The Bondage Picnic

A167 bondage

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Written by Hadara. Hadara, a first-time Jewrotica writer, is 26 years old and hails from Atlanta, GA.

Rated PG-13I had heard about it for a while. FetLife… like Facebook for kinky people. But, considering that I was just kink-curious (is that even a word?), I wasn’t quite ready to sign up. And besides, I wasted enough time on Facebook without adding a whole new world of sexy social media to my life.

But what intrigued me the most were the Jewish groups on FetLife. Growing up in an active Jewish home, Judaism permeated every part of my existence – so why not my sexuality as well? Besides, finding a MOT (Member of the Tribe) would make my transition to the daunting world of kink a bit more familiar as I navigated the thousand fetishes that sprawled beyond FL’s doors.

Shortly after Passover, I took the plunge and built out a barebones profile. ChallahPixie was in action. I won’t go into the details of the messages that were traded and the correspondences that followed, but an entire world was opened to me.

After a few select encounters with fine folks who I came to consider as friends, I learned that I was categorically not interested in pain. Cuts, bruises and anything that elicited more than the occasional “ow” were more or less designated for my ‘red’ list of off-limits behaviors. Beyond the “my body is a temple” philosophy, the Torah doesn’t allow you to cut or mutilate your body in any way. That’s why the Bible says “ViChay Bahem” – that you should live by the commandments with the emphasis being on the word “live” in exercising healthy behaviors. But, I digress. This is meant to be an essay or a confession, but certainly not a dvar Torah!

Like many Jewish females, I am confident, empowered (but not entitled!) and accomplished. My professional achievements are personally rewarding and also bring my parents a fair share of nachas. But being the alpha wolf in a pack all the time can be tiring. The intensity of my personality also intimidates many a male who might try to step up to the plate. Even the ones who do often can’t keep up.

Now imagine that you found someone – smart, caring, respectful – who was dominant in every sense. Someone who would allow you, in set environments (called “scenes”), to temporarily give over control and melt into his gentle yet firm command. David was that person.

The sun was setting as he picked me up. He greeted me with a smile, strode alongside me as we walked to the car and opened the door. The plan was for a picnic and, as he drove, I realized that we were heading to the Atlanta Botanical Garden.

As he unpacked our picnic basket, I was impressed by David’s attention to detail. Bamboo sheets were laid out in the grass and topped with a soft blanket, flowers and a candle. Two plastic bottles were set on either side of the blanket, one set with spring water and another with a delightful red wine, which would rival the sweet Rashi kiddush wine that I had grown up on.

I delighted in the food selections that had been specially prepared for the occasion – sushi, edamame, vegetable bites, homemade bread, a bit of salad and – a guilty pleasure of mine – BBQ beef jerky. I gazed at David, all smiles but a bit shocked at the lengths he had gone to prepare our dinner, when he looked at me kindly but sternly.

“Pixie”, he called me. “I know you like to be challenged, so I brought something special to our picnic.”

I looked at him with questioning eyes.

“Put out your hands.”

Uncharacteristically heeding his words and willfully submitting to his command yet still thinking “okay, where is this going?” I raised an eyebrow and presented my hands for David. From his bag, he withdrew a small piece of silken white rope that was fashioned into handcuffs.

“Hmm, you have delicate wrists,” he murmured as he slid them onto me and my mouth dropped, realizing what was happening.

“Ah, that’s better”, he said as he sat back onto the blanket and took in his creation. “Please, ladies first”, David sincerely gestured as he beckoned me toward the food.

And so began my bondage picnic in an area public enough for all to see, but private enough that none actually would.

We spoke about our lives, we discussed our Jewish upbringings and practice and we poked fun at Atlanta for being the traffic trap that it is when the mosquitoes started biting. Attentive to every detail, David noticed that I began squirming and was trying to shoo the mosquitos away within the confines of my limited mobility.

“Are the mosquitoes bothering you?” he inquired.

“A bit,” I replied, speaking truthfully but not wanting to seem finicky or too much the city girl.

David paused for a moment.

“Pixie, please stand up for me. Put your hands above your head.”

I obliged, pleased to be with a man of such commanding presence. David circled me, sprayed a fair amount of insect repellant into his hands and rubbed it into my exposed skin – our first real touching interaction, all with my hands bound and held above my head.

We soon realized the late hour and opted to draw our picnic to a close. I tried to help clean up, but he wouldn’t have it. Just as David was about to blow out the candle, I piped up: “I want to blow it out!” He nodded in acquiescence and then said “Hold still.”

David poured the melted wax into his hands, testing the temperature in consideration, and proceeded to paint the hot wax onto my arms and thighs. With each touch, I let out a small sigh. The wax was hot, but not too hot – like the shock and tingle of stepping into a deliciously drawn hot bath after a long day.

“You aren’t to remove the wax. It will fall off when it is ready,” were his last instructions to me as we walked toward the car to deposit the picnic items.

David and I opted for a moonlit walk among the birds, the crickets, the trees before he brought me home. The details of the walk aren’t important – a girl’s got to have her privacy, you know. But, as he untied my hands and re-bound them behind my back, David began to walk me, to guide me deep into the darkness, step by step, under his protection and power…

On the car ride home, David checked in to make sure that I was alright and, as he stood on my front door stop and bid me good night, he pressed something small, smooth and rough into my hands, and whispered into my ear.

“Pixie, sleep in your cuffs tonight. And think of me when you do. I’ll see you on Shabbos.”

I walked into my apartment, pressed the door closed behind me and let out a deep sigh. Had I been holding my breath that entire time? Impossible, though my breathing patterns had surely changed.

I washed up and marveled at the dominant Jewish man who had just wandered into my life. And, as I covered my eyes to say the shema that night, my left hand bound to the right that is usually used for the prayer, the ropes gently pulling at my wrists, I drifted off and thought of next week’s adventures.

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  • Ayo Oppenheimer

    ChallahPixie? Love the name! And I really dig the visual set-up of saying the night time Sh’ma prayer with willingly bound hands.

    And, as one of our followers on the Jewrotica FB commented, “Bondage on a first date?!”. Or, a rarer gem, a Jewish woman who wants to give up total control! 😉

  • nazienergy

    I took a shit, does it look like yours do you eat your shit is it kosher with supervision ? what braka do you make when you swallow your pets sperm ?

    • Anna

      You know you’ve made it when the antisemitic trolls come crawling out of the woodwork…