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Contains adult themes, bondage and sex.  Read at your own risk.

Comments and suggestions welcome.  Flames cheerfully ignored.

For personal use only  -  if  you  repost,  please  include  this
header.

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                          Testing  Bounds
			        by
			     Javahead

We seem to have our best conversations in bed.

Not always about sex, either; we've talked about everything  from
world history to childhood dreams.  There is something reassuring
about laying in the dark, warm and comfortable, with someone  you
care  about  beside  you.  You can *feel* their presence, but you
can't see them.

Somehow, the anonymous  familiarity  allows  you  to  talk  about
things  you  wouldn't dare say if you could see the other's face,
and admit feelings that would otherwise be  taboo.   There  is  a
comfort  in  knowing  someone  is  listening, but not immediately
judging, what you say.

Still, we probably talk about sex more than anything  else.   Why
not?  We  both like it, and - knowing us - we are probably either
going to make love soon, or are cuddling after having finished  a
session.

Tonight, we were discussing fantasies.  I don't  think  we  could
have discussed it as easily anywhere else.

Even in fantasies there are hierarchies, though.  There  are  the
kinky-but-possible,  the possible-but-hard-to-bring-up,  and  the
hot-but-I-never-REALLY-want-it.  Everyone knows what  I  mean,  I
believe.  Some  fantasies  are  easy to admit to; others, because
they expose too much of your inner world, require great trust  to
tell  anyone  else.  The third category, paradoxically, is easier
to admit to because you *know* you don't want it to happen.

By this time, we know each others simpler fantasies  quite  well,
and  have  lived  them  out  to a great extent.  Instead, we were
listing category 3, the hot-but-not-real.

"Rape.  I can imagine some man finding me in bed, and forcing  me
to come despite myself."

"Really?"

"Of course not *really*! A rape fantasy is one  thing  -  *being*
raped  I wouldn't wish on anyone.  Admit it, though - haven't you
ever fantasized about ravishing some helpless woman?"

"Well .  .  .  Yes.  Prepare to meet your fate!"

She laughed and fended  me  off.   "Not  yet,  boy!  What's  your
impossible fantasy?"

"You want to know? Sometimes I imagine watching you in  bed  with
someone  else.   I  don't know if I could handle it in real life,
but the image ... that's hot.  Your turn, wench.  What  do  *you*
dream about?"

"I .  .  .  don't have anything else, really." Just from her tone
of voice I could tell she was blushing.

"Nothing else, or nothing you want  to  talk  about,  sweetheart?
Come on, out with it.  I won't laugh, I won't be disgusted, and I
won't bite - unless you want me to, anyway."

A pause, and she almost whispered.  "You could tie me up."

I rolled over and put an encouraging arm around her.  Even  after
cracking her reserve, it took a long while before she gave me the
clear picture; she had obviously thought about it for a good long
time,  but  despite  my reassurances was afraid I would think her
too kinky or - worse! - silly.

If anything, I was impressed; she  had  spent  a  *lot*  of  time
thinking  about this, and she knew precisely what she wanted.  It
was the feeling of helplessness  she  craved;  knowing  that  she
*was*  helpless,  and unable to escape, while I slowly teased and
plundered her body, was the whole point.

I could see why it had  been  hard  for  her  to  admit;  she  is
normally  one  of  the least helpless, most independent, people I
know.  I was touched that she trusted  me  enough  to  admit  her
dream.   Also,  not too surprisingly, rather turned on.  What man
has not fantasized, at least once,  about  having  an  attractive
woman at his complete mercy?

We didn't talk any more that night; we had  both  become  aroused
enough  that  talk  was  unnecessary,  and  by  the  time  we had
exhausted our immediate urges we were too tired  to  do  anything
other than cuddle and sleep.

Neither one of us discussed it the next morning.  She was unsure,
I  think, if I remembered what she had said, and was reluctant to
bring it up again.  For my part, I remembered it quite clearly; I
also remembered that it being a surprise, "against her will," was
a big part of what attracted her.  If I wanted to give  her  what
she  had asked for, I would have to convince her that I did *not*
remember.

Over the  next  few  weeks,  I  behaved  as  if  that  particular
conversation  had  never  taken  place  -  at least, when we were
together.  But during my normal errands - trips to and from work,
shopping,  even to the library - I gradually accumulated some out
of the normal items.  A  month  and  a  half  after  our  bedtime
conference, I was ready.

