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Kidnapped
by Diana Carroll (d_carroll@tle.dec.com)

***

The essence of bondage is the context, that a person, 
your lover, now controls you. Similarly, lying in wait 
can be intensely sexual, while you wonder what is going 
to happen next, and when. (M+/F, bdsm, blindfolded, 
anon)

***

I was hard at work. The design, both sketches and clay 
models, had to be done by the next day and I did not 
want to stay late. My lover was finally interested in a 
date for that evening and I was certainly ready. The 
last several weeks he had been acting very odd, avoiding 
me, acting surly, that kind of thing. 

I suspected trouble at work; this didn't seem to be the 
boredom accompanying the end of a relationship, but it 
was irritating me nevertheless. And he wouldn't talk 
about the problem, whatever it was. Hmm. Tie him to the 
bed and tickle him till he talked? I grinned; whether or 
not he said anything, the game sounded like fun.

I returned to work. Reaching for the eraser, my hand 
tangled in the phone cord. The momentary hint of bondage 
brought a smile to my lips, and a wetness to my groin. 
Almost unconsciously, I smoothed my skirt. The 
unexpected contact of hand to thigh startled me, and 
then generated another smile. I didn't often wear such 
skimpy outfits to work. But I was intent on celebrating 
that evening, and no one would say anything to me, there 
are advantages to owning the firm.

Suddenly, the phone rang. Cursing, I had told me 
secretary I wanted no interruptions, I picked it up. A 
distorted voice said, "You've been kidnapped"

Shit. The call had come in on my private line, the one 
that did not go through my secretary's phone. Only one 
person was likely to be calling me on that phone these 
days. "John? Is that you? We were supposed to meet 
tonight, not now, I told you how busy I'd be today."

It was John. He repeated, "You've been kidnapped. You 
know the situation: anytime, anyplace, you drop what 
you're doing and come with me. Now."

I did indeed know the rules. Many years, and not a few 
relationships, ago, a lover and I had evolved the kidnap 
game as a way to spice up our bondage lives. Either of 
us, at any time, could "kidnap" the other, simply by 
announcing it. The "victim" would go to the other's car 
to be bound, and off we'd go. The kidnaper would drive 
off to some prepared place, where a scenario had been 
prepared. We'd then have an evening, or a weekend, or 
even more, of delicious servitude.

One of the ironclad rules, though, was that we didn't 
hurt each other. I like being tied up, and I like tying 
my lovers up, but I'm not into pain. A whipping, if 
that's what the game called for, was just a few strokes, 
enough to tingle, but not sting more than slightly. But 
locks were real locks, and while we often used Velcro 
for convenience bonds, if the game called for sleeping 
chained, real handcuffs were used. Neither of us had 
ever escaped, and the rules do permit escapes and 
turnabouts. 

In fact, that was why I started a serious exercise 
program; I didn't like being overpowered that easily. I 
don't know if I'm as strong as John is, but he can't 
easily overpower me without risking hurting me, and 
that, as I said, is beyond the rules. Be that as it may, 
I grew to like exercise for its own sake; even today, as 
busy as I was, I found time to work out.

We always took the "no pain" rule seriously. When we 
played our discreet public bondage games, we always did 
it an hour or more away, to avoid any public 
embarrassment. We'd keep each other minutely apprised of 
our professional schedules, so that kidnappings didn't 
cause problems at work.

John always seemed to walk the edge of that rule, 
though. His ropes were often a bit tighter than 
necessary, and his spankings a bit harder. I never 
really knew what was going to happen next, and that was 
both a thrill and a source of worry. 

The essence of bondage is helplessness, that you are not 
at all in control, that you are at the complete and 
total mercy of another. But there must also be trust, 
you must know that your partner won't exceed your 
bounds, and I was never really sure if I could trust 
John. But that, of course, meant I was really at his 
mercy, which turned me on even more sometimes. Other 
times, of course, it made me worry, and I had been 
giving serious thought to ending the relationship.

I remembered what he had done a few months earlier. 
While I was sleeping, he had broken into my house, 
slipped upstairs, and quickly handcuffed me. As I 
struggled awake, he kissed me, announced a kidnapping, 
and slipped a hood over my head. He then led me 
downstairs, out the back door, nude!, into his car, and 
drove me to his house. 

He was courteous to drive around to his back door, too, 
something he doesn't usually do, and led me in. Of 
course, I didn't know where I was; he wouldn't tell me. 
He then fastened my hands high over my head to some sort 
of post, and tied my legs to either side of it. My toes 
could just barely touch the ground. Finally, he moved 
some sort of lever, and the whole thing tilted forward 
about 10 or 15 degrees. My breasts and crotch were 
pressed against the post, creating a delicious pressure. 
I had just enough leverage to wiggle my crotch against 
the post.

John spoke. "I'd like your permission to bend the rules 
a bit. I'd like to whip you rather harder than we 
usually do. It's really going to hurt this time, and I'm 
not going to stop after two or three strokes. I think 
you'll find it's worth it, though, at least this time."

I wiggled in my bonds, trying to get loose. I couldn't, 
of course. And I didn't know what to say. If I said no, 
would he whip me anyway? If I said yes, could I take it? 
John isn't particularly large, in fact, we're about the 
same height, but I hadn't even seen the whip. And would 
I really enjoy the experience? I had never found pain to 
be a particular stimulus in the past. I moaned and 
wiggled some more, which of course stimulated my crotch 
and provoked a different sort of moan.

John said, "You don't have to explicitly agree. I'll 
count to ten; if you don't demur by then, I'll proceed." 
I remained silent, stilled by an agony of indecision. 
Oddly enough, rather than simply counting, he activated 
a metronome, a slow one, and counted with every tick.

"One. Two. Three. Four. Five." Still I said nothing, but 
still, I struggled with the ropes and chains. "Six. 
Seven. Eight. Nine." I braced myself. "Ten."

Nothing happened. Two more ticks went by, and still 
nothing happened. "Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen." I had 
just started to relax, when I heard, and then felt the 
whip, exactly on the sixteenth tick. I screamed, and 
pressed wildly against the post, rubbing on it. John 
kept counting; on twenty, he hit me again, and again on 
twenty-four and twenty-eight. 

I knew when each blow was coming, and before each one 
I'd try to escape, and press myself deep into the pole 
to hide before he hit me again. But each of these 
attempts stimulated me more; I found myself trying to 
embrace the pole like a lover. Around the tenth stroke, 
I felt the pole responding, John had built a vibrator 
into it. My life was just a haze; all I could focus on 
was the pain in my back and the pleasure in my groin. I 
couldn't tell which was more intense.

Then he skipped a tick, and another, and a third. Was it 
over? Suddenly, the hardest stroke of all landed, on my 
buttocks instead of my back. Before I could even react, 
John operated a quick release, freeing my legs and my 
handcuffs from the pole. He caught me as I slumped down, 
eased me to my back, attached the handcuffs to a 
flooring. John then spread-eagled my legs, tied them 
that way, and mounted me. 

Again, there were the conflicting sensations, of the 
pain of my back and rear against the floor, and John 
within me. The pain subsided, John didn't, and I had one 
of the most intense orgasms I'd ever had. All I wanted 
to do was to hug and hold him, but my hands were 
chained, and that made my thrill even greater. When we 
were both spent, he lay alongside me, hugging me until I 
fell asleep still bound.


                      -= * =-

I awoke the next morning alone in his bed, not 
remembering being moved. To the side of the bed was a 
bottle of champagne, a note, and a key. "Dearest. Your 
turn now." A riding crop dangled from the doorknob, and 
I knew he hadn't used that on me, you never forget what 
one feels like, even years later. Investigating 
downstairs, I found John bound to the pole, where I had 
been. I ignored him while I looked at the mechanisms. 
Finally, I released him from the pole, and punched him 
in the stomach as hard as I could. 

"John, that was a wonderful night, and if you ever do 
anything like it again I'll cut your nuts off and feed 
them to you for breakfast. I'll see you next month." 

After watching him writhe in pain a bit longer, I tossed 
the key down, helped myself to some clothes and his car, 
and left. I refused to take any calls from him for four 
weeks, though I did mail his car keys back.

Remembering that incident, I pondered what to say to him 
this time. Thinking of it still gave me a frisson and 
made me rub my legs together. "OK, John, I'll go along. 
But I'm going to bring some work along; I really do have 
to finish this for tomorrow."

Now it was John's turn to pause. "We'll see. I have 
plans, too." I shuddered. "You will be downstairs in the 
parking lot within five minutes. Move!" I heard a click 
before I could reply. I put some clay and some pencils 
in a sample case, grabbed it and my gym bag, and left, 
telling my secretary that I was going to finish up at 
home.

His red car was waiting outside. Slowly, I got in, and 
closed the door.

John was ready for me. "Wrists," he said. I held out my 
arms, and he fastened a cable tie around each one. I 
don't know if you've ever seen a cable tie. Electricians 
use them. They're narrow strips of tough plastic. One 
side is ridged; it fits into a ratchet mechanism molded 
into the other end. There's no way to release the 
ratchet; once you loop the strip around and insert it, 
you can't release it, only tighten it. Electricians 
don't care; they rarely want to release their wires. If 
they do, they just cut the cable tie. But these were my 
hands being bound that way, and I couldn't even hope to 
steal a key. Even if I had a sharp enough knife, I 
probably didn't have the leverage to cut the plastic.

After braceleting my hands, John used a third tie to 
bind them together, and a fourth to fasten them to my 
seatbelt. I looked at him; he chuckled, buckled it, and 
said, "We don't want to get pulled over again, do we?" I 
blushed. A year earlier, some public spirited citizen 
had notified police of an apparent kidnapping, seeing a 
bound woman being pushed into a car. Despite the drawn 
guns and my helplessness, for that game, he had bound my 
hands behind me and pushed me into the hatch, hiking my 
skirt up in the process, I persuaded the cops to lock 
him in the police car (handcuffed, to stay in style with 
our game!) and question us separately. 

We both gave the same story; more importantly, we both 
told him the same "release word". I, of course, was 
blushing furiously the whole time, though I was thankful 
that this was out of town, and that no one who knew me 
would ever see that police report with my name. But I 
got even with John for ignoring my qualms about public 
exposure, I convinced the cop to release me, and to let 
me put my pair of handcuffs on John in place of his. I 
then drove John off, and I played the master in that 
game!

Once I was bound, he drove off. His voice seemed a bit 
slurred, though, and his driving rather unsteady. "John? 
Have you been drinking again? I don't think you can 
drive far enough in your condition."

He snarled, "Shut up!", as he pulled into the driveway 
of a sleazy motel not half a mile from my office. "What 
I drink is my business. And if you don't behave 
yourself, I won't give you a sweater to put over your 
hands when you go up to the room." I shook. For all that 
I love what I do, and don't hesitate to tell prospective 
lovers early on, I'm terrified of exposure. And John 
would do it, too, especially because of my fear, it was 
just one more aspect of him crossing the line on pain. I 
started to get seriously concerned.

He parked the car and, with a knife from the glove 
compartment, cut the tie holding my hands to the 
seatbelt. He tossed me a sweater and headed upstairs, 
leaving me to get out of the car and follow as best I 
could. Surprisingly, he took my bags with him. I was 
just as glad; I had to get some work done that night, 
come hell or high water, and I wasn't pleased with the 
leers some of the local loiterers were giving me. Small 
wonder, perhaps, I was wearing a sheer, low cut blouse 
and very short skirt, but it still made me nervous. I 
wish I knew why he had picked this neighborhood.

Once we were inside, things got a lot better, at least 
at first. He closed the door behind us, grabbed me, and 
kissed me thoroughly. I put my bound hands around his 
neck, which reminded him of the games we had planned; he 
tolerated the embrace for a moment longer, then stepped 
back and ordered me to strip. Again, there was a cold 
note in his voice. And there was a seriously depleted 
bottle of vodka on the dresser.

It's hard to undress with your hands tied, of course, 
and of course I had to be graceful and sexy, that's part 
of the game. (But you should have seen some of the ways 
I've made him undress!) Still, I managed as best I 
could. The skirt was easy, as were my panties and garter 
belt; I left my heels and stockings on for a while 
longer. 

I unbuttoned my blouse, and unhooked my bra, it was no 
accident that both of them fastened from the front!, and 
looked up at him. "Slide them down your arms," he said. 

I pushed them both off of my shoulders as far as I 
could, and approached John. I then rubbed up against 
him, using his body to push my blouse and bra strap down 
my arms. He didn't just stand there, of course; he did 
such a good job of caressing me that I almost forgot my 
goal. But he remained clothed.

Eventually, I could go no further that way; the blouse 
behind me was holding my bound arms against my stomach. 
John wasn't satisfied, though, and motioned for me to 
continue. I used the dresser, the bed, and sometimes 
John, to first gain a bit more slack, and then push my 
garments below my buttocks. By bending over, I could 
lower my hands, too, and ended up with everything around 
the level of my knees. I would have tried to bring the 
clothing under my legs, but John stopped me; he seemed 
to like seeing me doubled up. 

After leaving me like that for a bit, he produced a pair 
of handcuffs and fastened them above the garments. 
Before removing the cable ties, though, he fastened a 
homemade Velcro cuff to each ankle, and ran a loop of 
chain connecting them to each other and to the 
handcuffs. I was to remain bent over, it seemed.

