Compelled to Bondage
by John Savage
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2009 John Savage
Published by Strict Publishing International
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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PROLOGUE
I was moaning and panting and making a fool of myself but it was wonderful. The fact that I was also trying to stop myself from rushing headfirst into the incredibly fine orgasm my body was working up to didn't seem to matter much. At that moment I was vividly alive, much more so than I had ever been during sex - normal sex, that is. At the moment I'm talking about, the sexual act I was engaged in would hardly be called normal. But I didn't care. It was incredible even I hadn't wanted it and still didn't.
Does this sound a little strange? Well, consider that in addition to heading towards an orgasm I didn't want and having sex with a man I didn't even know, I was also vividly aware of the tight ropes wrapped around my body holding my arms firmly secure behind my back. And that my bottom was stinging and burning from a fresh spanking I had not wanted but nevertheless had asked this man to give me!
I know it doesn't make sense. But it was real. I, Nancy Blake, an innocent, very conservative young girl of twenty-one with very little sexual experience, had sought out this man, asked him to strip me naked, bind me with ropes that I had even brought with me, spank my bottom until both of us were panting with passion, and then to screw me as hard and long as he could. And all the time I was telling him those things, I was telling myself to keep my mouth shut. Part of me wanted to call an immediate halt, but the rest was moving right along like a freight train. It was almost as if I were merely an observer going along for the ride and with no power to change the script one tiny bit.
When these things first started happening to me, I thought I was going crazy - you know, schizophrenia, multiple personalities or something like that. I mean, how does a girl explain that suddenly she’s doing things that she would never do in a million years do, and can't stop herself. But I'm not crazy. Not a bit. Just haunted.
It's a really weird story about how I came to be in that bachelor pad, tied up and being screwed by a man I had met only half an hour before when I knocked on his door. Hell, I didn't even know his name. What a picture I must have made, my big breasts bouncing with each thrust of his hips upward and my pumping my hips against him. And my long blonde hair flying up and down and lashing my breasts and his face as I contorted with passion. I was kneeling over him on his bed, his hips between my legs and his rod deep inside my pussy. My arms were tied behind my back and many windings of additional rope held them tight against my body. My eyes were closed and I was biting my lip to keep from loudly crying out the passion flooding over my body.
The climax came for both of us at the same time; wonderful waves of heat and flashing lights and nerves tingling - totally unlike anything else in the world.
Later, when I finally came down from that wonderful high, I lay at his side, his arm around my shoulders and his hand resting against the ropes holding my elbows together behind me. He asked if I would like to be untied and I remember hearing my voice telling him that I would not like that, to leave me bound for the rest of the night. I heard myself promising that if he would do that for me, I would use my mouth on his penis in the morning to wake him up.
As I lay alongside him in the dark, physically satisfied and contented but mentally disgusted with the strange power that compelled me to such incredibly wanton sexual acts, I thought about how it all began.
CHAPTER I
HAVE YOU A PAIR OF HANDCUFFS?
It was the day I bought my new car. It was a 450SL Mercedes Benz convertible, fire engine red and looking all sleek and sexy and exciting. How exciting and sexy I had no idea on that sunny spring day when the car became mine.
I had always wanted such a car, the prestige, the pride of ownership of such a precision-made German automobile. And there is the feeling of whizzing down the highway with my long blonde hair streaming out behind. It had taken me two years of saving to get enough money to have this dream car, but I really wanted it.
I would love to say that it was brand new, smelling that new car smell and every tiny part shining in the sunlight. But fact is that I'm not rich and the odometer informed me that for well over one hundred thousand miles this car had belonged to someone else. But I didn't care. It ran beautifully, looked beautiful, and was everything I had ever wanted.
I should have been a little suspicious at the low price. Those cars are not cheap, even used. But it ran smoothly, didn't seem to have any problems, and how could I refuse? Mrs. Sterling was the name of the woman who sold it to me. One would think that she should have shown some emotion at parting with such a beautiful car but her face showed no emotion, happy or otherwise. It was as if she were deliberately holding emotions inside. In fact, I got the impression that when she first saw me she was ready to tell me that the car had been sold, or something. But she sighed and handed me the key, telling me to drive it as I wished. Then she went back into her plain house.
I drove it and fell in love. It was powerful, smooth and seemed almost to anticipate my every wish. It was all I had dreamed it would be and some more. I thanked my wisdom for getting up very early on Saturday and being the first person to come looking at the car. I parked it and almost rushed up to her door with checkbook in hand. I wanted it.
Mrs. Sterling was waiting with the papers in her hand, already signed off. Without even a consideration of offering a lower price as the beginning of bargaining, I wrote out a check for the full amount she asked and handed it to her.
I remember her last words to me as she handed me the extra keys. “I hope you'll survive,” she said. Then she turned her back on me and on the car, and never looked at either of us again. I guessed that she meant I should be careful because of its high performance. But I didn't care. Taking only enough time to lower the fabric top into its well, I hopped into my new car and drove happily away.
I took a small trip that day, what girl wouldn't? As I drove along the coast, warm spring sun on my face and the wind tugging at my hair, I was happy. Let all those other poor people on the road look and envy me. I was something special - I had THE CAR.
