Series, Erotic Romance

Handcuffs for Beginners 4: Mistress

Anne revels in her new found authority.

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Silk blouse, skirt, stockings, heels and handcuffs nonchalantly hooked over her belt. Anne looked at herself in the mirror, narrowed her eyes, and smiled. She had ignored his several messages saying how much he was looking forward to seeing her at five. She knew him so well, it didn’t altogether surprise her that at five twenty he was not actually home. She could have been annoyed, but instead her pulse quickened with her evolving plan.

Eventually, she heard the crunch of tyres on the gravel drive, followed by the clatter of the front door. He walked in smiling, saw her, and stopped. His jaw dropped as he spotted the handcuffs, their polished surface shining like her latest piece of jewellery. She spoke first:

“Hi Darling. Glad you could make it. I’ve got a nice evening planned. There’s just one thing before we start. I want you to pop your trousers and pants down, and lie across my knee”.

He looked at her, smiling, oblivious to what was about to happen. He enthusiastically pulled his trousers down. His large erection bobbed comically as he flipped the waistband of his pants over it. She was sitting on the settee, slightly forward, skirt hitched up a little. He laid across her, head on the settee, feet on the floor, penis enveloped in the silky gap between her thighs.

He giggled like an embarrassed schoolboy. “So, what’s all this abou…?”.

THWACK!

The smile disappeared from his face. He turned to look at her, hurt and surprised. She giggled and waved the wooden spoon that had just made such painful contact with his bottom. Her left hand pushed his shoulders down.

“I haven’t finished yet. Does this feel nice?” She squeezed her thighs and wriggled her silky stockings against his penis. His gasp of pleasure indicated the obvious answer. Her hand gently rubbed the sore, reddened area of his bottom until she judged that he was totally lost in ecstasy, and then she picked up the spoon and smacked him again. He yelped in surprise.

She explained: “You arrived home late. Boys who arrive late can expect to be punished”. He gave a louder yelp as she smacked him again, four more times. He turned his head. Her heart melted at the sight of tears in his eyes. She stroked his hair.

“It’s OK, David. Punishment is over. We’re going to have fun for the rest of the evening. We’ll start just like we did yesterday, and then”, she fondled the handcuffs, “we’ll try something a bit different. I want you to have a quick shower and then put your stockings on. Wait for me, on your knees, in the bedroom”.

Your stockings. The phrase sent a shudder down his spine. He enjoyed a further caress of her stockings before she eased the pressure of her thighs and gave him a push.

Twenty minutes later, she sat on the bedroom chair in front of her kneeling husband. Doing this for the second time, she relaxed, sat back and looked at him. Black nylon clad thighs, slim torso, broad shoulders, handsome face, made more appealing by his apprehensive little boy expression. She did fancy him, but not just yet. She stood, and giggling, she started to throw clothes at him.

Shirt, jacket, trousers, shoes, “hurry up and dress, I’m taking you out to dinner. Oh! You’ll need these”. She held the garment up for him to inspect; black, elasticated, Lycra control pants, with delicate lace edges at the legs and waist. She had only worn them once. They were painfully tight and she had decided her tummy was flat enough without them. She watched the colour drain from his face, then leaned forward and held the pants against his throbbing penis.

“You’ll love the feel of them, darling, and they’ll stop unwanted erections. Yes, I am going to make you wear them.” She hooked the garment over his upwards pointing penis, then sat back in the chair to enjoy the show. She relaxed. This seemed so right.

David, on the other hand, sweated and shook. He looked down at the pants. His emotions collided. He wanted, and didn’t want. His reverie was interrupted by her voice telling him to hurry up. He hesitated, then with a sudden resolve pulled the pants on, feeling them tighten as they swooshed up his stocking covered thighs, the uncomfortable resistance as the waistband met his erection, the surprise of them popping fully on, the tight silky enveloping pressure. He gasped, and looked at her, seeking her reassurance.

“Good Boy! They look lovely. Now hurry up and put the rest of your clothes on”.

She took his arm, grabbed her jacket and his car keys, led him to the back door of his big car, pushed him in, leaned over and fastened his seatbelt. She looked him in the eye and pulled hard on the diagonal section of the seatbelt, making the lap belt tighten across him with a heady mix of discomfort and underwear related silkiness. Nothing was said, but her message was clear. She then sat in the driving seat, and drove.

He had been carried along by her confident authority, disoriented by the shock of his punishment and the humiliation of what he was wearing, but as he sat in the car he took stock. Sitting on his bruised bottom was painful. His testicles had retreated to the top of his scrotum. His erection seemed to have lost the battle with tight Lycra. He was wearing ladies’ knickers and stockings under his suit, and seemingly heading for their favourite restaurant. Those facts seemed inconsequential as he looked at Anne with a new sense of desire. He wasn’t sure what had happened to her, but she was confident, beautiful, assertive, happy, literally and metaphorically driving the car. He should have been afraid, but through the gap between the seats his eyes fell on the hitched up skirt, thighs undulating as she moved from brake to accelerator, filling his head with the notion of them trapping his penis again. Something deep inside him wanted this, desperately.

