textfiles/sex/EROTICA/T/testing.txt

			 Testing Bounds
			      by
			   Javahead

We seem to have our best conversations in bed. 

Not always about sex, either; we've talked about everything from world
history to childhood dreams.  There is something reassuring about laying
in the dark, warm and comfortable, with someone you care about beside
you.  You can *feel* their presence, but you can't see them. 

Somehow, the anonymous familiarity allows you to talk about things you
wouldn't dare say if you could see the other's face, and admit feelings
that would otherwise be taboo.  There is a comfort in knowing someone is
listening, but not immediately judging, what you say. 

Still, we probably talk about sex more than anything else.  Why not? We
both like it, and - knowing us - we are probably either going to make
love soon, or are cuddling after having finished a session. 

Tonight, we were discussing fantasies.  I don't think we could have
discussed it as easily anywhere else. 

Even in fantasies there are hierarchies, though.  There are the kinky-
but-possible, the possible-but-hard-to-bring-up, and the
hot-but-I-never-REALLY-want-it.  Everyone knows what I mean, I believe. 
Some fantasies are easy to admit to; others, because they expose too
much of your inner world, require great trust to tell anyone else.  The
third category, paradoxically, is easier to admit to because you *know*
you don't want it to happen. 

By this time, we know each others simpler fantasies quite well, and have
lived them out to a great extent.  Instead, we were listing category 3,
the hot-but-not-real. 

"Rape.  I can imagine some man finding me in bed, and forcing me to come
despite myself."

"Really?"

"Of course not *really*! A rape fantasy is one thing - *being* raped I
wouldn't wish on anyone.  Admit it, though - haven't you ever fantasized
about ravishing some helpless woman?"

"Well .  .  .  Yes.  Prepare to meet your fate!"

She laughed and fended me off.  "Not yet, boy! What's your impossible
fantasy?"

"You want to know? Sometimes I imagine watching you in bed with someone
else.  I don't know if I could handle it in real life, but the image ... 
that's hot.  Your turn, wench.  What do *you* dream about?"

"I .  .  .  don't have anything else, really." Just from her tone of
voice I could tell she was blushing. 

"Nothing else, or nothing you want to talk about, sweetheart? Come on,
out with it.  I won't laugh, I won't be disgusted, and I won't bite -
unless you want me to, anyway."

A pause, and she almost whispered.  "You could tie me up."

I rolled over and put an encouraging arm around her.  Even after
cracking her reserve, it took a long while before she gave me the clear
picture; she had obviously thought about it for a good long time, but
despite my reassurances was afraid I would think her too kinky or -
worse! - silly. 

If anything, I was impressed; she had spent a *lot* of time thinking
about this, and she knew precisely what she wanted.  It was the feeling
of helplessness she craved; knowing that she *was* helpless, and unable
to escape, while I slowly teased and plundered her body, was the whole
point. 

I could see why it had been hard for her to admit; she is normally one
of the least helpless, most independent, people I know.  I was touched
that she trusted me enough to admit her dream.  Also, not too
surprisingly, rather turned on.  What man has not fantasized, at least
once, about having an attractive woman at his complete mercy?

We didn't talk any more that night; we had both become aroused enough
that talk was unnecessary, and by the time we had exhausted our
immediate urges we were too tired to do anything other than cuddle and
sleep. 

Neither one of us discussed it the next morning.  She was unsure, I
think, if I remembered what she had said, and was reluctant to bring it
up again.  For my part, I remembered it quite clearly; I also remembered
that it being a surprise, "against her will," was a big part of what
attracted her.  If I wanted to give her what she had asked for, I would
have to convince her that I did *not* remember. 

Over the next few weeks, I behaved as if that particular conversation
had never taken place - at least, when we were together.  But during my
normal errands - trips to and from work, shopping, even to the library -
I gradually accumulated some out of the normal items.  A month and a
half after our bedtime conference, I was ready. 