I chose my time as carefully as I knew how: A Friday night,  with
the  entire  weekend  ahead  of  us;  no  undone chores, visiting
friends, or family obligations.  I wanted all of  her  attention,
and  had  removed  everything  that  I  could think of that might
distract her.

I thought it best to strike when she  was  already  feeling  most
helpless;  I  wanted  her subdued and at my mercy before she knew
what was happening. Fortunately, her evening routine provided the
perfect  opportunity.  Every  night,  an hour before bedtime, she
would start her evening exercises, going from  there  immediately
into  the  shower.  As usual, she emerged from the bathroom while
still toweling herself off.

It was almost too easy.  She was using  both  hands  to  dry  her
hair,  and  between her raised arms and the towel was effectively
blindfolded. Indeed, her position was an  unplanned  for  bit  of
luck.   Before  she  even  noticed  that I was approaching, I had
fastened the padded cuffs around both wrists.

"What .  .  .  Are you .  .  .  You're *crazy*."

By the time she had gotten that far, I had  her  wrists  shackled
together  to  the  head  of  the bed.  I had already strapped the
ankle cuffs to the two footposts, leaving a fair amount of slack.
Though  she  struggled and kicked a bit, I soon had them fastened
as well.  Ignoring her indignant sputters, I carefully  tightened
the  ankle  straps.   I  wanted  her  comfortable, but completely
immobilized.  It was only when I was completely satisfied that  I
stepped back to admire my work.

She was a lovely sight.  Her body made an upside-down figure  "Y"
on  the bed.  The position, with her arms drawn up above head and
her legs drawn far apart, emphasized both her slenderness and her
strength.   While I watched, she pulled as strongly as she could;
though her muscles stood out in high relief, nothing gave.

I walked to the head of the  bed  and  smiled  at  her,  absently
admiring  the  way  that  her upraised arms tightened her breasts
against her chest.  She did her best to glare at me; I might have
even  believed  it was real if she could have controlled the grin
that kept slipping back into her scowl.

"You rat! Let me up from here!" The giggle in  her  voice  wasn't
terribly convincing, either.

"Do you remember the time we were discussing fantasies?"  I  said
conversationally.   "You  never asked me what I thought of yours.
Perhaps you never really thought  about  what  you  were  getting
yourself  into" - a blatant lie, I was sure - "but most men would
simply *love* to have a woman helpless like this.   Wouldn't  you
agree?"

Stubborn silence from her.  I continued in a dreamy  voice  "Just
imagine  might  feel like doing, free to be touched, and prodded,
sampled, tasted, used how I like, as often as I like .  .  ."

As my litany continued, I gently stroked her with my  fingertips.
By  the  time I was halfway through, her nipples were as hard and
erect as I had ever seen them.  I experimentally ran a finger  up
her  slit.   I  was  pleased, but not terribly surprised, to find
that she was already quite wet.  Time to throw her a curve  ball;
even  if  she was really the one in control, I didn't want her to
realize it just yet.

"Of course, I don't *have* to be nice to you," I continued in the
same  dreamy  tone.  I gave her already erect clit a light pinch.
She jerked in surprise.

"After all,what can you do to stop me?" This time, I drew one  of
her  nipples  into  my  mouth,  suckling  gently for a bit before
giving her a sharp nip.  This time, she gave  a  quiet  yelp,  as
well.

"Why don't you think about the .  .  .  possibilities .  .  .   a
while?"

I stepped out of the room to get the rest of my supplies.

In reality, I could have been back in just a few minutes,  but  I
gave her over a quarter of an hour to think about it: long enough
to get nervous, but not long enough to begin to relax again.

I wanted the full helplessness of her position to sink in: Naked,
on  display,  unable  to  move  more  than  an inch or two in any
direction.  No matter how much she trusted me, and how  much  she
wanted  this, she would have been more than human if a few doubts
didn't start to creep in.

I had given some thought about how best to keep her in the  mood.
Knowing  her, any of the more outre' bondage accessories would be
a mistake at this point.  Right now, I wanted to keep the mood as
firmly  rooted in reality as possible, unsure if I was playing or
deadly serious.

Accordingly, I was still normally dressed when I  came  back  in.
There  is  a  certain  advantage  in being fully clothed when the
person you are dealing with is naked and vulnerable; doctors  and
football  coaches  get  much of their authority from it.  In this
case, it also served to keep her unaware of how  aroused  I  was.
The  longer I could pretend to that dreamy distance, the longer I
could spin out her uncertainties.

