Kinky Roommate Adventures Pt. 02

I spend the rest of the evening in my room and, uncharacteristically for me, I keep the door closed. I don't want to admit that I was rattled, but that's basically the gist of it. The thing is, I feel like I shouldn't be bothered by what transpired. After all, hasn't it been my goal to get to the point where my roommate accepts that I walk around the apartment in my underwear so I don't have to sweat out the summer heat and humidity in soaked, sticky clothes? So why, when Mitch finally engages me in a "normal" roommate interaction while I'm wearing nothing but a thong, do I freak out?

I don't think this through carefully in the moment. I'm just glad to have some space and privacy after the encounter. If I had, I might have gotten a premonition of what's coming. But I don't. And, looking back, I'm almost glad that I didn't. It certainly made the story more interesting.

The next day is Saturday. I wake up slowly, rolling out of bed at around 9. Mitch sleeps in even longer, typically, so I'm not surprised to find the apartment quiet and Mitch's door closed. I take a shower to cool off and, back in my room, contemplate what to wear. Part of me is still scared from yesterday. Maybe I'm actually just as scared of being seen naked as Mitch is (in my imagination, at least) uncomfortable at seeing me naked. Maybe I've taken this experiment too far, and now's the perfect time to put some clothes on like a normal person.

But you can't, the academic voice cries out. You've established not wearing clothes as the norm. If you suddenly start covering up it will seem weird!

I ponder this a moment. Am I locked into wearing nothing but a thong while at the apartment for the foreseeable future? At least until I get a natural excuse to walk back my exhibitionism, like cooler temperatures? If so, I'm gonna be naked for a long time--cool weather doesn't usually hit New York City until October. That's three months away.

Body shame quails at the prospect of being so exposed for so long. Even the exhibitionist pauses a moment to consider that one. I mean, it's one thing to experience the thrill of unexpected, momentary exposure; it's another to be exposed for months at a time.

Maybe I could slowly start wearing more 'substantial' underwear, the rationalist offers. Put on one of our skimpiest briefs instead of a thong, then move to boxer briefs from there...

It sounds reasonable. And part of me really would like to cover my ass, at least. Maybe that's the line for me, I think to myself. Maybe the torso and legs are fair game, but a bare ass just feels too... I don't know, sensual? Or maybe just too vulnerable? In any case, the thought of having my ass freely scrutinized for extended periods again by my roommate made something churn in my stomach. In a tantalizing, do I dare sort of way, but churn nonetheless.

But you can't afford to back down now! the academic insists. That will seem like you're caving, and it will prove to our roommate that this was an experiment all along! You can wear something less revealing later, but today you have to go right back out there in a thong.

This makes sense, and the exhibitionist is all for it. I stand there for a moment in indecision, naked and freshly towel-dry. Then I grab another thong and step into it. The moment I feel the strap slide snugly up in between my ass cheeks I feel a surge of the vulnerability I felt yesterday in the kitchen. I feel so vulnerable, knowing that nothing back there is covered. It doesn't help that I can feel the strap pressing up against my ass hole. I know that Mitch won't know this, but being seen by him without anything on while feeling this makes the whole thing that much more exposing. I sense an erection start to bloom in the thin pouch of fabric that is the only part of my body covered by anything.

Just great.

I heave a sigh, rally my courage, open my room door and stride out into the entryway. The ancient wood floors creak loudly in the hot morning stillness as I pad down the hall toward the kitchen. The dishes I hadn't finished last night when Mitch interrupted me are still there.

Good, I try to encourage myself. Coming right back here and finishing these is a great way to show I'm unfazed by yesterday. Nevermind that as soon as a lull in the conversation occurred yesterday I seized it and fled to my room like a rabbit darting through a hole in a net. Now that I think about it, Mitch may have noticed that I totally abandoned my dishes in the sink. I may not be putting on as convincing an act as I think.

Doing the dishes is almost a zen activity for me. It's soothing, repetitive, and I love the act of scrubbing something clean. It leaves the feeling of gentle productivity in its wake, and at times I forget that I'm standing at the sink utterly exposed, my back towards the door, my entire body naked but for a thin, black strap around my hips and the little "T" of fabric at the top of my ass. The occasional accidental flick of water or suds onto my stomach or thighs brings me back, however, that I'm basically naked.