The next day I took another trip, this time down to San Diego, loving the wind in my hair and the looks of beach boys whenever I stopped for a light. I drove it to my work each day of the next week, proudly showing it off to anyone I could corner in the parking lot.
My first hint of something not quite right came the next Saturday.
I had driven to the store for my weekly shopping, taking a very long away around, and had no plans to go anywhere that night. But after dinner I began feeling restless. Just staying home to watch another movie didn't feel good enough. I felt myself being drawn to the garage and the car. I made some popcorn and tried to watch a movie on TV, but I found myself unable even to recall the movie's name after fifteen minutes. I went to the window and looked out. From my apartment, I could see a corner of the car in my parking slot. It was there and everything was all right, but still I couldn't get the car out of my mind.
Then it began. Without really thinking about it, I found myself in my bedroom, changing my clothes. Now, I'm not a clotheshorse and I’m really rather conservative. I don't buy my clothing to look sexy. But I found myself standing in front of the mirror, looking at my totally naked body in a way I had never done before. What I saw was good, a fine young body with good muscle tone, large breasts with good shape and firmness, and long, shapely legs. My golden hair hung to the middle of my back and was as real as the light curls of my pubic patch attested.
I had never considered myself a sexy woman - pretty yes, and with a good figure, but not sexy. Yet as I stood there, I felt sexier than I had ever felt in my life. It was a warmth in my loins, but that was only part of it. More, it was a mental attitude. I simply felt sexy.
I had one pair of lacy black panties that I had purchased to go with a black dress I had worn once and then put away because it was too tight and showed off too much of my legs. That night I took the black panties and put them on. Then I put on a pair of pantyhose, followed by that black dress. It was suppose to be a party dress, but I hardly ever went to parties, and the only time I ever wore it I had been embarrassed because of how low it was cut in front and how high the slit on the side came up. It was black velvet with a slit showing one leg to mid-thigh. I remembered how the eyes of every man at that party had gone straight down the front of that dress to ogle the tops of my breasts. I was so embarrassed that I went home early.
But as I put the dress on that Saturday night, I didn't feel embarrassment. As I smoothed the material over my hips, I felt totally different. It was a sexy dress and made me look and feel like a real woman. I stood before the mirror and ran my hands down my hips, feeling the smooth velvet against the bare skin of my middle. It was then that I realized I had put the dress on without a bra - something I had never done since I began wearing bras.
But instead of immediately taking the dress off, I stood there, admiring the way my breasts looked with black velvet pushing them up. Not that my breasts needed much uplift, they were quite firm and stood out without help. But that dress... So much of the tops of my breasts were visible, and yet at that moment it was good. I picked up a small purse and left the apartment.
You should understand that this was not me. I had promised myself that I would never be seen in public again with such a dress, yet here I was walking from my apartment, wearing the dress and without a bra. I remember hearing the swishing sound of my nyloned legs against each other as I got into my beautiful little sports car. What an exciting sound that is.
I drove aimlessly for a while until I spotted a department store still open that Saturday night. I parked and went in, not sure why but following a feeling. For one thing, that would allow me to show off how I looked in that dress in public. Inside, I found myself in the shoe department, telling a male teenage clerk that I wanted a pair of those black patent leather high heels in size seven. Then I sat down and crossed my legs. When he brought back the shoes, he almost dropped the box. Like he had never seen a woman with a slit in her dress that went all the way up to the tops of her thighs before!
I slipped on both high heels and stood up. I should have been wobbly on them, the heels alone were at least four inches tall, maybe four and a half inches, and I was simply not used to wearing heels. But I didn't wobble. Instead I walked up to a mirror and enjoyed the way those heels made my legs look much more sexy. Something about the way the muscles are different when a girl's toes are pointed, but very nice.
I could feel the teenager's eyes on my legs and bottom as I walked, and I liked the feeling that it gave me to know that men found me desirable. Not that I was attracted to the kid at all, but it was still nice. I leaned forward on the counter while he ran up my purchase and let him have a good view of a fine pair of breasts. He made a five dollar mistake in counting my change but I didn't correct him. It was a small price for him to pay for such a nice show.
I walked out with the heels on and dumped my comfortable, sensible flats in the trashcan.
Heading back to my car, I couldn’t help but wonder why I had done that. And why I could walk so easily in heels far higher than any I had ever tried. But it somehow felt right and I didn't feel like fighting it. I drove along the main street, slowly with no particular place to go.
Half an hour later I was pulling into the parking lot of the Sandpiper Restaurant, an expensive eating place on the beach, and one which my limited funds would normally never allow me to visit. I walked in the front door and turned left just like I knew where I was going.
The lounge was dimly lit and had soft music from a live combo in one corner. I made my way for the bar to perch on one of those stools, just like I did this every Saturday night. As I slid one nyloned leg over the other and allowed the dress to show me off, I told the barkeeper that I would have a Manhattan. While I sat there waiting for my drink, I was wondering inside what the hell I was doing. I never went into bars, never showed myself off in public like this, and didn't even know what a Manhattan was. What was happening to me?
