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It wasn’t my lucky break. The next morning, things were completely different. I awoke when I felt tugging on my arm. Glancing down, I saw Miranda fastening my left arm to the bedpost. When I rolled over to stop her, I found that my right arm and both legs were cuffed to the other bedposts. Miranda, applying her full weight (maybe 110 pounds) against my arm, locked it in place. My whole body was positioned in an X shape, with little freedom of movement.
I’d read fantasy stories that began like this, but there's a difference between reading and experiencing. Experiencing is so much more frightening; it’s also, believe it or not, more arousing. Maybe it was the presence of such a beautiful woman, or her intoxicating perfume, but the experience was visceral. Realizing that resistance was pointless, I lay back and looked at Miranda. My dick began to tent my only clothing, cheap government-issue boxers.
After checking that I was secure, Miranda moved across the room and sat in a comfy-looking recliner. For an hour or more, she was focused deeply on reading some fashion magazine. I couldn’t figure out what was going on, but decided that it was probably best to keep quiet. I couldn’t help ogling her, though.
She wore dark slacks that accentuated her smooth legs and a thin, form-fitting collared shirt. The outfit looked like a parody of the starched, button down outfit worn by my humorless female colleagues. It wasn’t even indecent, just more provocative than what I was used to. Even this early in the morning, the air around her was charged with sexual energy, as though a bolt of lightning might jump across the room and jolt me to orgasm. I wanted her badly, even after she framed me for rape. In fact, it only made me want her more – not because I was attached to her anymore, but because I was angry and wanted to fuck her. My need was compounded by the fact that her shirt gradually rode up her stomach as she flipped through the magazine, exposing more and more taut, drum-tight, supple skin over stretched muscle.
After she had apparently finished the magazine (even studying the perfume ad on the back cover), she yawned and glanced up with an easy grin and asked "Sleep well?"
I responded that yes, the sleep was great, but that I was confused by what had just happened. Hesitantly (but hopefully), I inquired whether my ‘services’ would be required.
This provoked a grin, revealing small, perfectly formed teeth. They reminded me of a shark. "You'll be performing ‘services’ soon enough. No one said that slavery would just be living a careless life without any responsibility," she said teasingly as she sauntered over. As she bent over and brushed off the sheets next to my hips, my eyes fastened on her deep expanse of cleavage, which wasn’t exactly hidden by her shirt. She seated herself on the bed next to me, legs hanging over the edge, and the outside of her thighs pressed against my waist. I could feel the warmth through her pants.
"You know, this house is just filled with young women like me, and we’re all looking for a sexual slave to satisfy our every need. You know what else? We love giving blowjobs and handjobs, and having lots of sex. You’ve gotta understand – we’re desperate for sex. We’re all so horny! Sometimes we even have sex with each other, but we finally decided that we needed some assistance from a real man.”
My breath caught in my throat. This was going to be awesome!
She leaned back and laughed. “Jesus, I laid it on thick there. You couldn’t possibly have believed that. No offense, but we’re all attractive girls. We’re hardly desperate for men… let me rephrase that. We’re looking for the type of male services that no man would voluntarily provide. My roommates and I were looking for someone to experiment on, a toy or plaything. We wanted someone fresh, a blank canvas to draw on. Someone without experience."
I was getting confused. I coughed and began to ask a question.
Without hesitation, she slapped me.
“The next time you decide to interrupt me, you’re going to regret it. God, stop it already with the puppy-dog eyes. You know what, you don’t seem like the sharpest tool in the shed, so I’m going to do you a favor.” She stuffed a sock between my lips and duct taped it in place.
"It was obvious that you were a virgin. You hadn't had your heart broken yet; you didn't know what it felt like. I bet you don’t know what a lot of things feel like: a woman’s hand on your cock, her lips sliding over the head, her fingers flicking across all your erogenous zones. Yeah, I can see from the look you’re giving me that it’s true.
