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She never thought of herself as kinky.
Kinky, to her was a an ungainly combination of the appalling and the ridiculous. Pretentious youths with too much make up, blotchy tattoos and too many piercings, or dumpy self absorbed people, pushing middle age, looking like overstuffed sausages in skintight outfits. She didn't see herself in there, the rope bondage seemed pointless and uncomfortable, the role play demeaning, floggers and paddles and clamps... That looked like it would hurt. It didn't appeal to her at all.
She was, when she bothered to think of herself, quite conservative. She was from a large farming family, full of brothers and sisters. The recklessness that had accompanied puberty had been closely monitored by the elders and busybodies of her small village. Rebellion was little tolerated, and there had been too many chores and too much babysitting to get into much trouble. She'd gotten better marks than her peers in school. This had lead to college, and a career in accounting, a job in the city.
She never felt really comfortable with her peers though. Shaped by an odd mixture of small town values, family responsibility and the demands of single urban life, she found herself mostly alone. Not a virgin by any means, that had been dispensed with at university in the aftermath of too much drinking, a perfunctory and unsatisfying act. She'd had sex a few times, found masturbation to be superior, had learned to suck a cock not for any particular enthusiasm but because everyone was doing it and it simplified things. There'd been a few boyfriends, even a relationship or two, but nothing that had lasted.
In reflective moments, she thought that she was one of those self contained people that didn't need someone in her life to complete her. Growing up in a crowded household, she relished the privacy of her own apartment. At times, she worried about growing old a childless spinster, but she was only in her thirties, there was still time.
It was late September, she was shopping for the twins birthday. The twins were a nephew and niece, she had a lot of nephews and nieces. They all had birthdays and Christmases and Easters and Halloweens, it added up. So she ended up in the Halloween section, looking for a gifts that would be cheap and unique.
A pair of trick handcuffs caught her eye. Perhaps the nephew would like it? Boys always wanted to be cops, or secret agents, or cowboys. She picked up the package and hefted it. To her surprise, there was a bit of weight, they were real handcuffs, steel, with keys and everything.
A closer look showed that they were trick handcuffs, each cuff had a little release latch so that you didn't actually need a key.
Silly thing, she thought. If its got a release, why would you even bother with a key? And why handcuffs that you could release so easily? For children's games, she thought....
Or adult games...
Her nephew probably wouldn't like it, and even if he did, his parents probably wouldn't approve. Perhaps she should go looking for a Nerf pack.
But still, less than ten dollars? Why not? She tossed it into her cart.
Later that evening, after supper, she wrapped the twins; presents. The handcuffs? Definitely not included. They didn't go with the other purchases, a unisex set of Nerf toys. Maybe she'd pass them on to some other relative, perhaps in a bridal shower.
She poured herself a glass of wine, carried them to the couch with her, and clicked the television on. She held the cuffs up to the light.
"Made in china." Well, that was why they were so cheap. She handled them, weighing them in her hand, there was a surprising heft to them. They seemed well made. She played with them absently, running the clasp all the way through, listening to and feeling the click, click, click as it ran through the teeth and then swung free.
Really, if they opened so freely, what good were they? But then, she though, if there's something in there, then it can't go through all the way, it would catch.
Experimentally, she stretched out her wrist. Let the cuff slip on, felt the click, click, click as it ratcheted closed around her wrist.
Her heart beat a little faster.
The metal was cold against her wrist. The other cuff dangled free at the end of the chain, a pendulum weight tugging at her arm. She stared at the shining steel locked around her wrist, silver plated, catching the light. There was something... remorseless, about it, relentless. She shivered.
They put these on bad people, she thought. To hold them, keep them. She'd seen enough cop shows and movies to know the combinations. Wrists in front, the prisoner, helpless in the dock. Cuffed to another person or a piece of furniture, enforcing immobility, or forcing them to follow. Or behind the back, to render someone powerless.
What would the real ones be like. She'd never thought of what it might be to be a criminal.... Or a prisoner. Would there be a feeling of helplessness as they went on. A loss of freedom. What went through their minds.
Humiliation? Submission? Surrender?
The metal was hard and cold and heavy on her wrist. Was it like that for them? For someone being cuffed, to hear every click, to know that freedom was vanishing in the bites of hidden metal jaws.
Carefully, she slipped her other wrist under the second cuff. Turning her other hand, to ratchet it shut. It was harder, the links between the cuffs limited her mobility. As it bit tight against her wrist, she realized she was caught - her world now defined by the space between three silver chain links and two pieces of ratcheted chrome plated steel.
Her heart skipped a beat.
Deep in her stomach, butterflies launched and batted themselves against her wrists.
Take them off, she thought. Right now. She got up to retrieve the keys from the kitchen table. But they were too tight, there was no room for her wrists to twist inside them. The cuffs were facing with the keyholes the wrong way. She couldn't quite get the keys in.
That was okay, they had quick release levers. She'd worked them several times, as she'd played with them. A cold thought struck her, the release levers had worked, except that they hadn't been encircling anything then. Her breath caught just a tiny bit, a gasp so subtle that no one else would have heard it. Her hands trembled just slightly as she tried to work her fingers around to the release catch.
