Bound in the Attic

Sometimes it seems like I am 2 people. The public one, the one everyone sees zipping down our suburban street in my crossover, gathering groceries in my khaki skirt, strappy sandals and sensible blouse. The one with a smile for everyone and, I hope, a bright glint in my eye.

But the other girl wants to come out. The naughty girl. The bad girl. The one that deserves to be tied down and punished.

The good girl is proud of our picturesque house. It's an older home, with cheerful yellow slats and green shutters. It's a stylish 2 stories with a nice yard, located in a great neighborhood.

The dark side of me likes our walkable attic. There's the peaked roof, of course, and not much in the way of walls or insulation. The summer heat can be brutal. Dare I say...punishing?

It's taken me a while to get my husband to understand that. That it's ok if his big hands are rough with me. If he pulls the ropes a little tighter. If he balls up my silky panties and slowly stuffs them into my willing open mouth.

At a garage sale, I scored a delectable old metal bed frame. Out of fashion now, the bed is full-size, wide enough for one person and maybe a little more. It's now set up beautifully in our attic space.

Am I a bad girl for wanting it?

Saturday morning finally arrived. As I cleared breakfast dishes, my husband cleared his throat. "Did you still want to do that thing?"

My heartbeat sped up, and I felt my face flush as I replaced the dish towel. My fingers tracing his face should communicate my answer. His hand slipped up my robe, cupping my bottom. "Yes, sweetie, I'm really ready."

I swiftly changed into a new purchase: A really chincy bra and panty set I had gotten at the J-Mart. Cheap, distasteful underwear that I would never wear under my conservative clothes. The bottoms were powder blue and so thin you could see through them. The bra fit poorly, missized, my breasts squeezed tightly, bulging around the edges. I applied some bright red lipgloss, then I flew to the stairs.

He was waiting for me in the attic. The temp wasn't too bad at this time of the morning. I assumed my rightful position - on my back.

He snugged the leather cuffs around ankles and wrists, buckling them into place. He clipped them to straps, then stretched my body, tieing off each of the four points to the bed frame. I pulled and struggled a little - there wasn't much play. It felt delicious.

He had a surprise for me! This was new. Long straps, usually used to secure boxes in pickup trucks, were arranged over my tummy, then pulled snug and locked down.

He set another strap high on my breasts, and ratched that strap down tightly. I caught my breath, I was being secured good and tight this morning.

Another strap below my knees and pulled tightly. I was held firmly in place.

He approached with a lipstick-stained piece of sheeting. My husband kissed me, then passed the strip around my head, and tied it tightly between my teeth. (If you are disappointed I didn't get the full-on mouth stuffing gag, you'll soon understand our reason.)

Behind him I could see a water bottle, out of my reach of course. On an attic post hung a blindfold, a ball gag, and other toys. The attic was musty, and dusty, and would be my prison for at least an hour.

Now I was alone.

Moments later, I heard a familiar roar as the lawn mower powered up. The sound faded a little, then louder again as my darling husband paced across the yard from side to side. I could even smell the new cut grass.

What a slut I am! My good husband doing his weekly lawn care duty ... while his wife is locked away in an attic, stripped to cheap underwear and bound spread eagle to a rusty bed. The ultimate damsel in distress, loving every minute of it.

Wait - now a new sound... and I know that sound! That beautiful bastard! Beneath the bed, an audio track from my favorite adult movie. Stilted dialogue as the girl detective is caught snooping in the warehouse. "You don't need to tie me up... you better untie me... my partner knows where I am... what do you think you are going to do with that?... No, don't gag me... Mmmpph!"

My husband had set a video player immediately under me. I can't see the pictures, but I know this movie so well, I see the images in my head. My nipples grow hard, trapped in the damned bra. My pussy is throbbing, and I feel wetness slip out.

With so many sensations, I'm getting hot. In fact, as the morning goes on, the attic is getting warm. My skin begins to glow. I'm breathing through my nose and mouth now, breathing around the thin strip of gag.

I detect the mower now working around the house. One quarter of the way through, I think. To confirm, the struggles of the girl bound beneath me are driving me mad. I can picture her. Her arms are trapped behind her, legs lashed together, mouth sealed with a gag, flopping around the warehouse manager's office in her sexy sweater, her tight skirt slowly slipping up.

I chew on my own gag, and pull helplessly at my bonds. I'm intensely aware of my pussy, gaping and wet, my juices soaking these transparent blue panties. I am so wet. My clit is completely out of reach and off limits.

