Literotica Bondage

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Literotica Bondage
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I'm in my early twenties and have been married for several years now. I enjoy it. My husband and I live on the top floor of a low-rise tenements building. It's only five stories but it has the superlative advantage of being owned by us. We have the entire top floor, with three apartments on each of the lower levels. We do quite well out of it.
Now my husband and I have a, shall I say, varied, sex life. We like experimenting; it can be a lot of fun. Currently we were playing around with bondage. Just bondage. The sadomasochism side of BDSM does not appeal to me but the bondage is interesting.
Just consider it. You're tied up and helpless and a man is going to do as he pleases to your body. I get a little wet just thinking about it.
This particular Saturday afternoon my husband had me fastened to the bed. I was lying there, spreadeagled. The handcuffs he'd used to fasten me to the bed may have been pink and fluffy but they did the job. They were a good quality and I wouldn't be able to get loose until they were actually undone.
To stop any protests I may have wanted to make I was wearing a bondage gag and I had on this really weird latex costume. The costume wouldn't even have raised eyebrows at a nightclub if it hadn't been for a couple of strategically placed holes. You guessed it. Totally crotchless and a space for my breasts to be nicely displayed. All the goodies were on display.
On the bedside table there was an array of little help me toys. A vibrator or two. Different sizes. A small feathery whip which made me a little nervous. A bowl of ice-cubes and if he put any of them in the wrong place I'll swear I'd find a way to bite him. The cream and champagne were interesting additions. I just hoped he had a straw so I could sample the champagne past the gag.
Now James was sitting on the bed next to me, just idly toying with my nipples before getting on to some serious work, when the accident happened.
There was a very loud crashing sound, the lights went out, and I'll swear the actual building shook. Remember, we were on the fifth floor, so for us to even hear the crash it had to be really loud. James went over to the window and stuck his head out.
"Fucking hell," he roared. "There's a bloody truck embedded in the front of the building. Don't go away. I'm just going to go and see what happened."
Frigging gag. I'm trying to say don't go leaving me like this, you fool, but all I can do is wheeze a little. James goes charging out into the hallway, leaving the door open and I could hear him cursing the lack of a lift. (No power, remember.) Then I heard the fire escape door bang and knew he was running down the stairs.
So what do I do? I just lie there, thinking evil thoughts. When it becomes my turn to tie James down I was going to go shopping for new shoes while he waits for me. Bastard.
So I wait. And wait some more. There's a small clock on the bedside table and I kept looking at it and wishing that James would just get back.
After about ten minutes I'm staring up at the ceiling when I hear a laugh. My head swivels to the bedroom door and there's a stranger standing there, checking me over. From the look on his face he approved of what he saw. That doesn't mean I approved of his checking me out.
"Hi," he says. "You can call me Peter. On second thoughts, I guess you can't with that gag, can you. Nice outfit."
I'm looking daggers at him, not that it seemed to make much impression.
"You're probably wondering what happened. It's quite simple. A cement truck skidded and ploughed through the front of your building. It's made a bit of a mess down there. The owner is running around in small circles trying to get everything sorted out. He should be finished in an hour or so."
An hour? I was going to be stuck here for an hour? I grunted and turned my head to look at the side table, hoping the man would have the nous to spot the keys and unlock me.
No such luck. He just went right on chatting and looking me over.
"I was asked to run up the stairs and check each flat to ensure no-one was hurt. There doesn't appear to be. You're not hurt are you? Well I guess you wouldn't be, being lying down on a nice bed when it happened."
I grunted again and jerked my head towards the table again and finally he seemed to get the message. He grinned, nodded, and wandered over to the table. And then instead of picking up the keys and unlocking the cuffs he picked up an ice-cube and started rubbing it across my nipples.
Bloody hell it was cold. My nipples peaked and I was bucking and squealing, not that you could hear much. I was so going to put a gag on James and fasten it on with a padlock and lose the key.
It must have been obvious that I was unhappy about the situation from the way I was wriggling around and trying to yell past the gag. Even Peter picked up on it.
"Ice-cubes not your thing?" he asked. "OK. We'll try something else."
The son-of-a-bitch picked up a vibrator and turned it on. Then he reached down, clamped a hand on my pussy, parted my lips and slipped the vibrator into me. Not just an inch or so, but right in.
Then he stood up, and did what James had done.
He said "Don't go away," and walked out the door, while that blasted vibrator was shivering itself to death up my passage. I heard the fire-escape door bang and thought he'd left, leaving me with that vibrator going.
"OK," he said. "I've jammed the fire escape door so we won't be interrupted for a while. Now let's get down to business."
Thankfully, the first thing he did was get rid of that damn vibrator. But then he picked up another ice-cube and started rubbing it on me. Those things are cold, especially when pressed against sensitive flesh. I bucked and made little oomph sounds around the gag, but Peter was having fun and there was nothing I could do to stop him.
