Walking down the street, another five minutes until I get there, I reflect on how I've come to be here.
It was a phone call out of the blue from clients I'd had about three years ago; I'd spent three weeks landscaping their courtyard garden but hadn't heard from them since. It had been the husband, Richard, who'd initially engaged me but I'd hardly ever seen him after the first meeting, so I'd primarily dealt with his wife, Philippa, as she was still there when I arrived and invariably got back before I left. But my overriding memory of him was of a rather large man, large as in someone who'd spent too long sitting behind a desk without compensating for it.
There was also a son, Christopher, who had been seventeen at the time: but a single glimpse of a tall young man with curly blonde hair had been my only contact with him.
My memory of Philippa was more extensive. She had always been pleasant and friendly, open to ideas but also happy to press a point and ready to insist if it was something that she really wanted. It had never been anything more than a professional relationship.
Until the phone call.
Again, it was Richard who'd called me. He had seemed quite nervous at first and I hadn't understood why. He'd spent a few minutes saying how much they enjoyed the garden etc etc. Then it had gone strange, almost surreal. He'd kept saying how much they trusted me, how they knew me and how I knew them, he'd kept clearing his throat and repeating himself but then his voice had kind of tailed away and he'd stopped talking. After what had seemed an age I'd begun to wonder if he was still there when suddenly, as though he had taken a mental deep breath, he'd started talking again, but this time he had been very much to the point, almost business-like.
Basically, what it came down to, was that he wanted me to fuck Philippa. What he'd actually said was that Philippa wanted me to fuck Philippa. But I'd got the feeling that it was him wanting me to fuck Philippa, so I'd asked him if it was something that she wanted.
And he'd said yes.
Who was I to argue.
He'd then become very descriptive about how I should enter the house, close the door, go up the stairs, enter the bedroom, close the door, and......well, and fuck Philippa.
So, what it came down to, was that I was going to fuck Philippa.
It had only been at the end of the, actually very one sided, conversation that he had thought to ask me if I wanted to do it.
I, of course, took a long time to decide.
It had been quite a strange phone call.
But it hadn't prepared me for what I found when I got upstairs.
I ease the door open, step into the room and close the door behind me. It's a large, square room, sparsely furnished; with a big bed in the centre of the floor, a chest of drawers against one wall and an armchair in the corner by a window. The ceiling is hidden by a sheet of loose fabric that's suspended from each corner and a heavy curtain covering, what I presume, is another window on the opposite wall to Richard. That's it.
Except that Richard is sitting, fully clothed, in the chair. He hadn't mentioned that.
I didn't care. If he wanted to watch then that's fine by me.
Philippa is on the bed.
At least I assume it's Philippa, and she's not actually "on" the bed: she's tied, face down, over the bed-end. Richard hadn't mentioned that either.
It's a solid looking bed-end. It's a solid looking bed.
The bed-head and end are metal frames with heavy legs and thick horizontal rails across the top and bottom linked by several vertical bars. The bed-head is perhaps shoulder high and the bed-end mid-thigh. The bed is fully made up over a deep, heavy mattress.
The woman, hopefully Philippa, is in the centre of the bed-end, her ankles tied wide apart to the bottom horizontal rail with multiple loops of silver coloured rope. Her thighs, again with multiple loops, are tied to the top horizontal rail. She is bent over the rail with more loops of the rope running around her waist tying her directly to that rail then even more loops around her chest which seem to be tied back to a vertical bar between her legs. To finish it off, her wrists are tied together and a length of the rope runs from them up to the bed-head. It's all very neatly done, and, at a guess, not for the first time.
The more I look at the woman the more convinced I am that it is Philippa. She has the same mousy blonde hair cut in the same style that I remember from my time here three years ago. I can't see her face; it's covered by her hair, but my memory of her is that she's pretty and always seemed to have a smile for me. She isn't big like Richard but curvy, tending towards plump, and not tall, perhaps 5' 6". All this fits in with the bound woman before me, but I'm still not 100% sure, plus I'd only ever seen Philippa in her work clothes. This woman's wearing nothing more than black stockings and stilettos.
But I'd said that I wanted to do this, and nothing I've seen in the past ten minutes has changed that.
But the time for looking is long over.
I touch the bindings on her thigh.
The rope is perhaps a quarter inch thick, soft and smooth, yet has a strength to it; it feels as though it has no give, no stretch. The bindings don't seem to be too tight; they don't dig into her, but they aren't loose, she can't move, but they don't look to be uncomfortable.
The multiple turns of rope almost cover the wide band at the top of her stockings and I run my fingertips over them, trace a loop around her thigh to the bed frame, follow a different one back. I realise that I'm finding it erotic, sensuous, even sexual.
I stroke up across her bum and her skin puckers into tiny goosebumps as my fingers drift into the crack of her arse and follow it up to the base of her spine. I keep going, a soft touch across soft skin, over the ropes around her waist then those around her chest to brush through her hair at her neck.
I carry on across her ear then reverse direction and trace back down her spine, back to her bum.
Swirling fingertips and dragging nails dance across the tops of her thighs and her buttocks. Up and down, touching everything but stopping nowhere.
I begin to centre on the crack of her arse, swirling around, dipping down, flicking between her thighs, edging ever closer to her pussy until I'm brushing tight circles around the triangle at the top of her thighs, the faintest of touches across her lips, closer and closer, tighter and tighter until it's all I'm touching, swirling, flicking fingers up and down her pussy.
Up and down, time and again, still just the lightest of touches, the heat and moisture building, a stickiness on my fingers.
I slow my fingers and push one into her: just the tip, the depth of the nail, in and out, then to the first knuckle, in and out, then to the second knuckle, in and out, her pussy slick, her juices lubricating, finger all the way, in and out. Then two fingers, all the way in, all the way out. Slowly finger fucking her, sliding all the way in and out, twisting and rubbing until her bum tightens and the walls of her pussy squeeze.
Slow down and rub my thumb along her perineum, push it between her buttocks and press against her sphincter until it slips in, just to the first knuckle.
Push in further and squeeze my hand before pulling my thumb out and rubbing back down to her pussy.
I slip my fingers out and slide them down across her clit as my thumb takes their place. I give her a gentle squeeze and begin to rub across her clit.
Start a rhythm going; my thumb fucking her, my fingers rubbing her, a gentle squeeze between each one.
Keep rubbing with my fingers and fucking with my thumb. Pushing into her sticky tunnel as far as I can reach.
Steadily getting faster.
