05 Nov 2016, 03:30
Bit of fun to while away the time, writing some fiction to spice up an otherwise boring evening.
My husband's a nerd. Not, as it turns out, that that's a bad thing.
See, when I can get Pete away from his electronic gizmos and his computer, he can be a really, really nice guy. Oh… and he's a REAL pervert (editor, insert one of those internet smiley things in here).
Yep – take one bright, creative, imaginative guy with a thing for tying girls up, add one girl (me) with a penchant for bondage… you never know what's going to happen around our place!
I'd come home from work and heard him up in the bedroom. All the danger signals went off in my brain. I know when he's up there in the middle of the day he's up to no good. Well, maybe he's up to lots of good!
I walked into the bedroom, looking all innocent, like I don't know anything's up. He's laid out some fetish gear on the bed. He's got this devilish grin on his face.
"Up for a little game?", he asks. Hah! Like I don't know what's up.
"Suuuure, Tonto, what's up?" I call him Tonto when I want to remind him of an infamous evening's 'wild indian' bondage session that went hilariously wrong.
But his smile doesn't slip, and I know that's never a good sign. He's got this locking corset out, he knows I don't like it, but it doesn't really scare me. So I've misguessed? Gulp.
"garter belt, hose, heels" he says, like you'd say "check the roast after 15 minutes".
I shuck out of my street clothes and into hose and heels, glancing up at him and back down at the black stockings as I unroll them on my legs. Fasten the garter belt, do the front hangers, stand up, do the back hangers with a little Betty Page maneuver. He watches appreciatively – at least, Tonto junior's appreciative I can see.
I sit back down and put on the heels. I'm bent down fiddling with the ankle straps on the heels. When I look up he's got a pair of handcuffs hooked to one foot post of our four poster.
"left hand" he says, in that funny quiet voice he uses at times like this. I stand, a little shaky in the heels, and my breasts bounce a little. My left hand gets shackled to the top of the post, and in a moment my right hand's similarly attached to the other footpost. He turns his back to a seriously less dangerous me, rummages in our dresser, and turns back around with a pair of black full line panties I've never seen before hanging from his finger. Since he's never been a panty fetishist this rings doorbells, but whatever. He kneels down, a gesture that strikes me as oddly submissive – I'm supposed to be the bottom here – but he's just putting the panties on me. I see a flash of white cube inside as he pulls them up, but I can't really see what it is. When he pulls them up all the way I can feel there's something hard in there – like something plastic or metal. On the outside I can see it pushing on the panties, a disk about the size of a silver dollar.
He's got a black body shaper with a built in girdle that I usually don't wear – after I bought it I decided it looks out of fashion without being the retro I'd hoped for – but I don't always get to pick! Pete pulls it up. I realize he's picked it because of the girdle. At the bottom it has three or four inches of leg. I won't be able to get to anything while wearing it. Specifically, I won't be able to get to that plastic disk, which worries me.
He's getting smarter about this stuff. When we first got together he'd get me tied up and realize he couldn't get my clothes on or off without untying me. But the straps on the body shaper can be unhooked, and he loops them over my shoulders and hooks them now.
He's still a bit of a klutz – he's cuffed me facing away from the bed. The corset zips in front, then laces in the back. After it's on me he has to climb on the bed to lace it, which he does. I said I don't like the corset. I don't. But I suck it up and it's on me, after much tugging on the laces. There's a panel that covers the laces in the back. The panel has straps that come around the front. The straps end in a series of grommets, and he comes around front to put a small padlock through them. Another padlock holds the zipper at the top of the corset.
The shoes are fetish shoes, and they've got a place for a padlock. We've never used it before. Pete locks them on now with a couple more small padlocks.
Then, surprisingly, he unlocks the cuffs.
He knows the doofoid innocent act always gets me – he bats his eyes at me and grins his 'butter wouldn't melt in my mouth' look and says "I'll let you out after you fix us both dinner." Then he turns and walks down the stairs.
I follow, but never reach the end of the hall, let alone the stairs down. About two steps into the hall I hear a tinny electronic beeping sound. A couple steps more and all my suspicions about that damn plastic disk are confirmed. The pain from the shock nearly floors me. I grab the wall. Pete laughs at me, the bastard.
"Back up, silly!"
I take his advice and back into the bedroom. He follows me back. I sit on the bed and ponder my predicament. Pete grins and hands me a pamphlet.
"Let me know when dinner's ready!" he says as he leaves, laughing.
I look at the pamphlet. It's the instructions for something called an 'indoor containment device'. According to the pamphlet it's just the thing for keeping bowser out of the living room. One part, a white Frisbee like thing called the 'transmitter', you put in the room you want to keep bowser out of. The other part is a collar with a 'receiver', a disk that looks disturbingly like the disk in my underwear. When bowser, or little ol' me, apparently, gets too close to the transmitter he (or she) gets zapped. A few more pages of jolly reading of this fascinating work of literature informs me about something called the 'run through feature'. The faster I run at the transmitter the more I'll get zapped.