Have you ever felt you had to do something but didn't know why? That was what was happening to me. The really odd part was that I didn't feel like there was anything wrong. In a funny way I knew what I was doing was unusual, but it also seemed right. That's the best way I can describe the feeling.
I sipped the drink and found it strong but pleasant. I looked around. There were dark booths around a small dance floor but no one was dancing. A few of the booths might have been occupied; it was hard to tell unless someone moved in the very dim light. Cozy and intimate, they call such places. The booths were taken by couples, the bar held three other drinkers, all men.
I sort of giggled inside and wondered what I would say if one of those men tried to pick me up. This was definitely not the usual habits of Nancy Blake. Almost immediately, one of the men did approach me, so I told myself that I was about to find out what I would do.
“May I buy you a drink?” he asked smoothly.
“I have one. But you can sit down,” I heard myself saying.
He was on the wrong side of thirty, probably edging very close to the big four-oh. Not bad looking in his business suit and receding hairline, but certainly not the kind of man I would normally consider dating.
He sat down, placing his drink on the smooth bar surface. He was trying so hard to smile and look handsome. I didn't want to sit with this man who was almost twice my age trying to hit on me, but I was forced to sit there and watch as if this were all a movie happening to some other girl.
“I couldn't help noticing how beautiful you are,” he began. Truthful enough, but it was hardly a new line. “My name's Karl. What's yours?”
I turned a bit towards him, shifting my hips just a little, knowing that the move pulled my dress up to expose another inch of thigh. I saw his eyes flash down then reluctantly return to my face. “I'm Nancy. Do you know how to treat a woman?”
Why the hell did I say that?
He smiled. “I know how to show a girl a good time,” he came out with. The guy was almost licking his chops and drooling all over the bar.
“I asked if you knew how to treat a woman. The way a woman should be treated.”
He frowned. The conversation was not going quite the way he expected. But then I could say the same thing. It was obvious sex was on his mind, but he didn't know how to answer me. Finally he settled for, “Girls don't complain.” Very weak, lost points there.
“What would you do with me?” I asked. Then I wondered if the puzzlement I was feeling showed on my face. Probably not. It was almost as if someone else were in control of my body.
He actually licked his lips and I could see wheels twirling inside his head. So this babe wants to come right out and talk about it, he was thinking. “I'm a very good at pleasing a woman,” is what he said.
“You are.” The way I said it sounded like I didn't believe it. And I didn't.
“Why don't we go to a place I know and I'll show you. You'll love it.” He was really shoveling it with both hands now.
He “knew a place.” Probable a cheap motel room because there was a wife waiting at home.
“Do you have a pair of handcuffs?” I asked.
“Ah... no,” he stumbled out with. “But we can... improvise.” Fast recovery, but no cigar.
“If a man doesn't own a pair of handcuffs, then he doesn't know how to treat a woman,” I said casually over a sip of the Manhattan.
He was silent for a few moments as he tried to come to grips with this strange conversation. So was I. “I could get a pair,” he offered lamely, knowing it was a lie. He had no idea where to buy a pair of handcuffs and we both knew it. I sipped my drink and knew that there was a smug little smile tugging at the corners of my mouth.
The man made a couple attempts at getting a sentence out but failed. I ignored him. Finally he sighed and went away.
Which left me with some time to think about this strange course of events. Handcuffs? Handcuffs! Why had I spoken those words? I'd never even touched a pair of handcuffs in my life and I certainly didn't want to try on a pair. If I wasn't careful, my mouth was going to get me into a lot of trouble. A whole lot of trouble.
Five minutes later the next man came up to make his attempt. I allowed him to sit down after his polite inquire if he could. From the smell of it, this one was drinking rum and cola. That was different, I thought, and then I wondered how I knew that most men wouldn't drink rum and cola in a bar. They would have a beer or whiskey or bourbon or something really macho like that.
“From the look on his face, I'd say that you really shot down that other guy,” he said, but he was smiling politely as he said it.
“And you're wondering why?”
“I am curious. Yes, I would like to know why he struck out. Might save me from making the same mistake.”
I looked at him carefully. He was about thirty, tall and handsome in a rugged way. He looked trim in that sports coat, and his face was reasonably suntanned. I liked him immediately, but I was surprised at the way my body reacted to him. My loins were heating up, and I simply don't do that kind of stuff. I'm not that kind of girl, as the saying goes.
“He didn't have a pair of handcuffs,” I heard myself saying.
He smiled. “Is that all?” he said. Then he reached down and opened his coat slightly, just enough for me to see his belt. On one side was a leather pouch about the size and shape of a pair of handcuffs, with metal edges showing under the flap. On the other side was an automatic in a holster.
“You have a badge to go alone with those?” I asked calmly. The part of my mind that was still little Miss Innocent was hollering loudly to get out of there.
He showed me the badge. He was a detective from the police department of a nearby town.
“You looking for pros?” I asked, and then wondered what I meant by that.
“No. Off duty. You selling?”
“No. Never. I'm just looking for a man who knows how to handle a woman.” I smiled at him; just a small smile.
