Cuffed - Ch. 2, Chrome and Pizza

Laying in bed, she thought about the night. A smile crept over her features. Her shoulders ached a little, but she didn’t mind. It was like a reminder, it brought her back, made memories flash, images and sensations. What she’d done to get that ache.... soooo satisfying. She stretched her arms out into the air, waving them around unselfconsciously. There were red marks around her wrists. Not too bad, she stretched an arm out above her, looking up its length appraising, as if examining a bracelet or piece of jewelry.

The next day, she woke refreshed. There was no gradual transition at all. She simply woke, consciousness switching on like turning on a light. Her first thought was what she’d done the night before. She grinned.

Get up, shower, coffee, breakfast, get dressed up, go to work.

On the way out, she stopped at the door. There was an imprint of her butt on the door. It was barely visible, the light had to catch it just the right way. But yes, there it was, painted in sweat and skin oils, the smeared shape of her ass against the veneer of the door, from where she’d been fucked up against it. She knelt, staring at it, tracing it upwards with her fingers. There was her back. She remembered sweat running down the small of her back, the pull in her shoulders from the weight of her body on her wrists, his cock thrusting up inside her, the door shaking in its frame with each thrust. Yes, the shape of her ass and back, and right above, two smears that marked her shoulder blades.

She was entranced, a physical image of her fucking. She glanced at the floor below the door, but the carpet was clean. The leather of the couch seemed unmarred. There was just this marvelous image of her on the door, round ass cheeks and sharp shoulder blades, the narrow smear of her back connecting them. Like the Shroud of Turin, she thought, the Shroud of Fucking Turin.

For a second, she thought of getting a j-cloth from the kitchen, a bit of spray, and washing it off. But she didn’t really want to. Instead, she reached for the doorknob. Time to go. It would be here when she returned, waiting for her, the thought sank down into her, a warm little secret.

Work was a breeze. She smiled, she sparkled, everything just seemed to go perfectly. She waited for anyone to notice the red marks circling her wrists. She had a terrific lie all ready to go - something about heavy grocery bags, plastic wrapping around her wrists, having to wait in line... But no one asked. It was a little disappointing. They remarked on her cheerful mood, she just smiled. Laughed. The day flew by as if it had wings.

Buoyant. That was it, she thought, that was the word. This light, floaty almost weightless feeling. She thought perhaps she should feel guilty. But she didn’t. Or ashamed, but she didn’t. She didn’t feel particularly kinky. She just felt good, liberated.

She felt completely and absolutely unapologetic. It was almost as if she wanted to go to Church, to enter a confessional, to divulge in graphic detail every nasty moment, to relive each image, the flash of chrome around her wrists, the shape of his cock in vivid detail, the way the underside of it had tasted as it lay on top of her extended tongue, the way his hands had felt cupping her ass and lifting her, the way her weight had shifted back and forth from hanging from her wrists, to pressed against the door, to her ass lifting under his grip.

She wanted to tell that to a priest, and then say “I’m not sorry at all! He hung me from a hook and fucked me and I loved every minute of it! No Hail Marys! I want to do it again, I want to do it and do it, until every part of me aches!”

It was personal, it was hers, it was just for her and no one else. It was a step outside the world, outside responsibilities and duties and all the routine and necessity of life.

In hindsight, the only surprise was that she waited so long to call him back that next evening.

He found her waiting on her bed, on knees and elbows, wrists chained, the lights dim, the room smelling of scented candles. She’d been waiting for fifteen minutes, slowly growing wetter and wetter. When he stood in the doorway, she was so aroused her pussy lips had parted of their own accord. She imagined what she must look like to him. She was dripping...

She loved being on all fours, presented for mounting, wrists bound in the cold unyielding cuffs beneath her gaze, her elbows splayed for balance. She loved the moment when his hands clamped on both sides of her ass. The way the mattress shifted and bounced slightly as his knees settled behind her. It was as if she was hyper aware, aware of her heart beating, aware of the air moving across the fine hairs on the back of her neck. The moment when he entered her, filling her with one thrust, made her cry out with pleasure. She gathered the sheets in her fists, pulling them from the bed, the force of his thrusts pushing her cheek against the mattress.

After a while, the handcuffs became a bother. She had him use the keys to remove them, she never told him about the release latch, that was always her secret. Although he was always gracious and obedient to her wishes, it still made her feel more confident. It meant the real power over her bondage was with her, no matter what he decided, she was cuffed only as long as she wanted to be. It didn’t matter, they fucked hard, her legs wrapping around his hips, her butt off the bed every time he pulled back for another thrust.

Later on, she had him put them back on her, chaining her wrists behind her, taking her bent over the kitchen table, as she came continuously, over and over.

And of course, afterwards he left.

She was slightly embarrassed to admit to herself, that his leaving was one of the best parts. She reveled in being alone with her satisfaction, did not want to share the blissful feeling of satiation.

The next night, she hung from the door, grunting like an animal, her legs suspended in the air, knees dangling over crooked elbows, the door smashing again. The next morning, she took a moment to stare at the shape of smeared in skin oils on the door. She reached up, toggled the hook, it was loose in its screws. That probably wasn’t good. An awkward image of it letting go during wanton sex flickered through her mind.

Her shoulders ached again, worse. There was a particularly sharp pain under her left shoulder blade. It occurred to her that maybe it wasn’t a good idea to hang from a hook while fucking. The red marks dug into her wrists were particularly livid. Ligature marks, he’d told her they were called “ligature marks” between bouts of sweaty sex. There’d been a small satisfaction in learning it, of course there had to be a name for it, once you thought about it.

Maybe a table then, or a counter or something? Something to support her weight. She thought about it off and on during the working day. Nothing she had seemed to be quite right for it. Perhaps she would shop.