Our bedroom's at the end of the upstairs hall. Along the hall is a room where I have a sewing machine and Pete has his electronics bench, and on the other side is the bathroom. End of the hall has a linen closet, the stairs down to one side, on the other is a small guest bedroom. The transmitter might be in there too.
My first idea turns out to be not so bright. Forgetting about the 'run through feature', I decide if I know it's coming I can get to the stairs, even in the heels. I get precisely two steps beyond where I got to before, and pay for it with pain so intense I fall gasping on the floor and crawl back to the bedroom. Shit! That really, really hurt! And in all this gear I can't even rub my poor abused vulva to make it better.
I try laying on the bed and fishing with fingers for the plastic disk. I'm rewarded with the discovery that it's fastened to the panties somehow. While I'm fiddling around Pete wanders in to see how I'm doing.
I have another idea. I rummage in the closet for a satin top with self ties in the back. Self ties, for the guys in the audience, are just ties made as wide tapes of the same material as the garment. 10 minutes of struggling gets one end of the tie through from one side to the other. As I pull it through I remember this top is dry clean only, and wonder what the dry cleaners will think of this stain.
I hesitantly step out into the beeper zone. Then I take a step more. It's not as bad as the other times, but it's still bad. I retreat to the bedroom to think it over. Pete's got a huge shit eating grin on his face.
"Hah!" he laughs, "I knew you'd try putting something in there. But I knew it wouldn't work. I know you too well. Situation like this, your juices are flowing, and you can't make them stop. Anything you put in there will get wet in seconds."
He was right. My own body was betraying me. I was stuck!
Pete got up to leave. "I'll be downstairs – call me if you need anything."
The bastard.
Over the next hour I try getting the robot Pete once made from a toy dump truck out of the hobby room – result, lots of pain and the glimpse into the room tells me I'll never find it in all the junk in there. Scissors or cutting implements -carefully removed by Pete. Examine the window – not a hope, even if I wasn't wearing the heels. The attic access is in our bedroom – but Pete comes back while I'm trying to get up to the panel. He points out the attic doesn't go anywhere.
I look at him with that "I'm stumped" look. He gives me that darn doofy look.
"Hmm…. you know, I'm kind of old fashioned. I think a wife should have her husband's dinner on the table when it's dinner time. It's almost eight, and you haven't even been in the kitchen! What do you think your punishment should be for making me wait for dinner?"
I answer with my eyes. I'm surprised Pete isn't involved in a six car pileup with all that glare.
"Well, I think a night in the box might do it. But it's getting later all the time. Tell you what. You get my dinner on the table in the next half hour, you're clear. Get it by nine, you get a whipping and sleep in bondage tonight. More, you spend all night in the box."
We have a bondage box, a big cabinet like contraption with holes for my head and hands in the top. Then it hits me. The cabinet's in the guest bedroom!
I gotta get out of this. Suddenly the clock is ticking. I have to get to the kitchen somehow!
A desperation driven dash down the hall gets no further than before. I end up sobbing on the bed.
As Christopher Marlowe observed, a date with the hangman sharpens the mind wonderfully. I realize Pete wouldn't have set this up without a solution. I've examined everything in the room… has to be something else… Pete would have left a clue…
Suddenly the light goes on. I feel like I should have a light bulb hovering over my head. "Call me if you need anything".
I drop to the floor. I grovel, I plead, I offer unlikely sexual feats… if only Pete will move the doggie transmitter. One slurpy blowjob later, he does so. He's a little slow coming, but eventually does. In the warm post blowjob glow he goes down the hall and turns off the transmitter. I dash for the kitchen.
That night I tug at the rope holding my hands over my head and try to turn over to get the weight off my red striped butt. Pete locked me back in the body shaper and corset after he birched my butt. The pressure from the body shaper's not helping my butt any. And the heels are still locked on.
My feet hurt from the heels, my knees and elbows hurt from falls in the hallway, my shoulders hurt from sleeping with my arms over my head, my ribs hurt from the corset, I have a raw throat from the blowjob, my poor bottom stings like fire from the whipping, and my poor, poor pussy hurts like hell.
I feel great.
Over the next few days the gizmo gets a name. I'm not sure if it was me or Pete who named it the bowsermatic, but that's what we end up calling it.
One evening my parents are going to come by to visit. Pete frightens the dickens outta me – before they show up he makes me put on the bowsermatic panties and the body shaper.
I think I've got him, I point out that the corset will be obvious to them, or at least to my mom. Of course he's ahead of me. He's got a roll of duct tape. Pete runs a few turns around my waist in a spiral, and signs his name on it with a marker. No way I could get it off and back on with the strips all lined up.
My parents are totally conservative and have no idea about our games. Eeek!
I'm nervous the whole evening. I have no idea where the transmitter's hidden. I'm careful not to drink too much – I can't pee in this getup.
Mom had me really scared earlier when she started asking about the garden. I made the mistake of saying it wasn't going well, and got drug out to look at it, terrified I'd be cut down in mid mothering. But not a peep outta bowser all evening.
I've worn a kinda conservative day dress, the only thing I can find that hides the line of the body shaper. Mom makes a comment about it, suggests I should wear stuff like that more often… suuuure mom.