"Now you're wondering what my roommates and I do… well, we're professionals at this. We've all been training for a long time, doing small odd jobs here and there. But we decided we're ready for the big leagues now, for the long job. We noticed how frequently you went to that bar. It’s been weeks now.
“And you leaving with a different girl each night, but parting ways in the parking lot? Pathetic. A real man would take those girls home and fuck them. You must have some misguided notions about chivalry or something. I bet you don’t even realize how much you hurt those girls. Leaving them in the parking lot – you were rejecting them. That’s hardly fair. At least if you had sex with them and then never contacted them again, they could explain it away, that you were just another brutish man. It’s not a nice thing to do, playing with someone’s heart like that, even to justify your own curiosity. For a while, we thought that maybe you were even gay, but otherwise you were a perfect target. So we sent in some bait.”
“That was me. Yeah, I’m an actor, and apparently a pretty good one, because I obviously fooled you. Sure we had some great rapport, but let’s be honest – you may be smooth but you’re nothing special. Although, I'll admit, you're its really sweet how sentimental are. It serves our purposes well. We admire your restraint, not just going out and fucking the first girl you see. You're either naive, or maybe you have another reason to delay sex. Maybe you enjoy waiting."
I shook my head, disputing her accusations, but I was conflicted inside. Now that someone said it so openly, I realized it was a logical psychological explanation for my behavior. Maybe she was onto something.
She glanced down, and slowly folded back the sheet. My cock was like a steel pipe, just under the edge of the fabric. She drummed her fingers on my abs. I could feel the heat from her hand spreading down the light hair of my lower stomach to the head of my cock.
"We researched your background, and discovered that you were really the perfect subject to support our lifestyle, so we took action. It’s as simple as that.
“This morning, the government dropped off your belongings. Anything that wasn’t in a safe deposit box or bank vault was given to us for safekeeping. We sold most of it, and put the rest into long-term storage, but we did find some … interesting things. We had no idea you were so into bondage! All that rope, and those cuffs and harnesses – that would explain your arousal right now. And so much of that bondage was fem-dom. I bet you’re a natural sub. But aside from the bondage – catholic schoolgirls, nurses, blowjobs – did you really have to be such a stereotypical man? Not that we mind. It’ll be easier for us this way.
So they’d found my porn stash. It’s not like I’d really hidden it: I didn’t have to, living alone. But, still in the dark about what my future held, I did feel some trepidation. I mean, there was a lot of private stuff there, and I could only wonder what conclusions they’d draw, or how many detailed inferences they would make. Who knows, maybe they catalogued all my turn-ons. This was like my worst nightmare; you sometimes saw this type of thing happening on holovision, or in a curious story on the blogosphere, but it couldn't happen in real life, couldn't happen to me. I was more angered by this invasion of my privacy than I was that they’d sold a lot of my stuff. I mean, that was just material belongings, but going through my porn made me feel violated.
I’d stayed calm for so long, but now the whole situation really began to get to me, and I struggled against the ropes in earnest, stretching every muscle and tendon trying to get at Miranda. She clapped her hands and jumped up.
“Oh boy! I love feisty men. Keep doing that, it’s so hot to see you struggling like that.”
She carefully straddled me, sitting on my stomach, leaning in close to my face.
“I bet you can feel the heat from my pussy, even through these pants.” I stared down, looking at her cleavage again, but what she said was true: she was really warm. Maybe it was just me, but she also felt moist. She grabbed a pair of scissors that were sitting on the bedstand, then waved them in my face. I got the point and stopped struggling immediately. I tried to apologize, but couldn’t through the gag. She twisted around, snapping the scissors in the air, and, blubbering, I tried to shout out my apologies. Her body blocked my view as she leaned over my groin, and I felt cold metal touch the side of my legs. She sat up again, and tossed my boxers, now just a clipped scrap of fabric, onto my chest.
She continued to sit straddling my stomach, facing my groin, where my dick was now fully erect. It’s a funny thing, but the adrenaline that jolted through my system when she got out those scissors had only made me hornier. I could practically feel her eyes on my dick, but I didn’t feel anything else. She wasn’t about to touch it.
