Begging to Be Bound

Play acting again, she begs for lip sealing gags, unrelenting bonds.

Male/female -- married -- bondage -- gagged -- tied -- submissive woman -- control- lingerie

Snow fluttered past the kitchen window, piling in drifts in the yard and street. I knew what this meant: once my loving husband had braved his journey home from work, that would be it. We weren't having dinner out tonight. We were grounded. I would have to come up with a new plan for the evening.

It had been an incredibly stressful week for me (and likely for him as well). I felt the knots of tension in my shoulders. What I wouldn't give for an oily hot massage... what I wouldn't do for a good screwing.

Maybe that was the answer! I recalled a movie clip I had watched recently, my hand buried in my panties furiously rubbing my clit. We could have a little bit of pretend playtime, I could scream out my frustrations, and hopefully get a vigorous screwing before the night was over.

I sketched out the parameters for him in a password-coded document and emailed it to him an hour before his quitting time. He would have a role to play, I knew he'd stick to the script like the talented actor he could often be. Moments later, I got my answer in 5 characters: "LOL OK."

On to wardrobe and makeup: I donned a carmine red bra and panty set, perfect for any Valentine's girl eager to turn on their guy.

A light hand with the makeup: I wanted to look professional and mature, not whorish tonight. A bit of soft, creamy eyeshadow; a similar soft color with my blush; and a new wet-and-waxy lipstick that adds a shock of color. (A study found women wearing red lipstick got larger tips from male customers; another study found that men's eyes tend to stay trained on a woman's lips for longer if she's wearing red lipstick. Lipstick has always fascinated me: it looks cool as hell.)

I tugged on banded stockings, admiring the shimmer on my long legs. I buttoned up a high collared sensible work blouse that didn't evidence much see-through. And I slipped into a short skirt with matching tailored jacket: a dated but favorite suit I had worn to work in years past. It still fit beautifully, though showed a little too much leg for the public.

Almost as an afterthought, I snatched up a huge silken scarf and knotted it primly around my neck. While it accessorized and finished the look I was going for, I knew it would soon be retied, likely to be passed between my pouting lips!

All our shades and draperies were pulled closed for the night. I sat patiently in a kitchen chair as I heard the garage door opener go up. I mentally followed the noisy progress of his car coming in, shifting to park, then going silent. The car door opened, then slammed. The garage door traveled down. Still my good husband remained out in the garage.

Knock-knock-knock

"Come in," I called, positioning myself taller and slightly arched back.

He came in carrying a plain zippered bag, which I had packed and left at the door for him. "Miss Evans?" he asked, remembering the alias I had shared.

"That's right," I breathed, as sexily as I could.

"Miss Evans, I am Robert from the agency. I understand you called with an urgent request, and I got here as quickly as I could." He was so earnest!

I smiled prettily. "Robert, so nice to meet you. Please take off your coat, may I get you a drink?" I put together a Manhattan as he hung his coat in the closet and removed wet snow boots. He accepted the drink gratefully.

"Now, Miss Evans, I got the outline of what you wanted from our office, but perhaps you could state it again, for me?" He sipped the drink, a twinkle in his eye.

"Yes, well..." I crossed a silken leg over another, tugging at the hem of my too-short skirt. "It's been a rough week for me, Robert. You see, I own and manage a large corporation. All day, dozens of people come to me to make decisions, to settle arguments, to set the vision for our company. And while I love it, I must admit this week has been exhausting. I need an outlet to relax and get the stress out. And that's when I remembered your company."

"Bakersfield Bondage Consulting," he pronounced, and I grinned: he had remembered the moniker. "Yes, your story is all too common among the bright, successful, and beautiful women in town. I can't imagine the stresses of your job."

I likely blushed as the 'beautiful' comment went by. "I make decisions all day, throughout the week. By the time the weekend arrives, I am worn to a frazzle. I want all the choices taken away from me! I want no say in the matter!"

He took out a pen and opened a notebook. "Specifically what sort of bondage do you enjoy?"

What a great line of questioning! "Actually, I want tight, inescapable bondage. I don't care for thin cords or ropes pulled into my skin. I prefer wide straps that can be pulled tight and buckled into place. I can't sit like a ditsy fashion model for hours while some amateur fumbles with loops of rope and complicated knots. Is that clear?" I was Miss Perfect Bitch.

Robert assured me that he was very experienced in his line of work. We agreed that while chair or bed bondage was delightful, I would be trussed on my living room floor, with plenty of room to twist and writhe on the vast carpet.

He made idle notes in his book. "When bound, where does your mind take you? What thoughts do you have? Does a scenario come to mind?"

This was such fun! I leaned forward to address him, affording a peek into my blouse at the tops of my breasts. "You know, sometimes I just zone out. I strain against the ropes, pulling to get free. I wear myself out trying to get loose." I paused, then confided: "honestly, it's since I was a girl, I've wanted to be that damsel in distress. Seized up by the villain, unable to escape, terrified over what might happen next." That earned a whole next page in his notebook!

