Ten Steps

The phone rang once, and I pressed "End" on my mobile. It was the signal to get ready. I was just 10 minutes out. And she'd need all 10 minutes to prepare: strap her ankles to the table legs, put on the blindfold, insert her wrists into the rope loops and pull upward to cinch them tightly.

But even before that she needed to lay out the champagne, one glass and an ice bucket. The chair needed to be positioned by the right wrist restraint, tied to the far table leg. The toys needed to be organized, including the special one I'd find upon arrival. The towels set aside if needed.

As I pulled up outside the old Victorian house, I went through the instructions again, making sure I was prepared for the slightest infraction. I rang the phone again—one ring only—and hung up. It was the last signal indicating my entrance to the house.

Step one: door open. One for 10.

The flat was tastefully decorated, as the home of a designer should be. A gentle collision of 19th-century bourgeois grandeur and 20th-century modernist minimalism. Light filtered through the lace curtains, spilling onto a figure quietly waiting in the middle of the dining room.

She was soft, curvy and dressed in a black cocktail dress, pale skin offset by golden hair cut in a sophisticated bob. Her black stockings started just below the hemline, giving away a flash of soft flesh cut by six suspender straps. They disappeared into black leather pumps with a thin, one-inch heel. Her arms were outstretched across a drop-leaf table in the craftsman style, deep ray-flake oak warm with years of wear. Nylon cords were attached to the far legs, and wrapped around her wrists. Her ankles were bound against the near table legs with black velcro straps. Around her eyes was a colorful silk scarf in a complex William Morris botanical print. Deep reds and greens and earthy browns entwined.

Steps two and three: ready and in position. Three for 10.

I sat down in the chair, positioned as I asked at her right hand. The wine was chilled and ready to drink, and with a gentle "POP" the pressure built up over years of storage in deep, dark rooms was released in a rush. It foamed gently as I filled the solitary crystal flute standing next to the bucket.

Step four: wine. Spot on for full marks through almost half of the requirements.

After draining a second flute, I stood up and walked around her prone body. Not daring to touch her yet, but surveying my options. Her luscious lips were accessible at the right level. Her delicious ass was likewise situated, and just a bit father beyond, I imagined her bare pussy swollen in anticipation. It was time to check for the surprise request.

With a gentle stroke across her round bottom, I lifted the fabric to reveal a light blue colored gem nestled in her puckered asshole.

Step five: jeweled butt plug in place. Halfway home.

This light contact made her squirm a bit, and she let out a high-pitched sigh. But this was not the time. I was still contemplating what to do next when I saw the ring gag.

Gently opening her mouth with my fingers, I fed the leather strap under her head and inserted the large rubber ring between her lips. Her tongue danced just inside her teeth, which she dutifully opened wide to accommodate the apparatus.

I opened and took off my suit jacket, unbuckled my belt and unzipped my fly. The sound made her breath catch. And as I brought out my cock from inside my boxers, she made a sound like swallowing, preparing, anticipating...

Into the ring I slipped myself, growing hard as the wet and warmth of her open mouth enveloped me. Gently at first, then stroking faster, I bucked my hips against the table and into her mouth, reaching down to steady myself with the back of her head, winding my fingers around her thick strands of hair, forming a ponytail handle to control her pace and jerk back if it got too intense. Several minutes of sheer pleasure.

Backing away from the table, some saliva escaped the corner of her mouth and pooled on the table. I moved the linen napkin that had been under my glass to the front of her mouth to soak up anything that came out of her mouth. It was a really nice table, after all.

Step six: suck me. Done.

Walking behind her, I pushed apart her legs and rubbed up and down on the bare expanse of thigh between her stocking tops and silk underwear gusset. She was getting tired, jack-knifed in this position for nearly 30 minutes. But this was my time, now. "She'll have all day to rest when I'm finished with ..." My thought ended when I saw the wet spot on her underwear. It was growing quickly, with little rivulets of girlcum peeking out and starting to descend down her thighs. To help the process along, I firmly rubbed my thumb against the spot, feeling more wetness push through the silk. Underneath, her lips spread apart to reveal more wetness pooling just inside, and the rivulets turned to fully-fledged streams of cum. Pressing more firmly now, and faster, I jacked off her clit trough the silk of her soaked panties, listening to her breathiness being replaced by a hoarse cry being replaced by an open-throated scream. As her climax started to break on her, I stopped and stepped back as she writhed against the restraints.

