Bondage

I'm in my early twenties and have been married for several years now. I enjoy it. My husband and I live on the top floor of a low-rise tenements building. It's only five stories but it has the superlative advantage of being owned by us. We have the entire top floor, with three apartments on each of the lower levels. We do quite well out of it.

Now my husband and I have a, shall I say, varied, sex life. We like experimenting; it can be a lot of fun. Currently we were playing around with bondage. Just bondage. The sadomasochism side of BDSM does not appeal to me but the bondage is interesting.

Just consider it. You're tied up and helpless and a man is going to do as he pleases to your body. I get a little wet just thinking about it.

This particular Saturday afternoon my husband had me fastened to the bed. I was lying there, spreadeagled. The handcuffs he'd used to fasten me to the bed may have been pink and fluffy but they did the job. They were a good quality and I wouldn't be able to get loose until they were actually undone.

To stop any protests I may have wanted to make I was wearing a bondage gag and I had on this really weird latex costume. The costume wouldn't even have raised eyebrows at a nightclub if it hadn't been for a couple of strategically placed holes. You guessed it. Totally crotchless and a space for my breasts to be nicely displayed. All the goodies were on display.

On the bedside table there was an array of little help me toys. A vibrator or two. Different sizes. A small feathery whip which made me a little nervous. A bowl of ice-cubes and if he put any of them in the wrong place I'll swear I'd find a way to bite him. The cream and champagne were interesting additions. I just hoped he had a straw so I could sample the champagne past the gag.

Now James was sitting on the bed next to me, just idly toying with my nipples before getting on to some serious work, when the accident happened.

There was a very loud crashing sound, the lights went out, and I'll swear the actual building shook. Remember, we were on the fifth floor, so for us to even hear the crash it had to be really loud. James went over to the window and stuck his head out.

"Fucking hell," he roared. "There's a bloody truck embedded in the front of the building. Don't go away. I'm just going to go and see what happened."

Frigging gag. I'm trying to say don't go leaving me like this, you fool, but all I can do is wheeze a little. James goes charging out into the hallway, leaving the door open and I could hear him cursing the lack of a lift. (No power, remember.) Then I heard the fire escape door bang and knew he was running down the stairs.

So what do I do? I just lie there, thinking evil thoughts. When it becomes my turn to tie James down I was going to go shopping for new shoes while he waits for me. Bastard.

So I wait. And wait some more. There's a small clock on the bedside table and I kept looking at it and wishing that James would just get back.

After about ten minutes I'm staring up at the ceiling when I hear a laugh. My head swivels to the bedroom door and there's a stranger standing there, checking me over. From the look on his face he approved of what he saw. That doesn't mean I approved of his checking me out.

"Hi," he says. "You can call me Peter. On second thoughts, I guess you can't with that gag, can you. Nice outfit."

I'm looking daggers at him, not that it seemed to make much impression.

"You're probably wondering what happened. It's quite simple. A cement truck skidded and ploughed through the front of your building. It's made a bit of a mess down there. The owner is running around in small circles trying to get everything sorted out. He should be finished in an hour or so."

An hour? I was going to be stuck here for an hour? I grunted and turned my head to look at the side table, hoping the man would have the nous to spot the keys and unlock me.

No such luck. He just went right on chatting and looking me over.

"I was asked to run up the stairs and check each flat to ensure no-one was hurt. There doesn't appear to be. You're not hurt are you? Well I guess you wouldn't be, being lying down on a nice bed when it happened."

I grunted again and jerked my head towards the table again and finally he seemed to get the message. He grinned, nodded, and wandered over to the table. And then instead of picking up the keys and unlocking the cuffs he picked up an ice-cube and started rubbing it across my nipples.

Bloody hell it was cold. My nipples peaked and I was bucking and squealing, not that you could hear much. I was so going to put a gag on James and fasten it on with a padlock and lose the key.

It must have been obvious that I was unhappy about the situation from the way I was wriggling around and trying to yell past the gag. Even Peter picked up on it.

"Ice-cubes not your thing?" he asked. "OK. We'll try something else."

