tagBDSMKiki's Story: The Sale

Kiki's Story: The Sale


"The asking price is eight hundred dollars."

"Eight hundred? Seems a little steep, don't you think?"

"Are you kidding? At that price, I'm doing you a favor! I should be asking double that!"

A silvery laugh, high and feminine, and then the woman's voice, the one I didn't recognize. "Doing your bank account a favor, I'll warrant. Tell you what. I'll offer you four hundred and fifty dollars, right now, and we'll call it a deal."

I tested the bonds that held my wrists and ankles, keeping silent, as I strained to hear the muted voices through the thin wooden door.

Mark's voice again, sounding incredulous: "Four hundred and fifty dollars? That's highway robbery! I can't take a penny less than seven hundred!"

Yes, this was turning out to be one of the strangest days I'd ever had. And it had started so normally, too!

Mark got up out of bed before I did this morning; I didn't have anything on my schedule until ten o'clock, so I had the rare luxury of sleeping in. I didn't even get up to fix breakfast; by the time I finally crawled out of bed, he'd already left for work. I woke up late, with barely enough time to shower and dress before I had to rush out the door, and stopped dead in the kitchen when I saw that he'd left a note for me, propped up on the table. Usually, that can only mean one thing.

No, wait, better start back a little further. After all, there's a long story to how I ended up in the closet, pressed back amid all the clothes, blindfolded, with my wrists lashed to the bar above me, listening to my boyfriend haggling in the next room.

My name is Kimberly Ann, though to my friends I'm Kiki. I'm 26 years old, I'm a realtor, and the man on the other side of the closet door-the man who stripped me down to my bra and panties, bound me standing spreadeagle in the closet, and whispered in my ear exactly what he has planned for me this evening-is Mark, my boyfriend of the past eight months.

A year ago, I'd have been the last person in the world to suspect I'd ever find myself here, blindfolded and tied up in the closet. A year ago, I was still trying to figure out exactly who I was and what I wanted. I'd had a series of relationships, of course, most of them with decent enough guys, but... They all seemed to end the same way. A year or two into the relationship, I'd end up feeling vaguely bored, a little restless, a little dissatisfied; and from that point, the end was inevitable. It was like having an itch I could never seem to figure out how to scratch.

For a while, I wondered if I might even be a lesbian, but that didn't seem to fit quite right either. I never experimented with a female lover, party out of timidity and partly because I couldn't see myself actually getting it on with another woman. There is a certain irony in that, I'll admit...but that comes later.

In retrospect, the problem should have been obvious, really. My fantasy life has always been rich and varied and very, very strange, at least by the standards of the guys I dated. When I close my eyes and open my legs and let my hands slide over my body, I sometimes imagine myself being kidnapped by a mad scientist who would carry me into his secret laboratory, where he'd strap me to his table. I picture him leaning over me, smiling inscrutably, ignoring my screams and my struggles as he methodically cut my clothes from my body. When he had stripped me naked, he would unfold a set of steel stirrups from the end of his table, and cuff my ankles into them, spreading my legs wide. He'd pull on a long pair of surgical gloves, all the way up to his shoulders, and begin running his hands over the most intimate parts of my body, squeezing my breasts and sliding his gloved fingers inside of me...but detached, dispassionate, as if he were testing me, measuring me up for something. I'd feel myself getting wet, in spite of myself, as he probed and examined me, and see my wetness on his gloves when he withdrew his fingers.

Finally, when he'd spent a considerable amount of time probing and prodding and fondling me, and had satisfied himself that I was a suitable subject, he'd begin bringing out instruments and strange bits of machinery...large cups that fitted tightly over my breasts, with vacuum hoses attached; a startling array of dildos in various shapes and sizes, which he fitted to a large, squat machine that he wheeled into place between my legs; clamp and electrodes with bundles of wires leading off into even stranger machines. All this without saying a single word to me, without acknowledging me at all.

