Tightly Constrained

(To Old Friends, Remembered Fondly)

As soon as I shut the door to his room at the inn, he pushed me up to the wall for a long, hard, wet kiss. He held both my wrists up on top of my head, clinched in one of his fists. At first he pressed to me, full length, and I felt his strength. He plunged his tongue in and out of my mouth, to let me suck and rub and taste it. Then he broke the kiss, let go of my arms, and stepped back a bit to look at me up and down.

I stood while he judged me; I hoped he was pleased with what he saw. Save for the sex heat he showed, he gave me no words as to his thoughts, but his words in print the past few weeks had told me all there was to know. He would use a girl for his own needs, and then toss her to the side if he deemed her not the one for long term fun. I had to thrill him. My breath came fast as he made me wait.

“Your attire is exactly as I was hoping, Pauline,” he said. “I think you’re going to do really beautifully.”

Yes, I had tried to do things his way; all black, a short dress with a front zip (I picked one like a slut would wear), a thin front hooked bra (same), thong (same), two-inch peep-toe lace-up heels (as high as I owned), nude hose (so he could see my toes). I was glad to know I chose well.

He ran his hand up and down my front. I was on fire by this time and I knew that the bumps of my breasts could be seen and felt through the dress. His hand paused a short time at each one, and at last he moved to tug down the zip, one half inch at a time.

“Are you dripping, Pauline? Are you absolutely soaking? Is your opening begging for penetration?” he asked.

Though I did not want to say so, that I had been turned on so fast, I could not lie, for he might check right then. “Yes, sir,” I said in a soft voice. “My fuck hole is wet for you.” That was his pet phrase. I was glad my first thing to say was not hard.

He laughed. “Just like a prostitute would say! You *are* a hooker. A harlot. Nothing but the lowest of the low!” Then he ripped the zip the rest of the way down and I gasped. “Oh? You figured I’d go slow, all romantic-like, huh?”

“It is fine,” I said.

“Fine? What exactly does that imply? Fine?” His free hand was on my abs and slide up to my ribs as my dress hung limp, my skin bare to his gaze. “Kind of like, ‘mediocre’?”

“No Sir!” I said. “No at all. It is good. Great. Real great.”

With ease he flicked my bra off of my breasts. I quaked. “Good, hmm? Great? Only a slutty cunt would say this is desirable. I mean, we’re here alone, our first time ever together, and you’re letting me do this to you within the first two minutes. You have let me open Your dress and your brassiere, and I see your trampy little body now. Shall I take a look at your bush next? You should be ashamed, Pauline. You’re a whore. A prostitute. And telling me you’re wet already? Like a woman who just wants to be the fucktoy of a man whose only interest is his own gratI’ve warned you that’s all I want. Maybe I’ll just use your mouth. Would you like that? Once I shoot my load, you’ll leave. Is that what you want?”

My clothes hung limp on me. What did he want me to say? “No,” I tried.

“No?” He pushed the bra cups to the side and stared at my tits. “Look at these titties, Pauline. You tell me they’re not aching to be fondled and sucked and twisted and pinched.”

“They are.”

“What are?”

“My…my breasts,” I said with a lurch. “They want to be touched and sucked and kissed.”

“Breasts?” he laughed. “Nuh uh. Not to me. These are tits, jugs, meat balloons, gazongas, melons. Hooters. To be used. And to be abused. Say it. Ask me nicely to molest your little hotters, Pauline.”

He was right. It was true. My breasts are not big. Not small, but not big. My nips are small too, but they were hard right then. “Please grab my tits…Sir. My jugs. I can not say the rest to you. You know that.”

He laughed and squeezed one rough. “I can’t believe you just called them your jugs,” he said, with a shake of his head. “You bend to my will so easily. I corrupt you so thoroughly. A fine gentlewoman has breasts. You are no such woman. Are you trying to give me a message? That you are a dripping wet strumpet, dying to suck pecker after I play with your jugs? Are you?”

“Yes sir. I’ll suck your cock. Play with my jugs first. Pinch my slut nips, sir. Pull them like that. Put me in my place.”

“Good,” he said. “If you don’t give me exactly what I want, I’ll tell your husband about the inferior, hack pornography you post at Literotica.”

We had talked of my spouse, and his, but not with a risk of threats, even milk ones like that. What he said of my porn was not true. It is good. But I did not say so. “I am sure you will not,” I said.

He laughed. “Because you are confident you will comply. Because I’ve got you tied up tight already. You can’t even move a muscle in resistance.”

“Yes sir. Yes sir. No sir,” I said, in hopes I had the right run of words.

“By the way, you’re doing very well. Extremely well indeed. I’m highly satisfied. Witty, wordy, wicked; you certainly live up to your own billing. Are you jealous now? That I may speak freely, and you may not?”

This made my heart sing. Those had been my first words to him. He too had lived up to his own first words. Tall? I could see. (My spouse is not.) Well hung? I could judge. (My spouse is not.) Strict? All doubt was now gone. (My spouse? Ha ha ha.) He was what he wrote. “No sir. I am not, uh, green. Green with, uh, no, uh, spite. Not green with spite. Not at all. But I am bright pink with lust.”

“Oh! Very good, Pauline! You’re quick. I’ve never had anyone take to my monosyllabic restraint quite like you. I can call you Pauline as I wish, and you can’t even call me Ian. Three little letters, and yet it’s beyond your capability.”

“Yes sir.” I loved his one-sound word rule. “It makes me wet.”

“It makes you sound like a child, is what it does. Possibly mentally deficient. I think it suits our corrupt relationship exceedingly well, don’t you?”

“Yes sir.” He taught at a big school. A top school. I liked that too.

“Are you able to maintain it, even in your internal monologue?”

I moaned at his rough play. It hurt. “Yes,” I said.

He stripped me the rest of the way. I posed for him. He pulled his phone out and used it on me. I posed for him. He pulled out his big thick cock. I posed for him.

Then he laughed and did more to my nips. Pinch, twist, pull, jerk, tug, yank, tweak, twitch, wrong, pluck, strum. I looked him in the eye. I said each of these words. Once he stopped, I would have to suck his big thick cock. I would not stop. He would not stop. Pinch, pinch, pinch, pinch, pinch, I went on to say. He kept on with it, on and on and on, til I thought I would go out of my mind.

He had me tied up, not with rope, not even with a phonescreen of my nude breasts and my face full of shame, but with words. Tied up with words. Tight as the string on a gift. As tight as a clinched fist.