Conversationally, he said, “There’s this stripper at this joint we go to, she rouges her nipples. Ever thought about rouging your nipples, doll face?”
I shook my head even as I tried to deep-throat him. I couldn’t quite get to the root of his cock but I seemed to get points for effort because he sighed and gently stroked my hair.
“How about we rouge your nipples then? I might be inclined to untie your wrists for that.”
I nodded vigorously, realizing as soon as he said it how terribly the rope was irritating my wrists. The bruiser attempted to unbutton the buttons on my bodice but abandoned his efforts after two failed attempts.
I moaned, moving my wrists restlessly against the edge of the tub to remind him.
“Patience, sweetheart. Patience is a virtue. Didn’t they tell you that in school?” He stepped back, cock painted brightly with my lipstick. Then he took his fedora off and hung it on a wall hook. He opened the medicine cabinet and rummaged around. “Maybe the boss’s missus has some in here. You never know what you’ll find in these things. Dames keep all kinds of shi—sorry. All kinds of things in medicine cabinets.”
He pulled out a blue makeup case and unzipped it, producing a small round compact. He flipped it open. “This rouge?”
He tilted it toward me and I looked. Cream rouge in a shade of rose. I nodded.
“You can speak, you know.” He pointed at me. “You just can’t scream. You scream and things could get rough.”
“It’s rouge,” I confirmed.
He set the case down and nodded to my wrists. “Put them up.”
I did as he said, my body showing a fine tremor from the adrenaline. He produced a pocketknife and began to saw at the rope that bound me. My skin emerged, tattooed with fine marks from the hemp. Pink and achy and shiny.
The thug surprised me by leaning in and kissing my wrists just above my pulse. “To make ’em feel better,” he grumbled. Then he nodded to my dress. “Undo those buttons. Pull out those tits.”
I bristled at his blunt language but did as he said. My fingers trembled as I undid the pearlescent buttons and then I pulled my bra cups down to expose my breasts. My knees ached dully from kneeling in the tub.
He squatted down and opened the small compact. “Remember, no screaming, no biting. And I’ll be real nice to you.”
I heard myself exhale. It was a stuttery breath. “I will. I promise.”
He coated his thick fingertip in rouge and began to paint it on my nipple and the areola. I watched that pale pink flesh pucker and go tight beneath his touch. I moaned before I could catch myself. His dark eyes went to my face, and I felt naked beneath that brazen gaze.
“I’m going to assume the boss man wants you to play with. But I think I’ll risk getting snuffed out to play with you myself.”
He got more rouge and moved to the other nipple, stroking it, covering it in rosy pink. I clutched the edge of the tub to keep myself steady—and to repress my sudden urge to touch him of my own volition. I was supposed to be scared of the thug.
When both my nipples were painted fetching pink, he dropped to his knees and kissed me. I stiffened at first, tasting cigarettes on his tongue and wondering what kind of violence such a big man was capable of. Then he was stroking my freshly rouged nipples and kissing me and I let myself get lost in it. How gentle he could be. I sighed into his mouth before I could stop myself.
He laughed. “Not such a scary guy when I want to be nice, now am I?”
I shook my head, remaining mute.
“If I untie those delicate ankles of yours will you behave while I take off your shoes? And your hosiery? And your delicates?” he asked, his voice growing gruff as he spoke.
I nodded. “I promise. Anything,” I said.
He lifted me out of the tub and carried me to a small room with a sofa and a desk—someone’s office. He set me on the sofa and put my feet in his lap, slowly but surely unwinding my ankles. He didn’t use the knife this time but instead showed patience at undoing his own handiwork.
When the rope was puddled by his leg he got up and pulled me to my feet. “Arms up.”
I put my arms up like a child and allowed him to pull my dress over my head and off. Next he unhooked my bra and dropped it at my feet. “I thought you were all tied up in my rope.” He smiled and I realized it was a crooked smile, almost likeable. Handsome. Almost. “But you’re much more bound by the stuff under your dress than by anything I supplied.” He removed one spectator pump at a time.