Pete and dad get started on some guy thing with electronics and the evening drags. I'm glad when my mom finally drags my dad out the door. I count to ten to make sure they don't come back, and finally turn to Pete.
"Well, where is it?"
"What?" asks Pete, playing his usual innocent game.
"You know all too well, you ditz. The bowsermatic!"
"It better be on you!"
"the OTHER half! The transmitter!"
He laughs – "Upstairs in the closet – with the power turned off"
Bastard!
"Inspection time" he announces, and fiddles with the buttons on my dress. I pull away – I'm a little miffed. I undo the buttons myself and show him the tape in it's pristine glory. I stick my tongue out at him.
He laughs, at himself this time, and the tension's broken. He knows it's a dirty trick. But, I gotta agree, it's a good one. I've forgiven him, and I'm turned on from the stress and anxiety of the last few hours. I pull the tape off the body shaper. He tries to help, and it almost breaks the mood – we have to be careful to get it off without ruining the foundation. But it's off, and he's my partner in perversity again. I peel outta my pumps, pantyhose, the shaper, the bowsermatic, all kinda in a pile. He's not expecting it, I think, but I push him back into the sofa, and he sits down kinda hard. I'm atop him in a moment, he's got his pants undone with my eager help, and he's inside me. If this were a movie, this'd be where it dissolves. But even though it's not, you know how this goes. The action moves upstairs to the bed at some point, both of us with clothes tucked under arms.
This must have been harder on Pete than he's letting on. After another round in the bed he conks out. I'm a lighter sleeper anyway, but Pete's really cutting the Z's now.
Suddenly my perversity gene cuts in, and I quietly slip out of bed. I snag bowser off the floor and carefully ease the closet door open. True to his word, my husband. The transmitter's sitting inside. The duct tape and I'm set.
One thing about being married and a light sleeper. Did you know that men get erections in their sleep? Petes not under the covers, he's kinda sprawled where he lay after the last battle, and at some point Tonto peeks his head up to check for the palefaces.
The secret to being quick in situations like this is to have the actions rehearsed in your mind. Panties dropped over penis, grab with right hand, wrap panties with tape with left hand, careful not to get any skin. Right hand picks up transmitter in time to keep it away from suddenly awake husband.
Pete takes a minute to wake up. He shortens that time admirably. When he reaches for the bandaged lump on his peepee, I warn "Ah ah ah!", menacing the transmitter and it's on/off switch. He makes one attempt to pull the lump off – My finger's fast on the switch, and he ends up bent double, hands over his head.
"Jesus fucking asshole Christ!" he screams.
"Body shaper!"
He moves slowly over to it
"Faster!" He speeds up. He's bigger than me, it's a real struggle to get into the shaper.
I toss him the corset and he puts it on. I find out where the locks and keys are without using the switch. I've only experienced the darn thing at the edge of it's zone. He won't be looking for an opportunity to repeat the zap he got.
The laces look tricky. I end up handcuffing him to the bedpost before I do them. Once he's in the corset I undo the cuffs by giving him the key and picking the transmitter back up before he can get out of the cuffs.
"Down the hall, downstairs"
I don't follow. I turn the transmitter on and get a good night's sleep. Pete looks pretty frazzled at breakfast. Unfortunately it's a workday and I gotta let him out.
Pete's got lots of great qualities. He's also persistant. And truly obsessed with gadgets, as I've mentioned before.
A week after the evening with mom and dad I come home and Pete's in the living room with the TV on. He has a big bag from Pet World and his electronics stuff. Definitely not a good sign either for the family budget or for me.
"Hey Honey! I couldn't resist! Check this out!"
Uh, I'm not sure I want to check it out. But some fatal moth-to-the-flame attraction takes over, and I'm sitting on the couch.
I got the tape off the bowsermatic's panties with some cleaning fluid, but I guess it wasn't compatible – they got big splotches on them. I brought home a pair of control panties to replace them, and sewed a pocket on the inside. Yes, we are indeed hoist on our own petard. Gotta confess – out of vanity, I brought several in different colors. It was pete who figured out a way to slip the receiver in and out and still be 'secure' when they were on. He had me sew a a deep, narrow pocket in the front of the panties, and then another, slightly larger one upside down over the first, with holes for the electrodes in each one. It's easy enough to get the thing in and out when you're not wearing them, but impossible without taking off the panties.
Pete's got another collar setup from the store. This one looks fancier. It's got more parts and the instructions are bigger. He takes perverse delight in showing me the parts.
"This is a lot more flexible" he enthuses. I'm less enthusiastic.
The phrase "The third degree" is from the inquisition. The court could order the first degree – verbal interrogation, or the second degree – being threatened with torture and shown the implements, or the third degree – actual torture. I'm getting the second degree.
He's all enthusiastic about the 'containment fence'. He's a
eady run a wire around the base of the house. If I go outside it the bowsermatic will get me.
The wire runs to a box nailed up near the water meter. He's in full geek. He describes how he wants to bury a wire at the edge of the property and another one for the back yard. Inside he's going to run a wire around each room. By turning these on and off he can make an electronic prison out of whatever part of the property he wants.