When he was finished setting up the machines, the experiments would begin. With the flick of a switch, the vacuum pumps would come to life, sucking on my breasts; a flick of another switch, and the machine between my legs would whir and hum and vibrate and suddenly thrust a dildo into my wet pussy, over and over again, relentlessly, mechanically. I would scream and cry out and throw myself helplessly against the straps that held me bound securely to the table, unable to stop the relentless assault of the dildo, as the equipment around me monitored and recorded my body's responses. Then, finally, no matter how hard I struggled, I would come, the machine ripping my orgasm from me; he would watch, and take notes in a notebook, as my back arched and my body spasmed in the throes of the unwanted orgasm.

Then he'd press another button and the dildo would withdraw. The front of the machine would rotate, selecting another, and shove it abruptly into me, and the process would begin again; the machine would violate me, thrusting the dildo in and out until it wrested another orgasm from me.

By this point in the fantasy, I'd usually be thoroughly soaked, pushing my fingers into myself or thrusting my hips against my favorite vibrator while I imagined the machine forcing orgasm after orgasm out of me, all under the detached eye of the mad scientist. I would sometimes fantasize that he would keep me there all night, until I was far beyond the point of exhaustion, no longer able to struggle against the machine as it ripped an endless series of orgasms out of my body, as he dutifully recorded every moan and every shudder in his notebook.

But I digress.

I never shared any of my sexual fantasies with my last boyfriend before Mark. It was an ill-fated relationship to begin with; our first argument came when he discovered my collection of vibrators, and tried to convince me to throw them all away because I didn't need them as long as I was with him. Honestly, I will never understand why some men feel so threatened by a few dollars' worth of plastic and some batteries. The final straw came when we were watching a TV show about sex one night; one of the people on the show was talking about bondage, and I thought it sounded like fun, and he thought it sounded like the sort of thing only a sicko or a pervert would like, and that was that.

So after that I determined to change my romantic life. I cut my long, flowing red hair short and spiky; I bought my first leather miniskirt; and I resolved not to date again until I'd found someone with interests and fantasies as weird as mine.

Which, I was sure, would keep me celibate for quite a long time.

Fate, as it turned out, had other plans. I met Mark on an online dating site about three months later. His profile listed "creative sex games" as one of his interests, I asked him about it, and...

Well, maybe that's a story for another time.

His interests and fantasies are as weird as mine, though, no doubt about it. Mark loves little more than inventing elaborate scenarios for us to play. He's become extraordinarily skilled at manipulating my sexual responses, creating sex games that tease and torment both of us so deliciously; every time I think he can't get more wonderfully devious, or push my buttons any more devilishly, he outdoes himself.

Mark can turn anything into a sex game. In fact, when we'd been talking by email and chat for a while and we had started thinking about talking on the phone, even giving me his phone number became a game-one that took an entire exhilarating, frustrating, intensely erotic day and a drive all over town to win.

But that's definitely a story for another time.

The story about how I ended up bound in the closet began early in our relationship. I had told him that I had been so bored with my previous partners that I'd begun to wonder if I was a lesbian, which amused him greatly. He made me change my sexual orientation to "bisexual" on all my online profiles, and would tease me whenever another woman would flirt with me online, running his hands over my body and sliding his fingers between my legs as he made me read their words out loud. It was very dirty and a bit scary and shockingly erotic all at once, and even though I couldn't actually see myself with another woman, the fantasy became a fun game in itself.

This morning started out as an ordinary Friday like any other. Mark was up and out before me, and had long since left by the time I got out of bed. I stumbled into the bathroom, showered, dressed, went into the kitchen to fix myself breakfast...

...and saw that he'd left my favorite vibrator sitting in the center of the kitchen table, a sheet of paper neatly folded next to it with my name written on it.

Instantly, my nipples hardened, and I couldn't suppress the smile that grew across my face. I picked up the sheet of paper, and discovered a lacy push-up bra and a small lacy G-string beneath it. My grin got even wider as I unfolded the sheet of paper and read.

"My dearest Kiki Ann,

I have a most wonderful surprise planned for you this evening. I want you to be well-prepared for it, so I want you good and horny all day. I got you a new bra and a new pair of panties, which I'd like you to wear today. Also, I think it would be most appropriate for you to wear your skirt and that blouse I like so much. To help get you in the proper mood, I've taken the liberty of getting out your vibrator for you. I'd like you to take it to work with you, and use it to tease yourself throughout the day.

