tagBDSMNeighbourly Relations Ch. 02

Neighbourly Relations Ch. 02

byprophet007©

I don't think, in my heart of hearts, that I honestly expected her to turn up the next morning. I had difficulty believing when I woke up that the whole thing hadn't been a dream, despite having thought and fantasised about it, gone over it again and again in my mind, as soon as I had returned to my own flat that afternoon. No attempt to distract myself had worked, and I had to stop myself from marching back down there and telling her how much I wanted to fuck her, right there and then. I wondered whether she would have been receptive to such an idea. Probably she might well have been – that was why the temptation was so great.

But no, I'd told her ten o'clock the next morning, so ten o'clock on Sunday it was to be. I wondered what she was thinking and feeling down there – was she going over it in her mind as much as I was? I'd forbidden her to masturbate, of course, but I had no way of knowing and no way of stopping her. I'd not been able to stop myself from doing so with thoughts of her running through my head once I got back to my flat – if things were half as bad for her and yet she was still obeying, she'd have to possess an incredible amount of willpower.

I was up early on Sunday, nervous, excited, anxious. The minutes seemed to drag by so slowly – I showered, dressed, thinking carefully this time about how to present myself... Casual but authoritative, was what I was trying to achieve. Short dark shirt, dark jeans...

8.53am.

Over an hour to go. I tried watching television but of course there's never anything on on Sunday mornings. Tried going online, or listening to the radio, but all the time thoughts running through my head of whether she'd turn up, how she'd look, what I'd do to her when she got there... The adrenaline was pumping, and I think what terrified me the most was not that she wouldn't turn up, but that she'd turn up and I wouldn't be able to think of a single thing to do with her when she got here.

Oh God, what was I going to do?

9.10am.

Calm down Ian, calm down... I found myself flicking through the books of hers that I'd confiscated, novels filled with all sorts of ways of restraining and punishing and generally degrading willing submissive women. That I had such a woman of my own to play with now... The thought was electric. I had to put the books away in the end, as they turned me on so much and I didn't want to masturbate again before she got there, decreasing my drive and excitement for what was to come.

9.37am.

She wasn't going to turn up. I had convinced myself of it. There was no way she was going to come – what sort of intelligent, articulate woman in her late thirties willingly allows herself to become some sort of submissive little sex slave to a man over a decade her junior who she hardly knows at all who just happens to live upstairs? I could be a maniac, a rapist or anything as far as she was concerned... Fuck, maybe she thought yesterday was some sort of assault? Maybe she felt intimidated? Maybe she's going to call the police, and it would soon be them knocking on my door rather than her?

9.51am.

Relax Ian, she's just not going to turn up, that's all. Women aren't as addicted to weird kinky sex as men are, surely? It was just a one-off experiment for her, she's not going to call the police but she's hardly going to turn this into a regular thing...

9.58am.

See? Completely quiet, nobody on the stairs, nothing... Wait, was that a door opening downstairs?

9.59am.

I can hear the click, click, click of stiletto heels slowly, carefully climbing up the two short flights of stairs that link this floor with the one Below. Oh My God! This is it, this is really it!

10.00am.

Knock, knock, knock. Three tentative taps at the door – I wait, looking down at my watch. Stand up, go to the door. Pause. She waits too, and then, a little more firmly, three more knocks.

10.01am.

I open the door. Cool, calm and in control – it suddenly seems to fit, my heart's still beating and the adrenaline is still pumping – especially when I see what she looks like, Oh my God! – but I know now what I'm going to do. It feels right and natural.

She's smiling, nervously but eagerly, her eyes bright and sparkling. As instructed, she is wearing a short skirt, so short it probably qualifies more as a micro skirt than a mini, only a few inches down from her thigh... If she was bent over it would ride up enough for anybody to be able to see what underwear she was wearing, if any at all. It is black and soft and smooth. Her legs are also smooth, gorgeously so, looking longer and sexier than ever today as they balance atop a pair of heels so high that I wonder how she can possibly walk in them. Black shiny leather shoes, they are... Mmmmmmm. Her top is also black, armless, cut low enough to be able to see a more than generous amount of her ample bosom. She stands there, still and silent, as I run my eyes up and down her, happy and proud to be inspected, keen to show that she has obeyed all instructions, but perhaps nervous of my reaction.