Tiring of the ice-cubes (he said they were chilling his fingers, poor man) Peter picked up the feathery whip and promptly showed me that James had been using it wrong. It turns out that properly used that whip can generate unbearably ticklish itchy feelings on a woman's flesh. If my hands had been free I'd have been frantically rubbing them over my breasts and groin, trying to stop the itching. (After, that is, I snatched that whip off him and jammed it up his arse. The bastard was laughing at me.)
"Would you like me to rub it?" he asked and I was promptly nodding my head. I didn't care he was a stranger. I just wanted that itchy tickling feeling to stop.
It stopped all right. You can guess what it felt like have male hands rubbing my breasts and mound, relieving the itch. Leaving an itch of a different sort in their wake. And he knew it.
For the next ten minutes he tormented me like that. I'd be driven frantic by that feathery whip to the point where I welcomed his hands massaging me. Then I'd have excitement building in me because a man was rubbing my breasts and pussy. And then he'd start it all over again. He was going to drive me insane.
When Peter finally put down the whip I was almost melting onto the bed. I was burning with need. And there was nothing I could do about it. I couldn't even pleasure myself. Stupidly, I thought I'd have to wait until James returned, and then I saw Peter was undoing his trousers.
It was very evident that Peter also had a burning need. Quite frankly, it looked to be the largest need I'd ever seen. And I was helpless before it. I mean, what could I do? I couldn't even say no. Even if he took the gag off I'd be struggling to say no, the way I was feeling.
As it was, all I could do was watch as he knelt between my thighs and lined his cock up with my slit. I'd like to say I tried to pull away from his invasion of his body but I don't think I did. I'm pretty sure that when he drove down into me I bucked up to meet him with all my strength.
Peter started hammering my poor pussy, and my poor pussy rejoiced and absolutely hurled itself up to meet him. I wouldn't have been surprised if the handcuffs or bedframe had snapped the way I jerked up against Peter. My arms and legs instinctively rose to curl around him and hold him, only to find themselves pinned to the bed.
Not that this discouraged Peter at all. He was banging away for dear life, knowing I was meeting him, and that there was nothing I could do about his absolute domination of my body.
I climaxed in what seemed like mere moments after he possessed me, but this didn't slow Peter down. He made no allowances for what I was going through and just kept pounding away, sweeping past my climax and pointing me firmly in the direction of a second one.
I'm quite sure Peter was completely indifferent to what I was feeling, and I put it down to dumb luck that he held off his own climax until my second one was right to explode. When he was ready he started to bang me so hard I half suspected that he was trying to drill a hole right through me, and I felt that he wouldn't be releasing his seed but firing it shotgun fashion into me. It felt like that when he finally let go, hot lava splashing into me and knocking me over the edge to my second climax.
When I surfaced again after that little episode I found Peter was pulling up his pants. He must have seen me stirring because he turned to me.
"You want to be let loose?" he asked and I nodded.
"Thought you might," he said, and reached for the handcuff key.
He undid one cuff, dropped the key on the bed and left, giving me a friendly wave as he left.
I had to grope around on the bed to find the key and then wriggle around to undo my other arm. After that, my feet didn't take long and that damn gag went out the window.
As far as I was concerned any more experiments with bondage would be with my husband tied up and me with a dominatrix costume and a very nasty whip.
Bondage of any kind is only a game for the experienced, but to all other including the experienced there are binding rules. James walked out of the room and left his wife in a vulnerable position, and in more ways than one he broke a main rule. The story was not over the top and pleasant to read with the amount of time Peter had before her help arrived I am surprised he never did more.
The husband is randomly gone THAT long? Don't make me laugh.
An interesting parallel story would be if she was blindfolded and the new guy didn't say anything and she was left wondering if it was hubby or someone else.
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My Night on the "X" in the bondage club.
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I couldn't see it. But I could feel it. Smooth, hard plastic parting my bare, lubricated outer lips, prying me open, beginning to slide up into me. Opening me. Deeper. Wider. Penetrating me. Preparing me. I love the feeling of that first penetration of the night.
I'd been waiting for it all day. Thinking about it at work. Getting wet. And my heart fluttered that night when I got to the club. When I stripped off my clothes in the dressing room, accepted my blindfold, collar and ball gag, when I was walked naked into the activity room, laid down on the bondage "X" table by my attendant. I spread my legs and raised my arms over my head to be strapped down. I felt the cool, soft leather of the restraints being fastened, heard the buckles being tightened around my ankles and wrists. Heard them lock. Felt my bare skin on the hard bondage table. Helpless and exposed for use.
This is how it starts. And this is my happy place. Blindfolded. Stripped naked. Strapped to a bondage table with my arms over my head and my legs spread wide. My body forming a human capital "X" of sexual submission. Ready to receive, and most prominently, be used, for unlimited sexual pleasure. Mine and anyone else's who happens to be here.
I become a living sex toy. A prop. A semen receptacle. Part of the furniture in this well-appointed sex studio for paying couples to enjoy.
