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Ties that Bind

Ties that Bind

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Yearning for more out of life, a conservative cougar meets a worldly younger man who unlocks her deepest passions.

No one would ever guess I’m into kink. I’m a slender, small-busted brunette wasp in my early 40s, and I still dress and act every inch the part — at least in public. During my first marriage, sex was something my then-husband and I communicated about in whispers, if at all — for which I blame our conservative upbringings. We also both had demanding careers, so we never opted to have kids — but to be honest, we never “opted” for each other much either.

However, when I unexpectedly found myself single again at 40 — Roger ran off with a graduate student as part of his midlife crisis — you could definitely say my mood plummeted. At first, I just drank vodka. Then I got into yoga and green smoothies. And then I attempted to enjoy my alimony. I splurged on cruises, New Age retreats, spas and shrinks. I tried just about everything, but honestly, I had no idea what I needed to feel better, and I had never felt more disoriented and lost in my life.

Months later during a night out, a close girlfriend of mine presented me with a gift: a “beginner’s pleasure kit” from the local sex shop.

“Now, don’t freak out, but my friend Michelle swears by the pink vibrator there. And see, it’s tiny, so not intimidating,” Angela assured me.

I laughed. “Oh, no, you keep it. You need it more than me.”

“No, I don’t.” Angela giggled. “I already have my own — and then some! You, my dear, are in dire need of a good orgasm however.”

I smiled and drank down the remaining wine in my glass. “Hmm, I think I’m done with the drama of all that for a while.”

“I’m not talking about drama — I’m talking about pure, drama-free pleasure.”

“Well, I’ve never been much of a sexual person anyway.”

“Oh, whatever.” She waved me off.

“Come on, you know me.”

“Of course I do. I’ve known you since college — you’re no cold fish. You’re the Kappa sister who got voted ‘best ass.’”

“And ‘biggest cocktease,’ remember?”

We both laughed this time.

Then Angela continued: “Look, don’t get mad, but I think you getting over feeling sexually ‘blah’ is half the battle right now. Seriously, when was Roger ever that great at, well, rogering you?”

I rolled my eyes and uttered, “Ugh.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry — but Claire, I’m only looking out for you. Your sad divorcée routine is starting to scare me. You aren’t dead, and you’ve still got a hot ass!”

She made me smile. “Fine, fine — I’ll take home the dildo.”

 “Good! It’s a start… until I convince you to get on Tinder.”

“Yeah, we’ll see about that.” I began sifting through the box. “So, what else is in here? Oh my — ”

Nestled between the pocket rocket and massage oil was a set of fur-lined cuffs, a feather tickler, a black satin blindfold and a tassel whip.

Angela almost choked on her wine. “That’s not supposed to be in there!”

“It’s not? I don’t understand.”

“Oh shit, I know what happened. There was someone else who set aside his stuff on the counter. Our orders must’ve gotten mixed up!”

I put the whip back in the box. “I think I need more wine now.”

“Me, too!” Angela laughed and poured us another round. “But I’m serious. This is totally not even on my receipt! But hey, here’s to free bondage gear!” She clinked her glass against mine.

I played it cool for the remainder of the night, but I couldn’t help wondering how it would feel to have someone cuff my wrists and tease me with that wicked whip.

Naturally, Angela was right on about the vibrator and the curative power of orgasms. My last vibrator bit the dust pre-divorce, and I’d been too lazy to replace it. Making myself come on a regular basis definitely seemed to help my mood — and yet, it also made me frustrated and left me wanting more. In a way, I felt like Sleeping Beauty, waking up after a long, boring almost sexless marriage. But instead of a prince, I had in my nightstand drawer double-A batteries and a whip that intrigued me.

My ever growing curiosity made me long to meet a man who’d really rock my world.

After a couple weeks of enjoying my new toys, I decided to do some Internet research. I wasn’t even sure what exactly I wanted to know, but the feelings ignited by my “accidental” BDSM gifts were testament to the fact that deep down I’d always fantasized about being bound and taken during sex. Somehow being unable to resist equaled total permission to let go. But really, what woman doesn’t want to have a man totally take charge sometimes? The fantasy of being totally restrained was quickly draining my supply of batteries.

My ex-husband was a passive man in bed, and in retrospect, I see what a disaster that was for someone like me, who is already naturally submissive. If no one ultimately ever takes charge, well, sex is as boring as watching paint dry.

As I trawled through the web, seeing various porn tube videos and websites, I wondered, “How do you even ask someone if they do that? Is this what people ask about on dates, instead of religion or politics? How do you find a great guy who is otherwise normal and not scary, but who can give you that rush and release?”

In between searches, I took to masturbating while wearing the blindfold. The darkness made it easier to pretend that someone else was “forcing” me to climax.

Luckily, I didn’t have to pretend for very long. I soon stumbled across a fetish social networking site, with lots of information on BDSM — and the potential to meet local partners. Since my adventures on more popular dating apps were going nowhere, I figured I’d give it a shot. In any case, the prospect of having such a nasty secret life that none of my prim and proper friends knew about was delicious, and in a few clicks, I’d signed up and got an invite to a mixer at a nearby bar.

That’s how I met John, my current husband — talk about the “ties that bind!”

When John and I met at the party, the chemistry between us ignited like a barge of fireworks. Our connection was so hot that our age difference didn’t even make me self-conscious — even when Angela and my other friends later asked me how it felt to be the “older woman.” Jeez, what jealous bitches!

John was only 29 when we first met, but he was already an up-and-coming tech executive. Prior to meeting me, he’d gotten quite the kink education, courtesy of many global trips for business and pleasure. He vividly described British spankings, risqué Parisian dungeons, a visit to the red-light district in the Netherlands — where he stayed at the B&B of the Happy Hooker herself — and private lessons in kinbaku, traditional Japanese rope bondage.

Of course, no one could ever guess he had such a dirty mind — not even my prying friends. He was the epitome of Prince Charming, with dark hair, a toned swimmer’s physique and piercing blue eyes, not unlike my own. He easily enticed all of my repressed urges out of hiding. His depth of sexual knowledge and maturity made me feel both safe and desired — and eager to get nasty.

Still, John insisted we wait at least three dates in order to develop a rapport, and make sure playing together would be both fun and mutual. Before he came over to my place, we went over my hard limits and decided on a safeword (vanilla) in case anything became too intense. I didn’t think I’d need to use it — and I was right.

On that fateful night, I greeted him at the door wearing only a sheer lace teddy. I kissed him and expected him to be warm and reciprocal. But instead, John was very stiff and stern.

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