Archive-name: Bondage/bedtime4.txt
Archive-author: 
Archive-title: Wife Buys a Mistress, A

A Writer's Choice Bedtime Story


    I admit it. I'm selfish about my pleasure. There's nothing 
chauvinistic or Cro-Magnon about it. It's just that no amount of 
good intentions can make me go slow for long when I climb on top 
of Julie and she starts to squirm in that special way she has. Men 
aren't made to hold back. I don't care how many stories you've 
heard about ninety-minute erections -- if any are true, then those 
guys just aren't enjoying themselves. Evolution didn't wire us 
that way. 
    But that doesn't mean the fun can't go on longer under the 
right circumstances. For me, that means giving up control. There 
are a lot of ways to do that, all the way from rolling over and 
letting Julie ride the may pole to being trussed up with a hundred 
feet of new white clothesline. The more control I give up, the 
longer the session can last. The longer the session, the more 
pleasure along the way, and the more intense the sensations at the 
end. 
    So can you blame me if I encouraged Julie to take the upper 
hand more often? I did what I could to make it easy. I picked up 
a pair of steel "love cuffs" at a novelty store and stocked our 
bedside "goodie drawer" with convenient lengths of black braided 
sash cord. When Julie set her sights on a four-poster bed frame 
that cost $300 more than I thought we could afford, I went along 
-- with ulterior motives. I wanted to be bound spreadeagled 
to it and lavished with ravishment. 
    You see, in case you haven't pegged to it yet, the `slave' is 
really the center of attention. It's the slave's appetites that 
are to be whetted and frustrated. It's the slave who's to be kept 
on the edge of ecstasy. It's the slave that's teased and tormented 
past what he or she thought they were capable of feeling. This is 
sensual slavery, not sadistic, and I'm not ashamed to say I like 
it. I already told you how I feel about pleasure. 
    But damn my luck if taking charge didn't turn out to go 
against Julie's grain. Early in our relationship, in that 
try-everything-you've-ever-heard-of stage, we had three bondage 
sessions that I still remember in wistful detail. I didn't want a 
weekly diet of female domination, but I could have done with a 
taste every month or so. It didn't take me long to realize that 
Julie didn't feel the same way. I got frustrated and pushed. She 
got resentful and pushed back. 
    The rest of our relationship, in and out of bed, was solid. 
She was and continues to be the perfect woman for me, as pretty 
and sharp-witted now as the day we married and more tolerant of my 
quirks than I deserve. So I cleaned out the goodie drawer and 
backed off. When I brought a few books with bondage themes into 
the house, she seemed to get excited reading them with me in bed. 
But all she ever wanted afterward was to be pinned to the mattress 
with me deep inside her. 
    Only one other time did she consent to play the sensual 
slavery game. I had her in an "I owe you a favor" situation, and 
that's what I asked for. It was a mistake. Her heart wasn't in it, 
and it ended up no fun for either of us. Afterwards I tried to 
explain why I liked it. She told me it made her insecure about 
whether I liked "regular" sex with her. 
    I'm selfish, but I'm not a boor. I gave up my wishful 
thinking, held her close, and told her I'd never ask her to try it 
again. 
    So I couldn't have been more surprised when, on my next 
birthday, I opened my briefcase at work and found in it a small 
package I hadn't put there. I tore off the brown paper to find the 
love cuffs and a note. Shoving the cuffs into the pocket 
in the lid before anyone could see them, I read the note in a 
state of aroused amazement: 
         When you come home tonight, go to the bedroom and 
         strip to the waist. Stand with your back against a 
         bedpost and use these to bind your hands behind you. 
         Wait there and wonder. Happy birthday, love.
    Just reading the note gave me a powerful erection. Needless to 
say, I spent a very long day trying to avoid building up my 
expectations and mostly failing. I consoled myself that Julie had 
to know the effect her note would have and would be equal to my 
imaginings.
    Of course I got stuck in traffic on the way home that night, 
arriving fifteen minutes later than usual. Even so, Julie's car 
wasn't in the drive yet, and I hurried inside to comply with her 
instructions. 
    My cock was straining against the fabric of my shorts and 
slacks as I waited. Several minutes passed, and then I heard 
the click of heels on wood flooring somewhere in the house. 
    Presently Julie stepped shyly through the bedroom doorway and 
into view, her head lowered. She held a canvas shopping bag behind 
her back. I was surprised -- no, be honest, disappointed -- by her 
clothes: a pretty but not terribly sexy sweater and skirt outfit. 
