THE AMAZING LUCINDA

Heather Day

It’s not the kiss of the rope on my skin that does it, nor the well-placed strokes of her fingers on my helpless body. It’s the look in her eyes that drives me wild and gets my pussy throbbing with want. The look of pride at her work as she reclines, arms crossed, on our sofa. The look that says: Go on then, get out of this one.

My arms are tied securely behind my back. I start to flex them, testing out the bonds. She raises an eyebrow and turns over the hourglass. The subtle whisper of the sand threatens to set my nerves on edge, but I can’t afford to panic. I have three minutes to escape and need my wits about me.

There is a professional reason for our games; onstage she is the Amazing Lucinda, Mistress of Magic, and I am her glamorous escapologist. We make quite the handsome double act, her with her top hat, tails, and long black hair, me with my blonde bob and tiny, sequined outfits. We’ve garnered a bit of a cult following over the years—mostly queer women, I can’t help but notice.

But once the curtain falls, she is again my Domme, my love, and my wife. The one who captured my heart as soon as we started performing together five years ago. That doesn’t mean she goes lightly on me though, far from it.

She knows locks present no challenge to me at all, buckles even less so. She knows that my joints are particularly supple and that I can reach around rope to untie knots with my long fingers. But she also knows by now exactly how to strip away these advantages.

That is why, after securing my arms behind my back with a complicated series of knots, she wound another length down the front of my body, between my breasts and up and under my pussy so that it sits there snugly, rubbing my vulva and teasing my clit in the most maddening way with every movement I make to try and free myself. It is why she added, in one final touch of cruelty, the silver nipple clamps that bite into my sensitive buds in such a way that I can never decide whether I love or hate them.

She is very pleased with herself. I can hear it in her voice when she says, “Two minutes left, my dear.”

I force myself to breathe steadily, to ignore as best I can the sensations of pleasure and pain flooding through my body and instead analyze how to break the bonds she has woven around me. I stretch my wrists up toward the knots and wriggle my arms methodically, trying to loosen the rope’s hold on me. She’s wrapped me up tight, and although I adore the feeling of being held in the embrace of her ropework, my professional pride forces me to try and find a way to escape.

“One minute,” she says, standing over me, hooking a finger under my chin and looking straight down into my eyes. “I can’t wait to carry out your punishment.”

Oh, she is cocky. I close my eyes, trying not to think about how wet her words make me, but the slick juices flowing between my legs, coating the rope, make this almost impossible.

Nevertheless, my fingers finally reach the first knot and work quickly to untangle it. Eventually it unravels and I feel a small surge of triumph, but this is tempered by the knowledge that there are several more knots between me and victory. I flex my arms again, seeing if I can shrug any of them loose, but they hold tight. I realize I am in danger of failing at this task and a fresh wave of adrenaline—part determination, part anticipation—pulses through me.

I stretch my wrists farther and move my nimble fingers with a new focus, methodically tugging at the knots. I don’t want to fail. I know I can do this. Sure enough, the rope begins to loosen and the next knot unravels. The rest will be easier.

I am almost there, nearly free, when my Mistress decides to make things more interesting. In one swift movement she releases the clamps from my nipples, causing them to throb and stiffen with a sudden rush of blood, forcing a gasp of pure, agonized pleasure from my lips. My hands go limp and useless, their task forgotten.

“Thirty seconds.”

I would say that was unfair. I would say she plays dirty. But neither statement would cut any ice, and complaining would only make my punishment ten times worse. After all, she would say, she is my Mistress, and she can do as she pleases. And she would be right.

As she begins a countdown of the final ten seconds, I smile. I hear the last of the sand whispering its way through the hourglass. I know I am going to fail. If my pussy wasn’t aching with want, if my nipples weren’t still sending tiny shocks of pleasure through me, I would be able to focus enough to untie that final knot. But instead, I give in. I give in to the pleasure and the pain and to whatever delights and horrors she has in store for me.

Because sometimes, with a Mistress as devious and beautiful as Lucy, losing can be the sweetest reward of all.