Archive-name: Bondage/kidnap3.txt
Archive-author:
Archive-title: Kidnap - Part 3

 
It was while I was tied under the car that I started wondering
about my sexual preferences.  Was this really a way to get my
kicks?  I mean, autoeroticism is one thing, but auto eroticism?
This wasn't fun at all.  Worse yet, it wasn't even arousing me.
Hmm -- perhaps I should explain how I got there.
 
This all took place some time after the breakup with John.  Roger
and I hit it off very well, though not without a few strains.
For one thing, we found that it generally didn't work well to
spend the night together during the week; being together all day
at work, and then all evening, was just too much togetherness.
But weekends, and an occasional exception, were great fun, and
our holidays together were marvelous.  We tried to keep matters
cool at work (except for the time I really chained him to his
desk, but I'll get to that later); some of the staff knew what
was going on, but it didn't seem to affect morale as best we
could tell.
 
We switched off, in no particular order, between his house and
the farmhouse.  His house was great for me, because of all the
new toys, and the farmhouse was great for both of us, because it
was intended as a love nest.  Not that his place was far behind
-- Roger let his artistic talents really flourish.  For example,
at the moment he's building a genuine dungeon in the basement.  I
don't mean just a cell, like I have at the farmhouse; I mean as
authentic-looking a dungeon as he can come up with.  And I sup-
pose I don't even mean "authentic," I mean something redolent of
old B-movies -- after all, that's our image of what a dungeon is.
So the walls appear to be stone, and there are stuffed rats in
strategic places, one or two of which are even equipped to pro-
duce sound effects.  There are torches stuck in the wall, and
"cobwebs," and so on.  There are several cells, all fully func-
tional and well-equipped with chains and ring bolts.  Does he
plan on bringing another woman down there with me?  Another man?
Another couple?  He won't say; Roger hates to talk about a
project before it's done.  I wouldn't even have known about the
dungeon plans, except that I went wandering around his house one
of the first mornings I was there -- Roger was still spread-
eagled to the bed, so he couldn't really stop me.  The torture
chamber, I'm told, will be in the laundry room -- games are one
thing, but having clean clothes is still important.  That's one
of the parts that isn't finished yet; with Roger, though, I'm not
worried about more pain than I find stimulating.
 
While waiting for the dungeon to be finished, we often played in
his "barn," in the living room.  Last time, I mentioned the
haylift; I didn't realize all the ways he'd thought of to use it.
A couple of weeks ago, for example, he tied my hands to my sides,
tied my ankles together, and lifted me up by my feet.  Different
enough, and not too hard to take, till he told me I was staying
that way all night.  I was surprised, and a bit concerned; that
didn't sound like fun.  But he wasn't done.  Next, Roger put a
strap under my arms, and raised my body up to the underside of
the beam.  Another around my waist, my thighs, and my head, and I
was nicely supported.  Much better, but he still wasn't finished
with me.  Sitting on top of the beam, Roger adjusted the bonds on
my legs, so that they were splayed on either side of the beam.
Then -- and I'm not kidding -- he dragged in a makeshift scaf-
fold, lay on it at almost my height, and started licking me.  I
barely kept from screaming; I was being stimulated all over, and
I not only couldn't get loose, if I had I'd have fallen eight
feet to the floor!  After a bit of that, he went back to the
balcony, crawled out on the beam, and caressed me from that side.
Finally, he went back to the scaffold and tried for penetration,
but without much luck.  He settled for moving the scaffold so I
could return the oral favor.
 
That was the pattern of our sex lives -- who could think of the
most imaginative ways to tie up the other?  Once, when I was a
bit annoyed at him -- he was late for a dinner date -- I decided
some mild revenge was in order.  I waited until we were alone in
the office late one night -- business had picked up, which is
both good and bad -- wandered in, and announced a kidnap.  Roger
knew the rules, and complied when I told him to strip.  He was a
bit surprised when I started chaining him to his desk, but again,
that was part of the game.  I spread-eagled him on his desk, and
after suitable foreplay mounted him.  Then, and only then, did I
tell him his fate:  that I wasn't going to release him until the
next morning!  On that note, I left.
 
Roger, of course, was a bit upset, but he was also curious what I
was going to do.  He knew me well enough to know that I wouldn't
let him be discovered like that -- that would be against our
rules -- but would I do more than show up early?  I let him stew
all night.  About 8:00, he probably started worrying seriously.
His secretary seemed to be the type who thought ordinary sex was
evil, let alone what we did.  To be sure, I don't even know if
that sort of naive mind would even recognize this as sexual --
but nudity was also bad; apparently, if we'd been intended to go
around without any clothes, we'd have been born that way.  No
matter -- efficiency is what counts in a secretary, not personal
beliefs, however weird they are.
 
I did more than time things carefully; I watched from my window
till the secretary got to the door.  Roger must have heard it
open and really start to sweat!  I then ran past the anteroom,
shouting "Don't disturb us for anything; we've got an important
meeting!" and on in to Roger's office.  His desk was out of the
line of sight, so there was no exposure.  We did "meet," though
we had to be rather more silent than was our custom.  I jokingly
threatened Roger with a gag, but it wasn't really necessary.
About 10:30 or so, I finally let him go.
 