“Sit still for a minute”. He felt compelled to obey as she walked round the car and opened his door, leaned across and unbuckled his seat belt. They walked to the restaurant entrance. She held the door and ushered him in first, then at the table pushed him forwards as the surprised waitress held a chair and napkin. “Tonight is his special treat”, she explained. “You can help me make it enjoyable for him”.

The gorgeous young waitress, who had just noticed the handcuffs that were not quite concealed by her jacket, looked at him, looked up at her, and smiled a broad smile. Anne wasted no time. Without consulting David she ordered soft drinks and food that she knew he would like. Her pointed toe hooked itself under David’s trouser leg, lifting it slightly, making him acutely aware of the tactile complexities of stocking wear, whilst making him shake with fear in case any other diners should notice his exposed ankle. He sweated. His heart thumped. The meal passed in a sensory overload of delicious food, the waitress’s attentive touches to his forearm and generous views of her cleavage, his wife’s teasing toe and whispered promises that she was going to handcuff him when they got home, his penis’ painful failure to stretch its silky but unyielding prison.

Anne paid the bill and took his arm, surprised at the state of him, he was unsteady on his feet, fearful, almost wanting to hide behind her as the waitress caught his eye and wished them a lovely evening. He offered no resistance as Anne strapped him in to the car. She felt herself wetten as he yielded to her words and touch. She scrutinised his frightened little boy face and something inside her snapped. As she had told Jane earlier, she NEEDED to dominate him.

She wriggled in the driving seat, looked at him in the mirror, then took a deep breath and forced herself to concentrate on driving home. Twenty minutes later, she was sitting in bed, still in her lingerie. He was standing at the end of the bed, still in his lingerie, wearing handcuffs, but this time locked with his hands in front of him.

She looked him down and up, and felt herself wetten again at the sight of his body. The black stockings trick worked on men too — he had legs any woman of average height would kill for. The tight control pants were exceeding her expectations — their smooth outline confirming he simply couldn't get hard in them. Six-pack, chest and shoulders, same ones she had always fancied. Handcuffs; she suppressed a giggle. Face… she gasped in surprise. Dominating her man involved a whole new vocabulary of facial expressions; a mixture of fear, excitement, uncertainty, desire, the curiosity of a child not sure if he was going to like something he’d never tried before. She reflected that she loved him, very much.

Her silent scrutiny was driving him crazy. His penis throbbed painfully in its tight prison. His arms relaxed with a clank of metal. He caught sight of the wooden spoon on the bedside table and shuddered. He looked back to her. Body — beautiful, face — that of a woman in control. Her new-found confidence was the sexiest thing ever. He reflected that he loved her, very much.

Eventually, she spoke. “Darling, I need a bed-time drink. Take care with the stairs and the hot kettle”.

He had wondered why his wrists weren’t quite so restrained as last night. Pulse racing, he held the stair rail with both hands, worked out new ways of handling kettle and mugs, and reappeared ten minutes later, carefully bearing two drinks on a tray.

She picked up her cocoa and invited him to sit next to her, in the middle of the large bed, then handed him a silk scarf. “This is to tie round your ankles”. He took the scarf and hesitated. “You’re better at knots than I am, Darling”.

She really was expecting that making him tie his own ankles would need some wooden spoon based encouragement, but to her amazement, he leaned forwards and tied his ankles together. She rewarded him with a, “Good Boy” and handed him his cocoa, which he carefully held with a clank of metal against cup and sipped gratefully. She shuffled across the bed, leaned against his shoulder, crossed her legs, so her nylon covered foot could caress his similarly clad calf, and chatted.

Had he enjoyed the meal? Was going out scary? Did he like a woman to drive, hold doors open for him, pay the bill? Did he fancy that waitress? How was his sore bottom? Were his new pants comfortable?

At her mention of pants, they both looked down. Black shiny material, lace edges, quite pretty. She took his empty cup, told him to lie flat, and guided his handcuffed hands to the front of the pants, and with her hands holding his, pushed up and down so he was fondling himself through the cruelly constraining material.

“Close your eyes. Don’t stop fondling. See if you can get hard for Mistress”. His brain did a double take at the new word she had just slipped in. His eyelids and hands did as she had commanded.

She hopped off the bed and reached for a long cord that was already tied to the foot of the bed. She reminded him to keep fondling and quickly looped the cord around his ankle scarf, back under the bed, up to the top of the bed, through the rails in the headboard, through the chain link in the middle of his handcuffs, back through the rails in the bed head, then without warning pulled it hard so his fondling hands were suddenly level with his nipples. She bent down and tied the end of the cord to a leg of the bed.

He gasped and opened his eyes. Her triumphant smile was genuinely scary. She was back on the bed with her leg draped over his, her mouth kissing his neck and nipples and backs of his hands, her right hand roughly rubbing the front of his pants, feeling the desperate throbbing of his still squashed penis. His legs undulated against hers, triggering a sudden lust for a certain other pair of amazing long legs.

She sat bolt upright and grabbed her mobile. “One thing I forgot to ask you, Darling. Tell me exactly how much you liked it when Jane had you handcuffed?”

She ignored his incoherent reply as she frantically typed out a message to her friend.

“I want you to put a coat on over your lingerie and pop round to our house, now. Tell Patrick you’ll be an hour”.

The story continues in Part 5- Governess

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