george : 01 - The Signal (M/F)

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george : 01 - The Signal (M/F)

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george's stories
01 - The Signal
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By george

Friday December 29th 2000 01:23:41

I am a writer and artist. This is a true experience I had when I was finishing my last semester of college in a new state, the first time I tied a girl exactly the way I had always dreamed of.

When I read these stories and they sound too polished, I skip them. They sound like some hack writer's bad wet dream and I assume they aren't true. But this one is true and it happened, to the best of my cherished recollection, exactly as follows:

It all started the night I stayed up talking to Kate, my then fiancee's younger sister. Jennifer, my fiancee, was working third shift at the time. Because I was new to the area she had recently moved to with her dad and sister, I was temporarily living in their guest room. Jennifer's sister, Kate, had her room just down the hall from mine. Kate could be a bitchy brat much of the time, but she was cute, with wavy brown hair and positively enormous breasts. She always said she wanted a breast reduction, and maybe she has gotten one by now, but at the time they were a source of endless fascination for me.

On this night, Kate stopped by my room on her way to bed. She was dressed in her robe, which was full length and heavy: nothing sexy at this point, although I knew that she had a drawer full of amazingly assorted silkies and lacies in her room. She rather uncharacteristically struck up a conversation with me, first about life and work and whatevers. I am a nice guy and likable, methinks, but I must admit to a certain manipulativeness, at least conversationally. I carefully, almost subconsciously, began to steer the topic toward dating, and then sex. Kate was dating a guy at the time who was nice (in an absorbed, clinical sort of way) but not in the least adventurous romantically. She told me that she had recently invited him by phone to come over and meet her in her room; that she would be 'ready' for him. When he arrived, she was lying on her bed in her newest Frederick's ensemble- turquoise satin panties with black lace edging, matching bra, garter, and black stockings. He stopped in the doorway, smiling a bit confusedly, and said "I thought you said you'd be ready..." A real romantic, he was. He wanted her nude and spread, evidently, with no whip cream and no cherry on top.

Sensing her disappointment with his reaction (I myself was nearly breathless at the thought of her that way) I decided to play myself up a bit. I told her that I felt that sex was ninety percent psychological (I do think that) and that great preparation, great foreplay, and great imagination only made the final act that much more incredible. I am an artist, after all, I reminded her, and know plenty about presentation and creativity.

As we talked further, she had moved into the room and was soon seated next to me (so close I could feel the heat from her body in the winter cooled room) on the bed, both of us leaning back to the headboard and chatting like buddies (which we usually weren't). Then, pressing the old buttons a bit more, I asked a bit about her lingerie choices, as if I were merely curious, or as if I were asking on behalf of my fiance. I suspect that she knew, as did I, that there was some flirtatiousness in my probing, and I took her rather enthusiastic response as evidence that she may have been flirting right back.

She told me about her recent purchases from Frederick's, about how she had recently attempted to wear a pair of black stockings under her business suit to work to impress her boyfriend (whom she worked with in the same office) and how she loved to look pretty underneath (a common feeling with some women, I am pleased to have discovered) and to be undressed slowly. I could not bear not to ask.

"You seem like a pretty passionate person." I suggested to her, then asked her- again, merely as if the course of conversation had led us to the topic- if she considered herself to be kinky in any way.

She smiled smugly in a you-have-no-idea sort of way and said that she thought herself to be pretty kinky. And now I was getting pretty intensely interested. I didn't want to lead her in any way.

"How so?" I asked rather innocently.

"Well," she said, lowering her eyes and fidgeting a little, but with a smile of something like pride on her face. "I've been tied a few times."

I was, let me say frankly, devastatingly and mercilessly turned on by her at that instant. I needed her in such a strong, guttural way it was almost sickening. And yet I had no hope for having her. She was the sister of my fiance, who was not particularly interested in bondage games. I lamented this to Kate, illustrating to her that we were kindred spirits in this area. She pitied me a bit, and then we discussed what it was, for each of us, that was such a turn on in the act of the bound woman in sex. She was, in fact, rather impassioned about it, telling me she loved the thought of being "taken", being "forced", even being slapped around a bit in order to be had and had well. I was a bit surprised by this last, but utterly enthralled.