You should try it. Being blindfolded, strapped down, fucked over and over by strangers you'll never see. It's nice. Every girl should try it. It's liberating. And it feels so incredibly wonderful. You don't have to do any work. All you have to do is lie there, riding the waves of sexual sensation from trough to climax, over and over, and let yourself be used like furniture. Fuck furniture.
I love it. I love the break from concern about having to perform for a partner. I love the restful feeling of just going limp on the bondage cross when the straps are tightened. I love being used for pleasure. There's absolutely no point in fighting the restraints. You learn that after some time being blindfolded, gagged, strapped down and then fucked repeatedly and anonymously.
The first few times you're on the "X", you fight the straps, you work yourself up trying to breathe around the gag. I did. You flinch when something begins to go inside you. But after a few times on the table you learn to relax and just ride the waves of sexual sensation washing over you. You learn your role here, and you learn to relax and allow yourself to be used. And that is glorious.
It's also a great way for a girl to eat her first pussy. It's how I did, and I may not have otherwise done it. You know you're curious about it, it makes you wet. You watch the videos and read the stories. You want to perform oral sex on another girl and feel your mouth and tongue on another girl's vagina, but you don't know how to begin. That's never a problem here. Within a couple minutes of the guests walking in and getting naked you'll be eating your first pussy. It's just a great way to start without all the worry of awkwardness or difficulty. Here, when you're stripped naked and strapped down on the "X", it just happens. Nothing you can do about it.
It went in deep. Whoever was dildo-ing me was probably getting off on it. God, I know I was. They opened me slowly with the smooth, plastic phallus. That was courteous. I appreciated a gentle beginning. But even in that slow, gentle opening penetration, the mood of the evening was revealed. As gentle and slow as the entry of the smooth plastic dildo into me was, it's progress up inside me was unrelenting. It just. Kept. Coming. Deeper, deeper. Whoever was opening me up wanted to see how deep inside me they could push it. The answer was, pretty deep. And I felt marvelously full when it finally reached the opening of my cervix somewhere around my belly button deep inside me.
There is something about slow, very deep, penetration with a plastic dildo when someone else is doing it to you- controlling it. Forcing it. And there is nothing you can do. The only thing I had was my safe word, and I'll be damned if I am ever going to use that. I never have. The excitement is being taken farther every week. Not pushing your limits, but just lying there and letting them be broken. Shattered. Being a passenger. Being truly submissive. I love that. Now my cunt was more full than I could have ever managed myself. I'd never shove my own dildo this far up my cunt. It takes a stranger to do this. And it is magnificent.
I love it when it's happening, and I love it now, the day after, when I should be working but am in my cubicle at my computer writing up every detail of my bondage gang-bang last night that I got paid $2000 for instead of writing the legal briefs I should be working on. I bring extra panties to work for mornings like this. Because typing what happened to me last night makes me sopping wet. And, maybe I still have some lube and cum inside me from last night too.
So here I sit, the morning after. Typing out the details. Trying to remember every sensation. Trying to savor it and record it so I can read it and masturbate to it later. I have voice to text read back to me what I typed about last night while I pump myself with a vibrator or use my magic wand at home. Sometimes I wear a vibrating butt plug when I listen to what I wrote and look at a slideshow of the photos of me strapped down to the table while people use me. One day I want to let them use me as a bondage anal slave at the club, but that's some ways down the road. For now, I'm happy to give up my tits, my pussy and my mouth for use.
You store the memories of what happened to you differently when you can't see what is happening to you. You can only feel it and hear it. Your only inputs are your naked skin, your hard nipples, your swollen, wet pussy, your open mouth. All the recollections of the evening are stored in your brain in the language of your sexual organs.
So, you remember very well how something felt deep up inside your pussy. You're forced to concentrate on it, and you are totally tuned-in to everything you feel. You picture your nipples in your imagination as the clamps are applied to them, and they are crushed. You try to guess what the man looks like whose erection was forced past your bright red lips and into your mouth just as he let go and ejaculated down your throat. You taste his delicious semen. You feel a guy let go inside you when his warm flood comes. You taste a husband's cum in a wife's sopping wet pussy when she straddles your face after she's already been fucked by him. And it is hot. Fucking hot.
I gave my phone to one of the girls working the party. She shot some photos and video for me. Of me being used. Of the men and women who ate me, fucked me, came on me, put their dicks in my mouth, the girls who straddled my face with their pussy or took my clamps off to suck my nipples before politely replacing them for another client. One girl straddled my face while I ate her after she removed my ball gag while her husband fucked me and they faced each other, kissing passionately as they used me. Used me as their couples' sex toy.
I heard their conversation as they made good use of me:
"How is she?" the husband asked his wife as I covered her entire, smoothly (and courteously) waxed vagina with my mouth while he pumped my vagina athletically.
"She is great at eating pussy," the wife said breathlessly to her husband.
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