October 24, 2008
Key Chains


You were playing with the key at breakfast — an early breakfast, surprisingly so, and I was doubly surprised to see you at the table fully dressed so soon after the smell of coffee woke me. You were wearing one of your better-than-usual suits and sipping your black coffee while you turned the key over and over in your fingers. It was a small key, smaller than a normal padlock key and attached to a slim chain. I sat down, gathering my old rough bathrobe about my knees, and asked, “What’s up?”
You coiled the key and chain into your palm and put your closed fist in your wool-suited lap. “Court appearance,” you answered, knowing that wasn’t what I’d asked about. “If I don’t get Tindal an updated brief before I leave, she’ll scalp me.”

I allowed the misdirection and leaned across the table, robe opening across my bare heavy breasts, to tousle your short, mink-rich hair. “I’d never let her do that.”

You responded with a rude snort. “You don’t know her like I know her.”

I got up to get my own coffee, to be denatured with a ton of cream (one of several reasons I’ll never match your feline tautness) and as I reached on tiptoe for a mug on the second shelf, you asked suddenly, “Jen, have you ever thought about being tied up?”

The question made a tremor scamper across my shoulders like a tiny animal. “No.” It came out sharper than I intended. As I filled my cup I could hear you rolling the key chain in your hand. “Well I do,” you said unexpectedly.

I turned, retraced the few steps to the kitchen table, and sat back down. “Really?” You nodded, not meeting my eyes.

“How come?” A blush warmed your latte skin; I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen you blush. The tip of your tongue emerged, squirmed around your lips a moment and disappeared. “I don’t know. I just think it might be… interesting, that’s all.”

I tried to imagine you tied up; it was hard. As a stylish leather femme top, yes, with a cat-o’-nines in your gloved hands, your trim waist cinched by an open-cup patent leather bustier — yeah, that made perfect sense. But the other way, your sinuous body, as lean and graceful as an arboreal predator, tied up, helpless, waiting to be taken — that was hard to imagine. But I found myself getting wet trying.

“I gotta get going,” you broke into my reverie. “I want to make sure I catch the express train.” Your eyes were pensive. “I might be late tonight.”

“Call me?” I asked, almost plaintive.

“If I can.” You gathered up your coat and purse, snatched a last sip of coffee while standing.

“Lynn, is this something you want?”

You shrugged your coat on. “I’ll call you.”

* * *

I found the catalog when I got out of the shower. It was on your nightstand, nestled between an article from the Legal Monitor and the latest copy of On Our Backs. The cover showed a blonde in a black patent teddy, thigh-high boots, and extra-long patent gloves with a pair of hand-cuffs teasingly dangled from an outstretched finger. Underneath the crimson title, elegant type proclaimed fashion, fetish, fantasy.

I let the catalog fall open. The page you’d folded it back to showed a tall redhead with a smart pageboy haircut. She wore an open bra of black leather with nickel chains that attached to a chevron collar, a matching garter belt and G-string, back-seamed stockings and pumps with 5-inch heels — a bargain at $295 plus shipping. One long-fingered, carmine-nailed hand held a riding crop: 18 inch, firm action, the ad said — $25. On the opposite page, a shy brunette knelt, clad in a stylish collar and wrist restraint combo, extra-long gloves, black lambskin panties, calf boots and a spreader bar: adjustable, superior quality with attached leather cuffs — $349 without the boots. Clearly this was an expensive business.

I sat down on the bed, looking from the imperious redhead with her steady, demanding gaze and bare breasts that looked anything but vulnerable — almost bulletproof, in fact — to the kneeling brunette, her hair tumbling in disordered curls across her averted face, just the line of her jaw showing, pure and perfect, her knees pried helplessly apart by the chrome-steel bar. My eyes returned to the redhead, memorized the crimson shade of her lipstick, the slightly paler pink of her nipples, and then back to the brunette, her hips tipped to offer her buttocks submissively. Between my legs, liquid began to pump. I reached down and found my swollen clit bunched tight as a fist. Licking my fingers, I moved it roughly.

