Kinky Roommate Adventures Pt. 04

A few minutes pass. Still blindfolded, I hear Mitch move in and out of the room, down the hall and back again a few times. I make no attempt at communication and simply wait for what he's going to do with me next. I'm so humiliated and exhausted by the ejaculation that I don't have the energy to resist.

The door to the apartment down the hall opens, then shuts. Long, silent minutes ensue. My jaw continues to ache from the ball gag which has been in there now for some time—how long, I have no clear sense. Part of me continues to feel the acute vulnerability and embarrassment of my current (and quite recent) situation—tied up naked in my own apartment, by my own roommate, blindfolded and gagged. At the same time, another part of me is already habituating to this "new normal." I no longer expect to get free, to wear clothes, to go where I want and do what I want. Instead, this part of me expects my roommate to hold me captive and do things to me; and waiting in between such events is normal.

I reflect on this with some curiosity. Just two weeks ago I was engaged in an experiment to establish a new normal between my roommate and I, one where I wear nothing but exceedingly skimpy underwear around the house. Now, I notice, I'm engaged (unintentionally) in another such experiment, one where I come to accept a submissive, captive relationship with my roommate. In both cases, it seems, the new normal can be adopted rather easily. At least, parts of me seemed ready to accept both norms.

What about Mitch, though? Did he ever accept my wearing nothing around him? And in this case, he's the one imposing the new norm, and I'm accepting. Maybe I'm the malleable one, submitting to new norms and circumstances easily, while he resists them, instead making the norms bend to him?

I'm still pondering this when the apartment door opens again. I hear Mitch come down the hall, breathing hard and carrying something heavy by the sound of his footsteps sliding rather heavily across the hall floor. He enters the room and stops. I hear him set an object softly onto the rug in the center of the room. Then his hands touch my face and I have to suddenly squint as the blindfold is lifted and bright, midday light hits my eyes.

"Hello there, roommate," Mitch says cordially. "Welcome back to the world of the seeing."

I turn my head to one side and squint heavily, not in small part because I'm afraid to look him in the eye. I don't know why, exactly, but I'm scared to, scared of what it might mean, or perhaps of what he might see.

Mitch steps back and looks me over. After cumming my erection disappeared, but as he gazes over my slender, naked body it starts to flare up again.

"You're really cute, you know that?" I feel the intense heat of embarrassment flush my cheeks. I look past him, unable to meet his gaze like this. "And you look great tied up to that pole." Mitch gestures at me with both hands, "This look really suits you."

Mitch turns, picks up the object on the rug—his freshly laundered clothes—and takes it to the sofa, which sits opposite me. Sitting down on the sofa, he commences to fold his laundry.

"I imagine you're probably feeling pretty humiliated right now, given everything that's happened to you," Mitch observes calmly as he mates white ankle socks. At this I squirm involuntarily, his words serving to amplify my embarrassment. The clank of the handcuffs against the pole is pitiful. Not wanting to look him in the eye, I look down at the floor. But this is almost worse, since doing so gives me an eyeful of my naked body—nipples, belly button, newly-erect penis. In some ways, it was nicer being blindfolded.

"But really," Mitch continues, "you shouldn't be. As I said, this submissive role really suits you. I mean, look at you, so obediently captive. Hardly making a sound."

At this I become painfully aware of my jaw again, and start trying to beg him to remove it. Of course, what comes out is a series of plaintive sounding grunts and moans.

"Oh, well I take that back, then."

I redouble my efforts, nodding my head a bit in the hopes he realizes I'm not asking to be let go, just hoping for relief for my jaw. I really lay the begging tone on thick, much more than previous. And I look him square in the eye for the first time since he blindfolded me hours ago (or what seems like hours). I think I must have really look pitiful, because he sighs heavily, puts aside his socks, and approaches.

"Nngg gnnggrammphf."

"You know what? I can't understand a thing you're saying." Yet rather than simply mock me, he reaches behind my head and unbuckles the strap holding the ball in my mouth. I feel the strap go slack, then open my jaw just a bit wider as he tugs it free.

"Ohhh." I sigh and swallow, moving my jaw a bit. "Thanks," I offer, sincerely grateful. It's funny, he's the one who put it there and then left it in forever, yet the gratitude I feel towards him for having removed it is genuine.