She found it, the tight steel ring loosened, and she opened it up completely, freeing her wrist and then undoing the other. She laid it on the kitchen table. What a silly thing, she thought. Not so silly if she hadn't been able to open it though. She wondered, out of the blue, if 911 got a lot of calls from people who'd accidentally handcuffed themselves like that and couldn't get out. What a thing to have to explain.
Leaving the cuffs on the kitchen table, she went to the bathroom, then back to the living room, settled on the couch, and channel flicked until she found a decent movie.
About an hour in, she paused to go to the kitchen, make a cold plate of cheeses and pickles. Absently, she picked up the cuffs again, and absently played with them, as she watched the rest of the movie, listening to the click of the ratchets, the play of weight from one cuff to the other, the shaping of the hinged jaw. Once in a while, she'd slip it around one wrist, ratchet it closed, and the release it again, but only one wrist. A friend called, she chatted, absently dangling it from a fingertip, watching the light play off the chromed surface.
Eventually it was late. She went into the bedroom and undressed, dropping her clothes in separate adjacent drawers, one for underwear, one for whites, for colours, for darks. She was always vaguely pleased at how organized and tidy she was, it was an instinct.
The bathrobe was plucked from the bedroom door hook. Into the bathroom, hang up the bathrobe, turn on the shower, and when the temperature was just right, step in. She enjoyed showers, there was a casual sensuality to it. She liked the needles of hot water jetting against her skin, liked the private exhibition of her nudity. Sometimes, in the right mood, she played with herself in the shower, occasionally to orgasm.
Bathrobe on, hair toweled, moisturizer applied to face and body
After that, she proceeded through her apartment, shutting off the lights. It was a ritual, start with the kitchen, check to make sure all the appliances are off, then the lights, then the doorway and hall, around to the living room, lamps off, television off and so on....
As she reached for the last remaining lamp by the couch, she noticed the handcuffs again on the coffee table, ratchet jaws open, catching the soft light on the chrome surface and throwing it back.
She sat back on the couch, picked them up. They seemed heavier in the low light, more... potent? More.... Sinister? She flashed back on the awkward moment when for a second she thought she'd been trapped. Not really, of course, but there'd been a moment... of helplessness.
Her heart beat a little faster.
They put these on bad people... she thought. Naughty people, wicked people, people who committed crimes, broke the law, robbers, drug dealers, hookers... Dirty people.
To make them helpless.
Her heart was beating just fast enough for her to be aware of it. Her stomach felt light. Did she feel a tingle.
Not this of course, it's safe, easy to get out of.
But, still....
Abruptly, she stood and slipped out of her robe. Naked she laid back on the couch, reclining up against the arm.
She watched the ratchet jaw close, felt the vibration as the teeth rotated through, capturing one wrist.
Then the other.
She was naked wearing nothing but handcuffs. It made her tingle. In the low light, the metal seemed to shine bright. It wasn't as tight as before, she could move her wrists a little. She pulled her hands apart, feeling the millimeters of slack vanish against the clinking of the chain links. Caught, she thought. Helpless. Anything could happen to her, someone who cuffed her could do anything they wanted, and she'd have to submit.
She pulled one leg up on the couch, knee bending, thighs opening up.
Heart pounding, she lowered her cuffed wrists to her pubic mound, letting her fingers crawl through the black thatch of pubic hair. She touched her lips. She was already wet. She could feel the cold metal against her pubic mound, as she rested her wrists between her legs, fingers opening herself, thumb rubbing against her clit with a fierce urgency. She arched her back. "Fuck!" she whispered, and kept whispering it louder and louder, pulling against the chains, feeling the cuffs, the captivity, the constrained mobility, her excitement building and building.
Until she came, the orgasm a blinding rush, like a landslide falling on her, a sense of impact striking her and just surging up and through her body, leaving her breathless....
The handcuffs were a fascinating new toy. She hadn't expected the effect on her, and couldn't adequately explain it to herself.
Was she a masochist? She didn't think so. She felt no urge to be whipped, to wear a collar, dress up in a leather harness. Calling someone 'Master' just seemed silly.
And yet, there was an allure. Somehow, it made things more intense. Maybe it was the restriction on mobility, the fact that she could not move her wrists freely, it meant her hands were like a pair of horses in tandem harness, working together. That was certainly part of it, it seemed to focus her more when she masturbated it.
But there was more. There was just a... sexiness to them. She liked the way they shone in candle light. She used her silver polish to make it shine and catch the light, it worked best in low lights, under a single lamp, or in front of candles.
Sometimes, she'd carefully wrap it in a tea-towel and leave it in the fridge while she went to work, so that when it went around her wrists it was bracing cold, the iciness making the metal ruthlessness more emphatic. Chilled handcuffs, she thought, there was something sexy there. It was hard to ignore or overlook chilled metal binding your wrists, it focused your attention...