He returned the smile with genuine warmth behind it. There was some kind of communication going on between us but I wasn't quite sure what it was. Didn't “pro” mean “professional”, aka a prostitute? Was he asking me if I was a prostitute? Part of me was shocked, but part accepted it as a compliment. A compliment?! This was getting weird.
“My place or yours?” he asked. But he wasn't being funny. He was asking if I would like to find out if he really did know how to handle a woman.
“No wife at home?” I asked.
“No wife. She found that she didn't like being married to a cop.”
“No wife. Then we'll go to your place.” I downed the rest of my drink in one gulp and wondered at the fiery sensation as it slid down. I'd never done anything like that before. Nor anything like was I was about to do.
I got up and headed for the door without looking to see if he was following. In the parking lot I headed towards my shiny red sports car. “I'll follow you,” I called over my shoulder. Then I turned to see which car he headed towards. It was some kind of Mustang named after a snake.
I followed him a few miles to his place, an average apartment, not too unlike mine own. I guessed policemen didn't get paid too much. Inside was simple but clean and neat. New beige carpet, freshly painted white walls, a couple of copies of seascapes from the local discount store. You know. He took off his coat and then the gun in its holster. He put it on top of the refrigerator. Then he took off the handcuff case and handed it to me. “Would you like a drink,” he asked.
“Whatever you're having,” I told him. The handcuffs were heavy in my hand. “Rum and cola is fine.” I sat down on the couch. “Why do you put the gun on top of the refrigerator?”
He looked up at the weapon sitting there. “Children,” he said after a second's pause. “Always up it up high out of the reach of children.”
“You have children?” I asked.
“Two. They're with my wife.” He came into the front room with a drink in each hand. “But I'd rather talk about you. What's your name?”
I told him. He told me that he was Ken Tolber. Then he asked me, “Those handcuffs good enough for you?”
I took the offered drink and set it down on the coffee table. Then I unsnapped the handcuff case and took them out. They were shinning steel and very solid looking. I worked the swinging part of one of them, pushing it into the other half until it clicked. Then I pushed it all the way through until it came out the other side. I had never seen a pair of handcuffs up close, but somehow they weren't strange. What was really weird was that they excited me.
I put them down and took a sip of the rum and cola. It tasted good. I think he made mine with less rum than his own. I picked up the handcuffs again. Then I did what was right.
I stood up and put my hands behind my back. Without having to think how to do it, I closed one cuff around my left wrist then the other around my right. In a few seconds both of my wrists were locked in steel circles behind my back. Then I tightened down each cuff a couple more clicks until I could feel the steel pressing quite firmly into my flesh all around each wrist. It was a good and very exciting feeling. I turned towards my policeman and simply stood there, hands secured behind my back and showing off my body in a dress I should have been too embarrassed to wear in my own bedroom.
“They'll do,” I said. Then I smiled softly at him.
I wish I could convey to you how right it all seemed while at the same time I was telling myself that I was crazy to be doing things like this. The amazing part was that I didn't feel crazy, and knew that I wasn't losing my mind. It was simply right to act like a wanton, loose woman. And apparently a kinky one, to judge from the fact that I was standing in a revealing dress before a man whose name I had heard only a minute before, locked in his handcuffs.
He stood, the smile faded from his face and a more serious look replacing it. Gently he took my shoulders in his hands and softly kissed me on the lips. It was a very gentle kiss but it sent tingles racing down my spine. There was a real warmth growing in my loins. I wanted to kiss him back long and hard, but he held me at arms' length.
“One thing,” he said. “No rough stuff. I don't go in for hurting women. If that's what you want, I'll unlock the cuffs and you can go back to that bar.”
How can I tell you of the thrill of being handcuffed with his strong hands touching my flesh? How very helpless and wonderful it made me feel? How much I was aware of that strong male body only inches away from mine. Maybe I can't. But all I felt right then was like a small, helpless girl before this man, and it was wonderful. I leaned forward and said in a husky voice I hardly recognized, “Kiss me.”
He kissed me and this time allowed me to press against him. I let my body do the talking after that, and just sat back to enjoy. Not that I really sat back - just mentally, I mean. What was going to happen was right and I wanted it. At least my body did. And part of my mind, too. Oh, hell, it was confusing.
There was some stand up groping, mostly on his part, my hands were locked behind me remember? Then he picked me up and carried me into the bedroom. It would have been nice had he thrown me on the bed and raped me right then, hard and long. But he set me on my feet and gently removed my dress, taking care not to tear it. I kicked off the high heels. He pulled down my pantyhose and the black lace panties.
I was trembling from desire and other emotions I had never felt before in my life. And they were more intense that I could ever imagine they could be. I guess I should tell you that I was no virgin. But I was far from being a loose woman. To be exact, I had done IT with three boys, the first time at the age of seventeen. It had been hurried and messy and I hadn't gotten much pleasure out of it. The second and third times were when I was nineteen. They had been better but I had only partly reached any kind of orgasm when the boy finished and lost interest. I had always suspected that there was more to sex, but I didn't really know.