I felt my cheeks turn as pink as my nipples when he unhooked my hose from my garter belt. Surprisingly, he knew how to roll them down properly so they wouldn’t snag and could be stored. I felt myself go wet between the legs at the realization. His face was so near my underpants his breath penetrated the silk. The humidity of every exhalation was intoxicating.
I watched, fascinated, as he removed my garter belt and then my panties. I was bare before him.
“You’re much prettier out of all those things than you are in them, doll face.”
I could only nod.
“Spread your legs.”
I spread my legs and with two big fingers he parted my nether lips. Then: “You’re so pink down here you don’t need any rouge.” Then he pushed a finger inside me. I cried out little. He said, “And you’re wet, too. Did I make you wet, sweetheart?”
I nodded.
“Good to know.” He didn’t say any more. He just leaned in and brushed his lips over my clitoris. He pushed his tongue into my slit as his big, heavy hands held on to my upper thighs. He kept me right on the edge to the point where I began to whimper.
“Oh, does my captive want to come?” he whispered.
I found my voice then. Maybe it had been unveiled by him removing all my restrictive clothes. “Yes,” I said softly, my voice watery.
“Then come,” he said, latching on to me, sucking harder and faster. His fingers drove into me over and over again and I found myself clutching his broad shoulders, still sheathed in his pinstriped jacket. I came, saying nothing but “Oh” over and over again.
He grabbed me and stood, moving toward the desk. Then he bent me over, put my arms across the blotter and took my hips in his hands. I arched back, shameless and helpless to deny that I wanted this. I did my best to beckon with my body. Not that I had to.
He hissed as he entered me. Just the tip at first. He made me wriggle and beg without begging. I could still feel blood thumping and rushing in my wrists and my ankles where he’d had me bound.
“I decided I wanted you for myself,” he grunted.
I came.
“All for myself. Fuck the big boss.”
He slammed into me, thrusting so hard my hip bones hit the edge of the desk. He pulled out of me and picked me up, laying me on my back, spreading me wide. His eyes ate me up. His gaze felt almost tangible. He parted my legs, hauled me forward so my bottom was on the lip of the desk and drove into me. “I want to see your pretty face when I come all over your pretty pale skin.”
I gasped again, not just from his words but from his thumb, which he pressed relentlessly against my clitoris as he thrust deeper and deeper still.
“I love what that pretty mouth of yours does when you gasp. I love what that pretty mouth of yours does on my dick,” he said.
I moaned.
“I love all the pretty things about the pretty dame,” he said gruffly. Then he laughed.
He made a sound—a simple animal sound—that told me he was about to come. I pushed my legs up a little higher to get him deeper. He rubbed my clitoris and when he said, “Christ,” I came. Knowing he was right there.
He stayed in me long enough to feel my pussy milk at him and then he pulled free and shot his come all over my belly, using his fingers to rub it into my skin and paint it around my belly button.
He grinned at me. My thug.
“So there was your noir movie, doll face. What’s next? Can I be big boss next time if we do noir again?”
; I was shivering and Mike pulled me close, wrapping his arms around me to warm me. He’d taken the throw blanket off the back of his office sofa to set the scene.
“Not noir again. Sci-fi,” I said, teeth clacking lightly.
“Oooh,” he said, pulling a sweater from the closet by the sofa. “Can we have a scenario where I have more than one cock?”
I snorted. “We’ll see. I’ll have to think it over.”
“Whatever you want, doll face,” he said, laughing.
“Good thug,” I said, kissing him.
HOUSEWARMING THE CRAFTSMAN
Daddy X
Tom and Ellen found the old two-story house tucked way at the top of the canyon. Just perfect for entertaining. No neighbors to hear any screams. Looking beneath a few cosmetic concerns like dust, dirt, broken windows and detritus, they came to believe it was solid and had been designed by one of the greats. Tom asked Ellen what she thought.
“Bigger than the ones you see in ordinary neighborhoods,” she said.
“Nicer too,” the agent Doris added. “In architecture school, they’d call it a Craftsman, American Arts and Crafts period. Early nineteen hundreds.”