There was something about looking down at her body, especially her naked body, and seeing the arc of her arms, drawn together, the unforgiving shining metal binding her, shaping her posture. There was a fascination to it, it was almost hypnotic.
For the first time in her life, she watched herself intently as she masturbated.
It was a wonderful toy.
Sometimes she'd carry it in her purse, shopping, or to work. She'd never wear them outside of course. But just knowing they were in her purse, that secret naughtiness. It was a thrill.
Perhaps, she thought, it was like the earnestness of teenage boys carrying a condom around, sometimes for months or years, never using it, never having even a chance, but just having it. It was the signifier of sex, of naughtiness.
She wondered sometimes about why it affected her. A signifier of sex? Perhaps.
A signifier of... badness, wantonness, of criminality and rule breaking? Did it excite her because it made her think of herself as a bad girl, a naughty girl, the sort that broke the law? There was that, definitely, she'd feel oddly wicked and powerful, liberated, when she wore them. The sort of girl that does sexy nasty things and doesn't care what anyone thinks.
But there was also surrender, submission, helplessness. Yes, that was there too. It occurred to her, when she thought of it, that the feelings wearing the handcuffs were contradictory. That it didn't make sense to feel both liberated and surrendered, nasty and helpless at once. But she was smart enough not to worry about it, and just revel in the senses.
Exploration came slowly. She wore them in the kitchen, in the bedroom. Once, she spent a whole evening naked in cuffs, watching TV, fumbling as she made a meal, masturbating repeatedly and touching herself. She wanted to wear them in the shower, by candle light, but was afraid that the water might damage the inner mechanism.
Once on the bed, she knelt, ass up in the air, face down on a pillow, gasping as she struggled awkwardly to a shivering orgasm. Another time, leaning against the bedroom, legs spread, face and shoulders pressing against the wood grain, as close to a police pat down as she could get, hands between her legs, leading her to an orgasm that made her knees tremble.
Mostly, she liked to watch. She liked a comfortable position on the couch, something where she could sit up and look down, knees up, legs spread, steel glinting against the black pubic hair of her mound.
But of course, she couldn't really see that much. She'd never been one of these feminists who got to know their vaginas with mirrors and speculums. She'd always thought that was vaguely disgusting, there's nothing special about knobby toes, or flabby skin, or the odd places of anatomy. She'd seen cats' assholes, she'd never felt an urge to get a look at her own.
But now? The cuffs made things different, she wanted to see herself framed by the cuffs. It started with awkwardly trying to use a hand mirror at the same time, which gave her shaking views of the insides of her thighs and rushed glimpses of pubic curls. Then a stationary mirror.
Then on the couch, hips elevated on pillows, a mirror propped up on a kitchen chair placed carefully.
It was a revelation. Her hands, cuffed at the wrists, joined by silver links, seemed almost things of their own, pink butterfly wings, fluttering, joined by chrome. Between the pairs of slender fingers, the black pubic hair, the pink slit. She saw herself wet for the first time, saw not just her pinkness but the shining shimmer between her lips.
Mirrors became a part of it, not always, but often enough. She watched herself in different positions, different postures as she masturbated in handcuffs. Watched a vibrator slip inside. She tried masturbating in different ways. Sometimes she watched her whole body, her pussy hidden between her legs. She stared in fascination at the signs of her own arousal, watched her lips as she gasped, stared at nipples hard and rigid as the glass, noticed the sweat, gazed at the trembling of muscles. It was as if she was seeing herself naked for the first time, seeing her own body, appreciating it, enjoying it rather than simply living in it.
She cropped her pubic hair, something that she had very consciously avoided. She wasn't a model, why not let it grow? But messy bush clashed with the elegance of steel, the shapeliness of fingers and hands like butterfly wings. Butterfly wings? She liked that image. Sometimes handcuffed, she let her hands flutter between her, imagining a bird or butterfly in flight.
From a cropped bush, to a bikini line.
One night, she shaved it off completely, just to stare at it in the mirror, before sending the butterfly to flutter her to orgasm.
Shaving brought a new self awareness. Panties felt different on bald skin. Not just utilitarian, she was more aware, lace was different, satin was different, a thong stretched over her hips, silk worked its way between her lips. Underwear was now an adventure, even if she was the only one to ever see her in it, it was still something.
Lingerie interested her. She bought a garter belt, spent nights of frustration cursing clips that didn't seem to hold, discovered stay ups and never looked back. She visited La Senza and Vieux en Rose and Victoria's Secret, pored among bustiers and teddy's, slips and robes. It was a little too much though, too over the top. She bought a long silk robe, and then on another occasion, a short silk top.
But really, her favourite lingerie was her hand cuffs, there was nothing like the elegant symmetry of its shape, the shine and weight and chill of its steel, the implacability of it all. No push up bra, it seemed, could shape her body, could pose so sexily and elegantly as her wrists joined together.
It was such an odd small thing, but somehow, she felt more alive, more sexual than she ever had before. It became a game, an exciting game. Sometimes at work, she'd think of some new thing to do with the handcuffs, a new position, or with the mirror, or wearing Cuban heels. The decision to shave away the last of her pubic hair had come during an appallingly dull teleconference, had livened the rest of the day, added a spark of anticipation.