That night I found out that sex was not at all as I had always thought it was. Ken left the handcuffs on me, probably somehow sensing how much I wanted them left on. It was the way this game was played, and he understood. As he had said, he wasn't into the rough stuff. He was gentle, considerate and made damned sure that I had a good orgasm; the first real one in my life. He sucked on my nipples and used his hand to make sure that my pussy was excited and juicy before he entered me. And he made sure that he didn't come early and spoil the fun.
And, lordy, was it fun! It was sex more intense than any I had experience, and something more. The extra was the wonderful way I felt helpless. I could not ignore those tight steel cuffs cutting into the flesh of my wrists, nor the way my wrists could not separate by more than a few inches. Constantly I felt the helplessness, even when it blended into the most incredible orgasm of my young life. I really believe it was one of the reasons that orgasm was so intense.
Later I lay beside him and was content. I still didn't understand what had happened to me, but the end result was good and that was enough for the moment. The half of my mind that had been pushing me along and the half that had been dragging its heels were in agreement. It had been good.
Still later he unlocked the handcuffs and put them on the nightstand. In the middle of the night I awoke and put them back on. In the morning we made love again and he made no mention of the fact that the handcuffs were back on me.
It would be nice to say that they lived happily ever after, the rugged policeman and the submissive little secretary who had discovered a joy she never knew was possible in their sex. But it didn't work that way. Only in fairy tales and romantic movies. In real life, the force that had driven me into the whole incredible series of events reasserted itself and I gave him a phone number not really mine. I wanted to give my real phone number but the wrong number just came out by itself. Then I drove away, knowing inside that I would not be visiting him again. It was not logical. I should have wanted a repeat performance, and as soon as possible. But I found myself leaving him. I didn't regret it. It was - like everything else that had happened that night - simply what I had to do.
I drove home and spent most of Sunday afternoon putting a coating of wax on my sports car and buffing it to a high polish.
CHAPTER II
SECOND TIME
The next week went by pretty normally. I drove to work, worked and drove home. No urges to do strange things. I thought about what I had done many times that week, but the best guess I could come up with was that I had simply built up too great a hormone balance and my body had been driven to do things I normally wouldn't. A girl who hadn't had sex in almost a year can get pretty frustrated, I told myself. That didn't totally make much sense but it was the best I could come up with. And everything was back to normal. The black velvet dress was back in the closet, those high heels resting under the dress away from my normal shoes. There was a nagging feeling that perhaps I have been living my life wrong if I could be experiencing such wonderfully intense orgasms, but the mental guardian of my virtue was back in control again and I had no desire to run out and get screwed again.
All went well until Saturday afternoon. I was walking through the shopping mall, just window-shopping, something I sometimes did. A girl can't stay cooped up in her apartment all weekend, you know. Well, I happen by this swimsuit store and froze in my tracks. There, in the window, was the tiniest string bikini I had ever seen. It couldn't have weighed even half an ounce. The tiny bit of material that covered each nipple was only a couple square inches. And I do mean that it covered only the nipples, not the breasts. And the material was very silky and thin. On the store dummy there were no nipples to show through but I was sure that on a real girl every bit of her nipples would show right through. The material would sort of mold onto her flesh. The triangular piece that covered the pubic area was not much bigger than those tiny pieces over each nipple. The part of it that went around the hips and then disappeared somewhere between the buttocks was no more than a string. I couldn't imagine a swimsuit that covered any less and could still be called a swimsuit.
The whole effect was to make a girl look more naked than if she wore nothing. I had to compare this tiny thing to the bathing suit I had back in my dresser. You could have made a hundred of these out of the material in my conservative one-piece suit. Maybe two hundred.
Suddenly I was inside the store asking if they had one of those black string bikinis in the window in my size. A minute later I was walking out with a tiny package tucked into my purse.
Strange happenings, indeed. I had no idea why I had bought it, nor where I would ever wear it. Maybe on my wedding night, whenever that might be, for my husband. Certainly not to the beach.
The afternoon was only half gone. My 450SL purred all the way back to my apartment. Once inside I took that package out of my purse. As I held the bit of paper in my hand, I wanted to laugh. It was so incredible that I would ever think of wearing such a thing. But, since I had bought it, I told myself that I might as well try it on.
It fitted, I had to give it that. And it looked incredibly sexy on me. The girl in the mirror would turn heads on the beach, no question about that. I lifted myself up on toes and did a half turn. Very nice, I heard myself saying. Very nice indeed.
You can probably guess what happened next. I found myself putting my pair of high heels on - they matched, both were shiny black - and taking my keys and wallet in my hand. Then I left the apartment.
I could not believe that I was walking out to my car dressed in next to nothing! Fortunately no one saw me and quickly my bare bottom was on the genuine leather seat and my 450SL was purring as it headed towards the beach. It found a parking place only a block from the sand and surf. I marched towards a scene that could only end in extreme embarrassment.
The beach was crowded, for it was a warm afternoon. Not as crowded as the summer would bring, but there was a fair number of people. Of both sexes. Slowly I walked out along a sidewalk, my high heels clicking against the concrete. Then I turned and walked across the sand towards one of the rocky breakwaters. Every quarter mile along the beach the city had piled up a line of huge boulders stretching a couple hundred feet into the water. I think that was to break up the rip tides or something. Mostly, fishermen used them like piers. But that was in the evenings and mornings; this was still too early for most fishermen.
