It all started when I was walking past the University. I looked in the window and immediately saw her. She was on that machine that works the pecs and shoulders. Strands of her light brown hair were matted to her forehead and there was a semi-circle of sweat on her t-shirt just below her chin. I really liked the way she attacked the machine, her face an exquisite contortion of pain with each rep.
The next time I saw her was at a fraternity party. I’d been on my way home, heard the noise and wandered in. She was wearing a red skirt that came to mid-thigh, black stockings (pantyhose, it would turn out), a black boobie top, and a red, light cotton jacket. What was most striking about her was that she was wearing four-inch heels, which took her to, I
guessed, an even six feet. This was a woman who wanted to be noticed. I saw two frat boys walk over to her, ask her something, she shook her head “No”–not even a smile, and they walked away.
She was staring intently at a girl on the dance floor–a tiny, blonde girl who wore fashion everything and–it was clear–never left a party alone. I grabbed an empty cup and walked over next to her.
“Pathetic, huh?” I said.
“She’s such a little nothing,” she said.
“Must be the hair.”
“Ugly blondes. Hate em. All of em.”
I looked at her hair. “But–“
She said, pointedly, “I’m a brunette. I dye it darker in the summer, but it’s brunette.”
A song came on that I didn’t know, but the lead singer’s voice reminded me of an old song. “Remember Romeo Void,” I asked. “Wait a minute, oh, yeah yeah yeah. They had that song”
The expression on her face told me that she remembered. She put her cup down on a chair and looked at me. We both said “Wanna split” at the same time but luckily I said “Jinx” first. This was especially lucky since neither of us knew the other’s name.
“You drive here?”
“No,” I only live a few blocks away.”
I punched her on her upper arm. It was like punching a brick, but she humored me by rubbing it with her other hand. “So do I.” I asked her if her place was empty. No, her housemate would be there what about mine? Well I didn’t know my brother and his girlfriend’s plans, but I had a feeling they’d said something to me about going downtown somewhere, to some kind of poetry reading at a coffeehouse somewhere. I remember them saying that “all the ubiquitous people” were going to be there. So we went to my place.
“I’m Alexander, by the way,” pleased that I hadn’t said Bee-Tee-DoubleYou.
“Jody Love.”
Turned out she helped run a DP department at a hospital here in town.
“Know any good blonde jokes,” she asked as we walked.
I tried to think of one that she would like, given what little I knew about her.
“Data Processing, eh? Mainframes?”
She nodded. “Mostly, yeah. We’re starting to switch over to PC’s.”
“So how can you tell when a blonde’s been at your computer?” I said. She shook her head.
“There’s white-out all over the screen.” She had a great laugh: deep, throaty, bottomless.
“Tell me another,” she said.
“And how do you know that another blonde was there after her?”
“Got me.”
“There’s writing on the white out.” That was my last joke along those lines, but I liked her laugh so much and the anticipation of holding her was so strong it was easy to improvise.
“And how do you know that a blonde with a degree was there next?”
“Well?”
“All the spelling mistakes have been corrected. And how do you know that the first blonde came back?”
“Wait, all right, I don’t know. How?”
“Because now there are smiley faces in all the o’s.”
We walked in. My place was indeed empty. “Wow, that tv is huge,” she said, as everyone does. “What’s that down below it?” She threw her jacket on the couch. Wow. What arms. She had a definition in her arms that I envied. “That’s a sub-woofer with a dedicated pre-amp,” I said, hoping she’d buy it. I grabbed a couple of Kronenborg’s from the fridge and clicked on VH-1, hoping for something slow. Never have I been so happy to see Mariah Carey. “Vision of Love. was on VH-1. “You know,” I said before she could finish, “I never got to dance with you at that party.” I put a hand on her hip and drew her towards me. I felt her palms on my back. Her hair smelled really good. Wow, was she ever in shape?
It was nice, slow-dancing with someone my own height. The body parts lined up differently than they normally did, and the newness was pleasant and intriguing. The Mariah Carey song was over. I was hoping that they would follow it up right away with another slow one, but it was that damned Rosie O’Donnel woman and her comedy show. Fuck. It was ironic because right after that stupid opening they cut to a commercial that said “Vh-1. Videos. That’s all we are. That’s all we do.” Yeah, right. I switched to BET and was rewarded with some Marvin Gaye. Well all right. “Where do you work out,” I whispered, as I felt our hips begin to grind.
“…at the university,” she said, and added, “So you noticed?”
I let out a laugh and said, “Well if it weren’t for these things right here” Before I could finish she’d taken my hand from her breast and began moving it to various places on her body.
“Oh yeah? What about this,” she said. And these, back here?”
“I never said you were hard everywhere.”
She placed a hand right over my crotch. “Well you seem to be.” We sat on the couch, she near the armrest, I next to her. She took a swig of beer and set the bottle down on the coffee table on a”Soldier of Fortune” magazine. (Where the hell did that come from??!). I reached my left hand behind her and rested it on a bare shoulder. I put my right on her right knee. We kissed. Her lips were very soft, buttery. And she had a way with a kiss. Her tongue became an expert explorer, searching throughout my mouth. I especially liked how she ran her tongue between my teeth and lips. I got the feeling she was looking for something specific, as if she had forgotten something. I couldn’t help it–this struck me as funny, and I tried, unsuccessfully, to stifle a giggle.