Finally, he cut off the cable ties, and told me to 
continue. I removed the blouse, and, with John's 
permission, took off my shoes and flopped backwards onto 
the bed. He told me to kneel; after a bit of struggling, 
I managed to, with my arms ending up between my legs, 
still bound to my ankles. There wasn't enough slack in 
the chain to let me slip the loop around my knees 
instead. Just as well, perhaps, that would certainly 
have ripped the stockings.

I looked over at John. Curiously, he still hadn't 
undressed; he hadn't even changed into a costume. Except 
when I prompted him, he'd been quite passive. Normally, 
he'd have been commenting, or teasing, or fondling. 
Instead, he seemed interested only in his vodka bottle. 
I knelt there silently, and looked around to see what 
props he'd set up.

At the head of the bed, there was a short length of 
chain, with an open padlock. The chain vanished between 
the headboard and the mattress. At the foot, I saw a bar 
running the full width of the bed; each end had an 
adjustable strap with snap hook lying on the sheets, and 
a chain dangling off the bed. It looked like a gadget 
I'd built a number of years ago, to deal with motel 
furniture. For that matter, I needed it when visiting 
some of my lovers; they weren't well equipped for 
bondage, either.

In fiction, or at my house, for that matter, the bed is 
always a four-poster, which provides convenient anchor 
points for ties. Motels are rarely so considerate. The 
next obvious anchor points are the legs of the bed. This 
one, though, was a platform bed, no legs at all. But if 
you run a chain under the mattress, with a Y to connect 
to both ends of that bar, you have two ideally placed 
rings. You can do the same at the head of the bed, of 
course, but John preferred a single chain for handcuffed 
wrists, that way, he could fasten me to the bed without 
ever releasing my hands, a favorite fantasy of his.

There wasn't much more to see. John had brought his toy 
bag, but it was closed. Judging from the shape, there 
wasn't much left in it; in particular, it was flopped 
over enough that I didn't think his riding crop was 
there. Just as well, in his current mood, I didn't know 
if he'd remember to restrain himself enough with it.

The vodka bottle suddenly dropped to the dresser, 
startling me.

John staggered over, barely keeping his feet. I said 
nothing. He threw me onto my back, rather roughly, and 
fastened my handcuffs to the head chain, pulling my legs 
over my head. He didn't leave me that way, though, but 
he also didn't tease my bottom the way I wanted him to. 
Instead, he use a short chain to fasten my ankles 
together, and then released the chain holding them to my 
hands. Gratefully, I straightened out.

He only let me have a moment's respite, though, before 
he attached the straps to the ankle cuffs, and took up 
the slack. Then, and only then, did he release the 
chain, and pulled the two straps taut together. Another 
fantasy of his, simulating motor powered bondage. He 
stopped for an instant while he grabbed my legs and 
pulled my whole body down, to keep the head chain tight, 
and then finished spreading my legs. He concluded by 
taking a gag from his toy box, shoving it into my mouth, 
and tying it there. 

"Don't worry; no whips today," he said as he staggered 
back to his chair. "Unless you brought some?", he asked 
hopefully, glancing at my bags. I shook my head; he 
looked in the bag, and scowled at me.

I wasn't reassured by the absence of whips. I've always 
hated gags, even when I didn't need my mouth free to 
give a release word. For one thing, they interfere with 
play too much. I can't give the proper verbal responses 
appropriate to whatever game we're playing, "My father's 
knights will avenge me!" or whatever. Nor can I use my 
mouth sexually, for both of our pleasures. 

Finally, and perhaps most important, gags are dangerous. 
It's just too easy to choke with a gag in, especially a 
really effective one that puts you on the edge of 
vomiting. If I want to use one for its symbolic value, I 
just tie a scarf around John's head and mouth. It's thin 
enough that he can kiss through it, and it can be pulled 
down quickly enough in emergencies, often just by chin 
movement.

Some people, of course, use real gags because they need 
the silence. It's impractical to really whip someone in 
a city apartment without one, I suppose. But I had a 
better solution to that problem. I'd recently bought an 
old farmhouse, very far back from the road, to use as a 
playhouse. I'd just finished having it fixed up, and I'd 
been getting ready to spend a few weekends there 
building some accessories, ring bolts, chains, even a 
stock out behind the house where no one would ever see 
the occupant. 

I hadn't told John about this; my original plan had been 
to kidnap him there when it was ready. But his behavior 
the last few weeks had been sufficiently odd that I was 
no longer certain I wanted him to know about it.

I twisted my head around to look at John. He was still 
drinking vodka, and he still hadn't said anything, which 
was odd; usually, always!, the kidnaper should have said 
something to set the scene, even if only to heighten the 
suspense. I remembered the last time we'd spent a 
weekend at my house. I had tied him in more or less the 
same position I was now in, and left him that way 
overnight. 

But of course, I had told him he was to await my 
pleasure, and every now and then I'd wander back into 
the room to lick him a bit. He kept trying to wiggle 
free, to no avail, of course, while I'd arouse him and 
then leave. Around 3 am, when I was certain he was 
asleep, I crept back in, aroused him again, in both 
senses of the word, and mounted him. When we were both 
more than satisfied, I curled up next to him and we fell 
asleep together. Around 10 a.m. or thereabouts, I 
finally unchained him.

John finally tried to get up. No dice, he'd had too much 
to drink, and he passed out at the table. Here I was, 
nude, gagged, and bound spread-eagled to the bed, and my 
captor was in a drunken stupor, probably unable to move 
until morning.

As I was being chained to the bed, I had been strongly 
aroused, despite my undercurrent of genuine fear. The 
arousal rapidly faded, though. There is nothing 
particularly stimulating in being immobilized. If a 
building collapsed around you, you wouldn't be thrilled, 
even if you were unhurt and certain of early rescue. 

The essence of bondage is the context, that a person, 
your lover, now controls you. Similarly, lying in wait 
can be intensely sexual, while you wonder what is going 
to happen next, and when. I wasn't wondering; I knew: 
John was going to have a hangover, and it wasn't going 
to happen until the next morning. And I was stuck, in a 
rather uncomfortable position, until then.

For a little while, I just tried to relax; there didn't 
seem to be anything I could do, I so just tried to make 
the best of it. But my work kept coming back to haunt 
me. Those designs had to be done or my business was in 
deep trouble; reliability is the a key asset when your 
competitors are perceived as being flaky or 
temperamental. I considered my situation. Was there some 
way to escape?

I considered my arms first, of course. Had the cuffs 
been fastened too tightly for me to slip out? The right 
one definitely was; in fact, it was downright 
uncomfortable. The left had a bit more slack, but a few 
minutes of trying didn't get me anywhere. I decided to 
explore other options.

A second possibility was the chain holding my hands 
above my head. Rather, the lock might be a target; it 
was a fairly small, cheap one, and it might break if 
pulled hard enough. But I had no leverage in that 
position, not even enough to be worth trying again 
later. Besides, each tug made the handcuffs cut into my 
wrists.

Could I get my legs free? That seemed like the best 
shot. They were only held in place by Velcro cuffs, not 
steel. And they were simple, homemade cuffs, and not too 
well done at that, they were some of John's first 
efforts. I probably couldn't break out of good ones, the 
kind where you stick the free end through a metal ring 
on the other end of the strap, then fold it back on 
itself before fastening it. 

These were simple loops, though, he had taken 9 inch 
lengths of both the hook and loop pieces, and glued them 
to each other. You wrap it around the limb, with the 
soft hook side inside, then overlap it and press down. 
For a tie point, just use a key ring, slipped over the 
Velcro before fastening it.

I started tugging, rhythmically, with my right leg, each 
time pulling as hard as I could. I tried jerking it in 
the direction of the fastening, Velcro releases by 
moving up, and I wanted to work with it, not against it. 
Gradually, I got more and more frantic, and lost my 
rhythm. I'd been bound, John had put me here, and I 
wasn't getting out! The struggles, and the remembrance 
of who had bound me, got me more aroused. I writhed, and 
tugged, to no avail, and each movement got me more 
aroused. But I couldn't do anything to relieve myself; 
my hands were bound, and I couldn't get enough 
stimulation. 

That thought aroused me even more, of course; the whole 
situation was again intensely sexual. I moaned through 
the gag, and tried desperately to squeeze my legs 
together, to rub my thighs on each other. At that point, 
I would have given up all thought of escape in exchange 
for being bound on my stomach instead, with a pillow 
under me to grab between my legs.

Eventually, by main force of will, I managed to relax. 
My struggles had gotten me an inch or so of slack, 
perhaps the chain connecting the anchor bar to the arm 
chain wasn't completely taut under the mattress. Did 
that offer any new possibilities? I lifted my head, as 
best I could, and surveyed the situation. Gotcha! Either 
from my escape attempts, or because John had bound me 
incorrectly, given his state, my left leg was fastened 
incorrectly. The Velcro overlap was rotated so that it 
was mostly down, towards the mattress. 

By carefully twisting and moving my leg from side to 
side, I could tease the two halves apart. It was a slow 
process, drag, up, and back, but the rhythm aroused me 
again. The back movements became jerks, nominally to 
apply pressure, but really because I couldn't control 
myself much anymore. 

Just as I was losing myself in arousal again, my leg 
burst free. In delicious agony I just threw my legs 
together and rolled over, rubbing my legs together, 
pressing my body into the bed. This time, I achieved 
release, albeit a small one. I more or less collapsed at 
this point, still bound by my arms and one leg.

Getting my other leg free was rather straight forward at 
this point. My toes were able to release the strap 
holding my right leg, and I painfully drew my legs up. I 
rolled off the bed, and pulled the arm chain out from 
under the mattress, eventually reaching the anchor bar 
that had held the leg straps. I was lucky, if he had 
found a place on the bed to secure that chain, such as 
carrying handles on the mattresses, I'd probably have 
been stymied. As is, I was more or less free, though I 
had an eight foot chain and a six foot bar fastened to 
my cuffed hands.

I tried next to get the gag off, but that didn't work, 
the knot was too tight for me to manage with my hands 
still bound. No matter, the next few steps wouldn't be 
strenuous. While I was trying to get loose from the bed, 
I thought I was going to choke; gags can really restrict 
your breathing. So I went over to John's toy bag, 
looking for the key. It wasn't there; apart from a few 
lengths of chain and a few locks, all I saw was another 
pair of handcuffs. I did spot the key to the padlock 
holding my arms to their chain; opening that let me move 
around much more easily. But I was getting worried.

I had done something like this once to John. At the end 
of a long vacation weekend, I had locked his hands in 
front of him, but I had deliberately left the key 
elsewhere. At that point, he had no choice, he had to 
follow me, waiting patiently, with a jacket over his 
hands, of course!, while I checked out of the motel, 
loaded the car, etc. He, of course, was contemplating 
the prospect of a five hour drive home, bound, without 
even much ability to visit a rest area. "Now you know 
why I rented this van", I said, as I urged him into the 
back and blindfolded him. I drove around, then, for 
about 30 minutes, while he pleaded to be released. But 
all I could do was to answer, truthfully!, that I didn't 
have the key. Finally, when I thought he had had enough, 
I headed for a secluded campsite, where I had cached the 
key. That, of course, was both reason and means to 
extend our stay for a few days.

I searched the room for the key, as best I could. No 
luck. I was getting desperate; John still wasn't likely 
to wake up for hours, and I still had to work. And I 
couldn't just leave; I was nude, and I didn't see any 
reasonable way of dressing myself with my hands chained 
like that. Yes, a tube top would have done, or a 
strapless evening dress, or even a halter top, but I 
didn't have those with me. I could, I suppose, have cut 
the bra straps, and tied them behind my neck, but that 
would be very difficult, too. Besides, that bra was 
about as sheer as possible; I certainly couldn't go 
outside wearing just it in this neighborhood.

As before, my frustration at being unable to escape the 
bonds that John had put me in aroused me. This time, 
though, my hands were free, so I was able to satisfy 
myself. It felt good, too; there was still a lot of 
unresolved tension from my time on the bed.

After all that, I realized that if the key were in the 
room, it was in one of John's pockets. Slipping bound 
hands into them wasn't going to be easy. At that 
thought, I grinned. There was no reason to leave his 
pants on while I searched them. First, though, a 
precaution. I took the spare handcuffs out of the bag, 
and locked his hands behind him. Then I had a better 
thought, and spent a few minutes putting the anchor 
chain back under the mattress. The next step was getting 
John onto the bed; while I'm strong enough to drag him, 
I didn't see at first how I could do so with my arms 
bound. 

I discovered, though, that I could get my arms around 
his legs, and then up his body. Grunting, I got him to 
the bed, and then on it. Finally, I got his pants off, 
which is more difficult than it sounds when he's just 
deadweight on the bed, and you are chained, and checked 
his pockets. Fortunately, the key was there; I released 
my hands immediately, and then got that gag off. Finally 
free, I stretched and considered my next move.