I'm in one of those zen moments, working on a greasy pot I'd used to cook pasta for lunch yesterday when Mitch's voice behind me startles me, and I jump.

"Put your hands in the air and turn around."

Mitch's voice isn't loud, but the deadly, serious calm makes it sound as if he is. I'm about to turn around and say good morning to try and get the pleasantries out of the way, make everything seem normal, when what he has just said hits me. I pause.

What did he just say?

Confused and nervous, I turn my head to look at Mitch over my shoulder. What I see makes me flinch again.

He's holding a gun.

"It's just an airsoft gun," Mitch assures me when my gaze locks onto the sleek, black pistol in his hand. "But," he continues, "it's capable of firing up to 400 rounds a minute and it hurts like a bitch to get hit by one."

At this point I've set the pot down in the sink, I'm holding the scrub brush in my other hand, and I've backed up into the corner where the kitchen counter meets the window next to the sink. I'm staring at the gun, flicking my gaze up to Mitch's face, then back down to the gun. He's holding it in both hands like police in a cop show, and it's trained on me. Mitch's face is calm--rather blank, actually. Devoid of emotion. I have no idea what he's thinking, or where this is going.

"It hurts quite a bit through a shirt or jeans even," he continues. "But it leaves a welt like you wouldn't believe when it strikes bare skin." An ominous pause ensues. "Which is, like, all of you right now."

I let out a pent up breath that I try to pass off as a chuckle. "I didn't know you were into airsoft. That's cool." I'm hoping he just wants to show me his cool gear and give me a scare while he's at it. Or that I can bluff my way to that outcome, somehow.

"Drop the brush and put your hands behind your head." It's not a suggestion, nor does it betray the insecurity that inevitably accompanies screaming or yelling. It's an order, spoken with certainty of being obeyed.

"Whoooa!" I say, raising my hands in a sign of conflict-avoidance. I'm trying desperately to feign confidence in a situation quickly spiraling out of control. "Ok, I mean... what's going on?"

"Do you want to feel how it much it hurts to get hit on bare skin? It's not like I could miss."

"No! Geeze! What are you, crazy?!" I protest, bringing my arms down to cover my torso and turning my hips so that my junk isn't as directly exposed. I instinctively know to take the hit on the shoulder, arm, or thigh rather than the belly or the crotch.

"Then put your hands behind your head and turn to face me." His voice is still deadly calm, quiet even. It's unnerving. I'm realizing now that I don't know my roommate at all. My underwear experiment has made sure of that. But right now he sounds like he's capable of inflicting all kinds of pain and punishment on my body which, as he astutely pointed out, is totally bare and unprotected. And I'm backed into a corner. I'd have to run directly past him to get to the safety of my room. And who says he'd let me get that far? And how many welts would I have to endure along the way? "I'm going to silently count to three," he informs me.

What is he planning to do? an inquisitive part of me wonders.

It doesn't matter, a different part replies.

Do as he says, now!! a frightened chorus of voices shouts together.

I do as Mitch says. I slowly unravel arms from their protective positions and raise them, placing my hands on the back of my head. As I do, I turn to face him dead-on. Whoever invented that position knew a thing or two about vulnerability, because at this moment I'm feeling utterly humiliated and totally exposed. My thong pouch swells taut against my aroused penis and I am very aware that that is the only cloth I have on. I really feel the thong strap against my anus now. Facing my roommate with my arms out of the way, Mitch's eyes sweep over my pecs, nipples, flat stomach, belly button, obvious, cloth covered bulge, naked thighs, bare feet. He must see the fear and nervousness in my eyes as well.

The pause that follows my act of obedience must only last a few seconds, but it feels like an eternity. I still have no idea what my wild card of a roommate is up to. I just know I'm out of control and obeying unconditionally at this point.

As Mitch's gaze sweeps over my naked body, a slight grin slowly appears on his face. "You acted so insufferably confident, strutting around in your underwear," he says, voice dripping with condescension. I blush, hard. The game is so up at this point. I don't know if I could even muster the bluster to deny it right now. The nerves tying my insides into knots play tug of war with the exhibitionist and the captive, who are both feeding strongly off of the humiliation and sexual excitement coursing through my veins. In the seconds following this statement, my shocked, addled brain can't formulate a reply of any kind. I just stand there, in the attitude of surrender, my body on display like a sex slave at auction. I just hope against hope he doesn't shoot.

