© Copyright 2018 - AmyAmy - All rights are retained by the author. This work may not be reproduced for profit or without this attribution.
Storycodes: Solo-F; M/f; strip; kitchen; bench; sex; climax; offer; play; latex; catsuit; hood; boots; gloves; corset; hobble; desire; cons; X
Synopsis: Maeve Craine is a junior detective, involved in an affair with D.I. Paul Ridley. She goes to his house to break it off, but a hot and heavy rubber bondage session ensues instead.
Maeve stepped down from the bus, careful not to let her short skirt ride up and give the driver a view he didn’t deserve. She started walking.
After five minutes, she was drenched with sweat. It was still morning, but the heat was already intense. She silently cursed this freak heatwave. Since when were English summers like this? The sweat trickled down, getting in her eyes. She wiped it away, with her wrist, just as sweaty itself. She’d pushed the fringe of her short-bob of red hair back from her eyes with an elastic headband, and it was soaked too. Her loose white blouse, with its little cap-sleeves ought to have been cool, but walking was overheating her. Everything was sticky. She should have taken it slower.
In weather like this, she could almost make a case for a parasol. A little shade would have made taking a gentle stroll quite pleasant. She smiled to herself, despite the growing headache. She wasn’t the My Fair Lady type. She was walking at a fair pace, even if she had to pull her skirt down every other three steps because it was too short, she could still move quickly despite her heels. They were a good fit, and that made all the difference.
When she finally arrived at Paul’s house, she was nursing a pounding headache, and irritated, spoiling for a fight. That was fine. She’d come here to finish with him, once and for all. She’d tell him, face to face, that this was the end. She tugged the skirt down again, suddenly felt foolish.
I’m an idiot. Why did I dress up for him?
She’d put on this skirt, and the heels, and her best summer top. She was still trying to please him, almost as much as she was trying to let go. Wasn’t she smarter than this?
She didn’t bother with the front door, took the route around to the back, where a high wall provided his tiny yard with privacy. She clicked the latch of the wooden gate, freshly painted bright red, and it opened. It ought to be bolted from the inside, but as usual he’d left it open for her, or any burglars that wanted to swing by. She closed it quietly behind her and slid the bolt into place. It would be awkward beyond belief if somebody else wandered in, unannounced, while she was here, especially dressed as she was, or more likely, in some other outfit, that would be even harder to explain away.
No. I’m not going to do any of that this time. I’ll just get it over with and leave.
At the far end of the yard was an area with multi-colored paving stones. The patio had a little table, with a sun-shade and garden chairs. The table was covered in empty wine bottles, still not cleared away from last weekend.
The French-doors to the patio were propped wide open, and she’d let herself into the kitchen without needing to use her key.
There was no sign of him inside. It was only marginally cooler in the shade, and despite the open doors, the room was still impossibly stuffy.
“Paul?” she called out. “It’s me, Maeve.”
“Hello Maeve,” the voice unexpectedly loud and close, from out of nowhere.
She jumped in shock, unable to stop herself. Even though she knew who it was, the action somehow played out after a delay, as if her body was determined to be surprised even though her mind had told it there was no threat.
He laughed. “Sorry. Did I startle you?” He was lying on the sofa, only a couple of feet away, but it was so dark inside compared to out that she had missed him resting there, motionless. He was naked apart from a pair of boxer-shorts.
She dropped her bag just inside the door. “Paul. We need to talk.”
“Do we? Can’t it wait? All I do, all week, is talk, talk, bloody talk.” He gestured to his shorts, which were tenting upwards, pushed by his rising erection. “I thought we were better than that.”
She closed her eyes. “That isn’t why I’m here.”
He stood up, moved closer. “Why else would you come here? It’s not like I’m great company otherwise, is it?” He chuckled to himself. “There’s a half-decent Pouilly in the fridge if you can’t stomach me without the benefit of alcohol.”
She turned away from him, looking out into the glaring brightness reflecting from the concrete paving stones. The only greenery was the plants overhanging from next door. Paul Ridley was not much of a gardener, and only had a little bit of lawn beyond the pavers. It had dried up in the heat, ages ago.
