Master of the House

I wriggled a bit but the effort was too much and I soon gave up.

I heard him take the pillows from above my head and, before I could wonder what he meant to do with them, he was shoving them under my stomach, raising me higher and tightening my tethers so that my bottom stuck out and my pussy felt even more vulnerable. Now I couldn’t even wriggle. I was absolutely restrained.

‘That’s nice,’ he said unevenly. ‘No, what am I saying? Nice? It’s fucking perfect. I could just look at you … for hours. All trussed up and ready for me. Are you ready for me, little Lucy? Ready for a ride?’

Chapter Eleven

‘I’m not sure, sir,’ I said, my mouth stuffed into the duvet so I wasn’t sure he could make out the words.

His throaty little chuckle suggested that he had.

‘I expect you’re feeling a little bit vulnerable. A little bit helpless. Maybe even a little bit anxious?’

‘Well …’ It was obvious. Who wouldn’t be?

‘Don’t worry, Lulu.’ I registered his weight drawing the mattress downwards at my right side. ‘Because actually you aren’t as helpless as you think. No, don’t look up. But give one of your wrists a sharp upward tug.’

I did as he sugge

sted and, for a moment, the tearing sound that ensued made me panic even more. But when the cuff fell away, releasing my wrist, I understood.

‘Oh. It’s Velcro.’

‘That’s right. So you can wriggle out of bondage any time you like, by striking upwards with the relevant limb. Does that make you feel better?’

He wrapped the cuff back round my wrist, good and tight. I relished the feeling this time.

‘A bit,’ I admitted. ‘Quite a lot, actually.’

‘Good. But don’t think you’ll have this easy escape every time. Only until you feel safe with me. Then I’ll move on to the real stuff.’

This made me wonder – would that time come? Would I ever feel safe with him? And, if I did, what were the implications of that?

Luckily, he didn’t give me too long to think, because within seconds he was on his feet again.

I let out a squeal as something cold and smooth landed on the back of my left knee, but I couldn’t squirm away because I was tied too fast.

‘What do you think this is?’ he asked softly, dragging it up the back of my thigh. It was light and flexible and felt like leather.

‘I think … the riding crop. The bendy bit at the end.’

‘You think right.’

He ran it down my other leg, all the way to my heel this time, then into my sole, tickling it. I could crumple my toes but no more.

‘Nooo, no tickling,’ I begged, my insides convulsing on behalf of my outsides.

He tapped the crop sharply on my foot.

‘Er, who gives the orders here?’ he asked imperiously.

I sighed. ‘You, sir. But it wasn’t an order. It was a request.’

‘Oh, well, requests are sometimes acceptable,’ he said, stroking my legs with the little leather rectangle again. ‘But they must be properly and respectfully made.’

‘Please don’t tickle me, sir.’

‘Well, you’re no fun,’ he said, tapping the crop lightly against my inner thighs, flicking it from right to left. It left tiny little bites of sting on my skin that didn’t have time to fade before the next nip. ‘But if I can’t tickle, you must let me do other things.’