I Trust You

I imagined myself chained, tied to a frame. Waiting, hearing whispered breath behind me, my skin tingling, waiting for the first flush of heat from a hand laid on my clothed body. But where.....?

He blinked. That was it. The page was empty after that. He absent mindedly swallowed a mouthful of cold coffee before starting to read again from the top. He could never have imagined her going out wearing stockings when they first began to email each other. Yet here she was, going to work, going shopping, and showing her legs and stockings to strangers. He knew they both wrote erotic fiction, but he had no doubt that this was Amanda – this was true.

He scrolled down, noting that there was no indication of the number of pages. He reached the end of that page, and it leapt onto the next, momentarily blank, but then filled with a picture which shook him. There, in colour, chained to a door frame, by her wrists, was a woman. He shook again. It had to be Amanda. His cock lurched.

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The first picture she had attached was of herself, from behind. She stood, balanced, on two-inch black heeled shoes, A snake of chain was round each wrist, but her hands clasped the ends of the chains. She had on her white blouse, and a black skirt. You couldn't tell it was the spoilt skirt from the picture. Her flat-mates borrowed wig covered her neck, the black bob-style fancy dress wig Linzi had worn ages ago to a fancy dress as Cleopatra. Amanda had remembered the wig, and it had taken some finding.. She was anonymous to anyone who saw it – unless they had been in her flat. And this was only going to Sam, and she trusted him to keep it to himself, or to destroy it.

But she had that feeling that he would look at his Word document time and time again.

But it had taken a lot of her nerve to do it, and then all of her courage to send it. She hoped he wasn't offended. And then once that step was taken, and the river crossed – what followed was easy.

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His hand was still shaking, as he rolled the page up and down, to get the full effect of the picture. His admiration for her grew anew, he knew what it must have taken for her to do this. The simplicity of the outfit, the anonymity of the clothes, it was perfect. An everyday woman, in everyday working attire, chained and helpless in a door. He wondered if she wore stockings? She must have. He noticed the tightness of the sleeves on her up-swept arms, the chains – god that was so erotic! Her calves, accentuated by the perfect heel, her arse...

He corrected himself. Her bum. Yes, because it was a bum, not an "arse", or an "ass". It was a bum. For it was a woman's bum, it curved, and swelled, filling the back of the skirt, round, curvy, kissable.....he wondered what it looked like in real life. He groaned aloud as he absentmindedly stroked his cock, tightly confined in his jeans.

And still he stared. So curvy, so womanly, so helpless.

He couldn't help but wonder if this was a fantasy of hers.

He dragged his eyes from the screen and stood, to stretch, to make himself more comfortable. He picked up the abandoned cup, and went through to the kitchen. As the kettle boiled, he wondered who had taken the picture? Maybe her flat mate? No. He decided against that. Did he feel jealousy? No. He just wished he could have been the one, he wished he could have taken the picture, could have taken her.... He walked back through, sipping the drink, and scrolled down again.

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I waited, hearing the breath, wanting to be touched, wanting to be shamed. Was I naughty for doing your dare? Was I naughty to let "him" see my stocking-tops? Was I bad to stand in front of a girl in a shop in my stockings and no skirt? What would happen to me? Would I be punished for being a tease? Why were my knickers so wet?

That was it? He read it through again, to catch every nuance. Was this a plea? Had she been hurt? Was she willing in this? Was this a fantasy, or was it real? He scrolled back up. She looked so...ready. He scrolled back down and read it again. He wanted to be sure he hadn't missed anything. She would know if he had. He scrolled down again.

When the picture flicked up this time, he definitely jumped in his chair, and his cock gave a defiant twitch, screaming to be touched, needing to be held. His breath was becoming ragged. Stunned, he scrolled the page up and down, he tried ignoring his rampant hardness, and to get his breathing back to normal. His heart was pounding, blood roared in his ears, his cock reared against its' confines...It took him quite a while to settle down, before he could accept he image before him, the sheer erotic picture captured here.

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The second picture, doctored as it was, had still been hard for her to send. Her skirt, in the first, had been cleverly arranged, so that the unpicked seam was at the front, unseen. She had spent quite a bit of time in front of the mirror, getting this look right, but she was delighted with the finished product.

She had carefully tucked the corners of the slit skirt into the waist band at each thigh, so that it formed a frame for her knickers and stockings. Satisfied with the look of that, she had then unbuttoned her blouse. The thought scared her. She wasn't in the bathroom, or her bedroom, but here in the openness of the flat. What would anyone think? The delicious naughtiness of it made her belly tumble, and her nerves jangle. She looked down with surprise, as her nipples hardened and strained, held captive behind the lace of her bra. If the thought did this to her, what would it do to him!

She turned the wig, and arranged it, back-to-front, so that the dark strands covered her face. She checked again in the mirror, peering through a gap held by her fingers. Yes, if she tilted her head forward, it would hide her face nicely.

