What Knot to Wear

"She's done this before?" I was finally able to ask.

He nodded, a rueful smile on his lips.

"So you mean she was . . . playing me?"

"Let's say she was . . . taking advantage of you. She's a celebrity, right? She makes a pass at you, you answer. All consenting adults."

"And you're fine with that?"

He tried to shrug it off, but I could see a tear forming in his eye.

"Clinton?" I put my hand on his arm. "What is it? Do you and Stacy not, um . . ."

"Have sex? Sure. Now and then. Make love? I'm not sure I can call it that."

I tilted my head, inviting him to continue.

"We used to have a, you know, quote-unquote normal relationship," he said. "But a few years ago, Stacy decided she wanted to spice it up a little, add some excitement to it."

"Another woman?" I guessed.

He laughed. "No. I think that I could have handled. No, she—you know, maybe we shouldn't talk about it."

"Whatever you want," I assured him.

He gave me a long look, as if searching out my sincerity, and then took a deep breath.

"She decided she wanted to do a little bondage."

"That's not, um, unusual," I said.

"Not at all. She just wanted to be handcuffed, spanked, that sort of stuff. So I really got into it. And then earlier this year, she says no more. We're not gonna do that again."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that. And now the problem is . . ."

"What?"

"I can't . . . I can't do it the old way. I can't, well, do it. Maybe if we'd gone back a little more slowly, just sort of backed off a little bit. But she just brought to a screeching stop."

"Oh, God. Clinton, you poor man. So she turned to women. And you . . ."

He gave another shrug and I felt a surge of anger.

"That bitch! That goddamn fucking bitch!"

"No, see, that's my problem," Clinton said. "She's just a plain bitch. No fucking at all."

I couldn't help myself; I started giggling.

"I'm serious!" I said, stamping my foot on the ground.

"Well, thank you," Clinton said. "Thank you for that. I—I appreciate your anger on my behalf."

He poured another glass of wine and offered me a silent toast. I raised my glass and then put it down again, nearly shattering it against the stone tabletop.

"You refuse to drink with me?" he asked, disappointment lining his face.

"Not at all," I said, a smile spreading across mine. "But I would rather eat."

"Eat?"

"Don't you have a nice, fat piece of meat you could feed me? Or perhaps force me to eat?"

He sat there, every muscle tensed.

"Carly, are you—are you . . .?"

"Aware of what I am proposing? Yes, I am. Sure of my intentions? Yes, I am. I want you to take me back to your bedroom and tie me up, Clinton Kelly."

"I'm tempted," he said. "Stacy's mother lives in Westchester. She won't be back until eleven at the earliest."

"Well?"

He raised his glass in a mock toast and drained it. He stood and offered me his hand.

"If you don't mind, though, I would rather it be in your bedroom. One day I hope to have my wife share my bed in love again."

"You dear, dear man," I said. "Of course."

"Give me a few moments and I will return." He departed with a tender kiss of my hand.

My first thought—my only thought, really—was of how to make this a truly special experience for Clinton. I had a chance to help him return to what he might consider a normal life of love, and making love, and I was determined to do my best. I carefully selected by outfit, defined more by what I wasn't wearing than by what I was: a black mesh front-closing bra, with the D-cups that bitch Maura had recommended made out of the finest satin; a black garter belt made of lace; black fishnet stockings; and a black mesh thong that left little—okay, absolutely nothing—to the imagination. I had intended it for Stacy. And in effect, it was still for her. Because if I could restore Clinton's function, wouldn't she be the one who benefited? I giggled at my cheap self-justification.

He entered the room wearing a long, flowing robe of the richest red velvet I had seen. I was waiting on the bed, my arms stretched out to the bedposts in anticipation of my immobility. He produced four velvet ropes and proceeded to bind me hand and foot.

He paused, clearly uncomfortable.

"Do me, lover," I said.

I could see the eyes turn to steel as he resolved to see our little exercise through.

"You ask much, little one," he said.