I chose my time as carefully as I knew how: A friday night, with the
entire weekend ahead of us; no undone chores, visiting friends, or
family obligations.  I wanted all of her attention, and had removed
everything that I could think of that might distract her. 

I thought it best to strike when she was already feeling most helpless;
I wanted her subdued and at my mercy before she knew what was happening. 
Fortunately, her evening routine provided the perfect opportunity. 
Every night, an hour before bedtime, she would start her evening
exercises, going from there immediately into the shower.  As usual, she
emerged from the bathroom while still toweling herself off. 

It was almost too easy.  She was using both hands to dry her hair, and
between her raised arms and the towel was effectively blindfolded. 
Indeed, her position was an unplanned for bit of luck.  Before she even
noticed that I was approaching, I had fastened the padded cuffs around
both wrists. 

"What .  .  .  Are you .  .  .  You're *crazy*."

By the time she had gotten that far, I had her wrists shackled together
to the head of the bed.  I had already strapped the ankle cuffs to the
two footposts, leaving a fair amount of slack.  Though she struggled and
kicked a bit, I soon had them fastened as well.  Ignoring her indignant
sputters, I carefully tightened the ankle straps.  I wanted her
comfortable, but completely immobilized.  It was only when I was
completely satisfied that I stepped back to admire my work. 

She was a lovely sight.  Her body made an upside-down figure "Y" on the
bed.  The position, with her arms drawn up above head and her legs drawn
far apart, emphasized both her slenderness and her strength.  While I
watched, she pulled as strongly as she could; though her muscles stood
out in high relief, nothing gave. 

I walked to the head of the bed and smiled at her, absently admiring the
way that her upraised arms tightened her breasts against her chest.  She
did her best to glare at me; I might have even believed it was real if
she could have controlled the grin that kept slipping back into her
scowl. 

"You rat! Let me up from here!" The giggle in her voice wasn't terribly
convincing, either. 

"Do you remember the time we were discussing fantasies?" I said
conversationally.  "You never asked me what I thought of yours.  Perhaps
you never really though about what you were getting yourself into" - a
blatant lie, I was sure - "but most men would simply *love* to have a
woman helpless like this.  Wouldn't you agree?"

Stubborn silence from her.  I continued in a dreamy voice "Just imagine
.  .  .  All helpless, displayed like this, available for anything I
might feel like doing, free to be touched, and prodded, sampled, tasted,
used how I like, as often as I like .  .  ."

As my litany continued, I gently stroked her with my fingertips.  By the
time I was halfway through, her nipples were as hard and erect as I had
ever seen them.  I experimentally ran a finger up her slit.  I was
pleased, but not terribly surprised, to find that she was already quite
wet.  Time to throw her a curve ball; even if she was really the one in
control, I didn't want her to realize it just yet. 

"Of course, I don't *have* to be nice to you," I continued in the same
dreamy tone.  I gave her already erect clit a light pinch.  She jerked
in surprise. 
 
"After all,what can you do to stop me?" This time, I drew one of her
nipples into my mouth, suckling gently for a bit before giving her a
sharp nip.  This time, she gave a quiet yelp, as well. 

"Why don't you think about the .  .  .  possibilities .  .  .  a while?"

I stepped out of the room to get the rest of my supplies. 

In reality, I could have been back in just a few minutes, but I gave her
over a quarter of an hour to think about it: long enough to get nervous,
but not long enough to begin to relax again. 

I wanted the full helplessness of her position to sink in: Naked, on
display, unable to move more than an inch or two in any direction.  No
matter how much she trusted me, and how much she wanted this, she would
have been more than human if a few doubts didn't start to creep in. 

I had given some though about how best to keep her in the mood.  Knowing
her, any of the more outre' bondage accessories would be a mistake at
this point.  Right now, I wanted to keep the mood as firmly rooted in
reality as possible, unsure if I was playing or deadly serious. 

Accordingly, I was still normally dressed when I came back in.  There is
a certain advantage in being fully clothed when the person you are
dealing with is naked and vulnerable; doctors and football coaches get
much of their authority from it.  In this case, it also served to keep
her unaware of how aroused I was.  The longer I could pretend to that
dreamy distance, the longer I could spin out her uncertainties. 