The new set (I try not to think what this thing must have cost.) has no less than three of the 'room excluder transmitters', the aforementioned 'containment fence', and a couple other gizmos.
One looks vaguely like a walkie talky. It's got a pushbutton and a knob. Pete takes great pleasure reading how the knob can be adjusted from 'tingling warning' to 'stimulation' to 'immediate negative reinforcement'. Sounds like phasers on kill.
He holds the disk in his hand, sets his control unit on low, and pushes the button. His face tries to say "not bad", but his hand jerks and he doesn't do it again.
The other gizmo looks bad. It's a dog collar with a friend of bowsermatic looking box fastened to it. The package calls it a 'bark control collar'.
He holds it out and suggests I try it. I tell him I may be his sex slave but I'm not his guinea pig. He shrugs and puts it on himself, with the box on the front and the buckle in back of his neck.
"Saa….Aaak!' He starts to say something and apparently thinks better of it.
He digs out a pencil and writes "say something – SHORT!" on a magazine.
"Four score and twenty years ago our fathers…."
Don't worry – I'd have stopped if he'd have been in pain. But obviously nothing's happening. I try a little louder, and then a shout "FOUR SCORE AND TWENTY" .. Nothing. It obviously can tell the difference between me and him somehow. I turn the TV up to 'blare', much to his alarm. Nothing. He's relieved there's no shock, I'm relieved I've had an excuse to turn the darn thing off. After a bit of childlike hooting, whistling, clapping, popping of paper bags, and such we're convinced it can really tell when it's the wearer talking.
He tries a button on the control box. There's a buzzing noise. He starts to tell me something – not a great idea. After he takes the collar off he says "there's a vibrator. It's to signal a hunting dog to return, but maybe it'll be useful for warning or something". He holds the box part in his hand and pushes another button. Obviously he can run this shocker too.
Nice. This man gets more deviously weird all the time.
Suprisingly there's nothing more about all this gear for a few days. Saturday morning he does spend crawling around the house stapling wires in place (I make him promise to go to the hardware store and get matching color wire for inside).
He's actually pretty good about sharing housework – he's made lunch when I come in from a morning in the garden (putting in tomato plants). Over sandwiches we talk about the exciting minutia of being home-owners. Exciting executive decisions like next weekend we'll do spring cleaning. Pete's well, a nerd, he likes being organized. He makes a list of all the stuff I say we need for the spring cleaning and volunteers to get it all.
That night we try the bark collar in a scene. Sometimes when we're just trying to relax a high intensity scene isn't the thing.
Pete and I have been together long enough that some of the normal negotiation has just become routine. Along with the cleaning supplies Pete's stopped off and rented a movie. I've thawed carrots and put out ranch dip, we're settling in to watch. Pete pulls out a length of rope (mom once asked why there seemed to be short hunks of rope everywhere in our house), I enthusiastically turn my back to him and he pinions me. It's a little tight for sitting around on the couch, but I know better than to tell Pete – he's just as likely to tighten it as loosen it. He feeds me an occasional carrot, I'm pretty involved in the movie. I don't really pay attention when Pete gets up and leaves the room.
He's back with some bondage gear.
"OK, but let me potty first"
It actually took me a long time to be OK with doing this. It was Pete who suggested it. But now it's one of my favorite things.
Pete had tied each wrist to the opposite elbow. Obviously I wasn't going to be able to go by myself. So my loving, dear husband helps me.
My legs were still free. I got myself into the bathroom and lined up. He undid my clothes. Now, Pete's removed my clothes during sex or during BDSM scenes a thousand times, but this always felt different. Even more intimate. He undid the fly of my jeans and pulled them down, and my panties. He held up my shirt tail (I was wearing a shirt with a tail like a man's, but with the buttons on the other side). He gets me sat down, and I let him know there is something I need first.
Caring but puzzled look from husband, who does this, I think, mostly for me and who isn't totally confident he's 'doing it right'. I'm a little hesitant.
"I need to change tampons"
Marriages are actually made of moments like this. We're in new territory. Pete gets the package out from under the counter.
"It's simple – pull the old one out with the string. Put the new one in with the cardboard tube in the package."
Poor Pete! He pulls the string slowly until it comes out. I'm glad he didn't jerk. It drips in the toilet. Hah!
"Don't put it in the toilet, it'll clog the pipes"
I underestimate the nerdishness of my husband. He reads the instructions on the package. I think about people on airplanes reading the card " pull down on mask to start the flow of oxygen"
Insertion actually goes easier. Maybe it's because there's not as much blood. Maybe it's a male thing of being used to inserting things in there. But you know, with Pete it's mostly because now he has instructions.
After this, the more familiar territory of wiping is easy. And I long ago trained Pete that it's important to girls how they look, so he's careful putting me back together again – like a transmission.
After about ten seconds of sitting on the sofa I can't stand it and start giggling. Pete rolls his eyes, acts like he's REAL interested in the movie, and then realizes he's got a solution. He rummages in the bondage gear and pulls out the darn bark control collar.
