Roped By Veronica Beacher

            I don’t know what it is about having my wrists tied or locked behind my back, but it never fails to get my heart pounding or my pussy thrumming and humming.

            His name was Mr Harama. He was the man I had fucked in the middle of the Pink Salon.

            And he was into bondage in a big way.

            A lot of the Japanese were. I don’t know if it’s a power trip, a kind of backlash against what they see as their male prerogatives being eroded by modern times, or just some kind of weird genetic kinkiness, but I’ve never met a group as likely to be fascinated by bondage as the Japanese.

            And like many successful Japanese men they really put their all into it.

            Mr. Harama had patiently spent the better part of an hour measuring and cutting the soft ropes, then criss-crossing my torso before twining them around my limbs. The rope pulled in tightly against my chest, around my breasts, and up between my legs, with an intricate little knot right over my throbbing clitoris.

            My wrists and arms were pulled back tightly behind me, my body bowed, and I was hanging from a rope, turning slowly as Harama’s eyes drank in the sight of me. A pair of small weights were clipped to my nipples, making them burn and sting with every movement of my body. I was breathing in short, ragged breaths, finding it difficult to expand my lungs with the tightness of the ropes around my chest.

            Mr. Harama began to circle me, eyes alive, crouching low, staring from all directions.

            I just hung there helpfully, gasping, moaning softly. I was uncomfortable, but not in any real pain, and the excitement gripping my mind swept any discomfort up in a storm of sensory impulses anyway as I basked in my own helplessness.

            He stepped back and gently lowered me to the floor and untied me. As I sat up, groaning a little, he opened a bag and drew out another long length of rope. This was not the soft, quarter inch cotton rope I had just been tied with. This was thick, rough brown hemp.

            Rope like that, pulled tight, would leave red marks on my skin which might not completely fade by tomorrow.

            “So sorry, Harama San,” I said, bowing my head very meekly. “Marks on my skin which do not fade by tomorrow would anger my employers.”

            That wasn’t precisely true. I’d have to stay off work until they did faded completely, though. Japanese rope bondage was not just a few loops around the wrists and ankles after all.

            He nodded and turned away to the nearby desk. He had already written me a check for a thousand dollars. Now he carelessly scribbled another for five times that amount. To him it was chicken feed, of course. It was considerably more to me but I hesitated even so. If there were lines across my body I would not be able to strip or - have dates - until they faded. Five grand was a fortune to my mother. I made almost that much most nights at the club, and more, of course, on my occasional “dates”.

            I nodded, finally. I was aroused, excited. And it wasn’t like I had dates every night, or even every week. Men like Hamara, with his money and willingness to spend it on his kinks were not so easily found in New York, at least, not ones I could trust. And you don’t let yourself get tied up by just anyone.

            I had a private agency on retainer which did quick checks on Japanese businessmen. Unlike in the US there was usually a ton of private information available about Japanese businessmen, especially those of any note or power. Hamara was not particularly wealthy or powerful by Japanese standards, but he did own a number of small service companies, and was known as a disciplined man who never lost his temper. He had a wife and three children - one a girl not much younger than me - and was the height of respectability, a multi-millionaire and self made man.

            This was our third “date”, and I had enjoyed it as much as I had the first two.

            I wasn’t scheduled to work that night anyway. As usual, I had planned this date for the start of my “weekend”. And I doubted the marks would still be there by my next shift on Wednesday. And if they were, well, I could afford to take a few days off with what he paid.

            I nodded and smiled and he set to work. Slowly and carefully. Most of my “dates” with Japanese men like him were more like modelling sessions than - than prostitution.

            I’m not a prostitute! I’m not! I do this because I like it! Okay, so I take money. Why shouldn’t I? If you could get paid for breathing or eating or shopping wouldn’t you? Hell, why not?

            But I knew most people wouldn’t understand.

            He had several thicknesses of hemp rope. He started on my torso, the thickest rope going around my chest just above my breasts as I knelt on all fours. A second loop circled my chest just below them, squeezing in tightly around my ribs. He had me sit back on my heels and led the rope around my wrists, pulling each wrist up as high as he could, which, given I was a very limber girl, was high, right to the top of my shoulders.

            More ropes then circled my arms just above the elbows, forcing them back tighter and tighter as my shoulders creaked and ached and I hissed in pain.

            He produced a narrower rope and dropped it across my neck so that both ends dropped down the centre of my chest. He wove the two together in intricate knots as he fed them up and around my breasts, squeezing them out firmly, but not too firmly. I’ve had my breasts bound so tight they turned purple. Mr. Harama was more careful, yet still the rope dug into my soft flesh and squeezed my breasts out.