It had been her birthday a week earlier, twenty-two, and they’d had a barbecue here. Just the two of them. It had reminded her of the age gap, and that had been nagging at her since. Not as if she had ever been able to completely ignore it. But she’d get a couple of glasses inside her and her dirty side would come out, and then the age difference made it all the more exciting. She’d be all over him, trying to get him into any hole she could.
He must think she was an idiot, and maybe she was around him. What did he see in her anyway? Was it just that she was young, available, and suitably enthusiastic?
Willing to try anything?
Was she though? Or were they starting to bump up against her limits? Or his?
Limits? They were the least of it. This thing between them was headed for catastrophe. With the seniority difference between them, a public relationship between them would be frowned upon. Hiding it, as they had done, was a more serious breach of ethics altogether. If he wouldn’t do the decent thing and do it himself, she had to end it, before it ended them… While it could still be covered up.
It wasn’t as if he was really committed. She’d figured out that he’d dropped somebody else to move on to her, and she was probably just the latest in a series of young and naïve women he’d dragged into his orbit. She had a suspicion that the evidence clerk Patty was her predecessor, and worse, that Patty might have worked out who her successor was. If somebody was going to start troublesome rumors, it would be her.
He wrapped his arms around her from behind, one hand finding her breast. Breast? If she could call it that, she was flat as a board. His fingers found her nipple through the thin cotton, and she closed her eyes.
She’d been ashamed of her lack of breasts at school, when the other girls’ had all come in but she’d got nothing. Cut out of a crucial rite of passage and left behind, still a child when they were women. That was years ago, but she was still just as flat. Paul hadn’t minded. He’d been fascinated by her lack of flabby, flopping chest-flesh. At first it had alarmed her, afraid he might ask her to dress up in a school uniform, but he’d never done that. Thankfully, his kinks lay in other directions.
His other hand was on her belly, and he flexed his fingers against the muscles of her abdomen. It was like he’d started a volcanic eruption in there. White-hot passion flowed out from her belly, setting her crotch alight and inflaming a burning need in her nipples. That feeling of giving in to desire, of abandoning all self-restraint, it was what he had over her. He was the only one who could make her let go. Even the times he tied her up, he always gave her freedom.
She reached over her shoulder and buried her hand in his hair, wrenching it, and pulling his head into the curve where her neck met her shoulder. He growled and then nibbled her collarbone playfully.
His hand slid from her belly and hitched up the far-too-short skirt that barely covered her underwear. She’d worn it because the weather was hot… No, that was a lie that she’s already owned up to. It was because she wanted him to want her, and she had planned to goad him, to make him aware of what he’d be losing. Which made no sense, because she wanted to make it easy for him, painless.
She felt a pang of regret, recalling how he’d said it showed her firm bum-cheeks to good effect. Laughing, they’d both agreed they were her best feature. Even now, she wanted him to want her. Even now, when it was the worst thing she could want.
He leaned back, lifting her, one hand on her bits, the other on her nipple. All her weight was on her crotch, on his hand. His thumb was pressing through the gusset of her soaking-wet knickers.
She pretended to struggle, uselessly, then twisted her head to kiss him. His lips were hot, firm, his breath smelling slightly stale, an echo of coffee consumed before she arrived. It would have been better if he’d concealed that odor under a mint, or maybe not, maybe the dirtiness of it was turning her on.
He tipped her forward, spreading her over the breakfast bar, her bum in the air, and pulled her knickers down. She helped him, kicking them away. They landed, somewhere, it didn’t matter where, lost for all she cared. Arching her back, she looked back over her shoulder as he slipped his erection out of the slit in his boxers and into her dripping hot wetness. He grabbed a fistful of her hair and pulled her head back, forcing her gaze forward. The headband fell forwards, and she pulled it off and dropped it on the counter, a few red hairs still attached. When she was wound up so tight, ready to go, his hair-pulling didn’t hurt at all, it even felt good, until afterwards. He slammed into her, awkwardly the first time, then again, only settling into his rhythm after a couple of false starts.
It was usual for him to go for ages, today he was particularly persistent, pounding into her relentlessly, showing no signs of tiring. She was all anticipation of the coming orgasm. With each thrust inward, little shocks tingled through her insides, spreading through her like slow release lightning. With each pull back there was the aching emptiness, and the anxiety that he might withdraw entirely and stop, leaving her wanting more. She couldn’t beg for it, not this time. Sometimes he withdrew, but only to thrust back in. Easily. She was so wet that she was lying in a puddle of her own juice. It was spreading across the cool stone of the breakfast bar, making her thighs and belly slippery, ruining her skirt, staining her blouse, marking her with the truth of her own desire.