"Master," I said breathily, the word coming just as naturally as my seduction of his wife.

"Yes," he agreed.

He undid the sash of his robe and let it drop to the floor. Underneath black leather straps criss-crossed his chest, giving him the appearance of a god from another era. Beneath the straps, which ended in a black leather belt at his waist: nothing. Nothing but a magnificent cock, the taut skin of his erection shining in the brilliant light of the bedroom's lamps.

"You like, my pet?" he asked, stroking his erection as he moved to straddle my stomach on the bed.

"Oh yes, master," I said, staring at his shaft. "Yes!"

"Show me your breasts, pet," he ordered.

"But, master," I protested. I wiggled by boobs at him and tugged on my bonds.

"You refuse, pet?" he said. "Must I do everything?"

He reached down and expertly flicked open the clasp of my bra. The girls sprang free, flags flying at full staff. He moved forward, thrusting his dick into the valley between my boobs. Pressing them together, he began to slide himself in and out.

"You like that, pet? You like a nice tit-fuck?"

"Yes, sir."

"A big fat cock between those two fat boobs."

"Yes," I whispered.

"You want to suck it, bitch?"

My eyes widened.

"I asked you if you wanted this big dick buried in your throat, you stupid bitch?"

He winked at me at the same time he slapped a hand across my tits. I gasped.

"Yes, sir."

Grabbing me by the hair, he pulled my head up until my chin rested on my collar.

"Master," I gasped.

He looked down and gave me a big wink. Then he scooted forward and stuffed his cock as deep into my throat as he could. I was prepared for a nice, slow blowjob, but not for this. I felt my throat spasming as I tried to open it. Just in time he pulled back.

"Good girl," he said. "Come on, now, suck it, suck it."

He thrust the head back inside my lips. Relieved that he was no longer threatening my gag reflex, I began to blow him in earnest.

"That's right, baby. You suck that cock. You suck that big fat cock like the little slut you are. You are a slut, aren't you, baby?"

He pulled back even further, holding the head just out of my reach. I tried to crane my neck forward only to find that he was still holding my head in place. I eagerly stretched out my tongue, but his dancing cock remained just beyond the tip.

"Bastard," I whispered.

"Tell me, baby, are you a slut?"

"Yes, you bastard. I'm a slut. I'm a fucking slut. Now stick that dick back in my mouth."

You get what you ask for. He thrust forward again, slamming his rod into me. I was much better prepared this time, though. I opened my throat and took him deep inside. He held it there, held it, held it, and then finally drew back as my eyes begin to bulge.

I felt tears in my eyes but the look in his eyes told me that it was worth it. The man was enjoying himself, fucking to his full potential. All because of me. He thrust forward again and once again I did my best to relax my muscles and accept his full length. By the time he was finished tears were running down my cheeks.

He looked down at me over his waving cock.

"Who wants to get fucked?"

"I do."

"Who wants some fuckmeat in her little hole?"

"I do, master."

"Who wants me to fill her with hot, wet cum?"

"I do."

"I know, baby," he said with a smile. "I know."

He climbed off me and moved to the end of the bed. With a wink, he crawled between my legs. He had left just enough slack in the ropes he had used to bind my feet that he could lift my ass off the bed and put that gorgeous cock at the entrance to my slut.

"Beg for it, puta."

"Please, master, make me cum all over your great big cock. Please! Oof!"

He slammed into me with the force of a pile driver. Ordinarily a clumsy entry like that would have ruined the session for me right then and there. But I was so wet and so overheated that the one single thrust was enough to send me over the edge.

"Oh, shit!" I screamed as he began to hammer me. "Shit, shit, shit!"

My orgasms, when I actually managed to have them, were usually a delicious tingling that spread from my sex throughout my entire body. This was a climax of an entirely different order. I felt my body bucking underneath him, a tidal wave of catch and release that washed over me and left me gasping for breath.