I kinda quiet down after that. Carrot crunching, it turns out, counts as making noise. Later on I found out sneezing does too.
My husband's a nerd. Not, as it turns out, that that's a bad thing.
See, when I can get Pete away from his electronic gizmos and his computer, he can be a really, really nice guy. Oh… and he's a REAL pervert (editor, insert one of those internet smiley things in here).
Yep – take one bright, creative, imaginative guy with a thing for tying girls up, add one girl (me) with a penchant for bondage… you never know what's going to happen around our place!
I'd come home from work and heard him up in the bedroom. All the danger signals went off in my brain. I know when he's up there in the middle of the day he's up to no good. Well, maybe he's up to lots of good!
I walked into the bedroom, looking all innocent, like I don't know anything's up. He's laid out some fetish gear on the bed. He's got this devilish grin on his face.
"Up for a little game?", he asks. Hah! Like I don't know what's up.
"Suuuure, Tonto, what's up?" I call him Tonto when I want to remind him of an infamous evening's 'wild indian' bondage session that went hilariously wrong.
But his smile doesn't slip, and I know that's never a good sign. He's got this locking corset out, he knows I don't like it, but it doesn't really scare me. So I've misguessed? Gulp.
"garter belt, hose, heels" he says, like you'd say "check the roast after 15 minutes".
I shuck out of my street clothes and into hose and heels, glancing up at him and back down at the black stockings as I unroll them on my legs. Fasten the garter belt, do the front hangers, stand up, do the back hangers with a little Betty Page maneuver. He watches appreciatively – at least, Tonto junior's appreciative I can see.
I sit back down and put on the heels. I'm bent down fiddling with the ankle straps on the heels. When I look up he's got a pair of handcuffs hooked to one foot post of our four poster.
"left hand" he says, in that funny quiet voice he uses at times like this. I stand, a little shaky in the heels, and my breasts bounce a little. My left hand gets shackled to the top of the post, and in a moment my right hand's similarly attached to the other footpost. He turns his back to a seriously less dangerous me, rummages in our dresser, and turns back around with a pair of black full line panties I've never seen before hanging from his finger. Since he's never been a panty fetishist this rings doorbells, but whatever. He kneels down, a gesture that strikes me as oddly submissive – I'm supposed to be the bottom here – but he's just putting the panties on me. I see a flash of white cube inside as he pulls them up, but I can't really see what it is. When he pulls them up all the way I can feel there's something hard in there – like something plastic or metal. On the outside I can see it pushing on the panties, a disk about the size of a silver dollar.
He's got a black body shaper with a built in girdle that I usually don't wear – after I bought it I decided it looks out of fashion without being the retro I'd hoped for – but I don't always get to pick! Pete pulls it up. I realize he's picked it because of the girdle. At the bottom it has three or four inches of leg. I won't be able to get to anything while wearing it. Specifically, I won't be able to get to that plastic disk, which worries me.
He's getting smarter about this stuff. When we first got together he'd get me tied up and realize he couldn't get my clothes on or off without untying me. But the straps on the body shaper can be unhooked, and he loops them over my shoulders and hooks them now.
He's still a bit of a klutz – he's cuffed me facing away from the bed. The corset zips in front, then laces in the back. After it's on me he has to climb on the bed to lace it, which he does. I said I don't like the corset. I don't. But I suck it up and it's on me, after much tugging on the laces. There's a panel that covers the laces in the back. The panel has straps that come around the front. The straps end in a series of grommets, and he comes around front to put a small padlock through them. Another padlock holds the zipper at the top of the corset.
The shoes are fetish shoes, and they've got a place for a padlock. We've never used it before. Pete locks them on now with a couple more small padlocks.
Then, surprisingly, he unlocks the cuffs.
He knows the doofoid innocent act always gets me – he bats his eyes at me and grins his 'butter wouldn't melt in my mouth' look and says "I'll let you out after you fix us both dinner." Then he turns and walks down the stairs.
I follow, but never reach the end of the hall, let alone the stairs down. About two steps into the hall I hear a tinny electronic beeping sound. A couple steps more and all my suspicions about that damn plastic disk are confirmed. The pain from the shock nearly floors me. I grab the wall. Pete laughs at me, the bastard.
"Back up, silly!"
I take his advice and back into the bedroom. He follows me back. I sit on the bed and ponder my predicament. Pete grins and hands me a pamphlet.
"Let me know when dinner's ready!" he says as he leaves, laughing.
I look at the pamphlet. It's the instructions for something called an 'indoor containment device'. According to the pamphlet it's just the thing for keeping bowser out of the living room. One part, a white Frisbee like thing called the 'transmitter', you put in the room you want to keep bowser out of. The other part is a collar with a 'receiver', a disk that looks disturbingly like the disk in my underwear. When bowser, or little ol' me, apparently, gets too close to the transmitter he (or she) gets zapped. A few more pages of jolly reading of this fascinating work of literature informs me about something called the 'run through feature'. The faster I run at the transmitter the more I'll get zapped.
Our bedroom's at the end of the upstairs hall. Along the hall is a room where I have a sewing machine and Pete has his electronics bench, and on the other side is the bathroom. End of the hall has a linen closet, the stairs down to one side, on the other is a small guest bedroom. The transmitter might be in there too.