His hand pushed inside her blouse, popping off a button, and then his fingers were on her breast, rough on her nipple, then the other nipple, pinching and kneading, hard. The sudden sharp pain was exactly what she needed.
She orgasmed, shuddering, almost silent, not screaming, though there was a part of her that wanted to, but the neighbors did not like that sort of thing. She had to work at letting herself go enough to scream like that. The slightest self-conscious thought made it impossible. She’d never made a sound during sex with anyone but him.
At first, he’d freed her voice. Later, after the complaints, he’d joked that he’d have to gag her if she couldn’t keep quiet. He’d actually done it a few times, but later during her turns in charge, it had been impractical. After that, he’d seemed to forget about it. Self-conscious again, she found herself unable to scream after that.
He pulled out. Sticky white goo sprayed from his penis and spattered over her back. It was hot, but it cooled quickly. His secretions and hers would form a smelly crust if she let them dry.
Slowly, over minutes, she floated back to reality as the orgasm faded in little convulsions. Her sex ached, and she was soaking wet with sweat, her own natural lubricant, and ejaculate. Her clothes were a mess. She felt wonderful, satisfied, but paradoxically, wanting more, and her headache was gone, even if her scalp was sore. It would soon fade.
She’d planned to say her piece right away, but that plan was a bust. Now she’d started she might as well keep on, spend the night, have one final big fling. A proper send off, whatever he wanted as a parting gift. Then she could have her talk in the cool hours just before dawn, or just after, when everything was as pale and exhausted as her affection for him. Maybe that was the best time after all?
He sat down on the sofa and cleaned his cock with a paper-towel. She wouldn’t have minded sucking it clean for him, but he never asked for anything like that. Instead, she lay motionless and silent, on the breakfast bar, in the pool of crusting sex-juice.
At last, Maeve’s brain re-engaged, and she was able to speak. “I need to wash my clothes.”
Paul was watching her from the corner of his eye. “No problem. I’ll get the wine. You want a bath robe?”
“No. Don’t think you’re off the hook yet,” she said. “Get the rubber out and get your suit on.”
“And the lube? You look wet enough already.” He laughed.
She laughed with him, but it felt dishonest. “I’ll shower first. Put out whatever you want me to wear. Anything. Make it something special. Your creepiest little fantasy.”
He laughed, low and quiet. “You know how to make a fellow feel appreciated.”
She didn’t answer. She hadn’t intended any of this. She’d come here to finish with him, but this was as good a way as any to do that. They’d always been about the sex. There would be no reason for hard feelings afterwards, if she gave her all.
The glasses clinked as he pulled them from the dishwasher.
A couple of drinks would make dress-up more fun, and besides, she needed time for her ordinary clothes to dry.
She turned on the shower taps, stepped out of her shoes and walked into the stream of cold water, still wearing her blouse and mini-skirt.
“If you’re in the mood for something new, I was thinking it’s too hot for rubber. How about an I Dream of Genie kind of thing? To match the weather?” Paul’s voice carried from the bedroom.
She pulled up her wet blouse. It stuck to her skin, and she struggled to undo the buttons. She peeled off the skirt and dropped the heavy mess of her clothes onto the shower floor between her feet. The cool water poured over her hair under for a minute, and his words flowed through her, even if the water didn’t. When her teeth started to chatter, she stepped out.
Shivering uncontrollably, naked and dripping, she wrapped a towel around her head and stood for a minute, waiting to warm up.
“Like that old show? Are you sure? I’ve never even seen it. Before my time Paul. Come on, do a real fantasy, something unforgettable,” she called out, though the open bathroom doorway.
He replied, but she couldn’t make out his words. He was probably in the bedroom, getting stuff from the special chest of drawers. Had he even heard her?
She walked through the living room and into the bedroom. “I said-”
He closed the drawer he’d been staring into before she could see into it. “I heard you perfectly. Hardcore eh? You’re in that sort of mood. I should have guessed. I could see the mean streak in your eye the moment you walked in.”
