Chapter One

I'm not sure where or when my imagination turned kinky. I was a studious girl, and my parents pushed me to get top marks through school. I wasn't exactly the most popular girl, being kind of nerdy, and skinny, and wearing glasses. My hair was kind of muddy brown, too. Because of this I had little time for the fixations of other young girls; makeup, hair styling, fashion, and boys.

Well, boys had little interest in me either so...

I spent a lot of time reading, a ton of time reading. It was my favorite hobby, my favorite entertainment. I found television to be stupid and mindless, and really enjoyed a good book. I also found a lot of fascinating stuff on the internet. And that, of course, was where I began to explore my tentative interest in sexuality.

As I got older, my body remained slender, but filled out somewhat. I never became a barbie doll, but my skin cleared up, my hair shifted into a darker chestnut brown, and my breasts developed. They weren't large, but they were high and firm and very round on my slender body. I had narrow hips, and long legs, and was still, to be honest, a nerd.

I was still spending a lot of time studying, working my way up to great marks so as to get into a good university. I was pleased enough with my body to put a little more time into nice clothes, though nothing really girlie, and I replaced my ugly glasses with more fashionable, frameless ones.

But my interest in sex had taken a turn for the dark side while I explored the internet. I became fascinated with bondage and submission. It was, at first, the pictures I saw, mostly drawings. They were so erotic, so exotic. The women s bodies were so tightly, tautly drawn. They looked incredibly erotic in their helplessness, and so I began to imagine myself like that, helplessly, tightly and erotically tied or shackled, a prisoner to some cruel man.

It was my big fantasy, and as I read stories, watched videos, saw pictures, I created mental images of myself that I yearned to bring to life, but never did. I was always aware of my personal dignity, of my reputation, and even when dating, was not about to expose myself (so to speak) as a pervert who wanted to be tied up.

Even in university, I fell in with a group of studious young people who were more into good marks than partying, and their respect was important to me. Oh, I dated, and yes, I had sex, and the sex was enjoyable, but it wasn't at all kinky or perverted. I was too inhibited, and none of the men I had sex with – not that there were a lot of them – suggested it on their own. I certainly wasn't going to suggest it!

But those kinds of fantasies remained in my head, and were brought out every time I masturbated, which wasn't nearly often enough, to be honest! My sexuality had become stimulated and yet now that I was living in a room with other girls, it was harder to stimulate my body in the same way! I had to take my opportunities where I could..

Which was, in a way, why I daringly masturbated during a family visit to my uncle Dave's house.

Uncle Dave was one of those relatives that you're always a bit leery of. From the time I was a young teenager I always felt there was something strange and dark about him. But his house was always the most fascinating place to go. It was a huge old house, like an eighteenth century urban mansion, with all manner of oddly shaped rooms, halls and stairways that delighted the young mind.

He was always very polite, very, very civilized in the way he spoke, the way he acted, the way he dressed. But there was something about the way he looked at you, something about his eyes that said he was seeing something you perhaps didn't want him to be envisioning. I'm not sure at what age I started to get the idea Uncle Dave was a pervert. It wasn't like there was any big, defining moment where he groped me or exposed himself to me or anything of that nature.

Uncle Dave was far too civilized for that sort of thing, too restrained, too delicate in a way, in his habits and appearances. You couldn't imagine him losing control to the extent he would start drooling and groping pretty girls. He always wore a suit, even when it was obvious that he had not been out of doors that day and didn't intend to. Again, the idea of Uncle Dave greeting us in a t-shirt and jeans just was so silly as to be unimaginable.

But when I was a young teenager I started getting leery of him, and thinking him creepy. I still accompanied my father in visits to his house because our family was close. I mean, they believed in all the uncles and aunts and nieces and nephews and cousins seeing each other on a regular basis – on being a family, you know. There was no way I was going to be able to protest that I didn't want to see Uncle Dave without being able to give a legitimate reason – and I couldn't do that.

Besides, I didn't really mind. His house was so exotic and impressive. It was one of those huge, rambling piles of stone the rich once built on the edges of small cities which, as the cities grew around them, came to be just about downtown. Most were demolished, while some were divided up into a half dozen or more apartments. But not Uncle Dave/s It had a large library which was far more beautiful than the one at school, for one thing. And I was a big bookworm. I'd take the first opportunity to part with them and go to the library, with its huge, built-in shelves stretching up to the shadowy ceiling twenty five feet overhead, its antique lamps spouting from the walls, its feeling, its smell of ancient treasures.

As I got older, though, and more confident in myself, that feeling that he was somehow creepy

acted almost as a sort of incitement to tease him, to provoke him – though without, of course, doing it in an obvious way which would draw a reprimand. I don't mean to say I was trying to seduce him by any means. It was more of a teasing thing, in part because I thought he was a bit of a creep or pervert, and in part because I felt completely safe in doing so. I mean, he might be weird but he was still my uncle, right?