Fucking continued. Not every night. But again, and again. Never at quite the same times. There was a lack of routine in their couplings. A hungry unpredictable eagerness.

He told her once, that he would get hard randomly, just thinking about her. Watching television, out with friends, patrolling the mall, he’d think of her, of their hungry intense couplings and his cock would go rigid.

It thrilled her to hear that, to know she had that effect on him. It was the same with her, in the middle of work sometimes, she'd think of him, of what he did to her, and she would soak!

Once, he’d texted her at her work, offering, demanding. She’d immediately taken the afternoon off sick, had gone to his place, showed up at the door with her panties peeping lazily from her purse. He’d seized her wrist, bent her over in his hallway, her legs spread, his black security issue handcuff dangling from one wrist, her other hand braced up against the wall as he pounded into her.

Oh god, that had been so good.

She had been reluctant to allow him to put his own security guard handcuffs on her. There was an extra threshold of real-ness. Those were real cuffs, slightly heavier, more substantial, the ratchet had more teeth. And there was no latch, no release catch.

The first time he had put them on her, there had been a shiver, a frisson of genuine fear and nervousness. She’d stood it as long as she could, and had asked him to take them off. And he had. That made it easier, knowing that the minute she asked they would come off.

Still, she preferred her own, she decided, one night, playing with them on the couch. It wasn’t just that they could release with the touch of a latch. It was that they were hers. They were the symbol, the device, not just of her submission, but of her power, her wantonness. Wearing someone else’s handcuffs undermined that power a little, she decided. And then she decided she was over-thinking it.

Perhaps it was simply that they were more convenient. Convenient? No, that wasn’t quite right. They were more accessible to her. She didn’t need him around, to put them on, to wear them. Casually, she fitted one of the steel rings around her wrist, ratcheted it close.

She liked putting them on. Wearing them before he came over. It was a process. A wickedness. It was like foreplay, except not quite. She rolled her tongue around in her mouth, tickling the metal of the dangling cuff with her fingernail. It wasn’t foreplay. It was arousal... Yes, that was the word.

The handcuffs were about arousal, and that was sex, but it was also something else. She let the second cuff close around her other wrist, feeling the cold steel, listening to the now familiar ratcheting. Bent one knee, lifting her foot up on the couch, letting the chain lay across the knee, the weight of her hands dangling the wrists on either side.

Arousal.

Very slowly, very deliberately she drew her other foot up onto the couch, bent knee high in the air. She spread her legs. He heart started to beat, just a little more rapidly.

Arousal.

She thought about calling him. But then decided that the thought of him was enough for now. What they had done. What they might do, would do.

Arousal.

Her hands slid down her thighs, the metal links connecting the cuffs clinking slightly, the cold metal brushing lightly against the smooth skin, of her inner thigh. She made it slow, slower, and slower. When her fingers finally parted her lips, she was already wet.

She came to enjoy his handcuffs. It was different from her own. There was more surrender in it. But more abandonment, more liberation, more freedom to simply be. They were more about the sex, when he put them on her, she was moments from being fucked.

She wore his for shorter times though, sometimes only on one wrist, his hand wrapped around the other cuff like the handle of a leash. Often they would take it off during sex, putting it on again, as positions changed. Sometimes the cuffs were threaded through a pipe or a piece of furniture.

Once she let him handcuff her to the toilet, but it hadn’t been a turn on.

The idea of being on a leash was wildly exciting. She bought herself a dog collar and chain and wore it for him one night. It was incredibly exciting in the first moments, but then faded quickly for lack of anywhere to go with it. They didn't do that one often.

Another time, her hands were cuffed behind her, and he had her on her back. But the cuffs bit into her tailbone, hurting her. They tried a cushion between the cuffs and her ass, but it didn’t quite work. Finally wrapping a towel around the cuffs under her did the trick, she could just feel the cuffs against the small of her back, there but not hurting.

Absolutely aware of her helplessness she looked up at him, looming above her as he grabbed her ankles, lifted them, and parted her legs. She felt her lips part, opening, felt a sudden exquisite rush of wetness, a tightening up deep inside her. Her hips elevated by the cuffed wrists allowed him to plunge deeper, making her gasp at the bottom each stroke. In that position, they could only manage sex for twenty minutes before the stress on her shoulders got too much. But what a fucking it was!

When she couldn’t take it any more, instead of releasing her, he’d flipped her over. Used the cuffs behind her back to pull her to her knees and thrust his cock hard and fast into her, rushing towards a grinding roaring orgasm. He left her in that position, ass up in the air, her pussy drenched, sweat covering her body, panting, face pressed against the mattress, just fucked and incomplete.

She remained in position, listening to him go to the bathroom, listening to the sound of him pissing, the sizzle of the piss striking the toilet bowl, the sound of the flush, of him padding around the apartment. Helpless, waiting, she began to drip, she could feel it, could feel her pussy squeezing.

He went into the kitchen. She couldn’t see him, just a flash of movement around her peripheral vision. She could hear the sound of his footsteps padding into the kitchen. There was the sound of the fridge door opening. Him drinking. A cupboard, clatter of a cup or dish. The fridge again.

She waited.

He padded back, his footsteps more felt than heard. The mattress surged as his weight settled behind her.

She waited.

An exquisite wet coldness touched her clit. She gasped loudly back arched, she pushed forward. Was that an ice cube? Cold fingers? She could not tell. The touch returned, sending a shiver all the way through her. His fingers slid down, cold chilled fingers, between her lips. They slid inside, two fingers curling up inside her, cold cold cold, she was breathless. They began to move back and forth, her mouth opened soundless and wide, her toes curled, she squirmed and wriggled. But the fingers kept moving, and moving, thumb stroking her clit until she came.