She pulled at the drawer, trying to open it, but he held it closed, stopping her investigation.
“It’s your fantasy,” she said. “All you this weekend. Whatever you want. If it’s harem pants and a little hat, so be it.”
“No. You’ve given me license, your unconditional consent. You’re not taking it back are you? Obviously, you can, it was a fairly silly thing to say.”
“When I said you can do anything, I meant it. I don’t do take backs.”
“Dammit, you’re challenging my imagination with that. Really putting me on the spot.”
“I didn’t mean it that way. I just want you to feel free for once. I want to even the account.”
He made a face like something bitter had ruined his tea. “This is starting to sound a little like bullshit. I thought we were honest with each other, no lying with words? Only honest gestures?”
Still naked apart from the towel around her head, dripping from the shower, she pressed her chilly body against his. He was hot, sweaty, still sticky from the sex. She pulled his hand down and pressed it between her legs. “Is this honest enough for you?”
“Perfectly candid,” he said.
Maeve pushed back against his hand probing her crotch, forcing herself against his fingers.
Paul pulled his hand away, put his finger-tips to his lips, tasting her juice. “A plum? Or a fig? No. No, I think you’re more of a fish sauce.”
“You’re disgusting,” she said. “And mean. I do not smell of fish.”
“I thought you were going to say dirty old man.” He chuckled, and pulled open one of the drawers, not the one he’d been about to open before, and began throwing out rubber items in quick succession. She knew that drawer well, as she had washed, dried, and rubbed talc over most of the items in it, but he frequently added new purchases, less frequently disposed of old ones.
Each item he tossed in her general direction landed on the bed, sometimes with a flop, sometimes with a clatter. There was already a preponderance of heavy black rubber, several millimeters thick, very tight and constricting. In the heat, it would quickly drain her strength and push her endurance.
“This first, I think.” He threw a scrunched-up bundle of delicate, natural colored latex at her.
Maeve closed her eyes and let the crumpled rubber garment hit her in the face, dusty with talc. She sighed quietly, shook her head.
Paul smiled back. “I know. I act like a child.”
She picked up the rubber and spread out it on the bed, sat down nearby and began to dry herself properly. He continued to rummage through the drawers.
She reached a point where she was sweating more than she was getting dry, and stopped trying to towel herself. She picked up the rubber garment and held it up to the light. “It would be better if we had liquid lube.” She pressed her nose into it and sniffed, taking in the chocolate scent of high-grade latex.
He was still rummaging through the drawers, looking in a different one now. He glanced over his shoulder. “Sorry. You used the last of it, and the new order hasn’t arrived yet. We still have this.” He threw a large container of fragrance-free talc in her direction, hard, as if trying to make her duck.
It made a satisfying loud hollow noise when she caught it one handed. “Thanks.”
She filled her hands with talc and spread it liberally over her legs, hips, and bottom. She looked to see if he was watching before rubbing it around her crotch, but he wasn’t, he was still searching through the drawers for something.
She stepped into the delicate rubber suit, and edged it up her legs, careful not to put too much stress on it with her fingertips. If she was careless a fingernail would rip through the thin rubber. It was a color usually described online as ‘natural’. Light yellow, tending to honey where layers overlapped.
Having eased it up her legs, she pulled it up over her broad hips and settled it in place. It was fully crotchless, beaded around the edge of the crotch-opening to stop it tearing. She filled her hands with talc again, and rubbed it over her arms, then her chest. Where it stuck to her skin, it looked almost transparent brown, but where the sweat was trapped beneath it, it was almost opaque yellow.
She slid her arms into the sleeves. It was awkward as she needed to do both arms at once. The top of the suit was tight, and would be put under a lot of stress if she did one arm at a time. It went more easily than usual, either due to practice, or an excess of talc.
Paul was still searching the drawers.
She leaned in over his shoulder. “If you tell me what you’re looking for, I might be able to help.”
He waved her off. “Don’t worry about that, just get yourself ready.”
“Who’s going to be on top?”
He threw another item onto the bed. “It’s not going to be that kind of game, but you can choose one way or the other if you prefer. You’ll see what I mean later.”
“It’s boring being on top. You don’t have to do it unless you want to,” she said.