My body is aflame. It's hot in this attic, and I feel beads of perspiration on my forehead and upper lip. Soon they slide off, streaming down my face into my ears. I turn and shake my head to no avail. It's so hot.

I see the water bottle, beads of condensation rolling down the sides. None for me. Not until my captor returns.

Bad girls need to be punished.

In the story playing beneath me, the two baddies have dragged the girl to a post and are retying her. Their actions are better in my imagination, tightening loops of rope around her ankles, hips, and that impressive chest. I think about how her calves must feel, stretched in those high heels. I am barefoot in my prison; for next time, I want to be bound in fragile stiletto heels myself.

Is that lawnmower sound around the far end of the house now? I'm losing track. He's not quite three-quarters done. My armpits are wet, trickling back into the mattress. With my skin so slick with sweat you would think I could pull out of these bonds. But I cannot.

The new strap across my knees blocks me from pulling my legs and feet. Not for the first time I consider: what if I could get my feet loose from the anklets? I'm still stretched out. I couldn't undo the wrist cuffs. Would I be any better off?

I chew on the strip of gag, tasting the smeared lipstick. This gag wouldn't muffle much noise at all. I could start wailing and screaming, surely one of our good neighbors would investigate. He'd find a sweaty girl in whorish underwear, tied and trapped. Would I ask to be untied... or would my first need be for a thick cock shoved up between my legs?

An hour alone with my imagination. The damsel in distress, changing from prim suburban victim to willing, wanton whore. At first, my pleas would be to be released and set free. But now I would be intense, begging to suck cock, to please be touched, to be soundly fucked.

My fellow victim is being ravaged. Lucky bitch! I know now she's tied, bent over a wooden prop, servicing one man with her mouth while the other is pounding her pussy from behind. I delight in her high pitched squeals, their manly grunts and groans. "Take it, you bitch. She's nice and tight."

Bad girls get what they have coming to them.

The lawn mower shut off! I hear him dragging it across the pavement. Soon he'll return! I hear the water hose, he's rinsing the machine before putting it away.

Wait! That's our neighbor's voice! She's stopped her car at our driveway and is talking to my husband. "Oh, she's in the house doing something," he tells her. For a fleeting second I see my friend clomping through our lower floors, looking for me. It gives me a scandalous thrill.

"Well, it could be electrical, or it could be the motor. I could take a look at it..." What's that man promising her now? She's dealing with a broken washing machine? Don't you dare go over and help that divorced bitch while I'm trapped and baking in this attic, my pussy a throbbing wet mess. I twist in helplessness.

The car drives away. The hose resumes. I think to myself, sprinkle some of that water on me, I'm aflame up here. I'm on fire. My pussy longs and aches for a touch.

Last scene of the film, they've re-tied my naked, spent girl and bundled her into an open crate. I know her mouth is stuffed and practically welded shut with layers and layers of duct tape. They are making arrangements to ship her to a buyer, and she's struggling as best she can. But to no avail. I feel for you, honey. The movie ends. The soundtrack goes silent.

I hear him creaking up the stairs. I know what he'll see - a slut, glistening with sweat. Damp hair clinging to her forehead. Sodden panties. A hot attic that smells like sex.

He's had his workout, too. His T-shirt is soaked through. His face is florid, hair mussed from the baseball cap I know that he wears. A day old growth of beard makes him look dangerous.

"So what do we have here? I'm the guy from the lawn mowing service. Your old man, he said I had to come way up here to get paid." Yum-yum! He's the horny tradesman and I'm the whorish housewife who never seems to have any cash on hand.

"Please let me go," I attempt to say through my wet gag.

He unbuckles the strap from across my knees. It falls, the buckle clanging heavy on the wooden floor. He tugs down my gag, and feeds me from the cold bottle of water. I drink gratefully.

"You ok?" he whispers.

"Please, please let me go before that psycho bastard comes back!" I plead. "Look how he's left me, tied and helpless."

He runs hands over my sweaty body. I'm aware of my own natural sweaty scent. He grips my electrically charged breasts, teasing my nips through the transparent fabric. He trails down my helpless body, ending up at my hip. With both hands and seemingly no effort, he rips the panties off me. How thrilling!

He skims the panties down to my knee, then gets off the bed. He slowly opens his pants, drops them, and steps out of them. His dick is so long, the head so thick and purplish red. His balls hang dangerously.

He's sweaty and musky. That rough beard, that undisguised smell of man. I pull helplessly at my cuffs. In this moment, I am both intimidated and impatient. "Oh, no, you can't!"

"Time to pay the man, sweetheart," as he climbs onto the bed, working his way between my legs.