Testing Boundaries

We seem to have our best conversations in bed.

Not always about sex, either; we've talked about everything from world history to childhood dreams. There is something reassuring about laying in the dark, warm and comfortable, with someone you care about beside you. You can

feel

their presence, but you can't see them.

Somehow, the anonymous familiarity allows you to talk about things you wouldn't dare say if you could see the other's face, and admit feelings that would otherwise be taboo. There is a comfort in knowing someone is listening, but not immediately judging, what you say.

Still, we probably talk about sex more than anything else. Why not? We both like it, and - knowing us - we are probably either going to make love soon, or are cuddling after having finished a session.

Tonight, we were discussing fantasies. I don't think we could have discussed it as easily anywhere else.

Even in fantasies there are hierarchies, though. There are the kinky-but-possible, the possible-but-hard-to-bring-up, and the hot-but-I-never-REALLY-want-it. Everyone knows what I mean, I believe. Some fantasies are easy to admit to; others, because they expose too much of your inner world, require great trust to tell anyone else. The third category, paradoxically, is easier to admit to because you

know

you don't want it to happen.

By this time, we know each others simpler fantasies quite well, and have lived them out to a great extent. Instead, we were listing category 3, the hot-but-not-real.

"Rape. I can imagine some man finding me in bed, and forcing me to come despite myself.".

"Really?"

"Of course not really! A rape fantasy is one thing - being raped I wouldn't wish on anyone. Admit it, though - haven't you ever fantasized about ravishing some helpless woman?"

"Well . . . Yes. Prepare to meet your fate!"

She laughed and fended me off. "Not yet, boy! What's your impossible fantasy?"

"You want to know? Sometimes I imagine watching you in bed with someone else. I don't know if I could handle it in real life, but the image ... that's hot. Your turn, wench. What do

you

dream about?"

"I . . . don't have anything else, really." Just from her tone of voice I could tell she was blushing.

"Nothing else, or nothing you want to talk about, sweetheart? Come on, out with it. I won't laugh, I won't be disgusted, and I won't bite - unless you want me to, anyway."

A pause, and she almost whispered. "You could tie me up."

I rolled over and put an encouraging arm around her. Even after cracking her reserve, it took a long while before she gave me the clear picture; she had obviously thought about it for a good long time, but despite my reassurances was afraid I would think her too kinky or - worse! - silly.

If anything, I was impressed; she had spent a lot of time thinking about this, and she knew precisely what she wanted. It was the feeling of helplessness she craved; knowing that she was helpless, and unable to escape, while I slowly teased and plundered her body was the whole point.

I could see why it had been hard for her to admit; she is normally one of the least helpless, most independent, people I know. I was touched that she trusted me enough to admit her dream. Also, not too surprisingly, rather turned on. What man has not fantasized, at least once, about having an attractive woman at his complete mercy?

We didn't talk any more that night; we had both become aroused enough that talk was unnecessary, and by the time we had exhausted our immediate urges we were too tired to do anything other than cuddle and sleep.

Neither one of us discussed it the next morning. She was unsure, I think, if I remembered what she had said, and was reluctant to bring it up again. For my part, I remembered it quite clearly; I also remembered that it being a surprise, "against her will," was a big part of what attracted her. If I wanted to give her what she had asked for, I would have to convince her that I did

not

remember.

Over the next few weeks, I behaved as if that particular conversation had never taken place - at least, when we were together. But during my normal errands - trips to and from work, shopping, even to the library - I gradually accumulated some out of the normal items. A month and a half after our bedtime discussion, I was ready.

I chose my time as carefully as I knew how: A Friday night, with the entire weekend ahead of us; no undone chores, visiting friends, or family obligations. I wanted all of her attention, and had removed everything that I could think of that might distract her.

I thought it best to strike when she was already feeling most helpless; I wanted her subdued and at my mercy before she knew what was happening. Fortunately, her evening routine provided the perfect opportunity. Every night, an hour before bedtime, she would start her evening exercises, going from there immediately into the shower. As usual, she emerged from the bathroom while still toweling herself off.

