This was a week ago Saturday, another wet-bar tie-up, and I promised I’d write and post this.
So she has me, naked, at the wet bar once again. My legs are spread and ankle-cuffed and tied by rope to narrow footers at the bottom of the bar.
She discovered recently the bar has these narrow footers. The first time she didn’t notice these, and her tie of me was a rope around the ends of the bar to a something behind it — as a result, loose and insecure. Amanda’s not really into rope ties anyway, and she doesn’t have patience for lengthy binding. Whereas Kevin loves rope bondages — coiling ropes tight and tieing me to things was for him extended foreplay — Mistress Amanda has little patience for it. She would love for there to be places all over the house to which she could instantly fasten me. This is the concept she has for the eye bolts everywhere. Clip-click, and I’m bound and married to the house — a literal housewife.
Anyway, the wet bar looks like it sits squarely on the floor, but in fact has these very narrow disc feet, and Amanda discovered that a rope could squeeze around these footers and make for a tight connector to stretch my ankles to. (Despite the humiliation of this for me, I would much rather be tightly bound than roped to something loosely.)
Our wet bar is an island with a galley-way behind it, then a matching counter/hutch along the wall in back. She has me stand in front of the island, facing where a bartender would be working in the galley-way. It’s as if I were ordering a drink as a woman out at the pub, except, of course, I’m not here at this bar as a respectable woman but spread-legged and naked and prepared for fucking. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
Lately, Amanda has been experimenting with me around the house, looking for locations and furniture and fixtures on which I can be mounted. Without people coming in and out these days, the entryway wall has lost some appeal for her. She still does hang me on the wall there, but it’s not a place where she can sit and watch me. Generally she has no everyday reason herself to be there, and sitting in the living room while I’m mounted on the wall somewhere else just doesn’t interest her. The entryway is for my public display.
So she is looking elsewhere for places she can put me that are in her presence or path of her daily living.
Amanda has tried me on the kitchen island, but it has no natural nooks and crannies to tie me to. Maybe when Blake is available for some eye bolt installations that could work, but it’s still awkward. The island is so wide, I cannot straddle it. She used it the one time by having me sit on the island corner as she poured melted chocolate over me, but I was not bound to anything. So the kitchen seems unlikely. Amanda jokes that she is looking for an over-sized serving tray on which to arrange me like a roast pig and present me there on the kitchen island as part of an appetizer table. (Well, I think it’s a joke.)
We have upholstered furniture in the living room, which doesn’t work that well for binding me to. With the exception of one easy chair. This is opposite the long couch where Amanda and I often read. She can have me sit in the easy chair and drape each of my legs over the padded arms of the chair. She can tie my ankles, then, to the thick wood feet of the chair. She might likewise tie my wrists behind the chair or down to the rear legs. Or else she might allow me to have my hands free so I can read. In any case, that works well. She can read and just look over at me and my spread pussy.
But of all the possibilities, it’s the wet bar that pleases her the most these days. It’s situated in the Intersection of our primary living spaces. She can see it, me, from a number of places where she happens to be and do her living. The wet bar also seems especially suited to my dimensions.
If I’m wearing tall heels, my bare belly nestles perfectly against the mahogany bar top. The bar top is narrow, its width approximately the length of my midriff. So as I lean across, the bar top starts where I bend at my waist and ends just below my breasts. My breasts then hang freely off the opposite edge of the mahogany surface, into the bartender space.
Amanda likes this symmetry.
So Friday night she has me this way at the bar — high-heeled, my legs spread about two feet apart, tied to the island’s footers, and I am bent over the width of the mahogany bar top, my breasts hanging off the other side.
Mistress walks around the bar, but pauses to stroke my inner thighs and grace my spread pussy with her finger. She finds me wet, of course.
She walks around and steps into the bartender galley. “I don’t know what to do with your hands,” she says. “If I tie them down this side, the ropes get in the way.”
I am not ball-gagged, but I have nothing to say. Mistress is talking to herself.
