Angie MacDougal glanced at the clock and sighed. Almost 4:30 on the second Friday of the month .... she'd better start getting ready. She headed for the bathroom, unbuttoning her blouse as she went. She shucked it off and dropped it, kicking it moodily out of the way, and looked into the mirror, naked to the waist but for her bra. She put her hands on her flaring hips, frowning as she inspected her image critically. She knew she was good looking, but she thought her mouth was too wide for perfection and she would have signed a five - year lein on her soul for blond hair instead of the rich brown silk that framed her face. Joe "said" he liked her hair, but the models in his magazines were all blondes.
She unhooked her bra, dropping it on her blouse and stroking her breasts. Damn it! Why couldn't they be bigger? Oh, they were rich and ample on her slender frame, but Joe's magazines went in for big breasted women - and with "red" nipples, damn it! Not brown! Her gray eyes flashed with frustration as she unsnapped her jeans and stepped out of them, tossing them atop the rest of her clothing. She rolled her panties off and pitched them aside, studying her nakedness, and the smooth white skin ofher bikini shadow looked back from the mirror, framing her nipples and the chestnut brush at the junction of her smoothly swelling thighs.
Most of the time she was pleased with her body, tonite she hated it. It was the "wrong" body. Joe wasn't interested in her any more. Not really. She sighed again and turned on the shower, braiding her hair up to keep it dry. The water was stingingly hot but bearable, as she stepped under it, gasping as it struck her fine-grained skin. She worked the soap mitt over her body, feeling the tingle it left behind. Her nipples swelled and a core of heat glowed in her belly, but it was only physical, she thought sadly.
She showered quickly, uninterested in the long, languid showers she used to enjoy so, especially on alternate Fridays. She was mechanical, brusque, her mind grappling with the disturbing thought she had only recently faced. She switched off the water and reached for a towel, drying briskly. Again her vibrant sensuality tingled, again it could not ease her mind. She went to her vanity table and dutifully prepared herself. First the delicate body perfume, applied to breasts and belly and satin thighs. Then the lip gloss and eyeliner. She felt as if she were making up a mannequin, a puppet .... because she was convinced this was how Joe saw her now.
She finished and slid into the tiny satin tie-panties, knotting the cords in bows on either hip. She adjusted the tiny triangular cups of the matching bra and tied its cords, then slipped into the diaphanous white negligee. She looked at herself in the mirror again, and her appearance sent a spurt of erotic fire down her nerves. She shrugged her shoulders sadly and opened the heavy trunk to finger the gleaming leather and coiled ropes, trace the hard edge of a buckle, stroke the firmness of a gag. Then she folded her hands in her lap and waited. She sighed. Maybe it was her fault. She'd been scared the first time Joe suggested Bondage. It took him Months to talk her into trying it. The thought of being tied up, helpless, unable to protect herself ... those thoughts frightened her, and she'd always been taught it was wrong. But she loved Joe - she "still" loved Joe, more than ever! - and she'd agreed to try it because he wanted her to.
They'd started gently, with loose bonds and minimal helplessness. The fear has been there, but it had been distant, and somehow it added to the melting arousal Joe had always awakened in her. From the first, the warmth of his lips, the tingling touch of his fingers, had been magic for her. But with the ropes on her wrists, her hands held back out of the way while his were free to roam and stroke and caress like a feathery lash of fire, she'd come so achingly alive she hadn't been able to believe it. The knowlege of her helplessness had fanned her lust, burning in her until her body became a hollow vessel filled with fire. And, when he took her - when he drove his demanding hardness gently into her - she had answered with passion she had never before known. Their lovemaking had been tempestuous, almost a battle, as the bindings on her wrists miracuously freed her from all inhibition. Her flesh had quaked with the force of his impaling strokes and her breathless answering thrusts. She had smoked and burned, and when she had come, it had been like the end of the world.
She had not hesitated when next he suggested Bondage, though she didn't understand it. She'd thought it was something men enjoyed "doing to" women - not that women enjoyed having done to them. But she had been as eager as he, willing to try "anything" which added such a glorious depth to her unabashadly erotic nature. It had not taken long to graduate from simple, loose, almost imagined confinement into true Bondage - immobilizing, often strenuous, sometimes downright strict Bondage. And that was when things changed. Angie shook her head sadly and put a bare foot into the trunk, prodding the neatly arranged instruments of her wild release and ultimate defeat.
What had started out as something to try "just" to please Joe had become important to her. Very important. It might have been different if Joe were harsh. If he had wanted to tie her up so he could "hurt" her, she would never have agreed to it. But he didn't want that. It was strange, but somehow being bound had made her feel that she was even more precious to him. He had been so gentle, so meltingly sensual in contrast to the unyelding confinement of his ropes and straps and chains. The more helpless she became, the more utterly immobile and defenseless she was, the more she was awake, alive, "tuned" to his loving and commanding touch. His need to confine her had been a form of worship, her need to be confined had been a love offering which returned to her a hundredfold.
But as Bondage became more complex, he seemed to become more interested in the act of binding her than he was in "her". It was as if she had become a model, a pliant body, a canvas on which to practice the art of his ropes and straps. He spent more and more time studying magazines and photos, searching, always searching for new ideas, new positions, new concepts. He became a Master of Bondage, but as his mastery increased it seemed to take him away from her, as if she were becoming just one more of the video and magazine models whose bound beauty fueled his fantasies. He bound her, and his ropes raised her to madness, but no longer for her pleasure. Only for his, and even his fascination was with the binding and not the loving.