It was almost too easy. She was using both hands to dry her hair, and between her raised arms and the towel was effectively blindfolded. Indeed, her position was an unplanned for bit of luck. Before she even noticed that I was approaching, I had fastened the padded cuffs around both wrists.

"What . . . Are you . . . You're *crazy*."

By the time she had gotten that far, I had her wrists shackled together to the head of the bed. I had already strapped the ankle cuffs to the two foot posts, leaving a fair amount of slack.

Though she struggled and kicked a bit, I soon had them fastened as well. Ignoring her indignant sputters, I carefully tightened the ankle straps. I wanted her comfortable, but completely immobilized. It was only when I was completely satisfied that I stepped back to admire my work.

She was a lovely sight. Her body made an upside-down figure "Y" on the bed. The position, with her arms drawn up above head and her legs drawn far apart, emphasized both her slenderness and her strength. While I watched, she pulled as strongly as she could; though her muscles stood out in high relief, nothing gave.

I walked to the head of the bed and smiled at her, absently admiring the way that her upraised arms tightened her breasts against her chest. She did her best to glare at me; I might have even believed it was real if she could have controlled the grin that kept slipping back into her scowl.

"You rat! Let me up from here!" The giggle in her voice meant her indignation wasn't terribly convincing, either.

"Do you remember the time we were discussing fantasies?" I said conversationally. "You never asked me what I thought of yours. Perhaps you never really thought about what you were getting yourself into" - a blatant lie, I was sure - "but most men would simply *love* to have a woman helpless like this. Wouldn't you agree?"

Stubborn silence from her. I continued in a dreamy voice "Just imagine what I might feel like doing, you're free to be touched, and prodded, sampled, tasted, used how I like, as often as I like . . ."

As my litany continued, I gently stroked her with my fingertips. By the time I was halfway through, her nipples were huge, as hard and erect as I had ever seen them. I experimentally ran a finger up her slit. I was pleased, but not terribly surprised, to find that she was already quite wet. Time to throw her a curve ball; even if she was really the one in control, I didn't want her to realize it just yet.

"Of course, I don't have to be nice to you," I continued in the same dreamy tone. I gave her already erect clit a light pinch. She jerked in surprise.

"After all, what can you do to stop me?" This time, I drew one of her nipples into my mouth, suckling gently for a bit before giving her a sharp nip. This time, she gave a quiet yelp, as well.

"Why don't you think about the . . . possibilities . . . a while?"

I stepped out of the room to get the rest of my supplies.

In reality, I could have been back in just a few minutes, but I gave her over a quarter of an hour to think about it: long enough to get nervous, but not long enough to begin to relax again.

I wanted the full helplessness of her position to sink in: Naked, on display, unable to move more than an inch or two in any direction. No matter how much she trusted me, and how much she wanted this, she would have been more than human if a few doubts didn't start to creep in.

I had given some thought about how best to keep her in the mood. Knowing her, any of the more outre' bondage accessories would be a mistake at this point. Right now, I wanted to keep the mood as firmly rooted in reality as possible, unsure if I was playing or deadly serious.

Accordingly, I was still normally dressed when I came back in. There is a certain advantage in being fully clothed when the person you are dealing with is naked and vulnerable; doctors and football coaches get much of their authority from it. In this case, it also served to keep her unaware of how aroused I was. The longer I could pretend to that dreamy distance, the longer I could spin out her uncertainties.

Her head, the only part of her body that she could still freely move, turned to watch me as I came in. She silently watched as I set up a wooden tray beside the bed. The angle must have made it difficult for her to see clearly, but she seemed rather puzzled by the items that she could make out. It *was* a rather odd assortment, after all: An ice bucket, a pair of unbleached beeswax candles in brass candlesticks, a half dozen feathers of various sorts, a pair of screw-adjustable alligator clamps with small bells fastened to them, a handful of clothespins, a shaving mug complete with brush and soap, a pair of barber scissors, a razor strop, a straight razor, and several hand towels.

I produced a box of matches from my pocket and carefully lit the candles, placing one at each end of our bookcase headboard. From my bedside stand I pulled a riding crop, holding it up so that she could see it plainly. Her eyes widened quite satisfactorily; once I was sure that she had seen it, though, I placed it down neatly on the end of the tray. Instead, I picked up the strop and the straight razor.