She looks superb, of course. But I can't praise her – that would never do.

"You're late," I snap simply. "It was ten oh one when I opened this door. I expressly said ten o'clock precisely."

She looks aghast.

"But..."

She knows better than to protest, however, and trails off, looking down.

"You'll be punished for your unpunctuality, of course," I say off-hand. "And for protesting. I hope you don't give me cause to punish you for anything else this morning."

"I'll try not to... sir."

The 'sir' sounds almost like a question, an attempt to establish just how she ought to address me, something we never discussed yesterday. We're still newcomers at this, trying and testing the boundaries, the rules and each other's limits, how the game is to be played. I like it though – 'sir'. Oh yes. I nod, and stand aside to let her in.

"In you come."

She totters forward in those heels, looking around the room as I shut the door behind her. She looks almost as if she is going to say something, perhaps behave like a normal visitor, say how nice the room looks – and it's true that I have made an effort to tidy up a little, as if it were some ordinary visitor coming. But it's not, and she realises this, shutting her mouth and deciding it would be best only to speak when spoken to.

"I hope you have obeyed everything else I told you yesterday," I warn her sternly, walking around her as she stands nervously in the middle of the room. As I walk behind her I look down at her gorgeous backside, and I have one of those wonderful moments of realisation – this isn't some random woman in the street in a short skirt who you look at and think 'blimey, I'd love a bit of that...' She's mine, and I can do with her as I please. I feel like a child at Christmas as I reach out and brush my hand lightly against her behind. She isn't expecting this and she jumps slightly, almost shivering.

"I'm not wearing any knickers, sir," she confirms as I keep my hand on her arse, squeezing and caressing one of her cheeks as I press myself up against her, my mouth against her left ear.

"Good," I whisper into it. "And the other thing?"

"O-other thing, sir?"

"You haven't played with yourself since I saw you? Haven't been messing around with yourself, getting your fingers all sticky and wet?"

She shakes her head, her smooth hair brushing delightfully against the skin of my cheek.

"No sir."

If that's true, then she's got a stronger will than I have. Not that I'd ever tell her that, of course. From the way she says it, I get the feeling that it is true, and I'm impressed.

"You wanted to though, didn't you?"

She nods, and again there's that wonderful feeling of her hair moving against me.

"Yes sir. Very much so."

"I bet you lay in bed all night pressing your legs together, trying to stop yourself, didn't you?"

"Yes sir, I did. It was agony, sir."

"Excellent..."

I lean down a little and move my hand from her backside to the back of her leg, drifting a finger slowly up and down, feeling how smooth her bare skin is there. She sighs slightly, the air gently flowing over her barely-parted lips.

"You like that?" I ask as I move the finger up to caress the skin of her upper thigh, just where it disappears under her skirt.

"Yes sir..."

I consider moving my hand up under the skirt, seeing if she's wet and excited yet, but I resist, stopping a few inches short of her most sensitive of spots. There'll be time for that later, and besides – I don't yet feel entirely confident enough to... Well, feel her up, basically. She's come here to be dominated, not messed around like a teenager behind the bike sheds on the night of the school disco. I remove my hand, walking around to stand in front of her.

"Well, if you're a very, very good girl for me today, you might be allowed a little satisfaction," I tell her. "But only if you're very good."

She bites on her bottom lip nervously in that stunningly sexy way of hers, and for the briefest of instants I simply want to throw her onto the couch and take her there and then, roughly, passionately, no fuss or preamble. But I rein myself in quickly enough. The best things, as they say, come to those who wait.

"I'll try sir," she says, really meaning it. But of course, we both know the whole idea is that she'll fail, and that I'll have something to punish her for.

"Good. I'm glad to hear it. Now though I have to inspect you."

"Inspect me, sir?"

"Well, you don't expect me to simply take your word for it that you aren't wearing any panties, do you?"

Her eyes light up and she almost grins, but she manages to make herself look suitably serious as she shakes her head.

"No sir, of course not."

"Good. Over here."