My first idea turns out to be not so bright. Forgetting about the 'run through feature', I decide if I know it's coming I can get to the stairs, even in the heels. I get precisely two steps beyond where I got to before, and pay for it with pain so intense I fall gasping on the floor and crawl back to the bedroom. Shit! That really, really hurt! And in all this gear I can't even rub my poor abused vulva to make it better.
I try laying on the bed and fishing with fingers for the plastic disk. I'm rewarded with the discovery that it's fastened to the panties somehow. While I'm fiddling around Pete wanders in to see how I'm doing.
I have another idea. I rummage in the closet for a satin top with self ties in the back. Self ties, for the guys in the audience, are just ties made as wide tapes of the same material as the garment. 10 minutes of struggling gets one end of the tie through from one side to the other. As I pull it through I remember this top is dry clean only, and wonder what the dry cleaners will think of this stain.
I hesitantly step out into the beeper zone. Then I take a step more. It's not as bad as the other times, but it's still bad. I retreat to the bedroom to think it over. Pete's got a huge shit eating grin on his face.
"Hah!" he laughs, "I knew you'd try putting something in there. But I knew it wouldn't work. I know you too well. Situation like this, your juices are flowing, and you can't make them stop. Anything you put in there will get wet in seconds."
He was right. My own body was betraying me. I was stuck!
Pete got up to leave. "I'll be downstairs – call me if you need anything."
The bastard.
Over the next hour I try getting the robot Pete once made from a toy dump truck out of the hobby room – result, lots of pain and the glimpse into the room tells me I'll never find it in all the junk in there. Scissors or cutting implements -carefully removed by Pete. Examine the window – not a hope, even if I wasn't wearing the heels. The attic access is in our bedroom – but Pete comes back while I'm trying to get up to the panel. He points out the attic doesn't go anywhere.
I look at him with that "I'm stumped" look. He gives me that darn doofy look.
"Hmm…. you know, I'm kind of old fashioned. I think a wife should have her husband's dinner on the table when it's dinner time. It's almost eight, and you haven't even been in the kitchen! What do you think your punishment should be for making me wait for dinner?"
I answer with my eyes. I'm surprised Pete isn't involved in a six car pileup with all that glare.
"Well, I think a night in the box might do it. But it's getting later all the time. Tell you what. You get my dinner on the table in the next half hour, you're clear. Get it by nine, you get a whipping and sleep in bondage tonight. More, you spend all night in the box."
We have a bondage box, a big cabinet like contraption with holes for my head and hands in the top. Then it hits me. The cabinet's in the guest bedroom!
I gotta get out of this. Suddenly the clock is ticking. I have to get to the kitchen somehow!
A desperation driven dash down the hall gets no further than before. I end up sobbing on the bed.
As Christopher Marlowe observed, a date with the hangman sharpens the mind wonderfully. I realize Pete wouldn't have set this up without a solution. I've examined everything in the room… has to be something else… Pete would have left a clue…
Suddenly the light goes on. I feel like I should have a light bulb hovering over my head. "Call me if you need anything".
I drop to the floor. I grovel, I plead, I offer unlikely sexual feats… if only Pete will move the doggie transmitter. One slurpy blowjob later, he does so. He's a little slow coming, but eventually does. In the warm post blowjob glow he goes down the hall and turns off the transmitter. I dash for the kitchen.
That night I tug at the rope holding my hands over my head and try to turn over to get the weight off my red striped butt. Pete locked me back in the body shaper and corset after he birched my butt. The pressure from the body shaper's not helping my butt any. And the heels are still locked on.
My feet hurt from the heels, my knees and elbows hurt from falls in the hallway, my shoulders hurt from sleeping with my arms over my head, my ribs hurt from the corset, I have a raw throat from the blowjob, my poor bottom stings like fire from the whipping, and my poor, poor pussy hurts like hell.
I feel great.
Over the next few days the gizmo gets a name. I'm not sure if it was me or Pete who named it the bowsermatic, but that's what we end up calling it.
One evening my parents are going to come by to visit. Pete frightens the dickens outta me – before they show up he makes me put on the bowsermatic panties and the body shaper.
I think I've got him, I point out that the corset will be obvious to them, or at least to my mom. Of course he's ahead of me. He's got a roll of duct tape. Pete runs a few turns around my waist in a spiral, and signs his name on it with a marker. No way I could get it off and back on with the strips all lined up.
My parents are totally conservative and have no idea about our games. Eeek!
I'm nervous the whole evening. I have no idea where the transmitter's hidden. I'm careful not to drink too much – I can't pee in this getup.
Mom had me really scared earlier when she started asking about the garden. I made the mistake of saying it wasn't going well, and got drug out to look at it, terrified I'd be cut down in mid mothering. But not a peep outta bowser all evening.
I've worn a kinda conservative day dress, the only thing I can find that hides the line of the body shaper. Mom makes a comment about it, suggests I should wear stuff like that more often… suuuure mom.
