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I’d signed up thinking it would be chill. Some extra credit, maybe a free snack at the end. The flyer said:
“Seeking male volunteers for Kinesthetic Art & Bondage Form Lab — Clothing optional (but modesty respected). No experience necessary.”
So, naturally, I assumed I’d be standing there while a bunch of girls tied knots on my arms or whatever. They promised I could keep my underwear on.
What they didn’t mention? That I’d be the only model. And that the class had twelve students. All women.
And that the instructor — Professor Myra Jameson — had no concept of personal space.
She greeted me barefoot, in linen pants and a loose black tank top that looked like it had lived five lives before today. Her curly gray hair was tied in a messy knot. She radiated warmth, energy, and the kind of casual authority that made you obey before thinking twice.
— You must be Liam! she beamed. Excellent. Come on in — girls, meet our structural base for today.
They were already seated on mats around the room, ropes coiled beside each one like tame snakes. All barefoot, all in sports bras and soft shorts, like it was a yoga class that had forgotten about gravity.
My throat tightened.
— Just strip down to your base layer and stand here, Myra said, tapping a spot on a low wooden platform in the center of the room. The floor was scattered with mirrors and soft spotlights.
I stepped up, tugged off my hoodie, then slid down my sweatpants. Left in only my simple black boxer-briefs. Loose. Not particularly flattering.
I heard whispers.
Not mean. Not mocking. Just… curious. Intrigued. Analytical.
— Don’t worry, Myra said brightly. You’re not being judged. We’re studying how rope shapes the body — not the body itself. Although the body helps.
She winked. I laughed nervously.
The girls began to circle. Slowly. Picking up their ropes, approaching me like dancers moving into formation. One — a tall redhead with heavy-lidded eyes — tugged her rope tight between her hands.
— Can I start on the arm?
— Thigh, here, Myra said. We’re beginning with hip balance.
Before I could respond, someone was kneeling beside me. A warm hand slid along the outside of my leg, adjusting its angle. Another girl’s fingers gently gripped my wrist and began wrapping it in slow, practiced loops.
The rope was soft. Thicker than I’d expected. It didn’t burn — it hugged. Firm and controlled.
But with each pass, they got closer. Across my hips. Behind my knees. Around my waist. The boxer-briefs became a problem fast. The rope would catch, pull the waistband upward, dig fabric between skin. I shifted awkwardly.
Myra clicked bursa bayan eskort her tongue.
— See? This is where fabric causes interference. Anyone see the tension curve?
One girl raised her hand — brunette, squat build, very serious.
— The rope’s bunching against the waistband. It’s distorting the shape of the pelvic shelf.
Myra nodded, pleased.
— Excellent observation. Let’s correct.
She turned to me with a gentle smile.
— Liam, would you be comfortable continuing without the barrier?
I blinked.
— You mean…?
— Just for realism. You’ll still be respected. No touching there, of course. Pure form and symmetry.
Twelve girls. One professor. All eyes on me.
I nodded. Slowly.
— Good man, she said warmly.
I hooked my thumbs into the waistband, hesitated — and then pushed them down.
Silence.
Then someone exhaled. Another adjusted their rope.
I stood there, naked now, the air brushing my thighs, my dick soft and small and hanging in front of all of them. I didn’t dare look down — I felt how unimpressive it looked.
They didn’t laugh.
They didn’t gasp.
They just looked.
And that was somehow worse.
The ropes moved again — sliding across my skin now, uninterrupted by cloth. Around my waist, across my hip, just beneath my ass. I tried not to flinch when fingers brushed too close. They weren’t being sexual. That was the terrifying part. It was clinical. Artistic. Controlled.
But my cock? My cock didn’t care.
It shriveled. Fully soft. Cold. Tight to my body like it knew it didn’t belong here.
One girl, blonde and freckled, crouched in front of me and began wrapping a harness across my lower pelvis, the rope curving between my thighs. She was only centimeters from my dick — didn’t touch it — but it dangled right there, small, exposed, trembling with each breath.
She looked up at me with a polite smile.
— Can you widen your stance just a bit?
I did.
She adjusted the rope again, and it pulled tight across my groin. My balls shifted. My dick lifted slightly, only because it had nowhere else to go. The base pressed upward against the rope. The tip… just drooped.
One of the girls whispered from behind me:
— Is that… it?
I heard the intake of breath. Then Myra’s voice — loud, amused, theatrical:
— I assure you the rope is not obstructing anything.
Laughter.
Not cruel. Not loud. But full. Real. A few giggles, one open-mouthed gasp that someone tried to muffle with her hand. And still — no one looked away. Not one.
The redhead made a low hum.