Her head, the only part of her body that she could  still  freely
move, turned to watch me as I came in.  She silently watched as I
set up a wooden tray beside the bed.  The angle must have made it
difficult  for  her to see clearly, but she seemed rather puzzled
by the items that she could make out.   It  *was*  a  rather  odd
assortment,  after  all:   An  ice  bucket,  a pair of unbleached
beeswax candles in brass candlesticks, a half dozen  feathers  of
various  sorts,  a pair of screw-adjustable alligator clamps with
small bells fastened to them, a handful of clothespins, a shaving
mug  complete  with  brush and soap, a pair of barber scissors, a
razor strop, a straight razor, and several hand towels.

I produced a box of matches from my pocket and carefully lit  the
candles, placing one at each end of our bookcase headboard.  From
my bedside stand I pulled a riding crop, holding it  up  so  that
she could see it plainly.  Her eyes widened quite satisfactorily;
once I was sure that she had seen it, though, I  placed  it  down
neatly  on  the  end of the tray.  Instead, I picked up the strop
and the straight razor.

I was proud of that straight razor - it was over a hundred  years
old  and  had belonged to my great-grandfather.  Most of my props
had been purchased just for this occasion, but I would have had a
difficult  time  finding a razor as intimidating, or of as good a
quality, as this. I rather doubted that my great-grandfather  had
used  it for what I planned to, though.  It  easily  accomplished
its  first  task  - she was terrified even before I opened it.  I
ignored  her reaction and began to strop it.

Stropping a razor produces a  soothing,  monotonous  sound.   For
several  minutes, I lost myself in it - I have always loved edged
tools of all kinds, from razors to axes, and am the only person I
know  who  actually  enjoys sharpening lawn mower blades.  At the
end  I  rather  theatrically  tested  the  edge  on  my  forearm.
Unsurprisingly, it effortlessly removed a swath of hair.

I spared a glance for my audience.  Her whole  body  was  covered
with  a  faint  sheen of perspiration, and her eyes were glued on
the blade.  She looked *very*  relieved  when  I  folded  it  and
placed  it  carefully  on  the  table.  I gave her a benign smile
before gathering up the mug, brush,  and  soap  and  disappearing
into the bathroom.

I ran the water till it was hot, and filled the sink.  I  dropped
a  couple  of wash cloths in to soak, picked up a bath towel, and
returned to the  bedroom.   The  bath  towel,  unfolded,  I  slid
underneath  her  hips.   I  was  pleased  with myself; I had left
just enough slack when I fastened her down.  By now,  I  had  ex-
pected  her  to  be   full of  questions,  but  she had evidently
opted for silent defiance.  Perhaps  she  was  just   afraid   of
giggling   when   she  should  be cowering.  I  ran  my hand pos-
sessively up her side to her breast  before  going  back  to  the
bathroom.

I filled the mug with hot water, added a little soap, and quickly
worked  up  a  froth.  Squeezing most of the hot water out of the
steaming cloths, I folded them.  With the washcloths in one  hand
and the mug of lather in the other, I returned to my captive.

I began by picking up the scissors and showing them to her.   Her
eyes  were  riveted  on  them as I slowly opened and closed them.
Worry flashed over into terror as I brought them near  a  nipple;
she  shivered  uncontrollably  as I touched the cold metal of the
closed scissors to her flesh.  The shivering only increased as  I
touched   it  to  random  locations  down  her  side  and  belly,
redoubling when I reached the small nub of her  clit.   This  was
only  a preamble though, however pleasant.  Almost reluctantly, I
began to trim her pubic hair.

She has never had a large amount of  hair,  and  I  soon  had  it
reduced  to a short fuzz. After brushing off the loose strands, I
covered her crotch with the first of the  hot  towels.   By  now,
they  were just pleasantly warm, though she *did* jump a bit as I
put it on.  I stroked her  head  soothingly  for  a  few  moments
before turning to the shaving mug.

The lather had subsided a bit, so I whipped it  up  again  before
removing  the  hot  cloth.  Working quickly, I applied the lather
and reached for the razor.

Shaving is something  you  never  should  hurry,  even  when  you
*aren't*  shaving  your  beloved's  pussy.   It's amazing how few
people have learned the correct way - first, with the grain, then
across  the  grain.  Going against the grain of the hairs gives a
close shave, but makes it far too easy to give a  nasty  cut.   I
hummed  happily to myself as I worked.  As slow and cautious as I
was, I soon had her crotch as bare and smooth as the day she  was
born.  I wiped up all the excess lather with the first cloth, and
unfolded the second cloth to cover my work site while I  returned
the shaving gear to the bathroom.

