What happens next, strapon slut?

As you begin to come out of your drunken stupor, the first thing you’re aware of is the stink of the residual alcohol coming from your pores, your dry mouth, and your bleary eyes. But when you reach up to rub them, you find that you’re unable to move your hands beyond a slight jerking motion. You look up above your head to see that they’re tied securely to my headboard with silky, white bondage ropes. That clears your head instantly, and you try to sit up, managing only to raise your head a couple of inches off of the pillow. You can’t sit up with your hands tied like that . . . and with your knees pulled so far back and spread apart so wide that they’re nearly framing your shoulders.

Panic washes over you as your eyes frantically take in the spreader bar lodged behind your thighs and connected at either end to the outside frame of that same headboard with handcuffs, and another connecting your ankles by wide leather cuffs. Your eyes follow a thin but very strong metal cable from the center of the spreader bar connecting your ankles to where it’s locked into a large steel hook in the ceiling. You realize with shock that you are completely incapacitated, and completely naked.

You try to calm your pounding heart with a few deep breaths, your dry throat clicking as you swallow, and turn your head slowly from one side to the other, hoping to make some sense of your situation from the limited view available to you. Finally, you venture a trembling “Hello?”, and immediately, you hear the creek of a chair, and the clicking of stiletto heels on the tile floor. In a few moments, from the space between your face and your knees, you see my face appear, my hair swept back in a high ponytail, my glossy black bangs framing green eyes that glitter with mirth . . . and something more menacing.

“Rachel! Where am I? What are you doing here? What the hell is going on? Get me out of this contraption!”

“Now now.” My lips are lush and red as they part to form the words. Your eyes focus on them for a moment before taking in my whole face again, bewildered by my calm. “You’re not really in any position to be making demands, now are you?”

You feel a tremble of nebulous dread run through you.

“You know, you really shouldn’t drink so much. You never could handle it well. More than four drinks and you don’t remember the things you do or say for the rest of the night. Much less where you end up.”

“Rachel, wait a minute . . .”

“I mean, you don’t even have the presence of mind to think very carefully about who you drink with, either . . .”

I go on as if you hadn’t spoken, my tone a good approximation of actual concerned scolding, though that same predatory glimmer remains in my eyes as they glare down at you.

And with my words, your mind scrambles to dispel the murky cloak of drunken memory, allowing fleeting images to come into focus, a beautiful blond, your own hand slapping a twenty dollar bill down onto the bar, the blond moving in for a kiss, and just before your lips connect the same devious glimmer in her eyes as are in mine, now. You moan with foreboding.

“Who was she?”

“Oh just a friend of mine. A friend of your wife’s too. So I guess that makes all three of us friends. And we’d talked an awful lot about you. Your wife often seeks my advice, because she knows that I am a dominant, strong woman who believes that some men are best kept on a tight leash, controlled by a firm hand. As you might remember, I’m a dominatrix by trade.

Did you know your poor wife has been considering divorce? It’s not because she doesn’t love you. For some reason I’ve never been able to fathom, she loves you dearly. But she just can’t abide your cheating anymore.”

“Rachel, wait.”

“You know what she told me? She told me that you said she’d become boring in bed, just because she was hesitant to let you fuck her ass. She said you were always clamoring for anal play of some kind. She told me she agreed to toss your salad once, and you almost smothered her into unconsciousness sitting on her face. So you know what I told *her*? I told her that maybe you were so obsessed with ass play and anal sex, not so much because you wanted to do the fucking, but because you want to BE fucked.”

I pause to let my words synch up in your mind with the predicament in which you find yourself, and back away from the bed slightly with a giggle as you predictably and futilely begin struggling and wriggling in your bonds. You’ve realized that though you are bound, naked, and humiliated, the most vulnerable and exposed part of your body is your asshole.

Want to know what happens next, strapon slut? Listen in!

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