She put me naked in the easy chair, the one fitted with eyehooks underneath, linked my leather shackles to heavy chains, and hooked the ends to the eyebolts below.
She calls them shackles, not wrist or ankle cuffs, perhaps intentionally to reduce me to the level of a creature — a horse with shackles, a mare hobbled and fettered, perhaps for breeding. Or maybe she just likes the harsh sound of the word — “shackles.”
These have become my shackles, as they’ve become a common a part of my life these days, this era of my malaise, as there’s not much she can do with her slave other than attach me to things.
She has taken to laying out my shackles with my clothing each day, carefully arranging them beside the skirt and top and shoes lengthwise along the bed bench, draped in place as if an invisible person was lying there wearing them. Even if my shackles are not used that day, they remind me of their potential of marrying me to furniture and walls and windows, literally making me a house wife. Most recently, she has taken to have me wear them to bed, though unattached to my bedposts and rendered as mere visual echoes of my past possibilities in being fucked. These shackles are as much a part of me now as are my wrists and ankles and lips and breasts.
There are a number of pairs of them. Two pair are fashion-forward — one a thin cuff of white leather, the other a fluff of orange fabric. She has me wear the white leather bands when we are out and about. One cuff alone might pass as a bracelet of a sort, especially if I am also wearing the matching white leather collar. But two wrist bands are tell-tale with their exposed D-rings, clocking me as a submissive-in-residence, and making me self-consciously apprehensive that she will actually hook me to the storefront window of Macy’s.
Two other pair of shackles are black leather — heavy-duty devices with locking clasps — one longish with leather running halfway up my arm. It always strikes me funny these cuffs are so thick and rugged and secure — no one wearing BDSM cuffs is never trying to get away. We put them on ourselves, just as we adorn ourselves with this kind of life. We are bound by our own submissive need.
Chained into the easy chair, my legs are together, angled, and my arms are free enough to read a book or drink a glass of wine — she has allowed, for now, a fair amount of slack in the chains. I cannot leave the chair but can move around in it. And she wants that, my movement, my adjusting myself, so she can hear the clank of the chains on the floor and be reminded that she owns a person.
She gives me my Kindle, settling herself on the couch with a magazine and a book for reading time. She flips through her magazine, occasionally looking over the pages, drinking in my naked body poured into its incarceration.
Yes, there is precious little she has been able to do with me during my time of being an invalid. I am a sex slave without the possibility of sex, and until lately without energy even to be slave-kept. It has made the noun “invalid” into an adjective meaning “not valid,” like a credit card that got declined.
However, in recent days I have felt gradually better and my energy has been crawling back. I am still contagious — unkissable, unlickable, unfuckable — but I am now less fragile. Given my semi-revived state, she has been re-introducing us to the house’s built-in bondages.
Friday night, she attached me to the entryway wall. It was not for a long time, as she is mindful of my still-reduced stamina, but she invited Patricia over for a drink, and the both stood for a time watching me bound to the wall while they sipped Viognier. Patricia said, finding her inner domme, “That’s a good place for her.”
Saturday for happy hour Amanda strapped me into the wet bar. It’s been a while since she’s had me bound there. She left me ungagged so to carry on a conversation with me, using my naked back as a bar counter for her wine glass. I wasn’t stretched out there for a long while, but just enough for her to detail for me how she wants to get me lactating and install breast pumps on the bartender side — fresh milk for lattes and White Russians.
I never know what she’s serious about.
We had both been reading for some time. Every time I swiped a Kindle page with my finger, it clanked my arm chain slightly.
I felt her eyes on me, her frequent glances above her magazine, her lust for my body and breasts. It felt good, a reminder of what I used to feel being a sex object, which is for me, submissive that I am, quietly enjoyable.
Her eyes had dropped town below my breasts to my waist and then lower — my upper thighs together forming a line leading to the the delta of my sex.
I felt her attentions. “You know,” I said, breaking our reading silence, “you could make me come for you.”