Came three times.

* * *

You already had the handcuffs. I don’t know where you got them, or how you explained to whomever why you needed them. They were the real thing, the hasps worn dull with use. We ordered the riding crop from the catalog, paying extra to have it delivered by the weekend. For the rest, we consulted Sabr, a friend with exotic tastes who had a clematis vine tattooed around her waist and danced at a Lebanese restaurant downtown.

“Oh, you want the spreader bar,” she told us. She urged on me a halter neck teddy with an amazing collection of laces and zippers, including one that started at the front of the crotch and ran straight up the back. (Very convenient, she snickered.) I turned it down in favor of a black satin dress that looked like you had to be poured into it — it wouldn’t tolerate a stitch of underwear — and matching elbow-length gloves. It had a sweetheart neckline and the skirt was split in at least four places. You began to salivate as soon as I put it on.

Sold.

We rearranged the loft into our play room. We laid out the toys on the glass-topped coffee table with along with some condoms, a box of latex examination gloves and more lube than any dozen people could possibly use. We agreed on a word that meant stop — now, immediately. We defined the ritual exchange of the key that would begin things and end them. We congratulated ourselves on how sensible we were. Then I arranged myself in the one chair, a high-backed antique with dark cherry upholstery we’d brought upstairs specially for the occasion, and prepared for the show. With proper deference (the little curtsy was such a sweet touch), you handed me the key.

Let the games begin.

* * *

Strip, I told you. After all, that’s what we’d dressed you for; in your best cream silk and linen business suit, no less. It was the contrast I was after — me in that slinky black gown, you dressed like Miss Corporate America. But you began by undoing your blouse much too matter-of-factly.

“No,” I stopped you, “make it matter.” You looked at me then, a questioning glance that bounced off something in my eyes. I saw the recoil in yours. You were beginning to wonder, I think, what you’d gotten into.

I had you remove your clothing one article at a time. I directed you to assume all sorts of exploitive poses; to finger your ass and pussy; to run a long string of pearls between your legs. You taunted me back, calling me a nasty bitch and less complementary things as you lifted your hips and opened your freshly shaved crotch to me. I allowed your barbs, flicking them off with a smile as I fondled the handcuffs. Then I stood up and approached you. You held your wrists out in front of you with a grin that was anything but submissive.

“No.” I shook my head. “Turn around.” You met my gaze for a moment, then complied. As I took your wrists in my hands and pulled them behind your back, you said my name, one syllable almost like a challenge: “Jen.”

That, of course, wasn’t the word we’d agreed on. I locked the steel clasps around your wrists. “Jen,” you repeated, in a plaintive tone this time. I used the cuffs to pull you back against me. “I’ll give you one word,” I murmured against your ear. “That word and no other. Understand?”

You nodded, a tentative acquiescence. I led you to the fleece throw at the center of the room, and made you stand, legs apart as I fastened the spreader bar to your ankles. Then I picked up the riding crop. Your eyes widened, but you didn’t say anything. I ran the shiny black tip over your lovely vulnerable skin, teasing your breasts, your nipples, your wonderful wonderful buttocks. I wanted you to get the feel of it; to anticipate its spicy little sting. Serious pain wasn’t in the offing — we’d agreed that — but I could tell you were beginning wonder. And deep down inside, a warm smoky feeling was making me want to make you wonder.

I slid the leather tip up the inside of your thigh, testing. You bit your lip. Delicately, softly, I ran the tip between your legs. The leather came away with a glossy wet streak. Excellent.