It was better than a vibrator, she thought, since the cuffs inspired infinitely more variation. It didn't hammer her clit, but somehow, it allowed her, invited her to do more things. It was better than a boyfriend, much as she loved the feel of a live hard man inside her, it was a lot less maintenance, available at her whim, receptive to her impulses.
Her fantasies ran riot, there were men in them of course, sometimes two, sometimes a black man or a Chinese man, sometimes a tattooed Goth. There was handcuffed to a tree, or a desk at the office, or a chain link fence, there were scenarios of arrest and captivity where she was feared, too dangerous to be loose. There were the links between the cuffs seized with a brutal hand, arms yanked away from her pussy, above her head, her body roughly claimed. Or straddling a hairy chest, wrists joined, palms flat, supporting her weight as she impaled herself. There were arrests, kidnappings, hostage crises, romances, astonishing things that had the common thread that as satisfying, as exciting as they were, she'd never do them in real life.
But it did kind of draw her. She had a vibrator, and used it. She had a dildo and used it. But it was her using it. The thought of a live man, a body above her, a hard cock that throbbed in her, that moved by someone else's will.... At some point, she knew she was going to wear handcuffs to bed with a man, the thought excited her as she masturbated.
Of course, at times the idea seemed freakish. What would he think? Would he laugh, that would be unbearable. Would he think she was some kinky sex freak? She wasn't really. Sometimes the idea of wearing them to bed seemed like such a horrible misjudgment. Fated to be a disastrous embarrassment.
As it turned out, when it did happen, it was quite unexpected.
It was a Saturday, she was at the mall, her feet were getting a little sore from walking around so much in heels, she decided to stop in the food court for an Orange Julius.
As she sat and sipped, the thickened orange juice a couple of security guards sat at the table next to her. She glanced at them. Young men both, in their early twenties. They wore faux police uniforms, and bulky vests. Were those really bullet proof vests, she wondered, or fake - designed to look like kevlar - the way that the security uniforms were designed to look like law enforcement. They wore utility belts - flashlights on loops, unidentifiable pouches, handcuffs, pepper spray? No gun of course. The handcuffs were black.
The two men chatted briefly, then one walked away, leaving the other to sip his coffee.
"Excuse me," she said suddenly, "are those real handcuffs?"
"What?"
He looked at her. He was unshaven in a hipster sort of way, short brown hair, thick eyebrows, but large expressive eyes. He was very tall, at least a head taller than her, but with average, unassuming build.
She blushed. The words had escaped her, a throw away impulse. Perhaps her own handcuffs, carried now in her purse, had pushed her, put the thought in her head, or gave her the little extra impulse to ask.
"Oh," she said, "nothing, I'm sorry."
"These," he said, patting them and lifting it off the belt clasp. "They're not police issue or anything like that. But they're real. I mean, they work. The company pays enough money for them."
"Oh, I see," she said. "I guess that you don't get police issue gear."
He smiled. "Not for what they pay us, no. But it all works, mostly. It's for show, but it has to work, obviously."
"Have you ever needed it."
"Mostly no, people are cooperative. I had to pepper spray a drunk fighting with his girlfriend in the parking lot once."
"Really."
"It was terrible. He threatened to sue. I got written up six different ways for it. It went on forever."
"I'm sorry," she said. "Have you used the other stuff?"
"Sometimes. Ninety per cent of the time, all I use is a notebook. I've had to handcuff a few people. Mostly if they're being belligerent. Just to keep them from hurting anyone."
"Not shoplifters," she smiled.
"No, shoplifters usually just come along quietly," he said. "I've never had a problem with a shoplifter."
"Good to know," she said, hesitated, and then cautioned, "Not that I plan on shoplifting or anything."
He laughed. "You don't look like a shoplifter."
"Thanks."
"Though you never know."
"Maybe you should keep an eye on me."
"Maybe I should," he laughed. They smiled at each other.
Ask, she told herself. It was a sudden impulse. Go ahead and ask.
"Can I see?" She asked, breaking the silence.
"What?"
"The handcuffs, can I see them?"
He hesitated for a second, surprised by the request, not sure if he should agree, but seeing no clear way to refuse.
"Oh sure," he took them off his belt again, and placed them in her outstretched hand.
They were a bit heavier than her own handcuffs. Cool, but without the chill that she liked on her own. There were four chain links, forged. The cuffs were matte black, not chromed. No quick release lever. She'd gotten so used to her own release levers that half the time she forgot where her keys were. They seemed slightly larger than her own. But on the whole, she was struck by how similar they were.
"What's the difference between this and police issue?" She asked.
"I have no idea. I think these are actually used by some police forces, just not the ones in town."
She didn't want to hold them too long, didn't want him to think she was kinky or anything like that. He seemed edgy, probably wasn't used to people handling his gear. She gave them back.
"Very nice," she told him, she needed to cover herself a bit, "I won't ask to see your pepper spray."