I took my time, carefully pouring the lather down the  drain  and
cleaning mug, brush, and razor.  On my second trip, I removed the
wash cloth and pulled the towel from underneath her, taking  them
back  into  the  bathroom.   I  stopped at the door to admire the
effect; somehow, the absence of pubic hair  made  her  look  much
more naked and helpless.

She seemed to feel the same way; at least, the look she  gave  me
seemed much less defiant than her earlier glare.  It crossed over
into open fear as I picked up the riding crop.

So far, everything I had done had been  mostly  mind  games:  her
position  on  the bed, her nakedness, the deliberate introduction
of props, even the shaving had been  chosen  to  break  down  her
mental  barriers  rather  than  provide  sensation.  Now that the
barriers were down, I could move on into the physical realm.  But
before  I  moved  further, I needed to give her some reassurance,
something to cling to so that she could enjoy  rather  than  fear
what I had in store.

"Darling.  Look at me.  Do you hear me?"  She  stared,  but  said
nothing.   "I  need  an  answer.   Do  you  understand  what I am
saying?"

After a long pause, she responded. "Yes . . . I hear  you."   Her
voice was hoarse.

"Are you all right?" After a moment, she gave a nod.

"Do you want me to stop?" A vigorous shake of her head.

"Good.  I'm pleased.  I will continue, then.  But remember, until
this  is over, you are in my power.  I can torment you, I can use
you, I can ignore you if I choose.  I may very well take  you  to
your  limits,  but I'll try to avoid asking you for more than you
can give.  Do you trust me to do this?"

She thought this over for some time before responding with a  shy
smile.  "I trust you . . . lover."

I smiled back. "Good.  But I'm giving  you  an  out,  sweetheart.
Your safeword is . . . platypus."

She looked confused, so I elaborated.  "If you get to  the  point
that  you  can't  continue, that you don't trust me, that you are
too afraid to go on . . . say that word.  I'll stop, and let  you
free,  and  tonight will be over.  We'll discuss *why* you needed
to call it;  until we are both comfortable about it we won't play
again.  Now, I want you to tell me the safeword."

"Platypus."

"Good girl.  Now remember, only use it if  you  absolutely  must.
Ready to continue?"

"Yes!"

"Yes, *what*?"

"Yes, please?"

"Better,  much  better.   It  *does* pay to be polite with a  man
who has you tied to the bed, stretched open, and  naked,  doesn't
it?"

As I spoke, I ran a hand up her body, starting at her  angle,  up
the  inner  thigh,  her newly-shaven vulva, belly, breast, cheek,
and her outstretched arms.

"Especially to a man who has a crop in his hand.  I can  be  very
gentle"  -  as I said this, I ran the tip of the crop up her slit
and paused to examine it - "my, you *are* wet, aren't you?"

"Or I can be a little rougher  -"  I  gave  one  of  her  swollen
nipples a flick with the crop, just hard enough to sting.

"Or, of course, I can flog you." This time I gave  a  full  armed
swing  of the crop, landing it on the bed just a couple of inches
from her ribs with  a  highly  satisfactory  *Thump*.   From  her
frantic  jerk,  she  had  expected  it to land on her.  She might
believe, intellectually,  that  I  wouldn't  hurt  her,  but  she
couldn't  *know* that.  To give her what I had promised, I needed
to keep her on that borderline.

If I had been doing this  solely  for  my  own  satisfaction,   I
would  have   been  disgusted  with  myself;  it  was  too  close
to  an adolescent  male  fantasy:  a   beautiful   naked   women,
strapped  helpless   to   the   bed,   subject  to my every whim.
Well, I *was* enjoying myself -  but  despite  appearances,   she
was   the   one getting  the  most out of it.  I hoped that I was
right about the rest of what she wanted.

To give myself more time  to  think,  I  stood  beside  the  bed,
lightly  tracing  the shape of her body with the crop.  At first,
she flinched away,  but  I  soon  had  her  calm,  even  relaxed.
Occasionally,  I  would  run my free hand up her body. She tensed
the first time I cupped her mons, but  repetition  rendered  even
that   routine.    After  a  few  minutes,  she  appeared  almost
hypnotized - unaware of anything but the immediate sensations.

