Handcuff Knot Novels & Stories

He stepped by me, placing a hand low on my waist, and took the purple rope, unbinding it slowly. “Spread your legs amator meus (my lover).” I did as I was told, opening my legs to hip width, watching him closely. As he unfurled the rope he draped it around my neck, the rope hanging to the floor and pooling there. It was soft against my skin, sliding easily as he crossed it at the base of my throat, tying a knot there with the four strands, 2 on either side. He then split the strands and pulled them slightly to the side, making a pair of knots, once finished crossed one set across my back and the other through the valley of my breasts. In the center of my chest, he made a knot there, with a s

I tell him but he hesitates. "Behind?" "Just trust me." He complies and holds his wrists behind him for me to cuff in the padded handcuffs hanging from the grid by a red rope. When he's securely fastened in, I pull on the other end of the rope so Cole's hands go further up behind him. I do so slowly so he can adjust his body as his arms stretch up behind him and his body is bent forward. I crouch down and unzip his shorts then help him step out of them.

The moment he unbind the knots around my wrists, I raised my hand in the air and slapped him heavily across his face. “How dare you kidnap me?!”

“Hands behind your back.” I lace my fingers together at the base of my spine, watching as he picks up the rope. It’s the same soft leather we used before. He shifts forward, knees bracketing my chest, and reaches for my wrists. The knot he ties is neat and sure. Not cruel. Not punishing. Firm. I test it and it holds, but I know if I put my full strength into it, I can break it. He picks up the folded cloth. “What’s that?” I ask, my voice suddenly tight.

With trembling, sweaty fingers, I manage to create a perfect Windsor knot and just when I think that my ordeal has ended, he says: “I need help with my cufflinks as well.” Gods, I want to stab this man to death.

It’s a struggle, but I’m determined, and keep listening out for any noises on the other side of the door. Threading the now-untied lace between my wrist and the cable tie, I set about tying one end of the lace to my right boot, the other to my left. Testing out whether my haphazard knots are tight enough, I pedal my feet, and breathe a sigh of relief when they hold. I keep going, the tension in the lace starting to burn through the cable tie. I gasp when it finally pops off, my right wrist finally free, the blood pumping happily back to my hand. Then I start on the other cable tie.

With practiced hands, he picked up a length of silk rope, its texture smooth to the touch. "Let's start simple," he began, showing Ava how to tie a basic Square Knot. "Right over left, then left over right," he instructed, his fingers manipulating the rope as he demonstrated. With a combination of excitement and trepidation, he used the rope to loosely tie one of her wrists.

We haven’t tried it, but the idea of being tied down and at Vincenzo’s mercy fills me with a whole new wave of desire. “How about we work up to these,” he suggests. I tilt my head in confusion, feeling like he is rejecting my gift. “Handcuffs can hurt your wrists, and I want to make sure you are only focused on pleasure when I tie you down,” his voice lowers, making me antsy. I watch as he takes off his tie and coils it around his hands. “Now, this,” he tugs the tie taut, making a small snapping sound with the fabric. “This will do perfectly. And if you like it, we can use these next time. Okay?” he states, nodding to the handcuffs.

“No, don’t worry. He won’t even compare to you.” Cord chuckled. He pulled a metallic object from his coat’s pocket right before joining her in bed. “Well, that’s a relief,” he said and then secured her wrists with his hands, placed it over her head against the headboard, and then locked them with the chained handcuffs. “Cord!” Amanda blinked fast and wiggled underneath him. “What the? Are you literally going to chain me?!” He broke into a wide grin. “It’s just a precaution,” he said, watching her vulnerable form with delight.

My thighs clench. "Keep talking like that," he warns, voice dropping an octave, "and this stop gets a lot less routine." I push back — just an inch. Enough to graze his thigh with my ass. Then I roll. Slow figure eight. Hip forward, circle back, grinding the loop right against him. Once. Twice. The friction sparks low in my belly. He stiffens. Everywhere. "Hands behind your back," he growls. Cold metal clicks around my wrists. Handcuffs. Tight but not bruising. Yet.