So now she sat at the foot of her bed and waited for her husband, waited to become his captive once more. She did not doubt that she would find physical pleasure before the night was done, but something inside her was on the verge of tears at the thought of what she had given up when she became no more than a vehicle for Joe's Bondage artistry. Angie looked up as Joe opened the bedroom door. She rose, and his arms went around her, cradling her. She shut her eyes, pressing her face to his chest, trying to pretend it was the way it always had been. But it wasn't. She knew that it wasn't.
"Well, Hon," he said cheerfully, "lets try something special tonite."
"Sounds Good," she said, forcing herself to match his cheerfulness.
"Why not take off the gown, Angie? Lets get started."
Angie Nodded gracefully, trying to hide how his casual haste had stabbed her. It hurt, but she said nothing. Instead, she opened the gown and let it slide to the floor. Joe's eyes brightened further and he smiled. The light in his face would have filled her with delight if she had been able to believe it was for "her" and not just ths Bondage.
When he reached out his hand to her, she put her fingers in his and
followed him across the room.
He did not caress her. Instead, he buckled the thick collar snugly around her slender neck. Angie's grey eyes widened, smoldering as she felt the leather and a familiar surge of lust tingled through her loins, her nipples hardening and swelling with aching heat. She smelled her own passion, and that sent still stronger currents quivering across her intimate flesh.
Joe smiled at her and picked up the stretchy spandex hood. Angie trembled as she always did when he chose to render her blind, the heat in her climbed still higher, drumming in her blood. He slid the spandex over her motionless head, her eyes closing involuntarily as it slipped down over her forehead and nose. She felt it pressing down on her cheeks - then it stopped. She turned her head, eyes open now, but seeing only the glow of diffused light through the fabric. She heard a drawer open, and then he touched her chin, opening her mouth, and frilly softness pressed between her lips. Her thighs shifted against one another as she recognized the texture of her own panties. No other gag had the same effect on her - not even the raging, panting passion she felt when it was his shorts, still tasting of his sweat, could match it.
She moaned involuntarily, almost against her will .... she knew
the sound would please him only in a detached, professional way. Then there
was a second pair of panties in her mouth. A third. And wide tape, clinging
to her lips, a second strip lower, across her rounded chin, a third strip
higher, drawing at the smooth skin of her cheeks. She felt his fingers,
burnishing the tape and the movement quivered through her. Her hands gripped
her naked thighs, and she trembled as he rolled the spandex fully
down. The hood covered her entire face and drew snug about her throat. He adjusted it carefully, smoothing the excess fabric over her like a second skin stretchy and strong, supple and possessive as a lover's hand .... as his hand had once been.
She stood motionless as he fastened a leather harness over the hood, buckling it with exquisite care. The harder leather pressed against the spandex, sealing her into a leather and cloth and tape scented darkness. She trembled as she breathed the incense of captivity, but his silent absorption in his work chilled her. He crossed her wrists and braided cord around them. She turned her head blindly, not needing to see to visualize the wide cuff winding around her wrists. She'd seen it too many times, felt it too often. The rope's grip spread evenly, caressing even as it imprisoned, never pinching.
When he was satisfied, he looped the free end of the cord through the ring on the back of her collar. He tugged gently, and Angie shifted as her bound hands drew up to brush her shoulderblades. Once it might have hurt, but she was experienced now. There was no discomfort - only the firm, grip of his control. She trembled like a fawn as her hands were made captive. Sweat gleamed on her flawless skin, beading her like precious rain. The damp fire at her center rippled with heat, crackling in her nipples. She breathed through her nose, as he looped rope around her right elbow, then across her torso and around her left elbow. He drew the cord taut, pulling her elbows in against her ribs, arching her spine gracefully. He made three loops of the rope, lacing the free end through the the front ring of her collar so that the taut cord sank between her breasts, and she was curdled and wracked by the pleasure washing through her. If only, she thought ... if only ....
She could not see him as he eased her into the heavy wooden armchair and knelt, noosing her ankles to the ends of the three foot spreader bar. She felt the stretch and play of muscles under her butter smooth flesh. Her limber body was spread gracefully as he opened her long, splendid legs. He tied the cord, and Angie breathed deeply, making herself draw slow, even breaths despite her pounding heart and the tremors in her intimate flesh. She cocked her head, trying to visualize his actions beyond the spandex, but it was useless. She was his captive. His pliant toy. She had become, all too truly, the object of his desire, not his lover. This sad thought moved through her like a counterpointed rhythm. Somehow, it sharpened her physical reactions even as it chilled her soul, and her body reacted with a sort of mechanical eagerness as he lifted the spreader bar to the chair arms, folding her in the wooden chair. She arched, her bound wrists trapped firmly but gently between her shoulders and the chair back, as he lashed the spreader in place, her spread knees framing her spandex clad head.
It was harder to breathe with her belly folded, but he didn't leave
her so for long. His hands slid into her armpits, hard and hot in the sweat-damp
hollows. He lifted her easily, gently as if she were a child.
Angie gasped and jerked, erotic fire licking between....