The 14th Anniversary
A Valentine's Day Story
She was kneeling on the hard surface of their sturdy couch table. It had been repositioned to face the entrance of their apartment; so she would be the first thing her Mistress would see when she came home from work. By then, she knew her knees and shins would be hurting, her breasts would be throbbing with every heartbeat, her nipples would have gone numb and her lips dry -- and there was nothing she could do about it.
More to the point: there was nothing she wanted to do about it. She had spent a lot of effort in coming up with first the general idea and then every single detail of her surprise. No, her position was exactly how she wanted to be found by her beloved wife and Mistress in about an hour and a half, with her body bearing clear signs that she had been suffering for her for some time already, and frankly, some discomfort was an inconsequential price to pay for surprising her Mistress. Their daughter would spend the night at a slumber party with some friends from elementary school. They would have the whole night for themselves, undisturbed, the whole night and the whole morning the next day.
She tried to shift her weight a bit, but their friend Ava who had helped her to prepare had done too thorough a job. Ava had first put her in a crotch harness; a waistband held the crotch rope that ran from behind her back through the crack of her ass and bisected her labia, pushing out her clitoris; pulled through the front of the waistband and led back down and back again an ornate knot pressed down on her external pleasure centre. She was used to wearing what the Japanese masters called a Sukaranbo. Her Mistress often made her wear it to work in anticipation of an evening or night of play and fun or of discipline and obedience.
In a second step Ava had bound her lower legs to her thighs and put her on the couch table, making it impossible to do anything but kneel. She had lashed her ankles together which had made her close her legs, but a length of rope running from her right knee under the table and having been fixed to the left knee held them open. To make it even more impossible for her to move her lower extremities Ava had bound the ends of the rope from the Sukaranbo to her big toes, pulling the rope taut and thus putting pressure on her clitoris.
A simple chest harness had been the base for a more elaborate breast bondage that pressed her ample tits forward and out, making them bulge. Her hands had been bound in a reverse prayer position, forcing back her shoulders and thus putting more emphasis on her breasts. Her hard nipples sported alligator clamps biting their teeth in her sensitive flesh. A length of thin hemp rope had been threaded through their eyelets and also bound to her big toes. It made it impossible to bend forwards even a tiny bit without sending bolts of pain through her nipples. To top off the presentation a bright red ball gad had been forced into her mouth and pulled taut, stretching her to the max.
She felt a bit of spittle trickling down from the left corner of her mouth. When she had planned her surprise she had long debated with herself about using a gag at all. She hated being gagged as much as she loved being bound and helpless. Bondage of any kind usually made her feel owned and secure in her Mistress' power. There was a certain dignity about being bound. Gags, however, inevitably made her drool and that not only let her feel helplessness, it also was extremely humiliating. There was nothing dignifying about drooling.
But the whole point of her kneeling on their couch table, waiting for her Mistress to end her shift at the hospital was to give her a pleasant anniversary gift, and her Mistress loved to see her lips stretched around a gag. She loved to see the pleading expression in her eyes and the resignation when her Mistress took a wipe to clean her up. That's why she had decided on including the gag, but even after only a few minutes she was already looking forward to have it removed.
She imagined her Mistress' loving gaze taking in the picture she presented and smiling at her. She imagined her Mistress coming closer and taking in every detail, the way her winter-pale skin contrasted with the hemp rope that had been dyed black, the way her pulse would begin to beat faster under the scrutiny, the way her Mistress would tuck at the thin rope threaded through the alligator clamps sending fire and lightning from her nipples directly to her already throbbing clit. She imagined her Mistress' fingers first retracing the ropes and then the flesh close to it. She imagined how she would try to push out her chest for more contact and how the crotch rope would be pulled taut and nudge her arousal up even further.
Gods, she could have come from anticipation alone, but she wouldn't and not only because she didn't have her Mistress' permission. No, she was determined to control herself because that was part of her anniversary gift for her wife and Mistress, the gift for the anniversary of their first not quite accidental meeting, fourteen years ago to the day, on Valentine's Day. To pass the time and distract herself she allowed her mind to stroll down memory lane.
~*~
Sarah Garber was bored. As the CEO and majority share holder of a prestigious publishing house she had done her social duty by coming to the Valentine's Day charity event and signing over a sizable check to the Children's Hospital. As customary with events of this kind the overpriced dinner had been unimaginative to the point of being boring and bland, the champagne they had served later had been of mediocre quality and the company of the other guests left a lot to be desired. Sarah was only waiting for the first chance to excuse herself and go home...
~*~
Sarah inadvertently moved and pulled her crotch rope. She shock her head at her memories. Had she really been such a snob? Probably. Well, her Mistress had surely cured her of her WASPness. She also was sure that she probably would not accept a novel that started like she just had. A first person narrative might be more appropriate to relate what had happened. It at least would offer a better insight in the main character's psyche.
"Even naked and bound to my couch table I'm thinking like an editor," Sarah told herself. "That's absurd, completely absurd."
That insight, however, didn't keep her mind from starting to compose said first person narrative.
~*~
When I first saw the woman who would soon become my Mistress she was kneeling with one knee on the marble floor and dried the tears of a young boy who had scraped his elbow running through the crowd. She looked up and if not for someone bumping me from behind I would have fallen right there and then in the deep brown pool of her eyes. I had to turn around to accept the apologies of the man who had run into me. He began a conversation and offered me another drink. I declined but he didn't want to take no for an answer. It took me almost ten minutes to get rid of him without causing a scene though it had been a close call.
I'm the first person to admit that sometimes I can have a rather volatile temper though the years and my Mistress' firm hand have mostly cured me of this particular penchant.
The few drops of champagne that had spilled on my dress, however, gave me the excuse I needed to leave the Valentine's Day Charity Dinner and Ball early and thus ending my boredom. I only got a few steps towards the entrance when my Mistress stopped me and exchanged the almost empty glass of champagne I was still holding with orange juice.
She looked at me and said, "You wanted to slap him, didn't you, Miss Garber?"
I should have been outraged by this stranger simply stopping me and asking such an impolite question. Instead I told her that as a rule I didn't like men who do not understand the meaning of the word 'no', and then I asked for her name.
"Rebecca Marie Eriksson, M. D., at your service. My apologies for not having introduced myself properly," she said and added, "As a rule you don't like men, Miss Garber, isn't that right?"
I almost dropped the glass I was holding. I had never openly talked about my sexual preferences. The club I occasionally frequented, the Earheart, catered to women like me, women in the public spotlight who for one reason or the other valued their privacy above all else. I looked at her to deny her allegations. I had to look up because she was half a head taller than I was, and I was wearing high heels.
Her left eyebrow rose, coupled with a quirky smiles, "I saw you at the Earheart, Miss Garber. So, don't bother denying."
I was instantly alarmed. I absurdly feared that she wanted to blackmail me or something, but she seemed to read my mind.
"Don't worry, Miss Garber, I'll not use that knowledge against you, but I intend to seduce you. I intend to make you mine. Have dinner with me, tomorrow evening, eight o'clock at Joker's. Don't be late."
