by Aya DeAniege
He had one of those sleeping masks on as a blindfold, and a bit gag in his mouth. His head was lowered slightly, but he seemed relaxed as could be, unbothered by my entrance. His jaw didn’t work around the gag. Across his lap sat a tea towel that had shifted, almost falling off, which implied he had been there for some time.
The only other thing on him was a big red ribbon, tied around his neck and made up into a bow. It was perfectly made but positioned a little lopsidedly because he moved after it had been tied.
Looking him over, my heart skipped a beat. There were a lot of reasons for someone to be tied up in the playroom. Some of those things meant that I could use him as I pleased until he called it. But that wouldn’t tell me where he had come from or how he got in there.
He was well-muscled, a little tanned all over, and apparently fed and healthy. And clean. He had a bit of scruff on his chin like he had forgotten to shave that morning, and brown hair just long enough to run your fingers through.
He looked like the type of man who got all the ladies. A man who didn’t need to be tied up to have some fun.
In fact, he looked a little more on the masculine side. That manly man who would never allow himself to be tied up. His muscles weren’t just from the gym. It almost looked like the physique from the labourers who had been doing the renovations on the hospital.
When it came to slum workers, they preferred to make them lift their own stuff rather than use machines. That meant that the slum workers built up muscles that rich folk just couldn’t manage.
His legs were unshaved, and his chest had a patch of hair on it. The hair curled between his muscles and spread just a little to either side, reaching for his nipples.
At his feet, I saw an envelope. I think it had been sitting against the leg of the chair but slipped down over time. I approached and picked up the envelope, wondering what was going on.
The paper of the envelope was thick and smooth, almost soft in my hands. The envelope had a faint scent to it, likely from the paper inside. No markings on the outside of the envelope to indicate where it had come from, or who was tied to a chair in the playroom.
Naked man, but I had the clothing for a woman in my hands.
His companion was nowhere to be seen. What I had in my hands wouldn’t have been able to fit him. He was too large for any of what I held, besides the necklace and earrings.
I walked away from the chair, putting distance between us. Safely near the door, I opened the envelope.
Inside, I found a single sheet of paper, folded once with the scrawling, yet somehow jagged writing that was oh so familiar.
Sorry, we couldn’t make it. Here is a consolation
prize. See you tomorrow night for your belated
birthday dinner.
-Mr. W.
The paper smelled of him. Warmth and comfort rolled through me at the scent of him. Safety, that was what I associated with that smell.
I told people he was like a brother to me, to explain away the oddities but it was so much more than that.
He would never hurt me. He never lay a finger on me without my consent. He would never cross that line.
And he was the only person in the world who could get away with leaving someone in the playroom, tied up and waiting for me.
I read the note twice, then turned to the man tied to the chair as it sunk in slowly.
My heart sped up as heat began roiling through me. That liquid heat curled between my legs.
Mr. Wrightworth was always careful in his selections. He was good at that, at matchmaking kinky people.
But the man could have just been a man picked up off the street somewhere. It could have been an elaborate prank. It wouldn’t have been the first time someone signed Mr. Wrightworth’s name, especially considering the fact that he always signed his full name.
The scrawling words, the scent of his cologne, that was what made me hesitated and look again. I read it again, just to be sure.
Then I turned over the paper and found another line scrawled on the back.
P.S. His safe word is pineapple, and he is sadly
heterosexual.
A wash of cold replaced the heat as I considered the implication.
Looking up at the man, bound and gagged in the middle of the playroom, I wondered at that idea. I looked down at the items in my hands and grabbed the dress, looking at the size.
My size.
The shoes?
My size.
The clothing in my hand didn’t belong to another woman. I was holding birthday gifts from Mr. Wrightworth. Gifts that he had strewn across my apartment like a crumb trail to the playroom.
He had been like that since he had come into money.
Not always, but whenever he knew he could get away with it, he gifted those less fortunate than himself with something wildly extravagant.
The year before, he had asked me what I wanted for my next birthday.
My response?
A man tied up, wearing nothing but a bow.
I should have seen it coming. I should have known that flicker in his eyes had been more than a flash of a fantasy or an idea. I had seen that look flash through his eyes before, but I should have suspected—with how he had begun gifting others things—what it meant.
From somewhere, somehow, Mr. Wrightworth had found me a submissive for the evening.
He had tied the man up, leaving him for hours on end. He did so knowing that I’d suspect he had pulled one of his bait and switches.
A ‘kidnapping’ that was the victim’s idea for the first little bit. He was good at those, and manipulation.
That meant that Mr. Wrightworth had planned the man waiting for me. He knew that I would want utter consent.
I wanted to make certain that this wasn’t one of those grey things that he liked to do.
The man tied to the chair had been given plenty of time to consider just what was about to happen. Likely just long enough to not be under that spell any longer.
All I had to do was ask.