I looked at the boxers sitting on my chest. Not wearing them shouldn’t have made a big difference, but it did. Everyone is psychologically conditioned to abhor nudity. We’re almost never nude around other people. But here I was, and her slutty clothes seemed downright professional compared to me. I felt so exposed without those boxers. Those boxers had ‘protected’ me the same way a blanket ‘protects’ you from monsters when you’re a little kid.
This was really a subtle thing, now that I think of it. But her every move, every comment must have been planned, to jolt me into a state of submission, where I felt off-center and uneasy and unnatural. It was all designed to demonstrate how much more power she had than me. Of course, this disparity was blatantly obvious - she had tied me up, after all - but the mind will ignore that, while it notices other things, like the fact that she was completely dressed and I was naked. I suppose she'd planned it all ahead of time.
I felt her hand tickle the top of my pubic hair, slid around my hips, skirted and then lifted my balls, and began to massage my perineum. She was subtle, slow and clinical about it, and while she did this she continued her monologue.
"So I suppose you don’t have much to look forward to when we release you: no life to go back to. Besides, after your ten year sentence is up here, what can you really expect to find? Your friends, the few you had, will have forgotten you. You won't be able to get a decent job with a criminal record like yours. And you’ll grow to love us. It’ll take a while, but you’ll get used to the bondage, and the sexual frustration, and you’ll grow to love the attention we give you. When you’re released you’ll be faced with dusty, expired memories of a time when you enjoyed freedom, instead of finding it intolerable. You’ll beg us to take you back. After a few months I bet you'll discover that you needed us more than we need you. You'll probably want to be restrained, instead of finding it uncomfortable."
My emotions were a boiling mixture of terror, rage, and arousal. Place yourself in my situation: you've been, essentially, kidnapped, your lifestyle gone - your brand new 40" holo-vision pawned. The life you'd worked years to assemble gone down the drain. You just discovered the secret of luring women to you, and here it was snatched away from you before you'd lost your virginity. It took all the willpower I ever had to keep from screaming at her. And here she was, doing everything she could to look gorgeous and seductive.
"Now, I'm going to take the gag out of your mouth. You have to be civil."
She pulled the duct tape off in one quick motion, then extracted the soggy socks from my mouth. They dripped saliva all over my chin and chest, and I was surprised how gently she wiped it off. When she was finished, she looked up at me, and I could have sworn she looked embarrassed to be caught showing any sign of tenderness.
"Who are you people, really? Who are your roommates?"
"My roommates and I are cockteases. Professional cockteases. We blackmail, torment, and tease men into paying all our living expenses. And we love what we do. We're artists, but few people understand that. Social engineering used to be just that, engineering, but it's become an art. And we incorporate both the mind and senses to our products. You know the haiku, the constrained Japanese poems, 5-7-5 syllables? And yet by embracing its limitations, it becomes more beautiful? Our constrained form is the male mind, body, and soul. Within that framework, beautiful art is possible. We were doing little commissioned works, if you want to extend the analogy, but every artist has to have her Statue of David or her Guernica. You'll be ours."
"What does that mean?"
"Honey, we've spent years honing our techniques, purchasing tools, and experimenting with other 'works.' The time felt right, and you seemed like such a wonderful blank canvas. What it means is that we're going to keep you aroused for a very long time."
As the despair set in, the fury I'd had bottled up inside me since the trial boiled over: I cursed her out, swearing like a sailor. It should have been a warning sign that she called her past boyfriends, other men in her life "works." She grinned and gagged me again, then finished what had been a very long exposition.
"Don't worry, I'm sure you don't mean that. Besides, were I in your situation, I would be furious." She stretched the last word out for a full ten seconds, during which she dragged her hand up the bottom of my cock, finally giving the stimulation that I had been longing for the whole conversation. "My, you look tense. I know how to help that out."
