textfiles/sex/EROTICA/B/bedtime7.txt

Archive-name: Bondage/bedtime7.txt
Archive-author: 
Archive-title: Sweet Slave

A Writer's Choice Bedtime Story


    Life is full of temptations. Sometimes you grow by resisting 
them. Sometimes you grow by embracing them. Linda was the second 
kind. 
    Looking back, it's hard to remember just how Linda and I got 
to where we are. It's even harder to explain to friends who are 
close enough to us to read the signs but not close enough to be 
part of what's happening. And it would be impossible to explain to 
either of our parents or most of the people we work with, so from 
them we simply hide it. 
    The facts are these: Linda is my slave. I am her master.
    Those are startling words, even to me, even now, two years 
after it became a fact. When I say them, sometimes a little voice 
still demands of me, What do you mean, she's your slave? What 
about the women's movement? What about the sensitive man? What's 
going on here? 
    The answer's not simple. I could tell you it's about power, or 
freedom from responsibility, or contact intensity. I could tell 
you it's about primal urges to take and be taken. All of those 
things are true. 
    But mostly it's about love.
                                #
    We were friends first. That's important. Bondage and 
submission isn't a game you play with strangers. If you don't 
understand why, you're not ready to play at all. 
    I can tell you how Linda and I met. I run a little print shop 
-- lithographs, silkscreens and the like, small runs, very high 
quality. Not much work comes in off the street, but people who 
need me seem to find me. 
    Roald needed me. He was an illustrator who was trying to even 
out the ups and downs by getting his off-the-wall work on the 
walls in the graphic art galleries around the city. Linda was his 
housemate, sometime lover, and informal business partner. She went 
to school part time and handled the running around so Roald could 
concentrate on the art. 
    She explained all of that and more the first time she came in. 
Not prattling or chattering. She was just open and at peace with 
herself. I felt myself drawn to her, and it was hard to stay 
professional. Dark hair, a happy shoulder-length tangle -- dark 
eyes, her gaze warm and direct -- an easy gentle laugh. I knew 
right then I wanted to know this woman better. 
    But it's bad manners to hit on your customers, and downright 
callow to meddle in someone else's happy relationship. So I 
contented myself with enjoying the rush of good feeling that came 
when she appeared, enjoying the sight of her, the sound of her 
voice. Yes, and enjoying a few fantasies when she was gone. 
    A month slid by, and she started to linger to talk when she 
came in. In time it seemed as though the work we were doing for 
Roald was only a secondary reason for her being there, and I 
wondered where we were headed. Then one day she came into the shop 
just before noon and asked me if I'd had lunch yet. There was a 
deli down the street she'd been wanting to try, she said, but she 
hated eating alone. 
    I only hesitated for a moment. "Me, too," I said, plucking my 
jacket off its hook. 
    She took my arm as we went down the sidewalk, hugged me from 
behind while I fought my way to the counter and ordered for us. I 
felt wonderful, if a little confused. She cleared up the confusion 
as we were finishing off our sandwiches. 
    "Do you know what it does to me when you look at me that way?" 
she asked softly. 
    "What way?"
    "That way. That look that says, `I want to take you and make 
you mine.'"
    "You're not supposed to see that look," I said, showing a mock 
frown. 
    "Are you saying that you haven't seen mine? The look that says 
I want you to?"
    "You and Roald --"
    "Roald and I have an open relationship," she said. "Should I 
have told you that sooner?" 
    "Yes," I said. 
    "I like you, Christopher. And you have this way of looking at 
me that makes me feel like the only woman in the room. Like 
there's just you and me, and the rest of the world has gone away. 
It makes me want very much for you to make love to me."
    I looked into her eyes for a long moment, just that way. Then 
I took her hand and led her out of the deli. I didn't let go until 
we were standing in my bedroom and I needed that hand to unbutton 
her blouse. 