Her head, the only part of her body that she could still freely move,
turned to watch me as I came in.  She silently watched as I set up a
wooden tray beside the bed.  The angle must have made it difficult for
her to see clearly, but she seemed rather puzzled by the items that she
could make out.  It *was* a rather odd assortment, after all:  An ice
bucket, a pair of unbleached beeswax candles in brass candlesticks,
a half dozen feathers of various sorts, a pair of screw-adjustable
alligator clamps with small bells fastened to them, a handful of
clothespins, a shaving mug complete with brush and soap, a pair of
barber scissors, a razor strop, a straight razor, and several hand
towels.

I produced a box of matches from my pocket and carefully lit the
candles, placing one at each end of our bookcase headboard.  From my
bedside stand I pulled a riding crop, holding it up so that she could
see it plainly.  Her eyes widened quite satisfactorily; once I was sure
that she had seen it, though, I placed it down neatly on the end of the
tray.  Instead, I picked up the strop and the straight razor.

I was proud of that straight razor - it was over a hundred years old and
had belonged to my great-grandfather.  Most of my props had been
purchased just for this occasion, but I would have had a difficult time
finding a razor as intimidating, or of as good a quality, as this. I
rather doubted that my great-grandfather had used it for what I planned
to.  It easily accomplished its first task - she was terrified even
before I opened it.  I ignored her reaction and began to strop it.

Stropping a razor produces a soothing, monotonous sound.  For several
minutes, I lost myself in it - I have always loved edged tools of all
kinds, from razors to axes, and am the only person I know who rather
enjoys sharpening lawn mower blades.  At the end I rather theatrically
tested the edge on my forearm.  Unsurprisingly, it effortlessly removed
a swath of hair.

I spared a glance for my audience.  Her whole body was covered with a
faint sheen of perspiration, and her eyes were glued on the blade.  She
looked *very* relieved when I folded it and placed it carefully on the
table.  I gave her a benign smile before gathering up the mug, brush,
and soap and disappearing into the bathroom.

I ran the water till it was hot, and filled the sink.  I dropped a
couple of wash cloths in to soak, picked up a bath towel, and returned
to the bedroom.  The bath towel, unfolded, I slid underneath her hips.
I was pleased with myself; I had left enough just enough slack.  By now,
I had expected her to be full of questions, but she had evidently opted
for silent defiance.  Perhaps she was just afraid of giggling when she
should be cowering. I ran my hand possessively up her side to her breast
before going back to the bathroom.

I filled the mug with hot water, added a little soap, and quickly worked
up a froth.  Squeezing most of the hot water out of the steaming cloths,
I folded them.  With the washcloths in one hand and the mug of lather in
the other, I returned to my captive.

I began by picking up the scissors and showing them to her.  Her eyes
were riveted on them as I slowly opened and closed them.  Worry flashed
over into terror as I brought them near a nipple; she shivered
uncontrollably as I touched the cold metal of the closed scissors to her
flesh.  The shivering only increased as I touched it to random locations
down her side and belly, redoubling when I reached the small nub of her
clit.  This was only a preamble though, however pleasant.  Almost
reluctantly, I began to trim her pubic hair. 

She has never had a large amount of hair, and I soon had it reduced to a
short fuzz. After brushing off the loose strands, I covered her crotch
with the first of the hot towels.  By now, they were just pleasantly
warm, though she *did* jump a bit as I put it on.  I stroked her head
soothingly for a few moments before turning to the shaving mug.

The lather had subsided a bit, so I whipped it up again before removing the
hot cloth.  Working quickly, I applied the lather and reached for the
razor. 

