Silk captivity
The evening began as usual: a light dinner, a glass of wine, quiet music. But there was something special in the air—my husband's languid gaze, his fingers lazily tracing the rim of his glass, lingering a little longer than necessary.
I put on my favorite black stockings with the lace top—the very ones that made his gaze darken. I knew it was his weakness. When I walked past, he deftly caught me by the waist and pulled me to him.
"You're especially irresistible tonight…" his voice was low, thick like honey.
I smiled, feeling his palm slide up the stocking to my bare thigh. But instead of his usual caresses, his fingers wrapped around my neck—gently,
but firmly. The light pressure, barely cutting off my breath, made my heart pound wildly."Is that better?" he whispered, watching my pupils dilate.
I nodded, unable to utter a word. His lips touched my neck, and with his free hand he continued exploring the silk of the stockings on my legs, now tightening the loop a little more, now releasing it, playing with the boundary of pleasure and a light, intoxicating lack of air.
And in this dance of silk and breath, I dissolved completely…
His fingers were still squeezing my neck, but now their movement became deliberately slow—tightening their grip, then loosening it, forcing me to catch air in short, ragged gasps. Each time the darkness at the edges of my vision began to thicken, he would release me, letting me take a full breath, and then the world would flare brighter, and every touch of his lips to my skin echoed with goosebumps.
"You're so beautiful when your lips turn slightly blue…" he whispered, running his thumb over my lower lip.
I didn't answer—just bit it, feeling a shiver run down my spine. His other hand slid up the inside of my thigh, catching on the thin top of the stocking, making the lace dig slightly into my skin.
"And these stockings…" he leaned down to run his tongue over the sensitive skin above the lace edge, "drive me crazy."
I arched in response, and at the same moment his fingers closed around my throat again, but tighter now. The air was cut off completely, my temples pounded, and a hot, pulsating desire ignited low in my belly. I grabbed his wrist, not to stop him—just to feel every muscle of his arm, every tense gesture.
"Do you want me to let go?" his voice sounded hoarse, but his eyes showed excitement at my state.
I shook my head, and he smirked—he knew I loved this game. Instead of an answer, his free hand jerked sharply upward, finally pulling the stocking off my leg, and I felt the thin silk tear under his force.
"A pity…" he muttered, "but now you're all mine."
And before I could catch my breath, his lips captured mine again, and his fingers dug into my hips, pressing me against him so tightly that there wasn't even a hint of distance between us.
His lips tore away from mine, leaving my skin scorched and my chest with heavy, ragged breathing. He leaned back, his gaze sliding appraisingly over my body: disheveled hair, reddened neck, stockings slipped down to my knees… That dangerous spark flared in his eyes, the one that always promised something *more*.
"**What if we try… suspending you?**" his voice sounded calm, but there was a clear tremor of excitement in it.
My heart skipped a beat. I knew he sometimes watched themed videos, that we had a sturdy silk scarf in the closet that he once jokingly wrapped around the headboard of the bed, saying: *"Someday…"*
"**By the neck?**" I whispered, and even I was surprised at how my voice trembled—not from fear, but from anticipation.
He nodded, slowly running his fingers over my throat, as if measuring.
"**Not completely, of course. You do trust me, right?**"
I didn't answer right away. Inside, everything tightened from a strange mix of arousal and a slight tremor. But when his palm rested on my chest, feeling the frantic beating of my heart, I finally nodded.
***
The scarf turned out to be cool and unexpectedly dense. He wrapped it around my neck, leaving enough room not to press, but tightly enough that I could feel its every movement. Then he threw the other end over the bar of the pull-up bar in the doorway (we'd bought it a long time ago "for sports," but used it differently).
"**Try it.**"
"**Do you like it?**" he held me by the hips, securing me.
I tried to answer, but only a hoarse sound came out. My lips stretched into a smile on their own.
***
He let me hang like that for a few seconds before slowly lowering me to my knees. Blood rushed to my face, my breathing became ragged, and the pulsing between my legs was so intense I could barely think.
"**Next time we'll leave you longer…**" he pressed me to him, and I felt how aroused he was.
And I already knew—*next time* would be even better.
His fingers dig into my hips, leaving scarlet marks on my skin as he lifts me again. The silk scarf wraps tightly around my neck, and I feel my body becoming lighter, my head heavier. Blood roars in my temples, my pulse pounds in the constricted vessels, but it only spurs me on.
"**Oh, you're already all wet…**"
His fingers enter me sharply, without preamble, and I scream—but the sound is cut off, choked by the scarf. My eyes roll back, my body arches, but there's nowhere to run—only to hang, gasp, and accept each of his thrusts, each burning surge of pleasure.
And then he does it—*presses his fingers exactly there*, where my entire essence is pulsating.
The world explodes.
My body convulses, a powerful stream bursts from me, hitting him, the floor, my own trembling body. I don't scream—I can't. I only rasp, hanging from the scarf, as waves of ecstasy wash everything away.
He catches me, barely preventing me from losing consciousness, and the scarf loosens its grip. Air rushes into my lungs, and I collapse onto him, still convulsing with unending pleasure.
"**Damn…**" he kisses my damp neck, "**now you're all over yourself. And on me.**"