Walking in sand with high heels takes a great deal of skill. I know. Yet I managed not only to keep my balance but to also put on a pretty good show of wiggling my ass from side to side. I told myself that it was just the way I had to walk with those heels in the sand; that I was not showing off. But either way, the effect was the same. Heads turned. Tongues hung out and drool dropped to the sand. The teenage boys and young men openly stared and smiled after they recovered from the first shock. The young girls looked and frowned. This was unfair competition, they seemed to say.
It never occurred to me to take the shoes off and walk barefooted on the sand.
I reached the rocks and found one that was sort of flat on top. There I planted my bare bottom and arranged my legs in a graceful display. I leaned back on my hands, thrusting my breasts out to the sun. I couldn't have posed better had I been a fashion model. I was showing off and, oddly, I didn't mind it.
When I first headed towards the beach I was sure that I would be blushing from head to toe, and in that outfit every square inch of blush would be seen. But once I was in front of those sun worshipers I didn't feel embarrassment at all. Pride, that's what I felt. What I had to show was every bit as good or better than anything they had.
This was incredible! Wondering if that sex the week before had loosened some nuts in my brain, I sat there on the rock and displayed everything I had for all to see. And inside I was telling them to eat their hearts out. I felt sexy and knew I looked sexy.
Actually, the sun was warm and felt pretty good. Getting a good tan had never been a big thing for me, but right then I knew that my untanned skin would look better after a few days in the sun. And I didn't really have to worry about an all-over tan with the bikini. There wouldn't be much in the way of tan lines.
I also knew that in addition to attracting attention, I would pull the male hunks that hang out at the beach like a magnet. I had been to the beach a few times and knew that there was a crowd of good looking and well built men who hung out there, working on their tans and flexing their muscles at anything female. It was a youth courting ritual. When the sun went down, each successful hunk would haul off his catch of the day for some dancing between the sheets. The beach was a great sexual hunting ground.
And into that hunting ground came I, about as naked as you can be without being arrested, a choice target. I could feel male radars homing in. And, to be honest, I wasn't too sure about not being arrested. Just because I bought the swimsuit in a store doesn't mean that it's legal, does it?
I hadn't been enjoying the warm sun too long when the first predator struck.
“Hello, babe! I ain't seen you here before.”
I opened one eye and beheld a six foot, two inch pile of muscles standing over me. “Can't you do better than that?” I asked.
“Huh?”
“The line. Why can't a man come up with something different to say now and then?” I smiled sweetly at the Greek god. Inside I was wondering if that line about knowing how to handle a girl was going to come out of my mouth. “My name is Nancy,” I told him. “And if you want to stand a chance with me, you'll have to do better than that.”
“Huh? Like what, babe?”
“For one thing, you can stop calling me ‘babe’. That's degrading. And then you can tell me why I should even keep talking to you.”
He looked puzzled but finally rose to the occasion. “’Cause I'm the bitchin’est guy on the whole beach.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Huh? I'm the best, that's what it means.”
“The best at what?”
“Everything.”
“Can you play chess? Quote Shakespeare? Paint a seascape? Write a book?”
“Huh? What you talking about?” Then, suddenly a light bulb went on in his head. “I'll tell you what I'm best at - I'm the greatest in bed.”
“Probably at sleeping. Look, beach boy, if you had me, a piece of fried chicken, a loaf of French bread, two pillows, and some rope all in a motel room, what would you do?”
“Well...” I could see the wheels slowly turning, trying to make some sense out of a conversation not going as they usually did when he hit on a skin-flashing “babe.” “We could make love,” he offered with what I'm sure he thought was a sincere smile but looked more like a leer. “Then we could eat.”
I sighed. “Wrong. Get lost.”
“Well, what am I suppose to do with a loaf of French bread? Oh, you don't mean...”
“No, I don't. You're just not my type. Now, how about moving? You're blocking the sun.”
He frowned but did move away. And I had lied. He hadn't been blocking the sun at all.
A couple other beach bums came up but I sent them away after demonstrating that when a male body contains too much muscle, there's no room for brains. Most of them seem to think that all they had to do was pose a bit, flex some muscles and hint that you were the lucky one. Except for one guy who, having undoubtedly witnessed his friends doing the crash-and-burn, simply walked up and asked, “Wanta fuck?” I gave him the slow look over from head to toe, then shot him down. “Does your handler know that you've gotten out of your cage?”
It's really great being a beautiful female, you can say anything to a guy and get away with it. Had I been a male, most of the things I said would have gotten me punched in the nose.
The muscle building bunch finally gave up on me, which, to be honest, was a bit of a surprise to me. Not that they gave up in the face of constant rejection, but that I was rejecting them. I had assumed that my strange actions were the results of an over production of hormones making for a much increased sex drive. But here I was, turning down some pretty nice physical specimens. Real hunks, as they say. What the hell was my hormone-driven body thinking?
