Bedtime Bondage Story

Some girls grow up wanting to be Vivian Leigh in “Gone With
The Wind,” gliding down an opulant staircase in an exquisite
evening gown. My fantasy aspirations came from a different era of
film. I wanted to be Samantha Eggar in “The Collector,” squirming
helplessly against my ropes with my captor is out of the room,
loving and dreading the thought of what he would do when he
returned.
That wasn’t my only fantasy, of course, but it was a powerful
one. I took a lot of pleasure from it laying in bed alone, rubbing
myself against the pillow between my legs, wishing for someone who
could push me to new and higher levers of sexual feeling.
But I had absorbed just enough feminist philosphy from my
mother to feel guilty about such thoughts. I also had just enough
self-protective distrust of men to keep me from asking any of my
early sexual partners to oblige. So I went off to college with my
submissive feelings still unfocused, compartmented away from my
“real” life. They probably would have stayed there but for
Colleen.
Colleen was my senior roommate my only year at State: a dark-
haired athletic girl who looked like she might have been a swimmer
or a lacrosse player. Instead, she was a quiet sociology major and
the photographer for the campus’ alternative newspaper. The other
girls told ugly jokes about her, including cruel and hateful tales
of why four roomates had moved out on her in the last year.
I laughed politely, but secretly I hoped the gossip was true.
I found out on the last night of Indian sumemr. With no air-
conditioning in the dorm, the room was warm and I was hot. I
wanted to slip my hand between my legs and enjoy the world’s best
sleeping pill–but Colleen was awake, too, and to judge from her
breathing and the rustling of the sheets, as restless as I.
After nearly an hour of mutual sleeplessness, she got up and
opened a drawer at her dresser. I thought she would head down the
hall to the bathroom, giving me time to “scratch” my itch. But
instead she came and stood at the side of my bed.
“I’m going to massage you a little so you can relax,” she said
in her gentle voice. Without waiting for my reaction, she took my
foot and began to rub it skillfully, releasing tension I hadn’t
realized was there. Her hands were cool and soothing on my hot
skin. She worked her way slowly up my leg, kneading my calf in her
firm fingers, then the back of my thigh. I did nothing and said
nothing, just laid there and wondered how far she–this–would go.
Presently she moved to the other leg, beginning again at the
foot and carrying her knowing touch up towards the softest and
hottest spot, at the apex of my thighs. Her touch had inflamed my
already heated pussy, and I was certain she could smell my musk.
If so, she gave no sign. Skipping my bottom and hips, her
hands began to work the knots in my shoulders and back. My
sleeping shirt made that difficult. When she modestly pushed it up
to my armpits, I took over and removed it completely. In case that
hadn’t been a clear enough message, I told her “Don’t stop. That
feels wonderful.” The tremulous eagerness in my voice was real.
She stopped for a moment. “It can feel even better.”
“Show me,” I whispered.
“Turn on your back,” was her command.
I did, spreading my legs slightly. I lay nude before her
except for my skimpy and well-soaked panties. She spread my legs
still farther, then turned her attention again to my feet and
ankles. But there was something different this time — something
other than her fingers encircling my ankle. She tried to be both
quick and casual, afriad I would realize what she was doing and
stop her. I knew what she was doing. I wanted her to do it. I
wanted my legs tied open to the bedposts. It was a fantasy coming
to life.
When she was finished, she sat on the bed beside me and looked
deep into my eyes. She saw there what she wanted to — my
willingness, my desire. She bent forward to my breast and took a
nipple in her mouth. The sensation was electric. My nipple grew
hard under her tongue andlips. I moaned.
“Tie my hands, too,” I whispered.
She sat me up and tied my hands behind my back with a third
pair of nylons, then pushed me back down. My weight on my arms
made me feel suddenly powerless, and a surge of sexual feeling
charged through me.
Climbing on the bed at last, Colleen knelt by my head. “You’re
so pretty,” she said, stripping off her nightie and throwing it
aside. The light from the windows illuminated her small oval
breasts and flat stomach. I took her heady female scent deep into
my nostrils.