He laughed. "That would be a little much."
She nodded.
"Well, Josh," she said, it was on his nameplate, "it's been a pleasure. Thanks for being patient with me."
"Likewise." He fidgeted as if to leave, shifted in his seat, half stood. "So..." he said, "you're meeting your husband here?"
"I'm not married," she replied, and then added, "I'm single."
"That's surprising," he told her, "you're very nice."
"Nice," she smiled, "Never tell a woman she's 'nice', Josh, it's a backhanded compliment."
"Sorry," he said awkwardly. He moved as if to stand up.
"It's all right," she told him. She watched him fidget. Her fingers slipped into her purse, fondled the ratcheted steel jaw.
"Josh," she said, "are you working up to asking me out?"
"No...."
"Because I don't mind."
"Sort of... yes."
"I wouldn't mind going out for a drink sometime," she said. Some part of her was screaming 'what are you doing, he's at least ten years younger than you are. More than ten years.'
"Good," he said, "that would be fun."
"Do you have a car?" She asked. That was sort of a minimum standard. A man without a car... Well, what was the point? What kind of man was that, probably still living with his mother.
"What? Yes? Sure!"
"Good," she said. "Then you can pick me up tonight."
They exchanged phone numbers, addresses. She watched him walk off. Nice ass, she thought.
Then, she thought, I've done a very stupid thing. The sensible part of herself was appalled. Dating a security guard? Why not a parking attendant? She was a professional. And he was so much younger. What the hell?
But then again, when was the last time she'd gone on a date with anyone? Why not. It would be good to just get out and do something. It didn't have to go anywhere. She wasn't shopping for a husband. What's the harm of going out, worse come to worse, she'd just beg off and call it a night.
Unconsciously, she took the handcuffs out of her purse, and rotated the jaw over and over, fingers sliding against the smoothed metal, with the ritual insistence of a devout stroking prayer beads.
The rest of the day passed in a blur. She got home, she practically tore her clothes off, threw herself on the couch, masturbated in steel shackles, her fingers blurring inside her. She felt elated, almost wanting to laugh spontaneously. It was so different, so bold, she was so timid usually, so bland, she felt as if she'd stepped into a free fall. She liked this new self, this little bit of adventurousness in her.
What would it be like, she'd think to herself, as she cleaned up the apartment, to just meet him at the door naked? To just say to hell with drinks and just fuck him right then and there? She'd never do that of course, but she could imagine the look on his face. She couldn't imagine actually being that bold. But it was exciting to think.
He arrived on time. The apartment buzzer went off. She almost jumped out of her skin. She wasn't quite ready, so she invited him up to wait.
A moment or two later, there was a knock at the door. She opened it, there he was standing there, looming over her, no longer dressed like a pretend cop, but still well dressed, clean and casual, male and youthful. She invited him in, offered him coffee. He didn't try to kiss her, which she was glad of. Aggressiveness might have been scary. He was polite.
She excused herself to go to the bedroom and finish getting dressed.
Once the door closed, she sat heavily on the bed. He heart was starting to pound heavily. She took a deep breath.
What am I doing? She asked herself.
They could go out for drinks, and then they'd talk and tell each other things about themselves, then they might... what.... go dancing, go for a walk, go for ice cream... And then maybe her place, or his place getting naked and sweaty, or maybe they'd find it wasn't really working and he'd drop her off and that would be that. That's how it would go.
Or....
Her heart started to pound even harder, her breath caught in her throat and butterflies exploded, battering and fluttering against her insides, her hands shook.
Or....
He looked up as the bedroom door opened, and she stepped out... Wearing smooth shaven pussy glistening, nipples hard, wearing nothing but black stay ups on her legs and shining chromed shackles around her wrists. For a second, they stood there, him just staring at her naked blushing body, her shivering and blushing, her eyes dripping.
Then he was on her, his hand on her shoulder, the other seizing the chain between her wrists. He marched her backwards, towards the door, lifting her wrists up over her head. She felt her back slam lightly against the wall, the cold solid flatness of the wall pressing against her back. He lifted her wrist higher, forcing her up on tip toes, pulling the cuffs hard against the edges of her wrist. The chain slid up and over a door hook at the top, trapping her.
His mouth descended on hers. One hand, a large hand, grabbed her breast. He had such big hands, his palms were cold. She moaned, lips parting under his, his tongue pushed into her mouth. His free hand shoved up between her legs, she was already wet, she was dripping, she could feel how wet she was, it shocked her how sudden and intense it was.
Fingers entered her, she spread her legs for him, her weight dragging her wrists down on the cuffs, the steel biting into her in a way it never had before. He thrust deep, fingers opening her, the heel of his hand hard against her clit and all of a sudden she was coming, instantly, as fast and hard as an express train.
Bound by the handcuffs, wrists pulled almost painfully tight above her, hanging from the door hook, the orgasm that erupted from his hand gripping her pussy took her by surprise. She had never come so fast or so hard. She arched her back and thrust, pushing her hips down on his fingers, forcing them up against her pussy with a ferocity that surprised her.
