Under the Boardwalk: poetic bondage with Shay Part 2 m/f

[calebtras]

Under the Boardwalk: poetic bondage with Shay Part 2

“Terry, phone for you,” the manager called out.

“I'll take it in the storeroom.” I'd asked Shay to call me at my summer job at the local hardware store so my mother wouldn't overhear us talking.

“Did you find us a place?” Shay asked.

“Under the boardwalk at Rockaway Beach.”

“Cool. Memorize Song of Solomon, Chapter 7. It's a love poem.”

The sexy romance part of the Bible. I had a ton of questions about nudity, the tie-up, her expectations, but I savored the anticipation. “Saturday, at Penn Station, catch the A train to Jay Street and stand near the middle of the platform, at noon.”

For the rest of the week, unloading lumber from the truck, walking down the sidewalk, laying on my bed at night, Shay occupied my mind. She probably thought she'd just jacked me off as a favor last time we met, continuing our sexual experimentation. We'd become close exploring the city together, talking honestly and intensely, so for me, as the touching became more intimate, so did my feelings.

I met Shay on the platform and we took the A the length of Brooklyn, to Rockaway Park Beach. We walked the few blocks to the ocean, across the boardwalk and beach, then along the hard-packed sand, the waves washing around our ankles. I wanted to put my arm around her shoulders, but that would not be cousinly but like a date. [Our relationship and rules are in Poetic bondage with Shay, Part 1.]

Past the tourist section, where the beach was a narrow strip of sand, the boardwalk run-down, the houses ramshackle—years later destroyed by Hurricane Sandy—we crossed back to the boardwalk. I helped her squeeze between missing planks into the dank and salty space underneath. Bright sunlight penetrated through cracks slicing the dark, and we could hear occasional footsteps above, but no one could see us.

Shay stripped to her bikini bottom, I to my swim trunks. While her shoulders were freckled, her breasts were round and creamy white. I leaned over to kiss her, but she handed me a sheet of paper from her bag, the Song of Solomon.

“Recite the poem with feeling. You can use your hand on top of my bikini bottom, and everywhere else you want. Pay attention to my expressions, to me. I need to feel the poem inside me as much as your hands outside. You feel the urge to penetrate me, stop and let me know. Got it?”

So close to her bare skin, I struggled to concentrate. In a hesitant voice, “Yeah.”

She sighed, as if to say 'make this work.' “You can tie me up.”

As a kid, I'd played spontaneous tie up games with whatever I had on hand, jump rope, belt, shoelace, often with kisses and affection. This was planned, adult bondage. I'd studied the Japanese magazine Shay’d bought me, and brought cotton rope. I placed her arms behind her, parallel, wrapped my rope around them two times, tying a knot. I wound the end of the rope around her chest above her breasts and tied it. I did the same with the second rope, below her breasts.

She lay back on her towel.

“I'll get my t-shirt for a pillow—keep the sand out of your hair.”

“Don't fuss,” she said with irritation.

Nervously, I began the poem. “’The curves of your hips are like jewels, The work of the hands of an artist.’” Her breasts between the ropes distracted me. I focused on reciting, and by verse 7 was in the rhythm. “’Your stature is like a palm tree, and your breasts are like its clusters.'” Her eyes were closed, breath even, slight smile. I kissed her lips and she responded. I caressed her belly and breasts. Her face and chest flushed and she breathed deeply. With three fingers, I stroked her vulva through the bikini, and she arched and rocked her hips against my hand. “’Let us see whether the vine has budded and its blossoms have opened, and whether the pomegranates have bloomed. There I will give you my love.’” I sucked on her breast, repeating the poem, my voice husky and hard with the rhythm of the strokes, and she sucked in her breath sharply. She moved faster, brow tense, then slowed to her own beat. A sharp, high cry; she froze and I held firm, then she rippled and arced until she collapsed to the sand.

She rolled toward me and buried her face in my shoulder.

“I came with a boy,” she said, her voice filled with surprise and relief. She was remembering her rapist.

I held her tight, brushing the sand from her hair and stroking her cheek. She had entrusted herself to me and was happy.

Abruptly she shook loose. “Now you.”

I lay back on the sand, lifted her leg over mine, and helped her slide on top. When she felt my erection against her, she stopped. “Put my towel between us.”

As she lifted, I slid it over my crotch. She immediately pressed down and moved with assurance in pulsing circles. I kissed her and she sucked my tongue into her mouth. I pressed down on her butt, moving against her. She bit down on my tongue, the pain lancing to my groin. Intense feelings washed over me, and I closed my eyes to concentrate.

After some time, Shay stopped. “What’s wrong?”

I couldn't admit I was on the cliff edge of breaking our rule and falling in love.

She frowned, but not at me; in thought. “You came quickly in the adult store booth last time. Help me up.”

When she was sitting, she turned her back to me. “Get the suntan lotion from my bag and squirt it on my hand.”

I lubricated her right hand, pulled my swim trunks down and gave her my erection. I cupped my hands around her breasts, and thrust forward. She pushed gently with her palm, squeezing with her fingers. I adjusted myself in her hand and asked, “A bit harder?” She tightened and my mind emptied like a burst balloon. I brushed her hair aside and bit and sucked her neck. I rocked against her back, suppressing a groan as I ejaculated onto the sand. I turned her head and kissed her mouth.


On the boardwalk, heading back to the subway, only a few locals were tanning on the beach, and Shay let me put my arm around her shoulders, slipping hers around my waist. She was happy, swimming in sexuality, hers and mine, as we'd agreed, but I wanted to dive to emotional depths.

She asked, “Were you nervous?”

About my need for a do-over. I couldn't tell her I was afraid of falling in love. “No. For the first time, I was free of that little voice inside my head saying 'Stop! Repent!' Caught me by surprise.”

Shay nodded. “Freedom to do what you want sexually—that's some scary shit.”

“What about you?” I asked.

“I wasn't afraid of being tied up. Passed that test,” referring to her rape. “More worried about getting sand in my pussy,” she said with a laugh. She took my hand and squeezed. “It was sexy. I felt like Scheherazade held captive in your desert lair.”

Her face shone in the sun as I kissed the corner of her mouth.

She said, “For next time I’ll find us a hotel room; like two adults. That should help you purify your soul with the sex of your dreams.”

[To be continued.]