One thought was foremost in my mind, I wanted revenge. 
John had been treating me like an object, of late, 
culminating in this latest indignity. Apart from the 
potential risk to my business, and I knew only too well 
how many breaks had gone my way, to let me get loose, he 
simply shouldn't have set up that situation, where he 
was more interested in the bottle than me, but kidnapped 
me anyway. If he wanted to get drunk, fine, but leave me 
unbound. If he wanted a shoulder to cry on, I'm always 
willing to do that for my lovers. And if he wanted to 
set up a scenario where he could act out his 
frustrations, 

I could go along with that, too. But what had happened 
was unacceptable. This, on top of everything else over 
the last few weeks, was quite possibly going to break up 
our relationship, and I felt like getting my last licks 
in. If he wanted to apologize afterwards, I might 
listen, but for now, revenge!

I started by stripping him, and binding him in the same 
position I'd been in. One idea was to leave him like 
that, with a note next to his head: "Dear John, I got 
out of this position; can you? Just like you did, I've 
kept the final key on my person. Trouble is, I had to go 
back to my office; I'll see you there later. Love, me."

I didn't much like that idea, though; it was too close 
to breaking my rules. If he didn't spot my escape paths, 
he'd be stuck there till the chambermaid came by in the 
morning. In this dump, that might be a long time. And 
the vodka was going to be heading for his bladder; he 
was going to be awfully uncomfortable, probably to the 
point of pain. What else could I do?

I decided to stick with the notion of me keeping the 
key; forcing him to make his way to my office while 
handcuffed had an undeniable appeal. That would mean 
that I'd have to put his shirt on him; I started to do 
that. Before I did, though, I wondered what would happen 
if I tried to take advantage of him. I decided to find 
out, and went at him with my lips and mouth. Nothing. 
For all the growth, so to speak, in his crotch, I might 
just as well have been licking another woman. Woman? 
Hmm, I knew what I was going to do!

As I had mentioned, John was very slight of build. He 
also had long hair for a man, and a clear complexion. 
Could I turn him into an involuntary female 
impersonator? I didn't know, but I sure could try! The 
first step was to shave him. He'd brought along a razor, 
of course; I plugged it in and went over his face, legs, 
and armpits quite thoroughly. I didn't think his face 
would remain that smooth by morning, but I decided to 
postpone that problem. Next, I started dressing him in 
my clothes.

The stockings were no problem, of course, nor was the 
garter belt. I put my panties on him, then paused. One 
good erection could spoil the whole effect, to say 
nothing of the panties. Rummaging around in my bag, I 
discovered some string. I tied this around the piece de 
resistance, through his legs, and up to his waist. I 
then knotted it in the back. It was very strong twine; 
he would not find it easy to break. And too much arousal 
would be quite painful. Breaking the rules? Maybe, but 
it was up to him; if he retained his control, it 
wouldn't hurt at all. Besides, I had bound him that way 
before, and he had never seriously complained, the way I 
always did when he stretched the rules.

The bra was easy enough, and I filled it with some of my 
modeling clay. Then I got inspired and coloured in an 
aureole and a nipple, the bra and blouse were sheer 
enough to make that noticeable. I confess I was vain 
enough to use myself as a model, though my halfhearted 
attempts at making an actual casting didn't work. 
Finally, I put my blouse on him, though I decided to 
leave it unbuttoned; let him have the fun of trying to 
close it with his hands bound. For the same reason, I 
left the miniskirt off, too.

A bit of hair styling was next. I didn't want to cut his 
hair, but there was no reason I couldn't put in a nice 
pony tail, and a few barrettes. And I'd worn clip-on 
earrings that day, which heightened the effect. Would my 
heels fit on his feet? They were a tight fit, and would 
be uncomfortable to walk in, but so what? I think shoes 
like that are a cultural form of bondage, that society 
as a whole has forced women into. It was a man's turn 
now.

I finished my preparations by handcuffing him, then 
spread-eagling his legs to the anchor bar. I didn't 
attach the handcuffs to the arm chain, which meant that 
getting loose would be much easier for him than it was 
for me, but that was the whole point.

One last problem: could I wake him up earlier? I decided 
it was worth a try. I pushed the blouse up away from his 
midriff, and put an ice cube in his navel. I then 
dressed in my gym clothes, gathered up everything else 
but a single sweater, and left. Pleasant dreams, John.

As I started his car, though, a disturbing thought 
struck me. I had escaped, but what would John do to get 
even? Would I regret my revenge?

Driving back to the office, I asked myself this 
question: why did I persist in my relationship with 
John? What did he supply, to make me take such risks? 
The key answer, I think, is imagination.

Did you ever see the movie "Blowup", where some 
characters play an invisible tennis game? It takes a 
certain kind of mindset to do that without a director 
hovering over you. Not every shot is difficult, but some 
are. You neither win nor lose every point. Bondage 
games, at least the kind I like, are similar. You have 
to know when to resist, when to give in, when to 
dominate. Beyond that, you have to create an illusion, 
set a scene. There's no particular trick to just tying 
someone up, and sometimes that's a good thing to do. 
Other times, though, you want more. Perhaps there's a 
new way to tie someone up, or a good world model to keep 
in mind.

John could do that. There was that whipping post, for 
example, that was perfect for stimulating the victim, 
even without the built-in vibrator. Or there were the 
worlds he could create. Once he described a society very 
similar to ours, with just a few changes. Slavery, 
sexual slavery, was legal. Debtors could be repossessed. 
And the whole legal structure was weighted in favour of 
the banks.

You can imagine some of what comes next, of course. I 
was victimized by a "mistake" by my credit card company. 
We acted out my arrest, detention (with "parties" for 
the staff), trial, sale, and eventual release. We kept 
that story going for weeks. But he could also take the 
other side. I pointed out that my lover in the scenario 
might be held for contempt of court, for objecting to 
the proceedings, and remanded to a municipal brothel. 
Guess who the patron of that brothel was? Guess who the 
judge was? This was a society with egalitarian sexual 
slavery; I could have just as much fun ordering John 
tied to a log as he could have leading me around on a 
leash.

Not everyone can do this sort of double think. I 
remember one past lover who never could come up with 
much new. If I suggested, for example, that I was an 
odalisque in a harem, he'd comply. He could find 
appropriate costumes, and perhaps even an authentic 
scholarly tract on, say, punishments of the period. 
Similarly, he would act the part if I told him I was the 
mistress of a Roman plantation, and he was part of my 
property. But dream them up? Never. And he had a great 
deal of difficulty switching roles within a scenario.

Now, though, I was concerned that the real life 
relationship I had with John was broken. He had pushed 
me past my breaking point, and I suspected that my 
revenge had pushed him past his. With most people, that 
wouldn't be a serious matter. Upsetting, yes, you never 
want a relationship to end on such a note of hostility. 
But John had been so unpredictable of late that real 
violence seemed a possibility.

I went upstairs to my office. It was late, and the place 
was almost deserted. There was one light on in the back; 
luckily, it was Roger. I was almost in love with him, 
even though we'd never gone out; he was by far the 
brightest (and handsomest) member of my staff. But I 
have rigid policies against dating my employees; if 
nothing else, it can totally mess up the professional 
dynamics of the company. (Besides, could you imagine a 
lawsuit for sexual harassment, given my tastes? "Your 
Honour, not only did she proposition my client, she tied 
him up and whipped him. And she literally chained him to 
the desk when he had to work overtime.")

Another reason I liked Roger, though, was that I 
suspected he liked bondage as well. A few years ago, 
when I gave a company costume party, he and his lover of 
the time showed up, with her dressed as a barbarian 
warrior, and Roger all but naked and in handcuffs. She 
held a short chain leading to the cuffs; whenever he did 
something she "didn't like", such as flirt with me, 
she'd tug on the chain and nearly make him spill his 
drink. Halfway through the party, though, they vanished; 
when they reappeared, she was stripped of her brass bra 
and other finery, had her hands bound behind her, and 
was being led around on a leash by her barbarian captor. 
She could only eat when he fed her, or if she was 
willing to kneel on the floor and eat like an animal.

Not enough to convince you? I was convinced; I 
practically raped Roger right then and there. But let me 
tell you about another party, at his house. This was a 
conventional party; no costumes or anything. Roger has 
odd decorating tastes, and, being an artist, he can 
indulge in them a lot himself. He had painted a wall of 
his living room to resemble the side of a barn. The 
balcony became a hayloft, complete with a beam sticking 
out for the lift. But the pulley wasn't just decorative; 
it was obviously serviceable, not just a painted over 
antique from some farm. 

I was staring at it, imagining how John would look 
suspended from it, when Roger walked over to me. "That's 
for rolls in the hay," he said. 

I looked up at him; he continued, "or other associated 
games". "Games?" I replied. 

"Ask Janice," he said, gesturing towards his lover. 

But she was staring at John, who had just arrived, they 
had been involved for a while, it seems, all unknown to 
Roger or myself. And John's tastes are enough like mine 
that I knew what sort of games he would have played with 
Janice. We left that party early; staring at those ropes 
all evening without touching them was too much for me; I 
could barely wait for John to tie me up.

But all that was fantasy of a different sort; Roger was 
off-limits, even though I knew he'd broken up with 
Janice. I could dream of the day the firm was big enough 
that I'd need a partner, but for now I needed to get to 
work, after all, this contract just might do it. I sat 
down to work. I figured that if John was going to do 
something, it would be one or two hours later, he'd need 
at least that much time to get loose and walk from the 
motel. But if it took much longer than that, it probably 
meant he'd just gone home to nurse his anger.

Sure enough, just about an hour after I'd started, the 
phone rang. It was John. "You've had it." I tried to 
reason with him. "John, let's talk about this later. 
You're still drunk. Let's talk in the morning, and 
tomorrow night I'll have a special surprise for you."

He wasn't buying. "Forget it, you bitch. It's war, not 
play, and you're the target." Click.

I didn't know what to do. I really wanted to finish up, 
and I was almost done, but would John turn violent? He 
certainly sounded that way. I compromised with myself. I 
wandered down to Roger's office, mostly to verify that 
he was still there, and made some small talk. I just 
"happened" to let him know that I'd just broken up with 
John, and that John wasn't taking it well. This was 
mostly to alert him, in case something untoward did 
happen, that I might not mind intervention. That 
settled, I went back to my office and got back to work.

I'd just finished when John showed up. How he got in, I 
don't know to this day; I'm certain I had locked the 
front door to the office suite. But there he was, 
twirling a choke collar and leash. He did look charming 
in a miniskirt, though. I didn't know if he wanted to 
play or hit me with it; either way, I wasn't buying. I 
decided to play it cautious. "John, I'm really not in 
the mood anymore tonight. We did play a bit, and I 
turned the tables on you, just like we always said could 
happen."

"Forget it, bitch. You're mine, and I make the rules 
now." He took a few steps forward.

I braced myself, and stood up, reviewing some karate 
moves. I didn't see any way out of the situation that 
wouldn't require hurting him, and that would make the 
hostility permanent, even after he sobered up. I decided 
to make one more try at dissuading him. "John! Leave! 
Now. I'm busy, and I don't have time for this. We'll 
talk tomorrow. I'd appreciate it very much if you'd 
leave this instant."

I didn't work; John kept on coming. Just before I had to 
move, Roger showed up in the door, startling John and 
me. "Hi, folks. Am I interrupting any games?" he said 
with only a small leer. John looked at him, looked up at 
him, rather, and decided the odds weren't in his favour. 
They weren't even if Roger hadn't been there, but I 
don't think John realized that. I was confident, though, 
and for whatever reason, karate lessons had never come 
up in conversations with John. Be that as it may, John 
backed out the door, snarling "I'll get you later" as he 
left.

Roger was concerned. "You'd better flee, fast. Do you 
have anywhere to go that he wouldn't know of? Don't even 
go to a friend he might think of. If there's nothing 
else, try a hotel, but even that's risky." I told him 
about the farmhouse and said I'd be okay. He escorted me 
to the parking lot, and I drove off. I didn't notice the 
red car that followed me down the street, or Roger's 
wild gesticulations and shouts.

At that hour, there wasn't much traffic out of town. I 
was too self-absorbed to notice that there was always a 
car behind me, no matter where I drove. Finally, I 
pulled into my own drive, and breathed a sigh of relief. 
I did see the car behind me going past, then; for some 
reason, it seemed to be driving slowly. That much I 
noticed, but I didn't put two and two together.

Once inside, I relaxed a bit. Odd. It would be first 
time I'd slept there, but I was doing it alone. Should I 
tie myself up for recreation, the way I did when I was 
between lovers? While the place was by no means 
finished, I did have a few toys in place. I seriously 
considered it, and after I'd undressed and showered, I 
toyed around for a while with some handcuffs and a 
harness I'd made. 

I finally took them off; I just wasn't in the mood, and 
going through the motions of autoerotism for their own 
sake didn't seem to make much sense. Accommodating a 
lover when you're not in the mood, sure, but yourself? 
Then I rethought the issue; on a night like this one, I 
was all too likely to wake up horny and depressed in the 
middle of the night. So I compromised, I put the harness 
back on, left two pairs of handcuffs within easy reach, 
and went to sleep. That was a mistake, a big one.

