herself around me as tight as I wrapped my arms around her. It was like Christmas, on any day of the week. Thanks, Santa, how did you know that was what I wanted? A nice, soft package to be carried in my arms, named Kelli.

As I sit here in my office, and look through the pictures, many of them showing that nice soft package, all bound and gagged, her eyes shining as she looked up into the camera, and as she looked up at me, I wonder how I managed to let her go. But that’s the end of the story; this is only the beginning.

I had two businesses back then, one I called the “legit” business, that brought in the money, the other the “up and coming” business where I had the fun and hoped to make money in the future. Kelli first came to see me, to ask for my help in the “legit” business. I helped her as best as I could. And when that was done, I asked of her interest in my other business, bondage photographer. Her eyes twinkled as she slowly nodded, a mischevious grin covering her face, showing her interest as she looked over the galley photographs of other models who had graced the pages of my web site in its early days. Kelli was a dancer, and had a dancer’s body and flexibility. And as a dancer, she was always willing to earn a few extra dollars.

It seemed like not more than a few minutes later that she was kneeling, bound and gagged on the floor of my office. And the way she let me tie her, and gag her, that first time told me that she would soon take to bondage like the proverbial fish to water.

That day she had been wearing a pair of faded jeans, skin tight, of course, showing off both those legs and that cute butt. The shoes, an old pair of what my generation had called sneakers, had been removed before we began the “bondage model interview.” The interview, which included at least one bondage position, though a formality with Kelli, was something I did with every new model.

I had first wrapped the rope around her ankles while she was still standing, starting with a piece of looped, white rope. I could feel her arms reaching down, resting against my shoulders to steady herself, as I knelt in front of her completing that first task. When I had finished wrapping the rope around her ankles, I slid the end several times between her legs, cinching the rope coiled around her ankles, pulling it tighter each time. With that simple tie, I did not even have to knot the rope, though I did so to ensure that there was no chance of it coming loose. When I was done, I gently caressed her soft, warm ankles, and I swear that I could hear a slight purring sound coming from deep within her soul. Eventually another rope, both above and below her knees, tied the same as her ankles, held those lovely legs close together. Then I slowly stood, paused for a moment to look down into her still-shining eyes, and while holding her hands helped her kneel on the floor.

Her arms were to be bound behind her. Such a simple statement to explain the tight bondage. Now bent down behind her, as Kelli knelt on the floor, I began that task with more of that soft white rope, wrapped around her wrists, palm to palm, and tied in the same fashion as her ankles and legs, coiled rope cinched tight by the same piece of rope. I finished with several knots out of reach of her fingers, once again the knots not needed but still there to complete the task.

Another piece of rope had been used to pull her elbows together, touching, the rope also coiled around her bare upper arms, with a cinch rope slid several trimes between her arms. I am not sure why that is such a wonderful way to tie a lady’s arms, except, perhaps, that it is one of the most submissive positions in which a lady can be tied. If it is done properly, which of course it was, elbows touching and the rope also slid up and between her upper arms and her body, across her shoulders and the back of the neck, and back down the other side, escape is virtually impossible.

The other benefit of “elbow bondage”, at least for the person doing the tying, is that the lady is forced to thrust her breasts forward, as if they begged to be touched, to be caressed. And Kelli did a good job of that, even without the bondage. The bondage only enhanced it, to a degree that I would have thought to be impossible. And what she was wearing, a one-size-fits-all-but-two-sizes too-small t-shirt, sans bra, only emphasized the effect. She had thrust her breasts forward. Her nipples, perhaps hard from a chill in the room, yet maybe from an arousal from the bondage, strained against the flimsy material of the t-shirt.

I still remember how I placed the bright red ballgag in her mouth. As I held the ball to her lips, and as she looked up at me with those shining eyes, slowly parted her lips and licked the rubber ball, I had never, before then, been jealous of a ballgag. But at that moment I was.

I had to squeeze the rubber ball to fit it past her lips, my one hand placed at the back of her head, holding her head for support and feeling the softness of her hair in my hand, the other hand squeezing on the ball and pressing it deeply in her mouth. I could see her try to seat the ball in her mouth, as the gag filled her mouth completely. It was large enough that without the use of her hands she would not be able to remove it, and her hands were not available for that or any other purpose. Though it seemed to be a formality, I slid the black leather straps of the ballgag around her head, beneath her hair, and buckled it in place.

The red ballgag that filled her mouth, unknown to Kelli at that moment, had two purposes. It’s most obvious purpose was to silence her. But it also had a small hook, facing forward, that protruded from its center. To that hook I attached a thin chain, a small clasp on one end, pulled up on the chain until Kelli’s head was tilted back, almost looking straight up towards the ceiling, and then, as I stood on my toes, I reached up and slid one link of the chain through an open-ended hook that hung down from the ceiling. The squealing from behind the ballgag told me that Kelli had neither anticipated nor appreciated this bit of bondage. Her legs tied kept her from standing while the chain from the ceiling to the ballgag kept her from resting back on her legs. Yet even with that limitation of her movement, she still managed to shake her head, her hair flying wildly like a long mane, at the same time emitting a growl-like sound from behind the ballgag. Kelli was not happy at that moment, in her first introduction to tight bondage. She was always accustomed to being in control, or at least maintaining most of the control. As she was bound, and gagged, she had no control and her eyes flashed at me when I would come into view. Somehow, it made her even more beautiful.

Though I had always managed, up to then and after, to keep the photographer-model relationship on a professional level, I could not resist kneeling down in front of Kelli, leaning forward, and gently, so very softly, kissing her on each cheek. I could see her straining to look down at me, only able to move her eyes. That look told me that not only did she not mind the kiss, but I think she had expected it, perhaps even wanted it. At the same time, my hands, as if acting on their own, reached down began to gently caress her breasts, my fingers eventually finding their way to glide across her nipples. If her nipples had been hard because of a chill in the room, I was convinced, at that moment, that they were becoming harder, more aroused, from the touch, as that growling-like sound suddenly changed to a softer, moaning sound, from deep inside of her.

As my mind somehow won its battle to regain control, I remembered that I had one more task to complete her bondage, and still had, as the poet once said, miles to go before I could sleep. Slowly standing, my eyes taking in the vision beneath me, I took out one last piece of rope from my back pocket, walked behind Kelli, and slid a looped end of the rope around her wrists. Quickly, before she could object too much with another squealing sound, I pulled up on the rope, pulling her bound wrists up and behind her back, until her arms were almost parallel with her shoulders, and again reached up and slid the rope up and through that same hook that held the chain from her ballgag, pulled the rope back down and tied it again around her wrists. She tried to lean forward, to ease some of the strain of her now arched body on her arms and shoulders. Her black mane, laying across her upper arms, moved ever so slightly as she tried to move. But if Kelli had harboured any thought of release or even anything other than small movements, those thoughts had to have disappeared at that moment. And, of course, at the same moment, the growl-like sounds returned.

Still fighting to remember why I, and she, were there, I finally went to the closet, took out the camera, picked up as many rolls of film as I could carry, and then began my project for that day, immortalizing on film a bound and gagged Kelli.

That was the first time, the first of many. What was to follow would bring Kelli even deeper into my world, a trip she took without hesitation or reservation.

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