I had given a good deal of thought *why* this  appealed  to  her.
She  is normally a very self-controlled, confident woman;  I have
never seen her totally unselfconscious.  Though she  enjoys  sex,
there  is  always  a  certain  .  . . restraint in her responses;
everything she does has to pass her internal  censor.   When  she
can   get   past   the   self  consciousness,   she tends to be a
noisy, greedy lover, but it can be a hard  barrier  to  surmount.
Though  I enjoyed  playing  up  to her fears tonight, I suspected
that, for her, the main thing was being helpless, being  *forced*
to   enjoy  herself.   Even  her  rape fantasy centered on that -
"forcing me to come despite myself."

She wouldn't know till the end, but half of my  props  were  just
that  -  window dressing, if you will.  She and I had read enough
bondage erotica over the years that she  knew  what  things  like
clamps,  hot  wax,  and  clothespins  could  do - exquisite pain,
without any permanent damage. Perhaps some other  time  we  might
try  them  out,  but  tonight their main purpose was keep her off
balance.  I'll be honest - I'm a chicken. Having her  like  this,
helpless,  bare,  lewdly  displayed,  was immensely arousing; the
idea of actually *hurting*  her,  causing  pain,  was  even  more
disturbing.   I  just hoped I was a good enough actor to keep her
from realizing it.

Of course, a *little* bit of pain can be enjoyable, in the  right
circumstances.    I  learned early on that unlike most women I've
known, when she is aroused enough  she  *likes*  having  her nip-
ples   handled   roughly.    For  her, it seems to transmute into
intense pleasure, rather than pain, and I had planned  for  that.
She  certainly  *seemed* aroused enough - her nipples were erect,
her inner lips swollen and open - so I turned briefly to my  tray
to retrieve the clamps.

I briefly admired  them  -  they  were  vicious  looking  things,
spring-closed, with toothed jaws.  I had carefully adjusted their
setscrews so that they remained at least a third of an inch  open
and  fastened  a little brass bell to each one.  I held one up in
her line of sight.

"Honey!"  I had to repeat it a couple of times before she  seemed
to focus.  "Do you see this?"

She suddenly seemed much more aware.

"What do you plan to do with - aah!"

She broke off as I clipped it onto her engorged left  nipple.   I
had  judged  it  about  right  -  it  seemed  tight  enough to be
pain/pleasurable, but didn't seem  likely  to  cause  harm.   She
gasped  when  I  flicked  the bell lightly with my fingernail.  I
waited till she started to speak and showed her the second clamp.
I  was  proud  of  her;   I  had expected her to protest, but she
merely swallowed, took a deep breath, and  raised  the  unadorned
breast as far as she could.

"Can you ring the bells for me, darling?"

A moment later, the bells chimed, followed by a  small  gasp.   I
chuckled  -  she hadn't realized that the bells were heavy enough
that ringing them would give her nipples a twinge.  I smiled down
at  her and mimed tugging on the clamps; momentarily, I could see
whites all around her eyes.

Instead, I reached for the feathers.   I  had  several  different
varieties:   downy  ostrich  feathers;  long,  slender,  pheasant
feathers; the rather stiff and robust  feathers  from  a  goose's
wing.

I started by lightly tickling her body with an  ostrich  feather.
To  an  outside  observer,  it  would  have looked like a bizarre
version of dusting the furniture.  Though it  looked  impressive,
it  soon  became evident it wasn't having much effect - she isn't
very ticklish, and she was able to ignore it with ease.   Even  a
direct  attack on her sex didn't work - she was wet enough by now
that the feather was almost immediately soggy.

The pheasant feather was much more successful.  It was soft,  but
just  stiff  enough  to  have the desired effect.  A concentrated
attack on her undefended armpits caused her to start  writhing  -
till  the  bells clamped to her nipples began to ring.  After the
first reflexive jump, she did her best to ignore  me,  with  only
the  occasional  chime  when  she  was  unable to totally control
herself.

Once I was convince that she had mastered tickling, I shifted  my
points  of  attack.   Between  her  excitement and the clamps her
nipples were hypersensitive, as a few  tentative  flicks  of  the
feather  demonstrated.  Even  the  gentlest of touches provoked a
violent response.   That established, I moved away -  she  seemed
perilously  close  to loosing control.  Instead, I started at her
ankle and began to work my way up her legs.