“Please,” I urged.
She reached out and caressed my breasts, toying with the erect
nipples. When she bent over to suck them, her own dangled above my
mouth, and I strained upward, eager to give back what she was
giving to me. But she kept her back arched and her breasts out of
reach, and the frustration I felt only fired my own passion.
“Please,” I said, more urgently.
Colleen crawled on all fours toward the foot of the bed,
bringing my head between her thighs. Sitting up, she stroked my
belly and breasts with one hand. With the other, she at last
sought out my pussy, caressing my slit through the slick cloth of
my panties. I gasped and squirmed upward, thrusting my hips in a
quest for the touch that would release what she had built up
inside me.
But she took her hand away, and reached instead for her own
love slit, just a few inches above my face, Stroking herself, so
near to me, my senses overwhelmed and my body on edge, she
tortured me by giving herself what I so badly wanted. There was
nothing I could do but watch and listen and drink her in.
Colleen stopped short of her own orgasm and looked down at me.
“Fight against the ropes — it’s better that way,” she said, then
leaned forward and pulled the cloth of my panties aside. Her
tongue found my clitoris.
Her instructions were superfluous. If I could have closed my
legs or pushed her away I would have. The sensations were too
intense to bear. But all I could do was jerk and twist helplessly
at the bonds that held me, every muscle now rigid. She moved her
tongue in hard, fast circles, her pace finally matching the
urgency of my need. Without warning, she plunged three fingers
into my ready vagina, stretching me so as to intensify still more
the sensations her tongue was creating.
I arched my back and pushed myself up at her, and this time
she didn’t pull away. I was moaning meaningless grunts and noises,
and only the knots restrained my frantic movements. Finally she
reached under me and drive a well-lubricated finger deep into my
ass. AS she did, she sucked my clitoris like it was a nipple. I
came, the muscles of my vagina and sphincter squeezing tight on
her fingers. She slowed her tongue work but did not stop, and
another wave of killing pleasure coursed through me, less intense
but more delicious than the first.
I had never cried out when having an orgasm before, but I did
then, so loudly that Colleen stopped and, laughing, shushed me.
Undoing the knots, she turned and lay beside me.
“How did you know I would like it?” I whispered as she cuddled
me.
She answered, “Because I do,” and kissed me deeply before we
slept.
#
Colleen and I played our games all year, moving into our own
apartment at semester break for more privacy and freedom. She
continued to take more interest in tease-torturing me than in her
own pleasure, enjoying the sense of power that went with reducing
me to squirming and screaming. I came to crave the total loss of
control she forced on me, and encouraged her to push me even
farther. She was only too happy to oblige.
At the end of the year, Collen got her degree and headed west
for grad school. I dropped out — it’s hard to study when your
wrists are bound behind your back to your ankles.
In the next few years, I took right lovers, five male and
three female; moved five times to four different cities and towns;
and held six jobs (counting only those I stayed in a week or
more). If it seems that there was something missing from my life
in this stretch, it’s because there was.
I had discovered X-rated movies and a new idol: Terri Hall in
“The Story of Joanna,” forced to experience and ultimately enjoy a
bizarre sexual slavery. My fantasies of submission took a rougher
turn, and I even bought a riding crop in the hope that someone
would use it on my bottom. I brought it out one day when Linda was
visiting, and that ended that relationship. I suggested it one
night to Tom, who loved the idea but was too timid to actually
land a blow.
So I was left with masturbation and fantasy — until I
discovered the bondage contact magazines, and through them an
entire sexual underground. On the cover of the first such magazine
I saw, a striking bare-breasted woman in black corsolette and high
heels stared out at me as if she knew my secrets. She dangled a
pair of handcuffs from one finger as if inviting me to offer my
wrists.