            The thinnest rope, like rough cord, then crossed each breast in the exact centre, with a loop directly over my throbbing nipples, pinching them tightly, painfully, stingingly.

            The thicker rope then continued down my belly, criss crossing, making triangular shaped indentations in my body as he wove a net around me.

            He bent me over and produced a pair of dildos, wooden dildos, rough and unvarnished. He  politely oiled them, however, but I still groaned as he slowly and carefully worked the first one deep into my throbbing sex. It was fat and long, and I was gasping as the nose ground against my cervix.

            Then the second went into my anus, twisting and turning, pumping a little until it, like the first, was all but buried inside my aching belly.

            All but.

            The base of the dildos protruded a full two inches. There was a narrow hole near the base, and he fed the thickest rope down from my arms, down between my buttocks, and through both dildos, then up tight - hard - between my legs.

            I gasped as he pulled tight, as I felt the pressure forcing the dildos up, as the rough, thick rope pulled up between my sex lips. It split apart, at the top, veering away from my clitoris and climbing up the sides of my waist to bind together behind me.

            Then he took the thinnest cord and carefully wove a line between the two thicker ones, directly over my clitoris, pinching it between them. I gnashed my teeth and thrashed my head, gasping, moaning, half sobbing in pain. But it was a dark, rich, glorious pain, and though I was sweating now, and growing more and more uncomfortable, I made no protest.

            Now he carelessly tied a rope to the ropes around my arms as I knelt in place. At first I did not know its purpose. But then he lifted my ankles up, one by one, and carefully twisted the rope around them, binding my feet up tightly beneath my buttocks. He stood before me, eyes shining, and ran his fingers through my rich, dark hair. Then with an expertise I supposed I should have expected from a man so devoted to ropes, he carefully pulled my hair up above me, binding it in a tight, thick braid which sprung from the centre of my head.

            He tied cord around the end of the braid and pulled it higher, then released the rope behind me.

            I swayed on my knees, gasping, moaning, balanced very carefully, that balance held by my own hair. Every time I swayed one direction or another I was brought up short by the braid, which stung my scalp as it pulled against it.

            He began to circle me, his eyes hungry, feasting on the sight of me, rubbing his groin in excitement. Now his hands went to his trousers and he unzipped. He pulled his cock out. It was hard, thick, the veins throbbing as he rubbed the head against my face.

            I opened my mouth and he pushed himself inside, the fat, plump head jamming against the inside of my cheek, then sliding along my tongue as I licked at it. I closed my lips around his shaft and sucked and he moved forward, gripping my ears, pumping.

            I moaned and sucked, breathing in through my nose as he pumped faster and harder. The head of his cock slid along the roof of my mouth, and then down. I gagged as it entered my throat, but I’d had practice. It was not easy, but I had learned the discipline, and fought against gagging as more and more of his cock slid through my lips and he pulled my face in against his groin.

            I could not repress the wet gagging, slurping sounds as he pumped up and down in my mouth and throat. It filled my ears as he thrust in and out with cruel force, feeling his conquest now, his male triumph as he used me. My throat ached, but I was hot, groaning, my body feverish with sexual heat. My nipples and clit sparkled, throbbed and burned, and all I needed was a rough touch to send me over the edge.

            I didn’t get it, though, which kept me in a state just short of orgasm, gasping and moaning as he used my throat, pulled out, then thrust in again and again. I wanted him to fuck me, to ram himself up my pussy and use me like a wild animal. Yet all my pussy could do was squeeze down around the wooden cock he’d thrust into me.

            At long last he came, spewing himself over my face in thick, creamy wads. He staggered then, gasping, and fell to his knees before me. He drew in several deep, shaky breaths, then drew back his hand. I cried out as he slapped me across the face. It was not a harsh blow, but the sting made me reel.

            And then he slapped my taut breasts, first the left, then the right, so that pain exploded through my fevered mind. He slapped the other side of my face, then his hand shot between my sweating thighs and his fingers roughly rasped across my tightly bound, aching clitoris.

            I came with a scream, my body writhing and bucking wildly, the orgasm boiling up from deep within me, some primal part of my body howling upwards in a wild sexual storm wave of exultant pleasure. The sensations were so intense, so incredible, I was swamped by the wild, roaring in my ears, by the sense of being carried aloft on a wild, thrill ride. Nothing mattered but the pleasure, and the only thought in my mind was a crazed animal need for it to go on and on forever.

            I hardly even noticed the man climbing in from the balcony, and barely cared about him except for a fear he would do or say something which would stop the frenzied pleasure. I knew a desperation that Harama not notice him, lest he stop the rough, hard rubbing against my clitoris which was driving me insane with pleasure.

