A True Bondage Tale
My Significant Other is a real fan of a certain entertainer. I don't mind – he is pretty talented, and I have enjoyed watching his work and even going to the Big Apple—twice!--to see him in person.
So imagine the delight when she discovered that he was coming to a nearby city for an appearance. And imagine her disappointment when she learned that the event was already sold out.
I decided that I could have a little fun with this. Slipping up to the bedroom, I changed into Cynthia – powder-blue skirted suit, beige platform pumps with 6 inch heels, stockings and garters, blonde wig, full makeup. I wrote the Star's name on a couple of old ticket stubs left over from another show, concealed them on my person, then stalked out to where my S.O. sat disconsolately.
“Poor girl,” I said. “Won't get to see [star's name] tonight. Too bad for you .But I scored two tickets to his show, and I'm going to go. The only way you'll get ahold of those tickets”--I smiled archly --”Is if you knock me unconscious, tie me up, and search me for them.” So saying, I turned and sauntered over to the mirror, where I began primping my hair, seemingly oblivious to whatever she might do.
My S.O. Is no dummy. Although taken aback at first, she quietly came up behind me and struck me over the head with a rag-stuffed sock, as hard as a woman who is not going to see her favorite star could. I gasped, and toppled to the floor, my arms conveniently stretched out beside me.
The first thing she did was look in my purse, as I knew she would. No tickets, but there was several pieces of rope. Pulling my arms up, she tied my hands tightly behind my back. Then she tied my ankles together. This was my cue. I moaned, fluttering my false eyelashes as I came to.
“What are you doing!” I demanded, tugging at the rope binding my hands.
She was, of course, doing exactly what I wanted her to do. Rolling my onto my side, she began searching her captive. Unbuttoning the jacket of my suit, she reached inside, giving my tits a friendly squeeze and finding one ticket in my bra. Then she reached up my skirt. It took her rather longer to find the other ticket in my stocking top. She silenced my angry complaints by gagging me with a knotted silk scarf, then went off supposidly to get ready to go to the show herself.
She came back after a few minutes to stand over me and laugh at my predicament – disheveled, bound and gagged, and definitely not going anywhere. She stalked around my helpless body treating me to a delicious floor-level view of the three inch spike heels she had put on. Then, with a flirtatious wave, she headed out – but only as far as the next room, where she watched a DVD of her object of desire.
I was left to struggle against the ropes binding me, rolling around on the floor, managing to sit up against the front of the loveseat, my tied legs extended in front of me, my high spike heels lashed together. My black bra showed beneath my unbuttoned suit jacket, and my skirt had ridden up to my garter snaps—and I couldn't make adjustments with my hands tied behind my back. I felt like a beautiful, helpless, sexy, bound woman.
If our little scene had been real, I would have lain there, tied up, for three hours or more. In actuality, it was more like thirty minutes. My S.O. came back in, gushing about how wonderful [star name] had been, how handsome, and so forth. Finally, she untied me. I got to my feet as gracefully as I could, straightened my suit and buttoned my jacket, patted my hair. Then I smiled and said, “I hear that [other star] is coming to town.”
“Oh?” she said, concealing her eagerness.
“Oh, yes. And this time, if I get tickets, I won't be so blonde-dumb as to hide them in my bra. You'll have to torture the location out of me.”
“Whips, chains, a rack? That can be arranged,” she said.
The End
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10.07.14