He didn’t respond, even though he was watching her now, completely finished with the drawers.
“Well?” she said.
“Let me help you,” he said. His penis was already mostly hard, sticking out at an angle, like the spout of a teapot, not quite aroused enough to be fully erect.
She was tempted to grab it. If it had been at the right height, she might have taken hold of it and put it in her mouth.
He began smoothing out the rubber for her, his grip firm and warm. She hadn’t got into the first suit yet, and she was already sweating floods. She hadn’t been able to get properly dry in the first place. As soon as she’d removed the cold shower water, she’d started to perspire from the oppressive heat, and even the partial rubber enclosure was making it worse. It wasn’t noon yet. How hot was it going to get today?
She let him settle the suit over her chest before reaching inside and aligning her breasts so her nipples peeked out of the holes positioned to reveal them. The openings were about two inches across, the edges thickly beaded for strength. They were plenty big enough to expose each nipple and aureole to whatever attention her partner desired to give them. His mouth was always the best, but clamps or pegs were better than nothing.
She pulled the hood over her head, front to back. It was the open-face kind, and easy to get into place. She reached under it and smoothed her hair. It had been longer when she met him, but now she kept it bobbed short enough to be comfortable under a hood. Even shorter would be more convenient, but there were limits. Besides, rubber was only one of their pastimes, and not worth shaving her head over.
“Zip me up,” she said, and turned her back to him.
He eased the zipper up, and the suit tightened satisfyingly over her hips, squeezed her waist, gripped her chest, and then pinched awkwardly around her shoulders. He paused and repositioned the problem area, and then zipped up to the back of the hood, stopping at the base of her skull. The rubber gripped her jaw and her forehead, a little looser at the back of the neck. The zip didn’t stretch, and if it were tight it would have compelled her to stick her chin in the air all the time. There were other toys for that job.
She adjusted the suit around her chest and shoulders again, making sure her nipples were still aligned with the openings in the suit, and ensured that creases were minimized. Sweat was making rivulets inside, streaming down in some places, trapped and collecting in others. She stood up and her feet squelched. There was a drain hole on each sole of the rubber foot, between her toes, but the sweat took its time working its way out of them. What did emerge was more like gray ooze, the fluid mixed with talc.
The suit had fitted feet, but no hands. Gloves were prone to rip on a thin suit like this, and Paul had probably ordered it gloveless out of regard for economy. It also meant he didn’t have to measure the sleeves as accurately as he might, so it was a practical arrangement. Perhaps it would have made sense for the hood to be separate too, but it did look pretty all-in-one. It was open around the crotch area, for easy access, and she adjusted it there too, making sure she was neatly exposed, and not all lopsided.
He stood back, admiring the effect. “That’s the hard part over.” The most obvious effect was the gradual raising of his penis to near vertical.
Maeve inspected herself in the bedroom mirror. “What do you mean?”
“It’s always easier to slide rubber over rubber, it only sticks to skin.”
“Obviously. But I wondered why you got all that heavy stuff out. It’s not all for me is it?”
“No. Of course not. If you put on all those layers you’d be like the Michelin man, not really sexy. Well… Maybe you could pull it off. Shall we try?”
“I don’t think so,” she said in a voice intended to cut off that possibility.
“You said you would do whatever I wanted.”
“I didn’t mean I wouldn’t try. I just don’t think I could… You know… Carry it off?” She hesitated, then added. “But I’ll give it a go if you want.”
He laughed. “No, no, obviously, my suits don’t fit you, and vice versa. I couldn’t put all that on you anyway. Or if I did, half of it would be hanging off you like a tent.”
“I know that,” she said. “I knew you were joking.” She gave a sigh. “Honestly.”
“I did say obviously.”
She clapped her hands sharply, twice. “Come on. What’s next?”
“Here.” He handed her the heavy black suit. She’d worn this one a lot, but usually by itself, and not over another. It tended to pinch her upper arms.
She rubbed talc over her rubber-clad legs and slid her feet into the tight suit. It slipped on with surprising ease. Paul had been right. It was still cool to the touch as it slid up around her thighs. Like the other suit, there was a generous opening at the crotch area, and like the other suit there was a back zip that started at the top of the reinforced crotch-hole. Also, like the other suit, it had cut-outs for her nipples.