Shaving is something you never should hurry, even when you *aren't*
shaving your beloved 's pussy.  It's amazing how few people have learned
the correct way - first, with the grain, then across the grain.  Going
against the grain of the hairs gives a close shave, but makes it far too
easy to give a nasty cut.  I hummed happily to myself as I worked.  As
slow and cautious as I was, I soon had her crotch as bare and smooth as
the day she was born.  I wiped up all the excess lather with the first
cloth, and unfolded the second cloth to cover my work site while I
returned the shaving gear to the bathroom. 

I took my time, carefully pouring the lather down the drain and cleaning
mug, brush, and razor.  On my second trip, I removed the wash cloth and
pulled the towel from underneath her, taking them back into the
bathroom.  I stopped at the door to admire the effect; somehow, the
absence of pubic hair made her look much more naked and helpless.

She seemed to feel the same way; at least, the look she gave me seemed
much less defiant than her earlier glare.  It crossed over into open
fear as I picked up the riding crop.

So far, everything I had done had been mostly mind games: her position
on the bed, her nakedness, the deliberate introduction of props, even
the shaving had been chosen to break down her mental barriers rather
than provide sensation.  Now that the barriers were down, I could move
on into the physical realm.  But before I moved further, I needed to
give her some reassurance, something to cling to so that she could enjoy
rather than fear what I had in store. 

"Darling.  Look at me.  Do you hear me?"  She stared, but said nothing.
"I need an answer.  Do you understand what I am saying?"

After a long pause, she responded. "Yes . . . I hear you."  Her voice
was hoarse.

"Are you all right?" After a moment, she gave a nod.

"Do you want me to stop?" A vigorous shake of her head.

"Good.  I'm pleased.  I will continue, then.  But remember, until this
is over, you are in my power.  I can torment you, I can use you, I can
ignore you if I choose.  I may very well take you to your limits, but
I'll try to avoid asking you for more than you can give.  Do you trust
me to do this?"

She thought this over for some time before responding with a shy smile.
"I trust you . . . lover."

I smiled back. "Good.  But I'm giving you an out, sweetheart.  Your
safeword is . . . platypus."

She looked confused, so I elaborated.  "If you get to the point that you
can't continue, that you don't trust me, that you are too afraid to go
on . . . say that word.  I'll stop, and let you free, and tonight will
be over.  We'll discuss *why* you needed to call it;  until we are both
comfortable about it we won't play again.  Now, I want you to tell me
the safeword."

"Platypus."

"Good girl.  Now remember, only use it if you absolutely must.  Ready to
continue?"

"Yes!"

"Yes, *what*?"

"Yes, please?"

"Better, much better.  I *does* pay to be polite with a man who has you
tied to the bed, stretched open, and naked, doesn't it?"

As I spoke, I ran a hand up her body, starting at her angle, up the
inner thigh, her newly-shaven vulva, belly, breast, cheek, and her
outstretched arms. 

"Especially to a man who has a crop in his hand.  I can be very gentle"
- as I said this, I ran the tip of the crop up her slit and paused to
examine it - "my, you *are* wet, aren't you?"

"Or I can be a little rougher -" I gave one of her swollen nipples a
flick with the crop, just hard enough to sting. 

"Or, of course, I can flog you." This time I gave a full armed swing of
the crop, landing it on the bed just a couple of inches from her ribs
with a highly satisfactory *Thump*.  From her frantic jerk, she had
expected it to land on her.  She might believe, intellectually, that I
wouldn't hurt her, but she couldn't *know* that.  To give her what I had
promised, I needed to keep her on that borderline.

If I had been doing this soley for my own satisfaction, I would have
been disgusted with myself; it was too close to an adolescent male
fantasy: a beautiful naked women, strapped helpless to the bed, subject
to my every whim.  Well, I *was* enjoying myself - but despite
appearances, she was the one getting the most out of it.  I hoped that I
was right about the rest of what she wanted.

To give myself more time to think, I stood beside the bed, lightly
tracing the shape of her body with the crop.  At first, she flinched
away, but I soon had her calm, even relaxed.  Occasionally, I would run
my free hand up her body. She tensed the first time I cupped her mons,
but repetition rendered even that routine.  After a few minutes, she
appeared almost hypnotized - unaware of anything but the immediate
sensations.

