My wife was out of town for the week, which left me without much to do
besides watching TV or catching the basketball games on the radio. So when
rush hour hit, I headed to a nearby bar and sat at the rail to check out the
traffic, ordering a gin and tonic to pass the time. It was an upscale crowd
— yuppies, businessmen like myself, you know the type.

As I swiveled my barstool around, getting a quick 360 of the clientele,
I realized there was a woman sitting next to me. A good-looking brunette in
a well-tailored business suit. And unless I was very much mistaken, she had
been giving me the eye.

I turned around, and she was there all right, looking at me with an
expression I couldn’t quite fathom. “Rough day?” she asked, and I relaxed
and moved into the “office work” routine with half my mind while the other
half tried to figure what she was looking for. She was friendly enough, and
I tuned back into our discussion just in time to hear myself recommend a
little Chinese place for dinner.

We ate at Yank Soo’s in one of the booths overlooking the river.
Separate checks, of course. She told me about life in the field of
accounting and how hard it was for a woman to get ahead in a male-dominated
area. We talked about college and career, and found a mutual interest in
old jazz. Turns out she had some early Blue Note disks I had been looking
for years, so I asked about taping them for my collection and she invited me
to come over and give them a listen first.

Her “little place” was a Victorian brownstone in one of the more
expensive neighborhoods. I pulled into the second bay of the two-car garage
since it looked like rain. She showed me into the music room as she went to
fix something to drink. I was impressed — her jazz collection was
something incredible, from rare Bird to just about every Monk album ever
released. I found the records we had discussed and put one on the
turntable, then sat on the couch and listened. Cool, sweet, jazz — I closed
my eyes and drank in the sound. At some point in the first track she put a
drink in my hand, and I sipped as I listened.

The first track ended, and I opened my eyes to see her beside me on the
couch. Somehow, taking her in my arms was the easiest thing to do, and when
the second track began we just naturally rose to start dancing. Her hands
drifted down to the base of my spine, and I became aware of the points of
her breasts through the silk blouse she wore. We turned so she was dancing
with her back to me, moving her hips back into mine. I cupped her breasts,
and heard her sigh as she leaned into me. She turned around, and as our
dance went on she unbuttoned my shirt, then removed it and my jacket. Next
to go was her jacket and blouse, and we danced through the next solo with
her hands inside the back of my pants.

“Come upstairs,” she breathed, running one hand between my legs, and I
didn’t have the will to resist her. She unfastened my pants there in the
music room, leaving me in shorts alone, took off her bra, and kissed me long
and deep, my hands roaming over her back and down farther. She led me up
the stairs, one hand in my shorts, and opened the door to her bedroom. There
was a large bed there, a music system equal to the one downstairs, and a low
metal Sixties-style bench with a fur seat by a curtained wall. She asked me
to sit on the bench, and as the music from downstairs continued, used her
own fingers to bring her nipples into proud erection. “Kiss me,” she said,
offering a ripe tit, and I cooperated, drawing it into my mouth with lips
and tongue. “Harder,” she moaned, and I used my teeth and tongue, feeling it
become stiff and swollen. She pulled away, then offered the other breast
for the same treatment. When she pulled away this time, her face — indeed
her whole upper body — was flushed. She beckoned with one finger, and I
came to her to slip her skirt off, revealing a black pair of crotchless
panties. I slipped a finger between her thighs, finding that she was
already warm and wet.

She asked me to turn around, so I did so, facing the bench and wall as
she dragged my shorts down, my penis spring free to smack audibly against my
belly. I felt her hands move down my legs, and then a clicking sound. I
looked down to realize that she had just fastened a set of fur-lined cuffs
around my ankles and snapped them to the bottom legs of the bench. She
pushed me forward, and as I fell she grabbed one arm, then the other,
fastening them similarly to the other end. I began to appreciate the design
of the bench in a different light now. The seat of the bench ran from just
below my neck to just above my waist, then the bench legs went out at an
angle, leaving me open to the air from the belly button to mid-thigh. I
couldn’t see what she was doing, but I could still smell her private aroma,
and that maintained my flagging erection.

She slid a footstool beneath my chin, lifting my head so I could see
the slit in her panties and smell the juices that were already gathered
there. As she slid forward, I stretched my tongue out to meet her, finding
her hot and wet inside. She gripped my head as I kissed and licked, and ran
trails with her nails around my ears, the back of my neck, my armpits, each
nail leaving a trace I could feel as clearly as reading a map. I felt
something toying with the head of my penis — she had stretched her legs and
gripped me with her toes. Now she pulled slightly away from my face, and I
had to stretch my head and tongue to reach her, as she braced her hands on
my shoulders and began working me with her feet. I could not hold off, but
as I began to shoot I felt her begin her own spasms around my tongue.