By the clock, I'd been asleep an hour or so when I was 
awakened by the crack of a strap across my thighs. I 
jerked around but was caught short, my hands were 
chained to the waist ring of the harness! I tried to 
kick out, but that didn't work well, either; my legs 
were confined by the second pair of handcuffs. Before I 
could recover, John had clipped my legs to a ring I'd 
conveniently installed at the foot of the bed. It took 
only a moment more for him to collar me, and attach that 
to the head of the bed.

"Nice little love nest you have," he said. "I haven't 
been here before; who have you been sharing it with?" 
With that, he struck me again. "Doesn't matter, though; 
it's mine, now, and so are you." I was petrified.

"I haven't been with anyone else," I said, truthfully. 
"This isn't even my place; it's Roger's," I added. John 
just laughed. "With your name on the mailbox? With the 
front door keyed the same as your house?" My heart sank 
as John continued, "I don't like being lied to; you'll 
regret it." He whipped me twice more as he said that, 
but almost casually; I could see that he was working up 
to something bigger.

"OK, John, what do you want?" I asked.

"You, of course; I already told you that. And the first 
step is to mark you as all mine. Tonight, I'll bring 
back some tattooing equipment, or maybe a branding iron; 
for now, though, this will have to serve." With that, he 
pulled out a pen and started marking my breasts with 
indelible ink. He first wrote "Property of" on one side, 
and his name on the other. He continued with a few 
obscene phrases describing me, then rolled me over and 
continued on my buttocks. Naturally, he wasn't at all 
gentle about it, either.

Finally, he was done. "I'm going to look around this 
place, to see what else you've got here. That bed is 
entirely too comfortable for the likes of you." With 
that, he vanished. I didn't even bother struggling; I 
knew too well the quality of the toys I'd bought. And I 
was also certain where I was spending the night. When I 
heard a satisfied "Ah!", I knew he'd found it.

Have you ever considered the problem of building a jail 
cell? Trying to order an authentic door and having it 
delivered to a residence just doesn't work. And I'm not 
a metal worker. I am, however, a decent carpenter. 
Downstairs in the basement, there was a large storage 
closet. I took off the door, and built my own. I started 
with a stout frame of 2x4s. That would sag, though. So I 
took two pieces of plywood the same size as the frame, 
and cut out the middle. That gave me a rigid border to 
fasten to the 2x4s. I filled in the middle with thick 
dowel sticks, the kind you use for clothes rods in 
closets. 

I ran a 6x4 across the center for rigidity, and used it 
as the anchor point for a deadbolt. Voila!, a cell door. 
The inside of the cell was, of course, fully equipped 
with rings, chains, etc. I left the bare cement floor 
alone; it added to the air of authenticity. I did have 
some foam pads cut to fit the floor for overnight use; 
spending a full night on a bare cement floor could be 
very unpleasant, especially in winter. Somehow, though, 
I didn't think John was going to be that nice to me.

John came back upstairs. He released my legs from the 
ring, only to bend them backwards and chain them to the 
back of the harness. I sure wasn't going to be kicking 
him. He also fastened another pair of handcuffs to my 
leg cuffs before unchaining my neck and carrying me 
downstairs into the cell, dropping me on the floor. 

While I was still a bit stunned, he quickly moved my 
right hand from the front handcuffs to the back. 
Fastened like that, I was helpless; I acquiesced while 
he moved my other hand. He completed the scene by 
chaining my neck to a ring, and locking the cell door. 
"Good night; don't go anywhere," he said as he turned 
out the light and closed the basement door.

Somehow, despite my total helplessness at the hands of a 
man who had been my lover only hours before, I wasn't 
the least bit aroused. Eventually, somehow, I fell 
asleep.

For obvious reasons, I didn't sleep well that night. 
Apart from my discomfort, I was very worried about my 
situation, and not just the obvious concerns. Have you 
ever been bound that way, with your hands tied tightly 
to your ankles? It's an exhausting position; it's even a 
bit hard to breathe. And that was the danger; when 
breathing becomes a struggle, eventually your chest 
muscles and diaphragm become too tired to keep up their 
job. Did John know that? And was I safer if he did or 
didn't know?

And, oddly enough, I even worried about work. I was sure 
to miss the presentation in the morning. Losing the 
contract, while disappointing, would be no big deal. But 
not showing up would be disastrous; with all the 
temperamental "artistic" types I competed with, my 
reputation for reliability was a crucial edge. Could I 
explain, "sorry, I was tied up yesterday?" No, I doubted 
they'd understand!

That was the way the night passed. I'd doze for a while, 
then wake up and worry. I had no idea what time it was, 
or even if it was morning yet; that basement was pretty 
light tight. Eventually, I was awakened by a gag being 
shoved into my mouth, and a hood being placed over my 
head. John started to speak.

"OK, bitch, I make the rules now. Here's what your life 
is going to be like from now on. First thing every 
morning, you'll be punished. We'll start today with a 
whipping, a real one, but I have lots more ideas, so 
don't worry about being bored. 

"After that, we'll see how well you can please me. Be 
sure to do a good job; how satisfied I am will determine 
whether you get fed that day, how tightly you'll be 
bound while I'm gone, even whether or not you get to use 
a toilet instead of lying in your own crap all day." He 
giggled; I, perforce, was silent. I didn't even try to 
moan audibly, though internally I was on the verge of 
panic. In the right context, those same words, even 
those same actions, for a few days, might have been a 
tremendous turn-on; here, they were threats.

John continued with his schedule. "The same thing will 
happen in the evening, of course. And if I'm not 
interested in having you", his phrase, verbatim, "that's 
obviously your fault for not interesting me enough, so 
I'll have to punish you some more. Of course, some 
evenings I'll be too tired to drive all the way out 
here; that might even happen two or three nights in a 
row. I sure hope that you were good enough the morning 
before to earn an extra plate of food left next to you; 
that would be an extra special treat, one I couldn't 
give you very often." Again, he giggled, and I could 
imagine him smirking.

When he was done talking, he unfastened my legs and neck 
chain, and slapped me on the buttocks. "Up!" he 
commanded, pulling on my leash. "Run!", he said as we 
left the cell, pointing me towards the stairs, slapping 
me again, and pulling harder. Of course, I didn't know 
which was I was facing; I ran straight into the wall 
while John laughed. He more or less dragged me up the 
stairs, into the living room. When we got there, he 
chained my legs together again, though he left me 
standing alone for a moment.

"You didn't finish this room," he complained, somewhat 
illogically. "No matter; I know how to install 
ringbolts." 

With that, he tied my ankle chain to the floor, and 
attached a rope to my handcuffs. The rope apparently 
went up to the ceiling; he pulled it taut, stretching my 
arms up rather uncomfortably, and causing my buttocks to 
stick out at him. I assume he tied the end somewhere, 
but the next I knew of his activity was when I felt the 
sting of the paddle. He was no longer playing; the 
beating hurt worse than anything I'd ever felt. I wanted 
to scream despite the gag, and despite the hood my eyes 
were tearing.

I don't know how long the pain continued, but he stopped 
well short of beating me unconscious, John wanted me 
awake for the next part. He release the rope to the 
ceiling, pushed me to my knees, and raped me from 
behind. I wasn't responsive, of course, no one would be 
in that situation, and that infuriated him. He kicked me 
hard, then hauled on the rope again till I was in his 
chosen whipping position. He hit me a few more times, 
muttered to himself, and then left. Eventually, I heard 
the door slam, and a car drive away.

For a while, I was too numb to think. Then the old 
worries returned and gnawed at me. In that position, I 
didn't even have the solace of sleep, so I tried 
desperately to think pleasant thoughts. I even managed 
to come up with two about my present situation. The 
first was that John had never cared for anal sex; if he 
had, he'd certainly have hurt me severely taking me that 
way, with no preparation or gentleness. The second was 
that my foresight in using an IUD was again paying off, 
when bondage and spontaneity are at the heart of your 
sex life, other forms of birth control can be 
problematic at best. Of course, my very survival seemed 
in doubt at that point, rendering any question of birth 
control academic.

                      -= * =-

After some measureless interval, I heard a car pull up, 
and the door open. I braced myself, certain that I'd be 
greeted by a blow. But I was surprised. "Hi, Boss. At 
least, I assume that's you." It was Roger, and I nearly 
fainted with relief.

Quickly, he unfastened the ropes holding me in place, 
carried me to the couch, and removed the hood and gag. 
He didn't waste time asking me if I was okay; the 
outlines of what had happened were obvious enough. 
"Where are the keys to your handcuffs and leg chains?" 
he asked. I told him that I had left the keys on the 
night table, but that I suspected John had taken them 
with him. "There's a master set in the linen closet, 
though; I always keep spares there." 

Roger disappeared for a moment, but returned empty-
handed: "John apparently ransacked the place; there are 
no keys to be found. Let me run into town and pick up a 
few tools."

I demurred. "Before you go anywhere, could you please 
carry me to the bathroom? And I have a well equipped 
workshop downstairs; you'll find what you need in there, 
I think." Roger obliged in the first respect, but before 
fetching the tools, he carried me back to the couch and 
covered me with a sheet. "I think you'll be more 
comfortable this way," he said, without even a leer or 
flirtatious note. 

Teasing games were one thing, I remembered Roger at a 
company beach party when John had eased my bikini top 
off, but he knew that this wasn't the place for any such 
thing. Of course, I was feeling safe again, which made 
my bondage seem a bit sexy again; my reaction, at least 
partially, was that I wouldn't mind the chains just then 
if only Roger had been the one who had put them there! I 
didn't let on, though; I just composed myself while 
Roger got what he needed, and cut through the links. He 
then dispatched me to the bedroom to shower and dress, 
while he cooked some food for us.

Over the meal, breakfast? lunch?, I told him what had 
happened, sparing no details. I even explained the 
"Kidnap" game to Roger; he seemed fascinated. When I 
finished, I asked him to explain how he had shown up to 
rescue me.

"When I saw John following you away from the office 
yesterday, I knew there would be trouble. I had biked in 
to work, so I had no way of following you, and of course 
I had no idea where you were going except for *the 
farmhouse*. I tried going to the police, but they 
weren't interested; everything was too vague and weird 
sounding. So I went back to the office and thought for a 
while."

"It seemed to me that your farmhouse would be 30 minutes 
to two hours from here. Much closer and you wouldn't get 
any extra privacy over your regular house; much further 
and it would be too inconvenient for weekend visits. I 
kind of guessed it was a love nest, but I wasn't certain 
just how you'd feather it." We both blushed.

"I narrowed down the search area a bit by assuming it 
was in the same general direction as your house; the 
direction you headed off in was at least consistent with 
that guess. That still left a lot of towns, though. But 
it was all I had to go on, so I started dialing 
Information for each of the towns. No dice."

"No," I said. "The purpose of this place is relaxation 
and isolation; I deliberately didn't get a phone or even 
any clocks. As far as possible, this is not the real 
world."

Roger nodded. "That left the local tax offices, for all 
those wretched little towns. I knew there was nothing 
else to be done until morning when they opened, so I 
called my `assistant' and alerted her." I looked a bit 
puzzled; Roger replied, "Surely you remember Janice?" 

I nodded.

Roger continued, "Even though we're no longer going out, 
we're still friends. And Janice hates John with a 
passion. Their relationship ended much like yours is 
doing: with John getting violent, though not quite to 
this extent. He let her go after a week, and she never 
filed charges, she said that she had no evidence it 
wasn't just another game, and he could point to her 
collection of toys when defending himself. I didn't 
agree, but it's not the sort of thing you can push a 
lover into doing, especially after a couple of years.

"Anyway, by morning I had compiled a complete list of 
numbers for her to call; one of them eventually worked. 
I couldn't make the calls myself, I had to give your 
presentation."

I jumped up. "Roger! How did it go? What did you say 
about me?"

"No problem, I said you had a bad stomach virus, but 
would probably be in tomorrow. And I think things went 
quite well; they really liked your stuff, even more than 
mine, I think." He paused. "You always keep the best 
parts of these bids for yourself," but he was smiling as 
he said that.

I smiled back at him. "That's my real pay for running 
the business, and tending to all the paperwork. Anyway, 
that's neither here nor there. What are we going to do 
about John?"

Roger turned dead serious. "I don't know. Would you 
prosecute?"

"Well, to some extent I have the same problem as Janice: 
where's the evidence? You rescued me, of course, but all 
of the paraphernalia here is mine, and that's a pretty 
strong defense. We'd need to get more evidence."

Roger paused. "Can we frighten him, maybe even punish 
him enough to make him stay away?"

"I doubt it, and in any event I will not be a party to 
that sort of violence." Roger seemed to sigh in relief 
as I continued, "Hmm, if we did manage to get some more 
evidence, could we use it for blackmail instead? Neither 
of us wants our proclivities known." I blushed; I'd been 
fidgeting with the remains of the handcuff the way I do 
with bracelets, treating it almost as if it belonged 
there. Roger noticed, and laughed.

"Whatever do you mean by that?" he asked, as he pulled 
the two chain remnants close together. "Do you mean you 
like this?" he asked as he grabbed a discarded twist tie 
and fastened the two together again.

"Roger! Stop that this instant! Or I'll have to spank 
you," I said. But I left my hands together, not pulling 
them apart, while we continued talking.

