Bound by Lust (21 page)

“Cookies are great. They tell a man very clearly that you want him to bend you over and fuck you harder than you've ever been fucked in your life. Now enough with the talk, you're not normally this annoying.”

Rozalyn opened a drawer of her side table and pulled out a ball gag.

“I'll be good, you don't have to use that, you know I'm not the biggest fan of being gagged.”

“That's kind of the point of a punishment. If you listened to yourself you'd know you deserve a lot worse.” She momentarily put the whip down and fastened the gag around my mouth and smiled down at me. “Now we can start having fun.”

She picked the whip up and brought it down on my tits so hard that her own breasts swayed with the effort. Rozalyn was
right, the fun was starting, but still I did something I'd never done before. I closed my eyes and imagined it was someone else punishing me; a tall, muscled German man with a stern accent whipping his new American slut.

 

So, this was the first meeting with my dream master-to-be:

He answered the door almost immediately after I knocked, like he'd known I'd been pacing up and down my kitchen for the last hour and he was just waiting for me to work up the courage to come see him. A good sign.

“Hi, I'm your neighbor. Sorry it's taken me so long to come over and introduce myself but you know how it is busy, busy, busy. I made you some cookies. And cupcakes. And muffins of the blueberry, chocolate chip, and apricot variety. Hope you like something in there.”

I held the basket out to him. He stared at it for a moment before taking it.

“Thank you,” he said in that beautiful thick, hard accent.

“My name's Audrey. Like the film star. Audrey Hepburn.”

He nodded. “You look something like her.”

I beamed and glowed even though I'd heard that compliment a hundred times before and much more eloquently put; yet with him it didn't sound like an empty compliment but a statement of fact, and that turned me on.

“What's your name?” I asked.

“Wolfgang, like the composer, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.”

“Wolfgang?” I pronounced it in an English way, as in a gang of canine predators, and for some stupid reason I couldn't stop laughing. A bad sign.

“What is funny?” he said in all seriousness.

“Nothing,” I said through the giggles I couldn't control. “Nothing at all. I better get home. Hope you like the cakes.
Bring the basket back whenever. Bye.”

I carried on laughing until I was in my kitchen with my back to the door, then I sunk to the floor and wondered what idiotic part of me had been in control in creating that essential first impression.

So that was our first meeting, and for ten minutes I thought it would be our last and was considering whether moving to Alaska would be a viable option and if that would be far enough away. Then there was a knock at my door, and there he was in all his six-foot-five glory standing on my porch.

“I am returning your basket,” he said holding it out for me. “Thank you for the food. Would you like to come to dinner with me on Tuesday evening?”

“Yes,” I said, silently thanking the god who'd created a man who was attracted to women who laughed at his name. “Yes, I'd love to go to dinner with you.”

 

Before Tuesday I'd tried on at least a hundred different outfits and played with my vibrator almost as many times.

After Tuesday I'd gained a boyfriend called Wolfie and learned that Wolfie had had five lovers, all of them long term, none of them that interested in sex, only one of his girlfriends had given him a blowjob. This information obviously made me despair for the women of Germany letting such a piece of man go to sexual waste, unless all men looked like him in Germany, in which case nothing would stop me visiting that country again.

We fell into a routine of seeing each other two evenings during the week and one day of the weekend. This suited me fine, as it created lots of space for allure and anticipation; smiling across at each other when we left for work in the morning, bumping into each other by accident in the street, watching him work in
his garden, all the time knowing we had a date set when we'd be together.

What was more problematic and outside of my experiences was the way he was with me. It was probably my fault for getting carried away with cultural stereotypes, but it was kind of a shock to be given a fluffy pink teddy bear that was bigger than I was. I thought for a while he wanted me to play at being the sweet little girl corrupted by the big bad older man, but what corrupter spends three weeks of dates doing nothing more risqué than pecking his girl on the lips?

In the end my lust beat my patience down, and I gave up waiting to be seduced. My first encounters were usually passion-fuelled, clothes-ripping affairs that happened in alleyways, on staircases, in toilets, leaving my body raw and bruised. With my new German boyfriend I took his hand and led him upstairs to my bedroom, moved the big pink teddy off the bed, and we lay down together fully clothed and faced each other. I put my arms around him, and we kissed, gentle loving kisses. My hands slid down the back of his jeans, I pressed my tongue between his lips, and as he responded I moved my hand around to the front and began to slowly wank him. He moaned and rolled onto his back; I undid his belt and pulled his pants down. His cock was even larger than I'd imagined. I didn't attempt to deep throat it, instead sucking and licking the head while one of my hands squeezed his balls. My other hand pulled up my skirt, and I rubbed my thumb over my clit. I was happy tasting him, breathing in the scent of his sex, and waiting for the moment when his confidence and desire grew and he'd put his hands on the back of my head and pushed me down onto the full length of his cock.

That didn't happen.

He stroked my hair gently until the moment his body shuddered
and he let out an enormous groan as he shot into my mouth. Then he pulled me up to him and kissed me with the scent of his spunk still lingering on my lips.

“Would you like me to lick you out?” His accent sounded almost mechanical, and the only answer I could make was laughter.

I laughed so much that we didn't have intercourse but fell innocently asleep in each other's arms.

The next morning I rectified this by mounting his early morning erection. He woke up with me grinding on top of him, orgasms pulsing through me as I used his cock for my own pleasure. Immediately his hips bucked up into mine, like a reflex, and his own orgasm was much louder and more violent than any of mine.

“Thank you,” he said.

I smiled down at him and caressed his sensitive body with my lightest touch. I could be patient. He was worth it.