Such was the pattern of our lives.  A few weeks ago, though, he
told me he wasn't going to be around for the Fourth; he wanted to
visit his sister.  I was disappointed -- a four-day weekend
sounded like fun -- but going with him didn't appeal to me; his
sister is as straight as they come.  We'd even have been con-
signed to separate beds!  So I drove him to the airport, and
headed up to the farmhouse alone -- I figured I might as well
work on some of my own construction projects.  It was late when I
got there, but I still took the time to play by myself with a few
toys before falling asleep.  And, as happened that time with
John, I awoke to find my legs chained together, and my hand being
fastened behind my back.
 
My first reaction, of course, was panic.  I didn't waste energy
screaming; I just kicked out.  No dice; I was being held to well.
But there was no cursing, no violence; instead, whoever was
holding me was fondling me, gently, and in my favorite places.
But I still didn't know who it was -- it was utterly and com-
pletely black in the room.
 
If you're from the city, like I am, you're not used to total
darkness.  In the city, there are always streetlights, or passing
cars.  Out here, there was none of that.  Usually, I could see a
bit at night by the light from my clock, but my captor had un-
plugged it.  "Roger?" I asked.
 
No answer, just caresses in a way that only Roger had ever done
-- a rhythmic sort of teasing of my nipples.  I wiggled from
pleasure, but decided to test things.  "The anklecuff is hurting
me; could you loosen it?"  I added our release word.
 
Instantly, whoever he was -- no doubt that it was a male; I could
feel that!  -- released my body, and adjusted the manacle.  That
settled one thing -- it certainly wasn't John.  But was it Roger?
I'd seen him get on the plane, hadn't I?  But if it wasn't Roger,
who was it?  And how had he gotten in, past my alarm?
 
I asked him who he was; rather than answer me, he rolled me onto
my back, and used his lips for more important matters.  My mouth,
my breasts, the inside of my thighs -- I was practically deliri-
ous with pleasure.  But it didn't feel like Roger; the texture of
his facial skin felt wrong, to say nothing of his style of making
love.  Finally, he rolled me up onto my knees, put a few pillows
under my stomach, and put my head down.  I knew what was coming
next, of course, and moaned in anticipation.  But he paused, just
holding me gently.
 
It took me a moment to figure out what was going on.  My captor,
whoever it was, was waiting for my permission to proceed.  I was
certain that if I told him to stop, and used the release word, he
would.  But I didn't want to stop, not after a buildup like that.
I told him to please go ahead, and quickly!  Instead, he did
something even more curious -- he let me down, got up from the
bed, and vanished.  The light went on in the living room, and
music filled the house -- one of Roger's favorite pieces, on the
stereo.  The lights went out, and whoever it was returned.
Again, he started licking and caressing me, while I writhed in my
chains.  I wanted to hold him, I wanted to lick him, I wanted to
engulf him, but I couldn't move.  I moaned, and pulled against my
bonds, and pressed my body against his as best I could.  Finally,
finally, he rolled me onto my knees again, and this time he
didn't stop.
 
We drifted off to sleep together, back to his front, my chained
hands holding him where we wanted me to.  My last thought before
I dozed off was that in the morning, I'd be able to see him.
 
 
==============================================================
 
 
I awoke in the morning to find I wasn't going to learn who was in
bed next to me -- I'd been blindfolded.  I said, "Good morning,
whoever you are.  Are we going to play more games today?"
 
He was silent, but immediately unchained my legs and led me to
the bathroom.  It's an odd feeling to be treated like a baby, to
have someone else tend you in the bathroom, but it was nothing
new to me -- this was hardly the first time I'd awakened bound.
And, of course, I wasn't surprised when his hand wandered towards
my breast after wiping me.  It's hard to make wiping someone
erotic, but he manage quite well, thank you -- I was tempted to
head back to bed.
 
I didn't, though; I wanted to satisfy hungers of another sort
first.  "Breakfast?" I asked.
 
He responded by putting a leash around my neck and leading me to
the kitchen.  He was considerate about it, though; when we came
to a door or a turn, where I might stub a toe, he took my arm and
guided me around the obstacle.  Along the way, he ran his fingers
up my spine, in just the way -- and in just the musical rhythm --
that Roger would do.  Was this Roger?  I was beginning to think
it was.
 
Breakfast was already prepared; if it wasn't Roger, he'd been
well-briefed, because everything was just as I liked it.  He fed
me, of course, even holding up the coffee cup whenever I asked
for it.  I decided to try a test.  "Can I have some yogurt?" I
asked.  There were two containers, a large open carton of blue-
berry that Roger had brought last weekend, and some vanilla.  I
despise blueberry, but would a stranger know that?  I rarely eat
yogurt for breakfast, but maybe that wasn't in the briefing.  No
such luck -- a moment or two later, a spoonful of vanilla yogurt
was entering my mouth.  A moment later came a blueberry yogurt
kiss -- he knew it was a test!
 