I stood up to leave, but something wanted me to stay there. And on the rocks, which didn't make much sense since the sand was much softer on my bottom. Idly I walked out to the end of the rocks. The ocean was making hissing noises as the waves caressed the stone, and the gentle afternoon breeze caressed my skin and teased my hair. For a while I stood on the last large rock and looked out over the ocean, enjoying the view and wondering what would come next. I had reached a stage where I didn't fight these strange compulsions coming over me. I simply went along with them. So far all that had resulted was a pleasant night with a police officer and exposing my body to a bunch of beach bums who saw plenty of nearly naked female bodies every day. I was a little puzzled about the handcuffs bit, but at least that hadn't been painful or harmful. In fact, it had been rather exciting to have my hands locked behind my back.
I heard a noise behind me and turned to find a fisherman setting down a pole and a sack. He was handsome in a rugged sort of way, somewhere in his early forties, a little gray hair at the temples, and with a face tanned from time out in the sun. I watched as he sat down next to the sack and took up the pole. From the sack he took out a piece of newspaper wrapped round some small frozen fish. He cut off a piece of the fish and put it on the hook. Then he cast out the line and settled down to wait. Fishermen have so much patience.
It was then that the strange urges kicked in. I noticed a small piece of rope sticking out of the sack, and went to sit down next to that sack. “Hello,” I said. He turned to look at me, an open and honest appraisal of my fine figure and face. He was not leering like the beach bums did, but his smile included a healthy dose of honest sexual interest, along with puzzlement at why one of the sun worshipers would come over and talk with him. “Hi,” he offered.
I looked out at the ocean for a minute. He did the same. “Catch much here?” I asked.
“No. Don't really care about catching. I just like to fish.”
That didn't sound so stupid, really. I reached over and toyed with my fingertips on the rope. It was more like thick twine than rope but I found myself attracted to it. “What's this for?”
“To string fish,” he replied. “If I were to catch any.”
“Every catch any girls?” I asked sweetly. Oh, boy! Here it goes again, I told myself. Then I waited to see what this hormone-driven strangeness was going to get me into this time.
He gave me a puzzled look.
“One time I saw a photo,” I began. “It was on one of those docks with fishing boats in the background and there was a... What do you call it, a thing for lifting up large fish?”
“A hoist.”
“Yeah. Well, there was this guy standing there with a fishing pole in one hand and the other hand touching his catch. Only it wasn't a fish, it was a beautiful woman. She had been hung up by her ankles just like she was a fish. Her hands were behind her back. I think they were tied there. Couldn't see because she was facing the camera. She was smiling. She had a nice figure and a rather small bikini. I guess any fisherman would be glad to catch one like that.” I paused to see how he was taking this. He was looking me right in the eye but not frowning or anything. I continued, “It was an interesting photo. Have you ever caught a girl like that?”
“I've caught girls,” he said with a trace of smile. “When I was younger. Lots. But if you're asking if I've ever strung them up by their feet to take a prize photo, the answer is no.”
“Could you do it?” I asked.
He paused a moment before answering. I think he was beginning to catch on to my drift but not sure where it was going. “I have some beams in the garage. They would be strong enough to hold a girl-fish easily. And I have rope.” His raised eyebrow asked why I wanted to know.
“I was just wondering what the girl in that photo felt like. I mean, hanging upside down by your ankles. I don't think it would hurt too much, but it has to be a really weird feeling. Maybe an exciting feeling.” I trailed off the last two words. Inside I was amused at this new turn. Here I was strongly hinting to a strange man that I wanted to be tied up. Or something like that. Hanging by my feet, no less! That made being handcuffed seem downright normal. And the whole story about the photo was a fake. I'd never seen such a photo in my life.
His smile was larger now, and I liked it. When he smiled, I felt that he wasn't laughing at me but really cared about me. Not that he wasn't interested in my body - what healthy male animal wouldn't be, considering how good it was and the way I was displaying it.
“Probably would be exciting,” he said. “For both the girl and the fisherman.”
The ball was in my court. Swing at it or quit the game. “I think that I would like to try that. Would you like to help me? I'll let you take a photo?”
He looked out at the ocean for a few seconds then began reeling in his line. “I'm not catching anything today, anyway,” he said. “Sure, I'll help you find out what it's like to be a caught fish. Might be fun,” he mused.
He threw away the bait and attached the hook to his pole. Then he picked up the sack and started back along the rocks. I followed beside him.
“My name is Nancy,” I told him. “What's yours?”
“Phil.”
“Glad to meet you, Phil. And... And thank you for helping me.”
He smiled at me in an odd way but said nothing. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the beach boys staring at the two of us. Heaven only knows what was going through their tiny minds. This gorgeous blonde was walking off with a fisherman!?! And one old enough to be her father???
His truck wasn't too far from my car but for some reason I didn't want to tell him that I would follow him. Instead I got into his old pickup truck. Once we started, he glanced over at my figure then asked, “You're not just playing a game are you? I mean, you could be planning to go along until we get to my place and then laugh at me and walk away.”
“I really want to see what it is like to be hung upside down like a caught fish,” I assured. “I won't back out.” We drove a bit and then I added, “Do you have a camera?”
“Yes. You really want to have your picture taken?”