Just to get things started, you should masturbate to orgasm right here in the kitchen. Enjoy it while you can; I want you to tease yourself later on today, but I don't want you to have another orgasm until tonight, so you'll be suitably horny.

I'll call you later this afternoon. See you tonight!

xoxoxo Mark"

As I read, I felt myself getting more aroused still. My nipples stood out almost painfully, and I felt the tingling growing between my legs. Without a second thought, I pulled my shirt over my head and dropped it to the kitchen floor. My bra followed; I ran my hands over my breasts as I stripped it off, then rolled my nipples through my fingers, pinching them lightly. I sat on the edge of the table and pull ed my shoes and socks off, then peeled off my practical, professional, and wholly inappropriate slacks.

Then, clad in nothing but a pair of thin white cotton panties, I lay back on the kitchen table and closed my eyes. I searched my memories of the past few days, trying to think of anything he might have said or done to drop some kind of hint about what he was up to, but nothing came to mind. Whatever it was, he'd been playing it close to the chest.

I ran my hands over my breasts again, feeling a damp spot growing on my panties. I began stroking very lightly, running my hands in slow, lazy circles over my breasts, barely touching them. My fingertips grazed lightly over my nipples, teasing them, causing the tingle between my legs to build. I smiled, savoring the sensation, feeling my body respond.

I began lingering over my nipples, flicking my fingernails against them and rolling them between my fingers, coaxing them to greater sensitivity. When they were achingly sensitive, jutting out diamond-hard, I carefully took each one between my fingers, pinching them lightly between thumb and forefinger.

I lay like that for a long moment, still smiling, caressing my nipples between my fingers, then suddenly clamped down, twisting and pulling them as hard as I could. I heard myself cry out at the deliciously sharp sensation. Warm wetness flooded between my legs, quickly saturating the panties and dripping down my thigh. I continued to pull on my nipples, twisting them sharply, as I rocked my hips, feeling the tight fabric move against my clit. I heard myself moan, the sound turning into a gasp when my nipples slipped suddenly out of my fingers.

I slid my hands over my breasts again, pressing my palms flat against my hypersensitive nipples, then began stroking my body. One hand slid up to my throat as the other moved downward, caressing my stomach and my thighs. I teased myself that way, my fingers lightly scurrying over my soaking panties, just barely missing the most sensitive places, the places I wanted most to touch.

Then, at last, when I could bear no more, I stopped, taking my hands away from my body and sitting up. I hopped off the table and picked up the vibrator. I sat down in one of the polished wood, high-backed chairs and leaned back, spreading my legs with my feet on the table. I slid my sodden panties down to my knees, leaving them there stretched taut between my legs, then slowly and deliberately drew one finger up along my pussy, parting my labia lips and slipping my fingertip directly over my clit. I drew a shuddering breath at the sensation, and felt the juices pour around my fingertip. I turned the vibrator on its lowest setting and leaned back in my chair, bringing it between my legs and running it lightly over my clit. The vibrations set up little shockwaves in my pussy, and I felt my juices dripping from me again. A small sound, somewhere between a whimper and a moan, escaped my lips. I rocked my hips in the chair, moving myself against the humming vibrator, as my other hand slid over my breast. My fingers found my aching nipple, and I began squeezing it, gradually increasing the pressure as I parted my legs wider and slowly slid the vibrator into my dripping pussy.

When the vibrator had penetrated me deeply, I clamped my muscles tightly around it and held it there, feeling the vibration working its magic. I masturbated that way, fingers clamping hard on my nipple as my other hand held the vibrator buried deep inside me. I rocked my hips against the hard, unyielding toy, my breathing deep and ragged. When I felt the orgasm begin building within me, I twisted the knob on the vibrator, cranking it instantly to its maximum speed. The vibrations slammed through me, wrenching the orgasm out of me; I threw my head back, a series of short gasping moans escaping from me as my pussy twitched and spasmed.

Then, as suddenly as it had come, it was over. I turned the vibrator off and slid it out of me, then brought my legs together, the soggy panties hanging loosely between them. I released my nipple with a little squeak, feeling the sudden pain as the blood rushed into it. The vibrator was thickly coated with my creamy juices; I slid it into my mouth, savoring the taste as I licked it clean.

