by John Savage
Some women like being tied up with ropes. Some love it. And then, a level above that, there is Sharon, the Girl Who Loves Rope.
These true stories of bondage adventures, told to John Savage by Sharon, have formed the basis of several of John Savage’s other short stories and episodes in some of his novels. This book contains all of them in their original form, unembellished (mostly), and as Sharon told them.
From an early age, this lovely and lively young woman had been enchanted with the idea of being tied with ropes to the point where she was totally helpless. When she was younger, she had several bi girlfriends who shared her love of tight ropes, and together they played many bondage games, the most popular being “Escape Artist.”
After college (and a lot of adventures therein), she met and moved in with a man who was both an expert with the ropes and imaginative enough to almost satisfy her insatiable hunger for immobility and harsh restraints. For over two years she lived what was almost a full time slavegirl life, often tied up, sometimes punished, and enjoying every minute of it.
Within this book, you will read of her true life adventures. Share her thrill at being a tightly bound mummy in a haunted house, of an incredible night time naked and bound walk in the snowy woods, of a contest pitting her against a Bondage Master, and other sexy stories of a girl who loves being tightly bound above all else.
| It started on Friday night. It was late, and I had been tied in several different ways during the course of the evening. I was getting sleepy as I lay there on the bed, hands still bound behind by back and with my clothing still lying on the floor somewhere back in the front room. I suggested that Tom might consider untying me so we could go to sleep, it being well after midnight. He laughed and told me that he planned to keep me tied up forever. I sighed and cuddled up against him, asking that he cover me with a blanket or two so I would be warm. Then I fell asleep.
My hands were still tied the next morning. That was not the first time I had slept with tied hands, and I did like the feeling of waking up to find myself a prisoner of the ropes. I snuggled down under the covers and used my mouth to awaken my captor. After a rather satisfying bout of screwing, he went off to take a shower. I followed him into the bathroom and turned my back to him to wiggle my fingers. “Untie me, please?” I begged. “I’ll want to take a shower, too.”
I got my shower. He soaped my body down, rubbed me here and there (especially there), and never did untie my hands. It was wonderful.
Someplace in the middle of the morning, I asked seriously when he was going to untie my hands. It was a nice thought to keep me tied forever, but not very practical. He frowned, and stroked his chin as he considered his reply. The result was that he informed me the ropes would stay on until Sunday night. Monday morning would also be nice but I had to have time to get a good night’s sleep and be ready to go to work. And it would be a good idea if I were not to walk into work on Monday morning with rope marks on my wrists and ankles.
I considered his pronouncement, and asked meekly if I had to stay tied exactly as I was then or if he would change the ropes now and then to give me variety and a rest. He said that changing my bondage was a good idea but that I shouldn’t be given a chance to escape. “Slavegirls are always kept chained,” he pointed out.
So, my hands were untied after having been tied for twelve straight hours. But not until he had locked a pair of handcuffs on my ankles. As soon as the ropes were off my wrists, another pair of handcuffs went on. I wasn’t given a chance at all to run or fight. It was wonderful. I felt so helpless and loved at the same time.
He kept me chained in the handcuffs on wrists and ankles for most of the day. They were changed to rope after dinner, and that led to a rather strenuous bout of struggling and crawling around the floor trying to escape a thin belt he was using to whip my bottom. It hurt, and I really did wiggle around as much as my bound arms and legs allowed to avoid giving him my bare bottom as a target. But it left only red marks and no bruises or welts; it wasn’t much of a whip.
That established the pattern. About once a month, we would agree on a weekend to be set aside for what he called “prisoner mode.” I can remember looking forward with anticipation for the whole week before the PMW (Prisoner Mode Weekend), counting down the days and tingling with excitement at the thought of not being free for a full forty-eight hours. We usually went out to dinner on Friday night, and then I would take my clothes off and present my naked body for the beginning of my two-day confinement. It always started off with a pretty tight rope bondage and went off at full speed from there.
We both enjoyed these weekends. He loved the sense of control and power it gave him to keep me his “love slave” for days on end. That was his term. I just thought of myself as a prisoner. A very dangerous prisoner who must never been allowed any kind of freedom and prevented from escaping at all costs.
After a few of these weekends, it became a contest between us. I would try to escape any way and any time I could. He would have to counter with escape-proof bondage and carefully thought out restraints. A slight mistake and his prisoner might escape. We agreed that if I should ever escape while one of these weekends was on, I would be free for the rest of the weekend, no punishments added, and that neither of us would engage in bondage or sex for the rest of the weekend. The idea was that denying sex to Tom would be his punishment for allowing me the chance to escape, but I’m not sure which one of us it punished more.
There was only one time that I managed an escape.