She decides to latch my wrist cuffs together behind my back. “For now, anyway,” she says. She pulls out some bourbon glasses and wine glasses onto the bar top. Then she walks around to the front. She positions the four bar stools to the ends of the bar and then one on each side of me, in front of each of my tied legs. Amanda sits on the one to my right and starts placing the empty glasses on my back. Because my breasts are not under me but hanging off the other side, my back is flat. “See if you can remain still enough that they won’t fall.”
If I don’t breathe, it’s not much of a problem. I find I can take shallow breaths and keep the drinks on my bare back bar balanced. Then Amanda starts fingering my pussy from behind. I fight to keep from breathing too deeply or wriggling from her attentions.
She stops. No bar glasses have fallen. “Wine glasses might be a challenge,” she says. “But this makes you a functional part of the wet bar. People can use you as part of the surface, place their glasses on you. They will find that amusing.”
I realize then that in all of this, she is not intending to use me or fuck me today. She’s staging me for a party. Not now, not soon, but someday.
She moves the glasses off my back and tells me to get upright. I lift myself off the bar, my legs still spread and tied and my wrists shackled behind me.
“They can play with you in this position. They’ll want to play with your tits. Everybody wants to feel your breasts.” She is still talking to herself, talking through scenarios. “I won’t ballgag you — too messy where people are eating and drinking. I’ll have to tell people you are ordered not to speak. They’ll fondle you but not talk to you. You will not talk.”
She walks back into the galley-way. “Lean over again,” she orders.
I do, my breasts falling again on the other side of the bar top. I raise my head to look up to her.
“I need a hook down here,” she says, pointing to a spot below on the inside panel of the bar. “I’ll chain your collar to that when I want you like this.”
I am, quite frankly, a bit tired of modeling. I want her to play with me.
“I’ll have to do something about your hair,” she goes on. “I want people to see your face, even down here, at least from the side. “Maybe we’ll put it up in a bun.”
I’m not sure why people would need to see my face, but OK.
“And I will ask Blake,” she says, “to construct a little bench step for this side. A step up for the right height.”
I have no idea what she’s talking about. Amanda has gone into some deeper space of construction-bondage-presentation that has lost me. It occurs to me that for Blake to construct all this, Amanda will have me model for him to take measurements.
I fully expect, after the shelter-in-place is lifted and things open up again, she will take me to Home Depot, and it will be like an erotic dreamland for her as she imagines everything as a gadget for my bound humiliation and objectification.
Amanda fetches the short stepladder from the garage and places it there behind the bar. She steps up on the first step and measures where her body is positioned opposite the bar top and me. With a tape measure, she notes the height of that first step.
I make the mistake of speaking: “I don’t understand why a bartender needs a bench to step up on. There’s nothing up above to reach for.”
“Not the bartender. The men.”
“Yes. The men you’ll be giving blowjobs to.”
“Oh.” It’s the quintessential Amanda comment: part fantasy, part tease, and just possible enough for her to make real. I say nothing. I am tempted to say something sassy, with attitude: “You don’t have to make me into a flying buttress for that. You could just have me on my knees.” I restrain myself.
Amanda thinks she finds places for eye bolts to restrict my arms — extending them along the edge of the bar on the bartender side. She is pleased to think of that because it’s a clean solution, my body shaping to the line of the bar top. She notes that my arms, stretched and cuffed tight as such would also create a kind of lip to the bar top, and this pleases her to no end — anything to make my body functional for another purpose.
It seems, finally, Amanda is done with the research portion of the home improvement project, so I finally speak. I know as I say it that it has too much edge: “Are you going to fuck me,” I asked, “or do I have to beg you?”
So. Right. Another one of those moments I realize that although I’ve been a sex slave for more than four years, I’ve learned absolutely nothing about how to behave.
Fortunately, Amanda is enjoying herself with me way too much to make a deal out of it. Oh, yes, she notices my inappropriate tone, but she ignores it. She is back to having her fun, walking around to different places of the house within view and looking at me spread and bound from various angles.
I guess that, no, she isn’t going to fuck me, and begging isn’t going to do any good. And I am right.