Dessert was more fun, though I had to wait a while for him to
clean up.  There's that advantage to being bound -- someone else
has to do the dishes.  Of course, having to wait on your knees,
with your legs chained again and a leash holding your head to the
floor takes away some of the pleasure.  And he wasn't quick about
the chores, mostly because he kept pausing to rub or kiss my
breasts and back.  But it was worth waiting for; when he fin-
ished, he carried me back to the bed, put me on my knees and lay
down in front of me.  I didn't need to be told what to do; I bent
over and started licking and kissing him.
 
I don't know how long I spent at it; sometimes, I wiggled around
to use my hands instead; sometimes, I lay down to use my whole
body; sometimes, I just moaned and tried to pull my hands free to
hug him.  He wasn't just lying there, either; after the first few
minutes, his hands and mouth were as busy as mine.  Eventually,
he gently laid me on my back, unlocked my legs, and brought us to
a peak.
 
We lay like that for a while before I stirred.  "These handcuffs
are rather uncomfortable to lie on, you know; could you possibly
chain me in a different position?"
 
Instantly, he jumped up and rolled me over.  But rather than
unlock me right away, he got out a few cable ties, and used them
to bind my hands.  Only when they were secure did he unlock the
handcuffs.  I groaned.  Arms aren't that much better when you're
laying on your back.  And I expected to be laying on my back a
lot that weekend; he seemed to have one thing in mind.  In that I
was both right and wrong -- he varied positions a lot, but about
only time my hands weren't bound behind me was when he tied me
under that stupid car.  And his body still didn't feel like
Roger's.
 
We lay there for a while like that, though he got up briefly to
put on some more music.  It was the radio this time, which pro-
vided less evidence.  We snuggled together; he read, and I
thought.  Was this Roger?  Should I stop the charade, one way or
another, and find out?  I was certain my captor would honor a
request to release me; I was less certain that he'd do it in a
way that would let me learn his identity.  Did I care?  Should I
care?  Physically, I had no complaints; the sex was wonderful,
and everything was according to my rules.  And whoever that was
next to me, Roger had obviously planned this, and presumably was
deriving pleasure from it.  Did it matter that it was indirect?
If you make love in a forest and no one hears it, do you have an
orgasm?  The analogy doesn't hold up, but you know what I mean.
 
I came to no conclusions before lunch.  The arrangements were
much like those at breakfast, though with a minor new wrinkle:  I
was bound to the chair at my waist, and my captor actually put a
bib on me!  Don't laugh too much -- the strap was just more
bondage, and a bib is simply practical when you're being fed by
someone.  But Roger never saw it like that -- he claimed that it
seemed to him to be too suggestive of pedophilia, and besides
licking any stray food off was fun.  My captor had done that at
breakfast, just like Roger would, but not at lunch.
 
Cleanup was as before; I was forced to kneel head-down while he
washed up.  Again, he kept pausing to touch and rub me; again, I
was ready to explode by the time he picked me up.  Instead of
heading for the bedroom this time, though, he carried me down to
the cell in the basement.  He gently put me on the padded floor
-- after the episode with John, I decided that bare cement wasn't
acceptable even for playing -- unlocked my legs, and aroused me
quite thoroughly.  But I couldn't touch him, with my arms bound,
and suddenly I heard a click -- he had locked me in, and left!  I
tugged at my bonds, to no avail, and tried to rub up against the
bars.  It didn't work too well, but I achieved some release, and
sat down.  While trying to get comfortable, I discovered that I'd
been left a pillow; I managed to lay down with it between my
legs, and satisfied myself a bit more.  With that out of the way,
I resumed my mental debate about my position -- while locked in a
cell, blindfolded, and with my hands quite thoroughly bound
behind my back.
 
I started out by listing what I was certain of:  that my captor
might or might not be Roger, that Roger was certainly involved in
the affair, and that physically I had no complaints at all -- the
sex was wonderful, and it was certainly an imaginative way to
play.  I tugged my hands again; they weren't going anywhere.  I
could, I suppose, have rubbed my blindfold free, but that would
have been cheating in a sense.  If I wanted out, I could simply
ask; if I didn't, I should play by the rules.  A blindfold like
that is almost more a symbol than a reality.  I had one in the
toybox that was real, that I couldn't have pushed off.  It was
more like a tight-fitting ski mask that left my nose and mouth
free, but locked behind my neck.  A taut elastic band went down
from the built-in eyepieces to the lock, so that I couldn't push
it up off of my eyes.  It even had loops for a pair of straps
that would go down across my cheeks and fasten to the neckband in
front, for use when I didn't need my mouth -- times like right
now.  That blindfold was much less comfortable; I left the cur-
rent one alone.  (Not, of course, that it would have slipped off
easily; the strap in back was broad, elastic, and quite taut.)
 