Her legs, especially her inner thighs, proved a  perfect  target:
not  quite  as  sensitive  as her ribs or breasts, but responsive
enough that she could not just ignore it.  Changes  in  tempo  or
location  could  be  counted  on  to  provoke answering gasps and
chiming, becoming more intense as I worked my way closer  to  her
open  vulva.   This was what I had been working toward all along.
By now, her labia were fully engorged, open, and glistening.  Her
clitoris  had  emerged  from  its  sheath,  swollen and ruddy.  I
paused momentarily to enjoy the sight before reaching out with my
feather and giving a delicate *flick* to its tip.

Her reaction was all that I could have hoped for.  If she had not
been fastened so securely her convulsion would have taken her off
the bed; as it was, I could hear the  bedframe  creak  alarmingly
through  the  bells' peal.  Even without the element of surprise,
each subsequent touch brought a response nearly  as  violent.   I
would have stopped, if I had not seen that she was doing her best
to  push  her  groin  up  to  meet  the  feather;   against   all
expectation,  she  had  reached the point where pain and pleasure
began to merge.

For the next several minutes, I did my best to push her over  the
top,  varying the rhythm and intensity of my attack from slow and
gentle stroking to fast, almost frantic, flicks.   Frustratingly,
she seemed to just hover on the edge of orgasm, but nothing I did
could push her over.  Or perhaps I was telling myself that  so  I
could justify my next action.  As I had longed to do all evening,
I put the feather down and replaced it with my mouth.

We seem to be an anomaly among couples - I enjoy giving oral sex,
but she is reluctant to receive it.  Self-control again - she has
her loudest orgasms when I eat her out, and it  embarrasses  her.
But  now,  she  had  no choice.  I had spent the best part of the
last hour staring into The World's Most Beautiful Pussy, smelling
its  musk, and I was through with self-restraint.  She was bound,
helpless, and I could feast as much as I wanted.

I don't know *what* it was she was trying to say -  it  may  have
been  no  more  than the first of the moans that blended with the
sound of the bells. As she had with the feather, she was  pushing
her  cunt  into  my face as hard as the restraints would let her;
without their aid, I might have found breathing difficult.   It's
impossible  to  adequately  describe  the  taste  and  smell of a
healthy pussy  to  someone  who  has  never  had  the  chance  to
experience it - "musky",  "sharp", "pungent", and "tangy" are all
true,  but  seem  too  pale  and  clinical.   My  face  was  soon
glistening with her juices.

I didn't have long to enjoy myself; all too soon, I sensed a  new
urgency  in  her  movements.   Before  I had time to do more than
notice this, she slipped over the  edge  into  her  climax.   Her
moans  rose  into  a  full-throated,  almost  agonized, shriek of
triumph and cut off abruptly. For a moment, every muscle  in  her
frame  stood  out  in  stark relief, before she collapsed into an
equally-dramatic state of relaxation.

For the first  time  since  we  had  started,  I  wasn't  in  the
spotlight;   for  the  moment  she  seemed  unaware  of  anything
external.  I stood for minute, just  admiring  her  beauty.   Her
eyes  were  closed  and her head was thrown back, surrounded by a
Medusa's tangle of hair.  Her body, as lewdly spread  as  before,
was now sprawled loosely rather than tensed; her skin was covered
with sweat, while her gaping sex was awash  with  her  juices.  I
have never desired her more than I did then.

I bent over her, and gently unfastened the nipple clamps  -  they
had  been on long enough, and I feared bruising.  I may have been
rougher than I intended, for she opened her  eyes  and  tried  to
focus on me.

"Tha . . ."  She stopped, swallowed,  and tried again.  "That was

"Was it too much?"  I couldn't keep a note of concern out  of  my
voice.

"I had a safeword, remember? Platypus, platypus, platypus."   She
had  recovered enough to make a face at me before continuing.  "I
just didn't think that anyone could know me *that* well."

"Perhaps I was fulfilling a few fantasies myself."

She smiled happily. "Perhaps you were.  Hey, I  just  realized  -
you  never  opened the ice bucket - what's it for?  I spent a lot
of time worrying about that thing!"

I laughed at her.  "That was the idea - well, actually, I've  got
strawberries in there.  Let me untie you and we'll share them."

"Not just yet!  I want you to feed me"

"All right, feed you first.  I'll untie you after."

"Not *just* after, lover.  Think you've got enough strength  left
to ravish me while I'm helpless?"

I did.