— bursa escort bayan I’ve tied bottle necks with more length.
Myra stepped forward again, walking slowly, barefoot, like an instructor observing a sculpture. She circled me once, then stopped behind me and tapped the small of my back with her finger.
— He’s trembling. Look at the glutes.
Another girl — glasses, tall — bent down and made a quick note in a sketchpad.
— Micro-response to tension. Rope pulling too close to reproductive zone. Possible shame stimulation.
I couldn’t breathe.
I wasn’t hard. But I was burning. My cock twitched once — just once — barely moving. But everyone saw it.
Cora — the freckled one at my side — tilted her head, eyes still trained on the harness she was tying just above the base of my shaft.
— It’s reacting.
The girl across from her leaned closer.
— Reacting how?
— Just… pulsing. Like… very slightly.
Silence again. Then one girl, half-serious:
— Should we mark that as involuntary arousal?
Myra laughed.
— Well, it’s not voluntary, surely.
More laughter. Warmer this time. Like I was a shared secret.
— Can someone reinforce the line under the shaft? she asked. Just to stabilize.
I felt another set of fingers at my inner thigh, pulling rope tighter under my balls, around the base. The rope now cradled my dick — not harshly, but completely. Like it presented it.
And the effect was horrifying.
I looked down.
There it was: my cock, held up by rope, framed by art students. Still small. Still pathetic. And now — lightly twitching inside the outline they’d built around it.
Myra stepped into my line of sight.
— Beautiful symmetry, she said calmly.
Then, quieter, to the class:
— And an honest subject. Never underestimate what vulnerability brings to the art.
The room had gone quiet again — but not out of respect. Out of focus. Twelve women surrounded me like sculptors around a slab, ropes in hand, minds engaged. My cock, tiny and flushed, sat nestled in its new display frame — supported by a Y-knot that lifted it gently off my skin. Not restrained. Just… offered.
And still, it twitched. Slightly. The rope made it worse. Every breath nudged it against the fiber, which rubbed it just enough to keep it alive. Not hard — not even close — but awake. Embarrassingly awake.
— This is a fascinating case study, Myra said.
She walked behind me again, barefoot steps quiet on the studio mats.
— The body under passive tension becomes its own visual contradiction. He’s soft… and yet he responds.
A girl near my left hip muttered:
— Like a lightbulb that flickers, but never turns on.
More muffled laughter.
I didn’t move. Couldn’t. My whole body had gone stiff — except the part that shouldn’t be. The part now cradled and twitching, the part being watched and discussed like a cracked teacup.
— May I? Myra asked.
I didn’t know what she meant. Then I felt it: her fingertip — gloved — gently adjusting the rope that passed directly beneath my shaft. The motion pressed it higher, accidentally aligning it with one of the horizontal wraps around my pelvis. The tip now pointed slightly outward, helpless and useless.
My knees wobbled.
— You okay? one girl asked. Not cruel — just… curious.
I nodded, too fast.
Myra looked at me again, head slightly tilted.
— It’s not often you get a volunteer this open. This structurally honest.
Another girl added:
— Or this small.
No one corrected her.
Cora stepped back, brushing a loose curl behind her ear.
— I think we’ve maxed the frontal view. Should we rotate him?
Myra clapped once.
— Brilliant. Let’s observe stress distribution from behind.
Two girls took my shoulders and gently turned me around.
Now I stood facing the wall, fully on display from the rear. My ass wrapped in ropes that cut diagonally across the cheeks, my thighs bound just enough to keep my stance wide. The rope beneath me cradled my balls — lifted them. They felt blue, tight, humiliated.
But the worst part was that I could still feel their eyes.
Not touching. Just watching.
One girl laughed quietly.
— His balls look like they’re clenching from shame.
Another said:
— I don’t even think he has enough to clench.
Someone whistled.
And then I heard sketchpads open. Graphite scratching. Notes being made. Not of me, the person. Of the structure. The subject. The example.
Myra’s voice again — now softer, warmer.
— You’ve done beautifully, Liam. Truly. And I hope you understand how rare this is. Most men would never let themselves be seen like this.
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.
She stepped around, came into my view, and placed a folded towel in her hands.
— You may dress when ready. But take your time.
I nodded, eyes down, still bound, still twitching. My cock now fully exposed in the mirror on the wall across from me — a tiny, twitching stem held aloft by a pattern of rope someone had called beautiful.
As they walked away, I heard one girl say, half-laughing, half-sincere:
— That was honestly braver than a nude model.
Cora replied:
— Yeah. At least they usually have something to show.
The studio door shut behind them.
And I stood alone, dressed in knots, body trembling, the rope still hugging everything I didn’t want anyone to see — and everything they already had.
Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32