I asked about being gagged, and said that she had been once, but wasn't sure how she felt about it. I told her it was essential for the experience and should give it another chance, if she found the guy she could trust with it. I ended boldly by telling her that it had possibly been a shame that I had met her sister before I had met her, Kate. I said this because I was convinced (and still am convinced) that no man and woman can discuss such things in depth and at length without there being a very real desire to perform the act amongst them. I was baiting her.

She seemed a little too quiet after the remark, by perked up a bit after a few minutes more talk. We talked about her breast size (another topic of pleasure to me, and endless arousal) and she even let me place my hand over the contour of one terry-robed breast (just barely touching) to show me how large they were in relation to other women's breasts I had touched. I nearly exploded at the warmth and the subtle curve of it beneath my palm. And in the end, jokingly, laughing a bit, as she was preparing to head off to her own room and bed (it had been almost two hours), she said that if she ever really needed a good, cleansing romp, she knew where she could go. I restrained my jaw from dropping to the floor, and then agreed quickly, also laughing a little. I said yeah, just so long as she'd wear that turquoise outfit (which she had declined to model for me earlier, merely for academic reasons of course) and brought her own scarves to be tied with. She stood in the doorway and told me, jokingly, that if she ever needed it bad, she would dress up just right for bed, leave her scarves on the bedside table, and hang a pair of black panties on her doorknob as a sign to me to come and get it. I laughed, nearly sobbing instead because I knew it was just that: a joke. Until about two weeks later.

It was Christmas eve night. Jennifer was visiting her Mother in another state and dad was long asleep in his room around the bend of the hall. I had just watched the last of "Tombstone" on TV and was heading to bed myself around midnight and I almost missed them. My heart took one enormous pound and then resumed beating triple time; I could feel it down to my heels. Kate had been at a party with the boyfriend. I had thought, in fact, that she was still out. I figured that she would have stayed the night at his house, had some pretty bland and perfunctory sex, and spent the next morning grinning blearily at his parents as everyone unwrapped their soaps-on-a-rope and joke boxers around the tree. That had been the plan. I had heard her talking about it. Perhaps this was a joke on me, ha-ha, silly boy, sleep with these and have a wet dream, hardy-har.

They hung on the doorknob of her door at the end of the hall, almost invisible in the shadows. I crept to her door and slipped them carefully and noiselessly from the fake brass knob, my boxers already beginning to bulge in spite of my knowledge that it must be a joke. They were her panties; black nylon, string bikini, sheer enough to read the newspaper through. I stood at the door, my heart pumping loud enough I though her father would hear it down the hall, through the door, and in spite of his own endearing snoring.

I went back to my door. Stood there, my light still off, the panties in my hand. No way she was there. No way i could not go and see for sure. I looked back down the hall to her door, the bare knob glinting back at me in the darkness. And returned to it, tiptoeing like a kid sneaking out after lights out. The knob was cold in my hand as I settled my fingers over it. I turned it steadily, slowly, until I felt the catch release, then eased it open.

The moonlight in Kate's room was pretty strong through the barely open blinds and I could hear her breathing. She was asleep, lying under a rumple of blankets in the striped moonglow. My eyes widened, adjusting to the meager light, and I saw the small, soft pile on her bedside table. It was an array of softly glinting fabrics. I recognized some of her silk scarves, a few stockings, and a strap of some kind. I had to remember to breathe. I am not like some of the other people who show up on these pages. I don't perform bondage acts on every girlfriend. I don't own a single ball-gag. I had, at that time, only bound one woman before on a few occasions, and she had been half-hearted about it. In short, I stood for a few moments, aware of the intensity and gravity of what was about to happen, and tried to make a plan.

