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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.

==================================================================



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