"Another point, Miss Evans," and he hesitated as if approaching an awkward subject. "In my view, of course, it simply isn't bondage without a gag."

"Of course!" I said, and we clinked glasses, toasting the sentiment. I made myself busy preparing his second cocktail as we negotiated the agreed-upon stuffing and wrapping.

For limits, he recorded no blindfolding. Nothing restrictive around the neck. I would continue to wear my suit jacket as part of my executive apparel. He would leave me to my own devices, checking on me every 15 minutes or so. We worked out a simple system of hand gestures to communicate my wants and desires.

He made appreciative comments about my living room décor, tasteful and appropriate for a tradesman visiting the home of a woman client. I perched on the edge of an ottoman as he brought my wrists together behind me, binding them together with a wide buckled strap.

"Okay so far?" he inquired. I assured him the degree of tightness was perfect; I preferred wrists strapped together rather than the loose, separate nature of chained cuffs.

Kneeling at my feet, he secured my ankles with a similar wide strap, and then 2 more, one above and one below my knees. Sitting as I was, I suspect Robert could see the bands of my stockings, and it gave me a secret thrill. My pulse began pounding.

"I notice your face is getting some color, are you all right to continue, Miss Evans?" I nodded, feeling the heat on my face.

"Let me try something I've been thinking on." Robert produced a small roll of vet wrap. He passed the length under the arches of my 4-inch heels, wrapping my shoes together and to my feet. Men! I thought. They love a woman in heels and are dissatisfied when a victim manages to dislodge kick off her shoes. At the same time, the wrapping felt all the tighter, and my pussy began to seep.

"It's nice," I offered. "You've certainly addressed the legwork."

"Yes, Miss. I'm coming up." He produced two long wide belts, and in moments secured them above and below my bosom. Another strap passed around my biceps, drawing my elbows closer together. He cinched and re-cinched the straps, tugging my boobs up. I delighted in the sensation of my tits being trapped.

I agreed to a sip of my drink. He held the glass to my lips, intensifying my sense of helplessness. I spotted the effect his efforts were having in his trousers.

"Ready for the next bit?" he asked. I giggled that I was, I certainly could do nothing to stop him.

"Please, remember my instructions," I directed. "I want a mouth filling gag, with so much packing that wisps of it show from my open mouth. I need you to please gag me, please gag me good and tight." As he rooted around in his carryall, I complimented his efforts; clearly, he was an experienced professional at his trade.

Recalling I had wanted nothing about my neck, he carefully undid the silken scarf. With it taken away, I was aware of all my cleavage on display, even more so with my arms secured behind me. I wished my topmost blouse button would come undone, or even better, just snap and fly across the room. My nipples were hard points in my bra, my pussy throbbing.

"Recalling your desire to be that idealized damsel in distress, Miss Evans, once you are secured, you will have no say in what happens to you," my consultant intoned. "Whatever adventure lies ahead this evening is entirely out of your control. You are in control during the week, but that's over for the rest of this evening. I urge you to manage your temper, and even to explore your submissive side," he said.

It was like waving a red flag in front of a bull. "Submissive?" I snapped. "Fat chance, no man is going to tell me what to do, no mere workman --"

He gripped my chin and slowly stuffed cloth into my open (and willing) mouth. A clean rag was wadded into one cheek, then he fed me a second cloth. My cheeks filled, I felt the heavy packing holding down my tongue, tails of fabric showing outside my lips. At the corner of my eye, he readied a roll of vet wrap, which he proceeded to pass around my filled mouth and head. This spongy stuff was so much preferable to sticky medical or duct tape. I lost count of the number of orbits, the elastic tension pulling neatly across my cheeks and lips.

I twisted in my bonds, shouting through the packing. To my ears, it was as if I wasn't making a sound at all. Behind me, my captor was prepping something; an instant later, my tasteful silky scarf reappeared and was knotted tightly over the wrapping.

He knelt in front of me, and with his phone snapped a photo. He showed me what I looked like; bound, gagged, tamed by him. I glared and snorted at my captor, aggressively shaking my shoulders and tits at him.

He lowered me from my perch onto the carpeted floor, arranging me as best he could against my unceasing twisting and flailing. "OK, Miss C-E-O. Get loose if you can. If you do, I'll refund your money. But if you can't, we'll take this assignment to the next level. I'll leave you alone." He left the room.

I pulled helplessly at the straps, luxuriating in my bonds. I know the legs are stronger than our arms: I tried to force my knees apart, trying frantically to pull my feet and ankles away from each other. My shoes squeaked, the leather rubbing together. In my struggle, my blood heated up, I felt the hot flush on my chest and neck as I fought the straps.