    Then a second woman stepped through the doorway, and my knees 
about buckled. She was a dream-nightmare come to life: full round 
breasts spilling over the top of a black satin corset, long legs 
encased in sheer black nylon, black leather wristlets and collar. 
I was stunned. 
    "Show him," she said, and Julie turned around. Her hands that 
held the bag were tightly bound at the wrists. 
    "Put it on the bed," said the stranger. "Then sit in the 
chair."
    Julie complied, sitting down awkwardly in the big armchair 
by the window. She had still not raised her eyes to look at me. 
    The other woman came and stood close enough to me that I could 
drink in her wicked perfume -- whether natural or chemical I 
couldn't say and didn't much care. I stared at her breasts and 
licked my lips unconsciously. 
    "You like this game, don't you?" she asked, reaching out and 
stroking the bulge in my pants.
    There's no arguing with a hard-on. I told her yes.
    "My name is Sasha. To you, I'm `Yes, Mistress.' If you feel 
silly saying it, I'll be happy to whip you into a more cooperative 
mood. Or will you be good?"
    "Yes, Mistress," I said. It didn't sound silly. For me, it was 
a phrase charged with sexual electricity.  
    She rummaged in her bag and returned with a sharp hook-shaped 
knife, like a miniature scythe. Pushing the point through the 
fabric of one pants leg, she jerked the knife upward. The cold, 
metal edge brushed my skin as it sliced through the fabric to the 
waistband. I gasped. 
    A few more cuts and my clothes were just a pile of scraps to 
kick under the bed. I felt naked in a deeper sense than just 
physically. Something more had been taken from me than would have 
been if I had undressed myself. She caressed the curve of my cock 
with the dull edge of the knife in a movement that should have 
shriveled me. It didn't. I wanted her, badly.
    Putting the knife away, Sasha tied one of my hands to the 
post, twisting it up painfully behind me till the wrist was at 
shoulder blade height, then freed the other. 
    "Jerk off," she said, settling on the edge of the chair where 
Julie sat.
    "What?"
    "The name is `Yes, Mistress.' Make yourself come. I'm timing 
you. The longer it takes you the worse you'll be punished." 
    "I wouldn't want to waste it," I said, trying to flirt with 
her. 
    She ignored my effort. "Oh--one little thing before you 
start," she said, wrapping an elastic strap tightly around the 
root of my cock, between my scrotum and my body. Almost 
immediately, my cock stiffened and swelled still more. 
    "Now," said Sasha. "Do it. I'm already counting." 
    She had freed my left hand, and I was a right-hander. It does 
make a difference. But the strap made a bigger difference. I 
wrapped my hand around my cock and pumped furiously, but anything 
I started, the strap choked off.
    While I labored, Sasha pulled up Julie's sweater, unhooked her 
bra, and began fondling her pert breasts. Julie had never 
expressed anything but distaste at the mention of lesbianism, but 
all she did now was to close her eyes and recline passively in the 
chair. 
    My arm ached and my cock was becoming chafed. But I looked at 
the strange woman fondling Julie and couldn't think of stopping. 
All I could think of was coming, spraying my load in a fountain 
across the floor. Sasha pulled up Julie's skirt to reveal her 
furry pussy, licked a long finger, then reached down and parted 
Julie's cunt lips with it. Julie's mouth worked noiselessly as 
Sasha stroked her. 
    Still I could not come, and Sasha grew impatient and angry. 
"Stupid cock," she hissed. "You can't obey the simplest 
instruction." Retying my free hand, she went to her bag and pulled 
out a red ball gag with a leather harness. 
    "We don't want the neighbors complaining," she said, pressing 
the ball to my lips. When I didn't open my mouth, she grabbed my 
balls with the other hand and twisted them. When I opened my mouth 
to cry out, she pushed the ball deep into it and pulled the straps 
tight. I could make only muffled moaning sounds around it. 
    Returning to the head of the bed, she laid out the contents of 
the bag: a studded paddle, two-inch long alligator clamps, coarse 
yellow rope, a black double-headed dildo with waist harness. She 
fitted one end of the dildo into her own wet pussy, her eyes 
half-lidded as she did. Then she buckled the straps on her hips 
and pulled them tight. The other end of the dildo curved upward 
from her crotch obscenely.  
    "I've got a new experience for you, little Kevin. It's called 
dildo rape. It's one of my favorite games." She curled her fingers 
around the dildo and stroked it suggestively. "Of course, since 
you don't have a cunt, I'll have to find somewhere else to fuck 
you." 
    I shivered. It was one of the things I had asked Julie to do 
the night of our bondage fiasco. 
