Chapter One

 

I used to like to say, with a smile, “I was young, but I was never innocent.”

But of course I was. Not about sex, perhaps, for I was an insatiably curious child and learned about my body rather early on. And certainly, as I was precocious, and as I had long, lovely, shining mahogany hair and a sweet, elfin face, as my hips widened and my waist narrowed and my breasts pushed outward, there was no shortage of people wanting to do away with what innocence I had.

I learned all about sex, and about how it, or the desire for it, affected people, how it made them desperate, made them willing to lie, to fawn over me, to flatter and spend money on me, how the sight of my body, or the mere hoped for sight of more of it could induce the male of the species to grovel and plot and even try to force me to unveil more.

No, I was not innocent about sex. But about life, and its strange cruelties, of that I was largely innocent.

I was not innocent of bondage, either. I think I had a fascination with bondage from an early age, and can remember being fascinated whenever a character in a book or movie was tied up for whatever reason. I used to tie myself up, pretending to be a helpless prisoner of pirates or red Indians or some such. I didn’t associate that with sex in any way, especially as I knew little about sex, then, but the fascination was always there.

As I grew older, and became involved with boys and sex, I still failed to really connect my almost forgotten interest in “tie up games” and such, with sex. Sex was so desperately complicated a thing, in any event, that in the beginning I really had no time to try and make it more complex. There were so many crucial and always unwritten rules of behaviour one had to abide by in order to prevent getting “a reputation” of some sort or other.

There were always others, especially girls, willing to twist and turn and even invent situations which would put one in a bad light, especially if one was, as I was and am, in possession of a body and face which tends to cause jealousy in those who had been less gifted by nature. I was a very pretty little girl, became a lovely, coltish young adolescent girl, and turned into a graceful, sleekly beautiful, athletic, shapely woman who inspires lust in most of the men I came into contact with. That always caused a certain amount of resentment, and there were always those looking for some reason to make me look poorly.

As a young woman, one did not want a reputation as either a prude or a slut, and certainly not as a girl who liked to do kinky things like play tie up games. So the thought of introducing bondage into my intermittent sex life barely occurred to me then. Later, as I grew still older, I did finally begin to play at light bondage with trusted boyfriends. But it was clear they were humoring me, and had no serious interest in such “silly games”. I, of course, had no intention of pushing it and revealing the strength of my twisted interests, and so my sex developed into something rather vanilla.

That wasn’t to say I didn’t enjoy sex thoroughly, for I did. I loved sex. I loved the feel of a man’s body against me, atop me – and inside me. I loved the feel of my own body, for that matter. I masturbated at least a couple of times a day, and thoroughly enjoyed it, as well. For all of that I was quite a normal girl so far as anyone else might have thought. And for all I know I was. Perhaps many girls harbored dark fantasies about being tied up and ravished. Though perhaps they failed to find theirs as deliciously attractive as mine.

I passed through college without doing anything tremendously wild or nasty, and emerged somewhat more sedate in action and spirit, and with a boyfriend – Ian, who found me terribly attractive, and who I quite enjoyed having around. I can’t say that I loved him deeply and completely, but I was quite fond of him. But we moved in together more as a matter of economic convenience than life-long commitment.

Ian was and is a playful man, with an athletic body, dark blue eyes, and tousled brown hair. Our sex life was plentiful and varied between long, soft, gentle romantic lovemaking sessions, and hard, rough, wild sex that one could best describe as fucking.

We lived together in a nicely fitted out, semi-detached home just south of London which was within walking distance of the rail station. Ian started work at an insurance company, while I began working at a bank. We did the usual couple things, attending the weddings of friends, various parties and football events, and did our best to get ahead in our lives and in our professions.

I won’t say that Ian and I had never done bondage, for we had engaged in a few tie-up games, always with me tied to the bedpost and him basically going at me as he always did. I’d always found this exciting, but then, I found it exciting whether I was tied up or not.. There was nothing to really cause me to fixate on bondage, then, until one warm evening when he was watching a match on the television and I was doing some long overdue scrubbing in the kitchen.

You wouldn’t think that would be the prelude to a life-changing experience, but it was. I was wearing a very small pair of shorts, and a very small tank top cut off just below my breasts. Ian came in for a beer, and wrapped his arms around me, kissing the back of my neck as his hands slid up to cup and squeeze my breasts.

“Hmm, my favorite toys,” he said, his fingers kneading my breasts through the thin tank.

I wasn’t wearing a bra, and I liked the feel of his fingers squeezing my breasts, certainly liked the distraction more than my scrubbing, and turned my head around and back to kiss him. He pulled my tank up and over my head, and continued to knead my bare breasts, his hips sort of pinning me against the kitchen counter, my upper torso half turned towards him so we could kiss over my right shoulder.

“You should do your cleaning naked,” he murmured, his hand sliding down into the front of my shorts, into my thong and stroking lightly along my sex.

“Then I’d never get anything done,” I said.

“Of course you will. I shall restrain myself,” he said grandly.