I was proud of that straight razor - it was over a hundred years old and had belonged to my great-grandfather. Most of my props had been purchased just for this occasion, but I would have had a difficult time finding a razor as intimidating, or of as good a quality, as this. I rather doubted that my great-grandfather had used it for what I planned to, though. It easily accomplished its first task - she was terrified even before I opened it. I ignored her reaction and began to strop it.

Stropping a razor produces a soothing, monotonous sound. For several minutes, I lost myself in it - I have always loved edged tools of all kinds, from razors to axes, and am the only person I know who actually enjoys sharpening lawn mower blades. At the end I rather theatrically tested the edge on my forearm. Unsurprisingly, it effortlessly removed a swath of hair.

I spared a glance for my audience. Her whole body was covered with a faint sheen of perspiration, and her eyes were glued on the blade. She looked *very* relieved when I folded it and placed it carefully on the table. I gave her a benign smile before gathering up the mug, brush, and soap and disappearing

into the bathroom.

I ran the water till it was hot, and filled the sink. I dropped a couple of wash cloths in to soak, picked up a bath towel, and returned to the bedroom. The bath towel, unfolded, I slid underneath her hips. I was pleased with myself; I had left just enough slack when I fastened her down. By now, I had expected her to be full of questions, but she had evidently opted for silent defiance. Perhaps she was just afraid of giggling when she should be cowering. I ran my hand possessively up her side to her breast before going back to the bathroom.

I filled the mug with hot water, added a little soap, and quickly worked up a froth. Squeezing most of the hot water out of the steaming cloths, I folded them. With the washcloths in one hand and the mug of lather in the other, I returned to my captive.

I began by picking up the scissors and showing them to her. Her eyes were riveted on them as I slowly opened and closed them. Worry flashed over into terror as I brought them near a nipple; she shivered uncontrollably as I touched the cold metal of the closed scissors to her flesh. The shivering only increased as I touched it to random locations down her side and belly, redoubling when I reached the small nub of her clit. This was only a preamble though, however pleasant. Almost reluctantly, I began to trim her pubic hair.

She has never had a large amount of hair, and I soon had it reduced to a short dark fuzz. After brushing off the loose strands, I covered her crotch with the first of the hot towels. By now, they were just pleasantly warm, though she *did* jump a bit as I put it on her mound. I stroked her head soothingly for a few moments before turning to the shaving mug.

The lather had subsided a bit, so I whipped it up again before removing the hot cloth. Working quickly, I applied the lather and reached for the razor.

Shaving is something you never should hurry, even when you *aren't* shaving your beloved's pussy. It's amazing how few people have learned the correct way - first, with the grain, then across the grain. Going against the grain of the hairs gives a close shave, but makes it far too easy to give a nasty cut. I hummed happily to myself as I worked. As slow and cautious as I was, I soon had her crotch as bare and smooth as the day she was born. I wiped up all the excess lather with the first cloth, and unfolded the second cloth to cover my work site while I returned the shaving gear to the bathroom.

I took my time, carefully pouring the lather down the drain and cleaning mug, brush, and razor. On my second trip, I removed the wash cloth and pulled the towel from underneath her, taking them back into the bathroom. I stopped at the door to admire the effect; somehow, the absence of pubic hair made her look much more naked and helpless.

She seemed to feel the same way; at least, the look she gave me seemed much less defiant than her earlier glare. It crossed over into open fear as I picked up the riding crop.

So far, everything I had done had been primarily mind games: her position on the bed, her nakedness, the deliberate introduction of props, even the shaving had been chosen to break down her mental barriers rather than provide sensation. Now that the barriers were down, I could move on into the physical realm. But before I moved further, I needed to give her some reassurance, something to cling to so that she could enjoy rather than fear what I had in store.

"Darling. Look at me. Do you hear me?" She stared, but said nothing. "I need an answer. Do you understand what I am saying?"

After a long pause, she responded. "Yes . . . I hear you." Her voice was hoarse.

"Are you all right?" After a moment, she gave a nod.

"Do you want me to stop?" A vigorous shake of her head.