Alone in the dark, I vaguely remembered a conversation Roger and
I had had a few months ago.  I didn't remember it well, because
it took place late on a night when we were both very drunk.  We
were also chained to each other at each extremity, face to face,
which made love-making quite a challenge, especially when that
drunk.  But in the aftermath and afterglow, we suddenly waxed
philosophical.  Two points stuck with me, among all the world's
problems we tried to solve that night.  First, we discussed the
question of identity.  Who, really, was a person?  Was it their
body?  Their mind?  The two together?  What was the status of an
agent with no free will of its own?  (Imagine a robot for that
last, if you will.)  What about organizations?  Did a corporation
have a will, as opposed to the wills of the people running it?  I
don't recall that we came to any conclusions, but it certainly
seemed to bear on my current situation.
 
The other relevant point was rather more immediate and personal.
Was our relationship inherently monogamous, and would we ever
want to play with other individuals or couples?  To the former, I
told Roger that I was, at least for now, content with him, but
didn't mind if he had occasional encounters elsewhere.  He said
more or less the same thing to me -- which gave both of us free-
dom to explore if and when we wished.  In the past, when I had
taken advantage of similar arrangements, it had been on the basis
of pure, unadulterated lust -- and this interlude certainly
seemed to fit that model.  If my captor wasn't Roger, I'd cer-
tainly be lusting for him now even if I hadn't before.
 
Roger was teasingly vague about the last point.  Threesomes and
foursomes can be fun, though too often I've seen them fail miser-
ably with one person feeling left out.  But what we were talking
about was more complex -- we wanted others to play with us, to
act out our fantasies.  It's hard enough getting two people
reacting properly; I'd never succeeded with three except once, a
long time ago, when my then-lover wanted to play master to two
"harem slaves."  I said it worked, in that we all seemed to play
our proper roles, but for whatever reason none of us ever tried
that game again.  I tried telling Roger how much fun that would
be in his dungeon -- I really wanted him to finish it so we could
try it -- but he just smiled.  So I threatened to chain him down
there with his secretary; he said that he was having more fun
chained the way he was, and proceeded to show me how and why.
The second time that evening went much more smoothly, and we fell
asleep without resolving the question.
 
One more random thought came to my while I lay in the cell, bound
and blindfolded.  In Roger's serious art, as opposed to the
commercial stuff he did for me, or the fantasy decorating he did,
he liked to force people to take a variant point of view, to look
at a situation differently.  There was one painting, for example,
where the perspective seemed wrong, where the viewpoint seemed to
be at waist-level, and some of the people seemed to be fuzzily-
drawn while others where portrayed with exquisite detail.  You
had to stare at it a long time, or perhaps glance at the title,
before you realized that it was a toddler's view of the world.
Was this all Roger's way of "sketching" our discussion?
 
I hadn't come to any conclusions when I heard footsteps.  I
stayed where I was; I was curious to see what he'd do or say.  He
bent down and started touching me, lightly and delicately.  As I
responded, he moved on to other areas.  Finally, he leashed me
again and led me to a broad armchair.  He sat down and I strad-
dled him, facing him, mounting him, until we were done.  And then
he led me to the kitchen and knelt me there again, while he
cooked a long and elaborate dinner.  Throughout, he hadn't said a
single word.  And so I knelt there, bound hand, foot, and neck,
kneeling in my own kitchen, wondering if he really was Roger --
this time, the style did feel more like Roger -- and wondering if
I should ask to be released.
 
 
===============================================================
 
 
Dinner went much like breakfast and lunch, though with two tell-
ing points.  The first was that the chicken was seasoned just as
Roger would have.  This was more significant than you might
think; Roger disdained written recipes, but achieved a marvelous
consistency through his skills as a cook.  I didn't see how he
could teach someone else how to do that.  The other point was
that my captor served me wine through a straw!  Bound as I was,
it was quite a practical solution; I could bend over and sip it
when I wanted to.  But Roger never would do that; he was the sort
of person who preferred to bring fine silverware on a picnic
instead of, as he once put it, "useless, garish, tacky, plastic
forks."  I'd never known him to compromise his principles for
convenience before.
 
I knelt in my accustomed place and position while he cleaned up;
then it was off to bed.  We didn't do much besides cuddle a bit
while he read and I thought some more.  I was having lots of time
to think about the contradictions inherent in bondage.  I was
utterly helpless, but I had a devoted slave who catered to my
every whim, even wiping me on the toilet.  I couldn't move much
when we made love, but sex had rarely, if ever, been better.
And, though I was completely in the power of a possibly-unknown
man, I trusted him completely -- and I knew that if I asked, I'd
be released.  Curious as it may have seemed to an outsider, I was
not being "had" against my will.
 
The next morning, I decided to try to take control, but within
the game.  I knew what I planned to do, but I never got the
chance to try it.  It was almost as if he sensed my mood, knew my
limits, and blocked me.  Rather than slowly and delicately arous-
ing me, he was much more direct and almost forceful.  The day
before, our love-making was, if you'll pardon the strained analo-
gy, like the slow, inexorable advance of a glacier.  This was
more like a volcano, sudden and explosive.  Neither is resistible
-- not that I wanted to resist!  -- but they were quite differ-
ent.  It ended with me bending forward over the back of the
armchair, gasping, with my legs tied to its legs while he entered
me.
 