“Before you put your arms in, put these on first,” he said, handing her a pair of black rubber opera gloves. The gloves were a tight fit, even for her slender fingers, but with the other suit already in place, they slid easily up her arms, and only the fingers were difficult. She smoothed and stretched them until they came to just under her armpits.
When she slid herself into the top part of the thicker suit, the sleeves went over her gloves, making them impossible to take off without first removing the outer suit. She went through the dance of repositioning her breasts, him zipping up the back, and repeating the process until the zip-tag clicked into its recess in the back of the high neck. It was a simple collar. This suit had no hood, no feet, and no gloves, but was quite restrictive enough without them.
With the zip closed, the heavy suit gripped her tight all over her body, compressing her muscles, like an all-over pressure bandage, creating the odd sensation of being held up by springs, gently resisting any attempt to bend her arms or legs. It wasn’t a strong pressure, but it would be fatiguing to fight against it for long.
“Stand up and I’ll help you,” he said.
She did as he asked, her arms and legs already tingling as the pressure made it harder for the blood to get into them.
He wrapped a heavy rubber corset around her waist and clipped it closed at the front. The laces were at the back, and she sucked on her lower lip as he began to tighten them, pulling in long smooth strokes. It always amazed her how much he could tighten it before it became uncomfortable. She could see her waist shrinking in the mirror until it reached the proportions of a fashion model.
“Amazing,” he said. Ironically, he was the one who sounded breathless.
She giggled, flattered. “I do look good in this corset, but I don’t think it would be practical for work.” She smiled at herself in the mirror. Her face was squished by the hood, despite the open face. Her lower lip was red from sucking on it. The rubber was making her hot in more ways than one.
“Not really official uniform either.”
She turned to face him, put her hands on her hips. “In a few weeks, I’ll be a detective, and out of uniform.”
“They’ll try and pressure you to wear a skirt. Don’t let them. Stick with a trouser-suit, even though they’ll probably give you hassle for it, it’s in the dress code so they have to allow it. Sadly, corsets are not in the code, though if nobody could tell...”
“How small do you think my waist is now?”
“We can measure if you like, but it might be more than you’d expect, what with the suits and the corset on top of it.”
“Still less than twenty-two though?”
“Probably under twenty. The corset won’t go any smaller. It’s hit its limit.”
“So I’m shrinking? Compared to last time I wore it?”
“Or its stretched, or a bit of both.”
“I guess it is what it is. Are we done yet?”
“Far from it. Sit down and I’ll put your boots on for you.”
“Boots?” Her question came sounding out more urgent and curious than she’d intended.
“Kinky heels. These boots are not made for walking baby.” He grinned as she showed one to her.
The boot was a new one, thigh-high at least, glossy black, made of rubber as thick and heavy as the corset, with laces, hooks, and buckles. It had a dramatic two-inch platform, and the erotically curved stiletto heel was around seven inches tall. Enormous. Paul was right, they definitely weren’t ideal for walking. While not as absurd as the leather ballet shoes he’d shown her online, they were easily as tall.
She sat on the bed, leaning back, supporting herself with her elbows. “Begin your work, boot boy.”
He shook his head and slid the first boot on.
It wrapped around her leg, almost reaching her crotch. It overlapped an inner shield strip, and then laced up with a hook system at the side. He quickly worked the laces through the hooks, keeping them tight. As it closed around her knee, it became clear it would be troublesome to bend her leg. She’d thought the suit was restrictive, but this was much stiffer.
She looked down at the foot part of the boot. It fit her tightly, squeezing her toes. Her feet were forced into an extreme position, not en-pointe, but she would still be perched only on her toes, with the balls of her feet on the slope of the sole.
With both boots laced tight, he did up the buckles around the ankle, above the curve of her calves, just above the knee, and at the top. Without warning, he slipped small padlocks through the closures at the ankle.
“Oh,” she said.
“Is that alright?”
“You don’t need to ask my opinion. Didn’t I say you had free reign? It’s perfectly fine. Very sexy. I was just surprised.”
He slapped her thigh. “Surprised? Are you sure you don’t mean excited?”
She could barely feel the slap through the layers of rubber. In reply, she put on ditzy, worried voice. “Oh dear. Now I can’t take them off, even if I want to.”
