Jardonn's Erotic Tales.com


Jasper McCutcheon

Lately, I've been mostly confined to my bed. I'm not sick. Not an invalid. My confinement is for her. It is our bed. Our time together. Playtime, and I myself designed the ropes, their length and their figure-eight knots made so she can quickly bind me in a four-corner sprawl to the posts of our bed.

These days, we keep things simple. She communicates her skills of domination with expressions and actions more than words. I, in turn, know what to do and when to do it. She wants me struggling. She wants my muscles working, pretending I need to escape, acting the part of a man who dreads what's coming. I don't dread the coming. I dread the waiting, the wanting her so bad I could scream, but I don't scream. I growl on occasion. Moan or groan. Manly sounds she wants to hear, confirming for her I'm frustrated by her torments, impatient with her denial. Besides, if I screamed, the neighbors might hear me.

These days, neighbors are our only concern. In earlier days, we had to worry about our children hearing us. Before our first-born arrived, soon after marriage when we were still breaking in our house, we had no worries whatsoever because we took it to the basement.

My proposal of marriage to her was answered with her confession. She told of her fantasies involving me, her dreams of binding me, rendering me helpless so she could taunt me and tease me, making me wait for her to mount me whenever she got around to it. Strengthening my faith in my decision, her revelation made me love her all the more. Her confessed fantasies confirmed my undying belief that I had found my life partner.

For her, I built a table which looked like a work bench. A house-warming gift, it was in reality a stretch rack. Its large rectangular shape fit me perfectly when I sprawled to its four corners. Vises mounted to the corners served as cranks to control and tighten the ropes wrapped to my ankles and wrists. I even built a cut-out to its wooden center. With the pull of a lever, she could raise the cutout and stretch my spine. Back in those days, she liked having my chest and middle elevated. Made the whippings of her leather strap more effective. Sensitized my skin for the light-touch scratching of her sharply manicured nails. Their polish blood red. Our favorite color.

Tommy never knew the history of the table upon which he, perhaps, was conceived. Couldn't imagine my predicament when his mother finally decided to insert my long-suffering penis into her well-lubricated vagina. Was clueless as he performed his bicycle repairs, built his miniature wooden racecars and other construction projects upon the table's surface, that its center cutout had once been elevated along with his father's chest when I planted my seed of Tommy's beginning.

Don't know if Melissa -- whose seed undoubtedly was planted during a standard, man on top with lights out configuration atop our bed -- ever had much use for the basement table / work bench. If she did I never saw her, but these days it's piled so high with electrical tools, hardware and scraps of wood, it would take me weeks just to make it functional for its original purpose.

No, once Tommy could walk and talk, basement bondage ended. Sure, we could and did play from time to time behind our locked bedroom door. Strictly pretend. No actual restraints. Just me on my back with my hands clasping the bedposts, but I honestly could not keep my hands off of her when I was free to move. She didn't mind. She knew I did it for her. Enjoyed then and enjoys now the strength of my arms wrapping her. Appreciates the fact I've consistently used lightly-weighted dumb bells over the years -- curls for my biceps; overhead reverses for my triceps -- to keep the flab off my arms. She understands why every morning for the past twenty years I've run in a full sprint to the end of our street, and then walked back to pick up the newspaper from our front lawn upon my return.

Burning fat for her. Keeping myself as presentable and attractive as possible for her. Banishing the oversized belly so many men my age cart around with them. These days, a too-high percentage of wives can't find their man's penis under all that gut flab. Wouldn't want to even if they could, and husbands wonder why.

I suppose she and I are an abberation, of sorts, when it comes to our bondage fantasies. We've never gone in for the femdom-dominatrix scenes or sissification of the male. Didn't even know the culture existed until the internet came along. Too busy living, I guess, and besides, after her masectomy she was in no mood to play the bedroom role of woman-in-charge.

For me, that is when she was most dominant. That scar of which she was so ashamed and tried to keep concealed from me represents the ultimate in strength and courage. Her resolve to identify the enemy, attack, annihilate, and sew it underground -- same as did the ancient Romans to the city of Carthage -- is a conquest worthy of my surrender. Took the Romans three tries to vanquish the Carthaginians. Took her but one to erradicate those evil cells, and, praise be to Jupiter, the enemy has never reappeared.

Writing such words is easy. Saying them without sounding the buffoon is another matter. How true the motto that action speaks louder than words. Mine was to remove the Velcro strap or tape or whatever silly covering she wore to bed beneath her nightgown. Mine was to strip her and worship her, applying my praise to her altered breast with the same vigor given her unblemished breast. My hands played no favorites. Neither did my lips, nor my tongue. My penis poked between her breasts same as before, regardless that my left-side stimulation was next to nil.