I had given a good deal of thought *why* this appealed to her.  She is
normally a very self-controlled, confident woman;  I have never seen her
totally unselfconscious.  Though she enjoys sex, there is always a
certain . . . restraint in her responses; everything she does has to
pass her internal censor.  When she can get past the selfconsciousness,
she tends to be a noisy, greedy lover, but it can be a hard barrier to
surmount.  Though I enjoyed playing up to her fears tonight, I suspected
that, for her, the main thing was being helpless, being *forced* to
enjoy herself. Even her rape fantasy centered on that - "forcing me to
come despite myself."

She wouldn't know till the end, but half of my props were just that -
window dressing, if you will.  She and I had read enough bondage erotica
over the years that she knew what things like clamps, hot wax, and
clothespins could do - exquisite pain, without any permanent damage. 
Perhaps some other time we might try them out, but tonight their main
purpose was keep her off balance.  I'll be honest - I'm a chicken. 
Having her like this, helpless, bare, lewdly displayed, was immensely
arousing; the idea of actually *hurting* her, causing pain, was even
more disturbing.  I just hoped I was a good enough actor to keep her
from realizing it.

Of course, a *little* bit of pain can be enjoyable, in the right
circumstances.  I learned early on that, unlike most women I've known,
that when she is aroused enough she *likes* having her nipples handled
roughly.  For her, it seems to transmute into intense pleasure, rather
than pain, and I had planned for that.  She certainly *seemed* aroused
enough - her nipples were erect, her inner lips swollen and open - so I
turned briefly to my tray to retrieve the clamps.

I briefly admired them - they were vicious looking things,
spring-closed, with toothed jaws.  I had carefully adjusted their
setscrews so that they remained at least a third of an inch open and
fastened a little brass bell to each one.  I held one up in her line of
sight. 

"Honey!"  I had to repeat it a couple of times before she seemed to
focus.  "Do you see this?"

She suddenly seemed much more aware.

"What do you plan to do with - aah!"

She broke off as I clipped it onto her engorged left nipple.  I had
judged it about right - it seemed tight enough to be pain/pleasurable, 
but didn't seem likely to cause harm.  She gasped when I flicked the
bell lightly with my fingernail.  I waited till she started to speak and
showed her the second clamp.  I was proud of her;  I had expected her to
protest, but she merely swallowed, took a deep breath, and raised the
unadorned breast as far as she could.

"Can you ring the bells for me, darling?"

A moment later, the bells chimed, followed by a small gasp.  I chuckled
- she hadn't realized that the bells were heavy enough that ringing them
would give her nipples a twinge.  I smiled down at her and mimed tugging
on the clamps; momentarily, I could see whites all around her eyes.

Instead, I reached for the feathers.  I had several different varieties:
downy ostrich feathers; long, slender, pheasant feathers; the rather
stiff and robust feathers from a goose's wing.

I started by lightly tickling her body with an ostrich feather.  To an
outside observer, it would have looked like a bizarre version of dusting
the furniture.  Though it looked impressive, it soon became evident it
wasn't having much effect - she isn't very ticklish, and she was able to
ignore it with ease.  Even a direct attack on her sex didn't work - she
was wet enough by now that the feather was almost immediately soggy.

The pheasant feather was much more successful.  It was soft, but just
stiff enough to have the desired effect.  A concentrated attack on her
undefended armpits caused her to start writhing - till the bells clamped
to her nipples began to ring.  After the first reflexive jump, she did
her best to ignore me, with only the occasional chime when she was
unable to totally control herself.

Once I was convince that she had mastered tickling, I shifted my points
of attack.  Between her excitement and the clamps her nipples were
hypersensitive, as a few tentative flicks of the feather demonstrated. 
Even the gentlest of touches provoked a violent response.   That
established, I moved away - she seemed perilously close to loosing
control.  Instead, I started at her ankle and began to work my way up
her legs.