                                #
    First times are always awkward. That's what my friend Bernard 
tells me, and he's had a lot more first times than I have. Before 
Linda, I'd have agreed. You don't know how gentle or firm to make 
your touch, how to read your new lover's responses, how to tell 
them what you like without making it sound like you're coaching a 
wrestling team. Not to mention all those nasty little anxieties 
rattling around in the back of your head. 
    But this was different. We undressed each other slowly, 
pausing to kiss newly bared skin, to caress soft curves, to 
explore the strange and wonderful new texture of each other's 
bodies. When we were both naked, she threw her arms around me and 
pulled herself close, her head resting on my shoulder, her breasts 
flattened against my chest, my erect cock pressed between our 
bellies. 
    "This is right," she whispered, "being here with you. This 
feels so right." 
    We sat Indian-style on the bed and fondled each other, I 
exploring her wetness, her my hardness. There were long kisses, 
wet and hungry, her lips soft and pliant. In between the kisses I 
could watch her face, a delicious intimacy, and enjoy the little 
catch of breath as I pushed a finger inside her silky folds, the 
dreamy look in her eyes as my fingertips traced circles on her 
clit. 
    She gave back in full measure for what she was receiving -- 
stroking my cock with long cool fingers, her grip firm but never 
rough -- cupping my balls in her hand, tracing the "seam" with a 
fingernail -- surprising me by playing with my nipples and 
delighting in my response. I returned the favor, rolling the 
crinkly brown nub of her right nipple between my thumb and 
forefinger, and she closed her eyes as though surrendering to a 
new imperative. 
    On impulse, I turned the gentle pressure into a pinch, and she 
moaned softly. A moment later there was a new rush of wetness 
between her nether lips, and she slowly leaned forward until her 
forehead rested on my shoulder. Her arms went around my shoulders, 
and she clung tightly to me as I orchestrated her pleasure, two 
fingers of one hand gliding over her swollen clit, two fingers of 
the other alternately teasing and squeezing her nipples. 
    The rigidity in the arms that embraced me spread to her whole 
body moments before she came, back arching, fingers clutching. She 
made the most wonderful sounds, first hard exhalations that were 
somewhere between gasps and moans, ending with a pure erotic cry 
of pleasure. A moment later, she raised her head from my shoulder 
and her lips seized mine in a grateful kiss. 
    She lay back and tried to pull me on top of her, but her scent 
had been working on me for many long minutes, and I wanted a taste 
of her first, musky and all female. My tongue found her clitoris 
and teased it to erection, and I felt her fingers in my hair, 
their gentle pressure a plea not to stop. 
    I didn't stop. The response of her body to my tongue's 
probings was all the reinforcement I needed. As her excitement 
mounted, I pushed the middle three fingers of my left hand deep 
inside her well-lubricated pussy. When she came, crying out as 
before, her muscles clamped down on my fingers in a powerful 
rippling spasm. 
    That was when my own pleasure became the imperative. I climbed 
atop her, bringing her a kiss flavored with her own juices. 
She spread her legs wider to invite me inside, clutched at my 
buttocks and whispered an urgent plea for me to fill her with my 
cock. 
    I entered her with one smooth thrust and we began to move 
together, finding the rhythm that was uniquely ours. There was a 
ferocious intensity to her lovemaking such that I had never known 
before, and it roused in me in turn a need to take her and possess 
her. I drove my cock deep into her with powerful thrusts that were 
almost assaults, riding her hard against the mattress. Eyes wide 
with surprise and delight, she opened herself to me fully. 
    It was a closed circle of passion channeled round and round 
between us, ever increasing, ever intensifying. Then her fingers 
found my nipples, nails biting deep into the flesh, and my body 
shook in an electric, convulsive shudder that left me wobbly-armed 
and gasping. My cock still deep inside her cunt, I dropped to my 
elbows, and we held each other in a tender, peaceful embrace. 
    Nothing needed to be said. There was a special connection 
between us, almost frightening in its power, a recognition of the 
self in the other, reality and reflection. We both knew it, just 
as we both knew that we had just begun to explore what we could be 
together. 
