Behind Closed Doors

It had seemed like the working hours would never end. I had been longing for my comfortable and welcoming home since the moment I’d arrived at the office that morning. At last, this exasperating day was done and, with an audible sigh of relief, I closed the door behind me.

I shut out all thoughts of work, the office and the whole outside world. The day belonged to others but the evening was mine.

Perhaps my pent-up emotions had distracted me but I really shouldn’t have been so easily overpowered. I regret now that I’d not fought harder and left evidence of bite marks or scratches on the intruder. That would have given him something to remember me by!

The truth is that I was taken by surprise and thereby, taken easily. Of course, I did jump when I was grabbed from behind and perhaps I uttered a small cry of sudden alarm but I certainly didn’t scream or anything of that nature. No, I took what was coming. I asked no quarter and I expected none.

The house lights were low, augmented by an encouraging glow from the fireplace but even these kindnesses were to be denied me. The blindfold plunged me into darkness, adding to the menace my assailant was intent to foster. The tremor in me grew when I was forcefully propelled into the living room.

I could feel warmth from the fire behind me and realised that my attacker must now be in front so I pulled away in a bid to escape. A futile effort as it proved for he seized the lapels of my jacket and roughly pulled it down, trapping my arms in the sleeves. A firm hand in the middle of my back shoved me against the curved end of the chaise longue while the other hand tugged down my jacket the rest of the way.

He was close behind me now – I could feel his breath on my neck. There was no way out and I was compelled to accept the touch of hands making a long, slow appraisal of my figure, mercifully ill-defined by my shapeless top and sombre skirt. It was fortunate, I supposed, that I was wearing the man’s silk shirt I’d once appropriated, imagining that it offered some protection for it was far too large for me and very long in the tail.

It made no difference. I could tell by the quickening of his breath that he approved of the roundness of my breasts which I’d left bare under the silk shirt. Despite my outrage at his audacity and the trepidation I felt, my nipples hardened. I feared that this would encourage him to further liberties; indeed his exploration of me became even more presumptuous.

Unfortunately, the long tail of the shirt was no help, only increasing the friction on my buttocks when it was ruthlessly pulled up and away from the skirt. Deftly, the buttons were undone, leaving the heavy silk hanging loosely.

Goose-pimples formed on bare skin as the upper line of my corset was traced by a fingertip; a sigh of satisfaction at the discovery.

Now the lower line of the corset was sought out, at first through the fabric of my skirt, until each of the six suspenders were found and tracked down to stocking tops. Slowly the skirt was lifted so he could view the reality. There was a pause, taken in all arrogance I assumed.

I imagined his eyes feasting on my bare flesh, gloating over what he had revealed and lazily deciding on what he would do next. Tremors of dread ran down my back and I found myself shaking with trepidation. I was sure this was just what he wanted me to feel but although I tried to hide it I was trembling inside.

The soft hiss of parting metal teeth presaged the removal of my skirt and when the hook was undone, it fell to the floor and pooled around my stilettoed shoes. The loop it made around my ankles horrified me, being evocative of shackling or hobbling. With a shiver, I lifted my feet and swept the frightful tangle away from me. I cared little whether or not my attacker might actually be emboldened by my apparent wish to be unencumbered – I just desperately needed to drive away the growing stream of panic.

I almost wept with relief when the long tail of my shirt slid down to hide my buttocks from this marauder but the reprieve proved short-lived and was ultimately illusory. A swish in the air and a sharp smack to my behind showed me why my gratefulness was misplaced – very foolishly misplaced indeed.

***

By the fifth strike of the paddle, or whatever it was, I was squirming in a vain attempt to present a moving target and avoid the worst of it. A stinging slap showed that my wriggling displeased him. But there was to be no amnesty – he proceeded instead to restrain me.

I sensed first that he was kneeling behind me and then heard a twang as if he was testing the strength of a length of rope. To my utter dismay I was soon aware that my guesses were right. A loop of smooth rope was pulled tight around an ankle and presumably tied to a leg of the seat against which I was still pinned. He did the same to the other ankle, forcibly widening my stance so that any leverage I might have had was denied me. The smacks to my buttocks picked up where they’d left off.