My eyes roved the dark room restlessly. Her dress, the one she had worn to the party, was laid somewhat neatly over the chair in the corner. It had been a less than perfect night, I guessed. She had asked to be brought home early, disappointed, hurt, perhaps even angry. She had been restless perhaps? Vengeful? Lonely? Who knew? I only knew that she had decided, perhaps on a whim, perhaps telling herself I wouldn't really do it, maybe suspecting I wouldn't even see her little "sign" in the gloomy shadows of the end of the hall. I didn't care. It was going to happen, and I thought my own breathing and the beat of my heart should wake her. I only knew that I was finding it impossible to plan anything. I decided simply to go with the moment, and with that thought, like a man jumping into a pool of unknown temperature, I approached her bed. I slipped my fingers into the mass of silk on her table and gripped the entire pile. I determined to use it all on her.

Gently grasping the top of her blankets, I slipped them slowly off her shoulders, hoping not to startle her awake with a scream. Upon her shoulder was a strap of shimmering turquoise and a helpless smile cramped my mouth hugely. She was serious. Kate lay on her belly, her head turned toward me on the pillow. She stirred as I slipped the covers back, beginning to wake. her brows furrowed and she made a sleepy noise of complaint at the cold. I slipped the covers back swiftly now as she began to awake, and lowered my weight upon her, straddling her upper back. My knees pinned her arms as she awoke, raising her head in mild surprise. I pulled a wad of her panties from the pile she had provided and stuffed them into her mouth before she could say anything. She came fully awake quickly, and bucked beneath me. I slipped forward on her, pressing her down, and banded a ridiculously long silk scarf between my fists. I pulled it between her face and the pillow and felt clumsily with my fingers to ensure it came tight between her teeth. I looped it back, crossing it in at the back of her head, in the curls of her hair. She made a light grunt of effort and thrashed her head, trying to loose it, but I pulled it back, raising her face from the pillow and drawing the gag tight. I grabbed her chin with one hand and looped the scarf around her face once more with the other, drawing it between her lips again and back around. Having that part down, I repeated looping the scarf twice more until it filled the gap between her lips. The last loop I laid flat over her mouth tightly, covering her mouth from just above her chin to right below her nose. I pulled the two ends tight behind her head, raising her head from the pillow again and bringing another soft grunt from her, and tied them in a tight double knot.

I wanted to move fast. Still straddling her, I blindfolded her with a black stocking, looping it around her head and over her eyes at least four times. Then I worked my way down until I was atop her perfectly round firmly plump bottom. Her shoulder blades flexed and pumped as she tried to loose her arms from beneath my knees, but I grabbed them instead and fought them behind her as swiftly as I could. She fought much harder than I had expected, but grunted and cried out softly enough from her gag that I knew she was conscious of not wanting to wake her father. I remembered at that point that I should have locked her door, but had forgotten. Too late now.

I used another scarf to tie Kate's hands behind her, tying one end around first her left wrist, and then using the loose end to leverage her hands together over her bottom. I looped the loose end around her right wrist and then looped them together, forming a tight cross of silk between her wrists. When that was done, I rolled her over roughly onto her bound wrists and man-handled her into position beneath me. I sat on her thighs, turned around to face the foot of the bed and quickly tied a silk scarf to each of her stocking clad ankles. Then I spread her legs as far as her single bed would allow and tied the loose ends of each stocking to the corners of her bed, with no slack. I could feel her struggling beneath me fiercely, but I knew now that she was completely helpless.

I turned to face her. I have to say that that image will stay with me until the day I die. I have reflected upon it endlessly in the few years since, and i will probably reflect upon it endlessly yet. I have never seen anything more erotic. The sight of Kate made my erection so hard that it throbbed like a cable. I felt as hard as an iron spike, and was more than a little amazed at that hardness. It was almost painful. Kate thrashed her head from side to side, her gag stretched tautly over her mouth and catching the moonlight, her blindfold black in the darkness. then she lay panting through her nose helplessly, staring sightlessly at the ceiling.