In time, she recovered from her mental scars brought on by her physical abnormality, and once offspring number two, Melissa, shipped out for her freshman year of college, we resurrected ropes. That was (ta-da!) yesterday.

Don't know when or where my wife bought those black fishnet panties and bra, but she surely does look hot. Got me hot, too, after parading around our bed the past ten minutes teasing me while I'm tied to the posts. She hasn't even touched me yet. Just looking at me while I tug on my ropes, giving her something to look at. Guess she's remembering the cutout on the old table. Got two pillows under me to elevate my middle. That must be why she keeps eyeing my chest and stomach. I'm wondering if she kept her black belt hidden away somewhere, or if she's got a new one to try out on me. Oh... okay... I guess the answer is no to both. What is that thing she's whipped out? Looks like a feather duster. Hell's bells, it is a feather duster. Shit. Is that supposed to scare me or something? Ha, good luck. She's down at the corner by my right foot. Uh, sorry lady, I ain't ticklish.

Does feel kinda good, though, the way she's running it up and down my sole... in between my toes. Oh, crap! She's reaching over with her free hand and scratching my left foot. Tickling one... torturing the other. Such a talented purveyor of contrasting methodology she is. She's climbing onto the bed, working her way up my legs... my shins, my knees, feathering my right, scratching my left. Onto my thighs, coming for my... oh, no... not my nuts... don't torture my... thank God, she's skipping over my gonads and pecker... for now.

Damn! She sat down on my crotch instead. Using that feather thingy on my stomach and chest. Putting her right-hand nails to 'em at the same time. Evil wench. Lovely, evil wench! Doesn't she know a man's tits aren't sensitive like a woman's? Feathers on my right knob, nails on my left, not doing a thing for me. It's her hot butt on my cock that's making me throb. All the same, I think I'll strain my neck, lift my head and watch her work on my tits. Make her think she's having some sort of effect on me. Ah, how precious. She remembered my favorite color of nail polish!

Okay, honestly, I wish she'd move onto something else. This feather and nail business has been going on half an hour or better, and I'm feeling like my head's gonna explode. Both heads, if you catch my drift. Great! She must have read my mind. She's raising off of me, dropped her feather duster on the mattress beside me, going back to the foot of the bed, and... aw, geezuz... she's gonna start all over. This time with her mouth!

Yes, I know. This all sounds so narcissist on my part. I get to lie here sprawled and stretched atop the pillows while she praises my wondrously masculine (in her eyes) body. She worships me, literally, with her lips and hands and tongue, from my toes to my fingers and anywhere in between she cares to explore, and all I have to do is kick back and enjoy. Every man's dream-come-true. Right. Wrong! Don't you see it? This is my torture. This is my pain. As she cruelly takes her time, lingering upon one body part before moving onto the next, the pressure building inside me is a maddening ecstasy over which I have no control.

I want to reciprocate. I need to rise up, clasp her in my arms and slam her to the mattress. My intensifying desire is to smother her beneath me, warm her with my breath, wet her with my kisses, cradle her and protect her as though she is a helpless rag doll -- but I can't, even though I'd give my right eye for the ability to do so. This is her version, our definition of female domination, and believe you me, I do without a doubt understand who is in control of my body and my mind. It is my woman. She owns me. The glorious female I so dearly love. She is the one who will release me when she is damn good and ready.

Until then, I will lie here breathing heavily, growling with each exhale as my unattended penis throbs and bobs and weaves and smears my belly with droplets of pre-semenal syrup. I will close my eyes. Or stare at the ceiling. Or strain my neck and lift my head to watch her approach. Witness what I feel. Her tongue sliming my stomach. Her lips pecking my pectorals while she tickles her nose in my black-come-silver chest hairs.

My cock shaft and belly are slimed with the wetness of her panties. She's dripping, and I'm drooling as she sits atop me, her thighs straddling my ribs. She unfastens her brazier. She exposes her breasts and lowers them toward my face. Her hands cradle the back of my head, supporting me. Making sure my eyes are transfixed on her when she brings her titties to my lips. She centers my face to them. Lets me choose which I prefer to devour, knowing I will devote equal time to both for as long as she allows me access. My reward is long-lived. She needs my tongue's stimulation. She wants her vaginal walls boiling, same as my nuts. Her temperature should equal mine, inside and out, and to ensure her innards are sufficiently stirred, she lets go my head, stands and straddles my ribs. Slowly, sensuously, she lowers her panties. Lifting her right leg, her foot slips through the hole before coming to rest atop my chest. She allows the black, fishnets to slide down her left leg. It falls to the mattress. She steps out, her right foot pressing her weight on me to maintain her balance, and then she drops her buttocks onto my chest, grabs her panties and stuffs them into my mouth. My appetizer. I taste anticipation until my spit overtakes her drippings, and then she gives me the real thing.