Her next sex toy was from Ikea.

When she saw it, her pussy tightened, she felt a sudden wet surge, and went red from top to bottom. The people around her noticed nothing. The voice of the sales clerk faded away, and although she could see his lips moving she couldn’t hear a word she was saying. She swallowed, and swallowed again, almost shaken by images, carnal couplings, sweating bodies, cocks and pussies, naked legs curling around his ass, a deep sexual grunting.

“That looks nice,” she said finally, her voice almost breaking. “I’ll take it.”

Just like that, she was the owner of a hall table, a credenza..

It was perfect, shallow, just wide enough for her to perch her ass on. The legs were sturdy to take her weight, the forward edge was curved for ease of fucking, and beveled so the corner wouldn’t bite into her butt cheeks. Even the height was perfect. Perfect for fucking, perfect for a cock to slide into her pussy.

She stared at it, and all she could think of was about fucking on it, being naked on it, spreading her legs and resting her heels against the table legs. Maybe she could tie her ankles to those table legs, so she was spread helpless, lips parted and dripping. Maybe she could turn around, press up against the wall, the table pushing her ass out just enough to be taken from behind? She’d probably have to wear high heels.

Note to self she thought, shop for heels, not to wear, but to be fucked in.

The thought made her shiver.

The thought of selecting shoes, not for walking, not for any normal purpose, not even for display, but for the sole purpose of fucking, of raising her heels on stilettos, altering her posture, thrusting her ass out for fucking... It was utterly, deliriously wanton.

Better than wanton, it was deliciously insane.

She imagined going to a shoe store, addressing staff: “I want shoes to be fucked in.”

All through the purchase, the taking it to the checkout, having it loaded in her car, she kept blushing red, her thoughts going to what she would do on the table.

She’d never thought about things like this before. But now, it crept into her mind. Standing in the subway, packed with people, thinking about a short skirt, ‘accidental’ exposure.

At her workplace, she sat at a boardroom table and gave her report, but in the back of her mind, images of being bent over the table, straddling the table like a stripper, fucking in the huge plush leather office chairs.

Furniture had always been furniture, but now, it seethed with carnal possibilities. Everything seethed with carnal possibilities.

Even a park bench took on a new excitement.

It was liberating, it was liberation, like being awake for the first time, like looking at the world with new eyes, seeing things in ways she never had before. It was like being alive.

Along the way, she bought a wall mounted coat rack.

At home she assembled the credenza herself with breathless excitement, planning the night before her.

Later on, she drove her building supervisor nearly mad with her insistence on the placement of the wall coat rack, far higher and too inconveniently placed to be of any use. And then there was her insistence on extra deep screws, to make sure it wouldn’t come loose this time.

She texted Josh, set a time for him to come over.

The rest of the evening flew by. There was something deliriously delicious about the anticipation. Sex was a certainty, by now, she had played enough with him that she had absolute confidence as to what would happen, how it would happen.

But that wasn’t dull, not at all. It just made the anticipation excruciating.

Getting ready, was so much fun, she had to resist touching herself in the shower. There was so much process, it felt like everything was foreplay and arousal. Shaving her legs, the oh so careful and meticulous process of shaving her pussy, clearing away stubble.

She liked to have a mirror in front of her so she could watch, could both see and feel her growing wetness. This was a thing that had come with the cuffs, before that, she would have been aghast at looking at her pussy in a mirror. Now she couldn’t stop watching. She ran a finger along velvet smoothness, and allowed one exquisite circle of her clitoris.

Lipstick! She’d almost forgot that. She tried several, settled on one that seemed to make her lips pert. Make up, not too heavy. A bit of blush, a hint of eyeliner.

The hallway was too bright. She hunted around until she replaced it with a 25 watt bulb. Note to self, she thought: candles, wall mounted. Candle light was so much nicer. But the dim light of the 25 watt bulb made an acceptable substitute.

Experimentally, she slipped up onto the table, easing her back against the wall. She let her butt rest on the table’s edge, bracing her heels against the tables legs. She could feel her lips part, sense her wetness.

She reached up with both hands over her head, crossing her wrists, feeling the coat hook against her skin. She felt a slight twinge of pain just under her shoulder blade. Maybe not that, not yet. Disappointment.

She parted her hands, reached for the coat hooks at the far sides. Not quite. She got off, moved the table a couple of inches to the left, and found she could stretch out and grab them easily. It was too bad she didn’t have two pairs of trick handcuffs. Perhaps she could improvise a tie? But she immediately discounted that. It was a little too scary, the thought of being tied so she couldn’t easily get out in an instant.

This was good. She looked up and down the hallway. Looked down at herself. Her tummy stuck out a little too much. She sucked it in, and then left it. Even with that, this was hot. This was going to be so hot. He was going to come in his pants!

She swung her legs girlishly, sitting on the table. There was still time. What to do? She really didn’t fancy sitting here for a half an hour. She looked around. The light wasn’t right. It needed more shine.

She went to the bathroom, picked up some lotion, and rubbed it across her breasts. Padding into the hallway, she admired the way her breasts shone in the dim hall light.

In the end, she let the chromed cuff dangle from one wrist, and reached up, wrapping her hands on separate coat hooks widely separated. She let her ass ease forward, dangling from the edge of the credenza, so she could feel the tug of her weight in her shoulders. She spread her legs as wantonly wide as they could go.

Perfect. She wished she could take a picture.

There was a fleeting impulse to ask Josh to take a picture when he arrived.

Of course, he’d fuck her immediately.

After sex then?

But she found herself shying at the thought of giving up the camera to someone else. These adventures were all about her, they were her creations, her possession. She could imagine taking pictures of herself, but not someone else taking them.