I had no doubt she had never been tied up this thoroughly before. Her shoulders were hard balls of skin, thrust outward by her arms bound behind her back. Her breasts strained at the flimsy turquoise satin of her bra. The top portions of each cup were a sort of black lattice- lace. Kate's bra had slipped a bit during her struggles and I could see her nipples protruding through this, dimpling the fabric. I placed my hands immediately upon her breasts and felt her heaving breath as they rose and fell. Her breasts-- I have never felt anything like them. I had always told myself that large breasts were the dreams of prepubescent boys and pimply losers who never got a real woman, but these.... Kate's breasts were great domes of plump firmness, like her ass had been. The skin of them was tight and tacky with sweat. Each breast filled one hand and my outstretched fingers, not softly, but with a perfectly opposite resistance, both supple and hard. The silk of her bra stuck to those breasts like a skin of its own, tight, shimmery, with tiny stress wrinkles in the cleavage and at the sides. I remember that perfectly, the way those wrinkles spread and diminished as she breathed, straining the fabric.

I kneaded Kate's breasts and she responded gamely, struggling (not very strongly) under my hands and making short, plaintive mmph's through her gag. Then I slipped my thumbs under the fabric of her bra and forced it down, loosing her enormous breasts. I settled my mouth over her left nipple immediately and felt her involuntary response. I spent some time there, moving from breast to breast, nuzzling in her amazing, hot cleavage, licking, kissing, biting gently, rubbing and carressing.

My hands went to her panties; a tight triangular stretch of silk in the valley of her hips, curving over the cushiony curls of her lush pubic hair and into her crotch. My fingers slipped into her panties, and then into her. Some time later, when I pulled her panties aside and sank slowly, mesmerizingly into her, I remember that she did cry out then through her gag, and I placed my hand effortlessly but firmly over Kate's gagged mouth, whispering for her to let it all out, to not hold back, that I would silence her.

The whole affair lasted an hour and a half. In the end we were both sweaty and exhausted. I untied her slowly and not a word was spoken. The last thing I removed was her gag, unwinding the scarf and then taking the wettened panties from her mouth. unthinkingly, I lowered my body over her at that moment and sealed my lips over hers. She opened her mouth to mine and our tongues came together as if we had kissed a million times before (I had never so much as kissed Kate's cheek before). I had already gotten rather hot again untying her (Kate still had her panties, garter and stockings on, although her panties were soaked in the crotch and pulled to the side). I lay over her again, never taking my mouth from hers, and slipped into her once more. We made love all over again, and this time her hands were all over me. It was slower this time to start, but it very gradually grew and grew between us until I was pumping her with long, slamming strokes and she was grasping my back with all ten nails. She began to moan, then to cry out, and in the end, I gagged her again, even more tightly (mostly because she seemed to respond to her gagging so powerfully) and she cried out into it in my ear, her muffled moans diminishing finally as we eased.

I kid you not, the second time was almost better than the first. The sex itself had lasted longer-- at least half an hour before climax-- and had been even more sustained in its overall pleasure. I lay on top of her until I began to fall asleep, then I ungagged her, slipped fully out of her, kissed her one more time and, smiling, told her we would have to do that again. With that I went back to my own bed.

We never did it again. The panties never showed up on her doorknob again and I soon moved out. I did marry her sister, Jennifer. The sex was never anywhere near as good. Jennifer divorced me, amazingly, after exactly three months. She decided that married life was not the life for her, and began to see some work buddy immediately. I was crushed, but not destroyed. My love for Jennifer had been pretty cerebral. I was more hurt by the idea of rejection than by the thought of losing her. Am I a lout? I guess in some ways I am. I hate that. Are we all louts deep down? Are we all saints as well, at other times and places? I suppose.

I have forgotten Jennifer. Can't barely remember what she looks like. But I have never forgotten Kate. I haven't spoken to her since the divorce, since I moved out of state, back to my home town on the day Jennifer told me it was done. But I wish, oh how I wish, I could see her one more time. Oh how I wish I'd come home some night from a bad date and see a pair of black panties hung on my bedroom door. I think this time, if i could do it again... I'd never untie her.

george
winnston_1984@yahoo.com

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