"Can you tolerate being bound again, the way you were 
when I found you?" Roger asked. I hesitated; he 
continued. "If the chains and hood are on you, but 
you're laying on the floor, I think I can pull the rope 
taut when I see his car entering the driveway. There 
would still be time for me to hide. Here's what we'll 
do."

Eventually, reluctantly, I agreed. And so it was that 
after Roger chiseled the remains of the old manacles 
from me, I brought out some new ones, sans any keys, 
from the toy box. I stalled, looking for every last 
excuse not to go through with it. Was the kitchen 
properly cleaned up? Was Roger's car well hidden? 
Finally, there was nothing left to prepare; it was time 
to do it or flee. I went into my room and undressed, 
then headed back to the living room. "Are you ready?" 
Roger asked. I remained mute, no more able to agree than 
I had been when John bound me to his whipping post. 

I draped the gag around my neck, we decided to try 
pretending I had managed to spit it out, and Roger tied 
the hood. He handed me the handcuffs then and asked me 
to chain myself. "No, Roger, you do it." I hugged him; 
he hugged my naked body, and bent to his task. The locks 
clicked home. 

"Roger? Touch me again?" I pleaded. 

He finished tying my ankles to the floor, and properly 
threading the ceiling rope. I felt a gentle caress on 
the side of my breast as I lay on the floor. "Let's talk 
about that later, when we're equal again," he replied. 
But he caressed my breast once more, lovingly and 
lingeringly, taking the sting out of his words. And 
though we lay there silently, his arm remained on my 
shoulder, reassuringly.

I don't know how long I laid there, bound. This time, 
the chains were Roger's; the scene, though, was John's, 
and there was still very real danger ahead. And I could 
do nothing to help; we had no key for me to use to 
escape and come to Roger's aid if necessary. Eventually, 
we heard tires kicking up gravel in the drive. "He's 
here," Roger said, unnecessarily. He helped me to my 
feet, pulled the rope taut, and vanished without even a 
kiss. Helpless, I waited for John.

A few minutes later, John came in. "Waiting where I left 
you, I see. Polite of you," he sneered. I heard the 
sound of a heavy object hitting floor, and the clank of 
some metal. John chuckled. "Remember what I said I'd do 
tonight? Here are my branding tools, all nice and clean. 
I ordered them weeks ago, waiting for this moment." Now 
that was an interesting revelation; my revenge for his 
apparent thoughtlessness had nothing to do with the 
situation. It struck me as quite likely that if I hadn't 
escaped from the motel, all this might have happened 
last night.

As if he were reading my mind, John said, "Yup, last 
night was to be the lead-in, if you hadn't dawdled. You 
thought you were playing bondage games with me, but it 
was never really a game to either of us, was it?" With 
that, he slapped my buttocks, hard. "Of course, I could 
never have afforded a place like this before today 
anyway; it was thoughtful of you to provide it for me. I 
hope you like it a lot; I don't think you're ever going 
to leave. While you're here, you life will be like 
this."

With that, he started to hit me, hard. I stifled a 
scream; I was supposed to be gagged. Roger stayed 
hidden; he was going to come out on my signal only. For 
now, we had to elicit as many incriminating comments as 
possible from John, which meant that I had to take as 
many blows as I could stand. And I had to judge the 
psychological moment just right; expelling the gag with 
a scream after a blow seemed more plausible if I were 
silent despite having been ungagged for some time.

Why not put the gag back in? Well, apart from the 
dangers I described earlier, I need to be free to give 
our release word. And we were certain that the hood was 
going to come off before the attempted branding; John 
would certainly want to tease me with the sight of the 
hot iron. If we were wrong about that, I was going to 
suffer a lot of pain before I got out of this. Worse 
yet, John might consider the hot iron a weapon to use 
against Roger; in a fight like that, anything could 
happen.

I was bracing myself to scream when John stopped the 
beating. "Time for a different game," he said. He untied 
the ropes holding me in place, and pushed me to the 
floor. My arms and legs were still chained; he further 
secured my by tying my handcuffs to my waist. Finally, 
he tied another rope to my leg chains and dragged me, 
feet first, towards the barn.

My sense of panic, which had vanished when I heard 
Roger's voice, returned in full measure. Could Roger 
follow us and not be noticed? Did Roger even know where 
we were going? Was there a place for him to hide in the 
barn? I didn't know, and it worried me.

If I'd known what Roger was up to, I'd have been even 
more worried. He hadn't even been in the house during 
the whipping! Rather, he'd been out searching John's 
car, an action that was ultimately to prove very 
helpful, but almost got him caught at the time.

When we reached the gravel drive, I couldn't hold in my 
screams any longer. I was being dragged face down, and 
the rocks raking across my breasts were too much to 
bear. John dropped me, swore, and came over to 
investigate. "Maybe I should have dragged you by the 
hair; the gag seems to have been pulled off." Sure 
enough, the hood was shredded, so his explanation was 
quite plausible. "No matter, I'm the only one who can 
hear you scream, and I quite enjoy it." He laughed 
again, and twisted my breasts. "But I think I'll let you 
recover a bit while I prepare the next set of toys." 
With that, he picked me up in a fireman's carry and went 
into the barn.

It would have been out of character not to plead, so I 
did. "John, stop this; you know I'll play any sort of 
game you want, do anything you want."

"Of course you will, dear; did you think I'd give you 
the opportunity to refuse. Now shut up; if you say 
another word I'll gag you again." I was silent; another 
gag could have been deadly. John continued, "But I do 
think I'll put the hood back on for now; wondering what 
I'm going to do next will be half your pleasure."

When we got into the barn, John tied a rope to my ankle 
cuffs, and hoisted me into the air upside-down. "Next 
time, instead of leaving your hands tied to your waist 
like that, I'll just attach them to a heavy weight, and 
bounce it down on occasion; this time, though, this pose 
is just to hold you for a while." I moaned, and had no 
need to fake it.

What followed next was a bit odd, some hammering, 
drilling, sounds of something, a ladder, I learned 
later, being dragged around, plus more than a few 
curses, John wasn't the handiest guy around. Finally, he 
was done. He informed me of this by unceremoniously 
cutting through the rope; if I had been much higher off 
the ground, I could easily have broken my neck when I 
fell. He then unlocked my leg chains, and fastened a 
strap around each ankle. Some footsteps, and the 
clicking of a ratchet. Slowly, my legs were pulled 
further and further apart.

Slowly, they were raised into the air. I started to 
scream, but John didn't say anything until I was again 
suspended, this time with my legs pulled uncomfortably 
far apart. He pulled off the hood and looked at me.

"I'm going to spread you a bit more, then leave you like 
this. Then I'm going to brand the inside of your thighs 
while you can't move an inch to stop me. Then I'll drop 
you to the ground, rearrange the pulleys to spread you 
like you've never been spread before, and take you till 
you scream." True to his word, he tightened the ratchet 
a bit more, and vanished.

For some reason, I felt the urge to look around and 
understand what he had done. A rope from each ankle went 
through a pulley wheel mounted high off the ground, at 
either end of the barn. One rope was simply tied, at 
ground level; the other went to a winch, also near the 
ground. By turning it, he dragged my ankles apart, and 
raised me into the air. Obviously, by simply removing 
the pulley wheels, he could stretch me on the floor, in 
a more convenient position for rape.

Suddenly, I heard Roger's voice. "I think we've got him. 
If you can, try the release word before he lights the 
torch!" But where was Roger hiding? The whole inside of 
the barn was open; there weren't even any stalls left.

I didn't get a chance to ask him; John came back in. "I 
found something else I want to try before branding you; 
it should be even more fun." It was a round file, a very 
coarse one, that he had found in the workshop. He rubbed 
it, hard, on the inside of my thighs. It would have hurt 
enough under any circumstances; with my legs stretched 
that tight, it was sheer agony. I screamed, then used 
our release word. I'd only done that once before with 
John, and that time it was a test, though he never knew 
that, it's always wise to learn if your partner really 
will stop when things get too rough.

"Release you?" John asked. "Are you joking? That was 
when we were playing your games. This is my game, and 
I'm the one who decides when to let go. Come now, are 
you ready for your brand? Or shall I use this a bit 
more?" He pointed the file downward, as if ready to 
insert it. 

"No, no!" I screamed. 

"Beg to be branded," he replied, touching me with the 
tip of the file. 

"I beg you, I beg you!" I screamed, all but forgetting 
that rescue was at hand. But I had to get him away from 
me, lest he use me as a hostage.

I needn't have worried. As John stepped towards the 
propane torch he'd brought, I yelled, "Roger!" John 
looked up, and an amazing thing happened: Roger jumped 
him from above; he'd been in the hayloft!

It wasn't really a fight; John was stunned by the 
impact. Roger pushed him, roughly, towards the winch, 
slammed John into the wall to immobilize him, and 
released me. He caught the crank so he could lower me 
slowly to the floor. The keys had fallen from John's 
pocket during all this; ignoring him for the moment, 
Roger picked them up, walked over to me, and unlocked 
me.

John slowly rose to his feet. "I'm not done with you 
yet, bitch. And don't try calling the cops; with this 
setup, I'll have no trouble convincing any judge this 
wasn't just a game. And you can't even afford to have 
this public; your precious business would fall apart."

I was going to reply, and dare him to expose me. He 
didn't really understand the situation. I, and my 
competitors, are fundamentally artists. So are the 
client representatives we deal with. And in the art 
world, people pride themselves on ignoring odd personal 
lives; such things are irrelevant. What I did was quite 
tame by comparison to some of them.

I didn't get a chance to answer, though; Roger spoke 
first. "Of course, you can't afford the exposure, 
either. What's more, there will be no trouble with the 
jury; I have the whole thing on tape, even the part 
about you rejecting the release word." John started 
looking concerned. "But there's more. While you were 
busy, I had a look in your car." At that, John started 
looking very alarmed. 

Roger continued, "I'm sure the D.A. would love to send 
that funny white powder to a lab. But that's not all. 
That stuff was packaged for sale, not home use. And 
there was a lot of cash in the trunk as well, which 
suggests that you didn't purchase the stuff. Tell me, 
what would the kind of folks you ripped off do if they 
learned your name and address? Wait, don't leave yet. 
I'm not going to do anything with that tape now. Nor 
have I removed anything from your car. But I did use 
your very own car phone to tell some friends what's 
going on. I suggest that you leave, immediately. And if 
you ever come near her or me again, well, that tape will 
be page 1 news, and a letter about the drug rip-off will 
be mailed to a certain address."

John didn't stay to hear any more; he fled. All I wanted 
to do was lay down and have a good screaming fit, but 
Roger dissuaded me. With some justice, he pointed out 
that I should not stay at a known address until he had 
distributed copies of the tape and I had installed 
suitable alarm systems. We walked back to the house, arm 
in arm. Roger cleaned me up and bandaged me; then we 
headed for a randomly chosen hotel to spend the night. 
Obviously, all we did was cuddle.

Roger was a bit distant in the morning, when I was a bit 
in the mood for more. "Right now, you're feeling very 
grateful to me. Don't mistake that for infatuation. And 
remember, we still work together, even if you do make me 
a partner to handle half of this contract." How had he 
guessed my thoughts! "Relax for a while, date others, 
and recover from all this. In a few months, you can make 
a decision about us."

His logic was, of course, impeccable. And I did start 
dating others, though I remained celibate; I wasn't 
ready for anything deep. Work kept me busy; we did get 
that contract, and I did promote Roger. And we never 
heard a word from John; when we checked with his 
neighbors, we learned that he had never returned that 
day. I never did learn if he fled or if the mob got him 
without our help.

Finally, I hit it off with someone. We retired to his 
place that evening; he even had a reasonable set of toys 
of his own. And it felt good, when you chain yourself 
up, as I had been doing, there isn't that sense of 
abandoning control that you get when someone else does 
it. Most important, though, it clarified my feelings 
about Roger.

I waited until the next time both of us had to work 
late, well after everyone else had gone. I walked up 
behind him as he sat at his desk, put my arms around his 
neck, and rested my head on his shoulders. "You've been 
kidnapped," I said in a dreamy voice, closing my eyes. 
He grasped my hands, and I felt something hard. "No, 
it's you who's been kidnapped," he said, as he snapped a 
pair of handcuffs shut.

We drifted back to the couch in my office. Before this, 
I'd often spent the night there when I'd been working 
late, but never nude, never bound, and never with Roger 
chained beside me.

                     -= * =-

It was while I was tied under the car that I started 
wondering about my sexual preferences. Was this really a 
way to get my kicks? I mean, autoeroticism is one thing, 
but auto eroticism? This wasn't fun at all. Worse yet, 
it wasn't even arousing me.

Hmm, perhaps I should explain how I got there.

This all took place sometime after the breakup with 
John. Roger and I hit it off very well, though not 
without a few strains. For one thing, we found that it 
generally didn't work well to spend the night together 
during the week; being together all day at work, and 
then all evening, was just too much togetherness. But 
weekends, and an occasional exception, were great fun, 
and our holidays together were marvelous. We tried to 
keep matters cool at work (except for the time I really 
chained him to his desk, but I'll get to that later); 
some of the staff knew what was going on, but it didn't 
seem to affect morale as best we could tell.