He leaned forward and gave me a long, tender kiss. I lost myself in his eyes, noticing only after her broke the kiss that he had untied the ropes that bound my hands to the bed. He pushed himself up to his knees and undid the other ties as well. Finally, he leaned forward again, and I felt his erection between my legs.

"Still hard," I whispered with a raise of my eyebrows.

"Still hard," he acknowledged.

"Then make love to me, Clinton."

He pushed forward and I spread my legs around him, pulling him in.

"Oh, fuck," I moaned.

"God, Carly," he said, slowly fucking his cock in and out of my core.

"You're the god," I said. I reached my arms around him and took hold of his straps. The ride was about to begin again and I wanted to be more than just a passenger. I returned my focus to the task at hand, letting this man know that he was fully capable of satisfying both a woman and himself without resorting to bondage. In the back of my mind, thought, I had to admit that the bondage had added an exciting element to our play.

The fuck that followed was wonderfully normal. I was probably too exhausted to cum again, but when I tightened my inner muscles after a few minutes of missionary, I was pleased to feel his body stiffen in my embrace. And then I felt him cum, shooting his spending inside me. I faked a convincing enough climax to express my appreciation and then smiled as he rolled off me and fell into a deep sleep.

I couldn't sleep myself. After a few minutes I got up and wandered out into the apartment looking for something to drink. As I walked down the hallway I looked into a room whose door had been closed before. It was clearly an office and on the far wall was a bookcase with a set of DVDs.

"Probably old shows," I thought. Wondering if they had my favorite episode, the one with the sexy woman priest, I ducked inside.

I pulled one out and stared, aghast, at the cover. It showed a woman on her knees, her hands bound behind her back. She was dressed in a black sheath, with black high heels on her feet. Clinton stood in front of, holding her hair in his hand and pointing an angry erection in the direction of the woman's mouth and glazed eyes. The side of her face was stained with mascara and tears. Stacy stood behind her, one hand resting lazily on her hip while the other encircled a plastic dildo that was strapped to her waist. The worst part was the title: "What Knot to Wear, starring Tracy and Benton, with guest star Laura."

I numbly crossed over the TV and slid the DVD into the player. The show started with secret footage of the woman Laura, an attractive paralegal from Boston in her mid-twenties. There was film of her shopping the first day interspersed with film of her making love to Tracy. There was film of her shopping the second day along with film of her making love to Benton. The third day was the worst. Laura had happily shown off three outfits she had purchased, each sluttier than the one before. The last was the black sheath in which she appeared on the cover. While she was still wearing that one, Tracy and Benton had drugged her. What followed was horrific. I couldn't bear to watch more than a minute. I put the disc back in its case and returned it to the shelf. As I did, I noticed that the last one had nothing written on the cover. The disc on the inside was labeled: "Carly."

* * *

It was after eleven when Stacy returned from the supposed visit to her mother.

"You guys still up?"

"Stacy? Is that you?" I emerged from the hallway.

"Shut the front door!" she exclaimed. "Girl, you look hot."

"You like?" I asked. I was wearing a blue jacket over a camisole and a flared skirt. I opened the jacket to give her the full effect. Then I took it off and twirled in front of her, letting the skirt fly in the air to display my long legs atop two inch black heels.

"I like," she said. A moment later, my jacket covered her face. I took her quickly, slamming a knee into her crotch. Stacy—no, it was Tracy, the little bitch—was overdressed for a fight. Her dress sucked to her thighs and she stumbled forward on her own, even higher heels. I caught her by the hair and jabbed a fist into her gut. The air rushed from her lungs in a whoosh and she dropped to her knees.

I had seen enough fights in the movies to know that the next move was to keep hitting her until she could resist no longer. Then I would pin her arms and bind her wrists with the handcuffs I had taken from the couple's bedroom. None of those fights, though, had involved a woman. I decided there was an easier way. I dropped to the ground behind her and cuffed her ankles together.

"Fucking bitch!" she screamed. She tried to stand and fell on her face. I sat on her back and yanked back on her brunette hair.

"I can keep this up as long as you can, Tracy."

That ended her struggling.