The rest of the morning was different as well.  After we had
regained our strength, he leashed me again and led me on a walk
in the woods.  It's odd, being led naked and blindfolded through
a forest.  Was something about to brush against me?  What would
it feel like?  And he played a game with me, picking up different
objects and touching me in different places, while I tried to
guess what he was holding.  I felt leaves brush my breasts, twigs
caress my groin, a thorny branch pass ever so lightly across my
stomach.  A wrong guess produced nothing; a right answer was
rewarded with a kiss or more.  I'd been guessing right for a
while, and was eager for bigger rewards, when he changed the
game.  He suddenly stopped, tied my leash to a branch over my
head, gave me a quick kiss on the lips, and left, walking noisily
through the underbrush.
 
I'd never done anything like that before.  As I said, I'm a city
person; I bought the farm because I wanted privacy, not because I
liked nature.  But here I was, bound blindfolded in the woods,
not knowing who else or what else might happen by.  Your skin
becomes very sensitive at a time like that; you feel every little
breath of wind, or skittering leaf.  A few times, I thought I
heard an animal walk nearby, while I held motionless.  Was that
my captor next to me?  Was it a deer?  Had I really felt anything
at all?  I didn't dare move.  Then I felt something on my thigh,
but it was furry?  Or was it?  And what large animal would come
up to me like that?  Had I even felt it?  The phantom touches
grew more and more frequent, until suddenly they weren't phantom
at all, they were him, touching me, rubbing me, kissing me.  At
long last, he untied the leash, and we made love on the forest
floor.
 
Lunch was as usual; afterwards, he conducted me to my cell again.
He didn't arouse me first this time, but he did bind my feet, and
fasten my neck by a short chain to a ringbolt near the floor.
And the friendly pillow was gone as well.  All in all less pleas-
ant than the day before, but I scarcely noticed; I thought I
understood the situation at last.  It was a game, of course, but
sexual pleasure wasn't the object; it was the means.
 
When Roger and I played our usual games, they were for one reason
only:  to stimulate and arouse us.  This was a deeper game,
though, orchestrated by Roger for a deeper pleasure.  Yes, the
sex was great -- for me and for whomever -- but there was another
purpose as well.  The prize was my captor's identity.  He was to
conceal it at all costs; I was to learn it.  I could end the game
at any time, simply by asking to, though that might or might not
let me learn his identity.  His strategy was to keep me from
wanting to end the game; to keep me so aroused that I would want
it to go on forever.  And he was doing it, too; I had seldom been
at such a peak for so long.
 
What were my moves?  Crude physical violence seemed inappropri-
ate; we had tacitly discarded that the first night, when I
stopped struggling.  Besides, it might not work; he seemed to be
stronger than I was, and I was already bound.  The obvious coun-
ter to his moves was to ignore his caresses, to refuse to be
aroused on his whim.  Would that do it?  That was more or less
what I planned that morning, though I couldn't put it into ef-
fect.  And that was the weakness of the idea -- I quite possibly
couldn't carry it out!  Besides, it might not work; I suspected
that he'd just keep at me until I yielded.  Whoever it was knew
me too well, and my body knew and desired him.
 
Did I have any other moves?  Hmm -- what if I let myself get
aroused, but refused to respond?  Could I do that?  It would be
frustrating, but I only had to keep my conscious actions under
control; my reflexes could do as they pleased.  I'm sure it was
stimulating to him when he worked on me; I'm just as sure that he
wanted, even needed, my co-operation to make the experience as
pleasurable for him as for me.  I doubted that Roger or his
friends were into necrophilia.  When my captor came for me, I'd
be ready.
 
He came for me at dinner time.  Instead of leading me up the
stairs this time, he carried me, leaving my ankles bound.  And
instead of seating me in a chair, he put me on my side, on the
rug in the dining room.  I half-expected that I'd be expected to
feed myself like a dog would, but he knew my limits; he fed me
again himself.  And his hands were busy with me, though I don't
know if he noticed that I wasn't trying to press against him.  I
gladly accepted his caresses, but insofar as was possible I re-
turned none.
 
Dinner drifted into loveplay.  I think he was starting to notice
what was going on by that point; several times, he lay behind me,
and wrapped his arms about me to touch my front.  But unlike our
past encounters, I didn't use my hands on him, even though that
was the only time I could.  Sometimes, he paused briefly after
that happened, but then persisted.  After all, I wasn't rejecting
his advances; I wasn't resisting; I was quite visibly and audibly
becoming aroused.  Matters came to a head, so to speak, when he
rolled me onto my back and squatted near my face, and I did:
nothing.  I didn't turn my head away; I didn't even close my
mouth -- but I also didn't say anything and didn't do anything.
 
That surprised him for moment, but only for a moment.  He un-
locked my legs, positioned himself between them, and started to
lick me.  That has always driven me wild; he brought me to my
peak, and beyond, and held me there.  I was practically delirious
with pleasure by the time he reversed his angle, licking all the
while, but I retained enough presence of mind to stick with my
plan.  If he'd had any more doubts, that ended them; he got up,
and slowly walked to the couch.
 
