‘It’s OK,’ he says. ‘The clappers are muffled.’
‘So what’s the point of ringing them?’
‘Oh, I don’t intend to ring the bells.’
Something in the way he says it makes it sound wicked. Did he really emphasise the word ‘bells’?
‘Then what …’ My voice trails off as he fishes a large key out of his pocket and heads for the door.
A thousand thoughts flash through my mind at once. I’ve only known this guy for a few days and I’ve hardly slept since meeting him. He could be a psycho for all I know. He was vague about his job when I asked him what he did; maybe he doesn’t even have a job. Maybe what he does is seduce girls and suggest he show them this lovely old church, lock them in and slash them to ribbons on the altar in some blood-soaked Satanic ritual.
Maybe. But somehow I don’t think so. Even if my judgement is impaired through lack of sleep, my body has its own instincts and it knows what it wants. What I want. And I want whatever he is about to do to me.
I watch silently as he turns the key in the ancient door. The tumblers clank home like the lock of a jail cell and my legs begin to tremble. Then, smiling, he pockets the key and returns to where I stand beneath the raised tentacles of the bell ropes. One by one he lifts them down until the fluffy grips dangle free, encircling me. I feel like an animal caught in a brightly coloured cage.
He smiles at me as he raises my right arm and loops one of the bell ropes around it. With a look he tells me to hold my arm still and I obey the wordless command, watching transfixed as he constructs a cradle with the thick rope, winding it around itself and knotting it above. I could easily slide my arm free of the loose loop but I suspect there is more to come.
He does the same with my left arm and I test the strength of the ropes by gently leaning back and tugging down. The two bells I’m tethered to respond with a muffled ringing and Brian smiles.
‘Very nice,’ he says.
I press forward for a kiss and he obliges me. Warm wetness pulses between my legs. All my life I’ve dreamed of an encounter like this. I’m familiar with the sensation of rope against my skin, but only from inept experimentation. On my own. It’s just not possible to tie yourself up in any convincing or arousing way without feeling a little silly or worrying what will happen if someone barges in unexpectedly. Or even worse: if you get stuck. I’ve ruined all such private moments with the ‘what if’ image of me hobbling to the phone and trying to dial 999 with my nose.
Brian brings me back to the moment with another kiss. Something in his eyes says he knows my frustrations and desires. Perhaps he’s felt it too in his own way.
When he pulls away at last he pushes my short skirt up around my waist. I glance nervously around, half expecting to be accosted by an outraged vicar. Is it blasphemous, what we’re doing? Even if I were one of the faithful flock I doubt I’d be bothered by this stage. Not when a lifelong fantasy is about to come true.
‘Don’t worry,’ Brian says. ‘We’re alone. I’ve locked us in.’
His words chill me as much as they reassure me. I am completely at his mercy and we’ll be undisturbed for however long he intends to play with me.
He takes hold of another rope, loops it around my right thigh and pulls it taut. The tail of the rope is coarse and scratchy but the woolly handgrip is too high up for this job. The layered coils he winds around my leg create a wide band of support and I relax and watch him work. At one point he brushes the gusset of my knickers with the rope and I moan softly.
Again he ties an elaborate knot somewhere out of sight above me and then he repeats the process with my left leg. Both ropes are wound several times around my upper thighs, holding me securely, but I’m not quite as trapped as I’d imagined I’d be, since I could still pull my arms free if I wanted to.
He seems to read my puzzlement in my face because he gives me a wicked grin. Then he takes hold of the ends of the ropes he tied my legs with and begins to pull. And I give a startled little cry when I feel my feet lift off the stone floor. I gasp and kick my legs in surprise, losing a shoe in the process.
‘Be still,’ he says chidingly.
I do as he says. I clutch the soft grips on the arm ropes and the wide loops take the weight on my underarms as the position tips me back. He raises my legs just off the floor until I’m sitting in a sort of sling. The position draws my legs apart and if I try to push them together the bells chime softly above me.
‘Comfy?’ Brian asks casually.
I’m too astonished to speak. The sensation of being raised up off the floor is both scary and exciting. I make some sort of sound, a mousy little squeak he clearly knows how to read. I suspect he’s done this before. But instead of feeling jealous at the thought of past girlfriends, the idea excites me even more. I imagine him tying up a succession of girls, approving of the responses of some, finding fault with others. All at once I feel like a harem girl who dreams of being the sultan’s favourite. I am determined not to disappoint him. Like an obedient slave, I want to make him proud.
Brian smiles at me and crosses to the table, where he picks up two coils of thinner rope. ‘Like I said, I used to ring the changes here when I was a boy. That meant hours of practice, often on my own. So I found ways to make it more interesting.’
He unwinds them and moves around behind me. I feel him take hold of my foot and I wiggle my toes as he slips off my remaining shoe and places it beside the other. The rope rasps against my ankle and I tremble as I stare around me at the church. I can’t help imagining rows of stern-faced parishioners sitting in the pews, turning round to look at me. I might be some innocent peasant girl on trial for witchcraft, at the mercy of the villainous witchfinder who must restrain me to do his duty.
My sex throbs wildly with each fantasy as Brian knots the rope around my ankle and draws it back behind me, securing it to the rope around my thigh. Finally, with both my ankles secured, I realise I can’t close my legs at all. My knickers feel shockingly wet in the cool air of the church and I shudder in anticipation as I listen to him walking around behind me.
At last he returns to face me and I wonder if he is pleased. I hang before him as though I’m kneeling in midair, my legs splayed, my crotch at the level of his chest. And all the while, the bells produce their muffled peal above us with every tiny movement I make. I wonder if anyone can hear it outside the church?
He stands between my legs and gazes at my silky pink knickers. My arousal is more than obvious. With a finger he traces a line from one bent knee up along my bare thigh and across the loops of rope. I shudder with pleasure as he draws his finger up the soaked little crease. He teases me, stroking me through my sodden knickers, flicking my clit and pressing his knuckle against the warm wet centre of my sex, the place that hungers for penetration.
I long for him to slip his finger underneath the elastic, to tear away the sheer material that separates us. The bells register my frustration as I twist in my bonds, straining with my hips to press harder against his questing fingers.
Then he moves away and I whimper with longing, not daring to beg him or make demands. Some primal instinct tells me I must wait for his favours and rewards. Like a good little slave, I think, and the thought makes me even wetter.
He returns with another rope and this one he fastens to the tangle of knots that bind my legs. It drops it down between my folded knees, where it hangs for a moment, loose and limp. But the look in his eye tells me that this rope is not as innocuous as it looks. And I understand when he swishes the frayed end of the rope through the air like a whip and then flicks it sharply against my pussy.
I yelp, more out of surprise than pain. The little stroke makes my cunt throb and I hold my breath as he raises the rope again. He brings it down briskly on my swollen mound and this time I cry out in earnest. I struggle in my bonds but there’s no way I can escape the sweet torture. Again and again