Pete and dad get started on some guy thing with electronics and the evening drags. I'm glad when my mom finally drags my dad out the door. I count to ten to make sure they don't come back, and finally turn to Pete.
"Well, where is it?"
"What?" asks Pete, playing his usual innocent game.
"You know all too well, you ditz. The bowsermatic!"
"It better be on you!"
"the OTHER half! The transmitter!"
He laughs – "Upstairs in the closet – with the power turned off"
Bastard!
"Inspection time" he announces, and fiddles with the buttons on my dress. I pull away – I'm a little miffed. I undo the buttons myself and show him the tape in it's pristine glory. I stick my tongue out at him.
He laughs, at himself this time, and the tension's broken. He knows it's a dirty trick. But, I gotta agree, it's a good one. I've forgiven him, and I'm turned on from the stress and anxiety of the last few hours. I pull the tape off the body shaper. He tries to help, and it almost breaks the mood – we have to be careful to get it off without ruining the foundation. But it's off, and he's my partner in perversity again. I peel outta my pumps, pantyhose, the shaper, the bowsermatic, all kinda in a pile. He's not expecting it, I think, but I push him back into the sofa, and he sits down kinda hard. I'm atop him in a moment, he's got his pants undone with my eager help, and he's inside me. If this were a movie, this'd be where it dissolves. But even though it's not, you know how this goes. The action moves upstairs to the bed at some point, both of us with clothes tucked under arms.
This must have been harder on Pete than he's letting on. After another round in the bed he conks out. I'm a lighter sleeper anyway, but Pete's really cutting the Z's now.
Suddenly my perversity gene cuts in, and I quietly slip out of bed. I snag bowser off the floor and carefully ease the closet door open. True to his word, my husband. The transmitter's sitting inside. The duct tape and I'm set.
One thing about being married and a light sleeper. Did you know that men get erections in their sleep? Petes not under the covers, he's kinda sprawled where he lay after the last battle, and at some point Tonto peeks his head up to check for the palefaces.
The secret to being quick in situations like this is to have the actions rehearsed in your mind. Panties dropped over penis, grab with right hand, wrap panties with tape with left hand, careful not to get any skin. Right hand picks up transmitter in time to keep it away from suddenly awake husband.
Pete takes a minute to wake up. He shortens that time admirably. When he reaches for the bandaged lump on his peepee, I warn "Ah ah ah!", menacing the transmitter and it's on/off switch. He makes one attempt to pull the lump off – My finger's fast on the switch, and he ends up bent double, hands over his head.
"Jesus fucking asshole Christ!" he screams.
"Body shaper!"
He moves slowly over to it
"Faster!" He speeds up. He's bigger than me, it's a real struggle to get into the shaper.
I toss him the corset and he puts it on. I find out where the locks and keys are without using the switch. I've only experienced the darn thing at the edge of it's zone. He won't be looking for an opportunity to repeat the zap he got.
The laces look tricky. I end up handcuffing him to the bedpost before I do them. Once he's in the corset I undo the cuffs by giving him the key and picking the transmitter back up before he can get out of the cuffs.
"Down the hall, downstairs"
I don't follow. I turn the transmitter on and get a good night's sleep. Pete looks pretty frazzled at breakfast. Unfortunately it's a workday and I gotta let him out.
Pete's got lots of great qualities. He's also persistant. And truly obsessed with gadgets, as I've mentioned before.
A week after the evening with mom and dad I come home and Pete's in the living room with the TV on. He has a big bag from Pet World and his electronics stuff. Definitely not a good sign either for the family budget or for me.
"Hey Honey! I couldn't resist! Check this out!"
Uh, I'm not sure I want to check it out. But some fatal moth-to-the-flame attraction takes over, and I'm sitting on the couch.
I got the tape off the bowsermatic's panties with some cleaning fluid, but I guess it wasn't compatible – they got big splotches on them. I brought home a pair of control panties to replace them, and sewed a pocket on the inside. Yes, we are indeed hoist on our own petard. Gotta confess – out of vanity, I brought several in different colors. It was pete who figured out a way to slip the receiver in and out and still be 'secure' when they were on. He had me sew a a deep, narrow pocket in the front of the panties, and then another, slightly larger one upside down over the first, with holes for the electrodes in each one. It's easy enough to get the thing in and out when you're not wearing them, but impossible without taking off the panties.
Pete's got another collar setup from the store. This one looks fancier. It's got more parts and the instructions are bigger. He takes perverse delight in showing me the parts.
"This is a lot more flexible" he enthuses. I'm less enthusiastic.
The phrase "The third degree" is from the inquisition. The court could order the first degree – verbal interrogation, or the second degree – being threatened with torture and shown the implements, or the third degree – actual torture. I'm getting the second degree.
He's all enthusiastic about the 'containment fence'. He's a
eady run a wire around the base of the house. If I go outside it the bowsermatic will get me.The wire runs to a box nailed up near the water meter. He's in full geek. He describes how he wants to bury a wire at the edge of the property and another one for the back yard. Inside he's going to run a wire around each room. By turning these on and off he can make an electronic prison out of whatever part of the property he wants.