I opened the magazine and skimmed its pages. There were dozens
of delicious sights among the advertisers’ photos: a young girl
about my age bend back over a chair, breasts thrust out for who
knew what treatment. A shapely older woman wearing black gloves
and nylons displayed her whip-marked ass. It was a whole new
world, strange and exciting. Unzipping my jeans, I slipped my
fingers inside my already damp panties, and began to stroke my
clit slowly as I read the ads and stared at the women.
In time, out of what can only be termed erotic desperation, I
wrote my own ad. I asked for a woman in hope of recapturing what
I’d enjoyed with Colleen. I asked for a couple in the hopes of
being carried further by her knowing touch and his reckless
strength.
Seeing the ad was a disturbing experience in itself. Above it
appeared my photo: standing in a forest, wearing nothing but a
choker, sandals, and a tan. The white bathing suit marks set off
my breasts and the triangle of my pubic hair.
I started to wonder about who else was looking at the photo,
that very minute, and what they were thinking. A shiver ran
through me — a shiver of fear and anticipation. What old friend
or lover might see it and wonder at the Katherine they never knew?
And what new friends were even then stirred by my picture and
sitting down to write me?
My mind’s eye filled with images from all my fantasies of
being bound and submissive, and I ran my slick fingertips in
faster and faster circles over my swollen clit. I sropped the
magazine to the floor as the sexual energy spread in waves
throughout my body, heat radiating from my flushed skin, my breath
fast and shallow. As the sensations rose to a familiar peak, I
reached under my blouse and squeezed the swollen nipple of my
right breast. Gasping, my body squirming against imaginary bonds,
I exploded in orgasm.
Closing my eyes, I savored the fading warmth, and thought
again of the nameless strangers looking at my body. They knew what
I was offering. The only question was, did I?
Letters started arriving within a few weeks, forwarded in big
brown envelopes by the publisher. Most were from single men. Many
sent pictures of themselves or their slaves. I read them all,
acknowledged most with regrets, corresponded with a few of the
more intriguing. The stories of their exotic experiences and their
plans for me recharged my fantasy machine and made for several
weeks of thoroughly satisfying masturbation.
But my real interest was in the rarer letters from women or
couples. I wrote excitied answered which brought phone numbers,
and offers to meet, even offers of plane tickets. Though I found
myself deferring or declining the offers, it was a tremendous
relief to no longer feel alone.
In time I realized that the only thing keeping me from the
sexual slavery I craved was my own fear, and that fear would never
go away until I took a chance. So one night, when my craving was
strong, I looked through my letters for one from Karen and Jim, a
professional couple in their thirties who lived in Illinois.
Their intelligence had reassured me, and their imagination had
inflamed me. They disdained theatrical titles such as Mistress and
Master, and spoke of making me a spirited, willful captive rather
than a broken, submissive slave. Before I could change my mind, I
called them.
“This is Katherine,” I said.
“Well, Katherine — are you ready to become our captive?”
Karen asked without preamble.
I said yes.
“You know that you’ll be punished for taking so long to answer
our letter.”
I said yes again.
“You realize that both of us will use and abuse you as we
wish, and there won’t be a thing you’ll be able to do about it.”
“That’s what I’ve been wanting now for four years,” I told
her.
“We’ll come to your home for our first encounter,” she said.
“Expect us Friday night. Be freshly bathed and wearing a nightie.
Unlock your door at eight. Do you understand?”
I said I did, and she hung up. Friday was six days away.
#
They were late. I had waited on the couch, erading a favorite
bondage novel, and my anticipation was turning to disappointment
when Karen entered the house. Eagerly, I stood up to greet her. A
few moments later she had taken me to the floor, handcuffed my
wrists and ankles, and filled my mouth with a penis-shaped gag.
“Little girls shouldn’t leave their doors unlocked,” she said,
picking up the book I;d been reading and clucking over its lurid
cover. Then Jim arrived, carrying two suitcases. He locked the
door behind him.
Karen went off to look the house over, and Jim came to crouch
beside me. “You’re a very beautiful woman, and we hope we can give
yu wahat you need,” he said softly. He pressed a small rubber ball
into my right hand. “If any time tonight you want us to stop or
slow down, just drop the ball, and we’ll do so immediately. We’re
going to make you feel very sepcial — but only so long as you’re
willing. Understand?”