"You're welcome," he replies, holding it by one strap and walking into the bathroom. I hear running water. A moment later he comes back out, drying it with a paper towel. He sets it down on a cloth on the coffee table in the center of the room, then returns to his seat by his clothes.

I take a real look at him for the first time today. He looks good in a white and navy blue polo and navy yacht shorts (I don't know what else to call them). It seems to be the only look he rocks, but he wears it well. His wavy blonde complements his outfit nicely, as do his toned legs and arms. He's not ripped, exactly, but he clearly goes to the gym, and doesn't skip leg day. I notice that I'm really observing him in a way I haven't before. Or at the very least I'm observing him in a different way—not as my roommate, but as the guy who has me tied me up, as my captor. He's attractive, confident, stereotypically masculine, potentially quite kinky too. I'm gathering clues as to what the next few hours and days and months could potentially hold.

I'm surprised to discover that part of me finds negotiating this new future from a position of humiliating weakness really hot.

After mating a few more socks and folding a pair of white slacks, Mitch continues his lecture. "As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted," (he looks up at me with a disapproving look; I look back meekly), "while I commiserate with the embarrassment you must be feeling, all exposed and helpless over there, I really think you should cut yourself some slack. This," again Mitch gestures with one hand towards me, "is you being your best self, the true you."

While I recognize the condescension dripping from his words, part of me also recognizes the truth when it's spoken.

"You're a natural submissive, you know. As a dominant, I would know. I can read you submissives like a book." Mitch turns his head to one side for a minute, lost in reflection, then says, "No, it's more like smell or body language, far less intellectual than reading. In any case, you've got submissive written all over you, you little slut." He really leans into the last word, and it hits me with the force of a dirty label that fits, a stinky shoe that slides right on. It twists in my gut, burns in my cheeks, and turns me on all at the same time.

"And besides," Mitch says, "you look fucking hot doing it, so it'd be a shame if someone didn't tie you up and have fun with you every now and again."

Alongside the feeling of being so accurately diagnosed while bound naked to a pole, my thoughts latch onto the phrase, 'every now and again.' This seems to me a clue that my ordeal is soon to end. I can't help but hold onto that hopeful thought.

"Plus, by all indications you enjoy it." Mitch looks pointedly at my bare, semi-erect penis for a few seconds before his gaze climbs my body to meet my eyes. I catch his for a fleeting moment, then break contact. I can't deny my arousal, but admitting it makes me feel even more vulnerable.

Mitch seems to be satisfied with his speech for now and settles into folding clothes. Long, awkward minutes pass in silence. It's a very tense, active silence, though, and I'm aware that each moment represents a conscious decision on my part and Mitch's not to do any of the things that are naturally begging to be done. Mitch, for his part, continues to acknowledge my presence in the room as his bound, naked captive by staring at my body and enjoying the view whenever not actively digging around in his laundry bin for clothes. He pointedly does nothing to free me from my bondage. The initial capture and pleasuring are long over, but I remain bound and Mitch is making no move to release me.

For my part, I'm no longer gagged but say nothing, suggesting that perhaps I'm enjoying my predicament and don't wish to be released. Mostly, I'm silent because I feel ashamed to ask the questions that are ricocheting around my mind right now: why did you do this to me?; are you mad at me for wearing nothing but underwear around the apartment?; how long are you going to keep me tied up?; what do you have planned for me?

The loaded seconds drag on. Parts of me start to panic that saying nothing constitutes total submission to my roommate. But the words keep catching in my throat every time I try to speak. There's simply no way I can engage with Mitch right now that doesn't make me feel totally helpless.

In order to avoid Mitch's gaze my eyes drop down to floor at my feet and, for the hundredth time since Mitch pulled off the blindfold, I look over my body. The ropes binding my elbows together behind the vertical pipe pull my arms back, thrusting out my chest and pulling my skin taut over my stomach. Though I don't work out much more than a few pushups and situps a day, with this posture I can see the outline of my abs and my pecs are defined nicely. I bet Mitch tied me like this on purpose, I think to myself. I can't help notice my belly button (for some reason having my belly button visible to others has always been a source of embarrassment) and, of course, my large, erect penis sticking straight out. I sneak a quick glance at Mitch and see him gazing right back, looking my body up and down and clearly relishing the situation.