Ah, yes, my tittilating wife, my tormenting treasure. Give to me your vaginal zipper. I will find your tiny peter. My tongue will stimulate. Rest assured, your clitoris will buzz same as my cock duzz buzz. Has consistently buzzed for... what, two hours? Three hours? Twenty-five years and counting?

Now, it is my turn to antagonize you. Yes, I did say I would find you, but no, I did not say when.

She doesn't have the heart to deny me the time I desire. She surrenders to my nibbling lips and licking tongue, as I tantalize her labia, outer, inner. She squirms. She contorts. She moans when my slimy, eel-like stimulation slithers onto her vaginal walls, left side, right side, lower region, upper region, dead center. Bingo! My woman shrieks when my tongue wet-scrapes her clitoris. Fully-engorged, it is alive and bubbling like a volcanic dome ready to spew.

Is she ready? She knows she must be near the brink -- same as she has kept me on the brink for so, so long -- because she knows I cannot wait for her. Men always come first, especially a man who's been forced to wait. This is undoubtedly what she thinks about me, but she is wrong. I will wait. I will command my testicles to do as I say, to let go my semen when I allow it. The equation is simple, my reason sound. Without her screams and contortions of pleasure, my orgasm will be but half of what it could be, should be, must be. So, I will wait for her whether she likes it or not. I do, after all, still have control over that part of me, I think.

You know, I truly am one strong sonuvabitch. Being tied up here all this time with my back arched over these pillows and my dick hard as concrete. Don't mind me. That's the testosterone talking, because I'm feeling like a super-stud, now that she's taken me inside her. She's sitting on me. Facing me with my penis crushed between her vaginal walls. Got me in her anaconda grip while she slow-strokes. Glides up my pole. Lowers herself inches at a time until the swollen mushroom shape of my corona bumps against the vibrating sensitivity of her clitoris. Hers is a controlling procedure, lingering and lovely. She targets herself, my cock-head making contact when she chooses, at an angle she desires. My phallus is her tool. She drills herself at her pace, with her technique, and it is no surprise that seemingly countless hours of foreplay culminate into but a few minutes of copulation.

Yes, yes, those heavenly sounds.

She sings for me when her climax comes. Her aria is my signal to emit my caveman grunts and release my seed. Such a contrast of styles we two artists possess -- her angelic, high-pitched refrains of a utopian bliss, my pre-historic, deep-throated growls of a successful kill. She collapses atop me. Her sweat-slicked breasts press upon my elevated chest, as she strains to lower her face above mine, her lips to mine. Mouths wide open, her frothing saliva streams into my throat and I gulp with glee.

Well, looks like wifey and I might be starting up where we left off when we first married. With both kids far away at school, I'm sure I can find the time for clearing off that basement work bench. Get it in shape for its intended purpose. Hell, I might even start on it later tonight. After I nap a bit. After she unties me. Whew! She certainly gave me a workout, but I think I passed the test. Not sure exactly why she's down there between my legs.

Uh, excuse me, dearest. I appreciate you cleaning off my nuts and pecker with your tongue licks, but I hope that's all you plan on doing. I mean, if you'll untie me, I'll be happy to shower with you. Won't that be fun? Aw, geez, I think she might have bad intentions. Doesn't she know a man my age can't shoot loads back to back? Crap, even a young man needs quarter of an hour or so in between. Well, not always, but surely she's not expecting me to... oh, thank God, she's up and off me. Leaving the bed. Leaving the room? Leaving me tied up? What the...?

Hope she's not off to find scissors or a knife to cut me loose. I told her these knots are easily loosened so she can... okay, she's back. Got a glass of water in her hand. Setting it on the dresser. Opening up a package and dropping in tablets. Plop, plop, fizz. She's sticking her fingers in her mouth. Taking out her upper plate. Into the glass. Lower plate. Into the glass, and now she's back on the bed. Kneeling between my thighs. Opening her mouth and...

Awwww, sheeeiit!

Toothless? Good God Almighty, I truly do love this woman.

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