Forty-five minutes ago he stood on her doorstep, waiting for her to come collect him. Three women walked by, deep in conversation. An elderly man and woman were walking towards them, so they broke rank to let the couple have command of the sidewalk. In doing so, they got close enough that he could smell their perfume. His cock twitched, and he winced at his lack of self control.
"Good evening," the couple said warmly, lumping him into their group. A cacophony of greetings came in response, and everyone laughed. It was a perfect New England evening that drove people out of their homes for one more walk before the cold air whipped and wailed. In the distance, the sun blushed its departure from the sky. The first fallen leaves of the season swirled at their feet. It was cliche, a tourist's dream. But he lived here, born and raised. The perfect son of the state's queen city. Or at least he tried to be. Perfect.
After the couple had moved on, the group of women moved forward down the sidewalk. The third in the group, a pretty blond wearing a flannel with just enough buttons undone to draw attention, made a point to look back at him. "Have a good night," she said, and the couple called back"You too!" Her friends giggled, swatting her arm, and hooking it into theirs. Drawing her close to whisper about him, each throwing one more glance his way. The elderly couple was oblivious of the dynamic they'd just walked by. But it was clear to all the women that the "Good night" was directed at the handsome guy standing on the stoop.
And he was. Handsome. Classic good looks, ripped from an LL Bean catalog. It was sweater weather and he was wearing a cardigan that would've looked trendy on anyone else, but on him looked effortless. He smiled back at the blonde, but said nothing. Those women may have admired him, but they didn't know that he was already owned, and his cock, caged, belonged to someone else.
There she was, opening the door, smiling at him. It was unreal how eager he was to please her. She had an uncanny knack of knowing just how to push all his buttons. To source them and strike them in a specific order that made his head spin and balls ache. To make his need for perfection a source of release and relief, a way to calm and contain the stressful life he led when they weren't together. She didn't acknowledge him with words, just a smile and an open door.
She turned to head back up the stairs. He waited four steps before she gave him permission to follow. (He'd made that mistake once. Entered her home without her invitation. His ass was sore for three days, which made his client meetings that weekparticularly tortuous to sit though.)
He never knew what she'd have planned for him and that was half the fun. Today, though, she kept it tame. Had him strip, bound his hands and wrists to match the restraint on his cock "Such a good boy," she said in a low voice when she saw it, and he believed she was pleased. He loved it when he was the source of her pleasure. When she allowed him the reward of praise and compliments. She didn't provide lip service. He was only here because she allowed it, and he was well aware that at any time she might revoke that privilege.
She sat him down on the couch. "Do I have to remind you not to touch it?" She said, a phrase his brain had memorized, but not his body. His hands had a mind of their own around her. He was always reaching to touch something - her soft skin, the curve of her thigh, the weight of her breast. If, that is, she was close enough for him to try. In her absence, his hands flicked to his cock, a horny teen that didn't even realize he was playing with it.
"I'll be good." he said.
"I don't believe you," she replied, and reached under her skirt to remove her panties, lace, which she shoved into his mouth. Reaching up, she removed a ribbon from her hair, causing her curls to cascade down and around her face. "Please try, though," she told him, tying the ribbon around his mouth, locking the underwear in place.
She moved to the bedroom and came out wearing her black satin robe, with a book in her hand. He groaned and began to twitch. He'd been caged for the better part of the weekend. Had slept in it and even gone to brunch with his parents bearing the humiliation of it. He had to sit to pee, instead of using the urinal at the restaurant. He knew his dad noticed, even asked if his stomach was feeling ok because theirs wasn't the kind of family who shit in public. If only they knew that he regularly wrote his mistress' name in Sharpie on his skin, a reminder to himself, mostly, that he was a kept man whose pleasure hid behind lock and key that belonged to her.