She felt his mouth cover hers, opened her jaws wide, swallowing his tongue, pushing hers into his mouth, barely aware of his hand squeezing her breast.
He pulled back for a moment, his hand leaving her pussy, she felt her hips roll, trying to follow the hand. She knew his fingers were slick. He was grabbing at his pants, unzipping.
"Yes!" Some part of her screamed. He was going to fuck her. She couldn't wait, she wanted it, it was all she could think of. Her urgency, her heat, was like a runaway train.
"Wait," she said, "do you have a condom? Put it on."
She was almost disappointed when he stepped back, fumbling it from his pocket, his pants falling around his knees. His erection was huge, already thrusting the part at the bottom of his shirt. His hands were shaking, she saw, as he tore the wrapper, rolled it on.
Then he stepped forward. She lifted up her knees, letting her wrists and the handcuff chain take her full weight for a moment. He stepped between her legs, she wrapped them around him, locking her ankles, as he reached down. They seemed to shift together, finding each other, his cock sliding against her pubic mound, the inside of her thigh....
Then suddenly, she felt him at her lips. She tried to arch her hips, lift her legs a little higher, one heel digging into the small of his back. Suddenly, he surged deep, all the way up her in an instant. Her legs loosened and she felt the weight of her body settle around the base of his cock, pushing it deeper up inside her. No man had ever been so deep, had ever had so much of himself in her. They were so deep, so tight together, she felt the imprint of his pubic hair pressed into her lips.
He kissed her again, his mouth ravenous against hers. His hands grabbed for her breasts, squeezed and then caressed, he lifted them, as if to memorize the shape and weigh them. Finger pinched her nipples, as she worked her thighs up and down, humping herself against him. He reached down, grabbed her ass lifting some of her weight and began to thrust savagely in her, long deep thrusts that had her screaming with pleasure.
Her back and ass were slammed against the door, banging in its frame with each heave of his body. She was already drenched with sweat and excitement, could feel it running down her spine, trickling between her breasts. All she wanted was him inside her fucking harder and deeper.
He let go one ass cheek to grab her breast, mashing it almost painfully between his fingers. With only one cheek held, her weight shifted, she felt him move differently inside her body, the angle of penetration changed a few degrees. Her legs kicked up, wrapped around him, fell, kicked and wrapped, she tried to climb up his cock with her thighs, her hips grinding down against his pussy.
The long thrusts rapidly gave way, becoming shorter and faster, each lunge of his hips slamming her against the doorframe harder and louder. They were both loud, screaming, grunting, moaning. She was coming again, and she could feel him, his thrusts going frantic and brutal, pounding up into her and knew he was coming too. She wanted to come first, could feel the rushing surge of pleasure.
And then it hit, she arched her back, her legs dropping, wrapping around his thighs, pushing herself down on him, she shrieked. She could feel him thrusting harder and faster up into him, pounding, his orgasm exploding even as hers went on and on. As he stiffened inside her and against, pushing mindlessly, and then slowly relaxed.
Finally, it ebbed. The pleasure was still so intense, that even after orgasm, her skin tingled. It was almost too much pleasure.
He stepped back, his cock falling out of her.
"Holy shit," he whispered. He seemed almost deflated, as if coming had emptied him out physically. "That was intense."
"Uh huh," she didn't trust herself to say anything more complicated. She just leaned back against the door, feeling the smooth panel slick with her sweat. Letting her cuffs take the weight, it hurt a little, but she didn't seem to care. Her legs felt too wobbly and weak to support her weight.
He stepped forward, reaching between her legs, and she felt a tiny pull, a slick movement. The condom came away in his hand, he let it fall to the ground, making a tiny plop. It had come off his cock half in her, she thought, after he came. As he'd lost his erection, she'd been squeezing, and her pussy had stolen it.
She took deep shuddering breaths, tried to straighten her wobbly legs. Her chain rattled against the door hook. She couldn't quite pull it off herself.
"Help me to the couch," she asked him. She felt his strong arms wrap around her, easing her weight up briefly. Her cuffs came off the hook, and the relief in her arms and shoulders was exquisite. Together, they staggered to the couch and flopped on it, still panting with relief.
"Holy shit," he said again, "this was like something out of a porno. I never imagined anything like this. It's like the stories you hear about."
At his words, she felt this strange flush of pride. She was like something out of a porno, out of stories. It made her feel special. Powerful in a strange way.
"It was pretty amazing," she said. "I've never done anything like this before."
"You're kidding!" His amazement was in his voice, and obvious on his face. "You've got to be kidding."
"No," she laughed. "First time."
"Wow." He laid his head back. "Well, if that's a first for you, then you got it right in one. My God. Why me?"
She laid her head on his chest, listening to his heart beat. His shirt was half undone, the lower buttons opened. She could see a hairy belly, and bare thighs. She reached down, finding his cock, even limp, she wanted to feel it, to squeeze it in her hand.
"I don't know," she replied. "Right time, right place, I guess."
"Oh," he said. He sounded a little disappointed. She wondered if she hurt his feelings.
