tagNovels and NovellasVirtual Slavery Ch. 01

Virtual Slavery Ch. 01

bywltedford©

Winston

There is nothing sexier than a woman saying, "I will do anything for you," and meaning it. Or thinking she does.

Over the now almost four decades that I have been sexually active, several, one could even say many, women have offered themselves to me completely. I don't deceive myself that every woman wants that. I don't know that even most women do, though I suspect that, despite trends in sexual politics, they might, at least for a while. But I have always known that it is what I want from a woman, and there must be something in us that recognizes one another and brings us together.

My greatest pleasure has been in exploring the limits of that 'anything.'

With some woman I knew that they really didn't have any idea of what 'anything' might entail. When I was in my mid-twenties I was in bed with a woman of forty, which seemed old at the time. It was I think only our second time together and she had just left a long dull marriage, when, just after I fucked her harder than she had been fucked for ten years or perhaps ever, she surprised me by spontaneously saying she would do anything for me. My hand was between her legs and I put a fingertip against her asshole and said, "Anything?" And she gasped, "Oh, I didn't mean that." She was quite beautiful with a face reminiscent of Ingrid Bergman, and we continued to see each other for a time and had good, if conventional sex, without ever going further. The limits had already been defined. For her, just saying the words to a man was surrender enough.

The only way to define limits is to exceed them, and with the women I have loved, there really weren't any, except perhaps death and certain scatological pursuits that I don't condemn but in which I am not interested. I like to fuck asses, but I prefer that they be clean.

Before Lynn, the last two significant women in my life were Julie, whom I married, and Anne, with whom I lived for five years. There truly were no limits with either of them. Both were tattooed with my initial: Julie on the tender skin just to one side of her cunt-she had a high pain threshold, but I can still see the muscles in her abdomen involuntarily clench as the tattooist's needle marks her-and Anne on her ass. Both were pierced: Anne, who was first, a single ring in her left nipple; Julie with rings in both nipples and in both labia minor. The holes in her labia were cauterized by a physician while we were vacationing in Sydney, Australia,--whom, not at all incidentally I had her suck off as payment for his services-and though they were usually filled with golden loops were large enough to take the bail of a lock. When we returned home to California I installed a padeye in the floor of our bedroom to which I could lock her, her inner lips stretched almost to the point of tearing, her ass pressed down hard on her heels until her knees and feet turned white. True immobility. She hardly dared breath. Sometimes I merely left her there. It was torture enough when the blood flowed back into the numbness when she was released.

Anne and I eventually drifted apart-I assume she had the tattoo removed or disguised-and Julie died in a car accident on her way to pick me up at the airport, proving once again as my former employer likes to remind us that flying is safer than driving. I flew literally millions of miles, including Viet Nam, without a scratch, and she is crushed by a drunk on the approach to the Golden Gate Bridge. We had been together eight years. It was a perfect match. I think we would have stayed together...I almost said 'for life', but we did.

I don't know when I started to compromise, except that it was sometime after her death and I turned fifty. It was not until this past year that I realized how much I have accepted compromise. Certainly there was no compromise when Lynn and I first met.


The flight from Boston to San Francisco was routine. An hour in, Jan, the chief attendant and Julie's closest friend who had been worried about me, came into the cockpit and mentioned that there was a very pretty girl alone in first class. I recall that she said 'girl', and that is what I thought Lynn was too when, after a while, telling myself that I needed to stretch my legs, I went aft. She was pretty and she looked like a student in jeans and a faded Harvard Athletic Department sweatshirt. A student in first class means a daughter of wealth. She was asleep, turned on her side in a reclined chair. I could not tell much about her body, but she had kicked off her shoes and her feet were bare. No polish on toe or finger nails. No lipstick. No makeup of any kind. But she had very sexy feet.