“I need you to acknowledge consent,” I said.
The man nodded once. That motion made me bite my bottom lip as I considered him.
I had a naked man tied up in my dungeon who would be willing to do anything I asked of him. Who would participate in anything I wanted to do to him.
Oh, but won’t this be fun.
I left the dungeon and immediately went to the kitchen. I pulled open the fridge. My heart pounded in my chest as I looked inside. I’m not even certain why I looked. I think I was in shock. My tiny little brain couldn’t comprehend what I just witnessed so I was going through motions that I had planned on my drive from work.
My bottle of wine had been removed.
That did not make me happy. I had chosen that wine on purpose. Yes, it had been cheap wine, but it was what I could afford.
If he dumped it down the sink, I’d dig the bottle out of recycling and beat him with it.
My wine had been replaced with a wire wine rack filled with vintage wines. Those wines would taste better. I knew that, but I was more tempted to sell them.
From a glance, there were several whites and a couple of reds as well. All required a corkscrew, which I knew I’d find in a drawer even though I hadn’t owned one previously.
I found a note taped to the wine rack.
For after play.
-Mr. W.
I don’t think he was the one who signed his notes. I think he wrote them and, well. We all knew his writing and suddenly I couldn’t recall the last time he had signed his name.
Though, without that signature, I would have started calling around. I would have found someone to smack for the man in my dungeon. So, I wouldn’t mention to anyone that the notes had been signed.
Especially not with ‘Mr. W.’
The community had a rule not to engage in play or sexual activity if someone had been drinking. Some of us still had regular sex after having a few drinks. We actively enforced the rule for play, h
owever. I still grumbled at it, because I had wanted to take a nice bath.
Yes, I wanted to leave him tied up while I took a nice bath and had a big glass of wine.
Mr. Wrightworth would have known that, he also would have planned for that.
I opened the fridge again and checked the door. There was a fruit juice. A fancy fruit juice, but still just juice. I sighed and grabbed it, as that was all I could drink if I wanted to enjoy my willing victim.
While I could have broken that rule, I didn’t want to. It just didn’t feel right.
I poured myself a glass of juice and wandered into the bathroom as I opened the music on my phone. It connected to the bathroom and played my music as I plugged and began to fill the tub. I added all the things I liked in a nice, luxurious bath.
Meaning, I added salt and some cheap bubble bath I had left. I dug out the expensive bath bomb left over from my previous birthday that I had been saving for a special occasion. That would also go into the tub, once it was filled.
The phone rang through the speakers, and I sighed, glancing at the time.
“Hi, mom,” I said, which both answered the call and greeted her.
Every year on my birthday at the same time, she called me from some random country across the world.
“Hi, honey, how’s it going?”
“Fine, mom.”
“Are you married yet?”
“No, mom.”
“You’re thirty-four, honey. You aren’t getting any younger, and if you don’t settle down soon, you’ll be stuck with the bottom of the barrel, if your looks haven’t failed you yet.”
“I know, mom.”
Growing up, my mother had been amazing. She had been supportive, everything you could want in a mother. But after I grew up, she divorced my father. It was like she turned into this whole other person.
I didn’t like the person she had become.
Our relationship had become strained. We only spoke once a year. The conversation always went the same way.
“Well, you’re wasting your life. A woman’s only purpose is being a mother to her children. If I hadn’t had you, I wouldn’t have done this world any good.”
There was a lot more pressure on the low-rich to have a lot of children. Our parents assumed that we would end up in the slums at any second and the more children one had, the further the dept was spread.
There had been talk among the elite rich of taking the low-rich and dumping them into the slums. They believed that any amount of debt, even if it was student debt, meant that one had to be in the slums.
The idea had sent a lot of fear through the mid and common-rich. The tides were turning, more of the world was habitable again, so we could spread out. The human population was going through a boom because parents like my mother were telling their daughters that the only use of a woman was giving birth to children.
And for some reason that worked.
It just annoyed me. I tried to play nicely with my mother because I remembered at one point she had loved me for everything I was.
She had supported me and been there for me.
She deserved better than a snide remark and a map to the nearest cliff.
“I know, mom, but, look, I have to get ready for my dinner, so I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”
“Okay, sweetie. Oh, but I’m flying to Lardia tomorrow.”
“Okay, so you call me when you get your new number.”
“Okay, love you!”
“Love you too,” I said, ending the phone call.
I put my hand under the running water to test the temperature as the music began playing again. I adjusted the temperature until it was as hot as I could stand. Moving about the bathroom, I grabbed a fancy soap from under the sink, a face cloth, and a razer from under the sink to shave with.
I stripped off my clothing. Naked, I pushed the bath bomb in. Then I slipped into the hot water and relaxed as the tub continued to fill. Only as I relaxed did I recall the gifts.
