Stan looked out the French doors in the living room at the sight of Barb, clad in a very tiny blue bikini top and cut-off jean shorts, pushing the mower up and down the lawn in neat rows. Their property was mostly wooded; only the area near the house was grassy, so there wasn't that much to mow. He didn't see what all the fuss was about.

For a moment he imagined himself an antebellum plantation owner watching the slaves picking cotton or cutting sugar. 'Maybe I should fix myself a mint julep,' he thought. Except they didn't have any mint and he didn't like mint juleps, anyway.

He went quickly downstairs and grabbed one of the bullwhips that they kept in their playroom. He opened the French doors and walked over to Barb, who didn't see him approaching and couldn't hear his footsteps over the mower. She reached the end of the row and turned to find him standing a few feet away.

She shut the mower off. She was sweating profusely, her nipples standing out in the wet bikini top.

"You missed a spot back there," Stan said.

"Fuck you, Goldman," she replied.

"Do you know what would happen to a slave who talked that way to her master in the Old South, Barb?" He cracked the whip, but it didn't make much of a sound against the turf.

"This isn't the Old South, I'm not your slave and you are most definitely not my master or anybody's master, Goldman."

"Well, we'll deal with this later, Barb. It's hot out here. I'm going back into the A/C." She gave him the finger.

***

Barb stood at the foot of the stairs, with her hands on her hips, challenging Stan to take charge.

He rose to the challenge. He felt something else beginning to rise as well. "Come on Moore, you know the drill. Strip!"

Barb shrugged. "If it will make you happy, Goldman." She pulled her T shirt over her head and dropped it to the floor. Underneath she wore one of those sleeveless camisoles, which she pulled over her head as well.

"Put them on the table, Barb. Not on the floor," Stan said. She threw them onto the table that stood against the wall. "Fold them neatly," he ordered. She took exaggerated care, folding them and refolding them three times until they were perfect, just to bug him. He had to admit the wait was worth it. Barb's breasts were firm and just the size he liked, not as big as that girl Delia's in the photos, more like her friend Tara's.

Since she had been barefoot upstairs, now she wore only her cutoff jean shorts. She did a little shimmy, letting her breasts sway back and forth. "You like?" she asked.

"You know I do," Stan replied. "But, If you're waiting for Santa Claus to come down the chimney to take the shorts off, it's July, Moore." Barb slipped the shorts off, folded them and placed them on the table.

"And those," he said, pointing at her panties. She stepped out of them and threw them at him. Stan snagged them in mid-air and felt them, then put them over his nose and sniffed. "I think milady is a bit aroused," he said. "By the story or the punishment you're getting?" he asked.

"Maybe both," Barb replied.

"Then let's not keep you waiting," Stan said. He picked up a small remote control device. A small motor attached to the ceiling a few feet over their heads, whirred and a chain with two leather cuffs descended. Stan fastened the cuffs securely around Barb's wrists.

Using the remote control, he raised the cuffs so that Barb's hands rose slowly until they were straight over her head. Stan played with the controls a bit until Barb was stretched out with only the balls of her feet and her toes in contact with the concrete floor.