He asked so sweetly.

“Step-mom, can I practice the knots I learned at camp?”

How could I say no?

So I let him lead me to the living-room rug, sit me down, cross my wrists behind my back. The rope felt scratchy and warm at first — just a game. But when he cinched it tighter, pulled my elbows together until my breasts jutted forward... my breath caught.

He’s really good at this.

Knot after knot slid across my skin. My ankles next, then thighs, all bound with that neat Boy-Scout precision that made something flutter low in my belly. I told myself I’d stay calm — until he was finished and let me loose.

But “finished” never came.

Instead he pressed a pink, filmy scarf between my lips, wrenching my teeth apart, tying it behind my head so every sound I tried to make turned into a soft, wet “mmmppfff.”

Panic flickered — then heat.

Because he didn’t stop. He rolled me forward, tugged my ankles up toward my wrists, threading one last rope through the knots until I was arched in a perfect l*ttle hogtie. I could feel my panties riding up, sliding against my crotch as I squirmed.

My stepson just stood back, admiring his handwork. His eyes traced the rope cutting into my legs, the way the gag stretched my mouth, the tremble of my shoulders as I tried (and failed) to wiggle free.

He’s enjoying this.

And G*d help me, so am I.

He leaned close, lips brushing my gagged ear.

“I’ll be back when I’m ready.”

Then footsteps. Door shutting. Silence.

Now I’m alone on the couch, arms wrenched behind me, legs folded up, drool trickling down my chin. Every small struggle makes the rope dig deeper, makes my p*ssy throb harder. I writhe, grunting through the gag, feeling my hips rock helplessly against the couch cushions — the friction delicious and infuriating at the same time.

All I can do is imagine him returning.

To tease.

To touch.

Or... just to leave me tied longer, until I break.

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Milf Bndage Classic Bndage Bndage Step-Mom Bndage with C4s.com