Free Craving Flight by Tamsen Parker

stands in front of me, my hair anchored as it is, but I can just see his face. He’s completely absorbed by his task. With more rope, he winds quick, thick cuffs around my wrists and attaches them to the ring above my head, fashions a shelf of several layers of rope beneath my breasts—the better to display them—and uses more to attach canes to my knees and ankles, holding them apart.
    The bondage has me completely helpless and exposed, rendering my insides into a quivering mass of desire. I have to refrain from rocking my hips and the tension in my scalp is a good reminder. Don’t move.
    Now that I’m staked out like a butterfly pinned in a specimen box, he reaches between my legs and strokes my clit for a few beats before diving his fingers further back and almost, but not quite inside me.
    “You’re soaking wet, little bird. You like being bound and helpless for me? You like being spanked?”
    “Yes, master.”
    The confession makes my face heat and I want to look away, but the grip of his fingers hard on my jaw and the rope in my hair make it impossible.
    “We’re not done yet. You think I bound you up so pretty just to admire you? No. Oh, no.”
    He strokes between my legs some more, seeming to know just how I like to be touched, precisely how to drive me crazy. He pushes me to the breaking point where I’m panting and straining to come and then backs off. “Not so fast. I’ve been looking forward to this and I’m going to take my time with you.”
    Leaving me in my bonds, he walks over to the bed where the clamps and a single cane are waiting. Apparently it’s time to be hurt and my body warms and softens in anticipation. I crave this as much as I did before I could really have it. Who knew I could covet something more when it’s mine than when it was out of my grasp?
    He pockets some of the clamps and hefts the cane. Rattan. Not that it’s heavy, but with his force behind it, it will be deliciously severe.
    Standing before me, he surveys his prize, helpless and waiting for him, soaking wet and desperate. He’s studying me, fixing his plans, or perhaps just torturing me with the wait. Then he kneels in front of me, still dwarfing me with his bulk, and puts down the cane before pulling a clamp from his pocket. He cups one of my breasts, kneads it until a sound escapes me and then toys with my nipple: pinching, pulling, rolling until he’s satisfied. That’s when he applies the clamp, the pressure biting into me so hard I yelp.
    He cradles my face in his hand, thumb pressing into my cheek and forcing me to meet his gaze. “You’re okay, Tzipporah. You can take it. Just breathe through it. You’re going to do this for me.”
    I can, and his stern but encouraging gaze makes me believe I will. Doing as he says, I breathe, following the rise and fall of his broad shoulders, pinning my lifebreath to his. Soon, the screeching pain is fading to a dull roar.
    “Good girl. See, I told you that you could do it. You have to trust me.”
    “Yes, master.”
    “I think you do. But it’s still scary sometimes? I’ll help you. I’m not going to make you do it alone.”
    His promise fortifies me when he pulls out another clamp and repeats the process on the other side. When they’re both on, I’m more aware of my breasts. They feel swollen, tight, like the most obvious part of me, and oh, does that ever turn me on.
    He strokes between my legs some more and it doesn’t take long before I’m on the edge. But instead of letting me come, he takes more clamps from his pockets and shows them to me. “You’re a smart girl, I bet you can guess where these are going.”
    I can and it scares me. He must see the alarm on my face because he pets me and soothes me, tells me I’m doing so well and he’s so pleased with me. And then there’s tightness and pressure on my labia, pinching. I suck air through my teeth as my eyes water but he talks me through it, encourages my breath, rubs the side of my