The weight was a little much, she eased her ass back onto the credenza, and was immediately comfortable. She let go the coat hooks, letting her hands fall to her knees, and swung her legs girlishly. Yes, this was perfect.

When she heard Josh arriving, all she had to do was reach for the hooks, scoot her ass forward. He was still dressed in Security Guard uniform, his own cuffs at his side. As the door opened, she realized that anyone passing in the hall could see her, if there had been anyone, and that spurred a flash of excitement.

Josh walked through the door rock hard, and immediately grabbed and lifted her knees, his hands dropping to his ankles. She saw that he was already wearing a condom. How long? When had he put it on? Had he been hard all the way over here? Since her call? Had he worn it all this time?

This evidence of rampant, relentless lust, her effect on him, her power over him delighted her. Almost before the door closed, he was thrusting deep inside her. She gripped the coat hooks with all her strength and wrapped her legs around him, welcoming him.

The sex was everything she wanted, and more. Frenzied, furious, weirdly spontaneous (despite her planning and posing) fucking. A wanton animal act that left them both sweat drenched and panting.

Afterwards, he carried her to the bedroom, where they fucked the evening away. And as always, he pleased her by leaving, so she could revel in the experience by herself.

Was she selfish? Cold. She wondered about that. But she had affection for Josh, they liked each other. If either had reached out for a further intimacy, neither would have denied the other.

But this way added to the fun. There was something raunchy and liberating about “come and fuck me, then go away.” It felt free, and harmless.

She played with herself idly. His Security Guard shirt was sweat stained when he’d left. She hoped he had a spare. Or would he have to launder it tonight when he got back to his apartment?

Should she have offered to launder it for him? She made a face - too domestic.

Instead, she arched her back, squirming on the messy bed. The cuff was still dangling from one wrist. It felt a little sensitive. Maybe she should take it off.

Instead, she raised her arms straight up above her and fastened the other wrist. For a moment, her hands fluttered like butterflies. She stretched her hands above her head, to the headboard.

He’d had his own cuffs with him, she could have worn both, she thought. She imagined being chained spread eagled on the bed, captive and helpless, and felt a wet surge. But there was no place on the headboard to fix cuffs. And black and chrome, they wouldn’t match, they wouldn’t feel the same, it would be distracting.

Still, the fantasy made her breathe harder. Slowly she drew her cuffed hands down, pressing the back of her hand against her cheek.

“Oh please, Monsieur, I’ll do anything! Anything at all!” she whispered. “Take mercy on your helpless captive.”

She pulled up her knees, and spread her legs.

“This Monsieur,” she whispered. “But I can’t, I mustn’t. I am pure, I promise. Oh please.”

She let her hands slide down across a breast, pinching a nipple.

“Ow, Monsieur! You take such liberties. I am chaste, truly. You do not believe me?”

Then down between her legs.

“You want me to part my lips for your inspection! You wish to see? To examine me? You are a devil, Monsieur. But I must obey.”

The touch.

“Oh Monsieur, you have found me out. You have exposed my lie. I am not chaste... but wanton. Take me now, for I cannot conceal my hunger for the touch of a man such as yourself!!!”

It was very satisfying, although her wrist ached in the morning.

The next day, she bought a four post bedframe.

And another pair of trick handcuffs.

She practised first with one cuff attached to a bedpost, until she was sure she could work the latch. It was harder, but manageable.

Then she tried both, with some trepidation. If she couldn’t work the latches spread like that, it would be awkward. The experience wasn’t quite satisfactory. Her arms were pulled too far, the cuffs bit awkwardly into her wrists. Her head was too close to the top of the bed, touching the headboard. It was difficult to work the latches. She’d need to add chains or ropes or something, to lengthen it and make it more comfortable.

The most awkward thing was that with both arms stretched out, she couldn’t masturbate. As potentially exciting as it was, she’d need to free at least one wrist to play, or she’d need Josh.

More shopping, and more experiments, until she found something satisfactory.

Along the way, she discovered velcro cuffs. They were so bleah, completely without the exciting sensuality, the coldness, the weight, the hardness, the delicious clicking sound of the ratcheting mechanism. Everything about her chrome cuffs was exciting. Nothing about the velcro cuffs was the least bit arousing, particularly the sound of velcro unzipping. But they made good ankle cuffs. She bought four - two for the bedroom, two for the credenza.

When everything was finally ready, she called Josh. Forty minutes later, he found her, naked and blindfolded, spread eagle to the four posts of the bed. The first she knew that he was there was his cold hand cupping her pubic mound, fingers flattening her clit and spreading her soaked lips.

Her body practically levitated off the bed and she came instantly.

Afterwards, there was more of course. The blindfold came away. The ankle cuffs proved a bother and were released. Deliberately helpless, she could only spread her legs, lifting her knees to accept his thrusts deep into her.

It was absolutely satisfying.

Josh was absolutely satisfying, and though their relationship was almost purely sexual, she felt a deep appreciation and affection for him.

Josh was her very best toy!

But most of her sex life was masturbation, an ongoing exploration of herself and her toys. She played with bondage, drenching herself in scenarios of submission and bondage. Yet there was power in the submission, in her fantasies, she was a helpless captive. But she was captive because she was dangerous, rebellious, wanton. She was a spy, a femme fatale, a police woman, an executive, powerful women who could not be tamed, only restrained. So dangerous that restraints were vital, the only way to contain her.

She explored, buying more exotic toys. Not all of them worked, an experiment with nipple clamps ended with them being thrown across the room, and then consigned to the trash bin. A ball gag was used once, found pointless, and ended up forgotten at the back of a drawer. Other items, vibrators, butt plugs, lingerie, worked out better.

She experimented with taking pictures, a project which she found excessively complicated and arduous. She didn’t like the pictures, they were flat, not reflecting the adventurous and sexual creature she had become. She deleted them without showing any of them to Josh.