It is not often that one can trace one's sexual preferences, which are generally shaped by so many brief and tenuous influences, but I know about me and feet. A warm May afternoon. I am a freshman at Point Loma High School-my father was a pilot before me and like many who were in the Navy during WWII remained in San Diego afterwards. An algebra test. The room is quiet. I glance up from my worksheet and see the naked foot of the girl sitting directly in front of me, arching up on her toes from a flat sandal. I have an immediate erection. My mind moves from her bare foot to her bare calf up beneath her skirt to her bare thigh to her-at least in my imagination-wet pussy. I don't remember the girl's name or even her face. I think she was blond. I certainly don't remember how I did on the test. But I have always remembered that foot. I was still a virgin at the time. I went home and masturbated furiously. And I have seen that foot again hundreds of times when I have been fucking a woman from behind and she comes up on her toes.

I returned to the cockpit and, but for a faulty warning light that required an unscheduled landing in Denver, that might have been it. I stopped being surprised by the random capriciousness of life in Viet Nam. But it was in fact the right time for both of us, for that matter probably the only time in either of our lives when we could have met without glancing off one another.

We left the aircraft at the same time. Despite the apparent differences of our ages, which I assumed might be thirty years but is in fact twenty, I started a conversation, which went well enough to lead to my inviting her to the pilot's lounge, where I learned that not only was she not a student, she was thirty-three and the manager of a well-known five star rated mutual fund, who had just become the first woman partner in the long history of an old Boston firm. Ironically in a society that so relentlessly pursues youth, her appearance was a handicap she had to overcome to gain respect and authority.

She was taking a month's vacation to Tahiti and New Zealand before assuming her new responsibilities. She let me know that this was her first vacation since a divorce two years earlier and the first of any length since she left school.

The call soon came for me to return to the aircraft. As I had expected, the malfunction was in the warning light not the fuel system it was intended to monitor. Before I went, I asked how much time she had in San Francisco. With the delay, there would be less than an hour before her next flight was due to depart. The same thought remained unspoken between us: I flew regularly to Boston. I knew her name and firm. To say I would call her would be banal, but we both knew I would.

A half hour after takeoff, Jan came to the cockpit. "From the first class cabin, Captain," she smirked and handed me Lynn's business card. "Turn it over."

On the back was written, with what I would come to know is characteristic decisiveness, 'Timing is everything. I'm changing plans.'

That first month was perfect.

I have never forgotten her, but Julie had been dead long enough; Lynn's divorce had been over long enough.

Everything was new, even sex itself.

After we collected her luggage, it took almost an hour to reach my house in Tiburon. Neither of us felt the need to talk much in the car. We kissed for the first time when I opened the door for her. I led her directly to the bedroom. Our clothes seemed to fall from us. She is naked on the bed, on her back, her knees apart, watching me. I have kept my body and at first glance it is not much changed from that of the world class swimmer I once was, though I do not pretend that closer inspection does not reveal a harsher truth about the passage of time. She says, "You are beautiful."

I say, "So are you." Unlike California women, her skin is untanned, white, luminous. Her breasts medium sized and perfectly formed with large dark nipples. Her waist small. Voluptuous flesh on fine bones. She looks about nineteen.

I start to lick her, but she grabs my hair and says, "Just fuck me." I move up, her legs over my arms. She gasps as I slide all the way in with one motion. Usually I take my time, but I just let myself go. She cries out several times. A man never really knows, but she seems to come. Holding her down with my hands against her arms, I keep slamming into her. Her breasts shake violently. Tendons in her neck strain. Her eyes actually roll back, and she tells me later that she thinks she lost consciousness. I let myself come. She also tells me later that she had stopped taking the pill and didn't even think about getting pregnant. I tell her that I have had a vasectomy. Sometime during that month I even tell her, and mean it at the moment, that this is the first time I have ever regretted the vasectomy because I might have wanted to have a child with her. It was that kind of month. Fortunately we were saved that mistake.

Soon enough we explored. She accepted everything. She greedily wanted everything. But there was warning in her very innocence. A thirty-three year old woman with her looks who has done so little?

She said that I was only her fourth man: a high school boyfriend; Tom, her husband of ten years; and a very brief affair just after her divorce was final. Only the boy in high school had come in her mouth; and only he had ever tried to use her ass, but stopped when it hurt her. I told her that I had never spent much time with a woman who did not give me her mouth and ass, and never would.