Matters remained that way for a few minutes.  He could have
mounted me, of course, but that wasn't the point and we both knew
it.  It also wouldn't have been much fun for him, since I was
firmly resolved to play dead.  I wouldn't have closed my legs, or
struggled -- that would have been active rejection -- but I knew
he wanted more than just an inflatable doll.  It was his move,
and I wondered what it would be.
 
In retrospect, it was fairly obvious.  He had to express dis-
pleasure, but do so within the game.  And he couldn't say any-
thing; that was exactly what I wanted.  But punishment was legal,
as long as it didn't hurt too much.  I've mentioned before how I
felt about pain:  a bit of a symbolic sting is fine, but nothing
serious, since it doesn't turn me on at all.
 
For whatever reason, he chose to use the whipping position that
John had used.  He tied a rope to my wrists, and ran it through a
ring in the ceiling, pulling it fairly taut, and fastening it
below.  I was thus bent over, in a very vulnerable position.  I
also started worrying a bit, especially when I heard him take a
few practice swings with that riding crop I keep around.  But he
stayed within my bounds, only stinging me a bit when the whipping
started.  He was good at it, too; he hit me at irregular inter-
vals, never letting me know when he was done.  Once, he even let
two or three minutes go by before he came back with a small
flurry of strokes.  By the time he was finished, I was getting
quite uncomfortable.  Inwardly, though, I was thrilled -- was he
actually genuinely angry?  That was certainly worth a few points
for me.  And I was even more aroused.  This was a game we were
playing, a sexual game, and the "beating" would be followed by
another round of foreplay.
 
How much pain do I like?  It's hard to explain just how hard a
blow I consider acceptable.  I define it as hard enough to be
unpleasant, hard enough that you genuinely don't want it to
happen -- but not hard enough to draw an exclamation.  The best
analogy is clapping your hands together hard -- if you do it a
few times, you're not going to like it.  Well, each blow should
be a bit harder than that.
 
I remember trying to teach Roger my limits.  He has a greater
liking for pain than I do, and it seemed to take him overly long
to learn where my threshold is.  The man who was beating me this
time knew just how hard to hit me.  He only went over once, near
the beginning; I warned him with a code word, and he honored it
scrupulously.  Was it Roger?  Could a stranger pick up on my
moods that well?
 
Finally, it was over.  He removed the rope, led me to the bed,
and fastened me to it via a rather long leash.  He joined me, and
tried to arouse me again.  He succeeded, too, but I refused to
return the favor.  Being bound to the car was the end result,
though at the time I didn't know what was happening.
 
His first move was to lead me out to the barn.  I had left John's
winches in place, but I didn't think my captor would use them;
that whole memory was so traumatic I would have aborted the game
had he even tried.  Instead, he knelt me down inside the barn
without fastening the leash to anything, puttered around a bit,
and left.  That struck me as curious until I heard a car start,
at which point I nearly panicked.  Was he going to leave me in
the barn, nude, bound, and blindfolded, with no recourse but to
try to find the road and seek help?  I jumped up, ready to run
after him and beg for release; I wasn't aroused at all, I was
scared.  But this wasn't John, and I needn't have worried; the
car pulled into the barn, not away from me.  I wasn't being
abandoned.
 
My captor got out of the car, and -- perhaps irked that I had
stood without permission -- urged me to my knees and pushed my
head to the ground.  I heard chain noises then, metal rattling
against metal, from the direction of the car.  Finally he came
for me, and lay me down on some sort of dolly.  My legs were
manacled; to my great surprise, he cut the cable ties on my arms
as well.  I was so happy to have a chance to stretch after a day
and a half that I barely noticed the new restraints being locked
on each wrist.
 
I was jerked out of my reverie by a tug on my legs; I was being
pulled underneath the car.  My leg chains were pulled tight and
fastened to something; he pulled out the dolly from the other end
and locked my wrist chains over my head as well.  Last, he did
something else that surprised me:  he released the strap holding
my blindfold in place.  Had I won?  Not quite -- he tied a loose-
ly-knotted scarf around my head, one that I could easily remove
but not until he had a chance to leave the barn.  It was clear
that I was supposed to remove it; to what end wasn't clear, but I
was eager enough to find out.
 
It was when I could finally see again that I realized I was under
a car.  A lot of cars, especially some imports, have a pair of
tow rings at either end.  I was spread-eagled between the them.
He had driven the front of the car up onto jack stands, giving me
a bit more room, but all I could see was the underside of the
engine compartment.  Obviously, I was being disciplined; I was
supposed to think about my "stubbornness" while laying there.  I
had often found the tow rings suggestive -- actually, I find any
sort of chain suggestive, and I love looking at the locks section
of hardware stores as much as some men like the lingerie section
-- but I never could figure out anything erotic to do with them.
Judging from my response, my captor hadn't figured it out, ei-
ther.
 
It took me a little while to figure out the second part of the
message.  My eyes were open for a reason; given the lack of
interesting sights under the car, it had to be so I could see how
light it was.  My captor wasn't going to come back until it was
pitch-black outside, and I wasn't going anywhere until he did
return.  Based on the sky and my hunger level, it was no later
than six o'clock; full darkness probably wouldn't happen until
around nine or thereabouts.  And all I could do was to lay there
-- bound by my captor, condemned to stay there until I was will-
ing to give pleasure as well as receive it.
 