            Then there was a second man, like the first, all in black, and the orgasm began to ease, my mind spiralling back down to Earth just as Harama was yanked away from me. Before I could think to do or say a thing a fat, rough cloth was rammed into my mouth. And then the three men were behind me where I knelt exhausted, no words exchanged.

            I heard gasps and grunts and moans, all coming from Harama, and as my wits began to recover I knew a growing sense of shock and pain. I tried to turn my head, to see behind me as pins and needles of shock rippled along my skin. I became acutely aware of my nudity, and the wooden dildos protruding from my sex and anus. My eyes went wide and my pulse raced as I listened to the sounds behind me. I tried to ease my knees closer together, as if to hide myself, and wriggled and strained hopelessly at my bonds.

            I heard harsh, whispered commands, and then a muffled scream. I saw Harama’s legs out of the corner of my eye, his feet drumming wildly on the floor.

            I could make out some of what they were saying. Harama had something they wanted. They were demanding he give it to them or tell them where it was.

            I heard the word diamonds, then something about a computer chip or chips, then more muffled screams. I was terrified now, and no longer trying to turn around. There was absolutely no point in trying to get away, not the way I was tied, and I did not want to see whatever they were doing to him. The only slight chance I had of getting out of this was if I knew absolutely nothing which could hurt these men. And right now, if they did not know I understood Japanese, they would think - perhaps - I knew nothing.

            The torture went on, and they carefully, quietly repeated their demands. Harama howled and writhed and flopped and bucked, and I heard his gasping, tortured breaths, and then quivering, desperate entreaties that he knew nothing, had nothing.

            Then he gurgled and went quiet. There were exclamations of anger and shock from the two men, more movements, and then a snarl of disbelief.

            “It must have been his heart,” a voice said.

            “Now what!?” the other said angrily.

            “We have failed. We are finished.”

            “We must find them!”

            “How? He was the only link.”

            “Search.”

            They moved away from where Harama lay and began to search the penthouse. They tore apart cushions from the living room, ripped open packaged meals from the refrigerator and freezer, cut into paintings and the underside of drawers, flinging bits and pieces everywhere.

            I knelt, my knees, bearing all my weight, burning and throbbing with deadly pain, becoming agonizingly sore, my clitoris and nipples throbbing, feeling raw, my shoulders and arms numb, desperately hoping to remain unnoticed.

            They searched for over two hours. My knees were on fire by then and I was almost ready to try to attract their attention, even if they killed me, just to be relieved of the pain.

            And then, finally, and to my terror, one of them did come up to me. He was all in black, including a black mask. He looked down at me from cold eyes, then yanked the cloth out of my mouth.

            “What is your name, girl?” he demanded in Japanese in a harsh voice.

            I was terrified, but had no intention of showing I understood anything.

            “P-please!” I gasped, my voice wrung with pain and fear. “I-I don’t know him. I have nothing to do with whatever he did! Please just let me go! I won’t tell anyone anything!”

            He snorted and his lips curled into a sneer.

            His hand slipped between my legs, and I felt it gripping the base of the dildo protruding out from my tightly stretched sex lips. Then I felt the pressure inside me as he began to push.

            “Ow-ow-ow-ow! Please-please! I don’t know anything!” I gasped as he twisted and thrust and forced the dildo deeper.

            He smiled and kept pushing, twisting, pulling and pushing from side to side, jamming it higher. The pain against my cervix made me cry out, and then it somehow slipped past,  jamming up against the very back wall of my pussy. It ached terribly, but the base was now almost flush with my sex lips, and he turned his attention to the other one, pushing it up into my anus.

            I felt cramps and a terrible ache, and cried out again and again, begging him to stop, but he kept jamming and twisting until, like the first one, the base was almost flush with my body.

            “You will speak to me every thing you know of this man,” he said in slow, accented English.

            “H-He’s just a customer,” I gasped. “I’ve only seen him this once! I know nothing about him! Please! Please let me down! My knees are in agony!”

            “You not know about pain, girl,” he growled. “Perhaps if you feel real pain you will feel more helpful.”

            “I don’t know anything!” I cried.

            He jammed the cloth back into my mouth, deeper, and then smirked as he looked above me. I saw his hands disappear over my head, then he spread his legs apart for balance. I felt a sudden increase on the pressure binding my hair, and my eyes bulged as a thousand small needles of pain tore into my scalp. I screamed into the cloth, shocked, as my knees left the floor and I was lifted into the air.

            By my hair alone.