She bent her knee, bringing one foot onto the stool, her toes between
my face and her pussy. “Suck,” she commanded, and despite some misgivings I
did, mingling the acrid taste of my own fluid with the heavy smell of her
juices. She buried my face inside her pussy again, and I licked and nibbled
until she was satisfied. She arose, moving to my nether end, and I heard a
buzzing sound, then felt a vibrator moving over my thighs, between my legs,
between my cheeks. She parted my cheeks and I felt her finger work its way
into the opening there, moving in and out until I relaxed. Then her finger
was replaced by something thicker that went in until my muscles clamped
around a narrow portion. She ran the vibrator over the end of the plug, and
the sensation was so intense, that to my surprise I found myself becoming
erect again.

She unhooked the cuffs from the bench, and helped me to stand erect,
taking me in a full body kiss, tongues fighting for space, then sliding
slowly down my body to taste and tease my nipples as I cupped and squeezed
her full breasts. Each move I made caused the plug to wiggle, making my
erection bob and jerk against her. “Poor baby, we’ve been neglecting you,”
she said, and sank to her knees to engulf me in the moist cavern of her
mouth. I closed my eyes and stroked her fine hair as her tongue and lips
worked their magic on me, all the while her fingers were pinching, caressing
and stroking my thighs, cheeks, genitals. My breath was coming ragged as
she held me on the edge of erupting.

She pulled away, holding me in her hand as she led me to a curtained
wall, then drew the curtain aside to reveal a large metal frame with D-rings
at the corners. She backed me up and attached my feet to the corners,
spreading my legs to do so, then kissed and licked her way up my body,
finally lifting my arms and hooking their cuffs to the top corners of the
frame. By now she was riding on top of me, rubbing her labia around my
aching member, her breasts hot against my chest.

She moved her head down to kiss and worry my nipple, then made me gasp
as she clipped something to it. She repeated the treatment on my other
nipple, then slid down and wrapped her breasts around my erection, bring it
up harder (if possible). Now she attached some sort of clamp to the skin
just below the head, with a weight attached to the clamp. The weight
magnified every movement I make. As she stepped away from the frame, my
attention wavered between the growing pain at my nipples, the constant
reminder of the anal plug, and the self-jerking action of my cock. Her face
was radiant as she watched me quiver.

She asked me, “What would you like first?” but I could not give her an
answer. Remove the clips? Take me into her mouth? Unhook my arms? She
chuckled at my indecision, then went to the side of the frame, unhooked a
bar, and swung the frame out, now perpendicular to the wall. “You’ll like
this, I think,” she said, scraping her nails up my ass cheeks, wiggling the
plug to draw a low moan from me. She took the weight and fastened it to the
anal plug, so every motion I made was now reflected.

I heard her step away, then I could not hear her at all. My nipples
felt on fire, and all the squirming I could manage in that frame would not
budge them. But all that movement did shake the weight and move the plug,
making my aching erection harder. Where did she go? I began to worry how
long she was going to leave me and finally yelled “Hello? Where are you?” I
got my answer as my ass exploded in pain. Whack! Whack! She had re-entered
the room quietly and now was strapping my ass. I cried out from the shock,
her only response more laughter. Every jolt of the strap seemed to run from
the base of my ass cheeks to the head of my erection.

When she finally stopped the spanking, I thanked her in relief, asking
what she wanted from me. “Aren’t you enjoying yourself?” she answered, “Oh,
silly me, you have all these tight muscles that need to be loosened.” She
began stroking my ass, her palms cool relief against my abused flesh. She
started moving the anal plug in and out, fucking my ass with it while the
attached weight pulled my cock up and down in return. The sensations
finally overwhelmed me, and without her ever touching my cock directly I
came, long and hard, in spasm after spasm, her fingers continuing to move
until I was slumped boneless in the frame. I barely whimpered at the pain
when she removed the clips, then released me from the frame.

Eventually I gathered the strength to get dressed — she had done so
already and had coffee brewing down in the kitchen. We shared a cup
together in silence. As I got up to leave, she said, “We really must get
together again.” The thought was tempting, but thinking of my wife, I
declined. “No, I really think we must” she said more firmly, and handed me
a photograph.

I hadn’t noticed a camera at the time, but the photograph was clearly
recognizable as me, naked in the frame, nipples clipped, face locked in a
rictus of pleasure, strands of semen flying in the air. “I have your
number,” she said as I left.

I think she does.