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Message-ID: <34690asstr$1010898606@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Leviticus" <leviticusthebard@cableone.net>
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Subject: {ASSM} The Stake.    (bondage)
Date: Sun, 13 Jan 2002 00:10:06 -0500
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A Good Evening

by Leviticus


The meal had been fine, the company pleasant, but he found himself checking
his watch quite often, and forced himself to stop.  He tried to get
interested in what his old friend was saying, and laughed when the others
laughed, but his mind was elsewhere.

He couldn't help thinking about her and how he'd left her.  Was she okay?
Was she enjoying herself?  Or had it been a mistake to leave her, to have
even have tried this?

He wished he knew.  A hundred possibilities echoed in his head, and he had
to force himself to concentrate on the people around him.

He shouldn't have left her, she was inexperienced.  What if she panicked?
What if she was in pain?  What if she hated it?

He could feel his heart pumping, and the excitement he had known at the
start of the evening had long vanished.

He took another sip of his drink, and willed himself to calm down.  She was
fine, there was no danger.

He resisted looking at his watch again.

Instead he made small talk, and for a time at least managed to put to the
back of his mind what else was going on that evening.  But she was never out
of his thoughts, and as time went on he found himself thinking up excuses to
cut short his evening out.

He could stand it no longer, the worry, the fear...the excitement.  Not sure
of what was driving him now, he made his excuses and gathered his coat.  He
made it to his car without running, a major effort in self control, and
drummed on the steering wheel for the entire twenty-minute drive.

His street, his house.

He stops at the front door, afraid of what might be beyond it.  He takes a
deep breath in an effort to calm himself.  He can't appear in front of her
like this, he can't show his worry.  It was more than an image thing, of
projecting the image of what he is inside.  It is also a realized need that
his visible fear might be transmitted to her.  He has to appear in control;
calm and collected at all times.  She depends on him to make her feel safe,
but who could HE lean on?

Finally ready, he opens the front door and steps quietly inside.  He listens
as he slips off his coat and suit jacket, but finds the house
silent...still.

He slips off his shoes and pads in stocking feet down the hall toward their
bedroom, pausing at the closed door to listen.  He believes, over the
pounding of his heart, that he can hear her moaning, but is not sure.  He
takes the door handle in hand and very carefully cracks open the door.  What
first greets him is the smell: musk, female musk, the heady scent of a woman
aroused.  He takes a deep breath and pushes open the door as quietly as he
can.

There she is, lying on a foam mat on the floor, her skin given a golden
sheen because of the soft light in the room and the light coating of sweat
from her exertions.  She lies with her arms and legs spread wide, ropes from
wrist and ankle bound securely to eye-bolts screwed into the walls at ground
level.  More rope runs from knees and elbows, from waist and shoulders, all
there to anchor her to one spot, one position.  A blindfold under a leather
head harness is the only other thing that she wears and to him she looks
beautiful...erotic.  He can feel his excitement building, the fears he had
melting away as looks at her.

She moans once more, shifting her hips and making him smile.

He smiles because a little experiment of his seems to be working, something
he had never been able to try before, until she expressed her curiosity and
volunteered.  He had thought it would be too much for her, but her
excitement ignited his own and arrangements were made.
As he circles her, examining her and his creation, he slowly undresses.  He
sees that she has no idea he is here, and he doesn't want to burst that
bubble just yet.

She moans once more, her voice full of frustration as he hears her whisper,
"please...please...please...," over and over again.  She moves her hips,
pushing her sex against the device between her thighs, a simple wooden stake
set perpendicular in a wide flat base.  The stake, round and sanded smooth,
pokes upright through a hole in the mat, and only by straining can her
engorged sex brush against it.  But strain she does, pushing hard in an
obvious effort to find some relief.

He knows she has a real need too, for by now her lips are burning with more
than passion.
And yet, by his own design, her need was something she had brought upon
herself.  Before leaving, after carefully tying her down and positioning the
stake just beyond her bare sex, he had taken just a tiny amount of muscle
relaxant cream and dabbed it on her clitoris.  He knew that the cream would
quickly begin to burn, creating a false heat that would feel all the
stronger on that most delicate nub of flesh.  The urge to reach down, to rub
and soothe that tiny area between her legs, would soon grow overwhelming.
But tied as she was there was no way she could do that.  But she had an
alternative, the stake.  She knew it was there and how only an inch or so
separated her from it.  She knew it would be so easy to just push a little
harder, to use it to scratch her increasing itch.  But there was a catch, a
price to pay, for the stake itself had been coated in more of the cream, and
that the only parts of her body that could touch the stake was her clitoris,
and of course her pussy lips.  To touch it meant to spread the burn over a
wider area, to ignite the sensitive inner folds her wide-spread legs forced
open.  To scratch one itch she would be forced to give herself a greater
one.

As he finishes undressing, he wonders how long she resisted, how long she
had gone before giving in and attempting to use the stake for some relief.
He wonders how she felt at that point, and how she felt when she realized
that instead of giving her relief, the stake only brought her more
frustration.

Even now, knowing what she knew, she still reaches for it, still rubbing
herself against it in an effort to cool the burn.  She has to be in blissful
agony.

He is naked now, and he gently kneels beside her.  His first touch is at her
breast, and the sharp intake of her breath tells him that his surprise has
been complete.

She calls his name, and when he answers she begins to plead for release, for
him to end her suffering.

He asks if she is really suffering, and he lets his fingers drift down into
her very wet sex.

Her hips arch upwards as much as the ropes allowed, and she groans once
more, almost crying.

He takes his hand away and asks her again, not touching her until she
answers him.

Her answer, once it comes, seems like an admission of something bad.  It's
as if she is a little girl who has broken something and is finally admitting
it to her parents.

He knows her upbringing won't let her talk freely about what they are doing,
it won't let her think with any freedom about the pleasures they had found
together.  But he also knows that in time that will change if she is
willing.  But the answer itself is one he has wanted...no, hoped to hear.
For it speaks of possibilities and pleasures to come.  She isn't suffering,
at least not in a way that excludes the possibility of further play.

He smiles and pulls the stake from its base before moving to replace it with
himself.  He holds himself over her, not touching her, for just a moment.
He takes in the image of her lying there under him, unable to move, unable
to prevent his next action...unable to deny her need for him to do what he's
planned.  He lowers himself gently onto her...into her, and soon the fires
consume him as well.

It is a good evening.


end.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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