“Just look at that banister,” said Ellen. “Those little openwork diamonds, hand-carved through the tops and bottoms of every upright post.”
“Must have been some artist to come up with that,” said Doris. “You can’t even buy that quarter-sawn oak anymore.”
“We’ll take it,” said Tom. “You say it’s available for back taxes?”
“Yes,” said the agent. “Down payment today, we’ll expedite escrow. You’ll be in by the end of next week.”
Considering Tom’s career in construction, they figured on doing most of the work themselves. Issues with the foundation and plumbing persisted, and the old coal burner had to be replaced, but the major effort would be spent on interior plaster and woodwork. Tom’s business had grown to a point where he could delegate some duties. He turned authority over to a few trusted foremen to spend more time with Ellen while they were still young enough to share their good fortune.
Hard at it one day, Tom stopped for a drink.
Ellen had taken the staircase upon herself, starting with the banister. Dressed in little khaki shorts and T-shirt, her long legs straddled the rail, one foot solid on a lower step. She ran a square of sandpaper up and down in front of her, smoothing the wood to perfection.
Feeling wiseass, Tom cracked, “A little penis envy over there?”
“What’s that?” she answered, drawn from her focus.
“You look like that’s a massive brown cock, and you’re masturbating.”
“Hah! You nasty you,” said Ellen, realizing the image she presented. “Hadn’t thought of that,” she giggled.
“Good thing it’s just us. You’re giving me a hard—”
“I can imagine what you’re thinking. Pervert.”
“Can you?” Tom teased. “What am I imagining?”
“Never know with you.”
“Did the…ahem…the equipment,” he said, “make it here yet?”
“Tom.”
“Yes?”
“What are you thinking?”
“So? What’s here?”
“I didn’t—I didn’t think we—”
“Would get the chance?”
“We have been busy,” she said.
“There’s always time for play.”
Ellen and Tom had christened the place the night they moved in, making love on an air mattress on the floor. Whenever they had the time, energy and inclination, they did all the things lovers do with each other, weaving hands, mouths, cock and cunt together, embracing that sense of togetherness every couple needs.
But they hadn’t yet had sex. Not real sex. They’d had equal exchanges of affection. They’d had sessions combining love, companionship and understanding. They’d sure fucked.
But no, not that kind of sex. Not yet.
“Stop being silly, Tom. Now you’ve got me going, you fuckstick.”
“What’s ‘got you going’ supposed to mean?”
Ellen grinned, a hint of the devil in her eyes. “Well, I already have something between my legs,” she teased, angling her torso into a pelvic curl, rubbing her pussy up and down the recently sanded banister.
In a show of purpose, Tom stepped to the room used to store equipment. He rummaged through various tools and unpacked boxes. There should be something he could use. Yes, the Velcro straps. Long shears. That’s all he’d need. This time.
Back in the living room, he told Ellen, “Let me show you a trick to get inside those little diamonds in the uprights.”
“Yeah,” she said, “rolling up the sandpaper doesn’t—”
“Well, it won’t really matter if the inside of the holes are a little darker,” said Tom. “It doesn’t have to be perfect; it’s an antique. Just rough it up so the varnish sticks.”
“Okay, show me,” she said, sitting up. One leg still over the rail.
Tom scaled a few steps. “Okay—thread this through a diamond hole here,” he said, running a Velcro strap through an oaken strut above her. “Here, hold this end.”
“Let’s see. Like this?” she said, leaning forward on the banister, concentrating on the process.
He mumbled.
“What?” she looked up. “Didn’t hear that.”
The distraction provided the seconds Tom needed. He flipped the Velcro around one wrist, then, in a flash, the other. “Gotcha!” he said.
While Ellen hesitated, flummoxed by the abruptness of her situation, Tom stretched her bare leg down a few steps, fastening the ankle to the bottom of a lower upright.
Ellen had the idea now, arms stretched along the banister, one foot tied at a lower step, the other free leg still over the rounded rail. No chance of falling off. “Oh you fucker!” she exclaimed. “I can’t trust you?” Ellen tugged at her bonds to no avail. The foot on the stair held her balanced, crotch against the sensuous wood.