I point to the table, which I've already cleared the surface of earlier in the morning in the knowledge that it would probably come in handy. I realise as she stands at one end of the rectangular object that it's a little too short for her to be bent over comfortably, so for a moment I leave her, disappearing into the bedroom and bringing back two large, plump pillows from my bed, which I place next to each other on the table in front of her. She looks down at them and then at me, knowing what will be required of her.

"Lean forward," I instruct. She does, and standing opposite I get a wonderful view of the globes of her breasts as her she leans right down, into the pillows, arms outstretched in front of her. I move around behind her, and trace a line with my finger down the curve of her backside before I hook the finger under the hem of her tiny little skirt and pull it up over her waist. The skirt is tight and stays firmly up where I pull it, fully revealing the glorious flesh of her naked behind.

"Very good girl," I whisper quietly as I smooth my palm across the flesh, which is ever-so-slightly red from yesterday's exertions.

"Not too sore?" I ask.

"No sir," she replies, her head leaned to one side against one of the pillows I placed on the table. I smack her, hard, and she yelps in pain, drawing in a sharp breath.

"A pity," I say. Then, my hand still on her arse, leaning forward across her back to whisper into her ear:

"I'm going to make it sting so hard you won't be able to sit down for a week..."

An exaggeration, of course, but one that excites her as much as it does me. She says nothing, but I can tell by the way she trembles as I stand back up. If I moved my hand a little lower I could slip it between her legs, feel how wet she is... But I don't. I still don't feel as if it's time for that yet, time for me to touch her with such familiarity, even though I suspect she would almost certainly welcome such contact. Instead I draw my hand back once more and again strike her as hard as I can, so hard I can see the print of my palm left firmly imprinted on her vulnerable flesh.

We play the counting game again, aiming straight at thirty this time. When we reach twenty she loses count, and says twenty-one – I suspect she does it on purpose. We start again, this time going all the way up to forty, sixty strikes altogether having rained down on her delicate flesh. She moans and breathes deeply and occasionally cries out in pain or pleasure between strikes and counts, and I get carried away, putting everything into it, enjoying the simplicity of the feeling that spanking her gives, the release of tension and energy as I sting my own palm hitting her again and again as hard as I can, all the pent-up lust and desire and frustration on both sides being vented out.

But I know we're treading water, repeating ourselves. We did all of this yesterday – we simply cannot play the same games again and again if this is to continue. It's fun, but I worry about her becoming bored with me, with our arrangement, the terms of which are still uncertain to either of us. As she lies there, panting, struggling to get her breath back both from her excitement and the roaring pain of her glowing red backside, I know we have to move on, try different things.

"Stay where you are," I tell her as I stand back and admire the effect of the blows on her skin. "Don't move."

Again she says nothing, merely obeying without question.

"And close your eyes," I instruct her as I move around the table and head again into my bedroom. I suspect of course that they're already closed, but I don't want her seeing what I'm bringing back out with me. I want her to be nervous, have the delight and the anxiety of anticipation, of blind feeling.

Also, of course, I don't want her to see what a makeshift job I'm having to make of this – I've never done anything like this before, so I am unprepared, having to make do with the materials I have to hand. I return to the main room a few moments later with her vibrators and hairbrush – still in their shoebox container from the day before – as well as several of my own ties, the best thing I have to hand to secure her to the table with. I fear she'd laugh if she could see what I was going to use, so I am glad to see that she had obeyed and is keeping her eyes shut.

I place the shoebox on a free area of the table near one of her outstretched hands, the wooden surface smeared with the moisture from her sweaty palms, which have been moving around the table as she endured and enjoyed her spanking. I place the ties over the back of one of the chairs still next to the edge of the table, and I pick one of them up.

"Lift your head," I tell her.

She does so, and I pull the tie around it, covering her eyes, to doubly ensure that she will not be able to see anything from this point onward. I secure it with a knot at the back of her head, pulling it tight but not too tight – I have no wish to hurt her, not with this. Odd how I have no qualms about angrily striking her backside again and again and again, but I feel slightly embarrassed about the possibility of putting a blindfold on uncomfortably.

She breathes in noticeably more quickly once she is blindfolded – this is bondage, this is what I suspect she has been dreaming of for some time. Interesting.