I flopped over on my front, tugging at the bands around my wrists and torso. I rocked, head to toe, mashing my boobs beneath me as I struggled to get loose. My panties were soaked. In my frustration I screamed shrilly into my gag, delighting in the carnal release.

I squirmed and corkscrewed, trying my side, my front, my back, anything to give me better purchase. I rolled away from the ottoman and then rolled back toward the couch. My skirt crept up my hips. I only managed to dislodge my pretty scarf, which fell loosely around my throat.

I heard his steps, then he was there above me. "You don't seem to be getting loose, Miss Evans. Are you enjoying yourself?" I growled angrily, squealing into the packing, shaking my wrists impotently behind me. "I'm glad you are having a good time," he continued, kneeling next to me and removing my loose scarf.

My consultant-slash-husband was showing a little red sex flush himself. His hands at my torso, he hesitated just a moment... then pressed his advantage and began unbuttoning my blouse. I feigned the fight as best as I could to preserve my dignity. The red-blooded woman in me, on the other hand, was thrilled to have my shirt open, my cherry-red lingerie on display for his hungry eyes.

"Well, hello racy red," he murmured. "Now was this selected for me, or for you?" He loosened the belts just enough to pull my blouse and jacket behind me, then snugged them up again.

He dragged me to the couch, folding me over the cushion as he manhandled my breasts, tweaking my stiff nipples through the thin lace. My defensive efforts were failing; I had no fighting advantage and indeed, was wearing myself out. A hand on my ass, and he worked down the nylon zipper on my skirt. I squealed in mock protest as he stripped the skirt from me.

I was a disheveled, squawking girl before him: Bound securely, gagged tightly, my shirt and jacket pulled roughly open revealing my red bra, practically naked from the waist down in scalloped red panties and shimmering nylon stockings. Helplessly, I lifted and drove my heels into the rug, feeling every inch the assaulted mermaid...

Thick hands were on me again, this time plastering bright red plastic tape over an already full gag. "There, that matches nicely. I know you like to color coordinate." He leaned in and pressed his lips against my gagged lips. The kiss felt numb through the layers of tape and wrapping. "Now you try to get loose from that, I'm going to raid your liquor cabinet." As he stepped away, he evidenced a dangerous tent in his trousers and a leer on his face.

Alone again, I worked at my gagged mouth. The slick tape just added to the secure wraps and packing. I could feel my mouth drying out. I imagined the mess my lip gloss was making on the wrapping, but it wasn't doing anything to weaken it.

I flopped, rubbing my horny tits against the rug, the tails of my blouse and jacket wriggling around me. Mission accomplished: I felt the perfect damsel in distress. I could not break free of my captor. He had the upper hand. My pussy wept openly, my panties a sodden mess. I wished he would take a more forceful position.

Was he watching my progress on the security cameras? With agonizing slowness, I worked my way back to the couch. I turned and somehow heaved my torso up on the seat. I knelt bent at the waist. There was just enough play in my hands to get a finger under the waistband and slip my red panties over my ass.

That is how he found me at his next check, my aroma filling our living room, presenting myself to him in that subservient, doggie position.

I like to think it was my loving husband, not Robert, kissing the side of my face. My man, who loosened the knee straps, allowing my thighs to part ever so slightly. I felt big hands on my hips, and with a roar, he tore the panties right off my body. Writhing in my bonds, I squirmed in a feminine show for him. A fat finger invaded my twat, quickly joined by a second. He plundered me as I pulled helplessly to free my arms and wrists. And then he was behind me. His thick rod was at my opening, and he pressed the length of his cock up deep into me. I gasped at the intrusion. Soon he was sawing madly in and out of my wet slit. Each thrust bounced me off the couch cushions. I screwed my eyes shut, enjoying his thick assault on my body. I craned my neck, offering myself to him as his captive, his willing slave.

Delightfully, his heavy hands roamed over my large breasts, my stiff tits. One breast shook loose from its cup as he roughly fondled me, simultaneously fucking me from behind. I groaned like an animal, twisting in the unyielding straps, taking his sexual assault like a hungry eager woman. It had been too long since I had been used like this. I could feel the beginnings of my orgasm come up and hang over the moment, before cresting and rushing through every fiber of my body. I shrieked as best I could, my primal needs and desires rushing through me. I slumped in my position, held fast in my bindings as he continued a relentless assault on my sex, slapping my ass. Moments later, he was close, and I wailed as I felt the flood of his fluid into me.

After glorious sex, my good husband often rolls over and falls asleep. Please don't do that this time, I wished as I clenched and unclenched my hands behind me. He seemed to take his time unbuckling straps. But he was careful and efficient in using the safety scissors I had set out, to snip and pull away the multi-ply gagging.

We hugged and he massaged my back and arms, willing blood back into my limbs. We both giggled after our exertions.

"And so, madam, will you be paying with cash, or are you interested in opening an account?"

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