We switched off, in no particular order, between his 
house and the farmhouse. His house was great for me, 
because of all the new toys, and the farmhouse was great 
for both of us, because it was intended as a love nest. 
Not that his place was far behind, Roger let his 
artistic talents really flourish. 

For example, at the moment he's building a genuine 
dungeon in the basement. I don't mean just a cell, like 
I have at the farmhouse; I mean as authentic looking a 
dungeon as he can come up with. And I suppose I don't 
even mean "authentic," I mean something redolent of old 
B-movies, after all, that's our image of what a dungeon 
is. So the walls appear to be stone, and there are 
stuffed rats in strategic places, one or two of which 
are even equipped to produce sound effects. 

There are torches stuck in the wall, and "cobwebs," and 
so on. There are several cells, all fully functional and 
well equipped with chains and ring bolts. Does he plan 
on bringing another woman down there with me? Another 
man? Another couple? He won't say; Roger hates to talk 
about a project before it's done. I wouldn't even have 
known about the dungeon plans, except that I went 
wandering around his house one of the first mornings I 
was there, Roger was still spread-eagled to the bed, so 
he couldn't really stop me. 

The torture chamber, I'm told, will be in the laundry 
room, games are one thing, but having clean clothes is 
still important. That's one of the parts that isn't 
finished yet; with Roger, though, I'm not worried about 
more pain than I find stimulating.

While waiting for the dungeon to be finished, we often 
played in his "barn," in the living room. Last time, I 
mentioned the hay lift; I didn't realize all the ways 
he'd thought of to use it. A couple of weeks ago, for 
example, he tied my hands to my sides, tied my ankles 
together, and lifted me up by my feet. Different enough, 
and not too hard to take, till he told me I was staying 
that way all night. 

I was surprised, and a bit concerned; that didn't sound 
like fun. But he wasn't done. Next, Roger put a strap 
under my arms, and raised my body up to the underside of 
the beam. Another around my waist, my thighs, and my 
head, and I was nicely supported. Much better, but he 
still wasn't finished with me. Sitting on top of the 
beam, Roger adjusted the bonds on my legs, so that they 
were splayed on either side of the beam. 

Then, and I'm not kidding, he dragged in a makeshift 
scaffold, lay on it at almost my height, and started 
licking me. I barely kept from screaming; I was being 
stimulated all over, and I not only couldn't get loose, 
if I had I'd have fallen eight feet to the floor! After 
a bit of that, he went back to the balcony, crawled out 
on the beam, and caressed me from that side. Finally, he 
went back to the scaffold and tried for penetration, but 
without much luck. He settled for moving the scaffold so 
I could return the oral favor.

That was the pattern of our sex lives, who could think 
of the most imaginative ways to tie up the other? Once, 
when I was a bit annoyed at him, he was late for a 
dinner date, I decided some mild revenge was in order. I 
waited until we were alone in the office late one night, 
business had picked up, which is both good and bad, 
wandered in, and announced a kidnap. 

Roger knew the rules, and complied when I told him to 
strip. He was a bit surprised when I started chaining 
him to his desk, but again, that was part of the game. I 
spread-eagled him on his desk, and after suitable 
foreplay mounted him. Then, and only then, did I tell 
him his fate: that I wasn't going to release him until 
the next morning! On that note, I left.

Roger, of course, was a bit upset, but he was also 
curious what I was going to do. He knew me well enough 
to know that I wouldn't let him be discovered like that, 
that would be against our rules, but would I do more 
than show up early? I let him stew all night. About 
8:00, he probably started worrying seriously. 

His secretary seemed to be the type who thought ordinary 
sex was evil, let alone what we did. To be sure, I don't 
even know if that sort of naive mind would even 
recognize this as sexual, but nudity was also bad; 
apparently, if we'd been intended to go around without 
any clothes, we'd have been born that way. No matter, 
efficiency is what counts in a secretary, not personal 
beliefs, however weird they are.

I did more than time things carefully; I watched from my 
window till the secretary got to the door. Roger must 
have heard it open and really start to sweat! I then ran 
past the anteroom, shouting "Don't disturb us for 
anything; we've got an important meeting!" and on in to 
Roger's office. His desk was out of the line of sight, 
so there was no exposure. We did "meet," though we had 
to be rather more silent than was our custom. I jokingly 
threatened Roger with a gag, but it wasn't really 
necessary. About 10:30 or so, I finally let him go.

Such was the pattern of our lives. A few weeks ago, 
though, he told me he wasn't going to be around for the 
Fourth; he wanted to visit his sister. I was 
disappointed, a four day weekend sounded like fun, but 
going with him didn't appeal to me; his sister is as 
straight as they come. We'd even have been consigned to 
separate beds! So I drove him to the airport, and headed 
up to the farmhouse alone, I figured I might as well 
work on some of my own construction projects. It was 
late when I got there, but I still took the time to play 
by myself with a few toys before falling asleep. And, as 
happened that time with John, I awoke to find my legs 
chained together, and my hand being fastened behind my 
back.

My first reaction, of course, was panic. I didn't waste 
energy screaming; I just kicked out. No dice; I was 
being held to well. But there was no cursing, no 
violence; instead, whoever was holding me was fondling 
me, gently, and in my favorite places. But I still 
didn't know who it was, it was utterly and completely 
black in the room.

If you're from the city, like I am, you're not used to 
total darkness. In the city, there are always 
streetlights, or passing cars. Out here, there was none 
of that. Usually, I could see a bit at night by the 
light from my clock, but my captor had unplugged it. 
"Roger?" I asked.

No answer, just caresses in a way that only Roger had 
ever done, a rhythmic sort of teasing of my nipples. I 
wiggled from pleasure, but decided to test things. "The 
ankle cuff is hurting me; could you loosen it?" I added 
our release word.

Instantly, whoever he was, no doubt that it was a male; 
I could feel that! He released my body, and adjusted the 
manacle. That settled one thing, it certainly wasn't 
John. But was it Roger? I'd seen him get on the plane, 
hadn't I? But if it wasn't Roger, who was it? And how 
had he gotten in, past my alarm?

I asked him who he was; rather than answer me, he rolled 
me onto my back, and used his lips for more important 
matters. My mouth, my breasts, the inside of my thighs, 
I was practically delirious with pleasure. But it didn't 
feel like Roger; the texture of his facial skin felt 
wrong, to say nothing of his style of making love. 
Finally, he rolled me up onto my knees, put a few 
pillows under my stomach, and put my head down. I knew 
what was coming next, of course, and moaned in 
anticipation. But he paused, just holding me gently.

It took me a moment to figure out what was going on. My 
captor, whoever it was, was waiting for my permission to 
proceed. I was certain that if I told him to stop, and 
used the release word, he would. But I didn't want to 
stop, not after a buildup like that. I told him to 
please go ahead, and quickly! Instead, he did something 
even more curious, he let me down, got up from the bed, 
and vanished. 

The light went on in the living room, and music filled 
the house, one of Roger's favorite pieces, on the 
stereo. The lights went out, and whoever it was 
returned. Again, he started licking and caressing me, 
while I writhed in my chains. I wanted to hold him, I 
wanted to lick him, I wanted to engulf him, but I 
couldn't move. I moaned, and pulled against my bonds, 
and pressed my body against his as best I could. 
Finally, finally, he rolled me onto my knees again, and 
this time he didn't stop.

We drifted off to sleep together, back to his front, my 
chained hands holding him where we wanted me to. My last 
thought before I dozed off was that in the morning, I'd 
be able to see him.

                      -= * =-

I awoke in the morning to find I wasn't going to learn 
who was in bed next to me, I'd been blindfolded. I said, 
"Good morning, whoever you are. Are we going to play 
more games today?"

He was silent, but immediately unchained my legs and led 
me to the bathroom. It's an odd feeling to be treated 
like a baby, to have someone else tend you in the 
bathroom, but it was nothing new to me, this was hardly 
the first time I'd awakened bound. And, of course, I 
wasn't surprised when his hand wandered towards my 
breast after wiping me. It's hard to make wiping someone 
erotic, but he manage quite well, thank you, I was 
tempted to head back to bed.

I didn't, though; I wanted to satisfy hungers of another 
sort first. "Breakfast?" I asked.

He responded by putting a leash around my neck and 
leading me to the kitchen. He was considerate about it, 
though; when we came to a door or a turn, where I might 
stub a toe, he took my arm and guided me around the 
obstacle. Along the way, he ran his fingers up my spine, 
in just the way, and in just the musical rhythm, that 
Roger would do. Was this Roger? I was beginning to think 
it was.

Breakfast was already prepared; if it wasn't Roger, he'd 
been well briefed, because everything was just as I 
liked it. He fed me, of course, even holding up the 
coffee cup whenever I asked for it. I decided to try a 
test. "Can I have some yogurt?" I asked. There were two 
containers, a large open carton of blueberry that Roger 
had brought last weekend, and some vanilla. I despise 
blueberry, but would a stranger know that? I rarely eat 
yogurt for breakfast, but maybe that wasn't in the 
briefing. No such luck, a moment or two later, a 
spoonful of vanilla yogurt was entering my mouth. A 
moment later came a blueberry yogurt kiss, he knew it 
was a test!

Dessert was more fun, though I had to wait a while for 
him to clean up. There's that advantage to being bound, 
someone else has to do the dishes. Of course, having to 
wait on your knees, with your legs chained again and a 
leash holding your head to the floor takes away some of 
the pleasure. And he wasn't quick about the chores, 
mostly because he kept pausing to rub or kiss my breasts 
and back. But it was worth waiting for; when he 
finished, he carried me back to the bed, put me on my 
knees and lay down in front of me. I didn't need to be 
told what to do; I bent over and started licking and 
kissing him.

I don't know how long I spent at it; sometimes, I 
wiggled around to use my hands instead; sometimes, I lay 
down to use my whole body; sometimes, I just moaned and 
tried to pull my hands free to hug him. He wasn't just 
lying there, either; after the first few minutes, his 
hands and mouth were as busy as mine. Eventually, he 
gently laid me on my back, unlocked my legs, and brought 
us to a peak.

We lay like that for a while before I stirred. "These 
handcuffs are rather uncomfortable to lie on, you know; 
could you possibly chain me in a different position?"

Instantly, he jumped up and rolled me over. But rather 
than unlock me right away, he got out a few cable ties, 
and used them to bind my hands. Only when they were 
secure did he unlock the handcuffs. I groaned. Arms 
aren't that much better when you're laying on your back. 
And I expected to be laying on my back a lot that 
weekend; he seemed to have one thing in mind. In that I 
was both right and wrong, he varied positions a lot, but 
about only time my hands weren't bound behind me was 
when he tied me under that stupid car. And his body 
still didn't feel like Roger's.

We lay there for a while like that, though he got up 
briefly to put on some more music. It was the radio this 
time, which provided less evidence. We snuggled 
together; he read, and I thought. Was this Roger? Should 
I stop the charade, one way or another, and find out? I 
was certain my captor would honor a request to release 
me; I was less certain that he'd do it in a way that 
would let me learn his identity. Did I care? Should I 
care? Physically, I had no complaints; the sex was 
wonderful, and everything was according to my rules. And 
whoever that was next to me, Roger had obviously planned 
this, and presumably was deriving pleasure from it. Did 
it matter that it was indirect? If you make love in a 
forest and no one hears it, do you have an orgasm? The 
analogy doesn't hold up, but you know what I mean.

I came to no conclusions before lunch. The arrangements 
were much like those at breakfast, though with a minor 
new wrinkle: I was bound to the chair at my waist, and 
my captor actually put a bib on me! Don't laugh too 
much, the strap was just more bondage, and a bib is 
simply practical when you're being fed by someone. But 
Roger never saw it like that, he claimed that it seemed 
to him to be too suggestive of pedophilia, and besides 
licking any stray food off was fun. My captor had done 
that at breakfast, just like Roger would, but not at 
lunch.

Cleanup was as before; I was forced to kneel head down 
while he washed up. Again, he kept pausing to touch and 
rub me; again, I was ready to explode by the time he 
picked me up. Instead of heading for the bedroom this 
time, though, he carried me down to the cell in the 
basement. He gently put me on the padded floor, after 
the episode with John, I decided that bare cement wasn't 
acceptable even for playing, unlocked my legs, and 
aroused me quite thoroughly. But I couldn't touch him, 
with my arms bound, and suddenly I heard a click, he had 
locked me in, and left! 

I tugged at my bonds, to no avail, and tried to rub up 
against the bars. It didn't work too well, but I 
achieved some release, and sat down. While trying to get 
comfortable, I discovered that I'd been left a pillow; I 
managed to lay down with it between my legs, and 
satisfied myself a bit more. With that out of the way, I 
resumed my mental debate about my position, while locked 
in a cell, blindfolded, and with my hands quite 
thoroughly bound behind my back.

I started out by listing what I was certain of: that my 
captor might or might not be Roger, that Roger was 
certainly involved in the affair, and that physically I 
had no complaints at all, the sex was wonderful, and it 
was certainly an imaginative way to play. I tugged my 
hands again; they weren't going anywhere. 