I couldn’t remember what I had done with them. I had them in the room, but then I had gone into the kitchen and gotten juice. I might have set them on the kitchen table.
They’re here somewhere.
I was just tired, so I relaxed into the water and ignored that flash of anxiety. The items couldn’t have moved very far, they were probably sitting on the counter, and no one would be grabbing them on me.
As I soaked in the tub, I sipped the juice and listened to the music. And, as the water began to cool, I went through the motions of cleaning. That sort of a clean was ritualistic for me. I washed everything, then shaved, and then washed one more time. There was an obvious refreshed feeling, a comfortable sort of clean, as I stepped out of the water and pulled the plug for the bathtub.
I dried and walked from the bathroom to my bedroom in the nude. Not even a towel to cover me. Once in the bedroom, I opened my closet and stared at it, wondering what I should wear. I finally settled on pyjama bottoms and a tank top.
A man could get away with that. Why not me?
The bottoms were nice and comfy, and the top hugged my breasts. I liked the way that felt, so I went with it and bare feet.
While I had washed, I contemplated what I might do to do to my willing victim. I was still uncertain. All I knew was that I was going to go into that room and just make it up as I went.
I left my bedroom and headed back into the bathroom. Once there, I dried my hair and then brushed it and put it into a braid. I glanced at myself in the mirror, but only for a second before I left again. What I looked like didn’t matter because he was blindfolded. He probably had no idea what I looked like to start with.
In the bathroom, I took in a breath and then refocused myself. I used the toilet, because one always should when they are uncertain when they will be able to go next, and then washed my hands.
I brushed my teeth, just in case I had bad breath, and left the bathroom. Just outside the playroom, I stopped and shut off my music. Then I took in another deep breath, strapped on my backbone and walked into the room.
A giddy shuddering slipped up my back. I bit my bottom lip as I considered my victim. All tied up and nowhere to go.
He knew I was there because he heard the door open.
At the sound of it, he raised his head but didn’t turn toward me. If anything, he appeared to be waiting patiently for me to interact with him. Not eagerly, but patient at the very least.
“I have… very specific tastes,” I said as I closed the door. “Men typically don’t like what I do, or they are sissies and love it, but I’m not into sissies.”
Not as in I found a man who wasn’t a manly man unattractive.
I didn’t like the ones who came to me and wanted to submit but wanted ball torture or for me to fuck them with a strap-on. There were other ways to make a man submit. While I had gone through that phase in my twenties, I had outgrown it.
I still enjoyed beating them and whipping them, even cutting into their flesh when they permitted me to, but I was no longer interested in bending a man over and having him like he was my bitch.
“I’m going to untie you now because it pleases me to do so.”
I approached him and reached for the manacles first. I released first one, then the other wrist, noting that the manacles had not been pulled tight. He could have slipped out if he had wanted, or had, to.
Such as, if I had decided to go out after work and to a bar or something.
He wouldn’t have been stuck there if I had changed my plans. I reached for the gag and pulled that off, then hesitated as I reached for the blindfold.
They said the eyes were the windows to the soul for a reason.
But I only hesitated for a moment. Then I removed the blindfold and tossed it to the side. By the time I turned my eyes from my task to him, he was looking to the side and away as a good submissive should.
“This one is not permitted to talk without permission but for the following. This one is a slave to the Mistress and is to an
swer every question without hesitance and please the Mistress however she might choose. This one was trained by the Master for a week to ensure quality control and prepare this one for whatever the Mistress might please. After the Mistress chooses to play or not to play, the slave will make dinner for the Mistress and has been told what she likes best. This one is good in the kitchen, amongst other things.”
“So, you’ve cooked before.”
“Yes, Mistress, this one can cook.”
“Why are you saying, ‘this one’ like that?”
“The slave is nothing without the guidance of the Mistress. If it would please her, this one has been prepared with several name options should she wish to give this one a name.”
“I might consider that. The Master used you, you said?”
“No, the Master trained the slave to prepare it for service.”
“You don’t look like he used you.”
“The Master did not use this one. The Master ensured compliance but play never resulted in striking or sexual activity.”
“And how are you with that?”
“With the play, Mistress, or with sexual activity?”
“With sex,” I said.
“This one may be said to be adequate, but that would be Mistress’s decision. This one has been used as a sex slave for others in the past and has quite enjoyed the action. This one has been asked after again.”
“Used as a sex slave. You mean that you signed a contract?”
“This one is a criminal and is bound by law into servitude,” he risked a glance at me, then looked away quickly. “It was either that or prison. This one chose the option which would likely result in survival.”
In his look had been a burning hatred.
Perhaps not directed at me, but the fire was still there. There was a strength to him that others I had played with in recent years lacked.
Most submissive males were sissies. They enjoyed being under heel and had little of anything to them. To my mind, they were little more than vapid sheep.
Don’t get me wrong. They were good people, but a sheep couldn’t turn me on.