The handcuffs had served their purpose. Rather than triggering the release latches, as she usually did, she had him get the keys from their little bowl in the kitchen. There was an intimacy in having him unlock her, even if it was unnecessary, she still enjoyed it. Her wrists were bruised, red welts in the flesh where the handcuffs had bitten into it. She allowed him to massage her wrists.
Afterwards though, neither of them found that they had much to say to each other. He was at least a decade younger. She didn't feel like she wanted to talk to him. After-sex conversation, the idea of it seemed exhausting. She felt him grow restless as well. When he made some excuse she was all too willing to let him leave, his presence now unwelcome and unnecessary.
Once he was out the door, she simply relaxed for a while. At length, she made herself a hot cup of coffee, and sat back on the couch. The handcuffs, opened and harmless were on the floor. She picked them up and put them on the coffee table. She couldn't help smiling at them.
It was a satisfying, amazing experience.
Brief. Had it only been ten or fifteen minutes? Amazing.
Finishing the coffee, she went for a shower, luxuriating in the feel of the hot water on her skin. She didn't scrub, just let the water wash over her in hot rippling sheets, carrying away the sweat and smell of sex. And yet, there was something so sensuous about the shower, the glow of the sex had never left her. Her fingers slipped down, feeling hard nipples, teasing them, pinching them. One hand slipped lower, spreading her lips apart, stroking her clit gently.
Closing her eyes, leaning against the side of the shower, she could feel the heat, the lust building up again. She reached for the memories, concentrated on them, the feel of him, the wet sounds of his cock thrusting into her pussy, the feel of the cuffs, the way her legs wrapped around him. The frenzied passion.
Abruptly, she stopped and turned off the water. She put her hands up flat against the shower stall, panting. She wanted to touch herself.
Not yet, she told herself, not now.
It would be better in cuffs. It would be so much better, wearing the cuffs.
She towelled off roughly, her body still half wet, droplets clinging to her skin everywhere, her hair heavy and limp.
The cuffs were on the coffee table in the living room. Reaching for them, she noticed a text. It was from him.
"Had a wonderful time, would love to do it again."
She almost laughed, it was so carefully neutral. "Fucked you like a slut, can't wait to pound you all over." Would have been better.
"Are you hard?" She texted back.
The answer was instant.
"Yes."
"Then come back and fuck me again."
"Ten minutes!"
She laughed this time. She hoped that he'd last longer this time.
"The door will be unlocked."
With her knee, she pushed the coffee table away from the couch. Her heart was pounding all over again. The first time, that had been a wild wanton impulse, but this was deliberate, this was calculated. It excited her, made her feel bad.
The lights were too bright. She turned them down, and lit a couple of candles. She moved the coffee table further out, making sure that it would not obstruct the view of the couch from the doorway.
She wanted him to open the door, and see her right there on the couch, legs spread. She leaned back, the cuffs in her hands, assuming the position. Back elevated on cushions, so she could look right at him. Carefully she spread her legs wide, one knee lifted, foot on the seat cushion, the other leg sprawled off the couch.
She was wet all over again. This is how he would see her when he came in. He'd stand there in the doorway and look, staring at her naked body draped over the couch, at her wet pussy waiting to be fucked.
At the glint of steel between her wrists. She ratcheted one of the cuffs closed.
And below them, her fingers opening her.... The other cuff closed.
She stretched her arms down between her legs, letting the cuffed wrists rest on her lower belly.
Gentle fingertips teased her clit....
Opening herself for him.
She blinked slowly, playing with herself, watching the door.
By the time he arrived, she had almost come two or three times, had brought herself up to the edge of orgasm, but held it back. She didn't want to come until she felt a hard cock inside her, until she felt a male body on top of her. She wanted to feel him between her legs, to listen to him grunt, to touch him, smell him, lick him.
The door opened, spilling light into the living room, overwhelming the candles. She blinked. He was silhouetted, frozen, staring as she had imagined. She writhed, half in pleasure, half in performance for him. Long fingers reaching between her lips, she slid them against the labial folds and pulled apart, opening her wetness.
She imagined he might simply drop his pants, rush upon her, fucking her with the furious urgency of the last time. Instead, he stepped in, and closed the door, locking it.
"Fuck," was all he said, half prayer, half amazement.
He approached slowly, unbuttoning his shirt, staring at her as if afraid to look away, as if he was afraid that she might vanish if his gaze wavered. She shifted her hips as he moved into the room, keeping her opened wetness facing him. She watched him, enjoying his hypnotized fascination.
He's hard already, she thought. He was hard before he got here. But when he opened that door, it was as if he hadn't had anything, all of a sudden all he could think about was how hard he was for her, how badly he wanted her again, she thought. She loved the effect on him, loved the sense of power and excitement.
Still watching her, he slid his pants down to his ankles, kicked awkwardly out of shoes, and stepped toward her.
He did not immediately lunge to mount her, lift her legs and push his cock hard into her with one brutal, exciting thrust. Instead, he circled the coffee table, moving towards her, his erection bobbing between his legs, until he was near her head. His cock was inches from her face.