The son-of-a-bitch picked up a vibrator and turned it on. Then he reached down, clamped a hand on my pussy, parted my lips and slipped the vibrator into me. Not just an inch or so, but right in.

Then he stood up, and did what James had done.

He said "Don't go away," and walked out the door, while that blasted vibrator was shivering itself to death up my passage. I heard the fire-escape door bang and thought he'd left, leaving me with that vibrator going.

Then he was back.

"OK," he said. "I've jammed the fire escape door so we won't be interrupted for a while. Now let's get down to business."

Thankfully, the first thing he did was get rid of that damn vibrator. But then he picked up another ice-cube and started rubbing it on me. Those things are cold, especially when pressed against sensitive flesh. I bucked and made little oomph sounds around the gag, but Peter was having fun and there was nothing I could do to stop him.

Tiring of the ice-cubes (he said they were chilling his fingers, poor man) Peter picked up the feathery whip and promptly showed me that James had been using it wrong. It turns out that properly used that whip can generate unbearably ticklish itchy feelings on a woman's flesh. If my hands had been free I'd have been frantically rubbing them over my breasts and groin, trying to stop the itching. (After, that is, I snatched that whip off him and jammed it up his arse. The bastard was laughing at me.)

"Would you like me to rub it?" he asked and I was promptly nodding my head. I didn't care he was a stranger. I just wanted that itchy tickling feeling to stop.

It stopped all right. You can guess what it felt like have male hands rubbing my breasts and mound, relieving the itch. Leaving an itch of a different sort in their wake. And he knew it.

For the next ten minutes he tormented me like that. I'd be driven frantic by that feathery whip to the point where I welcomed his hands massaging me. Then I'd have excitement building in me because a man was rubbing my breasts and pussy. And then he'd start it all over again. He was going to drive me insane.

When Peter finally put down the whip I was almost melting onto the bed. I was burning with need. And there was nothing I could do about it. I couldn't even pleasure myself. Stupidly, I thought I'd have to wait until James returned, and then I saw Peter was undoing his trousers.

It was very evident that Peter also had a burning need. Quite frankly, it looked to be the largest need I'd ever seen. And I was helpless before it. I mean, what could I do? I couldn't even say no. Even if he took the gag off I'd be struggling to say no, the way I was feeling.

As it was, all I could do was watch as he knelt between my thighs and lined his cock up with my slit. I'd like to say I tried to pull away from his invasion of his body but I don't think I did. I'm pretty sure that when he drove down into me I bucked up to meet him with all my strength.

Peter started hammering my poor pussy, and my poor pussy rejoiced and absolutely hurled itself up to meet him. I wouldn't have been surprised if the handcuffs or bedframe had snapped the way I jerked up against Peter. My arms and legs instinctively rose to curl around him and hold him, only to find themselves pinned to the bed.

Not that this discouraged Peter at all. He was banging away for dear life, knowing I was meeting him, and that there was nothing I could do about his absolute domination of my body.

I climaxed in what seemed like mere moments after he possessed me, but this didn't slow Peter down. He made no allowances for what I was going through and just kept pounding away, sweeping past my climax and pointing me firmly in the direction of a second one.

I'm quite sure Peter was completely indifferent to what I was feeling, and I put it down to dumb luck that he held off his own climax until my second one was right to explode. When he was ready he started to bang me so hard I half suspected that he was trying to drill a hole right through me, and I felt that he wouldn't be releasing his seed but firing it shotgun fashion into me. It felt like that when he finally let go, hot lava splashing into me and knocking me over the edge to my second climax.

When I surfaced again after that little episode I found Peter was pulling up his pants. He must have seen me stirring because he turned to me.

"You want to be let loose?" he asked and I nodded.

"Thought you might," he said, and reached for the handcuff key.

He undid one cuff, dropped the key on the bed and left, giving me a friendly wave as he left.

I had to grope around on the bed to find the key and then wriggle around to undo my other arm. After that, my feet didn't take long and that damn gag went out the window.

As far as I was concerned any more experiments with bondage would be with my husband tied up and me with a dominatrix costume and a very nasty whip.