Step seven: her first edge.

With that I flipped up her skirt and pulled down the sopping panties to reveal her thick cuntlips glazed with wetness. A thick string of clotted girlcum hung heavily between them, and I leaned in for a taste. Snaking my tongue around the entrance to her pussy, I lapped up spoonfuls of her abundant wetness that now coated my clean-shaven face. Seeing an opportunity to move toward step nine, I withdrew the jeweled buttplug and replaced it with my tongue as I massaged her perineum, looking for an indication of her orgasm, which she was not allowed to reach.

It didn't take long: between the pressure of my tongue in her ass and my thumb just below it, she began a shattering release that caused her to strain and arch even harder. More chuffing. More cum. More labored breathing. Still no orgasm.

Step eight: her second edge. Now it was mine.

I swallowed another glass of wine. With her entire crotch open and wet, her ass slightly opened and ready, I had one final choice to make. Surveying the toys, I selected a string of purple beads, lubed them up, and gently inserted them one by one into her delicious bottom until all that was visible was the pull-ring. Time to fuck now.

My cock still hung outside my pants semi-hard, but with a few quick moments of reinsertion through the ring gag I was prepared. Pressing my cockhead between her lips, it took a slight push to breach into the moistness of her pussy, which was warmer and wetter than her mouth. She let out another gasp as I pushed deeply into her, feeling the cheeks of her ass flatten against my pelvis, and my balls push against her clit. Then again, And again, again, again, again, again, faster and faster until the sound of slapping flesh echoed off the high ceiling above the dining table, which shook and creaked with every stroke.

The first hints of my climax started deep in my groin, with a growing pressure through the base of my penis. As I felt this first swelling I tugged on the beads until the first emerged from her puckered asshole. A squeal followed by rhythmic groaning. My second spasm caused me to twitch inside her, but she was distracted by the second ball being pulled from her ass. The third and fourth caused a dribble of my pre-cum to mix with her already considerable wetness, which was increased as I pulled the next few balls from her.

Watching her wrinkled asshole open and give up the smooth purple plastic was a breathtaking contrast to my cock pistoning in and out of her pussy.

With the fifth, sixth and seventh spasms, I tied to resist the primal urge to fill her with my cum, instead concentrating on tugging—but not removing—the next beads until I knew I was under control. Thrusting still and the crisis building, I leaned into her and sped up as quickly as I could, fucking as if it was for my life. Any pretense of titillation was gone now, as I fucked her as hard and fast as I could. With the eighth and ninth spasm, I knew she was as close as she'd been to cumming since I arrived. I reached underneath her, to where her legs parted and strummed my fingers as quickly as I could across her clit in a fevered rhythm that caused her shouts to escalate to shrieks.

Then I stopped. I pressed hard against her, but remained still for several minutes.

Finally I withdrew from her and walked around the side of the table. I looked into her pale blue eyes, grabbed the champagne flute, and started stroking my cock. My eyes peering deeply into hers, I increased the pressure and speed of my strokes until that ultimate throb overtook me. With my left hand I grabbed her hair again so she could not look away as I shot thick and hot into the glass, my semen mixing salty with the sweet champagne. She watched as I caught my breath and set the glass down on the linen napkin by her head.

Step nine.

She was still hyperventilating, so I filled the glass with the rest of the champagne, tipping the empty bottle into the ice bucket. She could drink it after I was gone.

Without a word, I pulled up my own pants, stowed and arranged and zipped everything. The light was fading so I switched on a lamp. Walking towards her, I saw her back heaving, her legs wobbling, and sweat pouring down her own face. She had been finger and tongue-fucked, her ass had been probed, and she was forced to suck me. I didn't come in her. I didn't make her come. In fact she had barely moved. I hadn't spoken a word to her. And I left her laying tied to the table, panting and tense, knowing I was done with her for today.

I took a rigging knife from my pocket and cut through the rope on her right hand, then folded the knife again, grabbed my coat and walked out to the car. As I got in and turned the ignition, I hit redial, let it ring once and hung up.

Step 10. Sleep tight.