The silken fabric of my shirt offered some protection from the sting but though thankful for this least of small mercies, I soon felt heat suffusing my behind and I twisted and turned as far as my bonds would allow. He just laughed and took steps to worsen my plight.

My shirt was stripped off me and then I was pushed further over the couch, my groin hard against the end arm. Instinctively I put out my arms to balance me and he took the opportunity to seize my hands in a powerful grip. Using another length of rope he bound my wrists and pulled me forward. I struggled of course but he was too strong and I felt myself stretched out into a right-angled position. The rope was tied off somewhere and now I was utterly captive to his whims.

Sure now of his prey, he became unhurried in his movements, indeed, his touches were gentle, almost tender. Nevertheless, he was savouring my predicament to the full. He would savour me too – I knew that now for certain.

My nipples were lightly touched and incredibly, shockingly, they hardened. An altogether unwanted frisson of excitement ran through me as though my body sought to separate itself from my mind. I was in turmoil.

I gasped as both erect nipples were pinched by things hard and cold. A slight but definite weight seemed to pull on them – an enticing, coercive force and teasing pleasure-pain to my heightening senses. In my mind’s eye I saw the chain hanging from my breasts, gently swaying, matching the rhythm of my labouring breath.

Oh God – No. Don’t let me like it. But I do! Oh, I like it far too much.

***

The slapping of my arse has been taken up again but now the feeling is different. It’s at a tempo, in time with the pounding in my heart. The heat in my buttocks is rising, firing nerves all over – inflaming me. I feel myself melt inside – a liquid flow I have tried to hold but now the dam has burst and I am drowning in the flow.

I am victim to a kind of Stockholm syndrome. The depths of my fears, ravishment or worse, now sure to be realised, have faded and I feel no humiliation or dishonour. The assault on me is now more like a seduction, a form of devotion or maybe even worship.

When the side-ties of my panties are loosed and the flimsy silk floats to the floor I rejoice inside. I’m his. My body is his. Take me!

Not yet. Now he seems intent on indulging me. Oh, yes. Do that! Play with me.

A device is slipped into my pussy, now warm, wet and wholly willing. It’s dialled through a range of vibrations until one makes me quiver with pleasure. That is the one he decides upon and the resumed smacks to my arse now seem like a caress.

The build-up is tantalisingly gradual but guaranteed, for by now my body ardently laps up each step of my erotic journey. I’m panting and groaning now, reaching for a fantastic climax. It comes – I come!

***

I’m coming again and again, each orgasm greater than the last. But my body craves yet more and I’m grinding my pussy against the couch arm, intensifying my ecstasy.

My mind has been utterly defeated by my body’s insatiability but I retain just enough awareness to know that he is at last removing his clothes.

He’s standing there watching me come. I know he is. And I want him to watch. I want him to be shocked by my shamelessness. I want him to want me so much he cannot help but touch himself.

I imagine him doing just that. Perhaps he’ll come all over me. Oh, the very thought is wonderful and now my orgasm is continuous. I’m crying out again and again. I don’t know or care which words.

The marvellous smacking has stopped but it has served its purpose for my bottom is hot and throbbing. His hands are on my hips now and I feel his cock rubbing against my fantastically sensitized buttocks. If I could, I’d spread my legs further apart for him ... but there’s no need.

I feel the tip of him engaging. The initial resistance lasts but an instant and then my body opens itself to him, like a flower welcoming an intruding bee, intent on the sweetness within. I’m wet and willing there too. In, in, in, he glides. Oh yes! I’m being arse-fucked. Oh God, I want this. I need it. I love it.

I don’t know how long it takes but every thrust gives the most astonishing sensation and now I’m climbing inexorably towards a crescendo. It’s incredible! I hear a frenzied cry of love (yes ... love) and feel a hot flood inside at the very moment when my whole body shudders uncontrollably. It lasts an age. An age of bliss and rapture.

*******

Later, I’m untied and held tenderly while I recover. Oh, the more fool him. I shall never recover and do not wish to. I’m his and he is mine.

So who controlled who? My clothes were all carefully chosen and led him to do exactly what I wanted. Enforced sexual ownership it might have been but who was slave and who the possessor? Count the orgasms, foolish boy ... just count the orgasms.