I could, I suppose, have rubbed my blindfold free, but 
that would have been cheating in a sense. If I wanted 
out, I could simply ask; if I didn't, I should play by 
the rules. A blindfold like that is almost more a symbol 
than a reality. I had one in the toy box that was real, 
that I couldn't have pushed off. It was more like a 
tight fitting ski mask that left my nose and mouth free, 
but locked behind my neck. A taut elastic band went down 
from the built-in eyepieces to the lock, so that I 
couldn't push it up off of my eyes. 

It even had loops for a pair of straps that would go 
down across my cheeks and fasten to the neckband in 
front, for use when I didn't need my mouth, times like 
right now. That blindfold was much less comfortable; I 
left the current one alone. (Not, of course, that it 
would have slipped off easily; the strap in back was 
broad, elastic, and quite taut.)

Alone in the dark, I vaguely remembered a conversation 
Roger and I had had a few months ago. I didn't remember 
it well, because it took place late on a night when we 
were both very drunk. We were also chained to each other 
at each extremity, face to face, which made lovemaking 
quite a challenge, especially when that drunk. But in 
the aftermath and afterglow, we suddenly waxed 
philosophical. 

Two points stuck with me, among all the world's problems 
we tried to solve that night. First, we discussed the 
question of identity. Who, really, was a person? Was it 
their body? Their mind? The two together? What was the 
status of an agent with no free will of its own? 
(Imagine a robot for that last, if you will.) What about 
organizations? Did a corporation have a will, as opposed 
to the wills of the people running it? I don't recall 
that we came to any conclusions, but it certainly seemed 
to bear on my current situation.

The other relevant point was rather more immediate and 
personal. Was our relationship inherently monogamous, 
and would we ever want to play with other individuals or 
couples? To the former, I told Roger that I was, at 
least for now, content with him, but didn't mind if he 
had occasional encounters elsewhere. He said more or 
less the same thing to me, which gave both of us freedom 
to explore if and when we wished. In the past, when I 
had taken advantage of similar arrangements, it had been 
on the basis of pure, unadulterated lust, and this 
interlude certainly seemed to fit that model. If my 
captor wasn't Roger, I'd certainly be lusting for him 
now even if I hadn't before.

Roger was teasingly vague about the last point. 
Threesomes and foursomes can be fun, though too often 
I've seen them fail miserably with one person feeling 
left out. But what we were talking about was more 
complex, we wanted others to play with us, to act out 
our fantasies. It's hard enough getting two people 
reacting properly; I'd never succeeded with three except 
once, a long time ago, when my then-lover wanted to play 
master to two "harem slaves." 

I said it worked, in that we all seemed to play our 
proper roles, but for whatever reason none of us ever 
tried that game again. I tried telling Roger how much 
fun that would be in his dungeon, I really wanted him to 
finish it so we could try it, but he just smiled. So I 
threatened to chain him down there with his secretary; 
he said that he was having more fun chained the way he 
was, and proceeded to show me how and why. The second 
time that evening went much more smoothly, and we fell 
asleep without resolving the question.

One more random thought came to my while I lay in the 
cell, bound and blindfolded. In Roger's serious art, as 
opposed to the commercial stuff he did for me, or the 
fantasy decorating he did, he liked to force people to 
take a variant point of view, to look at a situation 
differently. There was one painting, for example, where 
the perspective seemed wrong, where the viewpoint seemed 
to be at waist level, and some of the people seemed to 
be fuzzily drawn while others were portrayed with 
exquisite detail. You had to stare at it a long time, or 
perhaps glance at the title, before you realized that it 
was a toddler's view of the world. Was this all Roger's 
way of "sketching" our discussion?

I hadn't come to any conclusions when I heard footsteps. 
I stayed where I was; I was curious to see what he'd do 
or say. He bent down and started touching me, lightly 
and delicately. As I responded, he moved on to other 
areas. Finally, he leashed me again and led me to a 
broad armchair. He sat down and I straddled him, facing 
him, mounting him, until we were done. And then he led 
me to the kitchen and knelt me there again, while he 
cooked a long and elaborate dinner. Throughout, he 
hadn't said a single word. And so I knelt there, bound 
hand, foot, and neck, kneeling in my own kitchen, 
wondering if he really was Roger, this time, the style 
did feel more like Roger, and wondering if I should ask 
to be released.

                      -= * =-

Dinner went much like breakfast and lunch, though with 
two telling points. The first was that the chicken was 
seasoned just as Roger would have. This was more 
significant than you might think; Roger disdained 
written recipes, but achieved a marvelous consistency 
through his skills as a cook. I didn't see how he could 
teach someone else how to do that. The other point was 
that my captor served me wine through a straw! 

Bound as I was, it was quite a practical solution; I 
could bend over and sip it when I wanted to. But Roger 
never would do that; he was the sort of person who 
preferred to bring fine silverware on a picnic instead 
of, as he once put it, "useless, garish, tacky, plastic 
forks." I'd never known him to compromise his principles 
for convenience before.

I knelt in my accustomed place and position while he 
cleaned up; then it was off to bed. We didn't do much 
besides cuddle a bit while he read and I thought some 
more. I was having lots of time to think about the 
contradictions inherent in bondage. I was utterly 
helpless, but I had a devoted slave who catered to my 
every whim, even wiping me on the toilet. I couldn't 
move much when we made love, but sex had rarely, if 
ever, been better. And, though I was completely in the 
power of a possibly unknown man, I trusted him 
completely, and I knew that if I asked, I'd be released. 
Curious as it may have seemed to an outsider, I was not 
being "had" against my will.

The next morning, I decided to try to take control, but 
within the game. I knew what I planned to do, but I 
never got the chance to try it. It was almost as if he 
sensed my mood, knew my limits, and blocked me. Rather 
than slowly and delicately arousing me, he was much more 
direct and almost forceful. The day before, our 
lovemaking was, if you'll pardon the strained analogy, 
like the slow, inexorable advance of a glacier. This was 
more like a volcano, sudden and explosive. Neither is 
resistible, not that I wanted to resist! , but they were 
quite different. It ended with me bending forward over 
the back of the armchair, gasping, with my legs tied to 
its legs while he entered me.

The rest of the morning was different as well. After we 
had regained our strength, he leashed me again and led 
me on a walk in the woods. It's odd, being led naked and 
blindfolded through a forest. Was something about to 
brush against me? What would it feel like? And he played 
a game with me, picking up different objects and 
touching me in different places, while I tried to guess 
what he was holding. I felt leaves brush my breasts, 
twigs caress my groin, a thorny branch pass ever so 
lightly across my stomach. A wrong guess produced 
nothing; a right answer was rewarded with a kiss or 
more. I'd been guessing right for a while, and was eager 
for bigger rewards, when he changed the game. He 
suddenly stopped, tied my leash to a branch over my 
head, gave me a quick kiss on the lips, and left, 
walking noisily through the underbrush.

I'd never done anything like that before. As I said, I'm 
a city person; I bought the farm because I wanted 
privacy, not because I liked nature. But here I was, 
bound blindfolded in the woods, not knowing who else or 
what else might happen by. Your skin becomes very 
sensitive at a time like that; you feel every little 
breath of wind, or skittering leaf. A few times, I 
thought I heard an animal walk nearby, while I held 
motionless. 

Was that my captor next to me? Was it a deer? Had I 
really felt anything at all? I didn't dare move. Then I 
felt something on my thigh, but it was furry? Or was it? 
And what large animal would come up to me like that? Had 
I even felt it? The phantom touches grew more and more 
frequent, until suddenly they weren't phantom at all, 
they were him, touching me, rubbing me, kissing me. At 
long last, he untied the leash, and we made love on the 
forest floor.

Lunch was as usual; afterwards, he conducted me to my 
cell again. He didn't arouse me first this time, but he 
did bind my feet, and fasten my neck by a short chain to 
a ringbolt near the floor. And the friendly pillow was 
gone as well. All in all less pleasant than the day 
before, but I scarcely noticed; I thought I understood 
the situation at last. It was a game, of course, but 
sexual pleasure wasn't the object; it was the means.

When Roger and I played our usual games, they were for 
one reason only: to stimulate and arouse us. This was a 
deeper game, though, orchestrated by Roger for a deeper 
pleasure. Yes, the sex was great, for me and for 
whomever, but there was another purpose as well. The 
prize was my captor's identity. He was to conceal it at 
all costs; I was to learn it. I could end the game at 
any time, simply by asking to, though that might or 
might not let me learn his identity. His strategy was to 
keep me from wanting to end the game; to keep me so 
aroused that I would want it to go on forever. And he 
was doing it, too; I had seldom been at such a peak for 
so long.

What were my moves? Crude physical violence seemed 
inappropriate; we had tacitly discarded that the first 
night, when I stopped struggling. Besides, it might not 
work; he seemed to be stronger than I was, and I was 
already bound. The obvious counter to his moves was to 
ignore his caresses, to refuse to be aroused on his 
whim. Would that do it? That was more or less what I 
planned that morning, though I couldn't put it into 
effect. And that was the weakness of the idea, I quite 
possibly couldn't carry it out! Besides, it might not 
work; I suspected that he'd just keep at me until I 
yielded. Whoever it was knew me too well, and my body 
knew and desired him.

Did I have any other moves? Hmm, what if I let myself 
get aroused, but refused to respond? Could I do that? It 
would be frustrating, but I only had to keep my 
conscious actions under control; my reflexes could do as 
they pleased. I'm sure it was stimulating to him when he 
worked on me; I'm just as sure that he wanted, even 
needed, my cooperation to make the experience as 
pleasurable for him as for me. I doubted that Roger or 
his friends were into necrophilia. When my captor came 
for me, I'd be ready.

He came for me at dinner time. Instead of leading me up 
the stairs this time, he carried me, leaving my ankles 
bound. And instead of seating me in a chair, he put me 
on my side, on the rug in the dining room. I half 
expected that I'd be expected to feed myself like a dog 
would, but he knew my limits; he fed me again himself. 
And his hands were busy with me, though I don't know if 
he noticed that I wasn't trying to press against him. I 
gladly accepted his caresses, but insofar as was 
possible I returned none.

Dinner drifted into love-play. I think he was starting 
to notice what was going on by that point; several 
times, he lay behind me, and wrapped his arms about me 
to touch my front. But unlike our past encounters, I 
didn't use my hands on him, even though that was the 
only time I could. Sometimes, he paused briefly after 
that happened, but then persisted. After all, I wasn't 
rejecting his advances; I wasn't resisting; I was quite 
visibly and audibly becoming aroused. Matters came to a 
head, so to speak, when he rolled me onto my back and 
squatted near my face, and I did: nothing. I didn't turn 
my head away; I didn't even close my mouth, but I also 
didn't say anything and didn't do anything.

That surprised him for moment, but only for a moment. He 
unlocked my legs, positioned himself between them, and 
started to lick me. That has always driven me wild; he 
brought me to my peak, and beyond, and held me there. I 
was practically delirious with pleasure by the time he 
reversed his angle, licking all the while, but I 
retained enough presence of mind to stick with my plan. 
If he'd had any more doubts, that ended them; he got up, 
and slowly walked to the couch.

Matters remained that way for a few minutes. He could 
have mounted me, of course, but that wasn't the point 
and we both knew it. It also wouldn't have been much fun 
for him, since I was firmly resolved to play dead. I 
wouldn't have closed my legs, or struggled, that would 
have been active rejection, but I knew he wanted more 
than just an inflatable doll. It was his move, and I 
wondered what it would be.

In retrospect, it was fairly obvious. He had to express 
displeasure, but do so within the game. And he couldn't 
say anything; that was exactly what I wanted. But 
punishment was legal, as long as it didn't hurt too 
much. I've mentioned before how I felt about pain: a bit 
of a symbolic sting is fine, but nothing serious, since 
it doesn't turn me on at all.

For whatever reason, he chose to use the whipping 
position that John had used. He tied a rope to my 
wrists, and ran it through a ring in the ceiling, 
pulling it fairly taut, and fastening it below. I was 
thus bent over, in a very vulnerable position. I also 
started worrying a bit, especially when I heard him take 
a few practice swings with that riding crop I keep 
around. But he stayed within my bounds, only stinging me 
a bit when the whipping started. He was good at it, too; 
he hit me at irregular intervals, never letting me know 
when he was done. 

Once, he even let two or three minutes go by before he 
came back with a small flurry of strokes. By the time he 
was finished, I was getting quite uncomfortable. 
Inwardly, though, I was thrilled, was he actually 
genuinely angry? That was certainly worth a few points 
for me. And I was even more aroused. This was a game we 
were playing, a sexual game, and the "beating" would be 
followed by another round of foreplay.

How much pain do I like? It's hard to explain just how 
hard a blow I consider acceptable. I define it as hard 
enough to be unpleasant, hard enough that you genuinely 
don't want it to happen, but not hard enough to draw an 
exclamation. The best analogy is clapping your hands 
together hard, if you do it a few times, you're not 
going to like it. Well, each blow should be a bit harder 
than that.

I remember trying to teach Roger my limits. He has a 
greater liking for pain than I do, and it seemed to take 
him overly long to learn where my threshold is. The man 
who was beating me this time knew just how hard to hit 
me. He only went over once, near the beginning; I warned 
him with a code word, and he honored it scrupulously. 
Was it Roger? Could a stranger pick up on my moods that 
well?