Finally, I decide to just force myself to start talking.

"So how long have you been planning to do this to me?" My voice sounds funny and grating after such a long silence. Despite the humiliation sloshing around in my gut, I force myself to look my roommate in the eye as I say this. It really does humiliate me, though, to say it. It's the first time I've verbally acknowledged that I've been bested, that he's got me and I'm helpless.

Mitch meets my gaze with pure pleasure as a wide grin spreads across his face. "Oh, about a week or so. I started planning to do something kinky with you once I read your erotica on your laptop, as well as all the stuff you've posted online. But the full plan was still germinating up until yesterday, even."

Damn. All this past week, as I was strutting naked around the apartment Mitch was planning to take me captive. I sure made it easy, getting rid of all my clothes for him. All he had to do was cut off my thong and he had me naked.

The silence ensues. Again, I force myself to speak. I have to somehow confront him on the fact that I'm still tied up.

"So... are you just going to leave me here tied up like this?" I twist and pull against the bonds lightly, and the handcuff chain clinks against the metal pole behind me. Again, the utter helplessness sloshes around in my gut as I say the words. I've never had to ask anyone this question before, let alone my roommate. The truth of my situation is self-evident to both of us, but having to ask your roommate out loud how long he's going to keep you naked and bound is really humiliating.

Mitch's grin becomes lopsided. He drops the shirt he was folding into the bin and leans forward, posting his forearms on his thighs.

"You want to get down to business, then?" he asks. "I was wondering how long it was going to take you." Standing there, bound naked to the pole, it felt like he was about to dictate the terms of my surrender. "Perhaps a more relevant question is 'what are things going to be like from here on out?' Because as soon as we can come to agreement on that, the sooner I can untie you."

I jump at the reference to my little experiment, hoping I can trade that for 'normalcy.' After all, I have no intention of wandering the apartment naked after this experience. "If you're mad at me for walking around in my underwear, I can stop doing that. I'm more than happy to wear clothes, I just didn't think you would mind."

"Hahaha! That was very bold and slutty of you. And I admit it really incited me to do something to you. But it's way too late to go back now. Way too much water under the bridge for an offer of clothes to get you out of this. Besides," he said, "I like you naked now. I'll admit I was surprised at first, and more than a little hot and bothered. But now look where we are," he finished, again gesturing with both hands towards my bound figure.

Mitch waits for a while, but I don't know what to say, and I refuse to beg him to tell me what he's planning, so quiet ensues (though it's anything from peaceful). Mitch continues to examine my body. I'm forcing myself to keep my gaze from wandering away, but my cheeks are burning red like a wildfire.

"No," Mitch says with the condescension of someone explaining to a newbie how it's going to be, "there's no going back to just being roommates again. That ship sailed a while ago." My eyes flicker to my body and I have to agree. "And since there's no going back, here's what I'm going to need from you: in exchange for agreeing to untie you, you agree to be my slave."

His words land like a punch in my gut. What did he just say? Another part of me examines his earlier comments about me being a natural submissive and decides that this makes a lot of sense. Damn it! Who are you loyal to, anyway? I rage in silence.

You, comes the answer. You know you love this. You're just ashamed and scared to admit it to yourself, let alone your captor.

While the truth of this is settling in, my pragmatic side is busy trying to figure out the implications of being my roommate's 'slave.' I'm silent for a bit while I try to parse it out.

What does this mean for everyday life? How will this affect my being a graduate student? Will I still be allowed to do my work? Will I still be able to go out? What does this mean, sexually speaking? What will life be like around the apartment?

"What does that entail, exactly?" I manage finally, playing it safe and staying vague. I don't want to make it seem that I've agreed to anything. The handcuffs slide against the metal and make an ominous noise. I don't think I had banked on this becoming a permanent thing, at any point this morning. This could change profoundly how I view myself, the image of the competent, hard working (if a little lonely and boring) graduate student replaced with... I'm not quite sure what. I'm not sure what a 'slave' is, or does.

