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“Did that cool you off?” I’d asked.
“No, damn it, I feel hotter than before.”
It’s what she always says, and her skin looked it. If I wasn’t already familiar with how easily Aisha’s pale skin got flushed, I would have worried she was heading toward heat stroke.
That’s when I said, “I think I’ve got something that will help.”
“Ugh,” she said, waving me off. “I can’t bear to be sweated on.”
“I promise,” I said, showing her the precut lengths of hemp rope. “You’ll only sweat on yourself.”
She looked at the bed, with its heavy frame. I had stripped the comforter off.
“Did you change the sheets?” she asked.
“Find out,” I said, jerking my head toward the bed and dangling the ropes enticingly.
Aisha is a bondage freak. She’s heavily into the idea of being bound when she doesn’t want to be, while in all other matters—all other matters, believe me—being a willful, opinionated and highly vocal person. But when it comes to rope, a little adversity for me—that is, her own reluctance—really does it for her. She likes to be convinced.
Knowing this as intimately as I do, I found it indicative of just how fucking hot it was that Aisha had to think about it even for a second.
She finally said, “All right, but I’ll safeword if you sweat on me.”
“I would expect nothing less,” I said. I spanked her ass. “Get on the bed.”
We’ve got the windows open, fans blaring in the windows on high, but nothing helps. It’s ten o’clock at night and just as hot outside as inside. Maybe at 3:00 a.m. Aisha or I will stand in front of one of the fans and make a soft sad sound of fleeting relief. But for now, every cubic inch of air within blowing distance is body temperature or hotter.
She’s got pillows under her back, about six of them, which raise her frame to a forty-five-degree angle and give me the perfect canvas to work on. She’s tightly tied, now, wrists to headboard, ankles to footboard, knees and thighs to the side rail and tits bound tight, distended painfully. Aisha has perfect breasts, the ideal size for her frame if you ask me, and frankly, she knows it. She loves it when they get attention, but nipple clamps and Tiger Balm only go so far—especially when every material or substance on her body makes her scowl.
And yet I’ve wrapped her in rope in a half-dozen places, the hemp rope like blankets. And I’ll admit I’m getting off on making her suffer in the heat a little just to get her bondage fix. Her flesh is a vibrant pink, her face beginning to glisten. The scavenged yard thermometer in the living room says ninety-eight degrees—body temperature. But I’m certainly not telling her that. The merest mention of mathematical figures when temperatures over sixty are concerned is enough to make Aisha feel faint, and not in a good way. Is it ironic that her parents provided her with an Arabic name? No more than her pale Celtic skin or that dark Gallic mane that borders so beautifully on black. But if she ever does travel to the Middle East, I’m not going with her. I’ll stay home and read her tweets about how fucking hot it is.
She’s sweating, panting slightly; I can tell it’s from a combination of temperature and arousal. The bondage is turning her on, all right, but she’s fighting with the heat—the way she fights with it every minute of every day this time of year. She squirms a bit, fights against the bonds while I caress her; my fingers go up in her and I find out she’s even more aroused than I thought she was.
She tries to lighten the mood. “Those damn fingers of yours better not be sweating on me!” She can barely get the quip out; it dribbles languidly from her lips, drunkenly. She’s never been good at letting her tied-down status stifle her smart-assed complaints when I tie up her tits.
I respond with my thumb at the top of her slit, pressing in, feeling her cunt tighten up as I thumb her firm clit. I feel her telling inside, the gentle swell more intense as she tightens. Her hips move; I’ve tied them tight, but not that tight. She fucks herself onto my hand. I lean forward to kiss her.
“No sweating,” she says, red-faced and glistening.
“I’m going to gag you now,” I say dryly.
“Don’t you dare!” she says. “Don’t you know anything about dogs?”
“I don’t follow,” I say.
She speaks with difficulty, not because of the heat but because of the way my fingers are working inside her. “Dogs pant because they don’t have sweat glands.”
“But you have sweat glands,” I say, dabbing my fingers in the pooling sweat pooled in the tiny hollow of her collarbone, just above the rope where I’ve tied her tits.
“No sweating on me!” she snaps, and I push the sweat-moistened fingers of my left hand into her mouth as I fuck my fingers harder into her, adjusting the angle to hit her at exactly the right spot. My thumb is tight and hard on her clit now; she’s responding with little quivers and jerks of her bound, naked body. But she complains breathlessly, “Don’t gag me.”
“A blindfold, at least.”
She likes blindfolds—she likes blindfolds a lot. She frowns.
She shakes her head. “I can’t take another layer,” she says, her voice choking up slightly as I finger her. “I almost cut off my hair today!”
I said, “Trust me?”