"But now look at you," Mitch continues, drawing out the excruciating moment. "You've got your hands up, wearing nothing but a thong." He snorts quietly in derision. "I bet you're wondering what's going to happen next."

In lieu of telling me, he takes his left hand from its stabilizing position on the gun grip and, without moving the gun an inch, drops it to his yacht shorts pocket. I follow his hand as he pulls out a dark, metal object and tosses it to the floor with a dull clunk.

"Put these on," he says. "Behind your back."

As they slide over the faux tile floor I see what they are. Handcuffs. No toys, either; these are the real kind.

My stomach drops and lurches all at once. I'm beginning to see where this is headed. I mean, I don't have a damn clue what my roommate is actually going to do with me, but I know I'm about to have to surrender all control over that matter to him. Mitch kicks them across the floor with his shoe, and they slide to a stop just inches in front of me. His left hand is back on the gun grip. Mitch has the weapon pointed right at my sternum, but I'm sure he'd be an equal opportunity pain-inflictor, making sure all of my skin got a chance to get struck. His grin is gone. It's back to deadly serious business.

Stalling for time, I bend over and pick them up. They're cold and heavy. I hold the chain links gingerly with just my thumb and forefinger and look my roommate in the eye.

"You want me to handcuff myself?" I try my best to make it sound crazy, like he can't possibly be thinking that.

"What else would I have given them to you for, genius?" Put one end on your left wrist in front, where I can see it. Then turn around and put the other on your right wrist. That way I can see both clearly when they click into place."

Damn! This guy isn't doing this on a whim. He's thought this shit out. I've never felt more exposed in my life, and his high-powered, automatic airsoft gun is still pointed at my bare skin. I begin to sense the inevitability of this. I can see no way out that doesn't leave me with welts, and even then he could probably tackle me and tie me up anyway.

Maybe if you just do as you're told, he'll humiliate you, have his fun, take his revenge, and then get bored and let you go, a small voice says, trying to sound optimistic. I think that through. It's probably true. I mean, what does he actually have in store for me? What could possibly be interesting enough to hold his attention for long? He probably just wants to make me eat shit for my little stunt and embarrass me thoroughly. After that, what's in it for him?

I'll just play along, endure the humiliation--I kind of deserve it--and then get over it, I think. Sure, it will be permanently embarrassing and awkward between us thereafter, but I guess I deserve that, too. After all, I'm the one who decided to start our relationship off in my underwear and never look back.

I focus on the handcuffs, position one semi-circle of metal around my slender left wrist. It's cold against my warm skin. Then, holding that in place, I reach to snag the other semi-circle swinging from its hinge and line it up with the slot in the body of the cuff. I feel it press up against the locking mechanism and a dread fills my gut.

If I push this through, I'm trapped.

I've already decided, though. I push it through. The clicks sound final and ominous. I feel the dead, metallic weight as it dangles from my wrist. I flick a glance at Mitch. We make eye contact for a moment. He's staring me down, grinning triumphantly. I drop my gaze, unable as yet to process the feelings of humiliation and surrender pulsing through me.

As I pull my hands behind my back to complete the cuff on my right wrist, my chest thrusts out a bit and I'm suddenly aware of my large, sensuous nipples--obvious targets of his gaze.

Oh God this is humiliating, I think to myself as I fumble behind me for the loose cuff.

"Turn around, sexy," Mitch coaxes.

Sexy? Where exactly is this headed?! My blush deepens immensely and my bulge strains even more against the fabric of my thong. For some reason, this command--long after submitting to this guy--is the hardest to obey. It feels somehow that if I do this, I'll be surrendering everything to him. If I obey him in this, exposing my bare ass to him on command as I cuff my hands together, I'll have to obey him in everything he says.

His gaze and his aim don't waiver. I resist for two, three stubborn seconds, but know it's futile. He gets to do whatever he wants to me, I realize. This thought sears through my mind, burning away all remaining resistance.

I turn around, feeling the thong strap between my cheeks, know my roommate cum captor is enjoying an unimpeded inspection of my substantial, naked ass, and click the other handcuff in place.

I try to move my hands apart and feel the strong metal chain go taut, holding me bound. As my erection surges against my thong, an ominous thought floats clearly across my mind.

I'm so fucked.