The most successful, and the most difficult step, was sharing her fantasy scenarios with Josh. After all, he himself was one of her fantasy scenarios. It felt like admitting to cheating to reveal that there were others.

“I’m a wanton French schoolgirl at a convent,” she said. “Like Madelyne, in a uniform, I look like butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth. We aren’t even supposed to touch ourselves But I have this secret life where I pursue every boy,... and girl, that catches my fancy. Of course the Monsignor is on to me, and so he ties me in place to investigate whether I am a virtuous girl or a wanton...”

There are long heartbeats where she waited for him to laugh.

Instead, he said “Cool.”

And a moment later, in the worst fake French accent she’s ever heard, heavily laden with Spanish. “Young lady, some very disturbing reports have come to my ears!”

“Monsieur!” she whispered. “I have no idea what you could mean. I am a good girl!”

She felt sensitive about it. But carefully, she shared a few - an underworld assassin, a jewel thief, a spy, a private eye. Tentatively, they worked out role plays, sometimes awkward, but mostly satisfying. They didn’t do them often, they weren’t really needed, the actual sex and bondage remained volcanic in itself. But she shared a little bit.

“Here’s one,” she whispered following a drenching, exhausting, satisfying sexual encounter, where she’d been bent over the couch, tied and spread, and taken from behind until muscle strain caused her to call time out.

“I’m tied to the Credenza, naked, blindfolded, and a pizza guy comes to deliver an order. He takes one look, fucks me hard, and leave. A total stranger, I never see him, never know who. He comes, he goes. That’s hot.”

“I could do that,” Josh’s arms were around her as they sprawled on the couch, spooning on the precarious lack of space on the cushions.

“No,” she told him. “It wouldn’t work if it’s you. We’ve already done it. The thrill is the idea of having a complete stranger. A zipless fuck. Completely anonymous.”

He thought about it.

“I could set it up,” he said. “I know some pizza delivery guys.”

She laughed.

“Horny pizza delivery guys?”

“Is there any other kind?”

But then, a few days later, she asked him to set it up.

For the next few days, the idea of the zipless, anonymous fuck drove her wild. She masturbated constantly, even sneaking into the bathroom at work to quietly bring herself off. She felt weightless, she literally flew through each day. The next two encounters with Josh were incandescent.

The day came. She had a phone number for a particular pizza place, a particular order that would alert a particular driver. She almost danced with excitement in the shower, washing, working lotion into her skin, shaving her legs and pubic mound. The afternoon came. She started to get cold feet.

The time to make the call approached. She got cold feet, butterflies in her stomach. This seemed like a ridiculously bad idea. The sex would probably be awful. Porn aside, how capable were Pizza guys anyway? They were probably minute men, with shriveled dicks. What if he took pictures? What if he decided to get rough?

She should call it off. Nervously, she chewed her lip. Stomach doing flip flops. Then she called Josh.

“I don’t know if I can do it like this,” she said.

“I understand.”

“No,” she explained. “I want to, but I’m kind of scared of it going wrong. I want you here.”

“To do it.”

“No,” she said. “I just want you in the apartment, just in case anything goes bad.”

“So keep an eye on it.”

“Not to watch. I don’t want him to know you’re there. Just hide in the bedroom, just in case. And after, if everything’s okay, you can leave.”

There was a long silence on the phone.

“Okay,” he said finally. “I’ll be right over.”

They disconnected. Staring at the phone, she felt herself blushing, ashamed of the weakness that led her to call him, appalled at her own recklessness in going through. Was she crazy? Had this wild ride gone too far?

Waiting for him to come over, she busied herself with preparations, writing post-it notes, making sure the apartment was properly presentable, any loose bondage gear carefully hidden away, nothing untoward. No easily pocketable goods in evidence, to the extent possible. The stranger would have the run of her apartment, she didn’t want them walking off with her laptop.

When Josh arrived, she made the call, annoyed at the way her voice shook.

“It should be about fifteen minutes,” Josh told her.

Her stomach did flip flops.

“Good. I think.”

“We can cancel.”

She thought about it.

“No.”

Josh was banished to the bedroom. She didn’t really want him to see what she was doing, although he could probably guess. She got into position. The cuffs were already in place, one end clamped tightly around the base of two coat hooks above her. She was naked, except for her special red ‘fuck-me’ shoes with their stiletto heels. She fastened her blindfold in place, an act both scary and exhilarating.

Then carefully, she reached up with one hand, feeling around, until she found the dangling cuff. She clamped it tight around her wrist with her free hand. The ratcheting sound was insanely loud, insanely exciting, and she almost made it too tight. She’d have trouble springing it, she knew. But decided not to adjust it.

Instead, she felt around with her free hand for the other cuff. Her heart skipped a beat, as she made a spear of her fingers and slipped her hand through it until she felt it around her wrist. Then she pushed it against the wall slowly and carefully, listening to the measured clicks of the ratchet, making sure it tight, but with enough room she could spring it easily.

She’d practiced a lot the previous days, with and without blind folds, punctuated by masturbation, denying orgasms for the anticipation, She’d been able to get in and out of the cuffs fairly easily.

Except now it was the real thing, and she was a lot less confident. The uncertainty made her pussy spasm with wetness, she could almost feel her clit throb. This was the real thing, not play, not pretend, it was going to happen.

She sat on the edge of the credenza, letting it bear her weight, her legs spread.

Nothing happened. She couldn’t even hear Josh in the bedroom. Time ticked on. She shifted and squirmed. It felt like it was dragging on. Had he chickened out? Was it going to happen at all? Was he delayed? She realized there was no way to judge time.

