After a week’s polite messages, Noor—a willow-slim Moroccan graduate student with curious eyes—joins us for “sister rope.”
I outline the blueprint to both subs: a chest harness, a crotch rope, twin hip-slings, hoisted so their bellies graze, their faces close enough to share breath. Zoe and I will wear harnesses—mine obsidian, hers wine-red—and take them from behind while we choreograph their mouths.
Two safeword voices answer green. The ropes are checked, the carabiners locked. The jazz hush is replaced by a deeper, tribal drum loop that keeps riggers honest.
A jute rope wraps Noor’s ribcage—horizontal band above her breasts, a diamond weave between. Eva’s harness mirrors this in scarlet hemp. A crotch rope slides tight, one knot riding her clit. The hip slings support their weight; the chest lines clip overhead to twin swivel blocks.
Pull—click—pull. They rise until their toes dangle ten centimetres above the mats, their thighs parted by the crotch rope, their knees bent. Their faces hover a hand-breadth apart. Breath mingles, eyes huge.
Their wrists are bound behind each girl’s back, not to each other; they’re helpless but not entangled—yet.
“Colour?”
“Green,” they whisper in stereo.
Zoe steps into her crimson strap-on: a broad base, a thrust-friendly curve. I strap on sleek black silicone—longer, thinner. Coconut-jasmine lube warms between my palms. The music’s drumbeat stitches tension through the concrete.
Noor’s eyes track my cock; Eva blushes for both. I smear lube on my shaft, let a bead drip onto Eva’s parted labia. She shivers, the rope knot creaking against swollen flesh.
I position behind Eva—hands at her hips—and slide home in one slow press. The rope lift angles her pelvis perfectly. She cries out: the rope knot grinds her clit while the silicone spreads heat.
Zoe mirrors me with Noor—hips snapping scarlet leather into her silky channel. Noor’s gasped breath ends nose-to-nose with Eva’s. Their breath fogs mutual air.
“Taste each other,” I command.
Their lips brush shyly, then melt open. Tongues meet; the kiss deepens. Movement pulls the ropes; every thrust we deliver rocks the sister opposite, creating mirrored waves.
We set a cadence: thrust-thrust-pause, thrust-thrust-pause. In each pause, the subs must moan into the other’s mouth—a vibration they share. If the sound fades, we stop and tighten the crotch rope one twist.
Soon their duet becomes frantic, their lips slick with mixed spit, their cheeks wet with tears of pleasure. Their hips jerk; the suspension lines sway.
Zoe grips Noor’s braid, arching her neck. I palm Eva’s throat—bare weight, reminding her whose sky she floats in.
“Open wider, slut,” I growl near her ear. She moans louder into Noor’s mouth; the rope knot saws harder.
I reach forward, pinch Noor’s nipple; Zoe does the same to Eva—crossed caresses. Shock registers in four eyes, pleasure ricocheting partner to partner. Their bodies quake, sweat pearls on under-breasts, falling like warm rain on the mats.
“Green?” Zoe checks mid-thrust.
Both answer “Green!” in unison before their lips fuse again.
We accelerate, the drum track racing. Pelvis meets rope-tied mound; the silicone hammers wet heat. Their moans pitch high; toes curl. Breathing stutters—the edge.
I signal: three-count. On three, both of us withdraw. Cocks slide free, the rope knot still punishing their clits. The subs wail, orgasms aborted mid-flight.
“Hold the ruin,” I order, and deliver light slaps to Eva’s inner thigh; Zoe mirrors me on Noor. The sting twists denied pleasure; they sob into each other’s mouths, kissing desperately.
Second build. We re-enter, faster. Muscles clamp; the ropes creak overhead. At the brink again, we pull out, our palms soothing their lower backs while denial burns bright.
Tears track their cheeks; slick drips onto the mats like rain.
“Beg together,” I say.
Through panting kiss, they murmur, “Please—let us come—sisters in rope—your toys—please.”
Twin green lights in their eyes. Zoe nods. We slide home, relentless: hips snapping, the ropes thrumming harmonic. Their kiss breaks into cries—still mouth-to-mouth, sharing breathless ecstasy.
Climaxes ripple: first Noor, her inner walls milking the red silicone; Eva follows, her cunt pulsing round the black shaft. Their suspended bodies spasm, toes pointed, ropes humming.
We ride aftershocks until their legs dangle boneless.
Quick-release knots drop them into our arms. The mats cushion their knees. The ropes come off, their wrists are freed, blood flow checked—fingers warm, capillaries pink.
We wrap each in fleece, settle them against pillows side-by-side, hands entwined—rope sisters grounded in cotton. Electrolyte water, dark-chocolate squares, a lavender mist for rope-kissed skin.
“Colour?”
“Forest green,” Eva sighs.
“Mint green,” Noor echoes, giddy.
Zoe and I share a satisfied grin. Two sets of eyelids flutter closed, smiles soft.
Outside, night trams sing iron lullabies; inside, the rope swings gently in remembered cadence—an X-shaped altar that just birthed a sisterhood in silk and sweat.
Zoe uncorks a 2012 Saint-Émilion; tannic dark fruit spirals into the basement air like velvet smoke. Two crystal balloons catch the amber LEDs, throwing wine-red constellations across raw concrete.