“What,” she asked, taken aback.
I moved my hand up her thigh and kissed her again. This time I was the one doing the search. My right hand became fascinated with the fabric of her stockings. I moved along, kissing along her jaw line to her ear, then down her neck as she pulled her hair back to expose more of it. “Like em,” she asked, meaning her stockings.
“They don’t feel like regular stockings.”
“They’re not stockings,” she said, flipping up the front of her skirt to show me they were pantyhose and that she wore nothing underneath. The photons must have traveled straight from her fur, pressed up against the inside of her pantyhose, to my groin. “They’re supposed to never run. We’ll see. Hey, what’s this,” she asked, reaching back with her hand behind her head and running it along the top of the couch. She had found a hinged metal ring that had been attached to the top of the couch.
“There’s one down here, too,” I said, directing her attention to the base of the couch where there were two more, “and there’s one back here too.” I was kissing her shoulder, but I could tell her interest had shifted to these metal rings. Luther Vandross was singing in the next video.
“What are they for?” she asked, and then answered herself. “To tie me up?”
I alternately pinched and smoothed out a nipple and whispered into her ear “Wanna try some things?” Her breathing changed markedly and she whispered, “Say that again and I will.”
“Wanna try some things?” I repeated, and saw in her eyes that she was trying to take in every detail of my face, of the room, every detail of what would surely become: a lasting memory.
“Ok,” she said, quietly.
I kissed her on her forehead, got up and said, “Hold on” and fished around in a closet.
“What are you doing,” she said. “Come back here.” She was used to getting her way. I filed the tone of voice she’d just used away in my head. I fished around, making sure she heard metal clanging. Finally I found a couple pair of handcuffs. They weren’t the good kind but they worked. I also found a plastic bag and dumped in some alligator clips and a set of jumper cables (just for show, of course). An image flashed through my head just then of my standing there with a horrible grin on, dangling the handcuffs from a finger. I felt a little nauseated at how ridiculous I would look like that so I just walked back and dropped them on the couch next to her, after grabbing a pair of thick wool socks (the grey kind with orange at the top) from a drawer in my room. She picked a set of the handcuffs up and immediately started examining them. They made clicking noises as she tightened them in on themselves. “Where does the key go oh I see it’s a button”
She opened and closed one pair a few times and said, “This is kinky.” I went into the kitchen and made a couple of stiff kamikazes, glad that I kept triple-sec around. I put the kamis on the coffee table. She slammed hers down and then drank mine, saying, “I don’t even know you. What if you’re a psycho?”
“Would a psycho waste the last of his triple-sec?”
“I don’t know–I don’t know if I could relax enough–I’ve never been– “
“Handcuffed?”
“Anything like this. I’m usually in control. But I know what thinking about it is doing to me.” She took my hand and placed it between her legs. She was soaked. She finished her beer. Another replaced it. She fished a roach out of a Whitman’s Sampler box in her purse and lit it. I pulled an alligator clip out of the bag and she squeezed it around the end of the
roach, which disappeared in a drag. “These things are very versatile,” I said, opening and closing one of the clips. “As you’ll see. She was playing with one, squeezing it open and closed and testing its tension on the skin between her thumb and forefinger. “W-where do these go?” she asked as I answered her question by pinching a nipple through her top. She gasped.
“Well, just go slow with the weird stuff. Or else…” She flexed a bicep. It was impressive. I got the message and resumed kissing her. Her top found its way off and I kissed my way down to her nipples, which were already stiff and raisiny. I ran my teeth over one and she arched her back. She laughed and shivered slightly as I rubbed the edge of a beer bottle over one. When my right hand finally palmed her bush and was moving the whole mass of softness as a unit around and around she threw back her right arm in a dramatic gesture and said, “All right, you got me. Slap the cuffs on. I did it. I confess.” I unrolled the socks and had her put a hand in each. Then I handcuffed each of her hands to one of the rings on the couch, just tight enough that she would be always aware of their presence. I pulled her down on the couch until her right arm was straight back behind her. As she was moved down her skirt rode
up until it was completely around her waist.
Her right leg was draped over the top of the couch and her toes were running around the ring back there and her left leg was bent and I could see her big toe inside the ring down there. Her legs were long and very strong.
I bent my head down into the crotch of her black pantyhose and drank in the heady, wild-oniony musk. I began nibbling on her outer pussy lips right through the fabric. I also began massaging from the very bottom of her pussy down to the perineum and back again in slow, firm circles. The fabric was slick beneath my fingers. I bunched up the fabric as best I could to create some slack and stabbed my tongue into the very bottom then drew it up hard across her pubic bone and dragged it along her clit. She gasped. I experimented with the material seeing how far I could push in a finger. Every time I did this the material would tighten over her clit and labia. “Oh,” she said. “That’s unbearable. Don’t stop.” I slipped under her right leg, reached into a drawer in the table behind her and fished around for some rope. It was gone, but there was a roll of duct tape. Better than nothing. I moved back and started wrapping her right ankle around the pantyhose. She started to say something but then stopped. She seemed to shiver at the tearing noise the tape made as it unrolled. Soon(I was going as fast as I could. Duct tape’s a real pain to thread through; it keeps sticking to itself.) both legs were well-restrained. I moved up between her legs, kissed her stomach, her breasts, and her neck. “So how does it feel to be, to be so–” I said.