"Good question," Mitch concedes. "The devil's in the details, of course," he continues with a roguish smile, "but the gist of it is that you do whatever I tell you to." When I say nothing, he goes on. "It also means that you submit to whatever I feel like doing with you."

He's just outlined unconditional surrender. He bested me this morning and now that I'm suing for peace, his terms are total submission. Again, it's a few seconds before I can muster a response.

"What the fuck?" I blurt out. "You expect me to just agree to that?"

Mitch gets up from the sofa and approaches me, a truly wicked expression on his face. With his fingers Mitch once again gently pinches the very tips of my nipples. My erect penis rubs against his shorts as he moves in close. I feel acutely how naked I am—and vulnerable, with my hands bound behind my back and on the other side of the pole. My breathing quickens and I try hard not to moan as he commences rolling my nipples back and forth between his fingers.

"You don't have to, you know," he replies, quietly. His voice is deadly soft. He says nothing else, just gently kneading my nipples as my cock gets harder and harder. I start to moan quietly. "You know, I've never met a guy with nipples as sensitive as yours," looking me in the eye with sadistic pleasure while keeping up the subtle torture. As he says this I moan even louder. I'm trying hard not to, but the sensation is electric. At the same time it's intensely frustrating, since the bolts of pleasure from my nipples do everything to arouse me but nothing to bring me closer to climax. My breathing increases and becomes shallow as my moans accelerate. It is supremely humiliating knowing that my roommate can stimulate my naked body at will.

"Is there... ano... another option?" I finally manage to get out between breaths. After all the attention they got earlier, my nipples are very tender and sensitive.

"Well sure," Mitch offers, sounding conciliatory and reasonable. He doesn't stop tweaking my nips. "If you don't want to voluntarily agree to be my slave, you don't have to. But neither do I have to untie you."

The humiliation of the truth of that statement courses through me, then settles in my gut.

"If you don't want to be my slave, I'll guess you'll just remain my captive."

"What... Ohhh... what does tha... that entail?" I gasp. I get the sense the onslaught isn't going to stop until I've made a choice.

"Oh, not much. Mostly, I keep you tied up and play with you when I have a free moment." His voice sounds reasonable and fair, but what he's describing is ridiculous.

"For how long?" I manage to say in one burst, timing it between moans.

"How long?" He repeats, innocently. As his fingers continue to pull and knead my tits, he puts on his best contemplative face. "Who knows? I'm really not sure when I'll feel like letting you go."

What?! My mind, already overloaded from the assault on my nipples, is easily blown. The gap between thought and spoken word is pretty small at the moment, and I blurt out, "You're planning to keep me tied... tied up... forever?!"

"Do you doubt my ability?" Mitch replies quietly, the innocence gone, his voice low and deadly.

No. I don't. But what I say is, "Oh, please stop fucking nipples!" I'm literally begging my roommate to leave my nipples alone—that's how far I've fallen in one short morning. Mitch's expression is pure, wicked pleasure. He looks down at his two pairs of fingers, tweaking back and forth.

"You want me to stop doing this?" he asks, sounding suddenly surprised and curious.

"Mmmmm... Yes. Please." I manage to beg.

"Ok. Easy enough. Just say you'll be my slave and I'll let go."

Oh man, that sounded good. Freedom from captivity, an end to the intense frustration of the pleasure surging through my body, the chance to put on clothes and end this incredible vulnerability. The prospect of remaining Mitch's captive any longer was too much.

"Ok...nnnnnnggg... I'll be your slave. I'll be your slave. Just leave my nipples alone!" I'm absolutely desperate for relief at this point. I'll say practically anything to end this. Mitch smiles, pulls hard on my tits, then lets go. I let out a gasp of pain, pleasure, and relief all at once.

"Good. Let's get started, then."

*********************

I know I shouldn't be surprised by this, since I'm the one who started this whole affair with an experiment bending the idea of 'normal,' but it is truly shocking how quickly a totally new reality can be accepted as business as usual—provided that all involved accept it as such. I thought my roommate would simply accept that I never cover my body when at the apartment. I think he did, in fact, but that just led to an entirely different 'normal,' one I was not at all planning on yet came to accept just as quickly.