            Not a thousand, ten thousand needles drove deep into my head, and I howled and screamed as he stepped back, twisting and writhing in mid-air as I hung by my hair. I felt the very skin over my face strain and stretch, growing taut as my hair pulled upwards.

            And yet, though the pain was terrible, it was not as bad as I would have feared. Harama had been meticulous in his braiding, and my hairs had been evenly braided so that the pressure was distributed evenly among them. Yes, there were some, dozens, which snapped, pulled loose from my scalp, and others, hundreds, which had even greater pressure, tugging painfully, snapping and pulling free one by one.

            But the terrible pain of my knees had faded rapidly as my weight was lifted off them, and that was an incredible relief. And so the sharp, jagged, needle like pain which hit me as soon as the man lifted me up by the hair actually began to ease after the initial snapping and pulling of a number of my hairs. Then, with my weight more evenly distributed there was only - pain. Yes, it hurt, a lot, but it was bearable as long as I stayed as absolutely still as possible.

            Of course, that did not prove to be possible for very long.

            The man who had pulled me up returned after a few minutes. All I could see behind his mask was his eyes, but they were very cold. He yanked the gag from my mouth and bent over me.

            “Well, girl? Have some thing of value to speak?”

            “I don’t know him!” I gasped. “I only took money from him to let him tie me up!”

            “You maybe overhear him speak to a man? You maybe see him hide some thing, meet someone?”

            “Nothing! I don’t know anything!” I cried.

            He shoved the gag back into my mouth and reached into a kind of leather pouch attached to his belt. He withdrew what looked something like a small, stainless steel toothpick, then moved behind me and knelt.

            “I need you search your memory, girl,” he growled.

            I felt his hand on my left ankle, pressing against the rough ropes binding it to my thigh, then felt the sharp little spike scratch lightly along the sole of my bare foot, then along the instep and heel. I moaned and tried to wriggle my foot, and his grip shifted until his strong fingers were jammed in against my foot behind the toes. I felt the pick slide under the nail of my big toe and then - push.

            I squealed and kicked madly as hot pain ripped into my toe. The little pick felt like a burning spike as he ground it deeper, twisting it from side to side, forcing it up higher under my toenail.

            My body shook violently, twisting and pulling at my hair, and beads of sweat began to stand out on my forehead, blossoming up and down my body as the pain grew more and more terrible.

            “So sad to damage such pretty body,” he said, then jammed it deeper still.

            He shifted in front of me and his eyes flicked down my body. The pain in my toe was unrelenting, and as I saw him remove another pick from his pouch I knew the first was still jammed up under my toenail. He smiled cruelly, and ran his hand over my left breast. He removed the clip which had been pinching into it for hours, and pain flooded through me, causing me to shake and twist and writhe in agony.

            Smiling, he removed the second clip, and again I howled and twisted and writhed with returning sensation, pulling and tearing at my hair.

            “Any small thing, a thing which could help us, a thing you pay small attention to,” he said, his hand sliding down between my legs.

            He removed the clip on my clitoris and my eyes bulged as I writhed and twisted and bucked. The clip was not as tight as the others, but Harama had not intended any of them to be on for long, certainly not for more than two hours.

            “Your body was made to give comfort for men. It is so bad for us that you can not find help for us in our need.”

            He squeezed my breast from beneath and pressed the pick against the centre of the nipple. Then he began to slowly twist it into my nipple. I bit frantically at the gag in my mouth, trying to thrash my head, to say no. My body shuddered and twisted as he slowly worked the thin little metal pick deeper and deeper into the centre of my nipple. When it was half buried in my breast he released it and smiled as he reached back to his pouch and drew out another.

            My body was dripping with sweat now, and tears were trickling down my cheeks. I watched, moaning, sobbing, as he squeezed my other breast, pressed the little pick against the centre of my nipple, and began to push.

            Again, agony flooded my breast. The pick was not as sharp as a needle, or as thin. I screamed again and again as he twisted it brutally from side to side, his powerful hand forcing it ever deeper.

            He rose, leaving the two picks thrust into my breasts, sticking out of my nipples, and walked to a nearby lamp. He lifted it, then pulled the plug from the wall and tore the cord off the lamp. A knife appeared in his hand and he sliced through the wire at the end of the cord, cutting it into two.

            Then he put the plug back in the wall and turned to me, carefully holding the wires behind the bare parts. He reached forward, reaching towards the picks with the bare wires, and touched both against them.

            A hot, shattering shock of pain ripped through my breasts, into my chest, and body and mind.

            “You think of something, yes? You blink your eyes together to speak. But only of useful things, yes?”

