Bound and Waiting

Hi, this is the first part of a longer story. I'll upload the rest if anyone would like me to. Otherwise, thank you so much for reading!

Alex

*****

These handcuffs are quite tight. They'll definitely leave a mark. That doesn't concern me right now though. Sometimes he uses the 'fuzzy cuffs' as if they're less harsh on the skin. That's purely aesthetic, trust me. I prefer cuffs to ropes though, but what I like doesn't matter. I wonder when he's going to come back? There's always a chance he's still here. It's hard to tell how long it's been since he blindfolded me and left. Presuming he has left. Judging from the amount of drool that's seeped out from my ball-gagged stuff mouth onto my chest and thighs it's been some time. Maybe he wants to watch me squirm in secret?

When he fastens the cuffs onto my wrists he puts them on loose, then CLICKCLICKCLICK, tight. Maybe too tight. That's when they're coldest. The steel warms quite quick when pressed against my skin. I usually interlock my fingers for comfort and rest them on my heels while I wait. But now my knees are getting a bit achy. I'm on my knees quite a lot for him but you focus more on the unease when some of your senses are deprived. I try a shoulder roll to release a bit of pressure. Sometimes I grasp my ass cheeks, the way he would but not as rough. They sting quite a lot and I can only imagine how pink they are right now. He loves the 'mmmph' noise I make when gagged. Sometimes it's pleasure. Mostly it's not. I'm making it now because I'm trying to scratch my nose off my shoulder as my hands aren't in use. If I could just be free for five seconds to relieve some of these annoyances... But even if that was remotely possible I wouldn't dream of upsetting him like that. I've made that mistake before.

He chooses my outfits to suit his desires. I'm quite happy not to be wearing heels right now. I feel so very sexy in heels. Your toes get a lot of pressure squished under the weight of your feet when you're made kneel down in them though. I'll still do it, of course. But it's a nice relief to be barefoot. I only really wear heels for him. He likes feet too, but rather has me pleasuring his. I'm quite clumsy in big heels too, another quirk of his.

Footsteps?? Yes, I think so. Unconsciously try to slurp some drool back in, as if a spared millilitre will save me from the filthy mess with which I've left myself. Yes, the jingle of keys. I prop my head up. Raised to attention. The way a soldier would under inspection. I'm attentive. I'm ready. My breathing quickens. My nostrils flare as my mouth remains obsolete. A let out a little 'mmph' in anticipation. For a split second I consider the idea that it's someone else. Not a chance. Is there? I'd be ruined... To be seen like this. I'm a nurse, a well respected one at that. We've all got little kinks but the role with which I've adhered to would not be smiled upon by those who know me well. But then again, that's all part of the fun...

The creaking door slowly closes. I recognise his footsteps now, on the wooden floor as they heel-toe, heel-toe, slowly towards me. He builds the anticipation without really meaning to. The silence is deafening. I'm propped up on the bed, perhaps not 'shivering' but an early stage of trembling for sure. A little squeak stop of the heel of his foot on the timber floor suggests he's perched in front of me, assessing the situation. I've grown so accustomed to this role that when I hear the footsteps I consider the wooden floor and how that is specifically chosen. Carpet can be lay down on, kneeled on, pushed down onto in disgust. Wood sounds better in stilettos. Wood can also be eaten off.

I jump with shock at a BANG of a dropped bag onto the unforgiving floor. Again, there's method to each and every one of his actions. There is something or some things in the bag that I'm going to be made use, or wear, or eat, who knows. If not I would not have been made aware of its existence. I can feel my nipples pointing out into the air. The right one has a trail of drool meandering its way around, originating from the failed attempt to scratch my nose earlier. Ten minutes ago? An hour ago? Doesn't matter. A lot of blindfolds prepared by the less experienced leave a little slit of light on each side of the nose bridge. This takes away from its purpose. Lean your head forward and you'll be able to see the ground. Tilt back and whatever is in front of you has been revealed. The odds of that happening here are astronomical. I'm in complete darkness. Thick, black leather with an imprint for my nose to rest with two stretched straps around the back of my head keep it secure. I'll admit it is not uncomfortable. But wear something so many times you'll get used to it. It's better than duct tape though. Similar sentiment but a thousand times more difficult to remove. I do comply when prompted though, I'm sure you've gathered that much.

"Stand up" he says.

"Mmmph mmmh" I respond.

That was "yes sir" if you were unable to decipher. It's always 'sir'. Not master, Mr. Something, a first name, a last name. Just 'sir'. God forbid I forget. There's a brute strength in his voice. I don't think you would have had to have been picked up and thrown around by him to fully understand that. It's not loud, by any means. If it is then I'm in trouble. It's deep and gets the attention it deserves, without being too coarse. Perhaps it's the thought of missing a spoken order and the subsequent 'activity' I'd have to perform has my ears pointed high, very seldom missing a syllable. I'm just 'slut', mostly. It varies with whore, bitch, you name it... If I forget he'll probably write it on my person somewhere. Forehead, chest and ass are mainly the culprits. Luckily penned with lipstick more often than not, rather than a permanent marker. With the latter, tt comes off, yes. But the red remaining blur from scrubbing is difficult to explain. I've only ever worn lipstick for him. He brings it with him, similar to our clothing arrangement. Which brings me back to the mystery bag.

There were a few clicks as the air pockets in my knees and fingers release upon my vertical movement. The stiff, far from elegant rise suggests lethargy but I am very much enthusiastic. Eager, perhaps. Looking at one another I'd be up to his chest. His big, strong chest. I gasp out another moan and exert a tuft of air from my nose as an index finger below my chin tilts my head up to face his, I presume. The first touch, along with the first command get the biggest shocks. Like waiting for toast to pop. You know it's coming. 100% guaranteed to pop, like it does every single time. But you still jump when it does. The unpredictability of timing coincides with the anticipation which culminates in a response similar to waking up suddenly from a dream in which you suddenly fell. The darkness makes this so much more thrilling. I have absolutely no idea what's planned. I could hazard a guess but his mood changes from time to time. He never disappoints. I'm not allowed to disappoint.

The unzipping of the bag made me briefly lean my head down towards the floor to 'look'. I quickly recognised my error and held my head up high again before being spotted. Some things were being taken out and thrown onto the bed. Nothing sounded particularly weighty. An ever so slight 'mmhm' of agreement suggests he's content with his collection, now my collection.