It was the anonymity of their liaison that added that tension, that spark, that frisson between them. And she didn't want to do anything to risk their relationship. She pressed the timer, and assumed the pose...

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With one hand, he scrolled the page up and down, while his other unbuttoned the fly on his jeans, and searched to release his cock from within. As it sprang out, almost pushing his hand aside, he gazed in awe at the vision before him.

She must have been scared, tied like that to the door frame, surely. Her hands were still chained, he could see the loop still on each wrist. This picture had been taken from the other side of her, while she was captive there. The skirt had been slashed, ripped open, and formed a perfect inverted "V". There she was, on her heels, stockinged legs apart, the inverted "V" shape again matching the skirt. Her white thighs above the top of the stockings.....so creamy smooth, so perfect, so delightful to the eye, leading to the lacy blue knickers, cupping her mound, before disappearing under the top of the opening. The suspender straps, holding up those stockings, tantalising.

Her blouse was open, also ripped? Torn apart? He could clearly see the curve of her belly, that wonderful womanly shape. The bra, matching the knickers, held her breasts, obscenely, she seemed to be hanging forward, accentuating the hang of those wonderful orbs, almost as if offering them to the voyeur. Her face was covered by her hair, so he assumed she was hanging forward, her arms, mirroring the "V" of the skirt and her legs, taut, stretched upwards and outwards to the confines of the chains. His breath was again ragged, his hand lightly caressed and stroked the heat of his cock, clear spill of juices on his fingers, teasing and electrifying him. Such a sight he had never seen, and he flicked the mouse, so that it scrolled back to the first picture. This made him moan, and he had to stop stroking himself. He didn't know which picture made him harder, hotter, hungrier. The first picture was now different, in that his mind was simultaneously seeing the flip-side, the torn open-ness of her clothing. The thought of her, tied, helpless, open to assault within the doorframe, almost naked, waiting, ready? Would she be turned on by this? As he scrolled back down, he froze, as he saw, beneath the hairline covering her face, the dark push of her nipples against the cloth. My god, she was turned on. And then he saw the faint whisper of pubic hair, her bush caught behind the powder-blue of her knickers.

He moaned, and fell back, astounded, surprised, embarrassed, as his balls contracted and his spend gushed forth, filling his hand, as he still continued to stroke with the other. He was exhausted, he was drained. His balls began to ache as they emptied, and his cock began to soften. He looked down, the stain on his jeans leg, his hand, covered in cum. He felt dizzy, delighted, confused. "Oh my God Amanda" he thought, "What have I done?"

He felt ashamed at the thought of what he had just done. He was married, he had a wife, but he searched to try and remember the last time he had come like that, felt like that, been like this. What was he now? A cyber-freak? An oddity? A dirty old man? Dazed, he searched for a hanky, anything, to wipe his hands. Staggering, he rose to his feet, legs like jelly, and he drove himself forward, away from the screen, out into the house – the thankfully empty house.

Standing in the kitchen, he tried to regain his composure. His cock had softened, but not gone soft. He stared at his semi-erect little friend, before tucking him away and washing his hands.

Reaching for the coffee, his hand was still shaking, his body trembled, and his heart still raced. He glanced out of the window, aware of everyday life carrying on out there. He wondered what would happen if anyone should have seen into the secret world behind the door of number 75, to what he had just done, what had just happened.

He finished the drink, composing himself, and returned to the PC, urgently needing to scroll down and see if....but there wouldn't be anymore. Couldn't be, surely. What else could she have done to tease and delight him so. How could she have topped that last image. He held the mouse with trembling hand, and, taking a deep breath, he rolled the wheel, the top of the next page appeared....

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Air whispered around my naked flesh, openly on display were the hidden secrets I carried with me all day, the lingerie I bought with you in mind, the stockings I secretly wore for you, the suspender belt, holding those stockings up, the comforting tautness of the strap against my skin on my thighs when I moved, walked, and sat. The hidden Amanda, the woman behind the mask of everyday life, discovered, bared, left hanging for all to see. My breasts, painful with pleasurable feeling, straining against the lacy cups of my bra, the knickers, cupping my moist labia, juices seeping from within as I felt the air caress my skin and tease me so. A cool draft did nothing to stop the burning, the heat, the desire to be taken, touched, licked, sucked. How long was I hanging here, chained and shackled to be taken at will? Was it hours or minutes, was it for you, or the man who saw my stockings, or the girl who saw my legs? My darling, wherever you are, think of me, still hanging here, waiting wanting, desiring....Or has it already happened?

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What could he do? He was captivated. Where was the shy young woman he had first received an email from! She was gone, that was for sure. In her place was a blossoming, curvy, sexual, erotic woman. And she knew how to push his buttons! Was he that easy to read? How had she gleaned so much from him, in order to turn him on so? His mind raced with her words, and those images. The picture in his mind was burning even brighter as he scrolled down, then stopped.