 
===============================================================
 
 
I was in a fairly foul mood by the time my captor returned.
"What kind of stupid stunt do you plan to pull next?  Tying me to
a tractor instead?  Seeing if I like being lashed with wet noo-
dles?  Did you really think I'd find the underside of your car
sensual?"  Naturally, he didn't say anything, but after I crawled
out -- he had unlocked my legs, and lengthened my arm chains --
he gently touched my face.  "I assume that that's an apology," I
said as he put my hands behind my back and handcuffed them that
way.  Again, the gentle touch on my face, followed this time by a
brief, fleeting, touch of my left nipple.  "No, I'm not aroused,
and not likely to be," I told him.  He locked the leash around my
neck, released the manacles holding my arms to the car, and
blindfolded me anew.  Finally, he touched my breast once more,
and started towards the house.  Perforce, I followed.
 
I wasn't joking when I said I didn't think he could arouse me.
Sex isn't a light bulb; you -- or at least I -- don't rise to a
peak that easily.  And the last few hours had blown the marvelous
mood my unknown captor had built up during the weekend.  Besides,
I was dirty and hungry from laying on the barn floor under the
car.  But he sensed that.  There was no explicit sex play; rath-
er, we headed straight for the bathroom, where I received a
crisp, almost business-like shower.
 
A less sensitive man might have tried for a sensual shower.  That
wouldn't have worked, and he knew it.  When your car has been in
an accident, you don't go ahead and install a new stereo.  First
you fix the damage, repair everything, make sure it still works
-- and then you start adding enhancements.  That was my mood -- I
wasn't going to be the least bit interested in sex until I'd
calmed down and relaxed a bit.  And as I thought that, I smiled
to myself:  this might have won the game for me.  If he couldn't
arouse me again, there was no point in keeping me captive -- he'd
have no choice but to release me and leave.  Hmm -- should I even
give him the chance to arouse me again?  Or should I just end
things after dinner?  I decided to let him try; anything else was
almost cheating.  Besides, in some sense I'd win either way --
I'd either win the game if he couldn't arouse me, or I'd have a
marvelous time again if he could.
 
Dinner was simple, though with an excellent wine.  He fed me
again, and went through his usual clean-up ritual, with me
chained on my knees near the sink, head held low by the leash.
There were only a few touches, almost more to let me know that I
wasn't being forgotten than to turn me on.  Eventually, we headed
to the bedroom; I found myself wondering what he had in mind.
Something new and different?
 
He started by removing the handcuffs and replacing them with long
leather cuffs that went almost half way up to my elbow.  There
were straps on each of the cuffs, on the end away from the
wrists; he used these to bind my arms tightly against my sides.
This tie gave my wrists a lot of play, so he secured them by very
thin straps -- cords, almost -- that ran from the cuffs around my
thighs at crotch level.  If I'd pulled on them, it might have
hurt, but if I stood still I hardly noticed they were there.  He
then put me gently on the bed, on some sort of thin silk cloth,
and tied my ankles together with ordinary leather cuffs.  Final-
ly, he threaded a strap under one arm at the armpit, across my
chest above my breasts, and down under the other arm.
 
So far, nothing out of the ordinary was happening, though I had a
bit more freedom to wiggle than in some ties.  I enjoyed the
position, but it was nothing special, nothing to weaken my re-
solve.  But he had indeed found a new way to bind me, one that
was powerful indeed.  At the time it was happening, I couldn't
figure out what he was doing, it was only after he was finished
that I figured it out.  And a few details escaped me until I saw
the device later on -- he left it for me as a present, for which
I was quite grateful!
 
He began by putting another silk cloth on top of me, covering me
from neck to ankle.  Odd.  He then bent to my ankles and started
doing things, working first on one side of me, and then the
other, pulling the cloth around.  Eventually, I realized that he
was lacing the two pieces of silk together, sewing me up quite
tightly.
 
He proceeded this way for quite a while, taking special care to
keep the silk smooth, even and taut.  There were darts at my
hips, waist, and breast so that it fit quite snugly.  Who had
measured me that carefully?
 
It took quite a while for him to finish lacing me up.  By the
time he was done, I could barely move.  Even my fingers were held
tightly against my thighs.  Definitely new, and definitely arous-
ing.  Was there more to this?  Indeed there was.  When he started
to caress me through the silk, I nearly jumped off the bed, the
feelings were so intense.
 
It is a truism that the right clothing is often sexier than
nudity.  Clothing can tease the eye, and direct it to points of
interest.  It is less-often appreciated that contact through thin
cloth can be even more stimulating than skin-to-skin contact.
The fingers can tease, outline, glide.  The cloth acts as a
lubricant, allowing one's hand to float lightly above your
partner's skin.  There are few things I enjoy more than shower-
ing, falling onto a bed with crisp, clean sheets, and tracing the
contours of my lover's body through the top sheet.
 
