I had barely been home from work for ten minutes, my shoes and socks off, settled down on the couch with crackers and a can of club soda. The house was warmer than usual, a welcome contrast to the blustery winter storm dragging on outside in the darkness.
"Take off your clothes," a voice ordered out of the blue. My lover emerged from the bedroom, looking relaxed, even a little bit cocky, and holding my most impractical fuck-me heels, "and put these on."
Not now, I thought, it's been one hell of a long fucking day.
"Yes, sir," I heard myself say.
I've learned better than to question his judgment; he knows what I need and when I need it, often better than I know it myself. Off came my jeans, my panties, my shirt and my bra. Standing before him, stark naked and more than a little vulnerable, I could almost feel the day's stresses fading into the background of my mind. My pussy throbbed with each heartbeat. I was in his warm, capable, and firm hands; this was not a time for difficult decision-making on my part. It was time to let my life go and serve him. I was his, not a thing to be unwittingly used, but a human mind, body, and soul, willingly and eagerly given over to the control of another.
I noticed, then, that he held a length of pre-cut and tied rope in his left hand. He, as usual, had a plan for me.
He noticed my eyes on the rope. "Something occurred to me the other day. You're mine, but I hardly get to appreciate you."
He hardly ever got to appreciate me? Did he not appreciate the countless times I had turned myself over to him, begging to serve him, allowing my body to be used for his every pleasure? I was crushed; I must have looked crestfallen.
"I'm not saying I don't appreciate you," he assured me. "I just haven't had the chance to sit here do nothing but appreciate you like the work of art you are. Tonight I'm going to do that."
Still slightly confused but somehow placated, I nodded, "Yes, sir."
He smiled, "Excellent. Now, please bend that fine ass over the dining room table, and extend your hands out in front of you."
Thinking I was going to get a good spanking (I had made a few minor transgressions the week before; perhaps this was delayed punishment?), I bent over obediently, laying my upper body flat on the tabletop. The cool of the table pressed against my stomach, breasts, and right side of my face.
He moved my hands so my left was resting on my right, then tied the loose end of the rope expertly around them. I understood, then, that the rope had been split into two cords, and that two clasping rings sat at the end of each. He bent over and I heard him snap the ring around the right table leg. He moved around to the left side and snapped it in. He then (and had he ever been a busy one!) tightened each rope until it was taut -- but not uncomfortably so. He then pulled a blindfold from the shelf and tied it over my eyes.
All this, I thought, for a spanking? I sat still quite willingly; there was generally no need for physical restraint.
Standing behind me, he lightly rubbed his hands up my legs, stopping to caress my buttocks. From there, he moved his hands downward, towards the table, to my wet, eager pussy. He wedged his left hand under my body and pressed the heel of his hand against my clit. Two fingers of his right hand gently teased my opening. I felt it swell for him.
He plunged his two fingers into my wet, expectant pussy. My knees went to jelly at the sensation, but the table held me. To be filled with his fingers only made me think of his cock. I moaned at the thought of it, hard and ready, aroused by the sight of my naked body spread out on display.
He abruptly removed his fingers from my cunt and his left hand from its position under my pelvis. "That's enough," he stated firmly. "You are here for me to look at, touch, and enjoy. Your body is a work of art, and I want to enjoy it as a work of art. Don't say a word, or make a noise unless I give you permission. You may speak this last time to tell me you understand."
"Yes sir," I croaked. "But, sir, how long will I..."
*SMACK*
My ass cheeks stung from the impact of his hand.
"I told you to only speak to tell me you understood. From here on out you are art. You are furniture. You are a toy." He walked over to the kitchen.
I heard him turn on the faucet. Washing dishes? The clink of the silverware against the plates sounded like music. I waited. I listened. Knowing he was out there, maybe looking right at me, maybe not, washing dishes, turned me on and infuriated me. The minutes turned into seconds, or maybe hours. I kept wondering when he'd come back to me, and what he'd do, and how it would feel.
His footsteps approached. Would he stop, play with me a bit? Or merely admire me as he walked by? Would I get to feel his cock inside me, or be left, engorged and wet, to suffer? Instinctively, I shifted and tried to rub my clit against the table's edge.
"Oh, I see my piece of art has become wet," he said as I spread my legs to better accommodate any wandering his hands may have done. I heard him kneel down behind me. Feeling his hot breath on my already hot cunt nearly drove me mad. He lightly licked up the delicate folds of my pussy, tasting my juices.
Just as quickly as tongue had found my pussy, it was gone. He moved in front of me and kissed me, my juices still on his lips.
And then he walked away.
As I heard him moving around our small home, I thought about how much he cared for me. He had taken the time to cut custom ropes to fit our table, he had turned up the heat so that I would be comfortable standing around naked, and he had drawn the shades prior to me coming home.
I felt two rough hands on my buttocks. Lost in thought, I had not heard him come up behind me. Massaging and squeezing them with his hands, he lowered his lips and kissed up my spine. He nibbled lightly on my shoulder blade. I suppressed a moan.
Again his fingers probed my cunt, which was now wetter than it had been before. I moved against him instinctively, wanting his fingers further inside me.
And then, as before, he was gone. My ears now tuned into his every move, I heard him walk over to the bookshelf, choose a book, and sit down in the recliner. Was he really reading, or was he unable to focus on his book; his eyes glued to my bound form so indecently displayed for his pleasure?
Seconds passed, maybe hours. Just as my legs were beginning to ache unbearably and shake slightly, I heard him rise from the recliner and walk over to me.
"I have enjoyed you this evening," he whispered in my ear. "You are more beautiful because you are mine."
With a light kiss on my lips, he bent down and unclipped me. Knowing my place, I stayed in position.
"You may stand up," he stated smoothly. "And you can speak."
"Thank you sir," I said, straightening up. His bulge, I noticed, had not decreased in size. A small wet spot decorated his fly. Had he been hard all along, holding out for my pleasure and his own?
He returned to the recliner. I followed and knelt at his feet, my nakedness a stark contrast to his jeans and sweater.
He unzipped his pants. Wordlessly, instinctively, I pulled out his cock. He was indeed as hard as I had imagined during my time bound on the kitchen table. The thought of my naked, bound body causing such arousal brought a new surge of desire to my already starving pussy.
After moistening my lips, I ever so lightly brushed them over the tip of his cock. Feeling it jump a little, I pulled my head back and traced feather-like circles around the crown with my tongue.