How long should she wait? Maybe she should get out of the cuffs, prepare a little more? But what if he, whoever he was, arrived then. The adventure would be ruined. Should she call for Josh? What would she say?

In the end, despite endless doubts, she remained silent, waiting, listening to the sound of her own breathing and heart beating, of her blood rushing through her ears, feeling the faint breezes of her apartment against her nipples, occasionally squirming within her bonds.

There was a knock at the door.

Her heart skipped a beat, it was like a jolt of lightning went through her whole body, she almost jumped within her bonds, her muscles twitching.

Another knock.

Couldn’t they see the post-it note on the door that read, “I may not hear you. Just come in, the money is on the Credenza”?

She heard the doorknob turning.

“Hello!” A voice, a male voice, a stranger. She felt the electrical jolt of excitement go through her, and experienced an intense rush that was almost, but not quite, an orgasm. “Hello? I’m here? Pizza?”

The voice trailed off. Was that a gasp? She imagined him catching site of her.

There were tentative footsteps, approaching her. Indrawn breath, coarse with excitement. She waited patiently, her pussy getting wetter by the moment. Her nipples felt so achingly hard they could cut class.

On the edge of the credenza was a twenty dollar bill, a condom, and another post it note. “Don’t speak. She is your tip. Help yourself. Do anything you want, but wear the condom.”

There was a sucked intake of breath. A rustle, but she couldn’t tell of what. She remained still, blindly staring straight ahead. Her heart was racing.

A whiff of the pizza. Footsteps. And then... nothing. Had he chickened out? Had he left? Was he standing there taking pictures? Just looking at her? Planning his next move? What was he doing?

The touch of a hand against her left breast, her nipple, brought a loud gasp from her. Her body convulsed, back arching. Her bodies reaction shocked her almost as much as the touch, it was so extreme and unforced, a spontaneous jerk. The hand vanished, and she relaxed letting out an equally loud, equally unforced sigh.

She quieted, waiting for his next move. It came again, the hand against her left breast, finger stroking the nipple. Again, she gasped and jerked, but more modestly this time, the gasp evolving into a sigh. The hand did not withdraw this time, but cupped her breast, tracing the nipple. She sighed again. Another hand on her other breast, and she sighed in response, her back arching slightly.

For long moments, she was held there, splayed and immobile as a complete stranger felt her breasts, fondling and exploring, bringing soft sighs and sinuous movement from her. Gentle pinches of nipple brought gasps and mews, quick twitches. Her shoulders shifted within the confines of her captivity. Her legs free, remained spread. She thought she felt a brief light brush of fabric of a pants leg.

The fondling became an exploration, the hands roved over her body, bringing more sighs from her. The touches moved along her collarbones, up the side of her neck and then along the line of her jaw. Two fingers traced her lips, and then intruded into her mouth, where she sucked them, flicking her tongue against him.

He didn’t speak, but she could hear his coarse breathing.

The hands traced her shoulders and arms, teased down her rib cage, palm against her belly, but always returned to her breasts, again and again. Her sighs turned to moans, she writhed, her body rising into each touch, thrusting itself into the strangers hands, and falling back with disappointment when those hands lifted.

Finally, the hands slid down along her thighs, pushing gently. Obediently, with a murmur, she submitted, spreading wider, her back arching to push her hips further to the edge of the credenza. Her blindfolded head tossed and then inclined, dipping as a further gesture of surrender to the stranger’s imminent possession.

His hands moved to the insides of her thighs, and she felt them tremble helplessly. She could feel her vaginal lips part of their own accord, her pussy dilating with uncontrollable arousal. She was unbelievably wet, she could literally feel it flowing from her in slow pulses.

The fingertips against her pussy brought another loud gasp, a spasm of her hips. The fingers vanished, and then almost immediately returned to an equal reaction. And again, she bit her lip and whined at the teasing.

Then a firm grip on her thigh, something poking at her vagina, sliding against her lips. She moaned with hunger, raising up her knees to give access, and then the stranger slid his cock deep inside her. She grunted at the penetration, moaning and gasping openly, her legs lifting in random uncoordinated motions.

The stranger thrust wildly into her, without finesse or control. A dozen hard thrusts, shoving up inside her. Hands grabbing at her, her breasts, her thigh. She almost spoke words. But his pace was already accelerating, like a runner reaching the finishing line. The thrusts grew rapid. Then he moaned loudly, his hands tightening on her thighs, his cock pushing deep in her. His urgent thrusts became weightless. And then he was panting.

She knew the stranger had come.

That’s it? She thought, disappointed.

She was panting as well, breasts heaving with arousal, but nowhere close to orgasm. She tried to push her mound onto his deflating cock, but he pulled back and fell out of her.

She went quiet, panting softly, waiting to see what the stranger would do next. Her body longed for more touches, fingers, hands, his cock. She waited, legs splayed wide, freshly used vagina waiting for him to slide fingers. She could hear him panting.

She waited.

After a moment or so, she heard the door open and close.

She waited another moment or two, but the silence was total.

He’d left.

The wild excitement of the experience was followed by an intense deflation.

This was it? After all this anticipation, the preparation, the fantasies, the fear and cold feet, the almost surreal intensity, the crackling electricity of the beginning... it had wilted.

She worked her left hand around to release the catch and spring the cuff. Pulling the blindfold off, she looked around. Gone. The place was empty. The pizza was sitting in the living room. The twenty dollar bill was gone, so was the condom. She hoped the stranger had actually used it, she couldn’t really tell. The post it note was on the floor beside the credenza. Frustrated, she freed her other wrist, massaging it.

Well, she thought to herself. That happened.

Was Josh still here? Or had he left too. Maybe he’d watched? Maybe they’d left together?

“Josh?”

“I’m here,” from the bedroom. “How was it?”