 

His lack of experience made him so easy to please. He made me feel like I was the most amazing woman in the world when I swallowed his spunk or finally convinced him I liked it when he came over my face. Young men had never held any attraction for me, but Wolfgang's face when I oiled my breasts and rubbed his cock between them made me think of a teenage boy experiencing the first joys of illicit masturbation. There was a certain pleasure to this; things I must have done hundreds of time gained a new adventurous quality when I did them with him. Having sex with my German in a secluded field in the middle of nowhere gave the same thrills and sense of exhibitionism as when I'd sucked and ridden three men one after another in the back of a taxicab in central London. But there was a big drawback. An enormous drawback.

The more my life became mingled with my handsome neighbor's, the more I thought about what I was missing. It surprised me how easily I fell into a monogamous relationship, and sometimes I could convince myself that I wasn't missing the sex life I'd previously enjoyed. But as the days, weeks, and months passed, the yearning only got stronger. It'd always been a part of my adult life; it had been part of my very initiation into becoming an adult.

Not many of my friends believed I'd remained a virgin until I was twenty-two, but it was true. There'd been no need to rush into having intercourse, as I'd already found sexual pleasures elsewhere: a married man who balanced his conscience by never kissing or having sex with me but who spanked me relentlessly. And that experience had just been the beginning. As I grew older I met other men and women, sometimes by accident, sometimes on purpose, who pushed and pulled my sexuality so far that I was left uncertain what my limits were, and even whether I had any.

And now I was settling down with a man who made me smile more than anyone else ever had, a man who said his greatest sexual moment was when I rode him that first time. I tried searching for his darker fantasies, hoping they would mirror mine, but whenever spanking was mentioned he responded with some variation of:

“I can't see what is fun about that. How is it nice to hurt someone?”

I tried to turn him on with what I considered to be milder stories from my past, stroking his cock as I whispered into his ear. I told him of the time I spent most of a weekend bound hands to feet and blindfolded with people (I had no idea whether they were friends or strangers) taking turns to spank me. His prick would respond and stiffen under my touch, but I would always
say too much, telling him how raw my body felt, how even the soft fabric of clothes against my skin would sting and remind me of the punishment I'd taken.

Finally, after more nagging and teasing and persuading and promises than you'd believe, I convinced him to at least try it out.

I wore a black bra under a white shirt, over-the-knee socks, and a short pleated skirt with no knickers to complete the look. Nothing too hardcore, no PVC, no bondage, and the only leather was on my shoes. I opened the door to him in character, giggling and teasing but backing away when he tried to kiss me. I knocked a pen onto the floor and bent over in front of him to pick it up, giving him a full view of my naked rump. He put his hands on my hips, but I wriggled away and made him chase me, letting him catch me long enough for me to rub my ass against the growing bulge in his trousers before I twisted out of his embrace and ran away again. It took a lot of willpower not to drop to my knees and suck on his cock, but I'd worked so hard for this moment, I couldn't let it pass so easily.

“I'm a very very naughty girl,” I said. “You need to punish me. You need to spank me.”

It was difficult to play at being a coy little cockteaser when I had to push my big muscled man down onto a chair and position myself over his lap, but I think I just about pulled it off.

I imagined his excitement at having my body in his power, at looking down and seeing the curves of my ass and knowing he could leave the red imprint of his hand on my naked skin. I could feel the barely contained aggression of his prick pressing against me, desperate to pound into me. But when his hand struck me it was more like a friendly pat I would expect from a drunken uncle, not from a passion-filled lover.

“I'm a wicked girl,” I said trying not to sound disappointed.
“Maybe you need to punish me a bit harder to make me into a good girl.”

He patted my ass again; it might have been a bit harder but it was a very close call.

“I've been really really bad, really really really bad. Punish me.”

He sighed and gently lifted me off his lap. “I'm sorry, Audrey, you know how much I love you, how I want to do anything and everything to please you, but this isn't working, is it?”

I managed to give him a small smile. “Perhaps you'd prefer breast bondage? I thought that might be a bit difficult to start with, but lots of men I know go mad for it.”

I looked at the expression on his face and did what I probably should have done from the start, dropped to my knees and released his erection from his jeans. I let all the words disappear and instead filled my mouth with his prick.

 

I'd only gone to see Rozalyn to catch up on a bit of a gossip, maybe to ask some advice; I wasn't sure how I ended up naked in her basement with my back curved over a barrel and my hands and feet bound to metal hooks in the floor. Although it might have been triggered when after about five minutes of listening to me she said, “Enough whining, slut, take your clothes off and go to my dungeon.”

Rozalyn had been wearing your average office clothes when I arrived, but now she was clad in a black PVC cat suit that covered all of her body and head with holes for her eyes, mouth, breasts, and cunt. She leaned over me, making her dark nipples caress my pink ones. My body tensed as I knew what would be coming next, whenever she kissed or stroked my breasts it was always the prelude to the same thing: big heavy iron pegs clamped all over my chest.

And that was what she did now, pinching them onto my skin faster than normal so I could barely breathe between each gasp of pain.

“Rozalyn. I've forgotten the safe word. I've never needed it before. But I think I'm going to need you to take things a bit easier on me. I'm out of practice.”

Rozalyn gave a small shake of her head. She put the peg she was holding in her hand onto the side of my breast but did not place any more.

“You'll have to please me in other ways then,” she said and stood above my head.

She started by rubbing her clit against my nose, then she pushed her pussy against my mouth. Obediently I thrust my tongue into her and enjoyed the feeling of being enveloped by the heat of her sex. She ground down into me, and I realized how lazy I'd got having a lover who was so easy to please. I worked my mouth hard, pressing back up into her as she pushed down on me. She flicked her nails against the pegs as I tongue-fucked her; when I flicked my tongue over her clit she yanked one off and we both screamed out.

“Now that pleases me,” she said.