Her legs, especially her inner thighs, proved a perfect target: not
quite as sensitive as her ribs or breasts, but responsive enough that
she could not just ignore it.  Changes in tempo or location could be
counted on to provoke answering gasps and chiming, becoming more intense
as I worked my way closer to her open vulva.  This was what I had been
working toward all along.  By now, her labia were fully engorged, open,
and glistening.  Her clitoris had emerged from its sheath, swollen and
ruddy.  I paused momentarily to enjoy the sight before reaching out with
my feather and giving a delicate *flick* to its tip.

Her reaction was all that I could have hoped for.  If she had not been
fastened so securely her convulsion would have taken her off the bed; as
it was, I could hear the bedframe creak alarmingly through the bells
peal.  Even without the element of surprise, each subsequent touch
brought a response nearly as violent.  I would have stopped, if I had
not seen that she was doing her best to push her groin up to meet the
feather; against all expectation, she had reached the point where pain
and pleasure began to merge.

For the next several minutes, I did my best to push her over the top,
varying the rhythm and intensity of my attack from slow and gentle
stroking to fast, almost frantic, flicks.  Frustratingly, she seemed to
just hover on the edge of orgasm, but nothing I did could push her over.
Or perhaps I was telling myself that so I could justify my next action.
As I had longed to do all evening, I put the feather down and replaced
it with my mouth.

We seem to be an anomaly among couples - I enjoy giving oral sex, but
she is reluctant to receive it.  Self-control again - she has her
loudest orgasms when I eat her out, and it embarrasses her.  But now, she
had no choice.  I had spent the best part of the last hour staring into
The World's Most Beautify Pussy, smelling its musk, and I was through
with self-restraint.  She was bound, helpless, and I could feast as much
as I wanted.

I don't know *what* it was she was trying to say - it may have been no
more than the first of the moans that blended with the sound of the
bells. As she had with the feather, she was pushing her cunt into my
face as hard as the restraints would let her; without their aid, I might
have found breathing difficult.  It's impossible to adequately describe
the taste and smell of a healthy pussy to someone who has never had the
chance to experience it - "musky",  "sharp", "pungent", and "tangy" are
all true, but seem too pale and clinical.  My face was soon glistening
with her juices.

I didn't have long to enjoy myself; all too soon, I sensed a new urgency
in her movements.  Before I had time to do more than notice this, she
slipped over the edge into her climax.  Her moans rose into a
full-throated, almost agonized, shriek of triumph and cut off abruptly. 
For a moment, every muscle in her frame stood out in stark relief,
before she collapsed into an equally-dramatic state of relaxation.

For the first time since we had started, I wasn't in the spotlight; for
the moment she seemed unaware of anything external.  I stood for minute,
just admiring her beauty.  Her eyes were closed and her head was thrown
back, surrounded by a Medusa's tangle of hair.  Her body, as lewdly
spread as before, was now sprawled loosely rather than tensed; her skin
was covered with sweat, while her gaping sex was awash with her juices. 
I have never desired her more than I did then.

I bent over her, and gently unfastened the nipple clamps - they had been
on long enough, and I feared bruising.  I may have been rougher than I
intended, for she opened her eyes and tried to focus on me.

"Tha . . ."  She stopped, swallowed, and tried again. "That was . . .
more than I expected."

"Was it too much?"  I couldn't keep a note of concern out of my voice.

"I had a safeword, remember? Platypus, platypus, platypus."  She had
recovered enough to make a face at me before continuing.  "I just didn't
think that anyone could know me *that* well."

"Perhaps I was fulfilling a few fantasies myself."

She smiled happily. "Perhaps you were.  Hey, I just realized - you never
opened the ice bucket - what's it for?  I spent a lot of time worrying
about that thing!"

I laughed at her.  "That was the idea - well, actually, I've got
strawberries in there.  Let me untie you and we'll share them."

"Not just yet!  I want you to feed me"

"All right, feed you first.  I'll untie you after."

"Not *just* after, lover.  Think you've got enough strength left to
ravish me while I'm helpless?"

I did.