Finally, it was over. He removed the rope, led me to the 
bed, and fastened me to it via a rather long leash. He 
joined me, and tried to arouse me again. He succeeded, 
too, but I refused to return the favor. Being bound to 
the car was the end result, though at the time I didn't 
know what was happening.

His first move was to lead me out to the barn. I had 
left John's winches in place, but I didn't think my 
captor would use them; that whole memory was so 
traumatic I would have aborted the game had he even 
tried. Instead, he knelt me down inside the barn without 
fastening the leash to anything, puttered around a bit, 
and left. 

That struck me as curious until I heard a car start, at 
which point I nearly panicked. Was he going to leave me 
in the barn, nude, bound, and blindfolded, with no 
recourse but to try to find the road and seek help? I 
jumped up, ready to run after him and beg for release; I 
wasn't aroused at all, I was scared. But this wasn't 
John, and I needn't have worried; the car pulled into 
the barn, not away from me. I wasn't being abandoned.

My captor got out of the car, and, perhaps irked that I 
had stood without permission, urged me to my knees and 
pushed my head to the ground. I heard chain noises then, 
metal rattling against metal, from the direction of the 
car. Finally he came for me, and lay me down on some 
sort of dolly. My legs were manacled; to my great 
surprise, he cut the cable ties on my arms as well. I 
was so happy to have a chance to stretch after a day and 
a half that I barely noticed the new restraints being 
locked on each wrist.

I was jerked out of my reverie by a tug on my legs; I 
was being pulled underneath the car. My leg chains were 
pulled tight and fastened to something; he pulled out 
the dolly from the other end and locked my wrist chains 
over my head as well. Last, he did something else that 
surprised me: he released the strap holding my blindfold 
in place. Had I won? Not quite, he tied a loosely 
knotted scarf around my head, one that I could easily 
remove but not until he had a chance to leave the barn. 
It was clear that I was supposed to remove it; to what 
end wasn't clear, but I was eager enough to find out.

It was when I could finally see again that I realized I 
was under a car. A lot of cars, especially some imports, 
have a pair of tow rings at either end. I was spread-
eagled between the them. He had driven the front of the 
car up onto jack stands, giving me a bit more room, but 
all I could see was the underside of the engine 
compartment. Obviously, I was being disciplined; I was 
supposed to think about my "stubbornness" while laying 
there. I had often found the tow rings suggestive, 
actually, I find any sort of chain suggestive, and I 
love looking at the locks section of hardware stores as 
much as some men like the lingerie section, but I never 
could figure out anything erotic to do with them. 
Judging from my response, my captor hadn't figured it 
out, either.

It took me a little while to figure out the second part 
of the message. My eyes were open for a reason; given 
the lack of interesting sights under the car, it had to 
be so I could see how light it was. My captor wasn't 
going to come back until it was pitch-black outside, and 
I wasn't going anywhere until he did return. Based on 
the sky and my hunger level, it was no later than six 
o'clock; full darkness probably wouldn't happen until 
around nine or thereabouts. And all I could do was to 
lay there, bound by my captor, condemned to stay there 
until I was willing to give pleasure as well as receive 
it.

                      -= * =-

I was in a fairly foul mood by the time my captor 
returned. "What kind of stupid stunt do you plan to pull 
next? Tying me to a tractor instead? Seeing if I like 
being lashed with wet noodles? Did you really think I'd 
find the underside of your car sensual?" Naturally, he 
didn't say anything, but after I crawled out, he had 
unlocked my legs, and lengthened my arm chains, he 
gently touched my face. "I assume that that's an 
apology," I said as he put my hands behind my back and 
handcuffed them that way. 

Again, the gentle touch on my face, followed this time 
by a brief, fleeting, touch of my left nipple. "No, I'm 
not aroused, and not likely to be," I told him. He 
locked the leash around my neck, released the manacles 
holding my arms to the car, and blindfolded me anew. 
Finally, he touched my breast once more, and started 
towards the house. Perforce, I followed.

I wasn't joking when I said I didn't think he could 
arouse me. Sex isn't a light bulb; you, or at least I, 
don't rise to a peak that easily. And the last few hours 
had blown the marvelous mood my unknown captor had built 
up during the weekend. Besides, I was dirty and hungry 
from laying on the barn floor under the car. But he 
sensed that. There was no explicit sex play; rather, we 
headed straight for the bathroom, where I received a 
crisp, almost businesslike shower.

A less sensitive man might have tried for a sensual 
shower. That wouldn't have worked, and he knew it. When 
your car has been in an accident, you don't go ahead and 
install a new stereo. First you fix the damage, repair 
everything, make sure it still works, and then you start 
adding enhancements. That was my mood, I wasn't going to 
be the least bit interested in sex until I'd calmed down 
and relaxed a bit. And as I thought that, I smiled to 
myself: this might have won the game for me. If he 
couldn't arouse me again, there was no point in keeping 
me captive, he'd have no choice but to release me and 
leave. Hmm, should I even give him the chance to arouse 
me again? Or should I just end things after dinner? I 
decided to let him try; anything else was almost 
cheating. Besides, in some sense I'd win either way,

I'd either win the game if he couldn't arouse me, or I'd 
have a marvelous time again if he could.

Dinner was simple, though with an excellent wine. He fed 
me again, and went through his usual cleanup ritual, 
with me chained on my knees near the sink, head held low 
by the leash. There were only a few touches, almost more 
to let me know that I wasn't being forgotten than to 
turn me on. Eventually, we headed to the bedroom; I 
found myself wondering what he had in mind. Something 
new and different?

He started by removing the handcuffs and replacing them 
with long leather cuffs that went almost half way up to 
my elbow. There were straps on each of the cuffs, on the 
end away from the wrists; he used these to bind my arms 
tightly against my sides. This tie gave my wrists a lot 
of play, so he secured them by very thin straps, cords, 
almost, that ran from the cuffs around my thighs at 
crotch level. If I'd pulled on them, it might have hurt, 
but if I stood still I hardly noticed they were there. 
He then put me gently on the bed, on some sort of thin 
silk cloth, and tied my ankles together with ordinary 
leather cuffs. Finally, he threaded a strap under one 
arm at the armpit, across my chest above my breasts, and 
down under the other arm.

So far, nothing out of the ordinary was happening, 
though I had a bit more freedom to wiggle than in some 
ties. I enjoyed the position, but it was nothing 
special, nothing to weaken my resolve. But he had indeed 
found a new way to bind me, one that was powerful 
indeed. At the time it was happening, I couldn't figure 
out what he was doing, it was only after he was finished 
that I figured it out. And a few details escaped me 
until I saw the device later on, he left it for me as a 
present, for which I was quite grateful!

He began by putting another silk cloth on top of me, 
covering me from neck to ankle. Odd. He then bent to my 
ankles and started doing things, working first on one 
side of me, and then the other, pulling the cloth 
around. Eventually, I realized that he was lacing the 
two pieces of silk together, sewing me up quite tightly.

He proceeded this way for quite a while, taking special 
care to keep the silk smooth, even and taut. There were 
darts at my hips, waist, and breast so that it fit quite 
snugly. Who had measured me that carefully?

It took quite a while for him to finish lacing me up. By 
the time he was done, I could barely move. Even my 
fingers were held tightly against my thighs. Definitely 
new, and definitely arousing. Was there more to this? 
Indeed there was. When he started to caress me through 
the silk, I nearly jumped off the bed, the feelings were 
so intense.

It is a truism that the right clothing is often sexier 
than nudity. Clothing can tease the eye, and direct it 
to points of interest. It is less often appreciated that 
contact through thin cloth can be even more stimulating 
than skin-to-skin contact. The fingers can tease, 
outline, glide. The cloth acts as a lubricant, allowing 
one's hand to float lightly above your partner's skin. 
There are few things I enjoy more than showering, 
falling onto a bed with crisp, clean sheets, and tracing 
the contours of my lover's body through the top sheet.

My captor either knew this about me, not surprising at 
this stage, or felt the same way. His touches were 
driving me wild; when he reached my breasts and started 
running his palms lightly over my nipples, I couldn't 
take it anymore, and rolled towards him.

That wasn't to be; I then learned the purpose of that 
strap across my chest. He pushed my onto my back, and 
used it to tie my upper body down. It was only the work 
of another minute for him to put another strap over my 
legs, and a third at waist level. I was fastened to the 
bed, and squeezed by him and a silk cocoon.

He continued his caressing and teasing, paying no heed 
to my moans and pleas for release. He swung around to 
where I could have taken him into my mouth if I chose; I 
remained firm in my resolve. But he continued his 
touches, continued arousing me, and then slowly 
approached my crotch. I was frantic with the desire when 
I realized that he couldn't satisfy me, that the silk 
was so taut all he could do was to arouse me even more. 

I thrust my hips up hard towards him, ignoring or even 
relishing the pain from the wrist cords. I didn't care, 
I wanted him in me, and even though I knew that unlacing 
me would take as long as lacing me had I begged him. 
Still he touched, still he rubbed, and as I writhed and 
moaned I did use my mouth, I did lick him, I forgot all 
about games and knew only his body and mine. Finally, 
incredibly, I came. And he didn't let it end there; 
then, and only then, did he unlace my lower body and 
untie my ankles, and lick me and enter me until we 
couldn't move.

I lay there, all but motionless. Not that I could move 
much, of course; my arms were still bound to my sides, 
my waist and shoulders were still fastened to the bed, 
and the cocoon imprisoned my upper body. But it didn't 
matter; I could have been free and I wouldn't have 
moved. I barely noticed as he removed my bonds, rolled 
me over, and fastened new cable ties to my wrists. He 
did my ankles, too, though he left a few inches of 
slack; I could tell I'd be able to walk, albeit with 
difficulty. At the end, as I was almost asleep, he shut 
the light. My last thought as I drifted off was that I 
had lost but loved doing so.

You're probably wondering how he unlaced the cocoon so 
fast. I didn't find out until later, when I played with 
it with Roger. When you think of lacing something up, 
you normally visualize putting a cord in one side of a 
hole, and out the other. That's the way the bottom piece 
was laced, but the top was more clever. 

The cord came up through the hole, around a flexible 
rod, and back down through the same hole. (This is much 
the same way that a sewing machine works, incidentally.) 
If you remove the rod, the loop just falls through. Of 
course, there was enough tension on the cords that one 
single rod didn't cover a whole edge. Instead, there 
were a series of them, each about 8 inches long, with a 
loop in one end to make withdrawal easier. So he had to 
remove a few on each side, but that's much faster than 
unlacing the whole thing.

                       -= * =-

I woke up the next morning with the sun shining in my 
eyes. Eyes? The blindfold was off! I rolled over quickly 
to see who was next to me; at least, I rolled over as 
quickly as I could, given the state of my arms and legs. 
It was Roger! I kneed him awake, but not before I 
noticed that he was bound the same way I was. That was 
odd, cable ties are hard to fasten one-handed; it wasn't 
at all clear that he could have bound his hands behind 
his back that way. In fact, on closer inspection, his 
arms were held together even more tightly than mine; the 
connecting tie was extremely tight. Could he have done 
it to himself? I had no idea. Of course, I immediately 
asked him when he'd arrived, and what was going on. 
Alas, I got no satisfaction.

"I got in late last night. Staying at my sister's place 
was no fun, so I left early and headed out here. When I 
got here, you were sound asleep. You were tied up, but 
that's not unusual; I know you like to play by yourself 
when you're alone." I nodded; that was quite true. In 
fact, he does to. Sometimes we amuse each other by each 
binding ourselves before we try to make love. Roger 
continued, "I was tired enough that I didn't feel like 
waking you. So I just went straight to sleep myself. I 
have no idea who tied me up."

A lovely story, but was true? I told Roger what had 
happened to me. He was visibly turned on by my 
description, but denied any knowledge of it. And that 
was patently false; whether or not my captor was Roger, 
it was obvious that Roger had planned it. I could ask 
his sister where he was, I suppose, but she doesn't like 
me, I represent all that she thinks is wrong: I'm 
successful, single, sexually uninhibited (some would say 
aggressive), and I utterly refuse to give even lip 
service to conventional morality. I only let a modicum 
of practicality govern my actions; my exact bedroom 
habits are the business of my lover, and only my lover.

We went back and forth like this for a while. 
Eventually, we agreed that I should try to free myself. 
I hobbled out to the kitchen, where I found some wire 
cutters left on the table. I brought them back to Roger; 
he got my hands loose. But I didn't free him; I decided 
to show him just how much fun it was to be bound for two 
days. So I slipped the blindfold on him, and proceeded 
to have my way with Roger. It was, after all, a four day 
weekend, which gave me plenty of time to reenact the 
whole thing. Of course, I threw in a few variations (and 
I omitted the car entirely); by the time Tuesday evening 
rolled around, Roger was sore but sated, utterly sated. 
But that's another story, for another time.

And my captor? To this day, I don't know who it was.

END

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
It's okay to *READ* stories about unprotected sex with
others outside a monogamous relationship. But it isn't
okay to *HAVE* unprotected sex with people other than
a trusted partner. 4-million people around the world 
contract HIV every year. You only have one body per 
lifetime, so take good care of it!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Kristen's collection - Directory 70