Our pets kneel on the Persian rug, their wrists cuffed in front, their thighs slick with earlier edging. Between them lies the instrument: a 28-centimetre dual-ended dildo—midnight-purple, gentle curve, centre grip wrapped in paracord for traction.
I present the plan in a voice as smooth as the wine:
• Each girl straddles the dildo back-to-back, ass-to-ass.
• Hemp rope binds their upper thighs snugly together—eight-millimetre natural twist creating a single living piston.
• Their wrists remain cuffed to rope belts at their waists, forcing them to power motion from hips only, no hands.
• They thrust not at whim but on command counts; any off-beat pause earns a sip of wine for us and a denial delay for them.
They nod, pupils blown. “Colour?” I ask.
“Green,” two voices murmur in chord.
We lube both ends—cool slick that smells faintly of cocoa butter—and sheath each with a condom.
Noor takes the first insertion, lowering slowly until the flare presses inside; a gasp, eyelids flutter. Eva backs up, guided by my hand between her shoulder blades, until the purple silicone kisses her slick entrance. A push, a moan—now both halves of the toy vanish, centre grip snug between their rope-pressed thighs.
The rope follows: a spiral cinch starting at mid-thigh, ascending to just under the butt-crease, locking their legs together so their pelvises must work as one. When I tug the tail, their bodies rock in mirror opposition—one forward drives the other back. Perfect.
“Test stroke,” Zoe commands.
They thrust—hips rolling awkwardly at first, then syncing. Slick sounds bloom.
S a t i s f a c t o r y.
We settle on floor cushions facing them, barefoot, knees touching. Goblets raise; ruby liquid coats glass. The first sip: currant, cedar, hint of leather, just like the scene.
“Count of six,” I announce. “You move on the odd beats only—one, three, five—freeze on even.”
My fingers snap: one. Thrust, wet slide.
Two—they freeze; their thighs tremble, the dildo deep inside both.
Three—another roll, moans duet.
Four—stillness; Eva’s breath whimpers.
Five thrust; six lock.
Zoe’s grin curves wine-dark. “Again. Faster.”
I pour a little wine on her tongue; she leans, kisses me, sharing tannic sweetness. The pet bodies pump, freeze, pump—tempo climbing. Slick sheen glazes the rope, drips to the rug.
Heat coils low in my belly, watching them struggle for perfect rhythm—muscles shaking, faces flushed. Zoe slides her hand under my silk chemise, two fingers parting folds. I groan into her mouth; wine mingles with arousal on tongues.
“Keep count!” she purrs.
I choke out numbers between breaths. Misstep on four: Eva’s hips twitch. I halt the count, raise an eyebrow. Punishment: five-second denial. The girls hold still, the dildo throbbing inside, need carving them hollow. My climax edges while they rot in pause—delicious power.
We resume; they thrust harder, precision now survival.
I grip the paracord centre, using it like a gearshift—dragging forward, forcing deeper penetration, then wrenching back. Their yelps lace together, a wet knot of sound. The rope burns on their thighs, friction blooming red.
Zoe, pressing circles on my clit, breathes, “Let them kiss.”
I nod. “Lean back, tongues out.”
Bound at the thighs, they arch torsos until lips meet over shoulders—a backwards kiss of desperation. Their moans vibrate through the dildo; I feel the echo in my palm via the rope.
The stroke count returns—one-two-three—now each odd number accompanied by a sloppy inverted kiss. We sip more wine, liquid warmth contrasting their sweat-salt.
Their cries sharpen—they’re close. I cut the count short at five, grip the centre, hold their motion. Both girls whine, hips twitch futilely. Internal muscles spasm; orgasm nearly tips but can’t crest.
“No,” I say, my voice velvet iron.
Zoe’s thumb flicks my clit; I grind on her fingers, savoring stolen electricity. My own wave breaks—a quiet quake masked by the sniff of wine. I suck her thumb, tasting myself.
The subs stare, horror-lust mixing—our pleasure fed by their denial.
“Last set. Continuous until I say stop.”
They thrust frantically, the rope creaking. Nipples sway, bodies slick. Their kiss breaks, each dropping her forehead to the other’s shoulder, panting, “Please.”
My free hand tweaks Noor’s nipple; Zoe spanks Eva’s flank, sharp smacks timed with pushes. The rug darkens with fluid.
“Come for us. Now.”
Like a cracked dam: moans crest, thighs seize, pelvic rhythm jerks wild. Orgasms ripple through the dildo bridge—two sets of inner walls milking silicone, a shared shudder echoing up the rope. They scream into each other’s skin, tears wetting shoulders.
We watch, strokes slowing on ourselves, basking in the glow their pleasure paints across the basement.
The ropes are sliced; the dildo eased free, condoms removed. Warm cloths wipe their thighs; aloe cools their rope burns. The girls curl, spooned on the rug, still panting. We trade final sips of wine, drizzle a drop onto each pet’s tongue—a communion of tannin and sweat.
“Colour?”
Eva: “Pale green, floating.”
Noor: “Mint-tea green, grateful.”
We drape quilts over their entwined bodies, then recline beside them—Dommes cheek-to-cheek—listening to four pulses slow into sync while wine legs descend the glass like memories.
Outside, city lights blink Morse into the night; inside, the rope fibres rest slack, stage set for whatever tempo tomorrow’s vintage demands.