                                #
    Having -- or being -- a lovely, compliant, responsive slave is 
a powerful fantasy. It touches deeply-rooted archetypes of 
masculinity and femininity, suggests a quality of mutual obsession 
not attainable in the complex, rule-ordered everyday world. 
    But it also evokes lurid crime-magazine headlines and invites 
harsh assessments of your sanity and morality. You admit to having 
the fantasy at considerable social risk. You admit to desiring the 
reality at even greater risk. 
    So there is in my library a small collection of books that no 
casual visitor sees -- classics like "The Image" and "The Story of 
O," newcomers like "9 1/2 Weeks" and "Exit to Eden." I don't know 
when Linda saw them. She insists to this day that she never did, 
that her understanding of what I wanted -- what we both wanted -- 
came from some deeper reading of our word games and the energy we 
generated together in our lovemaking. 
    The night it began, we had eaten a dinner we had cooked 
together, enjoyed a glass of California wine and our favorite 
Thursday evening comedies while cuddled together on the couch. As 
it always seemed to, our cuddling progressed to familiar fully-
clothed teasing and touching. 
    By wordless consensus, we retired to the bedroom. She guided 
me to a spot in front of the bureau, then stepped back and began 
to disrobe. When I started to unbutton my shirt, she reached out 
and stopped me. 
    "I want to be the only one naked," she said.
    There was an erotic fire in her eyes which promised much, and 
I let my hand fall back to my side. 
    There are many ways in which a woman can shed her clothes. 
Linda showed me a new one. Not coy, not teasing, not flaunting her 
curves and treasures. She made herself naked with the 
deliberateness of a ritual, as though it were my right and 
privilege to see her so, her loving duty to display herself. 
    Then she came and knelt before me as she unzippered my jeans 
and gently fished my erect cock out through the opening. Her lips 
parted and her tongue flicked across the swollen crown of my 
manhood, then she cradled my cock in both hands and plunged it 
deep into her warm, wet mouth. 
    A minute or so of this was enough to make my knees weak and me 
wonder if I could coax her to the bed. Then, with a last lingering 
caress, she drew back and sat on her heels with her knees spread 
wide. 
    "Will you tie my arms behind me?" she whispered, looking up at 
me hopefully. 
    I could not answer. I was struck dumb with desire. 
    "There's rope in my bag, on top," she added.
    I looked for permission in her eyes, found it, and went to 
where the bag sat. She stayed where she was, on her knees in the 
middle of the floor. When I knelt behind her, she crossed her 
wrists behind her back for me. 
    "If it pleases you, there's another piece for my elbows," she 
whispered as I tied the first knot.
    It pleased me. Binding her elbows thrust her breasts out and 
up in a most flattering way. I stood and walked around her 
admiringly, then moved close so she could once again take my cock 
in her mouth. 
    Her mouth was hungry, her lips and tongue silken on my 
hardness. I stroked her hair, cradled her face in my hands. She 
was eager to draw an orgasm from me. I did not think I could come 
from her oral attentions alone, could not remember even having 
done so without the knowing touch of her hands on me. But I rode 
the exquisite pleasure she could give and the special thrill of 
seeing her that way until I forgot about "couldn't."
    My eyes were closed, my head thrown back, my whole body 
tensing for release, when she paused just long enough to whisper, 
"Can you see us in the mirror?" 
    I glanced sideways at the bureau. I don't know that I'll ever 
see anything more beautiful than what I saw in reflected there at 
that moment: Linda on her knees before me, naked save for the 
white ropes that held her arms severely behind her, her mouth full 
of my cock and her eyes looking up at me as though to say I give 
you this moment as a gift, because your pleasure is my pleasure, 
because I love you. 
    It was the picture that she wanted me to see, had orchestrated 
free and uncoerced. The sight pushed me over the top in an 
explosive rush that left my whole body trembling. I dropped to my 
knees and shared a salty kiss with her, then quickly unbound her 
arms so that I could feel them around me. 