I would do things like drop something and then bend over with my butt to him, or kind of yawn and stretch and arch my back so my chest would stick out at him. And, of course, he would pretend to take no notice such things, though I was pretty sure he did. This kind of excited me, in a way. Teenage girls liked the idea that they were able to arouse grown men, even if they had no intention whatsoever of actually doing anything with those men.

I didn't see that much of Uncle Dave when I went off to university. But every summer and Christmas, when I returned home, we would travel from my family's home about an hour south of the city into town to visit him all alone in that monstrously big house.

It was only three stories plus an attic, but it was incredibly high for all of that, very bulky. It had what seemed like dozens of rooms, not counting the attic, which I had never seen. It also had a swimming pool in the basement which was sort of odd. The floor and walls were covered in tiny, inch wide tiles in different shades of blue, most of them dark. The pool itself was so dark blue as to be almost black. It was a square hole in the floor about fifty feet long and half that wide. There was a short, but wide chandelier over the center of it, the roof in this basement being quite a bit higher than in most.

During one of those visits, I'm not sure what exactly possessed me, other than a feeling of daring, but I went wandering while my parents chatted with him – after having stayed a dutiful time – and found my way down in the basement. It was the Christmas holidays, and things were freezing and icy cold outside. Yet the basement, once I pushed back the doors with their stained glass windows was warm and humid, and the chandelier gave the room an eerie sort of feeling of age and sophistication.

I closed the doors, turned the old brass key in the lock, stripped, bound my hair up in a bun, and carefully slipped into the water. I swam carefully, doing the breast stroke, across the water, and felt deliciously sensual as the water caressed my bare skin. My nipples prickled and tingled, becoming instantly erect, and I felt that familiar moist throbbing heat between the legs.

I swam back again, and climbed out, water trickling down my body. One entire wall was taken up by a kind of patterned mirror. That is, it was mirrored tiles with a kind of overlay of flowers across them. I padded naked across the tiled floor in front of it and into the side room where there was a shower for washing off the chlorinated water, and towels.

The towels were thick and soft and sat on a warming rack. I pulled one off and wrapped it around myself, feeling the luxurious softness as I rubbed lightly against my skin, against my breasts, and my eyes fell on the side of the warming rack.

The warming rack was black, made up of thin, horizontal metal tubes which criss-crossed between the two thick vertical supports. The vertical supports ended in narrow, rounded caps of carved metal, and of course, the whole thing was warm – though not hot – to the touch. More relevant was that I was feeling daring, feeling sensual, and feeling aroused. And the vertical tubes, the caps, well, they were just about the perfect height and thickness – given I liked to be thickly penetrated – for a little quick and daring masturbation.

Sounds insane, I know. But I can masturbate in less than sixty seconds when I'm in the mood. With me, there is big masturbation, and little masturbation. The big masturbation requires deep penetration by something thick, and time to work myself up. Little masturbation can happen anywhere

and very quickly. I can rub myself, gently, fully clothed against a chair I'm sitting on and come within a minute sometimes. And since that's “little” masturbation, I can even do it in a room full of people and hide the orgasm.

The orgasm I get from big masturbation can't be hidden, as it's overwhelming and I can get very expressive. But I had some privacy, and anyway, I figured that this would be a sort of “in between' masturbation. I grasped the topmost horizontal bar, rose onto my toes, and eased my pussy slowly down onto the top of the vertical support post, gasping excitedly as the top pushed up against my pussy lips and spread them apart.

I felt the hard warmth of that thing slide up into the mouth of my sex, and groaned aloud as it slowly forced me open. I was quite wet inside, wetter than I had expected, and gloried in the thickness of the pipe as it slowly pushed up into my belly. I sank down, gasping softly as it slid up inside me, further and further, so – so hard – so thick. It ached, but in a delicious way which quickly seized my consciousness and drew me deeper into the heat.

I adored the feel of that hard, warm thing up inside me, groaning and gasping as I started to raise and lower myself. But always, I slid lower, wanting, needing, craving the deepest possible penetration. I was able to slide down even further, and then further, even though the aching deep inside me grew worse. And then I reached the goal I had been aiming at. My pussy came down so far that the top of my pussy ground against the topmost horizontal bar, kind of jamming there up against my clit.

It ached, too, in an entirely different way, a way which set my mind flaming. I stood there, legs apart, grinding my clit against that bar, grinding and twisting my body around the vertical post, breathless with excitement as my hands alternately groped my breasts, and gripped the top bar to pull myself against it.

I forced myself to pull back, to rise up on my toes, feeling that now-slick round metal tube easing down out of my belly as far as I could, drawing my legs together, rising onto my toes. Then I sank down in one incredible, glorious impaling motion, slowly sliding down as little sunbursts like mini-orgasms flooded through my system. By the time I got so deep my clit was jammed against the top bar I was ready to explode. I grasped the bar and ground myself furiously against it, feeling that immoveable hardness deep in my belly.

The orgasm was not small. It seized control of me, and my fingers whitened around the top bar as I ground myself feverishly against it, head back, eyes closed, grunting and crying out again and again as the orgasm tore through my mind and body like a flash flood.