She gazed into my eyes without expression or words. She saw through my ploy of framing my self-pleasure in terms that might attract her. She is a voyeur par excellence, and watching, whether by herself or with a crowd of others, is her preeminent pleasure. I was bargaining, she well knew, not normally accepted by her from me, but for now she said nothing. These are different times.
“You wouldn’t need to touch me,” I continued, “you wouldn’t be exposed. You could just watch.”
“No,” she said. But she had thought about it for a moment.
We went back to reading, but five minutes later she spoke again: “I could invite people over.”
I looked up at her. I shook my head: “I wasn’t thinking of selling tickets.”
She smiled and went back to reading.
Ten minutes later she got up and readjusted my chains. She pulled my legs over each padded arm and reconnected my chains tight so I could not move my legs or pull my thighs closed.
I was spread open.
Without a word, she pulled one of my arms to the side and back of my chair, affixing it to the eyebolt on the opposite side, again tightly. And she unlinked my right wrist from its chain completely.
This was happening.
She left the room a moment, returning with a padded footstool, which she placed in front of my chair, between my opened legs. She left again, this time returning with a pillar candle on a saucer, which she placed on the stool. She turned down the room lights, found matches in the kitchen, and lit the candle, which now now bathed my pussy in a flickering glow.
I wanted to kiss her but I couldn’t. I wanted her to put things in me but she wouldn’t.
“Eyes open, looking at me the whole time,” she said.
I bit my lip and nodded, knowing any spoken words would come out in a trembly rasp.
She sat up, lifting her legs off the floor and onto the couch, pulling them up toward her chest as her long dress draped over them. She reached for her wine, sipped, then nodded to me.
“You may begin…”
I was warm now and not from the room heat. She had cranked up the thermostat earlier, knowing I would be naked, but now that didn’t matter — my warmth was fueled by my desire and was melting me into a puddle.
My free hand found my abdomen and rested there a moment. I was almost afraid to touch myself, it had been so long. My fingers eased down to my mons, smooth and shaven. I opened two fingers into a V and slid them down further until they straddled the outer sides of my pussy, framing my labia. Even just this was almost too much, my blood flooding down there and heightening all sensation.
I closed my eyes, but she called me out: “You must look at me.”
Gazing into her eyes, my fingers squeezed my pussy lips, and I caught my breath. I felt my own ooze collecting there between, and I scooped some on my index finger and painted it along the top surface of my labia. My lips, usually puffy and rounded, now were longer and farther extended like thin mountain ridges reaching up to God.
As I coated them with own juices, they cooled in the air.
I took things slow, knowing I was already primed by weeks of deprivation and aware it might be a long time again. I wanted this to last. I kept my fingers on the outsides for now. That alone made me buzzy down there and made me want to squirm. However, my restraints were tight. My legs, draped over each chair rest, were locked down spread. My other arm was bent back taut.
She watched me — my masturbation in chains — without expression.
In time, I dared to slip my middle finger between my pussy lips, letting it lie in the delta of my goo.
This is when she decided to talk.
“Who was the last man inside you there?” she asked, her voice a hush. It’s a rhetorical question, for she well knows the answer. She said it, as she likes to sometimes, implying there’s a long list of men who have access, thus some confusion of who and when a man was last occupying my vagina.
“Master McKenna,” I said, choosing not to add the obvious “of course.” I spoke without stopping my self-touches, not wanting to pause my pleasure to talk. She didn’t want me to stop either, I was quite sure.
“Did he take you lying down or standing up?”
I looked at her through now-glazed eyes. So she was going to talk through this whole thing. About him.
The timing seemed appropriate, like the swell of a soundtrack keyed to the climax of a film, so I slipped my middle finger just inside my opening. It made me start, giving me a little shock, but I answered breathily, “Standing up.”
“He prefers you that way?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.” My finger now slides long into my vagina, and though it is nothing like the fuller presence of his cock, it reminds me of him, as if my cunt has sensation memory. “He likes me against a wall,” I said.
“He pounds you there.”
