No Escape for Hubby

Diana was 49 and her husband Chris was 53. They had been married for more than 27 years. Their two offspring had both left the nest.

Recently Diana had begun to complain of lethargy and muscle soreness, so her doctor had put her on a course of testosterone tablets. It worked. She soon felt invigorated and full of renewed lust for life. Especially a sex life.

Which was a problem, because Chris couldn't keep up. No matter what he did, no matter how hard he tried, suddenly he found it impossible to keep her satisfied. He began to complain when she wanted more than he could deliver, sometimes even refusing her demands.

Which is why he was now sitting bound and gagged with her bouncing up and down on his lap.

There were two pillars supporting the roof between their lounge and dining rooms, and he was tied with his back to one of them, sitting on the floor. His hands were fastened behind him with a thick black cable-tie pulled brutally tight. There was rope wound around his chest and waist, binding him to the pillar, also pulled tight. Another rope tied his ankles together, with its other end tied to the second pillar, pulling his legs straight and flat. He was gagged with a black plastic panel gag that she had purchased just for this purpose.

He was wearing the light summer polo shirt he had on when she ambushed him, but he was stripped from the waist down.

She was naked except for small silver earrings and a pair of white stockings. She didn't normally wear stockings, of course - nobody does these days - but she had put them on for this occasion because she knew the feel of nylon would help arouse him. And she had a second purpose for them in mind, which would soon become apparent.

Her hair was short and blonde, with a few grey hairs which she didn't bother to dye out. Her trim firmly toned body, which could easily have passed for fifteen years younger than reality, was shiny with sweat.

He moaned as she mercilessly rode him for the fourth time in the last hour. He tried to hold out against cumming, because he knew what it would mean, but she was just too beautiful and sexy. Soon his moans took on a strident, almost desperate tone as he could no longer resist climax.

Which was a problem - for him - because she just kept riding him. Unable to pull away like a man usually can after sex, and with his penis remaining erect for some time after orgasm, the sensation of continuing stimulation was so intense as to be painful. It might have been bearable if not for the fact that he had just been through this three times already.

He cried a loud but muffled cry as he twisted and strained and struggled against his bonds. He desperately wanted to beg her for mercy, but the gag was well designed and did its job.

From her point of view, this was fantastic. Fantastic! She had lost count of the number of orgasms she had achieved herself, but it must have been at least at least three for every one of his. And the more he struggled and squirmed, the more exciting it was. It was just a shame the gag prevented her from ramming her tongue down his throat, but without it he would have just complained, complained, complained, so there was no option.

The only other small imperfection in the current setup was that he was able to kick with his legs a little bit, twisting them in different directions. This mad her ride a little bit bumpier than ideal. She made a mental note: next time, tie his knees together.

Finally, she let out a loud moan, not quite a scream, before slowing down her ride and eventually stopping. For a long minute they sat there, sweat-covered bodies locked together, gradually catching their breath.

She leaned forward and kissed him tenderly on the forehead. "I hear you visited Doctor Schasser yesterday," she said sweetly after getting her breath back. "Naughty, naughty."

It was true. He had gone to see her GP to beg her to change Diana's medication.

"Don't do that again, Sweetie." That sentence was spoken with an edge, as if carrying a dire threat. Chris had no idea exactly what the threat entailed, which somehow made it more frightening.

After a few more moments, she dismounted and stood up. She loomed over him.

"I'm sorry, Sweetie. I know you're not as young as you used to be, and you get sore. But you're my husband, and you have a duty to see to my needs. And I have a right to have them seen to. You wouldn't want to be cuckolded instead, now would you?"

Without waiting for an answer - not that he could give her one anyway - she turned and disappeared into their bedroom.

In fact, at that moment, he would gladly have let her be serviced by a whole rugby team, if that was what it would take to satisfy her. He was more than sore, he was hurting, and he didn't know know how he could stay sane if she decided she wasn't finished yet.

The worst part of his predicament was that he had to suffer alone, unable to confide in anyone or seek advice. His mates at work never tired of asking how the hell he managed to get such a spunkrat of a wife, so he knew any whingeing about being forced into constant sex against his will wouldn't elicit much sympathy

He made a few futile twists and struggles against his bonds while hoping she would decide to untie him when she returned.

Fat chance.

She walked in carrying the silk cord from her dressing gown. She had remembered her mental note but was out of rope. She wound the cord snugly around his knees before knotting it.

Then she removed her stockings. She tossed one of them aside and sat in his lap holding the other. His eyes went wide. He knew what she was going to do, and he knew he was powerless to stop her. Worse, he knew it would work.

He tried to resist by tossing his head around, but it made no difference. She tied the stocking around his head, over his nose like a bandit mask. The gag made it impossible for him to breathe through his mouth, so he had no choice but to breathe through the nylon. Nylon which, moments earlier, had been on her legs through four rounds of sweaty sex.

So much for any hopes he might have had of avoiding his fate by not getting an erection.

She reached down between his legs and gently tickled his penis with her fingernails. He tried to resist, he really did. But she was expert, and she was ruthless, and the fingernails combined with the stocking gave him no chance.

Slowly his manhood stood to attention. She smiled. He wasn't quite as big or hard as the first four times, but he would do.

When she judged him to be as stiff as he was going to get, she slid up his hips and mounted him. Soon she was bouncing to her own rhythm. The cord around his knees did its job, making her ride beautifully smooth.

He was able to delay his cum a bit longer than last time, but the ultimate result was the same. The sound that escaped the gag when she kept riding past his climax could only be described as a scream. Not that she noticed. She was far too busy with her own moans and shudders of pleasure to care about his experience.

When she finally ground to a halt, she sat quietly for a moment, observing the man she loved. There was pain in his eyes and he was whimpering.

She felt a sudden stab of guilt. She hadn't meant to hurt him, not really. Maybe she should have shown a bit more self-control and given him more recovery time between bouts.

She leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead.

Yes, self-control. She needed to be a bit more sensitive to her man's limits, and control herself. Yes. Longer recovery times wouldn't hurt. Yes. More self-control.

She ran her hands over the body of her man. Her beautiful man. Handsome. Sexy. Strong. Sweaty.

Bound and gagged.

Helpless.

At her mercy.

She began slowly grinding her hips, gradually building up speed. He whimpered louder.

Yes, she thought. More self-control, that's what's needed. Starting tomorrow.