    "You think I'm going to grease this up for you? No way. You 
want some lubrication, I'll bring a man in here and have him fuck 
your ass. You want any lubrication, you squirm nice and make him 
come in your ass. Then I'll fuck you, with his cum running out 
your asshole and down your thighs."
    That was when I really flashed to the fact that I wasn't in 
control, and my eyes must have shown it.
    "Is Kevin scared?" she taunted. "Kevin should be. Unless 
little Kevin knows another way I can get this wet for you?" 
    Out of an instant impulse, I nodded frantically at Julie. 
    Sasha smiled. "You're naughty," she said to me, and pushed 
Julie down on the floor. "Pull up that skirt. Your husband wants 
me to fuck you. I'll bet I can do it better than he can." 
    Laying back on the carpet, Julie wriggled until her skirt was 
up around her waist. Sasha tied Julie's ankles to her thighs, 
then pushed her with a booted foot until I had a clear view 
between her raised knees. 
    Sasha came over to me. "Look how wet she is already," she 
said, and she was right. "Does she scream for you? I'm going to 
make her scream. But I don't want you to enjoy the show too much." 
She reached out and snapped the jaws of an alligator clip on each 
of my nipples, making me writhe in pain. But at the same time a 
new surge of blood rushed to my already engorged cock, and it 
jerked slightly with each heartbeat. 
    Kneeling between Julie's legs, Sasha thrust the dildo deep 
inside her with one quick movement of her hips. She leaned on her 
hands, dangling her breasts over Julie's face and brushing her 
lips with a nipple. To the accompaniment of obscenely wet sounds, 
she began to piston the dildo in and out with a steady rocking 
motion.
    Before long Julie was moaning and raising her hips to meet 
each thrust. When she came she cried out, arching her back and 
whipping her head from side to side until she went limp.
    Then it was my turn. With Julie's help and my own acquiescence, 
Sasha bent me over the footboard of the bed, ankles tied to the posts, 
arms tied forearm to forearm behind me, ass high and exposed. Sasha 
ordered Julie to lay at the head of the bed, legs straddling my face.
    Then she slapped my buttock sharply. ""Eat her, stupid. Lick 
that pussy good. Don't stop." 
    I felt the tip of the dildo press against my puckered 
sphincter. 
    "Suck those juices out of her. You don't come until she does," 
she said, and leaned forward into me. The fat head of the 
dildo pushed past the fleshy barrier, and my body jerked of its 
own volition. 
    "I knew you'd like that," she whispered loudly. "A big black 
cock up your ass. You're just a closet queer, aren't you? No 
wonder you can't take care of your woman proper. All the time 
you're fucking her, you're thinking about being held down while a 
big black stud reams you." 
    She drove the dildo in to the hilt and began to buck it in and 
out of me. My cock throbbed like never before, and I felt the 
wetness dribbling from the tip. I lapped furiously at Julie's 
slit, my face drenched with her juices and my nostrils full of her 
scent. Sasha dragged her nails along my back and grabbed my 
buttocks as though with animal claws. 
    Finally Julie arched her back and locked her legs around my 
head. At that instant, Sasha buried the dildo deep in my rectum 
and reached beneath me to release the strap around my cock. My 
orgasm was explosive, showering my own belly with a spray of 
come as Sasha milked me. The sensation of my muscles contracting 
around the dildo was exquisite. As the spasms ended, I collapsed, 
limp and drained. 
    I don't remember being untied or crawling up onto the bed 
beside Julie. I do remember the tender closeness I felt cuddling 
with her there. I was vaguely aware of the splash of water in the 
bath as Sasha changed. When I looked up, she was standing in the 
doorway wearing a peasant blouse and jeans, looking for all the 
world like a well-scrubbed girl-next-door. 
    "Everything all right?"
    "Oh, yes," said Julie warmly. "Thank you."
    "Then I'll be going," she said, and left.
    Julie turned back toward me and propped her head on one elbow.
    "She cost two hundred dollars," she said shyly. "Was it 
worth it?" 
    For an answer, I kissed her forehead. "And for you?" 
    She smiled wickedly. "Very. You understand now?"
    "I do. You wanted the same thing I did."
    "We could take turns."
    I kissed her again. "Now that we know."
    "And we could have her back again sometime?"
    "I'd like that."
    She wriggled closer. "And now I'd like something 
else, if you'll let me have it." She reached for my cock, which 
stirred to her touch. 
    I let her. After all, I'm not a selfish guy. 

==================================================================
A version of this story was published by VARIATIONS in April, 1985
as THE DREAM DOMME, by Kevin Anderson. This is the original
unedited text, as the author meant it to be read.
==================================================================
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