I laughed and he took up the challenge. He eased back and I teasingly skinned off my shorts and knickers, and then slouched back against the counter in all my naked glory. He licked his lips, winked, got his beer, and went back into the lounge.

Well, of course, it was a challenge to me, as well. I wasn’t about to let him get away with such pretense of disinterest. I was quite proud of my body, I must say. Nature had been generous with me and I’d worked hard to make myself even better. I had a lithe, dancer’s body, with high, firm breasts and a tight, firm bottom. I knew very well just how hot I was naked, and knew that Ian would not be able to resist it.

Of course, he had to see me, so I gave up scrubbing the kitchen and decided to go out into the lounge to dust. I an pretended to ignore me in favour of the match, but I did a lot of bending over and casually making my bottom swing to and fro, and I saw his eyes pulled away from the television as if by magnets.

“You’re being a very naughty girl,” he said.

“Why Mr. Drummond, I cannot understand what you could be referring to,” I said haughtily, carrying on my dusting.

Now I should say that a wooden staircase ran up the south wall of the room, and we had a narrow table placed there against the side of the staircase by the entrance. I was pretending to dust along the spiral spindles – those wooden support posts which ran vertically between the hand rail and the stairs. This caused me to place my lower belly against the edge of the table and, legs together, stretch up and out, arm extended, bottom pushed out more and more as I rose onto the balls of my feet.

“You’re really asking for it,” he half growled.

I smiled to myself. “I’m merely dusting the stairs,” I said. “You wouldn’t want it said you had a dirty house.”

“Do you have any idea how lovely your arse looks like that?” he demanded.

“Please refrain from making such comments simply because I’m cleaning naked

as you’ve suggested,” I said haughtily. “You are strong enough to resist your baser instincts are instincts, are you not?”

“No,” he said, his voice right behind me as his hands slid around me and cupped my breasts.

“I’ve dusting to do,” I said, ignoring him, still swishing the duster up and down at the spindles before and above me.

He eased back a little, and I felt his hand on my bottom, caressing it slowly, almost reverently. I felt my inner heat rising to push aside the outer, but resolutely ignored it, still pretending to dust, my bottom pushed out as he kneaded my buttocks.

“I should get a picture of this and hang it over the fireplace,” he said.

“No doubt your mother would appreciate it,” I said dryly.

He laughed, and then slapped my bottom. I yelped, and started to ease back, to turn, but he pressed against me from behind.

“No, don’t move,” he said.

He pulled open a drawer of the table. As it was by the door it had accumulated all manner of junk, and he pulled from it a long length of rough cord. I had no idea what his intent was at first, as he leaned over me, reaching up along my arms, extending them up and out once more, then pulling them together, holding them at the wrist. I watched, fascinated, as he wrapped the cord around them again and again and again, then looped it around one of the spindles, pulling so that I gasped, and was forced to rise again on the balls of my feet.

He tied the cord off and stepped back, and I felt a tight excitement in my chest as I looked back over my shoulder. I could feel the cool, hard wood of the table against my abdomen, against my hips as I leaned into it, could feel the cord biting into my wrists, the weight of my breasts as I bent forward.

“And what do you plan to do with me now, Mr. Drummond?” I demanded.

He shook his head and gazed at my bottom. “What a bloody fantastic ass you have,” he said.

Again he ran his hand over it, caressing, stroking, then kneading my bottom. His hand slid between my thighs then and cupped my sex, and I gasped weakly, pushing myself out and back at him as I felt the warmth of his fingers against me.

“What a lovely sight,” he said, drawing back.

I said nothing, merely looked hotly at him over my shoulder. Then he licked his lips and smiled as if he had gotten a sudden inspiration. He walked past me, oddly, and then up the stairs. I followed him with my eyes, surprised and wondering.

“Are you going to leave me like this?” I called after him.

He didn’t answer, and then I was alone, for a minute, tied, bent over, the table firm against my abdomen. I felt helpless, and the sexual arousal was flooding through me like a rising tide. I looked at the cord knotted there around the spindle, then down at my breasts hanging below my bent over chest, then back at my bottom, or at least, my hips angled across the edge of the table.

Ian came down again, unhurried, and I didn’t see what he had, for he hid it behind his body. He moved behind me and I tried to turn only to have him seize my hair and yank it up and back. I gasped in shock, but it was shocked excitement. Ian only pulled my hair when we were fucking – when we were having especially hot, nasty, rough sex, usually with him behind me and me on all fours.

“Spread your legs,” he ordered.

“I… can’t very well,” I said weakly, surprised at my breathlessness.

I was already on the balls of my feet. I shifted my legs apart and felt the cord pulling more at my wrists. I had to rise onto my toes. Then I felt his fingers at my sex, and moaned as they stroked across my clit. I was wet already, very wet, and I felt his finger push into me, then draw back. A moment later something else pushed into me.

I wasn’t sure what it was, at first, only that it was thick and cool and familiar. Then I groaned as I recognized the feel of my own dildo, the thick one with all the rough ridges and veins, the black one that made my pussy stretch.