“Not when it comes to this,” he said.
No longer in a hurry, Tom backed down the steps and sat in the living room. What a lovely apparition his wife made, fastened along a banister in T-shirt and shorts, bound at three points. Her pert breasts pulled the T-shirt tight on both sides of the banister. “And one more thing,” he said.
Confusion rectified itself in Ellen’s mind. Her throat turned gravelly, warm, knowing whatever happened after this point would stray pleasingly beyond her control. Beyond what she was taught. Beyond what a respectable woman should want or need. What was right. What was wrong. Tied to a banister, without a choice. “What now?” she groaned, heated, resigned.
Tom made his way back up the staircase. He tugged Ellen’s T-shirt up to her shoulders, unsnapped her brassiere and slid it up above her breasts. It created an obscene look, one dusky-tipped cone of flesh hanging on each side of the rail, empty cups and bra strap bunched up with the shirt around her neck.
“God, you’re beautiful,” he said, crouching, fondling first the tit on his side, then tweaking the other through the banister posts.
“You always say those things when I’m tied up,” she said with a bit of nostalgia.
Nostalgia wasn’t the only sensation sweeping through Ellen’s mind and body. Tom’s caresses warmed her entire being. An involuntary press of her bothered cunt against the railing. Little pelvic tilts. A flush to her face. Those shorts that usually fit so loose, now hugged tight across her buttcheeks. When she let her entire weight down, the banister pressed uncomfortably against her crotch. Ellen found that if she held herself up a bit on the one grounded foot, the sensation could be adjusted, altered to be almost pleasant.
As it is whenever a man or woman places something between their legs.
Tom’s admiring gropes found their way along Ellen’s smooth little buttocks, fingers tickling along the center divide, pausing under the moist, unprotected area she held above the carved wood.
Ellen’s asscheeks clenched. “O
h fuck, Tom. Don’t do that. Not if you don’t mean it,” she moaned, eyes drooping.
“I mean it,” he whispered.
Back in the living room, Tom brought out an iPhone. “Wait’ll our friends see this.”
Click.
“You would do that, wouldn’t you?”
“You bet,” he said. “Just wait for the housewarming. They’ll all get an eyeful.”
Tom flashed her the photo.
“Well, what if I don’t want people seeing me like that?” Ellen asked, cheeks reddened.
“Fat chance,” he retorted. “A show-off like you? You get off on it. It’s that exhibitionist shame that turns you on.”
Raising an eyebrow, Ellen turned to Tom. “Lots of talk from a guy getting his jollies watching his horny wife tied helpless.”
“You better watch your mouth, you little slut.”
Ellen rubbed a longer swath of banister with her crotch, directing her torso up the rail then down, the subtle rhythm further antagonizing her libido. “What will Daddy do if Mommy doesn’t want to be quiet?” she asked singsong, wiggling her ass at the bottom of a curl, acting coy. “What’s the big man gonna do? With his helpless little captive brunette?” She raised the untied leg to reveal a dark spot developing on the khaki.
“Do you really want to know?” Tom replied in mock annoyance. “Or do you want a surprise?”
“Could you give me a little of…both?”
“Oh, I’m gonna give you something, all right,” Tom said, easing into the wordplay. “I’m going to run my cock up your little brown asshole.”
Ellen came right back with, “Promises, promises. You can’t even take my shorts off, not with me like this.”
His double take gave him away.
“Uh-oh,” she said. “Now I’ve done it, haven’t I?”
Ellen wasn’t sure how hard to push. Sure, she’d been tied up helpless before, genitals exposed, fucked far beyond what she would have allowed if not restrained. Successive orgasms in more volume, in more shapes, of greater screaming intensity than she could remember. More, in fact than she would have believed possible. Being unable to shut down the gropes and manipulations exposed her sexual triggers. Manipulations of her cunt, clit, asshole and mouth. Lubricated hands. With tongues. With vibrators, dildos, nipple clamps, butt plugs and feathers. And cocks. Always cocks. And sometimes a flail. Tom had always been worthy of her trust before. Yet it didn’t stall the flurries of fear, those enticing flurries.
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