The new set (I try not to think what this thing must have cost.) has no less than three of the 'room excluder transmitters', the aforementioned 'containment fence', and a couple other gizmos.
One looks vaguely like a walkie talky. It's got a pushbutton and a knob. Pete takes great pleasure reading how the knob can be adjusted from 'tingling warning' to 'stimulation' to 'immediate negative reinforcement'. Sounds like phasers on kill.
He holds the disk in his hand, sets his control unit on low, and pushes the button. His face tries to say "not bad", but his hand jerks and he doesn't do it again.
The other gizmo looks bad. It's a dog collar with a friend of bowsermatic looking box fastened to it. The package calls it a 'bark control collar'.
He holds it out and suggests I try it. I tell him I may be his sex slave but I'm not his guinea pig. He shrugs and puts it on himself, with the box on the front and the buckle in back of his neck.
"Saa….Aaak!' He starts to say something and apparently thinks better of it.
He digs out a pencil and writes "say something – SHORT!" on a magazine.
"Four score and twenty years ago our fathers…."
Don't worry – I'd have stopped if he'd have been in pain. But obviously nothing's happening. I try a little louder, and then a shout "FOUR SCORE AND TWENTY" .. Nothing. It obviously can tell the difference between me and him somehow. I turn the TV up to 'blare', much to his alarm. Nothing. He's relieved there's no shock, I'm relieved I've had an excuse to turn the darn thing off. After a bit of childlike hooting, whistling, clapping, popping of paper bags, and such we're convinced it can really tell when it's the wearer talking.
He tries a button on the control box. There's a buzzing noise. He starts to tell me something – not a great idea. After he takes the collar off he says "there's a vibrator. It's to signal a hunting dog to return, but maybe it'll be useful for warning or something". He holds the box part in his hand and pushes another button. Obviously he can run this shocker too.
Nice. This man gets more deviously weird all the time.
Suprisingly there's nothing more about all this gear for a few days. Saturday morning he does spend crawling around the house stapling wires in place (I make him promise to go to the hardware store and get matching color wire for inside).
He's actually pretty good about sharing housework – he's made lunch when I come in from a morning in the garden (putting in tomato plants). Over sandwiches we talk about the exciting minutia of being home-owners. Exciting executive decisions like next weekend we'll do spring cleaning. Pete's well, a nerd, he likes being organized. He makes a list of all the stuff I say we need for the spring cleaning and volunteers to get it all.
That night we try the bark collar in a scene. Sometimes when we're just trying to relax a high intensity scene isn't the thing.
Pete and I have been together long enough that some of the normal negotiation has just become routine. Along with the cleaning supplies Pete's stopped off and rented a movie. I've thawed carrots and put out ranch dip, we're settling in to watch. Pete pulls out a length of rope (mom once asked why there seemed to be short hunks of rope everywhere in our house), I enthusiastically turn my back to him and he pinions me. It's a little tight for sitting around on the couch, but I know better than to tell Pete – he's just as likely to tighten it as loosen it. He feeds me an occasional carrot, I'm pretty involved in the movie. I don't really pay attention when Pete gets up and leaves the room.
He's back with some bondage gear.
"OK, but let me potty first"
It actually took me a long time to be OK with doing this. It was Pete who suggested it. But now it's one of my favorite things.
Pete had tied each wrist to the opposite elbow. Obviously I wasn't going to be able to go by myself. So my loving, dear husband helps me.
My legs were still free. I got myself into the bathroom and lined up. He undid my clothes. Now, Pete's removed my clothes during sex or during BDSM scenes a thousand times, but this always felt different. Even more intimate. He undid the fly of my jeans and pulled them down, and my panties. He held up my shirt tail (I was wearing a shirt with a tail like a man's, but with the buttons on the other side). He gets me sat down, and I let him know there is something I need first.
Caring but puzzled look from husband, who does this, I think, mostly for me and who isn't totally confident he's 'doing it right'. I'm a little hesitant.
"I need to change tampons"
Marriages are actually made of moments like this. We're in new territory. Pete gets the package out from under the counter.
"It's simple – pull the old one out with the string. Put the new one in with the cardboard tube in the package."
Poor Pete! He pulls the string slowly until it comes out. I'm glad he didn't jerk. It drips in the toilet. Hah!
"Don't put it in the toilet, it'll clog the pipes"
I underestimate the nerdishness of my husband. He reads the instructions on the package. I think about people on airplanes reading the card " pull down on mask to start the flow of oxygen"
Insertion actually goes easier. Maybe it's because there's not as much blood. Maybe it's a male thing of being used to inserting things in there. But you know, with Pete it's mostly because now he has instructions.
After this, the more familiar territory of wiping is easy. And I long ago trained Pete that it's important to girls how they look, so he's careful putting me back together again – like a transmission.
After about ten seconds of sitting on the sofa I can't stand it and start giggling. Pete rolls his eyes, acts like he's REAL interested in the movie, and then realizes he's got a solution. He rummages in the bondage gear and pulls out the darn bark control collar.
I kinda quiet down after that. Carrot crunching, it turns out, counts as making noise. Later on I found out sneezing does too.