Then I stood, kicking aside the panties as they fell to the floor, and picked up the new clothing. I walked naked into the bathroom, leaving my discarded clothes lying on the kitchen floor, to try on Mark's gifts.

The new panties left precious little to the imagination; they were little more than a tiny triangle of satin, with lace in the front, tapering to a narrow G-string in the back. They slid up the crack between my cheeks as I put them on. I pulled them up tight, then turned my back to the mirror, looking over my shoulder as I leaned over and waggled my ass, admiring how the panties exposed my butt.

Next came the bra. I slipped it on, watching how it pressed my breasts together, lifting them and creating cleavage I didn't even know I had. I posed in front of the mirror, running my hands over my body, turning this way and that. I felt incredibly sexy and feminine, the skimpy underwear accenting the soft curves of my body.

I went into the bedroom and rummaged in the closet, finding the skirt and blouse he'd told me to wear. The skirt, black and dark purple , ended well above my knee; Mark liked it because he appreciated what he called the "easy access" it allowed. The blouse was a white satin button-up number that fit me very tightly; with the added boost of the push-up bra, the thin material strained across my breasts.

Mark hadn't specified what kind of shoes to wear, so I picked out a pair of boots I knew he'd like-dark leather, nearly knee-high, with a short heel. Long black socks completed the ensemble.

I returned to the bathroom to check out the effect. Dark red hair, short and spiky; pale skin, lightly dusted with freckles; hazel eyes; curvy, perky breasts straining against the tight white blouse; short skirt; long boots... I felt deliciously naughty. I ran my hands over my breasts again, pinching and squeezing my sensitive nipples until they stood erect, and turned sideways, admiring the effect in the mirror. I lifted my skirt, waggling my hips back and forth, until I could see the lace peeking out beneath it, and grinned impishly. It was a very sexy outfit, no doubt about it; almost, but not quite, too sexy to wear to the closing this morning...

..The closing! I'd gotten so carried away I'd almost forgot about it, and now I was running late. I scooped up my purse and dashed for the door, pausing only to snatch the vibrator off the kitchen table where I'd left it. I raced for my car, and drove to the office like a woman possessed. Fortunately, the morning commute had died down, and little traffic stood in my way.

I made it to the office with five minutes to spare, and waltzed into the conference room precisely on time, a stack of papers under my arm.

The closing went smoothly. I couldn't really concentrate; my mind was occupied with what Mark might have in store for me this evening, and my arousal was like a steady background hum, keeping me from focusing. Twice during the proceedings, when I shifted in my chair I felt my own wetness, which made me feel delightfully, deviously naughty.

At one point, about midway through the closing, while the loan officer droned on and on about the finer points of fixed and variable rate interests, my mind wandered to the vibrator in my purse. A little tingle of excitement shot through me at the thought of masturbating right here at work, and I couldn't keep the smile off my face...or keep my nipples from hardening. I fantasized about taking myself right here on the conference room table, imagined what it would be like to strip myself naked, spread my legs wide, and attack myself rough and hard with my vibrator until I screamed in ecstasy. I closed my eyes as I pictured myself getting on my hands and knees and licking the puddle of wetness from the smooth, polished table, imagined the thrill I'd get from bringing a client into the conference room the next day for a boring, ordinary closing, secretly knowing what I'd done to myself right thee on that very table...

Nobody else took any notice. The buyers, a young newlywed couple, were purchasing their first house, and were much too excited to pay the slightest attention to anyone else. The loan officer was bored and disinterested; this probably wasn't his first appointment of the day, and it certainly wouldn't be his last.

At last, the paperwork was all signed and the closing was over. I shook hands with the happy buyers, noticing that the husband's eyes swept me from head to foot as I did, and smiled inwardly, wondering if he'd be thinking about me later that night. I made polite small talk with the loan officer for a couple of minutes, then excused myself and headed for the ladies' room. I locked myself in one of the stalls, then sat on the toilet seat, leaning my head back, and pinched my nipples through my blouse.

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