She hesitated. Her feelings, when she examined them, were too complicated to articulate easily. She settled for something superficial.

“It was hot,” she said. But it still felt inconclusive, she wanted more, her body wanted more. “You want a turn?”

“Oh yeah!” He came out without pants, and they fucked on the Credenza, and then on the couch.

The handcuffs were left behind, still fixed to the coat hooks. She missed them, crossing her wrists above her head as he fucked her on the couch, but it wasn’t the same. She described an embellished version of events, as he pounded into her, and they both came.

Afterwards, she laid her head against his chest, cuddling on the couch, feeling the first twinges of guilt she’d ever had with him. She’d fucked him, thinking of the encounter, reliving, embroidering it, using him to deliver the orgasm the stranger had denied him. It was the first time she’d fucked him thinking of someone else.

For all the intensity, she’d found the experience deeply unsatisfying. It had come and gone much too fast, without her satisfaction. The stranger’s ejaculation had felt altogether premature, something that neither of them had been ready for.

Perhaps somewhere, the stranger felt as dissatisfied as she did?

The dissatisfaction was compounded by her sense of her own cowardice, calling Josh in to stand guard. As if she couldn’t handle it on her own.

Of course, Josh had set it up for her, and he’d come when called, and it had been completely sensible to have him here. But it still rankled. The fantasy was compromised, the thrill flattened.

She didn’t discuss this with Josh, or give him any sign of it. But it got under her skin, and she chewed on it.

Perhaps try again?

Ridiculous.

Perhaps try again?

Why?

Perhaps try again?

Well...

Try again?

Without Josh.

Just to show herself that she was brave, that she was in charge.

After a week or so, she called up the Pizza Place.

“Hello,” she gave her address. “I had a Pizza delivered here last week. I think the driver accidentally left something behind?”

“What is it?”

“A set of keys. It doesn’t belong to anyone here, and we think maybe the driver dropped them when he was delivering.”

“Hold on, I’ll check the logs.”

“Thank you.”

“I haven’t heard anyone mentioning losing anything, but we’ve got the same guy on shift today. I can ask him if he lost anything.”

“Oh sorry. I just realized where the keys must have come from. I’m sorry, false alarm.”

“No problem. Will that be all.”

“Actually, you know what? Since I have you on the phone, I might as well order a pizza. I really enjoyed the delivery last time. Now, about these toppings, I want...”

She hung up, heart pounding. What the hell was she doing? This was insane. She was totally working without a net.

It was exhilarating.

How much time did she have? Fifteen minutes? Twenty? She needed to scramble. Shower quickly, write post-it notes, get the apartment ready.

This time, she waited blindfolded, bound and spread, genuinely nervous and twitching. She was very conscious of flying without a net, and yet that added to the excitement. Time had dragged out the first time, but on this occasion it went quickly. It felt like she was only in position for a few minutes before the knock came at the door.

As before it inflicted an electric thrill, her body jolted. She turned her head automatically to the door, despite the blindfold. There was another knock, and again, she jolted, her heart racing. She could feel spreading warmth, a flush of hotness. Her pussy clenched wetly.

This time there was no voice calling. Instead, she could hear the doorknob turning the door opening, deliberate steps.

The sound of the lock clicking shut. Her heart skipped a beat at that. There was something ominous about locking the door, a mute declaration of her captivity. No one else would be coming through that door, the stranger had just made sure he had her body to himself.

She couldn’t help it, she squirmed, on her seat, shifting her weight from one ass cheek to the other, her knees involuntarily moving together. She stilled herself and waited.

The whiff of pizza, like before. Probably depositing it in the living room.

Was he reading the post it note?

Did he need to read it this time?

She’s left an extra message on the post-it.

Both an accusation and a request: “I want to come this time.”

She strained to hear. Taking the cash? Unwrapping the condom? She heard soft footsteps. Was he walking away from her? There was a creek of a door. Again, her heart skipped a beat. This was different from last time. He was exploring the apartment. Her stomach knotted with tension. She heard a drawer open and close, other sounds. This was more of an intrusion, a deeper penetration of her space than she expected or wanted. She had a sense of violation, of intrusion, that both excited and scared here.

What was he doing? What was he going to do? She started to worry. Maybe it wasn’t the same person. Maybe it was someone else with different motivations or purposes.

Maybe he wasn’t pizza delivery at all, but some burglar here to clean out the place.

No wait! she’d smelled pizza!

Okay.

In her mind, a series of panicky scenarios flashed through, a burglar intercepting the pizza guy, the pizza guy deciding to toss the place, mistaken identity, intrusion.

The footsteps returned. She turned her head left and right, trying to track it, feeling appallingly vulnerable. Tension and trepidation and arousal warred within her, the feelings far stronger than before. This time there was no Josh waiting in case she needed saving. She’d made herself helpless and served herself up, bound, blindfolded, naked and spread to a stranger. Anything could go wrong. It was terrifying and wonderful.

She found she was panting lightly, squirming, unable to keep still.

What was he doing? Taking pictures? What if he was, what could she do?

What if there was more than one? What if he’d brought a friend? The thought made her pussy spasm, she gasped spontaneously, without being touched. Only sheer will kept her from grinding her thighs together.

Hands on her breasts, first her left, and then an instant later, the right. Rigid nipples trapped between fingers, squeezing lightly. Her back arched in response. As before, she gasped loudly, the sound shifting to a moan. Now that the stranger’s hands on her body seemed to signal desire, an intent to possess her body, to have her sexually, the fears and wild thoughts seemed to ebb. Her head shifted from side to side before bowing in surrender, acquiescing to possession. She was in free fall, events out of her control.

This time, the hands on her body were more deliberate, far less tentative. More confident in their exploration of her body. The stranger seemed to stand closer this time, she had more of a sense of looming presence, her thighs and calves as they shifted seemed to brush up against legs.