“Helpless? Vulnerable? It’s weird. It’s kind of scary, which is weird for me, I mean, I walk home from parties at 3 in the morning in a miniskirt and I’m not scared, but this is different. I feel like, like when you’re at a horror movie and you cover your eyes with your hand only you peek through a couple of fingers, because you wanna see what’s going to happen next, you know?”
I kissed her and squeezed open one of the alligator clips and closed the toothy jaws around a nipple. I did the same with the other. She winced very slightly. “Hurt?”
“Just a little, but–” I squeezed them both down a bit harder and she bit her lower lip. “Because if you they don’t do it for you,” I said, pulling the jumper cables out of the bag, there’s always…”
She inhaled sharply and said, “Oh God, there’s no way–“
I squeezed open the black end and let it close around the duct tape on her leg. I didn’t let it close completely, just enough. After a few seconds I squeezed it open and removed it from her leg. Her eyes were wide, following the large jawed end of the jumper cable. I rubbed the metal over her ass, her snatch, her abdomen, and dragged it across her until it touched the underside of a breast. She shuddered. I rubbed the end across an aureole. “I’ll save these,” I said. “In case we need em.” I dropped the cables to the floor.
“These hurt?” I said. She nodded. “Well they look great.”
I opened up a couple buttons on the fly of my jeans, reached in and pulled out my cock, which had been hard since that Marvin Gaye song and had only gotten harder. I removed a Trojan from the drawer behind her head, tore it open and unrolled it on my cock, smoothing it out. I could see her face soften a bit as I did this. I guess this finally convinced her I wasn’t a psycho. I thought, ‘She hasn’t been reading alt.sex lately…’ I took my now-sheathed cock and rubbed it over her outer lips and clit, shuddering at the excruciating pleasure the fabric produced. The feeling reminded of a Truth or Dare game we had played here not long ago. I aimed the head of my cock at her opening and pushed in a couple inches before the material resisted and tightened over her clit, causing her to gasp and tighten her hands (through the socks) around the rings. I repeated this a few times, liking the odd way the material resisted and pushed me back out like a trampoline. But this wasn’t going to do. I leaned down, my head on her stomach and searched with my right hand under the couch. Found it. It was a stiletto my brother had bought off a street guy on a recent trip into New York. She looked at it as I held it. “W-what’s that?” There was fear in her eyes.
I knew that if I opened it right then she would scream so I said “I’ll buy you a new pair of pantyhose, okay?” and started pulling out the fabric at her crotch so she would know what I had in mind. “It’s okay,” she said. “I have plenty.”
I liked that. Even though she knew it was coming she gasped as I pressed the sliding button upward on the stiletto and the blade appeared with a “SHOOOP” noise. For the first time in a long time, I imagined, she had just felt that first adrenaline rush of fear. I pulled out the material of the hose and began cutting–around her shins–just above the duct tape. Her fear now blended with confusion, but her breathing was still quick and shallow. When I had cut a full circle around both calves, I began sliding the pantyhose up her legs, to create the slack I was looking for. As I tested the amount of slack there was by sliding the material into her pussy with a finger, she said “Oh” in a tone that signaled she saw what I wanted to do. Soon there was enough. I pushed the button the other way on the stiletto. The blade disappeared and I set it down on the table. I lowered myself onto her. She gasped at penetration. As did I. Even through the condom, the texture of the material that surrounded it could be clearly felt. As I sank in fully I saw that when my pubic bone hit hers, the material would stretch taut over her clit and would also give me that trampoline-y feeling and start me moving back out. I held her head in my hands as we fell into that most ancient of rhythms. She bit her lip.
“Your legs want to close, but they can’t,” I said into her ear. She nodded. I could tell that the alligator clips hurt her more than she had let on. “Concentrate,” I said. “Concentrate on what’s going on between your legs. Focus on that.” She closed her eyes.
Before too long she said, “Oh God. I can’t stand it. I’m gonna come. I’m gonna scream–“
I concentrated on the pleasure below, trying to will my own orgasm to match hers. I placed a forefinger over her anus and felt it involuntarily contract. My own orgasm began as she shut her eyes tightly and started to come, then just as suddenly opened them. Her mouth opened and she hit a note that even my old pal Mariah would envy. We were both completely spent, sweaty, satisfied. I pulled out, reached up and popped open the handcuffs. I also cut her legs free with the stiletto.
“Come here,” she said, pulling the socks off her hands and opening her arms to me. I rested my head on her chest and she pulled her legs around me and we drifted off like that.
We were awakened in a few hours by the giggles of my brother and his girlfriend.