                                #
    Six weeks later, after much talk, a private shopping trip, and 
some further explorations, Linda formally became my slave. It was 
all symbolic, of course, yet very real. Symbols are real, after 
all. They speak for things that can be expressed no other way. 
    It was sexual theater, very simple, yet very powerful. The 
room was lit only by candles. She came to me naked, unadorned by 
jewelry, and knelt before my chair. I placed a black leather 
collar on her neck and secured it with a silver padlock. She 
looked up at me and her eyes glowed. Somehow, the collar changed 
her.
    "I have something I want to give you," she said. "May I go get 
it?" 
    I had her bring me a glass of wine first, watching her move 
and enjoying her beauty. Then she left the room for a moment, and 
returned carrying something before her. Until she was very close I 
could not see what it was. 
    It was a short-thonged many-stranded whip. She offered it up 
to me on her open palms. The black leather strands were soft and 
supple, the wooden handle shaped like a cock. It was almost a work 
of art.
    "You know I'll use it on you," I said.
    "Yes," she answered.
    I reached down and explored the cleft between her legs. It was 
wet and fragrant with her sweet nectar. "Get on the bed," I said. 
    It took only a few minutes to make her ready. I bound her face 
down and bottom high over the low round rail of the footboard, 
legs spread wide and tied to the legs of the bed. Then I stepped 
back to enjoy the sight, as I knew she wanted me to. Her bound 
hands were between her legs, her fingers already working against 
her swollen clit. Her cheek was pressed against the bedspread, the 
bright red cloth of her gag deep in her mouth. Her eyes were 
closed, and yet communicated her blissful state. 
    I raised the whip and brought it down on her buttocks. She 
jumped and gave a little cry that was muffled by the gag, but her 
fingers never slowed. I varied the time between strokes, varied 
the target -- left cheek, right, upper thighs, full across the ass 
-- never letting her know when to expect the next fall of the 
whip, until I marked the familiar signs of her approaching orgasm.
    Then I began to lash her ass briskly and rhythmically, 
alternating between left and right cheeks, using the cushion of 
her self-pleasure to push her to more intense feelings. When she 
came, the moans and cries could not be contained by the gag, and 
her convulsive movements stressed the knots I had tied. I moved to 
the side of the bed and removed her gag. She raised her head from 
the bedcovers for a kiss. I have never kissed softer, more pliant 
lips. 
    I freed her and made long, slow love with her there on the bed 
where I had whipped her. 
                                #
    We have many more bondage toys now, have become fond of some 
and found others wanting. We have explored different shadings of 
the dominant/submissive dynamic, tested our joint and separate 
fantasies, even reversed roles on occasion. 
    Every variation is a celebration of our diversity and unity, 
for the one essential is the feeling between us. She gives to me 
her trust, a precious gift never to be abused. The trust comes 
from the love that we have, a love that is fully mutual, never 
one-sided. 
    For all the liberties she allows me, my greatest pleasure is 
to pleasure her. When Linda comes, moaning and grasping and 
arching, I am in awe. There is nothing more compelling, nothing 
more gratifying than to know that it is by my touch that she 
achieves such rapture.  
    After an orgasm, she floats for several minutes on an 
exquisite high, and I love to push her higher. Bound, she has had 
more than a dozen orgasms in a span of a half-hour, each more 
shattering and draining than the last, until the sheets are damp 
with perspiration and her body limp with exhaustion. 
    Linda's magic is that she gives me, willingly, what I could 
not and would not dare demand. I give her in return the means to 
surrender to her body's imperatives and fully experience the world 
of sensation. 
    It is the happiest of contracts, with both parties enriched. 
There aren't many games with two winners. I consider myself 
blessed to have found one with her. 

==================================================================
A version of this story was published by VARIATIONS in June, 1989 
as NAKED OFFERING by Daniel Hart. This is the original unedited
text, as the author meant it to be read.
==================================================================