She wondered if it was the same stranger. Perhaps someone else had come, utterly unaware, and simply taking advantage. Or maybe the first one had shared the story of the encounter, handed her off.

Her lips formed words, but she held back from asking, as if words would break the spell. Instead, she listened intently to the sound of his breathing, focussed on the touches, the hands exploring her body, trying to determine if it was the same man. Maybe? She couldn’t be sure. As vivid as the first experience had been, it had been too new, too fast, to get a sense.

A hand travelled up between her breasts, circled her throat but did not choke. Fingers touched her lips, pulling her lower lip down. Obediently, she opened her mouth. But this time, fingers didn’t immediately enter, rather they teased her, drawing her tongue to flicker out, before finally sliding two digits between her lips.

She closed her lips around the fingers as before, her tongue flexing against them, cheeks hollowing as she sucked on them. This time, the fingers lingered, sliding in and out in a vivid simulation of fucking. She concentrated on the false blow job, whining a little in the back of her throat.

His free hand, whoever he was, explored the rest of her body, cupping a breast, squeezing a nipple. The hand slid down below, stroking her clit suddenly, making her body writhe. She sucked hard then on the fingers, feeling them slide deeper between her lips. Her body writhed, and again she moaned around them.

Two fingers slid inside her from below, pushing her lips apart to smoothly invade her wet folds. It sent shivers of pleasure through her, causing her back to arch offering her pussy up to his invasion, her thighs clenched, closing and opening, closing and opening, indifferent to her will, seeking only the best way to accommodate this new intrusion.

The sensual sensation of the fingers in her mouth, as she sucked, the fingers in her pussy, was almost overwhelming. She visualized him outside her, his arms outstretched, points of contact from pole to pole, with a kind of sensual magnetic field in radiating between them.

The fingers left her mouth, leaving her gasping. She felt a mouth settling on her left nipple, and twisted to the side to thrust it forward, offer her body up even as she rode the fingers still anchored inside her, stroking her G-spot. The mouth shifted to her other nipple, and again, she twisted her shoulder to offer up her body to pleasure. Teeth bit down lightly, nibbling with increasing pressure, the bites coming in tandem with the motion between her legs.

By the time the stranger left off her breasts, her nipples were raw and drenched with saliva. The fingers left her pussy, to explore again, hands firm. There were no limits this time, the touches ranged from her neck and jaw to the inside of her thighs. Her mouth and pussy were teased again and again, stoking her desire, but slipping in possessively only at her master’s will. The touches were far less tentative than the first time, there was a patience now, a sense of control.

Was it the same stranger as before, now used to her? Or perhaps regretting the hastiness of the last encounter and bent on taking his time? Or someone new and different? Try as she might, she couldn’t tell, she could only surrender and offer her body up in submission to an unseen captor.

Her body was awash with sensuality, she had made herself helpless, presented herself blind, bound, naked and spread for him, and with each touch, the stranger enforced his possession. She was almost delirious with the sensual and psychological intensity.

The stranger lifted her knees up with bare touches, her body moving on its own to silent commands, beyond her control, eager to obey its new master and consecrate the change of ownership. She felt his cock at her vaginal lips, probing an instant before it slid smoothly up inside her, bringing a deep gasp of capitulation, her mouth opening wide. As the cock slid its full length inside her, two fingers slid into her mouth, her lips closing instinctively, sucking on them willingly.

Fleetingly, she hoped he was wearing the condom. Then she realized it didn’t matter. She’d surrendered that choice, surrendered that decision, when she’d given up ownership of her body to his cock. She was property now, without will or volition, to use as he pleased, and whether he used it or not, whether he ejaculated inside her, was his decision, not hers. She could only accept his will, her body now his compliant property.

It didn’t even matter if this stranger was the same as the previous one, or if this was someone new. She was property now, nothing more than a possession, her will irrelevant, her identity erased, her body dedicated to the service of this unknown master.

Her new master fucked her relentlessly with powerful strokes, moving her yielding pliable body like a rag doll. She moaned and gasped continuously, and any time she felt the impulse to form words, the fingers invaded her mouth and she sucked on them eagerly, lost in a haze of obedience.

Her first orgasm rolled over her helpless form, leaving her quivering, but her master’s steady thrusting did not alter. She realized the consequences of her surrender and his ownership, that her body was for his use now, not her own. And yet, that understanding, of being property now on some deep primordial level, triggered an abandonment, a relinquishment of will and a chain of orgasms ripped through her, leaving her utterly helpless, as they built one after the other, until she couldn’t breath, until her stomach tensed and her thighs were literally vibrating. Suddenly, for the first time in her life, she squirted, liquid streaming from between her legs, her muscles turned to water, leaving her helpless and trembling.

She was barely aware when her master finished using her, her body obedient and compliant, her will and identity long dissipated. She accepted his convulsive thrusts as he rammed into her with all his force, again shaking her like a rag doll. He came, and she neither knew nor cared whether he came in a condom or spilled inside her body. There was a sense of regret and emptiness as his cock fell from her pussy. A moment when his hand seized her jaw, opening it, and she accepted his lips pressing against hers, his tongue in her mouth.

Then moments later, he was gone.

She didn’t move, she sat there, hanging exhausted, her body tingling, feeling boneless as rubber, her lips, fingertips and toes numb to sensation. She had no will left, only exhaustion. She was a thing, waiting for an owner to return and resume his possession.

Only the mounting pain in her shoulders eventually drove her to free herself. Half dazed, she made sure to lock the door, and then staggered to her bedroom, falling on the bed and immediately entering a deep sleep.

It wasn’t until she awoke the next day, that she felt returned to herself.