He reached between her legs, pulling her chained wrists away from her pussy, up towards his cock. Hands linked by the cuffs and the narrow chain, her hands were almost in the position of prayer. Guided by him, they curled around both sides of his cock, her little fingers brushing the soft sack of his scrotum.
"You wanna suck my cock," he whispered. Half a request, half an order. Or was it simply a statement. She had never cared much one way or the other before, but at that moment she wanted to suck this cock. To taste it, to feel the shape of it against her lips, under her finger tips.
She ran her bound hands along the shaft, enjoying the hardness of it, the hotness, the texture of the skin and the feel of the veins. It curved a little she noticed. He was uncircumcized. She peeled the foreskin back gently, staring at the graceful curve of the glans. There was already a bead of pre-cum. She stuck her tongue out, licked the tip lightly, harvesting the wet pearl of semen. He pushed forward gently. Abruptly, she opened her mouth, took the head in, squeezing with her lips just past the glans.
He moaned. It thrilled her to know she had made him do that. Was there a trembling in his thighs. She felt him move, balancing his weight with one arm over her, on the back of the couch. His cock bobbed gently between her lips. She felt his other hand on her belly, spread her legs a little wider, arched her hips until she felt his fingers curling into her pussy. It was her turn to moan.
He let her suck his cock for a while, sometimes her mouth pulling off, to lick and lap its length with her tongue. Sometimes she cradled his balls in her cupped hands, as she worked the head. She tried to get that moan out of him, the sound of helpless pleasure, and was gratified every time he gasped.
Finally, he pulled his hand from her sopping pussy, she felt his weight shift as he stood upright, the cock pulling away from her lips. For a second, there was a long thread of drool joining his glans and her tongue. A condom was pressed into her cupped, cuffed palms.
"Put it on," he ordered.
"Oh yes," she whispered.
She hadn't put many condoms on. Mostly, men just did that for themselves. But she wanted to do it now, it was like a new adventure, an action. Opening it, placing, rolling it down his length.
She gave a chaste quick kiss to the tip of his glistening, latex member, tasting a hint of lubricant oil.
"Time to fuck me now," she whispered. He pulled her cuffed wrists back, until her arms were straight out, above her head, out of the way. It wasn't uncomfortable, but it left her whole body open for his gaze, his touch, his cock.
"Oh yeah, I'm going to fuck you," he said, moving to straddle her, one knee sinking down into the couch cushion. His hand moved from her pussy, the knuckles parting her lips, up her belly, up her ribs to close around one breast.
"Fuck me good," she told him, bending her knees back. Looking down, she could see his erection hovering over her belly, could see her pussy lips. He reached down, moved his cock. She felt the head of it slide over her clit, down between the lips.
Her breath froze as she watched it enter her, watched and felt it at the same time. This time, there was no instant orgasm, no explosion, no runaway freight train. This time, it was a steadily mounting excitement, a heaviness and lightness within her, a feeling of accumulating tension and desire, that built and built.
He sank in her up to the hilt. His body pressed down against hers, one hand still clutching her breast, the other forcing her bound wrists above her head, his weight partially on her. She loved the feel of him, the way the couch seemed to creak and shift under them.
He began to fuck her. Not like before, not in the frantic out of control way, as if he had been racing to stay one step ahead of his orgasm. No, this was a good fucking, a hard fucking a steady rhythm that built and built up inside her. It took ten minutes to reach her first orgasm, and then only a moment after that for her second, and she loved ever moment of it.
His passion built. His hand left her breast, his entire weight pushing her down into the couch. His mouth found hers, his free hand cupping her face. She came as they kissed.
Abruptly, he pulled out. She floundered awkwardly, as he turned her over, moved her into position on all fours, her upper body straddling the arm of the couch. He thrust into her from behind, fucking her doggy style, pulling her hair, making her back arch as she came, her ass thrusting, pushing back onto his hips.
Later again, she turned, onto her back, legs wrapping around him, him lifting her half off the couch, only her shoulders touching it, as he pushed in and out of her until finally her grip broke and she fell back, only to come as he plunged into her.
By the time he came, she'd lost count of her orgasms, was drenched with sweat, the couch soaked with their fluids, her whole body ached and felt hot and feverish. It was wonderful.
After sex, after they had fucked into aching, sweat drenched satisfaction, once again, he'd released her from the cuffs, and then in the ensuing awkwardness, he'd once again made his excuses, and she'd patiently waited him out the door. She hadn't bothered to shower, just crawled into bed, wrapping herself in sheets, and drifted off happily.
Laying in bed, she thought about the night. A smile crept over her features. Her shoulders ached a little, but she didn't mind. It was like a reminder, it brought her back, made memories flash, images and sensations. What she'd done to get that ache.... soooo satisfying. She stretched her arms out into the air, waving them around unselfconsciously. There were red marks around her wrists. Not too bad, she stretched an arm out above her, looking up its length appraising, as if examining a bracelet or piece of jewelry.
She was still smiling, as sleep took her. And smiling all the next day...
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