Paul laughed quietly, and clipped a double-ended spring snap between the padlocks, hobbling her ankles a loosely fixed five-inches apart. “And now you won’t be running off anywhere.”
She didn’t need to answer, as he clearly had a point.
The excitement of being locked in the hobbled boots was making her more breathless than the corset. She felt like she was about to flood down below, and glanced at her exposed crotch, expecting to see fluid dripping from it, but there wasn’t anything visible.
Restrained by the boots and the short hobble clip, she would have to move with caution, and might not even be able to stand up or sit down without help. She wouldn’t know for sure until she tried. The boots, and the simple clip at the ankles, so easily removed if she could reach it, had practically immobilized her. For now, she could remove the clip whenever she felt like it, but that option would probably be taken away from her soon enough, and the boots were locked in place.
The rising sensation of helplessness and vulnerability were making her lusciously aware of how serious a commitment she’d made. Paul was scrupulous when it came to consent, but she’d made it plain to him again and again that today was no-limits. She was well past the point of being able to defend herself physically if she decided to back out against his will. They had never bothered with things like safe-words, though they should probably know better.
Not that a struggle was remotely likely. She could imagine it though. She had the use of her hands, but before she could get her feet unclipped, to stand, or run, it would be trivial for him to overpower and cuff her. If he wanted… Once cuffed, it would be a simple matter for him to add more restraints.
There was no way she would go back on her word, and he was more likely to back out than her. If he only asked, she would stubbornly hold her wrists out to be chained, and that was that. Having got this far, she might be disappointed if he didn’t chain them.
He gave her a look that made her think he could read her mind, a dirty, undressing-with-his-eyes smirk. It was a look she saw on men at work all the time, but it was less welcome there. This was one situation where she had chosen to make herself into a decoration to please a man. She wanted this attention, could revel in it, indulging all the fantasies that normally had to be shut away. Out in the real world, she always had to be on her guard.
To have that role of sex-ornament forced on her could be frightening, or demeaning, was at best insulting. In the real world, being ogled by men she neither knew nor liked was always horrible, and carried real danger. She wasn’t a person to them, only a thing that existed for their entertainment. Mindless, unworthy of respect. And as she was just an object, they didn’t need to ask permission to stare.
The lurking worry was always that if they felt entitled to one thing, what else might they feel entitled to? She had a sneaking suspicion that Elaine, who’d quit the course two months ago, had found out the answer to that question through direct experience, and had not liked the answer.
Paul, on the other hand, had never applied pressure, and had asked for permission, and had been given it, in a clear and unambiguous manner. Besides, he was naked apart from his boxer shorts, and his erect penis was sticking out of those in a very delicious fashion. She wanted to take hold of it, but shouldn’t she first ask permission to use him for her entertainment?
She caught herself staring at his penis, and turned her gaze to her own exposed crotch. “Are you going to help me up? Or is there more?” she said.
He laughed. “There’s more.”
She pursed her lips, unsure if he was trying to sound sinister on purpose. “Oh.”
“You’ve said I can do anything, I don’t know how many times already. At least three. But you didn’t say how long I can do it for?” He leaned in close to her ear and whispered. “Is there a time limit? Or does this end when I say it does?”
She looked past his head, at the wall beyond. “You have to be at work Monday, right?”
“It’s summer. I have this week booked off. Didn’t you know? I could probably even extend it, if I wanted.”
“But I have to be in.” Her voice had tightened. He couldn’t be serious though, it was just that she was instinctively touchy about missing work. He was definitely joking, and it rankled that he’d caught her out, made her bite.
He rubbed her exposed nipple, quite casually. “I could probably talk to someone. You wouldn’t be missed. What do you say? For as long as I want?”
“I said… And I’m not going to try and weasel out of it. So, sure. However long you want. It’s up to you. I’ll do…” Her breath caught. “Anything.” She took some deep breaths. “For as long as you want, Paul.”
It wasn’t like she didn’t see the possibility that he could twist her words so that he never had to let her go. She made it fill her head, pretending it was a real thing, that he’s keep her forever as his rubber toy. Of course, in reality, it would soon become boring for both of them. She pushed the sensible thoughts away, no need to let practicality spoil all the fun.
This game had no end date. The thought of it made her even wetter.
story continued in part two