"I've already taken destroyed your discs, Tracy, including the one you started on me. I've already disabled your WhatKnottoWear-dot-com website. Oh, and wired the twenty thousand dollars in your bank account to a charity that takes care of abused women."

"Fucking bitch," she repeated, albeit in a much lower mumble.

"That's right," I said. "That's the only thing left. To become a fucking bitch."

I cuffed her right wrist and brought it behind her back. She resisted letting me get hold of the other wrist until I started to yank the arm I had higher up her back. A minute later she was on her feet, walking slowly down toward the bedroom with my assistance. The sight of Clinton chained to two eyebolts in the ceiling brought her up short. He was still wearing the leather straps.

"How . . ."

"Did I get him there?" I asked. "I told him that if he cooperated I'd leave his girlfriend's pretty face unscarred. You're not married, are you, Benton Wilcox and Tracy Aaron? I assume the other girls you caught believed your story the same as I did. Of course they're Stacy and Clinton, they just look older without their makeup. It was only after I used your computer to look at pics of the real Stacy and Clinton and then looked at you on your website, that I realized I was just seeing what I wanted to believe.

"So as I understand it, your internet clients nominated girls they wanted to see abused and then put up the money you needed. I imagine you returned all the clothes after you shot each episode, and that the girls were simply to mortified to say anything. So you could use the same five thousand over and over again. The money you collected was pure profit.

"I'm so fucking mad at myself for falling for it!"

I slammed a fist into Tracy's pelvis. Only my grip on her hair kept her from falling.

"You said you wouldn't hurt her!" Benton protested.

"I said I wouldn't scar her, asshole. We haven't even started the hurting yet. Now stand up here, bitch, and don't move. If you stand still, chances are all I'm gonna cut are your clothes."

In a few minutes, Tracy Aaron was naked. I had removed the cuffs from her ankles, although I did leave the shoes on. For what we were going to do next, she was going to keep her legs spread. Next I stripped off my own clothes and picked up Tracy's strap-on from the bureau. Buckling it in place, I moved Tracy in front of her boyfriend.

"Here's what we do. Benton, you're going to fuck your girlfriend's hot little mouth. Tracy, you're going to stand in front of him, bend at the waist, and give him the best blowjob you've given in your life. And me, I'm gonna fuck your tight little pussy."

"No," Benton said. "Don't do it, Trace."

"Oh, she's going to get fucked, Benton. Either you're going to fuck her face while I do her—what was it you called it?—her little hole, or I'll do a much smaller hole with this big, fat fuckmeat. Your choice, baby."

His eyes couldn't meet mine.

"Okay," he mumbled.

"Good. Now get into position." I took my own position and proceeded to fuck the shit out of the little bitch. I took no pleasure in what followed. No sexual pleasure, at any rate. As vengeance, it was sweet. Particularly because Benton derived no sexual pleasure from it either. Tracy was in tears as she found herself unable to coax her boyfriend's cock erect.

"Come on, Tracy," I teased her, sawing my plastic in and out of her pussy. "Your blowjobs really blow, don't they? When you suck, you really suck."

"Shut up!" she said between sobs. I was pleased to look over in the mirror and see the tears running down her cheeks, staining them with her mascara.

I was especially pleased because I knew that the whole thing was going to be on film. When I was finished with Tracy I put my clothes back on.

"Now, boys and girls, it's time for me to leave. I'll be taking all the nice clothes with me. In some ways, you two actually do have a pretty good fashion sense, even if some of the outfits I'll have to save for my next boyfriend. I'll also be taking the film with me."

"I thought you destroyed the film," Tracy said.

"The earlier ones?" I responded. "Yeah, I did. The one of this little session, with impotent Benton and freshly fucked Tracy? I'll cherish that forever. And I expect not to hear any more about you two, or they'll be cherishing it on the internet, too. I think I'll call it 'What to Wear? Or Wear Not?' See you guys. Thanks for the clothes. I'll leave the keys to the cuffs near the front door. Ta."