"Good. I'm pleased. I will continue, then. But remember, until this is over, you are in my power. I can torment you, I can use you, I can ignore you if I choose. I may very well take you to your limits, but I'll try to avoid asking you for more than you can give. Do you trust me to do this?"

She thought this over for some time before responding with a shy smile. "I trust you . . . lover."

I smiled back. "Good. But I'm giving you an out, sweetheart. Your safeword is . . . platypus."

She looked confused, so I elaborated. "If you get to the point that you can't continue, that you don't trust me, that you are too afraid to go on . . . say that word. I'll stop, and let you free, and tonight will be over. We'll discuss *why* you needed to call it; until we are both comfortable about it we won't play again. Now, I want you to tell me the safeword."

"Platypus."

"Good girl. Now remember, only use it if you absolutely must.

Ready to continue?"

"Yes!"

"Yes, *what*?"

"Yes, please?"

"Better, much better. It *does* pay to be polite with a man who has you tied to the bed, stretched open, and naked, doesn't it?"

As I spoke, I ran a hand up her body, starting at her ankle, up the inner thigh, her newly-shaven vulva, belly, breast, cheek, and her outstretched arms.

"Especially to a man who has a crop in his hand. I can be very gentle" - as I said this, I ran the tip of the crop up her slit and paused to examine it - "my, you *are* wet, aren't you?"

"Or I can be a little rougher -" I gave one of her swollen nipples a flick with the crop, just hard enough to sting.

"Or, of course, I can flog you." This time I gave a full armed swing of the crop, landing it on the bed just a couple of inches from her ribs with a highly satisfactory *Thump*. From her frantic jerk, she had expected it to land on her. She might believe, intellectually, that I wouldn't hurt her, but she couldn't *know* that. To give her what I had promised, I needed to keep her on that borderline.

If I had forced her into doing this solely for my own satisfaction, I would have been disgusted with myself; it was too close to an adolescent male fantasy: a beautiful naked women, strapped helpless to the bed, subject to my every whim. Well, I *was* enjoying myself - but despite appearances, she was the one getting the most out of it. I hoped that I was right about the rest of what she wanted.

To give myself more time to think, I stood beside the bed, lightly tracing the shape of her body with the crop. At first, she flinched away, but I soon had her calm, even relaxed. Occasionally, I would run my free hand up her body. She tensed the first time I cupped her mons, but repetition rendered even that routine. Her eyes gradually closed as she gave herself up the the moment. After a few minutes, she appeared almost hypnotized - unaware of anything but the immediate sensations. There was something almost catlike in the way she pressed back against my hand as it stroked her, and the faint whimpers she made when I tugged a nipple or slipped a finger inside her flowing cunt.

I had given a good deal of thought *why* this appealed to her. She is normally a very self-controlled, confident woman; I have never seen her totally UN-selfconscious. Though she enjoys sex, there is always a certain . . . restraint in her responses; everything she does has to pass her internal censor. When she can get past the self consciousness, she tends to be a noisy, greedy lover, but it can be a hard barrier to surmount. Though I enjoyed playing up to her fears tonight, I suspected that, for her, the main thing was being helpless, being *forced* to enjoy herself. Even her rape fantasy centered on that - "forcing me to come despite myself."

She wouldn't know till the end, but half of my props were just that - window dressing, if you will. She and I had read enough bondage erotica over the years that she knew what things like clamps, hot wax, and clothespins could do - exquisite pain, without any permanent damage. Perhaps some other time we might try them out, but tonight their main purpose was keep her off balance. I'll be honest - I'm a chicken. Having her like this, helpless, bare, lewdly displayed, was immensely arousing; the idea of actually *hurting* her, causing pain, was even more disturbing. I just hoped I was a good enough actor to keep her from realizing it.

Of course, a *little* bit of pain can be enjoyable, in the right circumstances. I learned early on that unlike most women I've known, when she is aroused enough she *likes* having her nipples handled roughly. For her, it seems to transmute into intense pleasure, rather than pain, and I had planned for that. She certainly *seemed* aroused enough - her nipples were erect, her inner lips swollen and open - so I turned briefly to my tray to retrieve the clamps.