None of this conversation is necessary. Every time I return from Master M’s, she debriefs me, having me recount everything in juicy detail, all of the sex, explicitly. She already knows everything. She already knows the answer to what she just asked.
“Yes,” I replied, acceding to her prompting, “he pounds me there against a wall.”
She said, “He likes the force of it, I imagine, the thrust into you.”
I nodded, my finger now sliding in and out of my very wet vagina.
“Do you like it too?” she asked — again something she know full well.
“It’s rough,” I said. “He’s heavy with me.”
“But do you like it?”
“He sometimes pounds the breath out of me.”
“Do you like it?”
I was not wanting to give her this, but soon enough I answered: “Yes, I like it.” I paused again, and then gave her all the words she wanted to hear: “Yes, I like it when he fucks me hard against the wall.”
For some time, she continued with the McKenna questions. I knew they were designed to intensify my feelings of sexual subjugation, to press buttons of my humiliation — which she knew would excite me deeply. And did.
So: “Does he enjoy you sucking his cock as much as you love cocksucking?”
I wanted to say she would need to ask him, but then I thought she probably already had. My finger continued inside me, pulling out on occasion to wet my swollen labia. “I think it’s a casual thing to him,” I managed to say, “not sex.” With anyone else, that would take many minutes more to unpack and explain, but she knew the shorthand.
She didn’t pursue that, but asked me another complicated question: “Do you like it when he fucks your ass?”
The questions notwithstanding, if this could last for hours, I would be a very happy girl and revel in the luxury of it. It didn’t take hours, of course, but I lost track of time, which is almost the same thing.
After awhile she got up from the couch, hiked up her midi skirt, and slipped off her panties underneath. She pulled her skirt up around her waist as she sat back down, with one leg propped up on the couch and the other on the floor, spreading her pussy to the open air.
The light was dim across our shared space, the candle illuminating my sex, but leaving her in shadow. Yet I could tell that her hand started playing her own symphony, that she was fondling herself in the flickers of my arousal.
We were just six feet apart, but now it felt even closer, intimate, women in our own glow of loving, as if my bare and oozing pussy was pressed and scissored flush against hers.
Now all talk of Master M was left behind, and there were no more rhetorical questions about his fucking of me. This was about us, no one else, just her with me bound by steel chains and submissive need and a slave’s dependent love.
I found her eyes again, our link to this, our sex together. My finger, which could never approximate his girth, now played the part of her tongue, flicking at my entrance, sliding along my crease. When my finger pressed in and popped inside me, it was as if it was her lips had plumped against me there and her wet tongue had burst inside me, exploring, as if there were depths of me she does not already possess.
There was time, and then more time, and my pussy swelled until it throbbed.
My eyes stayed open to her gaze, my sight linked to hers as if tethered. When her own arousal swelled, her eyes would close, and when they reopened from her swoon, my eyes were there for her.
Perhaps she, like me, imagined our other times — our bodies pressed close, our breasts full and ample rolling around each other, our drenched pussies kissing. But really there was something special about this, about not being flesh to flesh in bed. We were making love across the room.
There’s a moment when you know one of your inner waves will not subside, but keep gushing higher and higher into a massive tidal release. You wait for that, yet hold it off, anticipating.
It finally rolled through me. I opened my mouth but said nothing, my orgasm uttered as a silent O surrounded by the faintest of squeaks.
Though deep in her own swell, she watched as I soared.
I tensed and stretched against my restraints until it took me over and folded under itself. My shudders rattled my chains.
Through it all, my eyes remained fixed on her. She smiled at my come, pleased, yet her eyes were glazed by her own pleasure.
I stayed with her, my body now limp. She breathed harder, fighting the physical reflex to close her eyes. She writhed as she brought herself to climax.
She moaned, then screamed.
Again, there was time, and more time. We each floated back down. There were no words.
Presently she stood, smoothed her skirt back over her, and walked to me. Kneeling close, she placed two fingers to her lips, then to mine.
She reached down to free me from my eyehooks, my chains.
But I said, “Mistress, please leave me like this awhile.”