She got up and walked languorously from the room. She sat down at the computer and motioned with her hand. A ceiling tile slid out of place and a long, thick hose slid out, sort of like a vacuum cleaner with some kind of canister on the end.
This was a top-of-the-line masturbator, really a state of the art machine; I know, because I'd looked at purchasing one myself before I had success with women, but in the end I decided against it. I hadn't wanted to spoil the purity of sleeping with a woman for the first time.
At the end of the masturbator tube was a chrome handle, with a rubber o-ring that went around the balls. Inside there's a series of attachments – you can purchase literally dozens of them - liners and massagers, and all sorts of things. Different fabrics, textures, lotions, etc. The whole thing is completely configurable. I would guess that she had put in a silk fabric, un-lubricated, with a hand-texture backdrop. This extended up a foot (2 inches past the tip of my cockhead.) It was suspended by a collection of wires and tubes that ascended into the ceiling, all hooked into and was controlled from the computer.
These units are almost prohibitively expensive, and the manufacturer included some remarkable features. The standout one on this particular model is a motion-capture ability. You manipulate a polymer model penis and it record the sensations, using the machine to play the stimulation back. It also uses biometrics to measure heart rate, in order to detect oncoming orgasm (a feature in these machines for at least the past 10 years), so you can set it for a certain amount of time and then relax to enjoy the experience, or let it prolong the sensations.
"I've set the masturbator for an hour and a half, I should be back right around that time. I'll let you think about things for a little while I get some chores out of the way." Miranda grinned and flounced out the door, giddy as a schoolgirl.
And I did have time to think. Masturbators give a great handjob; they're relaxing and comfortable, like a hot bath, and have nearly human-like dexterity; being trained by the user (or his girlfriend), they'll focus on whatever you'd like. Miranda had set it to simple up-and-down strokes, on a loop, but the speed was varied as the computer reacted to my heart-rate. With such a device attached, I struggled to think, with the constant pleasurable distraction.
I guess I've rushed into things here, recounting my experiences, and I know how much you've paid, so I might as well take this opportunity to discuss my sexual proclivities and little preferences.
I've always been someone fascinated by power, and this has affected my sexual life. I guess I'm naturally dominant and a sexual leader, and I guess I've repressed my submissive side, but it's always been there. I'm a big fan of exhibitionism, bondage, domination. Check marks in the turn-off column include anal play and serious pain - along with stuff like watersports, scatology- it just grosses me out. I like the idea of power, but inflicting pain just isn't sexy to me. In other respects I'm the average guy, with most typical fetishes - schoolgirls, cheerleaders, et al.
My gaze wandered across the room and focused on the rack of appliances that had folded down next to the computer. These were all top of the notch machines, here and it was evident that Miranda knew what she was doing.
After an hour the masturbator started to speed up and I finally started to approach orgasm. I could feel the precum flowing, and there was a gentle suction, so, as I later found out, that the precum would be sucked up the hose into the ceiling.
Miranda had thoughtfully put a timer on the ceiling, and it was counting down throughout. As I later discovered, this was a big part of her technique: making me watch the numbers count down impossibly slowly. With a few minutes to spare, Miranda walked back in, suddenly, slammed the door shut and exited the Masturbator program on the computer. The hose ascended regally into the ceiling, and, with her back toward me, she changed. I saw her remove the semi-dress shirt and replace it with a bra. Underneath, those wonderful thin slacks she had on lace, partially transparent boyshorts. When she bent down to open a low drawer, I could see her pussy lips fully outlined against the soaking wet fabric. She walked over and flopped down on the bed next to me.
"So, Todd, how did you like the Masturbator?" she asked.
"Oh, it was wonderful, but I think you set the timer a bit long. Maybe we should finish up." I tried to be agreeable about the ordeal.
She giggled but didn't say anything, as her fingers danced around my cock. I guess I lost track of time in the afternoon, because it was dark by now and she huddled next to me for some time, until we both fell asleep. It was an uneasy rest. I was both hungry and horny, and terrified of what the future held.
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