This was the morning of our third day together. I was due time off and had cleared my schedule indefinitely. She responded by rolling over and engulfing my cock in her mouth, sucking until I came. That she had trouble swallowing I attributed to involuntary reflex. Rolling onto her knees, her ass in the air, she said, "Any time you're up to it, old man, I'm ready for the rest."

Like some men, I have always been capable of multiple orgasms, or at least remaining hard between them, but the second time can take a while and I did not want to make the experience difficult for her, so half playfully, half experimentally, I slapped her ass. The palm of my hand made a loud sound against her cheek. She gasped, shook the hair from her eyes and looked at me directly and said, "For anything."

Lynn likes to say it was love at first sight. I don't disagree. Maybe it was. But the first time the thought formed in my mind was then.

I made it as easy for her as I could. When my cock was fully inserted in her well lubricated ass, I remained motionless and reached around to make her come with my fingers on her clit. The sensation of her sphincter spasming around my cock was almost enough to make me come myself. That and her scream. Except for some ragged breathing or deliberate talking, I remain quiet and in control during sex. Lynn is noisy. She begs to be fucked. She moans and gasps and screams. The sounds of pleasure and pain are, of course, indistinguishable.

It was completely an artificial time, an aberration, a break from normal life. We had nothing but one another. No work. No other demands or distractions.

We had sex five or six times a day, or even more, every day, day after day. From what I read, I have always had a statistically unusual sexual capacity. Since puberty I have come three or four times a day and, at fifty-five, still do. But those days were unusual even for me. For Lynn, they were literally incomparable. She said that she and Tom seldom made love during the last years of their marriage, partly because he was having the affair that eventually brought the marriage to an end. So I said that I assumed she masturbated, and she replied, "Only a few times. I can be a sexual camel. I lose myself in my work." She was certainly not a sexual camel with me. She was dying of thirst. And I did not want to hear what she was really saying.

The first time I tied her up was at an inn a couple of hundred miles up the California coast.

For a week we hardly left the house, but when we came up for air we threw a couple of bags in the Jeep Cherokee and drove.

In midafternoon we checked into a place a few miles south of Cape Mendocino. The atmosphere was calculatingly rustic. The bed a four poster. As I fucked her I imagined her tied spread eagled and regretted that I hadn't brought any rope.

An hour later we went out to walk around the town.

Few books or movies about bondage and dominance become mainstream. In the past few decades I can only think of two: The Story of O and 91/2 Weeks. Before me Lynn had never heard of 'O'. (One of the individuals on my Email list unimaginatively calls himself Sir Stephen).

We passed a newsstand. Kim Bassinger was on a magazine cover, and I said, "She is a very beautiful woman," and Lynn again surprised me by saying, "Yes. I liked her in 91/2 Weeks."

I stopped and turned to her. "You liked it?"

"Hmm. Tom and I saw it together. It was very sexy."

"Anything in particular?"

"No. Just the whole thing. The relationship. Everything."

"Did you do anything about it? Did he ever tie you up, for example?"

"No. We talked about it. But I told you, we didn't have much sex." After a pause, she added, "I was willing."

Back in the room we went through our bags and came up with a flexible belt and a scarf.

For the first time I remained fully dressed while she stripped naked. Frustration on her face when, after I had secured one of her wrists to one bedpost with the belt, the scarf was not long enough to reach the other. "There must be something," she said. "My shoelaces." Her breath was uneven.

I let her wait while I slowly removed the lace from one of her Nike's, joined it to the scarf with a sheet bend and pulled her arm hard to full extension.

"Oh, God," she moaned when she tested the bonds and found them ungiving.

I unzipped my Levis and sat in a wood rocking chair and let her watch me stroke myself, until finally, eyes widened, she begged, "Aren't you going to fuck me?"

"Beg."

"Please fuck me. Please. I beg you. Please."

I climbed onto the bed and put one finger in her. "You like it don't you: being tied up and helpless? Your cunt is streaming."

"I love it. I love it with you."