He rolled the mouse back up to the top, and re-read those last words. Had she really been so full of heat and desire? Her words, after the images, were clear, her thoughts were visible, she had been so turned on by the thought of being captive to (her? his? someone elses?) the will and desire. Unable to resist, would she have moaned, sighed, screamed?

Again, he rolled the mouse down to the next page, almost hesitantly.

THE END

It appeared at the top of the page, in capitals.

No! He almost shouted out loud, such was his disappointment.

He rolled back to the previous page, and re-read the script. What on earth had happened after that last picture! Almost angrily, he flicked the mouse so that the next page appeared again. The taunting words flew up to the top of the screen, almost mocking him. He groaned, disappointed, but wait....

There, at the bottom of the screen, he saw the top of another picture appear. The little tease! Oh my word. She was the perfect foil to him! She must have known that when he rolled onto that page, he would see "The End". And she had left a gap before inserting another picture. Almost hesitantly, he began to scroll down. "Would this be the end?" he thought.

The page stopped, the mouse would scroll down no more, this was it the last picture, the last page, the last instalment.

He gazed at the image, eyes not believing what he saw. His cock lurched, unwontedly in his jeans, and he sighed. This could not be happening. How could he be becoming so hard, so soon after he had just come? But with resigned fingers, he began to unbutton the fly, and release his engorged cock from his jeans, and he knew, as soon as he held it, that this would not end here, He would come again.

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This had been even harder than she thought. How to finish the complete teasing of him. To show him her face? No. She knew that that would not be what he wanted. It might break that bond between them. Cold clear pictures would possibly destroy all that the imagination had given them Like a desired Christmas present, or a saved-for treat. She always felt that the actual receiving, or opening of the gift, was always a let down, after the anticipation.

This had taken a few shots to get right. But the end result? Even she felt proud of the image. One that she would keep above all others. Experimenting with the zoom, and then with cropping, had taken a while, but she knew, deep inside her, that the image had the final potency to follow the first two. And each stood well on it's own, she admitted, but this would be the coup de grace, and hopefully one he would admire. The baby oil had worked a treat!

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What could I do? I gave in to my desires. And to your dreams. Amanda.xx

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The picture in front of him was perfect. Clear, crisp, sharp. It was a close up, the full width of the page. Taken from the front, again. The open scar of the skirt pointed upwards, but not to it's apex as in the previous picture.

The top of the frame was filled by the expanse of her thighs, above the stocking tops, the smooth flesh stopping just below where he would have been able to see her lips, her bush, her moistened (ravaged?) open slit. The legs, sheathed in nylon, tapered to the knees, down over the shins, down to those black, heeled shoes, toes pointing outwards, so that the heel was visible, the toes almost pointing into, and touching, the corners of the photo.

And there, on the left ankle. The crumpled, dangling knickers. Lacy, powder blue, discarded but not removed. He couldn't tell if they had been ripped off, or if she had been made to step out of them. He tried to imagine what lay above the top of the frame. A sweat-sheened body? A trembling belly? Suckled breasts, freed from their lace? His eyes were drawn back down again to those knickers, hanging from the ankle, the shape of the calf muscle visible above them, the ankle, turned slightly, the lace delicate against the nylon on her skin. The shine.

No! He couldn't stop himself. His hand gripped his shaft tightly, and began to work backwards, and forwards. No delicate touch this time, no teasing delight and unexpected erupture. No – this time he was intent on making himself come, he was past reasoning. There, in the gusset, in the crotch of the powder blue, a shine, a glisten - they were wet.

She had come in them, she had enjoyed it. He stood, pressing the base of his cock against the desk to, stroking himself, then arching his back as he spasmed, hi white cum dribbling from his cock to lay pooled on the varnished pine. Panting, he sat back down, and wiped his brow. He stared, amazed, embarrassed, but sated, as he imagined her, imagining him, what he had done, what effect she had had with those words, those pictures.

It was then and only then, that he fully appreciated how much she had taken from him in their correspondence. He flicked, backwards and forwards, between the three pictures. He tried to ignore the flagging efforts of his cock, wanting to become hard, but merely being painfully semi-erect, as the penny dropped, and he knew he admired her so much more for this act of bravery. It had been such a big step, and not one that he was sure he could surpass.

In not one picture, none of them had he actually seen her body. In each of them, she was covered. From the teasing rear shot (he groaned again at the sight of that curvy, biteable bum), to the front shot, to the legs. You couldn't actually see her breasts, just the promise of them, and the hint of that nipple. You couldn't actually see her sex, just the hint of her hair there under the knickers. That glisten in the knickers. She was a master of the erotic tease. Somehow, she had managed to give of her all, yet shown nothing. Behind those pictures, there lay the power of a sexual woman.

Submissive? Yes, perhaps. But he shook his head in wonder. Who really held the power here?

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He logged on, a blank email before him, and with trembling hands, he began to write to her.....

My darling, teasing Amanda

One day tell me how, but what pictures these are. You want to know what happened, what effect you had one me. I suspect you may already know, but I will tell you, in exact detail.....

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