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JH BOUNDS old and had belonged
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Contains adult themes, bondage and sex. Read at your own risk.
Comments and suggestions welcome. Flames cheerfully ignored.
For personal use only - if you repost, please include this
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Testing Bounds
by
Javahead
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 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
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
conference, 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 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 footposts, 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
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 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 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 might feel like doing, 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 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 ex-
pected 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 pos-
sessively up her side to her 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 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. 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 mostly 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
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 angle, up
the inner thigh, her newly-shaven vulva, belly, breast, cheek,
and her outstretched arms.
"Especially to a 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 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 been 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. After a few minutes, she appeared almost
hypnotized - unaware of anything but the immediate sensations.
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 unselfconscious. 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 nip-
ples 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.
I briefly admired them - they were vicious looking things,
spring-closed, with toothed jaws. I had carefully adjusted their
setscrews so that they remained at least a third of an inch open
and fastened a little brass bell to each one. I held one up in
her line of sight.
"Honey!" I had to repeat it a couple of times before she seemed
to focus. "Do you see this?"
She suddenly seemed much more aware.
"What do you plan to do with - aah!"
She broke off as I clipped it onto her engorged left nipple. I
had judged it about right - it seemed tight enough to be
pain/pleasurable, but didn't seem likely to cause harm. She
gasped when I flicked the bell lightly with my fingernail. I
waited till she started to speak and showed her the second clamp.
I was proud of her; I had expected her to protest, but she
merely swallowed, took a deep breath, and raised the unadorned
breast as far as she could.
"Can you ring the bells for me, darling?"
A moment later, the bells chimed, followed by a small gasp. I
chuckled - she hadn't realized that the bells were heavy enough
that ringing them would give her nipples a twinge. I smiled down
at her and mimed tugging on the clamps; momentarily, I could see
whites all around her eyes.
Instead, I reached for the feathers. I had several different
varieties: downy ostrich feathers; long, slender, pheasant
feathers; the rather stiff and robust feathers from a goose's
wing.
I started by lightly tickling her body with an ostrich feather.
To an outside observer, it would have looked like a bizarre
version of dusting the furniture. Though it looked impressive,
it soon became evident it wasn't having much effect - she isn't
very ticklish, and she was able to ignore it with ease. Even a
direct attack on her sex didn't work - she was wet enough by now
that the feather was almost immediately soggy.
The pheasant feather was much more successful. It was soft, but
just stiff enough to have the desired effect. A concentrated
attack on her undefended armpits caused her to start writhing -
till the bells clamped to her nipples began to ring. After the
first reflexive jump, she did her best to ignore me, with only
the occasional chime when she was unable to totally control
herself.
Once I was convince that she had mastered tickling, I shifted my
points of attack. Between her excitement and the clamps her
nipples were hypersensitive, as a few tentative flicks of the
feather demonstrated. Even the gentlest of touches provoked a
violent response. That established, I moved away - she seemed
perilously close to loosing control. Instead, I started at her
ankle and began to work my way up her legs.
Her legs, especially her inner thighs, proved a perfect target:
not quite as sensitive as her ribs or breasts, but responsive
enough that she could not just ignore it. Changes in tempo or
location could be counted on to provoke answering gasps and
chiming, becoming more intense as I worked my way closer to her
open vulva. This was what I had been working toward all along.
By now, her labia were fully engorged, open, and glistening. Her
clitoris had emerged from its sheath, swollen and ruddy. I
paused momentarily to enjoy the sight before reaching out with my
feather and giving a delicate *flick* to its tip.
Her reaction was all that I could have hoped for. If she had not
been fastened so securely her convulsion would have taken her off
the bed; as it was, I could hear the bedframe creak alarmingly
through the bells' peal. Even without the element of surprise,
each subsequent touch brought a response nearly as violent. I
would have stopped, if I had not seen that she was doing her best
to push her groin up to meet the feather; against all
expectation, she had reached the point where pain and pleasure
began to merge.
For the next several minutes, I did my best to push her over the
top, varying the rhythm and intensity of my attack from slow and
gentle stroking to fast, almost frantic, flicks. Frustratingly,
she seemed to just hover on the edge of orgasm, but nothing I did
could push her over. Or perhaps I was telling myself that so I
could justify my next action. As I had longed to do all evening,
I put the feather down and replaced it with my mouth.
We seem to be an anomaly among couples - I enjoy giving oral sex,
but she is reluctant to receive it. Self-control again - she has
her loudest orgasms when I eat her out, and it embarrasses her.
But now, she had no choice. I had spent the best part of the
last hour staring into The World's Most Beautiful Pussy, smelling
its musk, and I was through with self-restraint. She was bound,
helpless, and I could feast as much as I wanted.
I don't know *what* it was she was trying to say - it may have
been no more than the first of the moans that blended with the
sound of the bells. As she had with the feather, she was pushing
her into my face as hard as the restraints would let her;
without their aid, I might have found breathing difficult. It's
impossible to adequately describe the taste and smell of a
healthy to someone who has never had the chance to
experience it - "musky", "sharp", "pungent", and "tangy" are all
true, but seem too pale and clinical. My face was soon
glistening with her juices.
I didn't have long to enjoy myself; all too soon, I sensed a new
urgency in her movements. Before I had time to do more than
notice this, she slipped over the edge into her climax. Her
moans rose into a full-throated, almost agonized, shriek of
triumph and cut off abruptly. For a moment, every muscle in her
frame stood out in stark relief, before she collapsed into an
equally-dramatic state of relaxation.
For the first time since we had started, I wasn't in the
spotlight; for the moment she seemed unaware of anything
external. I stood for minute, just admiring her beauty. Her
eyes were closed and her head was thrown back, surrounded by a
Medusa's tangle of hair. Her body, as lewdly spread as before,
was now sprawled loosely rather than tensed; her skin was covered
with sweat, while her gaping sex was awash with her juices. I
have never desired her more than I did then.
I bent over her, and gently unfastened the nipple clamps - they
had been on long enough, and I feared bruising. I may have been
rougher than I intended, for she opened her eyes and tried to
focus on me.
"Tha . . ." She stopped, swallowed, and tried again. "That was
"Was it too much?" I couldn't keep a note of concern out of my
voice.
"I had a safeword, remember? Platypus, platypus, platypus." She
had recovered enough to make a face at me before continuing. "I
just didn't think that anyone could know me *that* well."
"Perhaps I was fulfilling a few fantasies myself."
She smiled happily. "Perhaps you were. Hey, I just realized -
you never opened the ice bucket - what's it for? I spent a lot
of time worrying about that thing!"
I laughed at her. "That was the idea - well, actually, I've got
strawberries in there. Let me untie you and we'll share them."
"Not just yet! I want you to feed me"
"All right, feed you first. I'll untie you after."
"Not *just* after, lover. Think you've got enough strength left
to ravish me while I'm helpless?"
I did.