Taking another tie, I secure one end to her left wrist and the other to the top of the nearest table leg – mercifully it just about reaches, stretching her arm out tightly. Moving around the table I do the same to her right wrist – she says nothing, and allows her arm to hang limp, submissively accepting her imprisonment. Both arms are now stretched out, tensed but not painfully so as far as I can tell, pulling her down onto the pillows.

I pick up the last two ties, moving back around behind her and crouching to the ground. Taking one of her shapely ankles in each hand, I lift them and guide them apart until her legs are spread, her feet still in their ridiculous but somehow alluring high-heeled shoes next to the other to table legs. I tie each ankle firmly to one of the legs, so she's trapped, spread and vulnerable.

Still crouching there once my work is complete, I look up – I'm only inches away from her sex, and I can see it, smell the overpowering scent of arousal, see how very, very wet she is. So open and exposed... If I leaned upwards just a little I'd be close enough to stick my tongue out and lick her. I could touch her, feel her, take my cock out and fuck her if I wanted to, she's tied down and trapped and couldn't do a thing about it.

I want to... God I want to. But I don't. I'm playing the long game here, there's so much more to do and experience before we get to that stage. Besides which, she'd enjoy that too much – she has to suffer first.

Instead I stand back, and admire my handiwork. I've never seen a woman tied and bound in real life before, in the flesh, inches in front of me. It gives me such a feeling of power, of control... But it's all the better for knowing she wants it, is a willing participant. This is not something I could ever do to a woman normally, but when it's part of a game, a consensual arrangement, the guilt and the taboo is not there and instead simply the glorious feeling of arousal and power.

"You're trapped," I say to her, pacing in a gentle circle all around the table so she'll never know quite where to expect me to attack first. "You can't move, you can't see... Bound and blindfolded. You love it, don't you?"

"Yes, yes I do..." she admits, breathily Then quickly, she remembers: "...sir."

Smack!

"Quicker to remember the 'sir' next time," I point out.

"Yes sir. I'm sorry."

"Oh you will be..."

Walking around her again, pacing slowly, quietly...

"You've always wanted this, haven't you?" I ask her. "To be in bondage... You fantasise about it, don't you?"

"Yes sir."

"That's why you downloaded all those photos from the Internet, photos of girls – women – like you, chained, tied, cuffed, unable to move, to resist... You always imagined yourself as them, put yourself in their role, in all your deepest, darkest fantasies, didn't you?"

"Yes sir. Always"

"How long have you dreamed of this for?"

She seems unsure whether to perhaps give a real answer or a fantasy answer in the game. Standing at her side, I reach around and give her another sharp smack, jolting her in her bonds.

"Answer!"

"A long time sir," she confesses. "Years."

"Has anybody ever tied you before?"

"No sir."

She sounds genuinely regretful that this has never been the case. I wonder why it has taken her so long to explore this side of her sexuality, but then again, I'm only just discovering this side to me as well. Well, only just discovering that I have the ability to put it into action, in any case. I wonder if it's all about meeting the right person, as it is in romance, that sudden click of compatibility, but this is no time for a serious discussion of such issues.

"Well now you've gotten what you always wished for," I tell her. Then, leaning in to whisper closely in her ear once more: "and you know what they say about being careful what you wish for..."

Carefully, and very, very slowly and quietly so that she won't be able to hear or guess what I am doing, I pick one of her vibrators – the shocking pink one – out of the box and walk behind her. Seeing from behind how exposed she is, hot and wet and quivering with anticipating, makes me yearn once again for her, but I know teasing her will be all the sweeter and longer-lasting a sensation, for her and for me. Again carefully and slowly, I move the vibrator to be so close to her sex it's almost touching her wetness. She can sense there's something there and I hear her breathing slow down almost to a stop as she prepares herself for whatever's about to hit her. I can't help but grin as I pause for almost a full minute, breathing as quietly as I can myself, the silence only adding to the almost unbearable tension.

Then I switch it on. Still not touching her, and only on the lowest setting so that it gently hums as it vibrates very, very slightly, but the effect upon Jane is still electric. She positively jumps in her bonds as the sensation of the air being disturbed about the vibrator hits her, and she can tell how very, very close it is. She pushes herself down, trying to touch her flesh against the vibrating plastic, but I pull it away sharply.

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