She twisted and turned, trying to free her wrists. Her fingers were growing numb from being tied over her head for so long. In the darkness of her closet, her phone blinked on, vibrated her “times up” signal.
For the third time.
Somehow her “fail-safe” had not worked. If a fail safe failed, was it a failure? Her mind twisted the riddle that wasn’t a riddle at all. Maybe she was losing her mind? She shook her head, feeling her long hair sticking and tickling her back. It was hot in the closet. Her body was hot from the series of orgasms she’d had, and continued to have. The big vibe taped in her pussy rumbled on and on. Too bad she’d put brand new batteries in it before trying this self-bondage thing.
The knot that tied her wrists to the closet bar above her was supposed to be tug-breakable. She’d practiced and practiced before she ever tied it around her wrists. Except that in reality?
It fucking wasn’t tuggable. Breakable. Even remotely release-able.
Her legs throbbed in the 6 inch spike heels, her tits throbbed, wrapped tightly with the heavy elastics she’d affixed there. Her nipples screamed under the pressure of her swollen tits, and the clothes pins biting into them.
She was a fucking mess.
Panic threatened. She lived alone. No one would even look for her until maybe Monday if she didn’t show up at work. It was fucking Friday night, maybe early Saturday. She could not reach her phone, the frigging thing had slid back along the shelf above her when she had tried to turn off her alarm.
She should have been “done” 15 minutes ago–but she wasn’t in danger, her rational mind tried to tell her panicked brain. The closet wasn’t airtight. The sharp cramping of her cunt pushed past logic and fear.
Her right leg rose, drawing tight against her other thigh, and she bore down through the paroxysms of another orgasm. Hanging limply from her wrists, she panted through the aftershocks. The hot wetness coursed down her inner legs, and the sweet scent of pussy juice filled the small space.
How much time had passed?
She was groggy, exhausted from orgasms. Her legs trembled and she began to worry that she would permanently damage her tits. The tears came, hard and fast. Moving in panic, she banged against the upper shelf. Her phone tumbled to the floor, banging her arm and the top of her foot, which is likely what kept it from coming apart when it landed.
“Fuuuuckk” she moaned.
The face of the phone lit up.
“Oh! Gawd! OH!”
Carefully, slowly, gently, she pressed speed-dial with the pencil-thin heel of her shoe. Hopefully Sherry would be home. The phone went right to voice mail. She disconnected, not sure how much charge was left. The buzzing in her pussy persisted, making her moan and whimper.
That seemed to be her only option.
Wait…she could call Maria. Her neighbor was an early riser, so perhaps she’d be able to help. It would be incredibly embarrassing. But at least she’d be alive.
What was Maria’s number? Had she speed dialed her? Eyes closed, head back, she thought about it for a minute. Maria’s apartment number was 31…perhaps she’d been that logical. She pushed the numbers.
She could hear the ringing. And ringing…and a voice. Too tinny and far away to hear clearly…but a voice of a person!
“Maria! It’s Stacy from next door, in 33! I…I…I’m locked in my closet. It’s embarrassing, but I’m stuck and *ogawd*…please…help me? My keycode is 3963. Please…hurry.”
There was click and her phone went dark.
Had the full message gotten through? The orgasm slapped into her body, drawing the last of her strength, leaving her hanging limply by her wrists. Her head hung low, hair plastered to her face, her back with sweat and snot and tears. Her entire body throbbed, her cunt dripped. The closet stunk of sex.
The door flew open. She let out a squeak of surprise, yet the quick burst of fresh air almost made her cry for joy. Yet–it was not Maria who stood there.
It was a man. In the seconds she looked at him, she saw a very muscled, handsomely put together man. When he saw her, his mouth drew into a straight firm line, and his eyes blazed.
In moments her hands were free, and he was carrying her over to her bed.
“You could have damaged these…”
His large fingers worked carefully to remove the clothes pins, then the elastics binding her swollen tits.
“This is going to hurt like fuck-all,” he continued. In moments both breasts were free and the pain was excruciating. His hands engulfed her breasts, rubbing and kneading.
She moaned, whimpered, tried to get away. He slapped her hand when she grabbed his wrist.
“Enough, slut. I know what I’m doing here.”
His eyes bored into hers. Her hand fell to her side, drawn up into a tight fist as the embers of pain burned through her. Hurt. Hurt so fucking much.
She might have fainted from the pain. When next she became aware, she was covered lightly with a sheet. Her shoes were off, the bindings on her wrists were gone, her tits, though still sore, no longer felt as though they were going to explode.
She heard noises from the kitchen.
Who was that guy? Where was Maria?
Slowly she rose from the bed. She rummaged in her drawer for a long tee-shirt, then padded out of the bedroom. He was every bit as large as she remembered. Tall, broad-shouldered, his hands now worked at breaking eggs into a sputtering pan.
“You rescued me and now you cook?”
“You interrupted my breakfast. How do you feel?”
She blushed, remembering that he had seen her tits engorged, the heels–all of it. The look he shot her, as he looked at her flushed face, her lowered eyes, was somewhat amused.
“I’ve seen it all before. Worked in a dungeon after high school. And let me tell you, slut–that is about the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen anyone do to try to get a sex-high.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m Maria’s brother. She’s on a cruise, and she asked me to take care of her cats. We got a late call Thursday, and I was wiped out, so I decided to crash at her place. Lucky for you.”
“A late call? What are you?”
“Apparently, I’m the Dom who’s going to teach you a serious lesson about self bondage. No more, slut. Never again. No sex-high is worth dying over. And I’m a fireman. I’m used to putting out fires…and baby? You were burning up.”
It occurred to her that the vibe was no longer in her pussy. Her hand moved involuntarily to her crotch.
“Worry not…I peeled that tape of most carefully. Cleaned you up. You cum like a New York City fire boat!”
And gasped, as he turned off the eggs, and in a swift move, stepped up to her and grabbed a fistful of hair.
“Never again, slut. Am I clear on this?”
Her pussy did a little ‘omg’ dance, her heart beat fast, and she bit her lip, just like that silly girl in the grey books. It was hard to nod ‘yes’ with his hand buried in her hair this way.
But she managed it.
And a soft “yes, Sir” sealed the deal.