As I stand in the library of the very large, old Victorian house, I look around me. The walls are lined with old books from floor to ceiling, there are a number of first editions in this impressive collection, most of them are leather bound, the smell of them is lingering in the air. The oak panelling makes the room dark and there is a fire blazing in the grate that gives the room a cosy feel to it. There are two antique red leather chesterfields in the centre of the room, one on either side of the fireplace for sitting and reading on, the leather looks worn with age but gives them the character that makes them so attractive. In one corner of the room is a huge oak captains desk with a matching red leather insert in the top and a brass banker's lamp set to one side. The room is filled with the smell of oiled timber, leather, burning coal and old books. The waxed wooden floor has a few Persian carpets scattered around for comfort and warmth.
I walk slowly around the room, running my fingers over the spines of the books enjoying the feel of them, wondering who has read them, smiling to myself because I know I should not be touching them without wearing gloves, in fact, knowing I should not even be in here. This is a very masculine room, and that is one of the reasons why it is so appealing to me. I should not be in here without permission though, this is not my house, and I am a guest here, but I am excited by the risk of being caught. The oak panelled door creaks open behind me and a man enters the room. He goes straight to the desk, sits behind it, and watches me. My hands immediately leave the books the minute I hear the door open but I still blush guiltily.
Apart from the crackling of the fire, the silence in the room is deafening. The man continues to watch me in silence. He is very distinguished, calm but with a depth to him that is not necessarily apparent on first glance unless he wants it to be. It is you, lover. Your eyes bore into me; I can feel my nipples tightening just from your sultry look, they are standing out proudly underneath my sweater, the texture of the garment rasping against them with each breath I take. Exquisite torture. Your gaze roves over me; so intense it is as if you are actually touching me, my belly contracts in anticipation of what is to come.
Without taking your eyes off me, you reach into the bottom drawer of your desk. You pull out a pair of leather wrist restraints and a pair of ankle shackles and throw them down on the top of the desk. Again, you reach into the drawer, this time pulling out a multi stranded suede whip, approximately two-foot long and throw that down on the desk also. My breathing quickens as I watch you intently, I am starting to tremble with excitement at the possibilities of what you intend to do with me. In silence you stand, and move to the front of your desk. I lower my eyes instinctively and wait. You pick up the ankle shackles and drop them at my feet, I do not need to be told what to do with them, you point to them and I just know, so, bending to the floor I secure them about my ankles, leaving my stiletto healed shoes on. You pick up the wrist restraints and move closer to me, you help me to rise by placing a hand under my elbow and I can smell you as I offer you my wrists, inhaling deeply the rich masculine scent that fits perfectly with you and your room. You fasten the leather bands around my wrists and then you turn away from me as I frown, wondering why you are leaving me.
I watch you move over to the panelling next to the door and unhook the chord from the cleats on the wall. Looking up, I see the block and tackle suspended from the ceiling above me lower to where you can reach it. You take my wrists and fasten them to the block. Moving back over to the wall again, you raise my hands over my head by tightening the attached cord that you then fasten securely to the wall cleats again. Reaching under one of the chesterfields you pull out a spreader bar. Gasping, I watch as you fit it to my ankles, spreading my legs wide and making my skirt ride high up my thighs. The sound of my breathing is competing with the sound of the crackling flames of the fire.
You move back to the desk again, and from the top drawer remove a curve bladed rescue knife. The steel of the blade glints in the firelight as you hold it up to inspect its edge. Grabbing the hem of my skirt, you rip the knife up the seam, leaving me exposed to the air from the waist down, the small red lace thong I am wearing the only thing covering my lower body. With my hands so high above my head, my breasts are pushed forward so they are standing out waiting eagerly for your touch, the braless shape of them a delight to you, discernable by the way that you are looking at them. You roll my tight sweater up over my breasts, exposing them to your eyes and you smile for the first time as you look at me.
I swallow hard as you take a nipple between your fingers and pull it, rolling it between your thumb and forefinger making me gasp again. Bending your head forward you take one burgeoning nipple into your mouth; my breath hisses out between my teeth as you bite down hard on me, sucking me, tongue laving at my nipple, suckling me with delight. I close my eyes and moan softly as you torment me. You pick up your riding crop and run it up the inside of my thighs and drag it over my pussy, stopping to give me a quick gentle flick on my mound with the tip, making me shiver in response. Taking a step back from me, you raise the crop and tap the end of my nipples with tip, watching as they get harder and redder as you strike them repeatedly. When they are sufficiently red and they please you, you replace the crop with the whip.