            I blinked my eyes frantically and he put down the wires, removing the gag.

            “Please!” I croaked. “You have to believe me! Why would I know anything!?”

            “Perhaps you do not,” he conceded. “But I lose nothing by making sure.”

            He thrust the gag back into my mouth and picked up the wires again, then touched them repeatedly to the stainless steel picks protruding from my nipples. Shock after shock ripped into my body as I convulsed under the horrible pain.

            He looked almost bored, sitting down on a chair now, simply touching the wires to the stainless steel picks again and again and again, watching me with blase nonchalance as I writhed in agony.

            He put the wires down and watched as my quivering, twisting, trembling body eased its movements, then reached into his pouch again. Again he squeezed my breast, cold fingers digging into warm, sweaty flesh, and pressed another pick into the side of my nipple, then impaled it, forcing the needle all the way through and out the other side. He turned his attention to my other nipple, inching it behind the areola and again thrusting the pick slowly through.

            I know women have their nipples pierced, but that’s by needles and guns which produce an instantaneous burst of pain followed by relief. The pick was no needle, and he was grinding it slowly through my flesh, trying to cause me the most pain he could. It was agony, and I screamed and sobbed incoherently into the gag as, in quick order, he forced the pick through both nipples, my belly button, my earlobes - three times each - and the bridge between my nostrils.

            Then he turned his attention lower, and I felt the pick pushing against my clitoris.

            I was so far gone, so wracked by pain, so exhausted from screaming and writhing, that I barely noticed. Until the pain blossomed again, to an intensity I could not remember ever experiencing. Slowly, deliberately, he twisted the pick from side to side as he forced it through my clitoris. The intensity of the pain was such that, mercifully, I blacked out.

            When I came to I was laying on my side on the floor. I was still bound, but my legs were straight, my ankles having been untied from my thighs. Not very much time had passed, as blood was still trickling slowly from a half dozen places where he had driven his little steel toy, including my nipples and nose

            “... kill her and leave her,” I heard one of the men say in Japanese.

            “Be a waste. She can do nothing to us.”

            “What if she does know something about the diamonds or chip? Better the knowledge dies with her?”

            “I don’t think she knows anything. If you believe there is any chance then we should take her with us.”

            “Let Mr. Kozu decide. It is his responsibility.”

            One of the men walked over to me and kicked me in the belly. I gasped in pain and folded around his foot.           

            “You will come with us,” he growled.

            “Should we untie her?” I heard.

            “Why bother? The elevator runs straight down to a private garage.”

            There was silence, then after a minute, a bark of laughter.

            “See what I found, cousin?”

            “This is not the time for games,” the other said sternly.

            “But it will not harm anything.”

            The second man bent over me, carelessly gripping my thigh and forcing it back. Then he reached for my clitoris and pinched something against it, ignoring my muffled cry of pain. It was a ring, a gold ring, and he pushed it through my clitoris.

            “Perhaps she will be valuable in other ways,” he said to his companion. “She can work in the a lovers bank or soaplands.”

            He rubbed a pad against one of my nipples, then produced another ring.

            “Harama was a pervert,” the first man said in disapproval. “Are you a pervert, as well?”

            “Perverts have a lot of money, and others can make money from them,” the first said, as he carefully inserted gold rings in my nipples, and then passed one through the pierced bridge between my nostrils. “This is quality merchandise and it would be a waste not to sell it. If she knows something we can use it. If she knows nothing then we can find an owner willing to pay much for her.”

            I was roughly pulled to my feet. My knees buckled immediately and I cried out and collapsed, only to be pulled back up again.

            The makeshift gag was pulled from my mouth and strong fingers pinched in against my jaw.

            “You will do as you are told or die,” his voice snarled, inches from my face.

            “Here,” the other said. “Harama was well equipped to train women.”

            The first took a thick leather strap from him. Attached to it was a fat ball gag which he forced into my mouth. The strap then went behind my head and buckled together. A thin leash was then clipped to the ring he had pushed through my wounded clitoris, and a smirk turned his lips up.

            “You will come with us, girl.”

            My knees burned, and I could barely stand, but as he turned and pulled on the leash I felt the ache and sting in my clitoris burn hotter, and staggered after him.

            We crossed the penthouse and the first man opened the front door, then they led me out into the ornate little lobby to the elevator. The door opened at once and they led me inside, then turned, framing me as the doors closed. They were both tall for Japanese, and I, of course, was short, so that my head came only to their shoulders. I felt a wave of hopelessness, knowing I had no chance at all of escape, moaning and swaying as the elevator swiftly descended towards the basement garage.

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