“On your knees,” I commanded. With your wrists locked behind you, you had no choice but to raise your ass to its maximum elevation as your breasts and shoulders pressed into the fleece. The sight of your beautiful, taut cheeks set off a series of quakes in my belly that shuddered down into my crotch — my crotch which, with no underwear to bar the way, was beginning to drool down the inside of my thighs. I skated the riding crop around the moons of your ass, giving you fair warning, then snapped it — once, lightly, then again, harder. You jerked, shoulders flexing. Kneeling, I caressed the two red patches beginning to blossom on your left cheek. Your scent teased my nostrils, lighter than mine — honey and musk — and I watched as the dew collecting in your exposed opening began to overflow. I slid a hand under you, tugged your swollen clit with two fingers as I flicked the crop against your ass. You jerked in time to the strokes, which were light but threatening not to be, and your clit pulsed between my fingers.

“Fuck me,” you half-whimpered, half -cried. A breach of discipline, that, but I was too excited to care.

“Here?” I trailed a wet finger up to your other opening. In the past, you’d professed ambivalence towards anal play. A few times, I’d slipped in a finger while going down on you, and you’d accepted it in a take-it-or-leave-it kind of way. Now I wanted you to tell me, one way or the other.

“Here?” I repeated, probing gently. Your hips rocked back, trembling. “All right,” you husked out.

Not good enough. “Ask me.”

“Fuck me.”

“Where?”

“In the ass.”

“Say it.”

“Fuck me in the ass.”

“Of course, lover.” I kissed the back of your neck as I pulled a latex glove on. “Of course.” I lubed your puckered entrance and slid a gloved finger in. You sighed and stretched your spine like a cat. I moved the finger in and out slowly, adding another as you relaxed. Finally, I selected a toy off the table, a silicone cock-shape with a square helical shaft. I caressed your lips with the bulbous head. “Is this what you want?”

“Yes.” You licked the dildo as I held it for you. “Yes, please.” That “please” went through me like a lightning strike — I could barely roll the condom on.

You were presenting willingly now, reaching your hips up, your juicy openings begging more eloquently than any speech. Slowly, I pushed the silicone cock into your ass and the breath left you with a great long sigh. Your skin went cool as I stroked my hand along your bowed spine, urging you to open wider still. Sweet little cries ricocheted out your throat — ah ah ahh — as I fucked you with long fluid strokes. The tempo of your rocking increased and your breath came louder and deeper until you cried out and your legs clenched and your back went all wild with shaking.

Overwhelmed at last, I jammed my free hand into my crotch — thank gods the skirt was split so high — and plunged three fingers knuckle deep into my seething hot molten pussy. When I came a moment later, it was just short of nuclear.

* * *

I’m sitting on our bed downstairs, listening to the water run in the shower and turning the key to the handcuffs over and over in my fingers. My thighs are sticky, my knees are still shaking and there’s a vacant feeling somewhere in my middle that I’m only now beginning to seep back into.

Distantly, I hear, but don’t recognize, you turn off the shower. When I look up, you’re standing in the doorway, cocooned in your big fluffy bathrobe, drying your short dark hair with a towel. I can’t read the eclipsed emotions in your hazel eyes.

“Hi,” you finally say.

I put the key down, self-consciously. “Hi.”

You give your head a quick shake, flaring your hair and casting a fan of tiny droplets. “Are you okay?”

I look up, surprised by the question. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” You smile, a fair approximation of that slightly crooked smile I love, and come to put your hands on my shoulders. “What did you think about that?”

I look down at my hands, cradled in my naked lap. “Kinda scary.”

“Did you like it?”

I glance at the key lurking on the nightstand, and teeter on the edge of denial. A bittersweet moment later I admit, “Yes. I liked it. I liked it a lot. How about you?”

You sit down next to me and slide an arm around my back. “Kind of scary,” you agree. Then your smile turns wicked. “And very hot.”

I sag into you, melted by relief. “But,” you said, nipping my ear lightly, “don’t expect me to go so easy on you next time.”

I straighten up. There are still times when you are a puzzle to me — even now. Especially now. “What does that mean?”

You lean across my lap, take the key off the nightstand and held it out.

“When you want to know that, give this back to me.”


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