My captor either knew this about me -- not surprising at this
stage -- or felt the same way.  His touches were driving me wild;
when he reached my breasts and started running his palms lightly
over my nipples, I couldn't take it any more, and rolled towards
him.
 
That wasn't to be; I then learned the purpose of that strap
across my chest.  He pushed my onto my back, and used it to tie
my upper body down.  It was only the work of another minute for
him to put another strap over my legs, and a third at waist
level.  I was fastened to the bed, and squeezed by him and a silk
cocoon.
 
He continued his caressing and teasing, paying no heed to my
moans and pleas for release.  He swung around to where I could
have taken him into my mouth if I chose; I remained firm in my
resolve.  But he continued his touches, continued arousing me,
and then slowly approached my crotch.  I was frantic with the
desire when I realized that he couldn't satisfy me, that the silk
was so taut all he could do was to arouse me even more.  I thrust
my hips up hard towards him, ignoring or even relishing the pain
from the wrist cords.  I didn't care, I wanted him in me, and
even though I knew that unlacing me would take as long as lacing
me had I begged him.  Still he touched, still he rubbed, and as I
writhed and moaned I did use my mouth, I did lick him, I forgot
all about games and knew only his body and mine.  Finally, in-
credibly, I came.  And he didn't let it end there; then, and only
then, did he unlace my lower body and untie my ankles, and lick
me and enter me until we couldn't move.
 
I lay there, all but motionless.  Not that I could move much, of
course; my arms were still bound to my sides, my waist and shoul-
ders were still fastened to the bed, and the cocoon imprisoned my
upper body.  But it didn't matter; I could have been free and I
wouldn't have moved.  I barely noticed as he removed my bonds,
rolled me over, and fastened new cable ties to my wrists.  He did
my ankles, too, though he left a few inches of slack; I could
tell I'd be able to walk, albeit with difficulty.  At the end, as
I was almost asleep, he shut the light.  My last thought as I
drifted off was that I had lost but loved doing so.
 
You're probably wondering how he unlaced the cocoon so fast.  I
didn't find out until later, when I played with it with Roger.
When you think of lacing something up, you normally visualize
putting a cord in one side of a hole, and out the other.  That's
the way the bottom piece was laced, but the top was more clever.
The cord came up through the hole, around a flexible rod, and
back down through the same hole.  (This is much the same way that
a sewing machine works, incidentally.)  If you remove the rod,
the loop just falls through.  Of course, there was enough tension
on the cords that one single rod didn't cover a whole edge.
Instead, there were a series of them, each about 8 inches long,
with a loop in one end to make withdrawal easier.  So he had to
remove a few on each side -- but that's much faster than unlacing
the whole thing.
 
I woke up the next morning with the sun shining in my eyes.
Eyes?  The blindfold was off!  I rolled over quickly to see who
was next to me; at least, I rolled over as quickly as I could,
given the state of my arms and legs.  It was Roger!  I kneed him
awake, but not before I noticed that he was bound the same way I
was.  That was odd -- cable ties are hard to fasten one-handed;
it wasn't at all clear that he could have bound his hands behind
his back that way.  In fact, on closer inspection, his arms were
held together even more tightly than mine; the connecting tie was
extremely tight.  Could he have done it to himself?  I had no
idea.  Of course, I immediately asked him when he'd arrived, and
what was going on.  Alas, I got no satisfaction.
 
"I got in late last night.  Staying at my sister's place was no
fun, so I left early and headed out here.  When I got here, you
were sound asleep.  You were tied up, but that's not unusual; I
know you like to play by yourself when you're alone."  I nodded;
that was quite true.  In fact, he does to.  Sometimes we amuse
each other by each binding ourselves before we try to make love.
Roger continued, "I was tired enough that I didn't feel like
waking you.  So I just went straight to sleep myself.  I have no
idea who tied me up."
 
A lovely story, but was true?  I told Roger what had happened to
me.  He was visibly turned on by my description, but denied any
knowledge of it.  And that was patently false; whether or not my
captor was Roger, it was obvious that Roger had planned it.  I
could ask his sister where he was, I suppose, but she doesn't
like me -- I represent all that she thinks is wrong:  I'm suc-
cessful, single, sexually uninhibited (some would say ag-
gressive), and I utterly refuse to give even lip service to
conventional morality.  I only let a modicum of practicality
govern my actions; my exact bedroom habits are the business of my
lover, and only my lover.
 
We went back and forth like this for a while.  Eventually, we
agreed that I should try to free myself.  I hobbled out to the
kitchen, where I found some wire cutters left on the table.  I
brought them back to Roger; he got my hands loose.  But I didn't
free him; I decided to show him just how much fun it was to be
bound for two days.  So I slipped the blindfold on him, and
proceeded to have my way with Roger.  It was, after all, a four-
day weekend, which gave me plenty of time to reenact the whole
thing.  Of course, I threw in a few variations (and I omitted the
car entirely); by the time Tuesday evening rolled around, Roger
was sore but sated -- utterly sated.  But that's another story,
for another time.
 
And my captor?  To this day, I don't know who it was.
 
--