I crawled higher, pushing her legs apart until the tip of my cock brushed her. She gasped and tried to lift her hips to enfold me, but I moved back, teasing , before pushing in and down. I could feel the teeth of the zipper rub my cock and knew they were also rasping her. The bedposts beat against the wall. It was an old building. Neither of us cared if anyone could hear.

The second time I tied her up was in the Muir Woods not far from my home.

A stream runs through the stand of giant Redwoods. The park service keeps paths open running on both sides of the stream, with small footbridges to cross over at intervals. Even on sunny days, the foliage is so tall and thick that the walkways are in deep shade and moisture drips from rocks and leaves and ferns and moss.

On a weekday only a few other people were in the woods. We were both dressed in jeans and windbreakers. Lynn had grinned when in the parking lot I showed her the end of a piece of rope in the pocket of my jacket.

When we were about a mile up the stream, fog began to drift through the trees. I put my arm around her shoulders and kissed her.

"It's beautiful here," she said.

"I want you to be mine completely," I said.

"I am."

"I want you to be my slave as well as my love. My slut. My whore. My animal. My anything."

"I am."

"Say it."

"I'm your slave, your slut, your whore, your animal, your everything."

"Say you'll do anything for me."

"I'll do anything for you."

And I think that at that moment she would have. I think I could have driven her down to the city and she would have gladly been pierced and tattooed. I think I could have taken her to one of the sex clubs to be gang banged or sent her into a lesbian bar to eat everyone in sight. I think I could have brought out a German Shepherd and she would have obediently assumed the position and, if I told her to, have licked him clean when it was over. I think she was completely a female animal, and at that moment caution and reason and convention simply did not exist. I may be wrong, perhaps she would have balked if I had done any of those things then, but I don't think so. But I didn't. I thought we had time, and anticipation is much of pleasure.

What I did do was take her hand and lead her off the trail. In less than ten steps we were hidden from view behind a thousand year old redwood.

"Strip," I told her.

A tiny green lizard darted beneath an exposed tree root. The temperature had dropped with the clammy fog. Her nipples were hard and goose bumps covered her arms as she handed me her windbreaker and shirt.

Bending to unlace her shoes she started to say something. The ground was covered with wet leaves and pine needles. But she stopped before uttering a word and stepped from her shoes and pulled her jeans down and off. I already knew she wasn't wearing any underwear. Neither of us were.

"Face the tree," I said.

She turned her back to me.

Stepping forward I brought a length of rope from my pocket and quickly tied one wrist, walked the rope around the tree, which was a good eight to ten feet thick and tied it tight to her other wrist.

Taking a second rope I stooped and tied it around one knee, but before passing it around the tree as well, I opened her pussy lips.

When I had finished she was embracing the tree, knees slightly bent, face pushed to one side, her cheek, nipples, cunt, thighs, pressed hard against rough ancient bark.

Her eyes watched me as with her clothes draped over my shoulder, her shoes in one hand, I walked away.

Knowing she could hear my footsteps in the leaves, I went about a hundred yards before I stopped where I could still barely see her, a pale form dwarfed by giants.

The third time I tied her was on our wedding night.

Three weeks from the day we meet and one week before she was to return to Boston, we were married in Reno.

Before we drove to Nevada, we went into San Francisco to shop. She had packed for Tahiti, not a wedding. She found a simple ivory colored cocktail dress which didn't even require alterations at a boutique near Union Square; we bought plain gold wedding rings at Tiffanys. And at Gumps I bought her a four hundred year old Chinese necklace of gold and jade. The necklace was beautiful, intricate, and unique. The word is usually misused. This necklace was literally one of a kind. At the time I thought only that it was beautiful and appropriate for Lynn.

She gave me the notebook computer, so we could keep in touch by Email, until I joined her in Boston.

We were married in late afternoon at the courthouse in Reno. As I had directed, Lynn's body was naked beneath her dress.

Our first married night was spend at the Sahara Tahoe.

We had mutually decided not to have sex for the previous twenty-four hours.

I had already told her I was going to take her in each of her holes successively; and as soon as we got to the room, I had her kneel down and suck me off. She did so, but still drooled a lot and gagged when I came.

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