“Yeah. Should be interesting. So long as you give me a copy of the photo, I don't mind if you keep one for yourself. You can show all your friends so they'll believe your wild story about this crazy girl who came up to you on the beach one day, and asked to be hung upside down.”
He laughed. “Okay. We'll do it. That should be one very interesting picture.”
His house wasn't too far from the beach, a modest home on a quiet street. As the truck pulled into the driveway, I suddenly had a thought. “You don't have a wife here, do you?”
He laughed again. “No. She took most of my money and departed years ago. No one else is here.”
“Good. I'm not sure how a wife would take to your bringing home a girl and then hanging her by the feet in your garage.” I laughed at the thought of this man trying to explain to a housewife that it was all the girl's idea.
We went right to the garage. It had the usual collection of extra tires, tools and miscellaneous junk that fills most garages. I looked up and there were several rafters crossing the open space, all looking solid enough to hold my weight and more. Phil stood there looking at the rafters, too. Finally, I said something to get things going. “What kind of rope do you have?”
He went to a shelf unit and took a coil of rope out of a box. Then he reached in and took a second length of rope out. When he came back, I could see what he held. The coil was white cotton clothesline, about fifty feet of it. It looked a little soiled, as if it had been used. The other rope was a little thicker and made of nylon. It looked a lot stronger. I pointed to the nylon rope. “That looks stronger. You've got a big fish here, you know.”
He put the clothesline down on a washing machine and opened the nylon rope until he had one end in his hand. Then he just stood there like he wasn't sure what to do next. My guiding power, as I was coming to think of it, kicked in and I took over from there.
“Get a chair,” I said. “Or a blanket. Something for me to sit on.” He left and returned a minute later with a chair. While he was gone I looked at the rafters and at the ropes, and I felt a little shiver race down my spine. Was it fear, anticipation, or excitement? Or all of the above?
I sat down in the chair and held my legs out in front of me. “Okay, you can tie my ankles.”
He knelt down and began wrapping the rope around my ankles. When he had a dozen windings, I suggested that he pass the rope between my legs and around those windings. That would tighten all them down and give him a middle position to take the strain of my weight. After he had wrapped the rope a couple times around, he looked up to the rafter. He tossed the rope over the rafter and caught it as it came down on the other side.
“Now all we have to do is find someplace to tie that end to when you have me pulled up,” I said. “Someplace solid so I won't fall.” He looked around and found a couple of hooks screwed into the wall. Originally they were meant to hold tools or a bicycle or something, but they looked solid enough. “Okay, let's give it a try,” I said cheerfully.
Phil pulled on the rope. My feet rose before me, taking my legs along. When my feet were about the level of my head, I had to shift my weight down on the chair and hold on to the edge of the seat. When my legs rose some more, I found myself sliding off the seat. “Hold it,” I said, and then I eased my back off the chair and pushed it away with my hands. “Okay. Up some more.” My head was only a few inches off the floor at that point, but Phil pulled until my feet were nearly at the rafter. That put my head about the level of his hips.
It was exciting! The ropes around my ankles tightened up until they hurt, but not much. What was the big thing was the way I felt. Hanging upside down was something I hadn't done since I was a child and then it was not by tied ankles. I swayed a bit back and forth; it was fun. I let my hands hang down and found that I could not touch the floor. It was then that I began to feel the helplessness. I couldn't touch anything. Even with hands free, I was helpless. I saw an upside down Phil tying off the rope to one of those hooks. Then he was standing there, looking in amazement at me.
I guess I was a sight. A nearly naked young woman hanging by her ankles in the middle of a garage. It was wild and I was honestly finding it exciting. I bent my body, mostly to test my limits, and found that it made me swing. I guessed I could have gotten myself swinging pretty far back and forth that way. Then I found that by swinging my arms around me, I could get myself to twisting around. Like a schoolgirl I was having fun.
But I knew that I wasn't there to imitate a swing. There was more to this than making like a schoolgirl. “Have you got your camera?” I asked. Phil sighed and told me to wait right there. During the couple minutes before he returned, I swung back and forth a bit and tried to bend myself up to see if I could touch my ankles. If I could reach my ankles, perhaps I could untie them. I'm in pretty good shape and flexible. I found that I could put my hands behind my legs and pull myself upward. My fingers just reached the ropes around my ankles. but then I found that just touching them would do nothing to help me escape. The ropes were very tight against my skin. A little thinking told me that I would have to begin untying the rope around my ankles at the hook on the wall. At the very least, I would have to pull myself up until I could grab the rafters and crawl up there. That would take my weight off my ankles and allow me to escape. Which meant, if I was figuring properly, that I could maybe escape if my hands were left free.
Phil came in just as I was trying to reach the rope between my ankles and the rafter.
“Trying to escape?” he asked.
“Yes,” I answered honestly. “Just wanted to see if I could.” Then I lowered myself back to a hanging position. “With my hands free, I think I can climb up to the rafters. Okay, fisherman, take your photo.”
I let my hands hang down for the first photo. “Go ahead and take another,” I prompted. “I'll pose differently.” Differently meant that I put my arms alongside my body and held them against my side. He took one photo of my front and another of my backside.
“Phil, does that camera have a timer? It would be nice if you were in the picture,” I suggested.