I nodded, eyes wide with new emotions. If he had felt between
my legs he would have seen that there was no question about my
willingness.
“Basement,” karen said, returning. Seemingly without effort,
Jim hoisted me to his shoulder and carried me down the stairs.
Karen follwoed with the larger of the two suitcases. While Jim
installed three big hooks in the bare rafters, Karen sat beside me
and talked.
“Do you know why we’ve taken you captive?” she asked.
The right answer was no, and I shook my head.
“Because we like to take pretty little things like you and
make them do all the delicious dirty things they’re too proper to
do by themselves. We like to make them lick pussies and suck
cocks. We like to play with their tits and pussies and make them
beg for more. WE like to fuck their little cunts and assholes with
dildos. We like to whip their little bottoms until they’re all hot
and red. That’s why we took you captive. That’s what we’re going
to do to you.”
She found my nipple through my nightgown and pinched it
between her fingernails. “And you’re going to like it, too, before
we’re done.” She kept up the pressure, and I squrimed and moaned
into my gag. But I kept the ball firmly in my hand.
They worked as a team, to keep me off balance and in sexual
anguish. Unlike Colleen, they were careful to take their own
pleasure. I was bound kneeling over an ottoman, my ankles tied to
my thighs, my arms bound behind my back. Ken used them as a handle
as he moved behind me and drove his hard cock into me. His
strength and maleness overwhelmed me. I had never been taken so
savagely or so satisfyingly by a man before.
When he pumped his load deep up inside me, Karen presented her
pussy at my mouth. I licked her eagerly. She stopped me before she
came, and Ken brought her a two-headed dildo like I’d seen once in
a German porno magazine.
Taking Ken’s place behind me, she slid the ribber cock into my
unprotesting cunt, rotating her hips in a way that made me frantic
with lust. Then she pulled out, and before I knew what she was
doing, she pushed it deep inside my ass. Lubricated by Ken’s
fluids and my own, the intruder stretched me and possessed me.
Colleen drove herself against me with short bucking strokes until
she orgasmed.
A blindfold suddenly covered my eyes, and then I felt hands
untying the soft cotton cord that held my limbs. They tied ,e pm
tiptoes, hands stretched overhead. Four hands roamed my body: two
soft and knowing, two calloused and strong. The gag was removed,
and lips found mine — woman’s lips. Karen kissed me tenderly,
passionately. “I want to come,” I said when she pulled away.
“You will,” she said, and kissed me again. I suddenly realized
that Ken had moved away. Karen held me, turned me. I felt
something hard between my thighs, sliding up and down between the
swollen lips of my pussy. My clit welcomed the stimulation. Just a
little more —
Then it was gone, even as I realized what it was: the handle
of a whip. A moment later I jumped as what felt like a dozen bees
stung my buttocks. A moment later fire exploded across my back. I
was being whipped, for the first time after a thousand imaginings.
Karen kissed me hungrily, one hand roaming my breasts, the
other working skillfully between my legs, as Ken brough the whip
down on my exposed skin. I moaned into her kisses, pressed against
her soft skin. I danced to both her touch andt he whip’s, the ball
clenched firmly in my hand. I could have made them stop. I didn’t
want to.
When the orgasm came, my entire body blazed. For a long
moment, I hung weakly from my wrists, panting, my eyes clenched
shut behind the blindfold. Then as the unmatched and indescribable
moment passed, I let the ball drop at last.
Afterwards they both held me. They didn’t need to ask how it
had been for me. We all knew it had been sepcial.
“You’re a very sweet slave, Katherine,” said Karen after a
time, cradling my head against her breasts. “We’d like you to come
and live with us. But this isn’t the time to decide.” In the
morning they went back to Illinois, even though I begged them to
stay. But they left a plane ticket and a black leather collar on
the bed for me to use when I’m ready.
I think I’ll be ready soon.